Ch.195 Like My Dragon-Type Traitor?

The warm fuzzies lasted mere seconds before Porygon-Z's next stunt trashed them.

While cruising the data sea, it pinged every linked terminal—any phone with the "Black Tech Office System (temp name)" installed—with:

"Fear not, folks—the great Trainer's back soon."

Akira went speechless. He'd planned a stealthy return, no fanfare. Now? Busted.

Only then did he clock the system's Porygon-Z blurb: Programmed upgrades aimed to make it a better Pokémon, but somehow its behavior got quirky. Debate rages in the Pokémon Research Society—evolution or glitch?

"You could've warned me!"

Akira's brain imploded. His normal kid turned class clown.

Too late to yank it back.

Only move left: race to the battlefield.

His gaze hit the display case, still in Gardevoir's firm Psychic grip. Decision made.

"Garde-chan, pull out the Poké Balls. One each—pick your match."

Long-haul travel ain't like shelter crawling. Speed gaps and stamina drain matter.

A chaotic rush back would stretch the line thin, leaving them gassed by arrival—unless they flew in like before.

But planes aren't cars—you can't just hop in. By the time Jujutsu HQ lined one up, "Night Parade" might be over.

It's Christmas—post-shortest-day vibes.

Poké Balls nix all that. One Pokémon arrives, they all do—portable squad goals.

Risk cracking the preservation gig and wrecking the balls? No time to sweat it.

"Garde~"

Gardevoir worked her magic, floating out the balls. A left-hand wave—big sis swagger on point.

The crew didn't dawdle. Quick glances, gut picks, mostly type vibes:

Darkrai nabbed a Dream Ball.

Serperior took a Friend Ball.

Swablu eyed the Friend Ball too but, too slow, grabbed a Heal Ball instead.

Pignite went for a Luxury Ball.

Gardevoir? Broke the type rule—snagged a basic red-and-white.

Akira wanted to nudge her. She's top-tier in his heart—Master Ball's fair game.

She waved it off.

"Garde Garde~ (Save those for the younger sibs—this works for me.)"

Click—she hit the button, red light zapping her in, case and all. Proof Poké Balls hold more than just Pokémon.

Akira lunged, snagging the falling ball, tucking it safe.

How's there a Pokémon as cute as Porygon? (X)

How's there a Pokémon as cute as Gardevoir? (√)

Meanwhile, the rest self-caught—no exceptions, all willing.

Akira's dream vibe. The balls held up too—rock solid.

Shrinking them, hooking them to his belt, he gripped the second ball—pink-and-white.

Darkrai's pick—Dream Ball, sleep-types' fave. "Live pink, hit hard" incarnate.

Among his crew, Darkrai's speed topped out. Level past 80 locked in stamina too.

Riding it sucked—size and bulk—but no time for comfort.

"You're up, Dar—"

Before he could toss it, Trainer-style, the purple-pink Heal Ball beside it popped.

A glossy Swablu hopped out.

Heal Ball perk: fast HP and injury recovery—portable Pokémon Center.

Swablu wasn't beat up. In and out, it was raring, chirping at Akira:

"Dilu~ Dilu~ (Let me handle it!)"

Akira chuckled, touched, flicking its head tuft. "Appreciate it, but you can't carry me yet."

"Dilu~ (I can!)"

Swablu shook its head hard, hopped atop Akira, wings spread.

Not bravado—it was ready.

Its last "Dilu" cry.

Wings flapping fierce, evolution's light burst from within, pushing it higher.

Unlike that grass snake, unlike my siblings—I was born with Master's hopes.

Master wanted my songs to soothe.

Master wanted me to lull him to sleep—maybe scratch that later.

Above all, Master wanted me to fly him.

Master always craved a true Flying-type—that's me!

He never nagged or pushed me to grow.

I wasn't rushed either. No catching Big Sis, Panda Bro, or Dark Bro. But hours ago (subjective time), that grass snake evolved.

To shield Master, to crush foes.

Losing to Big Sis and the bros? Fine—I'm the late bloomer.

Losing to Pignite? Bearable—it's got electric munchies and a rich "dad," plus it counters me.

Porygon? Tolerable—data route, evo's level-free.

But that snarky grass snake, scheming on Master? Nope.

I'm the baby squad's top dog.

I'm number one.

No one's stealing that—not even you, number two!

You evolved? Watch me!

Master thinks I'm small, a bird, can't carry him? I'll be a big bird.

Master frets my wings are narrow? I'll make them wide, plush.

The sky's my stage.

No one takes it!

I'm not Swablu anymore—I'm Altaria.

Long neck stretched skyward, tuft split into twin strands swaying in the breeze. Tail feathers fanned like a peacock's—new form complete. It sang its first note to Master, to the world:

"Qulu~"