The dusty trail through Route 212 was quiet except for the crunch of boots and the faint swish of a long coat.Hisoka walked with his usual odd swagger, his satchel bouncing against his hip — crammed with notebooks, old maps, and more scribbled diagrams than any sane person would consider normal.
Ahead, a trainer's Lopunny was helping its owner pick berries from a tall bush. Her ears flicked gracefully, her hips shifting with every reach.
Hisoka froze mid-step."Oh, Lopunny…" he murmured, voice low and shaky, "every sway of those hips… you're killing me. Don't stop. No, please, never stop—ooorghhh—" He gripped his forehead and stumbled back like he'd been struck by divine inspiration.
The Lopunny blinked, confused. The trainer took a step back, clutching their berry basket tighter."Sir, are you… okay?"
Hisoka spun toward them with a grin far too wide. "Perfectly fine! Merely appreciating nature in motion."
Later, he wandered into the nearby marshland, flipping through his notes.That's when a Gardevoir emerged from the fog, her eyes glowing faintly as she guided a lost Budew to safety. Her gown-like form brushed against the mist.
Hisoka gasped, dropping his notebook into the mud."Mmm… Gardevoir… that look you give me? It makes me want to lock you away and keep you all to myself."
The Gardevoir tilted her head, unsure whether to be flattered or concerned. She gave a polite psychic wave before guiding the Budew onward.
From behind him, a fisherman whispered, "What is wrong with that guy?"
By midday, Hisoka reached a small clearing where a battle was underway.A Tsareena was locked in a fight with a stubborn Scrafty, delivering brutal kicks that echoed like whiplash through the air.
Hisoka stepped right up to the edge of the field, ignoring the referee's protests."Tsareena! Yes! Hit them again… harder! I want them to feel you in their bones!"
The Tsareena paused mid-kick, glancing his way with narrowed eyes. The Scrafty crawled away.Her trainer groaned. "Do you mind? You're distracting her!"
Hisoka threw both arms out dramatically. "I'm only encouraging her artistry! Every strike is a masterpiece!"
By evening, word had already spread in the local Pokémon Center:Some strange scholar was wandering the region, making everyone uncomfortable with his… expressions.
But Hisoka didn't care. As far as he was concerned, the world's beauty was meant to be admired — loudly, unashamedly, and in ways that made most people take a step back.
He tucked his notebook under his arm, smirked at the sunset, and muttered to himself:"Tomorrow… maybe I'll find a Medicham. Ahhh… those legs…"
---
The bell above the Pokémon Center door jingled as Hisoka stepped in, dirt clinging to his boots and a smug smile plastered across his face.His Pokémon's Poké Balls dangled from his belt, each one marked with careful hand-painted symbols.
Nurse Joy looked up from behind the counter, her usual cheerful expression faltering for just a moment when she recognized him."Oh… Mr. Hisoka. Back so soon?"
"Mmm, yes," he purred, sliding the Poké Balls onto the counter one by one. "They've been working hard today, and they deserve a gentle touch. The kind only you can give."
Joy's smile twitched. "Right… I'll, uh… have them healed in no time."She scooped the Poké Balls away a little quicker than usual, disappearing into the back.
Hisoka leaned against the counter, tapping his fingers to an unheard rhythm. That's when the glass doors hissed open behind him.
Boots clicked sharply against the tile."Hisoka."
He didn't turn around. "Officer Jenny," he said like he was greeting an old friend, though his tone had the smugness of someone expecting trouble.
Jenny stepped up beside him, hands on her hips. "We've had multiple reports of you causing public disturbance today. Making… inappropriate remarks to other trainers' Pokémon."
"Inappropriate?" Hisoka's eyebrows shot up. "Officer, I am a scholar. I simply appreciate the finer details of Pokémon anatomy, beauty, and motion. It's art!"
Jenny's eyes narrowed. "You yelled at a Tsareena to 'hit harder' and told a Gardevoir you wanted to 'lock her away.' That's not research — that's harassment."
"Oh, semantics, semantics…" Hisoka waved a hand lazily.
Nurse Joy returned, setting his Poké Balls neatly on the counter. "They're all healed. Please… try to keep out of trouble."
Before Hisoka could reply, Jenny's hand shot to her belt, unclipping a Poké Ball. "Hisoka Morow, you're coming with me."
Hisoka sighed like he'd been inconvenienced by a long dinner bill. "Oh, Jenny… you know I can't do that."
In a single smooth motion, he released two of his own Pokémon — silhouettes forming instantly in the bright light. The sudden presence filled the Center with an intimidating pressure.
Jenny's fingers hesitated on her Poké Ball."You… still keep them with you?"
Hisoka smirked, leaning close enough for his voice to drop to a whisper."Of course. My partners and I share a… deep connection. And I'd hate for them to make a mess of this lovely place."
Jenny gritted her teeth but didn't throw her Poké Ball. She stepped back, eyes locked on his unseen Pokémon."This isn't over, Hisoka."
He picked up his Poké Balls, giving her a playful wink. "Oh, I hope not."
With that, he strolled out into the night, humming under his breath, the shadows of his Pokémon gliding silently behind him.
---
The steel corridors stank of ozone and scorched flesh. Hisoka's boots left wet prints on the grated floor, each step echoing in the oppressive silence.
Bodies lay where they'd fallen — Rocket grunts groaning or unconscious, their Pokémon sprawled beside them. Some rooms still smoldered from the heat of the battle. Others were quiet, lifeless.
This wasn't the playful Hisoka the world whispered about.
This was the man who had spent his life studying Pokémon in ways most people couldn't comprehend — and now, he walked with the precision of a surgeon and the resolve of an executioner.
The deeper he went, the stronger the resistance. Elite Rocket operatives stepped from the shadows, their Pokémon bristling with killing intent.
They fell, one after another.
Not because they were weak — but because Hisoka's Pokémon fought like predators who had trained their instincts to perfection. No wasted movements, no hesitation. Each victory was decisive and brutal.
The final blast door loomed ahead, scarred by his passage. It hissed open, releasing a gust of air tainted with antiseptic and something… fouler.
The chamber inside was nothing like the heroic stories in children's picture books. There were no bright lights or glass tubes filled with harmless fluid. This was a butcher's workshop disguised as a laboratory.
Stainless tables lined with restraints, dried blood crusted into their grooves.
Surgical tools, some clean, some still slick. Holoscreens showing dissection diagrams — not of corpses, but of living Pokémon, torn open to study.
And in the center, suspended in a cylindrical containment unit, was Mewtwo.Its body twitched within the fluid, tubes and needles embedded deep into its flesh.
The scars weren't from battle — they were from deliberate, methodical violation.
Hisoka's breath went still.
It wasn't shock that gripped him. It was rage — raw, consuming, the kind that left no space for anything else.
To cut and splice life like this, to reduce Pokémon to broken parts… it was beyond cruelty. It was blasphemy.
He stepped forward, voice low but carrying a steel edge.
---
Legends were lies — or at least, half-truths dressed in softer words. Children were told that legendary Pokémon were solitary gods, each unique, each untouchable.
In truth, only the Primordials fit that mold: Arceus, Dialga, Palkia, Giratina.They were not merely rare; they were the anchors of reality itself.
No one alive could claim to have seen all four and tell the tale without their voice shaking.
The others — Zapdos, Entei, Moltres, Rayquaza — were no divine anomalies. They were apex predators.
Zapdos ruled their storm islands in flocks, each bird a living thunderstorm.
Entei traveled in small prides, guarding volcanic territories with roars that shook the stone.
Even Rayquaza had mates, patrolling the stratosphere together like serpents of living jade.
Still powerful beyond measure, yes — but bound to the cycles of nature, to hunger, to rivalry, to life.
No two Pokémon were the same.
Even within the same species, one Garchomp might breathe flame hot enough to glass sand, while another could barely scorch grass — but could fly higher, faster, longer than any rival.
Abilities were not shackled to fixed rules. Some changed under pressure; some mutated into stranger forms, granting unexpected advantages or crippling flaws.
Battle didn't just reveal a Pokémon's strength — it shaped it.
Machines that "taught" moves? Those belonged in bedtime stories.
Here, techniques were earned.
A Scizor didn't learn Bullet Punch by watching a recording; it learned it by striking faster, harder, and more precisely until its body obeyed without hesitation.
Weeks of repetition.
Months of bruises.
Years of refinement.
A trainer's role was to guide that growth, to see potential where instinct fell short, and push until both human and Pokémon reached something greater than their limits.
The bond between trainer and Pokémon was more than loyalty. It was an exchange.
The fighting man who traveled with a Machamp could feel his body harden, his reflexes sharpen, his endurance stretch past human norms.
The psychic's partner would find their mind sharpening, intuition turning uncanny.
Water-types could gift their trainers an impossible balance and breath that carried them under the waves.
This bond wasn't forged through handshakes and smiles — it was born in the raw grind of battle, in blood, exhaustion, and the unspoken promise to stand for each other when everything else broke.
But this world was not gentle.In the wilds, battles were not for sport. They were for survival. A wild Pokémon would not hesitate to cripple, even kill, if it saw a human or another Pokémon as a threat.
Trainers who traveled too far without the strength to protect themselves and their partners rarely returned.
And humans? They could be worse.
Organizations like Team Rocket weren't the bumbling thieves from sanitized tales. They were well-armed syndicates — genetic engineers, mercenaries, poachers.
Their elite members were trained killers in all but name, each one carrying teams honed for efficiency and lethality.
In this world, respect for Pokémon came in many forms.
Love, admiration, fear… and in some cases, the hunger to control them, no matter the cost.
---
"Release sequence. Now."
His Pokémon moved without hesitation. One crushed the locking mechanism with a single blow.
Another disabled the chamber's failsafes, bypassing alarms before they could sound. The glass cracked under controlled force, shattering away from Mewtwo's body.
Hisoka caught it as it fell, weightless in his arms from psychic exhaustion. Its eyes fluttered open for a fraction of a second, confusion flashing within them.
"You're safe now," he said quietly. "We're leaving."
With a sharp command, one of his partners materialized a psychic field around them. Teleport.
They would be gone in seconds.
Then — footsteps.
Slow, deliberate. The sound of polished leather striking steel.
The teleport halted.
From the far end of the chamber, a figure emerged through the haze — tall, broad-shouldered, his silhouette instantly familiar.
Giovanni.
Hisoka's jaw clenched.
They had met before, on better terms. Giovanni was many things — pragmatic, ruthless, ambitious — but Hisoka had believed, foolishly, that the man shared the same core truth: respect for Pokémon as living beings.
Now, staring at the evidence around him, Hisoka felt that belief rot inside him.
"You," Hisoka said, his voice stripped of its usual sing-song lilt.
"I thought you were building a future. Instead… you built this."
Giovanni didn't flinch. His gaze dropped to the unconscious Mewtwo in Hisoka's arms, then rose again. "You don't understand what this means. What it means."
Hisoka's grip tightened. "I understand enough. And I'll make sure you never touch it again."
The air between them thickened.
The strange, eccentric scholar who once joked in the streets was gone.What stood here now was a man ready to burn the world down — if it meant protecting the life in his arms.