**Chapter 4**
Emerson caught the flicker of surprise dancing across Wilson's rugged face, like a shadow passing over a mountain peak. He knew deep down that Wilson hadn't second-guessed him for even a heartbeat—just pure, instinctive trust shining through. But that was par for the course with them; after all the years and scrapes they'd shared, it felt right to finally peel back the curtain a bit more for his old friend.
In this day and age, folks were still blissfully unaware of the wild powers lurking just beneath the surface of everyday life. Superhuman feats hadn't exploded into the headlines yet, but Emerson had pieced it together from his unique vantage point. Those abilities had always been simmering in the shadows, far removed from the nine-to-five grind of regular people. It wouldn't be long now, though—soon enough, caped crusaders, masked villains, and everything in between would burst onto the scene, shattering the cozy illusions everyone clung to about how the world worked.
With that looming reality weighing on his mind, Emerson extended his hand toward Wilson, fingers pressed together neatly, palm facing upward like he was about to reveal a magician's trick.
Wilson arched an eyebrow, his confusion plain as day. He eyed the empty palm for a second before glancing back up at Emerson, silently asking what the heck this was about.
Emerson didn't bother with words; he just nodded subtly toward his hand, urging Wilson to keep his focus there. Even after all the time apart, that unspoken connection they'd built as kids—through playground brawls and late-night talks—still hummed between them like an unbreakable wire.
"Whoa..."
Wilson's eyes darted back, and there it was: a small, perfectly spherical object now hovering silently where empty air had been moments ago.
The ball was sleek and rounded, divided cleanly into a vibrant red upper half and a crisp white lower half, separated by a thin black stripe that gave it an almost playful, dynamic vibe. On the side facing Wilson, a small, button-like protrusion jutted out slightly, crafted from a translucent material that teased at the mysteries hidden inside without giving anything away.
Wilson leaned in closer, his massive frame shifting forward to get a better angle. Up close, he could see that despite appearing like two fused pieces, the thing was flawlessly seamless—no welds, no joints, nothing that screamed "made in a factory." It looked organic, almost alive.
"What the hell is this thing?"
"It's called a Poké Ball."
"Poké Ball?"
Wilson rolled the words around in his mouth, searching his mental Rolodex for any match, but drawing a complete blank. No bells ringing, no distant memories stirring.
Emerson clocked the bewilderment and took a breath, organizing his thoughts to lay it out clearly. "Think of it as the essential gear for a whole new kind of specialist—someone who taps into forces beyond the ordinary. You could call it a gateway to real, game-changing power."
"Game-changing power, huh?"
Wilson's laid-back demeanor cracked just a bit, replaced by a sharper edge, his voice carrying a note of genuine astonishment.
From the shift in tone, Emerson figured Wilson had already dipped a toe into this weird world. And he wasn't wrong. Wilson might not have any fancy abilities himself, but climbing the ladder in his line of work meant rubbing shoulders with rumors and whispers about the impossible. He'd heard enough credible stories to know superhuman stuff was real, not just comic book fluff. In fact, he had crews fanned out across the city and beyond, sniffing around for anyone who could bend reality a little—hoping to recruit them before rivals did.
What threw him for a loop was realizing that Emerson, the guy he'd roughhoused with as a kid and shared secrets with as a teen, had been sitting on this the whole time. It sparked a genuine wave of happiness for his buddy; in a world turning upside down, having an edge like that could mean the difference between thriving and getting buried.
Those recent clashes with self-styled heroes had hammered home just how potent these powers could be. Without pulling out the big guns—literally—regular joes like his crew didn't stand a prayer, no matter how many bodies you threw at the problem. Bullets might sting them, sure, but turning a city street into a war zone with heavy artillery? Not feasible without drawing every cop and fed in a hundred-mile radius. Scattered pistol fire or shotguns? Might as well be throwing pebbles. And aiming? Forget it—unless you were some elite marksman, these powered types moved too fast, too unpredictably for the average shooter to land a hit.
Emerson, oblivious to the storm of calculations whirling in Wilson's head, watched as his friend snapped back to that poker-faced mask he wore in business dealings. Earlier, Wilson had let his guard down, showing the raw emotions of their reunion, but this revelation had jolted him into high-alert mode. His expression flattened out, unreadable as a blank slate.
Emerson adjusted his grip, tilting the Poké Ball so its small viewing window aligned perfectly with Wilson's line of sight.
Wilson didn't back away an inch; trust like theirs meant he knew Emerson wouldn't pull a fast one. He flicked a quick look at his friend's face for reassurance, then locked onto the window.
From afar, it had seemed foggy and indistinct, but as the distance closed, details sharpened into focus.
When Wilson's eye hovered just a centimeter away, it was like tumbling headfirst into a different dimension. Spread out before him was a vast expanse of water, roughly the size of a serene lake, its surface shimmering under an unseen light.
Gliding through the depths was a striking creature—a carp-like fish with a vivid blood-red body, crowned by jagged, bone-like horns that gave it a regal, almost fierce aura. It moved with effortless grace, weaving through the crystal-clear water like it owned the place.
As if sensing the intruder peering in, the carp suddenly surged upward, breaking the surface in a splash. It twisted its lithe form in mid-air, and its intelligent eyes met Wilson's dead-on.
In that split second, the creature's expression flipped from curious playfulness to raw aggression. Its pupils contracted into narrow, snake-like slits, radiating pure menace.
Enraged, the carp didn't dive back in—instead, it hovered suspended in the air, body coiling like a spring. Then, like a bolt loosed from a crossbow, it charged forward, enveloped in a swirling vortex of mist and water droplets that trailed behind like a comet's tail.
A wave of intense pressure crashed over Wilson, locking his muscles in place. It felt like invisible chains wrapped around every limb, every joint—he couldn't so much as twitch a pinky finger.
As the furious carp hurtled closer, jaws parting in what looked like a silent roar, the scene shattered abruptly.
Reality snapped back, and Wilson blinked to find Emerson still holding the Poké Ball, his face etched with apology and a touch of embarrassment.
Wilson pressed a hand to his forehead, where a dull throb lingered, his broad chest heaving as he sucked in a couple of ragged breaths to steady himself. "What... what the hell was that? Is that your power?"
"That's my partner—goes by Magikarp. He's the core of what I can do."
Hearing no blame or fear in Wilson's voice—just curiosity—Emerson let out a quiet sigh of relief and jumped into the details.
Inside, though, he was kicking himself. Usually, when circumstances kept him from letting Magikarp out for a proper stretch, he'd communicate through that little window on the Poké Ball—sharing thoughts, checking in. This time, he'd only meant to give Wilson a glimpse, a teaser of what was possible. But he'd overlooked Magikarp's prickly personality; the creature wasn't one for warm welcomes with strangers.
Reflecting on it, Emerson remembered how Magikarp had started out pretty standard when he'd first received the egg. Covered in those iconic red scales, with whisker-like barbels dangling from its mouth like an old catfish, and that distinctive crown-shaped protrusion on its head. The eyes, too—those famously vacant, almost comically dull stares that defined its kind.
But as Emerson's rigorous training regimen kicked in, things began to change. Magikarp started shedding its scales periodically, much like a serpent molting its skin. Each cycle brought subtle shifts: a sleeker form, sharper features, a more intense coloration. Over time, those transformations accumulated, turning it into the formidable being it was now.
Emerson often chuckled to himself, wondering if this evolved version would even be recognizable back in its original world. Chances were, it'd be mistaken for some exotic, undiscovered species straight out of a cryptozoologist's dream.
Even Arceus, the all-knowing creator, had taken an interest, probing the changes with divine curiosity. After extensive examination, though, no concrete answers emerged. In the end, it was pinned on the unique blend of Emerson's dedicated training methods and the unpredictable influences of this foreign universe.
Wilson absorbed the explanation in silence for a moment, his mind racing to connect the dots. Then, he broke the quiet. "So, Emerson, you're planning to use him—this Magikarp—to back me up?"
"Partially, yeah. But showing you was more about pulling back the curtain on how this all operates, the mechanics behind the power."
Emerson had committed to bringing Wilson into the loop, so there was no point in half-measures now. He'd kept things hush-hush before to avoid drawing unwanted attention from certain prying eyes—those all-seeing types who monitored the planet from on high. But with his preparations nearing completion, a controlled reveal like this posed minimal risk.
"Wait, you're telling me I could tap into something like this too?"
Wilson leaned forward, his voice rising just a notch with barely contained excitement, even if Emerson hadn't spelled it out verbatim.
"Exactly. Like I mentioned, it's not just a random gift—it's a full-fledged path, a profession if you will. What you glimpsed is a magical creature known as a Pokémon. And yeah, you could bond with one of your own."
Emerson couldn't help but smile, recalling the electric thrill he'd felt when the possibility first dawned on him years ago.
"So, what's the official title for someone like that?"
"Trainer. Or, to be precise, a Pokémon trainer."
(Word count: 1,248)