The dead silence lasted about three seconds.
Jason looked at the Poké Ball lying under the distant tree, then at Nemona—frozen mid–cool pose like a statue in front of him.
Then he remembered.
Nemona: Paldea's future Champion-class trainer, heiress of the Rotom Phone company, a nearly flawless all-rounder—
—with one utterly ridiculous weakness.
She's bad at throwing Poké Balls.
Not just bad—catastrophically bad.
For a trainer who can't even land a Poké Ball, that's a disaster.
Jason's spirits rocketed from rock bottom to elated survival high: "Oh, that makes this easy! I thought I was done for today!"
At the same time, Nemona finally snapped out of her petrified state.
The triumphant glow on her pretty face flushed scarlet in an instant, like a ripe apple. She jerked her arm back, hastily tucked a stray lock behind her ear, and wouldn't meet Jason's eyes.
"M-my bad! Just an accident!" she forced out, her voice carrying the faintest tremor. "This time—this time I'll definitely—"
As if to prove it, she pulled another fresh Poké Ball from her belt, took a deep breath, and struck her stance again.
This time she aimed longer. Her form was textbook.
"Watch the ball!"
With a crisp shout, the second Poké Ball flew!
Whoosh—
It traced a bizarre S-curve in the air, took an unbelievable angle to avoid Jason lying motionless on the ground, and landed three meters to his left.
"…"
If the first miss was an accident, then the second…
Jason no longer knew what expression to wear.
"Again!"
Nemona's cheeks were so red they could bleed. As if competing with herself, she sent the third and fourth Poké Balls one after another.
Thunk! Smack! Pfft!
One hit the dirt, one smacked a rock, and one—thrown way too hard—shot into the sky, turned into a tiny point of light, and vanished.
Not a single hit.
Jason just lay there quietly, not even bothering to move.
"Paldea's Champion-class trainer? More like a Poké Ball wild pitch," he thought, utterly calm and even a little amused. "With that aim, if this were an FPS, she'd empty a full magazine at the enemy, hit nothing, and then get one-tapped in return."
Seeing Nemona pull a fifth Poké Ball to continue her grand pitching career, Jason decided this couldn't go on.
He wobbled his bouncy, jiggly body.
"You got this, stringbean? No? Then I'm out!"
That tiny motion was the last straw.
Nemona felt like this Ditto was laughing at her.
Holding her final Poké Ball, her hand stalled mid-air; she couldn't throw it anymore. Beads of sweat dotted the bridge of her nose, her neat high ponytail had gone a bit messy, and she was breathing hard, chest heaving with each gasp.
She looked at Jason, then at the scatter of missed Poké Balls on the grass. Her pretty face went red, then white, then red again; finally she lowered her head and murmured to herself, "It's fine… there aren't any classmates around. Nobody saw…"
Watching the flustered upperclassman muttering to herself, Jason's mischievous streak flared.
If he didn't roast a Champion-class trainer now, when would he ever get another chance?
Time to show the young lady how cruel the world can be.
He slowly "stood" up from the ground and, in the tone of an old immortal, said:
"Next time, practice throwing your Poké Balls more."
"As a trainer, if you can't even catch a Pokémon, that's… pretty embarrassing."
Boom.
His words struck Nemona like a hundred-thousand-volt zap straight to the crown of her head.
She froze, then slowly looked up, shock and humiliation flooding those beautiful eyes. If she'd blushed before from awkwardness, she was seeing red now.
Heat surged from her neck to her scalp; her mind went blank. Her delicate face flushed like a boiling kettle, even the tips of her ears turning a tempting pink.
Her lips parted to retort—but no words came out.
Good news: no classmates around to mock her.
Bad news: she just got roasted by a talking Ditto.
Low on damage, high on humiliation.
Roast delivered, Jason didn't linger. He had no desire to wait for her to recover and then get curb-stomped by an angry trainer and her Pokémon.
He spun around and bolted.
"Want to catch me? Maybe in your next life!"
He had zero interest in becoming a trainer's battle pet… unless it was the kind where a pretty girl cuddles him to sleep.
Hmm. That he could consider.
He left behind a completely crashed Nemona and a very confused Pawmi.
"Pawmi~"
The little electric mouse glanced back at its trainer. The purple guy had already run off—why wasn't she ordering a chase? Did she not want to catch it anymore?
It chirped softly, trying to rouse its master.
But Nemona had spiraled into full "despair" at being taunted by a Ditto. Her knees gave out and she sank onto the grass, pressing her burning cheeks with both hands. Her shoulders trembled as she let out a wobbly, tear-tinged wail:
"Uuu… I— I got roasted by a Ditto! This is so embarrassing!"
After a while, the meadow breeze blew away some of the gloom. Nemona lifted her tear-streaked, flower-petal face; the special Ditto was long gone.
Her mood plunged into the pit.
Just then, a fuzzy little head nudged in.
At some point Pawmi had hopped into her arms. It rubbed its soft, static-tinged forehead hard against her chest, letting out comforting little "bji-bji" sounds.
The warmth and Pawmi's concern finally soothed her a bit. She sniffled, stroked its fur, and a new spark kindled in her eyes.
"Thanks, Pawmi." Her voice was still a little hoarse, but steadier now. "I hope I run into that Ditto again… No—I will find it."
"And when I do, I'm going to catch it!"
"Pawmi!"
The little electric mouse nodded firmly, as if answering her.