I, Research

[Nephthys8079]

When I came to, the first thing I noticed was the hum.
It wasn't quite thunder and not quite machinery—just a low vibration, steady as a heartbeat, somewhere beneath the rain.

The ground was soft under my cheek. Wet. I pushed myself up, fingers sinking into moss and mud. It clung to my palms like clay. Cold air stung my throat when I breathed, and for a long moment, all I could hear was the rain falling in endless rhythm.

I didn't recognize the place.

No buildings. No pavement. Just trees—tall, too tall—and leaves shaped wrong for anything that should've been growing near a city. I turned slowly, expecting to see a road or a trail or even the glow of a streetlight. There was nothing. Only that strange hum, pulsing faintly through the ground.

The last thing I remembered was the fire alarm, the heat crawling up the walls, the way my computer screen cracked and flared white. I'd tried to grab my hard drive, stupidly, like that mattered—and then there'd been a sound like my bones coming apart. And now this.

I swallowed hard. "This… isn't real."

It was easier to say it out loud. The words made the air feel solid. If I could still hear myself, still think, then maybe I hadn't lost it completely. But when the hum rose again—closer, heavier—I froze.

Something moved between the trees.

A shape, half-hidden by the rain, larger than a car, with light running under its skin. For a second I thought it was a trick of lightning. Then it stepped forward, and the light followed, chasing blue circuits down a plated neck, across metal limbs that hissed with steam.

My brain stalled.

No animal on Earth looked like that. No machine should breathe.

The creature's head dipped low. Two antennae curved backward like fins. Its body was sleek and scaled with silver and violet panels, sparking in the rain. One leg dragged, damaged. The other three held its weight with mechanical grace.

It was watching me. Waiting.

And I knew it.

Not in the way you know a stranger's face, but in the way you recognize a dream you've had too many times. I'd seen it a thousand ways: in the games, on the wiki pages, in artwork and clips and data entries I'd memorized because I wanted to know everything.

Miraidon.

My throat closed. I almost laughed, but it came out as a sharp, wet breath.

That name shouldn't mean anything here. That thing shouldn't exist.
It was a Pokémon. A fictional creature from a series I'd spent half my life studying. I'd caught one before. Raised it, even. I knew its typing, its base stats, its hidden abilities, the exact number of volts it could channel through its wings.

But none of that helped when the real thing stood three meters away, bleeding light into the mud.

It hissed—a soft, electric sound that made my hair rise. The wound along its flank sparked again, sending blue arcs into the rain. Instinct screamed to back away, but knowledge said the current would ground itself quickly. My legs moved before I thought about it, closing the distance one cautious step at a time.

"I— I know you," I said. Useless words. "You're hurt."

The Miraidon's eyes flickered—one golden, one blue—and focused on me. There was no recognition there, only calculation, exhaustion, and pain. Its weight shifted. The damaged leg buckled. It hit the ground with a sound like metal snapping.

I dropped to my knees beside it before I could think better of it.

Up close, the smell of ozone was sharp enough to sting. Heat radiated from its core, pulsing with each unsteady breath. My hands hovered over the wound, searching for anything I could do. No potions. No berries. No Poké Balls. Just me, rain, and the sum of everything I'd ever read about a creature that shouldn't exist.

The hum inside it faltered.

"Don't," I whispered, pressing my palm against the sparking seam despite the pain. "Don't you dare stop."

Blue light flared under my fingers—weak, but still alive. The Miraidon's gaze steadied. Then, slowly, its head lowered to the ground beside me, eyes dimming but not closing.

I stayed there until the rain began to ease.
Cold, shaking, every nerve screaming that this wasn't possible.

Somewhere deep down, a single truth finally surfaced:

This wasn't Earth.
And everything I thought I knew about Pokémon—every entry, every theory, every carefully memorized page—was no longer fiction.

It was survival.
The rain softened, but the cold bit harder. Each breath came out like smoke. Miraidon hadn't moved since collapsing, save for the faint twitch of its vents. Its body still glowed faintly beneath the plating—like lightning trapped in flesh—but the rhythm of that light was slowing.

I wiped water from my eyes and forced myself to think.
You know this. You've studied this.
That should've been comforting, but the words rang hollow. My "knowledge" was a mess of game mechanics and wiki notes—numbers and trivia, not medicine.

Still, I had to try.

I crawled closer, every movement deliberate. Miraidon didn't react this time. Its eyes had gone dull, half-lidded, one light flickering more erratically than before. There was a tear along its flank—metal peeled open like skin, exposing layers of silver mesh and violet conduits that pulsed weakly with each breath. The sparking had slowed, but so had the hum.

I remembered reading that Miraidon's body converted atmospheric electricity into power—its "organs" were capacitor arrays. Overload or damage could cause short circuits… and grounding it might stop the current from burning through.

No gloves. No tools. Just soaked clothes and trembling hands.

I searched the ground and found a broad, wet leaf—something like a fern, coated in moisture. Carefully, I pressed it against the exposed wiring. The water acted as a conductor, diffusing some of the heat. A small crackle jumped across the gap, then faded. I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until the air rushed out of me.

"Okay," I murmured, voice barely audible over the rain. "Okay, that's one thing."

It wasn't much. But the light in Miraidon's chest steadied a little. I could almost feel its internal hum sync to my heartbeat.

I sat back on my heels, the adrenaline beginning to drain, replaced by the sharp ache of exhaustion. My arms shook from the cold and the effort of pretending I knew what I was doing. I'd dreamed about moments like this—meeting a Pokémon, helping it, being part of its world. It had always seemed so wondrous in theory.

In reality, it was terrifying.

I looked at my reflection in the slick plating of Miraidon's side—mud-streaked face, wide eyes, soaked hair plastered to my skin. A stranger in a world that shouldn't exist.

"Where am I?" I whispered, though I already knew the answer. Not from logic, but from the quiet inevitability sitting in my chest.

Miraidon was native to Paldea. The futuristic dragon that replaced Koraidon in Violet.
That meant—

This is Paldea.

The word felt impossible even as I said it. Paldea. A name that belonged to map screens and soundtrack playlists. To data entries, region themes, and synthetic sunlight glinting off 3D water. Not a forest where I could smell the ozone or feel the damp moss biting through my knees.

I laughed once, quietly. It came out brittle and small.

Of all the places I could've ended up, of all the worlds I could've dreamed myself into… why this one?

A soft chime made me jump. Miraidon had moved—or rather, one of its sensory plates had retracted slightly, producing a tone like static tuning. The hum under my hand deepened, steady again.

Its head shifted toward me. The golden light in its right eye focused—narrow, deliberate, almost questioning.

"I… don't know how to help you," I admitted. "Not really. But I'll stay."

It blinked once. Maybe it understood. Maybe not. But the faint mechanical whir that followed didn't sound hostile.

I sat beside it, shivering, listening to the rain fade into a soft drizzle. The forest's noises returned slowly—distant chirps, the rush of water somewhere downhill, a low wind threading through leaves. My body wanted sleep, but my brain refused to stop spinning.

If this was Paldea, then civilization—people—had to exist somewhere. Trainers. Towns. Professors. But there was no sign of anything beyond trees and fog. No lights, no roads. Just me, an injured legendary, and a universe I'd only ever explored through a screen.

And somehow, that hum beneath my hand felt like the only thing keeping me grounded.

I closed my eyes. "It's going to be okay," I said—more to myself than to it.

For now, all I could do was make sure the creature in front of me stayed alive long enough for either of us to figure out what surviving here meant.
The storm broke sometime past midnight.

I didn't notice at first—just that the sound of rain had softened into distant dripping, and the forest had found its voice again. The air was thick with the smell of wet bark and ozone, like the world had been washed clean.

I was still sitting beside Miraidon. My legs had gone numb a long time ago. Every time I tried to shift, the mud tried to claim me back. But I didn't move far. The warmth that radiated from Miraidon's plating kept me tethered; even injured, its core heat was strong enough to chase away the edge of the cold.

Its breathing was steadier now. The faint pulse under the silver mesh had evened out, though the damaged side still sparked faintly whenever it tried to move. I'd started talking to it just to stay awake—half apologies, half nervous rambling—and though I didn't expect it to understand, the flicker of its eye always seemed to follow my voice.

"...You're not supposed to be real," I murmured. My throat ached from how long I'd been whispering. "But neither am I, I guess."

The words hung there, heavy and small at once.
I didn't know who I was talking about.

Myself before waking up here? The version of me who'd fallen asleep at a desk in some too-small apartment, buried under books and blue light? That person felt distant—like a name half-forgotten.

And yet, every now and then, something ordinary slipped through: the way my wrist still ached from old keyboard strain; the smell of rain that reminded me of city pavement; the instinct to check for my phone, even though it wasn't here.

Maybe this was a dream.
Maybe it wasn't.

Miraidon stirred slightly, emitting a low chime that vibrated through the ground. Its tail—more like a long segmented cord—shifted weakly, curling toward me. The motion wasn't hostile. It was… hesitant. As if it were reaching for warmth the same way I was.

"I'm not going anywhere," I said softly. "I promise."

The eye-light dimmed and brightened once, in rhythm.
A response.

Something inside me cracked a little at that—some tiny wall that had kept everything else from spilling out. I wanted to cry, or scream, or laugh, but the exhaustion wrapped around me too tightly for any of it. So instead, I leaned back against a tree and let my eyes close for a moment.

It was enough to just breathe.
To listen.

Crickets. The hush of leaves. Miraidon's low, steady hum.

I didn't know how long I stayed like that—half-dozing, half-alert—before I noticed the glow in the distance. A faint, bluish light through the trees, like a star had fallen and gotten tangled in the branches. I blinked, trying to make sense of it.

Miraidon's head lifted slightly, its sensors twitching toward the same direction. The pulse in its body spiked, quick and sharp.

"You see it too?" I whispered.

It didn't respond in words—just a soft vibration that I could feel through the ground, a tone that felt like yes.

The light flickered again, then steadied. It wasn't the cold blue of lightning—more like a phosphorescent shimmer. Artificial, maybe. Civilization?

Hope was a dangerous thing, but it was something.

I turned back to Miraidon. "You can't move yet, can you?"

A low electronic trill—pained, but affirmative. It tried to shift its body and failed, venting a puff of hot air. The effort left it trembling.

"Okay," I said quickly. "Don't. Just—don't."

I pressed my hand against its side again, near the dim glow of its power core. The humming steadied at my touch. I wasn't sure if that was coincidence or if it was responding to me, but either way, it made something inside me settle.

I looked toward the blue light again. Maybe I could go alone. See what it was. Bring back help—if help even existed here. But the thought of leaving Miraidon in the dark, helpless and hurt, twisted in my chest like guilt.

So instead, I gathered wet leaves, branches, and whatever moss I could find. My hands were numb by the time I finished shaping a crude shelter against the trunk—barely more than a lean-to, but enough to keep some of the mist off. Miraidon's body heat did the rest, warming the small space from within.

The glow in its chest pulsed faintly, slower now—like a heartbeat in sleep.

I sank beside it, pulling my knees up to my chest. The forest beyond was quiet again. Whatever that light had been, it was gone now.

"Tomorrow," I whispered. "We'll figure it out tomorrow."

Miraidon's tail twitched once in reply.

And with that small comfort—the promise of another morning in a world that shouldn't exist—I finally let myself sleep.
When I opened my eyes again, the rain was gone.

The air was still damp, heavy with the smell of moss and iron, but the light that filtered through the canopy was warm. Pale gold. Soft enough that, for a heartbeat, I almost believed I was home.

Then I saw Miraidon.

Its armor caught the sunrise like glass—fractured beams of pink and blue scattered across the clearing, turning mud to crystal. The damage along its side had dulled, the scorched plating repaired in thin silver veins. A faint hum rippled from within, rhythmic and alive.

I sat up slowly. My neck hurt, my back hurt, my everything hurt—but the sight was enough to make me forget all of that.

"You're still here," I whispered.

The sound of my voice made its head tilt, one eye flickering open. It emitted a low, lazy trill—soft, almost content.

"Good morning to you too, I guess."

The clearing looked different in daylight. The trees towered higher than I'd realized, their trunks patterned with metallic streaks that reflected light like veins of liquid mercury. The soil shimmered faintly in places, where mineral patches caught the sun. Every sound—the rustle of leaves, the drone of insects—felt amplified, too clean.

Not Earth, a voice in the back of my mind whispered again.
But this time, there wasn't panic—only awe.

Something chirped nearby. I turned and froze.

A small bird hopped onto a branch not far away, shaking droplets from its feathers. Its plumage was a burnished orange, with a black mask across its eyes and tail-tips like live embers.

I didn't need a second glance.
"Fletchling…" I breathed.

The name slipped out instinctively, reverent. It tilted its head at me, unbothered by the sound. Then it fluttered away with a single trill, vanishing into the canopy.

The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was full. Full of possibility. Full of proof.

This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't imagination.

The forest around me was alive with creatures I had spent my entire life studying through screens and text and pixels.

It hit me all at once—the hundreds of hours spent completing Pokédex entries, reading every wiki line and comparing lore between regions. The late nights researching behavior patterns and move data like it was science, because to me, it was. I had studied them all—Sinnoh's myths, Kanto's origins, Unova's ecology, Paldea's ancient paradoxes. Every game, every region, every living thing that had once existed only in fiction.

And now one of them—one of the rarest, one of the most impossible—was lying in front of me.

Miraidon's eye met mine again, brighter now. The color in it pulsed like a heartbeat, steady and aware. It tried to lift its head; this time, it managed. Its horns twitched faintly, the neon ridges glowing in the morning light.

"You're healing," I said softly. "That's… good. Really good."

It made a small mechanical chirr—half static, half voice. Almost curious.
Then it looked past me, deeper into the forest, and a low rumble built in its chest. I followed its gaze.

Movement.

Far off, through the fog, something quadrupedal and green darted between the roots. For a split second, I caught the shape—familiar leaf-like ears, a stubby tail. It was gone before I could say the name aloud, but I didn't need to.

Sprigatito.

The realization cracked something inside me open. Not fear. Not disbelief. Just… recognition.

It was Paldea.
It had to be.

My chest ached with something between wonder and sorrow. Because if this was real—if I had somehow fallen through worlds into the one I'd only ever loved from afar—then everything I'd left behind on Earth was gone.

The thought hurt more than I expected.
Still, when I looked back at Miraidon, and it let out a soft, electric whine that almost sounded like gratitude, I couldn't bring myself to regret it.

I smiled faintly. "Looks like we're both out of place here, huh?"

Its tail curled closer to me in reply.

The forest stirred again around us—the sound of wings, rustling leaves, calls echoing in languages I half-recognized from old Pokédex recordings. Morning in Paldea.
And somehow, I was here to witness it.
For a long time, I just watched the light move through the trees.

It filtered down in thin, golden stripes, catching the mist in the air. Every breath tasted like minerals and rain. My hair clung to my face, and my clothes were still damp from the night before, but none of it mattered. The forest was waking up around me — and I didn't want to miss a second of it.

Miraidon had drifted into a sort of half-sleep. Its breathing was steady, the hum from its core faint but constant. Occasionally, a spark of violet light would ripple along the edges of its armor — like a pulse running through the veins of the machine-dragon.

It was magnificent.

But as the first awe ebbed, something else took over: instinct. The part of me that had memorized Dex entries, compared base stats, and cross-referenced regional behaviors out of sheer fascination. The researcher part.

Except now there was no Pokédex to fill. No professor to send the data to.
Only me.

I found a flat stone nearby and cleared the moss off with the edge of my sleeve. Then, using a small shard of bark, I began scratching notes into the damp surface — shallow, barely visible, but it gave me something to do.

> Observation Log:
Subject — Miraidon.
Status: Wounded but stabilizing. Power flow appears autonomous.
Temperament: Cautious, possibly protective. Displays recognition and curiosity toward human speech.
Energy signature consistent with descriptions of "Electric" and "Dragon" typing.


My handwriting looked terrible, but seeing the words made it real.

I paused, tapping the bark against my knee.
Every entry I'd ever read — every Pokédex description — had been clinical, detached. "Miraidon, the Paradox Pokémon. It is theorized to be the Iron Serpent described in ancient Paldean texts."

But up close, it wasn't an entry. It was alive. The hum under its armor was like breathing, the faint scent of ozone clinging to it like static before lightning. Its body heat wasn't mechanical — it fluctuated with rhythm, as if emotion could shift temperature.

"Hey," I said softly, setting the bark aside. "Can you understand me?"

The eye nearest me flickered open, glowing faintly. A low sound answered — a harmonic tone that almost resembled a modem connecting, layered with something organic beneath it. Not language. Not words. But not random either.

I smiled despite myself. "That's… close enough."

It blinked once, slow and deliberate, then rested again.

Encouraged, I took a few slow steps around it, careful not to startle it. The damage to its side had fused into mirrored plating overnight, almost like its nanofibers had self-repaired. Its energy vents still hissed intermittently, but each venting cycle grew shorter and quieter.

I crouched, running my fingertips just above one of the healed ridges. The air vibrated faintly. My skin prickled.
"Residual charge," I murmured, more to myself than to it. "You regulate voltage like a living capacitor, don't you?"

It gave a small chime, as though acknowledging the theory.

That sound — the responsive tone — made something in me warm. Like it wanted to be understood.

"On Earth," I said quietly, "you were just code. Just pixels and numbers and text boxes. But here… you're real. I wonder if the rest of them are too. If they feel fear. Curiosity. Pain."

Silence, except for the soft mechanical breathing.

I sat back, arms wrapped around my knees. "I used to think I knew everything about you. Every stat, every ability, every evolutionary line. I spent years trying to fill in the blanks that Game Freak never did. But maybe…" — I glanced at Miraidon — "…the blanks were the point."

A low rumble, deep in its chest, vibrated through the ground. It wasn't angry — just… thoughtful, if a sound could be.

"Yeah," I said softly. "I don't know what I'm doing either."

Somewhere above, the Fletchling from earlier returned — hopping along a branch, singing short bursts of melody. Another voice answered from deeper in the forest. Then another. A symphony of life unfolding around us, as if the entire world was holding its breath after the storm.

I looked back at Miraidon, whose head had turned slightly toward the sound, its horn sensors twitching with faint pulses of light. "You hear them too, huh?"

It blinked once. The light along its neck glowed brighter, synchronized with the bird calls, before dimming again.

"Synesthetic resonance," I muttered, jotting another shaky line onto the rock. "It responds to ambient sound frequencies. Maybe adaptive… or empathetic."

I laughed quietly — tired, but genuine. "God, if my professors could see this…"

For a moment, I let myself imagine it: sitting at her old desk, surrounded by guides, wikis, and stacks of notebooks, her laptop glowing with tabs about Pokémon biology and lore. That girl had always dreamed of being here. Of touching the impossible.

And now she was.
Just not the way she'd expected.

I reached out one last time, brushing my fingertips along Miraidon's plating. "Rest, okay? I'll figure this out. We'll figure this out."

Its tail coiled slightly around my ankle, not enough to restrain — just enough to say I trust you.

The forest breathed with us — one heartbeat mechanical, one human.
The day had only just begun.

 

[Nephthys8079]

The morning light filtered through the damp canopy, pale and soft. Miraidon had shifted only slightly during the night, resting on its forelimbs, sensors flickering faintly. Its pixelated black eyes, double cyan-yellow pupils, blinked at me intermittently, pupils shifting as though adjusting focus.

I was cold, muddy, and stiff from sleeping on the wet ground. My mind spun with questions, but the first necessity was clear: I needed a way to record everything. Observations, sketches, hypotheses — a proper field log. But there was no paper, no pen, nothing of the familiar world.

I surveyed the clearing. Leaves were too fragile; bark too coarse. Then I noticed a cluster of thin, pale branches scattered across the moss. I snapped a few sticks and scraped the outer layer off, revealing smooth inner wood. Using a shard of bark as a makeshift knife, I shaved tiny curls, then flattened them against a stone. It wasn't perfect, but it would serve as pages.

Next, something to write with. A charred branch, likely struck by last night's storm, caught my eye. The tip was brittle, but with careful scraping against stone, it became a crude pencil. I bound my makeshift pages with thin vine strips. A notebook, of sorts, born entirely from necessity and patience. Not neat. Not uniform. But mine.

I ran a finger over the rough surface, then tapped the pencil to the top sheet.

> Observation log prepared. Writing implement and surface improvised from available resources.


Satisfied, I turned back to Miraidon. Its body was mostly still, yet alive with soft vibrations from its core. Its tail twitched, sensors flickered, and those pupils — black, pixelated, yellow-cyan shifting — followed my movements carefully.

I crouched beside it, pencil poised over my handmade notebook.

"Okay," I whispered, voice trembling with a mixture of awe and nerves. "Let's see what you're really made of."

I started with its eyes, the detail that had first drawn my attention. Pixelated black with double cyan-yellow pupils, the display occasionally shifting in subtle patterns. I jotted notes quickly, hands shaky from cold and excitement.

> Eyes: Pixelated black display. Pupils: double cyan-yellow. Display pattern variable. Appears responsive to movement and sound.



Next, I ran my hands along its metallic-plated body. The plating was cool but pulsed faintly under my touch. Heat radiated from its core in rhythmic waves, almost like breathing. I traced the healed seams along its side where the damage had fused, noting the silver veins that had formed along the once-scorched metal.

> Body: Sleek, plated with silver and violet panels. Heat radiates from internal core. Damaged areas repaired — possible self-repair nanofiber mechanism.



I checked its limbs carefully, observing the flexing joints and hydraulic vents. Each vent hissed softly as Miraidon shifted slightly. The weight of the body was incredible — more than any creature I'd handled — yet its movements were measured, precise, almost cautious.

> Limbs: Mechanical articulation, smooth and controlled. Damaged leg partially functional but unstable. Vents release heat in short, measured bursts.



I circled the creature, hands hovering, studying its response. The pupils tracked me constantly, sometimes blinking, sometimes cycling patterns I couldn't yet interpret. When I spoke, a faint harmonic tone emitted from its sensors, a low chime I could feel through the ground rather than hear with my ears.

> Response to stimuli: Auditory and motion-sensitive. Emits harmonic tones, vibrations correspond with emotional/physical state.



Satisfied with my preliminary observations, I moved to test its mobility carefully. "Can you… stand?" I asked softly. Miraidon tilted its head, one leg trembling. With effort, it shifted weight, sensors flickering. The motion was uneven, cautious — but it worked.

> Mobility: Capable of limited movement. Strains under weight, requires stabilization.


I let it rest, taking notes in rapid, messy script. The forest around us seemed to watch silently, the morning alive with birdsong and the occasional rustle of unseen life. Miraidon's tail twitched once, curling near my ankle, not restraining, only confirming awareness.

Finally, I paused. Pencil hovering, I looked at it properly. "You're… real," I said softly, awe creeping into my voice. "Not code, not pixels. Real. And we're going to figure this out — together."

A low hum vibrated from Miraidon's core. Its pupils shifted, cyan and yellow flickering in soft rhythm. Perhaps it understood. Perhaps it didn't. Either way, the forest felt infinite, full of unknowns, and I had my first true companion in this impossible world.

> Initial log complete. Further testing and observation required. Objective: determine capabilities, energy regulation, and interaction potential.


I tucked the notebook close. The forest stretched endlessly around us, thick and unfamiliar. I had no idea where the nearest town was, or how I would survive, or if this was even possible. But for now, research would guide me. Observation, testing, recording. That was something I could control.

And Miraidon, despite the strange world and the impossible circumstances, remained alive — pulsing, aware, and patient.


stayed crouched beside Miraidon, notebook balanced awkwardly on my knees. Every flicker of its eyes, every pulse from its core, felt like a data point. I needed to know what it could do, how it moved, and what I could rely on — if survival here meant understanding, then understanding was everything.

I began with a careful approach, reaching toward its head. The plating was smooth, segmented like armor, but the eyes — pixelated black, double cyan-yellow pupils — fascinated me most. They weren't just eyes; they were displays. Shifting patterns that might correspond to processing or mood, though I had no frame of reference for "how" yet.

> Eyes: Black, pixelated display. Pupils double cyan-yellow. Patterns shift; possible status indication or emotional response.



I sketched quickly, crude lines capturing the shape of the pupils and their orientation. Every time I made a movement, Miraidon's pupils shifted toward me, tracking, assessing. The low hum from its body vibrated through the ground, a heartbeat I could feel more than hear.

Next, I moved down its neck, tracing the neon ridges that ran like circuitry along its spine. Each ridge flickered faintly as I passed my hand above it. The heat radiated in pulses, rhythmic, almost like a living thing breathing through metal.

> Spine ridges: Neon circuits, pulse with internal energy. Likely involved in power regulation and sensing.



Its limbs were next. I carefully pressed along the joints, flexing the damaged leg slightly. It resisted, then complied. I noted the tension in the hydraulics, the mechanical precision of its movement.

> Limbs: Hydraulic articulation, strong but limited by injury. Damage to one leg reduces stability.



Then came the core — the chest cavity beneath the plating that still shimmered faintly where it had healed. I hovered my hand above the surface. The warmth wasn't constant; it pulsed, strong then soft, like it was adjusting output.

> Core: Energy pulses detected. Heat regulation appears autonomous. Possibly stores and distributes electricity.



I paused, letting my fingers brush the surface lightly. The harmonic tone from its sensors responded immediately, vibrating through the ground. I could feel a faint rhythm — not random, not uniform — like it was communicating in pulses rather than sound.

> Sensor response: Vibrational tones correlate with touch and movement. May indicate awareness or processing state.



I backed up slightly and examined its tail. Segmented, cord-like, flexible yet controlled. Every twitch, every curl seemed deliberate. When I shifted my weight, it followed, coiling around my ankle without touching forcefully — a cautious form of contact.

> Tail: Flexible, segmented, responsive to nearby movement. Protective yet non-aggressive.



After a while, I took a breath and jotted a few lines in my crude notebook, messy but readable. The forest around us remained quiet, save for distant bird calls and the occasional drip of water from wet leaves. Miraidon didn't move more than a fraction, resting its weight on the undamaged limbs, sensors flicking continuously.

I realized something: this was the first real chance I'd had to observe a legendary Pokémon outside the safety of games or videos. Every fact I'd memorized on Earth now felt like a hypothesis to test — and Miraidon itself was the variable.

> Observation complete for initial assessment. Further testing needed to determine mobility, energy output, and interaction capabilities.


I leaned back against a tree, pencil tapping the edge of the notebook. My stomach growled — I hadn't eaten, not since waking in this impossible forest. But hunger was secondary. I needed data. Understanding was survival.

"Tomorrow," I whispered softly, more to myself than to Miraidon, "we start figuring out how far you can go, and what you can do. Step by step. No rushing."

The hum from its core shifted slightly, the pupils blinking slowly in a rhythm I could almost interpret. It was patience, or maybe acknowledgment. Either way, it was enough for now.

I set the notebook aside, letting the pencil rest on the rough paper. The morning had come, but the forest still felt endless. And yet, for the first time since waking here, I felt a sliver of control.

I had a companion, I had observations, and I had questions.

And in a place that defied logic, that was a start.

I waited until Miraidon's core pulse had steadied, its low hum a steady anchor beneath my fingers. Slowly, I inched forward again, notebook in lap, pencil poised. The real test wasn't just observation — it was interaction. To survive here, I needed to know what it could do, how it responded to stimuli, and whether I could even communicate intent.

"Okay," I murmured. "Let's start small."

First, I tested movement. I held my hand near one of its forelegs and applied gentle pressure, just enough to suggest a lift. Miraidon's limb flexed, hydraulics hissing softly, and then it settled back down. No struggle, no panicked flares — just calculated compliance.

> Limb responsiveness: Positive. Complies with gentle directional pressure. No signs of stress.



Encouraged, I moved to the tail. I held a stick near the tip and lightly tapped it, observing how it reacted. The tail twitched, coiling around the stick, then recoiled back to rest near its side. Every motion precise, deliberate — like a machine learning a new input.

> Tail: High reflex sensitivity, fine control over movements. May serve defensive and stabilizing functions.



Then I tested the energy output. I cleared a small patch of mossy soil near its front, dropping a wet leaf onto it. "Just a spark," I whispered. Carefully, I hovered my fingers above the glowing ridge along its spine, waiting for the electrical pulse to arc. Miraidon's sensors emitted a soft chime, and the leaf quivered as a faint blue spark ran across the surface. The glow in its pupils shifted slightly, yellow intensifying.

> Energy discharge: Controlled, localized, reactive to stimuli. Safety threshold high.



Satisfied it hadn't panicked, I jotted the observation down, scribbling shorthand in my improvised notebook. The page already bulged with crude sketches of its pupils, spine ridges, and tail segments.

Next came testing perception. I stepped a few paces back and clapped my hands softly, then tapped a stick against a tree. Miraidon's head swiveled with precision, pupils shifting patterns in response to both sounds. I waved a hand, and the pupils flickered, cyan intensifying, yellow dimming.

> Auditory response: Accurate localization. Pupil display reflects stimulus intensity or type.



I paused to catch my breath. Even in this cautious testing, Miraidon's presence was overwhelming. It wasn't just a machine, not just a Pokémon — it was a living, reactive entity, and I was acutely aware of every beat of its core, every twitch of its sensors.

Finally, I moved to testing endurance, though carefully. I guided it to push itself onto its good legs, encouraging a slow rise. The damaged limb buckled under strain, but the other legs held firm. Its tail shifted for balance. Slowly, it managed to stand fully upright, a shimmer of effort visible through its pupils' display.

> Mobility: Can rise with full weight on undamaged limbs. Damaged leg limits stability but does not prevent controlled movement.



I exhaled sharply, impressed despite myself. Miraidon wasn't just a subject — it was responsive, adaptive, and intelligent. The forest around us remained quiet, as if aware of the quiet experiment unfolding in the clearing.

I scribbled one final note for the session:

> Summary: Initial interaction successful. Miraidon responsive, not distressed. Electrical output localized and controlled. Limb mobility sufficient with compensation. Pupils display dynamic response to stimulus; potential communication avenue.


I set the pencil down, letting my hand rest on my notebook. Miraidon's eyes blinked slowly, the black pixelated display shifting in gentle patterns. It wasn't acknowledging me in words — not yet — but the rhythm felt like understanding.

"Tomorrow," I whispered, brushing a strand of wet hair from my face, "we go a little further. Test how much you can handle. Step by step. Data first, survival second."

A faint chime sounded from its sensors. The tail coiled lightly around my ankle again — not a restraint, but a sign it wasn't fleeing.

I leaned back against a tree, watching the sunlight filter through the canopy. Every step forward in understanding felt like a small victory. Every flicker of its pupils, every hum of its core, was a line in a story I was only beginning to read.

And though I had no map, no guide, and no clue where the nearest city might be, I had Miraidon — a companion, a subject, and perhaps the key to surviving Paldea's wilds.

I pressed my forehead to the rough bark, letting the warmth from Miraidon seep through my back. Observation. Patience. Recording every detail. That was my plan. That was my lifeline.

For now, that was enough.

The sun climbed higher, but the forest still filtered the light into pale, green-gold stripes. I slid the notebook closer, pencil at the ready, and took a deep breath. If I wanted real data, I had to move beyond passive observation. Controlled experiments. Step by step.

"Alright," I murmured. "Just small motions first."

I held a thin branch about a meter in front of Miraidon's snout. "Follow this, slowly." The branch wiggled slightly. Miraidon's pupils flickered, the pixelated display shifting in yellow and cyan patterns. Its head tilted, then it extended its neck just enough to track the branch without rising from its resting position.

> Head tracking: Smooth, precise. Responds to slow stimuli. Pupils adjust dynamically to focus on object.



Encouraged, I tried something slightly more challenging. "Okay, just a step forward." I gently tapped the ground near one of its front legs. Miraidon shifted its weight onto the undamaged limbs, lifting the damaged one carefully. Then it placed it down again, slow, deliberate.

> Limb coordination: Able to compensate for damaged leg. Motion cautious but functional.



Next, I wanted to see how it reacted to minor electrical stimuli — a safe, controlled test. I stripped a small twig of bark and used it to touch the ridge along its spine. A faint arc of blue electricity jumped from the ridge to the twig. I held it steady, measuring the intensity. Miraidon emitted a soft chime, the pupils flickering brighter yellow, then returning to their usual pattern.

> Electrical output: Localized, reactive to contact. Not defensive at low-intensity touch. Pupils indicate stimulus intensity.



I made a small mark in the notebook, careful to note timing, distance, and reaction. Each tiny experiment was cataloged, every response a data point. Miraidon stayed remarkably calm, not panicking, not withdrawing, only responding to my cues with precision.

Time for a bigger test — mobility. I gently nudged its body upright, supporting the damaged limb with my shoulder. Miraidon rose slowly, shaking slightly as its core powered fully. Its tail shifted for balance, the pupils cycling rapidly in cyan and yellow as if recalibrating.

> Full rise: Achievable with support. Balance maintained via tail adjustments. Pupils show real-time status monitoring.


Satisfied, I stepped back. "Good. That's enough for now." Miraidon settled again, this time half-sitting, half-leaning on its good legs. The tail coiled lightly around my ankle, almost like a tether.

I exhaled, noting everything. The thrill of observation mixed with awe at its presence. Miraidon was more than just a subject — it was alive, aware, and willing to engage.

Then I did something I hadn't yet dared: a reaction test. I held my hand out, palm flat, and clapped sharply once. Miraidon's head swiveled instantly toward the sound, pupils flickering rapidly. I tapped a stick on a nearby tree. Again, precise rotation of its head and neck, pupils cycling yellow-cyan.

> Reaction to auditory stimuli: Immediate, accurate. Pupils indicate stimulus strength and type.


It was working. Every carefully measured experiment added a new layer of understanding, and the forest around us was still, almost reverent. I made another note:

> Summary: Miraidon capable of precise motion, controlled electrical discharge, responsive to visual and auditory cues. Pupils display real-time monitoring of stimulus intensity. Adaptive compensation for injury.


I leaned back, brushing wet hair from my eyes. Miraidon's pixelated eyes blinked slowly, the yellow-cyan pattern cycling softly. It wasn't acknowledging me in words — but the gentle hum and the rhythm of its core felt like agreement, like a shared understanding.

"Tomorrow," I whispered, "we'll try a little more. Step by step, test by test. You, me, and this forest."

The tail tightened gently around my ankle once more. Not a restraint. Not a warning. Just… connection.

For the first time since waking in Paldea, I felt a spark of something close to confidence. Observation, patience, and careful documentation weren't just research skills anymore — they were survival tools. And Miraidon… Miraidon was my first data point, my companion, and my anchor in a world I didn't yet understand.

I packed my makeshift notebook, setting pencil and scraps of paper aside. The hum of Miraidon's core was steady now, almost meditative, and the forest pulsed quietly around us.

Step by step, experiment by experiment, we'd learn this world together.

When the last line dried on the bark-paper, I stretched my aching fingers and leaned back against the roots of the nearest tree. My notes were uneven, the symbols crude, but they were mine — the first proper record of this world's science written by my own hand.

Miraidon shifted slightly beside me, vents along its legs releasing a faint puff of hot air. The hum from its chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, like breathing. For a while, I just listened, synchronizing my breath with it. The steadiness was comforting — like the sound of lab equipment humming through the night.

Still, observation wasn't enough. Curiosity burned too hot to stop there. I moved closer, notebook open, careful not to startle it. Miraidon's pupils flickered — those twin yellow-cyan points on the black pixelated display narrowing as it focused on me.

"Easy," I murmured. "Just looking, not hurting."

My hand brushed its shoulder spike. The surface was smooth, metal-warm, and faintly vibrating. Beneath it, I could feel the pulse of stored energy — the folded membranes that, when activated, became its wings. Not solid structures but luminous arcs of energy, pure and precise, designed for maneuvering.

> Observation: Shoulder spikes contain energy membranes. Dormant state—stable vibration. Purpose: Directional stabilization during flight/glide.



I circled slowly, recording the way the shoulder plating flexed when I touched it. Not mechanical—something closer to responsive alloy, almost like living metal. The sensation reminded me of flexing muscle under skin.

The engines on its hind legs gave a faint whir, then fell silent again. I crouched beside them, feeling the residual heat radiating through the air. Miraidon's gaze followed me as if curious what I was doing.

> Observation: Hind leg propulsion units — jet-like construction. Capable of controlled bursts of thrust. Energy efficiency unknown. Temperature indicates limited short-duration use.



Its tail uncoiled lazily, the segments gleaming in the filtered light. Each piece was jointed, precise, capable of delicate motion — and when the end brushed my wrist, the static tingle made me flinch.

> Tail: segmented, conductive. Likely functions as balance stabilizer and sensory appendage.



I paused at its head again, watching the pupils shift. The color modulation wasn't random — it seemed to pulse with data, reading light, sound, and maybe even my own movement. Every time I leaned closer, the pattern changed, faint waves of cyan sweeping across the black display.

> Eye display: pixelated matrix, non-biological. Pupil coloration shifts dynamically in response to external stimulus. Possibly functions as scanning or analytical mechanism.



Miraidon tilted its head slightly, as if studying me in return. For a heartbeat, the hum between us aligned — a low resonance that thrummed through the moss and the air.

We were studying each other.

The realization made me smile.

"Looks like you're curious too," I said softly. "Guess that makes two of us."

It blinked, slow and deliberate. Then, without warning, one of the shoulder membranes flickered to life. A translucent blue sheet of energy expanded from the spike, arching upward before fading again in a pulse of light.

My heart skipped a beat.

> Energy membrane activation: spontaneous. Possibly in response to vocal or emotional cue. Duration < 2 seconds.



The hum softened, as if Miraidon was testing its limits, easing into trust. I set the notebook down and rested my hand gently against its side. The armor was warm, almost alive beneath my palm.

"Thank you," I whispered. "For letting me study you."

The pupils brightened once more — a brief flash of bright yellow before fading back to cyan. A response. Acknowledgment. Maybe even understanding.

I took a long breath, steadying myself. Tomorrow, I'd start testing mobility again — slow walks, turns, controlled bursts of motion. For now, the data was enough.

I closed the notebook carefully and tucked it under my arm. Miraidon's tail brushed my ankle once before curling close to its body, and the hum settled into a soft, even tone.

> Session end: 18:47. Subject stable, responsive, cooperative.


I smiled faintly to myself. This wasn't just survival anymore. This was discovery — pure, unfiltered, exhilarating discovery.

And in that quiet, shared moment beneath the green-gold canopy, I realized that this forest — alien as it was — had started to feel just a little bit like home.

I stood a few meters back, notebook in hand, pencil poised. Miraidon's hind leg engines hummed softly, a low vibration through the forest floor. Its shoulder membranes shimmered faintly, edges rippling like liquid light, folded now but ready.

"Alright," I said, voice steady. "Let's try a longer lift. Nothing too crazy. Just… hover and move forward a few meters."

Its head swiveled toward me, pupils flickering rapidly — a yellow-cyan pattern cycling through intensity and shape, almost like a countdown. I took a step back and held my arms slightly out, giving it space.

The engines flared, lifting Miraidon's core off the ground. Its tail curved downward in a perfect arc, balancing, while the energy membranes expanded, glowing faintly blue. The light pulsed with each micro-adjustment, guiding the lift and stabilizing motion.

> Takeoff: Controlled. Tail and energy membranes provide stability. Hind leg engines calibrated for partial lift.



It hovered, then in one fluid motion, edged forward a few meters. The tail flicked once, correcting a subtle yaw. I scribbled notes furiously.

> Forward thrust: Smooth. Membrane adjustments compensate for pitch and drift. Pupils indicate real-time status monitoring.



I raised my hand slightly, palm flat. Miraidon responded immediately, pivoting in midair, banking left. Its wing-like membranes shimmered with arcs of light, slicing the air and guiding the movement. The tail followed, a counterbalance, pupils cycling in precise, rapid patterns.

> Lateral maneuver: Successful. Energy membranes active for directional control. Coordination between tail, engines, and membranes precise.



A low chime of static-like sound emitted from its chest. The pupils blinked once, then settled into a steady pattern — almost as if asking for feedback.

"You're doing amazing," I whispered, barely moving. "Just a few more meters. Then we'll land."

Miraidon's engines surged slightly, lifting it higher. I noted the thrust levels in my notebook, every pulse of energy, every flicker of membrane light. Its landing was cautious — tail absorbing impact, legs flexing perfectly, shoulder membranes retracting smoothly back into their resting form.

> Landing: Controlled. Tail absorbs shock; energy membranes retract efficiently. Engines throttle down with precision. Pupils show normal pattern post-maneuver.



I exhaled, heart racing, pencil barely keeping up with my observations. Miraidon shifted, head tilting toward me, tail curling lightly around my ankle — no restraint, just acknowledgment.

"Perfect," I said softly, closing the notebook. "That's it for today."

It hummed again, a low vibration matching my heartbeat. I reached out and touched its plating — the warmth steady, reassuring.

For the first time, I could see it clearly: not just as a subject, not just as a legendary Pokémon, but as a partner. Step by step, experiment by experiment, we were learning this world together — and it had begun with trust, understanding, and the simple, unspoken connection between human and Pokémon.

The forest around us pulsed quietly, alive in ways I was only beginning to understand. And for the first time, I felt like we could survive — like maybe we could thrive.