David's POV
David Ketchum leaned against the porch railing, the mug in his hand forgotten, coffee cooling fast. The morning was too quiet—no birds, no breeze, just the stillness that made instincts crawl. Even the usual rustle of leaves in the oak tree had gone silent, as if the world itself was holding its breath, just the stillness that made instincts crawl. But none of that mattered. Not compared to what he was looking at.
His son—barely a year and a half old—sat beside Albus in the tall grass, back straight, gaze locked on something only he could see. The old Stoutland lay calmly beside him, a living wall of fur and muscle, protective as ever. Ash had one hand resting on the beast's paw, the other slowly running across its back with quiet focus.
Not petting. Studying.
From a distance, it might've looked like a boy and his dog.
But David knew better.
Ash moved with precision—not the random jerks of a toddler, but the careful economy of someone years beyond his age. He didn't giggle or babble or trip over himself. His eyes followed patterns. His expression was too composed, too aware. Too deliberate.
It had been like this for months. David had tried to ignore it. Rationalize it. Babies could be gifted, right? But deep down, he knew what he was looking at.
Ash wasn't gifted.
He was wrong.
David set his mug down silently, exhaled, and closed his eyes.
When they opened again, they glowed faintly gold.
The world shifted.
Gone were the colors and sharp edges. What replaced them was truth—the unseen flow of essence, the imprint of life, the shimmering strands that danced from all living things.
Aura.
It was the Ketchum family gift—a bloodline trait passed down for generations. Not everyone could see it. Not everyone could control it. Annie didn't have it, which was why she'd never fully understood the weight of what he carried. The gift that let his bloodline bond with creatures from beyond—the beings most people called by old names, but his grandfather had always referred to as Extradimensionals, beings not quite of this world.
And Ash...
Ash didn't shimmer like David expected.
He burned.
David's breath caught. The child's aura wasn't just present—it was expanding. Growing outward in pulses, thick and wild and hot, like a forge left unattended. No structure, no refinement—but powerful beyond logic.
David had seen strong aura before. His grandfather's had been the largest he'd ever known—stable, immense, and aged like deep roots in old stone. The old man had bonded with eight Extradimensionals in his lifetime—creatures that had chosen him across decades of patient understanding.
David had only ever managed three.
Ash's aura was already larger.
And still growing.
David clenched his jaw, trying to make sense of the impossible. Aura was inherited, yes—but never like this. Not in a child. Not raw like this.
Not like a flare before ignition.
He blinked the golden light away. The world returned.
Grass, wind, overcast sky.
Ash still sat beside Albus, unmoving, hand on the beast's fur.
Then—as if sensing something—he looked up. Their eyes met.
David stiffened.
It wasn't a child's gaze that looked back at him.
It was measured. Calm. Almost… curious.
Ash tilted his head slightly, and there was something ancient in that simple motion. A question. Or maybe just quiet understanding.
Then he turned back to Albus and resumed petting him without a word.
The screen door creaked behind David.
"You spacing out again, honey?" Annie's voice was light, but there was an edge under it.
He didn't look back. "Just… watching."
She joined him at the railing. Quiet at first. Then, "You feel it too, don't you?"
A long silence passed between them.
Then David nodded. "He's… not normal."
"Special," she said softly.
"No," David muttered, eyes still on the boy. "Special doesn't make a beast follow a toddler like a soldier on command. Special doesn't stare through people like it's reading pages from a book."
He glanced down at his hand and flexed his fingers slowly.
"He's something else," he finished.
Annie didn't respond. Not immediately.
Then she gave his arm a squeeze. "Whatever he is… he's ours."
David felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. Despite everything—the wrongness, the impossible power, the ancient look in their child's eyes—Annie was right. This was their son. Different, powerful, maybe even dangerous, but theirs to love and protect.
"Yeah," he said quietly, his voice carrying both fear and fierce devotion. "He is."
She turned and walked back inside, letting the screen door slam behind her.
David stayed.
The air was heavier now.
Not with fear—but with something colder. Older.
A storm was building. He could feel it in the bones of the porch wood. In the tension of the windless trees.
And its eye?
It wasn't in the sky.
It was sitting in the grass, calm as you please, petting a beast no other child could command.
______________
Annie's POV
Annie closed the door behind her, the creak and slam cutting through the hush of the house like a period to an unfinished sentence.
She stood there for a moment, hand on the frame, staring at the grain of the wood as if it might offer answers her husband couldn't. The house felt different in the pre-storm quiet—walls holding their breath, floorboards settling with tiny creaks that seemed too loud in the stillness.
He's different.He's something else.
The words still echoed in her mind, heavy and sharp. David hadn't meant to sound cold—he rarely did—but gods, he could be blind to how it landed.
She sighed and crossed the room, her steps light but deliberate. The kitchen was dim, only lit by the soft gray light filtering through the curtained window. Rain hadn't started yet, but the air was waiting for it. So was she.
Lala, their Jigglypuff—round, soft, and endlessly smug—was perched atop the dining table, swaying lazily side to side as if humming some silent tune only she could hear.
Annie gave her a small smile.
"You're not worried, are you?" she murmured.
Lala blinked up at her with those big, glassy eyes, then slowly puffed out her cheeks in a contented huff. Annie chuckled despite herself and reached out, gently running her fingers along the soft curl atop the creature's head.
The puff squeaked once, pleased.
Annie leaned on the table with one arm, her eyes drifting toward the window, out toward the yard where Ash still sat with Albus.
Different.Special.Not normal.
She hated those words. Hated how David said them like they were warnings. Like they were labels to be feared, managed, controlled.
Ash was hers.
His stillness, his watchfulness, the way he looked at the world like it had already disappointed him once—yes, she saw it. Of course she did. She wasn't blind.
But none of it scared her.
He was her baby. Her boy. No amount of aura or mystery or power would change the way her heart moved when she saw him smile.
She rested her head in her hand, staring out the window with a quiet, almost defiant softness.
"He could burn the sky itself," she whispered to no one, "and I'd still kiss his forehead goodnight."
Lala gave a sleepy yawn beside her.
Annie scratched her ear absentmindedly.
Let David pace and worry. Let him stare into auras and talk about thresholds and danger.
Ash didn't need someone to measure him.
He needed someone to hold him.
And come hell or storm or the strange fire building behind her son's eyes—Annie Ketchum would be that someone.
Always.
__________
Ash's POV
Ash didn't move as his father stepped back from the railing and walked inside. He kept his eyes on the Stoutland's thick coat, fingers rhythmically stroking through fur like he had for the past ten minutes. The coarse texture was oddly comforting—warmer than any regular dog's coat, with an almost electric quality that seemed to respond to his touch. Albus let out a soft chuff and pressed closer, protective even in rest.
Ash didn't need protection.
But he appreciated it.
His gaze flicked toward the house. He could hear faint footsteps inside now—David pacing, probably thinking harder than he let on. That man carried secrets in his shoulders. Wore his concerns in the space between words. Ash had known it for weeks.
He turned his eyes back to the cloudy sky, then closed them.
This isn't what I expected.
It wasn't the first time he'd thought that. Or the tenth.
He'd woken up in this tiny, too-real body nearly a year ago—reborn without warning, without fanfare, into a world that looked and smelled like Pokémon… but wasn't quite right. The creatures were here, yes, and so were the names—Albus the Stoutland, Lala, Hooter—but no one called them Pokémon. His parents never even used the word. They referred to them as beasts, or more cryptically, Extradimensionals.
The first time his mother had said it, Ash had almost laughed. It sounded like a line from a B-movie.
But this world wasn't fiction.
The weight of his body, the smell of dirt, the feel of the wind, the warmth of Albus's fur—all of it was too vivid, too grounded. Even the aura that pulsed around him now and then, flickering like a sixth sense—he could feel it in his bones. It was real. Alive. More real than anything he'd ever experienced in the anime, the games, or even the movies.
He opened his eyes again.
Maybe I'm in a Detective Pikachu situation, he thought. An alternate universe. No Gyms. No League. Just... shadows of what I remember.
The idea unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. For as long as he could remember—in this life and the last—he had dreamed of badges, tournaments, Elite Fours. Standing atop a mountain with his partners at his side.
Was that still possible here?
He didn't know. No one spoke of battles or trainers. No one wore Pokéballs on their belts.
Ash exhaled, watching his breath fog slightly in the cold morning air.
So what am I supposed to do?
There was power in him—he could feel it, even now, simmering under his skin like a sleeping volcano. His aura was active even when he wasn't trying. It stretched toward things. Called to them.
He knew the Ash from the anime had a strong aura. He remembered that. So he had plans—plans to train it, to master it.
He hadn't even tried to control it yet.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he didn't want to tip anyone off to just how much he remembered.
Not yet.
Ash looked down at his small hands. They didn't shake. They didn't fumble. Every motion he made was deliberate, calculated.
He had the mind of a college graduate.
And yet, here he was. Crawling before he could walk. Speaking only when expected to. Smiling when adults smiled at him.
Something was amiss. He could feel it in the silence of the sky.
But for now?
He'd play the part.
Wait. Watch. Learn.
And when the time came…
He would carve his own path—Gym or no Gym, League or no League. He'd find his partners. Form his team. Stand tall, even in this strange, rewritten world.
Ash closed his eyes again and leaned against Albus, the beast's steady heartbeat syncing with his own.
The world had changed.
But he hadn't.
Not really.
And no matter what they called these creatures…
They were still his.
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A.N. Gave some family's perspective in this chapter, tell me what you guys think.
Also... Give me some stones! Although I don't know what exactly it does...
Let's say for the next 200 stones you'll get an extra chapter today!