The first thing Ash Ketchum felt that morning was the sunlight—bright and warm, slipping through the white curtains of his room in lazy slants that painted golden stripes across his blanket. The second thing he felt was excitement, fluttering in his chest like a Spearow's wings.
He was three years old today.
Technically, this was his third birthday—but in truth, it was his second life's third year. And despite everything—the dissonance, the mysteries, the surreal nature of this world—Ash had made it to three. Alive. Loved. Growing.
And for now, that was enough.
"Happy birthday, sunshine!" a cheerful voice rang through the room before he could even open his eyes fully.
The soft mattress dipped slightly as Annie Ketchum sat beside him, brushing aside a mop of dark hair from his forehead. Her smile was warm, her eyes brighter than the sunbeams. She leaned down and kissed his temple.
"Three years old already," she said, mock-astonished. "How are you getting so big, huh?"
Ash yawned dramatically—half for show, half real—and gave her a sleepy grin. "Maybe I'm just built different," he mumbled through the yawn, voice still scratchy.
She laughed, ruffling his hair. "Oh, you are. That's for sure."
A sound piped up from the hallway—a light trill followed by a squeaky, sleepy, "Puff…"
Ash craned his head and smiled as Lala, the family's eternally drowsy Jigglypuff, waddled into the room with all the grace of a plush toy coming to life. Her stubby arms rubbed her eyes, and she blinked at the morning sun like it was a personal affront.
She paused when she saw him, puffed her cheeks for a moment, then let out a soft celebratory hum and clambered clumsily onto the bed. Ash lifted the blanket a little to let her crawl under it. She did so without hesitation, curling into his side.
"Morning, Lala," Ash whispered.
Lala yawned and gave his cheek a quick bop with her forehead—an affectionate good-morning. She then promptly fell asleep again.
From downstairs, a muffled bark echoed up the stairs. Albus—their energetic Stoutland—was already up. Ash didn't need to guess twice where he was: probably seated near the pantry, waiting for bacon scraps like he owned the kitchen.
From the windowsill, a small, sharp chirp rang out. Ash turned his head just in time to see Hooter, the family's sleek and watchful Noctowl, shifting from one talon to another. Her wings fluttered slightly as she stared in at him, blinking slowly with that signature predatory calm.
Ash returned the gaze with a nod, his small fingers sketching an informal salute. Hooter blinked again, as if to say, Happy birthday, hatchling. Don't blow your cover.
Then came the heavy thuds of booted footsteps on the stairs.
"Where's my birthday boy?" David's voice boomed from the hallway.
The door swung open and revealed David Ketchum, tall and solid as always—hair slightly wild, face unshaven, eyes alert despite the early hour. He was already in his jeans and light jacket, looking ready to take on the world—or the woods.
Ash grinned.
David crossed the room in three quick strides and scooped his son up in his arms with theatrical exaggeration. "Three years old, huh?" he said, spinning him once in a slow circle. "That's a whole new level of big man energy."
Ash laughed, clinging to his father's neck. "Does this mean I get to drive now?"
David snorted. "Only if you can bribe the DMV."
"I can try."
"Not in this lifetime," Annie called out from behind him, already halfway down the stairs.
The kitchen smelled like butter and cinnamon.
Ash was lowered into his seat at the breakfast table, where a cartoon-themed paper plate waited in front of him—and beside it, a stack of pancakes so ludicrously tall it looked like an edible Leaning Tower of Pisa.
"Whoa," Ash said in genuine awe.
"Fluffy stacks for my fluffy boy," Annie declared, setting down a bowl of syrup with an exaggerated chef's flourish.
"I helped," David added proudly.
"He flipped one and it hit the ceiling," Annie muttered, sipping her coffee.
"Albus caught it," David said with a wink.
True to form, Albus was sitting beside the pantry with perfect posture, his massive, shaggy form alert and his bright eyes locked on the table. His tongue lolled out slightly, betraying his anticipation.
"Morning, bud," Ash said to him.
Albus gave one sharp bark and wagged his tail once in reply.
As they all began to eat, Ash looked up between bites. "Are we doing anything today?"
Annie exchanged a glance with David. "We were thinking… how does Solebury Orchards sound?"
Ash lit up.
"Really?!"
"Just the three of us," David said. "A quiet little birthday trip. Cider. Trees. Probably bees."
"I'll carry the bag," Annie said, casually brushing invisible dust off her pants. The way she said it, Ash knew exactly what she meant.
The containment spheres.
They never called them Pokéballs here. They were spheres, tools, dimensional casings. Cold, clinical names for something so deeply personal.
Extradimensionals—what this world would call Pokémon—were not part of this reality's natural order.
So they were hidden.
Protected.
Family secrets.
Ash nodded solemnly, then smiled. "Perfect."
The drive to Solebury Orchards took just fifteen minutes. They left behind the leafy residential roads of New Hope and passed a few vintage shops, a biker café, and the occasional colonial-era stone wall before turning onto the orchard's main gravel road.
Solebury sat on a gentle hill, with lines of apple trees radiating outward like ribs on a sun-bleached skeleton. It was late summer, and the trees were heavy with fruit. Tourists wandered the lanes with baskets. Children ran with sticky fingers. It was the kind of scene you'd find in a brochure or on the back of a cider label.
But to Ash, it felt like the world's safest bubble.
He stepped out of the car, immediately reaching for Annie's hand. David locked the car and slung the nondescript charcoal-gray backpack over his shoulder.
Ash knew that inside that bag, nestled between an emergency first-aid kit and a rolled-up hoodie, were three spheres. Lala. Hooter. Albus. Each polished and compacted down to the size of large marbles.
They started with apple picking. Annie insisted on the lower branches—"Don't want David falling and suing the orchard"—and David feigned great insult until Ash hit him with a half-eaten apple.
"Betrayal!" David declared, dramatically collapsing to one knee.
They got cider slushies afterward, and Ash had to hold his with both hands because it was cold and melting too fast in the sun. David showed him how to hold the straw in a way that stopped the ice chunks from clogging it, and Annie kept swiping tastes from his cup every time he looked away.
They walked the rows at a leisurely pace.
They stayed at the orchard until the afternoon sun started dipping low enough to cast gold across the treetops. The light filtered through the branches in thin beams, cutting across David's shoulders as he carried the paper bag of apples back toward the car, with Ash clutching Annie's hand on the walk back.
It was warm. Perfectly so. The kind of warm that didn't make you sweat—just made your skin glow a little and made your muscles loosen with the quiet certainty that all was well.
Ash didn't want it to end.
But the moment the car doors closed and the orchard faded behind them, the outside world began to leak back in. Not through conversation—David and Annie still chatted easily, teasing each other about who picked the better apples—but through the quiet rhythms of New Hope as they passed back through town.
The old man sweeping his steps outside the hardware store. The teenage couple smoking behind the gas station. The cop parked on the side of the road, watching traffic through dark aviators.
Ordinary people.
Ash leaned his head against the car window and let the soft hum of the road lull him into a dreamy haze. The backpack sat in the footwell at David's feet. Still sealed. Still quiet. The three spheres inside completely still.
Lala wouldn't wake until she smelled cake. Hooter preferred evenings, anyway. And Albus... Albus was too dignified to complain about being confined.
Home came into view as the sun turned orange.
Their house was modest—a two-story structure nestled at the edge of a wooded trail, with an old wraparound porch, ivy along the side, and wind chimes that never quite made the same sound twice.
David parked in the gravel driveway and opened his door with a sigh. "Alright, you hooligans. Inside. Let's see what kind of damage we can do to that cake."
Ash grinned. "What kind of cake is it?"
"Triple chocolate with fudge swirls," Annie said over her shoulder, unlocking the door. "Because your father believes in dental destruction."
"I call it decadence," David said.
They entered the house, the faint creak of the wooden floor greeting them like a familiar song. David locked the door behind them, something Ash noticed he always did. Even in their own home. Even in daylight.
Inside, the air was cooler. Quieter. The scent of apples mixed with vanilla. A few decorations hung from the ceiling—nothing garish, just streamers and a balloon shaped like a number 3 bobbing near the kitchen entry.
Ash dropped his shoes off by the mat and made a beeline for the living room, where the TV sat in its usual spot on the wall. He clambered up onto the couch and grabbed the remote while his parents unpacked things in the kitchen.
The screen flickered to life.
Static. Then local news.
"…in corporate headlines tonight, Stark Industries has officially named twenty-one-year-old Tony Stark as the new Chief Executive Officer, following last year's tragic car accident that claimed the lives of Howard and Maria Stark…"
Ash froze.
The image on the screen cut to a young man in a pressed black suit, standing beside a polished podium bearing the Stark Industries logo. Cameras flashed. Reporters jostled. But Tony Stark's expression was cool—almost amused. Like the whole world was playing a game only he understood.
He looked cocky, Sharp.
The anchor continued:
"…known as a tech prodigy and MIT's youngest graduate, Stark inherits one of the world's most powerful defense companies at an unusually young age. While some board members have expressed concern over the transition, industry analysts say it's only a matter of time before Tony Stark makes a name for himself in weapons development…"
Ash stared at the screen, barely blinking.
David turned off the TV with a gentle click.
"Hey," he said softly, settling onto the couch beside him. "Everything okay?"
Ash blinked, the spell broken. The image of Tony Stark—the smirk, the press conference, the word CEO—burned behind his eyes like a ghost.
His mouth felt dry.
His chest felt tight.
That was Tony Stark.
That was Tony Stark.
The name repeated in his mind like a stuck Poké Flute tune. Stark Industries. Weapons. Defense. Technology. The man who would someday build a suit of powered armor in a cave. The man who would start a chain of events that led to gods falling from the sky and half the universe being snapped out of existence.
Ash's tiny fingers curled into fists on his knees. The warmth of the birthday afternoon—the laughter, the apples, the way Annie had ruffled his hair that morning—all of it suddenly felt… thin. Like a layer of sugar over something sharp and cold underneath.
Was he really here?
In this world?
The Marvel world?
No. No way. That's impossible.
And yet…
The timeline fit. 1992. Tony Stark was 21. Howard Stark was gone. Stark Industries was making headlines. Everything lined up too cleanly.
His breath hitched.
His stomach turned.
He gripped the couch cushion tightly as a rush of icy fear rolled through him.
What if it's true? What if I've been dropped into the most dangerous universe imaginable?
This wasn't like Kanto, where Pokémon Leagues made headlines. Where cities were wrecked by Dragonites once a year and people rebuilt with smiles and fanfare. This wasn't a storybook world full of ten-year-olds with dreams and gym badges.
This was a world with nuclear arsenals,world wars, and cosmic threats.
A world where men in red suits burned down city blocks and gods fought aliens in the sky.
And my family... we have Pokémon.
No—Extradimensionals.
Beasts no one else had.
Why?
Why did his father own three of them?
Why did they live in secrecy?
Why did this family act like it was normal to have creatures from another reality sitting quietly in Pokéballs?
He was three. Only three. But his mind—his real mind—raced far faster than his small body ever could.
This wasn't just some peaceful alternate life.
This was a chessboard.
And he didn't even know which side he was on.
"Hey," came David's voice again, softer now. Closer.
Ash turned his head, trying to hide the sheen of sweat on his brow. His father knelt in front of him, holding out the slice of cake again. But this time, his eyes weren't joking.
They were searching.
"You alright, bud?" he asked.
Ash opened his mouth. Then closed it.
You can't tell him.
If David and Annie knew what was running through his mind—knew what he remembered, what he was—they'd think he was broken. Or possessed. Or worse.
So he shook his head and smiled weakly. "Just tired," he said, voice thin.
David held his gaze for a moment longer. Then nodded.
"Alright," he said. "Let's get that sugar in you and send you into orbit."
Ash laughed quietly. Too quietly.
And everything after that passed in a blur.
The candles were lit.
Annie's voice sang Happy Birthday off-key, and David howled every third word.
Ash blew out the candles, but his wish wasn't a wish—it was a plea: Let it be safe. Let them be safe.
The cake tasted like chocolate, but he barely chewed.
Lala woke up halfway through and sang something warbly.
Hooter blinked at him from her perch.
Albus dozed at his feet.
He smiled.
He laughed.
He played along.
But behind his eyes, a storm brewed.
Hours later, his room was dark again. The moon hung low outside his window, and the crickets sang to each other in the backyard trees. Annie had tucked him in with a forehead kiss and a whispered "Love you, birthday boy." David had left the hallway light on—just in case.
Ash stared at the ceiling.
So this is real.
He turned his head slowly and looked at the wall where three small red-and-white spheres sat atop a high shelf. A containment ball. Pokéball, really. But they weren't called that here.
Not in this world.
He sat up in bed and drew his knees to his chest, thinking.
The questions came like thunder.
Why does my family have Pokémon?
How did they get them?
Do they know what they are?
Do they understand what they could do?
Are there more people like us?
Does anyone else have them?
His thoughts spiraled.
The Extradimensionals shouldn't exist here. There were no Pokédexes. No Trainers. No professors handing out starter Pokémon. There was no Oak. There was only this small town in Pennsylvania, and a quiet family with a loud secret.
Was I meant to be here?
Had he been sent—chosen, maybe—to act? To protect? To do what, exactly?
Fight?
He was three.
He was just three.
And yet, the weight on his shoulders felt like the sky had cracked and landed on his back.
Ash curled tighter under the blanket.
In the Marvel universe, nothing stayed hidden for long. Not aliens. Not super soldiers. Not secret beasts.
One day, someone would find out.
One day, someone might try to take them away.
His family.
His Pokémon.
His world.
He clenched his fists beneath the sheets and made himself a promise:
"I don't care if this world is dangerous.
I don't care if gods walk the skies and monsters wear suits.
I will not let them hurt my family."
Even if it meant fighting fire with fire.
Even if it meant becoming something… the world had never seen.
He looked at the Pokéball on the shelf once more.
And this time, he didn't see toys.
He saw weapons.
He saw companions.
He saw a chance.
A path.
Ash Ketchum closed his eyes.
His third birthday was over.
The real journey had just begun.
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A.N. Pretty big chapter for me, I'll gradually write chapters with more Word Count. Let me know if you enjoyed this chapter, and I'll probably see you guys on Wednesday!
P.S. Give me your stones!!!!!!