Chapter Text
Solan sat at the breakfast table, his Incineroar squatting beside him, laser-focused. Not on Solan. Not even on the Tauros outside kicking up dust in the pasture. No, all of the Fire-type’s attention was locked onto the Lechonk bacon steaming on Solan’s plate.
“You want some, boy?” Solan asked, already knowing the answer.
Incineroar nodded, ears twitching, rumbling low in his throat like a furnace stoked with approval.
Solan sighed, smiling despite himself. He picked up a strip and held it above the Pokémon’s head. Incineroar tilted back dramatically, tongue lolling out like a Growlithe in a sunbeam, completely still, waiting for room service.
Solan dropped the bacon. Incineroar caught it mid-air with a quiet snort of satisfaction.
“You’re lucky you’re my favorite,” Solan muttered.
Incineroar paused, then rumbled deep in his chest before rubbing his face against Solan’s, a soft show of appreciation.
“Has the coffee pot started yet?” a gruff voice called down the hall.
Solan exhaled through his nose. He’d been too busy with breakfast and last-minute packing to start coffee for his dad.
“Hold on, I’ll get it started,” he called back.
“You should've started it already.”
Solan didn’t answer at first. He scraped his chair back and padded barefoot across the tile toward the counter. The pot still held yesterday’s grounds. He winced, he’d meant to clean it last night.
Incineroar followed, licking bacon grease from his paw. Morning sunlight lit his fur in gold and orange, he looked like he belonged here more than Solan did.
“I said I’ll get it,” Solan muttered louder, emptying the filter and rinsing the pot. His voice cracked just slightly, betraying a tension he didn’t mean to show.
The sound of boots followed from the hall. His father’s voice was rougher now.
“Don’t need your attitude on your last morning here, son.”
Solan said nothing, jaw tight as he measured out the grounds. The scent of coffee mingled with the smell of earth drifting in through the open window, Tauros stirring up dust again. Probably the same one that broke the gate last week.
His father appeared in the doorway, buttoning the last clasp of his ranch coat. He paused, taking in the sight of Solan hunched over his school bag.
“You haven’t shown me what they’ve got you doing this semester,” he said. “You need tougher classes, something to really make you work.”
Solan didn’t look up. “I entered a special program. Shouldn’t you be proud of that?” he muttered under his breath, already reaching for his phone.
The screen flickered to life, half battery, Rotom still sluggish from sleep. A message alert popped up:
Troy: Hey man, I’m hoping you’re doing okay. Text me when you get some service.
Solan’s stomach tightened. He glanced at his dad, who was still waiting expectantly. “Well?”
He opened the Naranja Academy app and pulled up his schedule, handing the phone over. “Here.”
His dad frowned. “This isn’t right.”
“What’s not right?”
“They’ve got you in the First Partners class. You took that last year.”
Solan had been waiting for this. The exact moment his dad noticed, and decided it was a problem.
“It’s part of the special curriculum,” he said flatly. “Nemona’s idea. She’s the student council president, she’s trying out some new format.”
“Special?” His dad’s tone was skeptical in that familiar you think I’m stupid way.
“Yes, special,” Solan snapped, then forced his voice down. “It wasn’t my idea. Nemona wants to improve the quality of trainers at Naranja, she even got the rest of the council to help her design it.”
“I’m sure,” his dad grunted. “You don’t need new Pokémon—you haven’t even done a good job training the ones you’ve got.”
Incineroar froze, growling low before Solan raised a hand to calm him.
“My Pokémon are fine. I raised them the way you taught me.”
“Then why are two of them lounging by the pond, and one’s in here begging for scraps?” his dad shot back, nodding toward the window. Solan followed his gaze; Goodra and Gastrodon were dozing at the water’s edge. Kilowattrel was nowhere to be seen. Cetitan was probably holed up in a cave again.
“They’re allowed to relax,” Solan said sharply. “You worked me like a Mudsdale all summer. You got your help.”
His father’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flicked back to the phone. He scrolled once, then froze, expression shifting to something Solan almost never saw on him: shock.
“What?” Solan asked. “Something wrong?”
His dad blinked, schooling his face back to neutral. “No. Thought I recognized one of the kids in your program, that’s all.”
Solan’s breath hitched for just a second, not because of what was said, but how. Concern, not anger. Like his father had seen a ghost.
“You should answer that friend of yours,” his dad said suddenly. “Or block him.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’m your father, boy. When someone’s blowing up your phone, it is my business. ‘specially since he seems like a distraction.”
“He’s not a distraction,” Solan said quietly, steady but tight. “I won’t let him be.”
That caught his dad off guard. He hesitated, then nodded slowly, drawing his own conclusion.
“He’s the one who messed you up last semester wasn’t he, who distracted you from properly training for your champion assessment.”
Solan zipped his bag instead of answering. The sound filled the kitchen like static, Solan regretted ever telling his father that much about the chaos at the end of his semester.
“I wasn’t gonna lecture you,” his father said finally. “But if he’s still texting, maybe he regrets it. Or maybe he just wants to drag you down again. Either way, ignoring him won’t fix it.”
“Not my job to fix it,” Solan muttered. “’Cause I didn’t do anything.”
His father looked toward the pasture, where the delivery cart was rolling in and the Tauros were scattering again. “You sure you’re ready for this?” he asked after a pause. It came out more worried than stern.
Solan met his eyes. “I don’t know. But I’m going anyway.”
Incineroar gave a low approving huff and bumped his shoulder.
“Check your oil before the ship,” his dad said at last. “Don’t want a call from some Paldean mechanic.”
Solan managed a faint smile. “Sure, Pa.”
He slung his bag over one shoulder. It wasn’t heavy, but it felt final. Incineroar padded behind him, paws soft on the tile.
As Solan stepped outside into the light, he didn’t look back. He already knew what was behind him. And what wasn’t.
Outside, the ranch was alive with motion and sound. Tauros snorted in the distance, and dust shimmered in the heat.
Solan whistled sharp through his fingers, calling in the rest of his team.
Incineroar climbed into the passenger seat with a grunt, the old truck creaking under his weight. Gastrodon and Goodra made their slow way from the pond, while Kilowattrel swooped in and perched on the truck's roof, it creaked painfully loud.
“Get off the roof,” Solan muttered. The Bird Pokèmon blinked, clearly debating whether or not to listen.
Volcarona descended next, radiant wings beating the air in slow, controlled pulses. Behind her, a rush of frost and heavy footsteps signaled Cetitan’s arrival.
“I know it’s you,” Solan said without turning. “And yes, you probably want the bed too.”
Cetitan grunted in confirmation, horn nudging his shoulder.
“Alright, but so does Volcarona, and probably Goodra and Gastrodon. I’ll just pick one of you randomly so it’s fair.”
He reached for his phone. “Rotom, randomize between—”
Before he could finish, the screen lit up: Unknown Number.
He hesitated, thumb hovering. He didn’t need to check. He already knew.
The call rang out. A voicemail icon blinked.
Solan exhaled through his nose, muttering, “Not today.”
“Alright,” he called to the Pokémon, louder now. Shoving his Rotom phone into his pocket muffling its voice so that he couldn’t hear it, “New plan, whoever can get in the bed first gets to ride to the Virbank port in it.
Volcarona shrieked, wings flaring. Cetitan bellowed in defiance. They lunged simultaneously—and Gastrodon somehow slipped past both, flopping triumphantly into the bed with a wet smack.
Solan smirked. “Guess that settles it.”
Goodra arrived last, yawning, clearly uninterested in the chaos. Solan chuckled and climbed into the truck. He’d just started the engine when his phone buzzed again.
Voicemail from Unknown Number (0:42)
He shouldn’t have listened. But he did.
“Hey… I know you’re probably ignoring me. That’s fair.”
A pause.
“I didn’t mean for things to end how they did. I thought I was doing what was best. But I just made it worse.”
Another pause.
“If you’re heading to Naranja already… maybe we could meet up. Or not. Just—think about it.”
A beat of static, then softer: “I miss you, man.”
The message clicked off.
Incineroar’s reflection watched him from the window, eyes steady. Solan looked down, thumb brushing over the screen.
Then he locked the phone, tossed it onto the seat, and turned the key.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Before I change my mind.”
Incineroar rumbled low in agreement.
They rolled down the dirt road, gravel crunching under the tires, until the ranch was just a shape in the mirror. Solan let the silence stretch, until, inevitably, the phone rang again.
He almost snarled at it. “Seriously?”
Incineroar recoiled slightly from the sharpness in his voice. Gastrodon’s reflection sank out of view behind the cab.
Solan rubbed his face. “Rotom, block caller.”
The phone hesitated, screen flickering. “Block Nemona?”
“What? No—block Troy.”
“Nemona is calling.”
Solan blinked, checked the screen, and groaned. “Oh. Fine. Accept.”
“Didn’t you read the enrollment letter I sent you? It was in the box — it had all the information!”
Beside him, Incineroar’s ears flicked, the faintest trace of judgment in his glowing eyes.
Solan sighed, running a hand down his face. “This special program of yours….,” he started shame tinged in his his voice. “Is Troy in it?”
There was a pause — the kind Nemona didn’t usually allow in a conversation. He could almost hear her head tilt.
“Troy? There aren’t any Troy’s participating in the program,” she answered, brightly. “It’s a mix of people already enrolled at Naranja, a few experienced trainers who made the news last year, and some total rookies, were keeping it small this year.”
Solan let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The tension eased from his shoulders — not completely, but enough that Incineroar stopped watching him like he was about to pick a fight with his own phone.
“Good,” he said simply.
Nemona laughed . “I’m looking forward to battling with you guys again, and the new people! It’ll be fun, but it sounds like you’re worried I’m lying.”
“Nothing,” Solan replied quickly, too quickly. “Just didn’t want any… drama.”
“Nope, no drama!” Nemoma assured him, “why is there something I should know? You were acting strange before we left for the summer there were some—.”
“Nemona.” He cut her off, voice dry. “I’m fine, everything’s fine.”
Her laugh was loud enough to make the Rotom’s speakers crackle. “Alright, I just wanted to make sure you’re still set for the ship. Your name’s already on the manifest, and—oh, by the way—you’re rooming with someone new this semester!”
Solan groaned. “Is it someone I know at least?”
“Nope,” she said short and sweet. “But I think you’ll like this one. He’s from Johto. Kind of quiet, he’s strong. He helped stop Team Rocket. You’ll find out when you get here.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, watching the coastline starting to rise in the distance as the truck rumbled along the dirt road. “I was kinda hoping for my own dorm.”
“Well, you’re in the Special Program,” Nemona reminded him cheerily. “No one gets their own dorm. We want some old and new students to dorm together so that their time adjusting to the school is easy.”
He grunted. “Last time I made a new friend, it didn’t end great.”
Nemona’s voice softened just a little, the brightness still there but dimmed. “Yeah… I heard. I won’t pry. Just—don’t write people off before they’ve had a chance, okay?”
Solan didn’t answer right away. The road wound and Virbank loomed in the distance, he could see ships coming in and out of the port, a few were already parked and waiting, one of them was for him.
“I’ll think about it,” he said at last.
“That’s all I ask!” Nemona replied. “Oh, and—Solan?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad you decided to come back. You were such a good rival last year, and I hope this program helps you and the others grow so I have more rivals to battle!”
That one caught him off guard. He almost laughed, he didn’t expect her to come out and confirm what he already thought so easily. “Yeah, well. We’ll see if I can actually beat you this time.”
Nemona chuckled. “I bet you want to know what first partner we’re giving you, what do you think it’s going to be?”
“Yeah, I would like to know what Incineroar’s replacement is going to be, are you going to tell me or am I going in blind.”
“I’m not telling you that, it’s going to be a surprise, but give me your best guess.”
“Uh, a Fuecoco or Scorbunny would be a nice change of pace, something that doesn’t feel the need to constantly sunbathe.”
Incineroar perked up and rumbled indignantly, huffing out small flames that threatened to burn the dashboard. “Hey! Stop that I was just messin’!” Solan scolded, swatting away the embers before they could land.”
“Ha! I’ll see you soon then. Safe travels, cowboy!”
“Sure thing,” Solan said, but Nemona had already hung up.
He stared at the screen a moment longer, the reflection of his own tired eyes staring back at him. Then he set the phone face-down on the dash and shifted the truck into gear, the engine grumbling like it shared his mood.
Incineroar gave a low, approving growl, as if to say finally.
“Yeah,” Solan muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”
The traffic into Virbank City was mercifully light. The sun had climbed high enough to bake the dust on the road into a pale shimmer, and the wind buffeted the truck in warm, uneven bursts. Gastrodon sat happily in the bed, stretching her tendrils into the wind; Incineroar reclined in the passenger seat, sunglasses balanced awkwardly on his nose because it saw them dashboard, and couldn’t keep its paws to itself.
Solan should’ve been enjoying it; the open road, the hum of the engine, the rare peace between his Pokémon. But his mind kept circling back to Troy. The voicemail. The voice that still lingered, too soft and too familiar. He’d tried to shove it out of his head, tried to let the rumble of the tires drown it out, but every mile seemed to press it deeper into his chest.
He rolled the window down a little further, hoping the wind would somehow blow the thoughts out of his head. It didn’t.
Incineroar’s reflection shifted in the glass, one golden eye glancing toward him. The Fire-type rumbled low,sniffing at him like it was trying to smell what he was thinking so hard about.
“I know,” Solan muttered. “I’m thinking too much again.”
The Pokémon gave a quiet snort, and rolled it eyes at the obviousness of his statement.
Solan huffed out a laugh, faint but genuine, and gripped the wheel tighter as the coastline appeared ahead, the faint outline of ferries bobbing at the docks, cranes moving crates in the morning light. Paldea was waiting. A new start, whether he liked it or not.
He reached forward and flicked the radio on. Static, then the scratchy hum of a Galarian country song, one his dad used to play when they’d fix fences in summer. He almost turned it off, but instead he let it run, the nostalgia sitting in his throat like a lump he couldn’t swallow.
Incineroar turned the volume up a little with one claw. Solan didn’t stop him.
For a long moment, they just drove—man and Pokémon, sunlight and dust trailing behind them. The ranch was gone now, nothing but a fading silhouette in the mirror.
And though Solan told himself he wasn’t going to look back, he still did. Just once.
Then he faced forward again, jaw set, eyes on the sea.
“Next stop, Paldea,” he murmured.
Incineroar rumbled in agreement, low and sure.
The ship horn sounded in the distance.
By the time Solan rolled into the Virbank docks, the sun had climbed high enough to bleach the pavement white. The salt air stung his nose, thick with the smell of engine oil and seaweed.
He pulled the truck into the line for vehicle boarding, the old machine coughing like it was as tired of traveling as he was. Gastrodon perked up in the truck bed, leaving a glistening trail across the metal that would definitely not impress the ship staff.
Incineroar leaned halfway out the window, sniffing the ocean breeze like he was preparing to wrestle a Lapras. His sunglasses had slid halfway down his snout, but he didn’t seem to care.
“Try not to scare anyone,” Solan muttered, shifting into park.
A dockworker in an orange vest tapped the side of the truck with a clipboard. “Are you on the Paldea Manifest?”
“I am, the name’s Solan Bauern.” Solan said passing over his ID and a printed pass Nemona had sent him. The worker eyed Incineroar for a long second, then the dripping Gastrodon in the bed, then the general state of Solan’s vehicle, which was one stubborn wheel alignment away from scrap. “Make sure nothing happens to my baby.”
“Of course, we’ll make sure nothing happens to your truck.”
Incineroar gave an affirming rumble, flexing his arm like the worker would be hearing from him if anything happened to the truck at all.
The worker just sighed, stamped the form, and waved him toward the ramp. “Lane Three. Park tight. Pokémon in recall or under control at all times.”
“Got it,” Solan said, even though he had no intention of recalling anyone.
The truck groaned its way up the ramp and onto the ship’s lower deck, where metal and sea air mixed into a damp chill. The crew guided him to a row of cars already strapped down with thick chains. Solan killed the engine, patted the dash twice, and stepped out.
“Stay put,” he told Gastrodon, who blinked once, unbothered, before sliding down to the tailgate like a puddle come to life.
Incineroar climbed out after him, stretching, then yawned wide enough to make a nearby passenger backpedal nervously. “Yeah, yeah,” Solan grumbled. “Real scary.”
He grabbed his duffel from the back seat and slung it over his shoulder. The ship horn bellowed—a deep, ocean-sized sound that seemed to echo straight through his ribs. The whole ship rumbled beneath his boots.
The announcement speakers crackled: “Passengers, please proceed to the upper deck or cabin seating, your rooms will be ready shortly. Estimated travel time: Ten Days.”
Ten Days. Plenty of time to think too much.
Solan took the stairs two at a time until the wind hit him full in the face. The upper deck was wide open, dotted with benches and travelers, trainers in matching jackets, families, he didn’t recognize anyone.
He dropped his duffel at an empty bench near the railing and sat, staring out at the gray horizon. The hum of the engines vibrated through the floor. He’d never admit it, but the ocean still unsettled him—too much like the pond from when he was little, only endless.
Incineroar sat down beside him, then decided that wasn’t close enough and stretched across the bench, half on Solan’s lap, half on the seat. His weight was immediate, solid, and warm like a living furnace.
“Hey,” Solan protested weakly, trying to shove him off. “You’re not a Litten anymore, you can’t just—”
Incineroar made a low, contented noise and promptly shifted more of his bulk onto him, tail flicking lazily across Solan’s chest. The air puffed from Solan’s lungs in a half-laugh, half-groan.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, but he didn’t push him again.
Gastrodon took her chance to slither up and melt into a puddle under the bench, she was going to make the most of her time outside the Pokèball.
The rhythmic churn of the ship engines blended with the sea breeze. The dock shrank in the distance, replaced by open water, blue stretching in every direction, sunlight glinting off the surface.
Solan leaned back against the metal bench, feeling Incineroar’s heat seep into his side. The Fire-type’s purr was more like a steady rumble, a slow and grounding sound that filled the quiet between them.
He glanced down once at the phone in his hand. No new notifications. Just the faint reflection of his own tired face and the flicker of sea light on the glass.
Good.
He slipped it back into his pocket, crossed his arms, and let his eyes drift shut.
By the time the ship cleared the bay, Solan was already half-asleep, lulled by the rhythm of the waves and the weight of his partner sprawled across him. Incineroar shifted only once, curling protectively tighter around his trainer, chin pressed to his chest.
A few passengers walking by smiled at the sight: the boy and his Fire-type both asleep in the sun, the bench barely big enough for one of them.
Solan didn’t stir when the announcement crackled again overhead:
“Next stop: Porto Marinada. Welcome aboard the Paldean Line.”
He just murmured something unintelligible in his sleep and turned his face toward Incineroar’s fur, as the ship carried them both quietly toward whatever waited on the other side of the sea.