Point of View: Yua, then Butterfree
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Yua's Point of View
He patted Gengar.
He patted him.
I had braced myself for fear—maybe a small cry, maybe clinging, maybe just wide eyes and trembling lips. I'd prepared a thousand comforting words in my head. But instead of crying?
John looked at my team with excitement and affection.
When Gyarados roared low, he called him cool. When Butterfree fluttered down, he whispered that she was pretty. When Gengar leapt from the post trying to jump-scare him, he just laughed and gave him a playful pat on the head.
I had to stop recording. My hands were shaking too much to hold the Pokégear straight, and I needed to process what was happening. My son—a two-year-old child who had never been taught a single species name—was standing confidently in front of Pokémon that could terrify grown warriors.
I lowered the Pokégear to my side, not turning it off. I wanted to capture moments. Just not this one.
Not yet.
"You weren't scared?" I asked him gently, still trying to make sense of the situation.
"Nope!" he chirped back with a dazzling smile. "They're awesome!"
I could only blink. No fear. No hesitation. No pretending.
He meant it.
And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw Butterfree flutter forward with a kind of grace I hadn't seen in years. Her wings shimmered faintly in the light as she hovered close to Swampert, whispering something too soft to hear.
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Butterfree's Point of View
I couldn't take my eyes off the little hatchling.
There was something in his presence that pulled at me. Like the wind carried his scent straight from the heart of the forest, and the trees whispered it to me: He is not ordinary. He is one of us.
He had looked at Gyarados without blinking.
He had smiled at Gengar like he saw through the shadows and loved the warmth underneath.
My wings fluttered nervously.
"...Butterfree?" I asked hesitantly, turning to the others. "(I... I think I want to try talking to him.)"
Pidgeot squawked and tucked her wings in close. "Pidgeot! (You know humans can't actually understand us, right? Not the way we're speaking now.)"
Absol nodded with solemn intensity. "Absol... (Even aura users and psychics take years to understand our language by gathering bonds and stretching their aura and psychic energies,and even then, it's often just impressions—feelings, not words.)"
"Swampert. (Only the most attuned can manage that kind of link.)," Swampert rumbled.
Gengar, still floating nearby and watching the little hatchling tug on a flower's stem with the intense focus of a researcher, gave a toothy grin. "Gengar~ (Tell you what, Butterfree... if he manages to talk back to you, I'll stop pranking you for an entire year.)"
That made Pidgeot choke on her own feathers.
"Pidgeot! (You?! No pranks?! That's worth watching!)"
Despite the laughter and teasing, I couldn't ignore it—the forest was calling me.
He was connected to something. Something wild and ancient and real.
"I don't know why," I said, quieter this time. "But the forest... my home... it's telling me he's special. I need to try."
They didn't argue again.
Curiosity had taken root.
Even Absol's crimson eyes were watching with a touch of awe.
I floated forward, slow and careful.
He noticed me.
The little hatchling turned his bright red eyes up toward me and smiled—like he knew I was about to say something important. As if he had heard our entire conversation, even though that was impossible.
Still... I took a breath.
"Butterfree? (Can you understand me?)"
The air went still.
He didn't blink.
He didn't look confused.
He just smiled wider and answered—
"Of course I can."
My wings flared wide, stunned, frozen in the air.
He had responded in perfect Terran—not a stammer, not a guess, not reading my emotion—but as if I had spoken to him in a common tongue.
Not only understood—he had replied.
Not just emotion.
Not just intuition.
He understood every word.
Behind me, I heard the sharp intake of breath from Gyarados.
Gengar stopped floating mid-spin.
Absol's fur bristled slightly.
Even Swampert stood still.
The entire team was frozen in time.
Not a single sound passed between them. Not one word. No jokes. No teasing.
Just stunned silence.
But me?
My whole body was trembling with joy.
He could understand me. He could really understand me!
Not just read feelings or mimic reactions—he understood the species tongue. The real language.
I didn't faint.
No, I was too ecstatic for that.
I spun midair, light glittering off my wings, and hovered just inches from him again.
"You really can!" I gasped, my voice nearly chirping. "(You can understand me!)"
He nodded cheerfully. "Yup! You speak really gently—it's nice."
I squeaked.
And behind me?
Still silence.
Even Gengar didn't say a word.
No one did.
Because every one of us—rare, battle-hardened, and trusted—knew what we had just witnessed wasn't possible.
Not from a hatchling.
Not from a human.
And yet—
There he stood.
Smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Point of View: John
Everything stopped the moment I spoke.
"Butterfree? (Can you understand me?)"
"Of course I can."
She didn't faint like last time. No—this time she spun in delighted circles, wings glittering with joy, babbling in rapid bursts of her native tongue, so fast even Gengar was blinking in confusion. But the rest of the clearing?
Silent.
Frozen.
I could hear Butterfree's soft flutters. The wind brushing the grass. The distant hum of leaves. But nothing from the others.
Swampert's arms were stiff at his sides.
Pidgeot's crest feathers had fluffed up from shock.
Gyarados looked like his soul had quietly departed his body.
And Gengar... Gengar wasn't grinning. That's how I knew I'd gone too far.
My gaze shifted to Mama. She'd gone pale. Her mouth parted in wordless confusion, her Pokégear dangling loosely in one hand.
Then it slipped from her fingers and hit the grass with a soft thud.
Oops.
I smiled sweetly and walked over, bending down to pick it up. "You dropped this."
Her hands were still frozen halfway between up and down when I gently placed the Pokégear back into her grasp.
She stared at me like she was trying to solve a puzzle missing half its pieces.
Then she knelt, slowly, her voice quiet. "John... how did you know what she said?"
I tilted my head. "What do you mean?"
"Pokémon don't... speak like us," she said, her tone cautious, trying not to frighten me—ha, good luck. "They don't use words. They say their names, or parts of them, and use their bodies and emotions. That's how we understand them. Through aura, or energy, or time spent bonding. Some very strong Pokémon can learn to speak human language when they reach something called King Rank—but that's rare. Extremely rare. Even among professionals, it takes years to start understanding them fluently."
"Oh..." I blinked. "That's weird."
She looked like she was waiting for the punchline. "Weird?"
I nodded slowly, careful to keep my tone light, casual. "Yeah. I thought Pokémon always talked like that. You know, like in those movies you showed me."
She blinked. "Movies?"
I gave her a puzzled little frown—the kind toddlers make when they're told Santa's not real. "Remember? That one educational movie? With the baby Magby who explained Pokémon ranks to the viewers? He talked perfectly. So did the Meowth, and the trainer's Lucario. They all just... talked like you and me."
She stared.
I smiled.
Inside?
I was screaming with laughter. Oh, so this is what the system meant when it enjoyed messing with me. There was a kind of delight in her confusion. I wasn't even trying that hard to twist the knife. This was just... so easy. I love my mama to death but it is just to fun.
"John..." she whispered, "those were scripted. For entertainment. They're not... real."
I blinked again, innocent and clueless. "Oh..."
She wasn't breathing.
"Sorry, Mama," I said softly, placing my hands behind my back. "I didn't mean to be weird..."
Her fingers clenched around the Pokégear.
Then she stood—abruptly, purposefully—and turned to Gyarados, who had barely moved since the moment I spoke.
"Gyarados," she said, voice steady, "tell me the story. All of it. From the beginning. Use your language. Don't simplify it."
He gave her a slow, almost reluctant nod.
Then he began.
His deep voice rumbled across the clearing, low and gravelly and filled with old memories.
"Gyarados... (I was a Magikarp then. Weak. Pathetic. But I saw her—a young woman caught in a flood, clinging to a root on the riverbank. I jumped in. Shielded her. The current was too strong. She would've died. I would've died. I remember the pain. The Spearow. The storm. I couldn't let her go. Even when I blacked out, I tried to keep swimming.)"
Mama's eyes softened.
He continued.
"(She healed me. Carried me in her arms, crying the whole time. I became hers. Not in chains. By choice. I trained. I grew. I evolved... but I couldn't control the rage. The power. I attacked everything. Even her. Her team brought me down. I woke up ashamed. I begged for death. But she forgave me. And I've never left her side again.)"
The moment he finished, Mama turned to me slowly.
I met her gaze.
And without a pause, I repeated every single word Gyarados had said.
Fluently.
Clearly.
Every beat, every phrase, every nuance.
I even mimicked his tone.
The silence that followed was heavier than anything before it.
Mama was still. Her face unreadable.
Swampert's hand twitched.
Pidgeot blinked slowly.
Gyarados said nothing—but he was staring at me like I was the ghost of his past.
"...You heard all that?" Mama finally whispered.
I nodded.
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
So I gave her another innocent smile. "Did I do something bad?"
Her eyes shimmered with a thousand unspoken questions—but she couldn't find the answer to any of them.
Then... the energy shifted.
A pulse. Subtle. Precise.
Not hostile. But deliberate.
I felt it ripple through the ground like a soft heartbeat.
Mama's head snapped up. "What was that?"
She looked around. Then—
Her eyes landed on Absol.
The snowy-furred predator had taken one step forward, silent and still.
Her eyes were narrowed, her body humming with purpose.
"What is she doing...?" Mama murmured, more to herself than me.
I tilted my head. "She wants to test something."
Mama blinked at me. "What?"
"She hasn't said it out loud," I replied, "but I can feel it. That's what she wants."
Mama's mouth opened, then closed again.
Absol stepped closer. She didn't speak to Yua.
She spoke to me.
"I want to test something," she said, her voice sharp and smooth.
I didn't move.
I knew what she meant.
She didn't need to explain.
Her horn began to glow faintly with that inner white-blue light that all aura-tuned Pokémon radiated. The very tip shimmered with something deeper—something older.
A hunter's intuition.
She lowered it slowly toward me.
Not in threat.
In examination.
I didn't resist.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even blink.
Because I already knew what she was going to find.