The next morning came slowly to Noctopolis.
Mist clung to the glass towers outside my window, turning the skyline into a watercolor of gray and silver. The city looked half-asleep, like it hadn't decided whether to wake up or disappear. I sat at my desk, eyes drifting between the glowing skyline and the faint reflection of a certain blue blob pretending to nap on top of my lamp.
"Ditto," I said quietly. "You're falling on my homework."
The blob twitched, then re-formed into a towel and flopped dramatically to the side.
"Real convincing," I muttered, grabbing the sheet before the ink ran. "You know, most people's partners actually help them study."
It morphed into a haloed angel for half a second, then collapsed into little Bubbly pops, which was its version of laughter. "Typical, " I muttered.
I sighed and glanced at the calendar on my tablet. One month left of senior year. One month until the last bell, final exams, graduation speeches, and whatever came after. The future was close enough to see but still blurred at the edges, like the towers outside.
Downstairs, the smell of breakfast drifted up—coffee, toast, and the faint crackle of something frying. Mom only cooked when she was stressed or excited. Considering the last few weeks, it was probably both.
Dad was already at the kitchen table when I came down, tablet in hand, massive frame somehow folded into a chair that looked too small for him. Mom stood at the stove, hair pinned neatly back, plating eggs with the precision of someone signing an expensive contract. Ditto oozed behind me, occasionally imitating the toaster.
"Morning, Cyrus," Mom said, voice calm but tired.
"Morning." I sat, and Ditto settled across my shoulders like a scarf. "You two look like you haven't slept since the Gengar incident."
Dad grunted without looking up. "League inspectors have been running scans all week. They're saying that energy spike fried half the southern terminals."
"Please," Mom said, setting a mug in front of him, "not during breakfast."
He sighed, closed the tablet, and gave her a small smile. "Right. No shop talk before caffeine."
There was a pause—the kind of silence that carried weight. I'd grown up around business meetings; I could feel a pivot coming.
Mom sat opposite me, fingers laced around her coffee cup. "We've been talking about your plans."
I froze mid-sip. "That's never a comforting sentence."
Dad chuckled. "Relax. We're not making you take over the company. Yet."
"I'd hope not. I can barely take over my homework."
Mom's smile softened. "You've done well this year, Cyrus. What happened with the Gengar wasn't small. You protected your classmates and kept calm under pressure. That's not something most seventeen-year-olds can say."
"Was that… a compliment?"
"A rare one," Dad said, smirking. "Don't let it inflate your head."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I said, grinning.
Mom exchanged a look with Dad before turning back to me. "Which brings us to why we wanted to talk. The research division has been expanding—new containment systems, adaptive field tech. There's a particular project we think you could help with."
I raised an eyebrow. "You're recruiting me? Before graduation?"
"More like letting you preview your options," Dad said. "Think of it as… early access."
That got my curiosity. "Alright. What kind of project?"
Mom gestured for me to follow. "You'll see."
The basement had always been more lab than living space. Holo-panels lined the walls, the air thrumming with the quiet heartbeat of machines. But this time, the glow was different—softer, more alive.
In the center of the room sat a small metallic creature perched on a padded table.
It was barely a foot tall, its body fluid and silver like mercury caught mid-motion. A hexagonal nut formed its head, with a single black eye floating freely inside, blinking without a sound. When it moved, the metal rippled like water, ringing faintly—as if music lived beneath its skin.
"Whoa," I whispered. "Is that… alive?"
Mom smiled. "This is Meltan. A living alloy organism. It converts metal into energy and uses that to sustain itself. The League's still debating its classification, but our partners at the Kalos Institute believe it came through the same dimensional rift that caused the energy surge."
Meltan turned toward me, eye glinting gold. A low, harmonic hum vibrated through the room—felt more than heard.
"Does it talk?" I asked.
"Not in words," Mom said. "Its tone changes with emotion. You'll feel it before you understand it."
The hum shifted, higher now, curious. Meltan scooted to the edge of the table, extended a silvery tendril, and tapped my hand. Static tingled through my fingers.
"Guess that's a hello," I murmured.
It replied with a gentle ping, echoing against the lab walls.
Dad crossed his arms, studying us both. "We've monitored it for months, but it hasn't responded this way to anyone else."
"Maybe it recognizes chaos when it sees it," I said.
Ditto dropped from my shoulder, forming into a puddle beside Meltan. The two regarded each other for a heartbeat, then—of course—Ditto transformed into a perfect copy of it. Meltan's eye widened; then it shimmered and turned slightly blob-shaped in return.
Mom actually laughed. "They're mimicking each other."
"Looks like they're friends already," I said. "Shapeshifters stick together."
Meltan wobbled approvingly. Ditto puffed itself up, proud.
Dad cleared his throat, half-smiling. "They'll need to get along. We want you to work with Meltan for the next month."
"Work with it?"
"Learn how it thinks. How it reacts. Build a connection," Mom said. "If the two of you can synchronize, you'll be the first human-Meltan partnership on record."
I blinked. "So you're giving me a research Pokémon?"
"Temporarily," she said, but her eyes said otherwise. "We want you to have time before graduation to adjust. If things go well, the League will recognize Meltan under your name."
"Early graduation gift, huh?" I said, running a finger along Meltan's smooth surface.
It hummed softly, and a faint warmth spread through my hand. Not heat—energy. Resonance.
"Call it a head start," Dad said. "We know you're finishing school soon, but after that… you'll need to decide your direction. This might help."
"Direction," I repeated quietly. "Right."
Mom handed me a small metal case. Inside was a single Poké Ball unlike any I'd seen—sleek silver trim, humming faintly when I touched it. "Prototype containment. Designed for high-energy forms. It syncs directly to Meltan's frequency."
"So it won't melt through my backpack?"
"Exactly," she said, smiling.
I looked back at Meltan. "You up for being my science project?"
It chirped, bright and musical. Ditto cheered in harmony, changing into a small trumpet.
"Okay, okay, you win," I said, laughing. "We'll start after school tomorrow."
The rest of the day blurred into calibration tests and note-taking. Meltan followed me everywhere, curious about everything—from the shimmer of the lab lights to the screws on my sneakers. Whenever I stopped moving, it mirrored me. Whenever Ditto changed shape, Meltan tried to copy it—sometimes successfully, sometimes hilariously not.
By sunset, it had learned to balance on my shoulder like a little magnet. Its hum blended so naturally with the ambient noise of the city that I barely noticed it after a while.
Mom leaned against the lab doorway, watching us. "You two seem to be getting along."
"Yeah," I said, scratching the back of my neck. "It's… weirdly natural."
"That's a good sign," Dad said. "Just remember—observe first, act second. Curiosity is safe as long as it's paired with restraint."
"Got it," I said. "Curious but not stupid."
"Exactly."
As the lab lights dimmed to their evening cycle, I sat beside the table while Meltan rested. Its body pulsed in gentle rhythms, light washing over the metal surfaces around it. Ditto curled nearby, half-asleep, occasionally rippling in time with Meltan's hum.
For the first time in weeks, the air felt calm.
Maybe this was what normal looked like for me—two shapeshifters, one student, and a city still learning how to breathe again.
Mom's voice broke the silence. "You're thinking too hard again."
"Just wondering what comes next."
She smiled faintly. "Finish school first. The world can wait one more month."
I glanced at Meltan, whose single eye glowed softly in agreement. "Yeah," I said quietly. "One more month."
And as I turned out the lights, the hum followed me up the stairs—steady, patient, alive.
A quiet note of beginnings, resonating beneath the city that never truly slept.