Blue was on the road again—this time, to a place far from Kanto. As he traced his finger across the map of the Pokémon world, he followed the long, winding continent that linked his homeland to the others. Kanto, nestled in the southeastern corner like a stubborn little outcrop, felt more and more like an island the farther west his finger drifted. Eventually, he stopped at a coastal region bordered by rugged cliffs and sun-drenched plains: Paldea.
By foot or ship, the journey would've been grueling. Days of travel, multiple checkpoints, seasickness, bad weather. Too much wasted time.
But with a well-trained Starmie and a carefully orchestrated sequence of synchronized Teleports?
He was there in under twenty minutes.
Technically, a Champion was supposed to announce their arrival when entering another League's jurisdiction. Diplomatic courtesy and all that—like a president showing up on foreign soil. The polite thing to do would have been to send word ahead, request clearance, smile for cameras, shake some hands.
Blue, predictably, skipped all that.
He hated formalities. Always had. If diplomacy involved less paperwork and fewer small talk-laden galas, maybe he'd consider playing along. But he wasn't here to schmooze.
He had a mission—and he was running out of time.
The Gym Leader Recruitment Initiative was nearly complete. He'd filled fifteen of the eighteen new slots. Only the Bug, Steel, and Dragon-type Gyms remained unclaimed. And these last three weren't filler—they were essential. They'd anchor his new vision for Kanto: a League built not just on strength, but specialization, flexibility, and innovation.
Which brought him to Medali.
A quiet city with good food, a decent Pokémon Center, and—more importantly—a man walking down the street who looked like he hadn't slept since the last economic quarter.
"There he is," Blue muttered, eyes narrowing as he spotted his target.
The man was trudging along the sidewalk like gravity had turned personal. Plain black suit, creased from wear. A weathered briefcase in one hand, and a slouch in his shoulders that practically radiated bureaucratic despair. His jet-black hair was still free of gray, but the heavy shadows under his eyes did most of the aging for him.
Larry. A man who, in another time, would go on to become Paldea's Normal-type Gym Leader—and eventually an Elite Four member for Flying-types. But that future was still far off.
Right now, he was just another overworked League office drone, probably on his way to microwave a sad convenience-store bento and eat it in silence under fluorescent lights.
Blue approached with a casual grin. "Hey there."
"I don't want to buy anything," Larry said immediately, voice flat and tired. He didn't even slow down.
"I'm not selling anything," Blue replied, effortlessly matching his pace. Though, technically, he absolutely was. "I heard you're in business?"
Larry gave him a sideways glance, brow furrowing. "I like to think so. But really, I'm just a low-level employee buried somewhere in the League HQ basement. Thirteen years and not a single promotion."
Blue raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Thirteen years, and they hadn't noticed? No one had picked up on the steel hiding beneath the sighs and spreadsheets? That was the League's loss.
"I'm Blue Oak," he said, offering a hand. "From Kanto."
"Oak?" Larry repeated. "As in… Professor Oak?"
"Yeah, he's my grandfather. But I'm not here on his behalf." Blue's grin widened. "I'm the current Champion of Kanto."
Larry stopped walking. He blinked once, twice—processing—and then gave a stiff, formal bow. His voice didn't change much, but it carried a sharper edge of respect. "Then you're a high-ranking League official. My apologies, Champion. I didn't realize I was speaking with… well, the highest-ranking one."
"Relax," Blue said with a wave of his hand. "Since I'm the Champion of Kanto, I'm not your boss or anything. You can keep your fear of authority safely bottled up."
Larry gave a slow nod, like he was updating a mental spreadsheet. "Good to know. Still, I'll try not to commit any international incidents."
Blue chuckled. "Appreciated. How about grabbing a meal with me?"
Larry hesitated. Not out of suspicion—more like the emotional equivalent of a buffering wheel. Finally, he sighed. The kind of sigh that could only come from years of unpaid overtime and missed holidays. "Honestly, I was hoping for two hours of sleep. But who am I to refuse the invitation of a Champion?"
"See, that's the spirit," Blue said, gesturing toward a quiet restaurant at the corner. "Let's talk opportunity over something edible."
Larry followed, briefcase still in hand, expression unreadable.
Sitting across from a very tired man in a quiet diner in Medali, Blue leaned forward, drumming his fingers on a water glass. The waitress had just dropped off a steaming plate of noodles in front of Larry, who stared at them like they were the first good thing to happen to him all week.
Blue didn't waste a second.
"So," he said, casually, "what's your favorite Pokémon type, sir?"
Larry didn't even look up. "Normal-type," he replied, a little too quickly. "They suit me."
Blue raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you think so?"
Now Larry looked up, suspicious. "Yes?"
Blue grinned. "See, I disagree. I think there's another type that fits you way better."
Larry gave him the flat look of a man who'd heard every bad pitch in existence. "Please don't say Dragon."
"Nope." Blue leaned back, victorious. "Bug-type."
Larry froze. He slowly put down his chopsticks, mid-chew. "…You're joking."
"I never joke about typings," Blue said solemnly. "Think about it. Bugs? Unassuming. Quiet. Totally overlooked—until suddenly they're crawling up your leg and wrecking your day."
"That's... not exactly a compliment."
"It is if you're the bug!" Blue shot back. "Bugs survive everything. Ice Ages? Still around. Nuclear fallout? Thriving. You throw a Bug-type into a terrible matchup, and somehow it still ruins your strategy. You, Larry, are a cockroach. In the best possible way."
Larry blinked. Slowly. "That might be the worst compliment I've ever received."
"But it's true!" Blue pressed, eyes gleaming. "You don't quit. You endure. You're buried in paperwork, ignored by management, stuck in the same job for years—and yet, you're still here. That's Bug energy. No flames, no drama, just pure, unrelenting competence. You're the guy who doesn't crack, even when everything else falls apart."
Larry stared. "This is the weirdest job interview I've ever been on."
"Oh, this isn't an interview," Blue said cheerfully. "This is a recruitment. I want you to lead my new Bug-type Gym in Kanto. Picture it: Spidops. Forretress. Heracross. Scyther. Solid. Resilient. Unexpectedly dangerous. Just like you."
Larry looked down at his noodles, then back up. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious. I've already filled most of the other Gym Leader spots. But the Bug Gym? I've been saving it. For someone exceptional. Exceptionally average. Exceptionally tired. Exceptionally you."
There was a pause.
"…What's the catch?" Larry asked, finally.
"No catch," Blue said, ticking points off on his fingers. "You get two guaranteed days off a week."
Larry blinked. "I—what?"
"A real promotion. Not just running a Gym—building the League."
"I—hold on—what?"
"And a salary bump. A big one."
Larry stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "Are you messing with me?"
Blue raised a hand solemnly. "Scout's honor."
"I've worked thirteen years without a single day off. No promotion. No raise."
"Well, that's Paldea for you," Blue said with a shrug. "Kanto's different now. My Kanto values the people who actually get things done."
Larry looked down at his briefcase. Then his noodles. Then out the window.
"…You know," he said quietly, "when I was a kid, I used to collect Scatterbug stickers."
Blue lit up. "See?! Destiny!"
Larry sighed. "Fine. But I'm not wearing green spandex."
"No one said anything about spandex. Unless… you want to?"
"I don't."
Blue clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome aboard, Bug Boss."
"…Do I get an office?"
"You'll get a whole forest if you want."
Larry slumped over the table with a groan, but—somewhere beneath the soul-deep exhaustion—he smiled.
Just a little.
And Blue knew he had his guy.
Bug Gym: secured.
———
"I…"
Larry's voice cracked. "I quit my job."
He stared into the distance, as if the words had emerged from someone else's mouth and floated away on the sea breeze. They didn't feel real yet. Like a dream you only realize is terrifying once you wake up in a cold sweat. Larry—stoic, rigid, emotionally impervious Larry—was unraveling like a poorly crocheted Caterpie plush.
A flicker of panic darted across his face.
He turned his head slowly, like a man expecting to find a very bad decision sitting next to him. And there he was: Blue Oak. Lounging on the back of the Lapras like he was sunbathing on a vacation cruise, all smug energy and windswept hair.
Larry looked at him, dead-eyed. This was his boss now. His leader. The same guy who used the phrase "Bug Boss" with no irony and offered forests like office space. How had it come to this?
Oh, right.
Two days off a week.
Two.
That was the real kicker. He might've sold his soul for that alone. A benefit so fantastical, so impossibly luxurious, it had previously lived in the same tier of fiction as Mew sightings or competent Paldean middle management.
And Blue... Blue could talk. Not just talk—sell. The man could probably convince a Diglett it needed shoes.
The speech still echoed in Larry's head.
"You're not a Normal-type, Larry. You're a Bug-type. Small. Underestimated. But tougher than people think. Persistent. Resilient."
It had been absurd. Almost offensive. Larry had prepared a very polite refusal mid-noodle slurp.
And then… somehow, he'd said yes.
He didn't even like bugs.
But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Normal-types blended in. They got the job done, sure—but they rarely stood out. They didn't surprise anyone.
Bug-types? They weren't flashy either. No dazzling evolutions, no fiery auras, no dramatic howls under moonlight. But they were stubborn. Survivors. The underdogs of the typing world.
No one expected a Bug-type to sweep a tournament bracket—and they never did. That was part of the charm. They didn't win through brute force or overwhelming stats. They won by crawling in through the cracks. By existing in the margins. By being annoyingly hard to squash.
Normal-types, at least, had respect. Snorlax, Ursaring, Slaking—powerhouses that could flatten teams if you gave them half a turn and didn't bring a good counter. They were dependable. Boring, maybe. But no one laughed at a Normal-type.
Bug-types? People didn't even bother laughing. They just forgot they existed. A Butterfree? Cute. A Beedrill? Nostalgic. A Dustox? …Wait, what was a Dustox again?
Everyone knew it: Bugs were the bottom of the barrel. Universally agreed upon. The weakest type, no debate needed. Even the Bug-type Elite Four members—when they existed—felt like they'd wandered in from a different job posting.
And yet… they were still here.
Still picked. Still used. Still battling in dusty gyms, crawling out of Poké Balls, spinning webs and draining stamina and clinging to life with one HP and a Focus Sash.
They persisted.
Just like Larry.
Larry, who had never been flashy, never been first pick, never been described as inspiring. Larry, who had trudged through life with the quiet, stubborn determination of a Venipede crawling uphill in a hailstorm.
The more he thought about it, the more it fit.
He wasn't Normal-type. He never had been.
He was Bug.
Low-tier. Overlooked. Irritatingly hard to get rid of.
And maybe that was exactly what the world needed.
So now here he was—on a Lapras of all things. Traveling with a teenage champion turned Gym architect, headed toward Hulbury like it was a brunch spot and not an entirely different region.
Why?
Because why not, apparently.
Blue had said it casually. The same tone most people used to say, "Let's grab coffee."
"We're going to Hulbury," he'd said, stretching like a Meowth in the sun. "You need some sea air. Clears the mind."
Now, Lapras glided smoothly across the open water, its back surprisingly comfortable under the travel cushions Blue had just had, like he carried a whole camping set in his back pocket. The wind sliced through Larry's blazer, sending his tie flapping like a defeated flag, while the salty tang of the ocean filled his lungs with unfamiliar freshness.
It wasn't unpleasant. Just… deeply suspicious.
Then there was the fishing rod.
Blue had pulled it out like a magician doing a party trick. It wasn't a rod—it was art. Jet black, sleek, and glowing faintly like it had its own soundtrack. The reel sparkled every time it turned, like starlight dancing in moonlight.
And the Pokémon Blue hauled up?
Not Magikarp.
Larry had seen at least one thing with tentacles and legs. Possibly wings. Maybe a third eye.
At first he thought he was hallucinating. Then the third one surfaced and hissed at him.
He'd nearly dove overboard.
"Uh," Larry said at one point, as a shadowy, eel-like creature writhed on the line. "Should we be worried about catching something illegal?"
Blue just smiled and patted the rod like it was a beloved pet. "They like me."
Which did not answer the question.
Larry edged a little farther back on Lapras's shell.
Every so often, he'd glance sideways at Blue. The kid radiated confidence in the same way most people radiated body heat. For someone who acted like he was winging it, Blue had a terrifying sense of control. Like he knew things. Old things. Ocean things. And just didn't feel the need to mention them.
It was… unsettling.
But also weirdly reassuring.
Larry sighed, watching the waves roll endlessly into the horizon.
He wasn't Normal anymore. Not even close.
He was Bug-type now.
And maybe—just maybe—that wasn't such a bad thing.