The morning after Pidgey began hopping around on both legs again, I came downstairs to find something strange waiting for me.
My father was home.
Not just home—waiting.
He sat at the table, freshly shaven, wearing his formal ranger vest. His posture was too straight. Too serious. Beside him, my mother was preparing tea with practiced calm, but her eyes flicked toward me every few seconds.
"Ray," my father said softly, patting the chair next to him. "Can you come sit with us? We need to talk."
I swallowed and nodded.
Pidgey chirped behind me from the stairs but didn't follow. Maybe it sensed something important was about to happen.
I climbed into the seat.
Both my parents watched me with calm, gentle expressions—but something in the air had shifted. The lighthearted warmth of the past few days was now shadowed by something deeper. Firmer.
"Son," my father began, "your mother and I have been watching you."
That did not ease my anxiety.
"You've grown a lot," he continued, "not just in size. You're responsible. Compassionate. And… well, let's just say Pidgey isn't the only one who's noticed."
He gave me a small, approving smile.
"But with responsibility comes understanding. And there are some things you need to know if you're serious about wanting to care for Pokémon."
I sat up straighter. "I am."
He nodded. "Good. Then listen carefully."
He reached into a drawer beneath the table and pulled out a slim leather folio, the kind he used for his field notes. From it, he took a small laminated card and placed it on the table between us. It bore the insignia of the Trainer's Guild—a stylized Poké Ball flanked by wings and a laurel crown.
"This is the law that governs every Trainer in the region," he said. "And it applies to everyone—no matter their age, title, or intentions."
He tapped the card.
"Civilians—people who do not attend an academy or hold a license—are not permitted to carry Poké Balls. They may bond with a Pokémon, like you've done with Pidgey, but they are allowed only one companion Pokémon. This is to prevent illegal battling, neglect, and trafficking."
I listened quietly. Every word etched itself into my mind.
"If a child wishes to become a Trainer, they must enroll in a registered Trainer Academy. Once enrolled, they are issued a temporary license, which grants them increasing Poké Ball rights depending on their age and year of study."
He held up a finger.
"From ages six to ten, students may carry one Poké Ball. Between ten and thirteen, they may hold up to three. From thirteen until graduation, the limit is four."
"And after graduation," my mother added gently as she poured the tea, "they receive a full license—allowing them to carry the standard six Poké Balls."
I glanced at her, then at the card, and back to my father.
He leaned forward, voice calm but firm.
"But with that privilege comes a binding rule: once you register a Pokémon to a Poké Ball, you are legally responsible for it. Abandonment is a criminal offense. You cannot 'release' a Pokémon just because it no longer suits you. You must train it, support it, or find it a recognized habitat under Guild supervision."
The weight of that hit me harder than I expected.
He continued, more softly now.
"This is why choosing your Pokémon companions isn't just about who you like—it's about who you're ready to commit to."
There was a pause.
Then he reached into the folio again and took out a slim digital slate with a circular sensor attached to the top.
"This," he said, "is an Aptitude Reader. The Guild provides these to certified examiners, academy staff, and top trainers. It measures a Pokémon's innate potential—its Aptitude."
I nodded carefully.
"It ranks Pokémon from lowest to highest: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, and Purple."
My eyes flickered.
He didn't mention Light, Core, or Deep.
He didn't see them.
Internally, I noted the absence. But outwardly, I said nothing.
He tapped the slate again. "There's a seventh rumored tier—Aurora—but no one's ever seen it. Some think it only exists in mythical or legendary Pokémon. Others believe it's just a story."
He looked at me seriously now.
"If you truly want Pidgey to be your companion, we can scan its Aptitude. It's better to know before you make a decision you can't undo."
I didn't answer right away.
I looked out the window, where Pidgey was perched on the sill, gazing back at me with calm, watchful eyes.
We'd shared food. Trust. Warmth.
We'd shared healing.
And in that silence, I knew my answer.
I turned back to them.
"I don't want my relationship with my Pokémon to be based on their Aptitude," I said.
Both of them blinked.
"I know it's important," I added quickly. "But… I don't want to treat them like tools. I want them to be my companions. My partners. Not just numbers on a screen."
My mother's expression softened into a smile. Her eyes shimmered.
My father leaned back, lips curling upward into something proud.
"Well said," he said, voice low. "That's the kind of thinking a real Trainer should have."
My mother reached across the table and squeezed my hand gently. "We're proud of you, Ray. You've grown into a kind young man. We'll support whatever decision you make."
Tears stung behind my eyes, but I blinked them back.
I nodded.
"Then I choose Pidgey. Not because of his aptitude. But because… he chose me, too."