"Garde-chan, ready Psychic. Grab the crystal in the middle. Careful—don't let anything inside touch air or bump other stuff."
Akira recalled a show once—sealed tombs preserved relics fine, but light and air wrecked them fast.
He didn't know the science, but he'd treat a dead horse like it's alive. The Poké Blocks backed him up:
Crumbs outside the box, grains in the seams, pristine samples in the case.
Best move? Haul the whole cabinet out, crack it open with a solid plan later.
But that sparked two big headaches.
One: Who to team up with? Trustworthy? What if they're ambitious or hostile?
Akira's no saint—handing over goodies to be used against him? Not that dumb.
Two: Only the case stuff beat time's decay. The hub's black tech—including everything outside—didn't get that VIP pass.
If it's all busted, a key's useless.
The case had data drives, sure, but reading them needed matching gear.
Old tech like this? Sooner you fire it up, the better. No telling when it'd croak next.
"Garde~"
Gardevoir followed orders to a T. She wrapped the case in Psychic, sealing out air, then pressed the switch.
Her Psychic stretched like a precise, invisible arm, cradling the key crystal, easing it out, and shutting the door.
She didn't drop the shield—kept it locked tight, floating the key to Akira.
He didn't grab it. Gardevoir's Psychic was the best seal. Ideal play: keep it like that, slot it in, take control—if the system still worked.
But scanning the room, no slot stood out—except the Poké Ball grooves. Square key, round holes? Nope.
Good thing Akira had an ace.
He whipped out his phone, lit the screen:
"You're up, Porygon."
A blocky, Lego-duck Pokémon popped from the screen into reality.
Akira's hidden trump card debuted under all eyes.
"@#￥%（）"
Porygon's voice was wild—signal buzz, tough to parse, yet easy to get.
Tough because it's weird; easy because it skips words—straight data vibes. Phones made chatting with Porygon a breeze.
It usually chilled in Akira's device—data Pokémon, right? Any gadget with space—phone, PC, server—worked.
It tagged along for this Special Grade gig, but low level kept it off the battlefield.
Outside combat, though? Data realm? Different story.
No Pokémon outdid Porygon at data—level be damned.
"Find me that thing's port."
"@#￥%（）"
A slight nod, then Porygon eyed the crystal. Trippy RGB lights flared over its body before it smashed into a nearby screen.
Back to data, swimming the digital sea.
Three minutes later, it popped out. Blue leg-tracks whirred, stopping at a console. Its cone beak tapped a blank spot—no buttons.
Akira got it instantly.
No physical slot needed—just data sync.
With this shelter's tech, a contactless key was cake.
"Garde-chan!"
"Garde~"
Psychic shifted, hovering the crystal over the console.
"Please, gods, gimme a sign."
Words barely out—light flickered, the hub's silence shattered.
The dim console sparked to life. Lights blinked on, some flickering out, while mechanical hums vibrated—mixed with static.
Not everything worked, but lights glowed, gears turned. Like the outer lights and room holograms, the system wasn't fully dead—part of why Akira risked booting it.
He'd gambled, yeah, but doing nothing gnawed worse. And—
"Jackpot. Hope there's useful intel."
As he spoke, the console's side flipped open, beams weaving into a white-robed elder's hologram.
Akira knew that face—center of the case photo.
The shelter's head, likely the diary's owner from that solo room.
"%…&*（）"
The elder spoke—gibberish no one grasped.
No shock there. Words and script go hand-in-hand—unreadable text, unintelligible tongue.
"Round and round, back to square one."
Akira palmed his face, annoyed. Cracking this wasn't just data pulls—language was the wall.
Wait—data pulls.
Data…
"Porygon, can you translate? Dive in, crack the code, recompile."
Whatever the format, it's all programs and data underneath. Porygon, a Pokémon born of code, could theoretically decode stuff tied to the Pokémon world.
Porygon nodded, diving back into the data sea.
Soon, the elder's image glitched—color blocks ate it, audio fritzing into noise.
Akira thought he'd botched it, ready to call Porygon off, when he caught snippets making sense.
"Meteor… destruction…"
"Lost… ultimate…"
"Preser… vation…"
"Divine… realm…"
"Success… failure…"
Choppy at first—more noise than meaning.
Then clearer, fuller, until two phrases looped loud.
"Survive… survive… survive…"
"Spark…"