A boy, no older than ten, lay sprawled across his bed, snoring softly beneath a blanket decorated with Pikachu tails and Poké Balls. His room was a shrine to his obsession—stickers of various Pokémon covered nearly every inch of the wall, from the smug grin of Gengar near the door to a fierce Lucario striking a battle pose above his desk. Dominating the space above his bed was a massive poster of Mega Salamence, wings outstretched and eyes blazing as if ready to launch a Dragon Rush right into t he ceiling.
Outside, the sun had crested the horizon, casting a warm, reddish glow through the half-drawn curtains. The light crept across the boy's face, making him shift uncomfortably. He mumbled something incoherent and flopped onto his side, trying to escape the incoming solar onslaught.
"Mom! Is he up yet?" called a young man from the living room.
"No, Asher," came the reply. "He's still fast asleep. Stayed up half the night with your dad, trying to guess what kind of surprise your grandpa might bring him."
Asher scoffed loudly. "It's already ten o'clock! Tell him if he doesn't get up soon, he won't be getting any Pokémon at all! And remind him—Grandpa will be here in less than an hour."
"I'll handle it," the father said, folding his magazine— League Quarterly—and rising from the sofa with a stretch and a grunt.
"You better, Dad," Asher snickered. "Otherwise, Grandpa might have Salamence give you the scenic route—right out the sky."
The father muttered something under his breath about dramatic children and overpowered dragons as he padded down the hallway.
He opened the door to his son's room and peeked inside. "Michael," he said, tapping the lump under the covers.
No response.
"Michael," he said again, more firmly this time.
Still nothing.
With a smirk forming, the dad leaned closer. "Hey, kid. Your grandfather's coming over soon. If you're still this groggy when he shows up, he might just assign you a Muk as your starter. You know—discipline through sludge."
The threat hung in the air.
Michael twitched.
Bingo.
Michael shot upright in bed, blinking furiously as the morning light hit him like a Flash attack. He yawned twice in quick succession, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and squinted toward the window like a Noctowl caught in daylight.
"C'mon, Dad," he groaned, voice still thick with sleep. "Don't jinx my starter Pokémon like that. You know Grandpa's a Champion-tier Trainer. If he hears you're threatening his favorite grandson with a Muk, he might just Dragon Claw you into next week."
Victor, ever the proud father, puffed out his chest as if he were flexing in front of a battle judge. "Ha! I'm not afraid of the old man. My Dragonite could flatten his with a single Draco Meteor. He should be the one scared of me!"
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Hey, Grandpa! Did you hear that? Mr. Victor, the so-called Dragon Elite, says he can crush you in a battle!"
The sentence was barely out of his mouth when Victor paled. The color drained from his face faster than a Gyarados fleeing an Ice Beam.
Victor : "Kid, I'm your father. If I get wiped out today, don't expect a single PokéDollar from me in my will."
Michael : "No problem. I'll just ask Grandpa for whatever I want."
"You really don't fear me at all, do you?" the voice grew closer, laced with mock menace. "Looks like someone needs some special training to learn respect for their elders."
Victor froze. Beads of sweat rolled down his temple. "I… was just joking, Dad. There's no need to bring back… that."
He turned around hesitantly—only to be met with Asher, barely containing his laughter, trying his best to impersonate their grandfather's serious tone.
"You little—!" Victor bellowed, roaring like a Kommo-o as realization dawned. "How dare you trick me!"
He gave chase, stomping out of the room and down the stairs after Asher, completely forgetting Michael had been the one who stirred the pot in the first place.
Michael collapsed onto the bed, laughing so hard his belly ached. Even at forty, Dad still acts like a scared Dratini whenever Grandpa's involved.
Eventually, Michael swung his legs over the edge, slipped on his fuzzy Pikachu slippers, and waddled groggily downstairs. The hallway was alive with chaos.
Asher darted behind their mom, who was holding a frying pan like it was a Honedge. "Mom, Dad's trying to hit me!"
Mama Bear raised the pan slightly, her eyes narrowing at her husband. "If you so much as breathe aggressively near my boy, you're on a full-day Fast—no snacks, no seconds!"
"I was just talking to him, darling!" Victor said, hands raised in surrender, backing away with the caution of a Trainer facing a wild Tyranitar. "No manhandling involved!"
He scurried off, muttering under his breath about raising two crafty Nickit for sons.