He let out a slow, ragged breath, shoulders sagging slightly as memories clawed at the edges of his consciousness. Anger rose first, sharp and familiar: at the traitors within PSIA who had undone all their careful, painstaking progress. Yet beneath that anger, a deeper ache burned. A grief he thought he'd buried in the scorched sands of Iraq.
"Makima," he started quietly, turning his gaze downward to his trembling hands, clasped tightly in his lap. "You know I left Tokyo for a reason. After Iraq, I... I told myself I didn't deserve to come back. You could call it self-imposed exile if you want—a punishment, maybe. But it was necessary."
He paused, swallowing hard, and the silence in the room felt oppressive. Yoshimura opened his mouth as if to gently interrupt, but Hiroshi pressed on, voice lower, heavier.
"It's more than just the mission," he murmured. "It's Tokyo itself. It's filled with memories of what used to be normal—memories of my mother, my family. Just stepping back into that city drags me into the past, back to that day, back to that failure… every single moment that led to it."
Makima leaned closer, sensing Hiroshi teetering on the edge of memories he tried so desperately to suppress. She spoke softly, yet her words carried the firmness of absolute conviction.
"What Ringmaster did was never your fault, Hiroshi. You can't blame yourself for simply living a normal life—for existing. Neither you nor your siblings nor your mother deserved anything that happened. You did everything you possibly could under impossible circumstances, with zero organizational support." Her voice sharpened with passion, the depth of her conviction clear. "You were phenomenal in Iraq. Anyone else would have been destroyed by it. But you survived, and more than that, you've been fighting every day since. You have every right to return."
Hiroshi visibly flinched at the mere mention of "Iraq," his jaw clenching so tightly it trembled. He shut his eyes momentarily, desperately attempting to push away flashes of memories—flickering scenes he could never erase fully, no matter how far he ran.
A dry, dusty roadside beneath an oppressive sun. Voices crackling frantically through a malfunctioning radio, screams piercing the desert air, and then—suddenly, terribly—a mushroom cloud rising silently on the horizon, dwarfing everything beneath its horrific brilliance. His ears had rung painfully for days afterward, the shockwave imprinting itself deep into his bones.
"Did I?" Hiroshi snapped, then immediately shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I replay it every night, Yoshimura. How I could have saved them… how I should have seen it coming. Only if I wore that damn suit early…." A heavy silence filled the room. Makima looked down, her expression pained; she had lost people too in her career, he knew. She gave him a moment, then spoke gently but firmly.
"We can't change what happened," Makima said. "But we can't let it paralyze us, either. I won't pretend to know exactly how you feel, but I do know this: Japan needs you, Hiroshi. Now more than ever." She reached out and carefully slid one of the photographs from the folder toward him. It was an image of a vast empty habitat enclosure at the Kanto lab, a place that should have been teeming with life – now utterly barren. "All those Pokémon… if we don't get them back, who knows what fate awaits them? And the agents who did this – they're still out there. They betrayed us all. They betrayed you."
Hiroshi stared at the photo. He thought of the Pikachu with the shock collar in Shanghai, of Machop chained in a cage. He imagined the stolen Pokémon, perhaps stuffed into crates or sold to the highest bidder, or subjected to experiments like the ones he'd just stopped. A slow fire lit behind his rib cage – not the reckless blaze of guilt, but a focused, righteous anger at injustice. Injustice every one he loved fought for and failed. Yet still he hesitated, the weight of his past failure heavy on his shoulders. "Even if I wanted to come back… after everything, do I have that right? To lead again?" he asked hoarsely. He wasn't sure if he was asking Makima or himself.
Makima leaned closer and laid her hand gently atop his clenched fist. It was a rare show of personal warmth from her. "Yes," she said, her voice soft but unwavering. "You do. Hiroshi, you're the best field agent we have. You're also one of the only people left that so many of us trust." She managed a faint smile. "Including me. Especially me."
Yoshimura nodded firmly. "Listen to her, Hiro. She's got a point. There's no one better to help fix this mess. Not in Tokyo, not anywhere."
Hiroshi looked between them—his mentor and his closest colleague—both gazing back with absolute conviction. Two of the few people left in this world whom he truly trusted, now standing before him, asking him to take on a burden heavier than any he'd carried in years.
Part of him wished fiercely to remain hidden away in this small Shanghai safehouse, living quietly with his Pokémon—his family. Here, there were no shadows of past failures, no ghosts whispering accusations in the dark. Here, he could pretend the world outside no longer needed the "Fox," that someone else could shoulder the weight instead. But another part—the restless spirit that had driven him to take impossible risks, to infiltrate bases no one else dared approach, to rescue Pokémon from fates worse than death—was stirring again, clawing its way back toward the surface.
Makima leaned forward gently, her eyes capturing his attention with quiet urgency. "I have the Prime Minister's ear now," she continued, her tone softer yet deeply compelling. "He trusts my judgment, especially after seeing what a small, highly effective team can accomplish—the things you and I managed together. In just three years, Hiroshi, you dismantled Ringmaster, an organization so powerful that the CIA couldn't even begin to touch it. The world's strongest intelligence agencies either feared or secretly negotiated with them, but you—you and your students—managed not only to tear it down, but also to rescue hundreds of Pokémon and countless children in the process."
Her voice held genuine pride, but also a careful gentleness, knowing how heavy these victories had weighed on him. "The cabinet wasn't pleased when you insisted on releasing most of those Pokémon to the rescued children instead of turning them into government assets," Makima acknowledged softly. "But I ensured the children understood they must live discreetly, that they must protect their Pokémon partners carefully. We provided Pokéballs to conceal them when necessary, taught them how to blend in. It's been discreet so far, but successful."
She paused, allowing her words to fully register, watching carefully as the gears turned behind Hiroshi's eyes. Seeing she had his complete attention, she continued, her voice brimming with quiet conviction: "When I explained to the Prime Minister about changing our approach to Pokémon—to finally end the cruel methods that even we have used—he genuinely listened. For the first time, Hiroshi, Japan is ready to adopt a truly compassionate Pokémon policy, one that aligns completely with your long-held beliefs."
Hiroshi's head snapped upward, eyes wide with shock and cautious hope. For years, he'd waged silent battles against the cruelty of shock collars, cramped Pokéballs, forced obedience, and ruthless experimentation. He'd fought hard, endured countless reprimands, endured being labeled insubordinate or idealistic. And now, hearing this from Makima felt surreal—almost too good to be true. He barely managed to whisper, "Really?"
Makima met his gaze evenly, her expression firm and unwavering. "Really," she confirmed quietly. "The Prime Minister himself will announce it soon, but it begins with us. PSIA will be the first to adopt this new policy as an example to other departments." She paused, voice lowering thoughtfully. "The incident in Johannesburg—the psychic Pokémon's retaliation and the resulting chaos—helped illustrate to the world just how broken our old system is. People finally saw the danger of trying to force Pokémon obedience through pain and control."
Hiroshi's eyes briefly darkened, recalling that incident only vaguely. He'd heard whispers—reports from a distance about a psychic-type Pokémon driven to madness, its terrible retribution against humans who abused and tormented it. The devastation had left thousands dead, a city traumatized. Details had been scarce, heavily redacted. Even he hadn't seen the full file, though Daisy had once quietly murmured something cryptic, eyes haunted with sorrow.
Makima saw the shadow cross his face, but she pressed on gently, her voice carrying a gentle promise. "No more forced experiments, Hiroshi. No more disposable Pokémon. From now on, they will choose their trainers willingly. Pokémon partners will have rights, freedoms. And every single Pokémon we rescue from situations like that Shanghai laboratory will be given a chance—either to rehabilitate and live free, or willingly partner with someone they trust."
Hiroshi felt a profound weight, one he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying, lift from his shoulders at those words. For years, this very nightmare haunted him—that no matter how many operations he completed, how many Pokémon and children he saved, the fundamental system itself would remain broken, perpetuating endless suffering. Yet if Makima had truly accomplished this, perhaps things could finally change.
They both watched him quietly, Makima's eyes patient yet hopeful, Yoshimura's filled with quiet, proud encouragement. For a moment, Hiroshi's gaze drifted down to the photograph from the folder—a desolate, empty lab, cages open and abandoned. In his mind's eye, faces from his past flickered silently—his lost siblings, the friends he'd failed, his mom, ghosts whose details he kept deliberately obscured, too painful to acknowledge fully. They all seemed to quietly urge him forward, reminding him of his purpose, of the dreams he'd buried beneath grief and guilt, dreams they all shared.
Images of Daisy's gentle face, Raichu's confident grin, and Machop's tentative, hopeful eyes floated through his thoughts. His Pokémon—his true family—had always believed in him, stood by him without hesitation, even in his darkest moments. How could he turn away now, when the world itself seemed poised on the edge of genuine change?
Slowly, Hiroshi drew a long, steadying breath. Then, with quiet but undeniable resolve, he nodded. "Alright," he murmured finally, voice firm and steady. "I'll do it. I'll return to Tokyo and help you put things right."
Makima closed her eyes briefly in palpable relief, letting out a quiet breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. Beside him, Yoshimura visibly relaxed, smiling broadly and proudly, his aged eyes shining with emotion.
But Hiroshi's voice hardened slightly, his next words carrying steel and a sense of quiet command. "But listen carefully—this return is temporary." He locked eyes with Makima, his expression solemn. "I'll come on board as Assistant Director of the Kanto branch. I'll stabilize it, retrieve those stolen Pokémon, build a new elite Pokémon laboratory with proper safeguards and compassionate practices, and help you purge corruption from the other PSIA branches. But once that's done—once the situation is truly stable—I'm gone again. Back into exile, into the shadows, whatever you want to call it." He glanced away, absently toying with a frayed thread on his sleeve, adding quietly, almost to himself, "I'm not planting roots again, not back in that city."
Makima studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. She likely hoped he would change his mind in time, but she was wise enough not to press the issue now. Instead, she inclined her head. "Understood. I'm grateful for whatever you're willing to give." A faint smile touched her lips. "Though I'll note, it's not really exile if the Prime Minister himself welcomes you home."
Hiroshi huffed a soft almost-laugh. "I suppose not."
Yoshimura clapped him on the back gently. "We'll take it one step at a time. Just having you back will mean the world to the good people still left at HQ. Morale's been… well, it's been rough. They need hope. They need their hero Fox – even if only for a while."
Hiroshi flushed slightly at the word "hero," but he let it pass. Instead, he asked, "When do we leave?"
Makima's expression turned businesslike again, though there was a glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes. "Our flight's in a few hours. We came on a private jet – courtesy of the PM's office – to avoid unwanted attention. We can be back in Tokyo by tonight."
Hiroshi gave a slow nod, eyes briefly drifting to a distant point beyond Makima's shoulder. Tokyo. He swallowed, feeling a sharp pang as old memories stirred. The thought of returning there wasn't something he took lightly.
"I'll need to pack things here first," Hiroshi said after a pause, voice quiet but resolute. He looked Makima directly in the eyes, a seriousness in his gaze. "I'll also need your help arranging accommodations for myself and the team. A place large enough to hold everyone comfortably—Raichu alone takes up half a bed, and Dragonair likes open spaces. And," he hesitated, a faint smile forming, "a big bathtub. Milotic would never forgive me if she's forced into a bucket again."
Makima gave a soft laugh, nodding easily. "We'll set you up somewhere comfortable and secure. A suite near headquarters should suffice. Whatever you need."
"Thank you," Hiroshi murmured, eyes flickering away once more. He felt strangely touched by her ready willingness to accommodate him; it was different, a subtle respect born perhaps of her new position, or perhaps something more personal. He appreciated that she wasn't pushing him beyond what he'd willingly offered. It spoke volumes about their relationship after everything they'd been through together.
A silence briefly settled in the room. Hiroshi shifted uneasily, recalling that old, small mansion he once called home in Tokyo. It felt so distant, yet the memories were sharp as ever—shrouded figures half-seen through smoke-filled rooms, a feminine silhouette laughing in the kitchen doorway, the scent of cigarette smoke mingled with antiseptic from late-night shifts at the hospital. Playful but rough hands ruffling his hair, playful scolding as she stole bites of his cooking, even though it was often inedible. He remembered skipping classes, topping exams anyway, the way his yakuza friends would scramble and scatter laughing into the dark alleys whenever their latest hustle went sideways and memories of her.
It struck Hiroshi that Makima was treating him with a deference that was new. Perhaps it was because she was Director-General now and saw him as an indispensable asset, or perhaps it was simply gratitude and respect between friends. Either way, he appreciated that she wasn't pushing him beyond what he'd offered.
They spent a few more minutes ironing out immediate details – Makima would handle the travel documents and a cover story for why Hiroshi Kobayashi was suddenly back in the country (given his official records likely still listed him as on an extended overseas assignment). Yoshimura mentioned he'd prepare a quiet announcement to the remaining staff at the Kanto branch to pave the way for Hiroshi's return. It was almost ironic, Hiroshi thought: he had slipped in and out of foreign countries like a ghost, yet returning openly to his own homeland required careful choreography.
As they wrapped up, Makima reached out and squeezed Hiroshi's shoulder, her voice soft. "Thank you. Truly." In that moment, she wasn't the steely Director-General or the calculating spymaster. She was just a friend, relieved and grateful that he was coming back.
Hiroshi gave a small smile. "You brought me into the PSIA," Hiroshi replied quietly, meeting her gaze evenly. "You believed in me when no one else did. When I was at my lowest, you gave me purpose. You helped me find my footing again—and together we brought down Ringmaster once and for all. If not for you, I'd probably still be lost somewhere out there." His voice dropped slightly. "This is me returning the favor."
A hint of emotion touched Makima's face – perhaps even the glisten of a tear she would never allow to fall. She squeezed his shoulder once more and then stood, straightening her jacket. "I'll hold you to that favor," she replied lightly, masking her sentiment with a playful tone.
Yoshimura pushed himself up from the couch with a soft grunt and adjusted his coat. As they headed for the door, he rested a hand on Hiroshi's back. "Proud of you, son," he said in a low voice meant just for Hiroshi. "They always come back to the fold, eh?"
Hiroshi managed a genuine grin at that, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. "I guess they do."
Downstairs, curious eyes were tilted upward. Daisy had kept a respectful telepathic block around the upstairs room to give them privacy, but she and the others could tell the serious tone of the conversation above had ended. When Hiroshi appeared at the top of the stairs with Makima and Yoshimura in tow, all the Pokémon looked up expectantly.
Hiroshi descended slowly, unsure how to break the news. Most of his Pokémon had never been to Tokyo before . He was in self imposed exile for three years but it had felt like 30. He met most of them during the exile itself and trained them and cured their trauma and made them strong. Raichu's ears perked at his approach, and the electric type bounded off the couch to meet him. Daisy stood poised nearby, her hands clasped in front of her, crimson eyes searching his face. Machop hopped up from his blanket, sensing a shift, and looked between Hiroshi and the others, perplexed.
Hiroshi took a breath and managed a smile. A new mission was beginning, but he wouldn't be facing it alone – he never truly had. He stepped forward into the living room, with Makima and Yoshimura hanging back by the staircase. All his Pokémon gathered around in a loose semicircle, anticipation writ large on every face.
"Well," Hiroshi began, scratching the back of his neck in a habit of mild embarrassment. "Looks like… we're going back to Tokyo."
For a heartbeat, the room was silent. Wartortle paused mid-crunch on a berry. Ivysaur tilted his head as if wondering if he heard correctly. Charmeleon's tail flame flared an inch brighter, and he exchanged a glance with Ivysaur that was half surprise, half excitement. Dragonair lifted her sapphire head and let out a curious trill. Swablu fluttered down from Lairon's back to land atop Hiroshi's shoulder, as if needing to be closer to confirm what it heard.
Then the reactions came, all at once. Kirlia Akemi bounced on her toes and clapped her small hands, letting out a delighted "Kirliaaa!" – whether from the idea of a new adventure or the thought of seeing the city lights she'd only watched in dramas, who could say? Lairon gave a snort and a decisive nod; wherever Hiroshi went, he would follow without question. Milotic arched her neck gracefully above the rim of her tub and smiled, a ripple of her tail sending a small wave sloshing – perhaps her way of cheering.
And near the front, Daisy's lips curved into a knowing, gentle smile, while Raichu pumped one paw in the air with an enthusiastic "Rai rai!" The Gardevoir and the Raichu exchanged a glance between them – Daisy's eyes warm with understanding, Raichu's bright with excitement. They had been with Hiroshi the longest, through every triumph and tragedy, and it seemed they, more than anyone, had expected this moment. They knew Hiroshi's heart better than he did himself sometimes, and there was a kind of proud affirmation in their expressions: as if to say we knew you wouldn't abandon home forever, you wouldn't abandon her.
Dropping to one knee, he opened his arms and was immediately swarmed by his Pokémon. Wartortle hopped into his lap with a jubilant cry, Charmeleon playfully nudged his shoulder, and even the reserved Alakazam floated nearer, patting Hiroshi's arm with a long mustached grin. Machop, still a bit awestruck, stepped forward hesitantly. He caught Daisy's encouraging nod and Raichu's welcoming wave, and with that, the little Machop joined the group hug, nestling in beside Ivysaur and receiving a gentle pat on the head from Hiroshi.
"Tokyo, huh?" Hiroshi said into the bundle of fur, scales, and smiles surrounding him. "Big city, bright lights… You all ready for that?" His tone was teasing.
Raichu puffed out his chest and chittered confidently – he had been born ready for anything. Dragonair coiled affectionately around Hiroshi's shoulders and gave a soft purring sound, as if to say she'd go anywhere as long as they were together. Kirlia was already spinning around imagining the skyscrapers. Machop looked up at Hiroshi with fierce determination in his red eyes and pumped his small fist. He was ready to fight whoever had to be fought, especially after learning what Hiroshi had agreed to. Seeing that, Hiroshi gently placed a hand on Machop's shoulder. "Don't worry, we'll all be fighting the good fight," he said quietly, understanding Machop's unspoken vow.
Behind them, Makima watched the touching scene with a rare tenderness in her gaze, while Yoshimura actually pulled out a handkerchief to dab at his eyes, not even bothering to hide his smile. It wasn't often one saw an elite agent in an embrace with half a dozen Pokémon, laughing and nearly in tears all at once – but then, Hiroshi had never been an ordinary agent.
After a few joyful moments, Hiroshi stood, surrounded by his Pokémon as they parted to give him space. There was work to do now – preparations to be made for their journey home. He took charge with his usual gentle authority. "Alright, everyone," he said, clapping his hands once. "Finish up breakfast and start tidying things. We have a flight to catch this afternoon."
Immediately, the living room burst into cheerful activity. Raichu dashed off and returned with a half-eaten poffin he had stashed, determined not to waste it before they left. Wartortle, still brimming with energy, gathered the towels and supplies from Milotic's spa tub, nearly slipping on the damp floor in his enthusiasm. Milotic chuckled and allowed Daisy to help her out of the tub, the Gardevoir effortlessly levitating the container of water to the bathroom to drain. Charmeleon and Ivysaur, competitive to the last, made a game of cleaning up their little mess by the window – Charmeleon using the heat of his tail flame to dry a spill of water while Ivysaur wiped the spot with a large leaf, both of them pretending not to race while clearly racing. Swablu fluttered about picking up crumbs and dusting surfaces with its fluffy wings, singing a bright tune as it did. Lairon lumbered over to nudge their travel trunks out from a corner, and Kirlia Akemi used her psychic power to neatly line up everyone's Poké Balls and personal items for packing.
Machop stood in the center of the bustle, turning in small awed circles as he watched everyone prepare. A day ago, he'd never have imagined such a sight: Pokémon choosing to pack their belongings, eager to follow a human not because they had to, but because they wanted to. He felt a reassuring tap on his shoulder – it was Raichu, offering him a clean cloth to help wipe down the table. Machop's face lit up. Though his bandaged leg still made him hobble a little, he set to work with earnest zeal, side by side with Raichu and under Alakazam's approving eye.
Hiroshi moved through them all, supervising but also lending a hand wherever needed. He carefully sealed their mission data and a few personal effects into a secure briefcase. Methodically, he double-checked Machop's newly obtained Poké Ball—though rarely used, it needed proper registration for travel. With a gentle yet firm reminder, he cautioned Kirlia, who was enthusiastically stuffing snacks into a single bag, not to overpack and risk bursting it mid-journey. Kirlia paused, her cheeks turning a soft shade of pink as she offered Hiroshi a sheepish giggle.
Within an hour, the safehouse had been restored to its original, sterile anonymity, stripped of the warmth and vibrant chaos they had filled it with. What was briefly their sanctuary was now just another empty house, devoid of signs that anyone had ever found joy within its walls.
Hiroshi paused in the doorway, taking one final, lingering glance around the room, allowing the memories of laughter and companionship to settle deeply into his heart. Then, with practiced ease, his hand drifted to the Poké Balls at his belt.
"Alright, everyone," Hiroshi murmured softly, voice tinged with a gentle authority, "it's time."
One by one, beams of red light silently enveloped the Pokémon around him, their forms dissolving back into their respective Poké Balls with subtle pulses of warmth. The quiet hum of the capsules sealing left a hollow echo in the now-deserted room. Only Daisy and Raichu lingered a moment longer, their eyes conveying unspoken trust and reassurance before they too vanished into the warm glow. Hiroshi secured each ball carefully on his belt, a quiet determination settling over him.
Makima and Yoshimura watched silently, respecting the quiet solemnity of the moment. They had seen Hiroshi's bond with his Pokémon countless times before, yet each farewell carried a subtle weight—a private ritual between soldier and trusted companions.
Finally, Hiroshi turned toward Makima, his posture straightening instinctively into that familiar readiness that defined him.
"So, Director," Hiroshi began quietly, eyes reflecting the subtle glint of anticipation beneath his calm expression, "what comes next?"
Makima smiled faintly, her lips curling into that enigmatic smirk he knew well—part promise, part warning. She took a deliberate step closer, meeting his gaze with an intensity that suggested she already had every detail planned to perfection.
"Now, Hiroshi," Makima said softly, her voice holding just a whisper of intrigue, "it's time for the homecoming."