Ash didn't know if he was dreaming.
The air crackled with energy so intense it bent the light. Dust floated upward as if gravity itself paused to witness the return.
Pikachu stood between him and death—a silhouette bathed in flickering gold, his fur bristling, his eyes blazing with something ancient. Something defiant.
> "Pikachu… You remembered…"
The masked enforcer didn't hesitate. Its blade pulsed again, reshaping into a spear of white data. No commands. No cries. Just cold silence as it lunged forward—
But Pikachu moved first.
A thunderbolt ignited the chamber, not bright like fire—but pure, the kind of light that left shadows scorched into stone.
The spear shattered before it touched them. The mask cracked. And for the first time, the enemy reeled backward.
Ash pushed himself to his feet, chest heaving.
> "You're real," he whispered.
"You came back."
Pikachu turned, just briefly. His ears perked up. His cheeks sparked.
He grinned.
Ash laughed, even as blood ran down his side.
> "Guess I'm not the only one who remembers how this story goes."
---
They fought together.
Not with Poké Balls or commands. That time had passed.
This was instinct.
This was old rhythm.
A dance carved into their bones from a lifetime of battles.
The masked enforcer multiplied—two, four, eight clones—white shadows that blurred around them.
Ash dodged low and swept a leg. Pikachu flipped over his shoulder, striking midair with Iron Tail, cleaving a copy in two.
Another leapt forward, blade raised—Pikachu vanished, reappearing in a blur of Quick Attack and shattered glass.
Ash disarmed one with a jagged metal pipe. Slammed it into another.
Pikachu climbed his back and launched a full-force Volt Tackle that turned the battlefield into a storm.
One by one, the masked figures fell.
And then—silence.
Only one remained.
The original.
It staggered back, sparks dancing across its fractured mask. Its voice was no longer robotic—it trembled.
> "You are… aberrations.
You are off-script."
Ash stepped forward, breath sharp, fury held tight in his fists.
> "Then it's time to rewrite the script."
He nodded to Pikachu.
> "Together?"
> "Pika."
Thunder struck.
The mask shattered—revealing nothing underneath. Just smoke.
And then—nothing.
---
Ash collapsed to his knees.
Not in pain.
But in awe.
Pikachu limped forward and climbed into his arms. His fur was singed, his tail twitching, but he was there.
Alive.
Real.
Ash buried his face in Pikachu's fur, trembling.
> "You came back. You came back."
> "Pika-pi…"
They stayed there for a long time—hero and partner, survivor and spark.
And above them, the pedestal still held the book:
The Last Act.
Ash stood slowly, Pikachu in his arms.
He approached the book.
He touched it.
And the world… shifted.
---
Everything went black.
Then—
A stage.
An actual one.
Wooden floors. Red curtains. A spotlight. Velvet seats facing forward.
And a voice. Soft. Melancholic. Familiar.
> "Welcome, Ash Ketchum.
You've reached the intermission."
Ash spun around.
There, standing at the edge of the spotlight, was a man in a long coat. A top hat shadowed his face.
But his voice—
Ash knew that voice.
> "You're…"
"The Narrator," the man smiled. "And once, a Champion."
Ash stepped closer.
> "You were real."
"Once. I helped tell the story. Now I only clean up after it ends."
Ash narrowed his eyes.
> "Why did you take them from us? The Pokémon. The memories."
The Narrator sighed.
> "Because stories… end, Ash. And when they grow too powerful, too wild, they tear holes in the world. We didn't erase Pokémon. We archived them. Locked them away where they couldn't break reality apart."
Ash's voice was cold.
> "You erased joy.
You erased wonder."
The Narrator stepped aside.
Behind him, a second book floated above the stage. Black leather. No title.
> "Then finish the story.
Write the final chapter."
Ash looked up.
> "And what happens if I do?"
The Narrator's smile faded.
> "Then the curtains rise again.
For better or worse.
And the world will remember."
---