The fluorescent lights of the sterile observation room hummed, a monotonous counterpoint to the frantic thudding of Shane’s heart. Dr. Rostova’s words – "potential," "beneficial," "cooperation" – echoed in his mind, each one a carefully weighted stone in the new, precarious balance of their existence. Ozzy, still trembling slightly on his shoulder from his unprecedented display of controlled teleportation, pressed closer, a small, warm anchor in a sea of uncertainty. The unspoken threat, the alternative to "cooperation," was a chilling silence that needed no words.

  "What kind of… cooperation?" Shane asked, his voice carefully neutral. He needed information, needed to understand the bars of this new, less obvious cage.

  Dr. Rostova’s lips curved into a semblance of a smile, though it didn’t reach her cool, analytical eyes. "Understanding, Mr. Thomson. We wish to understand the… capabilities of your companion. And, by extension, perhaps gain insight into the… phenomenon that brought you here." She gestured vaguely, encompassing far more than just a shipwreck. "The National Biological Survey Institute is dedicated to cataloging and comprehending unique biological assets. 'Ozzy,' as you call him, is certainly that."

  The days that followed were a blur of carefully managed transitions. The bleak transit center was exchanged for a small, functional apartment within a nondescript building on the outskirts of the city. It was furnished with the same impersonal practicality, but it had a lockable door, a tiny kitchenette, and a window that wasn't barred. This, Rostova had explained, was a "research fellow's temporary lodging," a privilege extended due to the unique nature of his "assistance." With it came a small, regular stipend – enough for basic food and necessities – and a laminated ID card that identified him as a "Consulting Assistant, Special Projects Division, NBSI." It had his picture, his name, and a series of incomprehensible codes. It felt like a leash, not a key.

  Ozzy, in this new environment, slowly began to recover more of his strength. The constant presence of overtly skeptical or fearful strangers was gone, replaced by the intermittent, focused scrutiny of Rostova and her small team of researchers – primarily Dr. Lindgren, who now looked at Ozzy with a mixture of awe and scientific trepidation, and two younger, eager scientists named Elin and Markus, who mostly just took notes.

  The "cooperation" began subtly. Days were structured around "observation sessions." Ozzy would be presented with puzzles – intricate latches on boxes containing his favorite (or least disfavored, in this world) food, mazes with shifting walls. Shane would encourage him, and Ozzy, understanding the unspoken stakes, would often solve them with an intelligence that left Elin and Markus scribbling furiously. His small telekinetic nudges were passed off by Shane as "exceptional dexterity" or "clever use of his beak and claws." His brief, localized teleports to reach a desired object were explained as "startlingly fast, almost invisible movements." Shane became an expert in downplaying the truly extraordinary.

  "He seems to respond best to positive reinforcement and a calm environment, Mr. Thomson," Rostova observed one day, after Ozzy had "cleverly" navigated a particularly complex apparatus to retrieve a sliver of dried fruit. "Your bond is clearly… significant."

  "He's a very intelligent bird," Shane would reply, stroking Ozzy, who would offer a small, innocent chirp. Their private telepathic conversations, however, were far less innocent. {They watch. Always watch,} Ozzy would send, his mental voice tinged with weariness. {Don't show too much, Shane.}

  {I know, buddy. Just enough,} Shane would send back, the weight of their deception a constant pressure.

  The "nominal role" at the Institute, assisting Dr. Lindgren with "avifauna studies," became Shane's peculiar entry point into this new world. The office was still windowless, the data often tedious, but the supervised access to the Institute's network, and occasionally the public internet, was a precious commodity. He devoured information, piecing together a map of this "Sweden," its customs, its quiet anxieties. His searches for "unexplained phenomena" were still shots in the dark, yielding mostly internet static, but the act of searching itself was a small rebellion, a refusal to be entirely defined by his current circumstances.

  Ozzy, in their small, monitored apartment, was not just recovering; he was observing. The psychic landscape here was different, flatter, yet he was adapting. His bond with Shane deepened in their shared secrecy, their telepathic conversations a lifeline. {They watch, Shane,} Ozzy would often send, his mental voice gaining a new resilience. {But they do not see all. Not yet.}

  Dr. Rostova’s interactions became less about direct observation of Ozzy as a "specimen" and more about discreetly testing the application of his perceived talents, always channeled through Shane. She was too shrewd to make overt threats that might make her valuable "asset" uncooperative. Instead, it was a dance of implied expectations and conditional benefits.

  The first significant "test" came disguised as a minor institutional crisis. "Mr. Thomson," Rostova said one morning, her tone business-like as she met him in one of the Institute's sterile briefing rooms. Dr. Lindgren hovered nervously in the background. "We've encountered a… data integrity issue. A series of encrypted research files, vital to an ongoing environmental study, have become corrupted. Our technicians suspect a subtle, previously undetected flaw in the archival system, but pinpointing the exact point of failure in terabytes of data is proving… time-consuming."

  She paused, her gaze resting on Ozzy, who was perched calmly on Shane's shoulder. "Dr. Lindgren has noted your companion's unusual ability to discern patterns, even in complex data sets, when you are reviewing his notes. An intuitive leap, perhaps. We wondered if, by having you review the corrupted archive's logs with Ozzy present, some… unconventional insight might emerge."

  Shane understood. This wasn't about bird migration. This was a direct test of Ozzy's "pattern recognition" on a much larger, more critical scale. Failure might mean a return to being just a "specimen." Success… success would make them more valuable, but also more entangled.

  {Careful, Shane,} Ozzy projected, a faint tremor of effort in his thought. {This data… it feels wrong in many places. Like a tangled net.}

  For three days, Shane sat before a high-resolution monitor, scrolling through endless lines of code, system logs, and fragmented data packets, with Ozzy on the desk beside him. To any observer, it looked like Shane was meticulously searching, occasionally murmuring to his "pet." In reality, Ozzy was sifting through the digital chaos, his adapted psychic senses picking up subtle dissonances, points where the "flow" of information felt corrupted or broken. He would nudge Shane’s hand towards a specific sector, project a feeling of {Here. This one… it’s torn.} or {This connection is false.}.

  Shane would then flag these areas, offering logical-sounding (if somewhat intuitive) reasons to the technicians Rostova had assigned to "assist" him. "This checksum doesn't look right for this file type," or "There's an anomalous timestamp sequence here that doesn't match the rest of the log."

  On the third day, one of Ozzy's "hunches" led them to a deeply buried, almost invisibly corrupted indexing file. When the technicians focused on it, they found the flaw – a rare software bug triggered by a specific, unusual data string. The archives could be salvaged.

  Rostova summoned Shane to her office. It was larger than his apartment, with a window that overlooked a manicured, sterile garden. "Remarkable, Mr. Thomson," she said, a rare hint of something almost like approval in her voice. "Your… intuitive approach saved us weeks, possibly months, of work. The Institute is appreciative."

  She leaned back in her chair. "This arrangement… it can be mutually beneficial. Your unique insights, channeled appropriately, are a considerable asset. In return, the Institute can offer a degree of stability and integration that would otherwise be… difficult for someone in your undocumented position."

  This was the turning point Shane had been hoping for, and dreading. "Stability?" he asked. "What kind of stability?"

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "A more formal consultancy status, for a start," Rostova said. "A proper work permit, under the auspices of the NBSI's special projects. A larger stipend. More autonomy in your living arrangements, within reason and with continued discretion regarding the… precise nature of your assistant." She gestured to Ozzy. "He is, after all, still an unclassified biological entity. Public exposure would create… complications we all wish to avoid."

  {She offers a bigger cage, Shane,} Ozzy commented dryly in his mind. {But with a longer chain.}

  Shane knew Ozzy was right. But a longer chain was still progress. "And my… friend?" he asked, thinking of Robert. "The one I arrived with. If he were to be found, would this… cooperation… extend to him?"

  Rostova’s expression became guarded. "That would be a separate and more complex matter, Mr. Thomson, dependent on the circumstances and the nature of his companion. For now, let us focus on your continued value to us."

  It wasn't a no. And that, Shane realized, was a victory in itself.

  Over the next few months, this pattern continued. Shane and Ozzy were presented with "problems" – complex datasets, logistical puzzles, sometimes even "predicting" potential stress points in new engineering designs based on intricate schematics. Each success brought them a little more breathing room, a slight loosening of Rostova’s direct oversight. Shane was allowed to attend basic language classes for immigrants (his cover story being a survivor from a remote, uncontacted tribe with a unique dialect, making his fluent English an anomaly in itself). He was given slightly more freedom to move around the city, always aware that discretion was paramount.

  He used this fragile autonomy to continue his research, more cautiously now. The news of other "anomalies" was still there, faint whispers in the digital ocean. And sometimes, late at night, when the city was quiet, Ozzy would look out their apartment window, towards the dark, windswept coastline.

  {The echoes are still there, Shane,} he’d project, his mental voice now stronger, tinged with a familiar melancholy. {The world is… unsettled. And I feel… another. Faint. Like me, but… older. Sadder. Hidden.}

  Shane would feel a chill. Was Ozzy sensing another Pokémon? Or something else? Another person touched by the rifts? The thought of his father, Alistair, and Robert’s stories of his trans-dimensional obsessions, would surface unbidden.

  Shane’s new "consultancy status" was a carefully constructed illusion of freedom. He had an apartment, a small but regular income credited to a newly issued bank card, and a plastic ID that granted him access to certain sections of the NBSI complex. He could even leave the Institute grounds during off-hours, a privilege he used to explore the quiet, orderly streets of the city, always with Ozzy tucked discreetly into a modified shoulder bag, a silent, watchful presence. The city was clean, the people polite but reserved, the language a constant, melodic hum he was slowly beginning to parse thanks to the evening language classes. Yet, every freedom felt conditional, every unbarred window a reminder of the invisible surveillance that still enveloped them.

  Dr. Rostova, true to her pragmatic nature, continued to find "problems" for Shane and Ozzy to solve. They were tasked with analyzing aberrant migration patterns of certain bird species – patterns that Ozzy, with his unique senses, often linked to faint, localized energy fluctuations that human instruments barely registered. They helped optimize search algorithms for geological survey data, Ozzy unerringly guiding Shane to anomalies that hinted at unusual mineral deposits or subterranean voids. Each success was met with Rostova’s cool approval and a subtle reinforcement of their value.

  Shane learned to play the game. He presented Ozzy’s insights as his own "educated guesses" or "intuitive leaps," carefully masking the true extent of his partner's abilities. He knew Rostova suspected more, far more, but she seemed content as long as the results were delivered and the "asset" remained compliant.

  During his internet research, now less furtive but still carefully monitored, Shane started noticing a subtle shift in the global "noise." The scattered reports of "strange creatures" or "unexplained events" were becoming slightly more frequent, slightly less easy to dismiss. He found a few heavily censored scientific papers from other countries discussing "Unidentified Biological Entities" or "Localized Spatio-Temporal Distortions." The language was obtuse, academic, but the underlying message was clear: their arrival through the Dewford rift had not been an isolated incident. The world was, in small, almost imperceptible ways, beginning to fray.

  Ozzy, too, sensed it. His periods of quiet introspection grew longer. {The echoes… they grow stronger, Shane,} he’d project, his mental voice laced with a growing unease. {More… ripples. The world is… stirring.}

  One late afternoon, Rostova summoned Shane to her office. This was unusual; most of their interactions were now handled through Elin or Markus, or via secure messages on his Institute terminal. When he arrived, he found not just Rostova, but also two stern-faced men in dark suits he didn’t recognize, their posture exuding an air of quiet authority that was different from the researchers.

  "Mr. Thomson," Rostova began, her voice devoid of its usual detached politeness, carrying instead a note of urgency. "We have a… situation. A significant one. It seems your initial assessment of other… arrivals… may have been more prescient than we initially credited."

  Shane’s blood ran cold. "Arrivals?"

  "Indeed," one of the suited men interjected, his voice a low rumble. "Several hours ago, there was an incident in a remote forested region several hundred kilometers north of here. Local authorities reported what they initially termed a 'highly aggressive, unidentified ursine predator.' Subsequent reports, however, are… more difficult to classify."

  The other suited man slid a tablet across Rostova’s polished desk towards Shane. On it, a blurry, shaky video played. It showed a dark, massive shape moving with terrifying speed through a dense pine forest, felling trees as if they were matchsticks. Then, a flash of something blue, a powerful jet of water – impossibly powerful for any known creature – erupting from the chaos, followed by a guttural, enraged roar that was achingly, horribly familiar to Shane.

  "Wartortle…" Shane whispered, his hand flying to his mouth.

  "And a large, powerfully built older male, matching the description of your… former companion," Rostova continued, her eyes fixed on Shane. "They've been evading local police and forestry units for months, it seems, living off the grid. But this recent encounter was far more… overt. More destructive. The 'ursine predator' they were apparently fighting was no bear. It was something else, something equally unidentifiable and extremely aggressive."

  Shane’s mind raced. Robert and Wartortle, found, fighting another creature from their world, or another? "Are they… are they alright?"

  "Your former associate appears to be uninjured, though elusive," the first suited man said. "His… 'pet,' however, sustained significant injuries during the altercation before they both vanished into denser wilderness. It was, according to witnesses, already in a distressed state before the fight."

  Rostova leaned forward. "The local authorities are ill-equipped to handle this, Mr. Thomson. They are escalating it. There is talk of bringing in military units to 'neutralize the threats.' We, however, believe a more… nuanced approach might be beneficial. An approach that involves someone with a pre-existing understanding of such… entities."

  The implication was clear. They wanted him to help bring in Robert and Wartortle.

  {Robert… hurt,} Ozzy projected from Shane’s bag, a wave of distress and worry washing over Shane. {Wartortle… pain. Fading… then… burning!}

  "What do you want me to do?" Shane asked, his voice hoarse. The thought of Robert and Wartortle injured, hunted, was a spear through his chest.

  "We want you to accompany a specialized retrieval team, Mr. Thomson," Rostova stated. "Your presence, your ability to potentially communicate or pacify your former associate, could prevent unnecessary bloodshed. For all parties involved." Her gaze was unwavering. "Consider it an extension of your consultancy. A successful resolution to this… delicate situation… would further demonstrate your unique value to the Institute, and to broader national interests."

  The choice was no choice at all. Refusal would mean Robert and Wartortle facing a military force completely ignorant of what they were dealing with. Cooperation, however manipulative the reasons behind it, was their only chance.

  "When do we leave?" Shane asked, the weight of the world settling on his shoulders.

  Ozzy, despite his own weakness, sent a surge of desperate resolve. {Find them, Shane. Must help. The burning… it changes…}

  The mission briefing was swift, impersonal. They would fly by helicopter to a staging area near the last known sighting. Shane’s role was "advisor and potential de-escalation specialist." He was an anomaly being sent to retrieve other anomalies. The irony was not lost on him.

  As they prepared to depart, Elin, one of the younger researchers who had shown him occasional, fleeting moments of kindness, approached him discreetly. "Shane," she whispered, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement. "Be careful. This 'ursine predator'… the field reports, the blurry images… some of the senior analysts are saying it doesn't match any known terrestrial biology. They're saying it might be like… like Ozzy. Another one. From… elsewhere."

  The helicopter blades were already whirring as Shane absorbed her words. So, it was true. Other Pokémon were here. And they were fighting. The fragile, carefully constructed "normalcy" of his existence was about to be shattered by the re-emergence of his past, and the terrifying, untamed reality of a world colliding with another. The price of being an anomaly was about to get a whole lot higher.