The Q&A began at noon.
No moderator. No screening. No time limits. Orion sat at the front desk of Pokémon Home with Pikachu in his lap and a single camera streaming to every major platform simultaneously. Latias stood behind him in her human form, monitoring the feed.
The first questions were light.
"What is Pikachu's favorite food?"
"Ketchup," Orion said. Pikachu nodded vigorously. "And Poké Blocks. But mostly ketchup. I have had to buy it in bulk."
"How old is Latias?"
Orion glanced back. Latias smiled.
"Ageless," Orion said. "She does not experience time the way we do. She has seen things I cannot imagine. She chooses to work with me anyway. I try not to take that for granted."
"Has Pikachu ever bitten you?"
"Twice. Once when I forgot to buy ketchup. Once when I tried to wake him from a nap. Both times, I deserved it."
The chat was warm. Laughing. The viewer count climbed.
Then the questions sharpened.
"Can Pokémon be weaponized?"
Orion did not hesitate.
"Yes," he said. "Any living thing can be weaponized. A dog can be trained to attack. A horse can be driven into battle. A parrot can be taught to say things that harm. The question is not whether it can be done. The question is what we choose to build. I choose to build systems of care and accountability. Pokémon are not weapons. They are partners. And partners require responsibility."
"Are you getting rich from this?"
"No." Orion pulled up a simple chart on the screen. "The lottery revenue goes three ways. Forty percent goes to Sanctuary maintenance and Pokémon care. Thirty percent goes to staff salaries and training. Thirty percent goes to expansion and outreach. I draw a salary. It is not a large one. If I wanted to get rich, I would have stayed in a different line of work."
The questions kept coming. Some were hostile. Some were curious. Some were both.
Someone asked about Jameson's editorial specifically.
Orion leaned back in his chair. Pikachu shifted in his lap.
"I respect Jameson," he said. "I do not agree with everything he has written. But he is asking the right questions. If I were a parent reading that editorial, I would have questions too. I would want to know if my child was safe. I would want to know who was accountable. I would want someone to look me in the eye and tell me the truth. So here is the truth. Pokémon are not safe in the way that a toy is safe. They are living beings with their own wills and their own power. That is what makes them extraordinary. And it is what makes the responsibility of being a trainer real. If you are not ready for that responsibility, you should not be a trainer. And that is okay."
The chat slowed. Then it surged.
And then someone asked the question Orion had been dreading.
"What happens to Pokémon when their trainers die?"
He went quiet.
Pikachu looked up at him. Latias, behind him, went still.
Orion did not answer for a long time. The chat waited. The viewer count held. No one left.
"I do not know," he said finally. His voice was different now. Quieter. Stripped of performance. "I have seen Pokémon grieve. I have seen them wait by doors. I have seen them refuse to eat. I have seen them search for someone who is not coming back. The bond between a trainer and a Pokémon is real. And real things leave marks that do not disappear. I do not have a clean answer for that. I wish I did. All I can tell you is that at Pokémon Home, we do not pretend it is simple. We do not pretend it is safe. We do not pretend that love does not come with risk. Because it does. And that is what makes it worth it."
The chat went silent.
Not empty. Silent. The kind of silence that means people are sitting with something.
Then a single message appeared.
Thank you for not pretending.
Orion closed his eyes. Pikachu pressed his small warm body against Orion's chest.
The Q&A continued for another hour. The questions shifted. They were no longer about danger or liability or Jameson. They were about what it felt like to stand next to a Pokémon for the first time. What it felt like to be chosen. What it felt like to be part of something larger than yourself.
Orion answered them all.
He did not pitch the festival once.
He did not need to.
When the stream ended, the viewer count read 340,000. The clip of his answer about grief had been shared forty thousand times before he even stood up. Three people had signed up for ground staff positions during the broadcast itself.
Orion sat in the quiet lobby. Pikachu was asleep in his arms, his small body rising and falling with each breath. The evening light came through the windows, soft and gold.
Latias brought tea. She set it on the counter beside him.
"Pepper called," she said. "She said it was the best free advertising she has ever seen."
Orion did not respond. He was too tired for satisfaction. Too full for pride. He just sat there, holding Pikachu, feeling the weight of the small creature's trust.
"The conversation has shifted," Latias said quietly. "People are no longer asking whether Pokémon are dangerous."
She paused.
"They are asking whether they are ready."
Orion looked down at Pikachu. The sleeping Pokémon's cheek sacs flickered faintly, dreaming of electricity and ketchup and the endless, improbable adventure of being alive in a world that was still learning what that meant.
"Good," Orion said. "That is the right question."
He sipped his tea. The lobby was quiet. The city outside was not. But the noise had changed. It was no longer the sound of people arguing about whether the world should be larger.
It was the sound of people deciding whether they were brave enough to step inside.
***
Give power stones to support this book.
Advance chapters in P@T0n Najicablitz.