The satellite phone vibrated against my palm.
Caller ID: Colonel Rawat.
I exhaled once, rubbed my eyes, and answered.
"Sir?"
Rawat's voice blasted through immediately—sharp, tense, overflowing with urgency.
"Aakash—what is the concept behind those Pokéballs?"
No greeting. No preamble. Straight to panic.
"Can we produce them? Are there more technologies like this? Teleportation? Dimensional storage? Anything else we should know?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
I was exhausted.
Aggron-level exhausted.
"Nearly-died-in-a-cave" exhausted.
So I kept my voice calm and deliberately slow.
"Colonel… calm down."
Rawat did not calm down.
"CALM? The world saw a bird turn into red energy and disappear into a sphere the size of a lemon—AND YOU WANT ME TO CALM!?"
I almost smiled.
Almost.
"Listen carefully," I said. "The concept behind Pokéballs is not something we can understand easily. Let the researchers do their work."
Rawat paused. "So… we can understand it?"
"Eventually," I replied. "But it will be a very long road. Years… maybe decades. Unless—"
I hesitated.
Rawat instantly sharpened his tone.
"Unless what?"
"Unless they have a suitable partner in research."
Silence.
Rawat blinked audibly through the phone.
"Aakash… what do you mean by 'suitable partner'?"A beat."…Can Pokémon also… research?"
I leaned back inside the tent, staring at the ceiling.
"That depends. Some Pokémon species are instinctively good with technology. Some can manipulate psychic energy. Some can construct, forge, modify, create."
I let that sink in.
"And if we want to avoid wasting 20 years on wrong theories and failed attempts… then yes, a Pokémon partner in research will cut detours."
Rawat was silent for five full seconds.
Then—
"WE CAN COLLABORATE WITH POKÉMON!?"
I winced. "Colonel, please. My head hurts."
He lowered his voice only slightly.
"Fine. Next question. Pokéballs—can we mass produce them? You hinted at it this morning."
Finally, the easy part.
"Yes," I said. "Mass production is absolutely possible."
Rawat choked. "YOU—WHAT—REPEAT THAT?"
"That's the project you were preparing for," I said, rubbing my forehead. "The craftsmen, blacksmiths, metal workers, engineers. They're not just for decorative work or shelters. They're for Pokéballs."
Rawat was stunned.
"You're telling me… with the right materials… India can actually manufacture these devices?"
"Yes."
Silence again.
Then:
"…Aakash."
"Yes, sir?"
"Do you… understand what you are saying?"
"Yes."
"A technology that lets living creatures be safely stored, carried, transported—"
"Yes."
"This will change the entire world. Defense, logistics, security, rescue operations—"
"Yes."
"And you're telling me we can build them here?"
"Yes."
"…My God."
"…and the craftsmen and blacksmiths you gathered—yes, they are for Pokéball production."
Before Rawat could interrupt again, I continued:
"But listen carefully, Colonel. I need you to pass very specific instructions."
"Go on," he said tensely.
"Tell the blacksmiths to practice forging metal shells—perfect spheres—about the size I showed on stream. Two halves, clean hinge line, with a functional button mechanism in the middle. They should already have an idea how to make it. Nothing advanced yet. Just shape and structure."
I paused, letting it register.
"Next, tell the craftsmen to use those metal shells and practice adding internal maze-like patterns. Engravings, channels, structured pathways. Then, once they're confident, they can start carving designs on the outside."
Rawat scribbled rapidly.
"That's all?" he asked.
I exhaled sharply.
"No. The most important part—Colonel, listen well."
He stopped writing.
"None of this leaves your direct supervision. Not the practice. Not the prototypes. Not the discussions. Not even to the government."
He froze.
"…Aakash?"
"This is my technology. My discovery. My design. My property."
I lowered my voice.
"If even one person leaks something, I'll have to take future projects somewhere else. Not even the PM should hear details until prototypes work. and even then only that we can produce it, not production details."
Rawat swallowed.
"I… understand."
"Good. Keep it airtight. Or we lose everything."
I yawned.
"we'll discuss Pokéballs, tech, capabilities—all of it—after I return from the forest. Not now. Not tonight."
A long exhale crackled through the speaker.
"…Alright. Rest. But Aakash…"
"Yes?"
"You may not understand yet—but the world changed today."
I smiled faintly in the darkness.
"Good night, Colonel."
"Good night. And… stay alive."
The line disconnected.
I set the phone down, lay back on sleeping bag, and closed my eyes.
Tomorrow would be another storm.
But for now, I let sleep pull me under.
_________________________________________________________________________
Craftsmen POV: The Night They Were Summoned
They didn't know why they were summoned.
Nobody told them.
Nobody dared ask.
All they knew was that a full military convoy and two escort jets had arrived at their homes late evening and said:
"Pack your essential tools. You're coming with us."
That alone would have been strange.
What followed was terrifying.
Flying Wasn't Safe Anymore
Commercial flights had become rare since the arrival of flying Pokémon.
Even small ones like Spearow could crack cockpit glass if territorial.
And if some unfortunate pilot entered an unknown Pokémon airspace…a Fearow, Noctowl, or even a flock of Golbat could bring a plane down.
So when the craftsmen were loaded into military aircraft surrounded by escort jets?
They understood this was serious.
Very serious.
Most of them prayed silently.A few held onto their toolkits like talismans.One old blacksmith muttered, "If this thing goes down, I'm haunting the Air Force."
The escort jets flew in a tight formation, scanning for flying Pokémon constantly.
Every time the radar beeped, everyone held their breath.
They reached Mumbai by dawn.
Alive.
Barely.
They were given guest rooms at a secure military facility and told:
"Sleep until further orders."
They tried.
Most failed.
When some of the most skilled metalworkers in India receive a military order at midnight, fear replaces sleep.
Still, a few hours later, they managed to rest enough to stop shaking.
During dinner, just when their stomachs were finally settling—
A soldier ran into the cafeteria.
"ALL CRAFTSMEN—ASSEMBLY ORDER! REPORT TO THE MAIN FACTORY! NOW!"
Spoons clattered.
Sixty-five master artisans exchanged exhausted, irritated looks.
"For gods' sake… we haven't even digested yet."
But they complied.
____________________________________________________________________________________________
The Factory Hall
The factory was enormous.
• On one side: traditional forges glowing orange, bellows ready.
• On the other: long worktables, each loaded with intricate tools—engravers, micro-chisels, filigree sets, scroll-saws.
The craftsmen wandered among the tools, impressed despite themselves.
"This is… good quality steel," one whispered.
"Why does the government need this many engraving kits?" another muttered.
They were whispering among themselves when a door opened—
—and Colonel Rawat walked in.
His presence made even the most stubborn smith straighten their backs.
"Hello everyone," he began.
"I know it's late, but I appreciate you all being here. Thank you for responding to the nation's call."
The smiths and craftsmen exchanged glances.
Their thoughts were nearly identical:
"We were woken from sleep, interrupted mid-forging, dragged across the country... and you couldn't even offer chai?"
"This better be good."
Rawat continued:
"You sixty-five are the top of your respective fields. You were chosen because the nation trusts you with something critical. Classified."
They nodded stiffly.
Then he announced:
"You will help forge the foundation of the Pokémon revolution.
You will help our nation rise above the world.
YOU WILL BE FORGING—POKEBALLS."
He paused, waiting for gasps.
Shock.
Excitement.
Awe.
Instead—
Sixty-five blank faces stared back.
One man scratched his beard.
Another blinked slowly.
Finally, someone spoke:
"…Colonel. What is a pokeball?"
Rawat froze.
A realization slammed into him.
These were the top craftsmen in the country.
People who ignored social media.
People who didn't watch TV.
People who didn't care who Aakash was.
They were the type who, if anyone disturbed their forging process, would throw that person out—even if it was the army.
Rawat sighed, rubbing his face.
"Of course… you people don't know."
He cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Follow me."
They packed into a small break room, crowding around a TV.
Rawat turned on the viral clip.
Aakash on-screen:
"This civilization from the Pokémon world achieved tremendous technological progress. This Pokéball is one of their earliest inventions."
Then—
Pidgeotto dissolved into red light.
The craftsmen reacted instantly:
"What sorcery is this???"
"Arre, ye kaise bird ko light bana diya?!" (How did he turn the bird into light!?)
"Is this CGI? Who pranked us?"
"LIGHT ke andar jaanwar?? Without burning?? IMPOSSIBLE!"
One old engraver pointed at the screen paused at the moment on the open pokeball:
"That red pattern… those lines… they look like some kind of runes."
A blacksmith leaned forward, eyes wide:
"Metal sphere… mechanical button… internal transformation matrix… I can make the shell."
Another craftsman muttered:
"Containment structure… symmetrical… must be layered forging. Hot-cold-hot cycle."
A goldsmith squinted at the red flash.
"That's a maze-lock structure. We need ultra-fine engraving sets."
Rawat simply watched.
And for the first time that night—
He saw excitement in their eyes.
Curiosity.
Challenge.
A spark.
The kind craftsmen only got when presented with something impossible.
The oldest weaponsmith stood up.
"Colonel."
"Yes?"
He pointed at the Pokéball on screen.
"We'll make this."
The gold engraver beside him nodded.
"It will take time."
Another added:
"And many failures."
A sculptor shrugged.
"But it's beautiful work."
Rawat exhaled in relief.
He'd gotten them.
"Everyone. Settle down."
The murmurs dimmed.
Rawat cleared his throat, choosing his next words very carefully.
"I know you're ready to start experimenting."
Sixty-five heads nodded in unison.
Rawat continued:
"But listen closely. You don't have to reinvent this from scratch."
The room fell silent again—sharp, tense, expectant.
Rawat met their eyes one by one.
"There is no need to waste months or years on trial and error. No need for blind detours. Someone will come soon—someone who already understands the manufacturing method."
The craftsmen stiffened.
Someone… would come?
A teacher?
Who in the world knew how to make this alien-like sphere?
Rawat let the anticipation hang for a moment before finishing:
"For now, your job is simple. Practice the basics. Shell forging. Button mechanism. Internal structure copying."
He pointed at the screen again.
"The internal red maze you see? Try to replicate that pattern. It is made from a glass-like substance, extremely fine. Think of it as both engraving and circuitry. It must form connected pathways—channels that guide… energy."
The craftsmen blinked.
"Energy?"
"What kind?"
Rawat exhaled.
"That… will be explained by the one coming to teach you."
A ripple of excitement—and fear—ran through the room.
He straightened his uniform.
"Until then, you focus on precision. Tolerances less than a millimeter. Smooth internal curvature. Seamless hinge alignment. And most importantly—get familiar with the maze patterns. You'll need that skill."
He turned toward the exit.
"Oh. One last thing."
Everyone stopped.
"No one—not your apprentices, not your families—not even other government officials—must know what you are working on."
His gaze hardened.
"You are forging the most important device in human history. Security will be airtight. Cameras everywhere. No phones. No leaks."
They nodded solemnly.
Rawat paused, looked at them one final time, then walked out of the room.
The steel door shut behind him with a heavy THUD.
Stunned Silence
It took a full ten seconds before anyone breathed again.
A goldsmith whispered:
"Did he just say… government already has the production method?"
A forgemaster sputtered:
"Arey toh fir hum kyu yaha pr hai?!" (Then why are we here?!)
A carver slapped him lightly.
"To learn it, idiot! They need artists for precision!"
The oldest smith rubbed his beard.
"Someone who knows the production method… someone coming to teach us…"
Their imaginations ran wild.
A retired scientist?A foreign specialist?
They didn't know.
But they felt the weight of it.
The honor.
And the danger.