"Lapras, come on out!"
David threw the Poké Ball onto the sand. A burst of red light flashed and faded, and Lapras materialised before him on the beach, blinking calmly in the afternoon sun.
He pulled up the rental data out of habit.
Name: Lapras. Level: 35. Aptitude: Deep Blue.
David looked the Pokémon over with a practised eye. This one was well-built — noticeably larger than the average Lapras, its shell broad and solid, its neck long and steady. He nodded to himself. It wasn't a universal rule, but as a general measure, a Pokémon that had grown beyond its species' average size was usually one that had been raised well. The exception he always thought of was Ash's Charizard, which had evolved ahead of schedule and ended up a full size smaller than most of its kind because of it. But for transport Pokémon like Lapras, size and condition tended to tell an honest story.
This one told a good one.
"Wuee~"
"I'll be counting on you for the next few days, Lapras."
David drew lightly on his Aura, just enough to let it settle at the surface of his palm as he stepped forward and laid a hand gently against Lapras's neck. With his other hand, he offered one of the energy cubes he kept prepared for exactly these moments.
Lapras regarded him for a brief instant — then the cube disappeared in a single unhurried bite.
"Wuee~!"
As a professionally trained rental Pokémon, Lapras had worked with plenty of strangers. But something in the quiet warmth of David's Aura seemed to put it immediately at ease, any trace of wariness dissolving before it could even form. It replied with a cheerful call and lowered itself smoothly into the shallows, its posture an unmistakable invitation.
David hopped onto its back.
"All right — let's head for the competition area!"
"Soro!" Zorua, still perched on his shoulder, pumped one small paw in the air.
"Wuee~!"
Lapras answered with a long, resonant cry and set off across the water.
The designated fishing zone wasn't far — it sat within the near-shore waters, close enough to see the coastline clearly but far enough out that the depth was meaningful. At Lapras's full stride they covered the distance in minutes, cutting through the surface so smoothly that David barely registered the speed.
He understood, riding it, exactly why Lapras sat at the top of the rental price list. Even moving quickly, there was no rocking, no instability, no sense of fighting the water. Its broad back absorbed the motion entirely. There was room to spare — David released Kirlia and Lucario to join them, and the four of them still weren't crowded.
You really did get what you paid for.
When they arrived at the fishing zone, David took in the scene around him.
"There are a lot of people out here."
That was an understatement. In every direction, Pokémon of every Water-type variety dotted the surface — Sharpedo, Blastoise, Gyarados, Mantine, Starmie, the occasional Dewgong hauling a small organiser boat. Above the sound of lapping water came the low hum of engines and the distant chatter of hundreds of competitors settling into position. David estimated the crowd at over a thousand people, with more still arriving from the direction of the shore.
It made sense. Belon City and its neighbouring towns had grown from fishing villages. However many generations had passed since then, the instinct for it clearly hadn't gone anywhere.
He did find himself wondering, though, how the competition was actually going to work.
Total catch count? Points per fish by size or species? They couldn't realistically weigh everyone's haul at the end. And what happened if someone happened to hook an actual Pokémon?
He was still turning the question over when a sound above him made him look up.
The sky had filled with drones.
Dozens of them — hundreds, maybe — arranged in a tight, disciplined formation that blanketed the entire competition area. As David watched, a set of specially configured units broke from the main formation and spread out in a wide arc overhead. They lit up simultaneously, and several enormous projected screens unfolded across the sky, vivid against the afternoon blue.
"Rotom~ Greetings, contestants! Welcome to the annual Sea God Festival Fishing Competition! I'll be your commentator today — Rotom!"
David recognised the voice immediately. He had heard it in competition venues dozens of times over the past six months. Every Rotom sounded exactly the same, that bright, slightly mechanical cadence that somehow always sounded cheerful regardless of what it was saying.
"For this year's competition, we're using an updated format. You may have noticed the drones overhead — those are your judges. They'll conduct real-time scanning and scoring of every catch made within the competition zone."
The overhead screens flickered, displaying a live scoreboard — already populated with competitor names, all sitting at zero.
"Every species that can naturally be found in this sea area has already been assigned a point value and logged into the drones' database. If something unusual shows up that falls outside the database, our experts on standby will evaluate it on the spot and post the result publicly."
"Your scores and rankings will update in real time, both on these screens and through the registration app you used when you signed up. Please check it now if you haven't already."
"One final note on the rules: any direct interference with another contestant's fishing is strictly prohibited, and bringing in catches obtained outside the competition zone will result in immediate disqualification. Violations are not taken lightly."
A brief pause.
"That covers the rules. I wish everyone a successful competition. The Sea God Festival Fishing Competition — starts now!"
The announcement had barely finished before the zone came alive. Lines hit the water from every direction. Bait was adjusted. Pokémon settled into position. The quiet that had held for Rotom's introduction dissolved in seconds into the focused industry of a thousand people doing exactly what they had come here to do.
David was no different. He reached into his bag for his prepared bait, worked it carefully onto the hook, and began setting up the Abyssal Fishing Rod with the same methodical attention he always gave it.
What he didn't notice — what most contestants didn't notice, absorbed as they were in those first minutes of the competition — was that a small number of participants weren't fishing at all. Scattered across the zone, using the burst of activity as cover, they had quietly turned their attention to something else entirely. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with catching fish.