Chapter Text
The sun dipped over Mossdeep City’s western shore, bleeding gold and rose into the quiet waves. After all this time—nine months since the sky tried to end everything—the island pretended nothing had changed. The salt still clung to the wind, the Space Center still shimmered to life before dusk, Wingull still drifted with lazy, familiar cries. But Zinnia knew better. The world cracked open with the meteor, and she never managed to gather up all her pieces since.
She stood barefoot on warm sand, her cloak hanging off one shoulder in that thrown-together way she liked. The breeze whipped her black hair into tangles, longer and wilder these days. Under the cloak, her belly pressed against the fabric—round, heavy, impossible to hide now, not that she really tried anymore. Nine months of pretending. Nine months of sunrise dives for salvage, stacking plushes at the Space Center shop until her back screamed, and muttering—she could do this alone.
What choice did she have?
Two local trainers stood maybe ten paces away, teenagers with matching visors and too much swagger. Poké Balls spun on their fingers.
“You sure about this, lady?” one called, glancing at her belly. “We can just call it a draw.”
Zinnia’s red eyes flashed—classic dragon-fire smirk. She set her feet wide, one hand settled on her stomach as it belonged there. With the other, she flicked open a ball.
“What? Scared to lose to a pregnant woman?” Her voice carried, sharper and brighter than all the jokes on the beach, echoing back to all the times she’d stood at Sky Pillar, daring the world to go ahead and try her. “Aster, let’s show them what we’ve got!”
The Poké Ball burst bright, and Aster landed at her feet—small, pink, bouncing with excitement. The female Whismur stamped once, chirping a cheerful “Whis-mur!” She’d been there for Zinnia when everything else went dark: the Delta Episode, the long nights, the endless, helpless screaming at stars. Aster never needed explanations. She just fought.
The kids sent out a Wingull and a Lombre—classic casual battle, the kind tourists lined up for every evening. Aster dodged a Water Gun with a hop and hit back, a booming Uproar that sent the Wingull spiraling. Zinnia laughed out loud, shifting her weight, her hand tracing idle circles on her belly.
“That’s it, Aster! Keep them guessing!”
The baby kicked—hard this time. Once, then again, like she was itching to jump into the match. Zinnia’s grin tightened for a second. Not yet, little star. Not yet.
She shouted another call, voice steady, but she was sweating now. The Lombre lunged. Aster rolled to the side and landed a solid Pound, sending it tumoring. The trainers clapped good-naturedly. Zinnia let out one sharp, triumphant whoop.
Then everything changed.
This wasn’t the fluttery feeling she’d gotten used to, or those strong nighttime kicks that left her breathless. No, not this—this came low and deep, squeezing her middle with all the roughness of coiled dragonfire and a slap of icy dread. Her knees buckled for a second, and her cloak slipped.
Aster looked back—ears flicking, worried. “Whis…?”
Zinnia forced a laugh—louder, brasher—like maybe noise could drown out whatever this was, just like Aster did in battle.
“Didn’t notice the contractions until now…” She muttered under her breath. The trainers stayed focused on their Pokémon. Good. The last thing she’d let them see was the great Zinnia—Lorekeeper, meteor-slayer, stubborn last Draconid—fold in the sand over a baby.
Another contraction hit—tighter, longer. The baby shifted, pushing back against all her pretending. Zinnia pressed her hand flat against her belly, feeling the secret she’d carried alone all this time. Not the bait shop, not anyone at the Space Center, not the elders—no one knew. She’d shouldered this like she shouldered every mistake in Draconid history.
The sky darkened—fast. A rare winter storm crawled in from the sea, piling bruised steel clouds over the horizon. Fat drops of rain hissed on the sand. Wind whipped her cloak, tugged at Aster’s ears, and rattled the Space Center flags.
Zinnia let out a long breath. She wasn’t even thinking about the battle anymore. With a snap, she recalled Aster—the little Whismur vanished in red light, leaving a last worried chirp. Zinnia turned to the shore, watching the tide creep in.
“Enough,” she said, soft but cocky as ever, just traded knife-edge for something raw and honest. “Time’s up, kid.”
She started walking—slow, steady, one hand pressed to the small of her back—turning away from her leftover audience, from the cheers dissolving behind her, from the easy moments she’d been rationing. The storm met her at the water’s edge. Rain stung her face, cool against the heat rolling through her body. Far out, lightning flickered over the ocean. For a beat, she remembered meteors, falling stars, all her ghosts.
She stopped where the waves met the sand, her cloak soaked, belly dropping lower, heavy with the future. Another contraction gripped, stronger this time. Zinnia closed her eyes and let the rain run over her.
“Just you and me now,” she whispered to whatever was coming.
The last star had already fallen. This one—she could feel it—was finally rising.