Chapter 3: Wings, Water Bullets, and Way Too Many Witnesses
In which I get airborne, embarrassed, and maybe a little awesome.
Jiraiya rubbed his chin like he was planning something diabolical—which, in hindsight, he totally was.
"Well," he said, grinning, "now that you've got the hang of body slamming birds on the ground, let's make it interesting. How about fighting them in the sky this time?"
I blinked. "You want me to what now?"
"Make some wings. Fly. You're still in Zoroark form—get creative." He shrugged like he was asking me to go buy some milk, not defy the laws of physics. "Time to level up."
And because I have the survival instincts of a brave idiot, I actually tried it.
I focused my chakra and molded the transformation. Out of my back sprouted sleek, black wings—part dragon, part nightmare crow, totally awesome. I gave them a test flap and shot into the air, wobbly at first but staying up. Kind of like a newborn bird. A very nervous, very ninja newborn bird.
"That's the spirit!" Jiraiya shouted from below. "Now, try those two!"
I turned—and immediately regretted it.
Two Fearows. Not Pidgeys. Not even Pidgeottos. Fearows. Those nightmare stork-spear-hawk things with the speed of a missile and the temperament of a drunk uncle at a wedding.
They spotted me instantly, their red eyes narrowing like I owed them money.
"Uh-oh," I muttered.
The first one screeched and dive-bombed me like a feathery javelin. I dodged left—barely—only to get smacked in the ribs by the second one's beak. Pain exploded across my side, and I lost altitude fast.
"Okay!" I wheezed. "Lesson one: flying's hard!"
They didn't let up. One came from above, the other from below, and I spun in the air like a panicked frisbee, flapping wildly, trying to regain control. I launched a wind jutsu at one, but it sliced through it like tissue paper and pecked me square in the face.
I screamed. I'm not proud of it.
In seconds, I was a black-and-blue blur hurtling toward the ground like a meteor made of bad choices. I crashed through at least three trees and bounced off a fourth before landing flat on my back, groaning in pain.
Jiraiya peered down at me from a branch. "Oof. Rough flight?"
I just groaned.
"Well, kid," he said, chuckling, "you just graduated from 'Clone Thrower' to 'Sky Pincushion.' But hey, first flights always suck."
I peeled a leaf off my face. "They're freaking monsters, pervy sage."
He laughed. "That's the point. If you want to get stronger, you need to be beaten down a little. Besides, your wings held up. That's a start."
"Next time," I grumbled, "I'm throwing them."
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"Not all fights take place on the ground," Jiraiya said, cracking his neck like this was some kind of inspirational moment. "So stop playing around and learn how to fly."
Then, right in front of me, he transformed into a Greninja—not just any Greninja, mind you. This one had wings. Sleek, aerodynamic, totally unfair wings. He looked like the edgy final boss of a Pokémon movie.
"This is bait," I said flatly. "You're baiting trainers."
Jiraiya gave me a toothy grin, because of course he was.
We took to the sky like twin ninja bats, flapping through the canopy of Route Eleven. Jiraiya flew smoothly, as if he'd been born for the skies. I, on the other hand, flapped like a panicked scarecrow caught in a hurricane. But I was getting better. Sort of.
"Keep up, kid!" he shouted, then sent a water bullet my way.
I ducked, barely avoiding a high-pressure splash to the face, only to be greeted by a wind bullet slicing past my ear.
"Hey!" I yelled. "This is flight training, not assassination!"
"It's both!" Jiraiya called back cheerfully. "Dodge or drop!"
We wove through tree branches and zipped across open sky like two overcaffeinated hurricanes, Jiraiya flinging elemental jutsu with the casual flair of someone playing dodgeball, and me dodging like my life depended on it. Because it did.
From the ground, it looked like a legendary duel: a flying Greninja throwing water and wind in rapid succession against a jet-black Zoroark spiraling and weaving like an aerial acrobat. And of course, because the universe has a sense of humor, people were watching.
Trainers traveling the route had all stopped to gawk.
"Is that a new evolution?" one whispered.
"Two rare flying types battling in the wild!" another gasped, already digging for Poké Balls.
I barely had time to feel flattered before Jiraiya shouted, "Altitude check!" and dive-bombed me.
We spiraled through a series of aerial maneuvers that would've made the Hokage Tower spin. I dodged left, caught a branch with my claws, flung myself upward again, and unleashed a shadow clone midair to block another wind bullet.
"You're getting the hang of it," Jiraiya said, slightly impressed. "Let's push it."
"Oh good," I wheezed, "I was worried this was too easy."
Another barrage came. I deflected one, dodged another, and—yes!—shot a gust of chakra-infused wind that forced Jiraiya to barrel-roll out of the way.
He blinked. "Did you just hit me?"
"Maybe," I said, grinning. "Shadow clones work up here too, y'know."
From the ground, the trainers were practically foaming at the mouth.
"I want that one!" a kid yelled, pointing at me.
"Too bad," I muttered. "This 'mon bites."
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Let's be honest. When you're a flying Zoroark zipping through the sky, dodging water bullets from a winged Greninja, you expect attention. A few gasps. Maybe a selfie or two. What you don't expect is for half the route to turn into a live-action version of "Gotta Catch 'Em All: Hunger Games Edition."
The moment we passed over a ridge, the silence cracked.
"There they are!" one trainer shouted, voice going high-pitched with excitement. "Dibs on the Zoroark!"
"Forget that—I want the flying Greninja!" another yelled, already flinging a Poké Ball like it owed him money.
And then—chaos.
Like dominoes falling in a hurricane, a storm of trainers released their Pokémon into the sky. But not baby birds or rookie-level bugs. No, these guys meant business. Out came Pidgeot, Crobat, Gyarados, Fearow, and a Dragonair that moved like a silk ribbon of death.
Naruto stared, wide-eyed. "Are they attacking us?"
"They're trying to catch us," Jiraiya muttered, the fake Greninja wings twitching with tension. "Because clearly, we look so catchable."
The trainers, in their infinite Pokémon logic, decided it was only fair to catch us first and then battle among themselves to decide ownership. Because nothing says friendly competition like an aerial assault.
Naruto felt the tension spike. These weren't weaklings. Gyarados roared like an airborne freight train. Dragonair spun through the clouds like a ribbon dancer with a vendetta. Even the Pidgeot had that smug, top-of-the-food-chain energy.
"I can't beat them," Naruto muttered. "Not yet."
"I know," Jiraiya said.
And just like that, Jiraiya dropped the act. One second, he was a showboating ninja in disguise. The next, he blurred through the sky like a thunderclap. His fake wings folded into his back as his chakra surged—boom. He yanked Naruto out of the air like a ninja falcon snatching prey and launched into a spiral of chakra-fueled speed.
They vanished.
To the trainers below, it looked like the two "legendary" Pokémon had pulled some kind of double retreat technique and blinked out of existence. Poké Balls missed and exploded harmlessly in the air, capturing nothing but wind and disappointment.
"That was... what just happened?" one trainer asked, stunned.
"I think we lost them," another said, shielding his eyes. "They were too fast."
Naruto, still catching his breath from the adrenaline ride, clung to Jiraiya's side as they landed behind a distant tree line, miles from the madness.
"Well," Naruto panted. "That escalated."
"Yeah," Jiraiya said, rubbing his chin. "Maybe next time, we don't train right above a public route."
"You think?"
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So after our little "legendary sky battle" turned into a midair stampede of Poké Balls and overachieving trainers, Jiraiya finally admitted something.
"We might need a trainer."
I blinked at him. "You mean like... someone to throw balls and shout 'Use Tackle!' at us?"
He rolled his eyes. "No, gaki. I mean we need the illusion of one. These creatures respond to structure. To training. That's why they keep getting stronger without killing each other. That's why we're adjusting our strategy."
That's when he dropped his transformation like a curtain falling on a bad performance.
"Change of plan. No more flying for now. Let's hit the ground."
"Okay… into what?"
"Machoke."
That name meant nothing to me at the time. But when I transformed, I became a walking muscle tower in spandex briefs. Like Rock Lee crossed with a wrestler and dipped in grey paint. I had biceps bigger than my head and the kind of neck that screamed, "I flex for fun."
"You look ridiculous," Jiraiya smirked, hands on his hips.
"I feel like I could suplex a summon beast," I said, cracking my massive knuckles.
"Perfect. Now prove it."
For the next three hours, I fought whatever wild Pokémon dared show their face. Or beak. Or weird hypnosis eyes.
First came a Drowzee, waddling out of the tall grass like it owned the place. I barely touched it before it tried to hypnotize me.
"Don't look into its eyes!" Jiraiya shouted.
Too late. The next thing I knew, I was reliving the Great Ramen Disaster of '98. When I snapped out of it, my knuckles were sore and Drowzee was out cold. So... victory?
Next came a Heracross, the buffest bug I'd ever seen. We traded punches like old rivals. The guy hit like a chakra-enhanced freight train, and I honestly respected him for it. By the time I took him down with a mix of shadow clone feints and a Machoke-style Body Slam, I was bruised, exhausted, and slightly in love.
And then came the Pidgeottos. Not one, but three of them. Fast, agile, and petty. They dive-bombed like ninja hawks, squawking insults I didn't understand but still took personally.
I threw rocks. I threw clones. I even tried spinning like Lee once told me (never again). One got away, but the other two tapped out after a couple of good jutsu-powered punches.
By the time we stopped, I was covered in dirt, bird feathers, and the distant echo of Jiraiya saying, "You call that a grapple?"
"Not bad," he finally said, tossing me a canteen. "You're learning how to fight like a Pokémon, but with a ninja's mind. That's your edge."
I drank greedily, flexing without meaning to. "So... I'm like a Machoke ninja?"
Jiraiya chuckled. "No. You're something new. A hybrid. You don't catch monsters—you become one."
And honestly? That sounded kind of awesome.
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By the time we limped back into Vermilion City, I smelled like dirt, sweat, and about three different kinds of bird. My muscles ached, my arms were sore from throwing too many clones, and my stomach was growling like Akamaru during steak night.
Jiraiya, of course, was fine. Not a scratch on him. He practically skipped down the street humming something vaguely heroic like we hadn't just been ambushed by a bunch of airborne maniacs.
"We need food," I groaned.
"We need meat," he corrected, pointing dramatically toward a place with a neon Magikarp sign flapping above the door. "And fries. Lots of them."
The diner was loud, greasy, and full of trainers talking shop. One kid was bragging about how his Pidgeotto took down a 'mysterious flying Zoroark.' I slouched deeper into the booth and pulled my hood over my head.
"See?" Jiraiya said, smirking while flipping open a menu. "You're already famous."
"Infamous," I muttered. "My face still itches from feathers."
We ordered burgers the size of scrolls, enough fries to bury a medium-sized Growlithe, and sat in blissful silence while devouring everything in sight. Jiraiya only broke it to critique my form mid-chew.
"You grapple too long. Get in, disable, get out. That Heracross could've broken your ribs if he wanted."
"You're welcome for the live entertainment," I mumbled around a mouthful of potato.
After the food coma hit, Jiraiya waved off my protest and pulled me toward a hotel. Nothing too fancy, but the hot water worked, and the beds didn't smell like Tentacool. Honestly? Luxury.
"We'll stay at hotels when we can," Jiraiya said, already slipping out of his sandals like he owned the place. "No need to rough it unless the mission demands it."
I raised an eyebrow. "You sure it's not because you're old and soft?"
He looked at me over his shoulder. "Says the kid who passed out snoring before hitting the mattress last night."
Fair.
We agreed to take an hour nap before planning the next training session. But the second my head hit the pillow, I was out cold. Not even a Shadow Clone could've kept me awake.
Because in a world where dragons fly, bugs throw punches, and you can literally become a Machoke—sometimes the greatest luxury… is a real bed.