For a time, Mewling danced in the air atop the Hot Springs of Odain, whose Heart 
still lay in broken and blackened ruin. Gone was any sign of her frailty; the 
legs that would hardly bear her weight trailed lightly behind her, the arm that 
had no hand stretched out beside her, the tail that split so cruelly and was so 
warped flexed and twisted in glee, the mouth that Fate and Man had conspired to 
deny her entirely was creased in a silently laughing grin. All about her dipped 
and soared the rocks and pebbles and boulders that usually littered the floor of 
the cave; globules and streams and spheres of steaming water raised from the 
springs to weave themselves amidst the harder spawn of the mountain. 

While she danced, there was no bird born that could match her flight for grace 
nor beauty nor skill nor strength nor simple majesty; Zapdos, Moltres, and 
Articuno themselves would have found her glad and worthily challenging company. 
Dozens of rocks twirled and whirled, never touching, never faltering, but 
careening onwards in the inborn pattern of Mewling's forced-mutate genes. The 
liquid streams parted and rejoined for the stones, in kinesthetics sufficient to 
soften the heart of the most jaded critic. But still, for all the beauty of the 
stage she set for herself, it was the not-so-failure herself who gave it a life, 
a vibrant wildness and joy, that unliving earth and crystal fluid never could. 

Mewling danced; she flew; she brought herself in tune with the mountain and the 
antibodies it had brought to restore its long-weakened and age-dying Heart. As 
she curled around that pillar there, for the scant blink of an eye she seemed a 
smaller, pinkish, perpetually innocent being, vast in power and uncomprehending 
in battle and darkness and hate and anger and fear. Then she was Mewling again as 
she passed a stalactite, brought down from the ceiling by enduring centuries of 
slow and steady water dripping; as she emerged from the other side, there were 
those who would have unhesitatingly sworn that it was a tall, slender being, 
shapely in no human way, who came out, and some one or two who might have thought 
that she waved with two good arms, or winked an eye no longer grey and dead. To 
see her was to know that she knew you, everything you knew, and forgave you for 
it, every dark or little secret you kept hidden from all the world, or just 
forgot about. The innocent was her birthright, what she would have been had she 
been allowed to grow on her own; the forgiving omniscient the birthright her 
creators had sought and failed to grant her. 

When Mewling danced, surrounded by her friends, and her closer-than-friends, 
those to whom she had never mind-whispered that they were her family in her heart 
of hearts, the living mountain danced unmoving around her. The powers it had 
coursed beneath the surface of the air, the powers that had reached through all 
the might-have-beens to claim Odain's inhabitants. The powers, too, revelled with 
the breaking of her fear, and the possibilities were endless. Here she dueled her 
healing against all the powers of Chaos that Justonav could bring to bear, and 
returned to him that which he had lost; there she sought out Aeris and put her 
father's ghost to rest; there again she cried out welcome to her beloved MewTwo 
and Ash, come to find her; and here and there and here again, she poured herself 
throughout the endless potentials. 

Mewling danced for a time, and for those golden moments she surpassed herself. 
The universes themselves chimed in tune with her desires, were she but to utter 
them. She could not, for she was existing with them, not above them, to think of 
commands as a Trainer might. For a few brief, glorious moments, she was not 
Mewling... 

She was Singing.