The convenience store's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that particular shade of artificial white that made 2 AM feel even more surreal. Dr. Fuji had spotted it a few blocks from where we'd emerged---one of those 24-hour places that seemed to exist in a temporal pocket, serving tourists who'd forgotten essentials and insomniacs who'd given up on sleep.
The girl behind the counter was maybe sixteen, slouched over a magazine with her chin propped on one hand. The door chimed and she glanced up with practiced annoyance that immediately collapsed into something more complicated.
Her spine straightened. The magazine sagged in loose fingers as she took in Dr. Fuji's torn, bloodstained shirt and me wrapped in what could only be described as a lab coat disaster burrito. Her eyes went wide, her mouth opened slightly.
For about two seconds, her expression cycled through concern, confusion, then---in a move I had to respect---a very deliberate return to her magazine. Honestly, couldn't blame her.
Dr. Fuji limped past without acknowledgment.
Medical supplies first---an entire wall of them. Different grades of bandages, burn cream, antiseptic sorted by brand, painkillers arranged by strength. He grabbed what he needed methodically, added bottled water and pre-packaged sandwiches that looked like they'd been sitting there since Cinnabar's last newsworthy eruption.
Then he stopped at the clothing rack.
His hand hovered over an oversized Psyduck tee, pulled back, reached for a different one. Held it up against me, frowning like it had personally offended him.
"Do you have dresses?" he called toward the counter. "Ideally a white dress. For a child."
The girl's head lifted slowly from her magazine. She stared at him. Glanced around at the racks of tourist tees and cheap flip-flops, at the energy drinks and industrial bags of chips---the kind of inventory that screamed "we sell sunscreen and regret," not formal children's wear.
"Sir," she said, voice impressively flat, "this is just a convenience store, not a clothing store. I'd suggest you try the nearest mall during the day after you visit the Pokemon Center."
Dr. Fuji's jaw tightened. He turned back to the rack, pulled out the yellow Psyduck shirt with more force than necessary. "This will have to do."
He measured it against me again---still frowning---then added swim trunks that might work as shorts and grabbed a plain button-down for himself. The man was bleeding through his shirt and his priority was finding me a dress. Sure. That tracked perfectly. Nothing weird about that at all.
The girl sighed as she rung up the items, "That'll be ₽2847."
Fuji produced bills from his wallet, slightly rumpled. The checkout happened in near silence besides the ring of the register.
Three blocks inland, Dr. Fuji found a small hotel. Its "vacancy" sign hung slightly crooked outside, the kind of place that promised clean sheets and zero questions. Glass doors separated the lobby from the street, locked against the 2 AM crowd.
Dr. Fuji pressed the buzzer.
We waited. Thirty seconds. A minute. After two minutes, he pressed it again, longer this time.
A door behind the empty desk opened and a man emerged---mid-forties, hair flattened on one side from a pillow, wearing the expression of someone whose day had ended hours ago. He crossed the lobby and unlocked the door.
"Flame Forest, right?" He wasn't really looking at us, already turning back toward the counter with the practiced rhythm of a speech he'd given a hundred times. "Everyone comes for the hot springs and figures they'll check out the wilderness while they're here. Maybe find a Fire Stone, catch a rare Vulpix. But those Skarmory nest in the canopy and they're territorial as hell. Those wings will---"
He turned around and got a good look at us.
"You brought a kid there?" His voice sharpened. "Sir, Flame Forest isn't a casual stroll. Those Skarmory don't care how---"
"We didn't go to Flame Forest." Fuji brushed past him, wallet already out. "My patience is wearing thin. Just give me a room."
The clerk's mouth curled into a frown. His gaze tracked from Fuji's bloodstained collar to me in my lab coat cocoon, then down to the convenience store bag---medical supplies clearly visible through thin plastic.
His shoulders sagged. He stepped back behind the counter, pulling out a worn ledger. "Look, I get it. Medical bills are pretty insane if you don't have insurance, and even more so if you are injured rather than your Pokemon. I see trainers overestimating themselves all the time around here. I just want to make sure you're---"
"A room," Dr. Fuji repeated, tapping one finger against the counter. "For the night."
The man sighed. "₽12000 for a single, ₽14000 for a twin."
Dr. Fuji hesitated for exactly half a second. "Single."
Bills slid across the counter, slightly rumpled. The clerk didn't comment on the blood.
"Name? And I'll need some ID."
Dr. Fuji's license appeared like a magic trick, already in hand before the man finished asking.
The clerk examined it briefly, nodded. "Okay, Mr. Fuji. Second floor, room 202. Check out's at eleven." He slid a key across the counter. "And the Pokemon Center's southeast of here, if you---"
Dr. Fuji already had the key, already had his hand on my shoulder guiding me toward the stairs. No thank you. No acknowledgment.
"---need it," the man finished to our backs.
The second floor hallway was quiet in that particular dead-of-night way where even footsteps felt like an intrusion. Room 202 had a single double bed, a small bathroom, and a window facing another building's brick wall. The AC hummed steadily, filling the silence with white noise that should have been comforting but just made everything feel more surreal.
Dr. Fuji set the convenience store bag on the desk.
"Get changed and go to sleep."
It seemed more like a command than a request. He pulled out the Psyduck shirt and swim trunks, tore off the tags and tossed them onto the bed.
He grabbed the rest of the supplies and disappeared into the bathroom. The door swung mostly closed---not latched, just... mostly. Water started running. A sharp hiss of breath cut through the sound.
I reached for the Psyduck shirt.
My hands stopped halfway.
Gray-black grime smudged across my fingers, dirt crusted under nails that were too small, too new. When had I gotten this filthy? I touched my face. My hand came away with a dark smear.
The lab coat felt stiff against my shoulders. Heavy in a way that cotton shouldn't be.
I looked down.
The white fabric wasn't white anymore. Dark rust-brown patches had dried into the weave, stiff and crusted in patterns that my brain tried very hard not to identify. Blood. Dr. Fuji's blood, from when he'd wrapped it around me hours ago while his back was torn open and bleeding and---
My stomach lurched.
The smells hit me all at once. Metallic. Chemical. Something else underneath that I didn't have words for and didn't want to find them. The nausea built fast, that particular oh-shit moment where your body decides it's done negotiating.
I stumbled toward the bathroom. "I need---"
Through the gap in the door I could see Dr. Fuji at the sink, shirtless, examining wounds in the mirror. Angry red burns. Cuts weeping into gauze that was already turning pink.
My stomach heaved.
I barely made it. Dropped to my knees on cold tile as everything came up---not much, considering I don't know how I had been eating while in that test tube tank, but my body tried anyway. Kept trying until my throat burned and my eyes watered and there was nothing left but bile and the taste of metal.
A hand touched my back. Rubbed slow circles while I retched.
When the heaving finally stopped, the hand lifted. Footsteps moved away. The door opened wider and he left without a word, still shirtless, still half-bandaged, still bleeding through the gauze he'd just applied.
I stayed on the floor. Forehead against cool porcelain. Throat burning. Stomach hollowed out. The bathroom tiles were cold enough against my knees that I could feel it through the thin fabric of whatever medical gown I was still wearing under the lab coat.
Through the doorway I could hear him moving around the room. Fabric rustling. Medical packaging crinkling. Another sharp intake of breath.
After what might have been minutes or hours---time had lost all meaning somewhere between the clone tank and the convenience store---I managed to stand. My legs shook.
I turned to the sink and went on tiptoes to twist the faucet on, cupping water toward my mouth. The angle was awkward, water splashing more on my hands and chin than actually helping.
And I still had dried blood all over the coat and grime everywhere else.
I pulled the lab coat off and tossed it in the corner, then turned to the shower.
I stood under the spray until the water ran clear, watching rust-brown swirls circle the drain. Occassionally, I opened my mouth and gurled feircely.
The hotel soap smelled aggressively floral---like someone had taken the concept of "garden" and condensed it into a small bar---but it cut through the grime. My fingers found tangles in mint-green hair that still didn't feel like mine, worked them out with the patience of someone who had nothing left but the present moment.
The taste of bile had faded, but still clung to the back of my throat.
When I finally stepped out, wrapped in a towel that was too big, the Psyduck shirt and swim trunks were waiting on the closed toilet lid. I didn't remember bringing them in. Had I? The last few hours were a blur of adrenaline and wrong sensations.
The shirt hung to my knees. The Psyduck looked perpetually confused, which---honestly, same. The swim trunks fit better than expected, drawstring pulled tight enough to stay up on a child's hips.
I opened the bathroom door.
Dr. Fuji was gone.
In his place, near the door, sat a Ditto.
A Ditto.
For a moment---just one perfect, crystalline moment---everything else fell away. The blood-stained lab coat crumpled in the corner. The metallic taste still coating my mouth. The way my hands were still shaking. The visceral memory of waking up in a tank surrounded by breaking glass.
None of it mattered.
Because there was a Ditto. A real, actual, living-breathing Pokemon like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Not a sprite. Not a 3D model rotating on a screen. Not even the animated version from movies I'd watched a dozen times. A real Ditto, pink and gelatinous and impossibly, wonderfully there.
"Holy shit," I whispered.
Despite everything---despite the corpse of a laboratory, despite waking up in a body that wasn't mine, despite throwing up bile onto hotel bathroom tile, despite the fact that my old life was gone---I felt a grin splitting my face.
This was Pokemon.
This was real.
The Ditto sat perfectly still, watching me with those simple dot eyes. Not bouncing. Not wobbling. Not doing any of the playful, curious things I'd seen in cartoons or games. Just... sitting. Staring. Like a pink sentinel, dot-eyes fixed on me with an expression that somehow conveyed duty.
I couldn't help it. A laugh bubbled up---small, slightly hysterical, the kind that escapes when your brain can't quite process reality anymore. Because here was this adorable blob of pink goo trying so hard to look serious. Like a marshmallow attempting to intimidate.
The Ditto's form shifted. Just a ripple, barely perceptible, like it heard me.
But the serious expression didn't change.
"Hey," I said softly, taking a step closer. My voice came out higher than I expected, still tasted like bile underneath. "It's okay. I'm not---I just want to..."
What did I want? To touch it. To confirm it was real. To finally realize a dream I'd had a thousand times.
I moved closer. The Ditto watched, unmoving.
"Can I...?"
No response. Not a nod, not a bounce, not even a shift in expression. Just that unwavering stare.
I reached out slowly. My hand trembled---whether from exhaustion, excitement, or the sheer unreality of reaching toward an actual Pokemon, I couldn't tell anymore. When my fingertips finally made contact...
Warm.
Not hot, not cold. Just... warm. Body temperature, but not quite. The texture was impossible to describe---firmer than I expected, like touching set jello, but with a slight give that suggested it could reshape at any moment. Smooth. Almost silky. The surface rippled faintly under my touch, responding to pressure with tiny waves that spread outward like dropping a stone in still water.
A real Pokemon. I was touching a real Pokemon.
My first Pokemon.
Then the Ditto shifted backward.
Not dramatically. No sudden movement, no visible distress. Just a smooth, deliberate slide away, putting distance between us. Still watching. Still on guard.
I tried again, moving around the bed. The Ditto mirrored me, maintaining the gap.
"Come on," I whispered, and hated how small my voice sounded. How desperate. "I just... please?"
Another retreat. Another repositioning. Always keeping me in sight, like I was the threat, like I was something to be monitored rather than---
Rather than what? Its trainer? Partner? Friend?
The excitement that had bubbled up moments ago fizzled out like a Pokeball that failed to catch. My hand dropped to my side.
"Okay," I said quietly. "I get it."
And I did get it. Sort of. Pokemon weren't just cute mascots that existed to be petted—they were living creatures with their own boundaries, their own comfort zones. Like... an animal. I'd watched enough nature documentaries to know you didn't just walk up and touch wild things, even if they looked soft and friendly.
Maybe Ditto was just shy. Or didn't know me yet. Or had bad experiences with strangers.
That made sense, right?
This was the dream, wasn't it? The one every kid had. Waking up in a world where Pokemon were real, where you could reach out and touch them, where they existed as more than pixels on a screen. I'd wished for this a thousand times—on shooting stars, on birthday candles, during boring lectures when I'd stare out windows and imagine Pidgey landing on the sill.
And now I was here. I'd touched a real Pokemon. Felt its warmth, its texture, the way it rippled under my fingertips like living rubber.
One touch.
Was that all I got?
The thought came unbidden, sharp and bitter. One touch, and then... what? Back to watching from a distance? Back to being the kid who wasn't allowed to play?
Exhaustion crashed over me before I could follow that thought anywhere useful. My legs went heavy. My eyes burned. The bed looked impossibly soft even with its guard-blob occupant, and I was so tired of thinking, of processing, of trying to make sense of a world that had stopped making sense the moment I woke up in a clone tank.
Maybe tomorrow would be different. Maybe tomorrow I'd wake up and this would all make sense. Maybe tomorrow the Ditto would let me pet it properly and I could start figuring out what a Pokemon trainer actually did in real life.
Maybe tomorrow.
I climbed onto the bed. Ditto immediately shifted to the far corner, maintaining its watchful gaze. I lay down on my side, still in the ridiculous Psyduck shirt, drawstring of the swim trunks digging slightly into my hip.
My last thought before sleep claimed me wasn't profound. Wasn't about my old life or this new nightmare or what tomorrow would bring or how I was going to survive being someone's science project daughter.
It was just: I touched a Ditto.
Even in a hotel room that smelled like antiseptic and industrial soap. Even with a mouth that still tasted like bile and metal. Even under the watch of a Pokemon playing prison guard.
I'd touched a real Pokemon.
Sleep took me before I could decide if that was wonderful or heartbreaking.