A few days ago, the Pidgeot Express set us down at Celadon's airfield. By breakfast I was in a small rental that smelled like old tea and new dust, and Dr. Fuji was already back to barked instructions and dress codes.
"What do you mean you don't want to wear a dress? You love dresses," Dr. Fuji had said three mornings ago, his voice gentle but brooking no argument as he'd laid out the powder-blue monstrosity. The words hung between us like a wall, trapping the truth behind teeth that didn't feel like mine. How could I explain that his daughter's preferences hadn't transferred along with her DNA?
Now, I stood before a mirror, tugging uselessly at another one of Dr. Fuji's stupid doll dresses. I glanced up at the mirror, seeing a deep frown etched on the girl's face. Her mint-green hair caught light at impossible angles and her dark green eyes held a wariness that didn't belong on a child's face. Five days in this new world, and I still couldn't reconcile the image before me with my sense of self.
I caught Ditto watching me from its perch on the dresser, its amorphous form somehow managing to convey both attention and amusement. "You try wearing this," I muttered, tugging at the dress's hem for the hundredth time. The words had barely left my mouth when Ditto's body rippled with interest. It oozed down from the dresser like spilled honey, its mass pooling briefly on the floor before surging upward.
The transformation caught me off-guard-pink substance flowing, reshaping, solidifying into... into...
"Oh," I breathed, turning to face my duplicate. Ditto's version of me stood with perfect posture, making my own awkward stance feel even more obvious. Every detail was uncomfortably accurate, from the mint-green hair color to the power-blue dress.
"You know," I said, glancing between us, "If we're going to be stuck here, you could at least transform into me with something more practical. Even the girls in these cartoons that Dr. Fuji left for us are wearing pants!"
The copied version of me tilted its head in confusion.
"No, look," I said, turning to point at the ancient TV where a trainer in sensible hiking gear was scaling a mountain. "See? Pants. The bottom half." I gestured emphatically at the cartoon character's legs, then at my own dress-confined ones. "You know, for walking? Adventure? Not feeling like a dress-up doll?"
Ditto-me tilted its head, brow furrowing in concentration. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the transformation began---but something was wrong. The top half remained a perfect copy of me, but below the waist, the dress melted away into flat, two-dimensional cartoon legs, complete with bold outlines and cel-shaded pants.
"That's not quite what I..." I started, but the words died in my throat as Ditto tried to take a step. The cartoonish legs, utterly unsuited for three-dimensional movement, immediately gave out. My doppelganger collapsed in a heap, the realistic upper half merging with the animated lower half into a puddle of confused purple goo.
A laugh escaped me as I watched the purple mass reform into its natural purple blob shape with a (~_~) face, feeling an unexpected wave of affection for my shapeshifting companion.
I couldn't help but marvel at the difference between its current actions and just a few days ago.
Back then, it had been all business---maintaining a careful distance, watching me from corners with an unreadable expression. But yesterday, I'd caught it mimicking my movements in the mirror when it thought I wasn't looking, practicing expressions with an almost childlike curiosity before morphing back to neutrality the moment our eyes met. And now here it was, sprawled dramatically on my floor after its enthusiastically misguided attempt at cartoon fashion.
I shook my head with a smile underneath as I focused on my only other source of entertainment.
I flopped onto the worn couch, its familiar softness reminding me of lazy weekend afternoons from another life.
"Let's see..." I muttered, clicking through channels. The TV itself was ancient by my standards---all curved screen and rabbit---ear antenna---but it worked well enough to pick up local broadcasts. A few clicks through static-filled channels finally landed on what looked like a local news broadcast. The production value wasn't much better than the static-the anchor's desk looked like it was made of painted plywood, and the graphics had that distinctly late-90s PowerPoint feel.
"...and in downtown Celadon, business owners are raising concerns about increasing Grimer populations in the sewage system," the anchor was saying, her heavily hairsprayed style completing the retro aesthetic. "Our field reporter is live at the scene."
Each channel brought another reminder that this wasn't just a world with Pokemon---it was a world built around them, shaped by their presence in ways both mundane and extraordinary. My thumb froze on the remote as familiar battle stadium architecture filled the screen. Two trainers faced each other across a regulation field, their Pokemon launching attacks that the cameras struggled to track.
The battle itself was both familiar and jarringly different from what I remembered. No health bars floated above the Pokemon's heads, no convenient status indicators blinked warnings. Instead, a Sandslash and Poliwrath clashed in a blur of motion that the dated camera technology struggled to capture, leaving ghostly afterimages on the curved screen.
The commentators' excited chatter filled our small apartment: "...and Wright's Sandslash shows remarkable agility, folks! But wait---oh! Poliwrath's Water Gun catches it mid-roll!"
I leaned forward, unconsciously mimicking the tensed posture I'd held during countless gaming sessions. But this wasn't a matter of pressing the right buttons at the right time. The Sandslash's trainer shouted something lost in the crowd's roar, and her Pokemon responded with a desperate burrow into the arena floor---a move that would have taken two turns in the games but happened here in one fluid motion.
"Did you ever imagine battles would be like this?" I asked Ditto, who had inched closer to the screen, its amorphous form rippling with each impact shown. "No turn-based combat, no convenient pauses to think through strategy. Just..."
I paused as Ditto tilted its head in confusion.
A wry smile formed on my lips as I smacked my head. "Of course, this would be the normal here."
I refocused my attention on the TV.
The Poliwrath's weathered looking trainer was already calling out his next command. His Pokemon's Water Gun carved channels in the arena floor, forcing the Sandslash to surface or drown. The camera zoomed in on the ground type's emergence, catching the moment its claws broke through the earth at an unexpected angle, spraying sand into its opponent's eyes.
Ditto made a sound that might have been appreciation, transforming briefly into a miniature version of the Sandslash before melting back to its natural state, as if testing how that movement would feel.
The broadcast cut to what passed for a post-match analysis---two men wedged behind a desk overlooking the battlefield wearing huge headsets and speaking into a massive black speaker like an old sports commentary broadcast.
I found myself nodding along to their commentary, memories of countless battle showdown simulators suddenly cast in a new light.
I'd never been a sports person in my old life-couldn't have cared less about football stats or basketball plays. But this was different. This was Pokemon battling---real Pokemon battling, not the simplified turn-based system I'd known from games.
My legs started swinging, the toes of my feet barely scraping the ground, heels drumming a restless beat against the couch base. The worn fabric that had felt so comfortably familiar minutes ago now pressed awkwardly against the backs of my knees, a constant reminder that this body was sized all wrong for casual lounging.
I tried tucking my legs under me instead, but that just made the couch feel deeper, like sitting in an oversized dollhouse. Even as my eyes stayed locked on the battle channel, this body hummed with a restless energy I'd never known in my previous life.
In my old life, I would have channeled this into another Nuzlocke run, grinding levels for hours. But here... here I had no console. No game.
My eyes darted around the room, landing on the purple blob dozing near the TV.
I had a Ditto.
A jolt, more powerful than the restlessness, shot through me. I wasn't powerless. I wasn't just waiting. I had a Pokemon. My first Pokemon. And what does a trainer do with their Pokemon?
They train.
"Ditto!" I whisper-shouted, sliding off the couch. "Up and at 'em. Training session starts now."
Ditto oozed into a more alert posture, its dot-eyes blinking. (o.o)
"Okay, first things first: precision and speed." I grabbed a balled-up sock from the laundry basket. "Transform into... that lamp."
Ditto wobbled, then flowed into a near-perfect replica of the cheap lampshade on the end table.
"Good. Now, hold still. Dodge this!" I tossed the sock gently. The Ditto-lamp didn't move, and the sock bounced off its side with a soft thump.
"No, no! You have to dodge!" I explained, getting more animated. I crouched down, mimicking a boxer's weave. "See? Move out of the way! Like the Sandslash on TV!"
I threw the sock again. This time, the Ditto-lamp tried to slide sideways, but its rigid "base" scraped awkwardly against the carpet, and it tipped over with a comical, silent collapse before melting back into a blob. It looked dizzy. (~_~)
A laugh bubbled out of me.
"Okay, new plan." I set the sock aside. "What moves do you know besides transform? Do you know any normal moves like tackle?"
Ditto's blobby form tilted, its simple face scrunching into an expression of pure confusion. (?_?)
Of course. Just Transform. The ultimate one-trick pony. A wry smile touched my lips.
"Right, right. My mistake," I said, already reformulating the plan. "If you can't learn Tackle, you'll just have to become a Tackler. Let's start with something small! A Pidgey!"
Ditto's form tilted. It seemed to ponder the word for a moment, its surface bubbling thoughtfully. Then, with a surge of confidence, it rippled and reshaped itself. It wasn't a Pidgey. It was a plump, vaguely bird-like creature with bright blue feathers, a comical yellow crest, and wings far too stubby for flight. It chirped proudly, puffing out its chest.
I stared, a laugh catching in my throat. It had no idea what a Pidgey was. It had just heard "bird" and... improvised. My job as a trainer was going to be harder than I thought. I needed visuals.
My eyes darted to the TV, where the battle analysis had been replaced by a nature program. "There!" I said, pointing excitedly. "Transform into that!"
Ditto looked from my finger to the television set and back. Then, with a ripple of concentration, its purple mass flowed and solidified into a wobbly, gelatinous replica of the old, boxy television, complete with two drooping rabbit-ear antennae.
I stared for a second, then burst out laughing, clutching my stomach. "No! The Pokemon on the screen! The Poliwrath!"
The Ditto-TV seemed to blush before it melted back into a puddle. A moment later, it reformed. This time, it was a perfect, brawny Poliwrath. It struck a proud pose, flexing its white-gloved fists as if to say, "See? I knew that all along."
"Yes! That's it!" I cheered, jumping up and down, the childish energy finally finding its proper outlet.
That set the pattern for the next hour. Once the battle broadcast ended, I'd flick through channels, pointing out different Pokemon and items for Ditto to mimic. We practiced transforming into various pokemon and items shown in the commercials. I didn't want to try to test out any moves inside, however.
It was chaotic, clumsy, and mostly ended in Ditto collapsing into a confused puddle. But with each attempt, I could feel a new connection forming between us---not of a girl and her guardian, but of a trainer and her partner.
Finally, exhausted in a way that felt satisfying and earned, I collapsed onto the floor, spread-eagled. Ditto flowed down beside me, equally "spent," its form a relaxed puddle. Three days. Three days of watching real pokemon battles through a TV.
But now, I was a Pokemon trainer.
I rolled onto my side. A plan that had been forming in my mind all morning suddenly crystallized.
"Hey Ditto," I said, pushing myself up on one elbow. "Can you keep a secret?"
Ditto straightened its form, instantly recovering from its "fatigue," and tilted its head.
\[^.^]/
A few days later, I watched from behind a curtain as Dr. Fuji hurried down the street, his white lab coat catching the morning light like a beacon. Fifteen minutes crept by as I counted his steps, then another five to be absolutely certain. Only then did I dare to move.
The ancient backpack---a relic of Amber's past life---sat awkwardly on my shoulders, its straps adjusted as tight as they would go. Inside was food for me and Ditto and a spare set of keys. Not exactly survival gear, but it would have to do. The shiny black patent leather shoes were already starting to pinch.
"Wait," I murmured to Ditto, holding out its Pokeball. "I don't even know the rules about Pokemon in the city. Better stay in the ball until we're clear, okay?" It dissolved into red light without protest, though I could have sworn it rolled its eyes first. For all I knew, there could be restrictions about unleashed Pokemon, or licenses needed, or who knows what else.
The apartment door seemed impossibly loud as I eased it open, each creak a thunderous betrayal of my escape attempt. Down four flights of stairs on tiptoes, my shoes barely touching each step, trying to stay silent. At the building's entrance, I paused, heart thundering against my ribs like a trapped Pidgey.
I pulled the door open and stepped through to my real first steps into Celadon City.
The morning streets made my earlier caution feel absurd. Pokemon were everywhere, woven into the fabric of city life as naturally as pigeons in my old world---a Meowth sprawled across a windowsill like a furry king surveying its domain, a Pidgey squabbled over something shiny in the gutters, and even a Growlithe padding importantly beside a police officer, its badge-shaped collar catching the sun.
My fingers relaxed around Ditto's minimized ball, feeling sheepish. Red light flashed as I let it out, and Ditto materialized with what I swore was an expression of mild amusement. Without prompting, it flowed up my arm and settled across my shoulders like a living scarf, its weight oddly comforting against my neck.
A real Pokemon city sprawled before me. Where my mind expected neat gridlines of pixels and predictable paths, Real Celadon flowed with organic chaos. Streets twisted between buildings that defied the simple up-down geography of the games, their shadows painting patterns that no sprite artist could have conceived.
The morning traffic moved with its own peculiar rhythm. Bicycles dominated the streets, weaving between the occasional car that crawled along like a rare and cautious beast. A pair of Machoke guided a floating platform of construction materials through the air with the casual confidence of everyday laborers, while a Pidgey postal service worker soared overhead, mailbag strapped securely to its chest. The sidewalks bustled with commuters, many with partner Pokemon trotting beside them or perched on shoulders-though none quite as blobby as my own.
I made my way to what looked like a transit stop-a narrow concrete building standing alone on its small plot, supported by thick columns that lifted the train tracks overhead. Steep metal stairs zigzagged up one side, their railings worn smooth from countless hands.
Inside, a row of ticket booths and turnstiles stretched along one wall. A machop, meowth, and human staffed the booths-the Machop's stubby fingers surprising deft at handling coins while the Meowth's whiskers twitched at every clink of currency.
But what caught my attention was the city map mounted between the booths and turnstiles. The bottom half was just low enough for me to study properly.
I traced routes with a finger, trying to ignore the small, but steady stream of commuters flowing around me. Celadon sprawled in every direction, districts bleeding into each other in normal, city-like ways.
I found 2 of the major landmarks of Celadon fairly easily.
The Gym was clearly marked and not that far from here. The Game Corner on the other hand looked to be at least 20 blocks away.
I had to step back and squint my eyes to find the Department Store and Game Corner somewhere further north.
I glanced back at the toll booths and sighed---should have thought about the money problem as well. I definitely needed money to get there.
I closely examined the route I had to take before marching out of the building to start my first Pokemon adventure. Perhaps I'd earn my first gym badge out of it.
Onwards to the Celadon Gym!