The next morning, Athan walked back into his work place
The air in the alley behind "The Cerulean Catch" was already thick with the familiar stench of stale beer and overflowing dumpsters. The kitchen door was propped open, and the sounds spilling out were a discordant symphony he knew by heart: the aggressive sizzle of the grill warming up, the metallic clang of pots being stacked, and the low, rumbling voice of Marco, the head cook, cursing at a delivery driver.
For the first time in two years, Athan didn't walk through that door as an employee. He walked in as a ghost, haunting the place where his youth had been sacrificed.
He found Marco standing over a massive steel prep table, viciously dicing a mountain of onions with a cleaver that looked more like an executioner's axe. The man was a whirlwind of focused, aggressive energy.
"You're late, kid," Marco grunted, not even bothering to look up. His eyes, small and buried in his fleshy face, were fixed on the blur of his hands. "Grill's cold. Fire it up."
Athan didn't move. He stood just inside the doorway, his worn messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Kiba was at his side, sitting with a quiet dignity that seemed out of place in the grimy kitchen.
"I'm not late," Athan said, his voice cutting through the morning clatter. "I'm not working today."
The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the cleaver stopped. Marco slowly raised his head, his eyes finally locking onto Athan. He wiped a tear from the onions, not emotion from the corner of his eye with the back of a greasy hand.
"What was that?"
"I'm quitting, Marco."
Marco stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then, a slow, rumbling laugh started deep in his belly. It wasn't a kind sound. It was dismissive, filled with the cynical amusement of a man who had seen it all.
"Quitting?" he chuckled, setting the cleaver down with a heavy thud. "Let me guess. You somehow got that big-shot corporate job over at the Silph Co. branch? Gonna be pushing pencils instead of patties?" He joked
"No," Athan said, his jaw tight. He reached into his bag, pulling out his grease-stained apron. It was folded neatly. He walked forward and placed it on the steel table, a safe distance from the pile of mutilated onions. "I'm going to be a Pokémon Trainer."
The laughter died in Marco's throat. His expression soured, shifting from amusement to something that bordered on pity, laced with contempt. He looked Athan up and down, then glanced at the small Growlithe by his feet.
"A Pokémon Trainer," he repeated, the words dripping with sarcasm. "Right. You and every other kid with a dream and no sense. You think it's like the TV shows? All flashy battles and cheering crowds?"
He leaned forward, his massive forearms resting on the table. "Let me tell you something, kid. I've seen a dozen washouts just like you. Kids who went out there, lost all their money on a bad bet in some backwater tournament, got their partner Pokémon beat up so bad they couldn't afford the treatment bills, and came crawling back here with their tails between their legs, begging for their old job. This world eats dreamers for breakfast."
"I'm not them," Athan said, his voice low but firm.
"Every one of them said the same thing," Marco sneered. He gestured vaguely at the kitchen around them. "This place? This is real. The heat, the grind, the paycheck at the end of the week. That's reality. Your little fantasy trip is a lottery ticket, and the house always wins."
Athan met his gaze, unflinching. For years, he had been afraid of this man, of losing this miserable job that kept him and his mother alive. But standing here now, with the weight of his life's savings in his bag and a terrifying, fragile hope in his chest, the fear was gone.
"Thanks for the advice, Marco," he said, his tone final. He turned to leave.
"Hey!" Marco's voice barked after him. "Don't come crawling back when you're broke! My charity only runs in the soup kitchen, not the payroll!"
Athan didn't look back. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the morning, leaving the smell of grease and failure behind him. The safety net was gone. Now, it was fly or fall.
---
The Kanto Pokémon League Administration Building was a monument to bureaucracy. It was a sterile, soulless place of beige walls, scuffed linoleum floors, and flickering fluorescent lights that hummed a monotonous, soul-crushing drone. The air was stale, thick with the scent of old paper, floor polish, and the weak, bitter coffee Athan could see in a pot behind the main counter.
This was where dreams were officially sanctioned, but it felt more like a place where they were processed, filed, and forgotten.
The line was long, a slow-moving serpent of nervous energy. Athan felt profoundly out of place. Most of the applicants were children, ten or eleven years old, buzzing with an electric, uncontainable excitement. They clutched the hands of their parents, proud mothers and fathers who beamed down at them, adjusting their new backpacks and offering words of encouragement.
Athan, at fifteen, towered over most of them. He wasn't a child taking his first steps into a grand adventure. He was a young man making a desperate, calculated gamble. He wore his age like a heavy coat, the five years of his deferred dream setting him apart. He wasn't the only older applicant. A few scattered individuals in their late teens or early twenties stood in line alone, their faces etched with a grim, hard-won determination. They had the haunted look of people on their second or third attempt, the naive excitement long since burned away.
He belonged to neither group. He was an anomaly, a ghost caught between the bright-eyed children and the hardened veterans.
One hundred thirty thousand, six hundred and seventy Pokéyen.
The number was a frantic prayer in his mind. The sum total of his entire existence. Five years of calloused hands, aching feet, and the lingering phantom smell of the fryer. All of it was about to be sacrificed at this altar of paperwork.
Kiba sat patiently by his feet, a warm, grounding presence in the cold, impersonal room. He seemed to absorb the tension radiating from Athan, his usual playful energy replaced by a watchful stillness. Every few minutes, he'd nudge Athan's leg with his nose, a small, reassuring gesture that pulled his owner back from the edge of a spiraling panic.
An hour crawled by. The line shuffled forward with agonizing slowness. Finally, it was his turn.
"Next."
The voice was as flat and gray as the walls. Athan stepped up to the counter. Behind a pane of thick, smeary plexiglass sat a woman whose entire being seemed to radiate absolute indifference. Her name tag read 'JOAN'. Her tired eyes were fixed on her computer monitor, her fingers tapping away at a keyboard with practiced monotony.
"Service?" she asked, not looking up.
"I'm here to apply for a Trainer License," Athan said. His voice was steady, a carefully constructed facade.
Joan's typing paused. She finally lifted her head, her gaze sweeping over him. It lingered for a fraction of a second on his long hair and worn clothes before flicking down to Kiba. Her expression remained a perfect, impenetrable mask of boredom.
"ID," she stated, her voice devoid of any inflection.
He slid his resident card into the slot beneath the glass. She took it, scanned it, and a file materialized on her screen.
"Athan. Resident of Cerulean City. Age fifteen." She looked up from the screen, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You're over the standard age of application. And you're unaccompanied. Applications for minors require a legal guardian's signature and presence."
It was the hurdle he had prepared for. The system, always ready to throw up a wall.
"My mother is medically incapacitated," Athan said, keeping his voice level. "I have a Certificate of Necessary Self-Reliance issued by the Kanto Family Court. It grants me provisional adult status for legal and financial matters."
He reached into his bag and produced a crisp, folded document, sealed in a protective plastic sleeve. He pushed it through the slot.
Joan took it, her movements slow and deliberate. She inspected the seal, read the text, and scanned a code at the bottom of the page. After a moment that stretched into an eternity, a green checkmark appeared on her screen.
She pushed the document back. "Paperwork is in order. Application fee is fifty thousand Poké yen. The mandatory Type-A Starter Kit is an additional fifteen thousand. Total due is sixty-five thousand."
She said the number as if she were ordering a coffee. To Athan, it was a mortal wound.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out the thick, lumpy envelope that contained his entire future. He pushed it through the slot, the paper crinkling under his trembling fingers.
Joan's eyebrow twitched, the first sign of life he'd seen from her. She opened the envelope and began to count the cash. The soft rustle of the bills was the loudest sound in the universe. Each note she slid from one pile to the other was a piece of his life.
That stack is two months of sixteen-hour shifts on weekends. That one is the money from selling the pocket watch my father left me. That smaller one is a week of watering down the soup, of walking instead of taking the bus, of saying no to everything.
Finally, she finished. She fed the bills into a counting machine, which whirred and confirmed the amount. Then she pushed a small electronic pad and a stylus toward him. "Sign here, here, and here."
His hand was surprisingly steady. He signed his name, the strokes of the digital pen sealing his fate. Reborn and ruined in a single transaction.
Joan stamped a series of forms with a deafening THUMP-THUMP-THUMP, then reached under the counter. She emerged with a small, durable-looking box and a plastic card, the same size as his ID.
"Here is your official Kanto Trainer License and your Starter Kit," she intoned, her voice a perfect monotone. "The kit contains one standard-issue Pokédex, five League-certified Poké Balls, and one Potion. Your license is now active. It grants you access to all Pokémon Center services, permits for travel through designated Trainer Routes, and eligibility for all League-sanctioned events. Do not lose it. Replacement fee is twenty-thousand Pokéyen."
She slid the items through the slot. He reached out and picked up the card. His own tired face stared back at him from the photo. His name was printed beneath it in stark, black letters. It felt impossibly light, yet it was the heaviest thing he had ever held.
"Good luck," Joan said, her voice utterly flat, her eyes already focused on the next person in line. "Next."
He was dismissed.
Athan stumbled out of the building and into the brilliant morning sun, blinking against the sudden light. The sounds of Cerulean City crashed over him the rumble of traffic, the distant cries of Wingull from the canals, the endless chatter of people. The world was identical to how it had been an hour ago, but he was a different person.
He was a Pokémon Trainer.
Gods ,Arceus. Please don't let me fail.
Kiba trotted beside him, his tail now giving a few enthusiastic wags. He could feel the change in his master, the crushing tension replaced by a buzzing, terrified energy. Athan found a nearby bench overlooking a canal and sat down, his legs suddenly weak. He opened the starter kit.
He clipped the five red-and-white Poké Balls to his belt. They felt alien against his hip, a weight both physical and metaphorical. He pulled out the Pokédex. It was a sleek red device, cool to the touch. It hummed to life in his hand, the screen glowing with a welcome message.
[Welcome, Trainer Athan. Please register your first Pokémon to activate all features.]
He knelt on the pavement. "Alright, Kiba. Your turn."
He pointed the device's camera at his partner. Kiba tilted his head, his dark eyes curious as a soft blue light scanned him from head to tail.
[Growlithe, the Puppy Pokémon. A Fire-type. Known for its brave and fiercely loyal nature. It will fearlessly confront foes larger and more powerful than itself to protect its trainer.]
[This individual has the Ability: Intimidate. When entering a battle, its intense presence can lower an opponent's fighting spirit.]
[Known Moves: Ember, Bite, Leer, Odor Sleuth, Morning Sun, Flame wheel.]
The data was clinical, a sterile summary of the living, breathing creature before him. But seeing it, quantified and official, sent a fresh jolt through him. This was real.
[Official Battle Roster not set. For participation in League-sanctioned battles, a Pokémon must have an active roster of no more than four moves. This rule ensures fair, strategic, and regulated competition. Moves can be re-registered at any Pokémon Center or certified League terminal. Please set your Active Roster.]
Athan didn't need the tutorial. He had spent countless sleepless nights researching the professional circuit, reading forums, and analyzing battle footage. He knew the four-move rule wasn't a biological limitation; it was the bedrock of competitive battling. The great equalizer. A trainer couldn't just overwhelm an opponent with a dozen different attacks. They had to choose their weapons, predict their enemy, and build a strategy.
He looked at Kiba, who was now sniffing intently at a crack in the pavement. Athan's analysis wasn't based on stats, but on experience.
Ember. It's his bread and butter. He can shoot small, precise embers or a wider, hotter spray. He's mastered it. It's reliable.
Bite. His go-to physical attack. Fast, vicious. I've seen him crack a thrown rock with that jaw. It's solid.
Flame wheel. He only learned it a few months ago. It's powerful, a devastating combination of speed, fire, and raw force. But he's still clumsy with it.
He remembered a training session in the park where Kiba had tried it, lost his balance on a bad roll, and tumbled into a bush, singeing the leaves and looking utterly embarrassed. It was a high-risk, high-reward gamble.
Morning Sun. The move passed down from his father's Arcanine. A healing move. It drew in sunlight to mend wounds. In a drawn-out battle, a war of attrition, that single move could be the difference between victory and a frantic rush to the Pokémon Center.
It was a choice between the familiar, reliable Leer, which would lower an opponent's defense, and the risky potential of Flame wheel. Marco's cynical words echoed in his head.
He couldn't afford to play it safe. Safe was the kitchen. Safe was mediocrity. He had to take risks.
He made his selection on the screen.
[Active Roster for KIBA set: EMBER | BITE | FLAMEWHEEL | MORNING SUN]
A balanced roster. Ranged, physical, a power move, and recovery. It was a start. He stood up, the Pokédex now feeling less like a tool and more like an extension of his own will. He activated its network features, connecting to the Kanto Trainer Guild's public bulletin. He filtered the listings, ignoring the high-level monster subjugation quests and the low-paying delivery jobs. He searched for one thing: tournaments.
A listing popped up, newly posted.
[Pewter City Annual Rookie Tournament. Open to all new trainers with zero to one official Gym Badge. Sanctioned by the Kanto League. Date: Two weeks from today. Grand Prize: 200,000 Poké yen.]
Athan's breath hitched. 200,000 Pokéyen. It was more than three times what he had left. It was enough to cover his mother's medical bills for months, with enough left over to fund the next leg of his journey. It was a lifeline.
But it was in Pewter City. And it was in two weeks. He had a destination. And he had a deadline.
But before that he should meet his mother
---
The hospital smelled the same. Antiseptic. Quiet. Suffocating.
His mother was sitting up in bed, looking out the window. She turned as he entered, her face lighting up with that same tired, beautiful smile.
"You're here early," she said, her voice a soft, breathless whisper. "I thought you had the afternoon shift today."
He pulled the chair to her bedside. Kiba, as always, rested his chin on the mattress, a silent, furry guardian. Athan's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of hope and terror.
"I quit," he said.
Celia's smile vanished, replaced by a deep V of worry between her brows. "Athan, what are you talking about? Why? We need… the bills…"
"I have a new job," he said quickly, cutting her off before the anxiety could take hold. He reached into his pocket, his hand closing around the cool, hard plastic of the license. He placed it on her bedside table, next to her half-empty glass of water.
She stared at it. The official League seal, the stark black text of his name. Her hand, so thin and pale, reached out and brushed her fingertips against it, as if trying to determine if it were real. She looked from the card to her son, her expression a chaotic storm of pride, shock, and a deep, gut-wrenching fear.
"Oh, Athan…" she whispered, her voice cracking.
"I'm doing it, Mom," he said, his voice quiet but burning with an intensity she hadn't heard in years. "I have a plan. There's a Rookie Tournament in Pewter City in two weeks. The grand prize is two hundred thousand Pokéyen. That's… that's enough. It's enough for the better treatment, the one Dr. Andy mentioned. It's enough to give us breathing room."
He leaned forward, his eyes locking with hers, willing her to understand. "This isn't just a dream. It's a solution."
He expected her to remember her words from yesterday, to tell him this is what she always wanted. But the reality was not a gentle dream; it was a harsh, terrifying awakening.
Tears welled in her eyes, but they were tears of joybut They were tears of fear. "Your father… Hans…" she began, her voice trembling. "He was a Ranger. He trained for years at the academy. He had a fully evolved Arcanine, one of the strongest I've ever seen. And still… this world… it found a way to take him."
She looked at him, at her fifteen-year-old son with his one small Growlithe. "A real battle isn't what you see on TV. It's violent. A stray Hyper Beam that misses its target, a misjudged Earthquake that brings down a ceiling… Trainers get hurt, Athan. Pokémon get hurt. Badly."
Her words struck him harder than Marco's cynicism ever could. This was the fear of a mother who had already lost a husband to a world of wonders and dangers.
"I know," he said softly. "But staying here, working myself to death in that kitchen while you… while we just barely scrape by… that's not living, Mom. It's just a slower way of losing. This is a risk. But it's the only chance we have to actually win."
He placed his hand over hers on the bedsheet. "Kiba and I, we'll protect each other. I'm not my father. I'm not going to be a hero running into fires. I'm going to be smart. I'm going to be careful. I'm going to be a strategist."
She looked from his determined face to the unwavering loyalty in Kiba's eyes. She saw the ghost of her husband's fire in her son's gaze, and it both thrilled and terrified her. She took a shaky breath, the hiss of the oxygen tank filling the heavy silence.
"You've always been too much like him," she whispered, a tear finally tracing a path down her pale cheek. It was an admission. A surrender. A letting go.
"Then you go," she said, her voice thick with emotion as she squeezed his hand. "You go to Pewter City. You win that money. But you promise me, Athan. You promise me you'll be smart, not just strong. You promise you'll come back."
He leaned into her touch, a fifteen-year-old boy on the precipice of the entire world, feeling as small and vulnerable as a child. He looked out the hospital window, at the vast blue sky stretching over the city, toward the distant mountains that shielded Pewter City.
For the first time in his life, it didn't look like an impassable barrier.
It looked like a battleground.