This wouldn't have been a big deal except for one thing.
I was a baby.
Not metaphorically. Not "starting over" baby. An actual, helpless, floppy, can't-even-hold-my-own-head baby. My limbs flailed in ways my sixteen-year-old brain did not approve of. Nothing responded the way it should have. Everything felt wrong.
And my hair.
White. Not silvery. Not pale blond. Just—white. Bright enough that people stared. The kind of white that made adults tilt their heads and whisper things like "a unique blessing" with way too much meaning behind it.
Fantastic. Great. Love that for me.
I tried to scream. What came out was a squeak.
My mind still worked. That was the worst part. Mentally, I was sixteen. I knew what was happening. I knew how embarrassing this was. Physically, I was a pile of bones and useless fingers that couldn't even grip fabric.
Perfect combination.
That's when the scan happened.
Not a doctor. Not a nurse. A floating orb of soft blue light drifted around me, humming low enough that I felt it in my skin.
"Processing," it said calmly. "Genetic integrity confirmed."
I stared at it.
Genetic integrity? Did that mean something was wrong with me? Or that something could've been wrong with me? I didn't know. Apparently, in this world, they checked babies for dangerous traits before they turned into walking catastrophes.
And yes—my parents let the scan leave my hair alone.
Because it was unique.
So that was that. White hair forever. No take-backs.
Once I could actually focus my eyes, I noticed something else.
Pokémon weren't in games.
They were everywhere.
Kids ran past with Eevee perched on their shoulders. A Torchic poked its head out of a backpack. Pidgey balanced on hats like it owned them. It was normal. Casual. Everyday.
And then there was me.
Alone.
Until the Ditto arrived.
Shiny. Blue. Not the standard pink everyone expected. The container opened, and it blinked up at me—two black eyes, body quivering slightly like it was deciding whether I was worth the effort.
Then it shimmered. Subtle, but unmistakable. Like it wanted credit for the entrance.
It didn't speak. Obviously. But it had… presence. Awareness. Like it had already sized me up and decided I was acceptable.
Then it transformed.
Into a tiny blue track jacket.
I stared.
"…Okay," I muttered, or tried to. It probably came out as a baby noise. "Sure. That's fine. My first Pokémon is already flexing harder than I ever did."
The jacket shifted, sleeves tugging inward in something that felt suspiciously like a shrug.
It jumped onto me, settled around my shoulders, warm and oddly protective.
"Hi," I squeaked.
Ditto wiggled.
I took that to mean you'll survive.
From that point on, it never really left. During the day, it was a jacket. At night, a pillow. Sometimes a chair. Sometimes a prank. Once, a lunchbox that dumped my food on the floor for reasons I'm still not over.
It was clever. Loyal. And deeply judgmental.
The city I grew up in was called Noctopolis.
And yeah—it was weird.
The place breathed ghost energy. Fog curled through alleys. Streetlights flickered like they were tired. Laughter echoed where no one stood. Ghost Pokémon were everywhere—not the cute kind people put on merch.
Gengar lounged on rooftops, pulling harmless pranks. Haunter drifted through abandoned schoolyards. Gastly zipped through fog stealing lunches. Misdreavus lingered on corners, careful not to be seen. Shuppet watched from windows. Banette hung from gutters. Drifloon floated on currents that felt… intentional.
Spiritomb, people said, lived under one of the monuments. Nobody checked.
The city tolerated them. Loved them. Hated them. But nobody trained them. Ghost Pokémon were considered nuisances. Hazards. Background noise.
Which was funny, because the Pokédex claimed they were rare.
I watched a cluster of Gastly giggle as a baker chased them off with a broom.
"Rare," I muttered. "Sure."
Something was anchoring them here. Everyone knew it. Legends pointed to the Arceus Ghost Tablet buried beneath the city—a source of energy that explained why Noctopolis felt… alive in a way other places didn't.
School was its own mess.
Public schools didn't allow Pokémon out. Private schools bent rules. I was "special." My Ditto wandered freely, transforming, glaring at teachers, absolutely daring them to try something.
Recess was my favorite.
I'd lean against Ditto, usually a pillow, and just watch the city breathe. Ghosts drifting. Shadows shifting. Aether tugging faintly at my hair like a half-remembered promise.
Ghost Pokémon weren't evil. Mischievous, sure. Annoying. Curious. Drawn to belief and energy and people who noticed them.
Noctopolis should've been dead.
Instead, it thrived.
Evenings were quiet. Fog thickened. Ditto glowed faintly blue beside me. Ghosts drifted through alleys like they belonged there.
And somehow… so did I.
I wasn't ready for adventure yet.Not fully.
But something was waiting.
And when it finally showed itself, nothing would stay quiet again.