The door didn't so much close as un-exist behind him. One second there was a polished steel frame at his back, the next there was only the rough bark of a towering, unfamiliar tree. Alberto spun, hand outstretched. His fingers touched only moss and wood. The connection was gone.
Panic is a system failure. Assess.
He took a deliberate, deep breath—the Total Concentration technique from a manga he'd read flickering uselessly in his mind—and forced his engineer's logic to the forefront.
Objective: Establish situational awareness and secure base camp (the Ship).
Hypothesis:The door requires my intentional recall, or proximity. The link is not broken.
Evidence:The Catalogue is in my hand. My abilities are present.
He looked down. The book was still there, solid and real. He opened it. The pages shimmered, then displayed text.
Location: Pokémon World (Kanto Region - Viridian Forest)
Local Time Synced.
Catalogue Access: Active. Remote Connection: Stable.
To recall vessel door: Focus intent on 'Sanctuary' while in proximity to original entry point.
Alberto let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. A manual. He had a manual. Good.
Now, the environment. The forest was alive in a way no forest on Earth was. The colors were supersaturated—emerald greens, vibrant flower purples, the dappled gold of sunlight. The air hummed with insectoid chirps and distant, musical cries. He flexed his new psychic sense. It was like trying to see with a third eye that was smeared with Vaseline. Impressions washed over him: sharp points of curiosity from the bushes, a sleepy, dense contentment from the tree he leaned on, a skittering, hungry awareness from above.
Something dropped from the canopy.
It was the size of a large beetle, but shaped like a stylized seed, with a fierce little face and sharp claws. It landed on his shoulder, clicking menacingly.
Weedle. Poison-type. Low threat. Caution regarding Poison Sting.
The knowledge surfaced from a thousand hours of gameplay, not the Catalogue. Alberto remained perfectly still. His left hand, hidden by his body, grew cold. A thin, needle-like shard of ice formed between his fingertips.
The Weedle tapped its horn against his fatigue collar, then seemed to lose interest. With a dismissive click, it launched a string of silk and zipped back into the foliage.
Alberto dissipated the ice. First contact: peaceful. He needed to move, to find a reference point. A path. Civilization. Currency.
He chose a direction where the trees thinned slightly, the psychic impressions of 'curiosity' stronger than 'hunger'. As he walked, he tested his tools.
Psychic Telekinesis: He could lift about ten pounds with serious mental strain. Precision was good—he could pluck a specific leaf from a branch twenty feet away. Fuel efficiency was terrible; a minute of sustained lifting gave him a throbbing headache.
Wood Manipulation: This was stranger. It felt like an extension of his own nervous system into the plant. He could encourage growth, warp shape, and sense the tree's health. He placed his hand on a sapling and pushed. With a creaking groan, it grew six inches in seconds, leaves unfurling. The tree shuddered, sending a pulse of confused vitality back through his palm. He could also draw the moisture and life out of it, wilting leaves to brittle brown. He decided not to do that again.
Ice & Magma: These were primal. They responded to emotion. A spike of fear produced a shell of frost over his skin. A flash of frustration made the air around his right hand waver with heat. Control was minimal. They were blunt instruments.
After an hour of walking, the forest opened onto a dirt road. A signpost, charmingly wooden, pointed two ways: VIRIDIAN CITY ← and PEWTER CITY →.
Civilization. And with it, the first step of the plan: capital.
---
Viridian City was a postcard of quaint urbanism. Red-roofed houses, clean streets, a bustling Pokémon Center with a giant Pokéball on top. People gave his olive fatigues odd looks but smiled politely. The air smelled of cut grass and baking bread.
His first stop was the Pokémon Center. It was a public space—he needed intel.
Inside, the noise was a cheerful cacophony. Trainers called to each other, Nurse Joy stood behind her counter with unshakable serenity, and a large video screen showed a battle highlight reel. Alberto's eyes went straight to the currency exchange counter. A sign listed rates: ¥1,000 = ₽1.
Japanese Yen. He had none. He had nothing but the clothes on his back and a book that couldn't be shown.
Think. Barter. Service.
He approached the counter. Nurse Joy looked up. "Welcome to the Pokémon Center! How can I help you today?"
"I'm new to the region," Alberto said, keeping his voice even, professional. "I'm a… specialist in ecological remediation and rapid construction. I'm looking for work. Are there any local notices for that kind of thing?"
Nurse Joy blinked, her smile never faltering. "What a unique specialty! Let me check the community board." She gestured to a corkboard on the wall.
Alberto scanned it. Mostly ads for Pokémon trades, offers for battle, a lost Meowth. Then, at the bottom, a hastily scrawled note:
"HELP! Persistent Weedle/Kakuna infestation in south orchard blocking harvest! Paying ₽5,000 for clear-out! See Old Man Hanks."
Five thousand. A start. Enough for a few cheap TMs, or a lot of Pokéballs he could resell. But he had no Pokémon to battle with.
Or did he?
"Thank you," he said, and left.
The south orchard was a ten-minute walk. Rows of apple trees stretched towards the foothills, but the southernmost rows were a mess. Dozens of Weedle and their evolved, dormant forms, Kakuna, clung to the bark, sucking sap and weaving thick layers of String Shot between the branches. A grizzled old man in overalls was waving a rake at a Kakuna, to no effect.
"Old Man Hanks?"
The man turned, scowling. "If you're a trainer, show me your 'mon! These blasted things are immune to the rake!"
"I don't have a Pokémon," Alberto said, walking closer. He assessed the infestation. Thirty, maybe forty Bug-types. Mostly low-level. Their psychic impressions were simple: Eat. Grow. Defend.
"No 'mon? Then scram, kid! This is dangerous!"
"I said I don't have a Pokémon," Alberto repeated, his voice dropping into the calm, pre-mission tone he'd used in the hangar. "I didn't say I couldn't handle it."
He raised his left hand. The frustration of the day, the buried terror of his death, the chill of the unknown—he focused it all into his palm. The air temperature plummeted. Hoarfrost raced down his arm. With a sharp exhale, he thrust his hand forward.
A wave of freezing air, visible as a shimmering cone, blasted into the closest cluster of Weedle. They shrieked, their movements slowing to a crawl as a thick layer of rime coated their bodies and the webbing around them.
Old Man Hanks stumbled back, his jaw slack. "W-what in the name of Mew?"
Alberto didn't stop. He turned his right hand towards a particularly thick cluster of Kakuna hanging from a central tree. He didn't try for magma—that would burn the orchard down. Instead, he focused on Wood Manipulation.
He gripped the tree's life force, and instead of encouraging growth, he commanded it. The branches surrounding the Kakuna didn't just move; they lashed like green whips, wrapping around the dormant Bug-types, squeezing, and then with a mighty heave, hurling them clear of the orchard into the bordering forest. It was brutal, efficient landscaping.
The remaining Weedle, sensing the threat, turned on him. A volley of glittering, poisonous Stingers shot through the air.
Telekinesis.
Alberto's head pounded as he formed a shimmering, barely-visible shield a foot in front of him. The Stingers hit the psychic barrier and dropped harmlessly to the grass. Gritting his teeth, he made a sweeping motion with his hand. The same telekinetic force swept through the grass, gathering the stunned, frozen Weedle into a struggling pile.
He looked at Old Man Hanks, who was now sitting on the ground, staring.
"The infestation is contained," Alberto said, breathing heavily, a trickle of blood from his nose from the psychic strain. "They're not seriously hurt. They'll thaw and be mobile in an hour. I'd suggest moving them to the deep woods now, if you have a cart."
The old man scrambled up, awe and fear warring on his face. "Y-you… are you a Psychic gym leader? A… a new Elite?"
"I'm a specialist. The pay was ₽5,000."
Wordlessly, Hanks pulled a wad of bills from his overalls and handed it over. "Take it. And… thank you. The orchard… it's my daughter's."
Alberto took the money. The physical bills felt incredibly significant. His first asset. As his fingers closed around it, the Catalogue in his satchel hummed. He ignored it.
"You might want to plant some Repel herbs around the border. Cheaper than hiring next time."
He turned and walked back towards Viridian, leaving a stunned farmer and a cleared orchard in his wake.
Back in a quiet alley, he pulled out the Catalogue. The Pad on its cover glowed.
Local Currency Acquired: ₽5,000.
Catalogue Updated.
He navigated the menu. The Premium Catalogue for the Pokémon world was vast, but he filtered for what he could afford.
- Potion: ₽300
- Pokéball (x1): ₽200
- TM: Bide: ₽3,000
- Ability: Pickup (Temporary Activation - 1 Week): ₽4,800
Pickup. A temporary, cheap ability that might generate random items. It was a gamble. But generating assets from thin air was the ultimate logistical win. He selected it.
Purchasing...
Ability: Pickup (Temporary) - Activated.
Remaining Funds: ₽200.
A new, faint sensation joined the psychic hum—a kind of magnetic pull towards small, lost things. He looked down. By his boot was a clean, unused Potion he was certain hadn't been there a moment before. He pocketed it. Net gain already.
He bought a single Pokéball with his last ₽200. It was a red and white sphere of potential, cool and heavy in his hand.
As dusk painted the sky orange, Alberto found a secluded grove at the edge of the forest, near where he'd first arrived. He focused on the concept of Sanctuary, of the humming steel corridor, of home.
With a whisper of displaced air, the door reappeared in the tree's shadow, seamless and waiting.
He stepped through. The sterile, quiet air of the Ship was a shock after the vibrant forest. It was empty. It was silent. It was his.
He walked to the Pantry. It was stocked with simple, nutritious rations. He ate. He drank. He sat in the middle of the gleaming corridor, the silence pressing in.
He had completed Step One. He had capital, a minimal ability portfolio, and proven he could operate.
But the silence was deafening. The corridor of infinite doors felt less like possibility and more like a beautifully lit tomb.
He looked at the single Pokéball in his hand, then at the door to the Pokémon world.
Step Two: Crew requirements. He needed a specialist. More than that, he realized with a hollow pang, he needed a voice that wasn't his own. He needed to start building the family he'd promised himself.
He wouldn't just catch a Pokémon. He would find a partner. And he knew just where to look for a creature known for its loyalty, its utility, and its keen senses. The Catalogue's basic Pokédex info had been clear.
Tomorrow, he would go to Diglett's Cave. But for now, he sat in the light of his impossible Ship, a mechanic in a cosmos of broken and wondrous systems, and planned his first recruitment.