The flight to Goldenrod City had been a false start.
Halfway across the Johto region, soaring high above the sleeping landscape on Charizard's back, he had realized something that made him pull sharply on the dragon's neck and signal for a change in direction. He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know this world, didn't understand its rules, didn't have any real grasp on the situation beyond vague memories of games he had played years ago. Charging into a Team Rocket operation with nothing but enthusiasm and borrowed memories was a recipe for disaster.
More importantly, he wasn't ready. Not mentally, not emotionally, not in any way that mattered. He had been dead less than a day ago. He had woken up in a stranger's body on top of a frozen mountain. He needed time to process, to understand, to come to terms with what had happened before he started trying to play hero.
So he had turned Charizard around and headed back toward Mt. Silver.
The journey took several hours, the fire-type's powerful wings carrying them across the darkened landscape with tireless efficiency. He watched the terrain pass beneath them—forests and fields, rivers and lakes, towns and cities reduced to clusters of twinkling lights in the pre-dawn darkness. It was beautiful in a way that still took his breath away, this world that he had only ever experienced through a screen now spread out before him in all its three-dimensional glory.
The Pikachu had fallen asleep in his hood somewhere over Mahogany Town, its soft snores barely audible over the rush of wind. He envied its ability to rest so easily. His own mind was a churning mess of thoughts and emotions, too agitated for anything resembling sleep.
By the time Mt. Silver came into view, the eastern horizon was beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. The mountain's peak was shrouded in clouds, its slopes white with snow that had been accumulating for months. It looked cold. It looked inhospitable. It looked like the last place anyone would want to spend any significant amount of time.
And yet, as Charizard began its descent toward the summit, he felt something unexpected wash over him. Not dread or reluctance, but something almost like... relief. Like coming home after a long journey. Like returning to a place where he belonged.
Strange. Very strange.
Charizard landed on the same patch of snow where he had first awakened, its claws digging into the frozen surface for purchase. He slid off its back and immediately noticed something else that was strange.
He wasn't cold.
The temperature at the summit of Mt. Silver was well below freezing. The wind was howling with enough force to knock a normal person off their feet. Snow swirled through the air in thick, blinding curtains. And yet he felt none of it. The cold that had been so overwhelming when he first woke up was completely absent, replaced by a neutral sensation that was neither warm nor cold.
He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers experimentally. No numbness. No stiffness. No tingling that would indicate the early stages of frostbite. His skin wasn't even particularly pale—just the normal, healthy color of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors.
He reached up and touched his face. His cheeks weren't frozen. His nose wasn't running. His lips weren't chapped. By all rights, he should have been suffering from the early stages of hypothermia by now, but instead he felt perfectly fine. Better than fine, actually. He felt comfortable.
The Pikachu stirred in his hood, poking its head out to survey their surroundings. It didn't seem surprised by the cold, or by his lack of reaction to it. It simply yawned, stretched, and hopped down onto his shoulder with practiced ease.
He recalled Charizard into its ball, the dragon disappearing in a flash of red light, and stood alone on the summit with only his partner for company. The sun was rising now, painting the clouds in shades of gold and rose, casting long shadows across the snow-covered peaks. It was breathtaking, a view that most people would never see in their entire lives.
And he felt nothing but a strange sense of peace.
He walked toward the cave entrance, his feet finding the familiar path without conscious effort. The interior was exactly as he remembered from his brief passage earlier, the ice-covered walls gleaming with reflected light, the temperature marginally warmer than the outside. He navigated the tunnels automatically, his body moving on autopilot while his mind wandered elsewhere.
There was a chamber deep within the mountain that served as Red's living quarters. He found it without difficulty, stepping through a narrow passage into a surprisingly spacious cavern. A sleeping bag was laid out near one wall, its fabric worn but still functional. A small fire pit occupied the center of the space, surrounded by carefully arranged stones. Various supplies were stacked along the walls—canned food, bottled water, spare clothing, medical supplies. Everything a person would need to survive in isolation for extended periods.
This was where Red had been living for the past three years. This was the life he had chosen after becoming Champion.
He sat down on a flat rock near the fire pit, the Pikachu curling up in his lap. The weight of his situation pressed down on him, heavy and inescapable. He was Red now. This was his life. And he had no idea how to proceed.
Perhaps the first step was understanding. Understanding who Red was, why he had made the choices he made, what had driven him to this lonely existence on top of the world. There had to be memories somewhere in this brain, traces of the original occupant that might shed light on his current circumstances.
He closed his eyes and focused inward, searching for something that felt foreign, something that didn't belong to him. At first, there was nothing—just the familiar chaos of his own thoughts and emotions. But as he pushed deeper, as he let go of his resistance and allowed himself to simply observe, he began to notice something else.
Memories. Not his memories. Someone else's memories, buried beneath the surface of his consciousness like artifacts waiting to be unearthed.
The first memory hit him like a physical blow.
He was a child—Red was a child—standing in a small house in Pallet Town. A woman who could only be his mother was kneeling before him, adjusting the collar of his jacket with gentle, practiced hands. Her eyes were warm but worried, the corners of her mouth turned down in an expression of concern.
"Are you sure about this?" she was asking, her voice soft and loving. "You're so young. There's no rush to start your journey. You could wait another year, spend more time at home..."
But he—Red—was shaking his head, his small hands balled into fists at his sides. He couldn't speak, couldn't explain the burning drive that pushed him toward the door and the world beyond. All he could do was point toward the window, toward the path that led to Professor Oak's laboratory, toward the beginning of everything.
His mother sighed, a sound of resignation and acceptance. "I know, I know. You've always been like this. So determined, so focused. Just... promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you'll come home sometimes."
He nodded, a solemn vow that he intended to keep. Then he hugged her tight, trying to convey through touch all the things he couldn't say with words. She hugged him back, and for a moment they just stood there, mother and son, saying goodbye in the only way they could.
The memory shifted, jumping forward in time like a scratched DVD skipping scenes.
He was in Professor Oak's laboratory now, standing before a table that held three Poké Balls. The Professor was explaining something about the Pokémon inside—Bulbasaur, Charmander, Squirtle—but Red wasn't really listening. His attention was fixed on the third ball, the one containing the fire-type. He could feel it calling to him, a connection that transcended logic or reason.
Another boy burst through the door before he could make his choice. Blue Oak, the Professor's grandson, with his spiky brown hair and perpetual smirk. He pushed past Red without acknowledgment, snatching up a Poké Ball with careless confidence.
"Ha! I'll take this one!" Blue declared, holding up the ball containing Squirtle. "The water-type will be way stronger than anything you pick, Red. You might as well give up now!"
Red said nothing. He simply reached out and picked up Charmander's ball, feeling the warmth of the fire within pulse against his palm. This was his partner. This was his beginning.
"Fine, fine, whatever," Blue said dismissively. "I'll still beat you, no matter what Pokémon you choose. See you later, loser!"
And with that, he was gone, leaving Red alone with the Professor and the weight of destiny settling onto his shoulders.
More memories followed, faster now, a cascade of moments that painted a picture of Red's journey across Kanto.
Catching his first Pokémon—a Pidgey that would eventually evolve into a powerful Pidgeot. Battling through Viridian Forest, his Charmander growing stronger with each encounter. Defeating Brock and earning his first badge, the Boulder Badge that marked him as a genuine trainer.
The memories weren't sequential. They came in fragments, in flashes, in disconnected moments that he had to piece together like a puzzle. He saw himself—Red—battling trainers across the region. He felt the exhilaration of each victory, the frustration of each defeat, the constant drive to improve that pushed him forward no matter what obstacles stood in his way.
He saw the first encounter with Team Rocket, their black uniforms and sinister intentions contrasting sharply with the bright, hopeful world of Pokémon training. He felt the rage that burned in his chest as he witnessed their cruelty toward Pokémon, the determination that hardened his resolve to stop them no matter the cost.
He saw the S.S. Anne, the luxury cruise ship where he had battled his way through a gauntlet of trainers and earned the Cut HM from the grateful captain. He saw Rock Tunnel, the pitch-black cavern that he had navigated by feel and instinct alone. He saw Lavender Town, the haunted cemetery where he had confronted the ghost of a Marowak and laid it to rest.
And through it all, a constant companion: the Pikachu that had joined his team early in the journey and never left his side. Not this Pikachu—the partner Pikachu from Let's Go was different, somehow—but a Pikachu nonetheless, loyal and powerful and utterly devoted to its silent trainer.
The memories continued to flow.
He saw the Pokémon Tower, where he had faced Blue for the third or fourth time and emerged victorious once again. He saw Silph Co., the corporate headquarters that Team Rocket had seized in their desperate bid for power. He felt the weight of the Master Ball in his palm, the gift from the company president for saving his employees from the criminal organization.
He saw Saffron City, where he had battled Sabrina and her psychic Pokémon in a contest of mental strength. He saw Cinnabar Island, where he had explored the burned-out ruins of the Pokémon Mansion and uncovered the terrible secrets of Mewtwo's creation. He saw the Seafoam Islands, where he had braved the frozen caves and encountered the legendary Articuno.
And then he saw something that made his heart ache with a sorrow that wasn't quite his own.
He was in Cerulean Cave, standing before the most powerful Pokémon in existence. Mewtwo floated in the center of the cavern, its eyes glowing with psychic energy, its body tense with barely restrained power. It was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, a testament to humanity's hubris and the consequences of playing god.
They battled. Of course they battled. It was what trainers and Pokémon did. But this fight was different from all the others. Mewtwo was stronger than anything Red had ever faced, its psychic attacks tearing through his team with devastating efficiency. One by one, his Pokémon fell—Charizard, Venusaur, Blastoise, Lapras, Snorlax. Only Pikachu remained, battered and exhausted but refusing to give up.
And in that moment of desperation, Red did something he had never done before. He opened his mouth and tried to speak.
No words came out. They never did. But Pikachu understood anyway. It always understood.
The electric-type launched one final attack, a Thunder that drew power from the very depths of its being. The lightning struck Mewtwo dead-on, stunning the legendary Pokémon just long enough for Red to throw the Master Ball.
The capture was instantaneous. The ball clicked shut, the red light faded, and Mewtwo was his.
He stood there in the silent cave, surrounded by his fallen team, holding the Master Ball that contained one of the most dangerous creatures in existence. And he felt... nothing. No triumph, no satisfaction, no joy. Just a hollow emptiness that seemed to swallow everything else.
This was what he had been working toward. This was the culmination of his journey, the final goal that had driven him across an entire region. And now that it was over, he didn't know what to do next.
The memory shifted again.
He was in the Indigo Plateau now, standing before the massive doors that led to the Pokémon League. His team was healed, his supplies restocked, his determination renewed. This was the final challenge, the last step on the road to becoming Champion.
He battled through the Elite Four one by one. Lorelei and her ice-types, Bruno and his fighting-types, Agatha and her ghost-types, Lance and his dragon-types. Each battle was harder than the last, each opponent pushing him to the absolute limit of his abilities. But he persevered, driven by something he couldn't name and couldn't stop.
And then there was Blue.
His rival stood at the end of the Champion's chamber, a smirk on his face that couldn't quite hide the nervousness in his eyes. He had gotten there first, had beaten the Elite Four before Red could catch up. He was the Champion now, the strongest trainer in all of Kanto.
For about five minutes.
Their final battle was brutal and unforgiving. Blue's team was strong, well-trained, perfectly balanced for any situation. But Red's team was stronger. Not because of type advantages or strategic planning, but because of something deeper—a bond between trainer and Pokémon that transcended mere mechanics.
When Blue's last Pokémon fell, there was a moment of absolute silence. Then the doors burst open and Professor Oak rushed in, his face a mixture of pride and disappointment.
"Red! You did it! You're the new Champion!" The old man's voice was trembling with emotion. "I knew you could do it. I always knew."
He turned to his grandson, his expression hardening slightly. "Blue... I'm disappointed in you. Not because you lost, but because of how you treated your Pokémon. They're not tools, they're partners. Maybe if you understood that, things would have turned out differently."
Blue said nothing. His face was pale, his hands trembling at his sides. He had lost—truly lost—for the first time in his life. And he didn't know how to handle it.
Red watched his rival walk away, shoulders slumped in defeat, and felt that hollow emptiness return. He had won. He was Champion. And he still didn't feel anything.
The memories accelerated now, blurring together into a montage of moments that painted a picture of growing isolation.
He saw the congratulatory parties, the press conferences, the endless stream of challengers who wanted to test themselves against the new Champion. He saw the expectations, the pressure, the weight of a title that felt more like a prison than an achievement. He saw the faces of people who looked at him with awe and admiration, never understanding that behind his silent exterior was a person who just wanted to be left alone.
He saw the moment when he made his decision.
It was late at night, weeks after his championship victory. He was sitting in his old room in Pallet Town, surrounded by trophies and certificates and gifts from admirers he had never met. The house was quiet—his mother was asleep, unaware that her son was planning to disappear.
He packed a bag with essentials. Clothes, supplies, everything he would need to survive in the wild. His Pokémon were already in their balls, ready to follow him wherever he went. The only question was where to go.
Mt. Silver.
The name came to him from somewhere deep in his memory. A mountain on the border between Kanto and Johto, so remote and so dangerous that most trainers never even attempted to climb it. A place where the strongest wild Pokémon in the region made their home. A place where he could train in peace, away from the crowds and the expectations and the crushing weight of being a legend.
He left a note for his mother—a simple drawing of a mountain, a Pokémon, and a heart. It was the only explanation he could offer. Then he slipped out the window and disappeared into the night.
The journey to Mt. Silver took weeks. He traveled on foot, avoiding towns and cities, training his Pokémon against the wild creatures that roamed the untamed wilderness. He grew stronger with each passing day, his team evolving and improving in ways that would have been impossible in the civilized world.
When he finally reached the summit, he felt something he hadn't felt in months. Peace. True, absolute peace.
Here, there were no crowds. No challengers. No expectations. Just the wind and the snow and the endless blue sky. Just his Pokémon and himself and the simple joy of training without purpose or deadline.
He built a shelter in one of the caves. He established a routine—training in the morning, exploring in the afternoon, resting in the evening. He caught new Pokémon, adding them to his team, pushing himself to ever greater heights of power. He was alone, truly alone, and it was exactly what he wanted.
Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Months became years.
He lost track of time. It didn't matter anyway. There was no one waiting for him, no one expecting him to return. His mother had probably given up hope by now, resigned herself to the fact that her son had chosen solitude over family. The thought should have bothered him, but it didn't. Nothing bothered him anymore.
He was at peace. And that was enough.
The memories faded, leaving him sitting in the cave with the Pikachu in his lap and tears streaming down his face.
He understood now. He understood why Red had come to Mt. Silver, why he had spent three years in isolation, why he had chosen this life over all the others available to him.
Red didn't want to be around people. He didn't want the fame, the attention, the constant pressure of being a legend. He just wanted to train. He just wanted to get stronger. He just wanted to exist in a world where the only expectations were the ones he set for himself.
It was so painfully relatable that it made his chest ache.
In his old life, he had often felt the same way. The pressure of work, the demands of relationships, the constant noise of modern existence—sometimes it all became too much, and he would retreat into his games for hours or days at a time. Pokémon had been his escape, his sanctuary, the one place where he could just... be.
And now he was living that escape. Literally living it, in the body of a character who had made the same choice he had always fantasized about making.
No wonder the cold didn't bother him. Red had spent three years acclimating to Mt. Silver's brutal climate. His body had adapted, had grown accustomed to conditions that would kill a normal person. The immunity to cold wasn't supernatural—it was just the result of prolonged exposure and incredible physical conditioning.
The Pikachu stirred in his lap, looking up at him with those big brown eyes full of concern. "Pika?" it asked softly, tilting its head to one side.
He reached down and scratched behind its ears, a gesture of reassurance that seemed to satisfy the little electric-type. He was okay. Or he would be, eventually. He just needed time to process everything he had learned.
Red's memories were his now. All of them—the triumphs and the tragedies, the battles and the quiet moments, the reasons and the regrets. He knew everything Red knew, felt everything Red felt. In a very real sense, he was Red now, not just a stranger wearing the Champion's body.
But he was also himself. He still had his own memories, his own experiences, his own identity. He remembered his old life—the job he hated, the girlfriend he loved, the family he would never see again. He remembered dying, the impact of the truck, the moment of weightlessness before the darkness.
Two lives, merged into one. Two identities, sharing the same body. It was confusing and overwhelming and strangely beautiful.
He stood slowly, the Pikachu hopping onto his shoulder. There were still so many questions unanswered. How had this happened? Why had he been chosen? What was he supposed to do now?
But those questions could wait. Right now, he needed to focus on the immediate—on understanding this body, this world, this life that had been thrust upon him.
He walked deeper into the cave, toward the training area that Red had carved out over years of isolation. It was a large cavern, the floor smoothed by countless battles, the walls scarred by attacks that had missed their targets. Training dummies made of ice stood at various points, shaped like Pokémon he might encounter in the wild.
This was where Red had pushed himself to ever greater heights of power. This was where he had forged his team into the most formidable force in the entire region.
And this was where he would continue that work.
He released his Pokémon one by one, filling the cavern with creatures of immense power. Charizard and Venusaur and Blastoise, the Kanto starters that had been with him from the beginning. Pikachu—the original Pikachu, not the partner—emerging from its ball to stand beside its Let's Go counterpart. The two electric-types regarded each other with curiosity, then seemed to reach some kind of understanding, nodding in unison.
More Pokémon emerged. Espeon and Umbreon, Dragonite and Tyranitar, Alakazam and Gengar. The legendaries stayed in their balls for now—releasing them in such an enclosed space seemed like a recipe for disaster—but he could feel their presence nonetheless, their power humming through the Poké Balls on his belt.
His team. His family. The only constant in a life that had been turned completely upside down.
He began to train.
The hours blurred together, time losing all meaning in the depths of the mountain. He put his Pokémon through their paces, testing their limits, pushing them harder than perhaps even Red had pushed them before. They responded eagerly, matching his intensity with their own, clearly thrilled to be training again after who knew how long of inactivity.
He discovered things about himself as he trained. His reflexes were sharper than they had any right to be, honed by years of battles that he was only now remembering. His tactical mind worked at incredible speed, analyzing situations and identifying solutions in fractions of a second. His connection to his Pokémon was almost supernatural, a bond so deep that commands felt unnecessary—they just knew what he wanted and acted accordingly.
This was what Red had built over a decade of training. This was the foundation on which his legend had been constructed. And now it belonged to him.
When he finally stopped training, exhausted in body if not in spirit, he realized that an entire day had passed. The sun was setting again, its light filtering through cracks in the cave ceiling to paint the ice walls in shades of gold and orange.
He recalled his Pokémon and made his way to the sleeping quarters. The fire pit came to life with a command to Charizard, filling the cavern with warmth and light. He ate a simple meal from the supplies—canned soup, heated over the flames, surprisingly tasty despite its humble origins.
The partner Pikachu curled up in his lap as he ate, its warmth a comfort against the existential chill that still lingered in his bones. He stroked its fur absently, his mind wandering through the maze of memories and emotions that now defined his existence.
He was Red. He was himself. He was something new, something unprecedented, something that shouldn't exist but somehow did.
And somewhere out there, Team Rocket was causing trouble. Somewhere out there, trainers were starting their journeys, chasing dreams of glory and adventure. Somewhere out there, the world was turning, oblivious to the silent champion sitting alone on top of a mountain.
He would have to engage with that world eventually. He would have to make decisions, take actions, influence events. But not today. Today, he would rest. Today, he would process. Today, he would simply exist.
Tomorrow, everything might change.
But for now, he was at peace.
And that was enough.