The world, for the first eleven years of Jim's life, was what one could call comfortable. It began with the acidic tang of Cheri berries. Then came the sweet, cloying perfume of Pecha berries, their pink skins soft as a Jigglypuff's. Underneath it all was the earthy aroma of Oran berries, this was only natural indeed as his sire was the sole proprietor of "Arden's berry basket".
Celadon City was the apex of humanity's ambition, a concrete jungle termed aptly as the heart of Kanto. Its streets were filled with rivers of people, along with a flow of trainers with their companion Pokémon or their more unsavoury name "Pocket Monsters", shoppers laden with bags from the Celadon Department Store, and businesspeople rushing with an unnecessary urgency.
And tucked away in a modest, quieter residential quadrant, a ten minute walk from the grand Celadon Gym, was their shop. It was a tiny island of calm in an ocean of chaos, that was celadon. The shop wasn't something to boast of , a single room with a large, open-air window to the street. A hand-painted sign, the letters slightly uneven from his father's less-than-steady hand, proudly proclaimed its name. Inside, the space was cramped but meticulously organized. Wooden crates, with thousands of berries, were stacked against the walls. On the main counter, polished to a dull shine from years of use, were wicker baskets filled with the day's offerings.
Jim's life worked on the rhythms of this shop. His days began at the crack of dawn , when the only sounds were the cooing of distant 'd join his father, Arden, in the pre-dawn chill. Arden, too, was a man of routines. His calloused hands could be surprisingly delicate as he inspected each berry.
"Look here, Jim," he'd say, his voice a low rumble. He'd hold up a Sitrus berry. "See this leaf? Still means it was picked at the peak of its life. The nutrients are all locked inside. A trainer's Pokémon will get the full benefit. But this one…" He'd pick up another, its leaf slightly curled and brown at the edges. "This one is past its prime. Still good for juice, but not for direct healing. You have to know the difference."
Jim's job was to sort. The prime berries went into the front baskets. The older ones went into a large wooden bin at the back, destined to be pressed or mashed. He would wash them in a large basin, and then lay them out on soft cloth to dry. His mother, Astoria, would join them as the sun began to set. She was the artist of the operation. While Arden handled the raw product, Lina transformed it. She had a small kitchen set up behind the main counter where she worked her magic.
She would take the older berries and, with a heavy-duty press, extract their juices. The air would fill with scents,not necessarily unpleasant, as she worked. She'd make pastes and poultices, grinding Pecha berries with a mortar and pestle to create an antidote paste that was popular with trainers heading to the Viridian Forest. Her greatest creations, however, were her Berry Blends. She'd mix different juices, adding a touch of honey from a local Combee keeper, creating custom drinks for Pokémon. A splash of Chesto for energy, a drop of Rawst for warmth on a cold day.
Jim helped her too. He'd stir the pots, carefully measure out the portions, and pour the finished juices into glass bottles. He learned the properties of each berry by heart. Leppa restored energy. Aspear thawed the frozen. Lum cured everything, so on.
They were not rich but, at least in Jim's life, they were happy. Dinners were simple affairs around their small kitchen table in the apartment above the shop. The talk was always of the day's sales, of the funny Machoke that had tried to pay with a shiny pebble, of Mrs. Henderson's moody Persian who would only eat crushed Nanab berries. And lately, the talk was of the Trainer Exam.
"Eighty percent," Arden, his father, mumbled one evening, pushing a piece of potato around his plate. "That's what you need to pass. Eighty."
The exam was The Gatekeeper,with a capital T. At twelve, every child in Kanto with dreams of becoming a Pokémon Trainer had to take it. It was a comprehensive test of Pokémon biology, type matchups, status conditions, regional geography, and trainer ethics. Passing it granted you a Trainer License and the right to apply for a starter Pokémon from a registered professor. On the other hand, failing meant waiting another year.
"You know more than half the trainers who come into the shop, son," Arden said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "You know what a burn does to an attack stat. You know why you don't feed a spicy Poffin to a timid Pokémon. It's in your blood."
"But that's berry knowledge," Jim argued. "It's not the same as battle strategy or evolution lines."
Astoria reached across the table and placed her warm, soft hand over his. "Knowledge is knowledge, sweetheart. And your father is right. You have a good heart and are smart. You understand Pokémon. The rest is just memorization. You'll be wonderful."
Her faith in him was comforting, but the fear was fear. In a city of half a million, the competition was immense. Everyone wanted to be the next Lance, the next champion. Jim just wanted to pass. He wanted to make his parents proud.
That morning, oh how he detested that day, it began like any other. The pre-dawn light was filtering through Jim's window. He could hear the familiar sounds of his father, already downstairs, the thud of berry crates being moved. He got dressed and went down to the kitchen. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee mixed with the ever-present aroma of berries. His mother was at the stove, humming a soft tune as she flipped pancakes.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she said, smiling over her shoulder. "Big day of studying today?"
"I guess," Jim said, sliding into his chair.
Arden came in from the shop, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his belt. He ruffled Jim's hair. "Don't you 'I guess' your mother. You've got this. We'll do some flashcards after the morning rush. I'll even let you close up shop an hour early."
It was a perfect, ordinary morning. The pancakes were warm, the syrup was sweet. His parents sat with him. They talked about his potential starter. Jim wanted a Charmander, captivated by the idea of owning a Charizad, which the child was not. His father thought a Bulbasaur would be the smarter choice, type matchups and what not. His mother just said that whichever one he got would be lucky to have him.
They were laughing, his father telling a story about a customer who thought a Pinap berry could make his Pidgey grow a second head, when it happened.
The sound was like a thunderclap inside the small apartment. The front door, the one that led directly from the stairwell into their living space, burst inward, torn from its hinges. Two figures filled the doorway, their faces obscured by crude cloth masks. One held a crowbar, the other brandished a length of rusted pipe. They were not skilled criminals. They were desperate, and that made them infinitely more dangerous.
The laughter died in an instant. Jim's pancake turned to lead in his stomach. His mother let out a small, terrified gasp.