Professor Oak's lab always smelled like three different decisions happening at once.
There was the warm, dusty sweetness of books opened so often their spines had given up. There was the sharp bite of something recently spilled and not yet forgiven. And there was the faint electrical tang that meant I'd done the thing Oak told me not to do. Just a quick adjustment.
I stood at the center table with a Pokedex opened like a clam, its screen glowing a calm green that suggested it had never met me. Beside it sat my latest contribution to science: a palm-sized box with a spring latch, a tape spool, and a little mouth that could spit out adhesive labels like it was offended by silence.
I'd already labeled it.
POKEDEX AUXILIARY CLASSIFICATION & CONFIDENCE MODULE
Danger Level: Mostly.
Oak's footsteps came down the hallway, measured and familiar, a little tired in the heel. He paused in the doorway long enough for me to feel his eyes go straight to the module.
"Maxwell," he said, which was never a good sign because he usually called me Max.
I didn't look up from the screwdriver in my hand. "Professor."
"What," he said, with the careful gentleness of a man approaching a sleeping Tauros, "is that?"
I turned the module so the label faced him. It was important he read it.
"It's the Pokedex Auxiliary Classification & Confidence Module," I said. "You can tell because of the label."
Oak's gaze moved from the label to the tape spool to the Pokedex to the suspiciously burned smell coming from the general direction of my pocket.
"Max," he said, switching to the familiar name with familiar resignation, "that is a sticker machine."
"It's a labeling interface," I corrected.
"A sticker machine."
"A scientific sticker machine."
Oak walked in and set his mug down in the one corner of the table not already covered in parts. His mug said WORLD'S BEST PROFESSOR in cheerful letters that had begun to crack from years of being held in hands that did not believe the statement.
He leaned over the Pokedex and squinted at my work. "You've attached it directly to the side."
"Yes."
"And it's bolted."
"Securely."
"And it's connected to the..." He made a small, wary gesture at the wiring.
"Data port," I said quickly. "With an adapter. A safe adapter. A morally responsible adapter."
Oak stared at me until the concept of morality began to wilt.
"What does it do?"
I straightened. This was my favorite part, the moment when something went from unnecessary to inevitable.
"It solves a user experience problem," I said.
Oak's eyebrows rose. "A what problem?"
"New trainers get uncertain. Uncertainty makes them hesitate. Hesitation makes them scream, run in circles, and forget they have Poke Balls."
Oak's mouth twitched. "You've been watching the new trainers."
"I have been studying the new trainers," I said. "For science."
Oak took a sip of coffee. His eyes did not leave the module. "And your solution is stickers."
"My solution is confidence," I said, and tapped the little box affectionately. "The Pokedex already identifies Pokemon, but it does it like it's trying not to be rude about being wrong. Out there, people want a device that says: yes, this is definitely a thing. You can behave accordingly."
Oak set his mug down with a soft clink. "Max. What did you do?"
I smiled.
"It prints a label," I said, "that tells you what you're looking at. And how sure it is."
Oak's eyes narrowed. "How sure the Pokedex is."
"How sure the Pokedex feels," I clarified. "There's a difference."
"There is."
"And I've selected the more useful one." I flipped the latch open. "If it's not sure, it doesn't hedge. It grabs the closest trainer-friendly noun and commits."
That was the trick. I'd weighted the algorithm toward familiar words over correct ones because people run less from things they can name.
Oak's gaze flicked down, and for a terrible moment I thought he might read the other labels I'd already printed and stuck around the lab as part of my testing phase.
BEAKER: Contains Liquid (Probably)
CABINET: Contains Secrets (100% Confidence)
He looked back at the module. "You have a demonstration today."
"Yes," I said brightly. "Perfect timing."
Oak's coffee went halfway to his mouth and stopped. "I am demonstrating the Pokedex research initiative today. To the town. To the handful of people who might support it. To the families whose children I'm sending out with a very expensive piece of equipment."
"Right," I said, nodding as if I hadn't just described my entire reason for existing. "And now you can also demonstrate the auxiliary confidence module."
"No," Oak said.
I held up a finger. "Counterpoint: yes."
Oak's sigh was long and specific. It moved through the lab like a low-pressure front.
"Max," he said, "I did not authorize you to modify the Pokedex."
"I didn't modify the Pokedex," I said. "I enhanced it."
"You attached a sticker machine to it."
"A labeling interface."
Oak stared at me.
"Professor," I said, and tried to sound humble, which is difficult when you are right, "this is about field integrity."
Oak's eyes narrowed. "Oh, it is."
"In the field, if you see a Pokemon and your device says 'uncertain' or 'needs more data,' you might hesitate. You might doubt. You might, hypothetically, drop the device and run."
Oak stared.
I added, offering what I believed was a reasonable concession, "Or you might crouch behind a rock and wait for it to go away."
Oak's mouth tightened. "This is about you."
"It's about science," I said.
"It is about you."
"It's about science through me," I said, which felt like a fair compromise.
Oak rubbed his temples with two fingers, the way he did when he was assembling patience out of smaller pieces.
"Tell me," he said, "what exactly will your module print?"
"That depends," I said. "It's dynamic."
Oak's eyes followed the latch like he expected it to bite.
I clicked the module on. It made a friendly beep that sounded like it had never harmed anyone in its life.
The Pokedex screen flickered, then settled. A small icon appeared, a tiny rectangle that was definitely not part of Oak's original design.
Oak's gaze hardened. "You added an icon."
"It's a confidence indicator," I said.
"Max..."
"Watch," I said, and pointed the Pokedex at Oak's lab coat.
Oak's eyebrows rose. "At my coat."
"I'm calibrating."
The screen blinked. The module whirred. A label slid out with crisp enthusiasm.
I peeled it off and held it up.
PROFESSOR OAK: Verified
Danger Level: Low (Unless Provoked)
Confidence: Absolute
Oak looked at the label.
Then he looked at me.
Then he looked at the label again, as if it might explain itself if stared at hard enough.
"That," he said slowly, "is not the point."
"It's adjacent," I said. "It's in the same region of point."
Oak took the label from my hand with the careful precision of a man holding something sticky. He read it again.
"'Confidence: Absolute,'" he repeated.
"Yes," I said. "People love certainty."
Oak's eyes lifted. "Is it accurate?"
"It is confident," I said.
"That is not what I asked."
I hesitated just long enough to be honest.
"It is," I said, "more confident than it is accurate."
Oak's stare sharpened into something you could cut tape with.
"How much more."
"That depends on your definition of 'accurate.'"
"Max."
"In the field," I said quickly, "the outside is chaotic. The device needs to be decisive. Even if it's decisively wrong sometimes."
Oak closed his eyes for a brief second, like he'd just pictured a child being decisively wrong about a Beedrill.
"Today," he said, opening them again, "you will not demonstrate that."
I spread my hands. "But it's already attached."
Oak's gaze shifted to the bolts.
"Remove it."
"I can't," I said.
Oak's eyes narrowed. "You can't."
"It's structural."
"It's bolted."
"Yes," I agreed. "Structurally."
Oak stepped closer. He put one hand on the Pokedex and one on the module and tested the connection. It did not move because I had, in fact, made it extremely secure. I was good at my job. This was part of the problem.
"I could remove the bolts," I offered.
Oak looked at me.
"But then we'd have tiny holes. In a very expensive device. In front of the townspeople. It would look improvised."
Oak's eyelid twitched.
"And it might also cause the module to..." I searched for a safe ending.
"To what," Oak said, very softly.
"...become separated from the Pokedex."
Oak stared.
"Which is the goal," I said, and immediately regretted existing.
Oak inhaled slowly.
"Max," he said, "today is about trust."
"I know," I said. "That's why I made it more confident."
Oak opened his mouth, then closed it. He pointed one finger at my module like he was delivering a commandment.
"Today," he said, "you will stand behind me. You will not touch the Pokedex. You will not press anything. You will smile politely."
I nodded. "Absolutely."
Oak squinted. "Do not say 'absolutely' like that."
"I said it in my respectful tone."
"You said it in your 'I already did something' tone."
I stood very still. "I don't have an 'I already did something' tone."
Oak's eyes dropped to the label stuck to the front edge of the table:
MAX'S WORK AREA: Authorized / Not a Problem (100% Confidence)
He looked back up.
"You do," he said.
By noon, Pallet Town had warmed into a lazy brightness. The lab's yard filled with neighbors and kids, all hovering too close.
Oak stood on the steps in his good coat, the one without burn marks. His hair was neat, which meant he'd tried.
I stood behind him with the Pokedex cradled in both hands like a sacred object. The module on its side was covered, per Oak's instructions, by a cloth.
I had labeled the cloth.
CLOTH: Contains Problem (Temporarily)
Oak cleared his throat.
"My friends," he began, his voice carrying easily. "Thank you for coming. I won't take too much of your time."
"You know I've spent years studying the Pokemon of our region. What we don't have, what Kanto has always lacked, is structured, reliable data collected from the field. Not just rumors. Not just campfire stories. Real observations."
I shifted my grip on the Pokedex. It beeped softly, like it was also interested in real observations.
"This is the Pokedex," Oak said, gesturing. "A device designed to record and identify Pokemon. With it, we can build a more accurate understanding of behavior, habitats, and the way Pokemon interact with people and places."
Oak smiled at them, warm and patient. "It will help new trainers learn. It will help us keep people safe. It will help us respect the Pokemon we share our world with."
I nodded solemnly, an assistant of science and definitely not of adhesives.
"In the coming weeks," Oak continued, "I'll be sending volunteers and trainers out on simple routes. We'll start small, close to home. Pallet to Viridian and back. Observations, sightings, maybe a capture if the trainer is prepared. Nothing reckless."
My fingers twitched.
Oak's gaze snapped back to mine.
I froze and smiled politely.
"Now," Oak said, "some of you have asked about how the Pokedex identifies Pokemon. It does so through a combination of recorded data, visual markers, and pattern recognition."
Oak leaned toward me and hissed through the side of his mouth, "Do not."
I whispered back, "I'm not doing anything."
"Your thumbs are making plans," he muttered, then straightened and smiled at the crowd again.
"All right," he said, "I'll answer a few questions."
A hand went up. "What if it gets it wrong?"
Oak's gaze flicked again to the cloth. "We will double-check entries. The Pokedex improves with data."
I felt a swell of pride. My module also improved with data, in the sense that it became more sure of itself.
A sound came then, thin and sharp, like a nail dragged lightly over wood.
At first I thought it was someone shifting a chair.
Then it came again, closer. A rapid flutter, like paper snapping in wind, mixed with a chirp that wasn't the gentle background bird sound Pallet Town always had. This was harsher. A noise that carried intent.
Oak's head tilted slightly. His eyes moved toward the trees at the edge of the yard.
The crowd murmured, attention shifting as one.
The sound came again, and this time I felt it in my chest. Wings cutting air fast, close.
Something small and brown shot out from the trees like a thrown rock with feathers.
It came low, fast, and directly at the cloth-covered side of the Pokedex.
I had exactly enough time to think: Oh. It likes certainty.
The Spearow hit the cloth with a thump, claws snagging, beak jabbing. The cloth tore. The module was exposed.
The Spearow's eyes were bright and furious, like it had been personally insulted by the concept of devices. Its wings beat hard, throwing dust up from the yard. It made a sound that was halfway between a screech and a complaint.
The crowd screamed. A child laughed. An adult tried to do both and achieved neither.
Oak stepped forward, one hand out. "Everyone, back, slowly."
I did not back slowly. The Spearow was on my Pokedex, and my survival instincts had never been trained on "slowly."
The Spearow pecked at the module's mouth. The tape spool whirred slightly, like it was excited to be acknowledged.
The module beeped.
Oak's head snapped toward it.
I stared, transfixed, as the label slid out with delighted certainty.
I could not stop myself. I peeled it off.
CHICKEN: Highly Motivated
Danger Level: Medium (Will Escalate)
Confidence: Absolute
I held it up without thinking.
The Spearow shrieked and beat its wings harder, as if offended by being called a chicken.
Oak's eyes went wide.
A neighbor shouted, "It's a chicken?!"
A third voice, very small, said, "Can I pet the chicken?"
Oak's calm cracked. "It is not a..."
The Spearow lunged, beak flashing, and my reflexes did the thing they always did when confronted with danger and adhesive: I tried to label it.
I slapped the sticker onto the Spearow's back.
The Spearow froze for half a second, startled by the sudden pressure.
Then it went feral in a new direction.
It twisted in the air, trying to reach the label with its beak, wings beating so hard the Pokedex nearly flew out of my hands. Feathers brushed my face. I smelled dust and warm animal heat and the sharp little panic sweat of a creature that did not consent to being categorized.
Oak grabbed my shoulder to steady me. "Max, give it to me."
"I can't," I said, because I was holding on like the Pokedex was the only anchor to reality. "It's attached."
"I mean the Pokedex!"
"I'm attached too!"
The yard fractured into Pallet Town chaos, which meant half the people fled and half stood perfectly still, leaning forward like curiosity was a seatbelt.
The Spearow's claws snagged the tape spool. The module made an offended whine. Tape began to unravel, sticky side out, whipping in the air like a pale ribbon.
The Spearow shrieked again.
The module beeped again.
Another label printed.
I heard Oak suck in a breath like he could feel it coming.
I caught the label midair because my hands were apparently committed to this life now.
CHICKEN: Currently Upset
Recommended Action: Do Something
Confidence: Absolute
Oak's voice went low. "Max."
"It's providing actionable guidance," I said weakly.
Oak looked at the label.
Then he looked at the Spearow.
Then he looked at me.
"Do what," he said, "something?"
The Spearow yanked. Tape snapped loose. The spool spun wildly.
It flew.
The entire spool, adhesive tape and all, popped off the module and sailed into the yard like a tiny white comet.
The Spearow followed it instantly because it was now the greatest prey it had ever seen.
It darted over the crowd, tape trailing like a tail. People ducked. Someone screamed, "It's chasing the chicken!"
"It is the chicken!" another person shouted, which was a philosophical stance more than a fact.
Oak stepped forward, voice sharp and authoritative. "Everyone inside. Now."
Most people obeyed. The rest kept staring like this was going to answer the chicken question.
The Spearow looped back, tape whipping, and snagged a neighbor's hat for half a heartbeat. The neighbor froze.
Oak stepped in, snapped the tape free in one practiced pull, and the Spearow screamed like competence was personal.
It dove at Oak.
Oak did not flinch. He raised his arm, coat sleeve up, and the Spearow's beak snapped at cloth instead of skin. Oak twisted his wrist, guiding the Spearow's momentum away.
The Spearow spiraled, lost speed, then shot upward, escaping the reach of human hands and human labels.
It perched briefly on the lab's roof edge, chest heaving, eyes bright with the rage of a creature that had been touched by adhesive.
Oak stood below it, one hand still holding the strip of tape like a leash he didn't want.
I stood behind him with the Pokedex and a module mouth hanging open like it had just had a tooth removed.
Oak tilted his head up and spoke calmly. "Go."
The Spearow stared.
Oak's voice hardened by one degree. "Go."
The Spearow chirped, sharp and bitter, then launched away, disappearing over the trees with the dignity of something that had not, technically, lost.
The yard went silent for a beat.
Then a toddler clapped.
Someone laughed, nervous and relieved.
A neighbor whispered, "So... chickens."
Oak turned slowly, tape still in his hand, and looked at me.
Across the yard, a few parents had gone very still, hands tight on small wrists. I'd wanted confidence. I'd handed them a reason to say no the next time Oak asked for volunteers.
I had never seen a man look so tired and so controlled at the same time.
In my hands, the Pokedex beeped.
The module, suddenly missing its tape, printed nothing. It simply sat there, confident and empty, like it had nothing to apologize for.
Oak held out his hand without looking away from me. "The Pokedex."
I handed it over with both hands, like surrendering a weapon.
Oak took it. His thumb hit the side button in one quick, efficient motion.
The screen flashed.
A new entry sat there, recorded with cheerful certainty:
CHICKEN: Highly Motivated
Habitat: Roofs, Yards, Dignity
Notes: Will Escalate
Oak stared at it.
I leaned forward slightly. "It's technically not wrong about the roof."
Oak's gaze lifted to mine.
I swallowed.
Oak said, very quietly, "Inside."
Back in the lab, the quiet felt louder.
Oak set the Pokedex down on the table like it might bite him if handled casually. He removed what was left of the module's cloth and laid it aside with the careful, controlled movements of a man trying not to express emotion through throwing.
I stood across from him, hands folded behind my back. Obedient in posture, not in spirit. The module had inspired confidence. Mostly screaming confidence.
Oak picked up the Pokedex and scrolled the entry again.
"Max," he said, "why?"
I chose honesty because it was easier than inventing a lie that could survive Oak's face.
"It's the certainty algorithm," I said.
Oak's eyebrows rose. "The what?"
"The certainty algorithm," I repeated, gesturing at the module. "It takes the Pokedex's identification confidence and translates it into something usable. People don't want a number. They want a label. They want guidance."
Oak looked at me like he was trying to decide if I was joking.
"I did not ask for guidance," he said.
"People panic without it," I said. "So I built it in."
Oak read the printed line again. "'Recommended Action: Do Something.'"
"It's flexible," I said quickly.
Oak's stare sharpened. "It is useless."
"It is empowering," I said.
Oak set the Pokedex down and leaned forward, palms flat on the table.
His shoulders were tense, but his voice stayed even. "Max. You cannot send devices into the hands of new trainers that misidentify a Spearow as a chicken. Half the town watched you do it."
I blinked. "It didn't misidentify it as a chicken."
Oak's eyes narrowed. "It printed 'Chicken.'"
"Yes," I said. "But it also printed 'Highly Motivated.' That narrows it down."
Oak's mouth opened. Closed.
He pressed two fingers against his forehead, breathing slowly.
I waited. This was the part where consequences usually arrived.
Oak lowered his hand. "All right."
I straightened, encouraged by the words.
Oak continued, "If you want your module to improve with data, then you will collect that data."
My posture paused mid-straighten. "I will."
Oak reached into a drawer and pulled out a folded map. He smoothed it on the table. His finger tapped Pallet Town.
"You said we should start small," he said.
"Yes," I said, relieved. "Small is good. Controlled. Near."
Oak's finger slid up from Pallet toward the path out of town.
"Route 1," he said. "Viridian City. And back."
I nodded eagerly. "Simple."
Oak's gaze stayed on mine. "Simple."
"Yes," I said. "Responsibly."
Oak's eyes narrowed, but he let it pass.
"You will take the Pokedex," Oak said. "Without the module."
My mouth opened, and then closed around the idea like it was a bitter herb.
Oak added, "You will take notes. You will record sightings. You will double-check entries before you lock them."
I nodded. "Yes."
Oak's finger tapped the map again, then traced a small circle. "You will collect baseline behavior data on common Pokemon along the route. You will not provoke anything you cannot handle."
I held very still. "Define provoke."
Oak's gaze did not soften. "Do not tempt a Spearow with tape. Do not make strange noises. Do not label wild Pokemon."
I blinked. "Even helpful labels."
"Especially helpful labels."
I considered this. "What about unhelpful labels?"
Oak's voice was flat. "No labels."
I exhaled and accepted pain.
Oak folded the map again and slid it toward me along with a small notebook and a pencil.
Then he placed three Poke Balls beside them.
My gaze dropped to the Poke Balls. My throat went dry in that specific way it did when responsibility sat on the table in a perfect red-and-white sphere.
Oak watched me see them.
"These are for emergencies," he said. "Or if you encounter a Pokemon you can safely capture and observe."
I stared at them like they might roll off the table and make my life official.
Oak added, "And you will not treat this as a personal test of bravado."
"I wouldn't," I said.
Oak lifted his eyebrows.
"I wouldn't intentionally," I amended.
Oak's sigh returned, smaller this time, but still specific.
I picked up the notebook and flipped it open.
It was blank. Pure potential. I felt my fingers itch to label the first page:
FIELD REPORT: Danger Level: Pending
I did not. Oak was watching.
I slid the pencil behind my ear, took the map, and carefully gathered the Poke Balls like I was handling eggs that might hatch into consequences.
Oak leaned back slightly, and in the shift of his posture I saw something that wasn't anger, exactly. Something quieter. The weight of sending people out. The way his gaze lingered on the Pokedex like it was both hope and risk.
"I want this to work," Oak said, voice low.
I nodded, serious.
Oak looked at me. "I need you to help me make it work."
"I will," I said.
Oak held my gaze for a beat, searching for whatever truth he could get out of me.
Then I smiled.
"I will be," I said carefully, "responsible."
Oak's eyes narrowed.
I added quickly, "In a measurable way. With notes."
Oak's shoulders loosened by a fraction, like that was the best deal he was going to get.
"Good," he said.
I stepped toward the door, then paused, because there was one more thing.
I reached for the module.
Oak's head snapped up. "Max."
"I'm not attaching it," I said quickly. "I'm just..."
I lifted it gently, like a small animal, and looked down at the empty label mouth.
The module looked back, silent and confident in its lack of tape.
It had printed Chicken with absolute certainty, and somehow the world had believed it just long enough to become a problem.
I set it down again.
Oak's eyes stayed sharp.
I cleared my throat. "For the record, I still think the confidence component has merit."
Oak stared.
I continued, because stopping would imply weakness. "We just need to calibrate the vocabulary."
Oak's voice was dangerously calm. "We are not calling any Pokemon a chicken."
I nodded solemnly. "Understood."
I stepped out of the lab into the warm Pallet afternoon. The town looked peaceful again, like it hadn't just witnessed a roof-based poultry crisis.
The path out of town waited, bright and simple and absolutely not simple at all.
Behind me, inside the lab, something clinked softly.
Oak probably set his mug down, or set his patience back into its usual place.
I adjusted the notebook under my arm and walked toward the edge of Pallet Town with the careful optimism of a man whose last public demonstration had involved adhesive tape and screaming.
In my head, I wrote the first line of my field report anyway.
Danger Level: Mostly.
Confidence: Absolute.
And, for the first time all day, I couldn't tell which one was lying.