You've read the stories. Some overworked salaryman gets hit by a truck and wakes up as a prince with a harem and a magical cheat code that makes him a god by lunchtime. You wish it would happen to you, right?
Take it from me: it is not exciting. It's terrifying, it smells like damp garbage, and the "magical world" doesn't care if you live or die. Especially when you wake up in the body of a fourteen-year-old orphan with zero credits to her name and a direct view of the underside of the socioeconomic ladder.
Welcome to the Pokémon world. And no, it's not the bright, saturated "Lala Land" you saw on TV.
In this reality, a year is a massive undertaking, divided into twelve "sub-years." You don't hit the road at ten years old to go on a whimsical camping trip. Here, you aren't legally an adult until fifteen—the age where the government decides you're finally sturdy enough to handle the "wildlife," and the age where the orphanage kicks you out to make room for the next batch of unlucky souls.
My name—well, her name—was Regina. I woke up with my head spinning, the taste of copper in my mouth, and a flood of memories that weren't mine. I saw an ID card on the floor: Regina. Age: 15 (Sub-year 1). Status: Emancipated.
Great. Happy birthday to me. I was officially a homeless adult in the slums of Viridian City.
The Alleyway Stand-off
I was dragging my singular possession—a beat-up skateboard with chipped grip tape—out of the orphanage district when I heard it. A high-pitched, warbling cry. It sounded like a teakettle with an anxiety disorder.
I turned into a narrow alleyway, the kind of place where the shadows seem to have teeth. Three guys in grease-stained hoodies were cornering something in the back. One of them held a lead pipe; another was laughing, a sound like gravel in a blender.
"Come on, little chick," the leader sneered, holding out a jagged, rusty capture net. "Do you have any idea how much a weird-colored bird like you fetches on the black market? Stop shaking and get in the bag."
In the corner, trembling so hard I thought its feathers might fall off, was a Torchic. But it wasn't the standard orange, and it wasn't the pale, sickly yellow of a shiny. This thing was a deep, defiant crimson—the color of a dying star or a very expensive lipstick. It was beautiful. It was also currently crying, its tiny talons scraping uselessly against the brick wall.
My brain said: Keep walking, Regina. You have no money, no Pokémon, and you're five-foot-four of malnourished teenager.
My soul, which had been obsessed with Torchic since the first time I'd seen a sprite on a handheld screen back on Earth, said: If they touch that bird, I will burn this city to the ground.
"Hey! Douchebags!" I yelled.
They turned. I didn't wait for a witty retort. I'm a feminist to the core, and I believe in equal rights and equal lefts. I lunged, using the momentum of my skateboard like a bludgeon.
CRACK.
The board connected with the leader's temple. He went down like a sack of potatoes.
"Regina, you idiot," I muttered to myself, even as the other two lunged at me.
The next few minutes were a blur of "real world" violence. No flashy move names, just teeth and nails. I put myself squarely between the thugs and the trembling red chick. One of them landed a kick to my ribs that made my vision go white. I felt a warm trickle of blood run down my forehead from a stray punch, but I didn't move.
"Run, you little nugget!" I hissed over my shoulder at the Torchic.
But it didn't run. The bird looked at me—really looked at me—and saw a girl who was bleeding for it. Its crying stopped. The tiny creature let out a defiant chirp, and suddenly, the temperature in the alley spiked.
A burst of Ember erupted from its beak. It wasn't a professional-grade attack, but it was enough to singe the eyebrows off the guy trying to grab my throat.
"HELP!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, pouring every bit of my remaining oxygen into the cry. "POLICE! MURDER!"
The Fade Out
The sound of sirens began to wail in the distance, echoing off the cramped walls of the slum. Footsteps—heavy, rhythmic boots—approached rapidly.
"Officer Jenny! Over here!" a woman's voice called out.
I slumped against the damp brick wall, my strength evaporating. A woman in a lab coat rushed into the alley followed by blue uniforms.
"Oh, thank goodness! My Torchic!" she cried. This had to be Professor Linda; I remembered hearing about the local breeding center being raided earlier that sub-year.
The Professor started toward me, her face a mask of concern. My vision was tunneling, the world turning into a series of blurry shapes. I felt something warm and soft press against my cheek. It was the Torchic, nuzzling into my neck, its tiny heart beating a mile a minute against my skin.
I wanted to say something cool. Something "girl boss" and cynical about the state of urban security. Instead, I just felt a wave of exhaustion.
The last thing I heard before my eyes slid shut was the sharp, rhythmic click-click-click of expensive heels on the pavement. Not boots. Heels. Someone was walking toward us with an air of absolute authority.
The Torchic let out a soft, tired chirp of recognition and nuzzled closer to me, its deep red feathers the last thing I saw before the world went black.