The First Pokémon
The room felt a lot smaller with the pokémon in it. Sara stared across at them, almost too nervous to breathe. Three pairs of eyes stared back.
“Let’s leave them alone for a bit so they can get acquainted,” Professor Oak said, and Sara was vaguely aware of her parents following him out. She didn’t turn to look. She couldn’t take her eyes off the pokémon, not for one second.
They huddled up against the far wall, all three of them pressed together, silently watchful. Sara took a step forward, but stopped immediately when the charmander tried to back up and bumped into the wall, its tail flame flickering and dancing.
“Hi. I’m Sara,” she said. She didn’t need to ask their names. Bulbasaur, Charmander, Squirtle. They fidgeted, let out a couple uncertain growls, looked to one another for support. “I’m going to be a pokémon trainer. Do any of you want to come with me?”
Outright muttering at that. Apparently it was a very serious question. After a few seconds Bulbasaur snorted and turned away from the others, taking a couple steps towards Sara. The other two watched it go, then turned their eyes on her again. It was her move.
She walked over to the bulbasaur, this time ignoring the other pokémon’s nervous mumbling. The grass-type stood its ground, and Sara found she really had no idea what to do next. She put her hand down in front of the pokémon’s face, the way she would offer it for a dog or cat to sniff, but the bulbasaur just stared at it.
This close she could see its deep green bulb was veined with lighter streaks, glossy under the lights and covered in a downy layer of tiny hairs. Sara reached out to touch it, but the bulbasaur stepped back, and when she tried to pet its head instead it growled at her.
Almost desperate, she turned her attention to the other two. They didn’t shrink back when she approached, but they exchanged nervous looks, maybe checking to see whether the other was going to bolt. They didn’t know what to do with her hand when she held it out to them, either, and as the awkward moment stretched Sara had to fight to keep a friendly smile on her face. What if she wasn’t cut out to be a trainer? What if pokémon just hated her for some reason?
Then the charmander stuck out its own hand, the left one, and gave her a look like, “Is this how it goes?”
Sara laughed, grabbing Charmander’s little clawed paw and giving it a quick shake. The pokémon squeaked and yanked its hand away, pressing it against its chest like it had been burned. The squirtle snickered, and Charmander took a swipe at it, leaving a trio of bleeding scratches down the side of the water-type’s face. Before Sara could get a handle on the situation Squirtle squealed and tackled Charmander to the ground. The two of them rolled around on the tiles, scratching and biting and yelling in their high-pitched baby voices.
Sara backed away slowly, wide-eyed as the pokémon snarled and thrashed, Charmander’s tail scattering embers in a wide arc. Bulbasaur sat off to one side, watching all three of them with an air of detached superiority.
Squirtle pulled itself into its shell, but Charmander kept attacking, scratches rebounding without leaving a mark. Sara’s laugh startled it, and it looked up in alarm, but she couldn’t help it; watching the pokémon sit there, banging his claws on Squirtle’s shell and whining, she could only imagine him saying, “Come on, you can’t do that! Come out already! No fair!”
Charmander backed away nervously, and Squirtle poked its head out of its shell just enough to peek at Sara over the edge.
“Okay, okay,” Sara said. “Here, let’s see.”
This was a small room, mostly empty space with a couple of big desks shoved up against the walls. They were cluttered with equipment, computers and scales and metal instruments that looked made for poking pokémon. But toys, too, ragged balls and gnawed-on wooden blocks and a forlorn pikachu plush missing an arm. Sara stood on tiptoe and scooped a ball towards her, a scuffed old thing that nonetheless landed in a bounce when it rolled onto the floor. Sara scooped it up and hurled it at Charmander without missing a beat, a throw worthy of the long summer days she’d spent playing softball in the field behind the school. “Catch!”
The charmander let out a squeak of surprise, but its hands came up automatically, intercepting the ball with a leathery snap. The fire-type tucked its head down to give it a cautious sniff. Then Squirtle let out an affronted gurgle, and Charmander hurled the ball at it, fast with both hands like it was just trying to get rid of the thing. Squirtle caught it and balanced it on its head, grinning hugely at Sara.
“Real nice,” she said with a laugh. “But don’t hog it, okay?”
Squirtle made an unconcerned babble, then shrugged the ball into one hand and whipped it at Bulbasaur. The grass-type extended a lazy vine and swatted it back to Sara without missing a beat. She caught the ball on a bounce and stood drumming her fingers against its skin, grinning. “Okay,” she said. “Now we’re really going to play.”
By the time the grown-ups came back, Sara was up on one of the desks, waving her hands over her head. “Over here! Come on, pass it to me!” Bulbasaur had the ball balanced expertly on the tip of a vine, held well out of Squirtle’s reach. The water-type grumbled and jumped for it, without success.
“Sara!” her father barked, and she froze guiltily. The ball tipped from the end of Bulbasaur’s vine and bounced away, loud in the uncomfortable silence. Charmander caught it and stared wide-eyed at the huge humans.
“I didn’t break anything,” Sara huffed, jumping down to the floor like she hoped they’d forget she’d been up on the desk a second ago. She stooped to gather scattered instruments and dump them into a tray knocked from the edge of the desk.
“Don’t worry about it, Corey,” Professor Oak said. “This room is meant for working with pokémon. We wouldn’t keep anything fragile in here.” He smiled a crinkly smile at Sara and asked, “Well? Have we come to a decision?”
Bulbasaur snorted and turned away before she could even get a word out, and she paused, prickling with indignation. She hadn’t even wanted the stupid bulbasaur, but still. What did it think was wrong with her?
She couldn’t dwell on her consternation, though. Everyone was watching her, waiting. She raised her arm and pointed, totally assured. “Charmander.”
Squirtle let out a gurgle of shock and indignation, and Charmander looked more nervous than anything, glancing from side to side like it thought there must be another charmander she was talking about.
“Figures,” her father sighed. “Give her three options, and she picks the only one that could burn the house down.”
“That’s my girl,” her mother said, and the two of them exchanged a smile. Charmander stared fixedly at Sara as she took a cautious step forward.
“Is that okay, Charmander? Would you like that?” she asked.
The fire-type examined the ball in its hands, took a quick glance at Sara, then returned its attention to the ball. Squirtle grumbled to itself, a pinched frown on its face. Finally Charmander raised its eyes once more and, slowly, nodded.
Sara smiled so wide she could feel it stretching her cheeks. “A good choice,” Professor Oak was saying, somewhere high up and far away. “He’s a little shy, but he’ll make a good battler. The tail flame’s not nearly as dangerous as you might think. It’s cool enough that…”
He wasn’t talking to her, just giving her parents some spiel to make them stop worrying. All Sara’s attention was focused on the Charmander. Her pokémon. Her first pokémon. She rushed forward, arms out wide, and grabbed the lizard up in an extra-tight hug.
Her mouth was already open to declare they were going to be best friends when a horrible squawk and a bright flash of pain cut her off in a shriek. She pulled back with tears welling in her eyes, and Charmander scampered away on all fours. Suddenly the adults were all crouched down around her, babbling urgently.
“Here. Let me see that,” Professor Oak said, taking her hand firmly.
Sara sniffled and gulped, looking down at the ring of red marks, a couple beads of blood welling out. “It–it bit–”
“Barely even broke the skin,” Professor Oak said briskly. “A quick wash and a band-aid and it’ll be perfectly fine.”
“But it–it–” Sara tried to be brave, but tears were starting to well up anyway, stopping her throat with sobs she refused to let go.
It didn’t help when her mother put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Maybe we should wait, Sam. She’s not of age yet, and we could find someone to loan us an experienced pokémon to watch her during the expedition.”
No, she wasn’t old enough, but what was going to change in one stupid year? She hadn’t even been a trainer for fifteen minutes and already she’d made her starter hate her. Her starter, her most loyal, tamest pokémon, and it had actually bitten her.
“Nonsense,” Professor Oak said. “She’s fine. She just has more to learn, that’s all. No reason to wait on that. Now.” He turned to smile at Sara, like he didn’t even notice she was crying. “What do you say to Charmander?”
The pokémon was trying with little success to conceal itself behind the leg of the nearest table. It was watching her with those huge, dark eyes, but ducked its head when Sara turned its way.
“I-I don’t know,” she choked, unable to keep a note of desperation out of her voice. “I don’t k-know what to–” She didn’t know anything about being a trainer, or about pokémon, or anything. How could she have ever thought she was ready? Pokémon classes were nothing like this, with their docile example subjects who didn’t mind being poked and fussed over by children. And if she couldn’t do this, what would happen when she met an actual, wild pokémon?
“Well, what do you say to anyone you frightened?” Professor Oak asked patiently.
Sara was so stunned she actually stopped crying. “But it bit me!”
“And I’m sure he’s sorry about it, too,” Professor Oak said. “But how would you feel if somebody ran over and picked you up without giving you any warning?”
Sara sniffled and cleared one eye with the back of her hand. “Dad does it all the time.”
“Not anymore, kiddo. You’re too heavy.” Professor Oak exchanged a brief smile with him while Sara wiped off her face, indignant and confused.
“Well, you did scare him. You moved too fast for him to figure out what was going on. He bit you because he was frightened and wanted you to let go, that’s all. But you didn’t mean to scare him, did you?”
Sara shook her head and muttered, “Sorry.”
Charmander leaned out from his hiding place enough so that one eye was visible and made a breathy “char” noise.
“There we are,” Professor Oak said. “Now how about we show Sara here the right way to pick you up, Charmander?” He held his arms out towards the pokémon, which hesitated, its gaze roaming over the adults and his teary-eyed trainer. Then it cautiously came into the open, only to jump when Squirtle made a sudden noise behind it. Then it practically ran to Professor Oak, who swept it up with a businesslike efficiency that spoke of long years spent manhandling pokémon.
“You want to support him under both the arms and legs, like so,” the professor said. “Be careful not to trap the tail between his body and yours. You’ll smother the flame and make it feel like you’re choking him. And if he gets scared, the fire could heat up enough to burn you or set your clothes on fire.” Right now the charmander’s flame was barely visible, hardly more than a distortion in the air around its tail. The scientist held Charmander out towards Sara, and after a second she reached out, slowly, and drew a couple fingers down the lizard’s back.
The scales were rough under her fingers, much rougher than she expected, and warm to the touch. Charmander watched with huge, dark eyes, but it allowed her to pet it until Professor Oak drew back, saying, “There. No harm done, see?”
“Still, I think we ought to talk this over, Sam,” Sara’s mother said, and her father nodded. Fear tightened Sara’s gut, and she shot Professor Oak a pleading look.
“Well, it’s how long until your trip? A month or so, am I right?” Professor Oak asked. He set Charmander down, and the lizard stood stretching a moment, whipping its tail back and forth. The flames flared briefly red and orange before settling back to a translucent flicker. “Why doesn’t Charmander stay here at the lab, and you can come visit him after school, Sara? You’re old enough to ride the ferry by yourself, aren’t you?”
She nodded, fast, before her father could get out more than a rumble of protest. “Excellent. Why don’t we see how that goes, and then we can make a decision when it comes time for you to leave?”
Sara waited anxiously while her parents deliberated by gaze alone. But Professor Oak winked at her, and she relaxed, just a little bit.
“I suppose we could try it,” her mother said.
“Maybe you could do your homework on the ferry,” her father said pointedly. “Dr. Oak isn’t going to let a pokémon go with someone who isn’t responsible enough to keep up with their schoolwork.”
“No, of course not.” And this time the twinkle in Professor Oak’s eye was for her parents instead. Sara stifled a sigh.
“All the same, Sam, are you sure the charmander is the best choice? Maybe one of the other two would be better,” Sara’s mother said.
“It’s fine, Amanda, truly. Everyone makes mistakes. The whole point of a journey is to learn about how to get along with pokémon, isn’t it? It’s not something you’re expected to know from the beginning.”
Sara risked a glance at the charmander, which was watching her quietly. She wondered what it thought of her coming back to visit.
She had to try, didn’t she? Professor Oak thought she could do this. She couldn’t just give up now. Maybe she wasn’t cut out to be a trainer, but if she wouldn’t even try, she definitely wasn’t ready.
“Is that settled, then?” Professor Oak asked. It sounded like a question for her parents, but it was Sara he turned to for an answer. She blinked the last of the wetness out of her eyes and stood up as tall as she could, and nodded with every scrap of confidence she could muster.
Professor Oak smiled. “Excellent,” he said. “Now, let’s see if we can’t find you a band-aid.”
“Aaron! Aaron!”
His older brother was in a particular favorite spot, lounging in the doorway of an old tool shed, picking flakes of paint off with his fingers. The rest of the gang ranged around the bottom of the steps on old crates or the pitted concrete ground itself. They all turned at Nate’s call but gave no sign of greeting.
“What?” Aaron asked as Nate panted to a halt in front of him.
“Look! A pokémon! I found a pokémon! See?” He shoved the shoebox under his brother’s nose.
Aaron and the pidgey studied each other. The bird was huddled in a corner, all the feathers on one side sticking up wrong, a wing hanging limp.
“Huh,” Aaron said, and the surprise in his voice let the others know there was something actually worth seeing. They clustered in on all sides, peering down at the pidgey, which watched them warily in turn.
Nate swelled with pride and excitement. “I found it and it’s mine now. I’m gonna take it to the Pokémon Center and when it gets healed I’m gonna be its trainer.”
Aaron snorted. “Not if Mom finds out you ain’t.”
“She won’t! I ain’t going home no more. Me and Pidgey are gonna take the League challenge.”
“You ain’t old enough to do that, stupid,” Mitchell said.
“Even if you were, you’d still be too little, runt,” Aaron says with a smirk. “You could try to get your license, but they’d just laugh at you.” And everybody did laugh, all around the circle.
“They would not! And who needs a stupid license anyway? We can still battle and everything.”
“With a pidgey?” Anchal said. “All you’re gonna do is lose with a weak pokémon like that.”
“Pidgey ain’t weak!” Nate clutched the box tighter, trying to ignore the way the older children pressed in around him, cutting him off on all sides. He kept his eyes on Aaron, whose lips were quirked with amusement. “Walker has a pidgeot and it’s his best pokémon, so there!”
“Who the hell is Walker?” Mitchell asked.
“Violet City gym leader, stupid!” Nate said, daring a smile as the older boy’s expression darkened.
The smirk on Aaron’s face cracked into a full-on grin. “What, some Johto fag?”
“So you wanna grow up and be an even bigger faggot, huh, Nate?” Derek asked, giving him a rough shove.
“I ain’t a faggot!” Nate yelled. “I’m gonna be the best trainer ever, and I ain’t never gonna come back to this shitty place again! I only came to say goodbye.” And to show his friends what he’d found, of course. But if they were just going to be stupid, then fine, he would leave.
He was turning to do just that when Aaron grabbed the lip of his box. “No, stop!” Nate yelped. He tried to pull away, but his brother wrenched the box out of his grasp with hardly any effort at all.
“You want to be a trainer, Nate, you’ve got to get yourself a better pokémon than this,” Aaron said and dumped the pidgey onto the ground. All the kids drew back as the pokémon struggled to its feet. It turned from one to the other, feathers fluffed out and making strident warning chirps. But when it tried to kick up a gust, fluttering its good wing hard, all it managed was a breeze that sent a couple cigarette butts rolling.
The children closed in again, and now they were grinning. Nate started towards the pidgey, only for Anchal to grab him and drag him back. “Stop!” he yelled. “Stop, that’s mine!” He twisted around and tried to punch Anchal, but after all she was the biggest and strongest of any of them and acted like she didn’t even notice.
“I mean, look at this thing,” Aaron said. “I bet it couldn’t even win one single battle.” He took a step forward and kicked the pidgey so it went sprawling over on its side.
“It’s strong! I just have to take it to the Pokémon Center. Stop!”
But now Derek stepped up, emboldened, and aimed his own kick at the bird. It didn’t come close to hitting the pokémon, and when it turned in his direction he nearly fell over in his haste to get away, but the others hooted and cheered nonetheless. Then they were all crowding in, taking it by turns to get a shot at the bird.
Nate yelled and pushed against Anchal’s arm, but all her attention was on the spectacle. He could only catch glimpses through the press of bodies, but he could hear just fine, both the pidgey’s piping cries of distress and the laughter they set off. Nate’s struggles did no good until suddenly Anchal dragged him forward and shoved him into the middle of the circle with such force that he stumbled and nearly tripped over the pidgey.
The bird was pressed low to the ground with head down and eyes closed. Nate backed away from it, suddenly aware that the group had gone quiet. He hadn’t properly realized how many of them there were. He turned to Aaron.
“See?” his brother said. “It’s worthless. Hell, I bet even you could take it in a fight.”
“Bet he couldn’t,” Carlos said.
“Yeah, he’s scared,” Anchal said. “Look at him.”
“No surprise there. Everybody knows he’s a pussy.”
Aaron didn’t say anything. He waited.
When no attack came, the pidgey raised its head to look at Nate. It recognized him, he was sure. It looked up at him and its eyes were all pleading.
Hot anger bubbled in his chest. Stupid bird. It wouldn’t even fight back. He brought it out here to impress his friends, but all it did was act stupid. And what was it even looking at him for? Acting like this was this was his fault, like he was supposed to save it. But it was a pokémon, it was supposed to be protecting him.
The pidgey raised its head a little higher. It let out a soft, weak chirp, and all Nate’s angry disappointment boiled over. He moved without thinking, and he couldn’t even see as he brought his foot down hard. His awareness shrank to nothing more than the roar of blood in his ears and the impact of his foot against the concrete, again and again. He’s not weak and he’s not stupid and he’s not scared, he’s not, he’s not, he’s not!
He found himself shaking, breathing in deep angry bursts as exhaustion sapped his strength and anger both. Tears blurred his vision, and he blinked them away, still too mad to be horrified that it looked like he was crying. For a wonder nobody was making fun of him for it, either. The other children were quiet, staring.
“Fuck you!” he screamed at them. “Fuck you! I ain’t scared! I am too gonna be the best trainer, and fuck anybody who thinks I won’t!”
Silence answered that, and Nate began to feel vaguely foolish, standing there with his fists clenched trying to stare down everyone at once.
“What the hell was that?” Mitchell said at last.
“Forget being a trainer, he oughta be a pokémon if he goes batshit like that,” Carlos added.
Cold horror unfurled in Nate’s gut. He hadn’t done anything–he only did what they wanted, they wanted him to fight the pidgey. He did it, he wasn’t scared. He looked over at Aaron and found his brother frowning. He was disappointed. Aaron was disappointed in him.
“What a freak,” Anchal said, and Nate cringed at the disdain in her voice.
“Seriously. ‘Stop it guys, stop it, stop,’” Mitchell said in a high-pitched voice, stomping his foot in huge, exaggerated strokes. More tears prickled at the corners of Nate’s eyes, and he tried to ignore the jeering rising on all sides and keep his eyes on Aaron, only on his brother.
“Come on, guys,” Aaron said. “We’re holding Nate up. Let’s let the master trainer and his pokémon get started on their journey.” He turned to go, not even waiting for the wave of laughter that followed his words. The lot of them flowed past Nate as he stood frozen, a couple making a point of running into him, hissing a last sneered remark. One gave the pidgey a final kick, and it flopped over limply.
Then they were gone, and Nate was left by himself, his fists clenched even harder now, biting the inside of his cheek as he struggled to hold back his tears. He glanced at the pidgey and then had to turn his head away, squeezing his eyes shut hard. He hadn’t wanted–but they’d made him. And now it was lying there like that and maybe it was even dead and–but no, that was stupid, you couldn’t kill a pokémon just by stepping on it.
Nate gulped down a huge breath, wiped the treacherous half-formed tears out of his eyes, and squatted down next to the pidgey, reaching out a hesitant hand. The feathers were downy smooth under his fingers, at least where they weren’t gummed together, stiff with blood and sticking out all crazy. He could feel the bird’s chest moving faintly as it breathed. So it was alive. Of course it was alive. Good.
It really needed to go to the Pokémon Center now, though. The shoebox lay on its side nearby. Nate picked it up, slowly, but then all he could do was sit there and watch the wind tease the pidgey’s dirty feathers. It would wake up soon. Would it attack him? And if he got it to the Pokémon Center, then what? There was no way the pidgey would want to go with him, no matter what he said. It hated him now.
Even though it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t wanted to. They made him.
He remembered the pidgey’s look and that pathetic little noise it made. Hopeful. Expecting him to save it somehow. He burned with shame for a moment, and again there rose in him that desperate, aching feeling of wanting to cry. He won’t, though, shoved the feeling aside with anger, because it’s not fair. What was the stupid thing even expecting him to do? It was a pokémon, it should have been able to fight. Stupid bird. Maybe if it doesn’t want to get hurt it should try not being so fucking weak.
Nate threw the box down and took off running, each hammering footstep beating out away, away, away. Away from his friends. Away from the pidgey.
Stupid bird. Anybody could have told it not to expect him to save it. Anyone could have told it all he was ever did was screw shit up.
Night was falling by the time he came back, one fist closed around a handful of birdseed scooped from under a feeder. The pidgey had to go to a Pokémon Center. Pokémon healed fast, and a few bruises would be no problem, but a broken wing needed someone to look at it. He at least had to try.
A streetlight cast a greenish spotlight on the place where the pidgey had been lying. There were a few scruffy feathers there, nothing more. No sign of where it had gone–no blood, no nothing. Nate searched around behind the shed, in old drainpipes, under the scattered crates his friends had been sitting on. He even tried calling for it, a couple times, but his voice sounded so thin and lonely and stupid that he stopped.
Well, good. He dropped his handful of seeds and wiped his hand on his shirt to dislodge a last few sweat-stuck to his palm. He didn’t even want the stupid pidgey anyway. It was obviously well enough to get away, so it could figure things out for itself.
Or maybe something got it while it was lying there unconscious or too dazed to move.
Or somebody else came and took it to the Pokémon Center. It was just gone; no point worrying about it.
He stood there until the churn of his stomach made him realize he was hungry. Somehow full dark had come down in the interim, casting everything in angular shadows. It was dinnertime.
He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t face Aaron, who of course would know immediately what had happened. After all he’d said about leaving, there he’d be, back again. Plus Mom would probably be there.
But the city held many hiding places, especially for someone small. Not far away there was an old warehouse where the bottom of the door had rotted out, leaving a space just big enough for him to squeeze through. He banged on the door a couple times, hard, and listened–sometimes feral cats got in there, and raccoons, and sometimes even pokémon. He didn’t want to crawl in right on top of one of those. He didn’t hear anything, though, and when he shimmied in under the door he was alone.
There was enough light coming in through the boarded-up windows to see that something had been in there, scattering newspapers around the room and leaving a pile of droppings in one corner. He gathered the papers back up and piled them on top of his nest of ragged old towels and discarded magazines. It was actually pretty warm, even if did make funny crinkling noises.
He lay down with his head on his arms, but his stomach kept growling, and even with his eyes closed he could see everybody laughing, laughing because he was small and stupid and weak and he messed everything up again, just like always. And there was the pidgey, staring at him, waiting for him to save them both.
Stupid bird. He curled up tighter in a noisy crunch of paper, then lay still and listened to the distant sounds of traffic while warm wetness seared the edges of his eyelids. He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t want to hurt the pidgey. It wasn’t his fault, anyway. They made him do it. He never wanted–never…
He will be a pokémon trainer someday, a good trainer, the best trainer ever. And he won’t have some stupid pokémon like pidgey. He’ll get a real starter and catch all kinds of strong pokémon, like a dragonite, maybe, or a gyarados. Gyarados are cool. And he’ll grow up to be big and strong and he’ll travel all over Kanto getting rich from winning battles. He will, no matter what anyone else says. And then nobody will make fun of him, or push him around, or laugh at his ideas again, not ever. Not ever.