Chapter 11

  I’m chuckling. I’m loving it. This is awesome.

  In my room, sat on my narrow bed, back resting against the headboard, watching Emolga skip and sniff around. It’s only been fifteen minutes since we got inside. I put it in the Poké-Ball, as Zuqimori asked, rushed through my translation homework (probably making a ton of misspellings), then went to my room and closed the door before releasing Emolga, with no small dose of anxiety.

  After a minute or two, I began to relax. It was so clear now that I had found my pokémon. All my previous catches had been Zuqimori’s – not mine.

  None of Drilbur’s side-eye and passive hostility. None of Deerling’s haughtiness. None of Sewaddle’s look-past-me gaze. None of Foongus’s… well… nothing.

  Emolga looked like it was making itself at home, like a buddy that comes over for a sleepover. It felt right.

  “Are you hungry?” I say, slightly uncertain at whether or not it can understand. I decide that it must be, since creatures in the wild spend most of their waking hours foraging for food.

  “Stay here, okay?” I say to it. “I’m coming right back.”

  Emolga is cocking its head at me, watching me as I walk to the door and when I step out, it takes a hop in my direction.

  “I’m coming back.” I shut the door and rush over to the pantry room, feeling like I’m walking on air. This is so cool! I can take trips outside the cave now without shitting my pants! … I wonder how its evolution will look… damn this is cool! I wasn’t anything like Ash Ketchum (or should I say, Bradley, xd), who refused to evolve his Pikachu throughout his adventures. I planned to evolve Emolga the first chance I got.

  Zuqimori, by the sounds of it, is in the kitchen, blasting some music that carries through the cave’s corridors, singing along to some ballad that is neither in Japanese nor Standard. The music though, does sound slightly Japanese, like the koto and other string instruments that sound strikingly similar to those East Asian ones from Earth.

  When I reach the pantry, I’m slightly alarmed to see Foongus just planted and waiting at the door. I stare at it for a second before carefully stepping around and quietly turning the doorknob. It shifts a little.

  “H-hey…” I offer in greeting, forced by the awkwardness of the situation more than anything else.

  Nothing. It doesn’t react.

  Suits me, ‘cause I have not a sliver of sympathy for any of Missy’s minions. They chose to snub me despite all my friendly efforts, and since I’d seen Missy feeding them on more than one occasion, and Zuqimori ordering them around often, I had given up all responsibility for their care. They were, to me, like fellow housemates and nothing more. I doubted they’d be staying for too much longer though, now that Emolga was in the picture.

  As soon as I open the pantry door, Foongus hops inside, lazily as it does.

  If you think I’m giving you anything, think again, chump.

  “You waiting for Missy?” I say casually, looking through the shelves for something Emolga might enjoy.

  Foongus is tilting backwards, trying to get a glimpse at the manner of treats my hands are working themselves around.

  There’re jars of razz and pecha marmalades, an unopened box of Zuqimori’s favorite brand of instant noodles, diced bread in airtight wrappers, a whole bunch of roasted ‘pinuts’ in a sealed glass tray, and multicolored poké-blocks in larger, cylindrical cookie jars.

  Drilbur and the others seemed to like the blocks, but I want something a little more like real food. I had the impression that poké-blocks were like kibble, that hard brittle petfood which was more of a cheap snack than an actual meal.

  I slide open the cover and grab a handful of pinuts – They appear to me as something they might eat in the wild… and then a white poké-block just to be safe. Before I turn to leave, I spot what looks like a cereal-box-sized empty wrapper and reach down for it on the shelf below. It is for the poké-blocks. Perfect.

  “Po-ké… Mm- … Ma-… Mart?” I have to focus to read Standard, but I quickly glean out the larger font on the wrapper. It’s the brand. “Poké-Mart!” I grin. I picture the little blue-roof buildings from the games, where you went to buy potions, repels, and most other things that mattered.

  “I wonder what the real one looks like,” I think aloud. Maybe like the Circle Ks back home… or maybe like a massive Loblaws?

  Boy, it was like a flip had been switched. I was suddenly itching to go out and see what the rest of Unova looked like. To see what other people looked like.

  But you’re still fat, Bart. Remember that.

  I shake my head automatically, as you do when you try to dismiss an intrusive thought. But at least I don’t stutter anymore.

  …

  Who knows how long this’ll last… Maybe it will come spazzing back when you meet some kids your age…

  …

  Social anxiety was a long-time friend, and it seems I had let myself forget that over the past week at Zuqimori’s hideout. Just as quickly as they had arisen, my extroverted desires were quickly put in check.

  Alright, let’s assume people are the same – there’s still tons of pokémon to see…

  Right, my Anxiety agrees, That’s fair enough. I was only reminding you. It just won’t do to see you break all over again.

  Absently I drop a pinch of pinuts on the floor outside the pantry to bait Foongus out. When it does so, I snap the door closed and head back to my room, tucking the Poké-Mart wrapper under my arm and pondering what kinds of people I was going to meet beyond the bubble around Zeria Ruins.

  Would there be people like Duncan and Caleb? I was now certain that there would. I didn’t know their real names, or even if their actions from the various Pokémon media back home were anything to go by, but there was Silver (from the games), Gary (Oak’s grandson), and Paul (from the anime) to name a few. I would have to be embarrassingly na?ve to believe that this world didn’t have its fair share of assholes.

  …

  Just before I enter my room, there’s a faint scratching coming from the door.

  “Buddy!” I tap, holding the poké-block firmly. The scratching stops, and I push down on the doorknob with a balled-up fist.

  Emolga is a couple of paces in, standing on all fours and focused completely on my direction, ready for trouble. When it sees me, its ears twitch and its tail goes limp. “Myi-yey!” it squeaks, and I grin.

  “What’s that mean – like ‘welcome back’?” I get inside and close the door before strolling over and putting the handful of pinuts and the single poké-block down on the tiled floor, at the footboard of my tiny bed. “This is for you. Come try it.”

  I don’t think it trusts me enough to feed it by hand because despite jumping onto my head and hopping onto my knee during the face-off with Missy, it won’t let me get immediately close to it. There’s been a constant 30 or 40 centimeter proximity limit between us since then.

  I flick off my slippers and lie down, overlooking the small food offering and snug myself up with the Poké-Mart wrapper in hand.

  “Let’s see…” I flip the wrapper and scroll through the contents written on the back. As one could guess, it’s all in Standard, and that fuzzy feeling creeps through my brain as I begin my attempt to read. Besides the ingredients and a small table diagram for what I assume are the nutritional values, I notice, with some relief, that there is a sentence for each color. This specific product contains twenty-five blocks in total, five in amount for each of its five colors.

  I trace a finger to color white automatically and start reading like a three-year-old.

  …

  “Damn it.” I roll to one side, out of bed, and put a hand into the nightstand drawer by the wall. I copied the Standard alphabet on my notebook in case I wanted to practice outside the labroom, and God knows I need it now. As I get back on bed, I spot Emolga nibbling on pinut after pinut and smile inwardly in satisfaction.

  With the alphabet I make quick work of the poké-block descriptions…

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  White: Mildly sweet with hints of salt. Suitable for a large range of pokémon but especially popular among those that forage.

  Emolga still hasn’t touched it – the pinuts seem way better. It catches me peeking and looks at me with those black marble eyes before stuffing some more pinuts in its mouth and hopping away to eat in peace.

  As I read my way through the wrapper, I take special notice of the manufacturer’s address.

  Manufactured & Packed By

  Pokémart Foods Limited

  Plot 213, Castelia Industrial District,

  CASTELIA, UNOVA

  …

  There’s even a phone number and an email address. It’s unintentional, automatic, and irrational even, but I keep looking for hints that might give it all away. Some part of me still finds it hard to believe that I actually got transported to another world, like if I just look deep enough, I’ll find damning evidence that will reveal the truth – that this is all a dream.

  Of course, the saner part of me knows this is reality. I believe Zuqimori’s tale. I believe that Game Freak made its fortunes from the discovery of this world. And I was surely starting to believe in the old saying ‘Truth is stranger than fiction’.

  Ten minutes later, there’s a knock on the door.

  “Baruto-kun?” It’s Zuqimori.

  I push myself up, propping on my elbows as Emolga turns to the door with the same, ever-ready jitter.

  “Yeah?” I call back.

  “You not sleep?” he says without opening the door.

  “Ehh, no! I – uhh… I was reading!”

  “Emonga is in ball?”

  I look over at Emolga, head cocked at the door and begin standing. “Not yet! Why?”

  “You put in ball before you sleep, Baruto-kun, OK?”

  “Eh, okay!”

  …

  I only assumed it had to do something with the imprinting thing he had explained to me earlier in the day.

  “Tomorrow I will make some tests on Emonga, so you come to computer room before breakfast!”

  “Ok, Mr. Zuqimori!”

  “Ok. Oyasumi!” His footsteps recede back along the corridor to the kitchen, where his ballad music still plays faintly.

  Next morning came through a slew of broken and disjointed dreams. It was always hard to tell the time inside the cave since you couldn’t know if the sun had risen or not, but I had come to know the mornings by the sound of Zuqimori’s coffee grinder, which would whirr from the kitchen, faintly sounding along the corridor outside my room.

  I got up and put on my black lab coat and pair of jeans. Lab coats, Zuqimori was in no short supply. He always wore one for their practicality of pockets. The black ones weren’t any more resistant to electricity, but so long as I wasn’t struck by a continuous stream of high amperes, the material would hold – for the most part. Yesterday’s coat, after Emolga and co.’s barrage, definitely got a little screwed up. It didn’t look like something a press of the iron could fix either. The jeans, besides looking slightly dirty (from all the times I’d fallen down), seemed to fare much better.

  I picked up Emolga, inside its ball, and headed for the washroom.

  I hope she’s not awake, I thought, picturing Missy’s nasty face. I realized my body reacted to her in almost the same way it reacted to the bullies back home. Of course, Missy never slept. She was a Ghost-type, and that meant that many of the laws and considerations that came with having a physical body didn’t apply to her. I had seen her resting, hovering in some dark corner of a room, for ten or fifteen minutes at a time, but seldom longer and always with her eyes open, staring at nothing in particular.

  When I’m done washing my face and rinsing my mouth with some salty mouthwash, I walk past the turn to the kitchen and head for the labroom.

  …

  “Good morning, Baruto!”

  Zuqimori is at the larger monitor, a steaming mug of coffee next to the thin, wireless keyboard. Garuvan crackles with a spark and swings back and forth on the ceiling. The corners of my lips tug into a smile and raise a hand at it in salute. I love that spider.

  “Morning, sensei,” I say to Zuqimori. “I’m here with Emolga.” I fumble inside my jean pocket for the ball and show it to him.

  “Good,” he replies simply, holding out his hand for me to hand it over.

  I start towards him, looking around the hall-like room for any sign of Drilbur, Deerling, or any of the others.

  “What tests are you running?” I say, putting the mini-pokéball on Zuqimori’s palm. He takes the ball and types something on the keyboard.

  “We see its data.”

  I blink a few times.

  “Data… like, eh… stats?” Did pokémon actually have stats here?

  Zuqimori hits enter and the screen on the monitor displays what looks to be a map.

  “Data!” he repeats. “Like pain limit, decapitation resistance, and other important things.”

  I taste my mouth. The salty mouthwash taste still lingers. Zuqimori whirls to me with a searching gaze behind his cracked specs.

  “It is joke Baruto-kun, don’t jump on me. Emonga is very safe, OK?”

  I nod.

  “Is that a map?”

  “Hm? – yes. Map of city in Hoenn region. I have problem there with police…”

  …

  “What’s wrong?”

  He goes over to one of the workbenches filled with all manner of contraptions and digs around until he finds one that looks like a large, tubular blender.

  “Police need my help to catch criminal. I help for reward money. It is long and boaring story, Baruto-kun… you are not hungry?”

  “I wanted to see the tests…”

  “Oh!” he grunts, surprised. “It is not very difficult…” He puts the blender-looking machine on the desk by the keyboard and unscrews a lid on its block-like base. Emolga’s Poké-Ball is placed inside and he screws the lid back on. After a quick look behind his computer monitor, he pulls out a flash drive and plugs it into the Poké-Ball blender/ scanner/ thing-a-ma-jig.

  Powered on, the machine beeps and a small LED screen lights up inside the transparent tube! It’s like a hologram.

  I squint and catch letters and numerals in Standard.

  “It is going to take some time, Baruto-kun,” Zuqimori warns. “Go and make breakfast – you know to use grinding machine?”

  “Yeah…” I reply absently, looking inside the tube from different angles. As I pull away, out of nowhere, I say, “Can I go out later?”

  Zuqimori blinks at me. “Outside? …”

  “Y-yeah…”

  He looks over at the Poké-Ball reader and points. “With Emonga?”

  I nod nervously, bracing for his reply.

  “Very OK!” He thumbs me up and chuckles. “I thought you will wait for me to push you out.”

  Excited relief floods my veins. Awesome!

  “But Baruto-kun, you must not go very far – if you get lost, it will be hard to find you.”

  My heart is thumping happily in my chest. Too happily for any grudges. “Can’t you lend me Missy’s orb?” I say, holding an imaginary bloodred orb between my fingers.

  Zuqimori scoffs the suggestion away with a laugh. “Pokémon sometimes is not think with logic, Baruto-kun. Missy can help me to look for you if you are lost, but she will not give piece of herself to you, even if I ask. If I give you piece of Missy, the piece will not work. Switch off. You need first bond with her. Such things cannot be taken by force… Pokémon must give willingly.”

  …

  “Ah… But the star-piece, sensei… you took it by force, didn’t you?”

  …

  Zuqimori stares at me as a tinge of red flushes on his face.

  “Oe, OE!!!” he yells, pointing at me, wagging his finger accusingly before searching his desk, picking up a few stray pieces of paper and rolling them up into a harmless paper bat.

  “And that is why it fail, Baruto-kun!” he slaps the paper on my shoulder as I turn away.

  “That is why I’m sticking here, no?!” Another strike, this one on my arm. I make towards the doorway on the right, leading to a corridor that loops back to the kitchen.

  “That is why Jirachi bitch my motherfucker!!!” he says calmly, slapping his paper bat across my head.

  I stifle a laugh there. Bitch my motherfucker… what?

  I munch on the usual razzberry jam toast and sip on sweet coffee. Drilbur passed by a few times watching me eat from the side of its eye. I was in such a good mood that I threw some of my toast at it. It flinched and growled at first, but the smell of food soon wormed its way through its small brain and the next moment it was sniffing and grunting as it gobbled it up.

  “We could have been friends, you silly mole, but I wouldn’t take you now…”

  I was half-lying. Having a varied team was important. You needed different types to cover each other’s weaknesses, and if Drilbur showed signs of coming around, I would probably have him.

  Another thing was to consider the real capabilities of the pokémon. In the games, you could not look past the moves, or the stats, or even the nature, but in reality, pokémon were capable of truckloads more. Moves in the games, besides HMs, were purely for battle or contests, but now, for example, with a spark from Emolga, I could theoretically start a fire, and that had many uses. It knew how to glide, so theoretically, I could send it off on scouting trips or to pick things from places I wouldn’t normally be able to reach.

  The reality was that every move had a use outside of battle. Every move was a HM.

  After realizing that my toasts were over, Drilbur waddled out of the kitchen with gangster like swagger.

  Moron, I thought.

  Almost half an hour later, I head back to the labroom. Zuqimori is on the phone, speaking Standard in what sounds to be the case he was working on with the Hoenn police. He points at the Poké-Ball reader, urging me silently to take Emolga’s ball and I eagerly comply.

  I sit nearby, fiddling with the ball, hoping I don’t have to wait too long.

  I don’t. After a minute, Zuqimori says, ‘One moment, please…” and puts his hand over the phone’s microphone.

  “Baruto-kun,” he says in Japanglish. I perk up immediately.

  “You go out now?”

  “Y-yes!”

  He nods. “You stay close enough to hear my shout, OK?”

  “Yes!”

  “If Emonga fly far, you call to you. He is young male and is very healthy. Good catch!”

  I nod with uncertainty. I had a feeling it was male, and though I hadn’t really had the time to bother about the gender, it was good to know.

  “OK, you go,” Zuqimori said with one last nod. “And teach it words for electric attack!”

  I was walking through the final stretch of corridor. Unova was out there, waiting. Ambient sunlight flooded through the mouth of the cave, and the cool forest breeze blew inwards, past me. I gripped Emolga’s ball with a giddy feeling that grew with every step towards the great outdoors.

  When I finally stepped out, the world greeted me with the warmth of the morning sun and the rustling sounds of trees. Bird pokémon were whistling their songs as I released Emolga out into the morning.

  “Myey!” he chirps, then stretches his small body on the ground with a wide yawn.

  “Hey, bud!” I reply, hyped. “We’re going on a scouting trip!”

  Emolga scratches behind an ear with a rapid paw and a tiny spark crackles along his fur.

  “First things first…” I pull a small notebook from one of the wider side pockets of my lab coat and twirl a pen between my fingers. “I’m going to draw the path we take so we don’t get lost! Are you ready?”

  Emolga, sitting hunched on the floor, stares at me blankly and yawns again.

  It occurs to me then that I should give him a name. I was one of those guys that never nicknamed his pokémon. It had to do with some playground rumor I’d heard when I was a kid. They said nicknamed pokémon didn’t level up as well. I had believed it for years, until one day, I got on the internet and found out it was bullshit. The habit stuck though, like a tiny superstition.

  Saying Emolga was a mouthful though, so I decide he’ll have a name before bedtime comes.

  For now though…

  “Let’s go!” I step away from the cave and to my surprise and delight, I feel Emolga hop onto my shoulder. Laughing at the tickling of his fur on my neck, I reach up with a hand but he hops off and glides ahead, circling back after a dozen meters and latching onto the trunk of the nearest tree, watching me curiously.

  I’m giggling all the way into the woods, making sure I keep pen to paper, noting any turns and straight lines as I walk, with Emolga gliding back and forth, obviously following me.

  Where am I going?

  Not entirely sure, but with my brilliant map-as-you-go idea, I doubt I’ll be getting lost.

  >

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