On a level, I really did want to say goodbye to my Mom.

Yeah, she'd put me through hell. She'd nearly killed me, and refused to see that she'd done anything wrong. She'd tried to live through me, she'd expected me to take the place of a father I'd never really known. She'd endangered my life out of sheer delusion.

But that was all it had been. Delusion. After my biodad died, she'd spent most of her life in front of the TV. It'd be easy to pin her down as negligent - and make no mistake, she was - but it was a negligence and dissociation from reality born of grief. She took refuge in the escapism, and over time it became her reality. When she tried to push me into the grass, she didn't realise the danger she was putting me in. She'd really come to believe it was as simple as sending an unprepared ten year-old into the wilderness and expecting him to come back a Champion.

And for all that had happened, she'd have liked to see this day. It was, after all, what she'd wanted in the first place. I could have invited her; could have gotten the Professor to promise he wouldn't report the violation. He would have hated it, but if I asked, he would have done it.

But while he wouldn't stop me from inviting my Mom, by that same token of respect I wouldn't ask it of him. After all he'd done to protect me from her, it would be a slap in the face that he didn't deserve.

I didn't know what sort of state she was in these days - the Professor had wielded his influence as a shield to keep her away from me, and what few meetings we'd had were uncomfortable, harried, and brief. She'd lie in wait for me after school, wearing too much makeup and a smile of equal parts desperation and adulation, pressing some candy bar or Pokémon toy into my hands as she spoke breathlessly and without pause. Asking questions about my schoolwork, how my life was going, was the Professor treating me right, look how you've grown, I miss you I love you my boy my precious boy...

I never said anything. I was too scared. She reeked of anxiety, wine, and cheap perfume. I knew I wasn't supposed to be seen with her; I didn't want to be seen with her. She was embarrassing and desperate - a thin, twisted, ghoulish parody of the mother I'd grown up with. She'd keep her hands on my shoulders for a few minutes while she raced through a one-sided conversation, until inevitably the Professor or a teacher would notice and step in. Every time she'd protest with empty reassurances that no, it's fine, it's okay I'm allowed to see him, and every time she'd be ignored. And I'd be hauled away, mute and shaking.

She spent a few short stints in jail for violating restraining orders, and even underwent a brief committal to a psychiatric facility. As the penalties mounted, she came to accept that she'd lost me. The unexpected visits had slowed, then stopped entirely.

She was frightening, manipulative, and negligent in the extreme. She'd almost killed me, and she'd never admit she'd been wrong. She was the worst parent in Pallet Town - and, for all I knew, the world. She'd threatened to kill herself if she couldn't have me, right in front of me - her only son, a boy of twelve. She was abusive, and getting away from her was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

But for all that, she was still my Mom.

One day, I promised myself, I'd come back and see her.

Blue hadn't made it to the farewell ceremony by the tall grass, either. Daisy had knocked on his bedroom door, and when there'd been no answer she'd ducked her head in to check. Gone. No note, nor had anyone seen him leave. It was strange, given how reconciliatory he'd been last night - but perhaps seeing me go on without him was something he didn't want to be around for. He could be unpleasant to be around when he felt slighted. It was unintentional - there was no malice behind it - but he could, and he knew it. His decision not to attend might have been intended as a courtesy.

Naturally, it was all anyone could talk about. Typical. He wasn't even here, and it was still all about Blue.

I leaned against the masonry of the town wall, the open gate to my left providing shade from the early autumn Sun. The gate was eight feet tall and just as wide, solid oak, and always barred come dusk. It also had the particular distinction of being the only city gate in Kanto that opened inward. Naïveté, a gesture of welcome, or just bad design? Nobody was quite sure, and nobody cared to fix it; the gate's quirk had become emblematic.

That was one of the perks of living in Pallet Town - on a peninsula with a shoreline too steep to be accessed by sea and a land passage only traversable through the Reclamationist fortress of Viridian City, there were few serious threats the outside world could pose. It is in such places that practicality cedes ground to tradition.

Leaving aside the notable absences of Blue and my Mom, my departure ceremony boasted an impressive turnout - Daisy and the Professor, obviously, as well as the Professor's Dragonite, his aides, and a few dozen locals - most of them Trainer retirees I'd seen about the Ranch at one time or another. Between the temperate climate, relative safety, low cost of living, and access to the Professor, Pallet Town was a popular destination for former Trainers.

The convoy had even brought a small news team down from Viridian, presently engaged in an interview with the Professor. He was all smiles and enthusiasm, boisterous laughter when the interviewer made even the most passably amusing remark, constantly gesturing towards me in an effort to turn their attention my way. Having been the face of Pokémon research for some twenty years, he was quite used to dealing with the media.

He was also, as he'd confided in me, fucking sick of it.

The TV crew engaged the Professor for what seemed like far too long. The Sun continued to rise, and the heavy gate ceased to provide shade. I pushed myself from the wall and moved towards the town's exit, hoping that my obvious impatience would stir them on. I was ready to go. My backpack, camping supplies, food for myself and Eevee, Pokéballs, the Pokédex the Professor had gifted me with - I was ready. If I could have, I would have simply set off there and then.

But the Professor had impressed upon me the importance of maintaining a good public image, and it was never wise to disregard his advice lightly. Big fight purses were very rare - much more so than the media made it seem - and for most professional Trainers, the key to financial solvency was endorsements. Private Pokémon battles were a zero-sum game, and for every Arc won, there was an Arc lost. Signing on for even a minor advertising contract was worth more than a decent Trainer would make from actual competing in a year, so establishing a friendly relationship with the press was critical from the outset.

It was the only way the Professor could ever have financed his studies. Maintaining a large ranch with cutting-edge equipment and a permanent research team was tremendously draining, even in a place as rural and cheap to live as Pallet Town. He didn't just contract with Silph Co., he was one of their most prominent faces. The easy banter, the air of casual command, the understated sense of authority - they were honed through decades of practice, and more critical to the continued operation of his lab than any amount of scientific expertise could ever be. A fact he lamented, but couldn't afford to deny.

By contrast, Blue couldn't get enough of the media's gaze. The attention, the opportunities for wit and showboating, the chance to shock and amaze an audience - he loved every second. By mere virtue of being related to the Professor, he'd already gotten a taste of the limelight. By entering the competitive circuit, he could fully expect to be bathed in it...which made his absence all the more perplexing. Paparazzi and a crowd – Blue's favourite breakfast.

Rather than draw attention, I forced myself to stare out beyond the gate. The view was calming - but more importantly, I figured the image of a Trainer gazing into the untamed wilds would look striking.

I rested a hand on Eevee's Pokéball, since that seemed like the dashing thing to do.

Beyond the gate, the long grass started abruptly, going from paved concrete to waist-high stalks in a hard line. The grass was maintained as, again, a matter of tradition. The wall was a tacit acknowledgement that wild Pokémon were dangerous to human settlements, but the tall grass freely bordering the town stood as an olive branch.

We will take this much space for ourselves, and not an inch more. We may mingle, we may meet, but beyond this point all is yours. The line between our worlds.

I assume my pose was suitably impressive, because it wasn't long before the news team finally made their way over to me. The camera operator - a twenty-something guy in a short-sleeved beige shirt, irresponsibly tall - was the first to arrive. His hair was a blond mop, his eyes were lined by thick, black plastic glasses, and his chin sported the stupidest, scruffiest goatee I'd ever seen.

"Hey mate," he said. "You ready?"

The reporter followed behind closely – a short, obese, middle-aged man convinced that there was no male pattern baldness that could not be defeated by a sufficiently determined comb-over. Following up behind him was a taller, gaunter man in his forties - sporting a fuller head of neatly-combed hair, blond and grey indistinguishable. Surprisingly muscular for his age, draped in a plain white t-shirt, and bore a large disc made of some reflective fabric.

He started moving about me, placing the disc at different angles and turning to the cameraman for confirmation. The camera operator glanced at his screen, made hand signals this way and that, until eventually giving a grinning thumbs-up. I didn't dare move.

"Got it?" asked the reporter.

"Yeah, we good," said the cameraman.

"I like the light we've got here. Really has pop, you know?" the other man chimed in.

"Mmm, good pop," the cameraman agreed.

The reporter leaned in to see the screen. "Oh, that's nice pop, there. Good pop, good pop."

I stood there, wondering what in the sweet tits they were talking about. The reporter, apparently satisfied with the ambient pop levels, turned his attention to me and thrust a microphone uncomfortably close to my mouth.

"Here we have him, the protégé of Samuel Oak himself!" the reporter half-bellowed. "The Red Seviper! The scion of Pallet! He Who Would Be Champion, in the flesh! Tell me, young lad, what drove you to become a Pokémon Master? The money? The glory? The women?"

"Uh," I said, fingers drumming anxiously against my leg. "Well, depends what you mean by 'Master', exactly. I keep hearing the term, but it always seems really ill-defined."

The reporter kept his broad smile fixed upon his face, but the eyes grew flinty.

"But. Ah. Well, assuming you mean becoming a really good Trainer and such...well, I guess it just always seemed like the thing to do. You know?"

The microphone fell, and the reporter's overbearing enthusiasm was replaced by a sigh of open exasperation.

"Come on, kid. You need to give us more than that. You're continuing a dynasty, here."

I nodded, cheeks flushing.

"Give us the answer again, eh?"

Another nod. He raised the microphone, practically pressing it against my lips this time, and repeated the question - identical to the very syllable, I noted.

"It's something I've always wanted to do," I said, trying to project more confidence than I felt. "It's in my blood, I guess. My biodad was a great Pokémon Trainer, and my other Dad is one of the greatest who's ever lived. Don't know what else I could do, really."

The reporter nodded, lowering the mic.

"Okay, that's better. This time, though, I want a bit more enthusiasm. Something a bit grander, yeah? 'It's my destiny', something like that. You're gonna shatter the Gyms, you're gonna crush the Elite Four, you're gonna tear Lance to pieces and bathe in dragons' blood."

"Uh..."

"Pump it up, y'know? Show some energy, talk with your hands! Move around a bit!"

"Not too much," the cameraman said.

"Don't wanna lose that pop," added the reflector guy.

The reporter shook his head. "Don't lose the pop. Work the pop."

"Be the pop," the cameraman said.

"You are the pop, mate," said the reflector guy. "Keep that in mind, okay?"

This went on for a few iterations, with the team repeating their encouragements and adjusting my stance slightly for maximum pop. By the end, they had me putting a fist forward as I declared I was going to slay the dragons with which Lance had dominated for so long and line my throne room with their skulls.

The Professor's Dragonite seemed uncomfortable.

In retrospect, it was kinda silly, but they were really good at making me feel like I was being impressive. I was even starting to believe it. They were already calling me the Dragonslayer, though that seemed like a title that would take a bit more earning.

Eventually they called a wrap, once there was unanimous agreement that the pop had passed.

With the Sun rapidly approaching its zenith, and a long journey ahead of me, I finally managed to say my last goodbyes.

Daisy, who'd been preoccupied with trying to keep her laughter at a manageable level during the interview, had a broad smile accompanying the water in her eyes. We went in for a tight hug, and when I tried to pull back, she didn't let go.

"It's okay, sis. I'll be back."

"You'd better, or I'm going to shovel so much Ponyta shit in your face, everyone'll think they call you Red for the pinkeye."

I snorted at that, and slowly prised myself from her grip. She let go, reluctantly. Then I turned to the Professor.

His pose was rigid, his face displaying a practised expression of composure. To a casual observer, he probably looked perfectly calm. You'd have to have lived with him for a decade to notice the way his breath caught as he inhaled.

He offered his hand, which I ignored in favour of a full hug.

"Be careful out there, Red," he whispered. "You can always come back."

"Thanks, Dad."

We broke the embrace, and he patted me - just once - on the shoulder.

I turned to the grass. It was a simple ceremony, this, but ancient. I would step into the tall grass, by myself. I would walk forward, the gates would close, and my journey into the world would begin. If there had been another Trainer starting out with me, we would have gone through separately. We would meet up on the road ahead and travel together, but the first step was always taken alone.

Alone, but for one. There was someone else who would take this step with me.

I plucked the Pokéball from my belt, flicking it open. A jagged arc of pale blue energy streaked out, crashed into the concrete at my feet, and condensed into a small scrap of paper.

what

what

huh

what

...

?

I must have stared at that note for half a minute before picking it up. Looking back, I think I was actually willing it to become Eevee, as if reality had simply made a mistake and would remedy the error upon having it pointed out. You open a Pokéball, Pokémon comes out. That's how it works.

But when the note stubbornly insisted upon not being Eevee, I did, reluctantly, pick it up.

I was still too stunned to take the message in. Several lines of text - far too much information to process right then, but that wouldn't be necessary. All I needed to piece it all together was the familiar, three-word catchphrase resting at the end.

Slowly, I turned to the crowd behind me. Daisy, face in hand, arms tensed, scowling through her fingers. The Professor, stoic and controlled. The news crew, camera still running. The onlooking townspeople, whispering amongst themselves.

Everyone, staring at me.

You bastard.

He'd sent Viridian News a message from his Pokédex, telling them precisely when and where he'd be arriving. He told them where to position the cameras for him. At what angle they should point, laterally and vertically.

Over the years, many people have looked at that video, at the image immortalised on posters and billboards the world over, and remarked on what it represented. Look at the raw talent, they say, the potential.

These people do not know Blue. He was, and is, no mere prodigy. He did not stride into that image half-cocked, grinning at his tremendous good fortune. It was no stroke of luck.

When he walked towards Viridian's southern gate, silhouetted by the glorious lilac glow of an autumn sunset, arms outstretched, a roguish grin on his face - with Eevee at his side, a Pidgey on his shoulder, and a fresh-caught Ekans coiled around his right arm, fangs bared at the camera - he knew exactly what he was doing.

Every little detail, calculated to perfection.

Of course he didn't catch and tame two Pokémon in nine hours, while making the trek from Pallet to Viridian. He's a genius, not a magician. Nobody can do that, least of all on their first day as a Trainer.

But it wasn't his first day as a Trainer. He'd been a Trainer for weeks.

Ever since the spat with the Professor, he'd been spending every spare hour roaming through Route 1, secretly using the Professor's Pokémon to catch and train his own. The Pidgey's outspread wings, the Ekans' iconic pose - these weren't the result of something as pedestrian as mere talent. They were the product of dedication bordering on the fanatical, an analytical intellect tutored by the greatest scientist of the era, a painstaking attention to detail...and, yes, a healthy drop of natural ability.

But at the time, I wasn't admiring the brilliant display of showmanship. I was watching the footage of myself gormlessly turning to the camera, a scrap of paper in hand and a look of stunned, dull incomprehension on my face.

I looked like a sad Slowpoke.

He looked like a Champion.

"I'm going to kill him."

Across the dining-room table, the Professor arched an eyebrow.

He waited.

I sighed.

"Obviously I'm not going to kill him."

The eyebrow remained raised.

"Maybe maim him."

The eyebrow soared higher.

"Punch him."

He shrugged, and the eyebrow finally descended. He uncapped a pair of beers, placing one in front of me before taking a pull of his own.

"Why do you do that?" I asked. "Always have to take things so literally?"

He half-shrugged, absorbed in the bottle. He drank rarely enough that the novelty always seemed to fascinate him.

"Trainers are figures of considerable influence, Red, and a great deal of that influence is derived from reputation. When you make an idle threat that you fail to carry out, you look weak, and people will be less inclined to listen to the next one. When you make a declaration, it must carry the weight of truth behind it."

"Fine. I'm going to punch Blue, in the stomach, fairly hard."

He raised his bottle to that.

"See that you do."

We drank. Setting my bottle down, I gazed over his shoulder and out the window. Night. For perhaps the seventh or eighth time, the thought I could just set off tomorrow flashed through my mind for a second before being quashed by but you don't have a Pokémon. It was incredible how many times the same, obviously flawed idea could occur.

"When I catch him, I'll..."

The Professor's eyes flicked up to meet mine. His eyebrow was poised, twitching, just waiting for an excuse. I dropped my gaze to the bottle, allowing my shoulders to slump.

"...can I, even? Get Eevee back?"

He swished a mouthful as he considered the question, swallowing before answering.

"Strictly? Yes. Eevee is registered to you, you can claim him back. You'd have every law backing you."

He hesitated. I didn't fill it in for him. I just waited for him to say it, and jumped in when he did.

"But-" we said, simultaneously.

He stalled at that for a second, scowling slightly, before continuing.

"But it would ruin the story. Being a Trainer is as much image as anything else, and he pulled off a major coup today. If you demand Eevee back, he looks arrogant and entitled."

I stared pointedly.

"That's not good for you either, Red. As far as the media's concerned, you two are rivals now. It may not seem like it, but your position improved tremendously today. This morning, the pair of you were Professor Oak's protégés. Curiosities, two children to keep an eye on. Tonight, you are Red and Blue. Childhood rivals, jostling for supremacy. You may not see it now, but you only lost today's battle. Play this right, and today's events will be remembered as nothing more than the opening shots of a legendary feud. How you react to this will determine both of your images for years to come."

He raised one hand, palm upturned.

"You can demand Eevee back, and have him returned to you. Blue will look like a spoiled child, and you will look resentful and petty."

His raised his other hand in the same manner.

"Or, you can take it in stride. Make an address to the Viridian crew tomorrow. You can laugh, congratulate him on his clever little prank, and tell him that he can keep the Eevee. Tell him that you'll be right behind him, and that if he wants a war, he's got one. The press will eat it up, and both of you will gain prestige."

A minute passed in silence. I rocked my beer around and around on the wooden table, considering his proposition. Finally, I spoke, unable to keep a note of defeat from my voice.

"How long before I can get a starter?"

"Blue's was due to arrive in a week," he said. "A Squirtle."

I nodded, more to myself than to him. Squirtle was a solid Pokémon - fantastic, really - but...

"A week?"

"Yes." An idea seemed to strike him. "Unless..."

I raised my head.

"Unless...you remember that Pikachu I caught yesterday?"

I frowned. "The violent, angry, feral one?"

He nodded.

"The one that electrocuted the first aide who tried to feed it?"

Another nod.

"Who would have killed Jean if she hadn't been wearing a rubber insulation suit?"

Once more, he nodded thoughtfully.

"You're saying I should take a murderous, wild, untamed, Electric mouse? To battle the Ground and Rock Gyms?"

"High-stress situations bring Trainers and Pokémon together faster than anything, Red," he said. "And every day you spend waiting for a starter is another day that Blue pulls further away. How great a lead are you willing to give him?"

I stared at him, mouth slightly open but without words to speak. He couldn't be serious. The Professor raised his hands, palms open.

"I'm simply proposing an option," he said. "Perhaps Brock's Onix is secretly vulnerable to Th...to Thun...Thundershoaaa—"

He held his breath, face tensing in a frown, but he couldn't help himself. The smile broke through, and his fist pounded the table as he burst out laughing.

I rolled my eyes.

"Dammit, Professor," I said. "I actually thought you were serious for a second."

"I am disappointed," the Professor said between chuckles, "that you would think so little of me."