I am not your chosen one.
I've known that since the day I was born. I'm Mary Jane Reeves. I'm seventeen years old. I like fruit and curling up with a nice book. I don't like Pokémon. They're confusing things that I can't understand, and I'm just fine with that. They can go on living on their own, just as Lord N decreed however many years ago. I don't really care.
I live in Nalik. I don't know much about where it is, but I know it's an island surrounded by a forest. There's something beyond the woods, though. I know that much. Sometimes the elders like to sit around the fire and talk about the old days.
It's funny that we call them elders, because they really are rather young. I imagine my parents would have to be around their age. The only thing that separates them from the rest of us is that they were trainers when The Lord declared the first executive order: Trainers of the world, free your Pokémon. They like to tell us—the ones either too young or not even born at the time—of what they called 'the good old days'.
Preston tells the best stories. He keeps his hair long and brings his guitar with him wherever he goes, writing songs about his two blitzles that he had before the release. He says their names were Bolt and Volt. The three of them had many adventures together, and all you have to do is ask and he'll whip out his guitar, spinning his yarns and entertaining everyone who stops to listen.
I think we're the only ones who haven't given up. When I was very tiny, people still lived with Pokémon. Even though Lord N demanded that everyone let them go, many ended up staying with their owners. The relationship between human and Pokémon is something that's evolved over thousands of years. It's not something that can be erased with just a decree.
The elders—and many others, too—still believe that someday, someone will rise up and challenge the Lord, just as Hilda did before. I know all about Hilda's journey, of course, as many of the books I have access to document it. The only difference will be that while Hilda failed, this new someone will succeed.
So every year, the citizens of Nalik gather. Every year, a 'chosen one' is selected from the lot of us to be celebrated, to have a Pokémon bestowed upon them, and to be sent out of the safe haven of Nalik and into the world, which may or may not be hospitable.
We don't know because none of them have ever come back.
It's my second year in this drawing. I'm somewhat familiar with it now—the thirty-eight of us potential 'chosen ones' gather in the town square, and the mayor has us draw stones. One stone is painted red. Whoever gets the painted stone is the 'lucky winner'.
No.
My heart's in my throat as I stare at the stone in my hand. It's a trick of the light. It has to be.
Everyone's around me now, patting me on the back and ruffling my hair and congratulating me. "The Chosen One is among us!" someone announces, and the crowd cheers.
No, I want to tell her. No, you're wrong. The rock isn't red. It's a trick of the light. It has to be.
But she's wrong beyond that. They have the wrong girl. I'm Mary Jane Reeves. I'm seventeen years old. I like fruit and curling up with a nice book.
And I am not your chosen one.