Journeyman
R E V E R S I O N E D
A Pokemon Fan Fiction
By Nicholas Clark (Warriorsong)
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Joel looked out his window, the regular flashing of his monitor unnoticed in his detached mind. Out the window, through the panes and beyond his reach, he could see the trainers beyond the boarders of the city, the occasional billow of dirt and the sporadic darkening of the sky testimony to the clashing of elemental types.
Joel expelled his breath sharply and with a sour look on his face, turned back to his PC.
Data entry. Always the data. Every time one of those 'trainers' encountered a new attribute, ability or type differentially. Once the pokedex took it in, copied its data to one of the rating systems, BAM.
All correlation from data examined by the League officials and professors, both in Kanto and Johto, came here, to the Pokemon Assimilation Archive Centre.
Joel had worked at PAAC for three years. While many children left home at age ten or so to begin their pokemon adventures, some stayed at school, studying until fifteen, rather than beginning again at age twelve or thirteen or continuing via correspondence.
Joel hated it. He didn't know whether it was just he or they, but when they returned, experienced in the ways of the world and the ways of pokemon, he got the distinct impression that they looked down on him.
Like he wasn't good enough.
It had been nagging him, eating at his subconscious like a fungus.
He had thought it was insecurity, needing to prove something to them. He knew now what it really was.
Joel grabbed the test pokedex off his desk. The pokedex was given to all employees, a measure used in order to test that the data being entered was compatible with the system formats and fit within valid perimeters.
Not that he knew the specifics, none of them did. It just worked.
The pokedex went into his backpack. Joel looked at his desk, assorted knick-knacks and paraphernalia laid across it. He swept them into the open backpack with his arm, switching his PC off with his free hand.
Joel stood, placing his backpack on his chair and running his hands through his spiky brown hair. Pushing the ends behind his ears he grabbed his three-quarter length jacket and shrugged it on.
He scratched the small patch of hair below his bottom lip as his hand reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. The package was still there, against his chest.
He zipped his bag and slid it onto his left shoulder.
One last look at his cubicle, the screen blinking with its non-shut-down-error warning and he was gone.
It wasn't the rest of the world that needed him to prove himself. It was only he that needed to prove something to himself. All doubts aside.
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The air that streaked between the Celedon high rises cooled Joel's temperament, tendrils of his hair fluttering across his face.
The simple process of stepping out from the PAAC building onto the bare stained pavement was almost a catharsis, lifting the burden of responsibility from his shoulders and replacing it with the wide eyes exuberance of freedom.
His coat billowed behind him as he turned on his heel and began the walk to his bed-sit, his boots crunching the concrete beneath him.
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The door opened slowly. Mrs Mac had been upset to know that one of her quieter, more well behaved tenants was leaving. Still her "upset-ed-ness" (Joel wouldn't call it sadness) was a welcome change to the comedic rage that Mr Himbry had displayed when Joel had told him to "go fudge himself".
Joel had never liked the guy and the feeling was reciprocated. Mr Himbry in his "tightwad pencil-necked buraecratus" (as Joel called it) took his broody eyes and straight jaw for an insufferable "rebel punk anti-authoritarianism"
Joel enjoyed baiting the bald, almost lizard like man. And enjoyed more the fact that he got away with it, simply because he was the most productive.
Himbry had tried to get him fired on several occasions but word from on high had given him a certain untouchability.
The look on the boorish manager's face was well worth his never returning to work at PAAC.
Mrs Mac had been amused by the story, her and Joel often discussing the man over Sunday dinner.
Joel smiled as he closed the door behind him and cast his eyes over his meagre possessions.
The old lady had been like a grandmother to him, taking care of him since his father had died leaving the young boy well off and providing funds for the old housekeeper to raise him.
She had cried when Joel had given her the letter signing all the remaining funds in the trust to her.
In his eyes it was simply a token gesture, he could never repay her for the kindness and love.
He had announced he would leave in the morning, kissing her wrinkled cheek goodnight.
He sighed and set to work.
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Disclaimers
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Pokemon is licensed and trademarked by Nintendo, Gamefreaks, 4 Kids and others.
If any of this information is wrong, my most humble apologies. No copyright infringement is intended, this is merely a work of fan fiction. I am in no way affiliated to any of these companies and people and what not. Thanks for reading.
Compiled 3rd March 2001, Reversioned 16th January 2008. By Nicholas Clark (Warriorsong). I did have some other notes for this fiction but I couldn't really bring myself to write them. The story made sense but in an environment where every other Pokemon fiction has a super-powered variant of an existing type, it seemed and bit contrived and try hard. Basically, all of Joel's belongings were boxed up and Mrs Mac opened a cupboard, within were a poke-ball and a ring on a red velvet stand. Joel takes it, balances it in his hand, bounces it and shrinks it. Obviously a Master-ball of some description. He leaves taking the train or bus to Pallet. Meets Oak and gets a pokemon, grass type most likely due to gym types or fire / water (Charmander was always a favourite of mine and my usual start type). Eventually, near his travels to Mount Moon, Joel was to discover a Mutated Persian, base element type, near the old Mewtwo Project lab. It was to be the size of a house cat and have a blue crystal as well as telepathic abilities. Also something about a Caterpie to Butterfree transformation, by using the Metapod stage like a rock. That was my planned direction at least but I think this small piece serves well enough as an explanation to how one person could be driven to become a trainer based on his environment and his past.