He starts awake, the game controller slipping from his hands and clattering to the bare floor of his second-story bedroom. It's an antiquated videogame system hooked imperfectly to a salvaged old CRT, but playing it allows him the rare opportunity to relax when he's dreading the big day.
Today.
"Okay," he murmurs to himself. "It's time to get going."
Lurching, deliberately stalling, he strolls over to his secondhand desktop and checks the torrent. There's one available file, a single-use instance of some GMO treatment. He fabs it, places it into a pocket of his pre-packed hiking backpack, slings the bag over both shoulders.
No more putting this off. Quickly, lurching and leaping past the broken and weakened steps, he makes his way downstairs. A glance at the cracked tv; some coming of age movie, kids leaving home. Perfect. He strides over to his mother, whose eyes are shining as she flicks her gaze between his face and the television.
She gathers herself with a deep breath, murmurs "Right." More boldly, she continues, "All boys leave home someday. Says so on tv."
Grim smiles. A shared moment.
"The Professor is looking for you. Next door."
Her smile fails. His does, too. He nods mutely, and walks outside.
The sunlight is glaring, blinding, a stark contrasting light against the untreated wood of the Professor's Pallet Town. He turns left, and takes a measured stroll next door. It's late, too late; the Professor hates to wait. Might even have left home for the morning (his heart flutters at the thought of possible delay, even with the promise of later punishment).
There's a young girl in a filthy dress playing in the lot between his home and the Professor's. "I'm raising mons, too!" she exclaims, a wild gleam in her eye. "When they get strong, they... they can protect me!"
He avoids her eyes, keeps moving. Let her have the delusions while she can. She'll be ten one day. Time to face the music.
He ducks in the front entrance of the Professor's communal home. "Hey, Jack," a Sister says. "Oh, sorry, I mean... You haven't chosen yet, have you? Hey, whoever you are. My brother is out at Grandpa's lab."
She's always been kind, if a bit inconsiderate. He'll miss her. He nods, and leaves without another word - nobody enters the lab unless they work there, or the Professor is present.
Straight out, then, and to the Laboratory - the largest building in the commune, and the most vital. The seat of government, the local defense unit, the mon development center, home to the fabricators for mon and consumable alike. It's the only building in town made of true brick and treated wood instead of the plentiful pallet board. He takes a deep breath, strides in as confidently as he can -
- and discovers nothing but a group of acolytes, of the Professor's Aides. And the Rival.
His Rival.
"Gramps isn't here," the Rival sneers. "He said to come and claim my Pokemon, but he's gone out searching. Said you were late."
Seething, churning, frustrating rage. Where is the Professor? Why does the old man play these... games, these immature games? He storms back outside, nearly running down the morbidly obese town crier in his fury. Oblivious, the crier begins to expound about the joys of technology that the Professor has brought to The Pallet Town; the fabricators, the ability to deconstruct and store items and living mons alike as their constituent data packets, the memes that made possible the war and the new world. He's heard the crier's spiel before, and certainly doesn't have time to stop now.
Today is the day, and the Professor can't be bothered to wait.
Somehow, that's the last straw. He's out. He's leaving this commune - not as a pilgrim, not for the glory of the Professor or to discover new genetic memes for the research or safety of the community - just leaving. Just gone.
Purposefully, with measured steps, he walks to the town border, marked by a fence of rocks and the tall hedge of swaying, dying grass where the Professor's services stop trying to beat back nature. A deep breath, a foot forward -
And a booming, commanding voice rings out, halting his progress.
"That was close, my boy! Wild packet monsters, Pokemon, live in this tall grass!" the Professor shouts, a jovial yet mocking reproof for the boy that almost rebelled. As though to underscore the point, a particularly vicious instance of a feral mon parts the vegetation and leaps at the Professor - a dirty, golden-furred rodent, oddly bloated in that way starving creatures sometimes are, with shining red glands glistening on each side of its maw. It leaps at the Professor -
- who calmly and efficiently throws one of his signature round, crimson-and-chrome pocket fabricators at the creature. In a flash of red light, the rodent is scanned and deconstructed, shocked into enough stillness that the process can compile on the first try. The indicator light on the activation button flashes once, then falls still.
The Professor grins widely, mockingly. "All right! I caught it!"
As though the outcome were ever in doubt.
The Professor claps one hand over the boy's shoulder. "Whew," the Professor huffs, "that was scary. A Pokemon can appear anytime in tall grass like this, my boy. You'll need one of your own to fabricate if you're to survive the pilgrimage. For your protection, you understand." The Professor mimes an epiphany, snaps his fingers. "I know! Come with me."
With no further warning, the Professor drags Him by the shoulder back through town, parading him past what few citizens have ventured out during the blistering early afternoon and straight back into the Laboratory where the Rival still waits.
"Gramps!" his Rival exclaims. "I'm fed up with waiting on this twerp!"
The Professor cuts the Rival off with a sharp hand gesture, then affects surprise. "Grandson? Why are you here already? I said for you to come by later... Ah, whatever! Just... wait there."
The Professor turns to Him. "It's time. Today, you leave our commune and venture out into the world on your Pilgrimage. What name will you present to that world?"
He has put a lot of thought into this moment. "Yellow," he says. "My name will be Yellow."
The Professor smiles. "Look, Yellow. Do you see that ball I've placed on the table? It's a portable fabrication unit, commonly called a pocket ball or mon ball. It contains a map and corresponding genetic meme packet to flash-fabricate a single Packet Monster, sometimes called a Pokemon. On deconstruction, it will replace that map with an updated version such that the creature you fabricate will always be contiguous with its previous instance - provided that the specimen isn't so damaged as to no longer be viable. It is yours; you may have it."
Yellow continues to stare mutely; the Professor's face darkens. "Go on! Take it!"
The Rival interrupts. "Hey, Gramps! What about me?"
Rage momentarily rules the Professor's countenance. "Be patient, child. I'll give you one later."
The Professor turns back to Yellow and smiles. "That reminds me; this boy here, my grandson, is your designated Rival for this pilgrimage, is he not? It will be his duty to compete with you, to test you, to break your resolve if he can. As a member of the Family, he naturally holds a certain advantage over you; in recompense, you will be permitted to select his outsider name as well. What is his name, again?"
Yellow has put hours of thought into this moment. Initially, he had intended to name his Rival something vulgar and childish, both to undermine the boy's efforts and repay him for years of teasing and bullying...
But, in a sudden moment of compassion, Yellow relents.
"Gary. His name will be Gary."
The Professor nods and offers what is, perhaps, the first genuine smile Yellow has ever seen on the man's face. Emboldened, Yellow smiles back before making his way to the table and reaching for the fabricator.
Gary shouts, "No way! No! Yellow, if I'm to test you, I want this Pokemon for my own! I won't be cheated of my birthright just because the Professor likes you best!" The Rival rushes forward, shoves Yellow to the side and snatches the red and chrome device in one frantic movement.
The Professor's shouts are deafening. "Gary! What are you doing?!"
"Gramps, I want this one! I won't let you give this bastard an edge over me! I'm your grandson, a brother of the Professor!"
"But, I..." the Professor's expression softens. "Oh, all right then. That mon is yours."
The world drops out from under Yellow, an open pit where his stomach used to be. As if from a distance, he hears the Professor explaining that Gary was to have one anyway, that it shouldn't matter.
But it does. And Yellow knows it. It makes all the difference in the world. Yellow won't be sent on pilgrimage with a high-grade packet. He'll get a leftover, a feral, an instance of a wild packet that was bred instead of fabricated. Corrupted.
Weak.
He's snapped out of the fearful reverie by the Professor calling his new name. "Yellow, come over here, son." Yellow walks slowly, numbly away from the solid oak laboratory table - and back to the Professor.
"Yellow, this is the Pokemon I caught earlier. You may take it. I caught it in the wild, and it's not tame yet. I call this strain Pikachu, but you may nickname your instance, if you prefer...?" The Professor makes it a question. Yellow shakes his head quietly; he's not up to nicknames right now. He can barely think straight - this... wild rat... is practically a death sentence, and they all know it.
Blood pounds in Yellow's ears as the Professor brings the ceremony to a close. "The Pikachu can battle other wild mon, should need arise. Proceed to the next town, and search the local market for further instruction. Gary here will be just ahead of you, harrowing the way. Make haste, and bring us good fortune, Yellow of Pallet Town."
Yellow turns to leave, but Gary seizes his arm like a vice. "Wait, Yellow," he hisses mockingly. "Let's check out our new mons! I'll end this for you early, and spare us both the misery of a protracted journey waiting for you to fail."
Gary depresses the activation button on his fabricator and throws the unit to the ground to keep his body from interfering with the red flare of the nano units firing up. With impossible speed, the crimson cloud assembles muscles and cells, layered and constructed to form a squat, dog-like creature with a lush coat and unnaturally elongated ears. Yellow fumbles with his own unit, limply dropping the sphere even as his... Pikachu... begins fabrication. The rodent has less mass, and finishes fabbing just ahead of the dog. Yellow nudges it forward harshly with one foot.
The Pikachu requires no further prompting. It leaps forward with a growl; the dog mon attempts a simple tackle, and all are startled to see the Pikachu respond with what appears to be small-scale lightning erupting from those red glands outside its upper jaw. The two creatures give and take in quick, brutal bursts of physical force, growls, whipping tails and blinding electrical discharges. The battle is vicious, but the outcome is never really in question; the dog is capable of brute violence, but Yellow's mon is unexpectedly capable of bioelectric generation on a lethal scale. All too soon, the bitter fighting ends.
The Pikachu is gasping for breath; the canine is unconscious and bleeding heavily.
Gary retrieves his fabricator, muttering about being tricked into selecting the wrong mon; a red glow begins to deconstruct the injured pup. Yellow moves to do the same with his monster, then reconsiders. He pulls a length of rope from his pack, instead, and fashions a short leash.
A defiant look at Gary, a shorter glance to the Professor, and Yellow boasts: "This is the only instance this mon will ever fabricate."
Gary stares in mingled hatred and confusion; the Professor merely nods.
Yellow collects the customary winners' fee, turns, and drags the wounded Pikachu down the hall, out the doors, and away from the Laboratory without further ado. The whole commune seems to fill the streets as Yellow proudly, stubbornly drags his wild mon through the walking paths and past residences, up to the grass and boulders that serve as the border of The Pallet Town.
Yellow doesn't spare a single glance as he and the Pikachu disappear into the wild fields.
Only when the last shack disappears from easy sight behind the untamed sea of vegetation does Yellow calmly set his first camp, curl up in his pup tent, and begin to cry. He doesn't notice that the Pikachu, already partially recovered, seems just a bit larger than it was this morning.