Drawn Straws

Owing to budgetary concerns that required no lamp or fixture be replaced till failing totally, one overhead light buzzed faintly but incessantly. Of the three sitting beneath it, they fortunate to be selected, a consequence of many weeks' worth of effort—surviving preliminary dismissals, tests to see how quickly each would adapt to dangerous situations, checks for personality quirks, exhausting and exhaustive lectures that seemed more about exposure than education, et cetera—one found the sound to be particularly irritating. That one, already regarded as "nervous" although he did not know of it, struggled not to react, fearful that it could cause his rejection; there were so many others who would be glad to take his spot.

The bravest of the three, a fact likewise noted on his just-begun profile, sensed his companion's unease but not that unease's cause, and tried at calming him. "See, I was right when I picked us out of the group a while ago. They couldn't not pick us."

The third shook her head, an alternative to rolling her eyes. She wasn't sure why either of these two were selected, and it made her question if all this procedure wasn't much more than a lottery in disguise. Her behavior caught the attention of them both, but before silence pressured her to offer an excuse, the sound of a door unlocking and opening drew away the humming spotlight.

"Alright, you three. The time has come!" Professor Kapok roughly gestured for them to follow him, being more concerned with not spilling what he held—six folders and some electronic gizmos. In order of their courage, his three guests took the lead down the corridor. Soon, the now-empty waiting room's motion sensor's timer would expire and the buzzing lamp would be let to rest.

Following dutifully after Kapok strode ahead and performed key-card duties, the three spoke among themselves, mostly about their pending appointment with destiny.

The nervous one began shaking when one door refused passage when Kapok swiped his card. "I don't think I can go through with this. What if the one I get doesn't like me?" He looked back, slowed down, and looked like he might try to run that way, no matter that the opposite door was already shut.

The third didn't let herself pass him, instead turning him to face forward and forcing him to take another step. "Starters can be traded like any other pokemon, but I think it usually becomes a master-servant thing if there's no friendship. That's the risk you take."

Kapok finally succeeded in getting the last door to open and led the three into an artificial habitat, clearly designed with Grass-, Water-, and Fire-type pokemon in mind, although it was far too small to host three pokemon for any significant amount of time. The three immediately felt a bias, a preference for one element over the others, as they looked around.

While they took in the surroundings, Kapok crossed the chamber and opened another door.

Thus, in the center where the three faux climates met, also met three eager trainers and three eager pokemon.

"These are from different regions," stated the third trainer, plainly.

Kapok suppressed his immediate response tactfully and said, "I hope that a mixed set doesn't give you the impression that these pokemon are 'seconds,' so to speak. But, if you don't want one of them…"

"This one's mine!" shouted the first trainer as he rushed a charmander.

The second trainer twitched, sighed, and teased. "Really? I heard you liked mudkips."

"Nobody likes mudkips," shouted the first as he juggled the charmander in his hands, getting a feel for handling it, albeit roughly. "Water types stink, usually like mermaid ass."

The third trainer knelt near a pool and picked up the nervous one. "It's okay," said the young woman, "I like mudkips," as she picked one up. "And someday, we'll show him why, little guy." The third trainer raised her hand and waved at Kapok, affirming her choice.

The professor exchanged some of the papers in one folder with those in another, scanned a card through a trainer's device, and handed the lot to the girl. "Here's your gear. Your T.D. comes with credit for a few pokeballs and potions, spend it wisely. Oh, it's not on his record, but I think he's sensitive to old fluorescent lights, especially ones on the fritz, so you might be careful about that until you get him settled in."

With a nod, she accepted her equipment, recalled her pokemon, and departed.

Immediately, the boy who chose Charmander demanded his things, too. "Come on, Prof! I gotta chase her down and challenge her now, before that bottom-feeder learns a Water-type move."

Kapok chuckled and arranged that boy's things. Their transaction concluded, he looked around the enclosure. Were this scene anywhere else, he'd imagine it to be a staring contest. The third trainer of those selected to receive lab starters today sat on the artificial ground, legs crossed, right elbow on right knee, chin and cheek pressed against a closed fist. Four feet before him, a treecko stared right back at him. Kapok arranged the last of the paperwork. "You seem to be… remote." Kapok had tried different adverbs for that statement over the years, and "remote" seemed to be most often proved accurate.

"I guess I drew the short straw," the boy mumbled.

Kapok descended, sitting to form a triangle with them, letting what he held land in the middle to free a hand and aid his balance; he wasn't as young as he used to be. "I guess so. If you don't want this pokemon, you don't have to take it, but you'll have to give a statement explaining why, and you can't re-apply for a lab starter until next year."

The boy grunted and shook his head. "I don't want to wait a year to journey."

"That's no problem. There are plenty of pokemon to choose from. You can pick something out of the release pool at the pokecenter, or just find a tree and ask if there's a second-hand pidgey who wants to be again owned for a while before you dismiss it after you catch something more to your liking."

"That, no. It's just, Grass-type. You know how they go, you gave us the test on types. Fire-types are friendly and loyal and good if you want a close companion that's always got your back; Water-types make for good brawlers being strong and tough, and they seem to know when you need 'em but don't bother you much otherwise. And then there's Grass-type: Aloof, weak to everything in battle, and more often going to play tricks on its trainer than to help him, especially if they know those paralyze and poison techniques."

Kapok glanced at the treecko—she still stared at the young man. "Those are stereotypical cliches, they aren't always true. But, they are more often more right than wrong. Well then, Son, I guess you wanted the mudkip instead?"

"No. A swampert wouldn't fit in our house. It's too small for something wide-bodied and four-legged."

"I see, you wanted the charmander, but the other boy outran you."

He smirked for a second. "I'd, yeah, a charizard would've been cool. Nobody would mess with me if I had one of those."

Kapok glanced at the treecko—she eventually blinked once. "It's a shame, then. There aren't many charizards in Ocimene. Some of the well-to-do folk kept them as symbols of prestige, but after the Miss Corintalla controversy—well, now that that's blown over and tail-tip insulator caps are available, they're becoming popular again. But you'll need something to get you started so you'll have something to trade for a charmander later."

"No. If I had to trade for something, there's other things I could get. It's, I wanted to start with something I'd want to keep, you know? Even if it's not league-champion good, something I wouldn't regret."

Gathering up the folders, Kapok identified and cast aside the ones holding the paperwork for the other two trainers and their selections. "One of our region's gym leaders made us start doing this—all this paperwork and folders and stuff—many years ago. I hardly remember when I first started and it was a total free-for-all: Grab a Grass-, Fire-, and Water-type, put the balls on the table, and for each lot it was first-come-first-serve. Now, we go through all these exams and questionnaires, good thing they're fill-in-the-bubble so the computer scans them and scores them for us. Anyway, we do about the same thing with the pokemon while we get them up to level 5. Probably nineteen times out of twenty, the starters and the trainers walk out paired the way we expect them to. Think about that for a moment."

The trainer thought, but not hard enough, or perhaps his math skills were weak. "Is this the one out of twenty?"

Treecko scoffed.

The professor reminded the trainer, "If this is one of those times, then for you to get the wrong pokemon, the right one must have gone with one of those two."

"They liked the pokemon they got. It must be another kind of mix-up."

"It must be." Kapok opened a folder. "Psychological profile results, yada-yada, 'questions asking about personality traits desired in a partner pokemon favor extroversion without regard for consequences, while questions designed to determine compatibility strongly favor a pokemon partner that is distant but compassionately understanding. Select for this trainer a pokemon partner that is patient, self-reliant, and intuitively understands when this trainer needs companionship and when this trainer needs solitude.' And it goes on from there, but what matters is when we saw how this treecko handled a nervous mudkip, we knew she fit this bill of yours. It also doesn't hurt that, fully grown, she can fit in a small house's hallways—we do our homework on our applicants." Standing took a few tries, each failure announced with a pained grunt from the professor. He collected the set-aside folders and headed for the door through which he and the starters entered.

The trainer looked up. "Hey, what do I do, now?"

"Take your things and go, if you want them. If not, leave them behind and show yourself out—your door is unlocked. I have work to do, to get ready for tomorrow's trainers and starters."

"I can't just—I don't care about your stupid computer matchmaker thing. I don't want a Grass-type because it'll just get hurt a lot of the time, and then I'll have to take care of it and I can't… I can't even take care of myself. And if it understood all these things I've said about it, with it standing right here, staring at me… I know it hates me. Just like…" His head fell slack and his fist opened, now a spread palm that slipped into his hair-do.

He heard the sound of motion on the artificial turf for a moment, followed by the shutting of a large steel door. Raising his head, nothing stood before him. Twisting leftward he saw the treecko, walking backwards, dragging behind herself a folder with a trainer's device upon it. Arriving at the door, she released the folder, leapt to the door's handle, and swinging her body a bit, kicked against the door's frame to nudge it open. Not believing what he was seeing until the folder and T.D. were gone through, and the treecko returned to peek around the door at him, finally he stumbled to his feet.

"Hey! Wait for me!"