Children came. Trainers left.
That was what it knew.
It didn't get attached any more. The Squirtles left as soon as they came, being sent out to replace the Squirtles that had been chosen. Bulbasaurs, gentle beasts they were, tended to stick around, but eventually they, too, would be gone as well.
It didn't bother to greet the Charmanders any more. They were often gone by the next day, its kin being the most popular starter.
It had never been sent out as an option.
It had long given up on hoping. Once upon a time, it had hoped. Every time the number of Charmanders would dwindle, it would think that maybe, this time, it would have a chance to be chosen. But, by the time it woke up next, there would be ten more for kids to choose from.
The Professor was a good man. He didn't mean it any wrong – it knew that. Every time he took a different Charmander, he would apologize to it and offer it a Poffin.
'A Charmander with your Nature will never be chosen.' He would say apologetically. 'I don't want to watch you be rejected.' It didn't know what a Nature was, or why it would make it undesirable. It had never noticed any differences between itself and the others.
At some point, it just stopped caring.
It ate, and it slept. Day after day, it did only that. Any Pokemon who dared approach it were greeted with a burst of flame, gnashing teeth or slashing claws.
But the flow of Pokemon slowed. Soon, there would only be one or two of each species.
Finally, only it was left.
It preferred things this way. It was quiet, and it was left to sleep.
And then the Professor came in. Tension tightened his shoulders, and bags darkened his eyes. He looked around, frown deepening, before his eyes landed on it.
He reached up, strokng his chin thoughtfully. 'Perhaps...'
And then, before it could react, it was withdrawn into a Poke Ball.
Was it...
Did it dare...?
Could it dare to hope?
Time passed differently in a Poke Ball.
Days, months, passed in seconds.
So it did not know how long it was inside.
And then it was being let out, and thousands of thoughts flew by in seconds.
Was there a trainer waiting for it?
Would they be young, bearing the squeaky voices it had heard so many times? Or would they be a rare adult? Weathered and heavy of knowledge?
Would they be a boy, rough and tumble and itching to fight? Or a girl, one who would try to make it pretty?
Or would it be a girl who was into Gym Battles, training it to be strong. Maybe a boy who dreamed of Contests, attempting to make it be elegant and flashy?
Would they view it as a partner, an equal? Or simple a means to an end? Would they let it make its own decisions, allowing it to choose when to evolve, what moves to learn? Or would they train with an iron fist, forcing it to bend to their commands? Would they keep it at their side, a staple of their team? Or would they toss it into the PC after finding a stronger fire-type?
With those thoughts in mind, blue eyes slowly opened, and looked up at its new trainer.