Chapter Two: Protest.
Actually, it was still a pretty nice morning. Very sunny. Also, pseudo-mom hadn't chased me into town with a kitchen knife and a copy of Woman's Day. That was nice of her. Acting casual, I glanced around to see if anyone was among the many races or religions I had severely insulted at the top of my lungs while escaping the den of Quadrilateral Lady.
Apparently no one was, so I strolled around, looking over the one or two other houses and the large, important looking building to the north. There were a few people outside as well, but the evidently hadn't noticed my profanity-laden entrance into the outdoors. Actually, they didn't seem to notice much of anything. I watched as they walked odd little patterns around the town, never actually doing anything. Step. Pause. Step. Pause. Step, step. Pause. This was freaking unusual. Deciding to move of my own will before I became one of them, I made my way towards the large, attention-seeking complex that overlooked the rest of the town. Before I got to the front doors, I noticed something red standing to the left of the building. ADD all the way, I strolled on over to the color, throwing caution to the wind (that is, if there had been any wind to throw caution to. The air was almost eerily still).
Huh. The red was actually hair. Hair attached to a person, no less. I looked him over. He had the effeminate rock-star look going for him. Long, straight red hair that was too perfectly disheveled to have been done by accident. Not natural red like mine, but an unholy crayola-color dye-job the color of fake movie blood. Moving past his face I noticed his attire.: Tight jeans, well-worn shoes, trendy jacket over a plain white t-shirt. Damn. He was prettier than me. Or he would be, if he'd wipe that scowl off his face. What had the wall to the huge building ever done to him? (I assumed it was the wall that made him unhappy, he was staring at it so intently). Maybe the window in the wall had insulted his haircut. Or his mom. Or his mom's haircut. I resolved to investigate the matter in a very tactful, delicate manner.
"Hey dog, 'sup?" Wow. Even with the gratuitous addition of "dog" he didn't look over. I tapped him on the shoulder. Well, it wasn't the first mistake I made that morning.
He turned to me, scowling even deeper than before. With the full-on look of his face I realized he was in his late teens, around my age. I didn't think it was possible for him to look even more unhappy than he had before, but his eyebrows came down in an almost perfect 'V', and his rectangular eyes looked to be filled with unpleasant thoughts about where I should go when I died. Somewhere with a tropical climate, I presumed. Did I just insult his mom's haircut somehow? Ignoring the sense of impending doom rising in my stomach, I cheerily continued the conversation.
"Watcha looking at?"
Ladies and gentlemen, if looks could kill, even the tiniest fragments of an atom would dwarf the miniscule little pieces his glare would have obliterated me into. Still, I persisted. What did I have to loose? I didn't even know where I was.
"Sorry about your mom's haircut." That threw him off. His glare faltered into a brief look of bewilderment, then flashed back into the full-force leer he wore so expertly. He turned back to staring down the window. I turned to stare with him, then turned to face him, then back to the window again. Well, I certainly didn't hear it insulting anyone. Finally, I tried talking again.
"Well, I'm Mercedes. What's your name?"
Angry kid whipped around to face me, his expression the absolute epitome of furious…until he started crying. Weeping, more like. Uncontrollable sobs broke through his throat like machine-gun fire.
"I-I d-d-don, don't kno-ho-ho-hooow!" he sobbed, falling to his knees in his despondency.
It was a trap. It had to be a trap. It was definitely a trap. Trap trap, trap trap trap, trap. I'd go to comfort him, maybe put my hand on his shoulder, and he'd snap my neck like a toothpick, or maybe beat me over the head with a loose brick, or just stare at me until I imploded. That would teach me to insult his mother's haircut. Definitely a trap. I ran from the pathetic, sniveling pile of glam-rock clothing and into the giant building the confrontational window was a part of.
If I had a slight instance of déjà vu in Polygon Woman's house, I had a severe case of it now. A slight intern-looking guy with John Lennon glasses paced the floor. Rows of bookcases left a small opening to the back, where I could see an older gentleman in a white coat similar to the pacing intern's. The older guy was gust standing there, beaming at me. Professor Elm, I presumed…wait. I knew this geriatric doctor. The eager guy from my dream! And I definitely saw this room before…what was that on the table next to Elm? Three shining, red-and-white balls were neatly lines up next to each other, their round bases somehow keeping balance on that flat surface. Pokéballs. What. The. Fuck.
Slowly I turned towards the front door and oh-so-casually ambled out of the building, as if to say "Oops! Haha, Wrong number!". I saved my panicking for the outdoors, quickly shuffling to the side of the building opposite of the sobbing teen.
"Okay, let's review the facts," I thought. I hadn't played Pokémon since I was, what? Eight, ten years old, maybe? And then only the original Red Version. I might have borrowed Yellow from my neighbor once. I never returned it, did I? I think she moved to Tennessee, actually, and it's not like I was about to mail it- okay Mercedes, focus. I was probably in one of the later versions of the game and not the show. If it was the show I'd be a dude. And I was definitely NOT a dude. I double-checked my boobs. Yup, not a dude. Also, the kid in the show- Ash, yeah, Ash- didn't get to choose his Pokémon. His douchebag rival Gary took them all or something like that, and Ash overslept…Gary was the other Professor's nephew, or grandkid, or bastard child, right? Whatever. I wasn't a man, and it looked like Elm was going to let me pick my Pokémon, a la the gameboy games, not including Yellow Version. That was good, I guess. And "Mom" gave me a cell phone before. Kids get cell phones in these games now? Spoiled kids these days and their new-fangled game systems…whatever.
I further deduced that red-haired crying kid was probably my rival, because you get to name your rival, and due to the mini existential crisis I just created, I obviously wasn't up to that part of the game yet. Also, it looked like I wasn't subject to the linear gameplay the Pokémon games usually forced. I made Rival Boy cry, and I bet that wasn't part of the gameboy game. Also, I hadn't been forced to walk up and greet the Professor when I wandered into his lab. I remembered the old games made you do that, once upon a time. So I had free will. Suck it, philosophers back in Reality. I figured that one out in just one morning.