Scene 1: The Season Kicks Off

The television screen burst to life with the smiling face of an energetic sideline reporter staring straight ahead. Her silky black hair curled ever so slightly, draping perfectly over her checkered blouse. The grass battlefield, with its signature Pokeball center, provided her backdrop.

Her voice was buttery and polished. Young though she may be, her anchor-like delivery was perfect—undoubtedly the result of many years of practice. "We're about fifteen minutes from the contestants entering the arena for the first match of the season and the energy in here is electric. Most of the seats have already filled, with fans coming from far and wide for their chance to be a part of history."

Tristan's stomach dropped. Beads of sweat scattered across his forehead while he took sporadic breaths, attempting to get his nerves under control. Sitting on the dressing room bench, he stared blankly at his feet, unable to look at the screen any longer. The reporter continued. Her voice was pleasant, but her words? Less so.

"Twenty-year-old Ezra Faust, who became only the second teenager in history to win the U21 Solo League Championship last year, is the overwhelming favorite to defend his title. His powerful lineup of Pokemon, his decisive battle tactics, and his enigmatic personality made him an instant crowd favorite. That's why SL-21 fans were elated when he decided to forego entering the Premier League early and decided to return for his final year of eligibility as he looks to chase history—becoming the first two-time champion ever.

"His first challenge of the season? Seventeen-year-old Tristan Slater, an alternate from Sinnoh, who received his invite a mere two weeks ago. He's here because the initial qualifier accepted a contract from the Sunnyshore Luxray's senior team instead. Tristan's lineup and tactics are largely unknown, as the only official battle he has under his belt occurred during his first year of high school, where he didn't even use his own Pokemon.

"You may ask yourselves: 'Then why was he selected?' His invitation was extended by way of recommendation by former gym leader and renowned Pokemon master, Paul. When I asked Paul, 'Why Tristan when he has no history on which to base the decision? Why him when there are loads of trainers with more experience and accomplishments?' he simply replied, 'I guess we'll see.' Not the most glowing endorsement, but there you go.

"Though having such an influential figure in your corner is helpful, it won't help on the battlefield. He has the element of surprise going for him, but with such short notice, not being the initial invitee to begin with, and facing off against one of the most spectacular young trainers we have ever seen, Tristan certainly has his work cut out—"

Tristan couldn't take it anymore. He turned off the TV and buried his face in his hands. Nausea set in, and it took everything in him to keep everything in him. Seconds stretched beyond their normal bounds; a gulf of empty time growing larger between each tick of the clock.

Anxiety set in, a rapid tapping of the foot all he could do to pass the time without upsetting his stomach any further.

Next to set in were the intrusive thoughts. 'You don't deserve to be here.' I know. He clenched his knees with his bony fingers.

'You didn't earn this.'

I know. He nervously started rubbing his thighs.

'You'll screw this up just like you do everything else.'

I know. He rocked back and forth ever so subtly.

'He'll crush you.'

I know. He shut his eyes so tight, his young skin betrayed where crow's feet would set in decades later.

'You're a failure.'

I know. A tear or two rolled down his nose and dripped to the floor.

"Ten minutes until places ready," blared a voice over the intercom. Tristan couldn't hold it any longer. He rushed to a stall, where he expelled the pent-up toxicity he'd been trying to keep contained to his stomach. The mess he put in the bowl resembled the mess that had followed him most of his life.

After a final heave produced no bile, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and tried washing the rest of his thoughts away in the sink along with his germs. He stared back at himself in the mirror. Was it really him? Those hazelnut brown eyes looked far too bloodshot, the skin looked more translucent than the typical pale, the back—while normally rounded—more resembled a Rampardos's hump. It couldn't be him; it had to be a stranger.

"Five minutes until places ready," came the voice once more. Tristan shivered. He knew it was okay to feel nervous, but it should also be okay for him to feel joy and excitement. Unfortunately, just like his stomach, his heart felt empty and cold—chilled by a life of sorrow.

He looked at the door—not the door that led to the arena's entrance, but the one that led to the exit. He had half a mind to up and leave. He'd be better off being mocked for running away than embarrassing himself on live television. If he ran, no one would remember his face after a few weeks—maybe months—and he could soon be forgotten. If he stayed, he would never escape the onslaught of hurtful words and jokes shared at his expense.

Sensing her trainer's plight, Absol emerged from her Pokeball unprompted, her scarlet eyes fixated on Tristan with a sharp resolve.

"Don't w-worry about-t-t me," he assured his partner while stroking her fur, though his stutter would offer little assurance to anyone else. He'd had it since he was seven, and it had proven an effective target for many a bully. She'd become accustomed to it, though.

Even though he'd had Absol as his partner for quite some time now, he couldn't help but stare in wonder. Her magnificent white coat sparkled even in the poor lighting of the dressing room. Her appearance brought back memories of their first encounter. "I'll be fine. It's you I'm worried about," he told himself as much as he told Absol. "I don't want any of you getting hurt on my account."

Absol remained silent, staring back at him as if to say, 'You can't fool me.'

The tears started welling up in his eyes once more. "Absol, I don't think I can do this." He buried his face in her fur and sobbed. She made a deep, warm growl, almost like a purr. It didn't take long before her warmth thawed his frozen heart. She had always been there for him when he needed her most. She'd be there this time, too, along with everyone else.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked back at his Pokemon and gave a little chuckle. "Okay, you win. You've made your point."

One final time, Tristan heard the intercom voice. "This is your final call. Trainers, please proceed to the entry point."

"Well, shall we?" he asked. Absol gave a confident bark before being recalled to her ball. Tristan, less confident than his Pokemon, but more confident than he had been just minutes before, stood and made the lonely march to the arena entrance.

The tunnel buzzed with excitement. Smells of mochi bowls and Lumiose galettes crept in, making Tristan's now-empty stomach growl with desire. He hadn't eaten all day—a decision he now started to regret.

A man dressed in a blue suit pointed and shouted instructions in a constant flow. Aids scurried in every direction, each doing their part to make the event the best it could be. Tristan stared forward, their movements fuzzy blurs in his periphery. Then everything went quiet. The tunnel doors swung open.

Tristan entered the arena like a zombie. The aids had hoped he would hear the announcer call his name, but his ears were overwhelmed by the roar of the crowd. They had hoped he would see the aid signal him forward, but his eyes were fixated on the flashing lights and excited hum of the crowd. Instead, they had to pull him out.

He felt numb as he entered his trainer's box. He gave a nervous smile and forced a wave to the crowd as he stared at the empty trainer's box across from him. He was completely out of his element.

The lights went dark once more. After a collective squeal of delight from the crowd, they started clapping in time, their claps getting faster and faster with each strike. Finally, the tunnel door opened and a tall, confident young man emerged to an arena exploding with cheers. The announcer presented his name with an energetic zeal. "Your reigning champion, Ezrrrraaaaaaa Fooouuuuuust!"

This was his home stadium in Saffron City, so the crowd was expected to be slanted in his favor, but this was overwhelming. Everyone was pulling for him. Ezra strutted to his position with a steely, determined smile gracing his face, waving and blowing kisses along the way. He relished in the moment. The polar opposite of Tristan.

The moment was a blur. Tristan could barely comprehend what was going on as the referee took his position at the center of the battlefield. "Competitors, good luck to both of you this coming season. This is an official match of the U21 Solo League. The rules are as follows: this is a full, six-on-six battle. Each trainer may have one Pokemon on the battlefield at a time. The winner will be declared once all six of the other trainer's Pokemon have been ruled unable to battle. Dynamax is not permitted. Each trainer is limited to either one Mega Evolution, one Z-move, or one Terestallization. Each trainer has up to three substitutions. Using a technique such as U-Turn, Flipturn, or Volt Switch is considered a substitution. A Pokemon knocked out of the field of play must re-enter the battlefield before making a move. If they fail to do so, the trainer will be docked a substitution. The second time, the Pokemon will be ruled unable to battle. The third time, the trainer will forfeit the match."

Tristan knew the SL-21 rules like the back of his hand, but hearing them again made him nervous he'd forget it all. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath.

The referee gave his final pre-match instruction. "Trainers, select your first Pokemon. When the flashing light turns green, throw your Pokeball onto the field."

The moment had come. It was too late to back out now. Tristan held up his first Pokeball and stood at the ready, even though he didn't feel ready. He looked across to Ezra, who had that same confident smile plastered on his face. Tristan longed for that kind of confidence.

The competitors bowed to one another, then the countdown began. Red, red, green. "Go!" The match between the prodigious champion, Ezra Faust, and the late write-in, Tristan Slater, had begun.