Chapter I: Two Cities by the Sea

They may share an Elite Four, but Kanto and Johto are different places. The moment I step off Magnet Train into Saffron City Station, I feel it. The air is different. The smell—an unsettling acrid combination of fresh asphalt and the cherry blossoms planted to disguise the odor. The weight—heavy with the sighs of weary businessmen, breathy tension wafting all around. The energy—too fast and too confining and too resigned to the fate of living in a relentless concrete jungle. It's all different. Johto has a lazy comfort about it, an intimacy that even the crowded streets of Goldenrod can't strip entirely. Kanto is just cold.

I set my briefcase and bags of luggage on the ground, lurching slightly as a passerby bumps into me while I'm crouched. My scowl dissipates into the faceless throng of bodies when I realize whoever it was is already gone. I don't know what sort of welcome I expected from Kanto, but perhaps I at least figured simple civility would still be on the table. Sighing, I scan my surroundings for—I glance down at the name and description written on the crumpled scrap of paper pulled from my coat pocket—Ernie.

"Dr. Wilder!" My head snaps toward the voice, and I see a frantic arm waving a large piece of poster board bearing a truly awful scrawling of my name in red lettering. The arm wades through the human sea like a sad excuse for a Sharpedo until a short, lithe blond man emerges before me, face crimson and sweaty.

He extends a hand and wheezes a little. "Thank the gods I found you. Saffron sure is a doozy," he says, wiping his brow with the back of the hand holding the poster board. "I'm Ernie. I think the Center mentioned me?"

We clasp hands. I note his strong grip for such a miniature man and select a suitably friendly smile. "They did," I say, attempting to conceal the weariness in my words. "It's good to meet you, Ernie."

Ernie points at the sign. "I was hoping you'd see this, but I guess maybe I'm too short." Upon closer inspection, I'm moderately appalled to find tiny, grinning Teddiursa doodled around my name. Ernie mistakes my lifted brows for some kind of appreciation. "Yeah, I thought maybe you'd find them cute. Y'know, cause you're from Johto and all."

"They're… nice, Ernie." I force a bright expression.

Oblivious, he scratches his cheek and waves for me to follow him. "W-well, we'd better get going, Dr. Wilder."

"Please, just call me Reese."

He begins leading me through the station, hopefully to a car that can take us far away from Saffron and its stagnant lack of warmth. "Reese it is," he chirps. "I always err on the side of caution when meeting for the first time. Especially when they outrank me."

I'm glad his back is turned so that he can't see my frown.

"The parking garage is just through here," Ernie says, casting a glance over his shoulder when we reach a wide hall. His eyes suddenly bulge, and for a moment I'm worried a hideous growth sprang from my face. He scurries closer, grasping at one of my bags. "Gods, I'm such an idiot. I should have offered to carry some of this! What kind of gentleman am I being?"

I let my grip slack on a hefty tote, relieved it's only his odd sense of chivalry and not any of the other disasters my anxiety momentarily created. "It's OK," I tell him. "We're almost to the car, right?"

"Truck," he corrects, lifting the tote with a grunt. "The Center's vehicles are all trucks and vans. Easier to transport Pokemon."

I nod in acknowledgment, and we start walking again. Despite the hundreds of automobiles littering the garage, singling out the Pokemon Center's official truck takes little effort. It's an off-white color, a plump Chansey decal slapped on the side of the cab. Bold, black stenciling under the creature reads 'International Federation of Pokemon Centers.'

Ernie lugs my tote into the bed, motioning for me hand him more bags. I give him a lighter piece of luggage and toss the rest in myself. Except the briefcase. That stays with me. Always. Looking satisfied, Ernie meanders to the driver's side, and the truck beeps when he unlocks the doors. We climb inside. I feel like I can exhale for the first time.

"Here," my chaperon says, lying his handmade sign in my lap. "You can keep this. A welcoming gift."

The Teddiursa taunt me with their toothy faces and exaggerated ears.

I give him my best, most pleasant smile. "Thanks, Ernie."

Traffic in downtown Saffron dribbles along like oozing sludge. Ernie jokes about turning on the truck's emergency lights to beat the rush. He remains chipper throughout the ordeal, inching us closer to the main highway that rests on pillars high above Route 6. Ernie takes the opportunity to strike up a conversation.

"So," he ventures, "you worked in private practice before now, yeah?"

Small talk. The worst kind of talk. "Yes. A small family-owned clinic in Cherrygrove."

"Your family?" he fishes.

"My father. After Pokemed school I began work there."

He laughs. It grates my ears. "Old man forced you into the family business, huh?"

"Something like that."

If Ernie senses my discomfort, he ignores it. "Where did you go to Pokemed? I've heard a lot of Johto docs go out of region."

I rest my head against the cool glass of the passenger side window. "I was under the impression I already passed my interview." My tone comes out more clipped than intended.

"Crap. I'm doing it again," he groans. "Everyone always tells me I'm too nosy for my own good. Sorry, Reese. You're probably tired from the train anyways." He sounds sincere.

A prickle of guilt needles me. "No, I shouldn't have snapped. You're right. I'm just tired." Long pause. Awkward. Needs to be filled. "Castelia City Medical Institute."

I hear a low whistle and turn to see Ernie staring at me. "Wow," he says. That's all most people manage.

"It's really not—"

"Not what?" he cuts me off. "A big deal? Yeah, it's only the most prestigious medical school around. Pokemon or human."

This is why I don't mention it. Because people are impressed. Because it is a big deal. Because they ask how I made it in.

"What do you do at the Center, Ernie?" I ask, hoping to divert the topic to anything else.

He blinks at the abrupt shift but doesn't question it. "Me? I'm just a nurse. Glorified secretary, honestly. I mostly handle scheduling appointments and doing routine checkups the docs are too busy for. I shouldn't complain, though. I work at a Pokemon Center. That's good enough."

After a few more banal questions, we lapse into silence, comfortable this time. I pass the two hour drive to Vermilion watching Fearow and Pidgeot flocks soar at the high altitude. Johto has them too. Up here, it's easy to forget where I am. I catch myself searching for Murkrow before remembering this is cold, dreary Kanto. The mischievous, inky birds can't fly over the Silver Range. They'll never nest in Kanto.

At some point along the trip, I doze off. I awake to Ernie gently tapping my shoulder as I peel my drool crusted face from the window. We're here. Vermilion City. Illustrious port town and tourist trap extraordinaire. Wiping my mouth on a sleeve, I snatch up my briefcase and open the truck door, eager to stretch the throbbing out of my legs. A blast of cool, fresh air whips my ponytail around my head.

Vermilion City smells like sea salt and old age.

We're parked in front of an apartment complex, ivory walls and a gate probably welded overseas. Ernie unloads a few of my bags from the truck bed, and I run to help before he topples over trying to lift too much. Once all the bags are on the ground, he looks a tad sheepish.

"I hope this is the right place," Ernie admits. "You were conked out, and I didn't want to wake you. The Center gave me the address, but..." He waits for my confirmation.

The complex matches the pictures I saw online. The address matches too. I'm 24B. Fully furnished interior. Ocean view. A monthly rent that would bankrupt the average two income household.

"This is the place." Each of us carries about half my luggage a piece as we enter the lobby. An auburn-haired receptionist greets us with a manicured smile. I inform her I'm the new tenant. She asks if I received my room's keycard in the mail. I did. Ernie and I board the elevator and sag under the weight of my bags. I can tell by the way Ernie's head swivels around that wherever he lives isn't as affluent.

I hate it.

The elevator pings. My apartment is just a few paces to the left, mercifully. Inside, we drop my things in the living room. I spin to take in my surroundings. Modern style. Leather sofas. Stainless steel kitchen. It's a catalog page, not somewhere people with warm blood and sanguine skin call home.

Ernie drums his fingers on the back of a couch. "Amazing place," he chimes. "Great location too. Right by the sea."

My house in Cherrygrove was as well. Almost on top of the beach sand. Vermilion doesn't have a beach. Just rocks.

"It's beautiful," I agree. I haven't even looked out towards the deck.

He sways on his heels for second, studying his watch. "I know you want to get settled, but I'm supposed to take you by the Center. Might as well get going."

I shrug. "I assumed the Center supervisor would want to see me. Lead on, Ernie." I conjure another smile.

The young man attacks the task, enthusiasm almost painfully earnest. He points to landmarks and monuments as he guides the truck down Vermilion's smooth and well-financed roads. Each one has a backstory I promptly forget. By the time we reach the Center, I feel ready to fail a pop quiz on Vermilion's history.

From the parking lot, I can see both the harbor and the Gym. The Center has a strategic, intelligent placement, easily accessible to trainers and tourists. As such, it's a large building, designed to handle the constant flow of Pokemon. While I never worked in Cherrygrove's Center or spent much time inside, it's obvious that the Vermilion Center dwarfs it in all senses of the word. Rural and urban Centers are night and day in their differences. But I take comfort in the iconic red roof and the Pokemon Center motto adorning the front entrance: 'Where Pokemon care comes first.'

"Vermilion's a bit of a step up from Cherrygrove, I'll bet," Ernie says, ushering me through the automatic doors. It is, but I don't say so.

A plump Chansey waddles towards us, squeaking and flailing her stumpy arms upon sighting Ernie. He places an affectionate hand on her head. "Hiya, Bess. Did you miss me?"

Bess bounces happily, nuzzling Ernie's palm before fixing her expressive oval eyes on me. "Ah, this is Dr. Wilder… er… Reese. She'll be working here soon." Ernie beckons me closer. "Reese, Bess. Bess, Reese."

The Chansey bumps against my legs, her face burying in my stomach. I retract my briefcase to avoid whacking her. "You're a friendly one, aren't you?" I say, copying Ernie's delicate pat. Bess's delighted coo wins a genuine smile on my lips.

"Bess is still in training," Ernie explains. "She has a lot of potential. We're thinking she'll be really good at keeping long-term Pokemon company."

I detach myself from the Chansey. Tufts of her pink, downy fuzz cling to my slacks. I brush them away. "I don't doubt that."

Ernie manages to send Bess on a mission to dust countertops and guides us into the administrative wing. He chatters on about innocuous factoids pertaining to the Center. I mostly tune him out. I know he means well, that this is how people like Ernie manufacture rapport. The man has talking without actually saying anything refined to an art. But I've never been skilled at the subtleties at play during social interactions. Whether for lack of effort or innate inability, I'm not sure.

"This is the last stop, I suppose," Ernie says, reeling me back to reality. "Hannigan's office. Well… I'll see you later, Reese. You're gonna do great here." He seems like he might hug me. I'm relieved he does not.

"Aren't you my ride home?" I ask. 'Home.' It sounds artificial.

His eyebrows disappear into his bangs. "Oh! Right!" Rummaging in his pockets, he produces a car key and plops it in my hand. "Center car. Blue sedan around back. Can't miss the beauty. One of the perks of being a Center doctor, am I right?"

I'm strangely amused. "Car? Not a van or truck?"

"Would you rather have the pearl van with Chansey-shaped side mirrors? I'm sure it can be arranged." Mirth twinkles in his eyes.

I laugh in spite of myself. "I believe the car might be better."

We say goodbye, and Ernie wishes me well, chuckling as he departs. I'm left alone with my thoughts and Hannigan's office door, unable to determine which I'd rather avoid more. However, neither is avoidable, so I knock on the door—three taps, evenly spaced. A muffled "come in" sounds through the wood.

Bryce Hannigan is tall, almost as tall seated as I am standing. He towers above me when we shake hands, and I feel none Ernie's secure firmness, only a formal squeeze and a sensation that my fingers are yet intact simply because he deigned not to crush them. Hannigan directs me to sit in a chair opposite his desk. The cushion does not sink, as if in protest against perhaps its very first occupant.

"Reese Wilder," he rumbles. My name rolls off his tongue like he's tasting me. "When the Federation said they were sending you to my Center, I have to confess I was surprised."

Repressing a fidget requires all my poise. "Oh?"

He runs a hand over—not through—his slicked-back shock of graying black hair. "At face value, you look like a steal," he says, lidded eyes leering. "CCMI graduate. Internships at reputable Unovan hospitals. Letters of recommendation from prominent doctors. All very impressive."

Flee. Run away. You know what's coming.

"But then I saw your premed transcripts." Hannigan scowls. "Mediocre at best. Not good enough for admittance into a subpar Pokemed program, let alone Castelia City. So, I thought to myself, 'how did this girl ever get where she is now?' And then it clicked. Wilder. Nolan Wilder." His glare bores into my skull, my insecurities, my withering confidence. "Former personal Pokemon doctor to our very own Elite Four. A daddy with connections."

"I am every bit as qualified as every other doctor here." My rebuttal peters out past cracked lips.

Hannigan hold up a hand, palm out, silencing further objections. "I don't care, Wilder. You're here because people in high places pulled strings." There's bitter venom in the words. "But I'll tell you what. Keep your head down, don't make waves, and do as you're told. Things will go well for you. If not… Let's just say you're not the only one with connections. I don't need some flunky amateur playing pretend doctor in my Center."

My fists quake on my knees. "I'm a surgeon. I have experience."

Laughter. His. Strangled and disgusting. "One year at your daddy's retirement home." He sneers. "The junior staff are already having a field day with you. Most of them had to spend five years in a shithole Center someplace like Lavender Town before they even got an interview to work here, a Gym city. You? One year in podunk Cherrygrove fresh out of Pokemed. Only 26 and landing a job some don't get until their forties. Want to know what they say about you?"

I don't. I do. My throat constricts. "What?"

A lecherous gaze rakes across my body. "That you fucked the regional director, of course."

Suddenly, I'm on my feet, limbs trembling and my breath coming in ragged, unsynchronized heaves. This… this… bastard. I want to scream, to defend my dignity, to rage against the unfairness.

What unfairness? That you're in a position you don't deserve? Grow up, Reese.

Emotions boil over, spilling their frothy indignation in the shape of ugly tears. Like an entitled child.

Arrogant smugness laps up Hannigan's face. "Enjoy your time here, Wilder. You earned it." He makes a scoffing noise that could mean pity from a kinder man. "You're free to go."

I gather my briefcase and escape, saying nothing.

~/~ One Month Later ~\~

Tiny square tiles self-destruct, a chain reaction that spreads as a fiery plague across the screen. Another failed attempt at Electrodesweeper. I slump, letting the plush of my chair consume me. It's not a difficult game. Simple arithmetic and caution. And concentration. I play when I can't concentrate, which means I never win.

I risk a reluctant glance at the files stacked upon my desk. Paperwork. Hannigan allows me to do little else—scheduled consultations no other doctor wants, filling prescriptions, graveyard shifts. I am something that resembles a Pokemon doctor.

Father called the other day. We spoke for precisely fifteen minutes, his weekly allotted time for the thing he calls 'daughter.' How are you, Reese? No. I am so proud of you, Reese. No. I love you, Reese.

No. Father says what he wants to say. You are a Wilder, Reese. Do not disappoint me.

Tenderness and adoration are performances he reserves for naive, nubile personal assistants. For the shy clerk at the post office. For all the women he deems more worthy than Mother. Perhaps he sees her when he looks at me. I do not know. But I am the youngest Center doctor Vermilion has ever had. That is who Reese Wilder is to her father. A designation I am sure he uses as a conversation piece with all his wrinkly friends.

"Reese?" I jolt. Ernie. Standing in the doorway, bemused. "Lost in space?"

"I… Yes. Sorry. It's been a long week," I reply, closing the Electrodesweeper tab and smiling wanly. "Did you need something?"

He brandishes a clipboard. "Your three o'clock is here. I can send them in now, if you like."

I debate feigning understanding, to appear more put together than I am. This is Ernie, though. "Who… who is that, again?"

"Pikachu MRI I sent you this morning? The one with the tumor?" He says it like a prompt. It works.

"Right, right. We did a brain biopsy that came back benign. But the pressure and swelling in the cranium will be fatal if the tumor isn't removed." It's relaxing to recite information. "Go ahead and get them, Ernie."

The cheery blond mock salutes and vanishes. He returns a minute later to drop off a middle-aged man holding a clearly ill Pikachu. It droops in his arms, a deflated balloon rather than the energetic furry dynamo the species should be. I note the flat end of the lightning bolt tail. A male.

"I'm Dr. Wilder," I say in greeting, offering my hand. The man accepts, adjusting the Pikachu. "You can call me Reese."

"Martin. Martin Phillips. And—" he lifts the Pikachu, "this little guy is Dax."

We sit. Martin's subdued urgency permeates the room. I find myself wishing I was a more personable individual. Instead, I speak in a professional, clinical cadence. "I will be frank, Mr. Phillips. Your Pikachu's condition is serious. But there's good news." I will my voice to be softer, less robotic. "The tumor revealed on the MRI is completely benign and operable. If we act swiftly, Dax should make a full recovery.

His relief is palpable. I enjoy this part of being a doctor. "Then I want to do the surgery as soon as possible," Martin rasps, rapidly spewing the sentence. Then he falters. "How much will it cost?"

I wet my lips. Don't ask that. "Neurosurgery of any kind is an expensive procedure. Do you have a trainer's license or an Indigo League membership?" Please say yes. Please don't make me—

He shakes his head. "No, I don't. The bill from the last visit is already putting a burden on my family. Doesn't the Center offer assistance?"

"We do," I say. Not for you, though. "Registered trainers and League members usually pay nothing out of pocket. Even for something like this. Otherwise, I'm afraid you must pay upfront." I sound so cold. Like Saffron City Station.

Anger. Righteous fury. Directed at me. "What am I supposed to do?! This is a Pokemon Center. There's nowhere else I can take him." Those eyes. Don't look at me with those eyes.

"I'm sorry, sir. Have you considered taking the trainer exam?" I don't mention a League membership. He can't afford the fees.

Martin stands, his chair teetering and falling. I am in Hannigan's seat. "Does he look like a fighter to you? We'd never make it past the test battle. What kind of doctor tells someone to risk their Pokemon's life just to pay for surgery?"

Me. The pariah. The girl whose daddy bought her ticket. Or maybe she fucked her way to the top. That's what they say. Now, her boss makes her tell people the Center is willing to let their Pokemon die for the bottom dollar.

"Sir, I need you to calm down. If… If money is an issue, maybe we should discuss ways to ease your Pikachu's suffering instead."

A hollow laugh. "You want to put him down? You just said he could make a full recovery!"

"I'm sorry." I repeat it as a mantra, a ward, a safeguard. Dax whines. His cheeks can't even spark.

My door slams. I'm alone. Tangy sorrow and frustration linger in the air.

Pathetic.

I open another tab of Electrodesweeper.

~/~ Another Month ~\~

Other Center doctors ignore me. Some smirk and whisper suggestive comments, low and conspiratorial, meant for me to hear but quiet enough that I know I'm supposed to keep walking. The Wilder Routine. They must think they're exacting justice, whittling down the malicious, frigid bitch who steals jobs and sleeps with married men. I have my own table in the cafeteria. Ernie used to sit with me. I told him he didn't need to accommodate me. People think I rejected him. Sometimes, I overhear him defending me, and I regret throwing away that sign with the beaming Teddiursa.

These days, my only consistent company is Bess. Chansey don't listen to rumors. They also don't listen when you tell them to leave you alone. They're perfect. She follows me everywhere. We eat lunch together, and I slip her poffins I stole from the supply cache. Naturally, she prefers the sweet variety. Bess licks her paws clean afterwards, crumbs lodging around her mouth. I let her wander about like that for a while, concealing my grin. When I finally dab her mouth, she blinks up at me with a demure contentment.

Hannigan decides to ship her off to Fuchsia City. I don't get to say goodbye. He makes sure of it. A tub of stale poffins rests on my desk as a reminder. I call the Fuchsia City Center to check on her, and a gruff nurse spares a few moments to put her on the phone. Bess squeals. My chest tightens.

I don't call again.

Shifts are longer without her. My feet drag along like afterthoughts. The sun dipped under the bay hours ago. I work overtime so I don't have to lie alone in my soulless apartment that boasts waterside seating to a rocky coastline where Magikarp strand themselves and the sunlight shrivels them. But I'm exhausted and don't want wake up tomorrow morning in my office, the earthy scent of my favorite blend of coffee wafting from a coaster on my desk. Or act like I don't know who put it there when I pass Ernie in the hallway.

Outside, I wrap myself within my coat, combating the nighttime Vermilion chill. Floodlights on the rear exit cast elongated shadows. Girlhood fears of Gengar and Haunter slinking aside the fringes of darkness tease me, an immature embarrassment. I'm about to sigh at my own silly phobia as footfalls clomp behind me. My pace quickens. Where's the mace in my purse? I dare to check who's tailing me. A man. Heavy cloak. My car is still yards away.

"Hey!" I freeze. "Dr. Wilder." Animosity. I turn. Martin Phillips.

"Mr. Phillips," I say hoarsely. "If you need to speak with me, please call the Center to set up an appointment." Is he going to assault me? Seek revenge?

No one has ever looked at me with such hatred. "Do you even have a heart?" Yes. I can feel it thumping, hammering, pouring burning blood. "Dax is dead."

"I'm sorry for your loss." The wrong words. Distant. Cold. Saffron City Station.

"Are you made of fucking stone?!" he roars, stepping closer. I flinch. "Dax is dead. He died terrified and confused and in pain and you could have saved him!" Stop. Please. I'm begging.

I can't respond. My programming. Robots have parameters. He continues. "Why? Why did you sit there and do nothing?"

Because you're a coward, Reese.

"I was just doing my job." Rote and metallic and full of lies.

Martin tosses his arms up, like there's something in the motion that will turn back time. "Your job is to help Pokemon! Not let them die! You're not a doctor."

I am a doctor. A Pokemon doctor. I am. "I didn't have a choice. There was nothing I could do."

"There is always a choice."

A torrent. A wellspring. A crack in the foundation busted through, raw and seething and rampant. Years of shielding myself from cause and effect, from eye-blinding affliction. I can't do it anymore. 'Dr. Wilder.' 'Dr. Wilder.' 'Dr. Wilder.' 'Call me Reese.' Please, gods, let me be Reese.

"You think I don't care? That it doesn't tear me apart to watch Pokemon die day after day knowing I have the power to change that?" The vault is open. And it aches. Violent ejection of myself, the threads of Reese Wilder rocketing forward, seizing the sliver, the aperture in the facade. "I love Pokemon. I will always love Pokemon. Don't you dare accuse me of being heartless. Your Pikachu—Dax—I tortured myself every night over him! But I can't bring him back. And I am so, so sorry for that. I wanted to help. I did."

Wind turns my tears to icy streaks. Martin shoves his hands into his coat. "You didn't, though. So why the fuck are you a Pokemon doctor?"

I watch him leave, echoes of 'why' repeating again and again.

A young girl, ten or eleven, cradles a bleeding Pidgey, deep red ichor staining her arms. Makeshift bandages—strips of the girl's skirt—stem the tide of blood from a gash on the Pidgey's back. Barely. It won't survive. Not without immediate trauma surgery. The girl wails at the front desk attendant, nigh incomprehensible, though the pleading tones are universally understood. He tries to ask mandatory questions. Trainer's license? No, she's a child, you idiot. League membership? That should be obvious. Parents? Who cares; her Pidgey is dying.

The Vermilion City Pokemon Center is prepared to let this girl's Pokemon bleed to death in her arms. Because this tiny, innocent girl and her common Pidgey do not matter.

I will not allow it. Not this time. Not after Dax. Not when I took an oath never to forsake a Pokemon in need.

I've turned my back before, collected my paycheck and ridden a trajectory to retire wealthy on the coattails of legacy.

Sprinting across the foyer, I position myself between the girl and the attendant. I bend to her level. "Look at me." She does. Big and brown and watery eyes. "My name is Reese. I'm a Pokemon doctor. I'm going to make sure your Pidgey pulls through, OK?"

"Woah, woah, woah! What the hell are you doing?" the attendant squawks, coming around the counter. "She can't pay. This isn't the Center's problem."

My fist curls under his chin, clutching the fabric of his scrubs. "Call a stretcher and a team to prep the OR." I shake him. "Now!"

He breaks free, elbowing me away. "You're nuts." Fine. I'll do it myself. I reach over the counter, pressing the intercom button. I get halfway through the instructions before he swats my hand. He intercepts me when I try again. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Ernie enter. His eyes widen at the scene, and he dashes to meet me.

I don't have to explain what's happening. "Reese," he breathes. "You know the protocols."

Ernie is a good man. I can convince him. "I need your help. Please. What are we here for if we don't save lives?"

Conflict mars his habitually upbeat complexion. I hold my gaze. Slowly, he nods. "Alright. I'm with you, Reese."

Once, I feared he might embrace me. I struggle not to do so myself at the moment. Meanwhile, the attendant is calling for backup. We're already attracting attention from patrons and other employees. My rushed orders through the intercom must have been heard, since a group of nurses bursts in with a stretcher. They pause upon seeing the girl and her Pidgey.

But one of them keeps moving, carting the stretcher. There are decent people here. Ones who take the motto on the building seriously. I am not alone.

There isn't time to waste. I look down at the girl, her fear swollen in her red-rimmed eyes. "I need you to tell me how your Pidgey got hurt," I say, discovering a gentle tone I did not know I had. "It's very, very important."

She sniffs. "Nina got bit…. T-there was a Raticate… and … and…" The girl devolves into sobs. But that's enough. No poison. A clean bite.

"Hand Nina to me. I promise I will do everything in my power to protect her." Trust and hope glitter in her eyes as she complies. "What's your name?"

"Piper." She fingers the hem of my shirt. "Nina is my best friend."

"Stay here, Piper. I'll take care of your friend."

I rise, and all my training, all my schooling, all those hours I spent trying to prove I belonged, flare in my chest and buoy me to undertake my life's most pivotal moment. With the assistance of Ernie and the other nurse, I strap the Pidgey onto the stretcher. Mutual determination links us, and we ignore all else. Shocked doctors whirl past as we race to get Nina to the OR. Someone begins jogging alongside.

Hannigan. "Wilder, I warned you!" he growls, long strides keeping him parallel. "Stand down now and you might get out of this with your career intact."

"No."

A vein in his temples pulses. "Do you realize what you're doing? What you're pissing all over? For what? A Pidgey?" He focuses his ire on my companions. "And you two! You're both fucking fired!"

Neither bats an eye. I'm overwhelmed by pride. "All Pokemon are equal," I say, feeling far larger than my slender frame. "All of them."

My boss gives up the chase. He can do whatever he wants, make whatever calls to torpedo my chances of ever working in a Pokemon Center again, regardless of how Father retaliates. I am a Pokemon doctor. And I will save this Pidgey.

Slow-motion ticks of time ebb, eroding Nina's chances into that murky realm where competence and a steady hand might not win the day. Luck plays its part, as does Nina's will to live. I choose to have faith that she and Piper both want the same thing above all else: to see each other again, healthy and happy and together.

And I promised.

Once inside the OR, we shift Nina to the table. Ernie hooks her up to monitor her vitals and assembles an IV drip. The other nurse—Candice—applies pressure to the wound, white gloves soaking red. I waver, a fraction's fraction of a second. No, Reese, you are ready. You have to be.

I sterilize my gloves and fasten my hair inside a medical bouffant. A dish of utensils waits beside the operating table. "Gauze, Candice. I need to see what I'm dealing with."

She hastily grabs a pad and lets it absorb the blood. The Raticate's incisors left a wide slit in the upper left of the Pidgey back. It missed the thoracic artery—Nina would have died already if that was the case. But this amount of blood… the fangs nicked something. Branch of the subclavian? I use a pair of forceps to peer into the wound. Harsh OR lighting bathes my neck. A Pidgey's arteries are too small to suture or clamp. That means cauterization. Nina can't lose anymore blood or not even a transfusion will work.

"Candice, I need an electrocauter. Hurry!" I chew my lip as a small, crimson fountain spurts blood—the source. Candice clangs equipment while searching for an agonizingly long time before fulfilling the request. Immediately, I pass a current through the laceration. A singed aroma and a distinct absence of pooling blood tell me it succeeded. Next step, sealing the injury. We aren't out of the woods yet.

The telltale buzzing of the vitals monitor sends my organs plummeting. "She's going into cardiac arrest, Reese!" Ernie yelps, tense and bottled. No. Not today. Not this Pidgey.

"Defibrillator! Get the patches on! Set to four joules!" It's a high estimate, but Nina's big Pidgey. Candice and I take the adhesive squares from Ernie while he readies the machine. "Hang in there, girl… Hit it, Ernie!"

Nina convulses. No heartbeat. Dull, droning, bleating. "Again!" The small bird's feathers stiffen and quiver. Life sliding towards oblivion.

No, no, no!

"Double it! Eight joules!" Piper, I refuse to let Nina become a statistic.

"Reese..." Ernie's defeated murmur.

"Fucking do it, Ernie! I'm not losing her."

Electricity surges once more. I can't recall my last breath. There's a bud, a blossom, a dewy flower blooming from the frost. My hope. There's always a choice. I made it. Live. Live. Live. Crescendoing cacophony battering my head, every thought and feeling and blistering desire.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Slow and stable. Her defiant heartbeat.

I give myself a respite, one pause before soldiering on to the finish line. Ernie wrangles blood packs, synthetic guaranteed for all types. He feeds a tube into Nina's wing, restoring what she lost. Candice and I clean and stitch the wound. I study the Pidgey, this weak, insignificant Pokemon who almost died in our Pokemon Center lobby, a reject of a broken system. She'll heal. She'll grow. One day, she may even fly Piper across an azure sky.

When I inform Piper that her best friend has survived the worst of it and will see the years to come, she tangles herself around my legs. Ernie, Candice, and I escort her to Nina. I smile, an upward curve that's primal and unbound and more honest than any expression I've ever worn, as Piper scratches her friend's beak.

I am Reese. I am a Pokemon doctor.

The stunt costs me my career, just as Hannigan said. Under Federation mandate, I pay the cost of Nina's treatment, and I'm placed under suspension. It only takes them a week to mete out the rest of my punishment. Given who my father is, it's less severe than it could be. I retain my right to practice medicine, but the Center arranges a transfer to Pallet Town. There's no Pokemon Center in Pallet Town. I'm being assigned what is essentially an imaginary position as a Center associate to a professor running a dinky Pokemon laboratory.

Yes. My career is over.

Vibration thrums within my pocket. I silence the phone. Sixteen missed calls from Father. He'll stop calling eventually. When asked about his daughter, Father will say I'm doing groundbreaking research. He might even show a photograph, the one of me wearing a dress colored exactly like a Psyduck. Father likes to say I look best in yellow. I never wear yellow outside his presence.

I check how long until the ferry arrives. Twenty minutes. I won't miss Vermilion and its craggy shores or curated jewelry shops obnoxiously placed near the harbor to milk eager tourists. I've read that Pallet Town has a farmer's market, that people there live patiently, deliberately. It reminds me of Cherrygrove, of Mother's town before Father made it his. I wish I could call her. I wish I could see her face one more time, back when she still laughed and before the disease turned her ashen. I wish Mother could scoop me up in her arms and say what she always did, "Reese, you can be whoever you want, wherever you are."

A light cough garners my attention. Ernie, here to see me off like the beautiful fool he is. He sacrificed his job for me. "Hi, Reese," he says. "Thank the gods I found you. I was afraid you'd left already."

"What are you doing here?" I ask, but my lilt falls far short of reproach. "I thought I'd be the last person you would want to see."

Ernie just offers his disarming grin. "Screw the Center. Besides, I've got something else lined up."

"You do?"

"Candice has a relative who owns some property in Hoenn." It's easy to forget my guilt witnessing his zeal. "I know it sounds crazy, but she's got this idea for a Pokemon daycare. I might have agreed to tag along."

The endeavor suits them. Caring for Pokemon, helping raise tribes of joyful little creatures. They'll be fine. "I'm glad, Ernie. Really."

Hesitation. The unsaid question tumbling behind his lips. "Was it worth it? For you, I mean."

I don't hesitate. "Yes." He accepts that, ear to ear white teeth. Ernie knows I'm not a woman of many words.

Still, he should know what became of the sign decorated with Teddiursa. "Your sign. I threw it away. I've regretted it ever since."

Ernie cycles through several bewildered stages before realization. "Oh! That." He laughs and I feel he deserves an accompaniment of bells. "It was just a whimsical thing. Do you even like Teddiursa?"

I nod. Especially now. "Thank you for everything, Ernie."

We exchange looks, and I sense he's about to embrace me for real this time. I don't resist, welcoming the fleeting touch of a friend. Bittersweet.

"Good luck, Reese." He means it.

I board the ferry and think of him all the way to Pallet Town.

Professor Oak is ancient, a gnarled, sinewy relic of a man. But he moves with the efficiency of someone half his age. He speaks in grunts and curses and the occasional outburst of Pokemon trivia. I rarely have much to do other than inspect the few Pokemon that migrate in and out of the lab. Oak seems to forget I'm here on a daily basis, jumping at the sight of me tending to his spirited Bulbasaur. I'm inclined to believe he may be deranged. Which is slightly worrisome, since Oak feels familiar. His voice. I know I've heard it before.

"Rita."

"Reese."

"That's what I said," Oak huffs. "At any rate, come over here." He chucks a screwdriver into a box of assorted tools and holds out an orange-red device.

I sigh, removing Bo the Bulbasaur from my lap and trotting over. The scaly green reptile follows, its eponymous protrusion bobbing. "What is this?" I ask, taking the contraption.

Oak snorts. "It's a Pokedex. You worked in a Pokemon Center. You should know that."

Many trainers own Pokedexes, though they are a status symbol. I've never seen one like this. Or rather… so junky. "I know what a Pokedex is," I retort. "How old is this thing?"

"Older than you." Oak glowers at me. "What you're holding is the first Pokedex ever made."

I balk, incredulous. "Why do you have it?"

"Because I invented it."

Impossible. The inventor of the Pokedex would be living in a penthouse not a rustic lab in Pallet Town. Who did invent the Pokedex? I don't actually know. "There's no way."

Oak regards me like one might a child. "Look it up if you don't believe me."

Certain that his brain is addled, I humor him and use my phone's search engine. Flabbergasted, I have to read the results twice. "How have I never heard of you? Why didn't you tell me who you were?"

"I am now, aren't I? And you never asked." It's true. I thought he was just senile. "I'm not surprised you had no idea. Having a falling out with an Elite Four member tends to put a damper on one's achievements.

Newfound knowledge spurs my memory. That voice. "DJ Mary!" I blurt. I'm blushing. I'm positive. "I-I listened to your show when I was young."

Oak's laughter is robust, wholesome, and blanketing. "Good taste." His chortles subside. "If you're convinced about me, why don't you turn on that Pokedex? I want to know I've fixed it."

Any excuse to hide my mortification. I fiddle the switch, and the archaic Pokedex hums. When I hold it in front of Bo, the device speaks: "Bulbasaur, a rare and docile leaf-eating Pokemon. There is a plant seed on its back right from the day it is born. The seed slowly grows larger as it approaches evolution."

"It works." I can't mask my surprise.

"Of course it does," Oak says as if he'd never asked me to test it. "Fit for a trainer."

I don't like the pointed look Professor Oak gives me.

"Reese." An unnerving revelation occurs to me that all the times he flubbed my name were intentional. "I know why the Center stuck you here."

I watch rather than answer. Oak sits in his faded maroon chair, and all at once he's wise and world-weary and shrewd. "You were on the fast track. The sky's the limit, as they say. But then you went and performed unauthorized surgery, violating just about every rule the Center has. On a Pidgey, of all things."

"I'd do it again," I snap, defensive and bristling.

He eyes me with casual amusement. "I'm complimenting you." Oak gestures at the Pokedex still in my hands. "A trainer should care about Pokemon. See them as more than tools."

"I'm a doctor, not a trainer."

When did Oak learn such an effective lopsided smile? "They aren't mutually exclusive."

"You've been planning this," I accuse.

When did his gaze become so piercing? "I won't deny it," he confesses. "My grandson is a trainer. One destined for greatness. It's in his blood, after all. He'll be Champion one day." Oak's lips form a thin line. "Someone has to stop him."

When did it get so quiet, so still? "Why?"

"You know why. The Champion controls everything. And my grandson only cares about battling. About winning. If a Pokemon is weak, he casts it aside without reserve." Oak looks at me how I wish Father would. "But with someone kind, someone compassionate as Champion, maybe we wouldn't live in a world where breaking the rules is the only way to do good."

When did I start listening so intently, so desperately? "You're asking too much. There are hundreds of trainers. Find someone else." The world is wrong, Reese. It's all so wrong. "I don't even have a trainer's license.

The wizened old man nudges Bo, who ambles toward me, that same glimmer in his eyes Bess had. "You have a League membership, right? Getting a trainer's license is nothing for you." He's right; one could be mailed to me by the day's end. "You're correct, though. There are a lot of trainers already. However, none of them risked everything to save a Pidgey."

When did this insane, awful, horrible, wild, enticing, glorious idea start making sense?

Bo tilts his head, and I know. I just know.

There is always a choice.