Chapter II: Identity

Reese Wilder, Pokémon doctor.

Reese Wilder, Pokémon trainer.

Professor Oak says I can be both, and for the time being, I choose to believe him. Because I've fallen for his scheming, bought into the notion that somehow I, with a decrepit Pokedex and the ability to name every bone in a Sandshrew's body, can shift paradigms. Because Oak is a benevolent manipulator, and I am clay seeking a mold, a shape to assume and perhaps commit to the fire of some magnificent kiln. It's gullible. And yet knowing that changes nothing.

Pokémon training, battling, runs opposite to my core. I heal. I mend. I resuscitate. Battles are brutal, chaotic, sanctioned destruction. My antithesis. I have heard the phrase 'the ends justify the means,' but when does the cost become too high? Is there a feather which tips the scale, an instantaneous reversal where 'for the greater good' ceases to hold meaning? I am not a philosopher. And lives are not feathers. I deal in tendons and muscles and blood and bone and all the elements that comprise life.

I suppose a trainer does as well.

And Oak says I can be both.

Bo chirrups beside me, vines entwining my arm to bring my hand back atop the spot between his ears he likes. I breathe an apology, dutifully gliding my knuckles along the Bulbasaur's taut skin. He gargles, a sound I interpret as satisfaction. Part of me wants to shoo him away, to point at the tall grass rimming Pallet Town and whisper his freedom. There, he might meet other Bulbasaur, kin he's never known, wildlings that can show him the lush vastness of liberty beyond mowed lawns and Oak's bleached laboratory.

Or a ravenous Pidgeotto could pin him with its talons and gorge on his nectar.

The Pokémon must sense my turmoil, because Bo crawls onto my crossed legs and weaves his vines through my hair. You would not console me if you knew how I plan to use you, how Oak intends you as my weapon against the machinations of his grandson, as if the purpose of a sword alters the color of the blood it draws. But I let Bo soothe me. I let him offer companionship. I am weak. I am a Pidgeotto without the excuses of instinct and hunger.

"Kid." Oak's voice. His. Not the crackled radio version. "This came by carrier Pidgey today."

Proper roads do not service Pallet Town. No mere postman would brave the Routes to deliver mail. So, we employ Pokémon. Not employ. Pokémon earn no wages. For themselves, that is.

"Thanks." I don't open the package. Trainer's license. The exam isn't necessary for League members. We have money. Money to purchase starter Pokémon from breeders. And to do so again when they die due to inexperienced handlers. I am sure the League enjoys the taxes from all those sales.

"You alright, Reese?" Oak, like Ernie, is a good man. Unlike Ernie, however, is his cunning, his guile, the trap contained in three words.

"No." I am honest, craving. Ensnare me. Father did. Except Oak has everything Father lacks. Greedy Reese: I indulge.

He folds his arms, and I melt. "It's not easy, reconciling two antagonizing forces." I am difficult to read; Oak is an excellent reader. "I was a trainer, long ago. A good one. Not as good as my ex-wife, but there aren't many who are. I failed to reconcile those forces, so I became a researcher instead. For fifty years, I've studied the symbiosis between humans and Pokémon. And the only thing I really learned in all that time is that we will always take Pokémon for granted."

"If you couldn't, how can I?"

Sigh. Carbon dioxide laced decades. Refuse of eras. "As a trainer, I took my Pokémon for granted." He rewards me with the gaze I yearn for. "You, Reese, never take any Pokémon for granted. You'll suffer for that. It's also the only way out."

"Out of what?"

"The cycle. How we treat Pokémon." Bo is lead in my lap. "Why do you think a Pokémon's value is determined by its use in battle? Why do you think the abandoned power plant east of Cerulean still hasn't been cleaned up? Why do you think you're here?" Rhetorical. But he'll tell me anyways. "Because the only Pokémon worth giving a damn about are the ones that will take us to the top. That's what the League preaches. If the people heard a different story, from a different kind of trainer, maybe attitudes would change."

It's impossible not to glance at Bo, to see him snuggle close. "I don't want Pokémon to get hurt." Responsibility, Reese. Take it.

Oak has me, a once upon a time idealist pining for validation, exposed before him. "Pokémon are hurt everyday, Reese." My name, not bemoaned or berated in a honeyed tone—at last candid and sturdy and aimed at me, not the thing occupying my space. "You must do what's right. Reese, when I pass on to the next world, someone needs to be here doing everything I never could."

And like that, I am Reese Wilder, Pokémon doctor, Pokémon trainer, future Champion of Kanto and Johto—forget the foolhardy dreamers who never earn a single badge; Oak is here, tantalizingly real, telling me I can do this. I am Reese, the woman Oak believes in, and belief is dangerous, potent, pervasive. Intoxicating.

A hand on my shoulder. Rough, leathery, one that's held many things in many ways. Security. Weighted sheets and lullabies. Oak knows what to say, what to do. Cultivating and calculating but never malignant. He cares. Like Ernie and Candice.

For a long time, for minutes I don't feel like counting, Oak stands there, providing and nourishing. Bo rolls onto his side, languid now that I am placated. I scratch his belly and pretend all is well.

The plan might be a gambit, generously optimistic, but neither of us is delusional. Training requires skill—something Oak and I both know I lack. In Pokemed I learned methods to repair nerve damage from Chronic Paralysis Syndrome in veteran Pokémon, how to transplant a liver between two different hominid Pokémon species, how to break the news to someone in a detached monotone that their Pokémon died during a high-risk operation. I did not learn how to battle, how to prevent my own Pokémon sustaining grievous injuries. I did not learn how to order Pokémon into fights that may cost them their lives.

So, I practice with Bo. Everyday, we run the gamut of Oak's drills, exercises designed by a man who trained in an era without Pokedexes or reliable Route maps or even ubiquitous Pokémon Centers. Harsh. Caustic. Nature left to cull the chaff. He's testing me. Testing my resolve, my fortitude, my ability to provide Bo sanctuary in my arms when he stumbles, not scolding him for succumbing to fatigue and shaky legs. Oak howls, commanding me to push Bo further, and I glare, caressing the Bulbasaur, assuring him he is brave and worthy and cherished. Masked behind a forged scowl, Oak's quirked lips betray his phantom smile.

We dance this routine for days, Oak playing the callous taskmaster and I the apprentice, the coveted role of heroines in fables and fairy tales. But I am not deceived, for Oak is not cruel, and I am no lady of legend. It is a game. Preparation. Sculpting an insolent riposte to the indifferent wilderness awaiting me. Survival. Bo and I against the odds. I will not surrender this Pokémon whose irises shimmer with liquid empathy, who sleeps in the crook of my knee because he knows I am afraid, who sits beside me when the day is done and loves me more than the day before. I will protect him.

And yet, it is Bo who will anchor himself between me and whatever lies ahead.

I look at Bo, his hide almost iridescent under the afternoon sun. There is no answer in the refracted light.

Drained and unwilling to dwell on this line of though any longer, I coax Bo to his feet. Perhaps a stroll through town can lift this melancholy haze, let the trepidation fade into humble mom and pop stores and people who say 'hello' on the sidewalk. Pallet Town does not imitate larger cities in order to seem more relevant. Buildings are weathered and unabashed, streets wear potholes honorably, no one minds that the rest of the world has forgotten them. No tourists, only residents. No polite veneer, only the way it is.

With nowhere to be and nothing to do, the people of Pallet lean. On crumbling brick walls. On lonely trees. On each other. Conversing. Swapping stories they've all heard before but still share because Pallet Town doesn't change. Equilibrium. They notice me, of course, though. A curiosity that arrived by ferry from somewhere far away, a place printed on postcards but not in Pallet Town. Outsider. I was an outsider in Vermilion too. Cherrygrove after Mother. But here, to these people, I'm just someone who isn't leaning yet.

When I'm gone, they won't know if I evaporated or became one of them.

A storefront I recognize comes into view. Daisy's Teahouse. Except it isn't a house; it's a shack. Which might make it better. More forthright in a roundabout sense. To Pallet Town, it is a teahouse, and in Pallet, that's that. I see the "Daisy" in question through foggy windows, chastising an elderly man for no doubt being inappropriate. She does it with a smile, effortless, the kind of expression that can't be taught. When she spots me staring, that smile broadens and Bo trills. He likes Daisy. And tea.

"Reese!" greets the woman with chestnut hair as buoyant as she is. She hugs me, as huggers are prone to do. "What brings you into town? Grandpa not giving you enough to do?" Her eyes twinkle, a sparkle that belongs only to Daisy.

Occasionally, Oak's granddaughter visits the lab, nagging him to eat more healthy food and less junk from gas station snack bars. He doesn't listen. However, Daisy is hardly the type of person to be deterred by any impediment. Oak and I often return from sessions to discover two plates of salad, garnished with nuts and berries and a mysterious zesty dressing that tastes like diligence and coriander.

I pat between her shoulder blades, a touch so brief I am unsure she feels it. "Bo and I are on a walk." She's already tugging me inside. "It's nice to see you too, Daisy." A late addition, tacked on, but Daisy doesn't hear my uncertain words.

She sweeps Bo and me through the shop, plopping us into a booth, its peeling faux leather revealing the beige foam beneath. There's a declaration of incoming tea I don't quite catch, and Daisy saunters into the kitchen to brew our cups. She never asks what kind I want, but Daisy's tea never fails to impress.

It's a short wait. Daisy sets my drink down and slides into her seat, watching me as I bring the teacup to my lips. Steaming. Lemon. Chamomile. Images of Mother and her garden, that unkempt maze of weeds and vegetables and inexplicably symmetric stones and so much chamomile. The scent of it infused with her overalls—loamy, denim, perspiration and pollen. Humid mist and sprinkler spray, droplets flinging from her gloves as she reaches up to keep the wind from blowing away her straw hat. Mother. This pale amber tea. Delicious.

I clutch the cup, white-knuckle pressure. If I don't it'll be fractured on the floor, shards dribbling fluid. Molecules of Mother.

"Do you… like the tea?" Daisy asks. I'd forgotten she's here.

Breathe. Reese, breathe. "It's wonderful, Daisy." And it is. I smile, mechanical.

Daisy did not inherit her grandfather's observational acumen. "That's great! I worked really hard on this flavor. It's not too lemony, is it?" It must be nice to worry about lemons and tea.

"The lemon is fine."

"Fantastic!" She nudges a platter of crackers toward me. "Dunk one of those in it! They're wafers. I'm not much of a baker, but I think they're pretty alright."

"No." The word leaves my mouth as a mistake, a sour note on a piano.

Fluttering eyelashes. Canopies for swirling dejection. "I… Did I do something wrong? It's not the tea, right? Gods, it's the tea, isn't it? I knew it was stupid to combine all those extracts! Oh, and that batch of lemons did seem a bit—"

"Daisy."

"—and who really knows where those things even come from? This is Pallet Town! If it's not grown here I probably shouldn't trust it. I'm such a disaster! Why did I even open this store? Just liking tea doesn't mean you're good at making it! This is so—"

"Daisy!"

She sucks in her stream of words, managing silence. It is the tea. But also not. Bo headbutts my flank, hissing. He's reprimanding me. Rightly so. Good friends do.

Apologies are often lies. I construct one. "I'm sorry." Curt and rehearsed. "The tea is very good. I am just not feeling well today. I shouldn't have been cross." Or at least half-truths.

Softened eyes this time, margarine and clouds. "Can I get you anything else? I have some medicine upstairs." Her smile is less Daisy-like. "I know it's been tough on you, moving here."

The Daisies of the world see the best in everyone. They don't expect liars or cheats or burnout doctors who can't even drink a cup of tea without nearly fainting. They assume people like me really are feeling unwell and really are upset about leaving a place like Vermilion.

"That's OK, Daisy." They forgive you instantly. "You don't need to worry about me."

Her hand floats over to graze my forearm. "But I do worry. I know I'm not around the lab as much as you, but I know what's going on. Grandpa can't keep secrets from me. He wants you to challenge the League, right?"

"That's really none of your business." Why, Reese? Why do you behave this way? Why?

She jerks back her hand, and I realize I do not know Daisy at all. "It is my business." Bo peeks above the tabletop, unsure who to focus on, but I feel ashamed when his eyes flit to me. "Grandpa is only doing this because of Gary. They never got along, and he can't see my brother just wants to prove himself. Gary… Gary isn't a bad person."

My knowledge of Gary is filtered through Oak, through descriptions of a man who demands his Pokémon battle until they're so exhausted they vomit and collapse. Gary represents every trainer who brought in abused and traumatized Pokémon into the Center, only to receive free care and encouragement to repeat the process all over again. But Gary has talent. Ambition. Intelligence. Traits that Oak fears will crown him Champion.

I do not have a brother or any siblings. And I would not want one like Gary. "If he is anything like Oak has said, then he's a ruthless trainer." Confrontational. Steely. Too acidic.

"People can be more than one thing, Reese!" Daisy's leaning forward, her palms flat and that buoyant hair now more fierce than fluffy. "Grandpa raised us on his own, and he wasn't always the most present parent. Do you know what it's like to feel like your parent doesn't love you? That's how it was for Gary. How it still is. All he wants is for Grandpa to be proud of him."

Yes. Yes, I do know. Father, reclining in his office, fingers steepled and studying me like a specimen, a disappointing microbe that unfortunately bears the family name. And me, little Reese, sitting there digging my nails into the seat so I don't run. This is unacceptable, Reese. This is unbefitting a Wilder. This is not how I raised you. No tears, though. No weakness. Oak didn't treat Gary like that. He doesn't treat me like that.

When I don't, or rather can't, answer, Daisy thrusts back against the wilted leather booth, looking a stormy bundle of huffs and wayward tresses. Once more, un-Daisy-like. But that distinction no longer carries merit.

Daisy rubs her elbow, and I attempt to decipher a pattern among the multicolored dots splattering the wallpaper.

The tea grows cold, vapors dissipating as wisps and chamomile-laden reveries. We point our gazes at customers, cash registers, the paltry teal welcome mat. Bo clambers atop the table, sniffing and twisting his head, tentative—approaching the aftermath of two women who presumed too much. On reflex I pet Bo's snout, suppressing a smile when he doesn't hiss or shy away. I scoot the tea closer to him, and his tongue flicks out. A throaty warble reverberates from the Bulbasaur as he slurps. My hand brushes Daisy's, her fingers kneading behind Bo's ears. Locked eyes. Swift aversion.

"Sorry." I am. About what, I'm not sure.

"Me too."

"Defending your brother isn't something to apologize for." I owe her those words. I try to mean them.

She rises, grabbing the plate of wafers. "Just… Just don't judge Gary too quickly. When you find him, give him a chance. Bye, Reese. I've got things to do." She leaves the tea.

Bo finishes the cup, tipping it to get to the last pool of tea. I'm not keen on staying here any longer, so I motion for Bo to jump off the table and follow. As we exit the teahouse, Daisy trades wry remarks with a pair of women, her smile and eyes and hair exactly as they were before I walked in. She doesn't look up.

The idea of Oak's laboratory seems less inviting than it has ever been. If I see him, I'll think of Daisy and Gary and the League and Gyms and all these things that won't stop existing even for just a moment. I'll think of them anyways, but at least outside the lab, I do not need to dodge Oak's probing gaze.

A hill, grassy and high enough to bask in the breeze originating from the stubby mountains of Indigo Plateau, keeps vigil outside Pallet Town. It's quiet and tranquil and precisely the place I need right now. I don't have to ask Bo to accompany me—he goes where I go. We trek to the outskirts of town, past all the leaning people and lethargic stores, the hallmarks of Pallet. Hiking was something Mother excelled at, a pastime I don't share an affinity for, but the climb up the hill is scarcely more than a gradual incline.

At the top Bo and I survey what might be all the average person born in Pallet Town ever sees. Scruffy dirt paths leading into Route One. Pallet's water tower, illegible remains of a logo long since devoured by the elements winding around its surface. The narrow inlet the ferry navigated to deposit me here. Forests. Meadows. Fields and farms.

Foreign. All of it. But so much like Cherrygrove. So much like the town I skipped through holding Mother's hand. Pallet is suffocating, a reservoir of memories both nostalgic and stinging, like drowning in bathtub of rose petals and jasmine soap. What am I doing? Opening my own clinic would be smarter than this, than entertaining fantasies of Pokémon training and the Elite Four. I'm in Pallet Town, a nothing place where nothing people go to die.

It's that belief. That belief Oak instilled in me. Why I fought with Daisy. Why I'm on this hill and not on plane to Unova or Kalos. Why Reese Wilder is doing something, anything, to justify all those years as background noise.

I hope there's meaning in it. That it's some kind of new beginning, like a coming of age that came far too late. But I already came of age. Back in Father's sitting room—wearing a yellow dress he insisted upon, one far too vivid for only a month after Mother's funeral—listening to his friends puff cigars and insult their wives. Trying to pass off the gazes at my teenage body as innocuous. But I knew. I always knew. They bulged against their smoke jackets and took long drags, sighing and sipping brandy.

My head tucks between my knees. I feel Bo's vines in my hair again, fibrous braids, loyal and tenacious. I turn to him, and I let my Pokémon see me cry. Sob. Weep. Fat teardrops careening down my cheeks and chin, roiling and unbidden. Gods, it hurts to be alive. It hurts to know I cannot be idle as I was, cannot surf the monotony of complacency. It hurts to know I might be more than what Father thinks.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

"B-Bo." His name is a croak, engulfed by emotion. I hug Bo to my chest, and his nose nestles against my neck, wet and almost mossy. He isn't just a Pokémon, an animal. Bo is passionate, inquisitive, stubborn, kindhearted. Everything people are. He's supporting me, not because I am his trainer, but because Bo understands. I have to be there for him too.

Night descends over us, how it seems to do when one loses track of time. I relinquish my vice-grip on Bo; he never struggled to break free. His eyes are saucers, capturing starlight and glistening as emphatic indicators of our bond. In the back of my mind, I hear Mother's song, the one she sang to me on nights like this. I've replayed it countless times, but haven't had the courage to sing the words aloud. Haven't had a reason. Haven't felt the fervor in my veins, the searing vibrancy of life rather than the whatever it is I've been doing.

Until now.

I kiss the top of Bo's head, resting my forehead there. "Do you want to hear a song, Bo?" His ears perk.

Mother, perched on a second-story windowsill in our Cherrygrove home, sea air tousling her hair.

"Listen close, cause there's something you outta know."

Mother, smiling and chuckling as I haul myself up beside her.

"I promise to always be with you wherever you go."

Mother, gathering me in her arms, safe and sheltered.

"And if you're ever lost and feeling all alone."

Mother, with me, and I'm not alone, not lost, not scared.

"Just think of me and suddenly you'll be home."

Mother, enveloping, inviting, chamomile-tinted affection.

"And if you're ever confused and don't know what to do."

Mother, breathing behind me, sighing, patient and thoughtful.

"Just look to the sky, that star, I put it there for you."

Mother, pointing to the star, my star.

"I know that life is hard and often strange."

Mother, hands interlocked with mine, her thumb tracing gentle circles.

"But I'm in your heart, and that'll never change."

Mother. Bo. Me. On this hill. Alive.

Three months pass since I was banished to Pallet Town. Oak says I'm ready, and I choose to believe him. Bo is strong, resilient. The whip of his vines can shatter bricks. We do not fumble through Oak's drills. When the old man looks at us, I see pride. In me. In Bo. It ignites my willpower, that once fledgling thing.

We stand at the mouth of Route One, my pack heavy with supplies—bedroll, kindling, potions for Bo, road rations, the Pokedex, a bottle of her special salad dressing that served as Daisy's goodbye. This is it. I cannot turn back.

"Reese." My nerves ease whenever he uses that voice. "One more thing before you go."

Oak offers a thin belt, its length pocked with round divots. A few red and white balls occupy some of the indents. I shake my head.

"No. I'm not taking those." Pokeballs. Silph Company products. Most trainers carry them, a way to ensure wild Pokémon obey their commands once captured. Captured. Like servants. Slaves. How can Oak expect me to keep my Pokémon trapped inside those prisons?

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You need this. Pokémon from the Routes are untamed. Unpredictable. Even a Rattata can kill you."

My lips curls. "Then I will risk it. Those are cages. Meant to make Pokémon subservient." Bo in a Pokeball? I won't do that to him. Not him or any other Pokémon.

"Most cities have 'safe in ball' laws, Reese. You know that." Oak spins his argument, effective as per usual. "Pokeballs prevent other trainers from knowing your team. They're a precaution as well. A wounded Pokémon is better off in its ball."

He's right. He's always right. Pokeballs put Pokémon into stasis, a semi-conscious state where even the speed of their atoms slows. But it's barbaric. There's a reason why Pokémon writhe in the balls when first caught.

"I'm not asking you to be like other trainers, Reese." Oaks knows how to place my name. "Your Pokémon will be happy simply because they have you. I am certain you will find a way to train Pokémon how you see fit. Pokeballs do not make you evil." From the very beginning, I have been defenseless facing Oak.

Sullen and outmaneuvered, I accept the proffered belt. However, no Pokémon will join me against its wishes. Some trainers sling Pokeballs at everything they encounter. I won't. If the world is going to change, then I can't do it forsaking what I vowed to hold sacred. I'm already a fool; at least I'll be a principled one.

"Professor," I begin, faltering, wading into gloomy, uncharted territory. What to say? What to say to this man who's given me purpose? Who's given me—

"It's Samuel." His name. First name. Why does it feel improper? "We've reached that point, I think, Reese. No need for formality. I'm not your dad."

The glass castle, the brittle and fragile fortress, ruptures into a thousand fractals. Oak is not my father. Oak is not my surrogate parent. Oak is not who I've contracted him to be.

He stares at me, those sharp eyes brimming with something indescribable. I call it pity. Because that's the one thing I can't bear to see there. "Reese." That's how Oak says it; I'm just actually listening. "I know I've put you on a difficult path. But do this for yourself. Not for me. Not for anyone. I'm a selfish old man who failed at so many things. You have potential I never had. Just be yourself, Reese. Be who you want."

I'm motionless when he says farewell. When he presses his aged hand into my shoulder. A mentor. A teacher. A friend. Not a father. Samuel Oak, a graying man from Pallet Town with a grandson he cannot reason with. A grandson who only wants to show his 'father' what he's capable of. Oak is just a man. Brilliant, sage-like. But just a man.

And I'm just a woman, searching. Searching and searching and searching.

Vines in my hair.

Bo, my Bulbasaur, my partner. I nod. He's ready.

I am Reese Wilder, and as I step into the emerald landscape of Route One, I am not sure what that means.

Author's Note: Wow! Thank you all so much for the positive response to this story! I frankly did not expect much of a reaction, and I've been blown away by how many people were able to read this before the ever-present tide of other updates swallowed it up! Suffice to say that I am very grateful. I really look forward to what you all think of Vital Signs as it progresses. There's a lot of love in my heart for Reese and her journey, so hopefully I can continue to deliver a story worth reading. Thank you once again for giving this little fic a chance!

For those of you familiar with my two Fire Emblem stories, you're probably aware that I response individually to each reviewer. However, I do not wish to pad the update length too much with lengthy A/Ns, so going forward regarding Vital Signs I will be answering only certain questions or sending PMs to those who ask anything that might require a relatively wordy response. Pokemon is simply a different fandom compared to Fire Emblem, and it seems my usual style of review response isn't as common.

Though since someone did ask why Oak gave Reese an older Pokedex rather than a new one, I'll give a brief answer: basically, it's symbolic of her journey. A new Kanto, a new dream, a new... everything really, but it begins with an old man giving her an old Pokedex. There's a poetic quality to that image I find quite captivating. Also, Oak is a stingy bastard.

Until next time, folks!