The morning sun that washed over Greenvale felt different. Warmer. Kinder. Yesterday, it had been a tool, something to measure the time I had left to prove myself. Today, it felt like a welcome. The air, thick with the scent of dew-kissed grass and fresh-baked bread, hummed with a new energy—my energy.
Down in the town square, kids were everywhere. They wielded crooked sticks like they were my own limbs, shouting commands to the Pokéballs they clutched in their other hands. "Use Psybeam!" one of them yelled, swinging his stick at a particularly stubborn patch of weeds. Another, a little girl with a Bidoof-themed cap, mimicked my stance from the battle, planting her ears towards the gound. They were reenacting my fight, my victory. For the first time, I wasn't the strange kid from the woods; I was the hero of the story.
"Looks like you've got a fan club, celebrity."
Lila's voice cut through my reverie. She was leaning against the doorway of the local café, a takeout tray balanced in her hands. The smell of coffee and Oran Berry muffins was intoxicating. I felt a grin stretch across my face, wide and genuine. A week ago, a smile like this would have felt foreign.
"They just appreciate a good fighting style," I said, trying to sound casual as I took a muffin from the tray.
"'Wild fighting style,' I believe they're calling it," she teased, her eyes sparkling. "You're the talk of the town. Even old Mr. Elms at the Pokémart said you fight with the heart of a Tauros."
We found a bench overlooking the square and ate in comfortable silence, watching the miniature battles unfold. The knot of anxiety that had lived in my gut for as long as I could remember was gone, replaced by a quiet warmth. This was what it felt like to belong. To have a place. A friend. The muffin tasted like victory.
It was the sudden shift in the café's ambient noise that broke the spell. The cheerful chatter died down, replaced by the somber, droning voice of a news anchor from the small TV mounted in the corner. My head snapped toward the screen.
The image was jarring: a trade caravan, its wagons overturned like broken toys along one of the Verdant Routes. The anchor's voice was grim. "…attacks of an unprecedented nature. Reports from the few conscious trainers describe their own Pokémon turning on them, their behavior becoming unnaturally feral before collapsing from exhaustion."
The screen cut to grainy, panicked footage. I saw a Golem, its stony body trembling, its eyes glowing with a terrifying, crimson light as it slammed itself repeatedly into a tree. Another clip showed a trainer cowering from his own Arcanine, its majestic fur matted with dirt, saliva dripping from its bared fangs. In the shadows of the forest, just for a frame, I saw them—twin points of red light, watching from the oppressive dark.
The warmth in my chest turned to ice. It was the same hollow dread I'd felt in the forest before the battle with Forrest. A violation. Something deeply, fundamentally wrong. I looked at Lila. Her face was pale, her knuckles white where she gripped her coffee cup. She felt it, too.
"The Pokémon League is cautioning all travelers," the anchor continued, "as they investigate these incidents. Unconfirmed reports suggest a link to the controversial projects of a scientist whose research was officially shut down years ago. Rumors persist, however, that his unsanctioned experiments have resurfaced…"
The world outside the TV screen seemed to fall away. The children's laughter, the morning sun—it all felt like a memory from a different life. This was real. This was now.
My Pokégear vibrated against my hip, its shrill ring cutting through the tense silence. I fumbled for it, my hands suddenly clumsy. The caller ID flashed a familiar name and badge: OFFICER JENNY.
"Beast Boy," her voice was crisp, all business. It was the same officer who had looked at me with a healthy dose of suspicion before giving me my Trainer ID.
"Officer," I managed, my own voice tight.
"I saw the news. I assume you did too. I'm calling you for a reason. When we met, you said you could feel things in the forest, that you had… instincts. I didn't put much stock in it then, but after what happened at the gym, I'm reconsidering. We need your help."
Lila leaned closer, her expression a mixture of fear and focus.
"These attacks aren't random," Jenny said, her tone hardening. "We recovered samples from the affected Pokémon. Their DNA shows traces of artificial alteration. Microscopic, synthetic compounds woven into their very cells. We're calling it synthetic resonance. Someone isn't just controlling them; they're rewriting them."
My stomach churned. Rewriting them. The phrase felt like a physical blow. Pokémon weren't code to be broken. They were life.
"I've sent coordinates to your Pokégear," she continued. "It's a small trade outpost on the northern route. One of the last caravans was hit there a few hours ago. See what your instincts tell you. See what we're missing."
She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was low, stripped of its official veneer. "And Beast Boy—if the rumors are true, the man behind this doesn't play by any rules of nature. Be careful."
The line went dead. I stared at the blank screen of the Pokégear, the coordinates blinking like a beacon in the morning light. The quiet peace of Greenvale was gone, shattered by an echo from a dark laboratory.
"A scientist… shut down years ago," Lila murmured, already pulling out her Pokédex. Her fingers flew across the screen, her researcher's mind kicking into gear where my own was just a storm of anger. "If it was official, there'd be a record. Even a redacted one."
She cross-referenced databases, searched old news articles, and dove into defunct corporate archives. I watched her, grateful for her methodical calm. It was an anchor in my rising tide of fury. After several minutes of intense tapping, she stopped.
"I found something," she whispered, turning the screen toward me. "A half-deleted research file from a biotech company that went bankrupt. Most of the data is corrupted, but I was able to recover a single line of metadata."
I leaned in to read the glowing text.
"Project V.I.L.E. – Biological Integration through Living Engineering."
The acronym hung in the air, sinister and cold. V.I.L.E. Below it, a fragment of the project lead's name remained: Dr. Vile.
The name settled in my bones like a shard of ice. Dr. Vile. It sounded like something a child would invent for a monster, but the overturned wagons and the red-eyed Pokémon were sickeningly real.
"If he's hurting them…" I said, my voice barely a whisper but harder than stone. "Then I'll stop him."
Lila looked at me, her gaze searching my face. I could see the fear in her eyes, the rational part of her brain screaming about the danger. But I also saw something else: trust. The same trust she'd shown me when I faced Forrest.
She took a deep breath, her resolve solidifying. "Then you're not going alone."
We didn't waste any more time. We spent the next hour restocking at the Pokémart—potions, antidotes, rope, everything we could carry. The festive atmosphere of the town now felt fragile, a thin veil over a creeping sickness. As we made our way to the northern gate, a figure blocked our path. It was Forrest.
He wasn't smiling. His usual placid energy was replaced by a deep concern that seemed to emanate from the ground itself. He looked from me to Lila, then back to me, his eyes seeing more than just two trainers heading out. He sensed our purpose.
"The forest paths ahead are wounded," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The natural energy is… corrupted. It feels like a fever in the earth." He placed a hand on my shoulder. "You've earned your first badge, but this road won't test your strength. It'll test your heart."
He reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a small, gnarled seed. It pulsed with a soft, green light and felt warm in my palm.
"A healing seed," he explained. "A rare plant from the oldest part of the woods. It's said to absorb toxins from the body—both physical and emotional. A symbol of the trust between a person and the natural world." He closed my fingers around it. "You'll need it."
With a final, solemn nod, he stepped aside.
We set off along the northern trade route. The change was immediate and chilling. The cheerful birdsong of Greenvale faded behind us, replaced by an unnerving silence. No Pidgeys flitting between branches, no Rattatas rustling in the undergrowth. The only sound was the crunch of our boots on the dirt path. On the ground, I saw strange footprints—too sharp and angular to be from any Pokémon I knew. In the distance, a faint, almost subliminal mechanical hum vibrated through the air.
Lila's Eevee, walking at her heels, suddenly stopped and whimpered, pressing itself against her leg. My Butterfree, who usually soared in lazy circles above my head, descended to hover protectively over my shoulder, its wings beating a tense, rapid rhythm.
"This doesn't feel like the same world we left yesterday," Lila said, her voice quiet.
I looked at the unnaturally still trees, at the shadows that seemed too deep, too dark.
"Maybe it isn't anymore."
As dusk began to bleed across the sky, we reached the coordinates Jenny had sent. The outpost was a ruin. Scorch marks blackened the walls of a small ranger station. The splintered remains of a wooden cart lay on its side. The ground was littered with the heartbreaking sight of cracked, empty Pokéballs and the torn remains of a caravan guard's uniform.
I knelt, my fingers brushing against the dirt. My hand stopped on a strange, dark residue coating a patch of grass. It wasn't mud or soot. It was thick and viscous, and as my fingers touched it, it pulsed with a faint, sickeningly familiar red light. It felt like liquid circuitry, a technological poison seeping into the soil.
I looked up from the tainted earth, my gaze sweeping across the wall of trees that bordered the outpost. The forest was watching. Deep within the encroaching darkness, a pair of glowing red eyes flashed open. Then another. And another. They weren't animal. They weren't natural. They were the cold, dead lights of a machine wearing a living body.
My hand tightened into a fist, the healing seed digging into my palm. My voice, when I spoke, was low and grim, a promise made to the wounded forest.
"Whoever this Dr. Vile is… he's already started to piss me off."