When reality grows heavy, when the world offers nothing but hollow promises and fractured beauty, the mind drifts. It does not betray those who turn to imagination, for imagination never asks for perfection—it simply exists. The fault lies not with those who seek wonder in impossible forms, but with the world itself: cruel, indifferent, flawed. Even stones, the whisper of wind, the distant shimmer of sunlight can feel more truthful than human hearts. And when the living cannot sustain hope, the impossible becomes more real than the real, more honest than the fragile lives that crowd the earth.
Areen stood a little distance from the school gate, the green expanse of the playground stretched before him, scattered with swings, benches, and patches of dirt. The building loomed in the background, tall, unyielding, an emblem of order that no longer existed. From where he watched, horror unfolded like a slow-motion nightmare. Children screamed, their voices piercing the heavy air, some running blindly into each other, stumbling over the uneven tiles. Teachers shouted futile commands, but their voices were swallowed by the chaos. Dust rose in thick clouds as students fell, parents screamed from the edges of the field, and the air shimmered with an unnatural tension. Something unseen, something impossible, had arrived, and reality bent under its weight.
Areen did not panic. He observed with calm fascination, his chest tight but steady. He noted every movement: a student tripping over a swing, a teacher flinching at a sudden spark of light, the terrified expressions that twisted and blurred into a tableau of fear. There was no logic, only reaction, and he cataloged it all in quiet clarity. Humans, he thought, were fragile not because of their weakness, but because they were blind to the truths surrounding them, incapable of understanding forces beyond their narrow experience.
From the shimmer of sunlight and air itself, Pokémon appeared. Pikachu sparked faintly as it darted through the playground, Bulbasaur's leaves glowed with an ethereal light, Pidgey swooped in dizzying arcs above frightened children. They were not mere illusions; they were alive, autonomous, intelligent beyond comprehension. The first bursts of panic collided with bursts of wonder. Some children laughed, mesmerized. Others screamed. Teachers swung nets and sticks, desperately trying to restore order, only to be rebuffed by the creatures' agility. Pokémon dodged effortlessly, sometimes retaliating with sparks of electricity, small flames, or bursts of wind. The playground was no longer a place of learning; it had become a theater of chaos.
And yet, in the midst of destruction, Areen felt a strange, undeniable awe. For him, this was perfection—the impossible made real. But perfection, he realized, was a fragile illusion. Human fear, misjudgment, and aggression could twist it into catastrophe in moments.
As he watched, his mother appeared at the edge of the playground. Leria's long dark hair was tied back carelessly, framing eyes that had seen more than their fair share of despair. Her hand found his instinctively, pressing him close. She did not speak; she did not need to. Together, they watched the unfolding chaos. Children tripped, some bleeding from minor injuries, teachers stumbled under the Pokémon's movements, walls groaned, and dust and sparks coiled through the air. The town, too, had gathered. Parents whispered, some cried, some prayed, some simply watched, incapable of helping.
Areen's fascination deepened as he noted the creatures' intelligence. They were not malicious, yet they were indifferent. Fear was a new force to them, one they responded to instinctively. The older students brandished nets and sticks, their panic driving them closer to danger. A Charmander unleashed a burst of fire in defense, sending a boy stumbling back, while a Jigglypuff's lullaby caused a cluster of students to collapse, exhausted. The chaos was complete, yet to Areen, it was a living lesson in the duality of intention: innocence could birth destruction when met by the fragility of human perception.
Years before, Areen had learned to see the world clearly because of Leria. She had survived poverty, scorn, and the relentless cruelty of society, teaching him endurance, love, and observation. She had been beautiful once, unbound, ambitious, but life's failures had hardened her. Her long hours of labor, her tireless protection of Areen, and her sacrifices—sometimes unspeakable—had shaped him.
There had been nights when she came home late, silent tears tracking across her cheeks, scrubbing herself raw in the bath, attempting to wash away despair that no soap could remove. She had done things Areen could only later understand. Once, when money for school fees and a small television to bring wonder to his life ran out, she had been offered a choice—a single night for ten thousand, enough to pay for everything. Pride and disgust warred within her, but she chose sacrifice. That night, she endured shame and revulsion, counting every minute, hating every second. And when it was done, she returned with the money and the TV. Areen had stared in wide-eyed wonder at Pokémon adventures flickering across the screen, never asking how the magic had arrived. He never would; he had understood, silently, the depth of her love.
Leria's story went further back. She had been promised in marriage to Daro, a boy whose parents were wealthy and ambitious. But Daro's ambitions, shaped by a mother who poured her unfulfilled desires into him, had taken him far from Leria. Generational expectations, unfulfilled promises, and human selfishness had left her exposed to suspicion and scorn. Her parents could not endure the shame; they ended their lives. Her brother vanished, abandoning her, leaving her to the villagers' whispers and disgust. Daro's parents, deluded and disappointed, had dragged her into their grief, blaming her for everything—their son's ambitions, their own failures, the village's shame. Leria survived, but the weight of generations pressed down on her.
Even in poverty, Leria had given Areen wisdom and love. She taught him to see humans clearly, to observe, and to endure. She gave him kindness, even when she herself had learned that the world often repaid effort with cruelty.
The hospital incident came years later. Leria, exhausted from work and the sacrifices of survival, had gone to deliver a child born of desperate circumstances. The doctor's disgust was palpable: "Prostitutes like you… no respect, no care." Areen, barely understanding but acutely feeling the injustice, saw the shame in his mother's eyes, the judgment in the room, the isolation of humanity's cruelty. That day, in the sterile, judgmental air of the hospital, Areen's wish crystallized: creatures that could understand without words, creatures that judged not by status, wealth, or reputation, but by intention and heart. Pokémon.
And now, at the school playground, that wish had begun to manifest. Pokémon moved among humans, observing, reacting, teaching, and destroying in equal measure. Children tried to touch them, some laughed, some screamed. Teachers faltered under the chaos, failing to control what was beyond human understanding. Sparks, flames, wind, and light collided with human panic. The town, school, and soon the world were watching.
Hours passed, chaos grew, and the sun shifted toward evening. Areen and Leria held hands, observing the surreal scene with awe and fear intertwined. He smiled, telling her quietly, "Mother… it's real. My imagination… it's real."
Leria, cautious but happy for him, nodded, a soft smile breaking her tension. For a moment, the world seemed to pause.
And then, horror struck.
From nowhere, the sky erupted. Thunder rolled without clouds, fire swirled and whipped through the school grounds. Pokémon moved with uncanny intelligence, some leaping onto humans, some unleashing bursts of destruction. Children screamed in terror. Teachers fell beneath flying debris and flames. The playground, the school, the town—it was massacre, chaos, and blood, all unfolding with an unnatural rhythm.
Areen's eyes widened, but his voice remained steady. "Any boon given to a demon can be twisted into destruction," he whispered to Leria. "Nothing is pure. Nothing depends on itself. It depends on the one who wills it—just as any love, any gift, any power can become ruin in the wrong hands."
Leria clutched him close, their hands intertwined, hearts pounding. They watched as the impossible and the horrifying converged: imagination had become real, and reality had bent it to its own chaos. And in that moment, Areen understood fully: perfection was never in the gift itself, only in the heart and will of those who received it.