See, I'm a pretty realistic person—maybe even a bit too much. But few things could surprise me as much as waking up in a world that resembles Pokémon. Not because I don't like the games or because I don't find the anime all that great (I'm a young adult, after all), but really because I have to survive in a world where humans are both the easiest thing to kill and the thing that can be the most deadly. Anyway, let's get back to our Mareep... After my very sad death, I found myself in the good old house in Pallet Town.
When Ethan looked at himself in the mirror, he quickly noticed that he no longer resembled his old self. He had tousled brown hair that fell in uneven waves over his forehead, framing a face that was youthful but carried a hint of weariness in the creases around his brown eyes—eyes that were sharp and observant, like those of someone who'd seen more than their years suggested. His nose was straight and unremarkable, his skin lightly tanned from what must have been outdoor activities in this new life, and his build was lean but athletic, not bulky, suggesting a body honed by necessity rather than vanity. He wasn't ugly—far from it; there was a quiet handsomeness to his features, with high cheekbones and a jawline that hinted at determination. He'd guess he was somewhere between 14 and 18 years old, though he couldn't pinpoint it exactly. Mentally, though, he felt every bit his original 23 years, trapped in this adolescent shell.
The room around him was modest and lived-in, a far cry from the sterile apartments of his previous life. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains onto wooden floorboards worn smooth by years of footsteps. A simple bed with rumpled sheets occupied one corner, flanked by a small desk cluttered with notebooks, a few survival guides (their spines cracked from heavy use), and a faded poster of a fierce-looking Arcanine on the wall—probably a remnant of childhood admiration. Shelves held scattered mementos: a polished stone that might have been a keepsake from his father, a few pokeballs that looked unused, and a backpack slung over a chair, already packed with essentials like water canteens, bandages, and a basic knife for wilderness survival. The air carried a faint scent of pine from the forest outside, mixed with the homely aroma of breakfast wafting up from downstairs. It felt real, tangible, and utterly foreign.
Right at that moment, he heard his mother calling from below: "Come on down, Ethan! You don't want to be late!"
"I'm coming!" he replied, his voice steady despite the swirl of confusion in his mind.
Suddenly, a vicious headache slammed into him, and a flood of information poured into his head, answering several of his questions in rapid succession. First, his name was Ethan Walker, son of Emma Walker—a homemaker and former trainer—and the late William Walker, who had been a ranger. His father (rest in peace) had taught him a great deal, like how to survive in the forest, what to watch for (tracks of dangerous Pokémon like Ursaring packs or Houndoom hordes), and basic evasion tactics.
As for the world in general, several things were different. Pokémon species could be found scattered across regions, but they were primarily associated with the areas where they populated most densely in the Pokédex. This wasn't the anime, the games, or the manga—it was a new, bloodier world altogether. For example, his father had died in a Gyarados attack, even with fairly strong Pokémon at his side. Pokémon weren't all born equal; some lineages were stronger for various reasons, like offspring from Champion-level parents being far more powerful than average. Not everything was decided at birth, though—training could bridge gaps, but it was grueling. Species weren't equal either; a Tyranitar could level mountains, while a Rattata couldn't even scratch it, and the differences grew wider with training (of course, there were untrained Pokémon that were still quite powerful, but not in droves). Humans weren't the dominant race nor the dominated one; they existed in a precarious balance.
The age to become a trainer wasn't 10 (imagine how many kids would die just from Rattata swarms). Sixteen was considered the minimum to venture out. However, many people got starters through two main ways: first, parents who were very wealthy (especially from ancient clans like Blackthorn and others) could provide them from eggs or bred lines, or second, most had to catch their own, which was extremely dangerous. The reason there were really only these two ways was because if you didn't get the Pokémon from an egg—raised and imprinted under your care—or catch it by yourself through trial and proof of strength, most of them would never listen. It was like any wild animal; they followed the jungle law, respecting only those who earned dominance through survival and cunning. Bought or handed-over Pokémon often rebelled, ignored commands, or turned feral at the first opportunity, seeing the trainer as weak or unworthy. But with help from professors and others, there were delimited zones with mostly less dangerous Pokémon where aspiring trainers could go to capture one. Which brought him to today. Today was the day he had to go into the wild zone himself to catch his starter.
Ethan descended the stairs and saw the meal his mother had prepared for this big day: a hearty spread of scrambled eggs mixed with fresh berries, toasted bread slathered in honey, a side of sliced Oran fruits for energy, and a steaming mug of herbal tea that smelled faintly of Sitrus leaves—simple, nourishing food meant to fortify him for what lay ahead. It was already set on the table. He sat down quickly and began eating. He could easily tell that his mother was visibly extremely stressed about seeing him try to follow in her and his father's footsteps.
"There are so many other interesting careers, you know," she said, her voice tight with worry as she fidgeted with a dish towel. "Researcher, professor, ranger like your father was—something safer. You've got a good head on your shoulders, Ethan. You don't have to risk it all out there."
"No, Mom, you know I've always wanted to be a trainer, and I don't think that's going to change today," he replied firmly, though inwardly he thought: No chance in this new world that I'd let myself be ruled again by soulless people, or end up on some weird-ass island. The words carried a quiet resolve, born from his past life's regrets.
After finishing his meal, he hurried to change into sturdy clothes—durable pants, a weather-resistant jacket, boots suited for rough terrain, and his backpack slung over one shoulder. He gave his mom a quick peck on the cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin and the slight tremble in her embrace, before heading out toward the lab of the esteemed Professor Oak.
The walk to the lab was a short but deliberate one through the quiet streets of Pallet Town, a small settlement nestled at the edge of untamed wilderness. The morning air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of dew-kissed grass and distant pine forests that bordered the town like silent guardians. Houses dotted the path, modest wooden structures with thatched roofs and small gardens where tame Pokémon like Pidgey perched on fences, eyeing passersby with mild curiosity. Ethan kept his pace steady, his boots crunching softly on the gravel road that wound uphill toward the lab's hilltop perch. He scanned his surroundings instinctively—habits from his father's teachings kicking in—noting the faint tracks of small Pokémon in the dirt margins, like Pidove droppings or the scuffle marks of a wandering Sentret. The town felt deceptively peaceful, but he knew better; beyond the barricades, the world turned lethal. Birds chirped overhead, and a faint breeze rustled the leaves of oak trees that lined the route, their branches heavy with the weight of impending autumn. As he approached, the lab came into view: a sturdy building of white stone and glass, its dome-shaped roof glinting in the sunlight, surrounded by fenced enclosures where young Pokémon could be heard rustling—low growls and playful splashes hinting at the controlled chaos within.
Ethan pushed open the door, the bell jingling softly to announce his arrival. The interior was a blend of organized clutter: shelves lined with pokeballs, humming machines analyzing data on flickering screens, and stacks of research papers on evolutionary stones and habitat patterns. At the far end, behind a desk piled with notes, stood Professor Oak—a man in his sixties with silver hair neatly combed back, sharp blue eyes behind spectacles, and a lab coat that bore the faint stains of fieldwork. He looked up from a clipboard, his expression warm but appraising, as if sizing up Ethan's potential in a single glance.
"Ah, Ethan Walker," Oak said, his voice steady and authoritative, laced with the wisdom of decades spent studying Pokémon. He set down the clipboard and extended a hand, his grip firm when Ethan shook it. "I've been expecting you. Your mother mentioned you'd be coming today. Ready to step into the wild zone? It's not for the faint of heart—I've seen too many come back with scars, or not at all."
Ethan nodded, swallowing the knot of apprehension in his throat. "Yes, Professor. I've prepared as best I can. My father taught me the basics, and I'm not going in blind."
Oak's eyes softened slightly, a flicker of empathy crossing his face at the mention of William. "Your father was a fine ranger—one of the best. He'd be proud, but he'd also remind you: strategy over bravado. The zone we're sending you to is delimited, yes—mostly Tier 1 Pokémon like young Shinx or Totodile—but surprises happen. Gyarados don't respect boundaries, and even a pack of Mankey can turn deadly if provoked." He gestured to a map on the wall, outlining the safe-ish perimeter with red lines. "You'll have a basic kit: a few pokeballs, potions, and a communicator for emergencies. Catch one that resonates with you—strength isn't everything; bond is. Any questions before we gear you up?"
Ethan paused, his mind racing with the implications of this world. "Just one—how do I know if a Pokémon's lineage is strong? I don't want to start with something that'll get me killed early."
Oak chuckled faintly, though there was no humor in it—more a grim acknowledgment. "You don't, not at first glance. That's the risk. But observe: healthier fur, sharper eyes, bolder stance. And train hard— that's what separates survivors from statistics. Let's get you started, shall we?"
Oak led him to an adjacent prep room stocked with essentials: rows of labeled shelves held Poké Balls in protective casings, vials of shimmering potions, and coiled communicators. The professor selected a starter kit with care—five standard Poké Balls, two basic healing potions that glowed a soft blue, a laminated map highlighting the red-boundary safe paths, and a wristband communicator etched with the lab's insignia.
"These are yours for the attempt," Oak explained, his tone measured and grave. "The balls are unbonded; success depends on weakening the target without killing it outright—most wild ones won't submit easily. Potions for minor injuries only; don't rely on them for serious wounds. The communicator pings us directly if things go south. And the map: red lines are your limits. Cross them, and you're on your own against whatever patrols the outer wilds."
As Oak handed over the gear, Ethan fastened the items to his belt and backpack, the metallic click of the balls echoing his own pulse. A question bubbled up from the flood of inherited knowledge in his mind. "Professor, about the starters—why are there really only two main ways to get one? The clans and rich families get theirs from eggs or bred lines, and everyone else has to catch their own like this. Is it just about money and danger?"
Oak paused, adjusting his spectacles with a thoughtful nod, his expression turning professorial. "It's deeper than that, Ethan. Pokémon aren't like tools or pets in a tame world—they follow the law of the wild, the jungle's unforgiving code. If you don't hatch one from an egg under your care or catch it yourself through trial and strength, most simply won't listen. They'll see you as an intruder, not a partner. Bought or gifted Pokémon from unregulated sources often rebel, ignore commands, or worse, turn feral again at the first sign of weakness. The clans have ancient breeding programs that imprint loyalty from the egg, passed down through generations. For the rest of us, it's this: prove your worth in the catch, build that bond from scratch. That's why these delimited zones exist—to give aspiring trainers a fighting chance without throwing them to the full wilderness. But even here, it's no guarantee."
Ethan absorbed the words, a chill running through him at the raw truth of it. No shortcuts in this world—survival demanded respect earned the hard way. "Thank you, Professor. I won't waste this."
Oak placed a hand on his shoulder, the grip firm but not comforting—more a reminder of consequences. "Your father knew the risks better than most. He wouldn't want you rushing in. Observe, assess lineage through behavior and build, then strike smart. The zone has mostly younger specimens, Tier 1 level at best, but even they can swarm or surprise. Return in one piece."
The words lingered as Ethan exited the lab, the midday sun casting long shadows across Pallet Town's outskirts. He followed the worn dirt path away from the main settlement, leaving the clustered homes and gardens behind. The air grew wilder with each step—rich with the scent of damp earth, blooming wildflowers, and the faint musk of untamed Pokémon. Fields transitioned into sparse woodland, the ground softening underfoot with layers of fallen leaves and exposed roots that could trip the unwary. He scanned automatically: no fresh large tracks yet, just the light scuffs of small foragers and the distant trill of avian calls overhead. A light breeze carried pollen and the occasional flash of movement in the tall grass—nothing aggressive, but enough to keep his nerves taut.
The delimited wild zone loomed ahead, demarcated by reinforced fencing that stretched into the treeline, interspersed with automated warning beacons and reinforced gates. Signage was stark: bold red lettering declaring entry restrictions, liability waivers, and emergency protocols. A lone ranger nodded him through after a quick scan of his provisional trainer permit, offering only a clipped, "Eyes open, kid. Boundaries save lives."
Inside, the shift was immediate. The canopy thickened, sunlight dappling the forest floor in erratic patterns that played tricks on depth perception. Sounds amplified—rustles in the brush, the snap of twigs under unseen paws, low grunts and chirps that could signal curiosity or threat. Ethan moved with deliberate stealth, channeling his father's early lessons: stay downwind to avoid scent detection, use natural cover like fallen logs or dense ferns, and never commit without reading the signs. His boots barely disturbed the leaf litter as he advanced along a marked trail, pulse steady but elevated.
The zone pulsed with life. He caught glimpses of activity in the clearings: small clusters of Pokémon navigating the undergrowth, some playful in their movements, others pausing to forage or groom. Signs of recent activity dotted the path—gnawed berries, disturbed soil, faint claw marks on low branches. Tension coiled in his chest; this was no game. Even here, delimited for safety, a misstep could escalate. A protective parent, an unexpected pack dynamic, or a stronger lineage hidden behind unassuming features could turn the "safe" zone lethal in seconds.
Deeper in, Ethan crouched behind a thick oak, breath controlled, observing a clearing where several young wild Pokémon milled about. One in particular drew his eye—alert, well-proportioned, moving with a confidence that hinted at untapped strength rather than mere luck. It hadn't noticed him yet. His hand hovered near the Poké Balls, mind racing through scenarios: approach angle, potential weaknesses, escape routes if it bolted or called for aid.
This was the moment. Heart hammering against his ribs, Ethan steeled himself, ready to close the distance and make the attempt.