The sun was barely peeking over the treetops when Jaxon trudged along the gravel path, hands in his pockets, Ralts walking just behind him. Sleep hadn't come easily the night before. Sleeping in the damn grass is just no fun. But at least it wasn't annoying.
Annoyed didn't begin to describe it.
His job back home sucked, sure. The cybersecurity firm treated its workers like disposable RAM. His supervisor was a micromanaging harpy, and the only genuine thrill came from spotting exploits in the system's way above his pay grade. But life wasn't bad. He had a studio apartment, decent Wi-Fi, a fridge stocked with questionable energy drinks, and a monthly subscription to three sites he'd rather not name.
And now? Now he was out here, in another world that wasn't at all like the games or anime.
What got to him more, though, wasn't the danger.
It was the economics.
Something he has to deal with again for fuck shake just the deal for the studio apartment just went through.
A few searches on the good old Pokénet, plus the half-formed memories bleeding into his skull from this body—same name, weirdly—had given him a crash course in Pokémon world logistics.
And holy shit.
Owning Pokémon wasn't just some happy-go-lucky childhood adventure. It was expensive.
"Battle Pokémon" was in a whole different category from regular companions or pets. Pets cost a few thousand Poké Dollars—a standardized credit system based on precious metals and digital exchange rates. Battle-ready Pokémon? Even a bottom-tier, untrained Pidgey with decent potential could fetch upwards of two million.
Two million Poké Dollars.
For a bird that probably still pecked at its own reflection.
And that didn't include licensing fees, taxes, training permits, vaccinations, Poké Ball registrations, emergency healing services, or food plans tailored to each species' metabolic profile. Then you had equipment—battle collars, defense runes, stat-enhancing diets, protective gear, specialized terrain accessories. A halfway serious trainer could drop the equivalent of a down payment on a house just keeping one mid-tier fighter alive.
Raising Pokémon for battle wasn't a lifestyle.
It was an investment.
He had flashbacks—memories not quite his, but familiar. Growing up in a modest apartment in Saffron's lower city blocks. Watching his neighbor's Electrike get taken away because they couldn't afford its medical bills after a street battle. Seeing kids drop out of Trainer School because the tuition for keeping even a Caterpie battle-eligible was beyond their family's means.
This world didn't run on dreams.
It ran on profit margins. Also, luck and a pretty face.
Jaxon exhaled slowly, shifting his eyes toward Ralts. She was still smiling, skipping slightly as she walked. The psychic hum between them—faint but ever-present—felt like a pulse from a phone set to vibrate.
She wasn't just a partner.
She was a damn treasure.
A shiny, psychic-type Pokémon—arguably one of the rarest open-market finds. Even as a Ralts, she could easily fetch eight to ten million Poké Dollars to a collector or elite trainer.
But the idea of selling her turned his stomach.
No way.
Not her.
"Hey," he said, voice quieter than before. "You know you're worth more than a house, right?"
Ralts blinked up at him. Then offered a proud little twirl.
He grinned despite himself. "That's what I thought."
[xXx]
The town he reached—Fenshaw—wasn't big. More of a glorified truck stop than a real settlement. But it had the essentials: Poké Center, General Market, Training Yard, and a Bureau Branch for League Administration. The buildings were sleek and uniform, built of reinforced alloywood and sealed with elemental warding. Nothing fancy, but clearly meant to endure weather and wild attacks alike.
He stopped in the middle of town, glancing around. A few trainers were out early, jogging with their Pokémon, or running simulated battle commands through AR visors. One girl was training a Tyrogue to perform perfect reverse flips, while a grizzled older man stood nearby, shouting critiques.
Jaxon shook his head. The whole vibe felt like a weird mix of military academy and small-town farmers' market.
He made his way to the Poké Center, half to rest, half to snoop. The place was cleaner than expected—sterile, but cozy. No Nurse Joy behind the counter; instead, an automated service terminal greeted him with a calm digital voice.
"Welcome to the Fenshaw Pokémon Center. Please scan your Trainer ID to continue."
Jaxon tapped his Trainer Card to the pad. The system beeped.
"Ralts registered. Health scan: stable. Trainer rank: Provisional. No current penalties or debts."
"Good to know I don't owe anyone yet," he muttered.
He took a seat and pulled out his Rotom Phone. The glowing eye blinked to life again.
"Hello, Jaxon. Do you require assistance?"
"Yeah. Tell me about trainer tiers."
"Trainers in Kanto are categorized by license level. Civilian, Provisional, Registered, Professional, and Elite. Advancement requires sanctioned battles, performance metrics, public service, and gym progress. You are currently a Provisional Rookie with no formal League affiliation."
"Translation: I'm nobody."
"Affirmative."
He snorted. A snarky EDI is wonderful to have.
More memory fragments trickled in as the hours passed. Not in a flash or rush—just a slow, bleeding awareness. He remembered this body's parents: a single mom who worked security detail for Silph Co. A dad he never met. An older step-sister who left home with a Nidorina and never came back.
The original Jaxon hadn't been a trainer.
He'd wanted to be, yeah, but between the costs and the danger, he never got far. One school fight gone bad, one Scyther-related trauma later, and he left the system behind.
But now...
This new Jaxon had no excuses.
He had a Ralts. He had a mission. He had a new shot.
And he was going to make the damn most of it.
"Let's make a budget," he muttered, pulling up the finance app on his Rotom Phone. "First step: don't go broke buying berries."
Ralts peered over his shoulder, curious.
He looked down. "Don't worry, I won't skimp on your food. But no luxury psychic-grade silks until we clear a badge, got it?"
She pouted.
He sighed. "One silk scarf. But that's it."
Ralts clapped happily.
By the end of the day, Jaxon had managed to secure a travel pass, mark Fenshaw as a base checkpoint, and log a request for official Trainer battle clearance. He even made a note to sign up for the local League Branch's info seminar.
Night came fast.
They bunked in a Trainer Resting Dorm—cheap, stacked two-bed capsules in a communal floor. As he stared at the ceiling of his bunk, arms folded behind his head, Jaxon let out a slow breath.
He missed his shitty job.
He missed the late-night game marathons, the fanfic rabbit holes, even the feeling of his old, stiff pillow.
But this?
This was real. Dangerous. Tangible.
And for the first time in a long time...
He didn't feel stuck.
"Alright, partner," he whispered.
Ralts, curled up beside him, gave a content sigh.
Jaxon closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, the grind began for real.