Berries are fascinating things when you really stop and think about them. In battle, they can be held and automatically consumed at the perfect moment. Outside of battle, they can cure poison, wake someone from sleep, heal wounds, and even dampen super-effective attacks if chosen correctly. Some are sweet, others bitter, some so sour they make your face scrunch up before you even swallow. Each one carries its own property, its own hidden utility, like a compact miracle wrapped in bright skin.
The dish I cooked should have required real-world ingredients—salt, oil, vegetables, actual seasoning—but thanks to the RotomNav, or Rav as I've decided to call him, the recipe was automatically modified to use crushed berries in place of conventional components. It was tailored not only to my taste, but to the preferences of my team as well.
And apparently, I can send dishes directly into my soul space for them to eat.
How do I know this? Because Nancy casually carried two plates in her ribbons, gave me a knowing look, and then stepped back into my body with the food still in her grasp. The plates vanished with her.
The whole experience was deeply jarring.
Still… convenient.
At least I don't have to summon everyone into my tiny apartment just so we can eat together. Not that they wouldn't fit—most of my team is compact enough—but explaining that to neighbors would be a nightmare.
"That… was… delicious," I muttered in absolute bliss, leaning back in my chair while patting my stomach. The blend of berries created something surprisingly hearty and satisfying. "Thank you, Rav. You saved me from starvation."
My watch beeped cheerfully, Rav's animated face appearing on the screen.
{Always happy to assist, Trainer Lloyd! If culinary guidance is required again, simply say the word!}
I chuckled. "Actually, since you're here… can you check where I am? I want to know what city we're in."
{Processing request. One moment.}
A few seconds later, a detailed holographic map projected outward from my wrist. The scale alone was overwhelming.
{Location confirmed: Brooklyn, New York. United States of America. Updating internal geography database… Update complete.}
New York.
I'm in New York.
Of all the places I could've been dropped into, it had to be one of the most iconic cities on the planet. Skyscrapers, subways, superheroes—if my brother were here, he'd be losing his mind.
I always wanted to visit America, but between money problems and the constant news about shootings, it never happened. Now I'm here, armed with Pokémon and divine Plates.
I can probably handle a few thugs with guns.
…Unless I run into that white-haired thief again.
{Current date: January 12, 2008. Time settings synchronized.}
2008, huh.
Interesting.
"Thanks, Rav," I said. "Now that we've got that sorted… time for the next problem."
Money.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Pokédollars are weird.
They mirror the Japanese Yen in value, which in itself isn't strange. But the fact that they're somehow accepted here in the United States is what truly throws me off. Even stranger, they're converted exactly like Yen.
In my countless playthroughs, I was always careful not to overspend. I hoarded money. Bought essentials. Stockpiled items. By endgame, I'd hit the cap of ₽999,999 multiple times. That number stayed frozen, untouched, eternally maxed.
I thought I was rich.
Delusionally rich.
"Thank you for choosing our bank. Here is your converted amount, sir."
The receptionist handed me a modest stack of bills and smiled politely.
Once I stepped away from the counter, I counted.
A little over six thousand dollars.
That's it.
I must've radiated despair because someone tapped my shoulder. "Hey, buddy. You okay?"
I turned slowly, still staring at the small stack of cash. The man glanced at it, then gave me a sympathetic nod.
"Apologies," he said gently. "It'll get better."
He walked away.
I stood there, processing the crushing reality.
Of course it converted like Yen. What did I expect? That I'd waltz into America as a millionaire because I maxed out in a fangame?
I'm an idiot.
This money needs to be spent wisely. My berry reserves are finite, and I can't exactly live off Leppa and Oran forever.
"Looks like I need a job," I muttered. "Which means job hunting."
All my documents are legitimate, thanks to ROB. That's one less worry. But I refuse to work myself to death in some corporate cage. Something simple. Something manageable.
I won't let my team starve because their trainer was lazy.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
I got hired as a night guard.
A museum in a wealthy district of Brooklyn needed someone for late hours. Rav helped sift through listings online and flagged the position almost instantly.
Good pay. Quiet environment. Minimal supervision.
Perfect.
The interview went smoothly. The manager barely questioned me beyond credentials and availability. By the time I stepped outside, the sun had already dipped below the horizon, leaving the city bathed in silver moonlight.
The usual daytime noise had faded into a distant hum. Sirens far away. Cars gliding through streets. A city that never sleeps—but does soften.
I inhaled carefully this time, remembering my earlier mistake with pollution.
Cold night air filled my lungs.
I felt… alive.
Truly alive.
Each breath felt like a gift. A reminder that I'm no longer trapped in a hospital bed, counting ceiling tiles.
"Thank you…" I whispered, though no one stood before me.
A stretch rolled through my limbs. I was already getting drowsy. Tomorrow night would be my first shift.
Unfortunately, the night had other plans.
A faint struggle echoed from a nearby alley.
That tugging sensation in my mind flared again. Anger. Lust. Malice.
"This power…" I muttered. "What else did ROB give me?"
Then a cry pierced the night.
"Help! Someone help me!"
Muffled. Desperate.
I froze.
Two choices.
Help her.
Or walk away.
I'm not a hero. I don't want politics, media backlash, government interference. I remember the comics my brother brought to the hospital—heroes dragged through mud by politicians hungry for power.
I don't want that life.
But as a crash echoed and a man tackled a bruised woman onto the pavement near me, something inside me shifted.
Her dress was torn. She was crying. He was grinning.
I'm not a saint.
I won't save everyone.
But I refuse to live with regret again.
I moved.
Quick steps turned into a sprint as I equipped the Blank Plate. My appearance stayed the same, but power flooded my limbs. Knowledge of moves filled my mind like instinct.
The attacker noticed too late.
"[Tackle]."
White aura coated my shoulder as I slammed into him. I restrained myself—enough force to knock him unconscious, not enough to kill.
He hit the pavement hard and lay groaning.
Silence followed.
I had just beaten a man in the street.
"Are you alright, ma'am?" I asked gently.
She nodded shakily, tried to stand—and fell. I caught her.
"Twisted ankle," she winced. "Call an ambulance?"
"That's expensive," I said automatically.
"Better broke than dead."
Fair point.
I knelt, placing my hands around her ankle.
"[Recover]."
Soft light flowed from my palms. I directed the healing energy precisely, watching the swelling recede, the joint realign.
Within seconds, she flexed her foot in disbelief.
"You healed me…"
She stood, steady.
"Thank you," she said softly. "You saved me. Twice."
As I turned to leave, she called out, "How can I repay you?"
I shook my head. "I didn't do it for money."
I switched to the Mind Plate.
This time, the transformation occurred fully. My hair shifted into a light purple hue, gently waving. My poncho gained deep violet outlines, faint psychic energy humming around me.
Her eyes widened.
"Safe travels, ma'am."
"[Teleport]."
The world folded inward.
And I vanished.