My name is Zevion. Just Zevion, no grand title, no famous lineage to speak of.
On Earth, I was just another face, lost in the endless crowd, completely unremarkable in every way. Not a genius, and definitely not a loser—just a regular guy living an average existence.
I liked gaming, maybe a little too much, and watched way too much anime, lost in endless seasons. I spent more time living in fictional worlds than the real one; it was truly my escape.
If you told me I'd die at 23, choking on a piece of microwave burrito while watching a late-night Pokémon Nuzlocke challenge, I'd probably just laugh. A loud, disbelieving laugh, I imagine.
I'd tell you, "Nah, no way, I'm going out in a blaze of glory." "Probably saving a cat from a burning tree, or something equally heroic and completely ridiculous."
But that's exactly what happened; no blaze, no glory. Just a mundane, pathetic, and utterly anticlimactic end to my life.
It was a Tuesday night, the kind that just blends into all the others, with the clock on my dusty desk reading 1:47 AM. Its digital glow was a lonely beacon in the quiet apartment.
I'd skipped dinner, too lazy to cook anything that required more than three steps, so I grabbed a frozen burrito and tossed it in the microwave. It was the easy way out, as usual.
The low hum of the machine was the only sound in my tiny apartment, apart from the muffled Pokémon cries emanating from my laptop speakers. It was a familiar, comforting drone in the quiet of the night.
I remember being annoyed, deeply, truly annoyed, because I'd just lost to a Gym Leader in the Nuzlocke. And I hadn't saved before entering the gym, a classic, rookie mistake that made me groan.
My room smelled like cheap fabric softener, stale ramen, and old pizza boxes, a distinct scent-scape of my unproductive existence. It was a testament to my rather uninspired habits.
As I took that first, ill-fated bite, a piece of the tortilla, or maybe a rogue bean, went down the wrong pipe. It was a small, insignificant moment that changed everything.
I started coughing, a tiny tickle at first, then it escalated quickly. Not just a little polite cough to clear my throat, but violently, a deep, guttural hack that rattled my bones, making my whole body convulse.
My eyes watered instantly, tears blurring my vision as panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of my awareness. A chilling dread started to set in.
I couldn't breathe; the air just wouldn't come, and my throat seized, a constricting vise grip that wouldn't let air in or out. Absolute terror flooded me, a chilling, suffocating sensation.
I stumbled backward, my cheap desk chair scraping loudly against the laminate floor before tipping over with a heavy thud. It was a jarring, final sound in the quiet room.
My shin slammed into the edge of the cheap IKEA table, sending a jolt of searing pain up my leg. It was a sharp, blinding agony that momentarily distracted me from the main problem.
The half-eaten burrito, my unexpected killer, fell from my hand and hit the carpet with a soft, anticlimactic splat. What a pathetic end, I thought dimly.
My hands flew to my throat, clawing, desperate, as the world spun around me, dizzying and disorienting. The muted colors of my Pokémon game blurred into an abstract smear on the screen, reality fading fast.
My chest burned, a fire roaring behind my sternum, consuming the last vestiges of oxygen. Every breath was a struggle, every struggle futile against the growing darkness.
My vision tunneled, darkening at the edges, slowly closing in on a pinpoint of fading light. The world was shrinking, becoming smaller and smaller.
I collapsed, my knees giving out, hitting the floor with a dull thud. A heavy, final impact as I crumpled.
Gasping, but not getting anything, I could feel tears, hot and involuntary, streaming down my cheeks, blurring the last fragmented images of my squalid room. My pathetic, lonely space was the last thing I saw.
My body convulsed, a final, pathetic struggle against the inevitable, against the darkness creeping in.
Then—nothing. Absolute, profound nothingness.
No white light, no ethereal tunnel, no angels with harps or demons with pitchforks. There was no booming, judgment-laden voice, just the void.
A sudden, profound, and utterly absolute darkness, a black so complete it felt like being erased from existence. Wiped clean from the slate of reality.
For how long, I couldn't say; time ceased to have meaning in that void. It could have been an instant, or an eternity, a timeless, silent space.
Then, against all logic, against all expectation, I opened my eyes. A gasp of breath, a sudden, shocking return to awareness.
And I wasn't on Earth anymore; the realization hit me hard.
The first thing I noticed was the ceiling, not the popcorn texture of my old apartment, but a rough, uneven plaster. It was cracked and stained in sprawling, yellowish patterns, like water had leaked through it for years, leaving behind ghostly maps of forgotten floods, a history of decay.
The second thing I noticed was that I wasn't in my bed, or my apartment, or even my ratty, old sweatpants and anime t-shirt. I was wearing something else, something coarse and unfamiliar.
I was lying on a thin, lumpy mattress, covered by a scratchy, faded blanket that smelled faintly of dust and something vaguely herbal. Unfamiliar scents filled my nostrils.
I sat up quickly, a jolt of adrenaline cutting through the lingering haze of unconsciousness, sharpening my senses. Panic, cold and insistent, began creeping up my spine, a chilling wave washing over me.
My gaze darted around frantically, searching for answers in the unfamiliar surroundings. The room was small, barely larger than a walk-in closet, almost like a storage space someone had inexplicably thrown a mattress into, cramped and confining.
The walls were bare, a single, grime-caked window letting in a sliver of weak morning light, just enough to see the dusty motes dancing in the air. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror thudding in my ears.
My throat was desert dry, and a dull, throbbing ache pulsed behind my eyes, a hangover from... what? "Was I kidnapped?" I rasped, the word a mere whisper, barely audible even to myself.
The thought sent a fresh wave of dread washing over me, a cold, heavy blanket of fear. This wasn't right; nothing about this was right, and every fiber of my being screamed wrong.
Then I heard it, a sound, a voice, muffled but clear, from just outside the room. Someone was calling out.
"Hey, Chansey!" The voice was bright and cheerful. "Are those berries ready for delivery?" A strange name, a stranger question, I thought.
Another voice, younger, slightly breathless, responded, "Chansey, Chansey Chan!"
My mind, still sluggish from whatever had just happened, latched onto two words, two impossible words: "Chansey" and "Pewter Poké Mart."
Wait. Did they just say... Chansey? And Pewter Poké Mart? My brain, so accustomed to the mundane reality of Earth, struggled to reconcile these words with my current predicament; it was a glitch in reality.
It was like hearing characters from a book step out of the pages and start talking in your living room, utterly surreal and disorienting.
Driven by a strange mix of fear and an almost irresistible curiosity, I stumbled out of the tiny room, barefoot and dazed. My legs felt weak and wobbly, my balance off-kilter.
I squinted against the sudden brightness of the sunlight as I stepped outside; the world was vibrant, too vibrant, almost painfully so.
The air smelled clean, fresh, and somehow... familiar, a mix of damp earth, blooming wildflowers, and something subtly electric, like ozone after a storm. It was a scent I knew from somewhere else, yet couldn't quite place.
And nostalgic, deeply, profoundly nostalgic in a way I couldn't quite articulate. A memory I couldn't place, yet it was undeniably there.
Then I saw it, and my breath hitched, caught in my throat. My eyes widened, refusing to believe what they were seeing.
A kid, no older than ten, was riding a battered bicycle down a winding dirt path, a fluffy, orange-and-black stripes Growlithe jogging happily beside him. Its tongue hung out playfully as it pant-trotted to keep up, a perfect, living image.
From a gnarled, ancient-looking tree nearby, two Pidgey chirped a lively duet, their feathers ruffled by a gentle breeze. The sounds were real, not imagined.
Off in the hazy distance, rising majestically against the horizon, I swear I saw a flock of large, crimson-winged Fearow soaring effortlessly over a range of jagged, unfamiliar mountains. It was a truly breathtaking sight.
I froze, my body turned to stone, my mind reeling, processing, denying what was before me. No way, this couldn't be happening.
Was I... in the Pokémon world? The thought was so absurd, so fantastical, that it almost made me laugh, a hysterical, disbelieving laugh.
But the Growlithe was real, the Pidgey were real, and the scent of the air, the feel of the rough dirt path beneath my bare feet, the sheer vibrancy of the world around me—it was all too tangible, too vivid to be a dream. This was reality.
Suddenly a sharp pain shoot through my brain making me almost scream in pain as memories of someone or rather my current body's memory engulf my mind.
Turns out I was, and let me tell you, it wasn't anything like the fanfiction scenarios I used to read online. There was no instant glory for me.
I didn't transmigrate into Red or Ash or some future champion blessed with innate talent and a perfect starter. There was no chosen one narrative for my life.
I wasn't some forgotten legendary hero awakened from a thousand-year slumber, no ancient prophecy foretold my arrival.
I was just some random, utterly unremarkable orphan in a backwater town called Pina City, a forgotten speck on the map. It was supposedly located somewhere near Pallet Town, a forgotten hamlet that probably existed only in some obscure corner of a League surveyor's dusty map, utterly ignored by every plotline and celebrated trainer journey. A place of no consequence.
No family, no dramatic backstory, no mysterious powers—nothing special at all. Just dumped unceremoniously into a life where I was already jobless, broke, and chronically hungry. A new world, same old problems.
My past life, with its microwave burritos and Nuzlocke challenges, was just that: past, irrelevant, a fading memory.
I learned quickly that I wasn't a prodigy or gifted in this world either; no hidden talents, no innate skills suddenly appeared. The idea that being from another world would somehow imbue me with special abilities or a preternatural understanding of Pokémon was a fantasy, a cruel, deceptive one.
There were no magical cheats, no fate-defying awakenings, no system notifications announcing my unique destiny. Just the harsh, unyielding reality of a world that didn't care where I came from; it simply existed, indifferent to my plight.
I was just another nobody, a mouth to feed, a body to clothe, and without any resources, barely a blip on the radar of this vast, vibrant world. Completely invisible.
The orphanage I "grew up" in, if you could even call it that, barely kept the lights on. It was a utilitarian building, grey and unwelcoming, smelling perpetually of disinfectant and desperation, a cold, sterile place.
The food was cheap and watery, thin gruel that barely qualified as sustenance, just enough to survive.
Trainers occasionally came to drop off donations, old clothes or half-eaten boxes of Poképuffs, but most ignored us, too focused on their next Gym Battle or capturing a rare Pokémon. We were background noise, charity cases, not future rivals or potential partners, just forgotten.
I left at fifteen, the legal age for an orphan to be cast out into the world. No fanfare, no goodbyes, just a small, tattered backpack containing the few threadbare possessions I owned, a meager farewell.
And with that, I found myself adrift in a harsh, uncaring world, completely alone.
I lived in tiny, cramped rentals where the paint peeled from the walls and the floorboards groaned underfoot; every step was a complaint from the old building. Sometimes, if I was desperate and lucky, I slept in storage units, curled up amongst forgotten boxes and old furniture, praying no one found me—a hidden, lonely existence.
I took whatever work I could get, no matter how menial or back-breaking; any job just to survive. My dreams of becoming a Pokémon Master were buried under layers of dirt, sweat, and disillusionment, crushed beneath the weight of reality.
I cleaned the Pokécenter in Viridian City for a few months, scrubbing floors until my hands were raw, inhaling the pungent scent of disinfectant mixed with the metallic tang of Pokémon blood from the treatment rooms. It was a grim, constant reminder of the harshness of this world.
I hauled heavy boxes of berries and potions at the Pewter Poké Mart, my shoulders aching for days afterward, a dull, persistent throb. I took out trash at a run-down inn that doubled as a hostel for passing trainers, listening to their joyous boasts of recent victories, a bitter knot twisting in my stomach. Their happiness was a sharp contrast to my misery.
I even helped repair fences for a cranky old guy who ran a Miltank dairy farm just outside of Cerulean City; that one was the worst, absolutely the worst. Miltank poop smelled way, way worse than you'd think, a sickly sweet, fermented stench that clung to my clothes and hair for days, an inescapable odor.
It was soul-crushing, every single day, a relentless grind that wore me down.
Watching kids, some even younger than me, leave town with a carefree smile and a loyal partner at their side, their bright, shining Pokéballs a symbol of their freedom and potential, while I scrubbed floors and prayed the soup kitchen wouldn't be out of rice tonight. The unfairness burned deep within me.
Their laughter, their hopes, their simple dreams of adventure felt like a cruel mockery of my own desperate reality, a taunt I couldn't escape.
You know how kids in the anime get handed a Pokéball and a partner and just go on their merry adventure, practically skipping into the sunset? That's fantasy, a saccharine, sugar-coated lie designed to sell merchandise, nothing more.
Reality? Pokéballs aren't just sitting around in tall grass, waiting to be found; they cost thousands of credits each, a fortune I couldn't even dream of. Registration to become an official trainer, which grants you access to the League's resources and allows you to challenge gyms, costs a staggering 250,000 credits, an impossible sum for someone like me.
And if you want a starter Pokémon from the League, one of those perfectly bred, well-tempered creatures given to new trainers? That's another 150,000 credits, minimum, a dream beyond my reach.
I checked, multiple times, obsessively; I scoured notice boards, asked around, even went to the local League Office in Viridian City, hoping there was some hidden loophole, some obscure scholarship for the truly destitute. It was a desperate search for a way out.
The young, impeccably dressed receptionist, her hair perfectly coiffed, rolled her eyes at me when I asked if there was a discount or a scholarship program for orphans, a dismissive gesture that stung. She just pointed to a small, faded sign that read: "No charity programs for trainer certification. Fund your own journey." The message was blunt, unsympathetic.
The implication was clear: if you couldn't afford it, you didn't deserve it, a harsh, unyielding truth that echoed in my empty pockets.
I was stuck, trapped, a caged bird with no way out. All my dreams of becoming a Pokémon Master, of venturing into the unknown, of bonding with powerful creatures and seeing the world through their eyes? Gone, vanished, crushed under the weight of an unforgiving economy, a system designed to keep me down.
I couldn't even afford a Pokédoll, let alone a living, breathing Pokémon. The closest I ever got to a Pokémon was seeing the strays that occasionally wandered into town, skittish and distrustful, just out of reach.
I envied them, the lucky ones, the ones with the money, the connections, the sheer dumb luck to be born into a family that could afford a dream. Their lives seemed effortless, while mine was a constant struggle.
I hated them, not for their success, but for the ease with which they achieved what felt utterly impossible for me, the stark contrast between our lives. And more than anything, I hated myself for being stuck in the background, a nameless, faceless extra in the very world I once dreamed of entering. It was a bitter irony.
A world that, in my previous life, had been my ultimate escape, now it was just another cage, a different kind of prison.
But I didn't give up hope; I couldn't. It was a stubborn, illogical ember deep within my soul, flickering stubbornly against the winds of despair, a tiny, persistent flame.
Some irrational part of me, the part that clung to late-night Nuzlocke challenges and anime marathons, still clung to the dream, a childish, yet powerful, hope. That one chance, that single, impossible opportunity, I yearned for it with all my being.
Then, one cold, lonely night, it happened; the turning point I had unknowingly waited for.
I had just gotten back to my tiny room, a glorified closet in a dilapidated boarding house on the outskirts of Viridian, my sanctuary of despair. The air was damp and smelled of mildew, a heavy, oppressive scent.
My legs were sore, throbbing from hours of hauling crates at the Poké Mart, and I was pretty sure I'd gotten a splinter from an old, rotting wooden crate. Every muscle ached in protest.
I collapsed onto the thin, unforgiving mattress, my body aching in protest, and sighed, a long, drawn-out exhalation of pure exhaustion and resignation. "I just want... one chance," I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the room. "Just one," I pleaded, a desperate plea to the empty air.
And that's when the air shimmered, right in front of me, about three feet from my face, hanging in the dusty air. The space distorted, like looking through heat haze or a warped windowpane, a ripple in reality.
Then, with a soft, almost imperceptible hum, a glowing, translucent panel materialized. It hung there, utterly defying gravity, like a hologram cast from an invisible projector; it was impossible, yet undeniably present.
It was simple, sleek, with clean lines and pixelated text, reminiscent of the retro games I adored. A familiar aesthetic in an unfamiliar situation.
My jaw dropped, literally hitting my chest, and my eyes, wide with disbelief, stared at the impossible sight, unblinking. This wasn't some hallucination brought on by exhaustion or hunger; this was real, tangible.
I blinked, hard, rubbing my eyes, but it was still there, unwavering, pulsing with a soft, internal light, a quiet glow.
A line of text typed itself out across the glowing green surface, each letter appearing with a satisfying, almost nostalgic, click and hum, like an old computer booting up.
Welcome to the Gaming System.
You are now bound to the system.
That was it; no fanfare, no booming voice from the heavens, no detailed explanation of what, why, or how. There were no comprehensive tutorial pop-ups or lengthy user agreements, just that concise message, followed by a soft, ethereal ding, like the sound of a game console booting up, confirming its readiness. It was a chime of destiny.
The panel expanded smoothly, the translucent surface growing larger, revealing five distinct icons arranged neatly in a vertical column:
Pokémon Emerald
Pokémon FireRed
Pokémon Platinum
Pokémon Crystal
Pokémon LeafGreen
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm as I saw the five basic Pokémon games, old-school ones, the classics of my childhood. No custom mods, no fan-made content, no wild, convoluted user interface, just the pure, unadulterated ROMs, the exact kind I used to emulate on my clunky PC back on Earth when I was a kid, escaping into their vibrant worlds. A wave of nostalgia washed over me.
I cautiously extended a trembling finger and poked the screen. My finger went right through it, but a soft, shimmering ripple spread across the translucent surface, like water disturbed by a pebble; it registered my touch. It was interactive, truly interactive.
Was this my system? Not a status window, not a shop menu filled with overpowered items, not a list of quests or achievements, just... games? What did it mean? Could I play them? Why these specific ones? My mind raced, trying to grasp the impossible reality of what was unfolding before me, a new, bewildering chapter.
Though I like the idea of playing pokemon games in pokemon world even for in a sense of saying that .
With a mixture of trepidation and a desperate, burgeoning hope, a fragile, new possibility, I tapped on the icon for Pokémon Emerald, the familiar green icon.
The panel immediately zoomed in, filling my vision, and the familiar, pixelated intro screen of the game launched. Professor Birch's voice, a little garbled but unmistakable, filled the air: "Hello there! Glad to meet you! Welcome to the world of POKéMON! My name is BIRCH!"
And then, the classic question: "Are you a boy or a girl?"
Weirdly, it didn't even ask me that; the screen simply skipped over it, defaulting straight to the male character model. "Okay," I muttered, a weak, disbelieving laugh bubbling up, "I guess you already know." It was a strange sense of being known.
I created my in-game name; it felt natural, almost predestined: Zevion, my name in this new world.
Then I began the game, just like any other time I'd played it, a familiar routine. I moved to Littleroot Town, climbed out of the moving truck, spoke to my virtual mom, and wandered around, building up the classic nostalgia, every pixel a memory.
And then, the moment, the fateful encounter: when it came time to save Professor Birch from the wild Poochyena, I approached his bag, my heart pounding with an irrational excitement that felt entirely real. This was it.
I selected my starter, the most important choice: Treecko, always my favorite. A sleek, agile Grass-type, with cool, calculating eyes and an air of quiet confidence, my steadfast choice.
I watched the familiar battle animation play out, my virtual Zevion instructing his Treecko to use Pound. The Poochyena fainted, Birch thanked me profusely, and I walked back to his lab, the first steps of a journey.
And then, the most important step: I saved the game. I saw the familiar "Saving... Do not turn off the power" message, a habit, a ritual.
I was about to close the system panel and check the other games, my curiosity about them surging, when I heard something. A distinct, metallic clink.
A Pokéball. A pristine, real-life Pokéball. It dropped onto my flimsy mattress, bouncing once with a soft thud. Impossible.
I stared; I hadn't moved, nothing was in my hand, no conjuring trick, no sleight of hand. But there it was, solid, real, undeniably real.
My hands, still trembling, reached out, and I picked it up. It was cool to the touch, smooth and perfectly weighted, a tangible miracle.
I pressed the central button. Ping. A soft, clear sound filled the room.
A flash of red light erupted from the Pokéball, swirling and coalescing in the cramped confines of my room. And then, standing on my mattress, no longer pixelated, no longer a digital construct, was a Treecko. Real, alive, and blinking up at me with bright, intelligent yellow eyes, a living, breathing creature.
I blinked back, once, twice, trying to process what I was seeing.
"...No way." My voice was barely a whisper, thick with disbelief and a nascent, overwhelming emotion—joy, awe, something profound.
The system panel didn't say anything; no flashy dialogue boxes announcing a reward, no congratulatory banners, no fanfare at all. It just sat there, glowing softly, a silent witness to the miracle.
But Treecko was here, breathing, looking curious. His small, emerald-green body was perfectly rendered, his tail twitching slightly. He chirped, a soft, questioning sound, a real Pokémon.
I reached out a hesitant hand, my fingers trembling, and gently touched his head. His skin was warm, smooth, and surprisingly firm; he was real.
He chirped again, a little louder this time, nuzzling into my touch, a clear sign of trust.
And then, I laughed, a strange, slightly manic laugh that started deep in my chest and ended in tears streaming down my face. It was a release, years of pent-up emotion finally breaking free.
I sat there, cross-legged on my mattress, Treecko watching me curiously, his head tilted, as I cried and laughed like an absolute idiot, unable to process the magnitude of what had just happened. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated chaos and overwhelming emotion.
All the pain, all the struggle, all the years of disappointment, the soul-crushing grind of poverty, the bitterness of being forgotten in this world—it all dissolved in that moment, washed away by the sheer impossibility of it all.
After all of it—the endless waiting, the crushing despair, the impossible dream—I finally had a Pokémon. My Pokémon.
The dream wasn't dead; it wasn't some childish fantasy to be discarded. It was alive, vibrant.
It had just been waiting, waiting for me, waiting for the right cheat code. My personal cheat code had finally arrived.
And this, I knew with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, was only the beginning. My real journey was about to start.