The journey with the merchant caravan had been a welcome change of pace. After two more days of travel, sharing stories and eating meals that were actually cooked over a fire instead of torn from a can, Red and Misty finally saw the sparkling coastline and bustling port of Vermilion City appear on the horizon. They waved their farewells to the merchants with genuine thanks, their packs a little heavier with leftover, properly prepared food.
As they entered the city, the weariness of the road settled deep into Red's bones. The Snorlax chase had taken more out of him than he'd cared to admit. Part of him itched to find the Gym immediately, to test himself against Lieutenant Surge and erase the lingering frustration of his failed capture. But a larger, more sensible part voted unanimously for a bed, or at least a stationary bench.
"We should find the bike shop first," Red said, digging the prized coupons from his pocket. "Get that sorted while we still have daylight."
Misty agreed readily. Her current bike was a hand-me-down from Violet, a fact her sister never let her forget. The chance to claim one of her own—new, and chosen by her—was a small but significant victory.
The bike shop was a cavern of chrome and colorful frames. The clerk, after verifying the fan club president's signature on the coupons, gestured grandly to the inventory. "Pick your steed, trainers."
Misty's eyes landed on a sturdy, bright orange model with a deep blue basket. It was practical, cheerful, and utterly unlike anything her sisters would choose. Perfect.
Red moved past the cruisers and mountain bikes, his gaze locking onto a sleek, jet-black racing bicycle. It was all sharp angles and minimal design, built for speed, not comfort. He didn't need comfort; he needed to cover ground. This was the one.
Wheeling their new prizes outside, they took them for a brief, exhilarating test run along the waterfront. The sea breeze was a balm after the dusty inland roads. On a whim, they turned towards a green space marked as Seaview Park on a city map, a good place to let their Pokémon out and relax.
As they pedaled along a tree-lined path, Red's head suddenly tilted. He slowed, then stopped, one foot planted on the ground.
"What is it?" Misty asked, pulling up beside him.
"Do you hear that?" His voice was low, focused.
Misty listened. Over the rustle of leaves and distant city hum, she caught it: the sharp cries of Pokémon in training, and a voice giving commands. It was a voice that plucked at the very edge of her memory—firm, clear, and somehow familiar.
But Red's reaction was more intense. His eyes had widened slightly, a rare crack in his usual composed demeanor. He knew that voice. Not from a summer camp or a passing meeting, but from a deeper, more personal place. It was a voice from Pallet Town.
Without a word, he dismounted and quietly leaned his new bike against a tree, his attention wholly captured. Curiosity now piquing her as well, Misty followed suit. They moved off the path, weaving through the park's foliage toward the sounds.
The voices grew clearer. One, the commanding one, was undoubtedly a boy their age, but its tone was flatter, more disciplined than Red's recalled. There were no other human voices cheering or offering advice—just the solitary trainer and his team.
And what a team it was. As Red and Misty peeked through a final screen of bushes into a large, sun-drenched clearing, they saw him.
Ash Ketchum.
But it was an Ash that seemed carved from a different stone than the boy who had left Pallet with a haughty Pikachu and boundless, unfocused enthusiasm. He stood straight, his expression one of detached concentration. His old cap was pulled low, shadowing eyes that watched his Pokémon with analytical precision, not starry-eyed wonder.
Around him, his team trained with a silent, focused intensity.
A powerful Pidgeotto executed sharp, banking turns at his quiet command. Butterfree hovered, wings barely stirring the air as it focused psychic energy into a shimmering shield. Bulbasaur's vines lashed out like whips, striking makeshift targets with sharp *cracks*. Squirtle's shell glistened as it practiced rapid spins, water gathering at its mouth. Charmander's flame burned a steady, hot blue at the tip of its tail, a controlled furnace.
And at the center of it all was Pikachu. The electric mouse's cheeks sparked with contained power, its gaze locked onto a crude target painted on a tree trunk some thirty yards away—a tree that happened to be near Red and Misty's hiding spot.
"Again, Pikachu," Ash's voice cut through the clearing, devoid of its old exuberance but filled with a quiet expectation. "Focus the current. Don't just release it. Direct it. **Thunderbolt.**"
Pikachu tensed, a low crackle building in the air. It let out a cry, and a searing lance of yellow electricity screamed from its body. The attack was faster, more concentrated than Red remembered ever seeing from him. But control was still a work in progress.
The Thunderbolt shot true for a split second, then veered slightly off its intended path. It missed the painted bullseye and instead struck the trunk of the tree just to Misty's left with a deafening **BOOM**.
Splinters of wood and the acrid smell of ozone filled the air. Misty yelped, stumbling back from the shower of bark. Red instinctively threw an arm up to shield his face, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The noise and sudden destruction instantly halted all training. Six pairs of Pokémon eyes, and one very sharp human gaze, snapped towards the source of the disturbance.
Ash's eyes, cool and assessing, found them in the bushes. The faintest flicker of surprise passed over his features, there and gone in an instant, replaced by that same unreadable calm. He didn't shout. He didn't gasp.
He simply looked at Red, his childhood rival and once-neighbor, for the first time in months, and gave a slow, slight nod.
"Red," Ash said, his voice echoing flatly in the suddenly silent clearing. "You're in my training field."
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Brock was the first to say it, his voice a low rumble of practicality. "We're off the main path."
"Off the path?" Green echoed, looking up from the map he'd been squinting at. "We can't be. We were just on it."
"Were," Brock emphasized, pointing at the dense, unfamiliar foliage surrounding them. "About thirty minutes ago, when you decided to chase that… whatever it was."
A.J. leaned against a tree, arms crossed. "Well, don't know 'bout ya, Brock, but in ma humble opinion, I think we've graduated from 'off the path' to properly lost, pal."
Green's head snapped up, irritation flashing in his eyes. "Lost? We're not lost. We're just… strategically repositioned."
The detour had begun with a blur—a streak of motion so fast it was little more than a rustle of leaves and a glimpse of blue. To Green, it had screamed *potential*: a rare, incredibly swift Pokémon that could give him a decisive edge. The dream of besting Red with some unheard-of creature had overridden all common sense. He'd taken off without a second thought, with Brock and A.J. reluctantly giving chase just to keep him in sight.
After a breathless, thorn-scratched sprint that felt endless, they'd finally cornered the mystery in a small clearing.
It was an Oddish.
A perfectly ordinary, common-as-dirt Oddish, which was now blinking at them with serene, vacant contentment.
Green stared, his chest heaving. All that… for *this*? The anticlimax was so profound it felt like a physical slap. His hand had still gone to a Poké Ball—a fast Oddish was still a fast Pokémon—when a cheerful voice rang out.
"Oh, there you are, Oddie! Time to head back!"
A girl about their age emerged from the trees, and the Oddish gave a happy little wiggle before bouncing over to her. With a friendly wave that felt like salt in the wound, girl and Pokémon vanished back into the forest.
Silence descended, broken only by the sounds of the woods and Green's simmering frustration.
"My fault?" Green sputtered, rounding on A.J. "Who asked you to follow me?"
"Someone had to keep ya from runnin' off a cliff," A.J. shot back. "And if I hadn't, you'd be lost *alone*. Which, come to think of it, might've been a teachable moment."
"Enough," Brock interjected, his voice calm but firm, cutting through the bickering. He surveyed the dense canopy. "Arguing won't chart a course. Our flying types can scout. Pidgeotto, Beedrill, Butterfree—they can get an aerial view."
Green scowled, the logic undeniable but grating. "...Fine," he muttered, releasing his Pidgeotto in a flash of light. "Only because it's the least bad option."
A.J. did the same with his Beedrill and Butterfree. Soon, the three Pokémon were airborne, ascending above the treetops with instructed cries.
As they waited, Green leaned against a tree, seething. Why was he still with these two? A.J. was a stubborn training fanatic, and Brock… well, Brock was mostly alright, but he had a way of pointing out Green's poor decisions that was infuriatingly polite.
His internal grumbling was interrupted by the rustle of A.J.'s pack. The green-haired boy pulled out three protein bars and tossed one to Brock, then offered one to Green.
Green looked at the bar, then at A.J.'s expectant face. The anger in his gut warred with a more primal urge.
*Oh, right,* he thought, the memory cutting through his ire. *He shares his food. And he cooks.* His gaze slid to Brock, who was already unwrapping his bar with a grateful nod.
With a sigh that was more theatrical than sincere, Green snatched the bar. "This doesn't mean I admit it was my fault," he stated, taking a defiant bite.
Brock merely shook his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips as he looked up, waiting for their scouts to return.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The deafening thunderclap faded into a ringing silence, leaving behind the sharp scent of scorched air. The stray Thunderbolt had missed Red and Misty, blasting a blackened crater into a large rock just behind them. A wave of relief washed over the clearing.
Almost.
Misty's eyes weren't on the smoking rock, or on Ash. They were locked on her brand-new, bright orange bicycle. The shockwave from the blast had knocked it over, and the front fender now sported a long, ugly scrape against the gravel path.
A terrifying calm settled over her features.
Red took a careful step forward. "Whoa. That was close, but we're okay. It just hit the—"
He froze. A wave of pure, murderous intent rolled off Misty, so potent it felt like the temperature dropped.
She turned. Her face, once pale with shock, was now flushed with apocalyptic rage, all of it focused on the boy in the clearing.
**"YOU!"** she shrieked, the sound shredding the quiet. She stomped toward Ash, who watched her approach with a detached, almost bored expression. She didn't grab his collar. She got right in his face, her finger jabbing toward his chest. **"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"**
"The attack deviated from its intended trajectory. A minor calibration error," Ash stated, his voice flat.
**"YOU COULD HAVE KILLED US!"**
"Statistically unlikely. The angle of incidence and your distance made a direct hit a sub-5% probability. You were never in real danger." He said it like he was commenting on the weather.
**"TELL THAT TO MY BIKE!"** she screamed, gesturing wildly at the fallen bicycle. **"LOOK AT IT! IT'S SCRAPED! IT'S BRAND NEW!"**
Ash's eyes—cold, analytical, and utterly devoid of sympathy—flicked to the bike, then back to her face. A slow, disdainful smirk touched his lips. It wasn't a friendly look.
"Oh, I see," he said, his voice dropping into a tone of pure, condescending mockery. "That's what this is about. Not the near-electrocution. Not the fact your friend here could have gotten cooked. You're having a tantrum over a *scratch* on your little bike."
Misty's furious tirade hit a wall. "It's not a *little* bike, it's—"
"It's a tool," Ash cut her off, his words sharp and logical. "A replaceable tool for moving from point A to point B. You're a Pokémon trainer. You carry creatures that can summon tidal waves, earthquakes, and blizzards in your pocket, and you're crying over *cosmetic damage*?" He let out a short, humorless laugh. "What's your plan when you actually have to fight? Get knocked on your butt and weep because the ground scuffed your jeans?"
Red winced. *Ouch.*
"You're supposed to be a Gym Leader's sister, right?" Ash continued, tilting his head. "You ever watch a real match? Pokémon get hit. Things get broken. That's the game. If you're this broken up over a scratched fender, maybe you should stick to polishing it in your basement instead of playing on the big kids' field."
Misty stood there, her mouth opening and closing, all her fury morphing into stunned, humiliated silence. His words weren't heated; they were just cold, hard, embarrassing truth, delivered with the precision of a scalpel.
He looked her up and down, that cold smirk still in place. "Grow up. Or go home. But stop wasting my training time with your materialism."
With that, he turned his back on her, as if she'd suddenly ceased to exist. He focused on Pikachu. "Power was good. Vector was off. We'll work on the guidance. Again."
He'd dismissed her more completely than any argument could have. The fight wasn't just over; it had been rendered pathetic. Misty stared at his back, the heat of her anger replaced by the cold flush of shame. She righted her bike silently, the scrape glaringly obvious.
Ash glanced at Red. "You here for Surge?"
Red, still processing the verbal demolition he'd just witnessed, nodded. "Yeah."
"Center's that way," Ash said, jerking his thumb. "Try to keep the civilians clear of the battlefield next time." He didn't wait for a reply, turning back to his training.
The heavy silence followed them out of the park and down the street towards the Pokémon Center, thick with the unsaid words and Misty's bruised pride. Red felt like he was walking a tightrope between the fuming girl and his old friend, who now seemed more like a stranger carved from ice.
As they neared the bustling plaza surrounding the Center, Red decided to cut through the tension. "Hey, Ash."
Ash glanced at him, his expression still unreadable.
"We're gonna grab some food at the Center's café. Get my team checked out." He deliberately kept his tone neutral, practical. "You should come. Pikachu could use a proper check-up after a misfire like that, not just a quick spray. A Nurse Joy scan's better than just guessing."
Ash paused. The offer was framed as tactical maintenance, not socializing. His analytical mind processed it. A Nurse Joy diagnostic *would* provide concrete data on Pikachu's energy expenditure and residual stress, data he couldn't get himself. He gave a short, sharp nod. "Efficient. Alright."
At the café, they found a quiet corner. Misty sat stiffly, arms crossed, glaring at the menu. Ash sat across from Red, his Pikachu hopping onto the table. Red noticed the way Ash's hand subtly moved to ensure Pikachu didn't knock over a saltshaker—a small, automatic gesture of care.
After ordering, Red leaned forward. "So, Vermilion Gym. Heard it's no joke."
"Nothing worth doing is a joke," Ash replied, his voice flat. But then he looked at Pikachu, who was now trying to stack jelly packets, and a flicker of something softer, almost invisible, crossed his eyes. "We'll be ready for it. Right, buddy?"
"Pika-chu!" Pikachu affirmed, abandoning his construction project to stand at attention on the table.
It was the 'buddy' that did it. It was small, almost grudging, but it was there. This wasn't a machine talking about tools. This was Ash. A colder, harder, fiercely focused Ash, but still Ash.
"You got a plan?" Red asked, relaxing slightly.
"Speed and agility. We can't match Surge's Raw power head-on. We outmaneuver it." He spoke with a quiet intensity, his gaze fixed on his partner. "We've come a long way since Viridian Forest."
Red smiled, a real one this time. "I bet. I saw Butterfree's Confusion back there. It's solid."
A hint of pride, fiercely guarded, tightened Ash's jaw. "He practices every day. They all do." He finally looked at Red, the cold analyst fading for a moment, replaced by the stubborn competitor Red remembered. "What about you? Still relying on that Poliwhirl?"
"Poli's my anchor," Red said, his grin widening. "But the team's grown. Got a Krabby with a mean pinch, and a new powerhouse." He instinctively patted his backpack where his Pokédex was securely stored, then stopped himself. He still felt a pang of guilt about the device Ash didn't have. "Let's just say I picked up a heavy-hitter on the way here."
Ash's brow furrowed slightly. "Heavy-hitter? You didn't…" He trailed off, a rare look of genuine surprise breaking through his reserve. "You didn't catch that Snorlax from the bridge?"
Red's smile turned triumphant. "Lax is taking a nice, long nap in his Ball right now. Woke him up just to make the catch interesting."
For a second, Ash just stared. Then, a sharp, genuine laugh escaped him—a short, surprised sound. "Only you, Red. You see a roadblock and think 'new team member.'" He shook his head, but there was a glint of respect there. "That's… a serious asset."
The food arrived, and the conversation eased. They talked routes and wild encounters. Ash described earning Bulbasaur's trust and fixing Squirtle's shell. Misty, sulking, finally muttered, "At least you care about *something* besides your own ego."
Ash didn't look at her. "I care about my team being strong enough to face anything. Sentiment without strength gets them hurt." He met her eyes. "Maybe if you cared less about the paint and more about the battle your Pokémon could fight, you wouldn't be sitting here just watching."
Misty looked away, her anger turning inward.
As they stood to leave, Red had an idea. "Hey, before you challenge Surge tomorrow… want to have a quick match? A one-on-one warm-up? My new guy could use the practice against someone who isn't a sleepy giant."
Ash's eyes lit up with competitive fire. A real battle, not just training. This was a language he understood perfectly. "Your Snorlax against who?"
"Who else?" Red grinned, pulling a different Ball. "Pikachu vs. Pikachu. See how our partners match up."
A slow, determined smile spread across Ash's face—the first real one Red had seen since their reunion. It transformed him, shedding some of the cold edge. "You're on. Right here. Now."
"The Center's practice field is around back," Red said, his own battle spirit igniting.
As they headed out, Red felt the familiar thrill. This was it. Not just a reunion, but a test. A chance to see how far they'd both really come, Pikachu to Pikachu, before the real Gym challenge began. The race for Vermilion was on, and the starting pistol was about to be a Thunderbolt.
The practice field behind the Vermilion Pokémon Center was a simple, worn rectangle of packed earth, lined with faded white paint. The setting sun cast long shadows, painting the space in tones of orange and grey. It was a far cry from a stadium, but for Red and Ash, it might as well have been the Indigo Plateau finals.
They stood at opposite ends. Misty, her bike safely propped against the Center's wall, watched from a distance, her earlier anger now mostly replaced by a grudging curiosity.
"Alright, Pika," Red said, his voice low and steady as his Pikachu scampered to the center of the field, cheeks already sparking with familiar, eager electricity. "Let's see what he's been up to."
Across the field, Ash crouched slightly, his gaze locked on his own partner. His Pikachu didn't bounce or spark with uncontrolled energy. It stood poised, its tail held stiff and straight like a conductor's baton, its expression one of focused readiness. "Remember the plan," Ash said, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet evening air. "Don't play his game. Play ours."
"Begin!" Red called out, not waiting for a formal referee.
"Thunder Wave!" Red's Pikachu instantly unleashed a wide arc of sputtering yellow electricity, aiming to cripple Ash's partner's speed right from the start—a classic, reliable opener.
"Agility. Don't let it connect," Ash commanded, his voice utterly calm.
His Pikachu became a blur of yellow and brown. It didn't dodge in a zigzag; it shot forward in a straight, impossible burst of speed, passing *through* the spreading web of the Thunder Wave before the paralyzing energy could coalesce. It closed half the distance between them in the blink of an eye.
Red's eyes widened. *That* was new. "Quick Attack, meet him head-on!"
His Pikachu complied, becoming a speeding yellow comet of its own. The two electric mice collided in the center of the field with a solid *thump*, a cloud of dust kicking up around them. They pushed against each other, neither giving ground.
"Now, Iron Tail!" Ash's voice cut through the clash.
Before Red could react, Ash's Pikachu disengaged from the headlock with a twist, its tail snapping upward. It glowed not with electricity, but with a harsh, steely grey light. The hardened appendage came swinging around in a powerful arc.
"Backflip, now!" Red shouted.
His Pikachu pushed off and flipped backwards, the Iron Tail whistling through the air where its head had been. He landed skidding in the dirt. The power behind that move was shocking; it wasn't just a novelty, it was a legitimate, heavy-hitting weapon.
"He learned *that*?" Red muttered, impressed and unnerved.
"Thunderbolt!" Ash ordered, not giving a moment to recover.
His Pikachu landed from its tail swing and, without even pausing to gather power, unleashed a searing, focused beam of lightning. It was faster, more direct than the thunderous blast from the park—clearly the result of their "recalibration."
"Counter with yours!" Red commanded.
Two brilliant lances of pure electricity collided in the center of the field with a deafening **CRACK** and a blinding flash. The air sizzled, and the hair on Red's and Misty's arms stood on end. For a few seconds, the two Thunderbolts pushed against each other, a crackling stalemate of raw power.
But Ash's Pikachu wasn't just pushing. Its body still hummed with the after-effects of Agility. "Break off and flank! Grass Knot!" Ash commanded, his strategy unfolding.
In a move of incredible discipline, Ash's Pikachu cut its Thunderbolt and used its residual speed to zip to the side. As it moved, it stamped a foot on the ground. From the hard-packed earth, absurdly, glowing green vines and roots erupted, tangling around the ankles of Red's still-concentrating Pikachu.
"Pika?!" Red's partner cried out in surprise, its Thunderbolt sputtering and dying as it tripped and fell, tangled in the spectral grass.
Red stared, stunned. *Grass Knot?* Since when could a Pikachu do that? The strategic depth was layers beyond anything he'd anticipated.
"Finish it. Iron Tail." Ash's order was final.
Freed from the electrical stalemate and empowered by Agility, Ash's Pikachu closed in like a lightning bolt of its own, its tail glowing metallic once more. It descended in a decisive, hammer-like strike.
"Quick Attack to dodge!" Red yelled, but it was too late. His Pikachu, struggling to free itself from the Grass Knot, could only look up as the hardened tail slammed down beside it—not on it, but into the ground with a definitive *THUD* that cratered the earth right next to its head. The message was clear: *I could have hit you.*
The field fell silent. The dust settled. Red's Pikachu sat in the tangled, fading green energy, panting. Ash's Pikachu stood over it, tail returning to normal, its breathing controlled. It offered a paw down to its opponent.
Ash walked forward, his cool expression softened by a trace of satisfaction. "You relied on his standard movepool," he said to Red, not unkindly. "Thunder Wave to slow, Quick Attack for speed, Thunderbolt for power. It's predictable. Surge will predict it too."
Red recalled his Pikachu, giving the Ball a reassuring pat before looking at Ash. The guilt about the Pokédex was gone, burned away by the sheer force of Ash's demonstration. Ash didn't need a database. He had creativity, discipline, and a bond with his partner that had forged entirely new paths to power. Iron Tail. Grass Knot. Agility. This wasn't the Pikachu that had stubbornly shocked its trainer; this was a bespoke weapon, honed by relentless, intelligent training.
"Predictable, huh?" Red said, a fierce, determined grin spreading across his face. It wasn't a grin of defeat, but of awakening. "You're right. Thanks for the lesson. It won't be wasted."
Ash gave a single nod, recalling his own Pikachu. "Good. Tomorrow, I take Surge's badge. After that," he said, his eyes meeting Red's with the full force of their reignited rivalry, "I'll be watching for you. Don't be predictable."
He turned and walked back towards the Center, the setting sun at his back. Red watched him go, his mind already racing, not with Pokédex data, but with new possibilities. The road to the League had just gotten a lot more interesting, and a lot less certain. He looked at the Poké Ball in his hand, then at the retreating figure of his friend.
The real battle had already begun.