Categories > Anime/Manga > Pokemon > Pokémon World
A/N: Konnichi wa! Fullmetal Jonin throwing yet another fanfiction at your crazy faces. Dundundundun Dadun Dadun Can’t touch this. Stop! Pokétime! Yes, it’s true. I love Pokémon, and this ultra-hella-mega-uber-cool fanfiction is all about those lovable, if sometimes scary Pocket Monsters from Japan. But rather than the normal settings of Kanto, the Orange Islands, Johto, Hoenn, and Sinnoh (all various areas of Tokyo, by the way), this fanfic will be set in . . . Minnesota! Like many great authors, and fanfic authors who have potential to be real authors, I’ve asked myself ‘what if . . . ?’ so many times on so many various topics, my brain has hurt to the point of spontaneous combustion. That’s why I take Ritalin. But anyways, one day, I asked ‘what if Pokémon were real?’ I almost wet myself because of the possibilities. So here’s one of the things that I thought up. It involves a bunch of my friends, who asked to include them in my story. The dialogue of my friends is thought up by my friends in real life, so if it’s stupid, blame them. Anyways, fanfic . . . . HOOOO!
Disclaimer: Nothing that I don’t own belongs to me. Take that, The Man!
Chapter 1: Who Let The Arcanine Out?
Hello. My name is Zeph. Short for Zephyr Gomez. Yes, that is my full name. No fancy first name, not even a middle name. Just Zephyr. I live in a small town called Black Forest, in Minnesota, one of the upper states of these United States of America. I used to live in East Los Angeles, but because my great-grandfather, and sole guardian died of a stroke, I moved up here. Why? Well, because many of my friends have moved up to the freezing boondocks of upper America.
Actually, going from one of the craziest, most fast-paced and dangerous cities in America to some tiny little town so small that it’s barely on the state map is quite disconcerting. Black Forest doesn’t even show up on the national maps.
One good thing is that it’s quiet in Black Forest. When I lived in L. A., I had to wear earplugs to bed so I could have some peace from all the police sirens whirling about at all hours of the night and day. In Minnesota, the only major sirens are in the Twin Cities (that’s St. Paul and Minneapolis, if you didn’t know). The biggest thing that’s happened in Black Forest crime-wise was when some deranged cracked-out white guy tried to commit suicide by jumping out of his first-floor apartment window. Hey, it’s not his fault. He was on crack, what can I say?
Anyways, if you’ve been under a rock for a long while, or if you’re from another planet, then I should tell you that this world is inhabited by creatures called Pokémon, short for Pocket Monsters. They’re called that because humans have developed a way to carry them around in little balls called Pokéballs that are small enough to fit in your pocket.
There are just about five hundred different species of Pokémon, and there are seventeen type-categories that they fall into, although many are actually dual-types, falling into two categories at the same time. There’s Fire, Grass, Water, Electric, Ice, Poison, Ghost, Flying, Dragon, Bug, Ground, Rock, Steel, Dark, Fighting, Psychic, and Normal-type Pokémon.
Essentially, each type of Pokémon has strengths and weaknesses versus other types. For example, while a Fire-type Pokémon may be super effective against a Grass-type, Water has the same damage multiplier effect against Fire. Nearly all Pokémon have the ability to permanently change their form, a process called evolution. That’s why there are so many species, because once evolved, a Pokémon’s species changes, but its type doesn’t necessarily change. Like for instance, a Charmander, Fire-type, evolves into Charmeleon, also Fire-type. But Charmeleon evolves into Charizard, which is a Fire/Flying-type combination.
Pokémon live in every possible environment: forests, mountains, grasslands, rivers, caves, the frozen tundra, seas, lakes, and even deserts. Most humans coexist with Pokémon, befriending them, studying them. Some people, called Pokémon Trainers, collect Pokémon and seek out other Trainers to battle their Pokémon. I’m one of those Trainers, although I only have one Pokémon
I have nose-length black hair that’s too curly for my taste, so I hide it underneath a black and gray beanie all the time. My eyes are brownish and I have brown skin, like nearly all Hispanic people. I wear jeans that are extremely baggy, held up by a bullet-studded belt, black shirt, and a heavy maroon sweater, with my left sleeve pushed up to reveal a steel spiked black leather bracelet and a thick-banded watch on my arm. I also happen to be battling right now.
“Go, Torch!” I shouted, hurling the red-and-white Pokéball into the center of the gymnasium of our school. The ball popped open and out jumped a ball of light that hardened and formed a humongous dog. It had black-striped orange fur, and a mane of beige fur that went from the back of his neck to his tail, which was the same color, and bushy, too. Beige fur also emerged at his feet, billowing out, flame-like around his ankles.
This was my Arcanine, Torch. Fire-type Pokémon, and the first, and final, evolutionary stage of Growlithe, also Fire-type, also a canine.
We were up against my best friend, Dominic Wentz, usually called Dom. He looks white, but in all fairness to him, he’s half Texican on his mother’s side. He’s got darkish brown hair and brown eyes like me, his nose is a little big, though. He wears big white t-shirts and skinny-leg black jeans and that’s it. Dom’s Pokémon of choice was a Blastoise, an enormous shellfish with a big brown shell and blue skin, with cannons poking out of the shell at its shoulders. It was a Water-type Pokémon. It was the second evolutionary stage of Squirtle, and the last one, too.
Dom and I have the same Battle class together, and the teacher, Coach Jameson, had paired us up to do battle. Another bad thing about Black Forest is that there aren’t many Trainers who’re really much of a challenge to me. I don’t want to brag or anything. Far from it. But Torch and I have been together since my great-grandpa got him for me when I was seven and Torch was still a Growlithe. That was eight years ago. Now that I’m fifteen and Torch is fully-grown and still gaining power, we’re a nearly unstoppable force. In a few years, I might even try out for the American Pokémon League.
But anyway, back to the battle at hand. “Torch,” I called. “Use Flame Wheel!” Pokémon can learn set moves that humans have named and rated. There are also seventeen types of attacks, all the same categories as the Pokémon themselves, although there are three separate categories for the moves, too. Physical attacks are the ones that actually cause the two battling Pokémon to make contact, like a Tackle attack. Then, there’s Special attacks, the ones that sort of shoot from the attacking Pokémon to the opposing Pokémon, like a Thunderbolt attack. Finally, there are Status attacks, which affect a various statistic of the enemy Pokémon, like Sand-Attack, which sends sand at the enemy’s eyes and lowering its accuracy. Flame Wheel is a physical attack that surrounds the user with fire, and then the user charges the opponent.
So Torch’s body was suddenly ablaze with deep red flames, and he dashed forward at roughly forty miles an hour. And that’s not even his top speed. Now, attacking a Water-type Pokémon with a Fire-type attack isn’t one of the smartest things to do, but I had an ulterior motive to the seemingly retarded move.
Torch hit the Blastoise dead on, and, even though Water beats Fire, Torch still did some serious damage. He jumped back as Blastoise swung an arm at him.
“Shellshocker, Hydro Cannon!” shouted Dom, ready to get this match over with quickly and get his A for the class. The Blastoise’s cannons locked into place and two super-pressurized jets of water shot at Torch. If they hit, it would be a super-effective shot, and not even Torch can take many of those.
“Extremespeed!” I yelled. To everyone else, it seemed as though Torch suddenly disappeared. But I’d seen him use the move too many times to know the signs of where he was. A blurred orange and beige figure was barely discernable as Torch slammed into Shellshocker in the exact same place his Flame Wheel hit. The already-tender spot got hit by a very powerful Normal-type attack, which is just fine against a Water-type.
Shellshocker stumbled back on its massive, yet stubby legs and Torch reappeared, a dog-smirk on his face, revealing his four-inch-long fangs.
“Shellshocker, Hydro Cannon!” The Blastoise found his footing and whirled around, aiming the cannons on the fly and jets of water blasted from them once more. Torch, however, jumped away, graceful and deadly as a ninja warrior. Albeit with orange and beige fur. The Water attack was so powerful that it left deep gouges in the dirt ground that served as the battlefield.
“Finish him off, Torch,” I called, confident now. “Blast Burn!” Not only was Blast Burn the strongest move that Torch knew, it was also the most powerful Fire-type attack there was. Not even a Water-type can weather a Blast Burn, especially when it’s Torch that’s delivering it.
Torch opened his fanged mouth and let loose a roar that would make a pro wrestler scream like a little girl. A devastatingly hot gout of flames erupted from behind his tongue, shooting out faster than a speeding bullet and striking Shellshocker squarely in the chest, again in the same place as the previous two attacks hit, except it was on a wider area, and it hit with an explosive blasting noise that sent the Blastoise into the far wall. Let me tell you, that Blastoise weighs about a hundred and ninety pounds, and it flew right through the air like a Spearow
“Aw, man,” said Dom, holding out his Pokéball. “Return, Shellshocker.” A thin red laser beam shot from the circular button on the Pokéball, hitting the Blastoise and turning it into red light. Then, all the red light disappeared back into the ball.
“Good work, Gomez,” said Coach Jameson. “I’ll give you some extra credit for beating a Water-type with a Fire-type. Better luck next time, Wentz.”
Then, all the other students in our class crowded around us, calling out congratulations and offering condolences and just making noise for the sake of making noise.
“Good one, Zeph,” said Dom. “I’ll get you next time, though.”
I chuckled. “Sure, you will,” I said sarcastically. “That overgrown turtle of yours can’t even hold up a candle to Torch.” Sorry. No pun intended.
“Whatever,” said Dom. The bell rang. “Come on, or we’ll be late for lunch.” The two of us headed down through the school to the cafeteria. There were assorted students and Pokémon throughout the food court, and the two janitors and their Mr. Mimes.
After getting our food, Dom and I left the cafeteria to go outside, where there were tables in the small courtyard just outside the cafeteria. This was where the students with larger Pokémon ate, so their Pokémon could get fresh air and eat, too.
“You really need to teach Shellshocker some new moves,” I said as we sat down at a medium-sized table with benches. I loosed Torch from his ball, and Dom did the same with Shellshocker.
“Look who’s talking,” retorted Dom, tearing into a piece of pizza. “Torch’s had the same five moves since he learned Blast Burn.” All Pokémon have the capacity to know only four attacks and one special attack at a time, no matter how many moves it could learn. Torch’s attacks were Flame Wheel, Extremespeed, Flamethrower, and Fire Fang, and his special attack was Blast Burn.
“Well, Torch is different,” I said, patting my buddy’s back. “He only needs those moves. Not one that needs changing.” Torch let out a happy bark, and Shellshocker, still looking slightly crispy, grumbled slightly.
Then, our other three friends showed up. We were all in the tenth grade at the school, and we each only had one Pokémon, as was the law. You had to be eighteen to start training to compete in the American Pokémon League.
See, the APL is where the highest-ranking Pokémon Trainers from all over the United States gathered once a year to test their skills against the best and brightest in the field of Pokémon. To do that, the Trainers need to go to eight different cities, where there are Gyms, each with its own Gym Leader. If the Trainer beats the Gym Leader, they get a Gym Badge. Get eight Gym Badges and you can compete in the Pokémon League.
Of course, there are the odd younger people who are so talented at Pokémon Training, they get special passes to strike out on their own to get the Badges and hope to compete in the League. I was hoping to be one of those talented younger people.
Our other three friends were Holly Wentz, Brian Torres, and Jimmy Thatcher.
Holly was Dom’s twin sister, although you wouldn’t be able to tell just by looking. Holly had jet-black hair, which contrasted deeply with her pale skin. Her eyes were brown, like Dom’s, but her nose was much smaller than his, and slightly upturned. She was wearing skin-tight dark blue jeans, a black tank top, and a black sweater. Her left eye was covered by a fringe of hair, but the rest of her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail. She was also very short. Standing back to back, the top of her ponytail came to about my neck.
Jimmy was my neighbor. He had a wide chest, and big arms. He was a wrestler at our school, and he trained with his Heracross, Bugz. He wore a visor over his close-cropped brown hair, and his eyes were grayish-green, and he had a sort of turtle lip. He wore a gray muscle shirt, which showed off his large muscles, and he wore baggy black jeans, held up by a plain leather belt.
Brian, although only sixteen, looked like he could already be traveling. His eyes were green, strange for a Chicano, and his long, black hair was pulled into a ponytail at the back of his neck. He had a moustache and a goatee, too. He wore a black shirt with the Metallica band logo on it with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder. He wore straight-style faded jeans and cowboy boots.
“Hey,” said Jimmy, sitting down and letting out Bugz. He was a large beetle with a giant horn at the top of his head. His carapace was bluish-black, and his four arms had white claws on them. Bugz opened his wing cases and took off into the air.
“Yo,” said Dom. “How was trigonometry?” Jimmy pulled a face as he watched Bugz loop lazily in the sky. “That bad, huh?”
“Fukashima gave me extra work because I hit him with an origami ninja star. Some people just have no respect for foreign customs.”
“Mr. Fukashima’s Japanese, dope,” said Holly, letting her Persian, Salem out of her ball. Salem was an oddity among Persians. Most of the Persians had cream-colored fur, and only black ears. Salem’s fur was shiny and black all over, and her eyes were sort of bluish. “Origami originated in Japan.”
“Still,” said Brian, breaking his own Pokéball to release his Hulk, his Machamp. Four muscled arms, pebbly gray skin, a beak-like mouth, and bigger and more buff than Atlas himself, Hulk was probably one of the strongest Fighting-type Pokémon in the school. “It was hilarious to watch.”
Dom, Holly and I laughed. We finished our food fairly quickly (all of our Pokémon like pizza), and the five of us and our Pokémon spent the rest of the lunch period seeing who could make their attacks go higher, Torch or Shellshocker.
“Hydro Cannon!” shouted Dom. Shellshocker’s cannons aimed upwards, and twin jets more powerful than the Hydro Pump he’d used on Torch earlier burst from the silvery tubes, arching high into the sky.
At that same moment, I’d said, “Torch, use Flamethrower!” Torch’s jaws opened and an impossibly long tongue of flames licked the open air, leaping higher and higher until it was at least ten feet above Shellshocker’s attack.
“Hazah!” I said. “Torch wins again! And with a weaker attack, too!” See, every attack, excluding the Status attacks, have attack ratings, numbers that rank the attacks in the scheme of things. Hydro Cannon has a score of 150, making the Water-type equivalent of Blast Burn. Meanwhile, Flamethrower has an attack rating of 95, while, still impressive, pales in comparison of the Hydro Cannon.
Torch barked, ending the stream of flames and galloped toward me as the remainder of the Hydro Cannon fell on us like rain.
“I don’t understand it,” said Dom, shaking his head, but patting Shellshocker’s blue arm nonetheless. “Am I not a good Trainer?”
Holly smacked her brother on the back. “It ain’t that, bro,” she said, setting down the brush she’d been using on Salem’s glossy fur. “Zeph here’s just had Torch for a longer amount of time. There’s a deep bond below the surface. Both of them want to strive so they’ll be good enough for the other. Understand?”
“Okay, Dr. Phyllis,” said Dom, grinning and turning back to Shellshocker. “I guess you and I need to work on our bond, huh, Shellshocker?”
“Blast!” rumbled Shellshocker happily. Other than a few exceptions, Pokémon can only say their names. It’s kinda weird, I know, but that’s just the way the powers that may be worked it. A few of the bigger Pokémon and some of the more animalistic, like Torch, can’t say their names, but they can growl or bark or whatever it is they do. And on the news the other day, there was a Meowth that spoke human and walked on its hind legs.
Then, the bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch hour. We all groaned. Time to go to fourth period. For me and Brian, that meant Tactical Battle Theory, the most boring subject anyone’s ever made up. Except maybe trigonometry.
I called back Torch and put the Pokéball into my pocket. The others did the same, although Brian clipped Hulk’s Pokéball onto a string around his neck, and Holly, who had a bracelet with a Pokéball slot, placed Salem’s ball in the slot. Shellshocker’s ball went into Dom’s backpack, and Jimmy put Bugz into a pouch at his belt. I really needed to get a cool Pokéball holder.
We parted ways in the hall, Brian and I heading east toward the battle sector of the school, Dom and Jimmy headed toward Woodshop 2, and Holly went up the stairs for History class. I pitied her because she had to take the 20th Century History class. I had finished the course doing summer school so I could have Practical Battle class this year, like Dom.
Brian and I had barely gotten into the door when the loudspeaker blared in a bland voice, “Can these students please report to the main office: Zephyr Gomez, Holly, James Thatcher, Brian Torres, Dominic Wentz, and Holly Wentz. Thank you and have a nice day.”
Me and Brian glanced at each other. I shrugged. “I guess we should go to the main office, huh?” He nodded. “Hey, Mr. Weaver!” Our Tactical Battle Theory teacher, a squat, balding man with spectacles so thick they could withstand a sledgehammer glanced up at us. “We gotta go to the main office.”
“Okay, boys,” he said with a knowing smile. “Good luck!”
As we left the classroom, Brian glanced back. “What do you think he knows? And why did he say good luck?”
I shrugged. “Beats me. But at least we get out of Theory, right? I wonder what they want us for?”
“The others were called up, too,” pointed out Brian. “Maybe this is about that time that we egged the principal’s house.”
“Nobody saw us,” I said, now nervous. That had been about a week ago. I’d thought we were in the clear, but I guess I was wrong.
When we got to the main office, which was located in the front of the building, Dom, Holly, and Jimmy were already in seats outside the principal’s office. Dom saw us first and mouthed ‘what’s going on?’ Brian shrugged in response as he and I sat down next to them.
An intercom at the secretary’s desk buzzed and a man’s voice crackled through. The lady glanced up. “The principal will see you now,” she said in the same plain voice on the intercom. Holly was first to get to the door and she opened the portal.
The principal, Mr. Everard, was a lean man with a thin beard and neatly-trimmed black hair. He was very tall, too. “Ah, hello,” he said as we entered. With no little relief, I saw that he was smiling. So he hadn’t found out about the egg-bombing we gave his house. “You may be wondering why you were called down here.”
We nodded, and he continued. “Well, because of your exceptional grades in all your classes, I decided to put your names up for the register for the Minors Trainer Association.” I couldn’t believe my ears. The MTA was the organization that gave the okay for underage Trainers to have the chance to compete in the Pokémon League.
“That was several months ago,” said Principal Everard. “A few days ago, I received word that a delegate of the MTA would be coming here to give you your Trainers Passes, along with a Pokédex and six Pokéballs each. As of tomorrow, you’ll legally be able to travel to the Gym cities and try your hand a the Pokémon League!”
I was so surprised I just stared at him, my lower jaw hanging uselessly somewhere near my navel. Jimmy found his voice first.
“Are you shitting me?” he asked weakly. Everard chuckled, a deep, booming laugh. Brian had the sense to slap Jimmy upside his head.
“No, Mr. Thatcher. I’m not ‘shitting you’ as you say,” said Mr. Everard. “In fact . . .” He glanced out the window that opened into the main office. “There she is now.”
We all turned to look. There was a very pretty young woman, probably early twenties, with long, silky brown hair and bright blue eyes. She was wearing an efficient yet form-fitting business suit, and her glasses were very conservative, with no tinting to the lenses and a no-nonsense black frame.
She entered the office and I offered her my chair, being the gallant man that I was. The woman accepted it with a gracious nod and turned to Principal Everard.
“These are the students?” she inquired. Everard nodded and then the woman turned to us. “Good afternoon. I am Riza Mustang, the secretary of the vice-president of the Minors Trainer Association. I assume that Mr. Everard has already informed you of your positions?”
I nodded, the only one with enough sense to do anything. “Good,” she said, digging into a canvas bag she had been carrying. She pulled out five laminated cards about the size of a driver’s license. “These are your Trainer’s Cards,” said Riza. “They identify you as minors who have earned the right to travel and earn badges. If you lose them, then you lose your right to compete in the League.”
She handed each of us a single card. Mine had all the personal information on it, including the picture of me that had been taken for the fall pictures:
NAME: Gomez, Zephyr
AGE: 16
D.O.B: September 15
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
HT: 5’ 8”
WT: 135.3 lbs.
STATUS: Single Trainer
I glanced at the others, who were also inspecting their Trainer’s Cards. Jimmy was holding his like it had been blessed by the Pope himself. Holly was looking worriedly at her picture, trying to scratch something off of it. Dom was holding it up to the light, checking to make sure it wasn’t fake. Brian was holding it so close to his face, his nose was touching it.
“You’ll also need these,” said Riza, holding out five electronic devices that looked a bit like cell phones. I took one and inspected it. A button on the side opened up the casing, revealing several buttons and a large LED screen. At the top was a scanner. “And these.” This time, she held out twenty-five Pokéballs. We each grabbed five.
“So when can we leave?” I asked, pulling out my wallet, which was secured to a chain that hung from my belt and placing it securely over my Student ID card in the clear pouch, then pocketing the Pokédex and the Pokéballs.
“Now that you have that card, you can leave right now, granted you have all the supplies you’ll need for travel,” said Riza, amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I believe Mr. Everard will have passes for you to leave school now.”
She got up and crossed to the door. Before she made her exit, she turned and flashed a toothy grin. “Good luck to you all.” Then she twirled and left.
The five of us turned back to Everard. “So?” demanded Jimmy impatiently.
“Go on!” he said. “Make us proud, you five!” We bolted for the door, and as I ran for my locker, I heard him call, “Make sure to brush your teeth!”
A/N: Okay, so there’s chapter one and whatever. No, Zephyr is not my real name. Fullmetal Jonin revealed, right? But yes, I am Hispanic. And I have changed the name of the small town in Minnesota that I live in to save them from dishonor should I ever lose my writing superpowers and become an average citizen. Anywho, I’ve already got a six-Pokémon team lined up for myself and all my friends, and I guess I’ll post that next, but any additions or changes are welcome. Read & Review!
Peace,
Fullmetal Jonin
Disclaimer: Nothing that I don’t own belongs to me. Take that, The Man!
Chapter 1: Who Let The Arcanine Out?
Hello. My name is Zeph. Short for Zephyr Gomez. Yes, that is my full name. No fancy first name, not even a middle name. Just Zephyr. I live in a small town called Black Forest, in Minnesota, one of the upper states of these United States of America. I used to live in East Los Angeles, but because my great-grandfather, and sole guardian died of a stroke, I moved up here. Why? Well, because many of my friends have moved up to the freezing boondocks of upper America.
Actually, going from one of the craziest, most fast-paced and dangerous cities in America to some tiny little town so small that it’s barely on the state map is quite disconcerting. Black Forest doesn’t even show up on the national maps.
One good thing is that it’s quiet in Black Forest. When I lived in L. A., I had to wear earplugs to bed so I could have some peace from all the police sirens whirling about at all hours of the night and day. In Minnesota, the only major sirens are in the Twin Cities (that’s St. Paul and Minneapolis, if you didn’t know). The biggest thing that’s happened in Black Forest crime-wise was when some deranged cracked-out white guy tried to commit suicide by jumping out of his first-floor apartment window. Hey, it’s not his fault. He was on crack, what can I say?
Anyways, if you’ve been under a rock for a long while, or if you’re from another planet, then I should tell you that this world is inhabited by creatures called Pokémon, short for Pocket Monsters. They’re called that because humans have developed a way to carry them around in little balls called Pokéballs that are small enough to fit in your pocket.
There are just about five hundred different species of Pokémon, and there are seventeen type-categories that they fall into, although many are actually dual-types, falling into two categories at the same time. There’s Fire, Grass, Water, Electric, Ice, Poison, Ghost, Flying, Dragon, Bug, Ground, Rock, Steel, Dark, Fighting, Psychic, and Normal-type Pokémon.
Essentially, each type of Pokémon has strengths and weaknesses versus other types. For example, while a Fire-type Pokémon may be super effective against a Grass-type, Water has the same damage multiplier effect against Fire. Nearly all Pokémon have the ability to permanently change their form, a process called evolution. That’s why there are so many species, because once evolved, a Pokémon’s species changes, but its type doesn’t necessarily change. Like for instance, a Charmander, Fire-type, evolves into Charmeleon, also Fire-type. But Charmeleon evolves into Charizard, which is a Fire/Flying-type combination.
Pokémon live in every possible environment: forests, mountains, grasslands, rivers, caves, the frozen tundra, seas, lakes, and even deserts. Most humans coexist with Pokémon, befriending them, studying them. Some people, called Pokémon Trainers, collect Pokémon and seek out other Trainers to battle their Pokémon. I’m one of those Trainers, although I only have one Pokémon
I have nose-length black hair that’s too curly for my taste, so I hide it underneath a black and gray beanie all the time. My eyes are brownish and I have brown skin, like nearly all Hispanic people. I wear jeans that are extremely baggy, held up by a bullet-studded belt, black shirt, and a heavy maroon sweater, with my left sleeve pushed up to reveal a steel spiked black leather bracelet and a thick-banded watch on my arm. I also happen to be battling right now.
“Go, Torch!” I shouted, hurling the red-and-white Pokéball into the center of the gymnasium of our school. The ball popped open and out jumped a ball of light that hardened and formed a humongous dog. It had black-striped orange fur, and a mane of beige fur that went from the back of his neck to his tail, which was the same color, and bushy, too. Beige fur also emerged at his feet, billowing out, flame-like around his ankles.
This was my Arcanine, Torch. Fire-type Pokémon, and the first, and final, evolutionary stage of Growlithe, also Fire-type, also a canine.
We were up against my best friend, Dominic Wentz, usually called Dom. He looks white, but in all fairness to him, he’s half Texican on his mother’s side. He’s got darkish brown hair and brown eyes like me, his nose is a little big, though. He wears big white t-shirts and skinny-leg black jeans and that’s it. Dom’s Pokémon of choice was a Blastoise, an enormous shellfish with a big brown shell and blue skin, with cannons poking out of the shell at its shoulders. It was a Water-type Pokémon. It was the second evolutionary stage of Squirtle, and the last one, too.
Dom and I have the same Battle class together, and the teacher, Coach Jameson, had paired us up to do battle. Another bad thing about Black Forest is that there aren’t many Trainers who’re really much of a challenge to me. I don’t want to brag or anything. Far from it. But Torch and I have been together since my great-grandpa got him for me when I was seven and Torch was still a Growlithe. That was eight years ago. Now that I’m fifteen and Torch is fully-grown and still gaining power, we’re a nearly unstoppable force. In a few years, I might even try out for the American Pokémon League.
But anyway, back to the battle at hand. “Torch,” I called. “Use Flame Wheel!” Pokémon can learn set moves that humans have named and rated. There are also seventeen types of attacks, all the same categories as the Pokémon themselves, although there are three separate categories for the moves, too. Physical attacks are the ones that actually cause the two battling Pokémon to make contact, like a Tackle attack. Then, there’s Special attacks, the ones that sort of shoot from the attacking Pokémon to the opposing Pokémon, like a Thunderbolt attack. Finally, there are Status attacks, which affect a various statistic of the enemy Pokémon, like Sand-Attack, which sends sand at the enemy’s eyes and lowering its accuracy. Flame Wheel is a physical attack that surrounds the user with fire, and then the user charges the opponent.
So Torch’s body was suddenly ablaze with deep red flames, and he dashed forward at roughly forty miles an hour. And that’s not even his top speed. Now, attacking a Water-type Pokémon with a Fire-type attack isn’t one of the smartest things to do, but I had an ulterior motive to the seemingly retarded move.
Torch hit the Blastoise dead on, and, even though Water beats Fire, Torch still did some serious damage. He jumped back as Blastoise swung an arm at him.
“Shellshocker, Hydro Cannon!” shouted Dom, ready to get this match over with quickly and get his A for the class. The Blastoise’s cannons locked into place and two super-pressurized jets of water shot at Torch. If they hit, it would be a super-effective shot, and not even Torch can take many of those.
“Extremespeed!” I yelled. To everyone else, it seemed as though Torch suddenly disappeared. But I’d seen him use the move too many times to know the signs of where he was. A blurred orange and beige figure was barely discernable as Torch slammed into Shellshocker in the exact same place his Flame Wheel hit. The already-tender spot got hit by a very powerful Normal-type attack, which is just fine against a Water-type.
Shellshocker stumbled back on its massive, yet stubby legs and Torch reappeared, a dog-smirk on his face, revealing his four-inch-long fangs.
“Shellshocker, Hydro Cannon!” The Blastoise found his footing and whirled around, aiming the cannons on the fly and jets of water blasted from them once more. Torch, however, jumped away, graceful and deadly as a ninja warrior. Albeit with orange and beige fur. The Water attack was so powerful that it left deep gouges in the dirt ground that served as the battlefield.
“Finish him off, Torch,” I called, confident now. “Blast Burn!” Not only was Blast Burn the strongest move that Torch knew, it was also the most powerful Fire-type attack there was. Not even a Water-type can weather a Blast Burn, especially when it’s Torch that’s delivering it.
Torch opened his fanged mouth and let loose a roar that would make a pro wrestler scream like a little girl. A devastatingly hot gout of flames erupted from behind his tongue, shooting out faster than a speeding bullet and striking Shellshocker squarely in the chest, again in the same place as the previous two attacks hit, except it was on a wider area, and it hit with an explosive blasting noise that sent the Blastoise into the far wall. Let me tell you, that Blastoise weighs about a hundred and ninety pounds, and it flew right through the air like a Spearow
“Aw, man,” said Dom, holding out his Pokéball. “Return, Shellshocker.” A thin red laser beam shot from the circular button on the Pokéball, hitting the Blastoise and turning it into red light. Then, all the red light disappeared back into the ball.
“Good work, Gomez,” said Coach Jameson. “I’ll give you some extra credit for beating a Water-type with a Fire-type. Better luck next time, Wentz.”
Then, all the other students in our class crowded around us, calling out congratulations and offering condolences and just making noise for the sake of making noise.
“Good one, Zeph,” said Dom. “I’ll get you next time, though.”
I chuckled. “Sure, you will,” I said sarcastically. “That overgrown turtle of yours can’t even hold up a candle to Torch.” Sorry. No pun intended.
“Whatever,” said Dom. The bell rang. “Come on, or we’ll be late for lunch.” The two of us headed down through the school to the cafeteria. There were assorted students and Pokémon throughout the food court, and the two janitors and their Mr. Mimes.
After getting our food, Dom and I left the cafeteria to go outside, where there were tables in the small courtyard just outside the cafeteria. This was where the students with larger Pokémon ate, so their Pokémon could get fresh air and eat, too.
“You really need to teach Shellshocker some new moves,” I said as we sat down at a medium-sized table with benches. I loosed Torch from his ball, and Dom did the same with Shellshocker.
“Look who’s talking,” retorted Dom, tearing into a piece of pizza. “Torch’s had the same five moves since he learned Blast Burn.” All Pokémon have the capacity to know only four attacks and one special attack at a time, no matter how many moves it could learn. Torch’s attacks were Flame Wheel, Extremespeed, Flamethrower, and Fire Fang, and his special attack was Blast Burn.
“Well, Torch is different,” I said, patting my buddy’s back. “He only needs those moves. Not one that needs changing.” Torch let out a happy bark, and Shellshocker, still looking slightly crispy, grumbled slightly.
Then, our other three friends showed up. We were all in the tenth grade at the school, and we each only had one Pokémon, as was the law. You had to be eighteen to start training to compete in the American Pokémon League.
See, the APL is where the highest-ranking Pokémon Trainers from all over the United States gathered once a year to test their skills against the best and brightest in the field of Pokémon. To do that, the Trainers need to go to eight different cities, where there are Gyms, each with its own Gym Leader. If the Trainer beats the Gym Leader, they get a Gym Badge. Get eight Gym Badges and you can compete in the Pokémon League.
Of course, there are the odd younger people who are so talented at Pokémon Training, they get special passes to strike out on their own to get the Badges and hope to compete in the League. I was hoping to be one of those talented younger people.
Our other three friends were Holly Wentz, Brian Torres, and Jimmy Thatcher.
Holly was Dom’s twin sister, although you wouldn’t be able to tell just by looking. Holly had jet-black hair, which contrasted deeply with her pale skin. Her eyes were brown, like Dom’s, but her nose was much smaller than his, and slightly upturned. She was wearing skin-tight dark blue jeans, a black tank top, and a black sweater. Her left eye was covered by a fringe of hair, but the rest of her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail. She was also very short. Standing back to back, the top of her ponytail came to about my neck.
Jimmy was my neighbor. He had a wide chest, and big arms. He was a wrestler at our school, and he trained with his Heracross, Bugz. He wore a visor over his close-cropped brown hair, and his eyes were grayish-green, and he had a sort of turtle lip. He wore a gray muscle shirt, which showed off his large muscles, and he wore baggy black jeans, held up by a plain leather belt.
Brian, although only sixteen, looked like he could already be traveling. His eyes were green, strange for a Chicano, and his long, black hair was pulled into a ponytail at the back of his neck. He had a moustache and a goatee, too. He wore a black shirt with the Metallica band logo on it with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder. He wore straight-style faded jeans and cowboy boots.
“Hey,” said Jimmy, sitting down and letting out Bugz. He was a large beetle with a giant horn at the top of his head. His carapace was bluish-black, and his four arms had white claws on them. Bugz opened his wing cases and took off into the air.
“Yo,” said Dom. “How was trigonometry?” Jimmy pulled a face as he watched Bugz loop lazily in the sky. “That bad, huh?”
“Fukashima gave me extra work because I hit him with an origami ninja star. Some people just have no respect for foreign customs.”
“Mr. Fukashima’s Japanese, dope,” said Holly, letting her Persian, Salem out of her ball. Salem was an oddity among Persians. Most of the Persians had cream-colored fur, and only black ears. Salem’s fur was shiny and black all over, and her eyes were sort of bluish. “Origami originated in Japan.”
“Still,” said Brian, breaking his own Pokéball to release his Hulk, his Machamp. Four muscled arms, pebbly gray skin, a beak-like mouth, and bigger and more buff than Atlas himself, Hulk was probably one of the strongest Fighting-type Pokémon in the school. “It was hilarious to watch.”
Dom, Holly and I laughed. We finished our food fairly quickly (all of our Pokémon like pizza), and the five of us and our Pokémon spent the rest of the lunch period seeing who could make their attacks go higher, Torch or Shellshocker.
“Hydro Cannon!” shouted Dom. Shellshocker’s cannons aimed upwards, and twin jets more powerful than the Hydro Pump he’d used on Torch earlier burst from the silvery tubes, arching high into the sky.
At that same moment, I’d said, “Torch, use Flamethrower!” Torch’s jaws opened and an impossibly long tongue of flames licked the open air, leaping higher and higher until it was at least ten feet above Shellshocker’s attack.
“Hazah!” I said. “Torch wins again! And with a weaker attack, too!” See, every attack, excluding the Status attacks, have attack ratings, numbers that rank the attacks in the scheme of things. Hydro Cannon has a score of 150, making the Water-type equivalent of Blast Burn. Meanwhile, Flamethrower has an attack rating of 95, while, still impressive, pales in comparison of the Hydro Cannon.
Torch barked, ending the stream of flames and galloped toward me as the remainder of the Hydro Cannon fell on us like rain.
“I don’t understand it,” said Dom, shaking his head, but patting Shellshocker’s blue arm nonetheless. “Am I not a good Trainer?”
Holly smacked her brother on the back. “It ain’t that, bro,” she said, setting down the brush she’d been using on Salem’s glossy fur. “Zeph here’s just had Torch for a longer amount of time. There’s a deep bond below the surface. Both of them want to strive so they’ll be good enough for the other. Understand?”
“Okay, Dr. Phyllis,” said Dom, grinning and turning back to Shellshocker. “I guess you and I need to work on our bond, huh, Shellshocker?”
“Blast!” rumbled Shellshocker happily. Other than a few exceptions, Pokémon can only say their names. It’s kinda weird, I know, but that’s just the way the powers that may be worked it. A few of the bigger Pokémon and some of the more animalistic, like Torch, can’t say their names, but they can growl or bark or whatever it is they do. And on the news the other day, there was a Meowth that spoke human and walked on its hind legs.
Then, the bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch hour. We all groaned. Time to go to fourth period. For me and Brian, that meant Tactical Battle Theory, the most boring subject anyone’s ever made up. Except maybe trigonometry.
I called back Torch and put the Pokéball into my pocket. The others did the same, although Brian clipped Hulk’s Pokéball onto a string around his neck, and Holly, who had a bracelet with a Pokéball slot, placed Salem’s ball in the slot. Shellshocker’s ball went into Dom’s backpack, and Jimmy put Bugz into a pouch at his belt. I really needed to get a cool Pokéball holder.
We parted ways in the hall, Brian and I heading east toward the battle sector of the school, Dom and Jimmy headed toward Woodshop 2, and Holly went up the stairs for History class. I pitied her because she had to take the 20th Century History class. I had finished the course doing summer school so I could have Practical Battle class this year, like Dom.
Brian and I had barely gotten into the door when the loudspeaker blared in a bland voice, “Can these students please report to the main office: Zephyr Gomez, Holly, James Thatcher, Brian Torres, Dominic Wentz, and Holly Wentz. Thank you and have a nice day.”
Me and Brian glanced at each other. I shrugged. “I guess we should go to the main office, huh?” He nodded. “Hey, Mr. Weaver!” Our Tactical Battle Theory teacher, a squat, balding man with spectacles so thick they could withstand a sledgehammer glanced up at us. “We gotta go to the main office.”
“Okay, boys,” he said with a knowing smile. “Good luck!”
As we left the classroom, Brian glanced back. “What do you think he knows? And why did he say good luck?”
I shrugged. “Beats me. But at least we get out of Theory, right? I wonder what they want us for?”
“The others were called up, too,” pointed out Brian. “Maybe this is about that time that we egged the principal’s house.”
“Nobody saw us,” I said, now nervous. That had been about a week ago. I’d thought we were in the clear, but I guess I was wrong.
When we got to the main office, which was located in the front of the building, Dom, Holly, and Jimmy were already in seats outside the principal’s office. Dom saw us first and mouthed ‘what’s going on?’ Brian shrugged in response as he and I sat down next to them.
An intercom at the secretary’s desk buzzed and a man’s voice crackled through. The lady glanced up. “The principal will see you now,” she said in the same plain voice on the intercom. Holly was first to get to the door and she opened the portal.
The principal, Mr. Everard, was a lean man with a thin beard and neatly-trimmed black hair. He was very tall, too. “Ah, hello,” he said as we entered. With no little relief, I saw that he was smiling. So he hadn’t found out about the egg-bombing we gave his house. “You may be wondering why you were called down here.”
We nodded, and he continued. “Well, because of your exceptional grades in all your classes, I decided to put your names up for the register for the Minors Trainer Association.” I couldn’t believe my ears. The MTA was the organization that gave the okay for underage Trainers to have the chance to compete in the Pokémon League.
“That was several months ago,” said Principal Everard. “A few days ago, I received word that a delegate of the MTA would be coming here to give you your Trainers Passes, along with a Pokédex and six Pokéballs each. As of tomorrow, you’ll legally be able to travel to the Gym cities and try your hand a the Pokémon League!”
I was so surprised I just stared at him, my lower jaw hanging uselessly somewhere near my navel. Jimmy found his voice first.
“Are you shitting me?” he asked weakly. Everard chuckled, a deep, booming laugh. Brian had the sense to slap Jimmy upside his head.
“No, Mr. Thatcher. I’m not ‘shitting you’ as you say,” said Mr. Everard. “In fact . . .” He glanced out the window that opened into the main office. “There she is now.”
We all turned to look. There was a very pretty young woman, probably early twenties, with long, silky brown hair and bright blue eyes. She was wearing an efficient yet form-fitting business suit, and her glasses were very conservative, with no tinting to the lenses and a no-nonsense black frame.
She entered the office and I offered her my chair, being the gallant man that I was. The woman accepted it with a gracious nod and turned to Principal Everard.
“These are the students?” she inquired. Everard nodded and then the woman turned to us. “Good afternoon. I am Riza Mustang, the secretary of the vice-president of the Minors Trainer Association. I assume that Mr. Everard has already informed you of your positions?”
I nodded, the only one with enough sense to do anything. “Good,” she said, digging into a canvas bag she had been carrying. She pulled out five laminated cards about the size of a driver’s license. “These are your Trainer’s Cards,” said Riza. “They identify you as minors who have earned the right to travel and earn badges. If you lose them, then you lose your right to compete in the League.”
She handed each of us a single card. Mine had all the personal information on it, including the picture of me that had been taken for the fall pictures:
NAME: Gomez, Zephyr
AGE: 16
D.O.B: September 15
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
HT: 5’ 8”
WT: 135.3 lbs.
STATUS: Single Trainer
I glanced at the others, who were also inspecting their Trainer’s Cards. Jimmy was holding his like it had been blessed by the Pope himself. Holly was looking worriedly at her picture, trying to scratch something off of it. Dom was holding it up to the light, checking to make sure it wasn’t fake. Brian was holding it so close to his face, his nose was touching it.
“You’ll also need these,” said Riza, holding out five electronic devices that looked a bit like cell phones. I took one and inspected it. A button on the side opened up the casing, revealing several buttons and a large LED screen. At the top was a scanner. “And these.” This time, she held out twenty-five Pokéballs. We each grabbed five.
“So when can we leave?” I asked, pulling out my wallet, which was secured to a chain that hung from my belt and placing it securely over my Student ID card in the clear pouch, then pocketing the Pokédex and the Pokéballs.
“Now that you have that card, you can leave right now, granted you have all the supplies you’ll need for travel,” said Riza, amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I believe Mr. Everard will have passes for you to leave school now.”
She got up and crossed to the door. Before she made her exit, she turned and flashed a toothy grin. “Good luck to you all.” Then she twirled and left.
The five of us turned back to Everard. “So?” demanded Jimmy impatiently.
“Go on!” he said. “Make us proud, you five!” We bolted for the door, and as I ran for my locker, I heard him call, “Make sure to brush your teeth!”
A/N: Okay, so there’s chapter one and whatever. No, Zephyr is not my real name. Fullmetal Jonin revealed, right? But yes, I am Hispanic. And I have changed the name of the small town in Minnesota that I live in to save them from dishonor should I ever lose my writing superpowers and become an average citizen. Anywho, I’ve already got a six-Pokémon team lined up for myself and all my friends, and I guess I’ll post that next, but any additions or changes are welcome. Read & Review!
Peace,
Fullmetal Jonin
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