Viridian City

You storm into the Viridian City Pokémon Center, purpose radiating from you as you slap Bulbasaur’s Pokéball onto the counter. A pink-haired nurse bustles over, Chansey waddling in her shadow. You spot “Joy” on her nametag as you grab Pidgey’s ball from your pack, placing it beside Bulbasaur’s with deliberate respect. “Can you help them?” you whisper, voice heavy with regret. “They didn’t deserve this.” Nurse Joy’s sincere smile cuts through your gloom. “They’ll be fighting-fit in no time!” she chirps, whisking the Pokéballs away.

Only when you slump into a chair and relax your muscles does the sharp antiseptic scent of the Center hit you—a weird mixture of warming cold, sterile but welcoming. You were so caught up in getting your team healed, it’s only now, as your head thuds against the wall, eyes closed, that your mind clears. The chatter of other trainers creeps in—tales of battles hard fought, of evolutions and tactics. Something about a local troublemaker, something about an arrogant Charmander trainer, something about a methodical female trainer sweeping Brock’s team in Pewter. You let it wash over you, taking in the conversations non-committally, before a low whisper steals your attention: “And have you heard? Giovanni’s gym’s forfeits are intense. They say he breaks trainers until they cannot resist, enslaves them, steals their best Pokémon, before sending the trainer off. Those who lose to Viridian Gym usually go missing!” A chill crawls down your spine. The thought of Bulbasaur stolen by some abusive slaver gym leader twists your gut—you’ve only had him two days, but he’s yours. Joy’s voice snaps you back: “Your Pokémon are fully healed!” She hands back Bulbasaur and Pidgey’s Pokéballs, and you clip them to your belt, relief freeing you from the last of your tensed nerves. Your team’s whole again.

Viridian is a small city, but being a Pallet Town girl all your life, it seems massive. Trainers travel left and right, some running, some on bikes. Considering your next move, you see a PokéMart and slip inside, the bell jingling. The PokéMart’s fluorescent lights buzz faintly, shelves crammed with overpriced gear—Potions, Pokéballs, Antidotes stacked high. The counter’s cluttered with crumpled receipts and a dusty register, the air thick with the scent of cheap plastic and stale coffee. It’s quieter in here, you think, as you browse the shelves, $400 in your purse. Potions are only $200 here—guess Pallet’s remoteness really was jacking up prices. Revives are $300, and then you see it. An Antidote, $1000! You scowl, jerking your head to the clerk, a wiry guy with a scruffy beard and eyes that rake over you like he’s sizing up a price.

“What the hell is with the price?!” you snap, index finger pointed accusingly at the innocent-looking yellow spray on the shelf. He leans on the counter, smirking like he’s in on some private joke. “Viridian Forest’s a poisonous well—Weedle, Kakuna, Caterpie, you name it. Trainers are begging for ‘em, and we don’t have much stocked.” He shrugs, adding, “Can’t skimp on your Pokémon, right?”, smirk tightening into a shit-eating grin.

You close your eyes, and breathe in, and out. He’s right, but you can’t afford an Antidote. You’ll just have to buy a Revive. You put it on the counter, muttering “just this, then” under your breath. He nods, putting it through the register, before he speaks up. “You’re that vixen Oak’s grandson was talking about, yeah? Came in earlier, whining that some chick had him dancing like a puppet. Blue, right?”

You tilt your head, a smirk curling your lips. Blue must’ve set for Viridian straight after leaving, you think. You jeer, voice low and mocking. “Glad to hear he hasn’t forgotten what he gets for messing with me,” you say. The clerk chuckles and smiles, “Gotta say, kid probably deserved it—Oak’s always been too soft on that one.” He glances with a feigned lack of intent at the Antidote you were looking at earlier, before lazily pointing to it. “Gonna need that for the forest. Poison ain’t no joke out there.” You look back at the Antidote, then back at the clerk, shaking your head. “Can’t swing it,” you say, voice flat. His eyes glint, and he leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratory drawl. “Could make it work,” he starts, “Antidote’s yours, free—if you do me a favor.”

Your skin crawls, expecting some sleazy pitch, but you play along, a mix of guilt and surrender in your voice. “What’s a guy like you after?” He is right, you can’t skimp on your Pokémon. And sometimes, that means doing what needs to be done, you think. What trainer would you be if you didn’t? You cross your arms, accentuating your curves. Not because you want to—the thought of being objectified like this is disturbing. But because you need that Antidote. The wiry clerk blinks, caught off guard by your sudden change in demeanor, before realizing the implications. “Oh no, not what you’re thinking! Relax! I just need a parcel run to Blaine, Cinnabar’s Gym Leader. Drop it off, that’s all.” You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “Cinnabar’s across the damn ocean. That’s your favor?” He slides a small, taped-up parcel across—light, plain, no markings. “Yeah, take it, and the Antidote is yours.”

You slip it into your bag, relieved that the favor is so simple. But you’re not going to just leave it there. You know you can get a better deal here—he’s cutting you short no matter how you look at it. You clench your fists, the weight of Bulbasaur’s Pokéball grounding you. This world’s brutal, but you’ll make him pay for thinking he can play you. You do a quick once-over of the store—still quiet—before turning back to the clerk and saying, “You’re joking, right? An Antidote for a job that big? These are only $100 everywhere else. You think I’m your errand girl for pocket change?” His smirk falters, and he reaches out. “Fine, hand it over, I’ll get someone else.” You step back, hand brushing Bulbasaur’s Pokéball on your belt, foot edging closer toward the door. “What parcel?” you say, all wide-eyed innocence, your smile daring him to push. His gaze flicks to your hand, then the door, and he curses under his breath. “Alright, damn it! Keep the Antidote, and... I’ll throw in the Revive for free!” He pushes the Revive towards you with the $300 you gave him for it, not-yet tilled. You take them both with a smile, and snag the extortionate Antidote off the shelf, before saying, “There we go!” in a toxically sweet tone as you pass the counter and move towards the exit.

A step from the door, you hear him mutter, “Blue was right, you really are a bitch.” Honestly, you can’t fault him for that, but he did just try to scam you, so you spin around and say, “What was that?” He frantically shakes his hands in front of his head, “N-nothing!”, but you’re already back at the counter. “What if I just... lost this parcel somewhere in Viridian? I don’t know, maybe I give it up for a forfeit to not get ****. I’m thinking, a Revive and an Antidote don’t really cover my troubles.” You see his face descend into scorn and panic as you spin your story. You don’t stop, twisting a strand of hair innocently. “I mean, Cinnabar is a very long way. You’re asking an innocent, helpless woman to make a trip through horny trainers, perilous caves, wilderness... Even Team Rocket is on the rise these days.” You lean on the counter carefully. “And for what? A single Antidote? That’ll barely get me past Viridian. Would be a shame if someone... ‘steals’ it in Mt. Moon, huh?” You make eye contact briefly, before pushing yourself off the counter and spinning back towards the door. “Well? Would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” you wink, before taking a slow step. Before you reach the door a second time, the clerk folds—face pale—scrambles for cash, before scowling, “Ts, fine. Here, take $800.” His face reddens, fist shaking as he snaps, “And if that parcel doesn’t reach Blaine soon, I’ll pay another $800 to find you, girl.” You take two quick steps back to the counter and snatch the cash, tucking it away with a smug grin. “Nice doing business,” you say, striding out hastily. Before the door closes, the clerk shouts after you, “And don’t think I’ll forget! That parcel better reach Blaine, girl!”, his fist slamming the counter. You give a thumbs up through the glass of the door to reassure him, then step into Viridian’s crowded streets, trainers zipping by on bikes, the northern path vanishing into Viridian Forest’s dark canopy. You grip Bulbasaur’s Pokéball, pulse racing. Bugs, trainers, or worse—you're ready to prove yourself.