An author’s foreword note:
ORIGINAL / PG-13:For blood and some suggestive themes in later chapters.
Fic Betaed By Pink Parka Girl as of 6/24/06
It all started with this line of questions;
In the Pokémon world, if you don't go on a journey at age ten then what? Better yet, what happens to twentysomethings and older in the Pokémon world?
My answers to these questions, although a bit unorthodox, I hope will entertain you and make you think a little bit as well.
A usually short narrative making an edifying or cautionary point and often employing as characters animals that speak and act like humans.
Every world has its stories, its forgotten people working droning jobs with little consideration or hope toward the future.
The Pokémon world is no different. For a fable never truly fades with time, it simply evolves.
I. A nurses confession, the beginning of a fable.
My name is Yvonne, which is not pronounced like “A-von”( that product annoying salespeople dressed up as Delibird advertise), but “Ee-von”.
I stopped typing on my laptop slowly after this bold statement, wondering if I had come across in too snooty a tone with which to began a memoir.
No, no, it’s fine, I decided. After all, if I can’t be high and mighty in my own writing, where else can I ?
The rest of the details of my birth (“May 16th, 9:45 am”) and hometown (“The secluded water city of Cerulean”) followed soon after, and poured so swiftly from my typing fingers that I could have sworn I was writing with an ink pen by candlelight like all the great master writers...
I felt my brow pull down in effort and my blue eyes squint into a driven glaze as I wrote on, my own personal inner cheerleading squad shouting me on.
Headed for future glory! Bound to be written about in the history books! Others will look at the place in which I sit today and speak “Lo’! This is where the famous one penned her greatest wor...!
“Nurse Joy! N.U..R.S..E...JOOOY!” A pitiful, whimpering, and somewhat whiny voice hollered out of the blue.
“Ack!” I replied, spilling over backward from the bar stool like perch I had been sitting on. I fell with a crash, the white titles on the ceiling of the room appearing blurry before my eyes for a couple uneasy moments before rearranging themselves back into line.
Funny, I had never noticed what a fine remodeling job the work crew had done on the building before. Granted, I had never viewed it from an upside down ground level position before, ether.
Ours was a small pokemon center after all, situated in between the outskirts of Viridian Forest and Pewter City.
Everyone (myself and a handful of my peers who also hate working here) was rightfully surprised that a “middle of nowhere” center like this one would be approved for the funding to get repairs and other much needed maintenance done. Yet, here it was in all its “work environment” glory; with new black and white title floors so clean you could eat off their glossy surface, sky blue and baby yellow sunflower print wallpaper, and glossy red counter tops with matching red cushioned stools that gave the illusion we were running a 50's malt shop rather than a pokemon healing facility. All of this was meant, in essence, to energize we “workers” and provide a safe, happy place for all.
Oh, how I it hated so.
I got up slowly, rubbing my head at the point of its impact with the shiny linoleum and wondering why new pokemon trainers always happened to be so loud and energetic in the middle of the afternoon.
Then I saw who it was.
“Oh, hello Billy, how nice to see you again. How are you?” I spoke in the false sweet happy tone that was company policy.
If ever there was a legend around this pokemon center it was Billy. This ten year beginner had been coming to my center for the better part of a month, at least twice a day, seven days a week. His light hair was always dirty and sometimes it was difficult to tell whether the large collection of band aids covering areas of his face and knees in situated clumps were barely holding his small preadolescent body together; or if he was only pretending to get in the bloody battles with lone Pidgey he often talked about. Ether way, his only pokemon, a tiny Weedle, always ended up getting the business end of whatever they came across and was, as a result, battled well beyond its limit.
Every. Single. Day.
It was more than enough to make any pokemon caretaker sick, and one reason of many why I hated this job. My cheerfulness at helping trainers like Billy may have been pretend, but my love for pokémon certainly was not.
“Stupid Weedle fainted again! He’s so weak, ya know.” Billy said briskly, reaching a hand into his pocket and digging out a pokéball.
Beaten and dented, the once bright red and white pokemon container was now a half dark brown and tan mess from the ingrained dirt on its surface. I poked it inquisitively with a fingernail, wincing as a half inch deep section of sediment crumbled off the sphere.
I knew from experience the pokemon inside couldn’t be much better.
“Okay then, well, we’ll just give Weedle a few moments on the pokéball energizer and send him back to be looked at by the type specialty nurses.” I said oh-too-cheerfully, my smile masking the inner dialogue that was running though my head as I took the ball.
This is a pokemon center, not a quickie mart! Shame on you for battling your pokemon so recklessly! They are living things just like you or me and..
“Thanks Nurse Joy, but could you hurry up? Just healin’ it on the table thingie should be good enough.” Billy said, wiping his nose with a band-aid covered hand.
My. Name. Is. Not. JOY! My inner voice of truth yelled. It’s Yvonne! How many times do I have to tell you before you get in though your head!
And, um, I’m not really a nurse ether..
My last thought stopped me from correcting the little boy about my name for what seemed like the hundredth time. If he knew that I was still just a student at Kanto Nurse Joy University there was no telling what might spill forth from his brace lined teeth, and I could really do without that today.
School. Phh. It wasn’t as if I really loved what I was being taught there...
I placed the pokéball in the round indentation and watched the life force of the pokemon glow for a moment inside the ball with a studious concentration.
A second later, much to Billy’s disapproval, I had whisked the ball, pokemon and all, into the back hallway and handed it off to our center’s resident bug type P.P.D.
He flashed me a look of “oh, this again,” and began to go to work like a well oiled, if a little old, machine.
I returned to the front desk, nimbly getting down on my hands and knees to avoid being detected by the boy, and snatched up my trusty laptop from the floor where it had fallen.
And now it’s time for this little intern to get back to her life’s story, I remarked gleefully to myself, making a speedy, crawling retreat to the quiet recovery room.
The recovery room was a cozy and inviting place. It was heated in the early evening with a tried and true small kerosene heater, lit by lamps and night lights.
The new sky blue wallpaper reflected the light in a soft manner, making the room appear a light gold color that bathed every form within it. Pokemon, small and large alike, lay here, some tucked inbetween lacy blankets like foundling babies. Overall it felt like a nursery, and at this time of day, was the most perfect place to write I could hope for.
In this peaceful silence that seemed to hang in the air, broken only by the soft sleeping sounds of the pokemon, I had been putting myself in a mental psychologist’s chair for the better part of four hours,
far away in my own “writers world”.
When had it started? When had I began to hate this job?
Well, from the very beginning, I answered myself. Since when I was little and wanted to be a pokemon trainer.
My parents had said it was too dangerous and put me into school. Into something nice and safe that would give me a career “fit for a young lady.”
Now, all I knew of any use was the beginning courses of being a “pokéball technical nurse”, a fancy title for the nurse whose only job is to run a pokemon center’s pokéball energizer day and night, and can say “would you like to rest your pokemon?” and “we hope to see you again! ” in five different Kanto, Johto, and Hoenn dialects.
It all comes down to wanting to make my parents happy, I suppose.
Despite my hidden temper all I had every wanted was to make everyone in my life happy with me.
It sounded so pitiful now that I thought of it that way.
After all, I was nineteen, going on twenty in a month or so. Almost an official adult. Who knew if my father might get it into his head to arrange a marriage for me or something, all for my “own good?”
I felt my eyes widen in horror at the thought.
What if he already had and just hadn’t told me yet? What would I do then to please everyone?
A shiver ran down my spine and I shook it off, going back to typing more notes on my computer, only much slower this time.
My parents would be shocked if they knew that since my dreams of being a Pokémon trainer had been crushed, I had set my sights on being a best selling author. It was a job that, to them, ranked somewhere between someone who cleans out cages at the zoo and a homeless bird woman.
I typed the next words with vigor:
But never the less, as a proud bookworm for years, I continue on under their noses.
My cheeks suddenly flushed as I remembered the other thing I had been keeping from them.
The one reason why had I taken the Saturday shift in the first place... HIM.