David paused mid-rant as the familiar beep of the system echoed in his head like a cash register in a supermarket of emotional damage.
[Ding! Negative Emotion Received!]
He instantly shut his mouth, straightened his face, and let out a few overly dramatic coughs to reset the vibe—like a shady politician trying to pivot mid-scandal.
"Ahem!" David declared, clearing his throat with Oscar-worthy flair. "So, Tom… do you believe me now?"
Tom, still sitting on the floor with a bruised ego and face to match, glared up at him like a betrayed puppy. A puppy that could probably bench press a truck.
"Believe you?" Tom growled, wiping a streak of dried blood off his nose. "Dude, screw you!"
But the way he said it was laced with caution, like someone trying to bluff their way through a poker game with two aces and a grenade under the table.
Deep down, Tom knew he couldn't afford to question David right now. Not after being turned into a human pretzel ten minutes ago. One wrong move and he might find himself with another visit to Nurse Pam's infirmary and her questionable 'homemade' ice packs that smelled suspiciously like cabbage.
David watched him with a smug smirk, but said nothing more. No need to rub salt in the black eye. Besides, this wasn't the kind of thing you could just explain in a paragraph and a PowerPoint presentation.
No, it was better to show.
"Alright," David finally said, brushing off invisible dust from his shoulder. "Come with me. I'll show you how the magic works."
Tom blinked. "…To your house?"
David nodded. "Yep. Quick demo. You'll see it for yourself."
Tom's face turned pinker than a Valentine's Day greeting card.
"Wait, wait, wait," he stammered, his voice cracking slightly. "I mean… if you're really inviting me over like that… shouldn't I bring flowers or something?"
[Image: Macho Man Shy.jpg]
David stared at him. Unblinking.
"…Why are you acting shy? I didn't say I was introducing you to a girl with double D's, bro."
[+40 Negative Emotion from David…]
[+50 Negative Emotion from David…]
[+60 Negative Emotion from David…]
David rubbed his temples like he was trying to manually reset his brain.
"Just… walk."
—
David lived in a rented shoebox apartment near the school. It was technically "off-campus housing," but really, it was more of a glorified storage closet with a bed. He picked it for the location—just over ten minutes away from school by foot, or five if you were late and sprinting with a croissant in your mouth like a cartoon character.
When they reached the front door, David threw it open with the confidence of someone who had finally gotten the chance to say, "Welcome to my crib," and not be ironic about it.
He dropped his backpack by the shoe rack, kicked off his sneakers, and headed straight for the closet. After rummaging through a pile of books, laundry, and what looked suspiciously like a half-eaten sandwich, he pulled out a mysterious, shiny metal box.
Tom, who had awkwardly planted himself on the edge of the couch like a kid visiting a distant relative, squinted. "What the heck is that?"
David held it up like it was the Holy Grail. "Behold. The Memory Toast Maker."
Tom blinked. "The what now?"
"This bad boy," David explained, patting the box proudly, "was something I pulled from the system's B-tier prize pool. Basically, I can print book pages onto toast, eat the toast, and boom—instant knowledge. Like educational Pop-Tarts."
Tom stared. His jaw slightly unhinged.
"…You're telling me you study by eating bread."
"Yes."
"And it works."
"Yes."
"…You're the dumbest genius I've ever met."
David shrugged. "I try."
He hesitated for a moment, holding the box, then looked over at Tom.
In truth, this thing wasn't just some flashy trick. It was one of his most valuable system items. Something he'd only used for emergencies or cramming for finals.
But over the past three years, Tom had practically carried him through school like a personal tutor, meal sponsor, and occasional bodyguard. Most of David's actual nutrition came from whatever Tom handed him at lunch, and his backup nutrition came from Melissa confiscating expired cafeteria food and "accidentally" leaving it on David's desk.
The rest? Well, let's just say the principal's vegetable garden had some "voluntary donations" missing.
Point is—Tom had done a lot for him.
So yeah, maybe it was time to give something back. Even if it meant letting the human muscle tank in on his cheat code.
David looked at the memory toast in his hand, then looked back at Tom and grinned.
"Alright, get ready. You're about to learn through carbs."
Every time David ran into a crisis—and that was more often than he liked to admit—Tom was the one dragging his sorry self out of the pit.
Whether it was sneaking him food when he'd run out of lunch money, helping him pass surprise tests by whispering answers through coughs, or talking down teachers when David "accidentally" set the chemistry lab on fire, Tom had always been there. Ride-or-die. Preferably not die, but you get the point.
Even the shoebox apartment David lived in wasn't entirely his doing. When he first started school, he could barely afford a locker to sleep in, much less a real place. But Tom had pulled some strings through his family and got David the apartment at a bargain price that could only be described as "legally suspicious." Without Tom and Melissa—their eternally stressed-out teacher who had long since given up on enforcing rules—David would probably be squatting in a tent behind the gym with a Zigzagoon for company.
So now that he finally had a way to give something back, he figured it was time.
Melissa had already received a thank-you gift earlier that morning—a Pokémon egg. But not just any egg. It was a Zigzagoon egg, courtesy of the mysterious and all-powerful system David had access to. On the surface, it looked like the kind of egg you could buy at a PokéMart next to the lottery tickets and Poképuffs. But this one was elite grade. If someone sold it on the market, it could fetch over a million in Alliance coins easy. A clean flex over the mere 300,000 she'd once loaned him during his darkest ramen-fueled hour.
Now it was Tom's turn.
David had decided—after a healthy amount of second-guessing—to let Tom use the memory toast.
Yes. Memory toast.
It was a magical system item that could transfer the entire contents of a textbook directly into your brain via bread. It was like studying by eating French toast. The only catch? No syrup.
This was the first time David was letting someone else use a system prop. It made him a little uneasy. If this got out, he could kiss his quiet life goodbye and probably end up dissected in a lab with electrodes on his brain.
But… it was Tom. If there was anyone in the world who wouldn't sell him out for a snack and some Pokédollars, it was Tom.
So, with great solemnity, David stepped into his apartment, opened a storage box, and pulled out a carefully wrapped loaf of enchanted bread.
Tom watched this unfold with increasing confusion. He had been sitting on the couch, expecting a normal demonstration. Maybe a PowerPoint. Maybe a Pokémon battle. What he didn't expect was David to walk in with a giant plastic tub full of toast.
His brow furrowed. And then it hit him. That nonsense answer David had given earlier—about learning through bread?
He wasn't kidding?
Tom's mouth dropped slightly as David pulled out a thick textbook labeled "Pokémon Ecology Year One", slapped it down on the table, and began pressing toast onto it like a guy trying to iron his laundry with grilled cheese.
"Hey! Don't just stand there!" David barked. "Help me print the knowledge into this toast! The faster we get through this, the sooner your brain becomes the Library of Congress!"
Tom stared at him like he was watching someone build a time machine out of pool noodles.
"…You're seriously eating books?" he whispered, horrified.
"Yes!" David snapped. "Now help!"
Fortunately, the system had upgraded the memory toast. Instead of pressing each individual page onto the bread like in those old cartoons, it now only required contact with the cover of the book. One slice per book. Very efficient. Very cursed.
Still, David had his doubts. Would the toast actually transfer all that knowledge into Tom's head? Would it give him super learning powers, or just make him feel like he licked a textbook?
As he continued pressing toast onto the cover, Tom slowly, hesitantly reached into his back pocket… and pulled out a bank card.
David paused. "Uh. What's that for?"
Tom held it out with a sincere, solemn expression. "Brother… I believe you. I truly do. But please. Use this to see a doctor. Preferably a neurologist. This much toast touching can't be good for your brain."
David froze. His hand stopped mid-toast.
He stared at the card.
[+50 Negative Emotion from David…]
[+60 Negative Emotion from David…]
[+70 Negative Emotion from David…]
He blinked. Then slowly frowned.
"…I try to do something nice," he muttered. "I try to give back. I open my heart. I open my bread."
He looked up, deadpan.
"And you… tell me to go get a brain scan?"
His eye twitched. Somewhere deep inside, a toaster short-circuited.
David: [(?_?)[angry.jpg]]
"I'm out here being generous, and you treat me like I'm one quiz away from a padded room? This is what I get?!"
Tom just nodded, very sincerely.
"You're a good man, David. A very, very weird man. But I care about you. And that's why I want you to get help."
David stood there, holding a piece of memory toast like it was Exhibit A in his emotional trauma case.
He sighed.
"…Next time, I'm giving the toast to Zigzagoon."
David knew one thing for sure: explaining anything to Tom was like trying to explain Wi-Fi to a Magikarp. A complete waste of breath and dignity.
So instead of walking Tom through the magical, toast-based miracle of education, he decided to cut to the chase.
"Open wide," David said ominously.
Tom barely had time to blink before David grabbed the guy's shoulder with one hand and shoved a slice of textbook-infused memory toast into his mouth with the other.
"MMMPH?! BRO—wait, that's too big—!"
Tom's voice was muffled, alarmed, and dangerously close to sounding like the start of a courtroom transcript.
Half a minute of chaos followed, in which Tom tried to chew, breathe, and not choke to death at the same time. The toast was thick. Emotionally and physically. And Tom was clearly not prepared to experience the taste of first-year Pokémon curriculum hitting his tongue like a brick of gluten knowledge.
Eventually, with tears in his eyes and crumbs stuck to his chin, Tom collapsed onto the couch like someone who'd just run a marathon… with his throat.
He stared at the ceiling in silence. His limbs dangled off the sofa like he'd seen eternity. A thin line of toast-induced drool glistened at the corner of his mouth. If someone walked in at that exact moment, they'd probably call the police and a therapist.
David, watching all of this unfold like he was conducting a toast-based scientific experiment, finally let out a satisfied exhale. He gave Tom a light kick to the shin.
"Hey, genius. Let's see what your new bread brain can do. What's the type of Sudowoodo?"
Without hesitation, Tom blurted, "Rock!"
David blinked. "Correct."
That… was unexpected. Normally, if you asked Tom that, he'd either say "tree-type" or "salad," depending on his mood.
David narrowed his eyes. "Alright, let's up the difficulty. Why does Sudowoodo look like a Grass-type, but is actually a Rock-type?"
Tom sat up, eyes glassy like a war veteran who had just returned from battle. But instead of screaming nonsense, he calmly recited:
"Sudowoodo disguises itself as a Grass-type to avoid attacks from Water- and Grass-type Pokémon, which are strong against Rock-types. It's a form of evolutionary adaptation over thousands of years, a survival tactic explained by the ancient Pokémon scholar, Darwin. Natural selection. Fake it till you make it."
David stared.
Tom stared back.
They stared at each other like two hamsters who just discovered taxes.
"…Dude," Tom whispered, slowly covering his mouth in shock, "I'm… I'm actually smart now."
David grinned like a proud dad watching his kid ride a bike for the first time—except the bike was a slice of toast, and the child was an academic disaster finally saying things that made sense.
"Yep," David said, arms crossed. "Your brain has officially been rescued from the Shadow Realm."
Tom wiped the tears from his eyes and clutched David by the shoulders with the desperation of a man who just escaped failing algebra.
"I've… I've actually learned something by eating toast. You didn't lie to me, man! You didn't lie!"
David nodded solemnly, as if he had just delivered divine knowledge via bakery item.
And then, like a man possessed, Tom launched himself toward the box of memory toast.
"BRO! You've been hoarding THIS for three years and didn't tell me?! This is betrayal! This is emotional fraud!"
"Tom," David sighed, watching him rub toast all over a textbook like a lunatic, "do you really think I've been hiding magical bread for three years just to mess with you?"
Tom didn't even stop. "You probably did!"
"Why would I hide toast?! Who even does that?!"
"YOU!"
David stared at him, speechless. "Also, why do you assume you only needed this because your brain's a rusted frying pan?!"
Tom paused for a second, halfway through toasting a science textbook.
"…Because it is a rusted frying pan?"
David facepalmed so hard he nearly left a handprint.
Still, watching Tom—his once proudly dumb friend—actually absorbing knowledge like a functional member of society, David felt something warm swell in his chest. Pride? Relief? Possibly indigestion from eating toast earlier? Hard to say.
He had prepared a whole speech, actually. Something about loyalty, trust, and how true friends deserved to share your weird magic bread. But now… it wasn't needed. Tom never even asked where the toast came from. He just accepted it. Gobbled it down. Immediately rubbed it on more books. A perfect idiot, but a loyal one.
Neither of them said anything about the toast's origin.
They didn't need to.
Some things—like secret brain-enhancing pastries—were best left between friends.
After all, everyone had their secrets.
And David's just happened to come with carbs.
***
Watching Tom's back as he walked away, David let out a long, quiet sigh. It was the kind of sigh people make after narrowly surviving a conversation with someone who thinks Sudowoodo is a "Grass-type just cos it looks like broccoli."
But David wasn't mad. In fact, he felt… oddly proud. Sure, Tom had the mental horsepower of a soggy rice cracker, but he was trying—and that counted for something.
From his pocket, David pulled out a tiny, glowing cube. A special "Jet Cube," ridiculously rare and extremely valuable. Technically not FDA-approved. Or trainer-approved. Or, frankly, legal in most school zones.
But David didn't care.
Tom was his only friend. His idiot, chaotic, toast-devouring best friend. And David couldn't bring himself to lie to him—not about this. So, without saying a word, he gently nudged the cube toward Tom's mouth like a zookeeper feeding a bear a multivitamin.
Tom munched it without hesitation.
"Whoa," he said between chews, "bro, what was that? It tastes kinda good. Like spicy candy, but with weird regret in the aftertaste."
David gave the most suspiciously innocent smile possible. "Just a little snack. Nothing special."
Tom nodded and went back to his toast-fueled study binge. Except now… the binge had slowed.
Dramatically.
The speed at which he absorbed knowledge from his magical memory toast had gone from "download mode" to "dial-up internet during a thunderstorm."
To be fair, he had already eaten six slices of memory toast in a row. At this point, even his pancreas was probably trying to memorize Pokémon evolution charts.
David crouched beside him and stared with increasing concern. "Huh… that's weird. Why isn't it working?"
Tom, lips covered in crumbs and brain still running on 5% toast battery, looked up, confused. "What's not working?"
David tilted his head, concerned. "The memory toast. You've stalled. It's like your brain hit traffic."
Tom opened his mouth to respond, but stopped—eyes suddenly widening like he'd just realized his pants were on backwards.
Then it hit.
A pain. A cramp. A betrayal.
His stomach gurgled, growled, and then roared like a Pokémon about to use Hyper Beam.
Tom clutched his abdomen and went pale. "Where's the bathroom?" he croaked, every syllable laced with existential dread.
David casually pointed toward the school's administration office, like a helpful tour guide leading a tourist to hell.
Tom didn't wait for more directions. He bolted, half-hunched over, both hands on his gut, making noises usually reserved for horror films and malfunctioning dishwashers.
Moments later, from deep within the bathroom walls, came the unmistakable sound of what could only be described as a fire hydrant having an emotional breakdown.
Then came Tom's voice, faint but clearly filled with anguish and betrayal.
"Aaahhh… whyyyyyyyyyy?!"
David waited outside, hands in pockets, listening to the distant splashing and sobbing combo echoing down the hallway.
Ding.
[+60 Negative Emotion Points from Tom]
Ding.
[+70 Negative Emotion Points from Tom]
Ding.
[+80 Negative Emotion Points from Tom]
David raised an eyebrow. "Huh. That's new."
From inside the toilet stall, Tom wailed, "BRO! WHY WOULD YOU HURT ME?!"
He sounded like someone who just learned their favorite snack was made of lies and betrayal—and also apparently functioned as a powerful laxative.
David didn't bother answering. Instead, he raised his voice just enough to ask through the stall door, "Hey, quick quiz—any other Pokémon like Sudowoodo that camouflage themselves?"
From inside, mid-suffering, Tom groaned, "Lurantis!"
David nodded, impressed. "Good. Now—how many Pokémon do you need to hit professional trainer level?"
"Three! Three professional-rank Pokémon!" Tom yelled, right before making a noise that may have caused a nearby potted plant to wilt.
And just like that, David grinned.
Even while evacuating his entire digestive system at warp speed, Tom was still reciting answers like a straight-A student on a bathroom battlefield.
It was working.
The memory toast hadn't broken. And the system? Clearly, it had been updated—no more losing knowledge while puking or pooping. Even animation-style cheating rules had been patched.
David leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, feeling like a mad scientist who had just successfully mixed education with explosive diarrhea.
Sure, Tom was probably going to hold this grudge for the rest of his life.
But he was learning.
And in David's book, that was a win.
****
Tom was on the brink of losing his mind.
And also his intestines.
From the sanctuary of the toilet stall—his new home and prison—he stared blankly at the graffiti on the back of the door, wondering if any of the authors had suffered betrayal this intense.
It had all started innocently. Just a casual hangout with David, his best friend-slash-brainiac-slash-suspect-number-one in a future crime documentary. Then came the infamous Gardevoir Incident. That cursed day when David casually dropped the info bomb that Gardevoir had a 1:1 gender ratio—and, yes, there were male Gardevoirs too.
Tom hadn't slept right since.
That little piece of trivia single-handedly sent him into an existential spiral.
And it only got worse.
Yesterday, David pulled out a shiny Ralts like it was no big deal. Just casually caught it. Like some people catch the flu.
Meanwhile, Tom had been throwing Pokéballs at a tree stump for ten minutes before realizing it wasn't even a Pokémon.
So when David offered him memory toast—literal bread that gave you knowledge—Tom saw it as redemption. A chance to finally level the playing field. A golden opportunity.
And then David had laced it with laxatives.
Because of course he did.
Not only had David poisoned him during his "study meal," but the man was now camped outside the bathroom stall, treating it like an oral exam.
"You can poop and pass exams at the same time, right?" David had called cheerfully through the door.
Tom clenched the toilet seat with both hands, blinking back tears of pain and betrayal.
What kind of twisted academic support was this?
Ding.
[+70 Negative Emotion Points from Tom]
Ding.
[+80 Negative Emotion Points from Tom]
Ding.
[+90 Negative Emotion Points from Tom]
David stood on the other side of the door, arms crossed, smiling like a satisfied data farmer.
He could practically hear Tom's soul leaving his body in low-resolution stereo.
"That should be enough," he muttered to himself. "Let the man finish his… business."
With that, David gave the stall door one last pat (as if congratulating a brave soldier) and turned around, heading back into his room to prep the next batch of memory toast.
It was going to be a long day.
A full half-hour passed.
Thirty whole minutes of sounds that should never be heard outside of a war zone.
Finally, Tom emerged, limping out of the bathroom like he'd survived a natural disaster. His hair was a mess, his clothes were clinging in odd places, and he was using the wall like a life partner.
David looked up casually from his desk, where the final slices of toast were now lined up like obedient soldiers.
Each one printed with more Pokémon knowledge.
"Oh hey, you're back!" David said brightly, holding up another slice like a waiter in a cursed diner. "Feeling lighter?"
"Lighter?!" Tom's eyes twitched. He pointed a trembling finger at David, like he was trying to shoot lightning from it. "You're despicable! You fed me laxative toast, bro! Who even does that?!"
David shrugged, already pulling out a napkin. "I helped you clear your stomach, didn't I? Gotta make room for more knowledge."
"That's not how science works!" Tom protested, but his words were weak. He looked past David, and his face paled.
"Wait... are those... more toast slices?"
"Yup." David beamed. "Still about twenty or thirty left, give or take."
Tom swayed on the spot. "Tw-twenty or thirty? I just evacuated my soul, David."
David nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, but we've still got a lot to cover. I mean, just Pokémon alone is a full workload. You've got identification, breeding, elemental matchups, Berries, movesets, stat calculations…"
Tom's head began to spin.
"And don't forget the academic basics," David added helpfully. "Math, science, history, whatever weird classes they expect us to pass so we don't become feral in society."
The second David mentioned the remaining "twenty to thirty slices" of toast, Tom's face drained of all color.
He looked like a Victorian child who'd just seen a ghost. A pale, trembling Victorian child about to throw up in a history exam.
His knees gave out with a soft thunk as he collapsed to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The look in his eyes wasn't just despair—it was the kind of raw, spiritual horror normally reserved for people who realize they've been eating raisin cookies under the illusion that they were chocolate chip.
"I... I can't eat that much," Tom whispered, voice shaking like a haunted house door. His eyes shimmered with tears—actual, fully formed tears.
The trauma of last time hadn't just left a mental scar. No, it had upgraded to physical PTSD. Somewhere deep inside his digestive system, alarm bells were already ringing.
"It's okay," David said warmly, like a loving friend—if loving friends also happened to be low-key torturers. "I still have strong laxatives in case you're feeling... blocked."
With the calm of a psychopath selecting his next surgical tool, David opened his storage drawer and pulled out a fresh box of industrial-strength laxatives like it was a bottle of wine he'd been saving for a special occasion.
Tom's brain short-circuited.
[-∑(?A?|||)[Afraid.jpg]]
He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. His body spoke for him.
His back went ramrod straight. His eyes locked onto the box like it was a live grenade. His... posterior instinctively clenched. A thousand years of evolutionary fight-or-flight reflex activated all at once.
And without a word, Tom turned toward the door in full escape mode.
He never made it.
A giant hand clamped down on the back of his hoodie like a lion grabbing a cub. Tom was yanked back mid-step by David, who—despite being lean—had the terrifying strength of someone with absolutely no moral hesitation.
"Where do you think you're going, Big 3.9 Sea?" David grinned sweetly, referencing the latest mock test Tom barely passed. He held him up off the ground like a misbehaving toddler at a grocery store. "We've got more studying to do!"
"Let me go! This is kidnapping!" Tom flailed helplessly in midair like a Magikarp on a sidewalk.
David ignored the protests and began rolling up the item in his other hand. "Time to feed your brain, buddy."
"No! Wait! That's not toast!" Tom screamed in horror. "That's a book!!"
Too late.
The massive, four-to-five-centimeter-thick textbook was already being shoved into his mouth like a rogue sushi roll.
Tom gagged. Tears poured down his cheeks.
Somewhere, in an alternate anime universe, this would have been the tragic origin story for a character named "No Misery in the Sea Avi," who spends his days seeking revenge on toast-wielding lunatics.
David finally paused.
"Wait... this does feel heavier than usual," he muttered, squinting at the object in his hand.
He unrolled it slowly.
"Oh," he said, blinking at the front cover of the massive hardcover titled 'Advanced Poké-Economics: The Berry Market Crash of 1997'. "Yeah, that's definitely not toast."
He looked back at Tom, who was now collapsed on the floor again, coughing and sobbing like someone who'd just experienced textbook-based trauma. David scratched the back of his head sheepishly.
"My bad," he said with a grin that was way too casual for the situation. "Honest mistake."
Honest my butt, Tom thought bitterly, his eyes full of betrayal.
He couldn't even form words anymore. He just stared at David with the expression of someone who knew this wouldn't even be the last time something like this happened.
Ding.
[+70 Negative Emotion Points from Tom]
Ding.
[+80 Negative Emotion Points from Tom]
Ding.
[+90 Negative Emotion Points from Tom]
The system notifications buzzed sweetly in David's ears, each one music to his chaos-loving soul.
Before Tom could even process his suffering, David smoothly swapped out the textbook for an actual slice of knowledge-infused toast. "Alright, back to work!"
"W-Wait, wait, I need a break—" Tom began, only for David to stuff the slice into his mouth like a vending machine delivery.
"There's no break in brain gains!" David declared triumphantly.
Tom tried to fight back, lifting his arms for a weak, wobbly protest.
He never stood a chance.
David executed a full takedown move straight from the Wrestling 101 handbook, pinning Tom to the floor while stuffing toast like he was feeding a particularly slow Snorlax.
From inside the house came a noise.
A long, drawn-out screech that sounded somewhere between a dying Tauros and a garbage truck crashing into a piano store.
It was Tom's final cry for help:
"NOOOO! BROOOO!"
In the corner of the room, both Pikachu and Ralts watched the scene unfold in stunned silence.
They slowly looked at each other.
Then, as if in quiet mourning, they turned away and walked into the bedroom, facing the wall like monks entering silent meditation.
Their trainer had gone too far.
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***