The light came first.
It wasn't the soft gold of dawn that slowly warms the world.
It wasn't the quiet silver of moonlight that seeps into shadows.
This light was alive. It was violent.
A pulse that swallowed the world, searing away shape, sound, and thought in a single heartbeat.
Red barely had the time to tense his body before instinct — not reason — told him that this was it. The fraction of a second before the explosion was enough for a single thought to register: This is going to erase me.
A moment ago, he had been standing on the frozen cliffs of Mount Silver. The air there was thin, sharp, and merciless, biting at his cheeks through the small gaps in his scarf. Beneath his boots, snow crunched with a muted sound that disappeared into the wind. Jagged rock walls rose around him, their faces coated with frost, and the white wilderness stretched on for miles in every direction.
And across from him — floating effortlessly as if the freezing wind didn't even touch it — was Mew.
He had already been exhausted. Hours of battle had stripped away the small reserves of energy he kept for emergencies. Every command to Charizard had been weighed and calculated, but Mew had responded to each one as if anticipating it before the words even left his mouth.
And then came that final gamble.
"Charizard!" Red's voice had cut through the howl of the wind. "Blast Burn! All you've got!"
The flames in Charizard's throat had roared to life, brighter and hotter than the sun, the heat even reaching Red's position behind him. Mew's eyes narrowed as if recognizing the threat, its small body glowing with a psychic aura that warped the air around it.
Two forces — each carrying enough destructive power to reshape the battlefield entirely — launched toward each other.
They met in the middle.
The collision didn't make a sound at first. For a single, suspended instant, the attacks merged into a sphere of pure light, compact and unbearably bright. Then it expanded outward in an instant.
The mountain roared.
The ground beneath Red's feet trembled violently, cracking as if the stone itself was screaming. The air became a wall of pressure, shoving against his chest so hard he could barely breathe. Snow erupted into steam, and shards of ice and rock were flung skyward as if gravity had been forgotten.
His world slowed to fragments — the way Charizard's wings strained against the force, the flash of Mew's eyes in the chaos, the curling shape of smoke as it was torn apart by the blast.
And then there was no time left.
Red realized he wouldn't even have a body left to bury. The heat and force were enough to unmake him entirely.
And then—nothing.
No sound. No cold. Not even the echo of his own breath in his ears.
Just black.
---
When sensation returned, it came slowly. Not as a rush of air or pain — but as the faint awareness of weight and warmth.
Light returned, too. Not the blinding white of annihilation, but something softer. A dull cream ceiling above him, clean and smooth, its wooden beams pale against the light filtering in from somewhere to his right.
His gaze shifted automatically to the corner — an old habit, one drilled into him during sleepless nights as a boy. He expected to see the thin hairline crack in the plaster that had always caught his eye when lying awake.
It wasn't there.
He blinked once. Twice. His heartbeat picked up speed, loud in his own ears.
The wood looked newer, fresher, as if it had been installed only days ago. The air carried the faint scent of polish, not the musty smell of the room he remembered from years past.
This was his old room in Pallet Town… but not exactly.
He forced himself to breathe slowly. The sheets covering him slid down his shoulders as he pushed himself upright. His hands trembled slightly before he noticed them.
Skin. Warm. Whole. Untouched.
That was wrong.
He shouldn't have had skin left to feel. The blast at Mount Silver had been final — there had been no space for survival, no fraction of possibility left. If by some absurd miracle he had survived, he would have expected to wake in a hospital bed, wrapped head to toe in bandages, breathing through tubes.
Not here. Not like this.
His bare feet touched the wooden floor — cool, smooth, unfamiliar. He scanned the room. The desk, the window, the dresser — they were all where he remembered them being. But each detail was slightly off. The wood grain of the dresser was different, the shelves stood taller, the spacing between the window and desk was wider.
If this were a memory, everything would match exactly. If it were a dream, the differences would blur together without weight.
This… felt real.
And real meant something he didn't yet want to name.
---
Red's eyes narrowed slightly as he stood. The air in the room was perfectly still — no draft from the window, no sound from outside.
And then, faintly, he heard it.
A sound from somewhere below.
Soft. Delicate. Almost too quiet to notice over his own breathing.
Humming.
A woman's voice.
The melody was unfamiliar, but the tone — warm, steady — struck something buried deep in his chest. He froze halfway to the door.
---
The humming drew him forward like a thread.
It wasn't loud, yet each note carried a warmth that curled through the air, filling the silence of the house.
He turned the door handle slowly. The wood didn't creak, but the faint click of the latch sounded too sharp to his ears. Beyond it, a short hallway stretched toward the stairs, the walls painted a soft cream that caught the morning light from an unseen window.
His feet pressed into carpet that felt newer, thicker than he remembered. It was springy under his steps, absorbing sound, making him feel almost weightless as he moved toward the staircase.
The stairs curved down into a living room that was both familiar and… wrong. The shape was similar to his old home's — the open space at the bottom, the doorway to the kitchen on the right — but the walls were pushed further out, the space brighter. The furniture gleamed with fresh varnish, and the carpet under his toes was unblemished, free from the small frays his childhood self had once picked at absentmindedly.
The smell was different too. Not the faint trace of dust and old wood he had always known, but something cleaner, sharper — sunlight filtered through the scent of newly polished floors.
The humming was louder now.
Red's gaze shifted toward the kitchen doorway.
She stood there, her back to him, hands busy with something on the counter. A soft rhythm in her movements matched the melody she hummed.
For a moment, his chest tightened.
It was her.
The posture, the way she leaned slightly toward the counter, the gentle sway of her hair — they were his mother's movements. The shape of her shoulders, the tilt of her head when she focused on a task — every detail struck him with a force far sharper than the cold of Mount Silver ever had.
But the hair was wrong.
Not chestnut brown, but a deep, glossy blue that caught the light like strands of midnight water.
It was a small difference, but it twisted his stomach in a way he couldn't explain.
He stepped back instinctively, his heel catching the edge of the rug. The small shift of air made her hum pause — only for a second — before she continued.
That was enough for him to turn, heart pounding, and slip back toward the front door without another sound.
---
The morning air hit him like a sudden plunge into water.
The dirt path in front of the house stretched outward, lined with fences that looked too straight, too new. The colors were too vivid — the green of the grass almost glowing, the blue of the sky so clear it looked unreal.
The houses he passed bore fresh paint in colors unweathered by time. Roof tiles gleamed in the sunlight. Windows sparkled without a trace of dust. Even the air smelled cleaner — crisper, as if spring had come early despite the pale clouds drifting overhead.
He didn't slow down.
This wasn't his Pallet Town.
It wasn't his time.
The thought clung to him as he ran past the last houses, the fences giving way to open grassland dotted with scattered trees. The path beneath him narrowed into dirt worn only lightly by footsteps. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest, hear the uneven rhythm of his breaths over the whisper of wind.
It didn't matter how far he went — the truth followed him.
Somehow, impossibly, he had been given another life.
---
By the time his legs slowed, the burning in his lungs made each inhale sharp and raw. He came to a stop beside a large tree at the edge of a lake, leaning back against its rough bark for support.
Here, the air was quieter. The world seemed to shrink to the gentle ripple of water against the shore and the occasional chirp of a Pidgey somewhere in the branches above.
He crouched near the water's edge, letting his fingers sink into the surface. The lake was cool enough to make his skin tingle. Ripples spread outward from his touch, distorting his reflection before slowly calming.
When the surface stilled, he saw it.
His face. And yet… not.
Younger — far younger than the man who had stood on Mount Silver. Seven years old, maybe eight. His features were softer, untouched by the years of travel, training, and battles. But the most jarring change was his eyes.
Not the dark brown he had always known.
Bright red.
Red like his name.
Then the memories hit.
Not his own.
Fleeting, fragmented pieces of another life. The boy who had lived in this body before him had not truly lived. He had woken, eaten, gone to school, and come home without ever seeking more. He answered when spoken to but never initiated conversation. When other children tried to play with him, they eventually gave up after meeting only silence. Even on his birthday, when candles flickered on a cake, he didn't smile. He didn't blow them out.
A shell.
The rush of alien memories was like pressure inside his skull, sharp enough to make him press a hand against his forehead. He clenched his teeth until the ache began to fade, then cupped the lake water in both hands and splashed it over his face.
The coolness steadied him.
So there hadn't really been a "previous owner" of this body in the truest sense. No real will. No soul. Just a husk waiting to be filled.
He hadn't taken it from anyone.
---
"Seven years old," he muttered to the rippling reflection. "Plenty of time to get ready. More than enough."
The memories told him his mother still called him Red. Convenient — he wouldn't need to adapt to a new name.
But then another thought struck. He had run out of the house without a word. If this woman was anything like the mother he remembered from before…
She'd be worried sick.
---
He turned back toward town.
That's when he heard it — the sharp rustle of bushes nearby.
From between the leaves emerged a tail tipped with flame.
"...Charmander?"
It was rare to see one in the wild here. Possible, but unlikely.
Before he could move closer, two shapes burst from the trees behind it — Mankeys, their small eyes narrowing in aggression.
Charmander stood its ground, but its body trembled. Its tail flame was smaller than it should have been, and the singed fur patches on the Mankeys told the story: it had been fighting already.
The Mankeys charged. Charmander exhaled a thick smoke cloud, vanishing from sight. The attacking blows hit nothing but air — and then each other. Snarls turned into blows as they forgot their target, now brawling with one another.
Charmander seized the chance, spitting a weak burst of embers at both. They collapsed — but so did Charmander, falling limp from exhaustion.
---
Red moved before the thought even formed.
The clouds above had thickened, shadows falling over the grass as the first hint of rain touched the air.
He knelt beside the fainted Charmander, lifting it carefully into his arms. Its body was warm — too warm — and its breathing shallow. The weight in his hands felt frighteningly light, like it could vanish if he loosened his grip.
Leaving it here wasn't an option.
By the time he reached the house again, the first drops of rain were beginning to fall.
---
The door opened almost the moment he touched the handle.
She stood there — the woman with the midnight-blue hair — and before he could speak, she closed the distance, wrapping her arms tightly around him.
"Red!" Her voice was thick with relief. "Where have you been? I was so worried—"
The warmth of the hug was jarring after so many years without it. His mother — the one from his old world — had been like this once. That memory had faded, buried under time and distance, but the sensation now stirred something deep inside.
When she pulled back, her hands rested firmly on his shoulders. "Tell me what happened."
"I… just wanted to see some Pokémon," he said, eyes lowering. "I had this dream I was a trainer, catching so many… I wanted to see if it felt real."
Surprise flickered in her eyes. It was the first time she'd seen this boy show genuine expression — wonder, curiosity. Her lips curved into a small smile, and she hugged him again, a laugh escaping with the sound of her relief.
Then she noticed the Charmander in his arms.
"You found him like this?"
"Yeah. He was fighting two Mankeys. I couldn't leave him."
She glanced toward a shelf. "Maybe you should keep him. If he doesn't have a trainer… and you saved him… maybe he already sees you as his."
From the shelf she took down a Poké Ball and a small med kit, placing both in his hands. "Here. These should help."
---
Upstairs, Red set Charmander gently on the bed and opened the med kit.
"Alright, buddy," he murmured, "let's fix you up."
Charmander stirred faintly, eyes half-opening to meet his. The tail flame flickered weakly, but it was still burning.
"You've still got some fight left. Good. You'll need it."
He worked carefully, cleaning burns and cuts. Charmander twitched at the contact but didn't resist — he didn't have the strength to.
-----
Two days later, the room felt different.
The pale sunlight streamed through the curtains in soft lines, warming the wooden floor and brushing over the small figure sitting near the foot of the bed. Charmander's tail flame burned brighter now — not the flickering ember of weakness from before, but a steady, confident glow.
Red sat cross-legged in front of him, the Poké Ball resting in his palm.
"I'm too young to start a journey now," he said slowly, his eyes never leaving Charmander's. "But when I do… I want you with me."
Charmander tilted his head slightly, the flicker of the flame casting tiny shadows over his orange scales. His gaze wasn't the blank, trusting look of a newborn Pokémon — it was sharp, questioning.
"You fought hard against those Mankeys," Red continued. "Even when you were outnumbered. You didn't run until you had no choice."
A faint huff of air escaped Charmander's nostrils — not quite a growl, but not agreement either.
"I've been where you are," Red said, lowering his voice. "Outmatched. Cornered. Thinking no one's coming to help. But if you're with me… you won't fight alone. Ever again."
He set the Poké Ball on the floor between them, pushing it slightly forward with his fingertips. "I'm not going to force you. If you want to go back to the wild, I won't stop you. But if you choose me…" He paused, letting the words settle. "…then we'll get stronger together. Strong enough that no one — not Mew, not anyone — will push us down again."
Charmander's eyes widened at the name. Maybe he didn't know who or what "Mew" was, but the weight in Red's voice made it clear it was something important.
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then Charmander took a single step toward the Poké Ball. His tail flame swayed gently, its light reflecting in Red's eyes. Another step. Then another. He stopped just short of touching it, glancing up at Red again — almost as if asking, Are you really sure about this?
Red smiled. Not the cocky grin of a rookie trainer, not the smug look of a battle won — but something quieter, steadier. "Yeah. I'm sure."
Charmander gave a short, decisive nod. He tapped the Poké Ball with his claw.
The ball opened, light engulfing him in a flash before clicking shut.
Red picked it up carefully, holding it in both hands for a moment before clipping it to his belt.
"I won't let you down, buddy," he murmured.
---