Author's Note - Any dialogue text in italics is non-verbal telepathic communication, while quoted dialogue is verbal. You'll understand why as you read.
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Most people stumble over my name. Atrea. My mom always told me to think of it as "Uh-tray-uh," like music in motion. She had a way of making everything sound softer than it really was, even when life wasn't.
I can communicate with Pokémon, but not just through empathy or body language, but through actual conversation. I can hear their voices as clearly as any human's, every tone and inflection carrying meaning. When they speak, I don't hear the repetition of their own names like most people do; I hear words, thoughts, emotions layered together like melodies. And when I respond, whether telepathically or out loud, they understand me just as clearly. It's not magic, and it's not translation. It's a connection. Every Pokémon has a voice, and for reasons I still don't fully understand, I can hear them all.
I remember the day my mom gave me Zoey, a scrappy little Zorua who refused to stay in her Poké Ball. Mom was already weak by then, her diagnosis hanging over us like storm clouds we couldn't outrun. She didn't say "goodbye," not out loud, but giving me Zoey was her way of making sure I wasn't alone when she finally slipped away. Months later, when she passed, it was Zoey who kept me moving. Dad was a detective with the Portland PD, which meant he was always working.
That gift shaped everything. By the time I was in college, Zoey had evolved into a Zoroark, and battling with her felt less like strategy and more like breathing. I'll never forget when a classmate challenged me with his Heracross, five feet of chitin, muscle, and fury, wings rattling so loud that the bleachers thrummed.
The floor trembled when it lunged, horn lowered like a spear. Megahorn. Zoey darted sideways, barely a blur of black fur. Heracross's miss gouged the gym floor so hard that splinters flew. He swore under his breath, frustrated, words only I could hear. That stumble in his voice told me more than his trainer's commands ever could.
Shadow Ball, now.
I projected the command, and Zoey moved before the words had even finished forming.
Zoey spun, teeth bared, and hurled a rapid-fire barrage into empty space. Heracross shifted, off-balance from the missed charge, right into the path of the waiting orbs. The first struck his horn, snapping his head sideways. The rest exploded against his chest and face, driving him to the ground with a thud that shook dust from the rafters.
The ref raised his hand. My classmate called it dumb luck, but I knew better. It wasn't luck. It was the result of perfect synchronization.
My bond with Zoey was our edge.
I graduated with a Fine Arts degree from Pepperdine, Malibu sunsets and all, but when I walked off that stage, I already knew my future wasn't on it. It was in the rhythm of battles, with the sound of claws scraping hardwood, in hearing Zoey's growl right before she struck.
I returned to Portland to live with my dad, trying to figure out what would come next. I thought the Gym Challenge might be the answer. But if I've learned anything, it's that nothing in my life stays simple for long.
The only problem was money. Traveling the country to take on the Gym Challenge wasn't cheap. I was ready to shelve the idea when Noctis Biotechnica, a biotech clinic out of Portland, reached out. They said they were running a genetic study and were seeking volunteers. In exchange for a heavy blood draw, they'd bankroll my entire journey: flights, equipment, the works. My dad warned me it sounded sketchy, but I was twenty-two, restless, and two hundred grand was enough to quiet my doubts.
So I signed.
And that's how Zoey and I ended up standing outside the first Gym.