Today was Silas Cross's second day in the world of Pokémon.
At first glance, it sounded like a dream: a second life in a world of adventure, battles, and legends.
On one hand, he'd transmigrated into the Pokémon world.
On the other, he'd woken up as one of the unwanted—another orphan in Pallet Town.
In his previous life, he'd been a second-year college student named Michael. One normal day, on his way to class, the campus shuttle hit him. Hard.
His friends rushed to his side. Michael felt the light thinning, his body going cold. He tried to make one last request—half joke, half panic.
"Please… you must delete my browser history."
And then he was gone.
There was a burning sensation. A sense of being pulled through something narrow and cruel. When he opened his eyes again, he was small. Young. His body was torn up and bleeding in the dirt.
He looked dead.
The body he now inhabited belonged to a child named Silas Cross. Silas's parents had died in the war with Johto. After the treaty, Bruno of the Elite Four had personally escorted the boy to Pallet Town's orphanage when Silas was eight. He'd survived there for three years—fed, clothed, and worked like property.
People here were different from Earth. Harder. Faster. More resilient. Children hit brutal growth spurts between ten and thirteen, like their bodies were built to withstand a world where danger walked on four legs.
The original Silas loved the forest. It was the only place that didn't feel like a cage. He'd spent hours there, playing with wild Pokémon—the closest thing he had to comfort.
And then curiosity got him killed.
A swarm of Beedrill chased him deep into the woods, cornered him, and stabbed him again and again. Poison Jab after Poison Jab. He could not take this kind of punishment and quickly succumbed to the assault.
That was where the original Silas Cross had died.
And where Michael arrived.
Maybe two souls had overlapped for a moment, like an imperfect transfer. Maybe something tore and fused. All Silas knew was that his spirit felt… heavier than it should. Denser. As if something inside him refused to bend.
When he "woke," he was still in the forest, pain shrieking through every nerve. Fresh memories flooded him—Silas's routines, his fear of Madam, the berry fields, the hunger, the loneliness.
Memories from the original Silas flooded his mind as he acclimated to his new situation. Michael decided to accept his name change to Silas because fighting it felt pointless.
"Damn it," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Less than 5 minutes with a new lease on life and I'm dying again. This isn't fair."
The bushes nearby rustled.
Silas's breath caught as a familiar figure burst out—Tangela.
Not just any Tangela. The same wild Pokémon the original Silas had played with almost every day. The memories weren't truly his, but the hope that surged through him was.
Tangela froze, eyes widening at the sight of his injuries. Then it dove back into the brush.
Minutes went by.
He was getting dizzy, fear creeped in.
At that moment, Tangela returned carrying two fruits—one pink and peach-like, the other shaped like a small yellow gourd.
Pecha Berry.
Sitrus Berry.
Before Silas could speak, Tangela fed them to him carefully. Warm vitality spread through his body. The poison dulled. The wounds began to close.
"Thank you," Silas whispered weakly. "Tangela you are a lifesaver. I'll find a way to pay this back."
The pecha berry countered the poison and the sitrus berry sped up his body's natural healing.
Tangela smiled, vines swaying, as if the promise mattered.
Once Silas could stand without collapsing, he made it back to the orphanage. Darkness had already fallen.
The moment he opened the door, he felt it: an angry gaze like a hook in his spine.
Madam stood in the entryway, arms crossed, wearing her usual black tracksuit. Middle-aged, average build, eyes sharp enough to cut. She didn't soften for children. She didn't pretend.
"Where were you?" she demanded. "You were missing for fourteen hours."
No concern. No relief. Just bookkeeping.
Madam ran the orphanage like a business. The children were fed and housed, yes—but they paid for it with labor on her private berry farm.
"I was in the forest," Silas said evenly. "A wild Tangela used Sleep Powder. I lost track of time. My apologies."
Her eyes narrowed as she took in his torn clothes.
"You weren't hit with only Sleep Powder." Her voice was flat, almost bored. "I tell you idiots the world is dangerous because it is." She stepped closer. "If you die, you stop being profitable."
Silas bowed his head. He'd learned long ago that arguing with Madam only cost him more.
After a brief interrogation, she dismissed him to bed.
According to Silas's memories, the other children mostly kept to themselves. He preferred it that way. Quiet meant less attention, and less attention meant fewer problems.
But beneath his calm, something burned: excitement and hunger. He'd been a fan in his previous life. He knew regions, mechanics, legends, and the shape of power.
Sleep didn't come easily.
Tomorrow he had work. And for some reason, dying and coming back made an 11 year old body feel like it had been hit by a truck—because it had.
He drifted off anyway.
Silas woke with a sharp jolt of panic.
"I'm late."
He looked at the clock.
10:43 a.m. 17 minutes to get to the fields.
Madam was strict, and strict people loved consequences.
Each child worked five-hour shifts, four times a week. It wasn't unbearable—until you remembered it was forced. When a child completed their lifetime hours or turned 15, Madam allowed them to take a loan for a Pokémon license, and sometimes a starter from Professor Oak—if she judged them "worthy."
Some trainers, like Bruno, were directly sponsored without having to take loans. She would even provide supplies and resources on their journey. The requirement was high talent.
Oak and Madam had a relationship built on mutual benefit. Nothing here was free.
The war with Johto had left Kanto scarred: orphans everywhere, crime rising, Team Rocket and the Purple Biker Gang fighting openly. Ordinary people learned to keep their heads down or lose them.
Silas forced himself upright, pulled on his clothes, and ran.
Despite everything, part of him still wanted to see this world—really see it. Not as a game. Not as nostalgia. As a place that could kill him.
He joined the line of children heading toward the berry fields behind the orphanage. Wicker baskets were stacked near the fence. Morning dew dampened the air, and distant cries echoed from the forest line.
"Hey. Forest ghost—13 seconds later and we would've had a show."
Silas glanced left. Zane Cole was already shouldering a basket like it weighed nothing. A year older, lean, sharp-eyed, messy brown hair that refused to stay combed. There was always something measured about him, like he was calculating angles and exits.
"You disappear for a day and come back looking half-dead," Zane continued. "Thought you finally got yourself eaten."
"Disappointing, I know," Silas said. "I survived."
Zane snorted. "Shame."
From behind them came a louder voice.
"You know, if you're gonna die, you should leave me your money stash."
Rex Storm shoved into line, grinning. Broader than most kids their age, cropped blond hair, bruised knuckles that never quite healed. Where Zane moved like a blade, Rex moved like a battering ram. He laughed while working, hiding his edge behind jokes.
"I missed you too, Rex," Silas said.
Rex slung an arm over Silas's shoulders, squeezed, then froze. "…You're thinner than last week."
Silas stiffened. "Do you have a thing for men or something?"
Rex released him with a scoff. "Tch. Still breathing. That's what matters."
Madam's sharp clap cut through the chatter. "Fields three through six today. No slacking. No damage to the bushes. And if I find berries missing…"
"You'll blame Rex," Zane muttered.
"Because Rex steals berries," Madam snapped instantly, without even looking.
Rex put a hand over his heart. "Madam, I am wounded!"
"Good. Work faster."
They split off soon after, assigned adjacent rows. The work was repetitive: checking leaves, picking ripe berries, sorting them carefully.
Silas's hands moved on instinct, guided by muscle memory and borrowed years.
"So," Rex said after a while. "Forest."
Zane didn't look up. "I told you he fell asleep again."
"I didn't," Silas said. "This time."
Rex raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Silas hesitated, then shrugged. "Ran into trouble. Got lucky."
Zane's hands paused. "Lucky how?"
Silas thought of vines, berries, and quiet concern in wide blue eyes. "Help."
Rex grinned. "See? Told you. Pokémon like him."
Zane shot Rex a look. "Pokémon don't help people for free."
Rex shrugged. "People don't either. Still happens."
That earned a brief glance from Zane before he returned to work.
Rex broke the silence again. "Hey—when we're old enough, what're you gonna do?"
Silas didn't answer immediately. Zane spoke first. "Leave."
Rex laughed. "Yeah, no kidding. I mean after that."
Zane straightened, wiping sweat, gaze drifting toward Pallet Town—toward Oak's lab beyond the trees. "I don't know yet," he said carefully. "But I'm not staying small."
Rex grinned wider. "Figures." He turned to Silas. "You?"
Silas's mind burned with possibilities—but saying them out loud felt like tempting fate.
"Survive," he said finally. "Get stronger."
Rex nodded like it was the most reasonable answer in the world. "Good enough."
Zane glanced at Silas then, studying him. "…You're different today."
Silas met his gaze calmly. "Am I?"
"Yeah," Rex chimed in. "Quieter. But not in a scared way."
Silas smiled faintly. "Maybe I just slept well."
Zane didn't look convinced, but he let it drop.
These 3 were all brought to the orphanage by Bruno. They were the orphans of fellow soldiers he had directly served with.
They worked on—sweat, dirt, shared complaints binding them together. For a few hours, they weren't orphans or laborers. Just kids in a field, laughing when Rex dropped an entire basket, arguing about which Pokémon would make the best farmhand, and pretending the horizon didn't look like a threat.
The sun climbed higher.
None of them noticed how differently each boy looked toward the horizon.