Austin, a die-hard Pokémon fan, is disenchanted with the series' direction post-Sinnoh. After a typical late-night binge-watch, he drifts off to sleep, only to wake up in an unimaginable reality: he is Ash Ketchum, and today is the morning his legen...
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Flint Harrison awoke with a start, the cold metal of the park bench pressing into his back. As he sat up, the bleak dawn light washed over him, accentuating the lines of regret etched deeply into his face. He often thought to himself, Even after all this time, I still can't get used to sleeping on this bench.
Why did he sleep on benches? The answer was painfully simple. He didn't want to waste money—no, he didn't believe he deserved the money to be wasted on him. His actions of abandoning his family haunted him, and this was his penance: a life stripped of comfort, a daily reminder of his failings.
With a heavy sigh, Flint began his morning routine. He folded the cardboard that had served as his makeshift mattress and picked up the old, raggedy cloth that was his blanket. Each movement was methodical, as he tidied his sparse belongings with a kind of resigned care.
Carrying his meager possessions, Flint made his way to a public bathroom. Inside, he washed off the grime of the night with cold water that made his worn hands sting. He looked into the mirror, barely recognizing the man staring back at him. With meticulous movements, he applied his disguise—a fake, dirty beard and a red beanie. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep people from recognizing him, enough to let him blend into the background, just another faceless soul in the city.
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Flint then started his day's work as a sanitation worker, a job that involved cleaning dumpsters—a task that others shunned but which Flint embraced. He loaded the trash into an old wheelbarrow, its wheel squeaking under the weight. As he moved through the hidden backstreets rather than the main roads, he did so not just to avoid bothering people with the smell but also to skirt the edges of a world that he felt he no longer belonged to.
As Flint pushed the creaking wheelbarrow down the narrow backstreet, its wheel gave an ominous groan before snapping off entirely. The barrow tipped, spilling its contents—a dismal cascade of garbage—onto the cobblestone path. The sound of crashing trash echoed off the walls of the narrow alley, drawing the attention of nearby food cart owners and pedestrians.
