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 tread softly through the narrow street, his boots scuffing against the cobblestones. The road wound between stone houses with arched doorways and small, barred windows.
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He paused, his gaze fixed on the simple house he and his wife had bought after they married—the very home where his children now lived without him. His posture sagged with the weight of his emotions, shoulders hunched, and hands trembling slightly at his sides. Memories, thick and poignant, clouded his eyes with a sheen of regret.
With a deep, shaky breath, Flint shook his head. He reached into his coat pocket and carefully placed an envelope full of money—this month's savings—on the doorstep. Each bill was a sacrifice, money that could have afforded him necessities, but if it meant easing his children's burdens, it was a price Flint was willing to pay.
His heart clenched at the thought, his hands lingering on the envelope before he forced them away.
The sound of footsteps approached from inside the house.
"Coming!" called the familiar voice of his oldest son, Brock.
Flint's heart skipped a beat.
He yearned to stay, to face his son, to embrace his role as a father once again, to mend the rifts wrought by his past mistakes. But the weight of his sins felt too heavy, the scars too deep.
Panic surged through Flint as the door lock clicked open. His breath hitched, chest tightening, a cold sweat breaking across his forehead. Without another thought, he turned and darted toward the cover of the street. He pressed his back against the cold stone of a nearby building, his body shaking as he whispered to himself, "Coward!"
Berating himself, Flint moved deeper into the shadows of the street.
His pace slowed only when he reached the local park, where the atmosphere shifted dramatically.
Here, the air was alive with the sounds of laughter and the excited shouts of children watching Pokémon trainers—both local and foreign—engage in battle.
He was about to slip away into the shadows when his gaze landed on a young trainer, Austin, conversing animatedly with another trainer about his age. The two walked side by side toward the public matchfield—the field itself was a simple expanse of compacted soil with stone platforms around the perimeter for trainers.
Curiosity momentarily outweighed Flint's turmoil. He hesitated, then edged closer to observe the match. Perhaps it was merely a distraction from his own inner conflicts, or maybe there was a genuine interest in seeing what this peculiar young man could do—Flint wasn't entirely sure which.
