Route 1 looked like the kind of place adults called pleasant when they meant nothing is happening here, so don't embarrass us.
Short grass. A dirt path worn into two stubborn lines by decades of feet and wheels. A few fences that existed mostly to imply rules. The air smelled like morning and dust and the vague idea of adventure, which, if you asked me, was a measurable variable and therefore academically relevant.
I stopped exactly three steps past the last Pallet Town sign and planted my feet.
"All right," I told my clipboard. The clipboard was a professional object, and I needed that energy in my life. "Field test. Baseline observations. No interference."
The clipboard did not respond, but it also did not argue, which already put it ahead of most living things.
I adjusted the strap of Oak's field prototype, the actual Pokédex unit, now freed of my confidence module and wrapped in Oak's own sanctioned, clunkier sleeve. It was warm against my palm. It had buttons that made sense, a little dial that did not, and a slot for paper labels that Oak insisted were for "portable categorization" and I insisted were "a clear sign he loved me deep down."
I had prepared labels anyway.
I had prepared so many labels.
Because the world, I had learned, was full of objects that went unnamed for no good reason, and I was here to correct that. If I could not identify something with certainty, I could at least give it a temporary title and a neat font. That was still progress.
I peeled one sticker off my sheet and pressed it to the side of the sleeve.
ROUTE 1 - BASELINE / DO NOT PANIC
It was an instruction to myself and also to the universe. I liked to cover both.
A breeze stirred the grass. Something small fluttered near a low tree. A quick flick of wings, a faint chirp, and then stillness again.
Pidgey.
Finally. A controlled variable. A bird. A predictable bird. A bird who did not know it was important yet.
I crouched, slow and careful, like the kind of person who had ever successfully been slow and careful.
"Subject: Pidgey," I whispered to the prototype. "Observe: normal foraging. Record..."
The indicator light blinked. It made a soft click, like it was taking me seriously.
My chest lifted with pride.
Then I made the mistake of glancing at the main Pokédex screen while I was at it. The database was open. Alphabetical order. Entry one.
CHICKEN: Highly Motivated.
Habitat: Roofs, Yards, Dignity.
Notes: Will Escalate.
Oak had not deleted it. I did not know if that was because he had not gotten around to it, or because he was keeping it as evidence. Either possibility was equally damning.
I looked away quickly, like the screen had made eye contact.
And then my foot found a rock.
Not a dramatic rock. Not a boulder. Not even an interesting rock. A rock with the personality of a pebble and the ambition of a trap.
My heel slid. My arms windmilled. My clipboard made a valiant attempt at flight.
I did not fall all the way down.
I did, however, fall in every direction at once.
The grass swished. The Pidgey's head snapped up. It stared at me with both eyes, which felt unfairly judgmental for a creature that lived on worms.
I froze in a half-crouch, half-flail, like a statue commissioned by someone who hated me.
"Baseline," I hissed, as if saying the word would make gravity respect my methodology.
The Pidgey flicked its wings and hopped deeper into the grass.
I very carefully set my foot back down. This time, I stepped around the rock. I leaned forward again, breath held, pen ready. I could salvage this. I could absolutely-
A second flutter to my left. A small gray shape. A pair of ears. A twitch.
Rattata.
Two subjects. Great. Comparative data. Wonderful. Oak would be thrilled by my initiative and not at all worried.
I angled my clipboard to block the sun glare and began scribbling.
LOG 2.1
Location: Route 1 (northbound)
Weather: clear, mild
Subject A: Pidgey - alert, perched low, pecking ground
Subject B: Rattata - sniffing (prob. foraging)
Notes: co-presence suggests...
The Rattata's nose lifted. It turned, eyes bright. I could not tell whether it smelled food, danger, or the ink on my paperwork.
It took one step toward me.
Then another.
Then it squeaked. Not a scream, not a battle cry. A tiny sound like a door hinge.
From the grass behind it, another Rattata's ears appeared.
Then another.
Then another.
I stopped writing.
"Hm," I said quietly, because this had become less baseline and more like population sampling.
The Pidgey, sensing the universe was about to get loud, hopped into the air and relocated to a safer distance. The Rattata did not relocate.
The Rattata advanced like a committee.
I had not brought bait. I had not planned to interact. I had, however, eaten breakfast, which meant I probably smelled like crumbs and optimism. I also had Oak's field notes in my bag, a laminated card with common Route 1 encounters, their typical behaviours, and a footnote that said, in Oak's handwriting: "Psyduck: rare on Route 1; reports of headache-induced psychic events near water; see Chapter 7." I had read Chapter 7. It had not prepared me for this.
I backed up one step.
My heel found the same rock again.
Of course it did.
It had been waiting. It had a schedule.
My foot slid. My arms flailed. My clipboard made a sound like paper giving up.
And I sat down hard in the dirt with the dignity of a person being introduced to consequences.
The committee paused.
They stared at me.
I stared back.
"Hello," I said, because greeting strangers politely had solved at least two problems in my entire life, and I was willing to try for a third.
One Rattata stepped closer and sniffed my boot.
I held very still.
I could, technically, battle. I had Poke Balls. I had... myself.
I also had the experimental unit, which, if I was being honest, was an item Oak cared about more than my continued unbitten status.
So my priorities were extremely clear.
I fumbled at my belt pouch and pulled out a Poke Ball anyway, because fear was not a strategy, and neither was sitting here forever while small rodents held a conference around my ankles.
The Ball clicked open in my palm with comforting mechanical certainty.
"Okay," I said softly. "Controlled interaction. Very controlled. Subject B, please-"
The Rattata bit my shoelace.
I jerked my foot away on instinct. That was mistake number one.
Mistake number two was trying to stand up while my other foot was still half-committed to the rock's personal vendetta.
My balance went sideways. My hand caught dirt. Dirt caught my sleeve. Dirt and my sleeve became close friends immediately.
The Rattata let go of my lace and squeaked again, excited now, like it had discovered a new sport.
Several more surged forward.
I made a noise I will not attempt to transcribe because it was mostly air and regret.
"All right," I announced, louder now. "New plan."
I threw the Poke Ball.
It arced beautifully.
It hit nothing.
It landed with a pathetic bounce in the grass and rolled to a stop like it was embarrassed to be involved.
One Rattata trotted after it, sniffed it, then batted it with a paw.
The Ball clicked open.
Nothing came out, because I had thrown an empty Poke Ball like a genius.
The Rattata squeaked, offended, as if I had offered it a gift box full of disappointment.
"Okay," I said, breath fast. "New, new plan."
I scrambled backward on my hands and heels, aiming for the path where at least I could run in a straight line and not have grass hide a hundred tiny ankles and teeth.
The committee followed, now fully unified.
Something moved ahead on the path: slow, round, yellow.
For one bright, hopeful second, I thought, A person. Help. Someone will see this and say-
It was not a person.
It was a Psyduck.
It stood in the middle of the path like a poorly conceived road sign. Round body. Blank eyes. Little hands hovering near its belly. It stared at me with the same expression I had seen on Oak's face whenever I said the word optimization.
It did not move.
It did not react to the approaching swarm behind me.
It just stared.
I skidded to a stop, panting, dirt on my sleeve, clipboard clutched like a shield.
The Psyduck blinked once.
One Rattata, emboldened by my hesitation, stepped closer and squeaked at the Psyduck as if to say, Get off the path, we are in the middle of something.
The Psyduck stared back.
The air went still for a heartbeat.
Then the Psyduck raised one hand slightly, as if it might wave.
Instead, it pressed both hands to the sides of its head.
Its eyes squeezed shut.
And the world, apparently, decided to participate.
A ripple moved through the grass. There was no wind, but the blades shivered anyway. The Rattata froze mid-step, bodies stiff. Their squeaks turned into startled little chirps as they wobbled in place like their legs had misplaced the concept of forward.
The hairs on my arms lifted.
The Psyduck's face scrunched tighter. It made a low, strained sound, half grunt, half whimper. The ripple sharpened into a pulse that pushed outward.
The nearest Rattata toppled onto its back, paws in the air. Another rolled in a frantic circle. Another stumbled sideways into the dirt.
The swarm broke apart. Panic replaced purpose.
I stared.
"Was that... Confusion?" My voice came out too thin.
The Psyduck opened its eyes.
It looked at me.
It looked at the scattered Rattata tripping over each other as they fled into the grass like they had suddenly remembered appointments elsewhere.
Then it looked at me again and made a small, uncertain quack, like it was asking whether it had done something wrong.
My brain took a full second to choose between grateful and terrified and settled on both in alternating rapid cycles.
Finally, I exhaled.
"Okay," I said, still staring at the Psyduck. "Thank you."
The Psyduck blinked again.
I looked down at my clipboard, which was now smeared with dirt and something green, and realized I had been holding my pen the entire time like a weapon.
I lowered it slowly.
"New baseline," I told myself. "Baseline includes unexpected allies with headaches."
The Psyduck made another small sound, more question than declaration.
I took a cautious step forward.
It did not retreat. It did not advance. It simply stood there, hands dangling, eyes wide, as if waiting for instructions it did not believe existed.
I glanced around. No trainer in sight. No angry voice calling, "Psyduck! Get back here!" No thrown Ball. No collar, no leash, nothing that implied ownership.
Which meant wild.
Wild Psyduck.
On Route 1.
Just standing in the path like it had been waiting for something to happen.
And now it was staring at me.
My heart, which had been sprinting earlier, slowed into a careful beat.
I cleared my throat.
"Subject C: Psyduck," I said softly into the unit. "Observe: stationary behavior. Apparent response to stressor with psychic move. Possible-"
The Psyduck took one step toward me.
I paused.
It took another.
My shoulders tightened.
It kept walking until it was close enough that I could see the faint tremble in its hands and the tiny damp shine of its bill.
Then it stopped and stared up at me.
It made a quiet quack and lifted its hands slightly, like it was offering them for inspection.
I stared back, because I did not know what the correct response to that was, and also because it felt rude to interrupt.
"Are you... okay?" I asked.
The Psyduck pressed its hands to its head again, gently this time, like someone nursing a bruise. It swayed. Its eyes went a little unfocused.
Then it dropped its hands and stared at me again, steadying itself with pure stubbornness.
"Oh," I said. "Headache. Right. That is... that is a known thing. I have read notes. Oak has absolutely mentioned-"
The Psyduck quacked louder, impatient.
"Right," I said quickly. "Less talking. More... action."
I looked around the path, the grass, the trees. A patch of shade under a low branch. A shallow puddle in a dip, yesterday's rain still clinging to the earth.
I pointed at the shade. "Do you want to rest? Sit? Not stand in the path where more rodents might come for my shoelaces?"
The Psyduck stared at my hand.
Then it waddled past me.
Not toward the shade.
Not toward the puddle.
Past me.
Northbound.
Like it had decided I was the direction now.
I turned, confused, and watched it continue up Route 1 at an unhurried pace.
"Wait," I called. "No, hold on. I am not. I did not-"
It stopped and looked back over its shoulder.
Its eyes were wide and blank and entirely convinced this was an agreement.
My mouth opened. No sound came out, because what do you say to a creature that chooses you with the confidence of a clerk handing you your own receipt?
I jogged after it.
"All right," I muttered, falling into step beside it. "Fine. Volunteer participation. Great. Excellent. This is a field study now."
The Psyduck did not respond. It just walked.
Every few steps, it glanced at me as if checking whether I was still there.
I tried to take notes while walking, which meant my handwriting became less scientific and more wind-blown spider.
LOG 2.2
Subject C: Psyduck (wild)
Behavior: proceeds north; checks my position; responds to stressor with Confusion
Condition: intermittent headache (hands to head; sway)
Hypothesis: seeks accompaniment or safety; unclear
Notes: volunteer proximity
The Psyduck drifted slightly closer, shoulder brushing my leg.
I stiffened.
Then it leaned its weight against me for a second, like it was testing whether I would topple.
I did not topple.
We walked in awkward silence for a few minutes. The path stretched. Pallet Town faded behind me until it was just a feeling, like a warm kitchen you had left in a hurry.
Ahead, the grass rustled again.
A Pidgey hopped into view at the edge of the path, head tilting, watching us with wary curiosity. Its feathers puffed slightly, ready to bolt.
I slowed automatically, because this was what I was here for.
"Okay," I whispered to the unit. "Baseline behavior. Non-invasive observation. Do not-"
The Psyduck stopped walking.
It stared at the Pidgey.
The Pidgey stared back.
The Psyduck took one step forward.
The Pidgey hopped back.
I could feel the situation forming, like a storm front.
"Please," I murmured. "We are observing. We are not-"
The Psyduck lifted its hands a little, palms open, like it wanted to say hello.
The Pidgey's wings flicked.
The Psyduck's eyes narrowed with concentration, not aggressive, just determined, like it was trying to solve a problem with its face.
Then it caught the uneven edge of the path and stumbled forward with a startled QUACK.
The Pidgey exploded into flight.
The Psyduck flailed and bumped into me.
I tried to catch it. In doing so, I stepped back onto loose gravel.
My foot slid.
The Psyduck, now in full panic, grabbed my sleeve.
We went down together in a slow, humiliating collapse that felt like it took an entire season.
My back hit the dirt. The Psyduck landed on my chest with a soft oof, eyes wide.
For a second, we lay there, both staring up at the sky.
A Pidgey chirped from somewhere above, distant now, safe and smug.
I inhaled. Exhaled.
The Psyduck blinked.
Then it pressed its hands to its head again, squeezing as if embarrassment had triggered its headache.
"Oh no," I whispered, because I had learned something very important about Psyduck in the last ten minutes. Its problems could become my problems.
The Psyduck's body tensed.
The air around us tightened.
Pressure built, like the moment before a sneeze.
"Okay," I said quickly, pushing myself up on one elbow. "We are fine. We are calm. We are not under attack. There is no reason to-"
The Psyduck's eyes squeezed shut.
A pulse of Confusion rippled outward.
It hit the grass.
It hit the path.
It hit me.
For a fraction of a second, my thoughts went sideways. Not in a mystical way. Oak had warned me about this, a footnote in the same Chapter 7: proximity to unfocused psychic discharge may cause brief disorientation in humans; not dangerous; extremely unpleasant. He had not been wrong. It was less magic and more like someone had gently shaken a jar that was my brain.
I blinked hard and tried to focus on the trees, the sky, the horizon. Anything stable.
The Psyduck's pulse continued, a second wave pushing out.
A pair of Rattata, two scouts returning to see if I had died, sprinted out of the grass and immediately slammed into each other. They bounced off and ran in completely different directions as if suddenly embarrassed to be seen together.
The Psyduck opened its eyes again, breathing hard.
It stared at me, hands still near its head.
I stared back.
My hair felt like it had been rearranged by philosophy.
"Okay," I managed. "That... that is... useful."
The Psyduck tilted its head, confused by my tone.
I sat up fully and pulled my clipboard closer, trying to look like I was not dizzy and therefore did not need to admit anything.
"New log entry," I said, forcing steadiness. "Subject C: Psyduck. Reaction to fall-induced stress: Confusion. Range: moderate. Effect on self: visible discomfort. Effect on others: chaos."
The Psyduck stared at my moving pen with deep suspicion.
"You're doing great," I told it, because praise was a tool, and I was not above using it.
The Psyduck's bill opened slightly. It did not quack. It just breathed, like it was trying very hard to be a normal animal on purpose.
Then it leaned forward and pressed its forehead gently to my shoulder, like it was trying to borrow stability.
I froze.
Then, slowly, I lifted my hand and patted the top of its head.
The Psyduck did not flinch. It did not bite. It just stayed there, head resting against me, as if this was a normal procedure it had been waiting to perform.
My throat tightened in a strange way.
This was not baseline behavior.
This was personal.
I cleared my throat again, because acknowledging feelings was a slippery slope and I was already covered in dirt.
"All right," I said briskly. "We should probably get you to... somewhere."
The Psyduck lifted its head and stared at me like I had asked it to solve a puzzle made of smoke.
Right. Wild Psyduck. No obvious home base. No visible plan.
Which meant, as far as I could tell, I had two options.
Leave it here, alone, with headaches and a tendency to panic-blast reality.
Or keep it close, where I could monitor it, document it, and maybe prevent it from accidentally turning Route 1 into a spinning hallway when it got overwhelmed.
My gaze slid down to the Poke Ball on my belt.
The Psyduck followed my gaze.
It stared at the Ball.
Then it looked back up at me.
It made a small quack, quiet and uncertain, like a question.
My stomach tightened.
"I'm not trying to trap you," I said, because words mattered, and also because I did not want to be the kind of person who tricked a confused creature into a contract it did not understand.
The Psyduck blinked.
I held my hand out, palm up, next to the Ball. I tried to make my body language as open as possible, despite the fact that my entire body language was currently dirt.
"This," I said, tapping the Ball lightly, "is a safe place to rest if you need it. It is not bad. It is warm. And it means you do not have to keep walking if your head hurts."
The Psyduck stared at the Ball again.
Then it lifted its hands slowly, careful, almost solemn, and touched the Ball with one finger.
Nothing happened.
It touched it again, firmer.
Still nothing, because Poke Balls required a little more than polite poking.
The Psyduck looked up at me, baffled.
I swallowed.
"Okay," I said. "If you want to come with me, I have to do this part. But only if you want it. No tricks."
The Psyduck's eyes were wide, unreadable in the way only Psyduck eyes could be. It stood perfectly still.
Then it took one step closer and pressed its bill gently against my palm.
My breath caught.
That was not a signature. That was not a spoken yes. But it was trust, blunt and clumsy.
"All right," I whispered. "Volunteer participation accepted."
I lifted the Poke Ball.
"Psyduck," I said softly. "I'm Max."
The Psyduck blinked, as if the idea of names was new and mildly suspicious.
I hesitated for half a heartbeat, then tapped the Ball lightly against its side. Gentle. Controlled.
The Ball opened with a small flash of red light, drawing the Psyduck in without pain, without struggle. It snapped shut and dropped into the dirt with a soft thud.
It rocked once.
Twice.
Three times.
Click.
Silence.
I stared at it for a full second as if it might start dancing.
It did not.
My chest felt oddly hollow and oddly full.
I scanned the grass for the Ball I had thrown. It sat a few feet away, half-hidden in a tuft of grass, looking smug about surviving. I retrieved it and clicked it back to my belt. Two left. One occupied. One for emergencies, or for the next time I forgot how Poke Balls worked.
I picked up the occupied Ball carefully, brushed dirt off the top with my sleeve, and held it like it was fragile.
This was not just data. This was a responsibility I had accepted with a polite speech and a tap. If it panicked in town, if it hurt itself, if it hurt someone else, that would be on me. Oak would not care that my methodology had been very sincere.
"Okay," I said, voice unsteady despite my efforts. "Okay. We're doing this. We're getting you somewhere with help."
I pulled out a small sticker, because I had stickers for everything, and pressed it to the Ball.
PROFESSOR QUACK - VOLUNTEER
I stared at the label.
Then I sighed.
"No," I told myself, because I could already hear Oak's voice asking why I had named a Psyduck like a faculty member.
I peeled the sticker back off.
It tore slightly, because of course it did.
I pressed it back on anyway. Fine. The tear added character.
I clipped the Ball to my belt.
The weight there felt new. Not heavy. Present.
I took a breath, steadied my clipboard, and looked up the path.
Route 1 stretched toward Viridian City like a promise that had not read the fine print.
I started walking again, slower now, listening to the grass, watching the trees.
A Pidgey chirped somewhere ahead. A Rattata rustled in the undergrowth, keeping its distance now, likely sharing stories about the terrifying human who traveled with a psychic headache duck.
I started writing again, this time with dirt-stained determination.
LOG 2.3
Captured: Psyduck (nickname: Professor Quack)
Circumstances: approached voluntarily after stress event; repeated proximity; accepted Ball calmly
Notes: Confusion triggered by stress and falls; monitor headache signs; keep environment calm; reach Viridian quickly before this becomes a public incident
Additional: baseline data collection may require fewer rocks
I underlined fewer rocks twice.
Because science was about clarity.
And also because I had learned my lesson.
Probably.