Arin returned to Mrs. Varma's shop just as the sky was turning purple, the city's neon signs beginning to glow. The familiar quiet of the shop greeted him, and he set his stack of borrowed books on the counter with a sense of accomplishment. The day's discoveries still spun in his mind, but for now, he had a single, concrete goal: to bring the shop's dusty old computer back to life.
He gathered his makeshift toolkit-a battered screwdriver, a flashlight, and a notepad for sketches and troubleshooting-and carried his tech manuals to the back room. The PC sat there like a relic, its case coated in dust, its monitor dark and silent. Arin ran his fingers over the old machine, feeling the faint static of anticipation.
He wondered, just for a moment, if his "Observe" skill could help him here, as it did with Pokémon. He focused, hoping for golden text to appear, but nothing happened. No hidden stats, no clues-just the quiet whir of the fan when he plugged it in and the stubborn blankness of the screen. He let out a soft, resigned chuckle. Nothing in life came for free. If he wanted answers, he'd have to work for them.
So began a week of steady effort. Every morning, Arin woke before sunrise, swept the shop, arranged jars, and helped Mrs. Varma with the day's business. He learned the routines-who bought what, which days were busiest, how to spot a customer who might try to shortchange them. He even started helping with Pokéblock recipes, measuring ingredients and learning which flavors different Pokémon preferred. The work was tiring but grounding, and Arin found comfort in the repetition. He was slowly becoming part of the shop's rhythm, and Mrs. Varma's sharp corrections grew less frequent, replaced by the occasional approving nod or grunt.
The regulars became familiar faces: the old man with the persistent cough who always bought wheat biscuits for his Rattata, the young woman who trained a stubborn Ekans, the twins who bickered over which berry made the best Pokéblock for their Pidgey. Each day, Arin grew a little more confident, and Mrs. Varma began trusting him with more responsibilities, like tallying the day's earnings and preparing order lists.
But every evening, after the last customer left and the shop was swept and locked, Arin retreated to the back room. There, by the glow of a desk lamp, he pored over his borrowed manuals and tinkered with the stubborn PC. He checked every connection, cleaned contacts, and replaced a blown fuse he'd scavenged from a broken radio. The hardware was familiar in principle, but the brands and connectors were all new to him. The manuals helped, but many instructions assumed access to tools or replacement parts he simply didn't have. He improvised, using bits of wire from discarded electronics, and even melted a plastic spoon to patch a cracked connector.
Some nights, frustration threatened to overwhelm him. He'd stare at the frozen screen, hands aching, and wonder if he'd ever get it working. But every setback was a lesson, and every small victory-a flicker on the monitor, a successful power test-gave him hope.
The days blurred together. From morning to evening, he was Mrs. Varma's right hand in the shop. After closing, his world shrank to the back room and the stubborn PC. He mapped out the system's wiring on scraps of paper, cross-referenced diagrams, and made lists of what he needed. He even asked Mrs. Varma if she had any old electronics or spare parts. She found him a box of broken radios, an ancient cash register, and a tangle of wires-treasures for a determined tinkerer.
Finally, after nearly a week of effort, the PC whirred to life. The monitor flickered and, after a tense moment, displayed a login prompt. Arin's heart leapt. He'd done it.
He spent the next hour exploring the system, careful not to change anything important. The operating system was nothing like what he'd known before: the icons were strange, the menus unfamiliar, and even the keyboard layout took some getting used to. But the basics were there-files, folders, and a simple user account labeled "Varma."
The next morning, he left a note for Mrs. Varma, explaining what he'd done and offering to show her how the computer could help with inventory, records, and orders. She eyed the machine with suspicion but agreed to let him demonstrate. He showed her how to enter sales, track supplies, and even draft simple labels for the shop. She was wary of the cost of internet access, but Arin made a deal: if she paid for a basic plan, he'd help her create new Pokéblock recipes and manage the shop's business more efficiently.
After some negotiation-and a promise not to break anything else-she relented. Arin spent the next evening setting up the connection, following the manuals step by step. The process was slow, with unfamiliar prompts and settings, but eventually, the PC connected.
He wanted to dive into the news, but quickly realized he needed to start with the basics. The software was entirely different from what he'd known: new icons, unfamiliar operating systems, and programs he'd never seen before. Even the keyboard shortcuts were strange. He spent hours just learning how to navigate the desktop, open files, and install updates. He downloaded digital manuals, watched tutorials, and slowly built up his understanding. The hardware, at least, was familiar-but the software was a whole new world. Arin made it his mission to master it, knowing that every skill he gained would help him survive and maybe even thrive in this world.
He also set up a backup routine, using instructions from the books, and ran a quick diagnostic to ensure the system was stable. The PC was old, but with a little care, it would serve for years to come.
Mrs. Varma was impressed, though she'd never say it outright. She started relying on Arin for more than just cleaning and stocking. She'd ask his opinion on prices, let him handle the till when she was busy, and even trusted him to lock up when she ran late. The shop felt less like a place he worked and more like a place he belonged.
Each night, he went to bed exhausted but satisfied, the glow of the computer screen and the hum of the shop's old radio mingling in his mind. He was still an outsider in Fuchsia, still wary of Team Rocket and the dangers lurking beyond the city's safe streets. But for the first time, he felt like he was building something real-a foundation for the future, one circuit and one line of code at a time.
He made a habit of borrowing more tech and business books from the reading room, determined to keep learning. Sometimes, he'd catch Mrs. Varma watching him as he worked, a faint smile on her lips. He wondered if she saw herself in him-a survivor, making the best of what the world had given.
A week after he'd started, Arin finally felt ready to take on more. The PC was running smoothly, the shop was thriving, and he'd begun to understand the rhythm of life in Fuchsia. He knew this peace wouldn't last forever. The world was always changing, and he'd have to keep adapting. But for now, circuits and persistence were enough.
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