Brutus woke up to the sound of someone yelling "Milktank piss!" outside his window.
It wasn't poetic.
It was loud.
He blinked at the ceiling for a few seconds before remembering where he was. Pallet Town. Not Earth. Not a dream. No phone to check. No scrolling. Just the slightly moldy smell of his tiny bedroom, a pile of clothes on the floor, and an old calendar that read:
"JULY 1 — BRUTUS'S STARTER DAY"
The words were underlined three times, and a little sketch of a Charmander had been drawn in the corner. Poor, hopeful bastard.
He groaned and sat up, scratching his stomach absentmindedly. His whole body still felt like someone had inflated it the wrong way. Nothing felt… efficient. His joints ached. His legs cramped if he sat too long. Even his neck had a weird left tilt he couldn't fix.
But there was no time to dwell.
Today was the day.
---
He didn't get a ceremony.
No music. No camera flashes. Just a quick breakfast with his parents — both worn thin from work and stress. His dad's hand trembled a little when he handed over the last-minute documents. His mom looked proud, tired, and terrified all at once.
They didn't talk about the future.
They just hugged him.
As if it might be the last time.
---
Professor Oak's lab sat at the end of the village, past the general store and the rust-stained League bulletin board.
It wasn't shiny or majestic. Just big, white, and humming with quiet importance.
Brutus knocked on the door, his hand already sweaty.
After a minute, someone cracked it open. A guy in a lab coat peeked out — looked about twenty, with sleep in his eyes and a nasty coffee stain down the front.
"Yeah?"
"Uh… Brutus Pine. Starter appointment."
The aide blinked. Then yawned. "Right. The charity slot. Come on."
Brutus followed him inside, trying not to let that comment sink in.
Charity slot.
Right.
Because that's what this was. Not a reward. Not a rite of passage. Just… the system tossing him a bone.
---
The lab was colder than he expected. Metal counters, humming machines, a few tanks with samples of strange glowing fluid. No grand display of Poké Balls. No shiny pedestals.
Just three beat-up Poké Balls sitting in a plastic tray next to a clipboard.
Oak wasn't even in the room.
The aide gestured lazily. "You get what's left. That's our policy. Top scorers pick first. You didn't even pass on merit — your parents bought you in. So."
Brutus stared at the tray.
One ball was already cracked. Empty.
One was marked with red tape and labeled "Quarantine."
That left one.
It wasn't labeled. Just… plain.
Brutus picked it up. It was slightly warm.
"Who is it?"
"Nidoran. Male. Don't stick your fingers near its mouth."
---
Brutus blinked. "Nidoran? Not… not Charmander?"
The aide gave him a tired look. "Does this look like Kanto TV to you? Charmander's not a plushie. They're rare, hot-blooded, and lab-grown under strict League supervision. You think we hand those out to people who can't run a mile?"
"I didn't say—"
"Yeah, you didn't. But you thought it. Everyone thinks it. The world doesn't run on dreams, kid. You get what you earn."
The words hit harder than Brutus expected.
He looked down at the ball in his hand. It felt heavier now.
Not physically. Just… spiritually.
Nidoran.
Poison type. Small. Horned. Not flashy. No wings. No flames.
Just venom and attitude.
He took a breath.
"I'll take him."
The aide shrugged. "Your funeral."
---
Outside, Brutus walked until he hit a patch of sun near the training fields — just past the fence line, close enough to town that a wild Pokémon wouldn't dare try anything, but far enough to get privacy.
He stared at the Poké Ball in his hand.
No fanfare.
Just press the button.
Just start the life someone else was supposed to live.
He released it.
With a flicker of red light, the Nidoran appeared.
Small. Purple. Stocky. It sniffed the air once, sneezed, then looked up at him with narrow eyes.
Brutus crouched down slowly.
"Hey there," he said, keeping his voice soft. "I'm… I'm your new trainer, I guess."
The Nidoran hissed softly — not aggressive, but not friendly either. Like a stray cat deciding if your ankle was food.
"I'm gonna call you…" He paused. Thought. "Clove."
The Nidoran blinked.
Then, slowly, it sneezed again and sat down.
Brutus smiled.
That was as good a start as any.
---
He sat there for a while. Just… sitting.
Watching Clove scratch at the dirt. Tail flicking. Small horn twitching with each breeze.
This was his life now.
Not glamorous. Not heroic. Just a teenage kid with a borrowed name, a thick body, and a tiny poisonous porcupine as a partner.
There were no XP bars.
No tutorial popups.
No dramatic voice telling him to go be a legend.
Just the wind. The dirt. The waiting.
And maybe, just maybe, the start of something real.
---
END OF CHAPTER 2