---
The sun dipped low, casting gold across Pallet's old roofs and cracked chimneys. Brutus walked the winding dirt path home with Clove trotting at his heels — the little Nidoran giving an occasional sniff or grunt like he was making mental notes of the neighborhood.
People nodded at him as he passed. Some smiled. Some didn't. Everyone knew what today was.
Starter Day.
For most kids, it was a celebration.
For Brutus, it felt like the edge of a cliff.
---
His house sat near the town's southern slope, tucked behind a withered Miltank paddock. A small, two-bedroom shack with patched-up shingles and laundry lines that danced like prayer flags in the wind. It wasn't much, but it was clean. And it was home.
He pushed open the front door and stepped into the warm smell of food and wood smoke.
"Brutus?" his mom called from the kitchen.
"Yeah. Got him."
She rushed out, apron still on, flour on her nose. Her eyes darted to the Nidoran sniffing around Brutus's ankles.
"That's him?" she said, crouching.
Clove hissed softly.
"Don't worry," Brutus said, raising a hand. "He's… adjusting."
"Of course," she said, standing again. "He's a handsome little fellow. Strong legs."
Brutus's dad emerged from the back room, rubbing his lower back and walking with a limp. The man had shoulders like fence posts and a stare like sandpaper.
"You make it through Oak's?"
"Sort of," Brutus muttered. "Didn't meet the professor. Just an aide. Gave me what was left."
"Charmander?"
"No. Nidoran."
The pause was long.
But then his dad nodded once.
"Nidoran's a fighter. Won't let you slack off."
"That's… what I figured," Brutus said, even though that wasn't true at all.
---
Dinner was quiet, heavy with the kind of unspoken tension that doesn't need words. His mom made her stew — the same one she made every time someone left home. The good stuff. Real meat. Herbs. A rare drizzle of Cheri oil on the bread.
They didn't eat fast. Or slow. Just... careful. Like drawing out the last warm moment before the storm hits.
Finally, his mom spoke.
"We know you're not a prodigy, Brutus. You're not Red. Or Blue. Or Gary, or Ash, or whatever boy genius comes next."
"Gee, thanks," he muttered.
"I mean it in the best way," she said, smiling softly. "You're not a hero. You're our son. You helped me carry water. You sat with your dad when his back gave out. You studied hard, even when it didn't stick. And when we couldn't afford the League fees last year, you didn't throw a fit. You worked in the berry fields without complaining."
Brutus stared down at his bowl.
"You're not them," she repeated. "But you're you. And that's more than enough for us."
His throat tightened. Hard to swallow even the stew now.
His dad cleared his throat.
"We put enough coin into your license to get you through the first year," he said, voice low. "You've got League insurance. You'll get four healing vouchers and access to rest stations. After that, it's on you."
Brutus nodded. He already knew this, but hearing it again made it feel real.
"One more thing," his dad said, pushing back from the table. He walked to a drawer, pulled something out, and returned to place a small wooden box on the table.
Brutus opened it.
Inside was a Pokédex — not the sleek model he remembered from the anime. This one looked used. Metal edges dented. A few scuffs on the screen.
"It's old," his dad admitted. "Got it secondhand from one of Oak's older aides. It syncs slow, but it works."
Brutus ran a finger over the surface.
It felt like history.
---
That night, Brutus lay awake in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.
He was leaving at dawn.
No guidebook. No digital map. No GPS voice saying, "Turn left at the Viridian fork."
Just a route. A town ahead. A partner. A promise.
He turned and looked at Clove, curled up at the foot of the bed, his purple body rising and falling in sleep.
Brutus whispered, "Guess it's just you and me now."
Clove snorted softly in response. Brutus smiled.
---
The next morning came fast.
His bag was already packed: spare clothes, a basic map, one loaf of dry bread, a berry pouch, a field knife, and a tiny camping pot. His mother kissed him at the door. His father didn't — but clasped his shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise.
"Don't be a hero," he muttered.
Brutus nodded.
Then he turned, Nidoran at his side, and stepped out into the road.
---
The gate was open.
Pallet didn't have guards. Just a low fence and a warning sign:
> LEAVING TOWN LIMITS.
WILD ZONE BEGINS IN 600 FEET.
CAUTION: LEVEL 5+ REQUIRED FOR SOLO TRAVEL.
ALL INJURIES BEYOND THIS POINT ARE AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Brutus read it twice.
Then he stepped past it.
The wind shifted.
The trees ahead whispered.
Clove growled low in his throat — not fear. Focus.
Brutus took a deep breath.
This wasn't the start of a dream.
This was the start of a fight.
---
END OF CHAPTER 3