Brutus was dying. Not dramatically. Not heroically. Not with a sword in hand or a stirring violin in the background. Just… slowly. Tragically. Sweatily.
"You know," he gasped, hands on his knees, "I've seen documentaries that lied to me."
Clove—his stubby, irritable Nidoran—trot-hopped ahead on the dirt trail, utterly unaffected by the fact that his trainer was twenty minutes into a one-hour walk and already hallucinating vending machines in the trees.
"No one told me Kanto had hills! Or that my backpack would try to assassinate my spine!"
Clove didn't dignify him with a glance. Just kept moving, stubby horn twitching at every sound, tail flicking irritably like he'd been paired with the human equivalent of a Snorlax with asthma.
"Back when I was binge-watching Johto League Champions and snorting instant noodles at 3 AM," Brutus wheezed, "nobody told me I'd be hiking through bug-infested woods with no food, one Pokémon, and a rash in places I can't even reach without a mirror."
Still nothing from Clove.
And the worst part? The Nidoran was growing on him.
---
They were a day's walk from Pallet now. The dusty trail winded through low hills and whispering woods, all dapples of green and shadow. Every so often, a Rattata would dart across the road, or a Pidgey would flutter up from the grass with an offended squawk.
Brutus tried not to think about the last Rattata he met. The one that tried to chew his leg off.
He had buried it afterward. A little lopsided grave under a crooked tree, covered in loose dirt and guilt. Clove had stood by, silent and still. Not proud. Just quiet. Like he understood.
"I'm not sure what kind of trainer I am yet," Brutus had murmured then, "but I'll try not to make killing a hobby."
---
The smell of Viridian City came before the sight of it.
Smoke, bread, engine oil, and just a faint whiff of burnt Pokéballs. Civilization.
And there it was—sprawled out at the bottom of the valley like someone had knocked over a toy box and never picked it up: red rooftops, crisscrossing streets, open markets, and glowing signs in neon cursive. Somewhere, a distant sound of bells chimed as a train pulled in. A Golem was slowly dragging a delivery cart across the main road. Kids chased each other with plastic Zangoose claws, screaming at decibels only Pidgeys should survive.
Brutus wiped the sweat from his forehead with a groan. "Finally. A place with plumbing and potential snacks."
Then came the growl.
Low. Guttural. Wet with intent.
"...Oh, for crying out loud."
Clove froze mid-step. Ears up. Tail stiff.
Brutus followed his gaze.
It stepped out from the bushes like it owned the world—a lean, black-furred Houndour with devil-orange eyes and a chipped fang. It looked at them the way a drunk biker might look at an unattended kebab stand. Hungry. Unimpressed.
Brutus instinctively lifted the only thing he had that wasn't flammable: his League mission envelope.
The Houndour snarled, very clearly not impressed with his paperwork.
Clove hissed, his little paws digging into the dirt.
"No. No, Clove, buddy, we don't have to fight everything that breathes fire and has unresolved trauma."
Clove took a step forward.
"Oh, you stubborn blue pincushion—"
The Houndour lunged.
---
What followed was what Brutus later described as "a tactical retreat with screaming."
Clove threw himself into the path, horn first, jabbing into the Houndour's side with a surprisingly clean Peck. But the canine was faster. Meaner. And he bit down on Clove's flank with a crack of teeth and a squeal that made Brutus's heart punch its way up his throat.
"GET OFF HIM!"
He didn't have a rock this time.
So he threw his backpack.
It hit the Houndour square in the face. A glorious, squelchy thwack that sent Pokéballs, socks, a wrapped granola bar, and a can of expired Pecha juice flying in all directions.
The Houndour yelped, more insulted than injured, and darted back into the underbrush, leaving behind only the stench of sulfur and ego.
Brutus dropped to his knees, hands shaking, as he cradled Clove.
His Nidoran's ear was torn. Fur matted with blood and dirt. Breathing shallow.
"You little idiot," he whispered, not angrily. Not really. Just scared. "You're gonna get yourself killed before I even find out if you're left- or right-pawed."
Clove blinked at him, head lolling.
Then passed out.
---
Viridian Pokémon Center was a godsend. White walls, clean light, a faint scent of disinfectant and hope. Nurse Joy didn't even flinch at the sight of him bursting in, panting, arms full of blue porcupine.
She just waved over a Chansey and said, "Another one, huh?"
Brutus collapsed onto a bench. His back spasmed. His legs gave him ultimatums.
But for the first time in hours, he breathed.
That night, after Clove had been bandaged and bedded in the Center's healing pod, Brutus wandered out into the waiting lounge. His wallet was 200₽ heavier thanks to the delivery mission, though after deducting a night's stay, basic meds, and one shameful vending machine hotdog… well, he was almost broke again.
That's when he saw the Mission Board.
A corkboard of dreams and desperation.
> Lost Caterpie. Reward: 100₽
Help carry supplies to Route 2. Reward: 150₽
Escort little girl to Trainer School. Reward: 120₽
Battle practice dummy needed for local dojo. (Signed waiver required)
Missing socks (again). No reward.
Brutus stared for a long time.
"I'm about to become a mercenary for pocket change," he muttered. "I'm basically a glorified babysitter with trauma."
But he grabbed a flyer anyway.
Because even babysitters could become champions… eventually.
---
Later that night, curled up in a bunk at the trainer hostel next door—room shared with two snoring bug catchers and a girl who talked in her sleep about becoming a Clefairy—Brutus stared at the ceiling.
Clove was beside him, breathing slow, tail occasionally twitching as he dreamed of stabbing things.
Brutus shifted, painfully aware of every aching muscle, and sighed.
"I'm not cut out for this," he whispered. "But I want to be."
---
The next morning, the first thing he did was pull on his too-tight shirt, lace up his dirt-caked shoes, and stare down the mirror in the hostel bathroom like it owed him money.
"You. Me. Training."
His reflection laughed at him.
He didn't care.
Because there was something hardening inside him now—not bitterness, not even bravery.
Resolve.
"I'm not gonna die fat in a forest because I couldn't run from a rabid dog. Not happening."
And outside, as the city stretched into morning with the cries of Wingulls and the buzz of early crowds, Brutus took his first painful jog around the block.
One block.
It nearly killed him.
Clove jogged beside him, occasionally headbutting his shin in encouragement. Or mockery. Hard to say.
But when he collapsed onto the grass afterward, lungs burning, heart pounding, he grinned.
Progress.
Tiny, stupid, sweaty progress.
And somewhere, deep down, he swore he could hear the wild whisper of Kanto itself saying:
> Let's see what you've got, Brutus.
---
END OF CHAPTER 6