The interior of Professor Oak's lab was exactly as the memories from my past life described—clinical, filled with whirring machinery, and currently smelling faintly of ozone and burnt hair.
"Please, Professor! There has to be *one* left!" Ash was practically vibrating with desperation.
Oak sighed, looking at the empty containers on the central pedestal. "Ash, as I told you, the early trainers took the Squirtle, the Bulbasaur, and the Charmander. There is, however, one more. But I must warn you, there's a reason he's still here."
He pressed a button, and a lone Pokéball with a small lightning bolt sticker popped up. Ash didn't even hesitate. He snatched it up, released the Pokémon, and—*pop*—a chubby yellow mouse with rosy cheeks appeared on the floor.
"Oh, he's so cute!" Ash chirped, lunging forward to scoop the creature into a hug.
"Pika-CHUUUU!"
A violent crackle of yellow electricity filled the room. Ash's skeleton briefly became visible through his skin as he shook like a leaf in a hurricane. I winced, my hair standing on end just from the static in the air. Beside me, Gary didn't even try to hide it—he burst into a fit of mocking laughter.
"Classic Ashy-boy," Gary wheezed. "Starts his journey and immediately gets fried by his own Pokémon. Truly the 'Master' in the making."
The electricity subsided, leaving Ash smoking and dazed. I walked over, my practical side overriding my desire to stay out of the drama. "Hey, you okay? Your heart didn't stop, did it?"
Ash looked up at me, his hair standing out in a dozen fried directions. His face went from 'electrocuted gray' to 'embarrassed scarlet' in three seconds flat. "I—uh—yeah. I'm fine. Totally grounded. Heh."
"Regina, my dear," Professor Oak interrupted, stepping over the twitching Pikachu to hand Ash a Pokédex and a set of six Pokéballs. "I just heard from Professor Linda. You must be quite capable for her to sponsor you personally. She doesn't just hand out her name to anyone. And congratulations on the Torchic."
Ash and Gary both stopped their bickering. "A Torchic?" Gary repeated, his brow furrowing.
"Yeah," I said, unclipping the ball from my belt. "Wanna see?"
I tossed the ball. With a flash of white light, my little crimson fire-starter materialized on the lab table. The deep, ruby-red of its feathers seemed to drink in the sterile fluorescent light of the lab. It let out a sharp, confident *Chic-tor!* and immediately began preening its chest feathers.
"Wait," Gary said, stepping closer, his "cool" facade cracking. "Your first Pokémon is a Torchic? In Kanto?"
I nodded, feeling a swell of pride. I knew why he was confused. Starters were rare enough, but a Hoenn native in the middle of Pallet Town was practically unheard of. And the color—the deep red was so far removed from the standard orange that it made the bird look like a living gemstone.
"Wait, what's the big deal?" Ash asked, rubbing the back of his head. "It's just a bird, right? A cool red one."
Gary sneered, regaining his footing. "Of course you don't know, loser. Torchic is a Fire-type starter from the Hoenn region. They're incredibly rare here, and that color profile..." He trailed off, looking at me with a new level of interest. "Where did a girl like you get an exotic specimen like that?"
"I saved him from some thugs," I said simply. "Or he saved me. It was a mutual agreement."
I turned to Professor Oak, gesturing to the bird. "He's pretty impressive, right? I think he's going to be a powerhouse."
Oak leaned in, adjusting his glasses. He made a humming sound of academic interest. "Actually, Regina... *she* is definitely impressive."
I blinked. Once. Twice. "What?"
"The feather pattern on the rear and the slight curve of the beak," Oak explained, pointing with a pen. "This Torchic is female. A rare find indeed, especially for a starter."
I leaned down, level with the table. I'd been calling her "nugget" and "he" for a week. "Wait. You're a girl?"
The reaction was instantaneous.
My Torchic's eyes widened. She puffed out her chest feathers, her little wings trembling with what I can only describe as pure, unadulterated feminine rage. She looked at me with a betrayal so deep it felt like I'd suggested she wear last season's knock-off sneakers.
Chic?! TOR-CHIC-CHIC!! "Ow! Hey!"
She lunged. Before I could move, her sharp beak was drumming a rapid-fire rhythm against my shins. Peck. Peck. Peck.
"Ow! Sorry! Stop! I didn't know!" I danced backward, tripping over my own skateboard. "Stop! Ow, nugget, please!"
She wasn't having it. She was genuinely pissed. Her chirps sounded remarkably like a lecture about gender assumptions and how dare I compare her to those "smelly guy Torchics" who spend all day rolling in the dirt. She was a lady! An Elite-class, deep-red lady!
Pikachu, who had been watching the whole scene from the lab table, seemed to find my suffering hilarious. The yellow rat let out a snickering "Pika-pika!"
Ash laughed. "See? Your Pokémon is just as grumpy as mine!"
Pikachu's laughter stopped. He turned his black-tipped ears toward Ash, sparks dancing in his cheeks. He didn't like being compared to a "grumpy" bird. He didn't like Ash's tone. And he definitely didn't like being laughed at.
"Uh oh," Oak whispered, reaching for a rubber mat.
"Pika... CHUUUUUUUUUU!"
The discharge was massive. It wasn't a targeted strike; it was a localized EMP.
The lab exploded in a blinding flash of yellow light. I felt my teeth rattle. Gary let out a high-pitched "Gah!" as his stylish hair turned into a literal afro. Professor Oak dropped his clipboard, his lab coat smoking. Ash was once again a human glow-plug.
When the light faded, the scene was a masterpiece of comedic tragedy. Ash, Gary, and Oak were all slumped against the walls, their hair standing in every direction, little puffs of smoke rising from their shoulders. I was leaning against the table, my legs feeling like wet noodles, my vision filled with dancing spots.
The only two who were fine?
Pikachu was sitting on the table, clutching his stomach and rolling around in fits of squeaky laughter.
And my Torchic? She was standing perfectly calm in the center of the room, not a single feather out of place. She looked at the charred remains of the men in the room, let out a tiny, elegant "Hmph," and hopped onto my shoulder, nuzzling my cheek as if to say: That's what happens when you don't respect the ladies.
"Note taken," I croaked, my voice sounding like I'd smoked a pack of Magmar. "You're a girl. A very, very scary girl."