Pokemon :An Unexpected Journey

The whistle blew before dawn, cutting through the calm of the camp like a war cry.

Piiiiiiip!

Red was already prepared. While Ash mumbled in his sleep, searching for his cap and socks, Red stepped out of the tent—not hastily, but with purpose. In his small notebook, he had already written down everything he'd observed the day before: location of the tallest trees, tent positions, movement patterns of the aides… every detail could be useful.

(TM: Remember, he was the best assassin—years of experience had shaped him.)

At the center of camp, children were beginning to gather based on their colored wristbands. Some were still half-asleep, others chatting excitedly about what they hoped to see that day. Red, wearing a blue wristband, remained silent.

Professor Oak appeared before long. He wore his pristine white lab coat, a Pokéball in hand and a restrained smile on his face.

"Alright, future Trainers. Today, you'll learn the difference between imagining a battle… and surviving one."

He threw the Pokéball.

Flash!

A Geodude floated in the air, its rocky face scowling at the children.

"Who can tell me what type this Pokémon is?"

Several hands shot up. A girl answered: rock and ground. Oak nodded and turned back to the group.

"And what happens if someone uses an Electric attack on it?"

A boy stepped forward. "It paralyzes it!"

"Wrong." Oak shook his head, and before he could clarify, Red spoke up.

"It wouldn't work. Geodude is immune to Electric attacks because of its Ground typing."

Oak looked at him with interest.

"Name?"

"Red."

"Noted."

Oak smiled slightly but said nothing more. He didn't praise knowledge. He recorded it.

During the next hour, the groups rotated through practical stations. One assistant—blue-haired, braided, with rectangular glasses—waited in a shaded area with a visibly wilted Oddish.

"Pokémon physiology class. Knowing how to fight is fine. But knowing when your Pokémon needs help… that can save lives."

Some kids thought the Oddish was just sleeping.

Ash even knelt beside it: "You okay, little guy?"

The assistant raised an eyebrow.

Red observed from behind. "It has spots on its bulb, drooping leaves, and no response to stimuli. It might be stressed from lack of sunlight or possibly poisoned."

"Correct," the assistant said, surprised. "Most forget that Pokémon aren't invincible. Like us, they get sick. And if you don't notice, you lose them."

Later, in the training field, they learned the proper use of Pokéballs. Training models simulated various behaviors—some "Pokémon" ran away, others attacked, some simply ignored them.

Oak showed them a recording as he explained:

"Capturing isn't just tossing and hoping. Watch. This trainer waits for the moment the Pokémon lowers its guard… and throws. Precise. Quiet. No wasted energy."

Each child practiced one by one. Ash threw too early, and his target deflected the Pokéball with ease. Red, on the other hand, waited. He observed the target's movements… and just as it paused for a second, he threw.

Clack! Perfect.

"Well done," said Oak without raising his voice. "Silence, patience… those are also part of being a Trainer."

Over the following days, instruction intensified.

They learned how to pack travel kits, read physical maps, use compasses, and find clean water. They also practiced first aid on dummies that simulated injured Pokémon—learning how to apply bandages, detect fevers, and calm creatures in panic.

One night, during a theory class under the stars, Oak spoke in a low voice:

"Many believe a Trainer is the one who wins the most battles. They're wrong. A Trainer is the one who comes home… and brings their Pokémon back, too."

Red listened attentively—but he was also analyzing. Oak wasn't just a professor. He was an observer. Like him.

Another day, they were sent in groups into the nearby forest to find safe routes, gather materials, and avoid "danger zones." They couldn't use Pokédexes or ask for help.

Ash, as always, was impulsive. He ran off after what he thought was a hidden Pokémon and ended up in an artificial swamp.

"Waaaah! I'm sinking!"

Red ran after him, tossed a rope from his backpack, and pulled him out. His voice was cold.

"Every step you take without thinking is a trap you lay for yourself."

Ash lowered his gaze. He said nothing.

But he learned.

Red, for his part, started noticing the other kids watching him. Some admired him. Others envied him. But no one ignored him.

And that… was useful too.

One afternoon, during a Pokémon psychology class, an assistant showed real footage:

A Charmander crying in the rain.

A Machop refusing to fight after a defeat.

A Psyduck panicking from noise, exploding in a confused psychic outburst.

"Not everything is trained through strength," Oak said. "Sometimes, Pokémon need a pause, not pressure."

Red raised his hand.

"Then… who takes care of the caretaker?"

Silence fell instantly.

Oak looked at him for several seconds.

"Good question. The answer… depends on each person."

That night, the camp was quieter. Some kids had started to see it not as just a fun experience—but a test. A preparation for a world that doesn't forgive mistakes.

As the sixth day came to an end, Oak gathered everyone around the campfire.

"You've learned to observe, to think, to survive. Some stood out, others stumbled… but you're all still here."

He looked at them with a mix of pride and gravity.

"Tomorrow is the final day. Your final test. No instructions. No corrections. Just your decisions, your actions… and your results."

Ash swallowed hard.

Red closed his notebook, full of notes. He didn't need more theory. He needed practice to sharpen his skill.