greenportal | Impostor Syndrome

Title: Impostor Syndrome

Fandom: Pokémon

Characters: Professor Oak, OC Trainer

Pairings: Gen

Word Count: 1,228

Summary: A new trainer meets with Professor Oak.

Warnings: None

Author's Notes: Not sure if I have the attention span to write this story to completion, but here's an idea I had.

Every new morning brought a new child to Professor Oak’s lab; eager to start their journeys as pokémon trainers. The girl on his doorstep seemed no different from the rest.

She was about average size for a 10-year-old, not unusually short or tall. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into fluffy pigtails. She showed some signs of her hometown of Cinnabar, such as her light tan. She was also dressed too warmly for her journey—with her pink vest over her gray, long sleeve shirt and pink-striped tights under her white skirt—as if she didn’t know what weather to expect when she wasn’t on a sunny beach. She had a bright smile on her face, and a tooth missing on the bottom row.

“Hello there! Welcome!” Oak said as he answered the door, “Are you here to get your Trainer ID?”

She nodded and squeezed the straps of her flimsy backpack.

“Good, good! Come in!”

She stepped in slowly, taking her time to look around the room at the rows of overstuffed bookshelves and the equipment the aides were using. One of the aides was in the corner, supervising a Pidgey as it solved a small puzzle. The bird stopped to watch the girl, ignoring the encouragement from its trainer to continue with the game.

“This way, please,” Oak said as he lead her to the back room. She followed a few steps behind.

She would wander off around his office as he tried to give his standard speech for new trainers. This was fairly common. The children were often excited and unable to sit still, but he had experience slipping in a quick, “No, come back please. You can read those books later,” or, “Don’t touch, that equipment is sensitive,” without missing a beat of his introduction. However the other kids were usually interrupting him with questions and attempting to speak over him, while this girl was completely silent.

There was something about her eyes as well. They were a rich, warm brown and sparkled whenever they focused on something new in the room, yet there was something distant and empty to them as well. When she made eye contact with Oak it was more like looking into the plastic eyes of a doll.

After the introduction he asked if she had filled out her ID form. It was the only thing in her backpack, and it had gotten slightly wrinkled along the way.

“Oh dear,” Oak said, looking down into her empty bag, “You didn’t stock up before you left? Pokémon centers can be much further apart than you realize once you need them, you know. Ah, but don’t worry. These things happen. I’ll get you some potions before you leave.”

She also looked into the bag once he finished speaking. Her smile never fully disappeared as the rest of her face faded into a blank expression. She seemed like she was trying to figure out what was wrong with bringing an empty backpack.

Oak started to take the form back to his computer, but stopped once he noticed the first few lines on the sheet. The handwriting was barely above large chicken scratch. For her name she had written, “Trainer Girl,” and for her age she put, “Yes.” The other answers weren’t much better. Children often missed the line in the instructions about getting a parent to help them fill out the form, but few of them were as bad as this.

“Is this sheet correct, Miss, uh, Trainer?”

She nodded. Very well then. Any issues with the forms weren’t his problem once the children left the lab. Most of the process wasn’t his problem anymore.

On the desk next to Oak’s computer was a massive machine, similar in appearance to a copier. He took the ID form and fed it into the correct slot. Then he dug one of the numerous, identical blank pokédexes from a nearby drawer and loaded it into its own slot. There was always something uncomfortable about the feeling of a blank in his hand. They were too lightweight, too perfectly uniform, too fresh off an assembly line. Oak missed the time he spent building his original pokédexes by hand; one for his grandson and one for the neighbor kid. After that there were more children at his lab wanting one, and he had to start building them at a faster pace. None of those originals were ever flawless like these in the drawer. His originals had signs of the craftsmanship behind their creation; from the little flaws and quirks that made them unique to their durable designs and sturdy cases. By now there were far too many children arriving for them all to get a handmade pokédex. The process had to be automated bit by bit. First the Trainer IDs to help the police when kids went missing, then the pokémon coming from breeders who could provide consistency instead of his own collection, then the mass-produced pokédexes. Soon even he would likely be deemed unnecessary by the gym league, and perhaps becoming a trainer would simply require buying a ticket and waiting in line like an amusement park. He huffed at the thought, though the sound was masked by the whirring of the machine as it pulled the blank deeper into the slot and started scanning and writing.

“I’m sure you’re excited to choose your new partner.” He gestured to the table near the window, with three pokéballs waiting in a simple display. “Now, Trainer, which pokémon do you want?”

She gave a little gasp. It wasn’t a sound of excitement or anticipation like he had heard from the children before. This was more of a surprised gasp. Did she not know she would get a new pokémon today? She approached the table as if she was expecting it to bite her.

She reached out a trembling finger to poke each ball. Then she wiggled each one in its stand. She rolled them around slightly, feeling their weight. Oak couldn’t tell what she was looking for, as they were all clearly marked with what they contained. After several minutes of deliberation, she gently lifted the pokéball off the green stand and held it with both hands like it was a delicate glass bowl.

“So! You want the plant pokémon, Bulbasaur?”

She nodded and hugged the ball to her chest, giving him a big smile.

“Wonderful!” He couldn’t help but smile back.

The pokédex machine beeped, releasing the newly-programmed blank and printing out a temporary ID. She would have to take the paper copy to the police department in Pewter City to trade it for a real one. The Viridian Gym wouldn’t let her in without an official card.

“Here you are,” Oak said, handing her both items and three potions from his cabinet, “You’re ready to begin your journey!”

She stuffed everything into her bag with haste, but not the pokéball. She kept it cradled against her chest. Oak lead her back to the front door and opened it for her. The yellow, late morning sunshine spilled across his clinic-white floor. The gentle breeze brought in the distant smell of spring flowers and Spearow cries from the woods.

“Good luck out there. I hope you and Bulbasaur have many wonderful adventures together!”

“Ditto!” she squeaked. She bounced out the door and skipped off into the tall grass.

Impostor Syndrome

no subject