A Realistic Pokemon RP
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FULL NAME: quincy adam turner
GENDER: cis man
BIRTHDATE: october 03
IDENTIFYING FEATURES: dimples, much taller than you'd expect him to be, hopelessly staticky hair at all times because of bits rubbing his dumb lil face in it
TW: abuse, homophobia
your parents are assholes - this is both a fact, and the mantra you use to make it through. it's not your fault. your parents are assholes.
it starts when eliza is born. you're five years old and your perfection-obsessed mother always wanted a daughter. that was her vision - a daughter with her blonde hair who likes frills and bows, who's sweet and polite and thoughtful by nature, who doesn't have problems and doesn't complain. eliza is everything she wanted.
as a child, you're difficult. you fuss and you get frustrated and you question their instructions and you talk back. you say no, and that's the worst offense your parents can think of when you're that young. you end up proving them wrong, later. they particularly don't like when you prove them wrong.
as a son, you're expected to live in your father's shadow, to strive to grow up in his image. he's supposed to be your hero - the strong, stoic prosecutor who puts the "bad guys" away and protects the public and their pokémon in the courtroom. you think his job is boring, needlessly stressful, and as you get older, ineffective; you don't have to pay attention to the news that hard to understand that team rocket and team skull can do whatever the fuck they feel like. nobody touches the higher ups. they don't go anywhere. your dad makes a few mildly compelling speeches on morality and puts away some disposable grunts just trying to make a buck. inspiring.
your mother and father both despair as you come into your preteen years; you're emotional, defiant, uninterested in traditionally masculine pastimes (girls. you know they mean girls). you ask them if you could get a pokémon once, at the traditional age of ten (with big dreams of travelling the world with them, far away from your parents and the insular hellhole that you find floccesy to be), and they refuse - you're immature. you don't respect the rules. they won't have some deadbeat son roaming the region sleeping in chairs in pokécenters - at least not until you can represent them properly (be normal. for the love of god, don't get caught kissing a boy on the cheek ever again. remember the dark purple remnants of the smack you got for it if you have to).
their grip tightens. more and more, you're sequestered. first to the yard, then the house, and finally your room; you eat meals with the family for the illusion of normalcy but you contribute nothing to the conversation. eliza has stories to tell of the children in her level at training school; your parents gifted her a cleffa and enrolled her not long after you asked for a pokémon of your own. the timing is not lost on you. your father boasts of his courtroom victories and your mother smiles sickly sweet and you rot in your chair until you ask to be excused. you ruin the illusion on purpose. it satisfies you, a little, to watch their faces fall at the sound of your voice. it has to satisfy you - if you let it hurt you, you won't make it out.
your room is on the second level of the house, and for a while, you think it's impossible to sneak out undetected. by the time you're fifteen, it becomes unbearable not to try, so you do - and you break your ankle the first time you drop from your window. you scream, and it takes your parents twenty fucking minutes to come out and take you to the hospital. your mother puts her lipstick on on the way. your father says nothing at all to you the entire time.
the next time you try (months later, on a fully healed ankle), you don't bother worrying about being loud. you dug coins out of the couch while your parents were at work and you take them now to the pokécenter for a ball, and the next night you run the route and a half to chargestone cave in the dark. you end up not needing the ball at all; a joltik happily nestles himself in your fluffy curls, a haven of static electricity, and you have a pokémon. you call him bits. he's easy to hide when your parents come into your room. he's the only thing you love that you get to keep.
you realize as you get older that your parents would keep you barred in your room until you die, if you let them. you embarrass them; you taint their good, perfect name. you sneak out almost every night, spending your time with grass between your fingers and toes, the stars in your eyes - you want to get closer, so you learn to climb. you lay out on top of buildings with scraped up palms and bruised knees and a broken ass and bits in your hair and you're satisfied. this is what you choose. you choose the stars.
the last time you leave, you're seventeen. you tell your parents to go fuck themselves and you leave out the front door for the first time since you turned eleven years old and you are free. your mother throws her last framed photo including you at your back. eliza sends a message later only to tell you mom has changed the locks. you promise her once you get a phone you'll tell her (you don't. you still haven't).
you try the trainer life you dreamed of for a few months. you're not suited to it, not really; you give the few pokémon you caught up for adoption. all but bits. you do the last, most drastic thing you can think of - you leave unova. you go to johto and you land a shitty internship at the radio in goldenrod city and you suffer through it until they finally start paying you. you dj on a strange, overnight time slot that you're not sure anyone really listens to, and you're content - but you're not at home. you're not happy.
you take your new skills back to unova; you get a small place in castelia and land a job interviewing people of interest for the news - champions, elite four members, notable league challengers, researchers, coordinator sensations, gym leaders, that one guy with no pants on who tried to punch a cloyster, lost his hand when it snapped its shell shut, and then tried to sue the cloyster (a wildly popular interview if only by the sheer universal compulsion to hatewatch it). you enjoy it, despite not enjoying many people - more than that, you're good at it. you make new goals - a talk show of your own, someday (paste your last name across it until your parents can't ignore their disgrace any longer). be out.
stop being afraid of being out.