A Realistic Pokemon RP
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Everyone asks him if he’s born on Valentine’s day because of this last name. They’re all idiots, if you ask him. A last name is given to you at birth by your parents (usually a father, though not always) and has nothing to do with the date of your birth.
Though, to be fair, his was born on February 14th and his last name was not inherited from his father nor his mother, but written down by a punchy exhausted single mother on the birth certificate because she thought it was funny.
His mother left the spot for “father” blank - as she had no clue which one of her many escapades had been the unfortunate sperm donor. The nurse told her that they weren’t allowed to leave blank spaces, as babies don’t just fall from the sky, and she had to put something.
So his father was listed as Joe Smoe.
Miles would be the first to insist that his mother had a sense of humor.
The head nurse had chatted gently to her, watching her fumble with breast feeding, and she had been a distracted kind of nice back until the nurse said “Sweetie, if you aren’t ready for this, you can give him up for adoption, you know. Ain’t a soul here that’ll judge ya.”
She took him home wrapped up in a blanket given to her by the hospital twenty minutes later.
He was a mistake, but he was her mistake.
She lived in a flat above her work with three other girls. They all were employees of the bar that sat on the main floor, and helped run the underground casino in the basement. It was one of those things where it was illegal but everyone knew about it, yet no one ‘knew’ about it. Everyone was the same down there - police men, mobsters, grandfathers and students. Your real life melted away once you stepped down those concrete stairs into the bottom floor.
It smelled of cigarettes and velvet, the floor crunched from all the peanut shells and bottle caps, it was loud and bright and dark and quiet all at once.
It was where Miles grew up.
Having four women who lived off promiscuity, who knew how to pour a drink and work a pole - well, it was a unique way to grow up for sure. Miles was never forced to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with, or anything inappropriate. The workers became protective of him, the customers helped raise him.
He wen’t to school but he never enjoyed it. He only passed classes because he had help (if he passed them at all).
Miles learned math from the mob’s accountant. He learned science from a retired doctor. Auntie May, the oldest bartender, taught him how to cook. His mother taught him how to work, how to be on time and do your duty. The police chef had a knack for world history.
Writing he picked up on all on his own.
It took a village.
It still wasn’t enough to save from from the plight we must all suffer: his teenager years.
It hit him hard. He was caught drunk off of cheap vodka in the bottom floor by Auntie May and got his ass kicked for it. He stole dirty magazines from the neighboring gas station, he picked up the discarded and half smoked cigarettes and finished them off. His grades fell, his friends got rougher around the edges, and he attempted to grow his first beard.
All around it was a bad story.
The police chef recommended to his mother that he be sent on a pokemon journey. “He needs to see the world,” Chef said, “He has to know that there’s more out there then these walls.”
Miles was given a starter pokemon - a tiny blue totodile that he named Savage in the hopes it would grow a pair (spoiler: she never did) - and he was sent on his way. He only made it to Violet City before getting detoured.
He wanted cigarettes, so he needed money. He already had a fake ID, he just needed to find some cash. Stealing was not out of the picture but he learned really quick that not everyone was as lenient as the police chef he knew. A night spent on the cold concrete floor of a jail cell was enough to deter him from an easy thieving.
Miles saw an ad on a wanted board in the local grocery store - Junior Writer, needed NOW, pay 10 per article. Miles ripped the paper off of the board and went to the restrooms. He washed up, trimmed the few hairs he had managed to grow on his face, and went to the location detailed. Without a single badge to his name and only one scardy-cat totodile as a friend Miles abandoned the ‘pokemon trainer’ route and took a detour.
That’s how he landed himself into a journaling career
Miles learned by errors. He was good at taking criticism, though he was sure to stick his tongue out at his boss’s back when he was turned if he felt it was undeserved. He would stay at one paper for a couple of years and then move on.
He started on the small stories. The unexpected pageant winner, a shiny pokemon discovery, rumors of a haunting, tales of a legendary spotted.
Then he moved onto bigger things. Interviews with the mayor, reporting on accidents, writing about the elections.
He did his first in-depth report when he was 28 - and the reason for it was purely an accident. He had witnessed a crash - the magnet train derailed while he was waiting at the station in Saffron City. He witnessed the entire thing, earned scrapes from the escape, helped pulled people from the wreckage.
It was doing this research, in those first shaky days, that he saw his mother’s name on the list of casualties. She had been coming to meet him, to see his new job that came with a uniform and everything. That’s why he was at the train station holding a fistful of dandelions he had picked on the way.
The only outlet Miles had was to write (and his editor demanded it) so he did. He wrote in long form, telling the stories of the people who died, recounting the tales of those who had survived.
It had become apparent to the police early on that it had been sabotage. He interviewed the police, the other witnesses. He obsessed over it. He was turning out two articles a day and did a few interviews for the news. He was the go-to person, the lead writer.
They never really discovered what had happened. There were a lot of theories - Team Rocket, angry city worker, pokemon interference, mechanical failure. No pieces quite fit, and Miles never got the end to his story.
He visited the bar he grew up in, attended her funeral and spoke in stunted words. Auntie May gave him a pokemon egg, said that his mother was waiting to give it to him for his birthday and he might as well have it now.
A month later that egg hatched into a pichu that he named Ricochet.
The world moves quickly from there on out. First it was the six month anniversary of her death, then the year, and suddenly its been a handful of years. His totodile eventually evolves one, and his pichu is quick to change into a pikachu. He finds himself rather fond of the little mouse who, like so many pikachu's before, hates his pokeball.
The moment he can afford a thunder stone Miles gets one. Richochet is happy for the change and accepts and suddenly Miles has a fully fledged Raichu, powerful and snarky and protective. He's ok with that.
Before Miles knows it he's over thirty, single and childless. Time goes fast when you're trying hard to distract yourself.