บท 1: Chapter 1
Luka slowly opened his blue eyes, scanning his surroundings. With a groan, he climbed out of his creaky wooden bed, its protests echoing in the stillness of the room. Placing his feet on the cold, uneven floor, he stretched to wake his tired muscles.
Turning to a broken mirror, Luka inspected his reflection. In the slums, even a minor cut could prove fatal if left unchecked. Infection was a silent killer here. His fingers brushed over his skin, searching for any signs of trouble. Satisfied, he pulled back.
Seventeen now, his birthday in June had come and gone unnoticed in the perpetual gloom of the underground slums. Time here was measured in hunger and survival, not days or seasons. The cold was constant, seeping into bones like an unshakable curse.
He wasn't bad-looking, per se. His body bore the marks of malnourishment, but his blonde hair still managed to shine faintly, and his piercing blue eyes carried a cold sharpness. His facial features were ordinary, but the lack of symmetry denied him the title of "handsome."
Luka grabbed a patched shirt from a nearby stool, slipping it on as he stepped into the living room. An old woman lay on the threadbare sofa, its worn surface well-cared for despite its age.
"Luka?" she groaned, her voice rough with years of hardship.
"Yes, Ms. Quaker?" he replied.
Ms. Quaker had been his caretaker since the day she found him abandoned in an alley bin. Back then, she could see, but her sight had faded over time, leaving her reliant on his help. Luka had vowed to protect and care for her, just as she had done for him.
The old woman shifted, her expression unreadable. "Go make me some tea and sit down. I need to talk to you about something."
Luka's eyebrows rose. Ms. Quaker rarely asked for more than tea and a sparse breakfast—usually a piece of bread with butter. This was unusual.
Without a word, Luka went to the cupboard, pulling out a small pouch of cheap tea leaves. It wasn't the quality that topsiders enjoyed, but Ms. Quaker preferred it to beer or plain hot water.
Fetching water was an ordeal in itself. The slums had no pipes; water had to be collected from the polluted river, boiled to remove the worst of the bacteria, and then rationed. It was unpleasant, but survival left no room for preferences.
Within minutes, the tea was ready. Luka placed the porcelain cup on the scavenged coffee table, guiding Ms. Quaker's hands to its warmth. As he did, his gaze fell on an unexpected sight: a piece of paper and a circular object sitting on the table. His breath hitched.
The circular object was a Pokéball, its surface battered and scarred, the button partially broken. Luka froze, his hand lingering as he stared at the items.
Ms. Quaker let out a long, weary sigh. "I'm sorry," she murmured, bowing her head. "I'm sorry, Luka. I should have given this to you years ago. You deserved it... but I couldn't. I just couldn't. I'm so sorry."
The grouchy, hardened woman was crying, her frail body trembling with guilt. Luka's eyes darted to the note, its edges yellowed with age, and he picked it up.
"Our Son,
I'm sorry.
We didn't want to do this to you. If anyone finds this note, please take care of our son. We have nothing to give you but this Pokéball. We are selfish parents, after all.
You weren't meant to happen. I'm sorry. We realized we couldn't bear the financial burden of you, and your father and I have ambitions we can't pursue with you in our lives.
I'm sorry. When we become strong enough to look you in the eye, we'll come back for you. Please survive.
Christopher and Mary, your father and mother"
Laughter erupted from Luka as he stood up suddenly, the sound echoing sharply in the room. He continued to laugh as he tossed the piece of paper into the fire.
"I'm going out. I'll be back to make you some food later," he muttered through bouts of laughter, his hand clutching the Pokéball before slipping it into his pocket. Opening the bent door, he stepped into the slums.
His laughter persisted for a few minutes as he walked through the dim, narrow streets before fading into an eerie silence. Anger began to simmer beneath the surface, and he clicked his tongue in frustration.
There was a reason his "mother" had repeated how sorry she was. She had never intended for him to survive. It was pure luck—no, a miracle—that Ms. Quaker had found him and raised him as her own. His parents had abandoned him for their ambitions, leaving him to die in some filthy bin.
Ambition wasn't rare in the slums, but every resident here had a story, a tragedy outside of their control. Those who escaped the grip of poverty often lost themselves along the way.
Luka's eyes hardened, their sharpness reflecting a wisdom beyond his years. He looked down at the broken Pokéball in his hand, running his fingers over the cold metal and tracing the fractured button.
The Pokéball spoke volumes. His parents had wanted to become trainers, chasing dreams they valued more than their child. Seventeen years had passed since they wrote that letter.
It didn't matter.
If they wouldn't come to him, he would find them. He would crawl his way to the top, not out of ambition or a need to prove himself, but out of pure spite.
He would make them regret leaving him behind.
For now?
Let's go get a Pokémon.
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