The academy’s massive double doors loomed ahead, carved intricately with legendary Pokémon dancing across ancient forests and luminous seas. The designs weren’t merely decorative; they seemed to swirl in the morning light, as though telling silent, heroic stories. Isabelle paused beneath them, her heart fluttering like a trapped Cutiefly. Here she was, at Lumora’s Academy for Excellence—a place where destiny felt ready to pounce at any moment.

She clutched her bag strap as if it might anchor her to the earth. Calm down, Isabelle. It’s just a school, not Victory Road. Just a school with seven times as many students as home, and hallways that look like they belong in a luxury hotel. She tried to steady her breathing. Come on, Izzy. You chose this. Don’t freeze now.

No turning back. Straightening her shoulders, she stepped forward and joined the flood of students streaming inside. The instant she crossed the threshold, she entered a world humming with possibility. The buzz of chatter ricocheted through the foyer, mingling with the faint calls of Pokémon that some lucky students had permission to bring into class. Compared to Verdantia’s modest brick building surrounded by open fields, this academy felt like a labyrinth of sleek glass and polished metal. Everything gleamed so brightly it was hard not to squint.

Slender staircases spiraled upward, as though climbing into endless possibilities. Digital boards along the corridors flashed urgent announcements, upcoming club sign-ups, and class schedules. Neon-lit motivational quotes drifted across the walls like evolving constellations. One caught her eye, glowing in gentle pink script:

“Every Champion was once a beginner—except maybe Cynthia.”

Clever. Very inspiring. Now where’s homeroom?

Her stomach tightened. Back in Verdantia, everyone had known everyone. Teachers greeted students by name in the halls, and the entire school could fit into this lobby twice over. Here, anonymity pressed against her like a heavy hand. Just act like you know what you’re doing. Fake it till you make it. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind: “You’ve got this, Izzy.” She hoped he was right.

Isabelle fumbled out her schedule—old-fashioned printed paper instead of the fancy digital interface on her VireBand. Room 203B. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and took a deep breath before forging ahead.

The corridors were canyons of glass and chrome, pristine enough that her own reflection followed her in the mirrored surfaces, a slightly pale girl with anxious eyes. She wove through the stream of bodies, catching snatches of conversation:

“—Kai Zephyr’s last battle was unreal! His Skarmory—”

“—Neon Plaza tonight? New arcade games—”

“—Mr. Kotomine assigning homework on day one? Seriously?”

No one addressed her. No one noticed her slight stumbles. She was invisible, which felt both relieving and disheartening. Let’s see, 203B. Second floor, probably. The signs were sleek and minimalistic, and she swore the halls repeated themselves like a looping dream. After circling one identical corridor twice, her frustration mounted. Her grip tightened on her bag strap, knuckles whitening. Keep it together, Isabelle. You’re not lost; you’re just… exploring.

At last, she spotted a cluster of students heading up a staircase. Their easy banter suggested they knew where they were going. Isabelle followed at a slight distance, relieved when a sign at the landing read: Second Floor—203-210.

Success. A small surge of pride warmed her chest. Not bad, Moreau. One step at a time.

Room 203B’s door stood open, and as Isabelle entered, her heart lurched. The room was already full of students. Conversations drifted to a halt when she stepped inside, every gaze swinging toward her as if guided by an invisible pivot. She froze, feeling the hush spread through her limbs.

A woman with sharp glasses and a clipboard—obviously the teacher—raised an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

Isabelle cleared her throat. “Uh, Isabelle. Isabelle Moreau. I’m… new.” Brilliant introduction, Izzy. Nailed it. Her voice wobbled slightly, and she forced a smile.

The teacher’s expression softened. “Welcome, Isabelle. I’m Ms. Chambers. Take a seat; we’re about to begin.”

Spotting an empty chair near the back, Isabelle slipped into it, cheeks hot. She dared not look up, certain that everyone still watched her. But when she finally braved a glance, most had already returned to their conversations, curiosity sated. They probably won’t even remember me tomorrow. Which might be a blessing.

Ms. Chambers moved to the front, tapping her clipboard lightly against the desk. She had a poised air of authority: a middle-aged woman with keen eyes that suggested nothing got past her. “All right, class. Settle down. I’ll be your homeroom and biology teacher this semester. Since we’ll spend a lot of time together, let’s start by introducing ourselves: name, where you’re from, and something about you. Who’s brave enough to go first?”

A boy in the front row shot up his hand as if spring-loaded. He stood with a theatrical flourish—clean-cut hair, perfectly pressed uniform, and a confident smirk. “Stefano Marino,” he declared, voice resonant. “From Silverfield Village—you might have heard of it. Farming town turned rising star, just like me. I’m here to crush every class, dominate the League Circuit, and become the next Champion.”

A ripple of chuckles followed. Stefano crossed his arms, soaking in the attention. Ms. Chambers nodded, unfazed. “Ambitious. Thank you, Stefano.”

Another hand rose, this time more hesitantly. A boy in an oversized sweater and glasses fidgeted before speaking. “I’m Milo. I, um, really like stats—battle stats mostly. I track them for fun and want to be a Pokémon strategist someday.” He sank down quickly, cheeks pink, as if relieved to have survived the spotlight.

A girl with bright purple streaks in her hair leaned back casually, crossing one ankle over her knee. “Clara, from Newmist City,” she said, voice low and cool. “I’m aiming to join the League next year with a Ghost-type team. No, I’m not scared of them, and yes, I think they’re cooler than any other type.” She smirked, daring anyone to challenge her.

Next to her, a boy who looked utterly uncomfortable cleared his throat. “Elliot,” he said flatly. “I don’t like public speaking. That’s… that’s it.” The class laughed, and Ms. Chambers smiled indulgently. Isabelle couldn’t help a tiny grin. I feel you, Elliot.

Near the back, a girl stood up with an easy grace. Her wavy light brown hair caught the overhead lights, and her hazel eyes gleamed with friendly confidence. “Amélie Lévesque,” she said brightly. “My family moved from Coral Bay two years ago. We run a boutique for Pokémon accessories—PokéBall cases, ribbons, you name it. If anyone needs something special for their partner, I’m your girl.” Her voice rang clear, warm as a sunbeam. Isabelle felt a pang of envy. She looks so at home, like she’s been here forever. Amélie’s smile reached her eyes, genuine and open, as if welcoming everyone to be her friend.

Ms. Chambers nodded, then glanced at Isabelle. “Isabelle Moreau, you’re next.”

Time slowed. Isabelle’s heart thumped as she stood, her knees a bit wobbly. Keep it simple, Izzy. “I’m Isabelle Moreau,” she said softly. “I just moved here from Verdantia.” She swallowed. The silence stretched, so she added, “I like reading, and I have an Azurill.” Her voice felt too small in this big room.

Ms. Chambers offered a gentle smile. “Welcome to Lumora, Isabelle.”

Isabelle sat down, heat crawling up her neck. Great. The awkward bookworm with an Azurill. Might as well have worn a sign. She risked a glance at Amélie, who gave her a tiny nod and encouraging smile. Isabelle’s chest loosened. Okay, maybe sunshine personified isn’t so bad.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The rest of the introductions blurred together—various backgrounds, ambitions, and personalities weaving a tapestry of possibilities. Stefano’s confidence hovered over the room like a lingering spotlight, Clara’s edgy demeanor stood in contrast, Milo’s quiet intellect hummed in the background, Elliot’s discomfort mirrored Isabelle’s own, and Amélie’s warmth brightened everything around her. Isabelle took careful notes: not just on names and hometowns, but on subtle gestures—Stefano’s self-assured lean, Clara’s amused smirk, Milo’s downcast gaze, Amélie’s poised posture. So many pieces of a puzzle I don’t yet know how to solve.

Ms. Chambers clapped her hands lightly. “Excellent introductions. I look forward to seeing what each of you brings to this class. Now, let’s talk about the syllabus.” She launched into an overview of the semester—assignments, field trips, lab activities—while Isabelle dutifully scribbled notes. The drone of the teacher’s voice steadied Isabelle’s nerves. Learning was familiar ground. Facts, figures, instructions—these she could handle. No one’s watching me now, she reminded herself. I can survive this.

----------------------------------------

When the lunch bell rang, Isabelle followed the current of students pouring out into the hallways. Her stomach knotted at the thought of the cafeteria. At Verdantia, she’d always known exactly where to sit. Here, she was a Magikarp flopping through unknown waters. Just find a quiet corner. You don’t need a social miracle on day one.

The cafeteria doors swung open, and Isabelle was immediately swallowed by a tide of noise and chaos. The room was massive—high ceilings with sleek beams crisscrossing overhead, animated banners on the walls blaring motivational slogans like “Dream Big with Dragon Types!” and “Bug Pokémon: Small but Mighty!” Hundreds of students milled about, chatting, laughing, and weaving through the maze of tables and food lines. The sheer energy of it all felt overwhelming, like being dropped into a stadium mid-game.

Isabelle lingered by the door, clutching her lunchbox like a lifeline. Her father’s cheery goodbye echoed faintly in her head: “You’ve got this, Izzy.” Easier said than done. Okay, step one: find a table. Step two: eat quickly and quietly. Step three: don’t draw attention. How hard can it be?

She took a tentative step forward, her eyes scanning the room. The food counters were surrounded by slow-moving lines of students chatting as they waited. The smell of melted cheese and roasted vegetables wafted through the air, mingling with something vaguely metallic from the kitchen. Whatever was in those trays, Isabelle wasn’t curious enough to find out. Émile’s carefully packed lunch felt like a small miracle now. No standing in line, no mystery stew. One win for Team Moreau.

Groups of students huddled around the tables, staking their claims in clusters that looked impossible to break into. At one, a boy in a green jacket gestured wildly, recounting some story that had his friends in stitches.

“And then I told him—‘You can’t evolve your Charjabug without a power station!’ And guess what? He’d been trying to force it with Thunder Stones for weeks!”

His friend, a girl with a ponytail and a skeptical expression, snorted. “You’re kidding. How do people even survive with that little common sense?”

Nearby, a trio of girls leaned over their trays, voices hushed but conspiratorial.

“Did you see Beatrice’s VireBand? She’s got one of those limited-edition Fairy-Type themes!”

“Ugh, of course she does. Her parents probably ordered it custom.”

“She’s probably too scared to even use it. Remember when she freaked out over that Growlithe in gym class?”

Isabelle sighed internally, her shoulders tensing as she wove through the tables. Every group seemed to have its place, its rhythm. Everyone belonged somewhere—except her. Verdantia wasn’t exactly a social wonderland, but at least I knew who to sit with. Here? I’m a Magikarp in a tank full of Sharpedo.

Her sneakers squeaked softly on the polished floor as she kept moving, trying to look like she had a destination in mind. She passed a group of older students gathered around a VireBand projecting a holographic battle replay.

“Check out that Hydreigon!” one boy said, pointing at the flickering image. “It dodged three Ice Beams in a row. Three!”

His friend shook his head, his mouth full of sandwich. “Yeah, but you can tell it’s all speed EV training. Bet it’d go down in one hit if someone timed a Focus Blast right.”

She drifted past another table where a pair of students were comparing notes on their mock battle strategies.

“…You really need something to counter Steel-types. Maybe a Ground move?”

“My Hitmonlee can take care of it! Brick Break, bam. Done.”

The knot in Isabelle’s stomach tightened. Everyone seemed so confident—so at ease in this noisy chaos. She felt like an intruder in a world that had already moved on without her. Keep walking, Izzy. Look busy. Act like you know what you’re doing, and maybe no one will notice you don’t.

Finally, she spotted salvation: a small table near the back corner, blissfully unoccupied. It wasn’t the most glamorous spot—half-hidden behind a vending machine with a view of the trash bins—but it was quiet, and it was hers. Isabelle darted over and plopped down into the chair before anyone else could claim it. She let out a shaky breath, the noise of the cafeteria still a dull roar in her ears but slightly less suffocating here.

She set her lunchbox on the table, flipping the lid open to reveal Émile’s careful packing: a neatly wrapped sandwich, a container of sliced berries, and a thermos of tea. Simple, familiar, comforting. Isabelle bit into a slice of Oran Berry, savoring its tangy sweetness. Home in a box, she thought, the tiniest bit of tension easing from her shoulders.

Pulling up her sleeve, Isabelle tapped the VireBand strapped to her wrist. It lit up with a soft hum, its sleek interface glowing to life. The main menu greeted her: Trainer Profile, Goals Tracker, Customization. She swiped to the Trainer Profile, where her derpy Magikarp icon flopped happily. The empty field for Trainer ID below it glared back at her, a constant reminder of everything she hadn’t done yet.

To officially register as a Trainer, Isabelle would have to visit the League HQ and get a Trainer ID. Without it, her VireBand was more of a fancy toy than a fully functional tool. Most of the advanced features—like battle analytics and Pokémon care tracking—were locked behind that ID. So basically, I’m a guest user in my own life. Fantastic.

She tapped the Goals Tracker tab next. The entry she’d typed the night before blinked up at her: “Master Bubble Beam without falling over.” Isabelle smirked, remembering Azzy’s indignant squeak when she wrote it. One day, Missy. One day. Her thumb hovered over the “Add Goal” button, but she hesitated. What am I supposed to put? “Make it through lunch without embarrassing myself”?

The customization options weren’t much better. Without a Trainer ID, most of the tabs were just grayed-out placeholders: badge slots, battle stats, and even a “Title” field where Trainers could assign themselves grandiose nicknames like “The Dragon Slayer” or “Misty’s Nemesis.” Isabelle rolled her eyes and typed in “Professional Flopper” for fun. The Magikarp icon flopped on the screen, as if approving her choice.

Isabelle chuckled softly, the sound almost drowned out by the cafeteria noise. Perfect. If nothing else, I’ll be memorable for my complete lack of ambition. She leaned back in her chair, letting her thumb idly swipe across the Explore tab. A detailed map of Lumora City flickered to life, its icons marking key points of interest: the League HQ, the Glow Dome, PokéCenters, and various shops in the Neon District. Most of the icons were grayed out, inaccessible until registration.

She tapped the League HQ marker, and a description popped up: “The heart of Virelia’s League Circuit! Register as a Trainer, compete in battles, and track your journey to become Champion!” Isabelle snorted. No pressure, huh? Just the entire weight of my potential future staring me down. Cool, cool.

As she pondered, movement caught her eye. Someone navigated through the crowded tables with surprising grace, tray balanced effortlessly. Isabelle recognized the wavy light brown hair and hazel eyes. Amélie, from class. The girl’s uniform looked as though it had been tailored just for her, and her VireBand’s display glinted where it caught the overhead lights. She seemed to be scanning the room, searching for something—or someone.

Then Amélie’s gaze settled on Isabelle’s corner, and her smile widened as if lighting up that entire shadowy spot. She angled her path toward the vending machine and Isabelle’s lonely table.

Isabelle’s stomach flipped. Oh no. She’s coming over. Stay cool, Izzy. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. She could practically feel the cafeteria receding into background noise. Don’t say something stupid, don’t look panicked. Just… breathe.

Still, what did Amélie want? Maybe she was just being friendly, or maybe she wanted to find out more about the “awkward bookworm with an Azurill.” Isabelle swallowed hard. The noise of the cafeteria faded, as if the spotlight had narrowed onto them.

Isabelle’s stomach flipped. Oh fuck. Incoming. Shit. Act normal. Whatever that means.