"What do you mean you don’t want to wear a dress? You love dresses," Dr. Fuji had said three mornings ago, his voice gentle but brooking no argument as he'd laid out the powder-blue monstrosity. The words hung between us like a wall, trapping the truth behind teeth that didn't feel like mine. How could I explain that his daughter's preferences hadn't transferred along with her DNA?

Now, I stood before a mirror, tugging uselessly at another one of Dr. Fuji's stupid doll dresses. I glanced up at the mirror, seeing a deep frown etched on the girl’s face. Her mint-green hair caught light at impossible angles and her dark green eyes held a wariness that didn't belong on a child's face. Five days in this new world, and I still couldn't reconcile the image before me with my sense of self.

I caught Ditto watching me from its perch on the dresser, its amorphous form somehow managing to convey both attention and amusement. "You try wearing this," I muttered, tugging at the dress's hem for the hundredth time. The words had barely left my mouth when Ditto's body rippled with interest. It oozed down from the dresser like spilled honey, its mass pooling briefly on the floor before surging upward.

The transformation caught me off-guard - pink substance flowing, reshaping, solidifying into... into...

"Oh," I breathed, turning to face my duplicate. Ditto's version of me stood with perfect posture, making my own awkward stance feel even more obvious. Every detail was uncomfortably accurate, from the mint-green hair color to the power-blue dress.

"You know," I said, glancing between us, "If we're going to be stuck here, you could at least transform into something more practical. Even the girls in these kid's cartoons Dr. Fuji left for us are wearing pants!”

The copied version of me tilted its head in confusion.

"No, look," I said, turning to point at the ancient TV where a trainer in sensible hiking gear was scaling a mountain. "See? Pants. The bottom half." I gestured emphatically at the cartoon character's legs, then at my own dress-confined ones. "You know, for walking? Adventure? Not feeling like a dress-up doll?"

Ditto-me tilted its head, brow furrowing in concentration. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the transformation began - but something was wrong. The top half remained a perfect copy of me, but below the waist, the dress melted away into flat, two-dimensional cartoon legs, complete with bold outlines and cel-shaded pants.

"That's not quite what I..." I started, but the words died in my throat as Ditto tried to take a step. The cartoonish legs, utterly unsuited for three-dimensional movement, immediately gave out. My doppelganger collapsed in a heap, the realistic upper half merging with the animated lower half into a puddle of confused purple goo.

A laugh escaped me as I watched the purple mass reform into its natural purple blob shape with a (~_~) face, feeling an unexpected wave of affection for my shapeshifting companion.

I couldn't help but marvel at the difference between its current actions and just three days ago.

Three days ago, Dr. Fuji gave Ditto clear instructions: "Protect my daughter."

Back then, it had been all business - maintaining a careful distance, transforming only when commanded, watching me from corners with an unreadable expression. But yesterday, I'd caught it mimicking my movements in the mirror when it thought I wasn't looking, practicing expressions with an almost childlike curiosity before morphing back to neutrality the moment our eyes met. And now here it was, sprawled dramatically on my floor after its enthusiastically misguided attempt at cartoon fashion.

I shook my head with a smile underneath as I focused on my only other source of entertainment.

I flopped onto the worn couch, its familiar softness reminding me of lazy weekend afternoons from another life.

"Let's see…” I muttered, clicking through channels. The TV itself was ancient by my standards–all curved screen and rabbit-ear antenna–but it worked well enough to pick up local broadcasts. A few clicks through static-filled channels finally landed on what looked like a local news broadcast. The production value wasn't much better than the static - the anchor's desk looked like it was made of painted plywood, and the graphics had that distinctly late-90s PowerPoint feel.

"...and in downtown Celadon, business owners are raising concerns about increasing Grimer populations in the sewage system," the anchor was saying, her heavily hairsprayed style completing the retro aesthetic. "Our field reporter is live at the scene."

Each channel brought another reminder that this wasn't just a world with Pokemon - it was a world built around them, shaped by their presence in ways both mundane and extraordinary. My thumb froze on the remote as familiar battle stadium architecture filled the screen. Two trainers faced each other across a regulation field, their Pokemon launching attacks that the cameras struggled to track.

The battle itself was both familiar and jarringly different from what I remembered. No health bars floated above the Pokemon's heads, no convenient status indicators blinked warnings. Instead, a Sandslash and Poliwrath clashed in a blur of motion that the dated camera technology struggled to capture, leaving ghostly afterimages on the curved screen.

The commentators' excited chatter filled our small apartment: "...and Wright’s Sandslash shows remarkable agility, folks! But wait- oh! Poliwrath's Water Gun catches it mid-roll!"

I leaned forward, unconsciously mimicking the tensed posture I'd held during countless gaming sessions. But this wasn't a matter of pressing the right buttons at the right time. The Sandslash's trainer shouted something lost in the crowd's roar, and her Pokemon responded with a desperate burrow into the arena floor - a move that would have taken two turns in the games but happened here in one fluid motion.

"Did you ever imagine battles would be like this?" I asked Ditto, who had inched closer to the screen, its amorphous form rippling with each impact shown. "No turn-based combat, no convenient pauses to think through strategy. Just…”

I paused as Ditto tilted its head in confusion.

A wry smile formed on my lips as I smacked my head. “Of course, this would be the normal here.”

I refocused my attention on the TV.

The Poliwrath's trainer, a weathered man who looked nothing like the pixel-perfect gym leaders I remembered, was already calling out his next command. His Pokemon's Water Gun carved channels in the arena floor, forcing the Sandslash to surface or drown. The camera zoomed in on the ground type's emergence, catching the moment its claws broke through the earth at an unexpected angle, spraying sand into its opponent's eyes.

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Ditto made a sound that might have been appreciation, transforming briefly into a miniature version of the Sandslash before melting back to its natural state, as if testing how that movement would feel.

The broadcast cut to what passed for a post-match analysis - two men wedged behind a desk overlooking the battlefield wearing huge headsets and speaking into a massive black speaker like an old sports commentary broadcast.

I found myself nodding along to their commentary, memories of countless battle showdown simulators suddenly cast in a new light.

I'd never been a sports person in my old life - couldn't have cared less about football stats or basketball plays. But this was different. This was Pokemon battling - real Pokemon battling, not the simplified turn-based system I'd known from games.

My legs started swinging, the toes of my borrowed feet barely scraping the ground, heels drumming a restless beat against the couch base. The worn fabric that had felt so comfortably familiar minutes ago now pressed awkwardly against the backs of my knees, a constant reminder that this body was sized all wrong for casual lounging.

I tried tucking my legs under me instead, but that just made the couch feel deeper, like sitting in an oversized dollhouse. Even as my eyes stayed locked on the battle channel, this borrowed body hummed with a restless energy I'd never known in my previous life.

With a sigh, I slid off the couch, leaving the 2 men’s battle analysis playing in the background. The feeling was familiar by now - this wild, electric restlessness that seemed to buzz through Amber's limbs.

I got on my back and started to do sit-ups. Ditto, familiar with this particular ritual by now, flowed across the carpet to assume a beside me.

"One... two..." I counted out loud. Ditto bobbed up and down, as if it were copying my movements.

I briefly paused my set to laugh. Did Ditto even have muscle to train?

I quickly continued, attempting to exhaust all my tireless energy "Seventeen... eighteen..."

25 sit-ups. 10 push-ups. 25 squats. And a 0 km run. My body hummed with energy even after completing more exercise than I'd managed in any given week of my previous life.

I caught my reflection on the black TV screen during a transition and had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here I was, wearing a frilly dress that belonged in a Victorian dollhouse, performing calisthenics.

After 1 round to failure, I went again. And again. Until I had tapped out at 100 sit-ups. 20 push-ups. 100 squats. And a 0 km run. Collapsed to the ground. Everywhere felt sore, especially my jelly-like arms. I still had a long way to go to achieve baldness.

As I lay spread-eagled on the floor, I turned my head to look at Ditto, who had collapsed beside me with a slightly woozy (~.~), though its lack of actual exhaustion somehow made the gesture more endearing.

Three days. Three days of watching battles I couldn't participate in, learning about a world I couldn't explore, sitting in an apartment that felt more like a gilded cage with each passing hour. If it were me in my past life, that would’ve been the perfect life.

I rolled onto my side and supported my head with my arm. I watched Ditto appear to doze off. I guess that really did tire it out.

A plan that had been forming in my mind all morning suddenly crystallized.

"Hey Ditto," I said, pushing myself up on one elbow despite my protesting muscles, "can you keep a secret?"

Ditto straightened its form, instantly recovering from its “fatigue,” and tilted its head.

\[^.^]/

A few days later, I watched from behind a curtain as Dr. Fuji hurried down the street, his white lab coat catching the morning light like a beacon. Five minutes crept by as I counted his steps, then another five to be absolutely certain. Only then did I dare to move.

The ancient backpack - a relic of Amber's past life - sat awkwardly on my shoulders, its straps adjusted as tight as they would go. Inside, a handful of Pokemon-themed fruit snacks, a sandwich, a water bottle, and a spare set of keys rattled with each step. Not exactly survival gear, but it would have to do. The shiny black patent leather shoes were already starting to pinch.

"Wait," I murmured to Ditto, holding out its Pokeball. "I don't even know the rules about Pokemon in the city. Better stay in the ball until we're clear, okay?" It dissolved into red light without protest, though I could have sworn it rolled its eyes first. For all I knew, there could be restrictions about unleashed Pokemon, or licenses needed, or who knows what else.

The apartment door seemed impossibly loud as I eased it open, each creak a thunderous betrayal of my escape attempt. Down four flights of stairs on tiptoes, my shoes barely touching each step. At the building's entrance, I paused, heart thundering against my ribs like a trapped Pidgey.

I reached up on my tiptoes and opened the door to my real first steps into Celadon City.

The morning streets made my earlier caution feel absurd. Pokemon were everywhere, woven into the fabric of city life as naturally as pigeons in my old world – a Meowth sprawled across a windowsill like a furry king surveying its domain, Pidgey squabbling over something shiny in the gutters, even a Growlithe padding importantly beside a police officer, its badge-shaped collar catching the sun.

My fingers relaxed around Ditto's minimized ball, feeling sheepish. Red light flashed as I released it, and Ditto materialized with what I swore was an expression of mild amusement. Without prompting, it flowed up my arm and settled across my shoulders like a living scarf, its weight oddly comforting against my neck.

The city sprawled before me, shattering any illusion that my gaming memories could have prepared me for this. Where my mind expected neat gridlines of pixels and predictable paths, Real Celadon flowed with organic chaos. Streets twisted between buildings that defied the simple up-down geography of the games, their shadows painting patterns that no sprite artist could have conceived. Each intersection promised another decision that couldn't be solved with a D-pad, another reminder that I wasn't just viewing this world through a screen anymore.

A real Pokemon city sprawled before me. Where my mind expected neat gridlines of pixels and predictable paths, Real Celadon flowed with organic chaos. Streets twisted between buildings that defied the simple up-down geography of the games, their shadows painting patterns that no sprite artist could have conceived.

The morning traffic moved with its own peculiar rhythm. Bicycles dominated the streets, weaving between the occasional car that crawled along like a rare and cautious beast. A pair of Machoke guided a floating platform of construction materials through the air with the casual confidence of everyday laborers, while a Pidgey postal service worker soared overhead, mailbag strapped securely to its chest. The sidewalks bustled with commuters, many with partner Pokemon trotting beside them or perched on shoulders - though none quite as blobby as my own 'scarf.'

I made my way to what looked like a transit stop - a narrow concrete building standing alone on its small plot, supported by thick columns that lifted the train tracks overhead. Steep metal stairs zigzagged up one side, their railings worn smooth from countless hands.

Inside, a row of ticket booths stretched along one wall. All but one were staffed by Pokemon - mostly Machop, their stubby fingers surprisingly deft at handling coins, though one booth had a Meowth whose whiskers twitched at every clink of currency.

But what caught my attention was the city map mounted between the booths and turnstiles. The bottom half was just low enough for me to study properly.

I traced routes with a finger, trying to ignore the small, but steady stream of commuters flowing around me. Unlike the neat grid of the games, real Celadon sprawled in every direction, districts bleeding into each other in normal, city-like ways.

I found 2 of the major landmarks of Celadon fairly easily.

The Gym was clearly marked and not that far from here. The Game Corner on the other hand looked to be at least 20 blocks away.

I had to step back and squint my eyes to find the Department Store and Game Corner somewhere further north.

I glanced back at the toll booths and sighed–should have thought about the money problem as well. I definitely needed money to get there.

I closely examined the route I had to take before marching out of the building to start my first Pokemon adventure. Perhaps I’d earn my first gym badge out of it.

Onwards to the Celadon Gym!