PokéLove

And…there. Done. Finally fixed this last one.

I turn off the soldering iron, homemade fume hood, and DC power supply as I wind down, relaxing into the back of my chair. I toss the final Pokédex into the milkcrate labeled, 'Repaired'. The stacks of dex's compares nicely to the empty crate with the Broken sign on it.

Ugh…Right. Still have to bring it to him. I mean, I guess he is saving money by having me repair the dex's rather than send them to an officially licensed repair guy. It's cost him, like, six times what I charge him.

I pick up the crate with a huff, leaving behind the barren desk to face the rest of my heavily decorated room. The Champion Cynthia's posters and memorabilia covering almost every surface in my rooms.

…I can have a person I like, okay? Some of them are even signed.

I leave my room, and consequently the apartment I share with my mom, making sure to lock the door on the way out. Boarding the elevator, I pull out my phone, checking for any messages.

None. Okay. Nothing unusual.

*Ding* I get off and leave the slightly-high-end apartment complex, walking down the street towards the Pokémon Research Lab. Professor Sycamore's probably going to overpay again, and we'll have the same conversation we always do.

Then, somehow, we'll end up at the topic of me going on a Pokémon journey, then I'll have to remind him it isn't my birthday yet, and yadda yadda yadda. We go through the same song and dance every single time.

It's almost midday, so traffic in the streets is a little much, but, well, it's manageable. Nothing too difficult after years of training, I might add. Also, luckily, I don't live too far from the lab anyway. It's only a five-minute walk.

I pull out my ID badge, unlocking the side door to the lab. However, before I can greet Professor Sycamore, I have to pause, blending myself into the background at the sight before me.

"He just doesn't listen to me! He goes off on his own and refuses to follows my orders in battle!" A smirk crosses my lips as Froakie's nth trainer of the year comes to return him back. For some reason, I know that this living irritant will somehow find an equally hard-headed trainer someday. Just a hunch, almost déjà vu… Hmm.

"Hah… I understand. If you follow my assistant, Sophie, we can find another pokémon for you." He gestures to Sophie, waiting patiently by the entrance. The trainer follows her, excited at either leaving Froakie behind or getting a new pokémon… Perhaps a combination of both?

I shift the crate under one arm, walking up behind Sycamore, holding my hand out expectantly. The professor sighs before pulling out his wallet and counting the appropriate bills. "You could at least have a little faith that one of them will be good for him." He admonishes me while handing me the payout of our bet.

What a hypocrite.

"Oh. I know Froakie will find someone to train him someday. Just not that guy." I walk up to the counter with the grumpy frog in question, placing the fixed Pokédexes next to him. I shoot him a glare. "If you break these, you're going to learn how to make Vranske žabe."

Instead of cowering, the two just look confused at my threat. "What's that?" Professor Sycamore voices the question both of them have.

"It's a dish involving frog meat from…" Huh. My eyebrows furrow in confusion. "I don't remember where. That's weird."

Professor Sycamore chuckles. "Your memory had to find its limit somewhere. It seems to be cuisine." An anger builds within me, but I easily smother it down.

"It was only one time," I spit out.

"It was a meatloaf! It's not that hard!"

I turn crossing my arms. "Anyway, are you going to anger your accountant by overpaying me for my job…again?"

It's Sycamore's turn to be put under fire as he puts up his hands defensively. "Of course not! I've learned from my mistake…s."

"Mmhmm." With that confidence, I make my leave for deeper within the laboratory. I pass by the various rooms simulating environments for the differing pokémon kept here. I pause on the Fennekin grooming herself. Also, noting two pokémon being absent from their allotted spaces.

Winding through the labyrinth of the lab, I find the single steel door with various signs on it like, 'High Voltage', and 'Do Not Enter'. Not only do I have to open this door with my card, but also a physical key to get inside.

I gaze at the floor, specifically, the ventilation grate sitting on the floor, and gradually peel my eyes away to look at the Ferroseed relaxing under the heat lamp I shoved in the corner. It's eyes slowly look above me, towards the doorframe.

I pull the door back with my foot, slamming it in the process. The force from the steel door slamming shut, knocks my would-be attacker down from her hiding place; however, the falling Dratini catches herself mid-fall, wrapping herself around my neck like an expensive scarf.

"Robin," I admonish the human-sized dragon. Luckily, she's really light; otherwise, I'd be choking. "You know it's dangerous to be in here." Then I look to the Ferroseed lulling herself to sleep. "And, you! You're supposed to stop her from doing this." The Ferroseed, Hazel, doesn't deign a reply.

"Tini!" Robin titters. I sigh, admitting defeat as I place the dragon next to the steel and grass pokémon, ensuring they both get warmth.

The server room, locked behind yet another series of locks, doesn't look to be in need of any repairs today. The impromptu workshop I setup next to it for my personal projects looks fairly untouched.

The laptop, whose entire existence is hyper-focused for a single program, reports no errors in the servers and no irregularities coming and leaving the network. Grabbing the tv remote, I turn it onto the news, making sure to lower the volume for the sleeping pokémon.

"Legislators are once again revising the Trainer Age Law, seeking to turn the legal age for Trainer's Licenses from 18 back to 10." Ugh, I hope they don't revise my saving grace. I still have…three months anyways. Enough time to finish this project, at least.

Speaking of…I grab the hydraulics' remote and lower my current project down. A set of eight alloyed limbs, stretching out across the entire workshop. A masterpiece of engineering, might I say. Familiarity preens itself from deep in the recesses of my mind, but nothing on the internet says I'm plagiarizing any patents.

The metal alloy that shields the outside allows the limbs to withstand blunt damage, and a crystal slurry underneath spreads the impact through the entire limb. The same slurry can be magnetized to direct electrical current, making the entire setup immune to high voltages and currents, simultaneously acting as capacitors, meaning discharge.

The energy dispersal, along with a cryogenic solution, allows for the limbs to withstand a high temperature. Not…Planck's Temperature, whatever that is, but still pretty hot.

"Still wish I could've finished the nanobot project." That would've allowed the arms to regenerate themselves and integrate technology. Theoretically, though more like a hypothesis, nanobots would allow me to control them from a distance.

They can still connect and interface with most technologies, just not assimilation. I had eight neural networks built with digital, analog, and quantum systems to operate the limbs, transforming brain commands into ones and zeroes, and vice-versa. Then, I built another four, for security.

I had just finished the neural interfacing chip, which would have to plug itself into my spine—a dangerous prospect. Of course, I have a sinking feeling about using it until it's fully protected. I don't want any commands to instead control me.

Maybe, I can work on my fifty-something other unfinished projects once I go on my journey. I'd be safe while doing it, of course.