Dramatic Melody
mud?
There’s some mild foul language so I’m rating this PG.
Hi. I’m Iris.
I work in the Ever Grande Pokémon Center for 12 hours a day, six days a week.
I serve hundreds of trainers each day, thousands each week.
Sure, they’re all different and unique and whatever, but I can group all of them into four categories.
You want to hear about them?
Category One is the most common trainer. And they also happen to be the most annoying.
Picture this: Category One goes in the Center with their Wailord-sized egos right behind them. They make sure the eleven steps they take from the entrance to the counter are as loud and attention-grabbing as humanly possible. When they find themselves facing me, they give me this grin that seems to be screaming, “Punch me in the face!”
Instead, I say my line: “Welcome to the Pokémon Center. Would you like me to heal your Pokémon?”
Category One raises their eyebrow, or looks me up and down with a smirk, or does whatever other stupid mannerism to assert their arrogance before giving me their Poké Balls.
Once I deposit their Poké Balls in the healing station, things turn from bad to worse.
They usually begin their monologues with, “You better make sure my Pokémon X is in good shape. Pokémon X is the strongest Species-Of-Pokémon-X in all of Hoenn.”
I nod and smile, so that my months of nurse training don’t go to waste.
They then show me whatever proof they have of their accomplishments—eight badges, five ribbons, a Key Stone, you name it—while continuing their monologue on how great they are and how strong their Pokémon are and how the Elite Four don’t know what’s coming when they challenge them.
I keep nodding and smiling, wondering why the healing station never worked fast enough when I served Category Ones.
The worst ones are those who point out how “superior” their trainerhood is from my nursehood. They’d say something like, “I bet you feel lucky you’re hearing all these awesome stories about my journey since you can’t go on your own,” or maybe, “I’d ask you about your day, but I’m sure it’ll be boring.”
It took a lot of practice, but I also nod and smile through those pieces of—let’s say they’re “advanced” Category Ones.
When I finally withdraw their Poké Balls from the healing station and return it to them, Category One would act like a Fan Club Chairman and blurt out every adjective they knew to praise their Pokémon. One of the very few perks of dealing with so many Category Ones each day is how my vocabulary has expanded because of them—I now know every word synonymous with strong, awesome, and unique.
And they’ll always end their monologue by claiming that they’re gonna be the “greatest Champion Hoenn’s ever seen.” Yeah, those five exact words used over and over and over again. Sure, there could be some “greatest Champion in the world” types or even the more ambitious “greatest Champion to ever exist” kind of egos, but Hoenn will have an endless supply of greatest Champions to see according to all these Category Ones.
And then I say, “We hope to see you again!” And because they always have to get the last word in, Category One replies with, “You won’t!”
Category Two is a whole other thing, but it’s just as bad.
I have this friend, Erin, who works in the Pokémon Center in Rustboro City. Whenever we vent to each other about our jobs, she would always tell me how she was sick of acting like a mentor to all the newbie trainers she served. These amateurs were usually those who just got their first Pokémon from Professor Birch and were about to take on their first gym battle against Roxanne.
“I swear, Iris, every time I’ve had to lecture these brats about which types are strong and weak against Rock-types, I ask myself, ‘How did they get this far without knowing their type matchups?’” she would tell me.
Now imagine something like that, but with trainers that have eight badges and negative eight self-confidence.
Category Two enters the Pokémon Center already looking lost even if the path between the entrance and the healing station is a straight line. They act as if they’re a Magikarp in a sea of Carvanha, even if the fact that they’re here means they’ve already evolved into a Gyarados.
“Welcome to the Pokémon Center. Would you like me to heal your Pokémon?” I say, and they take one more minute to compose themself before giving me their Poké Balls.
Once I deposit their Poké Balls in the healing station, things also turn from bad to worse.
“I can’t do it,” they would start. Sometimes they go straight to the point: “I’m a huge loser.”
And then the floodgates open, where Category Two would tell me how flawed they are as a trainer, or how they feel like everything they’ve done up to this point was a fluke, or how they felt like an embarrassment to their families and friends. All those things are probably true, but I’d get into trouble if I said that to their faces.
A professor in nursing school always said, “Pokémon aren’t the only ones nurses can heal.” At least the Pokémon don’t beg you for an ego boost.
It’s always one of three sentences that cheer them up: “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t good enough,” “The Pokémon League’s had a lot of trainers, but they’ve never had you,” and one I got from Erin, “Failing is better than not trying at all.”
And then they’d look at me like I’m Arceus or something while I hand them back their Poké Balls. That doesn’t look as good as it sounds, really. It becomes this whole pattern of Category Two putting themself down and expecting me to lift them up again.
“Oh, but my Pokémon don’t deserve a bad trainer like me,” they’d say. And I’d have to reply with, “They wouldn’t stick with you throughout your whole journey if they didn’t think you were a good trainer.”
“Oh, but I only got here by pure luck,” they’d add. And that’d be my cue to say, “Luck wouldn’t be enough to bring you here if you didn’t have skill.”
“Oh, but I’m not good enough to be Champion,” they’d say, and that one’s a real favorite among Category Twos. My reply’s a real favorite, too: “You’ve been good enough to get all the way here, so what’s stopping you from being good enough for the League?”
And that drags on and on until they’ve run out of self-deprecating things to say. I’m not sure if they’re worse than Category Ones, but Category Twos are their own kind of annoying.
After all that, I say, “We hope to see you again!” And Category Two would give me this dopey look that takes all my restraint not to mock them about it.
Category Three can sometimes be the best kinds of trainers I get for the day, but they would always be the dullest.
Category Three goes in, marches right to the counter, and hands me their Poké Balls even before I finish my “Welcome to the Pokémon Center” line.
They then exert all the effort they can to look like they don’t give a shit about anything that’s happening. In my first few days of dealing with Category Threes I tried to make some small-talk with them, but as the months went by I realized that I was fighting a losing battle. So as soon as I know I’m dealing with a Category Three, I don’t say anything beyond my script.
And in some ways, I appreciate the emptiness Category Three brings. At least I’m not dealing with a stuck-up Category One or a woe-is-me Category Two.
But damn can it get awkward. They’re just there, looking at me—or probably just the general direction where I’m standing—and seeing their blank stares is real uncomfortable. If the healing machine takes long when I’m serving Category Ones, it feels like the healing machine needs an eternity to restore a Category Three’s Pokémon.
After that eternity, I hand them their Poké Balls back and continue with my script. And then I finally say, “We hope to see you again!” And you can probably guess how they respond to that.
You might be thinking, Wow, being a nurse in the Ever Grande Pokémon Center sucks. And in many ways you’d be right. Dealing with arrogant, hopeless, and indifferent trainers 12 hours a day and six days a week isn’t worth it, right? So shouldn’t I just resign? Or maybe relocate to somewhere that doesn’t have as many Category Ones or Twos or Threes?
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it. In fact, my day wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t think about it at least twice behind the counter.
So why haven’t I left? Well, there are two main reasons.
Reason number one is that dealing with arrogant, hopeless, and indifferent trainers 12 hours a day is very much worth a constant paycheck, especially one that allows me to help my family in Fallarbor while putting food on my table.
Look, nursing is hard, and I had asked to be assigned here in Ever Grande precisely because of the lower foot traffic. Sure, cities like Slateport or Lilycove would probably have much less Category Ones, but the large amount of Category Twos and Threes I’d be dealing with would drive me insane. The small towns like Pacifidlog and Lavaridge and even my hometown Fallarbor would probably be less hectic, yeah, but all the other nurses know that, too. I’d have to wait months before any of those towns have an opening, and those nurses wouldn’t let go of their positions that easily.
And who’s to say they don’t have their own categories to deal with? Maybe the Category Ones of Slateport and Lilycove aren’t the arrogant trainers I deal with, but the insensitive foreigner trainers who think they deserve to be treated like royalty. Maybe the Category Twos Erin deals with are the Rustboro Gym trainers who have no faith in themselves. Maybe the Category Threes of Fallarbor and Verdanturf are the coordinators who bring their own set of annoyances.
So yeah, Ever Grande’s customers can be a pain in the ass, but there’s no shortage of that anywhere, if you think about it.
And then there’s reason number two, who also happens to be Category Four.
I’m not really sure how to describe a Category Four. Part of it is because they aren’t really common. Category Ones and Twos always come one after the other, and Category Threes fill in the gaps that the Category Ones and Twos leave behind. But Category Fours? I’d be lucky if I get more than one a day.
But a bigger part of it is that when they do show up, they’re different all the time.
Maybe they’re a white-haired—or white-hatted, I’m not really sure—boy who makes you feel like you’re the most important and interesting person in all of Hoenn by turning his attention to you rather than to himself.
Maybe they’re a frail-looking green-haired boy whose appearance betrays every sense of strength and willpower he possesses, his pendant boasting his key stone with pride but his demeanor being anything but boastful.
Maybe they’re Steven Stone.
Or maybe they’re just a trainer who isn’t arrogant, or helpless, or indifferent. Maybe they’re courteous when I welcome them to the Pokémon Center. Maybe they ask me how I’m doing after I deposit their Poké Balls into the healing machine. Maybe they have a little chat with me and they actually listen to what I have to say. Maybe they thank me after I give them back their Pokémon.
And maybe there aren’t a lot of them and they’re different all the time because they’re fate’s way of reminding me that, hey, my job isn’t all bad. Maybe I’m not as annoyed with my job as I thought I was. Maybe the arrogance, helplessness, and indifference I experience don’t affect me as much as I thought it did. Maybe all I need to do is to write all my thoughts down and categorize all the trainers I serve to realize that, hey, you can handle them all—you have the experience, you have the comebacks, you have the lines memorized—so what’s making you have any doubts about your job?
And after all that, I say to Category Four, “We hope to see you again!” And it’s the only time I mean it.
This is a rewrite of a one-shot I wrote six years ago. It answers a writing prompt that had bit me at that time: What does the Pokémon Center nurse in Ever Grande City experience every day?
I wanted to rewrite it because I felt like there was so much more I can do with that kind of character. I eventually decided to make it first-person so I can try my hand in exploring the character from her thought processes rather than from how she acts. And it’s also so that I can practice writing in a voice I’m not familiar with. I admit that I’m not 100% with how the ending turned out, but I felt like it was a good note to end the one-shot on.
And on that note, any other comments and criticism are very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!
I wanted to rewrite it because I felt like there was so much more I can do with that kind of character. I eventually decided to make it first-person so I can try my hand in exploring the character from her thought processes rather than from how she acts. And it’s also so that I can practice writing in a voice I’m not familiar with. I admit that I’m not 100% with how the ending turned out, but I felt like it was a good note to end the one-shot on.
And on that note, any other comments and criticism are very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!
Iris
Hi. I’m Iris.
I work in the Ever Grande Pokémon Center for 12 hours a day, six days a week.
I serve hundreds of trainers each day, thousands each week.
Sure, they’re all different and unique and whatever, but I can group all of them into four categories.
You want to hear about them?
Category One is the most common trainer. And they also happen to be the most annoying.
Picture this: Category One goes in the Center with their Wailord-sized egos right behind them. They make sure the eleven steps they take from the entrance to the counter are as loud and attention-grabbing as humanly possible. When they find themselves facing me, they give me this grin that seems to be screaming, “Punch me in the face!”
Instead, I say my line: “Welcome to the Pokémon Center. Would you like me to heal your Pokémon?”
Category One raises their eyebrow, or looks me up and down with a smirk, or does whatever other stupid mannerism to assert their arrogance before giving me their Poké Balls.
Once I deposit their Poké Balls in the healing station, things turn from bad to worse.
They usually begin their monologues with, “You better make sure my Pokémon X is in good shape. Pokémon X is the strongest Species-Of-Pokémon-X in all of Hoenn.”
I nod and smile, so that my months of nurse training don’t go to waste.
They then show me whatever proof they have of their accomplishments—eight badges, five ribbons, a Key Stone, you name it—while continuing their monologue on how great they are and how strong their Pokémon are and how the Elite Four don’t know what’s coming when they challenge them.
I keep nodding and smiling, wondering why the healing station never worked fast enough when I served Category Ones.
The worst ones are those who point out how “superior” their trainerhood is from my nursehood. They’d say something like, “I bet you feel lucky you’re hearing all these awesome stories about my journey since you can’t go on your own,” or maybe, “I’d ask you about your day, but I’m sure it’ll be boring.”
It took a lot of practice, but I also nod and smile through those pieces of—let’s say they’re “advanced” Category Ones.
When I finally withdraw their Poké Balls from the healing station and return it to them, Category One would act like a Fan Club Chairman and blurt out every adjective they knew to praise their Pokémon. One of the very few perks of dealing with so many Category Ones each day is how my vocabulary has expanded because of them—I now know every word synonymous with strong, awesome, and unique.
And they’ll always end their monologue by claiming that they’re gonna be the “greatest Champion Hoenn’s ever seen.” Yeah, those five exact words used over and over and over again. Sure, there could be some “greatest Champion in the world” types or even the more ambitious “greatest Champion to ever exist” kind of egos, but Hoenn will have an endless supply of greatest Champions to see according to all these Category Ones.
And then I say, “We hope to see you again!” And because they always have to get the last word in, Category One replies with, “You won’t!”
Category Two is a whole other thing, but it’s just as bad.
I have this friend, Erin, who works in the Pokémon Center in Rustboro City. Whenever we vent to each other about our jobs, she would always tell me how she was sick of acting like a mentor to all the newbie trainers she served. These amateurs were usually those who just got their first Pokémon from Professor Birch and were about to take on their first gym battle against Roxanne.
“I swear, Iris, every time I’ve had to lecture these brats about which types are strong and weak against Rock-types, I ask myself, ‘How did they get this far without knowing their type matchups?’” she would tell me.
Now imagine something like that, but with trainers that have eight badges and negative eight self-confidence.
Category Two enters the Pokémon Center already looking lost even if the path between the entrance and the healing station is a straight line. They act as if they’re a Magikarp in a sea of Carvanha, even if the fact that they’re here means they’ve already evolved into a Gyarados.
“Welcome to the Pokémon Center. Would you like me to heal your Pokémon?” I say, and they take one more minute to compose themself before giving me their Poké Balls.
Once I deposit their Poké Balls in the healing station, things also turn from bad to worse.
“I can’t do it,” they would start. Sometimes they go straight to the point: “I’m a huge loser.”
And then the floodgates open, where Category Two would tell me how flawed they are as a trainer, or how they feel like everything they’ve done up to this point was a fluke, or how they felt like an embarrassment to their families and friends. All those things are probably true, but I’d get into trouble if I said that to their faces.
A professor in nursing school always said, “Pokémon aren’t the only ones nurses can heal.” At least the Pokémon don’t beg you for an ego boost.
It’s always one of three sentences that cheer them up: “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t good enough,” “The Pokémon League’s had a lot of trainers, but they’ve never had you,” and one I got from Erin, “Failing is better than not trying at all.”
And then they’d look at me like I’m Arceus or something while I hand them back their Poké Balls. That doesn’t look as good as it sounds, really. It becomes this whole pattern of Category Two putting themself down and expecting me to lift them up again.
“Oh, but my Pokémon don’t deserve a bad trainer like me,” they’d say. And I’d have to reply with, “They wouldn’t stick with you throughout your whole journey if they didn’t think you were a good trainer.”
“Oh, but I only got here by pure luck,” they’d add. And that’d be my cue to say, “Luck wouldn’t be enough to bring you here if you didn’t have skill.”
“Oh, but I’m not good enough to be Champion,” they’d say, and that one’s a real favorite among Category Twos. My reply’s a real favorite, too: “You’ve been good enough to get all the way here, so what’s stopping you from being good enough for the League?”
And that drags on and on until they’ve run out of self-deprecating things to say. I’m not sure if they’re worse than Category Ones, but Category Twos are their own kind of annoying.
After all that, I say, “We hope to see you again!” And Category Two would give me this dopey look that takes all my restraint not to mock them about it.
Category Three can sometimes be the best kinds of trainers I get for the day, but they would always be the dullest.
Category Three goes in, marches right to the counter, and hands me their Poké Balls even before I finish my “Welcome to the Pokémon Center” line.
They then exert all the effort they can to look like they don’t give a shit about anything that’s happening. In my first few days of dealing with Category Threes I tried to make some small-talk with them, but as the months went by I realized that I was fighting a losing battle. So as soon as I know I’m dealing with a Category Three, I don’t say anything beyond my script.
And in some ways, I appreciate the emptiness Category Three brings. At least I’m not dealing with a stuck-up Category One or a woe-is-me Category Two.
But damn can it get awkward. They’re just there, looking at me—or probably just the general direction where I’m standing—and seeing their blank stares is real uncomfortable. If the healing machine takes long when I’m serving Category Ones, it feels like the healing machine needs an eternity to restore a Category Three’s Pokémon.
After that eternity, I hand them their Poké Balls back and continue with my script. And then I finally say, “We hope to see you again!” And you can probably guess how they respond to that.
You might be thinking, Wow, being a nurse in the Ever Grande Pokémon Center sucks. And in many ways you’d be right. Dealing with arrogant, hopeless, and indifferent trainers 12 hours a day and six days a week isn’t worth it, right? So shouldn’t I just resign? Or maybe relocate to somewhere that doesn’t have as many Category Ones or Twos or Threes?
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it. In fact, my day wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t think about it at least twice behind the counter.
So why haven’t I left? Well, there are two main reasons.
Reason number one is that dealing with arrogant, hopeless, and indifferent trainers 12 hours a day is very much worth a constant paycheck, especially one that allows me to help my family in Fallarbor while putting food on my table.
Look, nursing is hard, and I had asked to be assigned here in Ever Grande precisely because of the lower foot traffic. Sure, cities like Slateport or Lilycove would probably have much less Category Ones, but the large amount of Category Twos and Threes I’d be dealing with would drive me insane. The small towns like Pacifidlog and Lavaridge and even my hometown Fallarbor would probably be less hectic, yeah, but all the other nurses know that, too. I’d have to wait months before any of those towns have an opening, and those nurses wouldn’t let go of their positions that easily.
And who’s to say they don’t have their own categories to deal with? Maybe the Category Ones of Slateport and Lilycove aren’t the arrogant trainers I deal with, but the insensitive foreigner trainers who think they deserve to be treated like royalty. Maybe the Category Twos Erin deals with are the Rustboro Gym trainers who have no faith in themselves. Maybe the Category Threes of Fallarbor and Verdanturf are the coordinators who bring their own set of annoyances.
So yeah, Ever Grande’s customers can be a pain in the ass, but there’s no shortage of that anywhere, if you think about it.
And then there’s reason number two, who also happens to be Category Four.
I’m not really sure how to describe a Category Four. Part of it is because they aren’t really common. Category Ones and Twos always come one after the other, and Category Threes fill in the gaps that the Category Ones and Twos leave behind. But Category Fours? I’d be lucky if I get more than one a day.
But a bigger part of it is that when they do show up, they’re different all the time.
Maybe they’re a white-haired—or white-hatted, I’m not really sure—boy who makes you feel like you’re the most important and interesting person in all of Hoenn by turning his attention to you rather than to himself.
Maybe they’re a frail-looking green-haired boy whose appearance betrays every sense of strength and willpower he possesses, his pendant boasting his key stone with pride but his demeanor being anything but boastful.
Maybe they’re Steven Stone.
Or maybe they’re just a trainer who isn’t arrogant, or helpless, or indifferent. Maybe they’re courteous when I welcome them to the Pokémon Center. Maybe they ask me how I’m doing after I deposit their Poké Balls into the healing machine. Maybe they have a little chat with me and they actually listen to what I have to say. Maybe they thank me after I give them back their Pokémon.
And maybe there aren’t a lot of them and they’re different all the time because they’re fate’s way of reminding me that, hey, my job isn’t all bad. Maybe I’m not as annoyed with my job as I thought I was. Maybe the arrogance, helplessness, and indifference I experience don’t affect me as much as I thought it did. Maybe all I need to do is to write all my thoughts down and categorize all the trainers I serve to realize that, hey, you can handle them all—you have the experience, you have the comebacks, you have the lines memorized—so what’s making you have any doubts about your job?
And after all that, I say to Category Four, “We hope to see you again!” And it’s the only time I mean it.