At first, David felt… nothing.
He stared at the empty plate where the last quarter of the Enhancement Pill used to be, bracing himself for some dramatic transformation—maybe glowing eyes, a sudden six-pack, a deep, commanding voice.
Instead?
Absolutely nothing. Not even a burp.
"Wow," David muttered. "That was anticlimactic. I just ate four chunks of drywall for nothing."
But just as he was about to curse the pill and the shady metaphysical pharmacy it came from… something changed.
A slow burn began to spread through his gut—right around where his abs would be if he had any. Then the warmth intensified… and intensified… until his entire torso felt like someone shoved a sauna inside him and turned it to max.
"Okay," he groaned, starting to sweat, "maybe it's working. Or maybe I'm dying. Tough to say."
Within seconds, sweat began pouring out of his body like he was auditioning for a Gatorade commercial. His clothes clung to him like wet napkins, and a horrid smell started rising from every pore like he'd just marinated himself in gym socks and shame.
David sniffed his sleeve.
Instant regret.
"OH GOD—" he gagged, recoiling like he'd been hit with a Sludge Bomb. "This was my nicest shirt! It cost me over a hundred Alliance coins! That's like… half a month of dignity!"
Panicking, he bolted toward the bathroom like it owed him money, trying to salvage what remained of his once-proud outfit.
Too late.
The shirt was soaked, stained, and smelled like it had survived a garbage fire inside a Muk's armpit. There was no saving it.
David stood in the bathroom doorway, arms limp at his sides, staring at the dripping cloth like he'd just lost a beloved pet.
"This… this is fashion homicide," he whispered.
Heartbroken, he turned to the only entity responsible for this tragedy: the system.
"Hey! You gonna cover my dry cleaning bill or what?" he snapped. "You owe me emotional damages!"
The system, unbothered and probably sipping a digital martini somewhere, responded with its usual cold-blooded detachment:
[Negative Emotion Value +20 from David…]
[Negative Emotion Value +30 from David…]
[Negative Emotion Value +40 from David…]
"…You're really profiting off my suffering right now, huh?"
He sighed deeply, peeling off his shirt with two fingers like it was radioactive.
"I've been betrayed by my own sweat," he muttered.
At this point, David was still leaking thick, black, foul-smelling sweat like he was a human oil spill.
He knew, logically, that this was just "impurities" being purged from his body—whatever that actually meant. But that didn't make it smell any less like a sewer backup.
Trying not to throw up in his own mouth, he staggered into the shower like a man returning from war.
"Alright," he muttered, turning the water to full blast. "Let's pressure wash the sadness off."
And then he scrubbed.
And scrubbed.
And scrubbed.
By the half-hour mark, he was starting to question if he still had skin.
His loofah had disintegrated out of self-defense, the water was darker than a Grimer's bathwater, and he'd gone through an entire bottle of body wash labeled "Ocean Breeze" that now just smelled like "Regret and Burnt Socks."
Eventually—miraculously—the stench faded. The steam cleared. And David finally stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, mentally preparing himself for what was hopefully a fresh, post-purification look.
Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror… and froze.
"…What the hell."
He stared.
Blinking.
Turning.
Flexing.
"Okay, okay—what kind of glorified vitamin was that pill?! Because this isn't just 'Body Enhancement.' This is full-blown superhero origin story!"
Gone was his usual lanky, underfed gamer physique. In its place stood a man with sharp, defined muscles that looked like they were Photoshopped on. His once pale, malnourished face now looked smooth and refreshed, like he just stepped out of a skincare commercial. Even his skin was glowing—literally glowing—with a soft, healthy pink that made him look like he'd just been born or moisturized by angels.
And then—there it was.
The crown jewel.
Eight. Perfect. Abs.
David stared at them like they were sacred relics.
"I have… abdominals," he whispered reverently. "Like, actual ones. That I didn't draw on with a marker."
He did a little side turn, admired the reflection again, then tossed his towel over his shoulder like a gladiator about to enter the arena.
Beaming with unearned pride, he strutted out of the bathroom, ready to let the world (and possibly his Pokémon) witness this glorious rebirth.
"Pikachu, check this out! Don't I look more handsome now?"
David struck a pose in his towel, flashing what he thought was a dazzling smile—complete with finger guns and a heroic chin tilt.
Pikachu didn't even blink.
He was slouched on the sofa, watching TV with the expression of someone who'd seen too much in life.
On-screen, a comedy sketch was playing:
Man: "Every time I take a shower, I just feel... so damn handsome!"
Woman: "Maybe your brain's just full of shampoo."
David's grin twitched.
Pikachu casually glanced from the screen to David, then back again. Slowly, he lifted a tiny paw and pointed at the TV.
"Pika pickup?"
His little head tilted.
His eyes narrowed.
Was he seriously asking if David had also lost his mind?
David stood there, towel-clad and freshly ab-enhanced, feeling personally victimized by both Pikachu and public television.
"…I've just suffered the biggest ego hit of my life," he muttered.
[+20 Negative Emotion Value from David...]
[+30 Negative Emotion Value from David...]
[+40 Negative Emotion Value from David...]
...
He snatched the remote with the grace of a man betrayed by his own electric rat and turned the TV off with a firm click.
"That's enough sitcom wisdom for today. Why don't you do something useful—like go exercise?"
"Pickup! Pickup!"
Pikachu waved him off with a bored little paw-flick, basically saying, You do it, abs boy.
Neither of them backed down.
They just stared at each other—one furious and glowing with protein-fueled transformation, the other smug and immovable like a couch potato with lightning powers.
Then… a smell hit them.
A horrible, burnt, charcoal-meets-garbage kind of smell.
Both of them gagged instantly and covered their noses.
"Okay, what the heck is that?!" David choked, looking around.
Pikachu looked equally disgusted and started sniffing the air cautiously.
Their eyes met.
The suspicion was mutual.
David narrowed his eyes. "Pikachu… did you just—fart?"
"Pika Pika! (You farted!)" Pikachu fired back, pointing at David accusingly like a shocked courtroom witness.
The standoff continued.
No one took the blame.
The air purity, however, had already suffered the consequences.
****
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, chaos was being served—psychically.
Ralts, sleeves rolled up (figuratively, since she didn't have any), was using Psychic to levitate plate after plate of... "food" onto the dining table with the elegance of a five-star ghost chef at a haunted mansion.
While David was busy nearly shedding his skin in the shower, the brand-new tableware had been delivered. Ralts had received it herself, even signing for the package like a responsible homeowner—which was extra impressive considering she couldn't read or write.
Still, she was determined. As soon as the plates arrived, she rolled up her metaphorical sleeves and got to work. Dinner had to be ready for her beloved roommates—Pikachu and David.
"Lalu! Lalu!"
Ralts beamed with pride, arms wide as if she'd just summoned a Michelin-starred buffet. She waved for them to come over, radiating joy and confidence like a child who just finger-painted the Mona Lisa.
David and Pikachu glanced at each other.
The look in their eyes said everything:
She's trying to kill us, isn't she?
Pikachu slowly peeled himself off the sofa like a man headed for execution and waddled toward the table. David, towel still clinging to his freshly enhanced muscles, followed cautiously behind.
They stared at the food.
Silence.
One heartbeat passed.
Then two.
Pikachu gulped so loudly it echoed. Beads of sweat formed on his furry forehead as he took in the horrific display.
Every single dish was wrapped in a light haze of gloomy, ghostly black smoke.
One plate looked like it was still moving.
Another one emitted a faint hissing sound.
A third just… vibrated.
This wasn't dinner.
This was a séance disguised as a potluck.
And in the middle of it all stood Ralts, hands on hips, chest puffed out, positively glowing with pride—like Gordon Ramsay if he cooked using forbidden dark magic and zero sense of smell.
David forced a smile, lips trembling like a man staring death in the eyes.
He whispered to himself, "Her cooking talent might actually be in the negatives... possibly triple digits."
He was pretty sure even the stray mutt back at the orphanage—who once ate a rubber boot—wouldn't survive this menu.
But still, he couldn't crush her spirit.
As her Trainer, he had to encourage her. Or at least… lie very convincingly.
With the kind of fake optimism usually reserved for bad talent show auditions, David nodded slowly and said, "Ralts… I can definitely see a lot of… room for improvement. Like, a galaxy's worth."
Pikachu stood beside him, face twisted like he'd just been punched in the soul.
Still, he nodded too.
"Pickup… Pickup…" he murmured in agreement, his tone the culinary equivalent of a funeral dirge.
And yet, Ralts beamed even brighter—absolutely convinced she was nailing it.
The two locked eyes.
It was time.
Time to show off their true skills—the ancient, unspoken art of strategically dodging terrible cooking.
David acted fast. Real fast. Faster-than-Pikachu-using-Agility fast.
"Pikachu!" he exclaimed with an Oscar-worthy grin. "You've worked so hard today! Saved Ralts, trained your tail off, got stronger... You deserve a feast fit for a hero!"
With all the tenderness of a man offering a gourmet delicacy, David scooped up a steaming, black-fog-covered fish headand dropped it into Pikachu's bowl.
Pikachu stared at it.
[Frightened.jpg]
He blinked once. Then twice. The fish head sat there ominously, wafting a thick, ghostly vapor like it had been slow-roasted in a haunted dishwasher.
With a shaky smile that screamed trauma, Pikachu picked up the fish head and gently dropped it back into David's bowl.
"Pika pickup!"
Translation: No no, YOU deserve this. You did so much today. Let me repay you... with death.
David wasn't about to lose the food fight.
He grabbed the cursed fish head and expertly lobbed it back into Pikachu's bowl like a chef plating his signature dish.
"No no no, you worked WAY harder than me! You risked your life today! Hero status: earned!"
The fish head now sat ominously in Pikachu's bowl again, mocking him with its dead, slightly glowing eyes.
Across the table, Ralts watched the scene unfold with sparkles in her eyes and an innocent smile on her face, completely convinced her cooking was bringing everyone joy.
"Lalu! Lalu!"
She clapped her tiny hands together, cheeks puffed in delight. It was heartwarming. Heartwarming and horrifying.
Pikachu glanced from Ralts… back to the fish head.
He tried to speak but realized—David had disappeared.
There was a distant flush and the sound of feet fleeing into the bathroom.
That traitor.
Pikachu was alone.
Ralts looked at him with pure excitement and hope, as if this one bite was going to validate her entire culinary dream.
Pikachu stared at the bowl, his paw trembling.
This is it.
One bite.
One act of friendship.
One glorious, noble sacrifice.
With the bravery of a soldier charging into battle, Pikachu clenched his tiny fists, shut his eyes tight, and took the tiniest possible bite of the fish head.
And then—
Thud.
Pikachu collapsed onto the table, mouth foaming, tail twitching.
Pikachu was no more.
Silence filled the room.
If nothing else...
At least it would go down as the first accidental Pokémon manslaughter via dinner.