Prologue: Sup, Bitch
The day had been going like any other—which, in Riley's case, meant absolute dedication to being right about Pokemon on the internet.
He sat hunched over his gaming setup, headset slightly askew, halfway through what his best friend Marcus would later describe as "the rant heard 'round the Discord server." The topic? Focus Blast and its absolutely criminal behavior in competitive play.
"Listen, Marcus, I've done the math," Riley said, gesturing wildly at his monitor despite being on voice chat. "It's got 70% accuracy on paper, right? Seventy percent! That should mean I land it seven times out of ten. Basic statistics!"
"Uh-huh," Marcus replied, clearly multitasking.
"Then explain to me—EXPLAIN—how I just missed it six times in a row against that Garchomp, but when the AI uses it? Boom. Perfect accuracy every single time. It's like they programmed Lock-On into the move but only for NPCs!"
Riley leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his messy brown hair. Empty energy drink cans cluttered his desk alongside Pokemon figurines and a half-eaten sandwich from lunch. His room was a shrine to twenty-plus years of Pokemon obsession—posters covering every wall, shelves lined with games from every generation, and a special display case holding his most prized cards.
"Maybe you're just unlucky?" Marcus suggested.
"Unlucky?" Riley's voice cracked with indignation. "Marcus, I've been playing Pokemon since Red and Blue. I've calculated damage ranges in my sleep. I know every type matchup, every hidden ability, every—"
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Riley paused mid-rant, glancing toward his bedroom window. "That's weird."
"What?"
"Something just knocked on my window. But I'm on the third floor." He squinted at the glass. "Was that... a stick?"
The knocking came again. Louder. More insistent. Almost rhythmic.
"Dude, maybe it's a bird," Marcus said. "Remember that pigeon that kept trying to fight its reflection in your window?"
"Yeah, maybe..." Riley pushed back from his desk, sock-clad feet sliding on the hardwood floor. "If this is another pigeon with an identity crisis, I'm gonna lose it."
He approached the window cautiously. Through the glass, he could see the evening sky painted in shades of orange and purple. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Riley unlocked the latch and pushed the window open.
The first thing that hit him was the impossible brightness—like staring directly into a camera flash that refused to fade. He threw up a hand to shield his eyes, squinting through his fingers.
Hovering just inches from his face was the chrome front end of a truck. Not a whole truck. Just the grill, headlights, and bumper, floating in mid-air like some cosmic automotive fever dream. No wheels. No driver's cab. No logical explanation for its existence.
The metal gleamed with an otherworldly radiance, and emblazoned across the front was a logo that Riley's brain refused to process: Isuzu.
"What the—"
Then came the voice. Deep, resonating from everywhere and nowhere at once, with the kind of smugness usually reserved for villains in Saturday morning cartoons:
"SUP, BITCH."
Riley's jaw dropped. "Are you talking to—"
HOOOOOOONNNNNNNK.
The sound was deafening, primordial, like the birth cry of creation itself. Riley's last coherent thought was wondering if Marcus could hear him screaming through the headset.
The floating truck grill rocketed forward through his window with the force of divine judgment, and Riley's world exploded into light, sound, and the distinct sensation of his mortal coil being thoroughly shuffled off.
Between Worlds
Consciousness returned gradually, like surfacing from the deepest ocean.
Riley found himself standing—or floating, or existing in some state that his human brain couldn't quite categorize—in a space that defied description. The ground beneath his feet (if he had feet, if there was ground) felt solid but looked like swirling galaxies. The sky above shifted between colors that didn't have names, and everything was suffused with a gentle, purple-tinged radiance.
Before him materialized a creature that made every legendary Pokemon he'd ever seen look like amateur hour.
It was vaguely deer-like but transcended any earthly comparison. Its body seemed to be carved from living starlight, with a golden wheel of energy rotating slowly around its torso. Four legs ended in hooves that sparked with cosmic fire, and from its back rose what could generously be called a fence—geometric patterns that shifted and pulsed with power beyond comprehension.
But it was the eyes that truly humbled him. Ancient beyond measure, containing entire galaxies in their depths, swirling with the wisdom of eons and the weight of absolute authority.
Riley had seen this being in countless pieces of fan art, in games, in his dreams. But seeing Arceus in person—or whatever passed for "person" in this space between reality—was like trying to perceive infinity with a mortal mind.
"Welcome, mortal."
The voice resonated not through the air but directly into Riley's consciousness, each word carrying the weight of cosmic truth.
Riley swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "Are you... are you actually Arceus?"
"I am the Original One. The Alpha. I am what your kind calls Arceus, yes."
A thousand questions fought for priority in Riley's mind, but only one made it to his lips: "You let Truck-kun kill me."
If a deity could look mildly sheepish, Arceus managed it. "It was your appointed time."
"Appointed time?!" Riley's voice cracked. "I had coffee brewing! I was in the middle of explaining why Unfezant is competitively useless! I just finished my comprehensive ranking of all the regional bird Pokemon from worst to best! That was eight hours of research!"
Something that might have been amusement flickered in those cosmic eyes. "Your passion for my creations has not gone unnoticed, Riley Chen."
Riley blinked. "You... you actually watched my videos?"
"I observe all who love my world with such dedication. Your analysis of competitive viability, your tier lists, your—what do you call them—'hot takes' about game mechanics. Quite entertaining."
"Holy shit, Arceus watches Pokemon YouTube." Riley ran a hand through his hair, then paused. "Wait, you agreed with me about Unfezant, didn't you?"
"Your assessment was... accurate. That particular design was perhaps not my finest work."
Riley straightened up, vindication coursing through him. "I KNEW IT! Finally, someone with actual authority agrees that Normal/Flying with mediocre stats is just a waste of everyone's time!"
"Indeed." Arceus seemed to be enjoying this more than a cosmic deity probably should. "Your knowledge, your passion, your... colorful commentary has earned you consideration for a unique opportunity."
The space around them shimmered, and suddenly Riley felt more solid, more present. "What kind of opportunity?"
"Reincarnation. In a world of your choosing. With your memories intact." Arceus gestured with one hoof, and a golden interface materialized in the air—dropdown menus, sliders, and options that hummed with power. "And one ability, tailored to your deepest desire."
Riley's heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. Every isekai anime he'd ever watched, every fanfiction he'd secretly consumed at 2 AM. His chance to live out the ultimate fantasy.
He didn't even hesitate.
"My Hero Academia universe," he said immediately. "And I want to be able to transform into any Pokémon. Full transformation—not just appearance, but everything. Moves, abilities, instincts, the whole package. No arbitrary cooldowns, no weird limitations. When I transform, I AM that Pokémon."
"Ambitious." Arceus nodded approvingly. "Accepted."
Riley grinned, but then another thought struck him. "Oh, and I want to start young. Like, really young. I'm not jumping into UA as a seventeen-year-old with no preparation. Give me time to figure this out, to train, to actually get good before the plot kicks into high gear."
"Wise. You will awaken at age four. Grow. Learn. Master your gift in secret until you are ready to reveal it to the world."
Riley gave Arceus a thumbs-up, feeling giddy with possibility. "Perfect. Thanks, God-Deer."
"One final piece of advice."
"Yeah?"
Those ancient eyes twinkled with what was definitely amusement now. "Try not to get hit by any more trucks."
Riley laughed despite himself. "I make absolutely no promises about that."
A flash of golden light engulfed everything, and Riley felt himself dissolving, reforming, being pulled across dimensions by forces beyond comprehension.
His last thought before consciousness faded was wondering if Marcus was still waiting in the Discord call.
Chapter 1: I Choose Me Awakening
The first thing Riley noticed was how everything felt more real.
Not just different—more real. Like he'd been living his entire previous life through a screen and someone had finally adjusted the contrast settings. Colors were more vibrant, scents carried more information, and even the simple act of breathing felt like discovering his lungs for the first time.
He sat up slowly, his small hands—and wow, they were definitely small—pressing against cool grass that was actually individual blades rather than just "green ground texture." Above him, leaves rustled with a complexity of sound he'd never noticed before, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the distinct chirping of what his Pokemon-trained ear identified as probably Pidgey.
Wait. Real Pidgey?
Riley scrambled to his feet, wobbling slightly on legs that didn't quite reach as far as he expected. He was in a small park, surrounded by oak trees and morning sunlight that painted everything in gold. A few benches sat empty along winding paths, and in the distance, he could see the edges of what looked like a Japanese residential district.
He looked down at himself and had to suppress a laugh. Four years old, just like Arceus had promised, wearing bright blue pajamas decorated with tiny Meowth faces. Even his hair was the same messy brown mop, just proportionally smaller.
"I'm actually four again," he said aloud, his voice coming out in that slightly higher pitch of childhood. "This is so weird."
But then he felt it—a warm presence in his mind, like a second consciousness that had always been there but was only now making itself known.
Transform: Available.
The knowledge flooded into him all at once. Not learned, not taught, but simply known the way he knew how to breathe or blink. Every Pokemon he'd ever seen, battled, or studied was there, waiting. A vast library of forms at his mental fingertips.
Riley took a deep breath and focused on his first choice. It had to be his first starter, the one that had started it all when he was six years old and Pokemon Red was the most amazing thing in existence.
Charmander.
The world shifted.
It wasn't painful, exactly, but it was overwhelming. Every cell in his body seemed to dissolve and reform, his perspective tilting as his spine curved and his limbs shortened. His skin tingled and hardened into orange scales, his tailbone extended with a warm weight, and his mouth elongated into a reptilian snout.
When the transformation completed, Riley found himself standing on four legs, looking at the world through new eyes that processed heat and movement differently. He raised a clawed hand—paw?—and marveled at the orange scales, the small but sharp claws, the way his new body felt both foreign and completely natural.
"Holy shit," he said, and his voice came out as a series of chirps that somehow still felt like words. "I'm actually a Charmander."
The tail flame was the weirdest part. He could feel it like an extension of himself, warm and alive and somehow tied to his emotional state. As his excitement grew, the flame flickered higher.
Riley took a deep breath and did what every kid who'd ever wanted to be a Pokemon trainer had dreamed of.
He used Ember.
The small spark that emerged from his mouth was barely larger than his fingernail, but it was real fire, genuine flames that singed a nearby fallen leaf before guttering out. Riley quickly stomped on the smoldering leaf, his heart racing with equal parts exhilaration and terror.
"Okay," he chirped to himself. "Ember works. Fire moves are real. I can actually—"
Another mental prompt interrupted his thoughts.
Transform: Human Available.
With a thought, he shifted back. The process was easier in reverse, his body flowing back into human shape like he was remembering how to be himself. Within seconds, he was four-year-old Riley again, sitting on the grass in his Meowth pajamas.
And absolutely exhausted.
The fatigue hit him like a wave. Not just tired—drained, like he'd just run a marathon after pulling an all-nighter. His limbs felt heavy, his head slightly fuzzy, and transforming again felt about as appealing as doing calculus homework.
"Note to self," he panted, flopping backward onto the grass. "This is gonna take some getting used to."
The Kindness of Strangers
"Oh my goodness, are you alright, sweetie?"
The gentle voice made Riley's eyes snap open. A woman was kneeling beside him, her face creased with concern. She had warm brown eyes, shoulder-length chestnut hair, and wore a pale green cardigan over a simple dress. Something about her radiated the kind of maternal warmth that made strangers feel like family.
"I saw you fall near those bushes," she continued, her voice soft but worried. "Are you hurt?"
Riley pushed himself up to sitting, brushing grass from his pajamas. "I'm okay. I was just... playing."
Her expression softened further. "Playing by yourself? Are you here with someone?"
The question Riley had been dreading. He looked around the empty park, then back at her kind face. "...No. Just me."
"What's your name, honey?"
"Riley."
"Well, Riley," she said, settling more comfortably on the grass beside him, "I'm Delia. It's very early to be playing in the park all alone. Do you live nearby?"
Something about her name sparked a memory, but Riley couldn't quite place it. She just felt... familiar. Safe.
"I don't know where I live," he said quietly, and it wasn't entirely a lie. He had no idea where four-year-old Riley was supposed to be living in this world.
Delia's expression grew more concerned. "You don't know? Are you lost?"
Riley nodded, suddenly feeling very small and very alone despite his adult mind. "I think so."
Without hesitation, Delia reached out and gently touched his shoulder. "Well, we can't have that, can we? Would you like to come with me while we figure out where you belong? I was just heading to the market, but that can wait."
There was something in her voice—genuine caring without any agenda, the kind of unconditional kindness that was rarer than legendary Pokémon. Riley found himself nodding before he'd consciously decided to trust her.
"Okay," he said. "Thank you, Miss Delia."
She smiled, and it was like sunrise. "Just Delia is fine, sweetie. Let's go somewhere more comfortable and see about getting you home."
A New Home
Three weeks later, Riley learned what "no records" actually meant in a world with proper bureaucracy.
No birth certificate. No parents listed anywhere. No missing child reports. No family looking for a boy named Riley with brown hair and an oddly mature vocabulary.
He'd simply appeared, as far as the authorities were concerned, like he'd materialized out of thin air.
Which, technically, he had.
Delia had stayed with him through every interview, every background check, every well-meaning social worker who tried to figure out where he belonged. She'd held his hand during the scary parts and translated adult-speak into kid-friendly explanations when officials forgot they were talking to a four-year-old.
"I'd like to foster him," she'd said during one particularly long meeting. "Temporarily, until his family is found."
"Ma'am, with respect, you're a single woman with no previous experience with children—"
"I have experience with caring for living beings," Delia had replied firmly. "And this child needs stability, not another temporary placement."
Riley had sat quietly during these discussions, occasionally offering details about his "memory problems" that explained his odd knowledge gaps. He remembered some things clearly—like every Pokémon ever created—but was fuzzy on basic life details like where he'd lived before or who his parents were.
Selective amnesia, the doctors called it. Trauma-induced memory loss. They recommended therapy and patience.
Delia offered something better: home.
Her apartment was small but warm, filled with plants and soft lighting and the lingering scent of whatever she'd been cooking. She gave Riley the spare bedroom, helped him pick out clothes (he'd insisted on anything with Pokémon on it), and never once made him feel like a burden.
She assumed his "episodes"—times when he seemed unusually tired or disoriented—were related to a Quirk manifesting early. It wasn't uncommon for children's powers to cause physical strain before they learned control.
Riley let her believe it. It was easier than explaining interdimensional reincarnation by a cosmic deer god.
"Everyone develops differently," she'd told him one evening as she tucked him into bed. "Whatever your Quirk turns out to be, we'll figure it out together, okay?"
"Okay," Riley had whispered back, and meant it.
Nighttime Training
At night, when Delia was asleep and the world was quiet, Riley began his real education.
He started small. Pidgey first—a simple transformation that left him with hollow bones and an urge to nest in high places. Then Rattata, which came with enhanced hearing and an instinctive knowledge of which foods were safe. Caterpie brought compound vision and the strangest craving for leaves he'd ever experienced.
Each transformation taught him something new about the limits and possibilities of his power. He kept detailed notes in a spiral notebook he'd hidden under his mattress, documenting everything with the methodical approach of someone who'd spent years optimizing competitive Pokémon teams.
Transformation Log #001 - Initial Observations:
Transforming requires intense mental focus and drains physical stamina Stronger/larger Pokemon require exponentially more energy Time limit varies by form: small Pokemon (30+ minutes), medium (10-15 minutes), large (5 minutes max) Repeated use of the same form reduces energy cost (building "transformation tolerance") All moves come instinctively—no need to "learn" them separately Instincts are strong but don't override human consciousness Human form recovery time needed between transformations
The move usage was the most exciting discovery. When he was Charmander, Ember wasn't something he had to figure out—it was as natural as breathing. Vine Whip as Bulbasaur felt like extending his arms. Water Gun as Squirtle was just a different way of spitting.
Every Pokémon came with its complete moveset, limited only by his stamina and the power level of the form he'd chosen.
But the instincts were what surprised him most. As Pidgey, he found himself calculating wind currents and thermal updrafts without conscious thought. As Growlithe, scents carried entire stories about who had passed through the area and when. As Abra, he could sense the emotional states of sleeping humans through thin walls.
It was like gaining temporary access to entirely different ways of experiencing reality.
The First Mistake
The incident happened on a particularly nice Thursday morning.
Riley had been getting cocky. Three weeks of successful nighttime practice had built his confidence, and the stamina improvements from repeated transformations made him feel ready for bigger challenges.
Delia had left for her morning job at a local flower shop, giving him several hours of unsupervised time. The perfect opportunity to test his flying forms.
He'd successfully managed Pidgey flights for weeks, but always short hops from his bedroom window to the nearby tree. Today, feeling ambitious and energized by a good night's sleep, Riley decided to try something bigger.
Pidgeotto.
The transformation was more intense than usual—his body stretching upward, wings spreading wide, chest expanding to accommodate the larger lung capacity needed for sustained flight. When it completed, he was nearly three feet tall with a magnificent cream and brown plumage and wings that felt capable of carrying him anywhere.
Riley launched himself from the back porch, wings spreading instinctively to catch the morning breeze.
For five glorious minutes, he soared.
He flew higher than he'd ever managed, catching thermals and riding air currents with an expertise that felt both learned and innate. The world spread out below him like a map, and for the first time since his reincarnation, Riley felt truly free.
Then his stamina hit empty.
It didn't gradually decline—it fell off a cliff. One moment he was gracefully banking around a cloud, the next his wings felt like lead weights. His vision blurred, his coordination vanished, and gravity reasserted itself with extreme prejudice.
Riley crash-landed directly into Delia's prize rose garden.
The transformation collapsed midway through his fall, leaving him human and tangled in thorny branches, covered in scratches and flower petals. His landing had been cushioned by the bushes, but his pride was considerably more damaged than his body.
"RILEY!"
Delia's voice carried pure panic. She'd returned from work early and had apparently witnessed his graceless descent from the sky.
She rushed over, carefully extracting him from the roses while checking for injuries. "What on earth happened? How did you—were you in the tree?"
Riley, dizzy and disoriented from the transformation failure, went with the most plausible explanation his four-year-old brain could manufacture.
"I... I climbed really high and fell," he mumbled, spitting out a rose petal.
Delia's relief was palpable. "Oh, honey, you scared me to death! I thought I saw—" She shook her head. "Never mind what I thought I saw. You're grounded from tree climbing until we can get you some proper lessons, understand?"
"Yes, ma'am," Riley said quietly, allowing himself to be led inside for first aid and a lecture about safety.
That night, he added a new entry to his training log:
Rule #1: Never push transformation limits without a safe landing strategy.Rule #2: Pidgeotto flights are OFF LIMITS until stamina capacity improves significantly.Rule #3: Always have a cover story prepared.
Quiet Resolve
Two months into his new life, Riley found himself sitting on the roof of Delia's apartment building, wrapped in a blanket and staring out at the city lights.
It had become his thinking spot—high enough to feel private, but not so high that he'd be tempted to try flying again. The city sprawled out before him, a landscape of possibilities and dangers he was only beginning to understand.
In the distance, he could occasionally spot the bright streak of a Pro Hero on patrol. Sometimes he recognized them from the shows he'd watched in his previous life—Endeavor's flames were hard to miss, and he was pretty sure he'd spotted Hawks once, though the speedster had been gone too fast to be certain.
It was surreal, knowing he was living in a world where people like All Might and Deku existed somewhere out there, probably dealing with their own struggles and character development while Riley figured out how to transform into Pokémon without face-planting into gardens.
Twelve years.
That's how long he had until the main plot of My Hero Academia would kick into high gear. Twelve years to master his abilities, build his cover story, and prepare for the chaos that came with being adjacent to anime protagonists.
Riley pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and looked up at the stars. Somewhere out there, maybe Arceus was watching. Maybe other cosmic beings were placing bets on whether the Pokémon obsessed human could actually make a difference in a world of heroes and villains.
"I won't waste this chance," he whispered to the night sky. "I won't be the reincarnated character who gets awesome powers and then does nothing with them."
A cool breeze stirred his hair, carrying the distant sounds of the city—sirens, traffic, the hum of human life continuing its eternal dance.
Riley smiled, feeling something settle into place in his chest. Determination, maybe. Or just the quiet confidence that came from having a goal worth working toward.
Not to catch them all.
But to become them all.
And maybe, just maybe, to make a difference in a world that desperately needed more heroes.
The stars offered no answers, but they didn't need to. Riley already knew what he had to do.
He just had to figure out how to do it without crash-landing into any more rose bushes.