A/N: Hello my lovely readers! BEFORE YOU READ: No, this is not some crack!fic, though it may have a few crack moments – because who can help it? HAHA. This is basically the PoT plotline set in a pokemon!verse situation, with a few scenarios and added twists of my own. SHOUNEN-AI WARNING: As a fan of shounen-ai, I will be including quite a few pairings – a few that I'm pondering on are: Thrill Pair, Imperial Pair, Dirty Pair, Silver Pair, Alpha Pair, Golden Pair…tell me in a review if there are other pairings (or even side scenarios) you might want to see!

This hasn't been done before as far as I know, so I know I'm treading into new territory, but I promise you that I'll try my best to make this a worthwhile read for those who give it a chance! I'll soon post up a list of all characters and the Pokemon they own, to keep everything nice and organized, but not until a few more people are introduced!

MANY THANKS to Papilio Ageha, another wonderful Prince of Tennis fanfiction writer, who helped me to come up with some pokemon matchings to different characters! Check out her profile and stories here: www DOT fanfiction DOT net SLASH u / 1449860 / Papilio-Ageha (TAKE OUT THE SPACES!)

PLEASE REVIEW: Especially because I'm doing something I've never tried before, I'd really appreciate if everyone gave me their thoughts on how they think this is going, ehehe.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own PoT.

- SET IN A HIGH SCHOOL VERSE -

Step, step, step, crunch. Step, step, step, crunch, crunch, step, step-

A slender figure – short, too, barely passing 5 feet and two inches – walks forward, amidst the fallen leaves of the fall season. He walks with a slow, idle gait, as though there were a million other things he'd rather be doing, but at the same time, he couldn't be bothered to do anything else. The boy pauses at the entrance to the school grounds, eyes flitting to the gleaming sign on the low wall: "SEISHUN GAKUEN."

A slow, small smirk makes its way onto the curve of his lips, golden eyes glinting with something. The interest in his eyes subdues a moment later, and he resumes his steady, collected walk, step by step, and deep down, he relishes in the sound of crunching leaves beneath his feet.

"This is coming to you live, from just outside the home of the name we've all known and recognized since he first defeated the Indigo League – and the name that's come to dominate the world in a hurricane of fiery ambition and skill, as he claimed the title of 'Pokemon Master' just a bare four years later. Echizen Nanjiroh has finally made his return to Japan, sixteen years after slipping into inactivity and recluse following his marriage and birth of his only son."

The reporter smiled brightly into the camera, clutching the mic before her lips; all around her, flocked to the front gates of the temple, were cameramen and crew from at least over a dozen other prestigious news stations, from what she could see. And what else was to be expected? What station would be stupid enough to miss the long-awaited return of Echizen Nanjiroh to his native country?

She fixed her hair, reapplied her lipstick, then-

"Rumors have it that he will be sending his son – who has already conquered numerous junior leagues in the States – to his former teacher. Although the name of the school and coach has yet to be released, one can be sure that the whole world will be looking forward to Echizen Nanjiroh's next move, and hoping – just daring to hope – that perhaps his return to Japan could be the signal of his return to the battle scene."

Ryuzaki Sumire stared at the wall, seated comfortably on her leather-cushioned seat, wrinkling hands folded regally atop the cherrywood desk. Trophies, certificates, awards, letters of recognition and congratulations – they were all tacked up onto the vast wall of her office, starting with the oldest, spilling into the newest. In the center of the wall that was most certainly considered a 'fire hazard' by the fire department (but who would dare to tell her how to decorate her office?) remained an old photograph, framed and sitting in the position it has held since almost twenty years ago.

A young man – grinning brightly, mischievously, incorrigibly – stands in the center of an arena, long, dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail at the back of his head. He has one hand fisted in the air, holding a worn pokeball (the first he's ever had, as she remembers), and a Raichu stands just as proudly and arrogantly beside its owner.

Her finest and most idiotic student she's ever had the pleasure of teaching: Echizen Nanjiroh.

He had been a wild child, even back in the day – back when her hair had been long and luxurious, when her figure had formed a perfect 'S' shape. She remembered scowling at him when he refused to listen to her directions, when he smiled lecherously at her formidable rack, when he smiled so brightly it hurt as he won his first tournament since entering Seishun Gakuen.

The art of Pokemon battling has long since been an ancient craft; the Leagues, wherein one travelled to a total of eight gyms in the land, gained victory and the appropriate badges, and finally challenged the Elite Four to hope to earn the title of 'League Champion' had always been around, too. But the making of battling into a school sport had come around just a few years before Nanjiroh's time.

Schools had always taught at least a year or two of Pokemon battling to their students when they began their first year of high school, but it was usually for naught anyways, as most students had already mastered that portion of raising Pokemon as children. They weren't much good, most of them, but there were a few surprisingly decent battlers.

When Seishun Gakuen had joined the new fad of creating Pokemon battle teams to compete against other schools as they did with normal sports, Sumire had been appointed coach of the boys' team. The first few years were a disaster – boys got choked up, misused their Pokemon, or even attempted to join the fights themselves.

And then, Echizen Nanjiroh had come along, with a sharp tongue and but one Pokemon, looking as though he were ready to take on the world. She'd laughed at him – right before he'd blown her away with his seemingly effortless ability to battle and understand Pokemon as she'd never known anyone to be able to before.

That was the start of everything.

Now, twenty years later, battling is most certainly the most popular, and most competitive, form of inter-school sports. Of course, it was also the sport that most often got tangled up in lawsuits and precarious situations with angry parents, given that it placed hormonal teenagers in a field with dangerous, magical beasts, and told them to fight other teenagers equipped with equally dangerous, magical beasts. Nonetheless, it was extremely popular, and despite only being on the high-school level, it was as televised as any other form of sports - the really talented athletes were no less known than celebrities, nowadays.

In the mass of schools vying for one of the top spots, Seishun Gakuen has taken its place as one of the top three seeded schools in the Japan High School Battling League, alongside Hyotei Gakuen and Rikkai Dai Fuzoku. It's been a few years since Seigaku has been able to take the first place trophy, as Rikkai Dai and Hyotei had taken them in the past by just a few points-

But this, this was the year, Sumire was sure. She'd never seen a stronger team of regulars since Nanjiroh's days, and with the captain being Tezuka Kunimitsu this year…

And that Nanjiroh twerp had left her quite a stunning message on the phone just a few days back – "Hey, old hag! I'm movin' back to that stinkin country with my family soon; look after my brat for me, will you? I can't trust anyone else to get this kid in line, but I'm sure your screaming might do it."

If that child had even a vein of Nanjiroh's blood in his body, he'd be something worth watching for.

Sumire felt a small smile curving onto her lips. She could feel giddy laughter rising in her throat when she imagined the envy those two damned coaches of Rikkai Dai and Hyotei would feel when they saw her lineup this year. Those bastards always had a way of teasing her for growing senile – why, she'd show them what senile looked like-! Taro Sakaki, watch your back!

Ryuzakai Sakuno was one scatterbrained girl – she was undoubtedly smart, with high marks in all her classes, but she was hopeless with directions and clumsy to a fault. Still, when she caught the boy who appeared to be a first-year, looking around in various directions as though he were lost, she couldn't help but to approach him with a tentative smile and the offer to help.

The boy turned, and her heart paused and skipped a beat. Though he wasn't very much taller than himself, he simply had this aura of presence, wide golden eyes boring into her gaze as though he were tunneling through her very mind. Emerald-tinted hair fell about his porcelain features, and a white cap adorned his head (wasn't that against the school dress code?); the black jacket of his uniform was unbuttoned, revealing the white button-up shirt beneath it.

"Hn? Aa – doesn't this school have a battle club?"

Sakuno's eyes widened. This small boy – battling? "E-Ehh? Um, of course we do! It's right over that way!" Sakuno pointed in a certain direction.

The boy tugged on his cap slightly in thanks, before trudging off in the direction.

"Kyaaa! Pervert!" was most certainly not the line he first wanted to hear upon entering this stupid school Oyaji had chosen for him.

Ryoma hadn't really wanted to come to Japan, to begin with. He preferred the familiar streets of New York, the lazy drawl of the English language as opposed to the snippy, staccato beats of Japanese; he was already a holder of four consecutive Junior league titles there, and in his years in the States, had come across enough powerful opponents to keep him amused for a while. But Oyaji had insisted that Japan was the place where Ryoma could really hone his skills, and so he was here, dutifully sent along to his dad's alma mater.

Of course, it had to be just his luck to get help from some stupid girl with stupidly long pigtail braids, who'd directed him to the girls bathroom.

Finally, on his own, Ryoma had found his way to the appropriate club and field. The battling club had been allotted a large amount of land, covered in 'battle fields,' as they were called: rectangles drawn with sharp, clean white lines, dividing each rectangle into the appropriate areas: the two trainer boxes on either end, the center circle, and the halfway line. Each battle field was gated by a metal fence for the safety of spectators. Aside from a few small buildings (which he presumed to be changing rooms and healing centers), the battling club grounds was strewn with these battle fields, though the square of the center-most four rectangles was kept noticeably empty.

He had hardly entered the fields when he caught something of interest towards the far-end of the area. While most rectangles were occupied with trainers either battling against one another or training their pokemon, there was one at the left end where a group of three males seemed to be talking.

A tall boy – perhaps a third year, he mused – grinned at a smaller first year, something along the lines of "Heeeey, newbie – want to play a game?" from his lips, and Ryoma could hear the words faintly from where he stood.

Interest piqued, Ryoma made his way over, one brow slightly raised. He watched from behind the metal fence, leaning against it casually, humming quietly under his breath.

A can had been placed several feet in front of the first year, who had been told to release his pokemon – as Ryoma saw now, a small rattata. "The rules are simple," he heard the third year say. "You just have to knock over the can with one attack, and we'll give you 500 Yen."

Ryoma snorted.

"Wow! Um – okay!" the first year replied, to which Ryoma rolled his eyes.

"Alright, rattata! Use tackle!" Promptly, the mouse burst into action, darting forward and hurling its body at the can – only to stumble to the side with a whimper of pain. Ryoma's eyes stared unflinchingly at the scene, gaze lingering at the can.

"Since you lost, first-year, you now owe us 10000 Yen," the senior proclaimed, a sneer overtaking his features.

The first-year's expression promptly morphed into that of horror, and Ryoma was left wondering if he was really that naive as to believe that anything good could have come out of this 'game.' Well. None of his business, Ryoma shrugged, and began to turn around-

Just then, a looming figure walked onto the field, dressed in a yellow shirt so bright it hurt Ryoma's eyes, and blue trainers. He had a headband wrapped around his forehead and spiky hair that Ryoma was sure that it gave him an extra few inches, with violet eyes smiling and friendly. "You shouldn't bully the first years, Arai – you shouldn't," he said in a jovial voice, but Ryoma caught the warning tone in the words, as did the addressed male.

'Arai' seemed surprised that the new boy was there, for his next words were "What are you doing here, Momoshiro? I thought the regulars were-"

At the word 'regulars,' Ryoma's eyes flitted to the tall new boy - so he was a regular, here? Ryoma settled himself back against the fence; if it was a regular, it would be something interesting to watch.

'Momoshiro' shrugged. "I stayed behind to watch over the club. Good thing I did, huh?" His lips widened into a silly smile. "Hey, Arai – what if I take the boy's spot and play for him instead?" And before Arai could respond, Momo had pulled out a pokeball of his own, and with a wolfish grin, released an equally grinning Mankey.

"Mankey – go punch that can."

The pokemon readily obeyed, careening into the can with a forceful fist – and even Ryoma, from several feet away, could feel the blow of power from the small impact. The can blew backwards, a sound dent in its surface. But Mankey didn't stop there – it went down the line, punching every single can into a crumpled mess, until it reached the last one-

-but it didn't quite get to the last one, for something else hurled sharply onto the top of the can first.

Momoshiro's eyes shot to the can sharply.

A lithe Pikachu darted back onto the floor, tail still glimmering from the after effects of 'iron tail,' and looked back at its owner for approval. Ryoma's lips curved into a smirk, and that's all that Pikachu needed to grin smugly.

The can, after having been hit on its point of impact, tore open cleanly – revealing several heavy weights inside.

"Some cheap game," Ryoma commented rather loudly, and the Pikachu scurried back to his side. Arai, eyes irritated, flashed to Ryoma, and he made a move to walk threateningly towards the smaller boy; just then, Momoshiro's intimidating, taller figure made itself known, and Arai visibly backed off. With a growl of frustration, Arai lumbered off the fields, and Ryoma's smirk widened. "Mada mada dane," he murmured, and turned around with the intention of leaving, too-

"Oi! First-year! Wait."

Ryoma's heard quirked around to raise a brow levelly at Momoshiro, who now pointed an almost accusing finger at Ryoma. "Fancy a battle?"

Ryoma's lips widened into a smirk again.

Six figures made their way into the battle club grounds, led by a tall boy with side-swept brown hair and a stoic expression behind elegant silver rims. Almost all activity in the club paused in favor of staring in awe at the boys who, despite chattering amongst themselves with aching casualness, exuded a presence so powerful it was impossible not to notice.

"It's the regulars!" one of the first year members whispered to another. "They're back!"

Fuji caught the statement, and chuckled softly, honey-brown locks swaying in the soft breeze. "Why, yes we are," he murmured at the boy who had just spoken. "Why? Would you have preferred that we stay away a little while longer?"

The boy stammered.

Fuji opened his eyes to reveal two orbs of shocking electric blue.

The boy almost whimpered in fear.

"Fuji," Tezuka's stern voice cut through Fuji's obvious delight and amusement, and the shorter boy pouted playfully.

"I was only asking," Fuji replies smoothly. He hands the first-year a parting Cheshire grin smile, though, that has him quivering in half-awe and half-fear.

"Look, nya! Momo's playing against some newcomer!" Eiji exclaimed, jumping up to wrap his limbs into a tangle about his doubles partner, Oishi, who staggered only slightly at the shorter boy's weight. "Hoi hoiiiii," Eiji hummed, close to Oishi's ear.

"Ah, ah – Momo really shouldn't be using his pokemon so soon after the accident," Oishi murmured worriedly, green eyes flashing. But, then again – even a severely crippled Momo would be more than a match for most standard trainers, Oishi reasoned, feeling relieved once more. Eiji patted his head soothingly – poor Oishi, always worrying his pretty little head.

"Oishi, nya – you're gonna get gray hairs with all that worrying, you know?"

Oishi only frowned.

A particularly unlucky run-in with some broken training equipment and a lack of foresight on his part had left his main pokemon severely injured in the left ankle; it was because of that very injury that Momo had opted to skip out on the quick training match Seigaku had scheduled with a neighboring school that day. Still, he couldn't help but to have requested a small battle with this boy, because something, something about him screamed 'a challenge.'

And Momo never did resist those too well, not when his blood boiled with vigor at the prospect of a good match. "What's your name, first year?"

Ryoma's lip quirks up. "Echizen Ryoma." He tugs on his hat.

Momo's brows rose to his hairline, violet eyes closing in onto the first year in renewed interest. 'Echizen Ryoma,' his mind plays with the name as it tugs with familiarity in his memories - ah, he remembers now. Ryuzaki-sensei had told him that there was an amusing first year transferring in - one with a particularly interesting pokemon.

"Ah, ah – you're the one with a Pikachu that knows volt tackle, huh?" Momo grins down at the Pikachu, who only observes its tail coolly, smugness radiating off of its yellow fur.

Ryoma simply tugs on his cap again, though Momo can see another smirk decorating the line of his lips. Keh – snarky little brat; no wonder his Pikachu has such an attitude, too. Well, whatever. Momo pointed at Ryoma again, before nudging his chin onto the battle field. "Let's go, shortie, let's go," he grins vivaciously, to which Ryoma narrows his eyes at 'shortie.'

He turns his sharp golden glower onto Momo, and he knows he's incited some fighting spirit in the mysterious first-year, and widens his grin.

"C'mon, Ryoma – Pikachu's stronger than this, son."

Ryoma scowls deeply, taking in the roughed up state of his Pokemon, before glowering resentfully at his father's own Raichu, smirking from the other side of the battlefield. "Stop depending on its electric attacks, Ryoma – make it strong even without electricity."

Ryoma wants to throw his hands up in the air, because what the bloody hell was that supposed to mean? Pikachu was an electric rodent, for fuck's sake-

"Again, Ryoma – let's go."

With a growl of frustration, Ryoma commands another order to Pikachu, only to have Raichu deflect the attack with an air of practiced ease.

His father's infuriating grin widens, and all Ryoma can think of is shaving off that disgusting stubble from his chin. "Again, Ryoma. One more time."

"Pikachu – quick attack," Ryoma's monotone voice orders, just loud enough for the yellow mouse to pick up on the command. It darts into action at a surprising speed even for Momo, whose Mankey takes the hit and stumbles. But Momo is unfazed.

"Don't play with me, kid – show me that volt tackle of yours," he whines, before: "Go in for a low kick, Mankey-!"

"Quick attack," Ryoma orders again – and Pikachu barely avoids Mankey's outstretched leg in time to careen into the white monkey with another quick attack. Momo is unfazed by the amount of hits his Mankey takes – rather, he feels frustrated that it seems as though the shorter boy is holding back.

"Cross chop," he finally gargles out – and Mankey raises its forehands out in an 'X' just as Ryoma tones out, "Iron tail," and Pikachu's silver glowing tail slams into the formed X. The two Pokemon stagger back at the force of the impact, and for a moment, they act upon animalistic instinct and experience alone; the two trainers take a backseat.

Mankey gives a shrill cry in favor of lunging forward, claws outstretched, and Pikachu prances around, moving at a speed so high after-images are left in its wake; but Mankey isn't known for its slow speed, either, and it's almost caught up with Pikachu's zig-zagging tail-

-and catches it, pinning it down, until Pikachu squeals.

Ryoma finds it the right time to intercept: "Pikachu – bring your body in and slam it-"

And the electric rat obeys; while its tail is trapped on the floor by a triumphant Mankey, it heaves the rest of its body forward and slams into the equally sized form of the monkey, and both roll forward until Momoshiro gives the next command.

"Seismic toss! Give it a good whirl, Mankey!"

Ryoma's eyes widen for a split second as Manky gets right back up and grabs Pikachu's tail, and before he can utter another command, the small monkey spins in a rapid circle, spinning Pikachu as an outstretched component-

-and Ryoma feels the precise moment the small hands let go of his Pokemon's tail, for he darts into action, too. "Just ride the pressure upwards," he manages to command, "And lower your tail to balance when you're at the peak of the toss!"

Momoshiro snorts – as if the rat would be able to maneuver itself so well mid-air; but it does, and his violet eyes snap open, and Mankey's left slack-jawed itself. "Come down with an iron tail!" Both trainer and pokemon hear the slightly raspy voice of Ryoma command his Pikachu.

"Karate Chop when it hits you," Momo counters just as fiercely.

And both trainers watch in concentration as Pikachu makes an elegant arch high in the air with a now-glowing tail, hurtling down, down, until it hits the Mankey's hurled arm; the two pokemon are caught in a heartbeat's standstill-

-until Mankey's arm gives way first, and it rolls to the side in a shriek of pain.

Momo takes an anxious step forward, before remembering that his is a battle, and for his self to step into the field could mean lethal consequences. From across the field, Pikachu lowers into a four-legged crouch as to remind Momoshiro just how dangerous a bright yellow rat can be, a fanged grin from his mouth.

"Pikachu," Ryoma begins. Pikachu tenses into action. "Come back."

The tension in the air is shattered with that single phrase, and at once, everything collapses. Pikachu's figure slumps in half-disappointment, half-exasperation, before scurrying back to Ryoma. Mankey's determined growl fades into a slight hum of confusion, and Momoshiro mirrors his Pokemon's expression.

Ryoma tugs on his hat. "Mada mada dane," he mutters, and walks away.

Fuji's head is tilted, blue eyes slightly open – though not quite as bright as they usually are when he has a reason to open his eyes. His head is tilted in amusement, and a kind of interest that chills Tezuka to the bone when he notices the level of curiosity that mysterious first-year has managed to pique in Fuji's bones. Oishi is still worrying, it seems, hysteria increased ten-fold as he tries to wrangle out of Eiji's death grip and run to Momo-

-but he can't, and gives a mournful cry of a mother who's lost her child, when Eiji won't relent on his hug of death. Eiji, meanwhile, doesn't notice his partner's desperate wish to check on their teammate, but only has eyes bulging out of their sockets, slack-jawed.

Inui's glasses are glinting dangerously, Tezuka notes with an upcoming migraine; things never turn out well when the boy's glasses shine with an unholy light like that. The last time, Inui managed to slaughter their entire two-hundred applicant strong pool of newcomers with his 'Hyper Deluxe Golden Juice' (Eiji's shrieks of "Nya! Nya nya nya that's not gold, nya! That's black-" still ring in his head from time to time).

Kaidoh's rolling his eyes and muttering about idiots that are too weak to do anything right, and Kawamura seems to be worried (on an appropriate level, nothing like the near-hysteric bawling Oishi seems to be about to hurl into at any second now) for their friend.

Tezuka snaps all of them back to attention with a "Don't let your guard down."

But he, too, makes a note to inquire about that freshman later.

"Is that okay, Momo?"

Momoshiro looks up at the amused tone in his coach's voice, familiar and warm in the 'strict grandmother' kind of tone she has. His Mankey in front of him seems fine enough, for the battle hadn't gone long enough to last any serious damage on either party; Momo, though, doesn't know whether to feel disappointed or excited. "What is?"

Ryuzaki-sensei chuckled knowingly. "At that rate, that first-year would have walked all over you," she laughs, and though her words may suggest so, Momoshiro can't find any hint of admonishment in her voice.

Momoshiro laughed sheepishly, then, scratching the back of his head with an embarrassed smile. "That shortie was good!"

"Momo, your Mankey had a sprained ankle- surely, if it was better, the match would have gone differently."

But Momoshiro shook his head, a grin on his lips. "That kid knew from the very beginning."

A knowing smile touched Ryuzaki-sensei's expression. "Oho?"

"That kid used a handicap on his senior – what brattiness!" he laughed.

Fuji remained in his still position just beside Tezuka, arms crossed and a serene expression gracing his beautiful features. "Tezuka," he murmurs, in a whimsical tone. "Did you notice?" And Fuji leaned his head towards Tezuka, smile beginning to take a turn for the amused.

Tezuka paused to ponder on what Fuji meant, before- "…Aa."

"That kid – didn't use a single electric attack with Momo."

Tezuka pushed the bridge of his glasses further up his nose. "Aa," he repeated, for he, too, had already noticed halfway through the match.

"Saa…Seigaku's about to get a little more interesting, don't you think?"

Tezuka didn't want to admit the chill that shot up his spine at the sound of Fuji's voice – just like the devil, murmuring sweet curses to the ears of his damned followers. Goddamned Fuji and his sadistic, insane bastard tendencies-

Fuji giggled, and Tezuka felt another piece of his soul smolder and wither away into ash.

POKEMON SELECTIONS: If you think there are any pokemon a character should have, please state so in a review, too, and help me out! Ehehe.

READ. REVIEW. LOVE.