You dropped the handheld. When it hit the floor, the cartridge popped out. It was hot to the touch, smelling of ozone and burnt plastic. You looked at the label again. The Sharpie hadn't just been written on the plastic; it had been etched deep into the casing, like it was done by a claw.
Suddenly, the game forced a warp. You were in the Hall of Fame, but the statues were cracked. Standing at the end was the Rival, his back turned. When you approached, he didn't trigger a battle. He spoke in a text box that scrolled too fast to read, except for the final line: Pokemon Raptor Ex Exe
The Fearow sprite grew, filling the entire screen until only its red, unblinking eyes remained. The console vibrated violently in your hands. A high-pitched screech tore through the speakers—not a Pokémon cry, but a human scream processed through an 8-bit filter. The screen went black. You dropped the handheld