[ EU ] Pokemon battles are now part of the olympics

The President smiled as he waved. Smiled and smiled and smiled, his face lit up by the endless strobe of flashes and the cascade of camera clicks. It never seemed to end. It never should end. Not after what he'd announced. Not after what he'd done. They'd be talking about this forever; no, they'd be talking about **him** forever. The thought of it spread a warm tightness in his chest and helped him to hold his eyes open, even as the stinging and the blindness from the flashing became almost unbearable. 
 
 `` Mr President, it can't-'' 
 `` Dmitri, I do n't want to hear it.'' 
 It was 10 minutes before the press conference, and Dmitri felt sick. And not in a good, too-much-vodka-the-previous-night, kind of way; this was a much more oh-sweet-merciful-God-please-let-this-be-some-kind-of-cosmic-joke bout of nausea. He could n't be serious. He could n't be f***ing serious. Even for him, even for the President, this was a level of such absolute stupidity and disconnection from all things reality that he could n't possibly be- 
 `` I'm serious Dmitri, and I want it done. I do n't care what it costs or what we have to do. It will happen.'' 
 `` But Sir, they don't-'' 
 `` It will be a part of the games Dmitri.'' 
 `` It's not-'' 
 `` The best part of the games.'' 
 `` It does n't even-'' 
 `` **My** part of the games.'' The President's eyes narrowed, and Dmitri's futile protests curtailed into a gulp. `` My idea. The greatest addition to the games in their entire history.'' 
 The aide tried in vain to speak. `` Sir, it can't-'' 
 `` I do n't want to hear'ca n't' Dmitri,'' the President cut across him with a wave of his hand, `` I just want to hear'done'. Do I make myself clear?'' Dmitri could only stand there, trying hard not to look aghast. The other man gave a curt nod, then turned and walked away. 
 Well, thought Dmitri. He stared glumly at a chip of paint peeling off the wall. Guess it was time to resign oneself to one's inevitable death. 
 
 After the announcement was made, the press went into a frenzy. Such a thing was unheard of, stretching the limits of disbelief, borderline insane. People called it a joke, a farce, a symptom of crippling mental instability; they dismissed it, pointed out the logical flaws, or even took it as an insult. Mostly though, they just laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed, in every home and every forum and every talk show in every corner of the world. It was a free meal ticket to every comedian in the world, and it was all directed at them; the Glorious, Ridiculous, Monumentally-Insane Nation of Russia. 
 
 And through it all, the President stood firm. He never backed down, never did anything that made it seemed like he had even the faintest flicker of a doubt. He believed, and nothing anyone else in any lesser country said could shake him of that belief. And it was that unwavering focus, that untouchable faith, that made a lot of people stop, maybe for only a second, and wonder. Surely. Surely not. It's not possible. He could n't be telling the truth. But... maybe. Maybe, just maybe, he'd done it. Maybe, just maybe, they could pull this off. 
 
 And so it fell to Dmitri. Mere months before the Opening Ceremony, with who-knows-how-many other problems, failures, and uncompleted organisational train-wrecks already looming high over the Games, Dmitri was charged with doing the impossible. 
 
 He was to create Pokemon. 
 
 Real, actual, breathing, fucking, battling, name-squealing Pokemon, just like the ones in those motherf*cking video games, games which Dmitri damned for ever having existed with every waking moment of his ever-decreasing lifespan. They had to exist, and they had to exist in time for the games, or otherwise, said the President, he would be **very** displeased. And Dmitri knew exactly what that meant. Either he'caught them all', or the back of his head caught a bullet. Probably 151, just to be poetic. 
 
 He approached the science department first. They'd laughed uproariously at him, right up until he pulled out his cellphone, dialled the President, and told him that the science department had personally guaranteed him that they could have the Pokemon ready in time for the games. Then the laughter abruptly stopped, and terrified looks were shared by all except Dmitri, who was simply out of fucks to give by now. If I'm going down, he explained to them, then so is each and every fucking one of you. After that, they became substantially more helpful. 
 
 Unfortunately, helpful did n't necessarily translate into `` Pokemon'', in the same way that `` terrified'' did n't translate into `` Pokemon.'' Because nothing fucking translated into Pokemon, as it soon turned out, because Pokemon did n't exist and would never exist even if they somehow managed to make every technological breakthrough scheduled for the next century in a week and a half. Still, they tried. They electrocuted a few rodents with batteries sewn hastily under their skin, and they threw any number of animals into nuclear reactors. They tried gene-splicing everything they could get their hands on, and ended up with a lot of small piles of dead goop; which, with a flash of insight, an intern mixed in with a tin of purple paint and tried to label as `` Grimer'', but which in reality was fooling no one. Then they tried nuclear waste, then abandoned nuclear submarines, then nuclear fuel rods, because if there was one thing Russia had an abundance of, it was crappy nuclear-related paraphernalia. And snow. May as well give snow a shot. They tried gluing snow to the biggest bird they could find and then spraying it with a misting hose in the Siberian cold; but no, that did n't work either ( not that they'd really held out high hopes about that one ). 
 
 They did have mild success in recreating a Spinda, by getting a small bear, shaving and tattooing it, then force feeding the poor thing as much vodka as it could handle. But even that was more failure than victory; sure, the creature stumbled and weaved fairly accurately, but it also steadfastly to follow trainer commands and spent most of its time throwing up a lot. So that was at best tucked away into the `` Maybe'' pile.
