Pokemon: Apocalypse (Pokemon/Our World)

[Fabled Webs]

Preface

Right, this is one of the stories that was pat-re-on exclusive until now.

Thank Definitely Not Dio and Napalm222 over on Questionable Questing for this little disaster. Despite the chapter numbering, I haven't planned ahead on this. Then again, PWP isn't planned either and that seems unreasonably popular so… *shrugs*

I was given the theme of "apocalypse survival" and told to go nuts. I didn't want to rip off Napalm's fic so settled for a completely different premise and fandom.

Elevator Pitch: Pokemon and dungeons started appearing all over the world in 2012. I know, generic. The caveat is that the monsters were easily recognizable. Each dungeon seemed to have a theme, a type. Things happened, people were people, and nuclear winter set in by 2015.

Liftoff 1.1

February 2015

The snow crunched audibly beneath my boots as I trekked through the Oregon forest. It wasn't too deep but still enough to give the forest a winter-wonderland feel. There was a decent mix of conifers here, fairly common all throughout southern Oregon. That was good; conifers were hardy trees capable of surviving colder temperatures. They'd suffer for the lack of a warm season but they'd survive, which was more than could be said for many other plants.

I'd seen my fair share of animals and pokemon throughout my year here. There were normal game like rabbits, hogs, elk, pheasants, wild turkey, and even a bear if i felt like being suicidal. Then there were the pokemon. The spearow line was especially common here, as were pidgey, hoothoot, rattata, zigzagoon, poochyena, and sneasel. I'd even seen a stantler a while back.

Experts said global temperatures were expected to fall by anywhere from eight to fifteen degrees across the board, more depending on how close you were to the detonation site. That didn't sound unbearable until you realized just how narrow temperature tolerances could be for agriculture.

And that was assuming people could farm at all. Between a mass migration south, raiders, and the fucking wild pokemon, keeping a respectable harvest was a near impossibility unless you happened to have some of the military remnants on your side.

I let out a weary sigh. Three years ago, when pokemon began to magically appear in the wilds, I was so goddamn excited. Thrilled. Like so many others, I thought I could live out my childhood dreams. I wasn't quite to the point of hailing Tajiri and Miyamoto as prophets, some people were fucking loons, but I wasn't too far behind either.

Pokemon! The childhood fantasy of billions! Real!

And then reality sank in. The modern world was woefully unequipped to handle an influx of what amounted to magical super-fauna. We lacked pokeballs. Potions. Organizations and infrastructures dedicated to dealing with them. And perhaps most important, we lacked trust.

The games and anime harped on it again and again, the "power of bonds," but it was all background noise for so many of us. Until suddenly, that nonexistent relationship became a matter of life and death. The humans of the pokemon world had thousands of years to build a coexisting, mutualistic society; we didn't.

It wasn't long before reports started coming in. People died trying to "train" pokemon. Children poisoned to death by "weak" weedle, carried off by oversized pidgeotto, or gored through by rhyhorn because they didn't fully grasp that these creatures were now real. They had real needs and instincts paired with an intelligence that could sometimes put humans to shame.

It was only after that guy, Ziegler or something, explored and cleared a dungeon in the Black Forest in Germany that we discovered a new aspect of our changed world: Dungeons contained what we'd missed, what we desperately needed. He returned with a "bonded" houndour at his side, swearing up and down that there was an honest-to-God fantasy treasure box at the end with three funny-shaped acorns. He'd said that some kind of screen told him they were called apricorns.

The forest guide didn't know what that meant but I did, as did millions around the world. He'd returned with three apricorns, the keys to pokeball technology. Once the German government realized what the hell Ziegler had in his hands, the apricorns were confiscated for testing. Two to plant, one to study. It wasn't long before another dungeon, one in Australia, was cleared, this time with a single piece of paper inside the box that contained the instructions for the manufacture of pokeballs.

That was how the world discovered the importance of dungeons: Anything and everything, the technology, berries, and all other miraculous secrets of the pokemon world, were available in the dungeons. Super-foods that could survive any climate? Done. Potions that could damn near revive the dead? Just risk your life for it and pray you're lucky. Secret training manuals of the Aura Guardians? No one had found them yet, but that sure as hell didn't mean they weren't available to the bold of heart.

Those who cleared them, Ziegler being the first, acquired not only a bonded pokemon, but an increased vitality. They "awakened." Ziegler described it on international TV as being "at once with his existence." He'd since become something of a wanderer, the "Ranger of Black Forest," they called him. Last I heard before international comms went down, people were saying the man himself had superpowers.

Dungeons held the secret to survival. Every treasure, every knowledge, could be found in there if you were lucky enough to survive. The trouble was, pokemon were dangerous, even more so inside the dungeons.

I kicked a branch out of my way. That was all beyond me. I wasn't military, if there were any reputable units left of them at all. I was just a hobbyist backpacker who lucked out. I'd been hiking the Cascade Mountains when the nukes dropped in July last year alongside Rocket, my trusty zigzagoon, named for Marvel's very own trash panda. Good thing I was out too, because I lived in the Mid-Atlantic and DC was just about the first nuclear target.

I'd found Rocket halfway through a packet of beef franks in my campground one day. Paranoid fucker that I was, I tried to club him to death with my thermos. He bit a gash into my forearm, the scar I still had today. I used some bear spray. Shitty trash panda Tackled me into a tree.

In the end, exhausted and hungry, we came to an understanding. I wasn't a trainer, not really. Pokeballs were expensive as fuck and I hadn't cleared a dungeon so I was just a vanilla human, but maybe that wasn't what was important?

Fictional as he was, wasn't Professor Samuel Oak the authority on pokemon? If he was right, it was the bond that really determined a trainer's worth. A pokeball was ultimately just a tool, an expression of that bond. It wasn't strictly necessary… Or so I kept telling myself…

"Well, little fucker hasn't killed me in my sleep so I guess it's working," I muttered.

"Zig," Rocket chittered as he walked beside me.

He hopped onto my backpack and cheered as the straps dragged me onto my back. Despite being barely a foot tall at the shoulder, the fucker was dense, closer to forty pounds. That much weight suddenly latching onto my already overloaded back left me doing my best impression of a turtle.

"Oi! You son of a bitch! I oughta turn you into a hat!" I swore at him.

He sat on his haunches two feet away, his tongue wagging out of his mouth. The smug fucker wasn't even remotely sorry.

Grumbling, I rolled onto my front so I could stand. I'd looted as much as I could from the only sporting goods store in Bend, a small town south of Portland. I had a hunting crossbow, a bowie knife, some stackable cookware, a stick of flint and striker, a rudimentary first aid kit, a map of the west coast, a thermal sleeping bag, tarp, and mat, water purification tablets, and as much canned food as I could carry. I'd also brought along packets of vegetable seeds. Was it optimistic as hell? Yes, but I wanted something to work towards, maybe a little plot of land for myself if I ever felt secure enough to try.

All told, I had roughly thirty-five pounds of gear, perfect for a backpacker, or an amateur survivalist doing his best to eke out a living on his own because Bend was bound to descend into anarchy.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a pine tree with some of its bark stripped off. It was too low and uneven, which told me it wasn't likely a bear or bull elk marking its territory. I nudged Rocket with my foot. "Oi, Rocket, see that?"

"Zig," he studied the tree with a gimlet eye.

"Feral swine?"

"Zigzagoon."

I stared at him blankly. "Yeah, sorry, bud. I don't have a clue what you're saying."

He snorted derisively. "Zigzaa…"

"Whatever. Can we hunt it?"

"Zig."

"Good. Odor Sleuth. Track it for me."

WIth a bark, he was off into the underbrush. This was the crux of our relationship. Despite what the anime and video games led me to believe, Rocket wasn't mighty. He couldn't move mountains or shatter castles with a single Hyper Beam. Most pokemon couldn't in fact, had little to do with being a zigzagoon.

The average pokemon was very much greater than their wild animal counterparts, both in intelligence and power, but they were hardly the landscape-altering monsters I knew. They were still dangerous, but only when directly provoked.

Rocket, being about a foot tall, couldn't hunt big game. If left to his own devices, the trash panda would do well enough foraging for rabbits, blackberries, and the like, but he could eat much better if he played scout to a hunter with a crossbow.

I had some vague hopes that we'd be able to work together more closely, form a real team, but I wasn't holding my breath. People, really unlucky people, had found the hard way that you couldn't build a lifelong bond with a pokemon just by feeding it some scraps every now and then. Pokemon were intelligent, which meant they typically didn't take being treated like dogs too well. Smart partners or stupid pets; you couldn't have it both ways.

Rocket paused so I slowed my steps until I caught up. Two flicks of his tail told me it was within a hundred yards. We crept along slowly until I spotted the animal, a completely mundane hog. That was good. The last time we tried this, I'd run into a stantler. Thankfully, the skittish pokemon had left after only hypnotizing me into a stupor.

I brought my crossbow to bear at thirty yards, closer than an experienced hunter needed. I wasn't a crackshot, but a year of mandatory hunting made me decent enough.

I took a deep breath and remembered what few lessons I'd received before being sent out as a discount "ranger." Deep breaths. Calm and centered. Lead slightly. Aim for the heart, not the eye; even if you miss by a bit, you'll hit something important.

"Spearow!"

"Holy fuck!" I cried in alarm as the most irritating bird pokemon across all five generations dive-bombed the hog with seemingly zero regard for its own well-being.

That hog had to outmass the dumb bird by an order of magnitude but science took a backseat to poke-magic bullshit as its wings were cloaked in white light. The hog squealed in alarm as the bird ripped sizable tears in its fat. Still, it failed to secure the kill.

I swore and took my shot. Whether by luck or practice, my bolt found its mark in its right shoulder, causing the pig to squeal in pain. Not immediately lethal but the fucking bird spoiled my shot. I grunted in annoyance and pulled back the string and notched another bolt.

"Shit, someone's there," I heard a man shout. I whirled to find a middle-aged man with a hunting rifle fifty yards to my right. By the look of him, he sure as hell wasn't a mountaineer. He had a large beer belly under his winter jacket that made me think he wasn't familiar with walking, never mind hiking mountain trails. Still, he had a gun and I didn't.

He took aim at the pig and fired once, sending every fucking bird in the forest flying in blind panic. He wasn't a very good shot, another point in favor of someone being forced into the deep end faster than he could adapt. A second shot struck the hog in its flank but pigs were sturdy bastards.

I grimaced as its dying squeals filled the forest. I hated this. Basic respect for life demanded we kill it quickly. "Put it out of its misery," I called.

"I know!" he shouted back. He got closer until he was less than twelve feet away and pulled the trigger a final time. He wasted no time claiming the kill. "My shot, my hog."

I looked him over once again and gauged my chances. A hunting rifle like the one he was holding had five shots in its chamber. Assuming the chamber wasn't modified, he had two shots left by my count. It wasn't worth fighting over the kill, even if I'd shot it first.

"Sure," I said with false nonchalance. "Let me grab my bolt and I'll be on my way."

"You do that."

I emerged from behind my tree and walked over. I leaned down to pluck the bolt from the body and turned to walk away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the spearow give the man a venomous glare. There were pokemon strong enough to shrug off bullets; the spearow wasn't one of them. It flew off with a screech.

"Hold on," he called. "You got a lot of stuff there, friend."

I swore under my breath. This, this bullshit was why I left Bend. The winter brought out the worst in people. It made them greedy, self-serving with the worst sort of desperation. I glanced back at him. His gun was halfway raised now, two shots to my one.

"How 'bout you share the load?" he called again, more confident with my silence.

"Try up north, four days walk. Bend's got a bulbasaur to help farm. Got an orchard and everything." They did, some girl named Haley managed to tame one. Her parents lived like fucking royalty while the world burned. That bulbasaur was the only reason they'd lasted so long but with people coming south from Washington and Canada, I saw the writing on the wall. Was it a dick move to send him into a powder keg? Yes, but so was robbing a guy mid-hunt.

Fuck this guy.

"You let me worry 'bout where I'm headed. Drop the bag and we won't have any problems. The crossbow too, could use a nice and quiet one."

"You don't want to do this," I warned him. If there was one thing I remembered from the anime, it was that spearow rarely worked alone. There was probably a flock somewhere nearby, a flock that'd be mighty pissed about one of them being scared off its kill. If he wasn't here, I could have taken the hog and maybe the spearow too. Or maybe cut a chunk of pork while leaving the rest as a peace offering.

I grunted in annoyance. The dumbass announced us for everything in the forest to track. I let out a click of the tongue that he interpreted as disappointment.

"I think I do. The gun's loaded. You turn around, I shoot. Come on, man, your supplies aren't worth your life."

"They are my life."

"Tough," I heard him shrug.

"You're really gonna do this?"

"I reckon I could use the supplies."

"Fine." I allowed the crossbow to hang off my hip. Slowly, I pulled one arm through the strap of my backpack, then the other. "Liftoff."

The bush next to him practically exploded as Rocket let out a vicious cry. He launched himself up using his oversized tail. White light cloaked him in a textbook Quick Attack that found his face.

"Aaah!" he yelled as Rocket's little teeth found his face. Guns didn't mean shit t that range and I knew from personal experience how sharp the pint-sized fucker's chompers were.

"Liftoff" was just about the only thing I'd taught Rocket. I got the idea when he used Tail Whip to slap a squirrel unconscious. Sure, it wasn't strong enough to damage a pokemon, or even a decent-sized human, but his tail was deceptively well-muscled. Combined with Quick Attack, it gave him a significant boost, at least in a straight line.

It was damn useful for scaring rabbits or pheasants out of their hiding places, and apparently, also for ambushing assholes.

I completely let go of my pack and rolled to the side, hiding behind a bush to minimize my profile. Then I brought my crossbow to bear.

I paused. Was this worth it? I'd killed before, animals and wild pokemon, but this felt different. This felt like I was crossing a line somehow. Yes, he'd tried to rob me first. Yes, he was going to leave me stranded in a forest with no weapon or supplies. But he was still a person, right? He had the same concerns I did.

As bitter as it made me, I understood.

Then he swung at Rocket with the stock of his rifle and my heart hardened. My mind made up, I placed my finger on the trigger and aimed for center mass.

"I understand," I whispered. "Nothing personal."

With the subdued twang of the bowstring, the bolt sprouted from his chest and I'd made my first kill. He gurgled on the ground as lifeblood filled his lungs.

I walked up to him and ripped the bolt from his chest.

He tried to say something but the blood in his lungs made him glub like a goldfish.

"Nothing personal," I repeated.

"Zig?" he asked, waving towards the man with a cream-colored paw. "Zagoon?"

I remembered what I taught him. "Yeah. Clean kills are a mercy."

"Zag."

Pulling out my bowie knife, I drew a crimson line across his throat. It was jagged from the trembling in my hands but I managed. "You started this," I whispered, "don't blame me."

It was… easy. Uncomfortably so. I didn't feel like throwing up. I didn't hate myself. I just felt… tired? Accepting? At peace? I'd taken a life; I'd just have to live with it. In a way, I supposed it was something I'd been ready for. Maybe I'd been subconsciously working myself up towards it, preparing myself the best I could. The US government didn't exist. There were no laws. Really, it was a minor miracle that I'd gone this long without having to fight another human for my life.

Did that make me a coward? Or merely conflict-avoidant?

I was drawn out of my thoughts by a white light that surrounded Rocket. I'd never seen it personally but recognized it immediately: Evolution.

The light faded and I looked over the linoone. He didn't get any taller. He was still only a foot tall at the shoulder, laughably short for an evolved pokemon. What he lacked in stature, he gained in length. He was now almost six feet long from nose to tail, with chocolate-brown stripes running along his fur.

"Linoone," he called. He sniffed at himself and let out a cheeky, doggy grin.

My stomach sank. "You evolved."

"Lin."

I grunted and stood. "Lucky you."

I dusted the snow off my jacket and began to walk away. A linoone… Not an apex predator by any means, but more than adequate for forest living. He didn't need me anymore. He wasn't a pet. I had no ball. We had an arrangement: He'd be my scout and I'd feed him bigger and better prey than he could acquire on his own. That was now superfluous. The best thing I could do was get out of dodge before he decided I looked tasty enou-

I almost fell on my face as seventy pounds of ferret landed on my shoulder. I twisted and managed a clumsy slump onto my side. "Oof, what the fuck, Rocket?"

Instead of needle-sharp teeth, I felt him curl his body around my neck like an oversized scarf. "Linoone, lin-linoone."

"Get off, you don't need me anymore. You can hunt bigger game on your own now."

"Lin."

I stumbled to my feet with more than a hundred pounds on my back. "You're fat."

"Lin," he barked, nipping my ear in displeasure.

"You're gonna stick around, huh?"

"Linoone."

"Well get off because you're fucking heavy."

"Oone?"

"No, who needs a scarf that weighs seventy pounds?"

"Oone," he said. For something that could only say its own name, he /did a remarkable job conveying how smug he was.

I sighed and shrugged him off. My boots crunched into the snow and I heard the almost snake-like rustle and slither as the oversized ferret followed my lead. Even without a ball, was a year of hunting together long enough to form the vaunted bond Oak liked to go on about?

Apparently, yes. I smiled as I made my way through the snow. Maybe I was better at this whole training thing than I thought.

Author's Note

Yeah… This is definitely darker than Spoon. Let me know what you think because I frankly have no idea what to think of this myself. I rejected "zombie apocalypse" so my brain decided to go to some weird places. There's a lot of worldbuilding to do because the premise is more complicated than the usual "X gets isekaied into Y familiar setting." Hopefully it's not too boring to read.

Note: This is a Hoenn zigzagoon. It's not a dark type. I wanted to emphasize that the MC is not some chosen one. He has no grand destiny or unique talent. He's just a hobbyist backpacker and forester caught up in the fall of human society as we know it. Which isn't to say linoone are bad. If you play competitive, you know what build I'm going for already.

Also note: Pokemon XY was released in 2013, which means that in this fic, people only know up to Black/White. Will newer gens show up? Yes. Will they be surprised as fuck? Also yes.

As always, I'm very grateful to those who've seen fit to donate to my work. Because of the huge backlog of chapters on Pat-re-on, I'll be uploading this and other stories more frequently.

 

[wdango]

Oh, nice! Been waiting for more (free) stuff from you for a while now. Excellent storytelling as usual, Webs. Thank you!

 

[CausalityCircle]

This is very interesting

 

[Fabled Webs]

Liftoff 1.2

April 2015

If the world warmed up in the past two months, I didn't notice. Even in mid-April, temperatures never rose above forty-five degrees during high noon and fell well below freezing at night. The cold was so bad that I'd stretched a sixteen day hike from Bend to Tahoe to a solid two months. Sometimes, it was all I could do to huddle inside my thermal sleeping bag with my oversized ferret for most of the day.

Despite the snow and ice and the drastically shorter window of time I could spend hiking each day, I'd chosen to make for higher ground for one primary reason: solitude.

The last I checked, thousands had migrated south from Portland, Seattle, and the like, settling in small towns that were woefully ill-equipped to handle the sudden influx. Bend had been better thanks to the presence of several key pokemon, but even they were succumbing to infighting and supply shortages before I dipped.

I remembered when the bombs first dropped, a mountaineer with even the tacit loyalty of a pokemon was eagerly welcomed. With Rocket's help, I helped hunt and forage as well as rescue travelers. As population shot up and food supplies slowly dwindled, my presence became less and less desirable. No matter how many times I went out, there was only so much prey within walking distance of the town after all.

So, seeing the writing on the wall, I'd left. I didn't need them any more than they needed me. I'd learned all the skills I needed to survive already.

I figured that if there were two cities in Northern California that would have definitely been hit by the bombs, they were San Francisco and Sacramento, the most populated city and the state capital. I didn't know much about where the bombs dropped, comms cut shortly after, but fallout traveled like any other gas. Safety videos said about six miles.

I was probably being overly cautious, but the increased elevation of the mountain routes made for clean air and water if nothing else.

Oh, and no people. Fuck people.

Maybe there will come a day when society reestablishes itself, but now? A mere nine months after nukes dropped? It was anarchy, every man for himself. I wanted no part of it. Fucking off to a lake resort where I could hunt and forage on my lonesome without fearing anyone stabbing me in the back sounded pretty damn great in comparison.

"Let's stop here," I told Rocket. The sun was peeking out above the treetops but I estimated I had only about two hours of light left before the tall pines made it impossible to see.

Rocket led me a little ways off the trail, to a clearing hidden behind a patch of gooseberry bushes. He then faced away from the wind and began to dig a ditch roughly a foot lower than the surroundings without prompting, our evening ritual an easy routine by now.

I had no idea what the hell I was thinking when I tried sending him away. Truthfully, he was the primary reason I was in good health. It wasn't impossible to survive on my own but without him, I'd likely have been severely malnourished, possibly driven insane from loneliness.

Linoone were never my favorite pokemon when I played the games but they sure as hell were now. Dig to make windbreaks and fire pits and reveal rabbit warrens. Odor Sleuth to locate berries, nuts, mushrooms, and edible roots. Pin Missile to hunt small game and strafe the air against overeager spearow. Utility, warmth at night, decent firepower, Rocket provided it all. He was no dragonite, but I quickly found that he was just about the most useful pokemon I could have as a backpacker. Hell, now that he'd evolved, he was taking care of me more than the other way round.

I laid out a mat against the ground to keep the dew off my sleeping bag before setting my sleeping bag atop it. I then hung a tarp across two trees so I could have a roof over my head in case it rained. I tugged on each end until the tarp was level with the ground, which put it a foot or two above the ditch that was my bed for the night. Rocket knew to cover the tarp in snow and brush; it kept away any nosy people. Or god forbid, ursaring.

My bed set for the night, I went about gathering firewood and making dinner. This at least was something Rocket couldn't do, not unless he grew opposable thumbs.

I made for us a stew of dried turkey, some mushrooms and Jerusalem artichoke we'd forged along the way, a few handfuls of rice, and some of the canned vegetables I'd brought from Bend. I'd stuffed my backpack with canned fruits and vegetables knowing I could get enough protein from the wild, but after two months, I was starting to run low and wasn't looking forward to pine bark jerky. It was a pity the gooseberries were unripe; the grape-like berries could be used for some decent sauce. They typically ripened in June but who knew when temperatures would rise.

I portioned out a hefty serving of a whole turkey leg, mushrooms, and tubers for Rocket. The stew was missing a lot of salt but it there wasn't much I could do about that. I'd run out a week ago after using the last of it to preserve some fish Rocket caught for us. Still, the unique flavor of the wild artichoke and mushrooms balanced out the gaminess of the turkey and made for a tolerable meal.

"We're running low on supplies," I said as I ran one hand through Rocket's thick fur.

"Linoone?" he gestured to the backpack. What used to be thirty-six pounds was a lot lighter now with most of the rice and vegetables gone.

"Yeah. We won't starve; we could forage just fine, but it'll be better to have a balanced diet."

"Lin…"

I pulled out the map. It was scrawled with all the things I'd seen, some good and others bad. "We're a day or two from Lake Tahoe. It's the largest freshwater lake in the Sierra Nevada Mountains and has Carson City right next to it towards the east."

"Lin?"

"Am I going into the city?"

"Oone."

"No. Absolutely not… at least for now," I amended. "I don't know what the situation looks like there. Let's take a wait and see approach. There ought to be ski resorts and hobby shacks all around the lake anyway. No need to go directly into the city."

"Linoone," he huffed. He didn't care much one way or the other. Instead, he tapped his claw against two black Xs on the map.

Dungeons. I'd found two of them, one right on the trail here and another when I'd gotten turned around for a few days and had to find my way by star. There was no rule that said they'd only crop up near dense human populations after all. In fact, if I remembered right, the Brits found one near one of their Antarctic laboratories in 2012, not that there was any attempt to clear it with the numbers present in the fucking south pole.

Dungeon gates were shimmering, spherical lights that hovered in the air at about chest-height. Each was surrounded by nine golden rings that orbited the spheres in seemingly random patterns. Each golden ring had two poles, with a colored gem engraved with some sigil or other. Writing that all the world's best linguists together could not make heads or tails of were carved into the gold.

And of course, the dungeon gates were indestructible. Everything from pokemon attacks to an Abrams tank firing on it in one memorable video failed miserably.

It all felt… artificial, created with intent. Eighteen gems. Eighteen types. Golden hoops that looked eerily similar to the one worn by the Alpha. The connection wasn't lost on anyone.

Question was, why?

I shook my head. The nearest dungeon was only a few hours northwest. I could go, but I hesitated. It wasn't worth it. Caution was the name of the game. Dungeons could have wildly different difficulties and clearing conditions and it was impossible to know anything about a specific dungeon until you dove headfirst. Entire military squads died in them.

Theoretically, it wasn't impossible for Rocket and I to clear a dungeon. Ziegler's dungeon, the very first cleared, was just "reach the goal." He apparently ran for his life from wild houndoom but that was easier than "kill the pack."

"You want to try a dungeon?" I asked my partner incredulously.

"Lin, linoone," he chuffed back. He dragged a claw from the dungeon to the city. "Oone. Linoone."

"You're right. Clearing one might give us a new friend. Maybe even something I can bargain with. Prove I'm an awakened, a real trainer. Maybe even get apricorns or berries or something else to show I can be relied on…"

"Lin."

"But it's also a huge risk. You're strong and I'm…" I tapped my crossbow. "Not helpless at least… But what if the clear condition is to fight everything inside? I don't fancy our chances against a full pack. Or to fight a single strong pokemon like a machamp?"

"Oone…"

"Fear is good. Fear is smart," I told him. "I marked them so we could come back if we feel desperate enough."

"Linoone," he nodded.

"We'll see about raiding a small grocery store or ski lodge tomorrow."

I saved what was left of the stew for breakfast tomorrow by burying it under the dirt and snow. The clamp-on lid would keep ants from getting into it. After washing out Rocket's bowl with snow, the two of us started to train.

I practiced my marksmanship against a tree until the light became too dark to see by. Rocket worked quietly in a corner of the clearing, digging in and out like the world's largest meerkat. He'd been at it for weeks now, the ground type move far too useful not to learn.

There were other moves that linoone could learn: Play Rough, Belly Drum, Seed Bomb, and the ever-precious Extreme Speed came to mind from my competitive days.

Then, as the darkness settled into the forest, we snuggled together in the sleeping bag and let sleep claim us.

X

I woke up long before the sun poked its head above the treeline. The nights were long in the forest and I had to get packing if I wanted to make use of as much available daylight as possible. I gently shoved Rocket.

"Up, Rocket, it's morning." I heard him grown under his breath before nuzzling deeper into the sleeping bag. With all the fur he had, one would think he'd be less skittish about the cold but one would be wrong. He hated leaving the warmth of our burrow even more than I did.

I eventually got fed up with the dozing ferret and flicked him on the nose, getting a half-hearted chomp for my trouble. Fucker's teeth were sharp.

"Fine, be that way," I told him. "I for one need to piss. And make breakfast."

After pissing into a bush and washing my hands with snow, I dug up the stew pot from the ground; the damn thing was basically a nugget of ice and fat inside an aluminum pot now. I set it over a fire and began to clear the brush and snow from our overhead tarp.

We ate in companionable silence. Rocket hated mornings and wouldn't be in any mood to socialize until well into the day. On the other hand, these mornings were my favorite part of the day. The forest was quiet now, with an austere solemness that placed me in a contemplative mood. This twilight was the time of transition, when nocturnal predators headed home to nest while many others cycled out to greet the sun. It almost felt like there was a truce here, a certain respect paid to the changing day.

I knew that wasn't true of course. Mountain lions hunted just fine in the twilight hours and I had to assume many pokemon did as well. Still, I loved the way the sunlight peeked between the trees, slowly warming the world and reminding me that I'd survived another night past societal collapse.

I washed the pot using a wire scrub and some melted snow before getting ready to leave. I wasn't desperate enough to head into the city yet, but with my food supplies running low, I'd likely have to keep an eye out for any waystations or lodges where I could restock. Of course, such lodges catering to travelers or resort-goers were also likely to have other bare necessities like basic first aid kits, thermal clothing, and toothpaste and other hygiene items. If I was lucky, one of them would have a backup generator and a working shower still.

I ran a hand through my hair and grimaced at the oiliness of it. I was at the stage where I'd happily maim someone for a hot shower. I'd never felt like this before, even when I was hiking the Appalachian Trail, but then I'd had the full expectation of returning to societal comforts at the end.

"Ugh, heading south past multiple latitudinal lines so I could take a fucking shower, Rocket. Look how far I've fallen," I joked half-seriously. I slung my newly packed bag over my shoulder. "Come on, let's go see if we can stumble on something good."

"Linoone," he barked, before running a tunnel through a particularly thick bed of snow and coming back out mostly clean. "Lin."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm jealous. Some of us don't have thick fur to keep us toasty in an ice bath."

"Lin."

"Smug fucker."

"Lin."

"I heard that…"

X

As we walked, I began to see signs of human habitation. Despite the wilderness around us, humans naturally weren't good trailblazers; we typically stuck to the trailheads established before the world went to shit. I saw the painted bark used as trail markers and the occasional broken stalks of nearby bushes that implied a more recent passage.

It all made me cautious. My crossbow was loaded and I made sure to keep my knife within easy reach. Ever since the asshole who tried to mug me over a boar two months ago, I'd had Rocket keep an eye out for humans. He knew now to treat them as threats and predators to be avoided, much like a bear.

We were fortunate. We met no one as we made our way to a ranger station, the Sierraville Ranger Station according to my map. To be fair, company would have been more surprising; most people would have chosen to go south, or at least go down the mountain to a slightly warmer elevation.

The forest rapidly gave way to concrete roads, iced over and littered with debris now that there was no one to maintain them. I took that as a good sign. To be safe, I hugged the treeline as more of the town came into view.

I'd picked Sierraville for my supply run because it was a "one main street" kind of town, the sort with one post office and a country store that doubled as the singular gas station for miles around. I knew nothing else about the place but small towns like this were likely to either swell hilariously like Bend, or be abandoned altogether.

"What do you smell?" I asked Rocket. "People?"

"Linoone," he chuffed, shaking his head.

I nodded in acceptance. As much as I'd prefer otherwise, I did need supplies and Rocket's senses were many times greater than my own. I trusted him to keep us safe.

"Okay. First things first, the country store. It's probably the first place people emptied if they stuck around for a bit before evacuating but it's worth a shot anyway. If we can't get any canned food from that, we'll head to what few restaurants and schools there are here before we start ransacking random houses. Then we'll see about going to the ranger station and post office. They might have a working radio or news from the past two months we've been off grid. Maybe even a gun someone forgot about if we're lucky."

"Linoone," he growled low, not largely caring one way or the other. It was mostly the food he'd taken a shine to.

It took us only ten minutes to find the Sierraville Service & Country Store. It was a gas station that doubled as the store and charged a ruinous $4 per gallon. A sign snidely informed all passersby that it was the only gas station in over thirty miles of "tranquil mountain roads filled with nature's bounty." If that wasn't extortion, I didn't know what was.

The whole place was abandoned and though it wasn't unreasonable to think a store like this would have a backup generator somewhere, that wasn't to say it had been turned on or the fuel maintained in the past year.

I ignored the gas station pumps and Redbox vending machine outside and stepped into the store. Sure enough, nothing worked. There were no lights, no heat, or that pervading hum of electricity. The fruit bowl on the counter had long since been picked through and scraps of bananas, oranges, and apples littered the cash register.

I wandered the aisles. The nonperishable things, such as a rack of beanies, magazines, and other gas station staples, were remarkably undamaged, the building acting as a ward against the weather. I took the chance to replace my own beanies with the few that were still on display, the others most likely having been taken by people in need. Mine were filthy with dirt, sweat, and grease by now and it'd be nice to at least have the facsimile of being clean again.

I noticed that some of the toilet paper, the ones that came in packs of three for truckers and RV campers, had been torn into, ripped into shreds for something or other. I wondered if birds or mice got into it for their nests. Some of the missing beanies could probably be attributed to the same.

The shelves of refrigerated goods were largely whole, with everything from frozen pizzas and hot pockets to cans of coke and beer on display. Even without electricity, the frigid temperature meant they were almost certainly still good.

"Rocket, we'll be eating good for a while," I told my partner. These weren't substitute for a good diet but I had to admit, I missed artery-clogging grease and carbs.

Unfortunately, I couldn't say the same for the soup and canned foods aisle. There wasn't a single thing left there save for the condiments like squeeze bottles of mustard and ketchup. I'd just have to look around the restaurants.

I got around to the frozen food aisle again to see if I'd missed anything, maybe vitamin drinks or something, but noticed that many of the ready-meals had holes in them as though they'd been gnawed on.

"Shit," I swore. We weren't alone.

Author's Note

Alright, so here's part two of three. Again, no real plans. Was an interesting writing challenge.

Have an econ fact: Back in 2015, gas prices sank to the lowest they'd been since 2009 at $2.43 per gallon by national average. Imagine that, $4 used to be "ruinous."

Now insert something about pat-re-on, more frequent updates, early releases, you know the drill.

 

[Fabled Webs]

Liftoff 1.3

April 2015

I thought they were rats at first but the bite marks were far too large to have come from any normal rodent.

Just then, I heard Rocket begin to growl lowly. It wasn't the affectionate chuff or sarcastic bark I was familiar with but the kind of growl that sent goosebumps standing on my arms. It meant we weren't alone.

"Paw!" I heard a shout before the darkened store lit up with electricity.

"Shit!" I yelled as I dove behind a shelf. "Rocket, to me!"

He yipped and blurred to my side as I lambasted myself for dropping my guard. My crossbow rose into the air as I crouched behind a metal shelf. I spotted our attackers in short order. They were… pikachu…?

They looked like the iconic series mascot, or at least some kind of fanart of one come to life. They had burnt-orange fur instead of yellow, except their forepaws which were cream colored. Instead of pikachu's zigzag tail, theirs were short but bushy, giving them a feathered look. It didn't take a genius to guess that they were electric types but the fact that I'd never seen them before opened a pit of worry in my stomach.

"Pawmo!" one yelled, sending what I guessed was a Thunder Shock towards our position.

Rocket jumped aside only for the second… pawmo… to charge forward, its hands glowing white with some kind of attack.

I couldn't see much else because the close proximity of the electric attack in a dark area sent spots dancing across my vision. I took cues from my partner and dove away from the shelf as another burst sent electric arcs dancing along the metal frame.

"Fuck!" I grabbed whatever I could reach from the nearest stand and chucked it at the yellow rat. It turned out to be a tube of toothpaste, solid enough to fly straight but not enough to hurt. The rat dodged out of the way and readied another bolt towards me.

I couldn't dodge in time. It struck my stomach with what felt like the force of a baseball bat, sendling me through the glass window of the store. I couldn't breathe, never mind yell in pain. My winter layers were ablaze, set on fire by the electrical attack. I wheezed and tried to catch my breath as my mind reasserted itself.

Then I felt the fire on my chest. Synthetic polymers were great for waterproofing, not so much for preventing electrical fires. I tried to pat it out but only got a shock of pain for my trouble. My extremities were still trembling with residual static. With a grunt of pain, I rolled over onto my front and put out the fire with my body.

Whatever the hell those things were called, they seemingly had no interest in chasing me out here. That gave me a few precious seconds to think. They were probably some kind of mouse pokemon. Maybe the backup generator had been on for a bit before they came to eat the electricity. Pokemon did that, right? And then, maybe they saw the frozen food aisle, saw a source of easy calories, and decided to build their nest here.

I grunted in pain as I got to my hands and knees. My limbs were still trembling but I couldn't let Rocket do all the work. The other one with the glowing paws made me think those things were as dangerous in close combat, maybe even a fighting type if we were unlucky. Rocket would give as good as he got but I didn't like his chances outnumbered.

My crossbow bolt had fallen out when I rolled so I notched another and took aim. Inside was a bloodbath. The rat that closed with Rocket was a mess of weeping lesions and splattered little droplets of blood with every hop and dodge. Though Rocket seemingly came out ahead in that exchange, I could see one of his eyes swollen shut and the telltale marks of electrical burns along some of his length.

"Oone!" he yelped as a Thunder Shock from the second pika-clone struck his side.

I quickly took aim and fired. The trembling in my hands spoiled my aim somewhat and only managed to strike the oversized rat along the side, nowhere near anything important.

"Paw!" it howled in pain. This time, it had no intention of chasing me off its nest; there was murder in its little, beady eyes.

It squeaked out a battle cry and charged me even as I cried out, "Rocket, Pin Missile! Get them both out here!"

"Pawmo!"

I barely dodged out of the way of a Thunder Shock, though it was more of a semi-controlled collapse than a roll. The creature then glowed a shimmering white before charging me. I barely had the time to recognize the telltale glow of Quick Attack before a foot-tall rodent jumped me.

Looking back, it'd be a moment of pure shame and humiliation but it felt like a life or death battle at the time, because it was. I, Shane Hayes, grown-ass man, got bodied by a rat that couldn't have weighed more than fifteen pounds. We threw hands and I lost badly.

It was faster than me. It was more agile than me. Hell, it might have been physically stronger than me. If only for my brutalized pride if nothing else, I was sure as hell going to call this thing a fighting type. Every one of its little fists that landed came with a paralyzing jolt like the worst sort of static.

Eventually, I gave up trying to directly strike the thing and settled for swiping with my bowie knife to try and keep it at bay.

Then I lucked out. A desperate backhand caught it on the same side as where my bolt was sticking out of and it let out a screech of pain. I took the chance to toss it to the ground and collapse forward knee-first. Poke-magic be damned, weight was weight. I landed with all my weight focused on its little hip and I felt the mouse's bones give way. Broken? Popped out of socket? It didn't matter.

"Paw!" it shrieked as I jammed my bowie knife in its throat.

I killed a pokemon…

I didn't have time to think further because Rocket then burst through another window. He skidded along the frozen gravel and bristled before launching a salvo of Pin Missiles towards the hole he'd made, just in time to catch the second pika-clone bodily as it tried to give chase.

"Pawmo!" I heard another cry of pain. The sharpened hairs failed to pierce anything important. If anything, it just seemed to piss off the little menace further. It then saw the corpse of its mate on the floor and lost it. "PawMO!"

I hurriedly dug around for another bolt even as I dove to the side. I glanced back and my eyes widened in panic at just how close the bolt had come to striking the gas pump. "Dig and stay!"

Rocket looked confused for a moment before obeying anyway.

For my part, I bolted the fuck away from the pumps. It tried to strike me with a few more Thunder Shocks but failed to hit. Was it blinded by anger? Or was its partner the better ranged combatant? Didn't matter, I just tried to put as much distance between me and it as possible. The return bolt I fired likewise went wide.

Then, I started to circle around the pumps until they were between me and the rat. It yelled something before using Quick Attack to close the gap. Its little fists sparked with electricity as it leapt into the air, easily clearing almost fifty feet of distance with that final leap.

I stopped running. I grabbed my crossbow by the grooved rail with both hands and swung for the fences.

Its little fists met the stock of the bow and heavily dented the metal stock before it was punted clear across the lot with as much force as it had lunged. I barely had time to gauge the trajectory and dive to the floor with my hands over my head before an enormous explosion rocked the area.

Hot air blew over me. I could have sworn at least one piece of debris whizzed past my ear at bullet speeds. For a moment, my world became white as my abused senses tried to make sense of the abrupt chaos. As my ears rang with self-imposed tinnitus, I could only hope Rocket took the order to stay underground.

Then, slowly, the trembling stopped and I tried to reassert myself. I stood on shaky feet and stumbled towards the gas station. "Rocket?" I called. "You there, bud?"

"Lin," I heard him bark. I looked around to find him with his head just barely poking out of the ground. He stared at what used to be the pumps, still burning and releasing acrid smoke into the sky, then back at me with the biggest look of confusion I'd ever seen on his face.

"Gas pumps. They go boom," I answered his unasked question matter-of-factly.

"Lin," he chuffed in annoyance. He then leapt from his hole and took a bite out of my arm.

"Ow! What the fuck, Rocket!" I cried. I didn't have the strength to dislodge a seventy pound ferret and collapsed back to the ground.

He mounted me and stared me down with a piercing glare. "Lin-linoone! Lin!"

I frowned, trying to make heads or tails of what he was saying. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you beforehand," I guessed. "It wasn't like I expected it to explode… Okay, I did, but only after I realized those rat things were electric types."

"Lin," he growled, thoroughly unimpressed.

"At first, I told you to get it outside so you could use Dig since electric types are weak to ground type moves. But then I realized that if you kept fighting, one of its stray attacks might ignite the fuel inside the pumps."

"Lin."

"And I couldn't shoot it. And I couldn't outrun it even if we wanted to leave. So I got as much ground as I could and made it kill itself."

"Linoone," he barked. He snapped his teeth in annoyance, ears flattened to his skull. I wasn't an animal behaviorist but I knew what that meant.

"I'm sorry, Rocket," I said honestly. "I panicked. I saw the sparks and realized just how bad things could get so I did the first thing that came to mind. I couldn't think of any other way to keep you safe and we were already outside."

"Lin…"

I ran my fingers through his fur, first just behind the ears in that spot he liked then down his back. I spoke soothingly, trying my best to calm the agitated pokemon. "I'm sorry I put myself in danger. I'm sorry I couldn't think of a better plan. I'm sorry I told you to take the fight outside."

"Lin… oone…"

"I'm not a trainer," I admitted shamelessly. It was sinking in just how different a real battle was from "competitive pokemon." The two really were night and day. "I'm not used to fighting. I'm not a commander. I've never had to think of tactics like that."

"Lin," he chuffed, nuzzling his snout into my neck.

"I'll be better. I'll fuck up a lot but I'll learn," I promised him. "I'm sorry for worrying you."

"Oone…" With one last face lick, he got off me.

"Yeah, I know. I played a really stupid game." I looked down at my jacket, so much burnt tatters now. "And somehow won really stupid prize while simultaneously avoiding the stupidest prize of all."

"Lin."

"Well, we just murdered the residents so we may as well figure out what else we can get from the store."

So saying, I gave the gas fire a wide berth and made my way back inside. There, I started to pack as much frozen food into my backpack when I noticed a problem: I'd evaded the bulk of the explosion, but my oversized backpack had not. It wasn't entirely unusable, but there were tears and rips in it from bits of shrapnel. Seeing it gave me a good idea of just how close a call that had been.

Rocket eyed the torn up backpack and then sent me a knowing glance.

"Yeah, I know, I'm the luckiest son of a bitch in the world."

"Lin." He looked like he wanted to chastise me more, maybe take another chomp at my arm, then froze.

"Rocket?"

"Linoone!" He barked, before diving towards the backrooms.

There was a loud squeak of pain, the zap of electricity, and then a final, shrill squeak of something dying.

I hurried to the back to see what he'd found. There, inside an opened safe, was a crude nest made of the office chair cushion, a handful of beanies, and torn up toilet paper. Rocket sat inside with the mangled body of another of those rats.

No, looking closely, I could see that it was much smaller, maybe two-thirds the size of what were likely its parents. Its fur was also darker and had a slightly different body shape. Maybe a pre-evolution?

"Rocket, did you just kill their child?" I asked, mildly horrified.

"Lin," he let out a dismissive snort.

"I mean, yeah, it probably wouldn't have survived on its own and its parents tried to kill us but… and… you're eating it… Rocket!"

"Lin?" he asked, as if to say, "What'd you expect me to do with it?"

"We could have take it with us," I tried, but my heart wasn't in it. The whole near-death experience put me off of any electric types, certainly anything that looked like a pika-clone.

And just that thought alone was disquieting. If, for some Arceus-damned reason, the pokemon world was merging with my own, it stood to reason that the pokemon world existed before as more than just the figment of Tajiri's imagination. It was a world with its own natural laws, society, and technology. And now, here was proof that the pokemon world had its own diverse ecosystem, biodiversity that game developers couldn't possibly describe in detail within the confines of the medium.

Just how many pokemon were out there that we knew nothing about?

It reinforced in me the value of caution, of information. I was suddenly glad for having skipped the two dungeons we'd rats almost killed me; I didn't fancy my chances.

"Linoone," he growled as he continued to tear the rat carcass apart. When he saw me looking, he huffed and chomped down on one hind limb, tearing the entire chunk off. He dropped it at my feet with a doggy grin that definitely didn't belong on such a bloodied muzzle. "Lin?"

"I'm… I'm good. You enjoy your mean, bud," I said, feeling a little green. "I'm going to sort our supplies.

In the end, we didn't stay long. Even if the town was completely empty of human life, which I wasn't positive about, the explosion would have drawn its share of attention from nearby pokemon looking for easy prey. They weren't nearly as skittish as native animals.

I left the country store with food, a new beanie, and a few hygiene and luxury items like toothpaste and toilet paper. Thank god for toilet paper.

After that, we retreated back to the treeline. We hiked a ways from the gas station so we could steer clear of any unwanted attention. Then, when I'd spent an hour doing my best to erase our tracks, I noticed another problem: It was fucking cold. Zipping up my jacket was meaningless thanks to the scorched hole in the front where that first Thunder Shock had landed. I even tried unraveling my sleeping bag and using it as a parka of sorts but it made moving my hands too difficult and didn't do as much for the wind chill as I would have liked.

We stayed away from Sierraville for a full day, just to see if the explosion had attracted any attention. We were lucky; the most we saw were a handful of rattata and bird pokemon peck around. I saw a large noctowl snatch a blackened body out from the burning wreck of the gas pump but that was the worst of it.

That knowledge gave me the courage to go back to the town proper. And this time, we made sure to keep alert for pokemon as well as humans.

The two of us spent the day after combing through the different storefronts for useful items. We found a jacket to replace the one that got torn up and even a little doggie sweater that would have fit Rocket had he not eviscerated it like it'd killed his mother. Apparently, sweaters were for humans, not linoone.

We learned early on not to look for edible things like dried fruits in restaurants; they just didn't stock that sort of fare. Ironically enough, other than the hot pockets at the country store, there was a real shortfall in the amount of food we could source. Spices though, those we weren't in short supply of. Rocket built up a real liking for peppery and smoky foods from the things I managed to cook up with my limited skill in the area. Just about the best thing I managed to find in the restaurants was coffee. Rocket looked utterly lost as to its significance but I knew brown gold when I saw it.

Sure, we had to murder a small flock of zubat living in the coffee shop to get it, but it was worth it! Rocket got snacks; I got coffee. Win, win in my book.

I grunted and strained against the crossbow as we walked towards the ranger station. That pika-clone had done a real number on it and me landing on it while trying to avoid the exploding pump didn't exactly do it any favors. The spine of the bow was fine and the string was only a little frayed, but the stock was thoroughly bent where I'd used it to punt the electric rat into the pump. I'd been trying to bend the metal back into shape for the past few days with little success.

Unfortunately, it was little better than a club the way it was now, the groove and latch for the bolt did not work right. I'd either need to straighten it out or get a new bow.

The ranger station had been last on my list of places to check out initially because I gauged it as the most likely place for people to stay holed up, if they stayed at all. Now, I was hoping that there was a ranged weapon inside that could replace my bow, though I wasn't optimistic. Ranged weapons and the element of surprise were one of the few ways a human could rival a weaker pokemon. Why the hell would they leave one behind?

After thoroughly scoping out the exterior again just to be safe, we broke in through the back window.

I wasn't sure what I was expecting. Maybe some kind of weapons storage and ammo depot with a gun range in the basement? No, the National Forest Service was full of capable men and women, but they weren't that hardcore. The ranger station was in reality just a house with the living room remodeled into an information desk. Maps of trailheads, floodplains, and other geographically valuable information littered the desk, as did advertisements for adventure hikes, birdwatching tours, and similar.

The rest of the house was equally mundane. There was a room with two bunk beds and two desks, another room with an office, and a kitchen which contained some dried noodles I happily included in my bag. The real rewards were found in a supply cabinet in the basement and the main desk in the office.

In the supply cabinet, I found a ranger's jacket and pants, alongside a pair of boots that were only slightly bigger than my own. There was also a nice hatchet I added to my hip; it'd do far more good than a bowie knife. Lastly, I managed to discover a first aid kit that had been left behind with some pain medication and heating pads I used to soothe my bruised ribs.

I headed back upstairs and into the office, where I found a note waiting for me. Atop the note, and what initially drew my eye, was a six shot revolver and speed loader, fully loaded. The note read:

Stranger,

I'm going to assume you're in good health if you've managed to get yourself to Sierraville somehow. You're probably some backpacker or camper who stuck around a little too long and that's great. You'll have noticed by now that there ain't no one here to welcome you.

March 12th, a rep from Truckee down south came by and told us they were all gathering in Carnelian Bay, off the shore of Lake Tahoe, to make a bigger town. We all gotta stick together and there weren't more than sixty people in this little pitstop anyway so we packed up and decided to join them. They used to have some 16,000 people but a good half of them left and a whole lot happened. Something about a snore-lax?

Don't know, not a problem anymore. They want to join up with the Carnelian Bay crowd and make a proper town along the lake coast. I figure they'll have a few thousand people there, big enough to call themselves a town and small enough to feel homey.

They've got some rock monsters they're calling graveler to make a wall and keep out all the hostile wildlife. Got some other pokemons or whatever they are for security and such. Tahoe's always been good for fish too and there are crops that can grow in the cold. Our only doctor's also joined us if you're in a situation where that matters to you. I won't sit here and tell you it's gonna be easy living but it'll be safe and that's more than most can ask for nowadays.

I can't rightly make another man's decision for him, but now you know where we've gone. I figure we'll always have space for a man who can make his way through the wild.

Had no rifles to spare, moving sixty people forty miles in heavy snow ain't easy, but I'm leaving my spare handgun. If you're a good shot, you can grab some game and make your way. If you're not, well, last shot's for you.

Best of luck,

Thomas E. Swanson

I read the note once, then again for good measure. It was simultaneously enlightening and alarming. A snorlax? Here? I knew very little about the bear-like behemoths but the little I knew said they ate a lot and were obscenely powerful. There were tales of snorlax causing food shortages even in the pokemon world because even an entire town working together wasn't enough to drive one off.

I knew for certain that Rocket and I wouldn't even inconvenience a creature like that. Hell, I doubted the gas explosion a few days prior would have done more than piss it off.

How sixteen thousand people could shrink to just a few thousand, why they'd suddenly decided to band together and wall off a small settlement with lake access, the picture was coming together and it wasn't one I liked.

And yet… The town did admittedly have promise. It sounded like they were planning a community rather than being drowned in a tide of refugees, which was more than Bend could say. Planned crops, lake for fish, walls, trained pokemon, it might be what I'd been looking for, somewhere to hole up and wait out the nuclear winter.

I read the letter out loud a third time. Rocket lounged on the ranger's office chair, one eye open and lightly dozing. I knew from the way his ear flicked back and forth that he was listening. When I finished, he let out a low whine.

"What do you think?" I asked him. We were partners; I had no interest in going to a place like that without my backup. "You think this is a good idea? Tahoe's about twelve hour's walk. Three days of hiking if the snow's still as bad as he says it was."

"Linoone… Lin?"

"I don't know either. But it's either go there or hang around the forest where there's been a snorlax encounter already."

"Linoone." The wide-eyed look of fear told me he knew exactly what a snorlax was. Not for the first time, I wondered just where pokemon came from and how they interacted with each other before all this.

"So we go?"

"Lin."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Carnelian Bay it is."

Author's Note

Was tossing a lightning-rat into a gas pump a good idea? No. Was it survivable? Arguably not. But rule of cool so meh.

I guess this ends the pilot? Sure, let's call it that. I wanted to explore a dungeon but I think I've done all the things I needed to set the stage.

Edit: Wait, did I ever say the MC's name? Hahaha, that's hilarious in hindsight.

There are 3 more chapters of this on Pat-re-on and 19 chapters of stories in total you can read ahead.

 

[gollihar82@gmail]

Really excited to see where this goes.

 

[Fabled Webs]

Liftoff 1.4

April 2015

I headed back outside to load up on whatever the good folks of Sierraville left behind and began my trek towards Lake Tahoe. Carnelian Bay was, according to the travel guide I picked up from the ranger station, an unincorporated community made up of about 500 people. The guide advertised lakeside sports like fishing, speedboating, sailing, canoeing, and whatnot, all things I would've loved to try my hand at under better circumstances.

Unfortunately, I knew little of the new town I'd be joining. The letter Ranger Swanson left in his office was dated for mid-March, and it was nearing the tail end of April, so they would've had five or six weeks to get set up. A lot could change in five or six weeks.

He'd said that Truckee, a town that boasted 16,000 people, lost half its population since the bombs fell. A few died, but most likely just moved on. A town that size on a mountaintop? They were probably short on food without any supplies being driven up.

And then there was the snorlax. I read the letter again. It bothered me that he said it "wasn't a problem anymore." What the hell did that mean? Did they kill it? Drive it off with a big enough injury that it wouldn't be back? Neither option seemed likely, which meant he was underestimating the pokemon.

Of the 8,000 remaining people in Truckee, how many survived the snorlax? How many were willing to stick around after that when the food shortage went from worrying to critical? Was there any infighting? Divisions based on their opinions of pokemon?

And that was discounting whatever issues had cropped up among the residents of Carnelian Bay or other small towns during this time. Added together, a town made up of everyone on this side of Lake Tahoe should have a population north of 17,000. I had a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't even be a quarter that.

I ripped open a bag of beef jerky and tossed a piece to Rocket. Smoky teriyaki, way too sweet, but a good source of protein on the go. Rocket caught it in midair with a happy bark. He'd developed a taste for cooked food since I'd met him. He especially seemed to gravitate towards smoky and savory foods, especially ones that had a spicy or peppery aftertaste. It was why I'd settled on the smoked teriyaki over the regular stuff in the first place.

"Rocket," I called.

"Lin?"

"We're going to start training. Like an actual pokemon trainer. I don't have a ball for you but we're partners now."

"Linoone," he chuffed, as if to say, "No fucking shit."

"And that means figuring out all the moves you know, thinking about how to use them tactically, picking up new moves, and making sure you grow stronger…"

"Lin."

"That's a lot of work, Rocket. I won't lie to you. I used to play games about pokemon, but that doesn't make me a trainer. All the things that got glossed over with stats and 'optimal movesets' and whatnot, they're all things I have no experience with."

It was sad, but also the truth. What did I know about nutrition? Or veterinary medicine? Or animal training? Or combat operations and small group tactics? He could do better in the hands of a vet. Or even a dog trainer.

Rocket skipped ahead and turned, swishing his considerable length through the snow. He stared me down with big, brown eyes and barked. "Linoone. Lin."

I didn't speak pokemon, but I knew what he meant. The conviction in his voice was unmistakable: I chose you.

I smiled. I wasn't one of those fancy Awakened. I had no education worth mentioning here. I didn't even have a fucking ball for him. But in the moment, none of it mattered: I had my starter and I'd make him the best fucking linoone in the world.

X

I spent the first several hours of our trek to Carnelian Bay shouting out move names I could vaguely remember linoone using. As it turned out, Rocket knew a fair number of moves, though none I'd consider "high power."

He of course knew Tail Whip, Growl, Tackle, Headbutt, and Fury Swipes, the basic normal type moves. I'd also been heavily relying on Odor Sleuth to find things for us so I didn't even bother testing that. To my delight, he'd picked up Slash along the way, a move that left deep wounds in trees more reminiscent of grizzlies than an oversized ferret. Beyond those, he only had Pin Missile and Dig for coverage options.

Though the games weren't exactly helpful, they did provide one benefit: I knew what the "strongest" linoone set looked like. The most "competitive" linoone sets boasted Extreme Speed alongside Belly Drum, Seed Bomb, and Shadow Claw. It was powerful. With a single turn to set up, it could rip through entire teams with a +2 priority STAB move.

I imagined what it might look like in real life. Rocket could be the embodiment of speed, a blur vanishing from sight to remove threats before they could even react, before they even knew he was there. It was a tantalizing thought, something straight out of a shonen anime, something worthwhile to work towards.

I promptly threw it away. That was a pie-in-the-sky goal. Perhaps later, but for now, I had bigger concerns.

No, my priority was survival. We'd come across dead pokemon before and had fought our fair share of spearow and poochyena. One thing stood out: There was no Nurse Joy. Never mind a subsidized, internationally available network of pokemon centers, the US government didn't even exist.

No medicine, no animal or pokemon care, no nothing, not even a single fucking oran berry. Which meant even a minor injury could literally cost us our lives in the form of infections or poor treatment options.

"Range is king," I declared the truth of this world. Man conquered the world by throwing pointy sticks at shit far bigger than us and I saw no reason to not do the same. "Range lets us abuse surprise attacks and cover. Range give us the time to strike again or back off. Range lets us avoid injuries that could cripple us otherwise. Range. Is. King."

"Linoone," he nodded understandingly.

"Which means I need to get my crossbow fixed as soon as possible, even if I have to pay through the nose for it. Until then, you're going to be doing the bulk of our hunting for us using Pin Missile."

"Lin."

"As we walk, I want you to work on target practice. Quantity is well and good, but sometimes, we need to unload on something specific. Focus on narrowing the spread of Pin Missile as much as you can, accuracy over width."

"Linoone."

"On top of that, you're going to work on Quick Attack and Dig. The faster you are, the less likely you are to be injured. And if you can avoid attacks or ambush a target even in the middle of a fight, even better."

"Linoone-lin."

I pointed to a tree roughly twenty feet away. "Good. Dig there and pop up just in front of the tree. I'll time you. Go!"

"Linoone!"

X

I woke up early so I could drill Rocket on some moves before feasting on a frozen pizza from the country store. It wasn't good, but after months of game, a bit of junk food made me feel like a human being again. Or a college student, which was almost as good.

We were a few hours in when I let out a soft whistle. Rocket knew it to mean we should stop. I gestured towards a pair of ruffled grouses that sat about sixteen yards away. They were one of the few species I could identify on sight, mostly by the black band on their tail-feathers. "One for each of us."

"Lin," he yipped quietly.

I pulled out the pistol Ranger Swanson left me, a Springfield M1911, and lined up a shot. "Go grab one after I shoot."

"Linoone…"

The crack of gunfire filled the forest air. The sound of a hundred pairs of wings taking flight followed as startled birds took to the air. I groaned as the bird I was aiming at took off. Dark blood dripped against its wing and I gave chase. It likely wouldn't get far and, as a hunter's courtesy, I felt obligated to finish what I started. Minimize suffering and all that.

"Rocket, hunt!" I called.

He let out a fierce bark and dashed off, Quick Attack leaving trails of white behind him. The second grouse managed to climb a solid nine feet before Rocket struck like… a rocket… to bring it down.

Then instead of helping me, he sat right back on his haunches and laughed as I chased a crippled grouse through the forest.

On such a small bird, a wound on its wing was crippling. Still, it took the better part of fifteen minutes for blood loss to slow it down. Not wanting to waste bullets, I nailed it with a rock and snapped its neck, wincing at the dull crack. It was sadly something I'd had to get used to this past year.

Rocket, still grinning like a loon with the grouse in his mouth, trotted over. I gave him the stink-eye. "You could've helped."

"Lin-linoone," he said with a shrug. No, I didn't speak pokemon, but his smug mug was all the translation I needed.

"Laugh, only one of us has opposable thumbs. Who'll cook your food now, huh?"

"Liinnn," he pouted. How a creature with the face of a ferret could pout was beyond me, but he managed somehow.

I reached down and scratched his ears. "One more thing you can't do, you oversized scarf."

"Linoone," he grumbled, nipping my fingers just enough so I could feel teeth.

We stopped there for lunch. Rocket dug us his customary fire pit and began to stuff branches into the hole for fuel. I'd have to place the tinder myself and tidy up the pit so no stray sparks started anything, but it was appreciated anyway.

While he did that, I sliced the heads off both grouses with skill born of experience and went about defeathering them. I grimaced as I slid my hunting knife in and dragged out their innards. Save for the liver, I fed them the offals to Rocket; he considered them something of a treat. I washed my hands and knife in melted snow before tidying up the fire pit.

The grouses were fairly small. With the extended winter, the fat deposits they built up over the fall were all but gone. Take away the downy feathers and they reminded me of Cornish game hens, a whole bird about enough to serve a grown man, or linoone. I spiced them with smoked paprika, salt, and dried rosemary, all looted from town, and wrapped them in foil with some spare garlic cloves.

I set them next to the fire, eyeballing the distance so they wouldn't burn. A can of Busch's baked beans, partly opened so steal wouldn't burst the can, also joined them. They'd be done in forty minutes or so, so long as I remembered to rotate the birds every ten minutes. My lips parted in a bittersweet smile as I remembered biting into raw bird more than once. Life truly was the best teacher, and if I didn't learn, well, life was happy to repeat the lesson.

I tossed a few harder woods into the fire, they'd burn longer, and dusted myself off. I gathered up some pinecones and palmed one in hand. "Right, Rocket! We've got forty minutes. Let's train!"

"Linoone!"

"Pin Missile!" I called as I chucked the pinecone as far as I could.

"Lin!"

His fur bristled angrily, making him look twice his size. Thinking about it, he looked a lot like one of those cats at a groomer's that just came out of the bath and had its fur floofed. He would've looked adorable if it wasn't for the lines of aura that formed white highlights through his fur. He lunged forward half a step as if to give his fur a head start.

Arcs of faintly glowing white needles lanced out into the sky. A lot of it went wide, Pin Missile just wasn't meant to be a precision technique, but enough struck the pinecone and left it looking like one of those mini cacti that a professor I had liked to keep on his desk.

"Good job, bud," I praised him. I hefted another. "Again!"

"Linoone!"

We practiced like that while the grouses roasted. Every ten throws or so, I used a stick to adjust the foil packets, turning them so they got an even blast of heat on all sides. Halfway through, I had Rocket switch to using Quick Attack and Slash to chase down the pinecones. I didn't want him to only be a ranged hindrance; he'd need to learn to scrap up close once in a while and getting in quickly so he could finish off a weakened opponent seemed like a good plan.

Forty minutes later, we had our lunch. I peeled back the foil with tongs and smiled as Rocket leaned in close. It made me wonder sometimes if his parents had been trained pokemon. Generational memories that passed down moves were proven fact with pokemon so why not a preference for certain foods? I knew nothing about biology beyond that pokemon laughed at every natural law.

I slapped his snout with the tongs when he lunged for a bite. "Not ready yet," I chided. "You gotta let meat rest. It'll just burn you otherwise."

"Linoo," he crooned pitiably.

I sat back with a satisfied sigh. It was the simple pleasures like this that kept me going. Training with Rocket reminded me of throwing a stick with my dog, albeit with far deadlier intent. Then again, wasn't "playing fetch" just a watered down version of "go get me that duck?" All dogs started as hunting aides after all. In that sense, the relationship between Rocket and I wasn't so different.

X

The pair of us made it to Carnelian Bay in two days while traveling six hours per day. The bulk of our time was spent resting and training Rocket. I wanted to trust that the town would be a decent place to plant roots, but desperate people did stupid things. To that end, I wanted to be as rested as possible before walking into somewhere potentially dangerous.

Rocket advanced quickly, enough that I was jealous that I had no aura. What would it feel like to be an Awakened? To feel the same invigorating energy Rocket felt? Or to learn and practice the same movies that made pokemon such a dominating force?

I got to see firsthand the absurd growth rate of a pokemon that bothered to train. Once upon a time, I considered it within the realm of possibility for a decently athletic grown man, me, to fight off a pokemon. With a bit of luck, ingenuity, and the right caliber bullet, I could do it. Even the dex agreed with me, I thought: Ancient warriors in the pokemon world used skarmory feathers as swords, which meant humans at one point fought as soldiers, right?

Two days. In just two days, Rocket utterly shattered that misconception. I realized that the emphasis in skarmory's infamous dex entry shouldn't be on "warriors," but on "times long past." As in, they didn't exist anymore for very good reason.

I didn't know if it was proof that a true trainer-pokemon bond was forming between us, but after seeing my murder-ferret snipe down a pidgeotto and rip in half for trying to steal his smoked jerky, I had no faith in my ability to face down a trained pokemon. He'd gone from a dangerous animal with magic fur-missiles to a precise assassin.

It wasn't any single thing either. He didn't spontaneously learn Extreme Speed, or any other move for that matter. He simply refined what he had under my direction. He picked up cues, learned to associate a few whistles and finger snaps to specific maneuvers and tactics. He learned to time his Digs to optimize his positioning and catch his opponents off guard.

Two days was all it took to give me a healthy respect for a pokemon's growth potential, at least where combat was concerned, and a wary fear of people like Steven Stone. Already, if I so chose, I thought I could easily order Rocket to wipe out a small settlement on his lonesome. So then, what could a Champion's team do?

I shook my head to dismiss the thought. Carnelian Bay and Lake Tahoe stretched out before me; it wouldn't do to go in with plans to murder everyone.

I snorted. Isolation really brought out the teenage edgelord egomaniac in me.

The road, iced over and filled with slush, opened out to overlook a walled settlement. A line of trees had been cleared to provide the watchmen an open line of sight. The wall was only eight feet tall but I could see how it'd deter casual attackers. I could see a single gate and two watchmen standing atop the wall on either side. Right below the wall was a ditch, no doubt where the dirt had come from. Considering they'd managed to build this wall all around the town in just a month, it was impressive.

Seeing no other option, I walked out into the cleared area and put away my pistol. It wouldn't do any good at this range anyway.

"Rocket, to me. Stick close," I told him. "I don't want someone taking potshots at you because they thought you were wild."

"Lin," he chuffed in assent.

We were sixty paces away when the guard on top hollered down at us. "Hold! Who goes there!"

"'Hold?' What is this? Westeros?" I muttered. Sure enough, the man who called down to me was about my age with curly blonde hair. He wore a vest that could best be described as "tacti-cool." If there was one thing that told me he had no clue what he was doing, it was that his vest had twelve pockets and they were all filled with knives of some variety. Either this man was the deadliest knife thrower alive or he really misunderstood instructions.

"Shut up, Will," the guard across from him bit out. This one was a brunette with a prominent five-o-clock shadow and dressed more sensibly in a woodsman's jacket and a hat for shade. He was tall, a good four or five inches taller than me. A hunting rifle was aimed squarely between his feet but the way he thumbed it convinced me he knew how to use it. "Hey there, stranger. You wouldn't happen to be coming from Sierraville, would you?"

"That's right. Name's Shane Hayes," I nodded respectfully. I knew it'd been too long since I talked to another human because my own name sounded foreign on my tongue. I gestured to Rocket, who was smart enough to eye the gun. Sixty paces was far for a human, about 150 feet, but it wasn't so far that Rocket couldn't retaliate with Quick Attack and Pin Missile if I went down. "This here's Rocket, my linoone. Found Ranger Swanson's letter. It said there were trainers here and it sounded like you lot had a decent thing going."

"We do," the more competent guard said cautiously. "We've had some trouble with pokemon here and there. That thing trained?"

Rocket began to growl lowly. I clicked my tongue. "Rocket isn't a thing. And he can understand you just fine."

"Fine, just keep him on a short leash. Lots of people don't feel too kindly towards pokemon after that snorlax."

"That's something else I wanted to follow up on. I want to know what happened. If nothing else, figure out where I shouldn't be walking."

"Yeah, I hear you. Come on in then. I'll have you wait at the guardhouse for a bit while I radio Ranger Swanson. He and a buddy of his have taken over the town guard. I'm Tom by the way."

"Pleasure," I said, shaking his outstretched hand.

Tom left Will guarding the gate and took me to a little house just inside the wall. It was more of a booth, like what you'd find in front of a parking lot. Now that I looked, it looked like they'd built this part of town off what used to be a gated community center or something. I wondered how much square miles the wall covered, and how they were handling agriculture. It wasn't as though they had a granary or anything up here.

Tom left us waiting there and returned to the wall. There was a stairway on this side that allowed the watchmen to climb it easily. Ten minutes later, the most stereotypically "lone ranger" man I'd ever seen outside of New Mexico walked through the door. He had a hat with a brim as wide as his shoulders and sideburns that merged with his beard into mutton chops.

To my surprise, a drilbur waddled in next to him. It stood at about a foot tall but had claws half its size. I didn't know those things were out here too.

"Ranger Swanson?" I asked as I stood up to offer him a hand. "I got your letter."

"That's right, son. You got one of them pokey-mans too, eh?" he said, eyeing my linoone suspiciously.

"Pokemon," I corrected on impulse.

"Yeah, yeah, my daughter liked playing the games. She's still trying to make a pokey-dex or something, wants to make a list of all the ones out here in Tahoe. What's your name, son?"

"Shane Hayes, and this one's Rocket."

"Tom Swansom. The little fella's Spade. He's been a big help digging up them ditches you saw on the way in."

"I'll bet. I thought you said you had graveler."

"I said the town has graveler. There're an even dozen of those things rolling around. Austin, lad about your age, made a deal with 'em to help build us this wall. His pappy's the mayor and he knows a fair bit about these pokey-mans too so I figure we're in decent shape even if I don't trust 'em all yet."

I nodded and took that in. That was one drilbur and twelve graveler they had. That sounded like a solid team. "Alright, so what happens now?"

"Now you tell me about yourself, son. Where're you from? What do you think you can contribute to this community?"

"Ah, fair enough. I'm from Arlington, Virginia…"

I told him what amounted to my life story. The gruff ranger was an unexpectedly good listener; maybe that was why I talked more than I expected. He became much more guarded when I talked about why I'd left Bend but there was no hiding it; I couldn't exactly explain where I'd gotten a hunting crossbow like mine otherwise. He wanted to know if there were others coming south, but I couldn't tell him anything useful. Everything I knew was two months out of date. By the time I finished, Rocket and the drilbur called Spade had curled up in a corner to doze.

"And you think you can help out as a hunter?"

"If that's what you lot need. I figure Rocket and I are pretty good at it by now. How's the farming going?"

"Not bad. A few people who'd been living here in Carnelian made friends with a family of skiddo. A couple of oddish too. You recognize 'em?"

"Oddish, yes. Skiddo? No, no I don't. Just like those pika-clones I saw last week. I like to think I'm pretty familiar with pokemon, played all the games up to Black 2."

"The what?"

"Most recent one. 'Skiddo' isn't any pokemon I recognize though, and neither were the ones I saw. I think there might be more out there."

"That's not good news, son. Especially since Sabrina didn't recognize 'em either." At my confusion, he added, "my daughter, the one that wants to make the pokey-dex. She loved playing the games and used to be studying to be a vet. Says this is how she'll contribute."

I filed that away. She sounded like someone I'd want to meet. "You sound proud of her."

"Every daddy's proud of his baby girl. Mine just happens to be brainy too."

"Fair enough. So, farming?"

"Yeah. Them skiddo and oddish seem like grass types, whatever that means. Wherever they step, things grow better, faster. Someone also got a diglett, a shy mole-thing, not as chipper as Spade but damn useful."

"I know what they are. Dugtrio, their evolved form, can make a soil better for farming. They turn soil like earthworms do, but way faster. Don't see why diglett can't do the same."

"Then you know how important they are. We don't have enough crops to feed everyone so we've been relying heavily on fishing and hunting. That's where we come in."

"You're in charge of the hunters then?"

"That's right. You'll work with me. So long as you bring in more food than for yourself, you've got a place with us. I'll also have you and Rocket clear out wild pokemon, chop down firewood, that sort of thing. A healthy lad like you, we'll make use of you one way or another."

I nodded slowly. "We can do that. I'm gonna need my crossbow fixed though if you want me going out. Your M1911 isn't going to cut it for more than small game."

"Talk to Guilermo. He owns the sporting goods store, or what we could gather from Truckee 'cause Carnelian didn't have one. He'll either fix it for you or get you set up with another. 'Fore that though, let's get you settled into a room."

"Thanks, Ranger Swanson, I appreciate it."

"Thomas, 'Ol' Tom' if you need to distinguish between me and the Tom at the gate. Now, come on, I'll give you the grand tour."

X

Thomas led me around town, showing me where everything of import was. When I asked, he told me that there were only 2,300 people here, practically anemic compared to the original size of Truckee. Over the past month, they'd bled manpower and talent, though he didn't say any more on the matter. I wanted to press, but the dark look on his face made me think better of it.

On the plus side, that meant that growing enough food for the town would be a feasible goal within a year or so. Until then, we'd just have to get used to game and fish. He'd also led a few excursions back to Truckee for food items that wouldn't spoil apparently, to mixed results. I'd be expected to join those as one of the handful of people with pokemon.

As we walked, he pointed out several of the areas I'd be expected to familiarize myself with. First up was the doctor's clinic, the only one in town. It was staffed by two doctors, one from Sierraville and the other an original denizen of Carnelian Bay before the merge, Doctors Nguyen and Lansdowne.

Then he introduced me to Mayor Rodney McAllen, an Irish man with stereotypical ginger hair. He was short and chubby, enough to bring to mind a garden gnome. He had some muscle beneath the flab though, so I assumed he played sports in college or something. His son, Austin, was the one who had the bright idea to bribe the twelve graveler to build a wall for the town. With what, he didn't say.

After that came Guilermo, the man who manned the sporting goods store. At the moment, considering the state of the town, it really doubled as more of an armory. Rather than kayaks and fishing poles, his walls were lined with rifles, knives, and bows. He promised he could fix my crossbow as a freebie so I left it to him and moved on.

The final site to visit was the dock area. It boasted three piers, though none of them very large. The Tahoe Sailing Club had its branch office here back when people did that stuff for fun. The club chairman, an older gentleman by the name of Vincent Jackson, had taken the club members in hand and started what amounted to a fishing company. His son had a marill apparently, the sole aquatic pokemon in town. There were other, smaller piers along the shoreline where you could rent canoes and such, but the club was the biggest. I made a note to visit, if only because I knew linoone could learn Surf. Helping them out might be a decent way to get Rocket some type coverage.

Ranger Swanson finally wrapped up the tour and set me up with a tiny camper in what was quickly becoming the residential district of the burgeoning town. The sad truth was that though Carnelian Bay was the best place to start a self-sufficient town thanks to the lakeside access, it hadn't actually had much infrastructure. It was, after all, a tourist spot for campers and the like, not a resort by any stretch. My camper was one of many that they'd driven over with what gas they could get from the local pumps over the month. Dozens were parked in a makeshift trailer park on what used to be the golfing greens.

"It ain't much, but it's what you're getting," Thomas said, "not enough houses to go around and you're a month late."

"Fair enough. I've slept in worse. Besides, it's a little bigger than the others. I appreciate it," I thanked him. It wasn't a camper made for an entire family or anything, but there was enough room that Rocket and I wouldn't feel cramped. It came with a small kitchenette, toilet, bed, and a couch that folded out into a second bed.

"I know how much space them pokey-mans take up. If you get your hands on any more, you'll want the room anyway."

"True enough. Is there anything else I should know, Thomas?"

"The kitchenette don't work. We don't have the gas to waste on individual kitchens. If you think you can get an electric generator, you'll be responsible for it. You want running water, you're gonna have to fill up the freshwater tank on your own, or get Phil Jackson and his marill to help ya," he said, opening up the tank so I could see. He tapped the white hose. "That's the hose that leads to your freshwater. Don't mix it up with greywater or blackwater."

"What's the difference?"

"Greywater is waste from your shower and kitchen sink. Blackwater is your shit and piss. You're gonna have to figure out how to unload those on your own so until you know how, I recommend using the communal showers and toilets."

I frowned. I was hoping I could get utilities to myself but given how new this trailer park was, that was probably asking for too much. "Disappointing, but fine. How do you reckon I start learning?"

"Ask around; there are plenty of people who're familiar with campers here. What they'll ask in exchange is up to them. Otherwise, find yourself a water pokemon. Things'll get easier as we go, son."

"I hear you. Thanks for getting me settled, Thomas."

"It's my pleasure. You'll be working with me most often anyway." He handed me a walkie talkie. "Here, hang onto that. If it runs out of battery, go to Guilermo in the sporting goods store. He's got a manual generator. You'll get your cardio in one way or another."

With that final quip, he left me to my own devices.

The town was… It wasn't perfect. I could already see points of tension. Just from the way people looked at Rocket, I could tell that pokemon were a polarizing topic here, as expected, really. A lot of them probably knew friends or family who died because of pokemon. Simultaneously, they couldn't deny the aid provided by the graveler, grass types, and marill. It was no wonder. The impression I got from many in town was that they didn't like pokemon or trust them, but they'd use Rocket and I all the same.

Then there was the food shortage going on. There was still an obvious rationing policy in place and I'd be expected to contribute my share to the communal larders. It was attached to the communal kitchen and had been set up to include a smokehouse for preserving game and fish. More than likely, I'd be expected to go with Ranger Swanson to loot more canned food and other goods from neighboring towns.

Even despite all this, there were good reasons to stay. First, I could get my crossbow fixed. That alone improved my prospects immensely.

Second, we could train in relative safety. Giving more than I got to the town in the form of food and services shouldn't be difficult. Even going on ranges with Ranger Swanson and the others would be a good opportunity to get stronger with decent backup. Sure, most likely didn't have pokemon, but the advantage of numbers was a sort of safety in itself.

Third, it'd provide us with the chance to acquire new resources and skills. Fishing for myself. Water, grass, and ground type coverage options for Rocket if I could convince the pokemon to train with us. How to better maintain my gear than the slipshod lessons I'd picked up. Maybe even a new pokemon partner if I played my cards right.

Lastly, there was a real chance that this town could become something more permanent, a home. If I was being honest with myself, I missed human company. Rocket was great, but he couldn't provide conversation in the same way. How long had it been since someone knew me as Shane?

I had Rocket dig out a fire pit of our own in front of our new camper and started cooking a can of beans for dinner. It wasn't the best, but I didn't want to go to one of the communal canteens just yet. Rocket growled lowly as I rubbed his ears. "This ought to be interesting, eh, Rocket?"

Author's Note

Oof. Not gonna lie, this one kinda kicked my ass. A lot of setup, but necessary I think. Carnelian Bay is kind of what I imagine a new town to look like. There are very basic utilities. No electricity. No gas except for major operations to abandoned towns to get more food. Barely enough food to get by. A handful of key players who dictate terms by virtue of their resources. Enough to be worth staying, but hardly the amenities a real town can provide.

 

[saltyvigilante]

Loving this so far!

 

[The Chilly One]

Good story here, I'll watch.

 

[geogio13]

Webs, how dare you make yet another story I want you to focus on writing exclusively.

 

[Fabled Webs]

Liftoff 1.5

April 2015

I woke up with the dawn, a habit that had been long ingrained in me by this point. When you backpacked without electricity, you rose and slept with the big blinker in the sky, sleeping sometimes as early as seven or eight at night and rising to catch as much daylight as you could, while you could.

That didn't mean I was happy about it though. It was a chore, an inconvenience I'd simply resigned myself to suffering. I looked forward to the day we could get electricity up and running and I could sleep in like God (Arceus?) intended. I had no idea where I'd find a magnemite or something, but now that I had a camper of my own, I'd almost be willing to tangle with those not-pikachu things again if it'd give me the convenience of modern amenities.

I shoved Rocket off me with a grunt. His seventy-some pounds of fluff and muscle was great in the cold, but not so much in a camper.

Rocket let out a keening whine that only subsided when I gave him a scritch between the ears. Whatever else there was to say about the power difference between pokemon and humans, we had opposable thumbs.

"Come on, Rocket. It's time to get up."

"Lin…"

"I know it's warm. We should figure out what all's in this little town though."

So saying, I kicked the blanket off and got ready for the day. The night prior, I'd taken two abandoned plastic containers and drawn water from the main pump next to the communal kitchens. I used one now to quickly brush my teeth and wash my face before wandering outside.

I trudged over to the small fire pit I'd had Rocket dig for us and went about making breakfast. I'd been lucky; the walk from Sierraville to Carnelian Bay had taken only a few days so the canned and frozen foods I'd packed were still mostly uneaten. I asked Ranger Swanson if I ought to add them to the communal larders yesterday, but he told me that they were mine to do with as I pleased as I wasn't part of the community when I foraged for them.

Which meant breakfast could be a bit more indulgent with the expectation that I wouldn't need to conserve quite as much as I was used to.

I tossed a hunk of frozen deer fat into a pan and waited for it to melt before throwing in a handful of chopped mushrooms that I knew for a fact were safe to eat. I also tore open two frozen breakfast burritos from their plastic packagings and tossed them into the pan before covering the lid. The oven-like heat would hopefully melt the ready-meal all the way through. A breakfast burrito with a side of fried mushrooms wasn't what I would have gone for back in the Before, but it was a fair bit more luxurious than I'd come to expect while backpacking through the Pacific Northwest.

Rocket and I ate quickly. Ranger Swanson said he'd come find me in a few days and left me to settle in. He recommended I see about introducing myself to everyone properly so they could call on me for jobs if I, or more likely, Rocket, became necessary.

I thought about who I wanted to visit first and ultimately settled on Guilermo Chavez, the owner of the sporting goods store that currently doubled as an armory. I'd left my crossbow with the bent rail with him yesterday and wanted to know if he'd fixed it already. If not, I at least wanted to know how long it would take. After all, I didn't exactly have many marketable skills besides hunting and woodsmanship, and though I did have the Springfield M1911 pistol Ranger Swanson left behind at Sierraville, firearms were too loud to be my weapon of choice.

I walked off the golfing green and down the dirt road towards the town proper, Rocket at my heels. My partner was still taking it all in. He'd had friendly-ish interactions with people before in Bend, but the last he remembered was probably the start of the riots and food shortages that made us skip town.

We were on our way to Guilermo's when we crossed the schoolhouse. I didn't know if it was already in place or had been some other building repurposed into a school, but the fledgling town did have one. The building was one of the first from the golfing green and I could see a few teachers waiting outside to usher kids to their classrooms.

Made sense. I didn't know how many of the roughly 2,300 residents were children, I suspected fewer than in normal towns, but even if that ratio was only ten percent, that was still 230 kids who needed to be cared for. I briefly wondered what educational materials people could have here but dismissed it from my mind; it wasn't really my business.

One of the kids, a boy of about twelve or thirteen, pointed Rocket out to his friends. "Dude, that's a linoone!"

"That's an obese ferret," another chimed in.

Rocket's ears perked up in recognition, only to twitch with irritation immediately after. I couldn't help it; I let out a bark of laughter that had him nipping at my fingers.

"Oi!" I yelped.

"Oone," he chuffed.

"Can we touch your pokemon?" the first boy said. He was a brave one. Most kids his age had the wonder of "real life pokemon" beaten out of them by now.

I glanced down at Rocket. He shuffled around to my other side, not quite hiding, but not exactly happy with the proximity. He flipped his upper lip up to show a flash of fangs. "Better not, kid. Rocket's not comfortable with most humans. Don't touch any pokemon if you can help it."

"Come on, it's just a little."

"Nope. Now get out of here."

He reached out a hand and I slapped it away. I grabbed him by the shoulder and bodily marched him towards the school. Rocket sat on his haunches, not following the kid.

At the school's main door, I saw one of the teachers, an elderly woman with graying hair and a tired smile. She stared back at my linoone, then at me with naked mistrust. As I got closer, she grabbed the boy by the ear and began to tug him inside.

"I told you not to approach the pokemon, Daniel," she chided. "They're dangerous! You know what they can do to a person?"

"Ow! Lemme go," he whined, flailing but not quite willing to lash out.

I rolled my eyes and turned back towards Rocket. "You're welcome," I muttered.

I had the sneaking suspicion that this "school" was more of a daycare for children as it was an educational institution. The teachers were older, probably to let the younger men and women do something productive with their time. The students, a few hundred, seemed to be grouped up broadly by age group rather than individual years, either because there weren't enough educational materials or students.

On the plus side, they did have a good teacher-student ratio as there wasn't much else the elderly could do to contribute beyond administrative tasks. This wasn't anything I'd personally considered before, but seeing it now made the whole institution seem incredibly pragmatic, if perhaps a bit insensitive. I did find it a little funny that this place had a better teacher-student ratio than any school I'd attended pre-apocalypse.

Who knew all it'd take to improve the education system was to start a nuclear war?

"Lin?" Rocket asked. I realized I'd been smiling like an idiot.

"Ehh, don't worry about it. Just thinking about something stupid."

"Linoone."

"Oi, I might not understand you perfectly, but I knew what that meant."

"Oone," he chuffed, about as clear a "You were supposed to," as I'd ever heard.

"Ass. I oughta leave you with the kids. Let them shave you bald."

"Linoone-lin," he growled low, fur floofing out. It made him look adorably huggable, but I knew it for what it was.

"No, you may not turn kids into pin cushions," I said dryly.

"Li-oone…"

"I'm joking. We need you fluffy so we can hunt better anyway."

"Oone."

"Yeah, I know. We'll go hunting again soon. I need my crossbow back though."

X

Guilermo Chavez had his store set up on what amounted to Carnelian Bay's main street. Neither the store nor the street had a real name, chiefly because both were the only ones of their kind.

The man himself was a squat, tan fellow in his early thirties with a big, bushy mustache on an otherwise clean-shaven face. He offered Rocket and I a nod of acknowledgement as we walked into the store. He sat behind the counter and in front of a wall filled with different weapons. Around the store were shelves laden with gear ranging from paracord bracelets and firemen's axes to sticks of flint and rolls of waterproof tarp.

"Shane, was it?" he asked rhetorically.

"That's right. Guilermo, right? Came by to see if my bow's fixed."

"Nah, not yet. I've got a few more orders. I should have it back to you tomorrow."

"Pity, I was hoping I could go out hunting today."

He dug around beneath the counter and pulled out a box of bullets. I noticed he was missing a pinky in his dominant hand. ".45 ACP. Swanson said he gave you his M1911. You can use this in the meantime, should be enough to hunt rabbits and whatnot anyway."

"Thanks, Guliermo. A bit loud for me, but I'll deal."

"Yeah, crossbows are great for a huntsman, especially when you're not the baddest thing in the woods anymore." He must have caught me glancing at his hand because he let out a rueful chuckle. "Heh, this ol' thing? Got it when I stabbed one of them giant hornets. The ones with them stinger-arms."

"Beedrill? We have those around here?" I asked, alarmed. Those things were infamous in the anime for being the pissiest sons of bitches in the forest. Just looking at a kakuna wrong could get a hive sent after you. I hadn't seen them around, but I also hadn't exactly gone looking either.

"Heh, too cold. Ya gotta head down the mountain a ways."

"Shut up, Guliermo," came another voice behind me. The newcomer too was a man in his early thirties. He had dark skin and a buzzcut and was dressed in a typical ranger's getup, vest and all. "I went to college with the lazy ass. Guy lost his finger trying to work a table saw in woodshop while high off his ass. Was way back before these pokemon showed up."

"Hey, fuck you, Jarvis. Let me have my fun, yeah?" the storekeeper huffed.

"Maybe if you'd stop telling people you fought a pokemon bare-handed. Last time it was a mightyena."

"Heh, next time it'll be a tyranitar. Watch me."

"Don't be proud of it, you idiot. One of these days, one of these newbloods will believe your horseshit."

"I know. It'll be hilarious," he said with a gap-toothed grin that had his mustache wiggling merrily.

I rolled my eyes. "Just wanted to know if I should be watching for pissy bug types."

"For that, you want to talk to Sabrina," Jarvis said. He held out a hand for me to shake. "Jarvis Smith by the way. Used to be a hiking guide before shit went down, studied environmental science with this chuckle-fuck over here back in college."

"Shane Hayes," I greeted back. "Was a university student in Arlington. Took a backpacking trip here when the world ended. Best decision of my life."

"Yeah, best decisions are the ones that let you live longer."

"Amen to that. So, Sabrina? Sounds familiar."

"Right. Ranger Swanson's daughter. She's about your age, was studying to be a vet back in the Before. She's got it into her head to make a pokedex. Not a digital one or anything, just a notebook of observations and the like. If you want a list of pokemon around Tahoe, she's your gal."

"Thanks, Jarvis, that's helpful."

"You're welcome, kid. She can usually be found handling the administrative side of running the ranger station, has a little lab and clinic set up and everything. You came into town yesterday, right? Swanson tell you about the bounty board?"

"Bounty board?"

"So that's a no then. He probably wanted to tell you when you next met up with him so you could have some time to explore town a bit. The board's outside on the wall around the porch here. It's a list of jobs people need doing around town that isn't too urgent."

"Why's it called a bounty board?"

"You'll sometimes see things. Someone gets a taste for venison, it'll go on the board. Dangerous pokemon? On the board."

I nodded. It sounded more or less like a standard Adventurer's Guild setup in cookiecutter fantasy settings. "Why not just tell people?"

"We don't have a rigid setup," Jarvis said with a shake of the head. "Anyone who goes out into the forest is considered a ranger. And with no phones and very limited walkie-talkies…"

"Communication's shit so it makes things easier to have a single place where people can come and go for jobs."

"Yup, bingo. Gully here does more than mind the bullets. He's also the one who keeps the board updated and whatnot."

"Oi, don't call me Gully, fucker," the shopkeep grunted in mild annoyance. "It's Guliermo or Chavez."

"Sure, Gully," Jarvis shot back. No one could get on your nerves like an old friend. "Anyway, take a few jobs around town. Shit works mostly on the honor system, but if you're found cheating the client, or if the client's cheating you, it's your ass. You really don't want that kinda rep."

"I hear you," I said with a nod. I didn't doubt some people could be assholes about payment, but that was just part of living in a society. This low-tech nonsense probably was the best they could manage for the moment. "Thanks for giving me the lowdown, Jarvis."

"Yeah, yeah, get the hell out of my shop," Guliermo grunted. Despite his words, he slid the box of bullets across the table. "Freebie, kid. Just this once. You're gonna need to find some cash though."

"I need to know what cash is first," I said sheepishly. "I don't think you use good ol' Washingtons anymore."

"Ehh, we do, sometimes, but there ain't enough bills in circulation, not like we can print money here. I also accept favors, game, or smooth river rocks."

"River rocks. Not bottlecaps?"

"Heh, Fallout fan too?" I nodded. "Funny as that'd be, there aren't enough caps either, and the ones we have, we kinda want to use. Same for bullets."

"Got it. I want money, I can dig around the creek somewhere."

"Between you and me? I'd prefer fresh game meat. Or some herbs and shit. You know, something tangible. Mayor McAllen added rocks as currency we won't burn through a few weeks back. I can see the logic in it, but it doesn't have the same legitimacy as the dollar did, you know?"

"Yeah, I hear you. Thanks Guillermo."

I walked out of the store with a lot on my mind. During my trek down from Bend, I'd wondered what this new world would do about money. Jokingly, I'd wondered if I ought to stock up on bottle caps and the like. I hadn't seriously considered the problem until I'd arrived here however.

It made sense for the town to want to move past a barter economy, but the trouble with fiat currency was that it was fiat, faith. So long as important members of the town like Guilermo didn't adopt it, it just wouldn't catch on. I didn't know if there were any other options, I wasn't an economist, but I suspected it'd take a while for a standard rate of exchange to form around river rocks.

Before I left, I decided to take a glance at the bounty board Jarvis pointed out. They weren't "quests." If anything, they were more like chores.

Chop forty pounds of firewood for the school. - 20 stones.

Teach a class on edible wild plants to older students at the school (Must be an established ranger). - 45 stones.

Kill, capture, or chase away a flock of spearow that have been pecking around the crops. - 10 stones/spearow, 100 stones upon confirmation of the entire flock.

Looking for a boathand to fish with us. - 80 stones per day and fresh fish from the catch.

None of them appealed to me. Fighting spearow sounded like a great way to get Rocket more experience, but depending on the size of the flock, it was also a great way to get jumped and overwhelmed. Considering how hard it would be to find a hundred river rocks, I had to assume a "stone" was the smallest denomination and bigger rocks would be worth more.

I didn't take any requests, but they did give me a fair idea of what I could expect to be paid. An inexperienced fisherman was worth eighty stones? That sounded like a lot, but that was probably a full six to eight hours of work.

Tabling thoughts of money for now, I headed off to find Ranger Swanson's daughter. No matter what else I had to do, I felt that talking to the resident poke-nerd was a good idea. Luckily, the ranger station wasn't too far from the main road.

X

I stepped into the ranger station proper, not the little tollbooth set up just behind the gate. The lobby was what I'd come to expect from my backpacking trips, a whole lot of wood and cork boards with different signs and maps and whatnot. There was a large statue of an anthropomorphic elk in one corner, maybe the mascot of this place.

Behind the counter sat a young woman about my age with the thickest coke bottle glasses I'd ever seen. She was kinda cute in that waifish super-nerd way, with dirty blonde hair trimmed short into a pixie-cut and hazel eyes that peered out from behind her glasses. The lenses made her eyes look rather large on her, which, added to her short, slim build, made her look a bit comical.

"Hello? I haven't seen you-Eeeh!" She cut herself off as soon as her eyes spotted the linoone, breaking into a high-pitched squeal that made Rocket flatten his ears in annoyance. She skipped out from behind the counter to get a closer look. "It's a linoone!"

"And that must make you Sabrina Swanson," I said dryly. She was the opposite of her father. Ranger Thomas Swanson was a tall, broad-shouldered man who had a real "lone ranger" aesthetic and mutton chops that made his face and neck seem even thicker than it was. His daughter was… not that.

"Oh! Sorry! Yes, I'm Sabrina. I handle the administrative stuff for dad and the other rangers. You must be Shane."

She'd been inching closer to Rocket with every word, slowly, as though he wouldn't notice. I reached out and placed a finger on her forehead before pushing her back gently. "I am. Please don't try to pet Rocket. He doesn't like it."

"Aww, just a little?"

"Nope. He bites and I don't want to explain to Ranger Swanson why his daughter lost a finger."

"Come on, I'll tell him I wrestled a haxorus. You know, like Guilermo. Wait, you wouldn't know who that is yet. Or do you?"

"We've met. Guy's fixing up my crossbow. And you're distressingly cavalier about losing appendages."

"Ehh. It's for science."

"Right, of course it is."

"It is! I'll have you know I'm the foremost authority on pokemon in the Tahoe region. Which makes me a pokemon professor," she said, chest puffed out with pride. I stared deadpan and watched her deflate. "You're no fun."

"I'm loads of fun. I just need more vodka to start."

"You know, girls don't like guys who can only hold a conversation when they're tipsy."

"And guys don't like girls with missing fingers."

"Ugh, fine. I wanted to run a physical for him. You know, get a linoone's size, weight, number of teeth, that sort of thing. I was studying to be a vet and everything."

"So I've been told. I've also been told you have a pokedex, of sorts."

"Hehehe, yeah… It's really more like a notebook with all my observations than anything. Guess you're here for that?"

"I'd like to know what else I might come across if I go off the trails," I said blandly.

"Of course. Keeping our boys informed is a big part of what I do anyway. I played all the games, read the manga, watched the anime, the whole shebang."

"You too? Nice."

"Yup! Which means, as the pokemon professor, I have to ask you just one question before I give you my pokedex."

"Shoot."

She leaned forward and peered up at me through squinted eyes. "Now, this is very important: Are you a boy or a girl?"

"Hah!" I reeled back in surprise. "Alright, that was good."

"I know. You sure you can't convince Rocket to let me give him a physical?"

"He can understand us just fine. What do you think, bud? Let the weird bug-eyed lady feel you up?"

"Hey! I'll have you know I'm only wearing these because I broke the pair fitted for me and these are the spares I had," she said with a pout.

Rocket stared up at me, then at Sabrina. He let out a noise through his nostrils that was halfway between a huff and a bark before looking away. "Lin."

"And that means…?"

"He thinks we're idiots and he doesn't want your grubby fingers in his fur. Then again, I'm sure he's open to being convinced. Got any treats?"

"Treats? What does he eat?"

"Everything. I've been giving him an even share of whatever I eat. I figure he'll just spit out whatever he can't digest."

"That's a horrible method."

"Yeah, well, there aren't any linoone experts I can go for consulting anyway. Besides, didn't Ash's pikachu have a ketchup addiction in the anime?"

"Well, yesh, but…"

"If you want to bribe him with food, try something smoky. He's taken a real liking to smoked foods."

"Fine." She knelt so she could meet Rocket at eye-level. "If I get you a whole smoked pheasant, can I run a few tests on you?"

"Lin? Linoone… Oone," he chuffed, shaking his head.

"Two birds?"

"Lin."

"Two birds and a smoked trout. Final offer."

I rolled my eyes and nudged the ornery ferret with my foot. "Just let her. She can't go higher than that anyway."

"Wait, has he been trying to make me give him more food?"

"Linoone," Rocket grunted. He had a distinctly smug smile.

"I… I think I just got ripped off by a ferret…"

I laughed. "Pokemon are smart. Just because we can't understand them doesn't mean they don't know what's going on. He'll still make sure you deliver on that price though."

"Yeah, I know. Ugh, I'm going to be so poor after this," she moaned.

"Tough. So, the dex?"

"Right, let me go get you a copy." She ducked into a side room before coming back with a small notebook and pen. She also had a disposable camera in her hand, one of those you could find in a gas station. She slid the lot over to me with a smile. "Camera has forty pictures per roll of film. If you find any other pokemon that aren't listed in the notebook, snap a picture and show me. I'm not loaded or anything, but I can give you some things to make it worth your while."

I quickly flipped through the entries. I saw lists of pokemon I'd already known about; spearow, pidgey, hoothoot, taillow, zigzagoon, rattata, poochyena, drilbur, the new, goat-like pokemon called skiddo, diglett, oddish, and the like. They'd been sorted alphabetically, though I wondered if making a threat system of some sort might be more useful. Then I spotted something I hadn't expected. "Sneasel?"

"Ah, yeah. That's a maybe though. One of the rangers spotted a clawed creature with dark fur and a red crest on its forehead. He said he only saw it out of the corner of his eyes so couldn't be sure."

"Fair enough. I'll have to be careful then. Do you make copies of all of these entries by hand?"

"Yeah, when I have time. Which is why you shouldn't lose it!" she said sternly.

"Yes, ma'am. Thanks for this, Sabrina."

"Yeah, yeah, take care, Shane."

X

After that, Rocket and I took a leisurely stroll around the town. Despite Ranger Swanson's quick tour, I wanted to get the lay of the land on our own.

The walls of Carnelian Bay were short and stout, built thick so most pokemon would have trouble breaking through the dirt. They stood just high enough to give watchmen a clear line of sight into the treeline, but not so high as to harm nearby buildings if they should ever come down. It was honestly a little impressive what a dozen graveler could get done in a month or so.

Rocket and I waved to a different set of guards at the southern end of the town as we headed out to see the farming area. A lot of the job posts on the bounty board were from farmers so I felt we should make ourselves familiar. It'd be disastrous if Rocket got shot at because the farmers didn't recognize him as my partner after all.

The town covered almost three miles of shoreline from the end of Agate Bay southward. I could see the general idea: Maximize the waterfront for improved fishing, especially since agriculture was a dodgy prospect when the town was first being set up. It was also a good thing for defensive reasons too, assuming there weren't any dangerous water types around.

The farmland was therefore to the immediate south of the walls. The moment I stepped outside, I could tell at least one person in the decision-making committee had been a fan of Chinese vistas. Like in old postcards, the farmland was terraced. Each plot of land sat flat, forming a sort of stairway upwards and away from the lake. Interspersed among the farmland were meadows of green where goats with foliage instead of fur grazed.

I assumed those were the skiddo.

We walked along the hard-packed dirt pathways. They were narrow but sturdy, dense enough that the occasional rain or snow wouldn't turn them soggy. All of this, it could only be done with the ground and rock types around. There was no way in hell a random collection of modern-day people could have converted this much forest into farmland, built crude roads, and erected walls. I found myself respecting the graveler and Mayor McAllen more. Whatever could be said about politicians, from what I saw, he looked like a man who knew what he was doing. Or at least, a man who knew how to delegate.

The plots of land weren't very large, maybe a quarter of a football field in length each. They were a far cry from the industrialized, corporate agriculture that used to exist. Instead of fields of green and gold, the plants looked more like tiny polka dots of green in a sea of brown. Interestingly, some plots of land were noticeably further along than others. I could see tomatoes that were starting to ripen red in one plot while another had sprouts of an unknown crop that had only just begun to germinate.

People moved between the plants, watering them or spreading fertilizer or whatever else farmers did. They had no machines or insecticides so everything had to be done by hand. Dotted all along the dirt pathways were junctions where metal dumpsters had been emptied and laid out. From the smell, they contained manure and compost, probably placed closer to the fields so people wouldn't have to lug them out everywhere.

The primary mode of transportation seemed to be wooden carts. Those were a strange, anachronistic clash of modern and medieval. The wheels were obviously stripped from cars, bikes, and the like, they were worthless without gas anyway, while the body of the carts had been made from lumber derived from clearing this farmland.

I looked around for someone who could give me a quick tour. Off at the highest point of the terraced farmland, a man sat on a bench with a towel slung over his neck. He had one of those timeless faces that made it impossible to guess his age and a thin frame with whipcord muscles. At his side was a skiddo, the little grass-goat eating something out of his hand.

I walked over to say hello. The skiddo saw us coming, took one look at Rocket, and scampered off. "Hey there, are you the boss around here?"

He gave me a once over and nodded. "Yeah, that's me. Pat Myers. You?"

"Shane Hayes, and this here's Rocket. We're new in town and thought we'd go see the sights."

"So I see. Come sit down here with me a while. Anyone give you the grand tour?"

"Ranger Swanson, but it was a very brief thing. He told me I oughta see my way around town for a day or two on my own so that's what I'm doing."

"Heh, ol' Tom's like that. Real hands off, except when it comes to his daughter."

"Sabrina? Yeah, I met her too. She's the 'pokemon professor,' right?" I said with a joking smile.

"That's her. Cute little thing, spunky too. You'll be seeing her often if you join the rangers."

"It's all I know. I mean, I went to college, but it's not like I studied anything that'd be helpful here."

"What'd you study?" Pat asked, more for the sake of asking than any real curiosity.

"You're gonna laugh, but philosophy. Got my BA in it with a minor in music."

"Why?"

"So I can work at McDonald's and ask people why they want fries with that," I deadpanned.

"Hah! You had it pretty good, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Family wasn't loaded or anything, but I could afford to get a useless degree. I was studying for the LSAT, but then the world went to shit."

"I hear you. What do you play?"

"Piano. Violin. I sing a bit. Probably rusty as hell. How 'bout you? How'd you end up here?"

"Shit, I'm just the delivery guy. Grew up in a farm in bumfuck Washington. You know, the east side of the state, not Seattle. Wanted to leave home and see the world, realized I had no qualifications, and eventually ended up a delivery driver to places like this."

"Then shit happened," I finished for him.

"Then shit happened," he agreed with a nod. "Ain't all bad though. I know how to farm and that makes me worth something, you know?"

"I can see it. I bet those grass types help too. How'd you end up with all the skiddo and oddish though?"

"Haha, you think they're all mine? No way, Shane. I played Pokemon Red more than a decade ago. I don't know much about pokemon. Don't even know what kind Rocket here is. I fed one skiddo and the rest just kinda followed me. I think I lucked out with the queen of the herd. She likes me so all the rest fall in line."

"Huh, nice. Guess with them being herd animals, it helps them fit in easy with us humans."

"Yup. I had some produce in my truck. Gave the herd some and talked about how we can grow more. Next thing I know, Queenie and her herd did something and the soil's as good as can be. We've got a few harvests of the fast-growing stuff already. Radish? Stuff's supposed to grow in three weeks. We got ours in one."

I let out an impressed whistle. "I guess feeding ourselves won't be too much of a problem. I didn't think grass types could do so much though."

"It's not just the skiddo. The diglett and drilbur turn the soil for us. The graveler gather up minerals they don't eat. Then the oddish do… something… I'm not sure what, but soil seems loamier after they pass by. We still gotta do the harvesting and watering, but that's a good problem to have."

"Color me impressed then. I'm not sure what I was expecting when I came out here, but this wasn't it."

He scratched his chin in thought. "Hey, you said you're not busy, right?"

"Not much planned except touring the town."

"How about you do a job for me? It's on the bounty board but no one's taken it yet."

"Is it the spearow one?"

"Yup. Interested? It's decent pay and the bodies are yours to keep."

I'd eaten spearow before, pidgey too, and they tasted more or less like any other game bird, albeit with a bit more chew. They were rich, savory, and went wonderfully with rosemary and wild garlic. I suspected that the feathers could be used to fletch arrows if I could find a bowyer. If nothing else, Rocket was always happy to grab another bite.

I frowned in hesitation. "Rocket's not that great at ranged combat. I'm afraid he might not be the help you think he is. He can probably handle himself against a few, but how big's the flock?"

"We have no idea. I've seen four. Tim, another guy, saw nine."

"If one's a fearow, we're in deep shit. We might have to have some of the graveler standing around."

"Maybe… We've all got hunting rifles just in case. We should be able to drive one off, right? You'll have all of us at your back too."

"Then sure, guess I have plans today."

"Right. I'll pay you both the going rate for each head of spearow."

"Actually, mind if I just get food? Fresh produce means more to me than rocks."

He held out a hand. "Sure, Shane. You got yourself a deal. Something to go with that spearow roast."

I hadn't planned on accepting a job, but I figured getting in good with Pat Myers wasn't bad. More than the promise of fresh poultry, I was a little wary of saying no and being seen as not contributing. Besides, considering a fearow hadn't been seen yet, it was likely that none of them evolved yet. Now was the ideal time to take them out before they could graduate from nuisance to menace.

Author's Note

The skiddo used Grassy Terrain but they don't know that because they're only aware of pokemon up to Unova. Skiddo wasn't a species they knew about until Queenie kept saying her own name.

Animal fact? Sure.

Goats have horizontal bar-shaped pupils. These pupils will naturally reorient to be parallel with the ground, no matter what the head is doing. If it's grazing, you'd expect the rectangular bars to be perpendicular and align with the nose, but no, it's always parallel to the ground.

This is because that extra-long pupil catches more light from the periphery. Slitted pupils also allow for more dynamic contraction and expansion, protecting them from harsh light.

They're not the only ones that have this either. Deer, sheep, and toads all have similar setups for similar reasons.

Note: Vertical slits, found on foxes, cats, and snakes, optimize depth perception. This doesn't work however for larger animals with their heads higher from the ground. This is why big cats, despite common misconceptions, do not in fact have "cat's eyes."

 

[The Chilly One]

Nice little bit of world building, making us attached to the characters and town so when everything goes wrong the impact is ten times more. ☺️

 

[CausalityCircle]

I'm really enjoying this. Gogoat was the mvp of my xy team, so now I have a soft spot for the whole evolution line. Great to see the skiddo rep.

 

[Wallawallaman]

Ooh, Pokepokolypse!

Watched!

I like the worldbuilding, the pokemon still feeling like pokemon, and you even see a vaque inkling of pokecanon symbiosis in the town, as humans adjust to (gasp) having to share living space with other uniquely dangerous sapient creatures, vs being able to freely operate with arrogance and impunity over the earth.

 

[HugoR]

Man, this is really promising. I really like the direction that this is taking.

Very curious on how the dungeons will work and what kind of rewards it will give out. It will be something nice to consider. Although with the direction that the story is taking maybe it'll take a while.

I wonder how mega evolution will work... That'll be fun.

 

[Forger1985]

I wonder how mega evolution will work... That'll be fun.

Click to shrink...

Very likely people will first have to get both a Key Stone and a compatible Mega Stone from a Dungeon. Then they will need to have the required bond strength with the Pokemon.

On another note, fantastic fic so far and I'm looking forward to seeing how it progresses. BTW I don't think I read anything about why WW3 happened or does our protagonist not know? I'm obviously presuming it had something to do with the appearance of the Pokemon but I'm somewhat curious about what other factors there were.

 

[Fabled Webs]

Shane doesn't know a lot of things. For some perspective, remember how the Iraq War started.

Saddam agreed to denuclearize. He allowed IAEA inspectors to come watch as he dismantled his nuclear plants. He then kicked them out. The international community accused him of having nukes and no one could tell one way or the other. Following 9-11, Bush claimed Iraq might have nukes and invaded in the early 2000s. No, the Iraq War didn't start because Saddam was housing Al Qaueda. Or oil. It started because of this nuclear ambiguity and the fear of what a nuclear power in the Middle East would do. It can be considered part of the War on Terror, and eventually became so, but the underlying issues go far beyond AQ and 9-11.

Not all of this was known to the general public. Preconceived notions about why we're invading Iraq, like oil or the War on Terror, was just assumed to be true. Shane's kind of in that stage, except there is no news organization or government body to clear the air for him. He knows what the general public might know, and some of that is wrong.

 

[Forger1985]

@Fabled Webs That's a very good point and thanks for the clarification. I had indeed been wondering whether he knew the cause or not. Likely he's in a similar position to myself vis a vis the Ukraine war. I know the major plot points due to how it's getting blared into everyone's faces but apart from that I'm more interested in getting on with my life than obsessing over every little detail like some do.

 

[Fabled Webs]

Liftoff 1.6

April 2015

Hunting for spearow was, shockingly, boring. I didn't know what I was expecting. It wasn't like I was headed into the forest to chase them down directly. No, my job involved sitting at the highest place on the hill with a borrowed hunting rifle in hand, watching the skies.

Just to keep myself useful, Pat had dragged up a wheelbarrow full of mid-sized logs and handed me an ax, something to do during the wait. It was only the promise of payment for each bit of firewood that kept me swinging. So long as I kept an ear out for Rocket's barks, I'd get the chance to take a potshot at a bird if one came out into the terraced fields.

Rocket himself had taken to making his rounds, meandering along the dirt paths and scaring away anything that wasn't supposed to be there. He looked like a furry snake from an old arcade game, moving only up, down, left, and right through paths that reminded me of mortar laid between brickwork. Once in a while, I'd see my furry friend snap out into the crops, only to emerge seconds later with a bloody rat in his maw.

It was helpful, fed his gluttony, and looked visually impressive to the working farmers. He quickly made himself a welcome sight and more than one tossed him a picked cherry tomato or something as he ran by.

The general caution towards pokemon was still there, but the naked fear I'd seen from some as I walked down the street was absent. Considering the farmers worked with pokemon on the daily, and likely shot at rattata and spearow and the like in the past, it made sense that they'd be some of the most inoculated to the idea of magic animal companions.

I smiled softly and loaded a decent-sized log of ponderosa pine onto a raised stand. It was one of the more common trees around, and light compared to the likes of redwood, which made it great for quick firewood that wouldn't tire a man out.

I scanned the skies above the treeline for a quick glance and hefted the ax. It was a no-frills sort of thing, steel head with a slight beard, hickory handle with a slight curve to fit the palms of my hands comfortably. I brought it down and nodded in satisfaction as a crack formed on the log. I wasn't very strong, at least not in the same way as a bodybuilder or lumberjack. I was in good shape from all the trekking I'd done, but I could admit I needed a bit of work upstairs to fit the typical manly man image.

A few more downswings and I had the log split in half-ish chunks. I could already feel the burn in my arms and back. A painful shock went up from my hands despite the swell of the handle. It all went to reminding me how new I was to this.

I grit my teeth and bore it, using the excuse of scanning the treeline to take liberal breaks in between. If nothing else, doing this often enough would be good for me.

The first hours passed with nothing to show for my efforts save a half-filled wheelbarrow. By lunchtime, Pat came up the hill to join me. He tossed me a package and sat down with a grunt.

"Lunch. Ain't much, but it's on the house," he said. He kicked at a bit of splintered pine. "You did alright. Your pokemon did better."

"He did. He's probably gobbled enough field mice and the like to keep him going, but he won't say no if you wanna feed him," I drawled. Sure enough, I glanced down the hill to see a beige and caramel blur racing up towards me.

Rocket skidded to a stop at my feet and stared expectantly at the packet of wrapped foil in my hand. "Lin. Linoone."

"Yeah, yeah, let me unwrap it first, ya glutton."

The provided lunch wasn't anything special, some kind of flatbread that had been folded over to make a sloppy attempt at a taco-sandwich hybrid. The filling was a slurry of fish, tomatoes, beans, onions, and the like, probably a few more things I couldn't identify at first glance. I took a whiff; it smelled a little like chili. Tearing my sandwich in half, I offered one to Rocket, who nibbled at it suspiciously before deciding it was good enough and taking a big bite.

"Yeah, ain't too appetizing, is it?" Pat said. "It's what we've got though. We ran out of bread months ago so the bread's just some water and flour mixed into dough and baked flat."

"I figured. Bread Isn't bad for what it is. I'm not sure about beans and fish going together though."

"Heh, yeah, not too much in the way of protein options though. The communal kitchens try, but they can't make steak out of nothing."

"True, true."

Pat and I shot the breeze for a while. He seemed like an alright sort, but looked a little overwhelmed at being put in charge of all the crops. It wasn't that he didn't know what he was doing necessarily, but the guy went from being a truck driver to being responsible for the survival of thousands of people practically overnight.

If it weren't for the grass types he'd befriended, apparently on accident, I didn't think he would have coped nearly so well. On the plus side, that meant Pat was as friendly towards pokemon as anyone in Carnelian Bay could be. He knew exactly how reliant we were on their continued support.

Rocket let out a quiet noise that was halfway between a chuff and a bark to get our attention. He flicked his snout off to the side, towards the southwestern edge of the farming terraces.

Sure enough, I could see seven spearow leaving the treeline. I polished off the strange not-sandwich and braced my hunting rifle against my shoulder.

"Rocket, go," I ordered. "Circle around and strafe the sky with Pin Missile. Keep them from heading back into the forest."

"Linoone," he grunted, slinking off.

"You a good shot?" Pat asked me.

"Ehh, I'm decent with a crossbow."

"This is a fair bit farther than crossbow range, 'bout two hundred yards by my guess."

"Yeah. You said we had other guns?"

"We do, but it's not like we're any better," he said with a wan smile. He gestured broadly around at the people doing one thing or another. "Bill there was an accountant. Jim used to be a driver like me, but worked mostly out in Nevada. Felix sold insurance for a living."

I raised the rifle and leaned in until my cheek rested gently against the stock. Behind me, Pat fell silent to let me focus.

Five more spearow came out of the trees, each flying off in seemingly random directions. The farmers below heard them by now and had shouldered their rifles, but the bird pokemon seemed to have no trouble avoiding their line of fire. The faint glimmer of white that trailed behind them gave it away: Quick Attack, Rocket's bread and butter and apparently also theirs.

Made sense, a bunch of amateurs like us? Spearow were about a foot tall, two at the largest. At a hundred yards or more, we really weren't likely to hit them. The scattered flock descended on the grape tomatoes and some of the men had to break off so they weren't shooting across from their fellows.

The birds screeched loudly, mockingly, knowing we weren't really a threat.

That annoyed me more than I cared to admit. I was no crackshot, certainly not by whatever anime logic permeated this world now, but I worked for my skills. As a woodsman and survivalist mainly, sure, but also as a huntsman.

I took a deep breath even as several people took their shots. One must have gotten close because a spearow shot up into the air with an ear-piercing squawk. It glowered at someone, Bill maybe but I'd never been good with names. Then, with a final shriek of indignant fury, it split into three mirages and dove.

The man cried out in alarm as the spearow took its revenge. Razor sharp claws and beak descended on him. From up here, I could see little of the crimson blood. His cries of pain startled me but I did my best to keep my aim steady.

I couldn't take the shot. No matter my pride, I knew I wasn't good enough to pick off a spearow at this range, not without fear of killing the man I wanted to protect anyway.

Then I felt a wave of relief wash through me as I spied a streak of white race through the farmland. Rocket had this. He gave up on flanking the spearow in favor of saving the farmer.

I forced myself to turn my attention to another spearow. They were distracted, either busy chasing away farmers or with their ill-gotten plunder. They were a flock, but that seemed more like something that happened out of convenience or happenstance rather than something they'd organized as humans might. I didn't know if the flock would become more organized under a fearow's leadership, but I could use that disorganization now.

Slowly, taking a deep breath, I lined up my shot for the nearest bird, some two hundred yards away. I held my breath; some said you should shoot with the exhale, make the action as in line with your body's biorhythm as much as possible, but I disagreed. I found the stillness easier to shoot through.

The rifle kicked in my arms. A loud crack filled the air. Down below, the bird I was aiming at let out a startled squawk and took to the sky.

Miss.

Grunting with annoyance, I quickly chambered another round and led the bird for a bit before taking a second shot. This time, a sudden jerk of its left wing proved my aim true. My target fell to the ground in a spiral that was probably a lot better than it looked. If anything, pokemon being bullshit magic animals, I expected the spearow to be up and about in a few days if left alone.

I couldn't have that. I shouldered my gun and started to walk down the hill, getting a little closer to the action. Right now, my aim was to down a few more; we could go about finishing them later.

Rocket had chased the spearow that had been savaging Billy or whatever. The beige fur around his muzzle was dyed an ominous red, showing that despite being fellow pokemon, he felt zero kinship with the flying pests. He let out a howl and his fur stood on end.

I knew what was coming so I took aim several feet above the next closest spearow.

Sure enough, a wide area Pin Missile pelted the farm in a large cone, forcing the spearow to back off. His attack lacked the raw distance of a rifle but more than made up for it with its spread.

Two more spearow went down. A third took a bullet somewhere in the thorax from a farmer, bringing our count to five. That broke their morale and they scattered with a combination of Double Team and Quick Attack.

I took three more shots, emptying the magazine, and missed every last one. I grunted in annoyance before taking the ax and walking to the nearest spearow, the one I'd downed.

Turned out, my aim was a bit better than I thought, or I was luckier than expected, because the bullet went through its left shoulder, not the wing. Being the size it was, the bird wasn't going to be flying anywhere anytime soon, if at all.

It saw me coming and thrashed about. It glared at me with beady, hateful eyes that promised murder if I let it go. I reached for it but a vicious Peck kept my hand at bay.

"Just gotta make it hard for yourself, huh?" I muttered. I pulled out the M1911 and unloaded two shots, missing the first. The second found its beak, shattering the light of its Peck attack and punching a hole through its head.

I picked up the bird and put two fingers between my lips, letting out a harsh whistle that had Rocket bounding to my side. A dead spearow was in his mouth, wing already missing.

"Have fun?"

"Lin," he barked. He dropped the bird and lolled out his tongue to give me a wolfish grin. He looked so much like a dog like this, except with quite a bit smarter.

"Come on, let's go finish off the others we downed. You can finish your little snack later."

"Linoone-lin."

I was wrong; that wasn't Bill that went down, it was Jim. I wanted to commit his face to memory but the man just had that forgettable quality about him. I didn't think I'd recognize him for a while yet.

Either way, Jim had managed to bring his arm up in time, probably saving his life. He now walked with his arm wrapped in a bandage made of his own flannel shirt, tears and snot streaming down his face.

The spearow had done a real number on his arm in the seconds it'd taken for Rocket to come to his rescue. Though its talons were short, they managed to leave vicious scratches and Peck extended the length of its beak four or five times until it was the length of a good-sized dagger or hunting knife. Given the deep lacerations, I wouldn't be surprised if he lost the arm for good.

'Maybe then I'd remember him,' I thought, and immediately felt like a douchebag for thinking it, even as a joke.

Some of the others saw Jim to Dr. Lansdowne, one of the two doctors in the fledgling town. From what I'd been told, Cole Lansdowne was an elderly gentleman who'd decided not to go down the mountain when Truckee started to bleed talent. He instead joined the holdouts and moved here to Carnelian Bay, earning him an enormous amount of goodwill from the townspeople.

Rocket and I finished off the two other birds that he'd downed with Pin Missile and strung up the three corpses on my belt. Looking at them, these things were only a foot and change tall on average, about the size of a normal chicken. I'd never have guessed they could do so much damage to a man. It was a sobering reminder of how fragile us unawakened humans were compared to even a weak pokemon.

"Good work," Pat said, coming up to me. "You nabbed four of them."

"Rocket took down three. I got one, and missed most of the shots I took.," I snorted, handing him back his rifle. "I think I'm no good as a sniper."

"Maybe, but that's one more than anyone 'cept Bill got. And Rocket's damn impressive. We'd be happy to have you a few more days."

"Ehh, maybe. I'm not sure if this is where we can do the most good. I haven't really finished looking around town."

"I hear that." He produced a small sack full of rocks. "Forty stones, ten per bird. There'll be a hundred more if you take out the rest of the flock. I counted only eight more."

"I'll think about it. But didn't I say I wanted to be paid in produce?"

"Yeah,"he reached into the sack and picked up a handful of rocks. "There. Go ahead and fill the sack with what you think you need for a good meal. If you want to sell the birds, I wouldn't mind tasting one."

I picked out mine. "You're free to mine, but Rocket took the others and he's already eaten one. Trust me, things basically taste like chicken, just tougher."

"Ehh, worth a try. We don't exactly get to eat pokemon, usually the other way around."

"Suit yourself. I'm going to go ahead and dress the birds somewhere. Anywhere I can do that?"

"Kitchens. Near the mess hall. There's a butchering station there you can use. There's a guy there who'll dress your kills for you for some stones or part of the carcass if you're feeling lazy."

"Ehh, for two birds? Nah. Maybe if I kill something bigger and need an extra pair of hands. Rocket's great, but he doesn't exactly come with opposable thumbs."

"Fair enough. See you around, Shane. You're a solid guy."

"Likewise. You stay safe. And maybe see about getting your goats to help you out."

"Bah, Queenie's just happy to laze 'n' graze," he spat with annoyance.

I snorted. Goats were goats, magic or not. They gave no fucks about anything but the herd. They probably saw Pat as an easy source of companionship, maybe food. Or, if the goat pokemon could think ahead, a way to cultivate the land into something more pleasant than pine forest for her and her herd to live in. Sounded preposterous, but Rocket was as smart as I was; I didn't see why the same wouldn't hold true for other pokemon. A lack of communication wasn't a lack of intellect.

X

After our little scuffle with the spearow flock, the two of us headed to the communal kitchens with our prizes in tow. Pat did give us a nice mix of produce so I'd be making some roast veggies to go with my poultry tonight.

The kitchens were a bit of a holdover from a month back when they were still figuring out where everything ought to be and a communal mess hall was beneficial for coordination. It occupied a central location in town and the storehouse and smoking room were some of the few buildings that had been converted with a set objective in mind. Even now, with so few people having working kitchens of their own, it served as a convenient way to keep everyone fed.

There was a series of long, metal tables set out into the open in front of the smokehouse. Every five feet of table space ro so, a bucket of water was placed, alongside a rag to wipe the surfaces down. Off on one end was a wheelbarrow where trimmings we couldn't eat like birds' feet and heads could be tossed. Presumably, they'd get wheeled off somewhere to be turned into compost.

"Oone…" Rocket whined as we approached. He stuck his snout into the dirt and scraped it back and forth.

"Yeah, the offals don't smell very good, do they? Can't really help it; that's just part of doing all the butchering in one place."

"Linoone-lin."

"You're free to go wait by the cafeteria tables if you want," I waved him off.

The dining area was a good hundred yards away and situated further from the water so the lake breeze would carry the smell of raw meat away. There, I could see a dozen odd people eating an early dinner or catching up with friends. Rocket chuffed and found a nice little patch of grass to lie in.

He placed his cream-colored tail beneath his head as a pillow, forming a noticeable ring with seven feet of ferret. My starter looked like a glazed donut and I was fine with that.

Chuckling to myself, I found an empty butchering station and went to work. There were a handful of people who worked here. I could pay them a few rocks to dress my game for me, but I saw no need with two spearow. I hacked off each head with my hunting knife and held the carcass over a pail to drain it of blood.

The gross task reminded me of Uncle Tony, a family friend of mine who'd owned a farm somewhere in the Shenandoah Valley area. My family would visit him for holidays, he and dad were college chums or something, and he'd treat us to free range chicken, farmhouse ham, and more fruit preserves than I cared to name.

Uncle Tony took me and his sons out to the yard once and showed us how his free range chicken ended up on our dinner plates. He had a traffic cone that had been upended and placed between two tables so it could hang like a funnel by the square base. He'd have one of his boys catch a chicken, stuff it inside until only the head poked out the tip, and slice across its throat, nice and clean.

He claimed it was the humane way to do it because the gravity helped the blood rush to the head and out the stump quickly, minimizing suffering. Effectively, he was inducing anemia via extreme blood loss.

I didn't know about humane, but holding a spearow carcass upside down over a pail reminded me of that day. Core memories and whatnot. I missed Uncle Tony… and his traffic cone. It definitely made the job cleaner.

I then began the messy task of plucking the birds. The five longest flight feathers at the tip of each wing came first. I doubted there was a real bowyer around, but it wouldn't hurt to save them. If nothing else, the red and black plumage made for a pretty neat trophy.

After I was done with that, I did my best to cut up the birds into halves and rinsed them all one final time in some clean water.

"Would one of those be for sale?" came a voice behind me. I turned to find a matronly woman with heavy freckles and deep dimples. She wore an apron stained with indeterminate sauces and spices, and looked positively exhausted.

I hummed in thought. "Maybe? I'm not really interested in stones though."

"Oh, I don't know what Mayor McAllen's thinking. River rocks! As currency!" she laughed. It came from the belly, a full-throated laugh as though she'd made the funniest joke in the world. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a glass container of whole black peppers. "I'll give you a few pinches of this for half a bird."

I didn't know where peppercorns came from specifically, but I knew they were grown somewhere tropical. Since the breakdown of various world governments, global trade had become problematic at best, more likely nonexistent. Black pepper, or really many of the tropical spices in general, were becoming rather uncommon.

They weren't essential survival goods, not up here in the cold where preservation didn't require them, but there was something to be said for a bit of variety to bland game and produce. I saw no reason to deny her.

X

Rocket and I decided to call it an early day out on the town and returned to our little trailer. Dinner for us was half a spearow for me, a full bird for my murder-badger, and roasted carrots and potatoes. I coated the birds in crushed pepper, wild garlic, and torn up salal leaves for flavor. I'd read in a hiker's guide that the leaves were appetite suppressants and always made sure to carry a few bunches.

Salal was one of those plants I learned to recognize in my year out here. It had bright, emerald leaves that shone with a glossy, almost waxy hue. It was conveniently common and both the young leaves and ripened berries were edible. I preferred the berries but they only ripped in late summer or early fall. For the moment, I'd just have to settle for the leaves.

Considering I made it all in a single cast iron pan, the food tasted pretty good. It wasn't anything to write home about by the standards of the Before, but I hadn't had roasted potatoes in months and the herby, subtly sweet taste made me smile.

We just about finished up our meal as the sun began to set. I took a quick jog to the water to do the dishes. We still had an hour or two of light, so I motioned for Rocket to follow me out to an empty section of the golf course. Here, away from the trailers, I could try my best approximation of a pokemon trainer.

I… had no idea what to do. We'd done a bit of practice while on the move, but Rocket and I weren't exactly a traditional pair, not that "traditional" really existed here. It was one thing to pick out move names on a gameboy screen, but another matter to actually exercise, coordinate, and grow.

He sat on his haunches and stared up at me with a quizzical glance. "I don't know, Rocket," I told him, "I thought that if we had more time to train, if we could settle down in one place for a bit, it'd just… come to me, you know?"

"Lin."

"Yeah, I know that's stupid. Look, I've never even trained a dog before, never mind a pokemon. I don't know how much is too much." Problem was, if I drove him too hard or he got injured, there wasn't much I could do without a Nurse Joy to run to. Because of that, I considered close combat the most dangerous thing Rocket could engage in. He had to get better somehow.

In the end, my answer was simple: Rocket was never going to be a brawler, linoone just weren't built for that. And that meant he had to gut the other guy and get the hell out of dodge.

At the far end of the golf course, I found a tall, metal fence post. Here, the chain link fence was four stories high to catch any overly long balls. I gestured to the chain links. "Try to cut that, Rocket. Hone Claws into Slash. Get in, get out."

"Lin!"

A dark miasma formed around his claws, extending them a few inches. He then became a cream-colored streak and ripped a hole clean through the chain link fence. Seconds later, he was back at my side with a happy grin.

I reached down and gave him a good scratch. "Great job, bud. You ripped through that like it wasn't there."

I wasn't sure what I was expecting. Chain link fences were made of… aluminum? Some kind of low-density steel? Whatever could be made cheaply and was resistant to rusting probably. They didn't need to be strong because they were meant to demarcate property lines, not really to keep people out. I should've known Rocket wouldn't have any trouble ripping one to pieces.

I didn't want to have him practice on a fence post. Those were thicker, but if or when he managed to bring one down, it'd probably cause a huge mess I'd be responsible for cleaning up.

We veered off a ways until we reached the stone walls that encircled the town. I took out some bright, neon-blue tape, used as a trail marker, and taped a blue X at about head-height. Since the walls were wide enough to stand on, and all filled with rock and gravel, I doubted Rocket would have any trouble.

"Alright, let's try this again. The walls are thick enough that I think you can slash away at it."

"Lin."

"Try to be as accurate as possible, okay?" He stared at me as if to say, "No shit." "Yeah, I know, I know."

I stood back and watched him for a few minutes, then promptly felt awkward as hell. What did trainers do while their pokemon worked out? Did they just… shout encouragements? Go get 'em! You can do it! Believe in me who believes in you!

Just thinking about that made me shrivel up inside. I'd never been all that talkative, certainly no peppy cheerleader or exercise coach, and becoming a backpacker hadn't exactly made that any better.

In the end, I spent the time jotting down notes about what I wanted Rocket to become. His speed was fine, probably, but he needed more striking power. Liftoff, the only unique move we'd developed together, could maybe be the foundation for a combat style revolving around Extreme Speed. If I could get him to use Liftoff and Quick Attack on top of Hone Claws and Slash, I felt he could make up for his lackluster strength with a fast, decisive strike.

How did one go about teaching a linoone Belly Drum? He wasn't literally rolling over and beating his tummy, right? What did that kind of all-out offense look like in practice?

Rocket began to leave noticeable tears in the rock face. I wondered if he could burrow through the earthen wall with Dig. That was something to keep in mind. As nice as this wall was, I didn't think it'd keep truly curious pokemon out.

We wrapped up when it got too dark to see. After a quick shower that was effectively just pouring freezing water down my back, the two of us headed off to bed. Whatever the state of things in the town, I was grateful for a reprieve from traveling. Such things were Mayor McAllen's concern, not mine. Mine was trying to get Rocket as strong as possible; I had a feeling I'd be needing his strength soon enough.

Author's Note

I'm just taking the average range of a hunting rifle. It's usually good anywhere between a hundred and four hundred yards away. A crossbow is typically only good for about forty yards. Obviously, the bullet/bolt travels farther, but most hunters make shots in that general range and Shane's no different. He's not a terrible marksman, but switching from crossbow to a hunting rifle and tripling the range is a tall ask.

Animal fact? Loggerhead shrikes are psychopathic monsters. They capture prey and impale them onto sharp branches and thorns, sometimes even barbed wire fences, and pick at them over the course of several days. Yes, the prey are often alive.

Now, stepping back from the sheer weirdness of it, loggerhead shrikes obviously don't do this because they enjoy seasoning their meals with the screams of their prey. They do this partially as a way to store food somewhere most other creatures can't reach, and because some toxins inside of insects will break down after a few days.

Things make a lot more sense when we stop personifying animals. But then again, it's more fun to think of them all as little Ted Bundys.

Anyway, thanks for reading and a special shoutout to my patrons. Have a good one, guys.

 

[Forger1985]

Animal fact? Loggerhead shrikes are psychopathic monsters. They capture prey and impale them onto sharp branches and thorns, sometimes even barbed wire fences, and pick at them over the course of several days. Yes, the prey are often alive.

Click to shrink...

There's a good reason why Shrikes are called "The Butcher Bird" and this is pretty much it. Good Chapter too, looking forward to more.

 

[Synergy]

I really like the idea that the Skiddos are just using the farmers as an avenue for terraforming the area lol.

 

[Forger1985]

I really like the idea that the Skiddos are just using the farmers as an avenue for terraforming the area lol.

Click to shrink...

Like our MC said: a) They're goats, as in they're pretty chill unless provoked, and b) They're more than likely smart enough to see humans as good potential partners in a "You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours" type of way.

 

[Synergy]

"You used me… for land development!" ass goats.

 

[Forger1985]

Technically it's just like any other domesticated species ever. They make our lives easier in one way or another and we make theirs easier, win-win. RL Goats are raised for Milk, Wool (yes I'm pretty sure Goat wool is a thing) and meat. These Goats are far more versatile and useful to us thus they get far better treatment.

Heh, they should see if they can possibly get Miltank and Tauros for the farms. Miltank for the milk (obviously) and the Tauros for breeding and herd protection.

 

[Synergy]

I wonder if there's any chance of someone 'catching' (befriending is probably more likely) a spearow. They seem a mite aggressive, but a flying type would be a very useful scout for the rangers and could possibly become a riding pokémon as a fearow. Just don't know if they'd be open to settling down with a human.

If they like tomatoes enough to steal from the field, they may be bribable at least.