It took less than five minutes for Gram to locate the nest once they entered the woods proper. Dean then took the next thirty minutes to carefully sketch out the path along with any major landmarks. If the worst came to pass that Gram became disabled, Dean would need his rudimentary map to return to the area. Based on his pace count, Dean had traveled at least two kilometers or so. He paused to drink heavily from his canteen as he waited for Gram to return from scouting.
It was an interesting thing that Gram could do. By generating warped planes of compressed air, he could refract the light just so as active camouflage. Dean didn’t quite understand all of the science behind it, but it was essentially a hyper-specialized application of
“Master Dean, I have returned.”
Jolting in place, Dean turned to the golden-bronze face of the Kadabra and his rapping spoon. “Must you…every time?”
“I will admit it does give me some pleasure in surprising you.”
Wiping his now cold sweat off his brow, Dean waved Gram closer. “Alright, what do we got?”
“There are three Raticate and several hundred Rattata.”
“Three? That’s…unusual.”
“Quite. It appears that the third is a recent evolution. From the chatter, it would seem that this new Raticate is vying to replace the Matriarch of the nest.”
Dean cursed as he flung a pebble into the brush. “Fuck. It’s one thing to negotiate with vets, but another entirely if some hot head takes over. We better get in there now and see if we can’t shake things up. What’s the approach?”
“I recommend going in noisily. Best that they hear you coming. It is a quarter click northeast of here, semi rocky terrain with lots of underbrush and roots. Advance should be simple, but retreat may prove difficult.”
“Why’s that?”
“They’re in a small valley. You’ll be retreating uphill.”
“This day just keeps getting better, doesn’t it? Alright. Lead the way.”
----------------------------------------
The chill from the morning had long since faded and the heat bore down on two men and a boy as they harvested the fields. All had donned hats with damp kerchiefs stuffed in the back to keep the harsh rays from burning their necks. The roar of the diesel engine set the pace as Sammy’s Grandfather steered. Harvester blades cut swathes in the grain as the revolving reels deposited them in the attached combine. From there, the threshed grains were dropped into an awaiting sack and the hay was jettisoned out the side. Sammy was in charge of tying off the filled sacks and kicking them down the chute while Paul would lug it into a wheelbarrow and take it off to the drying kiln.
“Hey Sammy! You need to let the sacks fill a bit more before kicking them down!” Paul called above the sound of the engine.
“How much more?”
“You’re only filling ‘em halfway! Get ‘em up to seventy-five percent!”
“Roger!”
Roger Oak whirls in his seat with a mighty grin, “You lot using my name in vain back there?”
“Yeah, sure, Grandpa!”
As the older men returned to their work, Sammy watched the burlap fill. Gold and brown cascaded in a river and rustled into the bag. An eighth full. A quarter. Half. At this point Sammy knew he could, with effort, swap out the bags. Three-quarters full. Pushing the opening of the next sack onto the opening, Sammy swiftly tied off the finished one. He heaved and used his knees in an attempt to shift the cumbersome package to the chute, but it simply fell onto its side.
Feeling something brush his leg, Sammy looked over his shoulder. Crescent’s face was contorted in a look that clearly said, “Move over” as he nudged past and easily shoved the bag the rest of the way off the combine platform. His purple ears waggled as it looked smugly over its shoulder at Sammy.
They fell into a pattern. Sammy would fill the bag and tie it off, then Crescent would push it down the slide. As they worked, Sammy noticed Crescent began using his hind legs to kick the bags rather than just nose them. It was interesting to him as one foot seemed to impact before the other, but it was so rapid that only the whu-whump sound of the impact gave it away.
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The sun was past its peak before they stopped for a meal.
Canvas shaded them all from the worst of the sun, but the heat from the drying kiln could still be felt. Paul had to frequently rise and shovel the grains about so they would dry evenly and occasionally throw an additional log onto the coals below. Sammy’s Grandfather merely supervised with a sandwich in his hand.
“What’s the humidity?” He mumbled around a bite.
Paul wiped at his forehead with a soot-covered rag that was once a kerchief. “We’re at around twenty-two percent, boss. Been cookin’ ‘em for twenty to thirty to get ‘em down to fourteen.”
“You’re weighing everything to be sure? They won’t buy it if it’s not at least down to fourteen.”
“Yeah boss.” Paul waved vaguely towards a set of heavy brass scales.
“Good.” With that, Roger settled back onto the sack he was using as a perch, chewing thoughtfully.
Sammy grimaced around his mouthful of sandwich. Sally was extremely fond of using recipes from one of the meal pamphlets that had been handed out during The War. Pilchard and cabbage spread with washed watercress was one of them and their current lunch. The pungent oiliness of the fish mixed with the spice of the watercress in a way that made Sammy’s tongue curl in on itself, but he dared not complain. Pallet Town was one of the lucky places. Even during the worst rationing periods during The War, they almost always had some form of protein on their plates. Most places needed to make do with suet.
It still didn’t stop him from surreptitiously scraping some of the sandwich’s innards and idly dropping them behind his back where a less discerning palate awaited.
The rest of the meal was eaten in relative silence, the only sounds coming from the diesel motors of the combine harvester and tractor, Paul’s shovel moving wheat about, and the crackle of the radio. Sammy rather liked the song that was playing.
A Snorlax is an animal with dirt on his face
He wears no shoes - a terrible disgrace
He has no manners when he eats his food
He’s fat and lazy and extremely rude
But if you don’t care a feather or figy
You too may grow up just as piggy
Crescent’s ears swiveled like a weather-vane, one pointed directly at the radio as the other turned this way and that. Sammy felt oddly safe when Crescent did that. It meant that the Pokemon was always on the lookout. So when the roving ear stopped and focused in the direction of the woods, Sammy was the first to turn and see Dean’s approach.
The Trainer was huffing like a locomotive in stark contrast to the serene grace of the hovering Kadabra next to him. He waved his arms over his head to get the attention of the rest of the harvesting party.
“Humph.”
Sammy looked back at his Grandfather.
“He’s back awfully faster than I expected. He better have some good news for us.”
As Dean neared the makeshift tent, Sammy retreated back away from the man. He didn’t care for how his eyes seemed to pierce right through his own. How the Trainer knelt to speak to him at his level. It was something Miss Brunch did when she was trying to get him to open up. Narrowing his eyes, Sammy stole glances at the new Pokemon that had just… teleported in. The spoon it carried didn’t look to be made out of any metal that Sammy knew of. Its surface flowed like molten glass even as it shone like polished steel. It only seemed solid when the Kadabra was hitting something with it. Sammy didn’t care for it. It was weird.
Roger spoke up again. “So. Dean. What was it like out there? Did you find the nest?”
The Trainer took measured breaths as he spoke, sucking in the air and spilling out the words in rapid fashion.
“We found them alright. Looks like your hunch was correct that there was a mated pair. They’ve taken over a small valley about 3 kilometers northwest of here. From the scouting parties we witnessed coming in, it looks like they picked the spot to be one that is relatively hidden from predators while being simultaneously close enough to just about all the farms in the area.”
“And?”
Dean sucked in more air. “Now hold on, I’m still catching my breath here. I had to run back as quickly as I could.”
“Should we be worried about that statement?” Paul’s face was set and grim.
Shaking his head at first then pausing, Dean turned to the younger man. “No…well… yes and no. I was successful at beginning negotiations with the mated pair. Ah, may I?” Dean pointed at the jerry can filled with water then to his canteen. At a nod from Sammy’s Grandfather, he continued to speak while filling the receptacle and quaffing the liquid. “However, there is a third Raticate. Recent evolution and rather upset to put it mildly. She’s a violent specimen and to no wonder.”
Dean turned to face Sammy.
“You killed her mate and she’s out for blood.”