MacGinnis’ Tavern was Pallet Town’s only watering hole and had two options by which a thirst could be quenched: whiskey (distilled right out back) or stout (also brewed out back). It was a small mote of pride for the town that such fine beverages could be procured with ingredients grown locally. So when a fancy townie with more refined tastes had his first sip of the town’s rot-gut and declared it heavenly, a mighty cheer went up from all the patrons.
“Damn! And you don’t sell this anywhere but here?” Dean exclaimed. “That’s a crime to drinkers everywhere else in the world!”
The Tavern’s proprietor guffawed and shook his head. “Ach, such a brammer! Michty fine words tae hear from an outsider!” Finlay MacGinnis originally hailed from far overseas and his rich brogue was a testament to the fact. “Have another drink, laddie! This ane’s on the house!”
Dean took a draw of the proffered glass and whistled in appreciation. “Now I’ve had many a liquor in my time and from all over. But this. This! This is fantastic! How much for a bottle to take home?”
“For ye? Nothing! Juist rid us o’ thaim boggin’, plague-ridden fiends an A wad happily part wi’ a bottle for fuck all.”
It could have been the booze lubricating the gears in Dean’s head, it could have been the stress of the day, or it could have even been a bit of magic leftover in the imported Galarian whisky-still imbuing him with a curse of gab. But Dean found his lips moving before his brain caught up.
“Oh, about that. With any luck, an extermination won’t be necessary. They’re smarter than they look and I’m betting that they’ll be fine partners in the years to come.”
“Noo jist haud on a tick. Yer must be oot yer face.” MacGinnis had a look of perplexity and a small crowd of men was forming around the table. “Partners? now A'v heard it all. Roger lad, get some scran in ‘im before he has another drink.”
Roger laughed it off with a well-timed pun that made everyone groan then ordered a set of pork pies for the table and leaned in to Dean as the crowd dispersed. “I told you that I would handle the explanations. I know these men. You’ve got to remember that they’re simple farmers. People of the land. The common clay of Kanto.” A small giggle hiccuped from the old man’s throat. He too had had a couple drinks of his own. “You know…morons. The second that the idea comes from ‘city-folk’ like you, it gets discounted immediately. I’ll bring them round…though you mind giving me a better breakdown?”
Over the course of the next thirty minutes (and between bites of flaky pastry drowning in minced pork and gravy) Dean explained in a quiet voice about how Rattata were actually beneficial to the environment. From natural pest control, nutrient recycling, weed thinning, and biodiversity support Dean laid it all out on the table. In some cases quite literally as he drew several simplistic diagrams. One of which caught Paul’s eye.
“Okay city-man.” Paul ribbed none too playfully. “So the Rattata eat the Caterpie and the Weedles, then the Pidgeys eat the Rattata, and we eat the Pidgey? What the hell does a Pidgey even taste like?”
Dean swallowed another bite of pie and followed it up with another sip of that fine, fine whiskey. “You’ve had chicken, right?”
Sarcasm drooled off of Paul’s reply. “No~o, can’t say that I have.”
“What if I told you that chickens are just domesticated Pidgey?”
A blank look covered the young man’s face. “What? I thought they were a separate species?”
“Sorta. See this here pork?" Dean held up a forkful of the meaty goodness. "Here in Kanto it’s domesticated Slowpoke. Where your fine proprietor hails from? It’s LeChonk. What happened is that over centuries of selective breeding humans picked out the slowest, dumbest and fattest of the bunch and mated them together. Repeat over and over then fast forward to today and you get boar and pig.”
“So Pidgey is just wild chicken?”
Dean mouthed around his bite. The gravy really was something else. “Precisely.”
Anyone watching Paul’s face could see the metaphorical gears turning in his head. Clearly the man didn’t quite understand everything through the haze of good booze, so he simply stared at Dean and downed the rest of his liquor. “Fuckin’ smart-ass. I should just pound your face in for today, but I’m too tired, Sammy’d be mad at me, and I need to make sure the gun’s oiled up for tomorrow.”
“Are you sure it’s wise to be cleaning a weapon after drinking?”
“Look here, wise-ass.” Paul drawled. “I’m not an idiot. Just because I didn’t go to some fancy-ass school in the city doesn’t mean I don’t know things. Got a lock on the trigger and we don’t store them loaded. Gonna take a walk, drink some water, and sober up before doing anything.” And with that, Paul stalked off into the night.
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Dean watched him leave before looking back over at the elder Oak. “He does make a point…I suppose an apology is in order.”
Roger harrumphed. “Look, I’m an old man. My father, his father, and the rest of my family have been here since the beginning. You don’t run a village for so long and not know a thing or two about hard decisions. While I’d hope that things’d have changed over the decades, it looks like it hasn’t yet and likely never will.” The old man looked to take another bite of pie, but found the plate empty. Frowning, he set his fork back down as he continued. “The old men send the young men to fix shit the old men broke. I’m tired. Tired of the fighting, tired of laying traps, cleaning traps… If there is even the mild hope that things can be better, then damn it all I’m willing to try it.”
His voice became pensive. “Even if it means that we have to corrupt one last generation to do it.”
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As promised, Sammy crept down the hall towards his mother’s room. This entire portion of the house was full of gloom and always seemed to be shrouded in shadow despite the lamps. His mother’s aura had taken over this entire wing of the home and sunk it down into the depths with her. Each step was like walking through thick mud. Slow and slogging. If it wasn’t for the tiny pitter-patter of Crescent’s feet behind him, Sammy would have thought that all sound was vacant. Usually all he could hear was his own heartbeat and a ringing in his ears.
He knocked before entering, not that it mattered.
She lay there just like every other time he had come to visit. Cold, lifeless, a mannequin guided by strings that led to that simple sheet of paper. A draft went through the room and Sammy shivered. Now that the sun had gone down the temperature outside was dropping rapidly. He walked over to the open window with its swaying muslin curtains and shut it. The loud clunk as the bottom casing hit the sill made the form on the bed stir ever so slightly.
“Hi Mom.”
Pulling Sally’s rocking chair closer to the bed Sammy sat and looked at his mother. Her cheeks were sallow and gaunt. Once dirty blonde hair hung in a mixture of silver and gold just like the curtains before the window. There was no light in those eyes; no one was home.
“This is Crescent.” The Nidoran had hopped up onto the bed and was sniffing at the woman’s hand. His ears were flat on his skull and he pulled back again and again as if she would reach out and strike him at any moment. “I met him fighting off some Rattata the other day and he’s been following me around. Guess he likes me.”
Crescent jumped back down from the bed and then onto Sammy’s lap; ruby eyes closing as it settled down. Sammy flinched, gritting his teeth.
He was stuck now. May as well keep talking.
So talk Sammy did. He told the near-corpse of his mother about school, about the wheat, about the farm. He told her about Paul tossing him up into the rafters of the barn. He told her about the Rattata. He told her about how he killed one of them in self-defense.
Sammy cried. He kept talking.
He complained bitterly about Trainers. Fighting in general. The War.
Sammy told his mother that he was angry at her for leaving him, even though she was still there.
He cried some more.
And when he was done, Sammy didn’t feel refreshed like Sally said he might. He felt hollow instead. What was the point in telling his mother any of this when she wouldn’t do anything about it? Why bother when she just sat there with her blank stare?
But Sammy was stuck, so he kept talking.
He talked about learning how to fight with Dean. How strong it made him feel even if it was Rooster that had been the one doing all the work.
He talked about how guilty it made him feel.
Sammy talked and talked, the words pouring out of his mouth. His brain was a faucet that had been turned on and everything kept washing over his tongue. About how he had looked up to his father going off to fight. How Sammy was so proud to be his father’s son every time they got a report of his latest glories and a miniature version of the medals that had been pinned to his chest. He talked about how he had read those documents again and again in the weeks and months after the letter came.
Crescent stayed on his lap and rumbled and purred.
Sammy was out of things to talk about. He pushed Crescent off his lap and screamed at his mother.
“Why won’t you wake up? Why won’t you talk to me? Don’t you love me?” Sammy’s voice bounced off the walls and ceiling and was amplified. Crescent’s look of betrayal from being dropped off his comfortable spot turned into one of trepidation.
Sammy turned and stomped to the door. It was closed. The gust of wind must have shut it earlier.
As Sammy turned the handle and flung the door open he heard something soft behind him. It was so soft and quiet that he must have imagined it. He ran down the hallway with the imagined words joining the ringing in his ears. Crescent scrabbling after him, his claws unable to find good purchase on the polished wooden floorboards.
“Come back safe, Sammy.”