Prologue: A Letter
My grandfather used to talk about the day that it happened. It was not a happy memory for him. And he did not tell it to his children and grandchildren to bring smiles to their faces. No, he told his stories to remind us. To warn us. And now, I feel I must tell you his story, for the same reasons.
The story always started the same way. He was still asleep the morning his assistant frantically woke him up. The day the reactor melted down.
The events that followed can only be described as cataclysmic failures by every disaster relief agency and government on the planet. As I'm sure you all remember, the initial numbers were staggering: 5 percent of the population within the fallout zone was immune. Everyone else died. Plants. Animals. Humans. Everything.
And then something odd happened. The radiation transformed from a poison that killed everything to an agent that mutated anything it came in contact with. Those that had been resistant or immune to the deadly effects started to show signs of mutation. Their entire molecular structure changed. To this day, no one is sure why. It showed up rapidly: within the second or third generation of animals and humans that had been exposed. The animals showed far more rapid mutations than the humans did. But the humans still changed. Only 1 percent of the human beings in Japan were unaffected.
That led to the quarantine. The island of Japan was completely shut off from the rest of the world. Nobody in, nobody out. Except my grandfather. He got permission to go study the effects of the radiation. I guess being the world's foremost expert on radiological effects on biology has its perks. If you call being allowed into a quarantined wasteland a perk.
The one percent started to rebuild. Granted, it was a rebuilding process different than anything anyone had ever seen before. That scared people. Specifically people in governments. There were many factors that led to the war. The final straw seemed to be the sinking of the USS Clinton, but in reality that was just an excuse. The battles had been planned out months in advance. The survivors fought hard, and used their newfound companionships with the mutated beasts that roamed their island. Even the animals seemed to figure out that they needed to band together with the humans in order to save their homeland. My father knew this, from his work with my grandfather, and warned the government not to go through with the plan. This is where my grandfather's story becomes my father's.
The war did not last long. The battle of Kijhoto was the last stand for the natives, and while they put up a long and brutal fight, they eventually fell. Japan fell. It became the property of the rest of the world; to be forgotten and ignored. A monument to the sins of nuclear researchers who weren't careful enough. In reality it was a monument to the terrible decisions of governments that were too scared to understand.
But while the world ignored it, the island quickly began its recovery. It was no longer called Japan, and within just one generation the people living here had completely dropped that name from their culture. The island was split into regions. The world governments each took a chunk, and figured it would be easier to control and monitor the population that way. This ultimately proved to be their undoing.
While the world turned a blind eye to the island, the natives that followed never stopped working to retake their land. The developed ways to interact with the monsters the radiation had created. Ways to control them and command them. Ways to train them and make them stronger. The population of the island rebounded as well. Almost unnaturally so. Much faster than any government could anticipate.
The revolution was swift. The outside world was expelled, and the people retook their land. The islands were reclaimed by their rightful owners. Again, the outside world decided a quarantine was the best course of action.
I moved here shortly after that, to expand on my father's work. Again, the perks of our field. I came to see and to study the interaction between these monsters and the people who now call this island home. It has been my life's work. I met my wife here. I have made a life here. I now call this island my home.
I understand the island far more than anyone from the outside. I know its dangers and its beauty. I know what the monsters here are capable of. I know what the people here are capable of. I never, in my wildest dreams, would have believed possible what you are planning. This marvel of nature turned into something for amusement.
You must forgive my ramblings. I recount the past, despite the fact that I am aware you know it well, to give you warning. To make you understand the nature of what it is you toy with. These creatures are not play things. I am now an old man, with grandchildren of my own. I have studied generations of the creatures that roam this island. You call them monsters; you are not wrong in that classification. Yet many find them to be pets, and useful for daily life. Religion has sprung up around them. Life has adapted to their presence.
And now, as the quarantine lifts, and you welcome the outside world back to your shores, you want to showcase these monsters as toys? You expect people who have only heard ghost stories and half truths to walk your beaches and fight with what nature has created? They do not understand what happened here. They will not respect the tradition. They will not respect the monsters themselves.
I do not wish to see this island, my home, turn into an amusement park. This land was not meant to be a safari zone for tourists.
You asked me for my opinion on this idea of yours. I assume you wanted a rubber stamp from the one outsider who could possibly give credence to your idea. To make yourselves feel better about it. I cannot give you that. I must insist that all plans be stopped immediately. These Pocket Monsters, as you call them, are not tools of war. Not anymore. Nor are they playthings, as you make them out to be with your proposed contest. Please heed my warnings. Many will die if you follow through with what you plan. This island has seen one war. It does not need to give the world a reason to start another.
The Pocket Monster League is, in my professional opinion, an incorrect use of the natural and unnatural wonders this island possesses. I do not give its operation my professional recommendation.
Sincerely,
Professor Samuel Oak Ph. D.
Director of Research – Pallet Laboratories
