The carcass of the teenaged trainer had mostly decomposed, the only things left behind being a skeleton, with some areas covered in still decaying human tissue, tattered clothing, a pack shredded to bits and raided by wild Pokémon, and six Pokéballs, covered in dirt and scratched up, to a point that the red polished paint has almost completely disappeared. The trainer was most clearly male, despite there being no facial structure left to confirm this, other than cartilage, teeth, and eyeball remains still left in the sockets. I vomit almost immediately-the smell of rotting meat is overwhelming, let alone the fact that even the thought of blood makes my skin crawl.

It is law that if a deceased trainer is found that any person is to collect their trainer identification card, Pokéballs, and PokéDex, and immediately report the death to police. I approach with caution; it isn't unusual for predatory Pokémon to wait near a carcass for scavengers. I am not a trainer myself, and therefore have nobody by my side to protect me from an incoming attack. However, the coast is clear, and without interruption I manage to make it to what's left of the gruesome tragedy.

The PokéDex and trainer card identify the young man as Paul Gray, a senior Pokémon trainer not much older than I. There are no signs of a struggle, and neither of foul play, the policeman says, two conclusions I had come to upon my own investigation.

The man then turns to me. You know it's dangerous to be out here without a Pokémon, right? I nod, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. He then hands me the Pokéballs found on the trainer. Most of these are likely corrupted, he says, pointing to the solid red warning light surrounding the button on the face. How unfortunate, I think. These were once living creatures, forced down to mere Yottabytes of data into a containment system simply for the convenience of being able to carry more than one at a time. I express this to the policeman, only to be given a sideways look and a grunt of indifference.

My dad being nothing but a small name Pokémon diagnostician and health expert in a big city, my fear of being as terrible a trainer as the ones I've seen come to the clinic has deterred me from deciding to raise a Pokémon. Chronic battle wounds, lifelong scars, and even mental incapacitation and abuse have presented themselves in suite 2370 of 60 Park Avenue, and the thought of causing that kind of harm to a living creature is terrifying to me.

I do, however, reluctantly accept the Pokéballs. I don't exactly know what to do with them, I say blankly to the uniformed officer. He looks me over as if I'm stupid, saying Well, son, you have three options. One is that you smash them immediately, as to prevent the corrupted data from causing you or others harm, and another is to take them to a licensed Pokémon Center, where they will also most likely be discarded. He studies my face deeply, waiting for any sign of misunderstanding. When he gets no such sign, he continues, Now this is probably the most risky of the decisions you could possibly make. Open them.

I look him in the eyes with a stare that seems to insist that he is in fact the stupid one. Why would I want to do that? I demand. You just said so yourself, what's in these things could be dangerous.

Yeah, it could, he says, not missing a beat, but it could also be alive.

My moral dilemma increases exponentially throughout the hours that I carry the small spheres of chance in my bag. The man stated that if there is the slightest chance of a Pokémon not being corrupted, my decision needed to be made in a short time, if not immediately, as there is no telling how long there may be until the corruption actually takes place. But the repercussions of either choice is terrifying, and even as I look to the ceiling of the rest cabin, the sound of rain on a tin roof cannot shed light on what is the right choice.

I sit up suddenly and grab my red bag from beside the king mattress, open the front pocket, and pull out the Pokéballs. I study them one by one-they have been engraved with either one symbol or two, similar to what you would see imprinted on a yearbook. One has some kind of game ball, and a book. I wonder if they're supposed to represent something, I wonder out loud. From what I can tell, they seem completely unrelated to typing, or to Pokémon in any respect. In fact, the symbols appear to be completely random. Is it possible that they express the personalities of the Pokémon inside?

I continue investigating each ball closely, coming upon another interesting customization. Along the black band of each ball is a quote, most often a famous quote to do with friendship. One of them reads Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light, and another says A single rose can be my garden, a single friend, my world. Each Pokéball is customized, and I can't help but think that this may be one of the more caring expressions I've seen in Pokémon trainers.

There is one Pokéball that stands out from the rest. The engravings are noticeably bigger and more detailed, one being a broken heart stitched back together, and the other nothing more than four lines. The words along the ring are not actually a quote, and instead say Thank you for saving me when I did not want to be saved. Finally, the most outstanding detail is directly above the button of the ball, a lime-green crystal. It's cracked down the middle, but it appears as if none of it has fallen from where it is being held.

I sigh, realizing I've made up my mind. I reach to pick up the Pokéball.

It jumps from my hand as soon as my fingertips make contact. It then begins to seize violently, the red ring now flashing aggressively, and I dart back. I'm yet again unprepared to fight, and whatever is about to come out from that thing may possibly kill me.

The button on the middle of the ball pops off. Cracks appear along the bottom half. There's a flash of white light and I brace myself for impact from an unseen force.

The attack never comes.

Instead, what follows is an entirely more terrifying scene. A small-bodied Pokémon with a large set of jaws extending from the top of its head appears, howling and screeching. Blood pools around it as it collapses in agony, and more spills from the left side of its body, where its arm would normally be.

I fight the urge to panic and jump into action immediately. I grab my bag and pull out a long-sleeved shirt and a short-sleeve shirt, then run over to where the Pokémon had fallen. I press the short-sleeve against the wound, then use the long-sleeve to hold it against the injury by tying the sleeves around the Pokémon's waist. It struggled and fought against my assistance, snapping its large jaws at me while its docile face continued to scream in pain. I put pressure against the wound, and simultaneously tried to sooth the anguishing Pokémon. Potions will be ineffective at this point, clearly, and so would an average Pokémon Center care. But I'm hours of driving away from my father's clinic, and I have no idea how to care for a wound so severe. I have no other choice.

I'm being given looks of either confusion or disgust from people in the Center for the first few hours of pacing in the waiting room. My guess is that most people think I'm the one that did this. Then again, nobody here really knows that I almost always faint at the sight of blood.

A man knocks loudly on two wooden doors, then opens them. Warren Kilburn, he announces loudly, and I jump. Not many people call me by my full name, but rather my last. I jog over, my mind races ceaselessly with the possibilities of what could have happened to the Pokémon, which I had recently learned is a Mawile. The man, who introduced himself as the lead surgeon in the operation, looked at me grimly. She's going to be alright, he says, a statement that, while soothing, is in no way comforting due to him demeanor. I hold my breath and wait for the bad news, expecting the worst.

This isn't your Pokémon, is it, kid, he states flatly. I shake my head. The surgeon nods, avoiding eye contact.

Is the boys name Paul, he says, again with little emotion, giving the implication that he knows the answer. This time I nod, a feeling of guilt rising in my gut. He knows the trainer, I think, and I'm the one that's going to have to tell him that…

Paul's dead, he whispers. I nod again, unaware that he isn't paying attention to me anymore. I need a moment, he says, more to himself than anyone. Then, as if just remembering that I'm in the room, chokes out Serenity's in the ICU, but after that seems unable to continue talking. I want to help the guy, but at this point I think that Mawile, or Serenity, is probably in much more need of somebody.

I enter the room slowly, trying not to startle the resting Pokémon. As I approach, it squints its eyes at me, then smiles. I smile back, happy to know it's acting so friendly toward me.

However, my relief is short lived. As it opens it's mouth, it shouts what seems to be a word. My face drops when I hear the word it says.

Paul!