Author's Notes and Introduction
So we meet again. I'm glad you've decided to take a look at this story, and I hope to clear up a few things.
Firstly, you should know these crossovers do NOT follow my previous Simpsons anthologies: neither The Nuclear Tetralogy, nor The Saga of Ryan Smithers. So knowledge of those stories isn't important. There will be a few commonalities, but beyond that, it's a completely new literary world.
Secondly, this is a crossover. That means it draws elements from another fan domain (fandom), in this case the Pokémon universe.
I know some of my readers might not be as familiar with pokémon. Don't worry, you don't need to know anything about the show, games, or any part of the franchise. All you really need to know to understand is that the world is inhabited by creatures called "Pokémon." They fill the ecological niches that animals do for us, but with slight differences. Pokémon have certain elemental properties, and a sort of connection to their element. Some might generate electricity like an electric eel, some might have fire flickering beneath their fur. Others that live below ground might even subsist on minerals, and thus have metallic, magnetic properties.
Some people keep pokémon as pets. Others raise them to battle in non-lethal wrestling tournaments, called "battles" or "duals," for fame and prestige. A few types of pokémon are mighty tasty, and raised for food. There are cat pokémon, dog pokémon… wild squirrel-like pokémon. In short, if you can imagine a real animal, odds are there is a pokémon counterpart for it.
There are also pokémon that look nothing like the animals we're familiar with. Some resemble everyday objects like candles or even a set of keys. Others are clearly animals, but fantastic beasts the like of legends themselves.
In the wild, pokémon live in dens, nests, burrows. In captivity, they can be either left loose and confined in a traditional kennel or paddock. More often though, pokémon owners keep their creatures in pokéballs. These spheres, about the size of a softball, can safely contain a pokémon of any size. How does that work? Well, that's a bit beyond the scope of this introduction. So, you can either search the internet for theories, or conclude: "It seems to work quite nicely," and go with that. Pokéballs also seem to isolate the resident from outside conditions, heat, cold, even the passage of time. When released from its ball, a pokémon emerges in the same condition as when it went in, no worse for wear.
For those of you familiar with the Pokémon franchise, please allow me to point out a few things. In this crossover world, most people are not pokémon trainers. Your average person might have a pokémon or two as pets, but she or he won't be galavanting off to the far corners of the world trying to complete their pokédex, or become the most powerful trainer ever! Sure, such zealots do exist, but the best comparison I can come up with is the difference between a hardcore competitive show dog enthusiast versus your average pet owner.
Some people spend thousands of dollars on a pedigreed pup, then tens of thousands of dollars chasing after elusive "Grand Champion" titles. Most dog owners simply enjoy having a companion or working pet. So too is it with pokémon owners in this literary world. Most people who own pokémon do so because it brings them joy.
I might also add, a difference in this crossover world versus the world of Pokémon that you might be more familiar with: wild pokémon are generally protected. It's important to know the local and state laws before deciding to try to "catch them all." Poaching is crime, always hunt responsibly.
That, and pokéballs are expensive. Most folk simply don't have the disposable income to buy dozens of pokéballs for hunting or storing pokémon.
I think that pretty much sums up the setting for this crossover world. This story itself is rather short, a prequel if you will. It sets the stage for the tales that will follow after.
Standard Disclaimer: I don't own rights to The Simpsons, Pokémon, or anything else like that. This is a non-profit piece of fanfiction.
February, 1952.
It had been cold, much colder than usual. Not perhaps the snowiest winter Springfield had seen, but unquestionably one of the most brutal. The ceaseless wind and below-freezing temperatures left people and all but the hardiest of pokémon huddled up against themselves to stay warm. Parents were cautioned against letting their children play outside, not that would've appealed to most children anyhow.
Waylon Smithers Senior, father to a son of the same name, and husband to Tabitha Smithers, took great care to make sure his infant son was bundled up to the nines before taking the babe outside. It was a matter of necessity, really, bringing his son out. Through situations he cared not to think about, there were many days he had to bring the child to work with him. It was a less than ideal arrangement, but fortunately his employer tolerated it.
When Waylon left Springfield after graduate school, he never expected to return.
Government contracts were a funny thing.
He soon realized he was sent where good old 'Uncle Sam' thought he was most needed. His plans and expectations were largely irrelevant. An expert in the field of nuclear study and design, he'd had a hand in supervising the construction of the first commercial breeder reactor in Idaho. The construction had started in 1949. Waylon and Tabitha had been sent to Butte County that year, while Waylon oversaw the project.
His next assignment had been the town of Springfield, in North Tacoma. A private nuclear enterprise, owned by a ruthless and eccentric tycoon named Charles Montgomery Burns.
As he'd done so many times before, they moved. Waylon uprooted his pregnant wife and moved to this new town. By the time he and Tabitha had finally settled in and gotten to know the region, the Butte County plant in Idaho had gone live, and was generating electricity. Waylon took a measure of satisfaction in knowing that he'd had a hand in it. He wished though, that he had been there to see it come on line.
About the same time, Waylon's son was born; and much to both his pride and mild chagrin, Tabitha decided to name the babe after him.
The rest was a story that didn't bear mention, and he tried to keep it from his mind: the conditions that ultimately required him to bring his son to work. Fortunately, when he'd approached Montgomery Burns and explained the situation, Burns hadn't said no.
Do as you must, Burns replied indifferently. As long as you can attend to your tasks, what do I care?
What do you care indeed? Waylon had thought as he set up a bassinet in his office. Burns alternated between moments of callous indifference and genuine concern, mood flipping between the two extremes as if someone were flipping a switch. He would often stand over Waylon's shoulder, watching silently, twirling a pokéball with his long fingers. He was never without them, a bandolier of five slung across his side, worn under his long coat out of sight.
Waylon felt a mild twinge of envy.
The pokéballs were just another one of Burns' casual displays of his vast wealth.
And so Waylon's life had been for the past weeks. He was at the end stages of his project. The other day Burns had appeared in his office, a doberman-like houndoom at his heels, bearing a small flask of cognac and two cigars. A preview of the celebration for when she comes on line, my good man, Burns explained, holding both proudly. He'd then paused and peered at Waylon Jr., brow furrowing slightly. I daresay I can observe the burgeoning resemblance between you and the boy, now that his features aren't so neonatal and inchoate. Well, carry on, Waylon. Much to do. With that, he swept out, longcoat billowing about his lean form, the houndoom following obediently.
Waylon smiled to himself. In those moments, he could almost forget Monty Burns was his employer. Perhaps when this was said and done, and his contract was over, he would be able to enjoy Burns' company in the role of friends.
To the west of Springfield the Sawblade Mountains rose up from the rolling hills, dominating the winter landscape with an even more barren view. There, at the highest peaks, the snow wouldn't melt till July, if it melted at all. Some years, it didn't and the ice would remain year-round. White capped sentinel peaks viewable from the fields below.
The second-largest mountain in the range was known as the Murderhorn. Its shoulders stretched both north and south. To the north, a tunnel had been carved through the solid rock, the main road to points beyond. Hikers and mountaineers frequently challenged themselves against the Murderhorn's unyielding façade.
Massive as it was though, the Murderhorn was overshadowed by the Widow's Peak. Several thousand feet taller, and much steeper, the summit was nearly 14,000 feet above sea level. Only the bravest (or most foolhardy) dared to try scaling its craggy slopes. Fewer made it back. The Widow's Peak was aptly named.
And yet, the alpine top of Widow's Peak was not uninhabited. There, a single creature lived higher on the slopes than any other, perfectly content in the blistering cold, thick, white fur provided both perfect insulation and camouflage. He was one of several that lived on the mountains, but he was the oldest, and thus claimed the highest peak. The cold never bothered him. He would lie exposed at the heart of the snow storm, comfortably asleep in the blizzard.
Most of the time he stayed at the highest points, slipping along the cliff edges with grace that would make the most nimble cat jealous. His thick claws, grey as the slate-blue granite itself kept hold of the rock. Gust as it might, the wind could not dislodge him. The fur on his back rippled in the gale, his mane swept back.
Something… the were something on the wind. It permeated his dreams, bringing visions that were more than mere pictures. This creature had a gift exclusive to his kind: he could see the future.
Jarred from his slumber, he raised his head and sniffed the air, wind whistling against his horns, coating them with a layer of rime ice, jagged needles that pointed into the arctic tempest. Disaster, pain.
Squinting against unforgiving air, he looked down towards the east. In the driving snow he could see little, but in his mind's eye, he saw all: the town of Springfield, little city expanding, booming. The river, the expansions west, the curved cooling towers of the nuclear plant.
He saw a flash, brighter than a sun exploding.
The city lay as it had before, but this time desolate. The trees were burned and warped, poisoned from the ground up. Radioactive smoke and steam rose from the imploded remains of the northern reactor dome. The shielding looked as if it had melted in. Toxic radiation, particles so small and yet so deadly leached into the soil, the river, wafted up into the very air.
When the event happened, there was no warning. No sirens in the town. Alarms blared at the plant, but by the time the citizens realized what had happened, it was already too late. Those that didn't die within the day succumbed to radiation poisoning shortly thereafter; or lived just long enough for their bodied to become more cancer than human.
All would fall in ruin.
The creature, who was knew himself as Absalom, or to the humans, merely as "absol" closed his eyes. He tilted his head, shaking the ice from his scythe-like horns. Larger and older than others of his kind, he boasted two horns at the side of his head, just before his ears. The right was considerably larger, his features asymmetrical, but balanced by the thick mane that cascaded down the left side of his face.
Absalom. Absol. Woeful truth-teller.
He knew the stories humans told of his kind.
They said seeing an absol meant disaster was coming. Sometimes a flood, other times and earthquake or storm. Or this: a nuclear meltdown. It seemed it was the humans' nature to blame the absol kind for catastrophes… just as it was the absols' nature to warn mankind nonetheless. Ah, the irony, Absalom thought as he stretched his muscular legs. It seemed the two species were fated to misunderstand each other.
The wind shifted, changing direction, and for a moment Absalom caught a new scent, one he hadn't expected. It came from down below, from the city, and unbidden an image flashed through his mind: a man, carrying a baby. A human who could listen to reason.
Perhaps, even now, there was a hope. As the sun began slowly dipping towards the horizon behind the mountain, Absalom leapt from the cliff. In great sweeping bounds he arced from rock to exposed rock, powerful limbs propelling him forward, claws gouging deep grooves in the stone as he went.
The wind was fast.
Absalom was faster.
Time had a way of getting away from Waylon while he worked. He enjoyed what he did, he was good at it, and even the time taken to tend to his son wasn't unpleasant. It was well after dark by the time he finally found himself at a stopping point. It was well past nine at night.
"Time to go, little man," he said, lifting Waylon Jr. from his bassinet, kissing him on the cheek. The baby cooed and wiggled his tiny fists. "That's right, we've got to get you dressed," Waylon agreed as he pulled several wraps from the drawer. "It's brutal cold, and you're not an ice-type." He ticked the little hands as he spoke, and Waylon Jr gave a happy squeak.
It took Waylon Senior little time to bundle his son up. Swaddled in the layers of blankets, tucked in his basket, the baby yawned and closed his eyes. Lulled by the motion of his father's brisk walk, he was already asleep by the time they made it to the main hall.
Waylon pulled a hood over his son's face, adjusted his own scarf, and prepared for the arctic blast. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the winter air.
Oddly enough, the wind had mercifully died down. The air was still, silent. Waylon pushed his scarf back and looked up at the moon framing the curved cooling towers to the east. A full moon on a cloudless night. Waylon couldn't help but stop to admire the scene.
Soon enough, there would be steam rising from those cold towers, once the plant came on line. Nights like this would be overcast by a slight haze. Not that there was anything wrong with that, he reasoned, but to be able to enjoy the blue velvet of a full-moon sky, with even a few stars shining despite the lunar glow, it was a moment a calm he couldn't help but savor.
"Beautiful," he muttered to no one in particular. He exhaled slowly and watched his breath swirl in the frozen air.
It is, isn't it, replied a voice, soft and deep.
Waylon couldn't tell if he heard it or felt it in his head. Suddenly, the darkness didn't feel so safe, he spun on his heel, looking this way and that. Against the shadow of the building, two red eyes flickered up, meeting his. Slowly, a form detached itself from the darkness, and moved forward.
Waylon felt an instinctual terror in his chest. He pulled his son closer, and glanced towards his car parked across the lot. If he ran, could he make it in time?
The creature that approached him was an absol, that much he knew, but not like ones he'd seen in pictures. It was taller, more muscular. Instead of a single horn, it had two, though the one on the right side of its head was notably larger. Its mane was silky, full, running down its shoulders and chest, partially obscuring the left side of its face. It even appeared to have wings; or maybe they were merely furry crests that extended from its shoulders. Its legs were long, graceful, ending in massive slate-grey claws.
Waylon's feet felt heavy, it was as if he were paralyzed, rooted to that spot. He tried to move, and found himself unable.
The absol was nearly on top of him. It slowly circled him, then paused, regarding the sleeping babe with its ruby eyes. It leaned forward, and gave the child a light sniff, delicate feline nose almost touching the boy's cheek.
Ah. He will live, the creature noted, backing away and shaking its mane.
"You're an absol," Waylon whispered, drawing back in fear.
I am, the creature replied in his head.
"You can talk…"
Only to the one who can hear me. Death comes.
Waylon felt a flash of anger. He glared at the absol, jaw tightening. "Of course it does. You always bring death."
No. I bring warning. I am but one of many. I am called Absalom. As was my father, and all fathers before me. My wife is Eemsalom, as is her mother, and all mothers before her. My children will be Absalom and Eemsalom, and so it shall always be. Your stories say we bring death and destruction. Our stories: we are descended from angels, the fathers and mothers of peace. We come to warn your kind, and save you from disaster. We cannot aid, we only hope that you listen. Heed us, or fear us; most chose only the latter.
Absalom looked up towards the sky, then gestured with his head towards the nuclear plant.
You can leave tonight. You may save yourself, your wife and son. You will live to an old age, but without you here, none who call this city home will survive. The earth will be poisoned. The river will die.
"What about my son? My wife?" Waylon looked down the baby in his arms.
All must die, or one must die. Absalom reached out and ever so tenderly laid a claw on young Waylon Jr's forehead. The child didn't so much as stir. Absalom's expression softened, and he raised his head, meeting Waylon Senior's eyes. Do you understand the sacrifice of which I speak?
"You say I could flee with my family, but if I do then no one will be here to save everyone else. I'll hear it on the radio, or read it in the paper, and I'll have to live knowing their deaths are on my head. Or, I can stay, and be here for my wife and son. And when the time comes I'll die, but everyone else will live.
That is the price, yes.
Waylon sighed deeply, felt his eyes grow hot with tears that refused to fall. In a world of infinite possibilities, he knew there was only one choice he could bring himself to make. "I'm going to die." His voice cracked. "How much…" his words caught in his throat. "How much time do I have?"
The absol lifted his paw from the child's head and reached towards Waylon. Without hesitation, Waylon extended his hand. Fingers interlaced with clawed toes. Waylon felt both the immense strength and gentleness of the formidable pokémon before him.
Not as much as you deserve, Absalom replied, voice resonating with sympathy.
Releasing Waylon's hand, Absalom reached the ruff of fur at his neck and removed a single large coin. Balancing it in his claws he flipped it, watching as it rotated head over tails.
As it spun, it seemed to Waylon that the coin began to fill out, become round. It seemed like an illusion, and yet, like Absalom's voice within his head, he knew it was true. By the time the coin finished spinning, and Absalom had caught it, it had filled into a pokéball the likes of which Waylon had never seen before. It appeared metallic and silvery under the moonlight. Absalom offered it in an outstretched paw.
Take this. Keep it with you. When you see me again, it will be the last time. I'm sure you know what to do. The absol backed up, and turned to leave.
Waylon reached out, taking the pokéball. He slid it into his coat pocket where it nestled heavily against his side. "But why?"
Absalom paused, and looked over his shoulder. Some give of ourselves. You understand. For us, it is simply our way. The history will be preserved. Legacy lives on. Goodnight, Waylons Senior and Junior. I will see you both again.
With that, the absol gave a mightly leap towards the fence that surrounded the nuclear plant, gathering speed as he ran. He cleared the double fences in a single bound, and vanished into the darkness beyond. Waylon wrapped his arms about his son, breath catching in his lungs, unable to speak. He kissed the child, and slowly made his way to his car.
February passed, and March swept in like a lion. The winds that had once been so cold gusted with a southern heat. Snow-eater winds, the old timers said as the drifts melted and the damp earth dried. Waylon Senior gave his wife a kiss, scooped up his son, and appreciated the fact he no longer had to bundle the child in layer upon layer of swaddling.
Under the predawn glow, he tucked the child into his car carrier in the back seat and was about to climb into the driver's compartment when he felt a familiar and unsettling presence behind him.
Waylon rested his hand on the roof of the car, and turned.
There, in the shade of the bushes by his front porch, stood Absalom.
Already? He thought in dismay.
Absalom must've heard his thoughts. It will be today, he replied with a nod. You have that pokéball still?
"Always."
Then you know what you must do. Absalom drew himself up to his full height, head held high, dark feline face regal. I will be with you.
Waylon reached into his pocket, and pulled out the metallic pokéball. He hefted it, getting a feel for the weight, then looked up at Absalom. The pokémon didn't move. Do it. My wife and children will understand.
The man by the car needed no further prompting. Feeling nothing but a sense of resolution, Waylon Senior threw the pokéball. His aim was true. The ball split open along its equator, energy reaching out and surrounding Absalom's form. The pokémon didn't struggle as he was drawn into the sphere, didn't so much as flinch. Waylon caught a glimpse of the absol's knowing expression, then it was gone.
He walked across the lawn, and gently scooped up the pokéball, none the heavier for its contents, and slipped it into his pocket. Though he didn't know what the day would bring, he knew he would do what he had to. The good of the many for the good of the one. It was a choice he understood he would make.
When late afternoon rolled around, and alarms started blaring, Waylon Smithers didn't hesitate. As the core of Reactor Two reached critical levels at a breakneck rate, Waylon knew he wouldn't have time to don a lead suit. Shoving his son into the arms of his boss (and friend) Montgomery Burns, Waylon plunged himself into the reactor, hurling himself at the manual override. He plunging the cooling rods into the core, halting the reaction. For a moment, he felt fine. He turned towards the door, and realized nothing was fine at all. His body wasn't responding. Already, he knew it was too late. His skin prickled, his eyes started to burn. There was a heavy metallic taste on his tongue. He barely felt the impact as he fell to the floor. The pokéball in his lab coat pocket pressed against his ribs. Absalom. A promise. The town was safe. His wife and his son would live. A sacrifice, yes; but one he had no regrets about making.
Feeling oddly at peace, Waylon Senior closed his eyes for the last time.