Disclaimer: I don't own… Pokémon? I'm writing a Pokémon story now? Instead of everything else I've started? … Bear with me folks. Please.
Nobody thought it would ever happen. Looking back, it seems only natural that, if organizations like Team Rocket, Aqua, and whoever the hell else could exist, it would happen eventually… but it still stopped the entire region in its tracks when it did. I still remember the first of the headlines as clear as a Sunny Day:
Man Murdered By Pokémon
Simple, uninventive, yet the most shocking thing we had ever laid eyes on in our lives. The article went on to describe the grisly details of the man's demise; how he'd been pummeled to death with Low Kicks and Karate Chops before being suspended in midair with Psychic to be found. Alakazam! People guessed. Gengar! Kecleon! Feraligator! Most of the guesses didn't even make sense, but the hysteria was real. Even then, though, it was still only an isolated incident. Nothing to worry about, right?
Then the second headline came. And the third. Burned to death in his own home, drowned in a constant stream of Water Guns, impaled by multiple Cuts… the death toll grew larger by the week, and it wasn't long before people began to realize that this wasn't just chance. There was someone out there, training these Pokémon to do these horrific things. The minimum age to become a Trainer quickly rose to 18, paths between towns quickly fell into disrepair, and our family's Poochyena, the cutest one in the village, was forced to evolve in order to better protect us.
That killed me. It went against everything I stood for as a breeder, but nonetheless… I understood. Even then, though, our little village of Pembrook was too far off the map, too far away to attract the attention of a serial killer who, after a year of remaining as uncaught as a Mewtwo, had claimed the lives of nearly two hundred people. It was the world's problem, not ours, and that was why the gravity of the situation really only hit me when we watched the Pokémon League Championships on television that year.
Axel wasn't there.
I brushed it off at first. Perhaps the camera teams just hadn't gotten him yet, or perhaps he wasn't as good a trainer as I'd thought and it had taken him too long to collect eight gym badges… the gym at Nightcastle was said to be near impossible to find, after all.
Of course, I knew better than that. Axel and his Cyndaquil (that I had bred for him, I might add) were one of the greatest teams I'd ever seen… there was no way our region's gyms could give him much trouble. When another year passed and he still hadn't made the Championships, I knew. He was gone. One of the then over five hundred victims taken by the "Trainer of Death."
I've never cried as hard in my life as I did that day. I didn't come out of my room for days… ate only when I had to, drank only when my body could no longer produce tears. When I was up to it, I walked over to our library to search our newspaper archives, looking for the story that confirmed my suspicions.
Of course, there were too many to count. 'Charred remains of young trainer found off Route 7', 'Unidentifiable trainer found crushed to death in Oakridge Forest'… there was no way to be sure except one. That's why, despite the pleadings of my family, I packed up my things and the Totodile I'd received on my tenth birthday, and set out for the Gym Leader circuit. I would have closure, even if it killed me.
-
If you've stuck with me this long, you're probably asking yourself something. Namely: "Who exactly is telling this story?" You probably have your own guesses already, Axel's best friend? Girlfriend? Family member? Who else would mourn like that for a teenage guy, and then go out looking for proof of death?
The answer is: I would. Axel and I… were never really anything. Sure, Facebook said that it was complicated for a while, but nothing ever came of it. We grew up together, you know? It only made sense that, even for only a weekend, something would happen between him and the 'girl next door'.
But that's been behind us for years now. Right up until he set out with Cyndaquil at 17, we had been confidants, friends… as close as you can get to another person without actually committing. Those of you who know what I'm talking about… try to keep that sad smile creeping across your face to a minimum, though I don't blame you for letting it happen. Those of you who don't… sorry. It's not the easiest relationship to explain. Suffice it to say he meant a lot to me, and worrying about what might have become of him kept my mind so clouded that, even after a months searching, the only clear impression I could give you is that of the seemingly endless dirt paths, surrounded by trees and patches of tall grass, that wove between the few small towns that lie between Pembrook and Cliffkiln.
Cliffkiln is, of course, the town where things started to get interesting.