A cool, stiff breeze rippled across the rolling hills, stirring the grass in waves, brushing softly against the French countryside. The town was just a shrinking dot on the horizon now, and the fields of lavender painted the land in swathes of brilliant purple the individual stalks swaying in unison to the breeze. Ahead, the stark, dark shape of the forest marked the beginning of the German border. Between the two was the lone shape of a Riolu, laid face down in the grass, completely still, whilst its blue fur rippled in the morning air. In the overcast sky, a military transport plane trundled upwards, slowly being submerged in the grey clouds until it disappeared from sight.
Another figure approaches the field, moving slowly through the muddy terrain, still damp from last night's rains. Rain was all it ever seemed to do now. European weather had never been perfect, but the instability brought by mass nuclear attacks had wrought havoc on the climate. The winters were bitingly cold and unforgiving, like what he was feeling now, and the summers dry and scorching, like Australia back home. Luke wanted, more than anything, to be back home, before any of this started, finishing his architecture degree and playing soccer with Oliver. It had only been a week since he'd left, but by the time he had, it hardly felt like home anymore. Olly had been sent to Kamchatka, and Luke was going to be next. Oliver was always so much braver than he was, and there wasn't a day that went past that Luke didn't feel guilty for leaving.
He wrapped the standard-issue jacket closer to his body as he crouched to inspect the Riolu's body, rolling the pokemon onto its back. The body was cold, likely dead for hours, or maybe days. The freezing cold had staved of decomposition for now. The entire torso of the poor pokemon was stained a deep red from blood, no doubt from the gaping gunshot wound on it's chest. It didn't look like it'd hit any vital organs; likely that it had been shot and kept on running until the poor thing ran out of blood. The Riolu's lifeless eyes still stared up into the blanket of clouds, unmoving. The sight of it all made Luke want to throw up; war was never as dignified as the people back home would have you believe. It was a waking nightmare.
A jet roared overhead, waking Luke from his thoughts. He looked up as it passed over, heading west for Berlin, where the majority of the fighting was happening. Newspapers always described the situation in Germany to be "on the verge of victory", but he didn't know how trustworthy that was, considering it had been reporting that same thing for two months now. He looked down again and closed the Riolu's eyes, feeling a little better, but not much. Luke resumed his journey again, quickly making for the forest. He only had supplies for a few more days travel, and didn't have a euro to his name, not that they were worth much nowadays.
A sneasel walked cautiously and quickly through the forest, careful not to disturb the leaves carpeting the forest floor, so as not to make a sound. He didn't know if there was anyone around to hear him if he did, but it was a deep-rooted habit and a useful one at that. Howe was enjoying the cold, unlike most. It reminded him of England, and even though Howe could never return to that place, nor did he want to, it felt nice to have something familiar to help him through these parts, especially considering how foreign it all was to him.
The silence did not go undisturbed for long, however. At first he thought it to be white noise, or thunder, but as it drew nearer he recognized the dull roar of an engine, nearing the roadside he'd been following. As it neared, Howe dropped prone; hiding amongst the leaves and roots of the huge oaks, trying his best to lower his body temperature so his breath wasn't visible, another ability he could thank his ice-type biology for.
He laid for a while, wondering what was going on outside, until he saw what was making the sound: The lumbering shape of an enormous American tank rolling down the road. The mechanical beast passed Howe's hiding spot, and he closed his eyes, flattening himself to the ground in an attempt to be even less visible. It only took a few seconds to pass, but it seemed like ages to Howe, the engine's roar shaking every fibre of his body and the clack-clack-clack of the tracks on the road drilling into his ears. Thankfully, the moment passed, and the lumbering beast left him, followed by a few trucks filled with Coalition soldiers, speaking to each other in a patchwork of European languages.
And then they were all gone.
Howe picked himself up off the ground, cursing himself for not being more careful; he almost hadn't heard it in time. That was another thing; he couldn't relax for two seconds out here, the place was completely brimming with soldiers, all itching to spill some blood.
Elsewhere, an Archen poked it's head from the brush uncertainly. He looked around for a second to make sure that he was alone, before emerging and looking around. Talon gulped, trying to make sense of his surroundings. It had been a few days now since he'd fled the fighting. In the near torrential downpour of the last few days it had been nearly impossible to tell where he was going, and at that point, he hadn't cared; all he was concerned about was escaping the humans.
But now, he wished he'd seen a landmark or paid attention a little to where he was going, because he was utterly lost. He knew he was in northern France somewhere, but where, he wouldn't be able to say, and even if he did know, he had no idea of what he would do. Every day had been the same, travel for a while, likely run in circles and hide at the first sign of trouble, which was plenty available.
Patrick would have known what to do, the Archen thought grimly. His former trainer had been his best friend, and it was only now that Talon had been well and truly alone, no links back home to help him; that had begun ever since his loyal trainer had been sent away.
And since he never returned.