On that day, I'd gone into the forest.

And I'd come out with a broken arm and my first Pokemon. Up 'til today it has continued to be my sole Pokemon. But what had Eevee done in that forest? Had it saved me? I can't really remember. All I recall is stumbling back from the fields, sweat cascading down my brow, looking at my Eevee.

What had happened?

All I remember is doing something very idiotic.

--

So I suppose you're all wondering why I didn't bother to catch that Pikachu.

It's a popular Pokemon, after all: once Champion Red used one to sweep the Elite Four they became immensely popular. More, the specimen my Eevee had fought was clearly one of superior strength and ability, if only in the physical sense.

Well, I don't like Pikachus that much. More, I didn't feel like dealing with a surly rodent whose legs I'd (indirectly; Eevee needn't have gone as far as it had) ordered to be broken. Doubtless it will carry a grudge against me for the rest of its days (or mine; we'll see who dies first).

Most importantly, however, I have no room in my roster for a cripple.

My Eevee is resting in its bed. I procured (stole) the item from a mall in Viridian. It's actually sized for Nidorans, but my Eevee fits into its soft folds nicely. I suppose it would be more prudent to tuck it away in a Poke ball, but I've never demanded that my Eevee be stuffed into one of those cramped hellholes.

Its eyes are shut, now, and it dreams; of what, I haven't a clue. What's important is its comfort: it'll heal just fine, snuggled up in bed. Its injuries weren't substantial, I'm sure.

Unrolling my sleeping bag, I settle down, munching on a granola bar. I'll have to remember to get more provisions once I pass through the forest – what I have won't last me long. I had to sell my shack to get our supplies in the first place. After feasting, I toss the wrapper aside, zip the bag up, and watch the fire I've built for a while.

Then it goes out, and so do I.

--

The next day I awake to Eevee licking at my face. It's well past dawn: the sun is peeping down through dense foliage, revealing the busy traffic of the forest. There's a small pack of Weedles crawling by a few metres to my right, dragging with them a fallen Metapod. I wonder what they'll do with it. A Mankey is swinging overhead, chased from branch to branch by a vicious Spearow. I doubt the Mankey can elude entrapment forever, and I'm surprised the Spearow would pursue such sizeable quarry in the first place.

I crawl from my bag and stretch. The pop of tired muscles fills my ears briefly, leaving me wondering whether I'm paralysed or not; as per usual, the answer is no. I'm always paranoid, though, that I'll wake up one day and my body will no longer function. A lack of motor skills is my ultimate nightmare.

Eevee seems a bit tense, though otherwise healthy. It's bounding about with loose limbs but a worried expression – did I find it in this forest, or was it a different one? – and I wish I knew what it was concerned over. I don't think it has to do with me.

Trying to anticipate its concern, I pack up the camp, stomp out the ashes of the fire (I don't want to risk burning the whole forest down, just in case a single ember still glows) and start heading back south. Eevee follows me.

The Pikachu is dead. There's not much left of it; doubtless some larger predator picked it clean in the night. My Eevee is satisfied at the sight, and we continue back on our way, battling occasionally, resting occasionally, looking forward at all times.

At the edge of the forest, mere minutes away from a sizeable building, I can see a pair of trainers duking it out. One has a Rattata, the other a Sandshrew; the Sandshrew appears to be winning, as it has just tossed the Rattata into the dirt with a scratch attack. I pause and watch from a distance, not wishing to intercede.

The fight doesn't last long. The Rattata dives back at its trainer's behest, but the Sandshrew is too resilient. It knocks the Rattata aside and pins it to the ground, crushing the resistance out of the Rattata with a powerful bear hug. I'm impressed.

The trainer of the Rattata calls it back and flees, tossing a few coins in the hands of the victor. I could use those coins, myself – that's one of the reasons I became a trainer in the first place, to make money – and decide it would make good sense to challenge the owner of the Sandshrew to a battle.

He's not an imposing foe. A small kid with an inverted baseball cap (why the hell is he wearing it inside out?) and silly green flip-flops. Yet I can't take his appearance for granted, as it has nothing to do with his skill; so I approach with caution, watching the Sandshrew. It eyes me back, those great oily orbs implanted in its skull betraying no thought.

I wave a hand. The trainer, counting his money, waves back. "Heya," says he, "are you a Pokemon trainer?"

I point at my Eevee.

He nods. "Yep, I'll say. Wanna battle? Its not like you can turn it down, y'know."

"I know. I wouldn't anyway. Yes, I'll battle."

"This yer first one?"

"Against a trainer." I fidget a bit, displaying nervousness that I don't actually feel. Eevee and I are going to kick his ass regardless of how strong his Sandshrew is.

"Thought so. You look pretty green."

"As if you're one to talk."

He chuckles. "Hey, no makin' fun of my shoes! I love 'em! That's reason enough for me to beat the stuffin' outta you."

"We'll see about that, I guess. Want to fight now?"

"Sure. Go on, Sandshrew, get me some more coin."

The shrew nods, mute, and scrambles back out onto the field of battle. I gaze down at my Eevee; it barks sharply and rushes out to meet the Sandshrew.

"Go, Sandshrew! Sand attack!"

"Get behind the sand, Eevee! Don't let it hit you!"

And so it happens: my Eevee slips underneath the onslaught of earth unscathed, eyes clear of grit. The Sandshrew looks a mite confused at this; it's not used to battling Pokemon as quick as my Eevee.

"Eevee, circle it and use Quick Attack! Go for the kidneys!"

The other trainer looks at me in surprise but ignores the brutal specifics, ordering his Sandshrew to roll up and protect itself. Too late, however, as my Eevee slips in and slams itself against the Sandshrew's stomach, knocking the hapless creature on its knees with a puff of breath. Still it refuses to make a sound.

I look up into the trees. There are Pokemon watching from the foliage. I wonder if there are any I would like to capture, but they're too silent to make a positive identification on any of them. One appears to be a Beedrill, however.

Eevee is taking matters into its own hands. It's attacking Sandshrew from all directions. The trainer panics; he orders Sandshrew to roll up, tighter, tighter. "Defence Curl! Don't let it hurt you!" But it doesn't work: Eevee is hitting too many weak spots, too many vital organs, forcing the Sandshrew open. The trainer orders a renewed attack but it's too late for that. It slashes and hits naught but air.

For all its kind sentiments my Eevee is a brutal creature. I don't even have to tell it to attack.

But now, I see, one of Sandshrew's random strikes has landed. Eevee is sent sprawling to the ground.

The trainer has renewed confidence. "Yes, Sandshrew! Get up and pound it to pulp!"

The Sandshrew tries, but fails; it has endured too many hits, particularly to the midsection. Its legs buckle and give way. My Eevee is much more successful, rising with relative ease.

(Shouldn't a Sandshrew have more solid bones than a Pikachu? Why is my Eevee having such an easy time beating the crap out of this Sandshrew with Quick Attacks when it harmed itself attacking a Pikachu?)

The other trainer is looking at Eevee. He appears to be startled.

"What's wrong with your Eevee?"

I call Eevee. What could be the matter?

It turns, and I see a tinge of strange crimson; but its eyes are brown, and black, and genuine.

"There's nothing wrong with it. Eevee, finish his Sandshrew off!"

(Eevee should be hurt. The Sandshrew hit it hard. But it's not.)

"No, wait! Wait! I give! I give! Battle over!" The other trainer stomps forward on his flip-flops and grasps his Sandshrew in a gentle hug, nearly enduring a frantic swipe from his Sandshrew for his pains. Upon making contact with its trainer, however, the Sandshrew calms instantly.

But Eevee does not. It continues to circle, looking for an opening, a way to get at the Sandshrew.

"Call your Eevee off!" the trainer pleads, quite scared. "I'll give you your winnings, just please!"

"Eevee! Back, Eevee!"

Eevee dives forward, once, and bites Sandshrew's paw. The Pokemon yelps, though more out of surprise than pain, and tries to go after Eevee; but its trainer restrains it and swears (using the curse wrong, of course; he's too young to have a grasp of proper cursing).

I call Eevee again. It turns, yips, and looks back to the battle. "Back, Eevee! This is done!"

It relinquishes the fight and bounds over to me, victorious. I think it was satisfied the moment it forced that Sandshrew to make a noise. I pat it on the head, give it a treat, collect my earnings from the trainer (still huddled around his Sandshrew protectively, as if I'm about to join the fray), and head out of Viridian Forest.