Chapter Three: Beak-on of Hope
As Dylan sat in pensive thought, he found his eyes wandering to the right, gazing at a small, pigeon-like bird. Dylan immediately recalled that this creature was called a 'Pidgey.' The bird had a small, vermilion beak, and Dylan noted that this beak shade was unusual for the species, which normally had a pinkish or purplish mouth. Its feet were the same hue of red, and each foot housed a trio of sharp, opal-tinted talons on the front, with a single extra talon on the back for a more favorable hold on tree branches and the like. The wings, underside, brows, and belly were all a creamy beige color, with the rest of the body holding a sienna tinge to it. Its sand-colored eyes blinked slowly at the human as it carefully hopped over.
"Dylan, what are you looking at over there?" Shade questioned, a leery undertone pervading throughout the query.
"It's just a Pidgey," Dylan answered with a passing wave of his hand. "Mm, she's a beautiful one at that. She's got this amazing cinnabar beak, and her talons look as sharp as steak knives. I'm surprised that she isn't covered in contest ribbons, as pretty as this little birdie is."
The Pidgey cooed lovingly at Dylan's vehement praise. "Thank you," she trilled with a longing sigh, "but my beak is actually vermilion, not cinnabar."
Dylan furrowed his brow at the bird's response. "As far as I recall, vermilion and cinnabar are both pretty much the same shade," he explained with a hint of confusion. "In fact, vermilion used to be obtained directly from cinnabar, if I recall accurately. Therefore, by all technicalities, either way should be correct."
The pigeon ruffled her feathers and nodded. "Well played; that's indeed correct,' she sang with a happy blink of her eyes. "Wait, why aren't you freaking out?"
"Why should I be?" The teen seemed even more confused now. He didn't really understand what he was supposed to be freaking out about, if anything at all.
"I'm a talking Pidgey!" the bird crowed with a flap of her wings. "Doesn't that, you know, frighten you!"
"Not really," Dylan admitted. "I mean, yeah, back when I first met a talking Pokémon, it was pretty freaky. But ever since then, I've essentially come to expect it whenever I run across a Pokémon anywhere I go. See, I believe that almost any Pokémon possesses the ability to speak the human language. It all boils down to two things. First, if the creature doesn't learn it at some point, it won't happen. Additionally, even if the Pokémon does learn our language, not many of them will want to use it around humans. Remember, humans are fickle and easily amused."
"You're a human," Pidgey cawed with a chuckle.
"That's not the point," Dylan continued. "I never was much of a trainer, so I simply gathered the Pokémon that appeared to resonate the most with my emotions. Unfortunately, because of our nature, many other humans don't take the time to appreciate the beauty of the earth, and all the creatures that inhabit it. It's a shame that we don't, because there's so much that we've still got to learn. Certainly, the fact we still don't know all the secrets of the Pokémon universe attests to that."
"Arceus above; you sound like a clone of the professor," the pigeon jested.
Dylan chortled uneasily, nodding sadly. "Touché, my avian friend. You have to admit though... what I said holds true."
"Doesn't make you sound any less like a geek," the bird laughed. "And call me Pidge, love; you're being way too formal with me."
"Fine, but don't call me 'love' again. Deal?"
"All right, then. What should I call you?" Pidge cooed happily, giving Dylan as close to a smile as her beak would allow.
"Dylan will be just fine," the redhead replied, returning Pidge's 'smile.'
"Okay, then Dylan it is." The bird preened her chest feathers, then turned back to Dylan and cawed, "You said you met a talking Pokémon before. When was that?"
Dylan pondered for a minute or so, and finally answered, "It was when I was eleven. For my birthday that year, Dad gave me a Cyndaquil, and a set of three Poké Balls. He explained that each time I attempted to capture a Pokémon, I had to throw one of the capsules at the Pokémon I wanted to catch. If it was successful, it officially belonged to me... at least, those were his words. I told him I didn't feel right calling myself a Pokémon's owner, so much. I said that if I caught a Pokémon, it was a sign that I was the correct person for it to travel with."
"Okay, hold up, Dylan," Pidge interrupted, putting her left wing to her beak. "Don't you get all spiritual with me here. Okay, fire hair?"
"Anyway," Dylan continues, ignoring Pidge's intrusion, "If it was unsuccessful, the Poké Ball would shatter into invisible shards, never to be seen again. Therefore, Dad instructed me to use them carefully, but assured me that I could purchase them at a Poké Mart if I ran out. After his final lesson, he bid me goodbye, and I began my way with my Cyndaquil, who seemed like a perfect partner for my journey.
"She was a bright little fireball, a mouse-like Pokémon with a long snout and a happy grin on her face. She had navy blue fur, with a cream-colored underside. Each of her back paws held a single, ivory claw, with her front paws having no toes at all. They looked like little cream puffs, and wiggled lovingly as I held her for the first time. Her small body bristled with energy, and the top of her back flared up with light flames, warming the Pokémon up even more as I hugged her passionately. I named her Almette, after my mother, who was killed in a car accident a week before my ninth birthday. That's enough ruminating over her, though, so I'll get back to the story.
"As the sun began to set that evening, I made my way to the entrance of Route 201, and a small cat approached me on his hind legs. He was the color of light sand, with darker, bay-colored 'socks' on the hind paws. A tail flowed behind him, the bay tip curled into a small, lollipop-like spiral. His ears were a jet black, and he had amber eyes, flanking just beneath a golden coin emblazoned into his forehead. I didn't realize that he was called a 'Meowth' until I saw the coin charm. I looked at him a little strangely, as I had studied in school that Meowth usually walked on all fours. He called me a 'twerp,' for some odd reason, and stated that he didn't like my staring.
"At once, I was fascinated with the reality of a Pokémon being able to talk, and a bit unnerved at the same time. Immediately, I asked him how he knew how to speak. He replied that he learned a long time ago, along with learning bipedal movement, to impress a female Meowth that he was in love with. His expression saddened as he finished by saying she thought he was a freak after all that work he did.
"Then, he went on and told me a long-winded story about two idiots named Jessie and James, who I assume he had traveled with in his younger years. I recall that he indeed looked a little old, as his fur wasn't quite as vibrant, and his eyes seemed a little droopy. He continued to tell me that his 'moron companions' constantly got him in trouble, and kept causing the three of them to be blasted toward the stratosphere in heavy explosions. He yapped about wasting 'eight of his nine lives' with them. Finally, he explained how he finally ditched the 'dimwitted duo' in Pastoria City by hiding in the Safari Zone.
"After about two more hours of berating Jessie and James, or what seemed like that much time, he finally shut up and lay tiredly at my side. I was perplexed, to say the least. I stayed with him and put Almette down, so she could frolic at my side. I then petted Meowth for a few minutes, and smiled warmly as I listened to his sleepy purrs. He seemed glad that I had listened to his tales, and I watched the sun set beneath the trees, gazing in awe at its rainbow of colors.
"After the sun left our vision, Meowth growled cutely, and asked if I had ever owned a Pokémon. I told him that I had no intentions of being an 'owner,' so much as a 'friend,' of Pokémon, and he meowed approvingly. He admitted that Jessie and James were at least good for that, as they had never forced him into a Poké Ball while he worked with them. He then confessed that he longed to know what it was like to just be friends with a human, in a stress-free environment, and wondered if I would take him along on my journey.
"At first, I declined his offer, but then I realized that this was my chance to listen to a Pokémon tell his story in his own words, in a way I could understand. I then allowed the cat to travel with me, much to his delight. We traveled for about three years together, and I kept a daily journal of our events, told from each of our perspectives. Things were wonderful, even though Meowth seemed to get a little more weary with each passing day."
"A week after my fourteenth birthday, Meowth passed away due to his old age. I buried him back in Twinleaf Town, next to my old swing set in the backyard. I left him the journal, so that he would be able to take it with him to the afterlife, and recall his experiences with the souls of those whom he cared about. Who knows? He might have met that Meowth from his kitten years up there." As he finished his tale, Dylan looked up at the ceiling of the cage. He began to wonder if he was ever going to get out of the H.Q. again, and a tear glinted against the corner of his right eye.
Noticing the tear, Pidge sighed adoringly and hopped closer to the bars of Dylan's cage. "That's a beautiful tale, Dylan," she crowed with a longing sigh. "You must have a wonderful soul inside you. Will you pet me? I want to feel the warmth exude from you."
Dylan's brow raised curiously, but he nodded with a gentle grin. "Well, you put it pretty strangely, but of course I can pet you, Pidge." Dylan reached his right hand out as he spoke, rubbing the Pidgey's neck softly. The bird trilled happily, rubbing her beak into Dylan's ring finger.. Some of the cinnabar hues leaked like pigments from her beak, and soaked into the teen's hand. He didn't notice it as he yawned, his petting strokes growing slower until he stopped completely.
Dylan eventually slumped with his back against the bars and looked at Pidge with a satisfied expression. He then fell to the left, and curled up into a ball on the floor, much in the manner of a Meowth. His breathing slowed and he began to go back to sleep. Pounding footsteps echoed through the barren walls of the basement, signifying the usual hustle and bustle of the workplace above...