I recall it better now.
There was an Electabuzz. And a Vulpix (or was it a Growlithe. . . ?). And a. . . Squirtle, I think. And my Eevee.
What were the other two. . .?
--
"Hi," the man says, "were you looking for me?"
"Yes," I reply. "Are you the gym leader?"
"I am indeed. Brock's the name." He's an imposing fellow; at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a stony face. Perfect for the Rock gym, I suppose. "Sorry, but I don't start battling until eight. That IS what you're here for, right?"
"Yep. Don't worry, I'll wait."
He peers at my chosen seat with scepticism. "You might wanna find a different roost, if you know what I mean. C'mon inside."
I hop off of the rock and follow him inside. Eevee follows after letting off a long yawn. The Murkrow, steely as ever, does not move from its signpost. I didn't really expect it to.
His gym is a great and cavernous place, dug deep into the earth. I'd not expected it to be quite so large. Long rows of jagged stones line well-swept pathways towards a large altar. I'm guessing Brock takes up residence on the altar when it's time for a battle to take place, as there's a pockmarked combat pit right in front of the steps.
"It's a little grandiose, but my sponsors insist." He looks a bit exasperated. I nod and say nothing.
He leads me through a doorway at the side of the grand hall and into a small parlour. It looks well stocked with health food of every kind – clearly, Brock is a disciplined soul. (I guess I could already have guessed as much, considering he's sweating fiercely from his morning run.)
"This is the break room for Pewter's gym trainers. C'mon in and stretch out a bit; we've got more chow than I care to think about, and I'm always willing to share with a fellow trainer."
I seat myself on an uncomfortable looking chair (it's actually quite the opposite once you're seated) and accept a proffered sandwich. Egg salad, from the looks of it. Not my favourite, but beggars can't be choosers; besides, my stomach is growling with wild abandon. I scarf it down while Brock is tending to my Eevee.
"Cute little fellow. You going to use him to battle me?"
I nod, mouth full.
"Might not be the best choice, but it wouldn't surprise me if he had some tricks up his sleeve. So to speak." He scratches Eevee under its chin, and the little creature returns the gesture with an affectionate purr. "You planning on evolving it any time soon?"
I shrug and swallow.
"What form were you thinking of?"
"I dunno. Haven't decided yet. I might just leave it as an Eevee. I'm kind of used to it like that."
He hums his disapproval. "I wouldn't advise that. After all, Eevee's evolved forms offer all the moves an Eevee gets plus more. It would be much wiser to pick something and go with it."
"Do you have any coffee?"
"Certainly. Let me brew some." He wanders over to the sink and starts fiddling with a coffee maker. "Is that Murkrow outside yours, by the way?"
"No. It's just following me. I wouldn't mind catching it, though."
"Nor would I. You don't often see them, especially around these parts. It must have come a great distance."
We sit in silence a while as Brock prepares the coffee. In time he pours me a cup, opting himself to go for a bottle of water. He starts towelling himself off, and my old aristocratic roots kick in, saying 'he prepared food while sweating? How grotesque!'. I quash the sentiments immediately. I've endured worse things than sweaty food in the last few years.
"Is Eevee your only Pokemon?" he asks at last.
"Yes." I pat my lap and Eevee leaps up on my legs to make itself comfortable.
"And you intend to take on my gym?"
"Yes."
He rubs his stubble-laden chin. "Either you're gutsy or stupid. Quite frankly, I don't think you'll be able to make it past my gym trainers, let alone me, with only one Normal-type Pokemon."
"My Eevee is tougher than it looks."
He sighs. "Yes, that's what they all say. You can do what you want, of course, but I wouldn't recommend it. You'd be better off going out and finding a Water or Grass type before challenging this gym. They're fairly common, you know, and I doubt it would take you long to train one up."
He's trying to flatter me, I know. It doesn't really work. "I'm going to use Eevee," I say, draining my coffee in a long, burning chug, "and that's that. Thanks for the drink, but I'm going to wait outside until you're open for business."
Brock nods. He commends my fortitude, if not my intelligence. "Okay. Hopefully I'll see you in a few hours, then, and you can show me what your Eevee is capable of."
I nod, thank him again, and wander out the door. His eyes follow me every step of the way, measuring my capabilities as a trainer. Doubtless he's keeping watch on my Eevee, as well.
I resume my spot on the rock. The Murkrow is still across the street. I don't think it has so much as flinched since I left. Time passes, and Brock's trainers start to filter in. Few bother to say anything, casting only a curious eye at the Murkrow. I don't see Brock again, and I assume that he's readying the gym for the day. I doze.
Eevee wakes me at around eight thirty. I see a trainer – not one of Brock's – wandering in to take the gym test.
Should I train Eevee more before I take on Brock's crew?
Mmmm, nah. I hop off the rock and lay a hand on the door, preventing its closure.
The Murkrow starts to caw.
We never make it to Brock. Not even close. The first trainer pummels my poor Eevee. I'm afraid to say that I throw a bit of a tantrum at the loss, and try to attack the trainer myself as my Eevee lies dazed on the floor. Brock comes to restore order in the middle of his own matches by tossing me out of the gym. He tells me not to come back until I attain the proper attitude for battling, that is, one of restraint.
I curse and berate the people around me as I wander down the streets, Eevee in my arms, heading for the Pokemon Centre. They alternatively laugh and look horrified at my temper, all steering far out of my reach.
The Murkrow soars overhead, moving from lamppost to signpost, roof to sidewalk, squawking and leading, mocking our failure. I scream at it, too, telling it that it will be mine.
--
They all surrounded me, and I swear, upon reflection, that one of them was a Murkrow. The last I didn't recognise at the time, nor do I know its species now.
--
"Something is wrong with your Eevee," the nurse says.
"What do you mean?" I've calmed down considerably since being told that I would be ejected from the hospital if I did not.
"I'm not sure. It's not responding properly to the treatment. This should really be a quick fix."
"Is it going to be okay?"
"Well, I think so. Our machine is taking longer than usual to heal it up, though, and that concerns me. Does your Eevee has a history of sickly behaviour?"
"No so long as I've owned it."
"Hm." She taps a pen on the desk. "It doesn't seem to react well to our treatments. We have a machine for non-Poke balled Pokemon, you see, and that's what we've got your Eevee in; it shouldn't work any more slowly than our standard machines, however."
"So what's the matter?"
Her eyes go wide as she ignores my question. "Sir, is that your Murkrow?"
I spin. The Murkrow is perched upon one of the vending machines in the lobby. How did it get in?
"I. . . yes, it is."
I approach the Murkrow. It hops away, alighting on a chair. I sigh and move back to the desk.
"So is my Eevee going to be okay or not? That's all I care about."
"Yes," she replies, straightening her puffy pink hair and gazing at the Murkrow from the corner of her eye. "The procedure might just take longer than usual. We wouldn't mind being able to run some additional tests on it to determine the nature of its problems as well-"
"No," I interject. "I'm too busy for that. Just heal it."
"But there could be something seriously wrong-"
"There isn't. Just give me back my Eevee."
In time, she does, and we leave, the Murkrow close on our heels.