Since it's been torture waiting for the right day to release new chapters (and even then, this is once more a day early), I went back and polished up Chapter 1 a bit. Not an overhaul, just a few minor edits that will hopefully improve the reading experience. That's why the word count has been slightly different.

I'm pretty happy with how this chapter turned out, and I thought it was pretty clever too. I'm eternally grateful to the people who have read up to this point.

Current music: Break the Man - Tears For Fears

On that thought, the disembodied voice vanished from Brett's mind. So, too, did the dark, starless field, until all the young man found himself looking at was the sun.

Here comes the sun, he thought to himself, blinking in its bright light. He eventually gained the strength to shield his eyes from the direct glare. So it was still light out, wasn't it?

Brett took a glance at the digital clock attached to the nearby TV. It was almost seven, but the young man knew that he'd have to have been asleep for longer than a few minutes; his whole body felt stiff, the kind of stiffness that occurs after being in an upright position for an extended period.

Oh my Arceus, I was here all night! I didn't even mean to fall asleep in the living room!

Brett sprang to his feet; his legs felt a bit shaky, as though he had a fever, but he didn't feel sick in any other way. At least, not physically sick.

He went into the kitchen and started fixing himself a bowl of cereal. He still had plenty of time before work to change into some new clothes, but did they really have to be nice and fresh when he'd spend the day working on the farm?

No. I'll just go here in the same clothes I slept in; I'll fit with the territory that way.

As Brett poured the milk into the cereal, he tried to process his odd dream.

He certainly remembered it far more vividly than the one from the previous night. He knew, for instance, that he'd been in a field, and some otherworldly, caustic voice had mentioned a group of aliens called the Green Team.

And they'll be attacking in five days, it said. Wait, no, if it's morning now, wouldn't it be four days?

Was there any possibility that the aliens were actually going to attack? Or was this all just a weird nightttime vision that had no bearing on reality?

Perhaps it was triggered by the UFO convention in Saffron City. But there could be more to it than that, I suppose; I did talk to Mr. McCormick about aliens before I knew of the convention's existence.

Brett ate his cereal in near-total silence; at least, until his father entered the room, carrying his briefcase in his right hand.

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't see you last night" Mr. Porter told his son. "I guess you were just too tired to talk, huh?"

The 19-year-old felt his face flush. "Yeah, I guess so. Working on a farm, it's tiring."

"I hate to tell you this, Brett, but I'm heading to work right now. We'll have to wait until evening to talk again, because I have to work late. There have been a lot of patent petitions lately."

Brett sighed. How could he explain to his father that if his dream was accurate, there might only be four more evenings to talk? It's not like he was a papa's boy or anything like that, but he knew that time with his parents was never to be taken for granted.

"It's fine," the son told his father resignedly. "I get it. Besides, I've got plenty to occupy me today as well."

Mr. Porter nodded. "I'll see you tonight." Then, the older man was out the door.

As stated above, Brett would have had plenty more time to relax, or to make himself look more presentable for his second day at the ranch. He could have done either of those things, but he decided not to. He simply couldn't think of anything else to do at home.

So he got in his car and drove fifteen miles to the Happy Valley Ranch. The whole time, he felt as though someone, or something, were looking at him from above.

It wasn't a guardian angel, because the presence wasn't comforting in the least. If someone were indeed watching him, it felt more like a guardian devil of sorts.

When Brett arrived at the ranch, he still had a little over an hour before he would need to begin working. He found himself wishing he'd brought a book with him, but he acknowledged that he likely wouldn't have been able to focus on said book's contents.

Brett simply exited his car and sat down in the driveway. Had he been there with a friend, he and said friend might have made bets on how long it would take for Mr. McCormick to notice them. But alas, he was alone with his thoughts.

It wasn't more than fifteen minutes before the mustached man opened the door, a flabbergasted expression on his face.

"Wow, Mr. Porter. You sure are here early. Did you get the time wrong? You start at nine, not eight."

"No, it's not that, boss," Brett replied somewhat tiredly. "I just had nothing better to do than come here."

Too late, he realized that his boss might take that as an insult. Thankfully, this was not the case.

"Well, I'm certainly honored that you want to work for me. Just never forget, there are others who would kill for that chance."

I believe it.

Mr. McCormick invited Brett inside for some small talk while they waited for the other two new employees to arrive. The younger man didn't exactly feel like having small talk, not least because he was taken aback by his boss' new demeanor.

I guess he's just a volatile person. I'll have to get used to that.

Not much talking happened, and eventually the room was completely silent. Mrs. McCormick, a blonde woman in a pink dress, came in at one point to ask if either of the men wanted coffee; her husband accepted, Brett declined.

Mr. McCormick was just finishing his mug of homemade coffee when two new people walked into the room. Brett didn't recognize either of them, so he could only assume they were his new coworkers.

One of them was a teenage boy, probably a couple years younger than Brett himself, with short, dark brown hair and eyes of the same color. The other was a tall, skinny young lady about Brett's age, with long, flowing blonde hair. She looked conventionally attractive enough to be a model, but instead, she'd decided to (literally) get her hands dirty.

The girl Brett's age smiled, revealing two perfect rows of snow-white teeth. "What's your name, sir?"

"Uh…Brett," the older boy replied, a few Butterfree in his chest. "And you two?"

"I'm Libby," the girl replied, continuing to smile. "And yes, I know that name's not great, but still."

"I, uh, like the name, personally" Brett said awkwardly as he rubbed the back of his neck. Turning to the younger boy, hoping his face wasn't too red, he asked, "And your name is…?"

"Michael!" the boy exclaimed, grinning. "Michael Cambria!"

Libby shot Michael a slightly annoyed look. "You don't need to act all hyper like that, Michael. In fact, you shouldn't. This is a real job; it's no laughing matter."

"Doesn't mean I can't have some fun now and again. Besides, it's not a chore to me; I love working with Pokemon!"

Mr. McCormick, who was still in the room but hadn't appeared to notice the three youngsters' conversation, suddenly snapped back into the scene.

"I appreciate the enthusiasm, Mr. Cambria. It's always good to be passionate about your work. Nobody ever changed the world without any passion."

Brett felt sorry for Michael; or, at least, he thought he would soon enough. If Michael thought that working at the Happy Valley ranch would be all sunshine and rainbows, he was in for a rude awakening.

Wait 'till he hears about how much Miltank shit I had to clean up yesterday. How much hay I had to carry.

It was then that he realized just how sore his arms still were from the previous day's labor. Brett supposed, however, that just like the stench of the Miltank feces in the barn, this was something he'd have to get used to.

Their boss cleared his throat, then spoke.

"Well, now that you're all here, I'll take you all to the stables and show you the ropes. By that, I mean the literal ropes."

"What do you mean?" Michael asked, his mouth widening to reveal braces on his teeth. If the younger boy had a tail, it would have been wagging back and forth.

"I'll show you three how to harness up a Ponyta, of course!" Mr. McCormick exclaimed so powerfully that his red hat nearly fell off his head.

"Will we get to ride it too?" the younger boy replied, the whites of his eyes sparkling with excitement.

This time, the rancher shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Not this time, I mean; you will in the future, but riding a Ponyta can be rather dangerous if you don't know what you're doing."

"But I do know what I'm doing!" Michael complained. "I've been riding Ponyta with my family since I was in…".

"It doesn't matter, Michael," Libby snapped, speaking for the first time in a while. "Different Ponyta are probably trained differently."

"That is correct" Mr. McCormick replied matter-of-factly. "Putting on the harness, though, will help you get acquainted with our stables, I promise."

With that, Mr. McCormick got up from his armchair and led the trio of workers into the morning sun. It was considerably warmer than it had been yesterday; by the time they'd reached the stables, Brett's T-shirt was stuck to his body.

The stables were a long, low building that smelled almost as putrid as the barn had. There were four gates, each of which led to a small room where a Ponyta presumably lived.

"Wow!" Michael exclaimed as they entered the building. "A real Ponyta stables? I haven't seen one of these in forever!"

By this point, Brett wanted to slap the younger boy upside the head. We get it, you're excited. But there's no need to be so loud about your excitement, so put a sock in it, will you?

Of course, not wanting to cause a scene, Brett did not do this. Instead, he, Michael, and Libby watched as Mr. McCormick opened a door to reveal a Ponyta behind it.

"This girl's name is Wanda," the rancher told the trio. "She can be a rather feisty one if you're not careful with her, so we'll just work on suiting her up first. Mr. Porter, do you want to show the others how it's done?"

Brett blinked. "Me?"

Mr. McCormick frowned. "Uh, yes. You're the only one here whose last name is Porter. Of course I'm talking about you."

"I mean, sure," the 19-year-old replied sheepishly, heart pounding like a drum during a fast song. "But I've never…I don't know how to do this. Never done it before."

"It's really quite simple," his boss responded, winking. "You just have to be patient with her when you put on the saddle."

Brett noticed that the saddle was hanging against the wall, higher up than some people would be able to reach. Fortunately, since he was on the taller side, Brett had no trouble grabbing the harness off of its pegs, although it was heavier than it looked.

Okay. It's all the marbles right here. Mr. McCormick expects me to show Libby and Michael how to saddle up a Ponyta. But it's not…I don't have a clue how to do this!

He also knew that he couldn't take too long to begin, or else he would simply embarrass himself. He might have already told his boss that he was a newcomer to this task, but that didn't seem to mean anything to Kenneth McCormick.

Taking a deep breath, Brett lifted the saddle into the air and placed it on the Ponyta's back. Wanda whinnied in what sounded like slight pain.

"Ow!" she exclaimed weakly.

Mr. McCormick frowned at Brett. "You've got to do it more carefully than that, Mr. Porter. You can't place it too hard on her back, or it's going to hurt her."

The young man sighed as he massaged Wanda's mane. "It's okay, Wanda," he told the Ponyta. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Evidently, Wanda didn't want to be massaged. After a few seconds of Brett scratching her mane, the Ponyta turned around and started kicking the air indiscriminately.

Oh no, she could get one of us!

Mr. McCormick placed his hands in front of his chest in order to shield his vital organs. "Everybody, run!" he yelled; of course, there was only one direction in which to run.

The three employees and their boss all escaped the room right away, sprinting out of the stables.

Mr. McCormick's face was bright red, and he held up his index finger at Brett. Both Michael and Libby looked at him with irate expressions as well.

"Could you please not do that next time?" Mr. McCormick exclaimed, wagging his finger at Brett as though he were a child who needed to be scolded. "Don't massage Wanda unless I tell you to; you could have gotten seriously hurt. We all could have."

He knew it. Brett knew that he'd placed all four of them in danger, all because of his idiotic decision to scratch the Ponyta's mane. Even before that, though, if he'd only asked for directions, he may not have felt the need to massage Wanda in the first place.

But is that last part really my fault? I don't think Mr. McCormick was going to give me directions.

Brett thought back to the drive here, when he'd felt as though a "guardian devil" was watching his every move. If he hadn't been convinced of that before, he certainly was now. Nothing seemed to be going right for him today.

An outside observer, perhaps one reading this tome, would be forgiven for believing that once Brett Porter had hit rock bottom, there was nowhere for him to go but up. They might think that, while things may have gone from bad to worse, they would inevitably get better.

Unfortunately, such a person would be dead wrong. For after almost getting himself and his colleagues killed by a rampaging Wanda, Brett's day would continue to deteriorate.

It didn't seem that way at first. After that unfortunate incident, Mr. McCormick took the trio back to the barn, where they started performing the task Brett had done for much of the previous day: Carrying hay into said barn.

While this task was exhausting, it was also boring, not least because it required little mental concentration. Brett found his mind wandering as bale after bale was stacked in the corner of the barn.

To pass the time, the young man continued to ponder his nightmare. The idea that aliens, after having paid no attention to the planet Nexus this whole time, would suddenly invade in less than a week seemed silly.

But maybe not. Nobody else seems to expect it; look at how dismissive Mr. McCormick was yesterday!

Of course, everybody had dreams, that much was true. But, and this was something Brett couldn't quite explain to anyone else…the one he'd experienced last night had been just that, an experience.

It felt like real life.

On and on the trio labored, lifting hay bales out of a disorganized mountain outside of the barn and placing them in neater stacks inside the building. More than once, Brett felt a massive sneeze welling up inside his head; particles of dust kept circulating in the air, and it was hard not to breathe them in.

Despite this, Brett didn't regret taking the job. He didn't wish he had something else to do, for this was an effective distraction from everything else he was worried about.

After a couple hours of this, Mr. McCormick called for a lunch break. The four of them went inside thanks to the heat, and Brett relished being in the air-conditioned home, even if it was only for a short time.

While they ate, Michael kept chatting up a storm about how much fun he was having on the ranch, even if he hadn't really gotten a chance to work with Pokemon. Libby turned away from him, head pointing upwards as though acknowledging Michael's presence was beneath her.

Mr. McCormick, despite barely saying a word, was the loudest one of them all. He shoveled Torchic-fried steak into his mouth, only occasionally coming up for air. Brett was no nutritionist, but with how gluttonously his boss ate, it was a wonder he was only slightly overweight.

Michael had just finished his bit of meat when he exclaimed, "So! Is there anything else you guys want to talk about?"

Suddenly, Brett realized that he had his chance. He knew that Mr. McCormick could have a short fuse, but he might not have such a short temper while he was eating something he clearly enjoyed.

Yes, it's probably stupid to bring it up in front of him. But if not now, when? Besides, I've had a decent amount of bad luck today; surely this won't go wrong too.

Brett swallowed his last bite of steak and cleared his throat. And then, he went for it.

"Did you guys hear about the Green Team?" he blurted out, speaking so quickly that he nearly slurred his words.

Libby frowned. "The Green Team? Are they in some soccer league I haven't heard of?"

"No," Brett replied. "They're not in a soccer league. Well, I suppose they might play alien soccer, because they're a group of aliens who want to take over the planet."

Michael had the unmistakable air of a first-grader who's about to tell on another student for doing something wrong. He exclaimed "Aliens aren't real!" in a rather childish voice. He might have been sixteen or so, but he sounded half his age at most.

"What do you know?" Brett bellowed. It was probably rather foolish of him to continue on this line of discussion, but he was committed now. There was no going back.

Mr. McCormick banged his fist on the table, which caused his glass of half-and-half to fly off of said table and fall to the ground, shattering in a brilliant explosion.

"God dammit, Brett!" he yelled, his tongue sticking out slightly. "How dare you bring up such a ludicrous topic? We already discussed this yesterday!"

Brett's face turned red with embarrassment and anger. Not only was he self-conscious about what he was telling the others, but he was also enormously frustrated that his boss blamed the broken glass on him.

"It's not ludicrous" the young man insisted, Libby and Michael looking on as though they couldn't decide whether the scene was horrifying or entertaining.

"It's not? Why not?" Mr. McCormick replied, his face redder than Brett's probably was. "How can you talk about aliens as though they're real?"

"Because they are," Brett said simply, his stomach rising into his throat. "They exist."

"Can you prove it, though? You know what they say, if you can't show it, you don't know it!"

The young man shook his head, trying to maintain his composure. "I can't prove it to you. I saw them in a dream, and the last time I checked, there's no way to share a dream with someone else."

"A DREAM?" Mr. McCormick exclaimed, laughing his ass off. "Let me tell you, Brett, do you think dreams mean anything?"

Michael looked stone-faced, so amused that he didn't know how to express it. Even Libby seemed to have barely suppressed a giggle as Mr. McCormick cracked up for a good fifteen seconds.

"No, but you don't understand," Brett insisted. "I've never had a dream like this before. It's never felt so much like real life."

The young man knew he was dancing on thin ice now. If he wasn't careful, he would be out of his job just like that. And, needless to say, he couldn't let that happen.

Mr. McCormick was finally able to stop laughing. "Well, at least you've got a sense of humor, Mr. Porter. I'll give you that much, even if I don't think dreams about an alien invasion are particularly noteworthy.

"On the other hand", the rancher continued, "young men who are delusional enough to believe aliens will invade are noteworthy. I'll call OKNN right now, see if they'll grant you an interview."

Brett's jaw hung open; he could hardly believe what Mr. McCormick had just told him.

"An interview…with OKNN?"

Libby and Michael looked on intently as their mutual boss spelled out what that meant, as though Brett were five years old. The latter felt thoroughly insulted at being spoken to this way, but the tough part about working for someone like Mr. McCormick was that you had no recourse if you didn't like it, other than quitting a job you loved.

"An interview, Mr. Porter. That's when a reporter asks you questions and you answer them. And OKNN is One Kanto News Network. I didn't think I needed to define those terms for you, but there they are."

"It's not that" Brett replied, trying not to lose his temper. "It's just…you're being ridiculous, you know that? I'm not delusional."

Mr. McCormick raised an eyebrow. "You said the aliens were going to invade Nexus. If you truly believe that, why wouldn't you want to give them an interview? It would draw more attention to the issue, maybe get governments to work together on something for once."

Brett realized that, as volatile as his boss could be, he did have a point. Why would Brett turn down such an opportunity to potentially save the world?

"Fine. I'll give them the interview, if they agree of course."

Mr. McCormick nodded, and Michael and Libby began whispering to each other and giggling, just like a pair of middle school students gossiping over a student who had done something embarrassing the other day.

Brett tried to tune them out as his boss grabbed a nearby phone and retreated into a nearby room. As this happened, the young man reflected on how today had gone for him so far.

During the morning, it had seemed that Murphy's Law was in effect: Anything that could go wrong, would go wrong. Just when it had seemed that Brett's luck had run as low as it could go, it turned out that things could always be worse.

But now, if the interview request was granted, Brett would have a chance to bring light to the threat from the Green Team. Yes, the government, let alone the general public, might not believe him. The events from his dream might have been totally bogus. But it's better to be safe than sorry, right?

In the other room, a quiet conversation could be heard between Mr. McCormick and whoever was on the other end of the line; at least, it sounded quiet from here, but it was hardly likely that his boss was whispering.

Although he couldn't hear the exact words, Brett couldn't help but feel as though the two parties to the call were debating his fate. He might not have been on trial, but he could practically feel a noose around his neck getting tighter and tighter. How long before the anticipation figuratively killed him?

I don't know what to wish for. I might be seen as the hero who saved Nexus. Or I might be seen as the loon who came up with an attacking alien race just for attention. Or somewhere in between.

Mr. McCormick, after a couple of minutes, re-entered the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear. Brett thought he knew what this meant.

He was right.

"Mr. Porter, the request for an interview has been granted. At the end of the work day, the van from One Kanto News Network will pick you up and take you to their studio, where you'll tell them your thoughts."

Brett pursed his lips. "My thoughts? Like it's a therapy session or something?"

"No, not like that" the rancher replied simply. "I mean…you know it better than me. If you do know about it, of course; for all I know, you're making this story up just for attention."

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know" Mr. McCormick said gruffly. Then, banging his fist on the table: "Lunchtime is over. Back to work!"