Aftershock
Chapter 1: Compression
Saffron city, at first inspection, seemed no lesser than the grand kingdoms of legend itself, pushed into reality and dipped in pure, shimmering light. Where Uncle Artir's technological souvenirs had numbered no more than three or four, Amaren saw a great legion of such devices as he could only label magic, so fully integrated into the lifestyles of the strange folk that he wondered if they were mere humans, or higher, transcendental beings.
His arrival (and, possibly, his appearance) seemed to cause a fair quantity of unrest among the cityfolk, eliciting everything from rapidly-quelled glances in his direction to naked staring and interested comments, most of which he ignored. It was only when a passerby reached the extent of stopping him from his wayward wanderings and asking if he was perfectly fine, that Amaren replied, suddenly remembering the emergency lying within his one Pokèball.
"Where are you from?" exclaimed the nonplussed jogger, thoroughly bewildered by Amaren's old-fashioned apparel. "You couldn't be from the village in the forest, could you?"
"Er… it's a long story," the villager replied. "I heard there were departments committed to healing Pokèmon, do you know where I might find one?"
"What, you mean a Pokèmon Center?" The stranger's expression was intensifying every moment. "Um, yeah, sure, it's just in the next street. Take a right from that intersection. You'll see a building with a distinct red roof."
Amaren began walking to the indicated "intersection", still fighting with shock. His village, the center of his world… all of his life, he had been ignorant of its infinitesimal niche in an unknown forest, seeing cities as the mere stuff of legends. He had never realized: the village was but an offshoot of the grand Saffron city; his home lay secluded within the woods, but the city itself was the center of civilization, fixed on a sweeping plain at the crossroads of the raging universe around it. Now that the burning ruin of his old illusions lay behind Amaren, he felt an overwhelming urge to accustom himself to the true scale of events, but, try as he might, it was beyond him.
He spotted a vividly noticeable, red-roofed building carrying itself amidst the crowds with a distinct amount of pomp and remarkableness. With no further thought, the newcomer plunged into its chrome interior.
A short line awaited a reception desk at the head of the entrance room, and Amaren joined it with an equal lack of contemplation, after the manner of those awaiting breakfast back at home. Without incident, he met the pink-haired receptionist and wordlessly handed her his Pokèball.
"A Pokèball!" she exclaimed, as though it was something quite as treasured as Amaren felt it to be. "Do you know how rare these things are?" She peered intently at some invisible marking at its bottom, and gasped.
"Late 1990's, this is! I don't even know if we have a Recovery Machine to fit it! Hold on – "
She fumbled with a lower drawer in her vast desk, searching within hoards of heavy metal objects. With a satisfied sound, she pulled out a flat steel slab, with six shallow, spherical indentations carved into its top surface. A thick layer of dust dulled its mirrorlike polish.
"Here you go, this should work –" and the nurse shakily grabbed at Amaren's Pokèball, placing it neatly in the topmost niche. "Let me see, a minor Abra, caught less than an hour ago, moderate burning and heat exhaustion. What have you been doing with the poor thing?" She fixed him with a stern look, and then relented. "Never mind, not my business to know. Here, just have a seat at one of the chairs over there, I'll have your Abra back in a moment."
And so he fell into one of the row of chairs lined up near the walls, reaching for the first he could find.
A large, burly man sat to his left, seeming as if he would find it at home at the butcher's at Amaren's home village, but the girl to his right possessed a light cerulean to her eyes and hair that legend had assured him was reserved exclusively for the highest class of nobles. What was this strange, fantastical land?
The moment of brief interest which Amaren had lent the girl seemed to be repaid tenfold back to him, and a question followed it.
"Hi, have we met before?" she said brightly.
"No," he replied, not bothering to look up at her. An irresistible wave of distrust of this people had suddenly overwhelmed him.
"Call me Ruki," she persisted. "Where are you from… er…?"
Amaren stared intently at his hands for a moment, and then realized what this new character implied. "My name is Amaren," he ventured.
"Oh, hello, Amaren. You don't look like you're from around here."
The stranger to the city finally raised his head and gave the girl a closer gaze. Pleasantly slim, with shoulder-length hair tied in a simple ponytail, she carried a natural, disarming vestige of good looks – common, it seemed, with these civilized cityfolk. Her hair colour, however, still baffled Amaren.
"I only just came into this city," he began, and was compelled to explain the long story which he had denied to so many others. Disconcertingly, his faint xenophobia was quickly falling into submission.
"I'm a rookie Trainer, as you can see," Ruki explained. "Got my first Cyndaquil the normal way, from Prof. Oak right here in Saffron. "
From what he had heard, the eminent Professor lived in a tiny town in some secluded corner of the region, and Amaren said so.
"Oh, Pallet Town? That was ages ago, generations up the line. Where have you been? After Prof. Gary Oak became the Champion of Kanto itself, I believe he got so much publicity that he couldn't stay in a village like that at all. Of course, I think it was Gary Oak. History class was never my favourite, you know."
There were a fair amount of things which Amaren failed to understand in this bout of explanation, but he allowed it to pass.
"The… nurse…" he began. "She said my Pokèball was rare, an antique. What did she mean? What's the usual way to do it?"
"Oh, wow, you have a Pokèball?" she said, showing some remnant of the receptionist's ardent admiration. She eyed it appreciatively for a second, and then answered to Amaren's curiosity. "No one ever uses those things anymore. They developed a 'revolutionary new storage device' now that is really exactly like a Pokèball, except one of them can keep up to twenty-five Pokèmon inside it. Here, have a look at mine."
A small, rectangular version of a Pokèball was produced from the pocket of her jeans – no denim in his own village would ever be that delicate, Amaren wondered – and he had to admit he saw no point in redesigning the Pokèball into this form.
"They haven't changed the rules," she continued, "about maximum Pokèmon in a party, though. Once you get seven or more, you have to pick six Pokèmon of your choice at a Pokèmon Center like this one, using that machine, over there – " she indicated to a nondescript grey iron box at a corner of the room – "just before you leave any town at all, and you can't change them until you reach the next town. Which means, of course, that these Concentrated Storage Devices mean exactly the same for us trainers as an ordinary Pokèball. I really like Silph Co.'s sense of logic, don't you?"
It was Amaren's inability to participate in the conversation which disconcerted him this time – but, at lighter thought, he was gradually accustoming himself to the new life inevitable to him.
It was approaching that time when a call from the receptionist raised Ruki from her engagement.
"I have to go, Amaren, nice talking to you," she spoke in a rush. "I'm going to be here for a while, so you can meet me any time if you want. Tomorrow, same time, main hall?"
Without waiting for an answer, she hurried to the severely multitasked receptionist-nurse, conversed with her briefly about the length of her stay (where?), and disappeared into one of the doors that led from this entrance hall with what appeared to be a set of keys. The only conclusion Amaren could draw from this was that this center lent free lodging for those who sought it. The foyer of the building was, after all, merely a foyer, and there were undoubtedly several rooms, a main hall, and any other luxury an adventurer would care to wish for.
It seemed not long afterwards that he was also called to the main desk to receive the Abra in his Pokèball. He decided, then, to explain his predicament to the nurse and ask for help.
"We can give you five days' free stay here," she replied apologetically, "but no more than that, I'm afraid. You'll have to start paying then."
"All right, I'll take the five days." He required only some time to plot his further course of action.
"Though, you know," she leaned over confidentially, "you could always become a Trainer. Your method of obtaining Abra is unusual, but not illegal. No, that would be murderously unfair. If you get registered as one, you can have free lodging forever."
Amaren hesitated, contemplating what he could say, and was immediately cut off by the nurse's persistence.
"You could turn you Pokèmon over to rehabilitation centers, but the methods there aren't always luxurious. It would be best for him if you decided to train with him."
But this served only to increase his apprehension. With a somewhat disappointing "I'll think about it," he ducked into his temporary quarters in the confines of the massive Pokèmon Center.
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Amaren lay in the midst of the labyrinth of soft, cotton covers which consisted of his bed. A warm, wooden side table accompanied his corner of his room, and another glass-topped table covered its center, placed on rich carpet. Though he had only recently bathed with greater luxury than he could ever remember, the tasteful decorations adorning every surface seemed fit for kings, and he felt small and unworthy as he huddled in the bed. A lamp stood beside him, a beaker of some species, filled with a scarlet liquid and accented with suspended, violet globules. A hidden light at its bottom cast a near surreally beautiful glow around the dark room, reflecting off the other technological marvels to create a starscape of rainbow light. Or, at least, such it seemed to him.
The Pokèball lay still on his chest, beating serenely alongside his heart. Usual ritual requested him to take off the heavy device before bed, but the ball had suddenly gained much more value than he had once accorded it, his only remaining possession. There were other reasons for its sudden amplification of worth, as well. It was undoubtedly a rare antique even in this kingdom of gold, priceless by monetary measures, but there was another, implacable instinct deep within him which urged him to keep it safe. One, he realized, as he struggled to uncover it, which saw it as a link to home, and also to a concept closely bound to his aged Uncle Artir. Amaren pushed a tad more, and then let the matter rest.
The small boy within the king's mansion had not yet forgotten the Abra, still lying dormant inside his ball. He knew he would have to eventually decide what to do with it, but he was compelled, each time he pondered it, to procrastinate, hold the matter off. He had thought of allowing the Psychic out of its shell temporarily, but he had a growing adversity against seeing it again, despite how fully he knew the Abra would inevitably become a part of him. Amaren wished to stall the inevitable still, if only for a while.
As the last strains of sleep finally overcame him, a half-forgotten memory of a memory resounded through his head.
Someday you'll become a great trainer like me…
Very dearly did he wish to stall the inevitable still. But for how long a while?