The primary station serving what remained of the Unovan Southeast was the next state over in Pechatree, and that wasn't changing anytime soon— Nacrene had been abandoned for years, the entirety of uptown Castelia was underwater, and Black City's warlords were not keen on coming to any agreements anytime soon. Striaton was a midway point, not much going on— both a blessing and a curse for Samuel.
On one hand, it was an easy job to oversee the city's telegrams. On the other hand, it was an easy job. On any average day, ninety percent of his time was spent waiting for something to happen or talking to his penpals from elsewhere. It had its perks, he acknowledged that. But he could not shake the feeling that he could be doing something more.
"Striaton to Goldenrod. No, never got a Pokemon. Useful ones are hard to come by here in the southeast. Dad just left me in here. Maybe he's still waiting for me to get halfway decent at my banjo first."
"Goldenrod to Striaton. I have a Flaaffy, just because we're telegraphers doesn't make us any worth any less! You can still get one!"
"I wish I could be as optimistic as you. Really."
"I'm really not that much of an example, really."
"Gen come on Wilsa talks about you all the time. You're great."
"...Thanks. Just please don't do anything drastic."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
"...yeah. I promise."
"...just making sure. Ya kids know what you're asking for, right?" Bert crossed his arms as our Lapras ride approached Westgrove-on-Sea.
"First, w-we're not kids. I'm seven. I-I'm basically an adult in Treecko senses… um, s-second. Th-the trip's not that bad, right?" he asked as I grimaced. The city seemed no less dirty than we'd left it; thankfully, we wouldn't be staying long. The wagon rental was out at the edge of the city, leading right into the surrounding woods. Even so, I could practically smell the harbor below us as Bert scoffed.
"Oh, Treecko, you got no idea. I've been across a couple times myself. You know why they call it the Samurott?"
"...becaushe Shamarotts liff thehr?" I guessed.
"That I could live with, but nope. See, the Samurott runs down from some of the more shaky stretches of the Twists. The rocks at the bottom are made in the volcanos' bellies, and the river gets shallow and quick this time of year. We have it lucky, the Serperior is calm and slow. The Samurott shreds and it does not give up its dead," the Wartortle frowned. "There is good reason Gray Orient ends there."
I felt my tail brush anxiously against the ground as Rye gulped. "W-well, then, why can't we just fly over?" he asked.
"Well, we don't know who'd be tracing us is the problem. And it's the Bronze Desert. I'm not a flyer, but from what Molly tells me, the airstreams aren't ideal for flying over and there's no moisture to go off of. Even if we knew we didn't have no eyes on us, we'd still have to pay a pretty penny to find anyone who'd be willing," Bert said.
"What about… yknow, flying over just the river?" Rye tried.
"I mean, sure. If you've got the paperwork to fly out of Orient," Bert countered. Rye opened his mouth to try and argue back, though him and I both knew there wasn't much we could say there. We were in a hurry, after all, it made sense we didn't have the papers ready…
"H-how do we cross it, then? Safely?" Rye asked.
"Well, that's the fun part. They just built a nice convenient bridge over the river, and if we're lucky the storms haven't gotten it yet," Bert grinned. "So we may not even have to worry about the death river. Whatcha think?"
"...I-I guess," Rye nodded.
"Yeah. We'll be fine," Bert patted me on the back before going to start assisting the Lapras with docking. Rye glanced back at me, giving a shaky thumbs-up I managed to return. This… was going to be rough, huh?
"Hahw we dohing?" I asked, lying against my bag as the wagon rocked around me. Rye swayed his tail around a bit, apparently trying to feel out the moisture in the air.
"We're about there," Bert pointed to a point near our destination before handing the map back to Rye. "Couple leagues out. Won't be too long."
As he tried to shake the paper off his gecko fingertip, Rye gave a sigh. "...c-can I admit something?"
"Yeah?" I asked.
"I… kinda miss Mavy. N-not that he's a bad mon, no, just. You know. It's quiet," he rubbed at his head. "He'd help the nerves."
"...yeah," I nodded in agreement.
"Who exactly's this Mavy mon? Heard a lot about him, but," Bert asked.
"F-friend of ours. He got really hurt and w-we couldn't bring him," Rye said.
"What, I'm not good company?" Bert joked.
"N-no, just…" Rye sighed. I couldn't help but agree— it'd been a quiet ride, with the two of us just sitting there quietly for the last six hours and waiting for something interesting to come up. I'd been a little excited to have a good old-fashioned Beck and Rye expedition, but. Yeah, it had barely been a day and I was already getting bored. But that was beside the point…
"...ya gaht any plan?" I asked.
"For what, if the bridge's gone?" Bert sighed. "I'll… just hope Suicune has mercy. Treecko?"
"N-no. Not really. I'd say we swim, but if it's as bad as they said…" Rye frowned. I just let out a sigh, ear twitching as I squinted back at the map. We didn't have much time to think on it, by the looks of it, especially as my lizard brain started to detect water— or otter brain? It was only a few moments before the wagon finally lurched to a halt.
"This is it, Samurott Crossin'!" the Mudsdale called. Bert sniffed and leaned out the wagon to get a look at what we were up against. When he pulled his head back, though, his expression told me that the universe wasn't going to cut us a break.
"...hahw bad?" I asked.
"Bad," Bert said bluntly. I gulped down the lump that'd suddenly formed in my throat and crawled over to get a look for myself.
I was expecting something tough ahead of us, but this was a whole 'nother thing. The quarter-mile wide river was white and churning from shore to shore, the odd break in the foam revealing the thick, jagged rocks responsible. The shattered boat impaled through one of those rocks was intimidating, but not nearly as much as the bare stone pillars where the bridge was supposed to be.
"...damn. That rain musta hit upstream hard," the Mudsdale cringed. "I can just take you back to Westgrove if you want. But if you still wanna try and cross, I'll stay and try and help if things go south. Or if you wanna turn back. I wouldn't blame you."
"Distortion, no," Bert waved the idea off, hopping off the wagon to further assess the situation. "Just… need a bit to think this over."
Rye and I just watched the water flow for a moment, somewhat at a loss. A quarter mile…
"...this is the only way?" Rye asked.
"Unless you wanna take a month to go through the Twists. Which, you know," the Mudsdale said. My tail flicked as I weighed our options. Every sensible option seemed impractical or suicidal…
So what wasn't sensible? …what would Mavy do?
I sat there for a moment before hopping down from the wagon and waddling to the shore to grab one of the plentiful smoothed stones, scribbling on it with one of the charcoal pens I brought everywhere now. Rye hopped down and approached me curiously. "Wh-what are you—" he started before I held up my work, the Treecko trailing off in bewilderment.
I'd doodled a stupid smiley Zigzagoon face onto the rock in my paw, looking to my new substitute Mavy for guidance. "Bashababah," I waved it around, doing my best Mavy accent.
"Wh-what… what are you doing?" Rye asked.
"Waitwait," I held up my free paw. "Wha wouhd he doh?"
"...kid, what?" Bert called over, joining Rye in his staring.
I wouldn't be surprised if both of them were seriously questioning my sanity at that point, and honestly, they probably had a point. As he watched me wave the substitute Mavy around, though, Rye seemed to suddenly have an epiphany. "...I-I think I get what he's saying," he relented. "Mister Bert, y-you remember Beck's… thing on the Serperior, back when you first met?"
"What about it?" Bert asked.
"...I-I have a really, really stupid idea. I-I can try and grow us a raft, a-and you and Beck can shoot us across. I can try and keep repairing it until we're across," Rye said quietly. Bert just stared at him in disbelief for a moment.
"...do you want us to die? You need an ironclad to cross this thing, and even then you'd have to be further upstream where the water's deeper. And even that's risky. That's damn near suicide. And are you taking advice from an honest-to-Kyogre rock?" the Wartortle demanded.
"D-do you have any better ideas?" Rye asked. Bert opened his mouth to argue, though couldn't choke out anything substantial. A moment passed before he turned to the Mudsdale.
"You wouldn't mind us taking the wagon, would you?" he asked.
"That's not my call to make. You'd have to pay big time to replace it, I can tell you that," the horse shook his head. Bert was quiet for another moment before groaning in frustration.
"...make it a good boat, please," he relented. Rye nodded and squatted to the ground, starting to grow woody vines from the earth to work with. As he worked, Bert pulled me aside.
"Please tell me you're not putting our lives on just what a rock told you," he sighed.
"I trasht Rye," I simply said. Bert pursed his lips before putting his paw on my shoulder.
"Well. If you trust him, I do too. Remember what I taught you, from the belly, not the throat. Don't stop when you start feeling like you're running out, you usually aren't—" Bert began.
"I knah, I knah," I nodded.
"...do me proud, kid," Bert managed a smile, giving my shoulder a hard pat. "Please, for the love of all the gods of the waters."
I gave the best nubs-up I could before leaning over to see Rye was already making decent progress with the raft. Patting Rocky Mavy and slipping him into my bag, I waddled over to watch the weaving vines finish up.
"Okay, um… i-it's not the best, I dunno if—" Rye started.
"Yah did gohd," I reassured him, waving Bert over to start pushing it towards the shore. With an Ice Beam to the hull for good measure, it seemed watertight enough. Whether it'd actually take us the whole quarter mile was another question, but I didn't imagine we'd get far by waiting to think about it. Rocky Mavy had promised.
"Manaphy… okay. Okay. You two ready to go?" Bert asked as he approached, taking his position at the back of the raft.
"Rehdy," I nodded, taking position next to my teacher.
"A-as I'll ever be," Rye gulped, sitting in front of us.
"Right. On my mark, we're gonna push it in, then we sail like distortion. Don't look down, keep pushing. Just do your best," Bert said, taking a deep breath. "...now!"
We lurched forward, Bert immediately launching us forward with a Surf. I cringed hard as I felt the rocks on the riverbed start raking across the hull, water stinging my face as I joined the Wartortle in pushing the boat along. Holding on to me tight and already panicking, Rye hurriedly started allocating vines to try and make up for the damage. Through the stinging mist, the sheer adrenaline, and all the Water power I could muster being channeled, I could make out the raft starting to shrink. Rye only had so much to work with— I just hadn't expected it to go this quickly.
Halfway there. The rising Surf was doing a good job of protecting us from the brunt of the riverbed, but it was clear Bert was getting tired. "Fack…" I groaned, taking a breath and trying to add onto Bert's Surf. It evidently wasn't enough, as the raft started to shudder from more and more frequent strikes from the shredding rocks below. Between this and Rye's increasing franticness, I could see water starting to seep through hairline cracks in the wood. Three quarters…
Boom. A large rock peeking just out of the river slammed the raft, the woven wood starting to slack below us.
"Shit! On my shell, on my shell!" Bert yelled. "Treecko, try and hold it together as long as you can! I'm gonna try and springboard us off!"
Rye responded with a guttural scream as he scrambled to get off the disintegrating raft and onto the relative safety of the sailor's shell. As I joined my friend, Bert took a breath as another particularly large rock slammed the already failing raft. I winced and shot an Ice Beam down to at least try to keep it together a second longer, my wide eyes frantically looking towards the shoreline.
"Rear us back, kid, help me out…" Bert strained as the Surf rose again, starting to rear us back. In any other circumstance, I'd probably be concerned about running out of energy, but at this point my only thoughts were pure survival. With my added effort, the raft held back against the opposing force of our Surfs before they both released at once. Our boat instantly exploded into splinters below us as Bert was slingshotted up into the air, Rye and I screaming in sheer terror as we held on for dear life. My eyes instinctively looked down towards the river, doing some quick math as we started to fall.
…we weren't going to make it. We were going to land right on a patch of rocks. We were going to die.
The world seemed to slow down around me as my eyes darted to Bert retracting into his shell to try and brace for the impact. To Rye screaming and trying to press against me. I… couldn't let them die…
I took a breath, turning my head opposite to the shore, and fired as hard of a blast I could. Splash, splash, splash— the water came out of my mouth in an intense pulsing blast. Water Pulse… I could feel us accelerate forward from the sudden technique, though before I had time to muster up the energy for another round, I felt Bert's shell impact and instinctively wrenched my eyes shut, awaiting the inevitable.
…
…we weren't dead.
I cracked open an eye. As my heart started to slow back down, I processed the muddy sand I had landed face-up in. We had just barely cleared the rocky shore.
"...Rye! Mastah Bert!" I called, doing my best to sit up.
"We're right here!" Bert responded from behind me. Rye wasn't too far away, having curled into a whimpering ball on the shore. Despite my body's protests, I hoisted myself up and hauled myself over to check up on the Treecko.
"...w-we almost died," Rye whimpered.
"But we dedn't," I tried to reassure him. The lizard stayed there for a moment before getting up to hug me tight.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" he managed out.
"Kid. Kid, hey. We got across. You and Oshawott, you got us across. It's over now, yeah?" Bert tried.
"...I'm sorry," Rye repeated. "Can… we rest?"
"Way ahead of you," Bert nodded, looking back across the river. The distant Mudsdale, still watching from the dirt road, stared at us for a moment before giving a nod of respect and turning to start back to Westgrove. Bert, meanwhile, just ran his fingers through his tail fluff before turning to the woods to start gathering firewood.
"Y-you should rest, I did the least, I can do the fire," Rye said.
"None of that. I've been through worse," Bert shut him down as he shuffled into the brush. I just put an arm around Rye's shoulders as he curled up again, the two of us sitting down to process what had just happened. As I did my best to comfort the gecko, my eyes were drawn to my bag.
'...never do anything like that again, Rocky Mavy.'
The rock just kept looking up at me from inside my bag with its stupid smiling face, naturally.
That sounded about right, yeah.