Author's Notes: Well, as they say, it's that time again. Vacation's through, and the time to get back to schoolwork is nigh...but I'll still try to make plenty of room for writing, of course! I hope you didn't miss me too much while I was gone. But then again...you probably didn't even notice I had left at all. :P

Anyway, it's time for your favorite section of the Notes - the questions! Oooh, yay! XD I apologize for the tl;dr-ness ahead of time, but...I got a lot of questions this time around. blush First things first...the ever popular question of "Aww, why don't you write pikachu in the same manner as virtually EVERYONE else - as adorable, friendly, vegetarian social colony-dwellers with cute little pseudo-human societies and whom behave exactly like little humans who just happen to be short, furry, and tailed? Why do you gotta be so mean and write 'em acting like...well...rodents? And capable of making noises other than 'pikachu!' in the bargain?" Because they ARE rodents. In my crazy mind, they're much more interesting to write about when they're acting like scruffy, territorial, omnivorous, mostly solitary drey-dwellers with cute little rodentine ways of living, a full range of rodentine vocalizations, and with FLUFFY TAILS! XD I thought I made it clear back in the Author's Notes in Chapter One that this is very much an AU fic compared to what is normal for anime canon. And if you want to read about cute little pseudo-human based pikachu societies, there are virtually a billion other 'chu-based TF fics you can go to instead of this one. Use the Search Engine and see for yourself. :)

And now, a few mini-questions, and this windbag will shut up: If Pikachu's "just an animal," how can he understand stuff like "duck!" "Hit that target!" "AIM FOR TEH HORN!" and others? The same way my dog knows what "sit" "give me your paw" and "speak" means. He was TRAINED. By a...a Trainer! Imagine that! XD And animal he may be, but since I do give pokémon enough credit to have more brains than your average schnauzer (no offense to my dog!), he can understand slightly more complex commands. Who is that "boy" who had a "plusle with a mangled leg" that the old man talked about in Chapter Four? None other than Lester, the protagonist of Where Even Kilroy Hasn't Been (another fic of mine). What kind of computer is widdle boy Ash using? A Macintosh LC 575 – not a terrible machine for its time, and one of the more affordable pieces on the consumer market. They were the computer at my elementary school, and supplemented older classroom Apple II GSes from their stations in the computer lab and library (I’ve even got a photo of myself from around 5th grade using one!). And FINALLY...what's up with the mythos described in the chapter below? Mostly, my efforts to try and reconcile the very mythical and magical background of the Pokémon world with real biological facts. ' Now...enjoy! If you can. Personally, I don't think this chapter is very good, and I'll probably end up rewriting parts of it eventually, but for now...enjoy. :)

-Chapter Five: Way Station-

Is it a kind of a shadow

Reaching into the night

Wandering over the hills unseen

Or is it a dream... – Mike Batt, “Bright Eyes”

A nimbus of snowflakes, twisting and swirling amongst the nocturne stillness, fell rapidly to the earth, enfolding all it touched underneath a frigid white blanket. Roosting pidgey huddled closer together in their sheltered enclaves amongst the foliage above, fluffing their feathers vigorously as they tucked their heads under their dun-colored wings. Trying to ease their own discomfort, the little birds paid no attention to the figures struggling amongst the drifts below; walking with their ears flicked down along their backs and with their tails, the long hairs matted with clumps of snow, dragging along behind them.

A stray flake, glinting wanly, alighted upon the tip of Ash's nose, and he snorted, his warm breath misting about his muzzle. How long have we been walking? His paws, raw and ensanguined from the sharp, rigid crust that had formed over earlier snowfalls, left a pink-tinted trail that stretched back as far as he could observe, winding through a seemingly endless sea of trees and shrubs. Walking...walking...will there ever be any end to this? The Indigo League and Viridian City can't be that far off now...can they?

Clenching his teeth, Ash pushed himself through the withered remains of a Japanese knotweed stand, the fragile bamboo-like stalks crumpling like wet paper under the weight of his body. How much more can we take of this? Sitting up on his haunches, he pushed the last few remaining plants aside and poked his muzzle hesitantly through the gap, glancing down the sharp incline that began where the knotweed ended. Littered with loose shale and slick from snow runoff, it ended in a valley about fifty meters down, hedged in by larch and red pine. We’ve already come so far…are we lost? Will I never see Pallet Town again? Will I die out here, after all?

Food. The sudden thought, unsophisticated and untainted with any deeper level of meaning, tickled at the back of Ash’s consciousness, and he turned his attention to the small pichu sitting behind him on the path cleared by his body; the tips of his silky black ears just barely visible over the sides of the snow-encrusted grass tussocks that grew amid the towering knotweed. The fur of his throat, ruff, chest and forepaws had dried into stiff, tangled spikes of dirty snow and coagulated blood, obscuring the scab that had grown over the superficial wound of a few days earlier. His eyes, once so bright and inquiring, looked dull and clouded, betraying his terrible hunger and fatigue. And you’re even less cut out for this than Pikachu and I are. Pichu…

Cold. The pichu curled up in a ball against his father’s side, tucking his tiny muzzle underneath his folded forepaws. Balking at his touch, Ash nudged the little creature aside slightly; trying to keep a good quarter inch of snow in between himself and the kitten. Intimate physical contact – gestures and affections that spoke of mutual love and trust - had no place in a relationship that was built only on emotions of guilt and overbearing responsibility; responsibility he never would have taken on if he had had any choice in the matter. Just imagine, he thought, looking up into the swirling sea of snowflakes spiraling down from far above him, the faint moonlight refracting off their thousands of crystals. I could have been well on my way to taking on the Hoenn League by now. Travelling with Pikachu on my shoulder, making friends with new pokémon, building up my badge collection…it could have been mine! All I’d wanted to do was to help Sneasel and the pikachu…was showing kindness so wrong?

But now…now…I could die. And if I die, those who depend on me for their own survival will die as well…

Ash rested his head in the snow, a sudden sharp wind tousling the long fur about his face. Pichu…the Other may despise you, and I myself may not have wanted to have you or care for you. But as hopeless as everything may seem, and as much as I wish I could simply have gone on with my Trainer’s Journey without ever having to deal with you or any of this, I cannot allow myself to give up on trying to find my way home. There will be a safe, warm place for you and Pikachu there, and, hopefully, some answers for me.

Besides, Pichu, I cannot break my promise. Never again. You're my responsibility, and I will do my best to protect you like a good Trainer should. I...I can't be your father, though. I'm not ready for that...and I don't know if I ever will be.

The pichu sat up and peered deeply into Ash's face, a light dusting of snowflakes upon his fragile frame making his coat seem even more lustrous than usual. Food. Snow. Sleep. Food?

Ash himself couldn’t remember how long ago it had been since they had eaten; tearing at the frozen remains of a dead spearow, already sampled by other hungry pokémon, in a desperate attempt to quell the terrible pits in their stomachs. There’s no food, Pichu, he thought back, wondering how many of his words the little creature could comprehend. And there probably won’t be any, unless we get lucky…

He peered down the slope, trying to examine the valley below for a sign of anything edible. The shriveled heads of carpet bugle and chickweed protruded stiffly and awkwardly from enveloping snowdrifts, casting pale shadows across the expanse of white; broken up with half-filled footprints left by passing stantler. At the far edge of the dale a tangle of cockleburs, rigid leaves pointing skywards, partially obscured a vast sheet of ice, glistening pallidly in parts where moonlight managed to pass through the branches of overhanging trees. A few roving murkrow, keen eyes seeking the carcasses of those claimed by winter, turned in swift, short circles overhead, before finally darting off towards the horizon, beating their wings heavily through the chill night air. It looks just as hopeless as everywhere else we’ve been, Ash speculated, pulling himself back unto his feet. But at least those trees might provide better shelter than these old dead plants will. And if that ice is a frozen river, than we could get some fresh water as well, and…

A river…a river’s full of fish, isn’t it? And water conducts electricity…

Pikachu, Pichu…I think our food problem could be solved.

Signalling for Pikachu to follow, Ash gently took hold of the pichu’s scruff in his teeth and scrutinized the slick incline once more, flicking his ears back along his skull as he puzzled over what would be the safest way to proceed. Maybe, if I jump towards the slope claws-first, I can dig in with them to slow myself down. Or maybe -

An ear-shattering crack interrupted his contemplations in mid-thought; echoing about the perviously silent woodlands like a gunshot. What was that? Struggling to keep his rational mind from being buried under the Other's instinctive terror, Ash turned towards the direction from which the sound had come, pricking his ears and tensing his muscles. A half-dead pine overlooking the cliff's edge, coated in ice and weakened further by the winter winds, had shattered halfway along its trunk and plummeted towards the valley below, its uppermost branches pulverized into smears of decayed wood pulp from the force of the impact. A rain of pale umber needles, forced upwards as the tree hit the ground, danced admid the snowflakes as they drifted on the breeze back to the forest floor, landing gently upon the drifts and tussocks as if nothing more substancial than a spring breeze had knocked them loose. The echo soon faded; swallowed by the vast sylvan expanse, and with its departure Ash felt his body relax. A tree...a tree...it was just a tree...

No, it's not just a tree. It's our way down!

Shaking the snow from his fur, Ash carefully approached the fallen treetop, testing its craggy bark with his claws. It's certainly safer than the cliff, but it's still not all that sturdy, he thought, feeling the trunk rock and creak slightly under his touch. We'll have to be careful. Pikachu! Recieving the thought of his name, the little animal cocked his head quizzically; lifting one paw hesitantly as the scent of his Trainer's caution hit his nostrils. Pikachu, I want you to grab my tail, and not let go until I tell you to. That way, if I lose my balance, you can pull me back up. And if you lose yours, I can do the same for you. The idea of teeth digging into his tail, an appendage he still had not gotten completly used to possessing, was not especially appealing, but it was something he would gladly put up with when the alternative was possibly breaking his neck on the slope. And I can't die. Not when I have family and friends still to meet up with, not when I have pokémon who’ve placed all their love and trust in me, and not when...

A half-recalled memory drifted across the teen's psyche; a clouded equine form of silvery-white, standing upon pointed hooves gleaming a brilliant gold. I can't remember exactly what you look like...and of your words, I remember even less. But when I think of you, I fear death more than ev-

"Chuuuu!" A sudden sharp pain raced down Ash's spine, and he instinctively turned towards his attacker, fur fluffed and ears laid flat along his skull. Chittering meekly, his mouth full of Ash's tail, Pikachu lowered his muzzle to the snow in a submissive gesture, exposing a stretch of throat. Looking at his prostrate friend, the boy-pikachu felt exceedingly embarassed, and he ran a forepaw sheepishly through the long fur on the left side of his face. I didn't mean to react like that, Pikachu, he thought, taking hold of the pichu's nape once more. I got...lost...for a minute there, and I'd forgotten I'd told you to bite me. Who knew tails could be so sensitive? With a strained sigh, Ash climbed unto the fallen tree; trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his tail as he led his friend towards the valley below.

Careful...

Careful...

I don't like the sound of this...

The pine trunk groaned, its half-dead wood crying out in protest at the additional weight upon its surface. Flakes of bark, shaken loose from the tree's underside by the patter of paws above, dropped to the incline and slid like toboggans across the ice and snowcrust; gaining in velocity until they collided with the drifts at the cliff's base. Watching their rapid descent, Ash swallowed hard and dug his claws tighter into the spongy wood, flicking his ears rapidly as he struggled to maintain his equlibrium. He had not realized how much pikachu depended upon their tails to maintain balance while traversing narrow terrain such as trees, and that by allowing Pikachu to use said appandage as a teather, he had hampered his already tenous ability to make the descent in one piece. I've just got to take it slow and easy. Pikachu will pull me back up if I slip; it's one of the reasons I let him grab my tail in the first place. I'll be okay. Trust Pikachu, trust the Other's instincts. Inch forward...easy now...

With a snap like a bone breaking, the tree trunk shattered along a fracture line, its weak pulp no longer able to support the pokémon upon it. Caught in the grip of instinctive terror, Pikachu bolted blindly forwards at the sound, his paws skidding along a patch of ice and sending him flying unto the incline, still holding unto Ash's tail. Clenching his jaws so tightly he feared his teeth might break to keep from crying out in agony and dropping the pichu, Ash hung unto the remains of the tree for all he was worth, digging his claws into the wood up to the quick as Pikachu's weight almost pulled him over the edge. Don't let go, Pikachu! I'll save you!

I swear to God, I'll save you...

He closed his eyes, breathing raggedly through his nose and the corners of his mouth, as the pressure upon his tail became almost unbearable. That's it, pull yourself forwards. Get Pikachu close enough to the trunk so he can grab it himself. Just a little more...he can almost reach now, I hope...

I...

hope...

Unable to hold on any longer, Ash fell from the tree unto the slope; spinning and tumbling with Pikachu into the soft drifts below.

Warm. Sleep. Happy Ash. Warm Ash. Food? Warm now. Ash. Happy. Happy Ash. Happy pichu...

C'mon, Pichu...not now...I'm dreaming...what are your thoughts doing in my dream? I'm your caretaker. Not your father, not your real father. But why am I thinking of you?

No. Not quite dreaming. Remembering. What is this? Presents. Wrapping paper. A cake...a birthday party? Why am I remembering this? What does this have to do with anything at all? Is this another of...its...games?

No...no...this isn't its doing. This party...I think I know now...

I don't want to remember! Wake up, Ash! Wake up! Wake...

“I saved your best surprise for last.”

Ash peered up at his mother, dropping his fork excitedly as he contemplated what this sudden announcement could mean. “What is it, Momma?” Could it possibly be a pokémon of his very own? He knew that he was still a good five years from being able to apply as an official Trainer, but he hoped that didn’t mean he couldn’t get an early start. And even if it wasn’t a pokémon, perhaps it was something equally enthralling to his youthful ambitions –maybe he would finally get that Super Nintendo he’d always wanted, or the Pog set he had been eyeing ever since Gary had brought one in to nursery school. “What is it? Can I see it? It’s better than anything Gary’s got, right?”

Picking him up from the chair, Delia hugged the little boy close to her chest, brushing his messy black hair from his forehead affectionately. “Asheron…you know as well as I do that we can’t afford the same kinds of things the Oaks have.” He pouted; feeling the expression spread across his features unconsciously as his mother’s words hung in the air. But that isn’t any fair!Why can’t we? Swallowing and clenching his fists, Ash forced the query to the back of his mind, remembering what had happened the last time he had expressed his curiosity on the issue. Momma didn’t need to cry; not on his birthday.

“You shouldn’t be frowning, dear. Even though we don’t have a lot of money, I still bought you the nicest one that I could…because I love you.” Delia gave the boy a kiss on the brow and set him down, flipping her limp ponytail over her shoulder wearily. “Why don’t we go to the living room to check it out, honey? Afterwards, we can pop in a video and then finish off this cake. Does that sound like a happy plan to you?”

Ash nodded acquiescently, wanting to keep his mother in good humor. “It might still be just as cool as anything Gary has, even if it didn’t cost as much. Right?” Without even waiting for an answer, the little boy scurried towards the room in question, skidding to a sudden stop when he finally beheld the object in question.

The computer sat upon a weathered Formica card table; its lambent screen, encased in a pale grey plastic frame, casting a gentle light upon the surrounding area. Sitting down at a nearby chair, Ash ran his digits lightly over the keyboard, marveling in the feel of the rough buttons bumping against his fingertips. “A computer! For me? Really? What’s it do, Mom?” Momentarily forgetting all about his classroom rival, he picked up the mouse in his right hand, its boxy form only slightly conforming to the curve of his palm. “Can I play games on it?”

“You’ve got to turn off the screensaver first.” Chuckling at her son’s delight, Delia took the mouse from him and clicked twice on the button to the left, causing the black screen to shift to the desktop visage. “And before we start looking at games, there’s…something else I would like to show you, son.” Selecting an icon that looked like two computers connected by a odd black cord, a sound that Ash had never heard before started to emanate from within the bowels of the machine; strange beeps and clicks, cumulating in a bizarre screech that made the little boy jump. “What’s that, Momma?”

Taking a deep breath, Delia clicked another icon, setting the mouse down as a web browser window opened; text and images slowly spreading across its surface as the page loaded. “My Ash…you’re five years old now. You know how I’ve told you about how your father and my father were great Trainers?” Taking the child into her lap, she rested her chin upon his head, a loving gesture that caused Ash to smile in spite of himself. “What’s Papa like? And Grandpa?” He remembered well having asked similar questions before, questions that had caused his mother to stammer and gasp like a magikarp out of water before she had answered. And the answer had been the same every time – that the both of them were supermen among Trainers; brave and strong fellows preparing somewhere far away for the opportunity to take on Champion Lance and his Elite Four. It was a story he had never had any reason to disbelieve – after all, he’d never seen either of them, and they wouldn’t simply abandon him and Momma without a very good reason. Would they?

“Ash, well, I…I…I lied about that.” Gasping in shock at that announcement, the boy clenched his fists, trying to hold back the tears he could already feel beginning to form. Momma…lied? But lying is bad! Why would she lie to me? Momma! His voice breaking, Ash struggled to put his thoughts into words, shifting position slightly to look his mother in the eyes. “You…lied?”

Delia nodded, scooping the boy into a hug; an expression of shame and discomfiture crossing her features. “Supermen among Trainers. ‘Supermen’ implies they were more than the average person, standing above and apart from everybody else – it was nonsense, Ash. All of it was nonsense.” Turning once more to the computer, she clicked upon a white bar along the top of the browser, typing in an odd jumble of text that made little sense to Ash. “When one goes on a computer like this, Ash, it’s called the World Wide Web. Once you get to know the system better, you could very well try looking up your father and grandfather on pokémon-related networks, and…and you’d soon realize that I hadn’t been honest with you.”

“But…but why did you lie to me, Momma?” He sulked within her embrace; picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his shirt anxiously. “And if Grandpa – and Papa – aren’t Trainers, what are they?”

“It’s…it’s difficult, Ash. My father left to try his hand at Training – something he had not been able to pursue as a young man due to the Vietnam draft – and never contacted my mother or I ever again. That much about him, I know for sure. But if you were to look him up online, you wouldn’t find any record of him as a member of the World Pokémon Trainers’ Association.” She showed the newly-loaded web page to her son, scrolling deftly through the list of names as she spoke. “And you wouldn’t find any record of your own father, either. Neither of them ever became official Trainers. I…I doubt they got very far.”

“But why didn’t they come back if they didn’t get far? If Papa couldn’t make it as a Trainer, he’d come back home to us, wouldn’t he?”

“Your father.” Delia shook her head, the melancholy of her gaze tinted with a slight hint of affection. “Like me, Sampson was young when his mother died. As for his own father, it was a subject he would never talk about, and would darn near explode if I ever dared bring the topic up.”

“Why?”

“That, my son…is something I can’t answer. It was a topic I soon learned to avoid.” She ran her hand lightly through Ash’s hair, a wistful gleam shining in her eyes. “You have his hair, you know that? You look a lot like him.”

Ash wasn’t sure how to reply. “I…um…do you know what Papa and Grandpa are doing now?”

Delia shook her head. “I can’t help but miss, and still love, the silly man that was your father. Sampson was much closer to your grandfather’s age than he was to mine, but…I couldn’t help but fall for him and his quiet personality. Always so wrapped up in his hobbies and in his work, though…and soon after he learned I was pregnant with you, Ash, he simply left. If he was following the path of my father in trying to be a Trainer, I am not sure. But either way, I’ve never heard from him again, and where the two of them are now…I couldn’t answer. I just hope they didn’t meet with foul play.”

Ash looked down at the rug, following its intricate woven pattern - flowers and leaves twisting and floating through an inky blackness; bordered on the edges by rows of interlocking chevrons. “But you still haven’t answered my question about why you lied, Momma. It doesn’t really matter than Papa and Grandpa aren’t real Trainers, does it? Why did you want me to think so?”

Leaning back in the chair, Delia switched the monitor off, letting the room fade into quiet darkness. “I lied to you because I wanted you to think highly of your ancestors, to think of them as something more than deadbeats. And because someday…you, too, could be a father. If you knew of your father and grandfather’s life choices, I…I worried that maybe you would further perpetuate that cycle, rather than break it. I want you to grow up to be a good man, my Asheron – brave, noble, loving, and always willing to stand up for what’s right, and who faces inconvenience head-on, rather than running away from it. You’ll probably understand all this better when you’re a little older – but I just couldn’t lie to you any longer, son.”

Ash closed his eyes, reflecting pensively on his mother’s words. “Momma…if I’m a Papa someday, I won’t run away. I pinkie-swear it. No one will have to do any bad lying about me.”

“I hope so, son.” He felt the kiss on his forehead, gentle and light; and he snuggled closer to his mother’s chest, reveling in her soothing warmth...

Ash opened his eyes wearily, yawning and stretching as he let his vision adjust to the surroundings. Pikachu, looking none the worse for his tumble, lay curled in a tight ball against the far side of the drift, his ribs rising and falling in slow rhythm as he breathed. Next to where he himself had been unconscious, the pichu slept; his paws twitching gently and his dark yellow fur gleaming as brilliantly as the snowflakes in the early morning sunlight. if I’m a Papa someday, I won’t run away...

The teen turned his back on the pichu, sighing. Was he no better than his own father; a man he had never known, a man who had never done anything for him besides sire him? At least I'm taking care of Pichu. That's more than Dad ever did...

But you don't give him any love, his conscience argued back. You're protecting him and caring for him, but it's all out of guilt and obligation – not any deeper affection. An ordinary pichu might be able to get by on that, but this is a pichu that needs a father's love. And deep down inside yourself, you know it. His close contact with you while you were unconscious must have allowed some of his dream-thoughts to come through to you – and the guilt brought your memories to the forefront. Answer your guilt, Asheron. The chance to break the chain of fathers in your family has come – seize it! Can you not see the love in Pichu's eyes?

Ash hung his head, his heart's intense feeling overwhelming his being. Do you want to be yet another bad father in a family of bad fathers? Whether you wanted to have him or not, he's here, and he needs you.

But what about finding a way to be human again? How can I be a father to this pichu in my real form? I could be his Trainer, sure. But his father? I couldn't do that...could I?

Why does this have to be so hard?

Ash returned to the depression he had left in the snow, resting his wet black nose against the pichu's. The little animal sneezed gently, lifting his head and blinking sleepily at his father; long, bang-like head fur, much like Ash's own, hanging over his eyes and curling slightly over his muzzle. Ash. Happy!

Pichu. A few brave pidgey in the groves beyond chirruped their morning songs; their melodic notes blending and swirling into a graceful harmony of dinurnal welcome that lifted Ash's spirits in spite of himself. Pichu. My father...I...I can't be like him. Whether I can fill the role of a good father for you or not, I don't know...but I do know that I can try my very best to break my family's terrible cycle.

I will do my best to love you...Alexander. He did not know why he had decided to nickname the pichu in that impulsive moment - all that he knew was that it had felt right; so right that it made his conscience sing in joy...

An engine backfired, its discordant, abrasive sound shattering the the still of the morning. Skittish pidgey flew in a dissonant flock towards the distant Mt. Moon peak, and a few spearow, less fearful but still disturbed by the sudden automobile traffic, flew in short, anxious circles over the cocklebur thickets, clacking their beaks in agitation. The smell of gasoline hung thick and heavy in the air, tickling Ash's nose, and he lifted his head, seeking the source of the auditory and olfactory disturbance. There's a car around here somewhere! Pikachu! Pikachu, wake up! Civliization isn't as far away as I'd thought!

Roused from his nap, Pikachu pulled himself to his paws, shaking a shower of snowflakes from his coat. Ash, taking hold of Alex's scruff, rushed quickly to his best friend's side, nuzzling his cheek in joy. C'mon, Pikachu, let's see if we can find that car! Even if it's not heading towards Pallet Town, once we're back in civilization it'll be easy enough to find a car that is. And there will be lots of easy food, too, that'll save us from having to fish in the river...hurry up, Pikachu! Not caring about the cockleburs in his excitement, Ash pushed his way through the thickets, tucking Alex's body under his chin. Shaking off a few especially tenacious briars, the teen leapt into the clearing; suprised to see that what he had mistaken for an ice coated river from atop the cliff in the nighttime was in actuality a gleaming black expanse of tarmac – not a well-kept or heavily trafficked road by any means, but a road none the less, and one of the most miraculous scenes Ash had ever witnessed.

Home...home...soon, I'll be home...

A van idled along the shoulder, smoke rising in swirling plumes from under its propped hood. A man, his head bent towards the protesting engine, wiped his hands frustratedly along his pantlegs as he tried to soothe his malfunctioning car, paying no attention to the little animals cowering behind one of its tires. He left the trunk open, Ash thought, flicking his ears nervously. We have to be careful. If we make too much noise, or make one wrong move, we could catch that man's attention. And without knowing how he'd react to us, that's a chance we can't take. Follow my lead, Pikachu. We'll jump up in the trunk on one...two...

Now! With a powerful spring of his hindlegs, Ash shot out from behind the van's tire like a cannonball, digging into the craggy tarmac with his claws and pushing upwards once more, landing with a thump in the van's soft grey carpet. A few moments later and Pikachu joined him inside; his paws skidding on the slick artifical fibers and sending him spriling into a box of goods. Knocked loose by the impact, a book fell from its cardboard abode and landed squarely at Pikachu's feet, causing the little animal to jump back in suprise.

We'd better put that book back in the box, Ash thought, setting Alex down and tapping its spine lightly with his muzzle. It could rattle around back here while the man is driving, and we don't want to give him any reason to investigate. Not when we're this close to Pallet Town...

Right as he was about to take the object in his jaws, a glimmer of gilt along the book's spine caught the boy-pikachu's eye, and without thinking he carefully nudged the cover open, turning the delicate flyleaves until he reached the slick paper of the frontispiece. Nudging the piece of tissue paper out of the way, Ash examined the portrait – a young man with enquiring eyes, clad in a well cut coat and wearing a fine felt hat upon his crown. Under the portrait, in a smudged, old-fashioned font, a title for the image had been printed, one that made Ash forget all about putting the book back where it had been found.

Mr. LOCKE, Historian of Those Grand Transmutation Stones! If Any MAN Deserved to Find Out Their Secrets, It is HIM.

Transmutation...Stones? Stones...that transform? Does this book hold my answer? Could this book...

He nudged the tissue paper back over the portrait, reading the title page in growing excitement.

THE TRANSMUTATION STONES

Being an Account of the AUTHOR, the Learned Mr. Richard LOCKE, and His Notes and Inquiries Into a Mysterious Legend Much Taboo in the Empire, With Which He Hopes to Educate His Fellow Scholars and Tantalize the Populace

--

L O N D O N

Printed & sold by Byfield and Sons, Charing-cross.

(Price Six Pence in Gilt Paper.)

1827

My...I...

Unable to think clearly, Ash clawed the book open to a random page and let himself become engrossed in the narrative; oblivious to the dangers of the world around him.

It came to pass, a full ten years ago, that I had the opportunity for an audience with a man the name of Comworth; who had lived in the shadows of London's lower districts for uncounted years, begging alms for his sustenance. He was a curious fellow of a strange bearing, with eyes half-glazed from some terrible affliction, and fingers that leapt and trembled like leaves in a high wind as I approached him. “Greetings,” I had said, hoping the crisp finery my occupation could afford me, in such contrast to the dross that was this Comworth's typical environment, would not serve to either intimidate my audience, or cause him to, perhaps, turn from mere beggar to a thief. “I have heard that you have an interesting story to relate - the old folk-tale you say your mother told you when a child.”

Comworth, seeming to develop further trembling upon hearing a request that contained no immediate suggestion of alms, sank himself wearily along a far wall, his prominent ribs standing out even more clearly in this seated position. “The story,” he wheezed, speaking in a dreadful Cockney manner sensibilities keep me from recording exactly as he uttered it. “Yes. I will tell it to the children sometimes, for half-pennies.”

“Pray, tell it for me, as well,” I exclaimed, “and I shall give you a half-crown – nay, a full crown – for your troubles.” It was a shame he was not given to airing his vocabulary like many of these most dreadful of Cockneys were – only for the jingle of a pocket of change was I able to coerce anything out of him!

Comworth was clearly not one to pass along the chance of an easily earned crown, no matter the intimidation he had to face for it. “Why to hear it would interest you so, I cannot guess,” he began, “but if you are willing to give me that kind of alms for it!” The conversation thus begun, I carefully removed my journal from my coat-pocket, eager to record the full tale, of which scraps had for so long intrigued my intelligence.

My relatives (in the phrasing of Mr. Comworth) had, in times long past, been affiliated with the great Orient travels of Mr. Marco Polo, and this story was first told to them by a Chinese vendor, who in turn said he heard it from the far reaches of Japan's Sinnoh region (this meshes with my independent research and discoveries before and since, which indicate stories about the Transmutation Stones originated in this region of the world). They have kept the story in the family, passing it along as a wondrous folk-tale for each generation's children.

(This is, of course, retold mostly in my own phrasings; though I have retained some of the simplicity of Comworth's relation for ease of dictation. My foot-notes, also, will be inserted as parentheticals within the main text, meant to explain references and elaborate upon the story with my own further research).

Long ago, before the time of Chaos, there was only a vast expanse of Nothing. Everything that is known – from the Earth on which we live, to the Moon, to the Sun, and all the other celestials that inhabit the vast firmament - was contained within a throbbing pinprick in the middle of a vast Unknowable, Unguessable, and Inconceivable. Time did not pass, and nor did Space spin.

Finally it came to pass that this small speck exploded, turning what had once been a great Nothing into a churning turmoil of Chaos. And at the heart of all this Chaos, where all things became one, appeared an Egg. Having tumbled from the vortex, the Egg hatched and gave rise to the Original One (known as Arceus, considered a great deity by these northern Japanese)...

From the essence of itself, the Original One created two beings (Dialga and Palkia, two demi-deities), whom caused time to start spinning and space to start expanding. From itself again, the Original one created three living things (Azelf, Uxie, and Mesprit, fairies or pixies of some sort; held in high regard). The two beings wished, and from them, Matter came to be. The three living things wished, and from them, Spirit came to be. With the world created, the Original One took to a deep sleep that would last for eons.

Upon the hatching of the Original One, its Egg had split into seven fragments (these fragments! - the object of my quest they are – the Transmutation Stones!), each said to be about the size of a pidgey's egg, and infused with brilliant colour. After Matter had come to be, these fell to the newly formed Earth, landing into the deep, mysterious ocean that covered the planet. And from the Spirit wished for by the three living things, something special eventually started to stir upon this world. Guided and watched over by the dreams of the Original One, this new form of Spirit was mortal life.

The creatures that were the earliest to traverse the planet were unusual and strange indeed (ah! Alas, the reason this folk-tale was so hard for me to track down amongst my countrymen – the revolutionary idea that the rapid growth of pokémon is not the only type there is! A sacrilegious notion that rebels against what the Word tells all good Englishmen – but is it true? If only I could know for sure...ah, the possibility of the Transmutation Stones!). They were not pokémon, but rather the first beings born into the elusive kingdom of Animalia, in which humanity is the last surviving of the higher members. And among these animals were seven special creatures...

A dun-brown fish, with strong lobed fins...

A tendriled mollusc with heavy shell...

A shellèd beast of glowing eyes...

A huge crustacean from the depths of hell...

A water lily – a plant that wasn't...

A fearsome fish of razor teeth...

And a funny fish come from the deep...

Over many years, each of the seven happened to find a piece of eggshell, which caused a very extraordinary turn of events to take place. These creatures, so blessed in their luck, changed and grew from exposure to the Original One's Egg, and slowly turned into new beings. The first six became the earliest members of that most remarkable of taxonomies, the kingdom of Cavustrum, the pokémon! Not only were they now the most intelligent creatures on the planet, they had also developed incredibly complex ways of defending themselves (the Trainers of today term these “attacks”) as a response to the eggshell-induced mutation. They also developed a common characteristic of most pokémon species alive today - a means of very rapid growth to a mature state when presented with certain stimulus (sometime during the last century, the term “evolution” was adopted by the Trainers to describe this odd adaptation). And indeed, it was because they had touched the great pieces of egg that they became so successful and powerful...

But when all seven of the pieces of eggshell had been activated, the three living things felt a faltering of Spirit, and rushed to wake the Original One from his lengthy somnolence. Without rebirth, they told the great ruling beast, Spirit would lay stagnant forever more, and no new ruling species would grow – only minor creatures who could never hope to inherit anything. But the Original One knew it needed the power of strong Spirit in order to make a rebirth possible – for the benefit of all. “That fish from the deep...it is a recently changed creature, powerful in will. Deliver to me its soul, and its passion and main will be enough to rejuvenate me.” The pokémon who had grown from the razor-toothed fish soon slaughtered the fish from the deep whom had had barely a chance to live its new life, spilling its heart's blood into the ocean waves. With the power of its murdered soul, the Original One died, a new egg emerging from the bloodied chasm of its chest. And from the force of its death, the world was destroyed, killing almost all the creatures that dwelled upon it – indeed, of the seven, only the ancestors of the dun-brown fish and razor toothed fish survived.

And as the three living things knew, the Original One was soon reborn, scattering many more pieces of eggshell upon the precious Earth. A descendant of the dun-brown fish branched off from its kin upon exposure, and, along with dozens of other species, left the ocean to explore the land. New pokémon, and further members of the kingdom of animals, developed and grew over a long period of time, until; finally, the pieces of eggshell were once again used up. And once again, the earth was destroyed, and once again, only a few species remained behind. But the cycle began again...and one of the first of the new creatures, developed from the last of the higher animals left behind, would eventually become us, the humans, the most intelligent being on the planet and the prime ruler of it all...

And that, as they tell back in Sinnoh, is how humans and pokémon came to be. And sometime in the future, as more of the pieces are found, the Original One will once more destroy and recreate...

The Original One. Arceus. Why does that feel so familiar? Could that be...it, the thing that keeps haunting my dreams? But why does it want me so badly? Am I...

Am I the modern day 'fish from the deep?'

With that sobering thought on his mind, Ash turned to a new page, resuming his reading.

Alas, it would be a most regrettable falsehood if I were to blindly advise the handling of Transmutation Stones by our own, already vastly elevated, species! A most fascinating tale comes to me from a brief fifteenth century work known as the Textus Transmutarium ("The Text of the Transmutation"), written by some elusive, unknown Italian hand. What could possibly be the only record of a human encounter with one of these most miraculous of stones, and I have uncovered it; lost and un catalogued amid Oxford's dusty shelves! I have transcribed it in a modern English hand for the purposes of this book and for the accessibility of a wide audience, but I have tried to retain the flavour of the original to the best degree that I was able.

I (in the phrasing of the unknown author) heard this tale second-hand – I cannot vouch for its accuracy. However, it seems as likely a theory on Bestari's disappearance as any, and the idea of there being a Stone in existence as miraculous as this one makes the Philosopher's pale by comparison!

The learned minds doubtless have read up on their Bestari, devouring his texts like manna from the heavens. A fine alchemist was Bestari, whose crowning achievement was discovering the amazing properties certain minerals could have upon pokémon. In his own texts, he had written the tale of how he had by chance first made the discovery, by accidentally dropping a lodestone upon his pet eevee. Experimenting further with a variety of minerals and a variety of species, he found no species that would react to so many different types of mineral as the humble eevee would. The eevee therefore became his base upon which he would test all new minerals he brought in for experimentation – if they altered the eevee, chances were high they would alter at least one other species of pokémon.

The story, as I have heard it from one of Bestari's apprentices, is that one day the great man was in his sitting-room, an eevee upon his lap and a new mineral for testing in his hand – a rock that looked all the world like a pidgey's egg might if one were to dye it in brilliant colours. “I knew there was something about it right away,” the apprentice, now advanced in age, had told -

A shadow suddenly fell across the book, and Ash backed away in surprise, his heart catching in his throat. Pikachu, carefully grooming a terrified Alex, remained on guard behind a box, ready to make a move as soon as his Trainer gave a signal. Why didn't I just hide the book to take with me and read later? Now the man's back, and...

And he must have seen me...reading from it...

The man knelt down on the tarmac, folding his arms along the floor of the van, keeping his face level with Ash's. His eyes, the grey of a winter stormcloud, stared out from behind messy black bangs; his gaze piercing and intelligent in its intensity. The teen tried to stare back defiantly; but the more he stared at the man's face, the more he realized he knew it – it had been more youthful when he had observed it through the dust of old photographs, but they were the same features, the same hair, the same eyes -

Papa!

The man picked the book up off the carpet, smoothing its rumpled pages as he watched his pikachu son, his expression unreadable. Ash closed his eyes, tucking his muzzle under his forepaws, unable to stand being scrutinized by this elusive figure from his past. What is Papa doing here? Why did he have that book, out of all the books in the world, in his car? What does he know? Could he possibly have anything to do with this? What will he do to me? Does he recognize me? Is he friend or foe?

Is he a father...who would love his son?

Ash felt his father's hand upon his fur, and he tensed, his ears and tail twitching erratically in his fear. His head was pulled out from in between his paws, and once more he was forced to look into those eyes – the steely grey eyes of a man of secrets and hidden pain.

“You.”