"Help! Help!" I don't know why I'm screaming. One of the children in town might be able to hear me, but none of them would dare leave without a pokemon, so there's no hope they'd do it now of all times, knowing there's actual danger. I'm the one who taught them that.
I can't believe I made such an error. I always taught to never go out without pokemon, never let yourself be separated from your pokemon's pokeballs, and then I go and make the most basic mistake there is. The zigzagoon runs at me after I had turned and half-unslung my bag to get my notebook, and I panic. I move to run. I drop the damn bag.
How painfully – and it will be painful – ironic, for me to be just a few pathetic yards from town. I can't believe – wait, you - are you a trainer? "Help me!" I call.
The zigzagoon is chasing me, and I can't really take my eyes off the ground as I stumble through the grass and over uneven ground. But I can spare a second's glance. No pokeballs. And you came anyway. Thank Jirachi for such selflessness. "My bag!" I call, as the zigzagoon corners me. "Grab one of the pokeballs!"
You step forward, towards me, but then go right, as if to examine the trees over there, then start back towards town. "Where are you going? Help me!" I scream. The zigzagoon makes a feint at my leg.
You stop, turn. Start towards me again. Your movements are strangely unhurried, languid even, but no matter. You are coming. And you kneel at the bag and reach out one hand to grab the left pokeball. Saved! I'm saved!
Why are you turning the pokeball slowly in your hand, your expression thoughtful? WHY ARE YOU SETTING IT DOWN? You pick up another – yes, yes, throw it – no, please don't – don't set it back down! Now the third one, the last pokeball, you've seen them all you must throw this one –
But instead you are setting it down, you are walking to the left, you are going as if towards and past me. I scream hysterically "No, grab a pokeball!" my voice higher pitched in my panic than I thought possible, and I wonder if you could understand it, if you could understand any of my words. The zigzagoon sinks its teeth into my shoe, puncturing well through the leather.
Rolling your eyes you turn again, walk so very very calmly back, stand over the pokeballs as if thinking as the zigzagoon releases my shoe for my ankle. I scream. You examine your choices.
And then you pick one, hold it, throw it at last. The zigzagoon releases me and I slump down, my chest pounding so hard I feel afraid suddenly of a heart attack. And I'm saved. I'm saved. My leg throbs and the pain reminds me in each burst of how my fate would have been. And giddy at my narrow escape, I promise you the pokemon as you recall the victorious fighter.
You don't look at all surprised as you calmly place it on your belt, and I realize you made no motion to return it to the others, as if you were already intending to keep it.