Dear Diary: A Pokemon Black Storylocke, Part 13

Dear Diary.

How’ve you been? It’s been a few days since we last spoke. I promised you an update, didn’t I?

…look at me. Talking to you like you’ll talk back. It’s pathetic. But then what can you expect…

We’re at Redstone Hospital. It’s a medical center in Nimbasa that specializes in treating humans for pokemon-related injuries. When trainers battle, there are strict rules in place to prevent them from having their pokemon attack one another. But accidents happen, and wild pokemon aren’t afraid to go after humans themselves. And that’s not forgetting that criminals can and will order their pokemon to attack humans.

Humans, for all their ingenuity, are fragile things. We pokemon can take punishment that seems ludicrous compared to their standards, and even without the help of medicines or pokemon centers, we recover far more swiftly and efficiently. I’ve heard that this is the reason why humans can’t reverse-engineer potions and the like to work on themselves: all they really do is cause the pokemon’s natural healing process to spike.

Even a weak, low-level pokemon can do a lot of damage to a human if they’re not careful. They can break bones, or leave lasting scars. Or kill. It’s easy to kill.

Opal told me stories—this was back when the two of us were still on speaking terms—about a faraway, desolate region where humans performed abominable experiments, turning pokemon into heartless fighting machines. These “shadowed pokemon” would attack opposing trainers without hesitation; they would even go after their own trainer if not suitably controlled. There were a lot of casualties.

I shuddered when I heard those stories. I always told myself I was better than that. I would never willingly attack a human. How could I? I could easily kill them without intending to. Could I live with myself then?

Those were questions I should have asked in the dark, when I told the others to leave Blair to die. No, let’s be frank. When I told them to kill him. Because that’s what we would have been doing. Did I really think that there was a difference between leaving him to suffer and starve and just straight-out attacking him myself? Some would argue that there is a difference. Well, I leave dichotomies like that to be debated by pack elders and human philosophers. But to my friends, there wasn’t a difference. And now that I’ve been forced to confront myself in the light of the sun, I have to agree with them.

I hated Blair from the beginning. But I never attacked him. I could have—even at my weakest, even as a Patrat. I could have waited until he was asleep. I had claws and incisors. It would have been easy…

But I didn’t. Because I knew that it was wrong. Not that Blair is a saint—far from it. He’s cruel, and bitter. He’s a genuinely evil person. But I never even considered sneaking in there. Because that’s a line I refused to allow myself to cross. I’m not a killer.

Such a basic thing to hold yourself to. Don’t take a life. But I forgot that, down in the dark. And it still makes me sick to think of it.

…I’m rambling. Redstone Hospital.

The rescue helicopter that found us took us here straightaway when they saw Blair’s leg. We pokemon were treated as well, but our injuries being less severe, we’ve had little to do but laze around as they treated Blair.

His life’s not in danger, though there was an initial scare because of how much blood he’d lost and how long he’d been in shock. Now they’re waiting for him to recover. He’s remained in unconsciousness for most of the past few days, only surfacing once or twice—each time he was delirious and raving, and had to be sedated back into sleep.

…his leg is in bad shape. No, worse than bad. The bone wasn’t just broken, it was shattered below the knee. Between that and the intense muscle damage, it will be impossible to repair. I don’t know if they’ll amputate, but it won’t be anything he will ever walk on again.

I’m trying to feel bad for him.

The hospital is used to treating patients with pokemon, particularly wandering trainers. They have a spacious, fenced-in park behind it where trainers’ pokemon can spend most of their time. They even allow some friendly sparring, though we were warned that if it got out of hand we would be confined to our poke balls for the duration of Blair’s stay. For that reason, pokemon of one trainer rarely associate with other groups, just in case a fight breaks out and makes things worse for everyone.

I’ve been trying to repair things with the other pokemon. It’s going… slowly. Opal hasn’t said more than five words to me since we left the dead city. Laguna, as always, remains close. Gnash approached me yesterday. “We was all stressed down there, we was,” he told me. “I still think yer a good-hearted pokemon after all. Y’looked sorry not long after. Bygones?”

Bygones. Things have still been weird between us but he’s making an effort and so am I.

Dreamtide is… an enigma. It’s always been an enigma. It’s so hard to get a straight answer out of it. Right now it seems more distressed by the fact that Blair’s injury has sidelined us than what I suggested in the cavern, but who knows what the Sigilyph is really thinking? It can communicate with Blair. It’s possible that it will tell Blair what I wanted to do. How will he react? Not well, I’m sure. That’s a bridge to cross when it comes.

Cenn has been nothing but cordial—the sort of distant politeness that transparently masks disdain. Somehow that stings more than open contempt.

By the way, diary, he’s a Whirlipede now.

It happened yesterday afternoon, the third day we’d spent at Redstone. Blair got an unexpected visitor.

It was Cheren. You remember him, don’t you, diary? The last member of the little triumvirate who’d left from Nuvema a few days before my capture. I wasn’t there when he visited Blair, but Laguna was. The team has agreed to have one of us on-hand in Blair’s room at all times, just in case he wakes up. The hospital staff has accepted this, only reminding us that if they cart Blair to surgery or any other place, we’re not allowed to follow. The other pokemon haven’t made a big deal of it, but so far no one has given me a shift to watch him.

…anyway, here’s what Laguna said happened.

Blair was out cold, as he had been for most of his stay. Cheren spoke to him anyway—softly, coldly. He told Blair that he should be sorry for what happened, and that a mere few months ago, he would have been sorry. Now, he didn’t know how to react.

Laguna said that Cheren mused on being driven to find a new purpose. To do more than just be strong for the sake of being strong. She said he told Blair that he wanted to protect those who needed protecting—not just people, but pokemon too. He looked at Blair and then turned away. “Why did you decide to become someone others need to be protected from?”

Most of the rest of the visit was spent with Cheren silently sitting in the room. Laguna told us that he carried an almost mournful air around him. “Like Blair had died,” she said. I thought back to the fights and arguments they’d had. They had been friends, once. Poor Laguna. Too small to understand that that was what had died. It’s a sad thing when friendship withers.

While Cheren visited the room, his pokemon wandered into the park where the rest of us were. His Servine—a little Snivy no longer—talked with Opal for a little while. You may remember that the last time they parted, it was not under ideal circumstances. I didn’t listen in on their conversation—it didn’t seem proper—but I hope she’s building bridges with him again. It looked like it. It helps that she’s become less worshipful of Blair than before.

The rest of the team politely introduced themselves to us. Cheren has a Liepard, a Pidove (that made me think of Columbus, which made me more than a little sad) and a Panpour. They were quite genial and friendly, and the Panpour even asked me if the stories Cheren told about Blair’s cruelty were true. How do I answer a question like that? I muttered that he was far from the nicest trainer and she nodded sympathetically. “I understand,” she said. “Cheren says there’s lots of bad trainers out there. He really wants to help pokemon like you.”

I told her I was touched.

They made friends will all of us, excepting Dreamtide, who they didn’t really know how to handle. Well, to be frank, diary, I don’t know how to handle it either.

Eventually Cheren’s pokemon challenged us to a friendly sparring match. Nothing too major; just one-on-one fights. We decided on a series of four matches, the opponents selected though drawn straws to prevent obvious matchups from coming into play.

Opal was first, taking on the Pidove. He was fast and flashy, and actually gave her a little bit of trouble, but he was not Columbus that mixed speed and agility into one seamless offensive. All Opal had to do was land a single blow and he tumbled into the grass.

“I give, I give!” he said, waving his wing up. “Jeez, you are tough!”

I congratulated her as she left the battlefield. Her eyes drifted in my direction, but she said nothing, her face remaining neutral.

Next was yours truly versus the Panpour. She was hopping excitedly on one foot, back and forth, back and forth. When the match started she bolted into the trees and stayed up there, waving down at me. I can climb, but I’m no monkey; whenever I tried scrambling up after her she just jumped to the next one, giggling. She left me a few parting shots of water; nothing major, but I was still left soaked and frustrated on the ground.

I could feel everyone’s eyes burning into me. Cheren’s team, my team, Gnash, Dreamtide, Opal… I needed to pull this off.

I tried doing what I did with Bianca’s Munna and mesmerizing it with my patterns, but that got me nowhere. Whenever my patterns started to flash, the Panpour averted her face and ran as far as she could. She was familiar with Watchogs, it seemed. “That old trick?” she taunted. “You’ll have to do better than that!”

So I did.

A few trees over, there was one with a springy-looking branch relatively low near the ground. That would do just nicely. I chased her from tree to tree, careful to maneuver her to the one I wanted. It wasn’t hard, though I took a few more blasts from her. When she was there, I made as if to clamber up after her. She shook her head and leapt to the next tree.

I collided with her in mid-air. See, that springy low-riding branch was perfect for catapulting me up straight into her. Both of us hit the ground and, well, I had the advantage there. A quick one-two-three of strikes and she cried forfeit.

As I retreated off the battlefield, the other pokemon all gave me words of encouragement. Even Cenn nodded in approval. Opal ignored me, however, staring straight ahead with her arms crossed.

Cenn was next, fighting against the Servine. If the unlucky type matchup fazed Cheren’s ace, it didn’t show. The Grass-type was powerful and swift, darting around the battlefield just as efficiently as Cenn himself, lashing out with blasts of leaves and whipping vines. The entire battle was one big game of keep-away; the Servine knew that if Cenn got ahold of him for even a moment, it was over.

But all those attacks slowed him down. Every time he stopped to launch an attack, Cenn closed the distance just a little bit more. Closer… and then closer… and then—

Cenn suddenly pounced, springing forward with sudden, unbridled speed. The Servine cried out and tried to retreat, but it was too little, too late. Cenn landed a wicked bite and the fight was done.

The final matchup was Dreamtide and the Liepard. Despite Dreamtide’s type disadvantage, I had no illusions as to who the victor would be. I don’t think anyone did. Maybe that’s why Cenn asked him if he could remain in.

“Hey, that’s cheating!” the Pidove complained. “Swap out a Psychic-type for a Bug? You’re just taking advantage of type matchups!”

“I do not mind,” the Liepard said. “The Venipede must be weary from his other engagement. And they’ve already taken all three rounds—whether we win or lose this last match, overall victory is already theirs.”

We all turned to Dreamtide. “Cenn-may-fight,” it said after a moment’s consideration. “Wish-Cenn-well.”

Cenn nodded and turned to face his enemy as the Liepard strutted onto the battlefield.

He was like lightning, far faster than any pokemon I’d ever seen—faster, even, than Columbus had been. I soon learned type matchups didn’t matter if you couldn’t catch your enemy. He didn’t play keepaway like the Servine and the Panpour; he darted in, lashed at Cenn with claws or fangs, and darted back out before Cenn could strike. Every time Cenn lashed out with his own claws or his barbed tail the Liepard was already gone, like a dandelion seed carried on the wind.

“Feeling tired yet?” the cat said after landing yet another swipe. Cenn only grunted. The Liepard raced in for another attack and that’s when Cenn curled up.

His caracpace was hard, and wasn’t breached easily by the Liepard’s scratches. The Dark-type paced a few steps away, antsy. “I’ve never cared for pokemon that hide away and fear a fight,” he said. Cenn didn’t fall for the taunt, and remained curled.

I wondered if this could be counted as a forfeit, but the Liepard evidently did not think so. Frustrated, he bolted in, laying into Cenn’s carapace with his claws.

“Get—out—of—there—you—little—”

Suddenly the three barbs were free, lashing at the Liepard’s side. He retreated, yowling, as Cenn unfurled. “Be careful what you wish for,” he said sardonically. He raced at the Liepard and the cat charged as well. They struck each other, each landing a fierce blow, and fell simultaneously.

Both sides rushed the field with a mixture of excitement for the great battle and worry for their teammate, but before we even reached Cenn, a familiar glow suffused him. When it was done, the skittering bug I’d known him as was replaced by a larger creature, one with a shell that wrapped around him like a wheel.

Everyone, even Cheren’s team, congratulated Cenn on his evolution. He played it off, but I saw the gleam in his eyes—the same gleam that had been there when he’d observed Burgh’s bugs in action. He’d wanted this for some time.

We moved into the hospital itself to allow the staff to treat us—they saw a lot of minor injuries from friendly skirmishes in the park—and joked around while they sprayed us with potions and delivered lectures on proper safety that we ignored. It was tremendous fun; I had lots of great conversations with Gnash and Cenn and Cheren’s pokemon and even Dreamtide, which seemed to be enjoying itself even if it hovered at the edge of the socializing circle. Cheren’s team were friendly to me, too. Eventually Cheren came and collected his pokemon. Before he left he turned his eye to Opal.

“I don’t know if his mom’s been informed, but I guess I’ll have to tell her if not,” he said. Opal nodded with a stricken look on her face.

She was Blair’s starting pokemon. She had to have met his mother at least once. What would the woman think—that this was Opal’s fault? That she had allowed her son to lose a leg through negligence or malice? I wanted to comfort her but she walked off, retreating to the privacy of her poke ball.

I suppose that’s enough for tonight. Not much of note has really happened to report at all; it’s the downturn, the calm after the storm that was the Desert Resort. We’re all still waiting for Blair to recover. I don’t know what state he’ll be in when he wakes up. Will he blame us for his injuries? Will Dreamtide tell him what happened down there? Will Blair even be cogent?

Who knows. I’ve decided to take things as they come. That’s all we can do in this life. My brother—it’s been so long since I thought about him; he left when I was still a whelp, voluntarily leaving with a trainer, a small boy who couldn’t even have been ten years old—he used to have a saying he’d use to reassure anybody who was fretting over the future.

Whatever will be, will be.