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In the Mesozoic era, flocks of Aerodactyl soared overhead, the unquestioned ruler of the skies. Deep within an occasionally mobile forest of sunbathing Sceptile, a pair of Meganium dipped their long necks into water to drink, while Tirtouga and Kabuto sped away from them in fear.
A rainbow blur sped through the forest, the Archen’s tiny wings outstretched for reasons that scientists in the far future would dearly wish to know. Small and weak in an era of giants, Archen survived off of eggs and bugs – this time of year, mostly bugs, as the eggs had hatched already. Their talons had developed their notorious sharpness for cracking open Anorith, but generations of hunting had taken their toll; this particular Archen saw less and less of them every year.
He had become fairly good at sneaking up on Yanma and jumping up to catch them, but if they had too much warning they would simply fly away – and perhaps he had grown denser recently, or the ground simply more full of twigs, for this week he’d had zero luck.
A well-fed Archen, or even a modestly hungry one, would never think to challenge a Shieldon. This particular individual, however, was desperate. So what he saw was a slow-moving pokemon with a shell that he could maybe crack, not a beast so tough that even Aerodactyl bypass them in favor of easier meals.
Eons in the future, pokemon would battle for fun. In this one, they fought for survival.
The Archen was well aware that there was no hope of defeating this pokemon head-on. But maybe if he could just jump over and deliver a well-placed claw to the back of the neck…
The ground beneath the pokemon began to shake. At this point, he had to jump just to protect himself, flapping his wings furiously to extend his time in the air until the earthquake receded. But the Archen didn’t quite get high enough to get over the Shieldon’s head, which his opponent tilted back to protect herself. His claw made an impact, but he wasn’t certain which of the two pokemon had been the more injured from their clash.
Even in the best of circumstances, a Shieldon would be a tough opponent, but this Archen had been so hungry that it had made an even greater mistake. The most important thing to remember, when hunting an unevolved pokemon, is to confirm that its parents are not nearby.
The last thing this Archen heard was a Bastiodon’s loud cry. Its body fell into a crack within the ground, buried under a rock slide for a hundred million years.
The Archen opened its eyes and found itself in a tall, white, perfectly rectangular cave. Bipeds moved around, with white coats draped over them like a Carracosta’s armor, speaking of incomprehensible things with more syllables than any pokemon could say.
A red and white sphere rested on the table beside its foot.
“Let’s go, Archen,” one of the bipeds – this one, strangely enough, wearing more colorful clothes, and with longer hair than the rest – said, and the ancient pokemon was engulfed in red light.
The sky was different, now. Creatures shaped almost like Archen, but far grayer in color, circled overhead. The ground was light brown, but clearly artificial; no real beach was anywhere near that angular, and the white logo at the center – identical to nothing in nature, but bearing a strong resemblance to the item he was carried here in – dispelled any doubts the Archen might have had.
Two creatures unlike anything he had ever seen loomed in the distance. Both were bipedal, and one bore a distant resemblance to the ones in the white room, but far more fiery, with comically oversized ears and a swirling flame on its head. The other had a far more lithe structure, and both its light blue color and the shells it used as weapons suggested it was amphibious.
Archen did not know if either was an insectivore, but even if they were, he was far closer to what looked to be the real treat. A yellow and green bug larva with a leaf collar around its neck. He did not recognize its species, but the creature didn’t appear the slightest bit poisonous.
A single swipe of his wing was enough to knock it out, and Archen opened his mouth to feast… only for the horrified trainer to open his pokeball and return him into the red light. “Serves me right for thinking I could teach a fossil double battles this early. Sorry everyone, no sparring today.”
The Holocene is a strange era, Archen thought; he was restrained from every attempt at hunting, yet never lacked for food. The food mostly came in the form of brown pellets, supplemented by the occasional berry. Sometimes it was given at set times of day; others, as a reward for obeying the trainer.
The three pokemon – Sewaddle, who understandably feared him, and Dewott and Pansear – were easy enough to comprehend; the species themselves were new, but the principles of pokemon language had remained surprisingly consistent over the eons. Their trainer was far more challenging to comprehend, both in words and actions, despite Dewott’s heroic effort to explain to Archen the modern age.
Slowly, Archen at least learned that some of her commands were the names of techniques, and developed the ability to use the ones which he knew whenever she gave her orders. Sometimes this came while “sparring” with Dewott and Pansear – a concept he gradually began to understand. More often, it came against wild pokemon, although he was always recalled before he could finish one off.
And then, one day, Archen was sent from his pokeball into a field ringed by bleachers, surrounded by hundreds or thousands of humans; he had never seen so many of a single species in one place, even during a Yanma swarm. The ground shared the same pokeball logo as the one he had sparred on, but it was a gray color, with a rocky texture against his claws.
Across the arena was his opponent, a species he recognized from his own time. The Grotle was just a little wounded, but its tough yellow-brown shell and tough, stout legs recalled the Shieldon and Bastiodon who had doomed him; like the latter, it far exceeded his size. Archen always thought of the two evolutionary lines as relatives, although he could not know if the two actually shared a common ancestor.
Again, an earthquake came, the ground cracking across the field at a frightening pace. What epoch would he wake up in if he got buried again? Would there even be another one after the Holocene? Would he ever be found? It was a frightful thought, so he desperately tried to jump over the attack; this Archen was never one to give up.
“Archen, Fly!” his trainer commanded.
Fly? Could an Archen really fly? The sky was clear, with no Aerodactyl to menace him overhead; indeed, no flying pokemon at all had strayed into the battlefield. He thought back to that machine the human woman had used on him – not the one when he was revived, but yesterday, before the match began. The one whose commands he hadn’t quite understood.
Maybe gravity worked differently these days.
He flapped his wings furiously, and they carried him up and over the cracking ground, as his body began to change shape. He was longer, now, larger, more aerodynamic, with new green feathers and an elaborated wings and tail. Straining his energy, he made it over to the Grotle, and slammed into its head from up above – it was as much a crash as an intentional strike, but he made the most of the attack.
And it worked. A direct hit, strong enough to fell the beast. The referee declared him the winner, the crowd chanted “Archeops!” repeatedly, and he took to the skies and flew around the arena in a victory lap, waving his tail and talons at the audience.
Maybe it was just the sensation of flying around on a nice, sunny day. Or maybe the Holocene era, strange as it may be, was a pretty nice age to be alive in after all.