Chapter Text
A salted breeze seasoned the early morning air. It nudged aside her half-closed curtains ignoring their flapped dissent. She shifted beneath the thick mound of blankets compressing her, one leg dangling over the edge of her mattress. The chill settled over her skin and she curled her toes, drawing her leg up beneath the covers.
… signs of discontent in Mt. Moon pokémon spark discourse among professors… The radio downstairs reported impending doom, its droning disruptive as she pulled her covers up.
Sleep chased her, hanging off her eyelids with a burning tingle. Her brain outpaced it with the processing speed of a porygon. She grumbled, searching for the dream that took priority over some crises miles away on Mt. Moon.
The barn looked so real, interior dank with the smell of damp moss. Dusty shelves lined with pokémon eggs. Every shell pulsing in an off-sync pattern resembling an arrow that drew her deeper. They called her.
“Poppy, breakfast!” Her mother summoned her from downstairs, dissipating the remnants of the dream. Their lights winked out once more as reality slipped in.
Rendered pork-fat infused with the air and sliced through her dream, pulling Poppy awake. Her stomach growled. She pulled herself upright, stuffing her feet into a pair of wooly house slippers. The teenager yawned as she left her room with shuffling steps, head hung low.
Her mother sat before a feast when she came into their modest dining room. The plate in front of her could feed five. Poppy blinked, looking over the spread as she gnawed at her cheek.
Sunny-side eggs watched her at the base of a glowering pancake stack. Two plates of waffles flanked them. Steam rose from a platter of bacon and sausage, their grease spreading into the cloth beneath them. She swallowed.
“Mom, what,” she hesitated, “what is this?”
She reserved these meals for birthdays and holidays; or after she returned from a long contest tour with guilt in her eyes. Her face showed no guilt now.
“Congratulations, sweetie,” she crowed. Her mother rose from the table, arms outstretched as she rushed in for a hug. She wrapped her arms around Poppy like an ekans, squeezing until the girl squeaked.
“For?” She gasped the word, prying free. Her right hand closed around the other arm as she edged toward the table which offered some security. Safety.
Her mother giggled, waving her hand while she returned to her seat. “You’re so funny,” she said, “you haven’t forgotten your internship, have you? It starts today.” The warmth in her blue eyes softened.
Poppy sat down and stared dully at the plates in front of her. Her skin warmed. “You’re making it a big deal,” she whispered.
“It is ‘a big deal’,” her mother replied, “he hasn’t taken an intern in over a decade.”
“This is an incredible opportunity for you,” she continued, “you may even follow in his footsteps.” Her eyes drifted back to the feast and Poppy deflated. The older woman shoveled a forkful of pancakes into her mouth.
Once her mother got something in mind, she could not be derailed.
Resigned, Poppy slouched as she plucked three pieces of bacon from their nest and tossed them onto her plate. They disintegrated on the cold porcelain leaving crisp crumbs. The grease on her fingers was still warm. She rubbed them together before wiping her fingers on the hem of her nightgown.
Silverware scraped against her mother’s plate. The teenager stabbed the bacon bits with her finger, no longer hungry. Her stomach knotted as she licked the crumbs away, twisting a curling strand of her hair around the index of her other hand.
She lifted her gaze to her mother. “What if I mess up?” Her voice shook.
“You won’t,” she said.
“What if I do,” Poppy appealed.
Silence stretched between them as her mother stopped eating and set the silverware aside. She leaned forward, hands folded, fingers interlaced like a woven nest. Her soft blonde hair swooshed across hunched shoulders and nearly curled into the food.
The look she levelled on Poppy wormed beneath her skin and charged every follicle until each hair rose.
“Poppy Ann Blume,” her mother exhaled, “you’re too young to be this cynical.”
“Yeah,” she agreed.
…here comes Gallant Gallade’s new single, Skip My Heart, reaching records recently…
Without another word Poppy picked up her plate and carried it to the kitchen sink. She set it down with a firm crash that spewed bacon into the drain. Heaviness settled over her shoulders as she turned away from the miserable bits, nauseated.
Her mother continued eating while Poppy crossed the small room and stomped upstairs.
She closed her door. Soft—even though she wanted to slam it—for her mother who hated the sound. Her pale fingers tightened around the golden-tinged knob before releasing it with a sigh.
Poppy turned toward the clock on her nightstand. A dark face with green arms that depicted Viridian Forest at night. Small woodland pokémon dancing around the base; their games left to interpretation.
Except one. Caterpie stared with wide eyes into her soul from a faux log. Her chest tightened. The first day of her new career started in one hour; and she dreaded what awaited. She felt like that caterpie, not playing with the others.
Professor Oak never liked Poppy. She begged her mother not to ask him. Yet, the older woman returned the week prior with this offer from him. It was more likely Dr. Harrison pulled strings.
Frustration heated her skin.
The eighteen-year-old rummaged through her drawers and pulled free a pair of green leggings. Her hands shook as she wiggled four fingers through a tear in the left leg. From when she crawled through Oak’s barn window two years ago. She smiled as the egg-filled memory that fueled her dreams resurfaced.
Professor Oak informed her if she trespassed again, he would call an officer to town. He wrote a note, delivered to her mother the next morning.
Neither woman mentioned it at the time. Poppy ignored the feelings manifested by her train of thought. Her mother believed in letting things go without confrontation.
She tossed the leggings back and pulled out a pair of dark skinny jeans. The fabric rubbed her skin, abrasive as standing in a sandshrew’s sandstorm. Poppy bit her lip and twisted a strand of hair around her finger as she watched the clock hand tick.
During each weekly trip into town Oak’s barn peeked above an eight-foot concrete wall like a hopeful child watching her; petulant and waiting. She imagined each colorful egg inside begging for her embrace. They mirrored her own loneliness.
Her heart hammered as she tugged off the rattata nightgown and finished dressing. The familiar faded moss green hoodie she pulled overhead swallowed her thin body. She smiled and stuffed her bare feet into a scuffed pair of combat boots.
Poppy peeled apart her tangled curls as she grabbed a vintage satchel which resembled seaking skin and bolted for the door. Her soles itched with each step.
“Bye, mom,” she hollered over her shoulder before the front door slammed.
Ocean stretched out across the horizon. Each wave rolled inland gilded in glittering golden arcs. She watched them, their calm hinting something Poppy grasped for without success. They crashed against the rocks and sand as she turned her back on them. Her heart pounded.
Pallet Town spread itself out around the countryside. People preferred the distance between one another. A peaceful place that raised rounded families founded by research. Distant windmills hummed through the monotony of hypnotic forests; their song filled the air and perpetuated a blissful lull for miles.
Poppy tucked her head, gazed at the ground and imagined herself into it. Each step crushed sandy grit carried in from the autumnal wind. Irrefutable proof of her continued presence.
The cold nipped her nose and fogged ahead. Her insulated hoodie brought relief from chilly air that pierced with each biting breath. She wanted to go back, pick up her book from last night that detailed different incubation temperatures, and enjoy a fire.
“Morning, Poppy,” someone shouted. Adrenaline hastened her pace, she raised one arm, then snapped it to her neck and tossed up the thick hood. Poppy dropped her head beneath the weight.
She turned onto the familiar road that paved an unfathomable future. The eighteen-year-old sighed. Her heart wanted books, lazy fields dappled with leafy nests that overflowed, and the quiet life.
Her eyes lifted and settled on the ancient camphor ahead. It grew in the laboratory courtyard and once housed hordes of wild pokémon before Oak walled everything off. Hot tears stung her eyes.
The wound reopened.
She winced and dropped her gaze as a cluster of young academy kids passed; their laughter bounced off thick buildings on either side. Poppy envied their happiness; the days contented with pressed uniforms and implied training for a future of caught pokémon festered in fighting culture. A life where pokémon existed as tools again.
“Poppy,” the grainy voice barked over her shoulder, “ready for your first day?”
“Yeah,” she replied.
“Speak up,” the man laughed, “Professor Oak does not hear well these days.”
His jovial tone eased tension from her shoulders like aromatherapy. Poppy smiled beneath the security of her hood. “I said,” she coughed, “yes. Good… Good morning, Dr. Harrison.”
“Better,” he said. She heard his footsteps stride past her, confident and certain. Poppy willed her spine straighter.
Dr. Harrison collaborated closely with Professor Oak for years. He ran the Pewter City gym before then, though Dr. Harrison fell in love with Pallet Town—and Daisy Oak. Everyone welcomed him into the community, from what her mother claimed. She overheard a conversation with Mrs. Harrison about him in his youth.
Her cheeks burned. Poppy tripped and he stabilized her with a gentle hand.
“Look alive,” Dr. Harrison teased, “elders aren’t ready to chat with corpses.” He bellowed with laughter and she swallowed the mass in her throat.
The laboratory was labelled Brightest Building in Pallet Town
by press and rivalled any lighthouse. An observatory dome propped above a glass cylinder attached precariously to the professor’s old ranch-house. She predicted the view from six floors above.
Dr. Harrison held the door for her. Poppy passed under his outstretched arm and a gust blew over her; the gale struck colder than what lurked outside as it pierced through her hoodie. She looked over her shoulder at the proud vanillite logo that winked, plastered in one corner. Frosted breath sparkled from the pokémon’s mouth.
Powered by Frost Breath, VanillAir Care~
She shuddered. The commercial appeared so often she heard it in her sleep.
“Yeah, bit rude,” he commented, “told Sam to get rid of it. He’s more stubborn than my Onix in a battle.”
Poppy heard stories. His elderly onix spent more time sleeping in the backyard than fighting. She imagined him awake more than ten minutes and shook her head. Dr. Harrison, she believed; even though his pokémon missed her mark.
“Brock!”
Professor Oak extended his torso over the railing and waved a polished cedarwood cane, handle carved into a whiscash head. “Brock,” he shouted, “come quick! Hurry, boy.”
She glanced at Dr. Harrison, who shook his head and ran to the stairs. His white laboratory jacket flapped as he ascended two at a time.
Poppy looked around her. Nothing changed inside from the last tour five years ago. The same linoleum, scuffed and stained from thousands of steps; tired gray walls holding the beautiful glass above. No windows on the ground floor except wide double doors which yawned out.
His second floor stood above as a sliver, opened to the floor below. The reasoning, he informed students, so researchers could see to anyone who came with questions. She twirled her hair and walked across the room. Oak did not take questions these days.
“See this, here?” His weathered voice drifted down.
“Yes, this is good news,” Dr. Harrison agreed, “their migration patterns have shifted. PDG-12 is heading back to her hatch site in Johto, route forty-three. Do you think she found a mate?”
“I’ll call Elm,” Oak replied, “eggs are his specialty.”
Talk of eggs drew Poppy to the stairs. Metal clutched the wall. She placed her foot on the lowest rung. Her fingers wrapped around the rail. The duo flashed white above, blurs of cloth and hurried voices. Poppy strained to see what they worked on.
Hesitation stalled her.
“You!”
Poppy jumped, both hands raised in front of her, eyes wide. “I was just looking,” she yelped.
Professor Oak blinked at her, his eyes large behind a pair of bifocals. He hunched forward; shoulders clutching his neck which sagged into low jowls, forcing a shriveled appearance. His jaw flexed with words that he fought against.
“Brock!”
“Professor,” Dr. Harrison said.
“Why is she here,” Professor Oak demanded, “it is not Sunday.”
The taller man looked at her with a pinched smile. “It is Sunday, Professor.” He spoke through a mastered patience. She hoped to master it one day. His hand cupped the older man's elbow, leading him away from the stairs.
“When did you last sleep?” She heard him ask the professor in a hushed tone.
Her eyes fell. Poppy backed away and turned to the first floor. The grandeur alluded outside broke amidst towering bookshelves. They divided the otherwise spacious room. It compensated, shrinking on itself like a withered blossom. She tiptoed around tall, unsteady, stacks displaced from shelves and browsed the displayed titles.
Field Guide to Kanto Pokémon, Habitats of the Indigo Region, Migrating Patterns of Flying-type Birds; dozens more devoured the space from floor to ceiling. The shelves overflowed, spewed contents scattered like a pan spat hot oil. She skirted around a stack pushed into the corner, angled so their spines faced out, and paused. A single large book on top screamed with bold letters embossed across a pale cover.
Breeding Cycles and Egg Groups, vol. IV.
Poppy stared, rubbed her eyes. The author of this series only wrote three manuscripts. Her favorite author; or, she thought. Three small capitalized letters glared at her, the author’s name. ORB.
The person she claimed as her father growing up.
In her mind, his adventures writing books kept him from home. He gathered information from everywhere, and the amount of knowledge made him busy. She believed he wrote them for her to find. Poppy avoided the topic around her mother; she wanted to forget him altogether.
Feet thundered down the metal stairs, steps relaxed. Poppy turned away from the book and folded her arms. She stepped around the shelf as Dr. Harrison reached ground level. He clapped his hands and pointed toward her, pace slowing.
“Professor Oak isn’t feeling well,” he declared, “so you'll work with me today. Fun, right?” His fingers snapped, then clasped.
Reading sounded better. She looked over her shoulder toward the book stack. Ten steps back. Her knee twitched.
“Alright, let’s start at the reception desk,” Dr. Harrison said, “where all great adventures begin!”
His spirit held a contagious effect. She followed him attentively and absorbed each new piece of information like scraps fed to an obedient growlithe. The weight faded as he burdened her unending questions.
The upstairs were off limits. Her duties involved cleaning, groundskeeping, and errands. She winced at the hours of bitter cold and sunlight ahead. His laughter boomed and echoed in her chest bringing a smile to her face.
They exited into the courtyard, walking through the twelve-by-twelve space; a gate led to acres of land parceled into pokémon habitats, silent like the camphor who stood guard.
His hand tousled her hood, pushing it off and freeing her curls. “How am I doing,” he asked, “are you keeping up on your first day?”
“Yes,” she stuttered, “yes, Dr. Harrison.”
“No need to be so stiff now,” he said, “we are colleagues. Brock is fine.”
She gawked at him. “No,” Poppy declared. That felt wrong in her core. He deserved more respect after he helped raise her alongside his boys. Dr. Harrison picked her up and bandaged the pain through smiles until she forgot any harm as a child.
Unlike her father. The stab lanced through her heart and Poppy cleared the pressure with a cough. “No, sir,” she repeated.
“Good,” he cheered and shoved her lightly. “You did well.”
The words thickened around her.
Poppy twisted a strand of hair, sleeve pushed down to her elbow. “Thank you,” she murmured, “are we done?” Her fingertip turned an ugly purple. She untangled her hand from the web of curls and dropped it.
Dr. Harrison stopped walking. He looked at her, head tilted as his eyes searched for something she sincerely doubted existed. “Why,” he countered, “you’ve just started. Is it too much for you?”
Poppy sagged. Her mind turned to the volumes she left at home, distracting her until he popped her arm. His gentle touch startled her and she jumped, heart racing.
“Come on,” he said, “you can manage inventory until three. We will work on your intake training tomorrow.” He drew ahead once more. Poppy looked down and listened to the fall of his feet; they smacked heavy across lichen grown over cobble stone pavers.
It created a wended path around the courtyard with specific ends that branched to key facilities. The water spigot where caked moss climbed thick stone slabs and coated a drain grate that sat rusted from excess moisture. A wood stack where mushrooms huddled together with voracious solidarity. Her eyes lingered on a surface root which broke one route in a gnarled horizontal gash.
She blinked, the spell broken as her eyes refocused.
The camphor tree cast a long shadow over her; she watched it flood toward the nursery barn. One part of the roof fell inward. Vines crept over the wall closest and blocked a slender sliver of glass haphazardly boarded from inside; small fingers spread across the surface with invigorated appeal. Her eyes trailed the tendrils up, over broken and mossy shingles to a small dormer that lorded above it all.
“Dr. Harrison,” Poppy asked, “what about that building?”
“You know that one, Poppy,” Dr. Harrison reprimanded, “that is the failed nursery.”
“No,” she murmured, “I mean, I know.” Her voice gained confidence. Poppy angled her body toward the building; only her head turned to Dr. Harrison, eyes brimmed with emotion. “Why are they sitting there?”
He sighed. His face hidden in shadows as Dr. Harrison looked at the second floor above. She turned, looked for what he saw that her eyes ignored; only bright sky mirrored across the glossy surface refracted by light and sea mist. The silence drifted between them for three heartbeats before Poppy shifted.
His head turned to her and he strode back. Long legs ate the distance between them. She craned her neck to meet his eye.
“Professor Oak is ashamed,” he claimed, “those eggs represent a failure he is too stubborn to face directly.” His voice lowered as he cupped her elbow.
“How long have they,” she stammered, “how long have they been like that?”
A tight line shaped his lips before they parted. His white teeth bared against deep skin. He shook his head with a sharp inhale. “Two decades, at least,” Dr. Harrison admitted, “longer, probably. I was a teenager still.”
Poppy looked toward the distant barn once more. Those brightly colored eggs sat alone and discarded for two decades. Twenty years they collected dust without attention. Horror etched into her full face. Moisture swelled in her eyes and spilled free. She raised her fingers up and pressed her sleeve against her lips. Comforted by the fabric.
“That’s awful!” She looked up at him, black hair pulled by the breeze. It carried her voice along with stray ebony curls.
“Why do you agree with this?” The teen’s voice wavered, cracked. She wrapped her arms around herself. Her cheeks hot.
“They're okay,” Dr. Harrison paused, “pokémon, and their eggs, can remain in a stasis indefinitely when necessary.”
“The eggs,” he continued, “were donations from breeders around the world for Professor Oak to give out thirty years ago. His own pokémon found others. Ones not with us now. He blames himself that the eggs refuse to hatch for new trainers.”
Her chest tightened. She wanted to blame Oak. The teenager ducked her head before she glanced back toward the barn. Poppy felt drawn to those damp walls.
Books suggested that incubation encouraged eggs to hatch faster than wild counterparts. The rise in gym popularity sixty years ago sparked controversy for activists who noticed more poaching. She read it prompted a mass capture chain which depleted wild populations and forced rangers to bolster breeding efforts; several nearby ranches formed in the aftermath.
With minimal success before it all stopped working.
An article claimed more wild eggs were discovered despite little population increase in pokémon villages, a term for territory claimed by one species. Pokémon chose these locations based on environmental requirements, yet egg to population ratios reached unrecorded heights.
“Why won’t they hatch?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno,” Dr. Harrison said, “maybe they sense something.” The man ushered her forward.
“Break time is over, there is a lot of cleaning to do,” he encouraged.
“I thought we were doing inventory,” Poppy asked. She followed him closely and her foot rolled. The teen caught herself. “Isn’t it important?”
“It can wait,” he responded, “the ground floor bookshelves looked dusty.”
Poppy forced her lips into a grimace that bore no resemblance to the smile she wanted. Her eyes drifted back toward the barn. It waved her on. Stoic. Dr. Harrison reached the door and waited for her; she rushed to catch up to him.