An elderly woman dressed in a thin, sweaty gown groaned as she lay on an ancient, creaky bed. Another woman, her daughter, helped her to sit up. The mother felt hot, her skin clammy. She was seriously ill.
A young woman finished mixing a parasect-based potion on a bench in a dingy kitchenette. She walked across the threadbare rug that did its best to cover the dirt floor and lifted a cup containing the potion to the sick woman's lips. The young woman's squirtle looked on.
"Mother, you need to take your medicine."
"I've seen several cases of this fever," said the young woman. "So far, this medicine's worked."
The lady took a few sips, then lay down again.
"I'll leave the rest on the bench. I think you should give half tomorrow and the rest the next day."
"I can't tell you how grateful I am," said the lady's daughter. "We could never have afforded it ourselves since my husb—" She was overwhelmed with emotion.
"Your husband was killed by my father, is that right?"
The daughter nodded. "But you're not like them, are you?" she said. "You come to help us."
"I do what little I can, but ultimately you have to help yourselves. The only way to end your suffering is to overthrow the king."
"That's impossible. The soldiers have weapons... the monsters..."
"There is a plan. But I can't say much. The king has spies. I don't think he suspects me yet, but I have to be careful. I must leave now."
"Goodbye Princess, and thank you."
Misty threw a hood over her head and left the hovel that the woman and her daughter called home. Many in Cerulean lived in such conditions, some even in worse. Her squirtle followed her out onto the dark street, at this time of night lit only be the stars.
They made their way down one street and then down another. She stopped for a moment and looked around. The coast seemed clear. She walked a little further and knocked on a door, three short raps and two long.
The door opened to reveal a hall, dimly lit, with a moderate size group of people sitting together on a rug on the floor. Heavy curtains covered the few windows to prevent the meeting being detected from the outside. All present wore hats or hoods, making them difficult to identify. They spoke in hushed voices.
"Welcome, Princess. Please sit down if that is your wish."
A tall man in a grey coat showed Misty a free spot on the floor. Her squirtle followed and stood behind her.
"Thank you, Philip. Have you worked out the plan any further?"
"Your highness," said a younger man in a brown hooded cloak, "your part is crucial to our success. If you can create a diversion in the palace, can you then go and lock the door to the monster cage?"
"I'm confident I can do it except for the guard," she replied.
"What about your squirtle?" suggested someone else. "Can it take the guard out?"
She considered for a moment.
"Yes, it might work. We'll have to surprise him, but we can do it. Mind you, it will only slow them down. They'll break down any chain by force eventually."
"That's why timing is so important," said Philip. "We'll storm the palace and overpower the guards. The monsters won't arrive until it's too late."
"Then we'll take what weapons we can," said the man in the brown cloak, "and escape before the monsters arrive. After that, we'll use the weapons to—"
He was interrupted by a loud crash. The door flew off its hinges propelled by a gush of water. It sailed through the air and smashed into the people nearest the entrance.
A six-foot high monster barged in. It bore a hard shell through which protruded two cannon-like projections.
"BLAS...TOISE...!" it uttered in a deep growl.
It was followed by a group of soldiers, some with spears and some with swords. The people rose up and panicked. Most tried to get out through the windows, but were blocked by the soldiers. One man grappled with one of the soldiers and was speared by another from behind.
The blastoise rampaged, blasting people against the wall with powerful spurts of water from its cannons. It crushed under its massive weight any who dared to fight it, and kicked the fallen out its way.
Misty noticed Philip on the floor next to a window. She rushed over and ordered her squirtle to hold back the soldiers. She helped Philip to his feet, opened the window and rushed him through.
"Philip, get help from outside Cerulean," she said. "It's our only hope." She turned to her squirtle. "Follow Philip. Protect him until he reaches safety."
The monster bounded outside the window and obediently followed the man. Inside, without the squirtle to protect her, two soldiers grabbed her, taking an arm each.
"We have who we're after!" shouted one of them. "Let's go!"
The soldiers left with their blastoise and their captive. The wounded were left to care for themselves.
♦
It was a sunny day. The spectacular summer weather mocked the tragedy of the previous night. Philip woke up in bed. He had made it safely home thanks to the princess. She had been their hope, but now she was captured. Would her father have the callousness to have her tried and executed for treason, or would he merely imprison her? Probably—hopefully—the latter.
Misty's last words was to seek help from outside Cerulean. How? There were guards at the entrance to the Mount Moon tunnel. Only traders and officials were allowed through. The other road, to the Unknown Lands, was unguarded, but though many had tried, no-one succeeded in obtaining help from there. Traders could not be trusted, for the king offered a generous reward for information on traitors. The only other way, the pidgey mails, were scrutinized by the king's men. Try and post a message out and you'd be arrested on the spot.
Philip arose, had breakfast with his family and went to work. Everything had to appear normal. Although his heart ached for last night's victims, he could not help. He could not take the chance of being seen to be involved, when the princess herself had entrusted him with the task of seeking help.
During the course of the day, he had an idea. He had to send an order to Pewter City for some supplies. He thought carefully, made his preparations, and left his shop in the care of his apprentice. He headed for the mailroom in the centre of town.
♦
"Letter for Pewter," said Philip to the attendant. He was, of course, a soldier in the king's pay, and armed.
The soldier took the sheet of paper, checked it, and folded it.
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Philip. "I'm very sorry, sir, I forgot to sign it."
The soldier eyed him for a moment. Philip tried to look as if he had made an honest mistake. The soldier handed the letter back to him.
"Sir, may I please use your quill?"
The soldier pretended to look frustrated, but in fact was so bored with his job that he didn't mind anything that broke the monotony. He turned to the bench behind him, picked up a pidgeot feather quill, dipped it in horsea ink and handed it to Philip.
Philip unfolded the letter, and, leaning against the wall, added his signature.
"Thank you," he said and handed the quill back. He was able to stop himself shaking, but his heart beat so loudly he found it impossible to think that the soldier couldn't hear it.
The soldier turned to place the quill on the bench behind him. Now was the moment. He sneaked a second piece of paper out from his sleeve and deftly folded it in with the original letter. When the soldier turned to face him again, Philip handed over the letter already folded, and hoped against hope that the soldier would not notice the slight difference in thickness or weight.
The soldier attached the letter to the foot of a pidgey in a cage labelled "Pewter City". He let the bird free.
Philip handed the man a penny, thanked him for his services, and left. Outside, he looked up. In the sky he spotted the pidgey heading south. His plan had worked! All he could do now was lie low, hope and wait.
