The pokemon centre out west, where Mistralton City ends and the expanse begins. It’s the last stop between the farmlands and forests of Unova and the deserts of Kalos and Orre; the gateway to thousands of miles of barren cornfields. It stands all on its own, at the very outskirts of the nearest city, with only a flickering streetlamp, a grimy sign, and miles upon miles of bare, flat plains beyond. It might as well be at the ends of the earth.
At first glance, it’s just like any other pokemon centre. It’s got the PC box that’s only wiped down once a week despite company regulations, the battered red-and-white tables and seats, the shop in the back that sells things at a higher price than the store across the street, but gets more business because of the convenience. Hundreds of trainers—some travelling, some just stopping by—swarm in and out of this building every day, and none of them are the wiser.
Those who work here know better.
The building operates just like it should when the sun is up, when it’s crowded with people and pokemon, and the Nurse Joy at the counter is just as cheery as the chansey in the back.
But at night, the walls listen to your every word. The hallways stretch out and twist into labyrinths, threatening to swallow you into their depths. The centre lives and breathes, its pulse in the furniture, its veins in the wallpaper, its eyes in the lightbulbs. Some, perceptive to the unknown, have felt they were walking into the belly of the beast when they entered through its gaping doors. Some, less fortunate, didn’t have a choice. And some, those least fortunate of all, never lived to tell the tale.
These are the tales of those who braved night after night to ‘mon the desks and counters, the dark hallways, the empty rooms, for those in need of a quick healing. Their deeds are not in vain. These are tales from the pokemon centre.
At first glance, it’s just like any other pokemon centre. It’s got the PC box that’s only wiped down once a week despite company regulations, the battered red-and-white tables and seats, the shop in the back that sells things at a higher price than the store across the street, but gets more business because of the convenience. Hundreds of trainers—some travelling, some just stopping by—swarm in and out of this building every day, and none of them are the wiser.
Those who work here know better.
The building operates just like it should when the sun is up, when it’s crowded with people and pokemon, and the Nurse Joy at the counter is just as cheery as the chansey in the back.
But at night, the walls listen to your every word. The hallways stretch out and twist into labyrinths, threatening to swallow you into their depths. The centre lives and breathes, its pulse in the furniture, its veins in the wallpaper, its eyes in the lightbulbs. Some, perceptive to the unknown, have felt they were walking into the belly of the beast when they entered through its gaping doors. Some, less fortunate, didn’t have a choice. And some, those least fortunate of all, never lived to tell the tale.
These are the tales of those who braved night after night to ‘mon the desks and counters, the dark hallways, the empty rooms, for those in need of a quick healing. Their deeds are not in vain. These are tales from the pokemon centre.
01. Prologue: The New Hire
02. The Bugs
02. The Bugs