NIGHT SIX
The world had grown narrow.
Where once the promise of open sky stretched wide over Kanto, now the group clung to ravines, caves, cracks in the stone. Their progress through the mountain was stilted, interrupted by futile attempts to hide. Pidgeot still flew ahead, hoping that by scouting out the path, he could provide some protection.
His feathers were ragged, his chest still wrapped from a previous battle, but his wings held. And so he scouted. Not because they asked—because if he didn’t, no one would. On this day, the others had tucked themselves beneath an outcropping at the foot of Mt. Moon, deciding to take some time to rest before venturing along Route 4. Pidgeot took to the skies just after dusk. He circled once, then rose higher, scanning the cliff paths and ridgelines. He never went far—just far enough. Just high enough. The air was thin, the wind sharp. But it was quiet.
Maybe too quiet.
Then he saw it—movement, half-glimpsed, near a twisted copse of dead trees. He dipped low to investigate. Nothing. Then a flash—silver glinting in the dirt. Metal? He landed cautiously.
A Moon Stone. Strange, to find it here. But he didn’t realize. This wasn’t a clue.
It was bait.
The net triggered the moment he lifted off. It struck from below, fired with unnatural speed. A hiss of compressed air, then steel cable. It caught one wing, dragged him down like an anchor. He crashed to earth in a snarl of thorns and wire. Pain lanced through his wing joints. He thrashed, beak snapping open in a scream. The forest answered only with silence. Then the Hunter stepped from the trees.
No words. No sound but the creak of leather and metal. He knelt beside the struggling bird and drew a blade—not for capture, but for certainty.
Pidgeot fought to rise, one foot striking out, claws catching nothing but air. And then—he stopped. Because she was there. A friend settled beside the Hunter, eyes serene. She had followed him. Or maybe she’d led him. Pidgeot made a small noise, like a question. Like recognition.
She blinked. No sadness. No satisfaction.
Just silence.
The blade fell.
~~~~~~
The approach to Cerulean City grew colder with each passing hour. The grasses thinned into brittle stalks, and the rocky paths were gouged with unnatural scars. The Hunter had passed through here recently. The land felt it.
The group moved cautiously, wounded in number and spirit, no one knowing where Pidgeot had disappeared to. Suspicion hung in the air like fog once had in Viridian Forest, heavy and choking. Every sound was too loud. Every silence felt like a dare. They came to a fork in the canyon where the wind funneled sharply between two ridges. The terrain offered little shelter—only raw stone, uneven and exposed. They needed a place to hide through the night.
Venusaur volunteered to scout ahead. She believed in the land, even now. Her vines could carve a hollow. Her roots could test the ground. She could make safety, even if they no longer deserved it. She left without ceremony, climbing a ridge alone. She found a hollow just over the rise—half-collapsed, ringed in loose stone and half-dead brush. Her vines reached into the soil, gently probing for moisture, for strength. It seemed good. Stable. So she dug.
Vines wove through the scrub, wrapping stone, reinforcing the edge of the hollow like braided netting. It was something living. Something protective.
That’s when the earth sparked.
It wasn’t the soil she had touched—but thin metal strands hidden in the rock, rigged to something buried deeper. A trap, primitive but precise. The moment her vines completed the circuit, the stone beneath her cracked—and lit.
Electric current surged through the earth, lacing through the vines that had moments ago stretched out in peace. The pain was immediate, paralyzing. Her body convulsed as arcs of light burst from the stones. Her bulb flared open, not with life, but with heat. She tried to cry out, but the wind stole her voice. Her vines, meant to defend and heal, had anchored her in place.
When the others arrived, drawn by the scent of ozone and burning chlorophyll, it was already too late. The hollow was blackened at the center. The vines that remained twitched in slow, involuntary spasms. At the heart of the scorched crater, Venusaur lay half-buried, one foreleg stretched forward, frozen in that final attempt to flee. Her bulb had split along its seam, petals wilted and curling inward—never to bloom.
No one spoke.
They cut her body free from the soil, gently, the way she would have wanted. Her vines resisted them, rooted too deeply in pain. Nidorino carried what was left of her back to camp. That night, they didn’t make shelter. They didn’t use her hollow.
They slept in the open, under cold stars, wrapped in silence.
~~~~~~
They found the feathers the next morning.
Not in a pile, but scattered—placed like markers in the trees above the camp. One in a broken nest. One nailed to bark with a thorn. One still faintly warm, resting beside a Moon Stone.