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The first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, bathing the rugged mountain city of Pewter in a golden glow. Flint Harrison stirred awake on his usual park bench, the cold metal biting into his back and shoulders. With a groan, he sat up, brushing his hand over his weathered face. The fine lines etched into his skin told stories of regret, loneliness, and the weight of years he wished he could erase.
The mountain air was crisp and clean, a stark contrast to the heaviness that seemed to cling to Flint's chest. As he glanced around the quiet park, still shrouded in the soft haze of morning, he thought to himself: Even after all this time, I still can't get used to sleeping on this bench.
Why the bench? The answer was painfully simple: it was a choice. A self-imposed punishment. Flint refused to waste what little money he earned on comforts he didn't believe he deserved. Comfort was for people who hadn't abandoned their families. This was his penance: a life stripped of ease, a constant reminder of his failings.
With a sigh heavy enough to rival the mountains that loomed over Pewter City, Flint began his morning routine. He folded the battered piece of cardboard that had served as his mattress, shaking off the faint dew that clung to it. Inside the public restroom, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he splashed cold water onto his face. The icy sting jolted him awake, the water running in rivulets down his scruffy beard. Flint caught his reflection in the cracked mirror, his eyes locking with the ghost of the man he once was. His brown eyes, once bright and full of fire, now stared back at him dull and heavy, like embers buried under ash.
He applied his disguise with methodical precision: a dirty fake beard and a worn red beanie. It wasn't much, but it did the job. Flint didn't want to be recognized. Blending into the background of life had become his specialty, and this simple disguise allowed him to remain a ghost in the city he once called home.
Flint trudged through the twisting streets of Pewter City toward his first job of the day: cleaning dumpsters. The city had grown around the mountain like a stubborn weed, but it hadn't lost its ancient charm. Unlike the flat, cookie-cutter towns of the modern era, Pewter City was carved into the mountainside itself.
Stone streets wound through towering rock walls, each bend revealing homes and shops carved directly into the mountain. The facades were adorned with intricate carvings—Geodudes, Onix, and Sandshrew frozen in mid-motion, etched into the rock with painstaking detail. The buildings were tiered like a natural amphitheater, rising higher into the mountain as though reaching for the heavens. Long banners of crimson and white fluttered from iron poles, adding a touch of life to the stone-dominated cityscape. Lanterns hung outside doorways, casting soft glows on the stone paths even in daylight.
To Flint, the beauty of the city had become background noise. He barely glanced at the finely-carved rock homes or the towering gates engraved with kanji symbols that told stories of Pewter's founding. He had lived among these wonders for years, but they only served as a painful reminder of the life he'd left behind.
Flint's wheelbarrow groaned under the weight of collected refuse as he pushed it through the narrow back alleys of Pewter. It was an old, rickety thing, its single wheel wobbling precariously. The smell of rotting trash clung to his clothes, but Flint didn't mind. This was honest work—lowly, yes, but it allowed him to scrape together enough Pokédollars to survive another day.
The wheelbarrow jolted suddenly, the rusted wheel giving way with a loud snap. Flint stumbled as the barrow tipped forward, spilling its contents—a sour-smelling mountain of garbage—onto the cobblestone path.
Nearby shop owners paused their work to watch, their eyes full of pity and mild annoyance. Flint could feel their stares boring into him as he scrambled to gather the spilled refuse.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he muttered, his voice hoarse. He grabbed his ragged blanket and used it to bundle the trash together. His hands trembled as he worked, the strain of years of hard labor evident in the way his back hunched and his movements slowed. No one stepped forward to help. They rarely did.
With great effort, Flint hauled the makeshift bundle onto his back and continued toward the Pewter Waste Facility, his steps heavy and uneven.
The facility, located at the edge of town, was a stark contrast to the ornate stone architecture of Pewter City. It was a functional, industrial space, its metal walls dull and weathered by years of exposure to the elements. Workers like Flint brought their collections here to be weighed and sorted. Payment was issued based on the amount of waste delivered.
Flint's load earned him a measly twelve Pokédollars. He accepted the coins without complaint, slipping them into his pocket with a quiet nod to the cashier. The small sum wouldn't even cover a proper meal, but Flint had long since stopped dreaming of anything beyond the basics.
His second "job" of the day awaited him on the outskirts of Pewter City. Flint walked to a rocky outcrop by the road, his feet dragging slightly with each step. He didn't bother unpacking his cardboard sign—most of the locals already knew him. Instead, he sat on a large rock and waited for passing trainers or travelers who might need a guide.
It wasn't much, but the work gave Flint a faint sense of dignity. He could pretend, for a little while, that he was still a man of worth.
Flint was lost in his thoughts when the crunch of gravel under wheels snapped him to attention. He looked up to see a young boy on a bike, a thermos swinging from a strap around his neck. The boy's clothes were slightly dusty, his cap pulled low over his face. Flint squinted at him—there was something odd about the way the boy looked at him, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle only he could see.
"Excuse me," the boy said, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity. "Do you know where the nearest antique shop is?"
Flint raised an eyebrow at the unusual question. Most trainers asked for directions to the Pokémon Center or the Pewter Gym, not antique shops. "You lookin' to hire a tour guide?" Flint asked, deciding to stick to his script.
The boy smirked faintly, his sharp eyes flicking to the rocks scattered around Flint's feet. "Don't you sell rocks for a living?"
Flint blinked, momentarily thrown. The question was both unexpected and oddly specific. A chuckle rumbled in his chest, surprising even him. "You're funny, kid," he said, shaking his head. "For that, I'll give you a discount. How about a hundred Pokédollars?"
"Deal," the boy said without hesitation, dismounting his bike and extending a hand.
"Flint," he replied gruffly, shaking the boy's hand. He gestured toward the mountain city behind him. "Alright, kid. Let's get started."
Austin glanced around, his lips pressing into a thin line as he took it all in.
Flint paused, gesturing grandly toward the cityscape. "Welcome to Pewter City, kid. The city of stone and steel." There was a flicker of pride warming his tone. He savored moments like this—when outsiders gazed at Pewter City with awe.
"Stone and steel?!"
Flint nodded, a faraway look in his eyes as he continued. "This place is named after pewter—the alloy. You know, a mix of tin and lead? It's strong but malleable, useful in the hands of the right craftsman. That's what this city's always been about. The miners, the stonemasons, the Rock type Pokémon—it's a place built on strength and endurance, but also adaptability. Like pewter itself."
Austin glanced at the carved Pokémon etched into the walls. Strength and endurance. It seemed fitting for a city built into a mountain. He wondered how much of this history had been skipped over in the anime, reduced to just another town on Ash's journey. Here, though, it felt… alive. Heavy with meaning.
Flint smirked, noticing Austin's thoughtful expression. "Bet they don't tell you that in tourist guides, huh?"
Austin gave a faint smile.
"Come on," Flint said, waving him forward as they walked deeper into the city. "Let me show you more of the place. Pewter's got a history most people miss if they're too busy looking for the Gym."
Austin adjusted his bag's strap and followed, but his mind was already spinning. It was official now: this wasn't the Pokémon anime.
So what was this place, then? Was he in some alternate universe that loosely followed the anime but made its own rules? Or was this what the Pokémon world would be like if it were grounded in reality—where cities had history, grit, and culture, not just bright colors and repetitive plotlines?
The questions buzzed in his mind like a swarm of Beedrill, relentless and unyielding. The uncertainty weighed on him, but he quickly shook it off. No use getting bogged down in theories he couldn't answer yet. For now, he just had to keep moving forward and piece it together one step at a time.
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The antique shop was dimly lit, the warm glow of oil lamps casting dancing shadows on the cluttered walls. Every inch of the space seemed to be crammed with history—faded books, tarnished trinkets, peculiar-looking fossils, and the occasional gleam of polished gemstones.
As Austin stepped through the creaking door, a small brass bell above it jingled faintly, announcing his arrival. Behind the counter, an elderly man sat hunched over an ancient ledger, his silver hair neatly combed back, his hands deftly jotting notes with a quill pen.
"Afternoon," the man said, his voice steady but weathered, like the creak of an old oak tree. He closed the ledger with deliberate care and placed it to the side. "What brings a young traveler to a dusty old place like mine?"
"I found some antiques in Viridian Forest. Thought maybe you'd be interested in them." He began unpacking the items carefully, setting each one on the counter: a rusted dagger, a weathered crate, a few cracked bottles of expired potions, tattered pieces of cloth, and finally, the map Nobunaga had passed on to him.
The shopkeeper straightened in his chair, his sharp gaze flicking from one item to the next. He reached for the dagger first, lifting it gingerly and tilting it under the lamplight. His fingers traced the grooves in its rusted surface as though reading a story only he could see. He then inspected the crate, running his hand along its weakened edges, before pausing at the map and cloth.
"You've brought me an interesting assortment," the shopkeeper said, his voice soft yet tinged with intrigue. "Not all of it is valuable, mind you, but there are stories here. Stories worth telling."
"What do you think they're worth?"
The man set the dagger down and folded his hands over the counter, his expression thoughtful. "Let's start with the cloth." He lifted the tattered fabric and held it up to the light. "Unfortunately, this is beyond salvage. Age has taken its toll, and there's little left here for a collector to cherish."
Austin nodded, unsurprised. "What about the map?"
"This… could have been something remarkable," he murmured. "A historical artifact, perhaps, from an era long past. But these markings"—he tapped a few faded, amateurish annotations scrawled in ink—"they've compromised its authenticity. A collector seeks a piece untouched, unaltered. This has been tampered with."
Austin sighed, leaning against the counter. "I see. And the rest?"
The old man's expression brightened as he picked up the dagger once more. "This, however, is splendid. A relic of wartime, no doubt—a soldier's sidearm. The rust is unfortunate, but it adds to its character. A piece like this would intrigue certain buyers."
He then gestured to the crate and bottles. "The crate is fragile, yes, but it holds a story of its own—something a historian might find worth preserving. And the potions, though expired, could serve as display pieces in a collector's cabinet."
"How much are we talking?"
The shopkeeper's fingers drumming lightly on the counter. "I'd say… 4,000 Pokédollars for the lot."
"5,000!"
The shopkeeper chuckled. "Ah, a young man with spirit. I admire that. How about we meet in the middle—4,500?"
"4,600."
The shopkeeper grinned. "You drive a hard bargain, boy. Very well—4,550. My final offer. And a fair one at that."
Austin extended his hand, and the old man clasped it firmly. His grip was stronger than Austin expected, steady and sure. "Deal."
As the shopkeeper prepared the payment, he glanced up at the boy. "You've got the look of someone with questions," he said. "Go ahead. Ask. A relic isn't worth its rust if you don't know the story behind it."
"What's the history behind this… air supply drop?"
The shopkeeper exhaled deeply. "World War II."
Austin froze, blinking in disbelief. For a moment, he wondered if he'd misheard. "I'm sorry—what?"
The old man turned back to him, his expression somber but certain. "World War II. This crate belonged to the Axis powers."
Austin's stomach dropped. He rubbed his ears as though the act might help the words settle in. "I-I must've misheard you. Did you just say 'World War II'? As in... a global war? Here?"
The man nodded solemnly, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Yes. The war began in 1939."
Austin's hands shot up as if to steady himself. Wait, what? That doesn't—the pokemon world had a World War II? His thoughts churned like a storm, struggling to reconcile the Pokémon-filled world around him with the weight of human conflict from his own world. "I wasn't expecting to hear anything like that…"
"I imagine the idea of such a war is a shock to someone your age. It's not something people talk about often."
Austin nodded faintly, still reeling. "Okay… uh… can you tell me who was involved? Which sides were fighting?"
"There were two sides: the Allies and the Axis powers. The Allies were made up of Unova, Galar, the Soviet Republic of Sinnoh, and Northern Kanto. The Axis powers included the Greater Orrean Reich, the Kingdom of Kalos, and Southern Kanto."
Some of the regions the man mentioned were straight out of the anime, others felt like echoes of real-world history, and some sounded like a bizarre fusion of the two.
Wait… does that mean Cynthia is Russian?!
The thought hit him like a stray Pokéball, completely derailing his focus for a second. A mental image of Cynthia in a fur-lined coat with a thick Russian accent popped into his head, completely unbidden. "Da, comrade. My Garchomp crushes your hopes like the winter crushes weak trainers."
Austin chuckled to himself at the absurdity, quickly shaking it off. Focus, man. Focus.
He cleared his throat, his curiosity dragging him back to the question at hand. "So, uh… Northern and Southern Kanto?"
The old man nodded. "Let me show you." He walked behind the counter, pulling out a faded, centuries-old map. It depicted Johto, Hoenn, and Kanto, but not as separate regions—rather, they were united under one vast territory labeled The Kingdom of Ransei.
"This was our region about 200 years ago," the shopkeeper explained, tracing the borders with a finger. "Ransei was once a unified kingdom. But over time, infighting caused it to dissolve into separate regions. Hoenn became its own nation, while the Eastern Ransei Empire emerged, claiming to be the true successor to the Ransei throne. That empire, however, was less a nation and more a collection of warlords fighting for dominance. Eventually, the people of the north grew tired of the chaos and overthrew the warlords, creating Northern Kanto. Meanwhile, the southern warlords banded together to form Southern Kanto."
"So, Southern Kanto is… Johto?"
The shopkeeper nodded again. "Yes. Over time, the lines we know today were drawn. But back then, these divisions were sources of tension—and during World War II, they became battle lines."
"How did the war start?"
"It began when the Greater Orrean Reich invaded the Orange Islands. That act of aggression drew the rest of the world into the conflict. The Reich sought to expand its territory, and the battlefront spread across the globe. Here, in what's now Kanto, the Northern and Southern regions became one of the most heavily contested areas of the war."
"What about the Northern Front? What was that?"
The old man sighed heavily, as though the memories themselves weighed him down. "The Northern Front was the heart of the conflict in this region. It stretched from what we now call Viridian Forest to beyond Pewter City. It was where the most brutal battles were fought… and where the most lives were lost."
Austin nodded, though the words felt distant, like something out of a textbook rather than reality. He didn't feel the weight of the loss the shopkeeper clearly did. But he could see the sorrow in the man's eyes. "How did it end?" Austin asked softly.
The shopkeeper's expression darkened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, his voice dropped to a reverent whisper. "Mew."
Austin blinked. "I'm sorry—Mew? As in the Pokémon Mew?"
The old man nodded solemnly, his eyes distant, as if reliving a moment long buried in memory. "Yes," he said quietly. "It was near the end of the war. The Axis powers had launched a massive invasion from the south, landing on Pallet Beach. Their forces tore through the region, leaving nothing but ash and rubble in their wake. The battle seemed all but lost—until they made a fatal mistake."
"What mistake?"
The old man's gaze sharpened, his voice growing heavier. "They blew up a truck. A truck under which Mew was sleeping."
The moment the words left the shopkeeper's mouth, Austin's jaw dropped. He blinked at the man, the weight of the revelation hitting him—before his brain caught up with what he had just heard.
"Mew… under a truck?"
The sheer absurdity of the mental image was too much for him to process. A beat of silence passed before the corners of his lips started twitching. And then, it happened. He laughed. He tried to hold it in—he really did—but the ridiculousness of it broke through like a tidal wave.
The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow as Austin doubled over, struggling to catch his breath between fits of laughter. "I'm sorry—" Austin wheezed, clutching his side. "Mew—under a truck—I—" Another laugh escaped him.
The shopkeeper, to his credit, remained remarkably calm, his mouth twitching as if he was suppressing a small smile. "Are you quite finished, young man?"
Austin waved a hand weakly, still laughing. "No—no, sorry—I just—I can't believe this. The truck under Mew—I mean—" He wiped at his eyes, gasping for air. "This is straight out of one of those rumors you'd hear on the playground back home."
"Back home?" The old man raised an eyebrow.
"Uh, I mean…" Austin faltered for a moment, then quickly covered, "You know, uh, trainers tell stories all the time."
"If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd probably laugh too."
That sobered Austin up real quick. He froze mid-chuckle, his head snapping up to look at the shopkeeper. "Wait—you saw it?!
"I did. I was just a boy, holding my injured Arcanine in the middle of the battlefield. We were surrounded by the enemy, with no hope of escape. And then… I heard it."
"Heard what?"
"Giggling," the old man said, his voice trembling. "A soft, playful giggle. I turned, and there it was—Mew. It healed my Arcanine with a simple touch. And then… it turned to the battlefield." He paused, swallowing hard. "You can't imagine the power, boy. It wasn't just strength—it was reality bending. No weapon, no Pokémon, nothing could stand against it. The enemy was wiped out in minutes. Five minutes, to be exact. And just like that, the invasion was over."
"What happened next?"
"Mew didn't stay. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. But its actions turned the tide of the war. The Northern forces regrouped and launched a counteroffensive, pushing into Southern Kanto. The Axis powers were crippled."
The old man's voice wavered. "To this day, Kanto honors Mew by putting its image on our money."
"What about the other Axis powers? How were they defeated?"
The shopkeeper shrugged. "I don't know the full details. Information about the war is… limited. A lot of it isn't talked about openly. Too much pain, too much shame."
Austin frowned. "Why? What happened?"
The shopkeeper hesitated before answering. "The government doesn't want people dwelling on the past. Kanto—our people—did things during the war that… well, they don't like to talk about. Things that shouldn't have been done." His voice grew heavy. "It's a taboo subject. Even now."
Austin nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of those words. But one last question burned in his mind. "Was a bomb dropped?"
The shopkeeper sighed. "No one knows for sure. There are stories, rumors. My brother served in the navy back then, and he told me something strange…"
Austin was hanging on every word.
"He said he saw a blue comet streak across the sky over the ocean. Moments later, a shockwave so strong it cleared the clouds for hundreds of kilometers rippled through the air. When the dust settled, the Greater Orrean Reich was gone—burned to ash."
Austin felt a chill run down his spine. "What kind of comet could do that?" he whispered.
The shopkeeper's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Not a comet. A Pokémon."
Austin's breath hitched. "What… Pokémon?"
The old man leaned closer, his eyes locking with Austin's. "Victini."
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Outside, Flint sat against the wall, idly snacking on a berry Austin had handed him earlier. Pikachu stood guard beside the thermos. Flint glanced at the little Electric-type, chuckling softly. "Your trainer's… different. I like him."
The shop door creaked open, and Austin stepped out, his face pale and blank. "What happened?"
Austin didn't answer at first. He just closed his eyes and took a long, shaky breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was distant. "I… I need to sleep."
Flint didn't press him. He simply nodded and gestured for Austin to follow. "Come on. Let's get you to the Pokémon Center."
The two walked in silence, Austin pushing his bike beside him. After several minutes, Austin broke the quiet.
"Flint," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "what year is it?"
Flint glanced at him, confused by the odd question. "It's 1997. Why?"
Austin exhaled sharply, his chest tightening. 1997. The year the anime had first aired.
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Author's Note:
Hey everyone! Just wanted to take a moment to share a few thoughts and updates about this story. Your feedback has been fantastic, and it's been helping me shape the world and characters in ways I didn't expect. So, let's get into it:
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1. Pewter City's Design:
If you're curious about what Pewter City looks like in this story, imagine Petra in Jordan, with its beautiful sandstone architecture. Now, take that Middle Eastern style and blend it with Japanese aesthetics to reflect Kanto's culture. That's the vibe I'm going for—ancient yet enduring, carved into the cliffs and rich with history. Hopefully, that paints a clearer picture!
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2. Ransei & The Great Islands:
Ransei, the ancient kingdom that once unified Kanto, Johto, and Hoenn, isn't something I made up. It's actually a reference to Pokémon Conquest, a game that brings a feudal Japan-inspired world to life. I'm excited to expand on its legacy and show how the dissolution of Ransei shaped the modern regions.
The Great Islands, on the other hand, are the historical name for what we know today as the Orange Islands Archipelago. In this story, they served as the Pokémon world's equivalent of Poland, and their invasion by the Greater Orrean Reich was the spark that ignited World War II. It's an alternate-history take that I hope adds depth to the worldbuilding.
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3. In this timeline, Victini is the reason Orre became the wasteland it is today. The Greater Orrean Reich—a Pokémon equivalent of the Nazi regime—was obliterated during World War II.
But here's the question I want you to think about: why did Victini go that far?
Was it because of the horrors the Reich committed, its corruption, and the suffering it caused? Was it a divine reckoning, a moment of justice dealt by a legendary Pokémon? Or… was it fear? Anger? Or even a response to being provoked or manipulated?
This act wasn't just about defeating the enemy—it was about erasing them, reducing everything they stood for into ashes. That kind of destruction goes beyond war; it's a statement. Victini didn't just defeat the Reich—it annihilated them so thoroughly that their land and legacy were reduced to nothing but a cautionary tale.
Does that make Victini a hero? Or does it blur the lines between savior and executioner?
I wanted to frame this moment as one of awe and dread. Yes, Victini represents the potential for ultimate victory, but at what cost? And what does it say about the world that such power exists—and can be unleashed?
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Thank you all so much for your continued support and for taking the time to read and engage with my work. Your reviews and feedback mean the world to me, and they've been instrumental in shaping this story into something I'm truly proud of. I aim to update every week, so stay tuned for more adventures.
I hope you all have an amazing day, and please don't hesitate to share your thoughts in the comments. What's working? What's surprising you? What are you excited to see next? I'm all ears!
Until next time,
~Adam
P.S. Who else is excited for the Mt. Moon showdown? 😏