"THfaR" (AOLWTO) 02

It’s not exactly a secret that the Pokemon regions map to real world locations.

Kanto, Johto, Hoenn, and Sinnoh each correspond to regions of Japan. Unova and Alola map to New York and Hawaii respectively, and Kalos resembles France. There were other regions as well, introduced in the spin off games, but they weren’t important for our purposes. That being, finding a legendary pokemon.

So that meant, if we wanted to stay within the United State, we needed to look at the Alolan and Unovan pokédexes for inspiration.

Relatively speaking, they were jam-packed, especially if you counted the ultra beasts. (We didn’t.) But since we couldn’t afford to go to Hawaii, that meant the Unovan legendaries were our best bet.

If we wanted to be reactive, our best bet was to wait another month until tornado season and go chasing thunderstorms in the hopes of finding Thundurus or Tornadus. We didn’t plan be reactive, however, and after living in the Midwest our whole lives, we didn’t feel like confining our road trip to it.

That left the Swords of Justice (Virizion, Terrakion, and Cobalion) with “known” locations. That is, fixed places they appeared in the video games, that we could (hopefully) correspond to real-life locations. They weren’t exactly A-List legendaries, but we figured that just meant we’d have less competition looking for them.

The tricky part was, they each had two different locations, depending on whether you played the original Black & White games, or the sequels.

More dedicated hunters would have tried to find equivalents for both. But seeing as we didn’t even know if the legendaries existed, we didn’t want to waste time going down every highway on the east coast. (And anyways, if that’s where the legendaries were going to show up, someone else would find them first.)

So that just left three places to find equivalents for: Mistralton Cave, Victory Road, and Pinwheel forest.

Of course, that was a long way in the future. Starting from Omaha, Nebraska, we had several days before we reached the east coast. In the meantime, a more pressing concern was entertaining ourselves through the monotony of Iowa cornfields.

This was easier done than said, albeit perhaps for the wrong reasons.

“Ready?” I ask. When no response comes, I bang twice on the roof of the van.

I get two thumps back.

“Feeding line!”

One paw stays on the steering wheel. The other begins unspooling rope. The rope goes through the passenger side window, and then upwards.

I hear Richie’s claws disengaging from the roof of the van.

I look in the rearview mirror, more than a little worried.

A few seconds pass, and then Richie starts whooping, exhilarated.

I laugh. At the top of my lungs, I yell “How’s the weather up there!?” I’ve been waiting days to use that one; long-delayed payback for middle-school teasing.

His response comes loud and clear, the sonic abilities of his species handily trouncing the wind’s attempt to drown him out. “Great! The farther away from you I get, the better it is.”

Touché.

“Gimme some more line!”

I do. Ten, then twenty, then thirty feet of rope. I can finally see him in the rearview mirror, an enormous purple kite attached inexpertly to the van.

I’m soon out of the range where I can talk to him. The reverse isn’t true, and he gives me a constant stream of unwanted commentary.

“To the west, corn! To the east, corn! In all directions, corn! Inside men’s hearts, corn! All we are, in the end, is corn! The mark of a successful society is how successfully it can farm this pernicious vegetable--”

“It’s a cereal grain, not a vegetable, you idiot,” I mutter. I know he knows, and he knows I know he knows. He’s intentionally getting it wrong to fuck with me. Okay, I’ve been a little anal-retentive about this kind of stuff since I started my Agronomy major. So sue me.

“From the Japanese to the ancient Babylonians, all great empires have sacrificed their children at the altar of-- COP CAR AHEAD”

My heart leaps into my throat, and I almost slam on the brakes. Luckily for Richie, I keep my presence of mind and slow down more gradually. By the time I pass the cop car, I’m down to 90 miles an hour, an almost reasonable speed.
My efforts don’t stop red and blue lights from appearing in my rearview mirror, as the police car roars out from its niche on the side of the highway.

By the time I stop completely, I’m hyperventilating. Unbidden memories rise of another set of red and blue lights, and a leg bent in completely the wrong direction.

Richie lands next to the car, respooled rope in his claws.

The policeman approaches us. She’s a Glaceon, a light blue fox with dark blue ‘hair’ on top of its head. Small, even for an eeveelution, I find myself wondering how she even manages to drive her vehicle.

There’s no perceivable hesitation in her step, which I suppose makes sense. We might be bigger than him, but Richie has a double weakness to ice. Meanwhile, I’m not exactly in the best frame of mind to start a fight, even if I wanted to.

“Hello, officer--” begins Richie.

“Do you have any idea how fast you were going?” interrupts the officer in a deep, contralto voice.

Richie makes a show of looking around. “Unfortunately not. I seem to be missing my speedometer.”

This startles a laugh out of the police officer.

“That may be the case, but I hope he can find his.”

This last part is directed as me. I nod meekly.

The officer sighs. “Look, I know there’s barely anyone else on the road right now, but the speed you’re driving at is just unsafe.” She looks at Richie. “And I don’t know what they hell you’re doing, but I doubt the FAA would be happy about it. So please, reign it in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” we reply in tandem. I’m significantly quieter than Richie.

She sighs. “Alright. I’m going to let you two off with a warning this time, but just keep what I said in mind, OK?” Then she’s back off to her car, not waiting for our thanks.

After that, I stick exactly to the speed limit, not matter how much Richie cajoles me to go faster. It was more than a little demoralizing. For the first time in years, I’d finally felt like taking risks, and this early on in the trip, I was already getting in trouble for it.

~oOo~

We had originally planned to refill on gas a little before Des Moines, then detour around the city. But the gas stations just off the highway are closed more often than not, and we’re forced to stop in the outskirts.

We finally find a gas station that’s operational. The neighborhood is totally desolate except for us. It really shouldn’t be, on a weekend afternoon as beautiful as this one. The city is still in mourning.

The skyline, modest though it is, still bears the scars of yesterday’s rioting. A police helicopter flies past cracked glass and burnt concrete. It’s accompanied by a Charizard, hastily spray-painted olive drab.

~oOo~

We make another pit stop in the vicinity of Iowa City, but the remainder of our trip through Iowa is largely uneventful, save for a few day-old car crashes we need to navigate around.

At least, until we get to the Mississippi.

The bridge is intact, but we balk at the idea of driving over it.

Our van putters to a stop.

In front of us is a Wailord.

“Yup, that’s a Wailord,” comments Richie.

I’ve seen blue whales in museums before, hung from the ceiling or on enormous, pride-of-place displays in the center of vast galleries. This wailord is only about half as long, which is still long enough to entirely block the bridge.

A Machamp steps out in front of us. Both sets of hands are steepled in front of him, and there’s an irritatingly smug expression on his face.

“Five bucks to pass.”

“What the hell?” says Richie.

“That is literally highway robbery,” I remark.

The Machamp shrugs. Having two sets of shoulders accents the motion.

“A man’s gotta eat. Either you hand over the money and I’ll lift my associate here out of your way, or you can add another twenty minutes to your trip by detouring to another bridge.”

“Or we could call the cops,” Richie threatens.

The Machamp scoffs. “Go for it; the 911 operators still aren’t working.”

We stew on that, for a little bit. The Machamp waits patiently.

“Fuck it,” I growl, and turn the van around.

Twenty minutes later, in front of another bridge, our path is blocked by a Steelix. The enormous steel snake has coiled itself around the concrete structure.

I groan as I slow the van to a stop. Taking out my wallet, I pull out a one dollar bill and a five dollar bill. I memorize how the 5 dollar bill looks, then put it back.

“Five bucks to pass,” squawks a chatot. I hand him the one dollar bill. It won’t stand up to close inspection, but I don’t plan to stick around.

The steelix moves out of our way.

Afterwards, I stew on what happened.

“Cheer up, man. I got it all on camera.” Richie taps his gopro with one wing. “They’ll get what’s coming to then eventually.”

“Where’s you get that, anyways? I indicate towards the camera.”

“It’s been sitting in a box since last christmas. Never had a reason to use it.”

“Huh.”

My mood doesn’t take too long to clear up, after that.

~oOo~

Another car zips past us, going in the opposite direction. An Arcanine races behind it, leaving fiery footprints and burnt asphalt in its wake.

~oOo~

When we settle down for the night, it’s deep into Illinois, on the side of the road off a desolate highway exit.

Richie rolls out the blankets, while I focus on making my most difficult illusion yet.

I add scratches and discolorations to the van’s paint job. Blotches of rust and chipped paint. The two tires that face the road no longer seem to be there.

When that’s finished, we hook up our electric camping stove to the battery we’ve been charging all day using solar panels placed on top of the van.

Our beans are lukewarm at best, but as I lay on my back and watch the sunset, it’s the most satisfying meal I’ve ever had.

~oOo~

My parents send me a voicemail sometime during the night. My dad is encouraging, my mom worried. I send them one back.

Richie gets a text message from his sister. He frowns when he sees it.

~oOo~

The video is grainy, but not blurry.

Instant ramen cups are scattered around the room. The waste bin is filled to overflowing with energy drinks.

A figure hunches over a table, furiously drawing

The speaker is Japanese, but some fan has taken the trouble of subtitling the video in English.

“--So since I’m writing a slice of life manga set in what is at least nominally the ‘real world,’ I was completely at a loss for what to do for my next chapter,” says the artist. He’s an emolga-- a diminutive rodent that resembles a flying squirrel. He’s nude, aside from his signature ‘Hanshin Tigers’ baseball cap.

“Some of my colleagues have decided to keep going like before, reasoning that since the real world is insane, it’s actually more realistic to have everyone stay humans. But not I!”

With a flourish, the artist displays his work.

It’s a sketch, black and white. Six characters, three views each. Front view, back view, and three-quarters headshot. Each one is labeled with a name.

For comparison, the artist holds up an older picture, a glossy, full-color print.

The difference between the two is stark. The older work features humans; the newer one features Pokémon.

But there are similarities, too. The author has made a more than fair attempt to translate each of the characters into their new bodies. The leading man, distinctive for his sharp eyes and thick glasses, has become a glowering Pancham. The dark, panda-like rings around his eyes playing the part of his eyewear. The leading woman, with her dyed-blond curly hair and kitschy earrings, has become an Amaura, the same open, trusting smile on the dinosaur as on the girl.

“To my wonderful fans, thank you for your support! As long as I am able, I will continue working hard to draw a warm, happy world that everyone can smile in!”