Chapter 5 – Into Town (Part 1)
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The first thing David heard was splashing.
Blinking for a moment.
Then another sploosh hit the side of the house and rattled the window.
He blinked up at the cracked farmhouse ceiling and exhaled.
Everything hurt, but in a familiar, less-hostile way. The stabbing pains of the first days had faded into a full-body ache that felt more like he'd gone too hard at training, not like a Snorlax had flattened him.
His Pokétch read 6:02 a.m.
Earlier than yesterday. He'd take that.
He dressed in cold air and muscle stiffness—tough trousers, long-sleeved work shirt, boots that were rapidly acquiring a permanent coat of Stonebrook mud. On his way downstairs, he paused at the window that overlooked the yard.
Swampert was in the pond, and "enjoying it" felt like an understatement.
The big Water-type floated on his back in the shallow water, rolling lazily from side to side, arms spreading wide to let the water run over his shoulders. Every so often, he'd scoop a double handful and dump it over his own head, gills flaring in pleasure. The half-formed banks were a mess of muddy paw prints. A couple of brave Starly hopped along the edge, darting in to snatch bugs from the churned-up soil before retreating when Swampert sloshed too close.
David's mouth twitched.
"Glad someone's making use of the civil engineering," he muttered, and went to face the kitchen.
The kitchen did not pull its punches.
The bread bin was empty.
The heel of cheese resembled fossilised regret. The pantry held a few jars of Oran berry preserve with his grandfather's handwriting on it—which he refused to open yet—and not much else. The bag of Pokémon feed in the corner made an ominously light sound when he nudged it with his boot.
"Right," he said to the room. "That's our answer."
He set water to boil, because no amount of looming famine could separate him from his morning coffee, and improvised breakfast: two slices of bread from the freezer, grilled in a pan until they stopped being ice and started pretending to be toast, topped with translucent shavings of cheese.
While the kettle hissed, he stepped out the back door and unclipped his Poké Balls.
"Up and at 'em," he called, tossing them into the yard one after another.
Red light flared and resolved into familiar shapes; Flygon unfolded in a sweep of emerald wings before touching down; Nidoking materialised with a bone-deep grunt; Excadrill popped out already flexing his claws.
Krookodile appeared mid-yawn; Gliscor snapped into being halfway up the air and immediately latched onto the porch beam to hang upside down. Seeing this, Swampert abandoned the pond to lumber closer, water streaming off his arms.
"Breakfast," David said.
He divided the last of the feed into bowls and mixed in chopped vegetable scraps and a bit of Pecha. Swampert's portion was bigger—he needed it—but still not what the big Water-type would have liked. Krookodile edged closer, eyes fixed on the feed like it might bolt.
"You're meant to be terrifying," David told him. "Not a walking stomach."
Krookodile's grin said plainly that the two were not mutually exclusive.
Back inside, David drank coffee that was stronger than it had any right to be and chewed through his toast. Then he pulled his notebook closer and turned to a fresh page.
At the top, he wrote:
SUPPLIES – URGENT
-Food (me)
-Feed (team)
-Nails & screws
-Fence wire / staples
-Oil for tools
-New hoe handle
-Soap (lots)
-Ask about bulk feed pricing
He stared at it for a second, then flipped to the very back and added, with a grimace:
-CHECK BALANCE
He closed the notebook and stepped back out into the yard.
His team had finished eating. Swampert had wandered back toward the pond; Excadrill was already sniffing at the edge of the upper slope; Gliscor hung from the porch beam, tail swaying lazily. The first proper sunlight of the day drew longer shadows across the yard.
"Alright," David said, clapping his hands once to get their attention. "Today I'm heading into town."
Six sets of eyes shifted to him.
"That means," he went on, "I can't take a full parade down Main Street. Some of you are staying, some of you are coming."
Flygon hummed thoughtfully. Krookodile tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. Swampert's gaze flicked from David to the nearly empty feed bag and back again with meaning that transcended language.
"Swampert, you're on pond and stream duty," David said. "Guard the water, enjoy the mud, try not to turn the whole lower yard into a swamp just because you can."
Swampert rumbled and thumped a fist lightly against his chest, then pointed at the pond as if saying Mine.
"Krookodile, you're yard security," David continued. "If something big wanders in and looks at the house funny, you discourage it. Scare them, don't maul. No eating trespassers unless they actually try to burn the place down. Deal?"
Krookodile's grin widened. "Krook," he rasped, which David generously interpreted as agreement.
"Gliscor, you've got air patrol," David said, pointing upward. "Keep an eye on the fields, the orchard, the lane. If you see anything truly weird—big flock of Murkrow, wandering Ursaring, a cart in a ditch—you yell at whoever's closest."
Gliscor clicked his pincers and saluted with his tail.
Then David turned to Nidoking and Excadrill.
"You two are on stone and soil," he said, tipping his chin toward the slope behind the house. "I'm going into town for supplies. That means you're on farm duty."
Nidoking folded his arms and snorted, massive chest rising and falling.
David pointed at the ugly, unstable pile of rocks they'd dragged in from the upper field. "While I'm gone, I want you to start sorting it out, okay? Big, flat stones at the bottom, smaller ones on top. Think 'wall' not 'avalanche.'"
Nidoking's eyes narrowed, flicking to the pile with something that looked suspiciously like offended pride.
"Excadrill," David said, looking down at the mole, "you're his partner for this. Check the ground under the stones, clear out loose dirt, and pack what needs packing. If you find a hollow under something heavy, fix it. I don't want to come back to find half the pile has decided to visit the farmhouse."
Excadrill chittered eagerly, claws already flexing.
"And both of you," David added, gaze going between them, "keep your ears open. If Gliscor yells about something serious, you listen. If wild Pokémon wander through, you can growl and stomp—but no turning the orchard into a crater unless it's life or death."
Nidoking made a low, rumbling sound that could have meant I know what I'm doing, or you worry too much. Excadrill bobbed his head, serious.
David's voice softened. "I'm counting on you. Make that pile look like it belongs to a farm, not a rockslide."
He reached up and patted Nidoking's heavy shoulder, then tapped his knuckles against Excadrill's claw.
"Flygon," he said, turning to her last, "you're coming with me. I'll keep you tucked away in town. Once we're back on the road and past the last houses, I'll let you out to shadow me from above, alright?"
Flygon trilled and dipped her head, red lenses whirring faintly.
"Okay," he said. "Hold the fort."
He raised a Poké Ball.
"Flygon, return."
She dissolved into red light. He clipped the ball to his belt.
Swampert was already sloshing back toward the pond, Gliscor unhooking himself to glide to a better vantage point, Krookodile dragging himself to a lazy sprawl by the gate. Nidoking and Excadrill were already heading up toward the stone pile, one above ground, one below.
He grabbed an old, sturdy canvas sack to use as a carrier, slung his half-full backpack over one shoulder for later, and headed down the lane.
The road into Stonebrook curled between fields that were greener than when he'd first walked it a few days ago—or maybe that was just his brain trying to be optimistic. The morning was sharp and clear. A couple of Drifloon bobbed high overhead. A Kricketot started up in the grass and stopped as soon as he got too close, offended.
The weight of the Poké Balls at his belt was comforting. Even if no one on the road could see them, he wasn't walking alone.
As he topped the last slight rise, the town came into view: the cluster of low buildings, the red-roofed Pokémon Centre, the wind-bent trees along the edge. Smoke trickled from chimneys. Somewhere, a child laughed.
He stepped onto the main street and felt the subtle shift: the sense of eyes, of attention. A couple of people glanced his way, then looked again, recognition chasing confusion across their faces. One older man raised a hand in cautious greeting.
"Morning," David said, returning the nod.
The general store sat right where it always had, on the corner opposite the Pokémon Centre. Its sign was more faded now, the paint on the letters cracked, but the bell above the door still chimed the same way when he pushed it open.
The smell hit him like a memory: dry grain, sugar, a hint of coffee, old paper, and the faint tang of metal and oil.
Shelves crammed with whatever the supply truck could bring lined the walls—flour, tins of soup, rope, jars of jam, packets of simple seed. Behind the counter, a glass case held basic potions and antidotes next to a rack of cheap notebooks and pens.
Mrs Harrow looked up from her ledger.
"It is you," she said, before he could get a word out.
Her hair was more silver than brown now, pulled into a no-nonsense bun. The lines around her eyes had deepened, but the sharp way she looked him over hadn't dulled.
"Morning, Mrs Harrow," he said.
"Hmph." She set her pencil down and planted both hands on the counter. "I thought they were winding me up. 'Ryder's back,' they said. 'Saw him at the station.' I told them, 'I'll believe it when I see him in here buying flour like everyone else.'"
"Guess I'm predictable," David said.
"Hungry is what you are," she replied. "You're thinner than when you left. Champion life doesn't pay in proper meals?"
"Mainly coffee," he joked.
She eyed him for another second, then jerked her chin toward the aisles. "Well, go on then. What are you after?"
"Food," he said. "For them and for me. Nails, screws, some fence wire, oil for tools, hoe handle if you've got one that won't break in half the first time, I look at it. And…bulk feed, if you're still doing orders."
"We're still doing orders," she said. "You just never stuck around long enough to need one."
He had no good answer to that, so he didn't try. They walked the aisles together: flour, salt, sugar, cooking oil. Coffee. A block of real cheese that made his stomach ache with want. Soap. Nails and screws from behind glass. Coils of fence wire.
He tested a couple of hoe handles before settling on one that felt right in his palm—solid, smooth, with the right kind of weight.
"Got anything for ground cover?" he asked, pausing at a display of seed packets with fading pictures on the front. "Not crops. Just…something tough to hold bare soil together."
"Expecting a fashion lawn up there?" she said.
"Expecting half my topsoil to try and visit the stream the first time it rains properly," he said. "Clover, meadow grass, anything hardy would help."
She studied him for a moment, as if weighing honesty against habit, then ducked behind the counter. A moment later, she came up with a small, battered cardboard box. Inside were a few unmarked canvas sacks.
"Mix we use on the hill behind our place," she said. "Bit of clover, bit of meadow grass, some wildflowers. Tough. Doesn't mind hooves or boots. Not fancy."
"How much?" he asked.
"First bag?" She shrugged one shoulder. "Consider it a 'welcome back, don't let the valley wash away' gift."
He opened his mouth to argue. She gave him a look that was pure, weaponised Harrow.
"You brought more fuss to this town on that League screen than we knew what to do with," she said. "Kids in here yelling every time your name came up. If you've decided to plant yourself back in proper dirt, I'm not going to be the one who makes it harder."
His throat felt unexpectedly tight.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"Don't make me regret it," she replied, but there was a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
At the counter, she rang up his pile of essentials. The total amount made his stomach tighten; he checked his balance on the Pokétch.
He slid his card across. The machine beeped, thought about it, then flashed approval.
"Right," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "Let's pack this so you don't die in a ditch on the way home."
She pulled out two large, sturdy canvas sacks and an old, scuffed backpack from under the counter.
"Backpacks from the lost-and-found," she said. "Been here six years. If the owner hasn't come back by now, I'm calling it retired."
She packed with the ruthless efficiency of someone who had been outfitting farmers for decades:
-In Sack One, she piled the bulk and heavy stuff: a big bag of Pokémon feed, flour, sugar, salt.
-In Sack Two, she stacked the dense-but-tough items: fence wire coils, tins of nails and screws, the unmarked ground-cover seed bag, bars of soap wrapped in paper. She strapped the hoe handle along one side with twine, turning it into a makeshift frame.
-The coffee, cheese, and anything fragile or crushable went into the backpack, along with some smaller items he'd paid for—basic groceries and a couple of odds and ends.
"Heavy on this side," she said, patting Sack One. "Awkward on this side." She patted Sack Two. "Precious in the middle." She nudged the backpack toward him. "You carried worse up Victory Road."
"Victory Road didn't judge how often I came in for soap," he said, but he shouldered the backpack, feeling the straps bite in, then tested each sack in turn. Heavy, sure, but evenly distributed.
As she adjusted the twine on the hoe handle, she paused and squinted at him.
"You're staying, then," she said.
Not quite a question.
He could hedge. Leave himself an exit clause. For now. We'll see. Until I figure things out.
"Yeah," he said instead. "I am."
She nodded once, sharply, as if ticking a box. "Good. That land needs someone who knows a shovel's got two ends and which one to hold."
She hesitated, then added, more quietly, "Your grandfather would've liked that."
He swallowed.
"Trying not to screw it up," he said.
"Good start," she replied. "Now get out of my shop before I make you buy a cart too."
He snorted, lifted Sack One onto his right shoulder, Sack Two onto his left, adjusted the backpack on his back, and headed for the door.
The bell chimed as he stepped back out into the sunlight.
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