Pokémon Mystery Dungeon: Quenched Torch

Chapter 57: Whitewaters

The primary station serving what remained of the Unovan Southeast was the next state over in Pechatree, and that wasn't changing anytime soon— Nacrene had been abandoned for years, the entirety of uptown Castelia was underwater, and Black City's warlords were not keen on coming to any agreements anytime soon. Striaton was a midway point, not much going on— both a blessing and a curse for Samuel.

On one hand, it was an easy job to oversee the city's telegrams. On the other hand, it was an easy job. On any average day, ninety percent of his time was spent waiting for something to happen or talking to his penpals from elsewhere. It had its perks, he acknowledged that. But he could not shake the feeling that he could be doing something more.

"Striaton to Goldenrod. No, never got a Pokemon. Useful ones are hard to come by here in the southeast. Dad just left me in here. Maybe he's still waiting for me to get halfway decent at my banjo first."

"Goldenrod to Striaton. I have a Flaaffy, just because we're telegraphers doesn't make us any worth any less! You can still get one!"

"I wish I could be as optimistic as you. Really."

"I'm really not that much of an example, really."

"Gen come on Wilsa talks about you all the time. You're great."

"...Thanks. Just please don't do anything drastic."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"...yeah. I promise."

---

"...just making sure. Ya kids know what you're asking for, right?" Bert crossed his arms as our Lapras ride approached Westgrove-on-Sea.

"First, w-we're not kids. I'm seven. I-I'm basically an adult in Treecko senses... um, s-second. Th-the trip's not that bad, right?" he asked as I grimaced. The city seemed no less dirty than we'd left it; thankfully, we wouldn't be staying long. The wagon rental was out at the edge of the city, leading right into the surrounding woods. Even so, I could practically smell the harbor below us as Bert scoffed.

"Oh, Treecko, you got no idea. I've been across a couple times myself. You know why they call it the Samurott?"

"...becaushe Shamarotts liff thehr?" I guessed.

"That I could live with, but nope. See, the Samurott runs down from some of the more shaky stretches of the Twists. The rocks at the bottom are made in the volcanos' bellies, and the river gets shallow and quick this time of year. We have it lucky, the Serperior is calm and slow. The Samurott shreds and it does not give up its dead," the Wartortle frowned. "There is good reason Gray Orient ends there."

I felt my tail brush anxiously against the ground as Rye gulped. "W-well, then, why can't we just fly over?" he asked.

"Well, we don't know who'd be tracing us is the problem. And it's the Bronze Desert. I'm not a flyer, but from what Molly tells me, the airstreams aren't ideal for flying over and there's no moisture to go off of. Even if we knew we didn't have no eyes on us, we'd still have to pay a pretty penny to find anyone who'd be willing," Bert said.

"What about... yknow, flying over just the river?" Rye tried.

"I mean, sure. If you've got the paperwork to fly out of Orient," Bert countered. Rye opened his mouth to try and argue back, though him and I both knew there wasn't much we could say there. We were in a hurry, after all, it made sense we didn't have the papers ready...