The sun hanging over Route 111 was not merely a celestial body; it was a hammer, and the desert floor was the anvil upon which we were being struck. The heat was a physical weight, pressing down on our shoulders and drying the moisture from our mouths with every breath.
The towering sand dunes, which had looked majestic an hour ago, now looked like identical prison walls shifting in the wind.
"We've passed that cactus three times," Clara said, her voice raspy and laced with rising panic. She stopped walking, digging the heels of her boots into the shifting sand.
"It's a different cactus," I replied, though my confidence was evaporating faster than the sweat on my forehead. I adjusted the map in my hands, squinting against the glare. The topographical lines on the paper seemed to dance and blur in the heat haze.
"It looks exactly the same, Stephen!" Clara snapped, wiping dust from her face. She pointed an accusatory finger at the map fluttering in my grip. "You're the one holding the map! You said you knew how to navigate by the rock formations. You should take more responsibility for this! We are officially lost."
I sighed, lowering the map. She was right. The shifting sands had obscured the trail markers I was looking for, and I had led us too far west. "You're right," I admitted, keeping my voice calm to avoid escalating the tension. "I misjudged the distance between the ridges. Getting lost is a common incident in a journey like this, but I take responsibility for the detour."
I shook my canteen. A hollow sloshing sound replied. "The water I prepared is almost running out. We can't keep walking in this peak heat. We need to conserve moisture."
"There," Clara pointed toward a jagged, dark formation of rock jutting out of a dune about fifty meters away. "Shadow."
We trudged toward the stone formation. It was a large, craggy piece of ancient bedrock that had resisted the erosion of the wind. Behind it lay a sliver of dark, cool shade—a sanctuary in the furnace of the desert.
The sand in the shadow was still scorching hot, having baked all morning before the sun moved.
"Don't sit directly on the sand," I warned. I pulled out the insulated camping mattress I had bought in Mauville. It was silver on one side to reflect heat. I laid it out in the narrow strip of shade.
We collapsed onto the mat, the relief instantaneous as we escaped the direct solar rays. We passed the canteen back and forth, taking small, disciplined sips.
"We need to let them out," Clara said, reaching for her belt. "It's too hot to keep them cooped up in the Balls."
"Agreed."
I released my team. Torchic, Mawile, Sableye, Lotad, and Wingull materialized. Lotad immediately looked miserable in the dryness, so I poured a precious capful of water onto its leaf. Torchic, conversely, stretched happily in the heat.
Clara released her team as well. In a flash of blue light, four Pokémon appeared on the sand.
A Treecko stood coolly with a twig in its mouth, leaning against the rock. The Marill bounced on its tail, looking for comfort. A small, pink Whismur covered its ears, shy of the wind's howling. And finally, flopping awkwardly on the mattress, was a ragged, beige fish—a Feebas.
I blinked, analyzing her lineup.
"Treecko for Grass, Marill for Water and Fairy, Whismur for Normal, and Feebas for Water," I observed, nodding. "That's a surprisingly reasonable type distribution, Clara. You have coverage against Rock, Ground, and Fire types, which is perfect for this route. Good strategic planning."
Clara looked at me, confused, as she poured water into a bowl for Feebas. "Strategy? Oh, no. I just caught them because they looked cute or cool. Well, Feebas is... unique looking, but I like its evolution Milotic!"
I froze. She just likes their appearance?
I looked at the Feebas. It was widely considered one of the ugliest Pokémon, notoriously difficult to evolve into the majestic Milotic without specific conditions of beauty. And she just "liked the evolution."
I swallowed the compliment I was about to give. A foolish childhood trainer mindset, I thought, dismissing the urge to lecture her. If she relies only on aesthetics, the League will chew her up. I didn't want to waste my saliva explaining the intricacies of synergy to someone who treated team building like a fashion show.
As we prepared the Pokémon food—crushing berries and mixing them with dry kibble—Clara watched my Sableye and Mawile interacting. Sableye was chewing on a small gemstone I'd given it, while Mawile sat stoically.
"Hey, Stephen," she asked, breaking the silence. "I checked the Pokédex on those two. Mawile and Sableye... neither of them can evolve, right? They don't have a second stage."
"That is correct," I replied, mixing a bowl for Torchic.
"Are you okay with that?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. "I mean, Treecko will become a Sceptile, and Marill will become Azumarill. They get bigger and stronger. Doesn't it feel like... a dead end? Using Pokémon that can't change?"
I paused, looking at my two partners. "Evolution is important, Clara. It grants a massive boost in raw stats and often changes typing. But it is not the most critical criteria to assess whether a Pokémon is strong."
The conversation faded as the Pokémon began to eat. The sound of crunching kibble and contented chirps filled the small oasis of shade. It was a peaceful moment, a rare respite from the hostility of the desert.
I finished my energy bar and did a quick headcount.
Torchic, eating. Mawile, eating. Sableye, gnawing on a rock. Lotad, Wingull, resting.
I looked at Clara's side. Treecko, Marill, Feebas...
"Where is Whismur?" I asked.
Clara looked up from her water bottle, scanning the small area behind the rock. "Whismur? It was just here by Marill."
Whismur were timid Pokémon. They usually stayed glued to their trainers or friends, rarely venturing far. It was unlike one to wander off into the open desert.
"Whismur!" Clara called out, standing up. "Buddy! Food time!"
Only the wind answered, whistling through the cracks in the stone.
"Maybe it heard something," I said, recalling my Pokémon to their balls quickly. "We need to look, but don't stray from—"
Suddenly, a sound shattered the desert silence.
"MUUUUUURRRRRRRR!!!"
It was a scream. Not a human shout, but a high-pitched, deafening screech that echoed off the dunes like a physical shockwave. It was the signature cry of a Whismur in absolute panic—a sound capable of reaching jet-engine volumes.
It was coming from the North, deeper into the shifting sands.
"That's Whismur!" Clara gasped, covering her ears instinctively against the echo. "It's terrified!"
"And it's in trouble," I said, grabbing my bag and pulling Clara up. The exhaustion of the heat was instantly replaced by an adrenaline spike. "That cry will attract every predator in the area. We have to move, now!"