Prologue

In his seven years of life, Lonnie Alcardo had never been in a plane before.
His parents had taken him on a jumbo jet to a family trip to Alto Mare when he was a baby, but he'd been a little kid then, so it didn't count (obviously).
So far, it wasn't exactly good. But it wasn't exactly bad, either.
It was new.
He'd wanted to look out at the trees beneath him, but it was far too dark for that. This was disappointing.
However, he also got to feel the thud in his gut every time, and hear the chatter. That was interesting.
Most of all, it was cold. Bitingly so, in spite of the heaping, adult sized jacket which she'd given him.
The interior was bare . He could see the metal skeleton of the plane and the plastic wires . Their seats were squished into the front of the plane, whilst the back held wooden crates bolted down with thick wooden straps.

Most of all, it was cold. Bitingly so, in spite of the which she'd offered him.
Their pilot was a broadfaced woman. She stared straight ahead. Lonnie didn't know why. Ahead, it was all dark. Behind, too.
Between her
It looked funny, face bundled in a human headset crudely fashioned to fit its skull.
The pilots name was Alice. The bird was Joe. The plane was a de Hav. And the seatbelt clasp had to be fastened facing to the right, no, not your right, my right.
These were the words she said when they got into the plane. They were the only words she'd said, for that matter.
Alice wasn't a talker.
Lonnie supposed that made sense for a person who spent most of their life buzzing around the treetops.
Lonnie couldn't imagine himself doing that. His legs would get too stiff from sitting.

He knew where they were going.
To his mother.
She'd gone up north to scratch gold out of the ground and be paid a lot for it.
He'd asked if they could go with him.
She'd smiled and rubbed his head "There aren't any schools up there. Nor are there any other boys for you to play with"
He didn't see why
Just him and his dad.
And Pete.
Pete was in

Desolation, whispered the land.
Indeed, it was a lonely sort of country by all descriptions, enormous and quiet and without feature nor blemish upon its surface, which gleamed blinding and sun-stroked come day, and come night, glowed pale with a spectral morosity.
Snow ruled all, conquered all.
Was all.
Nary a strip of land could exist without it's presence, as it bore down lazily upon the earth from the heavens in great flakes by the thousand, fat and fluttering and utterly unstoppable, which tried to scrub the worlds features flat and white and sterile, dilute and erase any memory of a time before its reign. In the minute lifespan of the snowflake, it was an empire immortal.
The earthern bones of the once-was lay hidden and oppressed beneath snow taller in places than a mans knee.

Wind-tortured mountain ranges loomed stoic against the horizon, their sharp jutting mountaintop jaws reaching Icarian to gnash and chew at the sky above like great hounds, igneous fangs falling ever short of swallowing the sun which mockingly grazed their peaks. Their hard, stone-carved angles proved too severe for much snow to take roost, revealing oil-black rock bones beneath, crooked onyx scars against the white which seemed to stare out from their mighty perches on the passerby, the judgements of million year-old stone eldritch to everyone else.

In great armies, the spruce, pine and fir stood haggard and mournful, spellbound sentries to the lonely lands. Their bent, dark shapes weighed down by manacles of snow, as if the snowfalls parent, a sky whiter than a holy man's robes, viewed their very existence as sin, an affront against its lovingly laid carpet of otherwise uninterrupted white, and so beat down upon them with a righteous fury. Snow, slurry, frost and the evilly probing wind; all found easy, unresisting targets in the broad branches and pockmarked trunks. And yet they remained, exteriors showing apathy to the skies hatred, kept alive by little more than the occasional fleeting, eagerly-gulped lick of the sun, and the primordial half-memories of the green, woody things; skies unmarred and pregnant with heat, branches heavy with flowers and skirted by careening, droning insects. It was this hope that set them through the worst which the world heaped on them, as hope does for many things.

Where once sat the great reaches of lakes and the venous currents of mountain streams, now lay frozen and static stretches of snow-cloaked flatness. Their surfaces were treacherous, whilst there dwelt slabs of ice to rival in thickness their saltwater cousins, so too were there treacherously, deceptively thin patches of translucent ice, no thicker, nor stronger than a man's skin, which would claim a person or large beast to the depths in but a second, and freeze to a sheen again in just as little time.
The only ones saved from this freezing, this half-death, were the greatest of the rushing, white water rivers, which frothed and churned angrily against stones and banks alike, as if in active defiance of the stagnation and stillness which infested lesser waterways than themselves. Strengthened by the constant trickle of runoff they grew fearsome and virile, their waters a near luminescent hue, the blue to water for which crimson is blood. A young, vital shade.

Yet, few moving, breathing things seemed to exist to own these lands. One might think it a lifeless sort of place, the vitality strangled from the land itself, never again to bear anything green, soft or growing.
They would be wrong, however.
In the hidden places, life still clung on, fought merely to be, as is so often the case for you creatures of warm breath and blood.

To look at the frozen forests from a distance, one might be taken aback, as to witness some of the supposed branches quaking and sawin . A forest, perhaps, but not of trees. in great herds, the Stantler, Sawsbuck, deerling, and other creatures of stiff backs and cloven hooves. nuffled morosely about the tree roots, seeking the pale sprouts and lichen which hid below the snow. At the edges of their number stood the commanding forms of Wydeer, made ghostly by their cream coats as they stood watchful vigils, despite their sheer size and jutting, geometric horns.

Below the frozen waters, dark shapes flitted restlessly in a somber, music-less dance of shapes alien to the dry land. The sleek, smooth things, their scales robbed of their shine by the loss of sun. Pale, fleshy things. Cruel, armored carapace dotted with parasites. Some were larger, their presence causing their lessers to scatter like confetti. Then too, they were frightened by darker shapes of a size larger once again. Shapes without names, which peered upwards with inky eyes or their equivalent, as if for movement on the ice above. Shapes large enough to be seen through the ice. Shapes big enough to break it.

From caves and burrows which cratered the mountains hips and low valleys, eyes glinted in scores. Whether they be the scarlet reflective of pack creatures, cold hazel of lone predators, or the jaundiced yellow of things that continued to be when they shouldn't, those eyes held one thing common among all.
They waited with the patience of wild things for the enthronement of the moon and stars; for the world to be once more theirs, for the tongue-taste of snowspray sent by fleeing hooves, for the weak and sick separated, chased to exhaustion with foam at the mouth, the play of claw and fang on tense flesh, and exhilarating hiss of hot blood on cold ground.

Above all of them, the murkrow, spearow and other winged beasts which could stand this cold.
They careened and dived on the arctic currents in their squabbling, raucous gangs, from below, inky spots which stained the air, their croaking cries, chirps and songs a soundtrack of the valleys and ridges.
They were quiet, mournful even, as they searched for things once warm made cold, upon which to have their fill, spectators to the few stories of the snow.

Were you to ask most of these denizens of the Great Ice (for thats what the local Pokémon vernacular calls winter), they'd have a story to tell, even were it not understood, as most aren't to your kind.
A thousand winters survived, a thousand glorious spring sunrises witnessed.
A thousand fearsome predators evaded, and an equal thousand foolish prey slaughtered, lives saved or lost by fortunes fickle will, and subsequently misappropriated to the storytellers respective skill.
Stories of hardship and fortune and pain and the simple joyous exhilaration of being a thing that lived, and continued to live.
The tales of Pokémon, unrefined and simple to be certain, but immersive through their honest and prideful recantation.

But this is a different story, that which you wish to hear. (To an extent, at the least.)
Let us look then, to one of the lesser mountains, in the Southeast of these nevertamed territories.
Against the snowfalls downward descent, rose a single defiant plume of grey. Smoke. Billowing and dark and never quite subsiding in its ascension.
It came from a cabin. It was a tucked into a corner of one of these Easterly mountains, where little wind reached. The handiwork of humans, a thing of sawed wood and hammered nails and stacked rock.
In this part of the world, in this daunting time of year; a rare sight. Yet it stood proud, and looked after its occupants. Occupants, for the windows were often haunted by light, and the snow about it oft marked with the signs of passage, soon though these vanished beneath the new fall.
What of these occupants?
It was here, (you) and Lucario dwelt.

Shweep
The fire crackles merrily behind its iron grate, tongues of flame sending ever-squirming nighttime shadows on the wooden walls and floorboards.
On the frost-tickled windowpanes, their reflections dance a frantic, spectral jig.
shweep
It's joined in its soft song by the muffled whistle of the arctic breeze, which rattles your windowpanes on its journey across . and the stirring of a stovepot behind you. And, of course, the rhythmic sound of the-
shweep
This nighttime is a languid but persistent one, it's shroud a darkness which lurks in the corners and long-cast shadows, prodded away by the fire and a battered old oil lantern, Despite this, though it is never vanquished in full. The room then, is a calm, gentle child of the light and not-light, where reality's finer details are forgotten for their silhouettes.
Shweep
"A little more gentle, please"
shwip
"Thanks"
The voice comes from a slack pile of fluff and muscle, sitting slouched in your lap as you brush her fur with a wood-handled hairbrush. A Lucario. Your Lucario.
You stare down at her adoringly.
She was pretty as ever.
A trim, muscled torso the colour of chaff, with soft fur tufting about the neck and gleaming steel bolt.
Strong, powerful legs. Not built in the fashion of the women you'd known before her, but attractive in their own way, with a hardened grace to them and their muscle-endowed curves.
A proud, stoic face peaked by velvety, soft ears which gave way to a short angular snout of royal cobalt, peaked by velvety, soft ears. Eyes of deep, dark scarlet stare back, almost hypnotic. To another she might be fearsome, or intimidating. You know her better.
A paw bats impatiently at your side, and you realise you've stopped brushing her, so enamored are you. Another bat, and you correct your mistake, with a rub to the ear to accompany.
Shwip
She growls pleasurably at this, and settles back into you, not a sound passing between you as you savor the silent contact.
Shwip

Perhaps fifteen minutes pass this way, having been suitably groomed, your partner eases from you, finding purchase on the other end of the couch. You knew what her intent was even before her paws found your shoulders and guided your head to her lap. You grumble wordlessly, even as you offer no resistance.
"Oh shush. You just groomed me, it's only fair I return the favour"
You'd told her many times that humans had a variety of ways in which to tidy themselves which didn't involve tongues, case in point, your shower. She'd relented and fussed, and you'd accepted. That tended to happen, when one spent the past nine months with only a canid for company. You supposed there were worse sensations than the soft tending of her licks about your hair, strange as it was.
You sigh theatrically "We ought to get a bathtub or something. Big enough for two, the kind you can heat up. Save you the effort of having to lick me"
"Not a terrible idea, especially since the lakes frozen. I'd still do this though. We both know you love it." She rubs your shoulder warmly at that. Despite her tongue busying itself about your neck, her voice was clear in your head, the result of telepathy.
"Yeah, yeah. Perhaps we could have a sauna, as well."
"A sauna, huh?"
"Yeah. Shouldn't be hardly difficult to make, I'd reckon."
"Same as everything else you plan to, I presume?" She asked.
Driven by the restlessness of inactivity, you'd acquired a growing list of things to do in the coming spring. Besides the recent addition of the sauna, it included a smokehouse, a verandah, a vegetable patch, and a garden, any variety of things which could be made with wood, nails and sweat. The next air resupply would have to include a carpentry book.
"Yep. Just a wooden shack with a few rocks in the center, isn't it? Be well relaxing after a day's work"
"I suppose. Am I that unbearable, with my grooming, that you must steam yourself to relax?" She taunts.
"Oh dearest, darling beloved mate of mine, shush"
She giggled at that. She liked it when you called her by the same pet name she had for you.
Her licking became a kiss, planted on the forehead, before returning as per usual. You honestly didn't care, could appreciate it even. It was an act of tenderness and care, you knew that much. That it was strange mattered little, since it was her.
You sighed, and sank down into her further, as she cupped your chin, stroking a soft paw through your hair.
In the background, tonight's pot of stew bubbled, its spiced aroma intoxicating in the enclosed space. The fire snapped cheerfully before you, strong and healthy. The creased blankets and quilts of your bed, though unmade, lay as inviting as ever in your peripheral. And around you, so wonderfully near, the loveliest girl in the world held you close.
It's the small things, in this life.

It had been two months now, since the since the neat little paper slip was taken to an office somewhere, and you weren't.
Autumn had fallen to winters frost-laced lance of ice, in a manner swift and relentless. Weather reports had claimed it the most severe in a half-century, and you'd no reason to disagree. Even in lesser climates down south, reports of blizzards and freezing temperatures seemed common, according to news radio.
And yet, despite earlier trepidations, the winter had proved little discomfort to you.
The cellar was abundant with foods tinned and packaged, the firewood stack a head taller than you were, and the walls of your cabin remained as stalwart as ever in their defense against the elements, so too the soft quilts of your bed. And the softer fur of your partner.
Indeed, your greatest blight had not been one of the body, but the mind.
As the days of warmth and late nights faded, so too did many of your duties as a Pokemon Ranger. Frozen rivers couldn't be measured, nor the populations of hibernating Pokémon surveyed.
Now, your work time was spent on the occasional day-time patrols for signs of avalanches or poachers, and liaising with and aiding nearby Pokémon. Other than that, it was left to free time; of which there seemed an amount enormous.
Whilst this might have been an appealing idea to any man, especially those in places with colour television and sports bars, time had aged your perception of it. Out here, plainly put, there really wasn't much to do.
Your store of books had all been read, then again, until so many crime-thrillers and pulp horror paperbacks became a homogenous, vague memory.
In the haze of the snowstorms, radio transmissions came out blurry, if at all, leaving your largely devoid of the music and radio shows which had been the soundtrack to your autumnal courting.
You had frequently begun to distract yourselves with wandering the frozen forests and peaks, and with rather clumsy attempts at snowboarding and other winter sports. You'd originally come from a place untouched by winters so harsh, and she delighted in explaining the intricacies of the snow-tinged world to you. Few documentaries could hold a candle to the image of your girlfriend (or mate, as she'd so put it) padding through the powder, an explanation of the
The cards too, had proven a regular retreat, but one you frequently fell short in. You'd the suspicion she'd read your mind and cheat, but couldn't prove it.
Naturally, throughout the length of your time, the two of you turned to that activity which people of mutual affection, boredom and great privacy so often do. Sex.
A good deal of it.
While it had been an act of recreation to an extent, the main purpose was as clear as the fire of instinct which lit her eyes in your nightly unions. Mating. And all the connotations which that carried, and which you thought so endlessly about.
But your lover had never declared herself to be of child, nor had you noticed anything change about her.
It seemed no children were to come yet, be they of man or monster.
Would they ever? Could they even?
More than that, in the
Did you want them to?

Morning. The cold air nipped your nose and tried to worm beneath the covers.
You woke up to the absence of Lucario between your arms. Unusual. She nearly always woke before you, but, with your duties reduced, found little better to do than lay with you till you woke, sharing one another's body heat.
You blink and sit up in bed, yawning the while.
The light of a sun-pregnant morning shines in, last night's snowstorm forgotten.
It is not late, perhaps six, seven o'clock. Despite your lack of work, the ranger training has whipped the slack from your sleep routine.
She looks to the the set of drawers on the opposite side of the cabin to you.
You call out to her, the confused, wordless yelp of the newly woken, clutching your woolen blanket up to a bare chest.
Just then, you hear an odd sound from where she faces. It's strange. Tinny. A sound far too synthetic for this part of the world.
She turned to you, a mixture of apprehension and excitement about her.
"The CB radio's on. It's the regional office. Command's calling."

The words sound strange, coming from me.
Cee-bee.
Office.
Command.
Language from a land not here, of halogen lights and concrete.
Lying in bed, his face speaks to confusion, non-comprehension. His aura-taste speaks much the same. Unsurprising, him having just been roused from sleep.
I didn't know much more, in truth. I'd only woken maybe ten minutes minutes before him. Eight of those had been spent beside him, enjoying the heat of his larger body. Only just now, had the machine sparked to action, and so to myself.
Regardless, I try to reiterate, recount the past few events for his sleep-addled mind.
The delicate hiss of static interrupts.
"Survey Station One-Nine, please respond, repeating, survey station one-nine. Over." A male human on the other side, garbled as his voice is. Landers perks up at hearing it.
Funny, I think, this is the first time he's heard the voice of one of his ilk since the onset of winter.
I motion to him that he might rise from our bed, with good reason. Telepathy is a tool many-bladed, but for electronics - useless. No soul to stick to, nothing warm with which to connect the inner energies, from which my voice comes. My mind does not conjure images of a person behind the receiver, but a gummy pair of lips, and shiny teeth sitting disembodied in that inexplicable void of radio-waves and electricity.
Yeck. I always disliked electronics.
He understands, rising from the plush covers to join me where I stand.
He clears his throat before answering. "Command, this is Survey Station One-Nine. We copy, over."

Every ranger station, even one so rustic as ours, carries a standard issue CB radio system. Two-way. They're used rarely, so as to conserve a limited battery. Non-urgent messages are transferred by mail in the fortnightly supply drops.
The radios purpose is singular; emergencies. While this can apply to medical grievances or wounds, the primary objective is the calling in of support for catastrophic disasters, natural or otherwise.
20 years back, before my time or Landers', the presiding ranger called in a firefighting squadron, saved damn near the entire boreal forest from becoming so much slag. You can still see the traces of charred wood in the forgotten nooks of my mountain.
Funny, to think I might stand where he did just now. Is my call quite so urgent?
But then, it isn't my call.
In select occasions, command will see fit to contact their rangers, usually with a reason. A very good reason.
We wait to hear ours.

"That is Ranger Landers there, correct?"
Yes, says Landers.
"And uh-" The unseen voice pauses, as if looking to a reference. "Freida, right?".
I growl a reluctant confirmation. That is not my name. Not any longer, in spite of what the voice's papers must tell it.

The voice is quick to begin. No point wasting battery.
"Last night, a bush plane took off from Yeller Falls." Yeller Falls. A small town is considered the border between the. I remember passing through when I got posted here the very first time. And once more after. Everything past it is homesteads, nomads, untouched land and wild Pokemon. And us.
"It was scheduled to land at Lake Lacoriago, a gold mine out east of your position."
The name is familiar, but misleading. It was a lake millions of years ago, but now; a man-carved pit ringed by heavy machinery and prefabricated buildings, where men and Pokémon claw shiny treasure from the oil-black dirt.
"Tried to get some urgent supplies through, when there was a break in the bad weather. Risky, but as I understand, the mines hazard pay is triple a normal delivery. Typical affair, some medicine, machine parts, electrical components. Midsize plane, crew of two, One pilot, Gwen DeLacy, one Pokemon- a Staravia, memory serves."
"How does this all relate to us?" Inquires Landers. I've a feeling that I know why, and that unnerves me. There's an unbroken silence. I nudge him.
"Oh, uh, over."
The voice continues. "Because it didn't arrive." Called it.
"We received word maybe four hours ago from Lacoriago, that the plane hadn't landed, nor given any explanation why. Attempts to contact it all failed."
"Its flight plan shows that it was to cross over a significant portion of your nature reserve on it's route. We think that it may have crashed there."
He narrows his eyes. "Do we know why the plane went down?"
"Not currently. Neither Lacoriago, nor any of the nearby stations have reported mayday transmissions from any aircraft. No sightings, either. It, uh, just vanished. Over."

"As such, the Ranger corps would like to request that you do something about this."
Ah. Now we reach the meat of the question; what they want from us.
"We'd like to ask you, both as professionally trained rangers, and as the only settlement within distance of the planes course, to try and locate the crash site, and locate and treat any survivors. Over."
Huh.
I glance at Landers. His face is difficult to read. His aura-taste, however, speaks to his feelings. Confusion. Worry. Intrigue. Much the same as myself.
He turns from the microphone for a second, facing me.
"What do you think?"
What do I think? I haven't been given time to think. I was asleep fifteen minutes ago.
Best to check our options, I suppose.
"Ask if they have planes on standby". It is general affair in these sorts of things, as any ranger worth their badge would know. Easier to find something from a birds eye view.
"Do you have any aircraft or flying Pokemon that could be used here? Or any of the Search and Rescue teams on standby? Over."
S/R teams? Good idea.
"You're wondering why we aren't searching from air? Naturally. DeLacy only flew because there was believed to be a period of mild weather, last two days. As we speak, a cold front is coming. A bad one. Be a very bad idea to be airborne when it comes, whether it's a plane, chopper, or flying Pokemon. For that same reason, we can't fly in an S/R team."
A pause. "Thats likely not what you want to hear, I know. But it's the truth."
The voice coughs, and it's professional tone seems to... drop? At least, I think it does. It's difficult, discerning the inflection in human voices without their aura-taste or body language.
I look to Landers. His aura-taste seems to suggest he thinks the same as I. Always puzzled me, how he can do it so effortlessly, understand man-talk so well.
"I'd like to inform you that, well, this is all optional. Command is not ordering you to do this. It is merely asking because you are in the area. While the plane did cross your area, it wasn't the . There's no guarantee it is actually within the parks reaches. It might have gone of course, and be hundreds of miles away. And even if you do find it well, there may be a chance that, ahem, well-"
The voice pauses.
"Not just that either. Weather reports predict likelihood of blizzards in the upcoming days. It's the reason the plane took the risk of travelling at night, to get there before the weather soured."
"Conditions could make travelling by foot unwise."
"It mightn't end well, is what I'm saying. Over."

Silence.
"So." Says Landers.
"Yeah." I agree. Nod for added effect.
We're quiet for maybe ten seconds.
"So, uh, what are you thinking about... this?"
"Er, well theres a plane down som

"Your attention please." Our friend is back.
"So as to your choice, could you noti-"
The voice seems to begin once more, but is interrupted. Even through the electric haze, I hear another voice, muffled and indistinct, which converses with ours. Two sets of lips in the void. They mouth at each other, awash with distortion.
Our faint intruder departs, leaving the original voice to turn his focus back upon us.
"It has been brought to my attention that there was a passenger."
His voice is heavy, leaded even.
"A child was in the plane when it went down."
Sainted Keldeo.
"One of the metallurgists had her son flown over for visitation. Last minute arrangements, as I understand." A pause.
"You may want to factor this into your decision."
Is that a sigh I hear?
"Please notify us of your choice in the next 2 hours. We'll send you more info in the event you accept. Over and out."