'Bad things?'
"Terrible things."
I forced myself to move away from the portrait, explore the rest of the house as I'd initially intended. But the joy of discovery was gone, replaced by a heavy weight in my chest and questions that demanded answers I didn't have.
I found the kitchen, the sitting rooms, the library—all untouched, as if frozen in time since the murders. On the second floor, I found bedrooms.
One was clearly Gary's—sparse, organized, filled with books on Pokémon training and League regulations. Another was his sister's—more personalized, decorated with photos and small mementos.
And at the end of the hall, the master bedroom. The parents' room. I stood in the doorway but couldn't bring myself to enter.
Finally, I climbed to the third floor and found the study.
The room was dominated by a large window that offered an unobstructed view of Route 1 stretching north from Pallet Town. I could see the path clearly despite the snow and make out the treeline marking the beginning of wilder terrain where Pokémon roamed freely.
This was where trainers began. This was where journeys started.
I stood at the window, staring out at the route, and tried to push the newly recovered memories to the back of my mind. There would be time to process them later.
Time to investigate, to seek answers, to understand what had happened to Gary's family.
But for now, I had a journey to begin. And whoever had killed the Oaks—whoever had torn this family apart—would eventually have to answer for it.
I just had to survive long enough to find them.
Movement in the distance down below caught my eye.
Down below, on the snowy path that led toward Route 1, I saw two figures. They were walking together, and even from this distance, I could tell something was off about the scene.
I leaned closer to the window, squinting to make out details.
The two figures were dressed in dark clothing—not civilian wear, but something more uniform.
Black pants, black jackets, and as they turned slightly, I caught a glimpse of a red R emblazoned on their chests.
Team Rocket.
My blood ran cold.
And then I saw what—or rather, who—they were dragging between them.
A third figure, smaller, clearly struggling against their grip. A boy, maybe around my age, with dark hair and—
One of the Team Rocket members pulled something from their pocket. A black cloth. They moved quickly, wrapping it around the boy's head, covering his face, muffling what must have been shouts or cries for help.
I was moving before I consciously decided to move.
"Gible!" I called, already running toward the stairs. "We're going out. Now!"
The little dragon didn't hesitate, following me as I raced down from the third floor to the second, then to the first, my feet pounding on hardwood floors.
I grabbed my jacket from where I'd left it in the entry hall, threw open the front door, and plunged out into the snow.
The cold hit me again, but I barely noticed it this time.
My focus was entirely on the figures below, on the boy being dragged toward Route 1. They were kidnapping someone in broad daylight on the outskirts of Pallet Town.
I ran down the hill, following the path I'd climbed earlier, my legs protesting the sudden exertion but carrying me forward anyway.
Snow kicked up around my feet, and I heard Gible keeping pace behind me, the little dragon's claws slushing on the slippery ground.
'What's happening?' Gible asked through our connection.
"Someone's being taken," I said, breathing hard. "Two Team Rocket members. Kidnapping someone. We're going to stop them."
'Fight?'
"Fight."
I reached the bottom of the hill and cut across toward Route 1, following the tracks in the snow. The three figures were ahead of me, maybe fifty meters away, still moving north. One of the Team Rocket members looked back and saw me coming.
"Hey!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the cold air. "Let him go!"
Both Team Rocket members stopped, turning to face me. They wore masks—black cloth covering the lower halves of their faces, only their eyes visible above.
The boy between them continued struggling, but his movements were weakening, as if he was exhausted from fighting.
"This doesn't concern you, kid," one of them said—a male voice, rough and dismissive. "Walk away."
"Not happening," I said, closing the distance to about twenty meters. Gible moved to stand beside me, scales gleaming even under the gray sky, teeth bared in a clear threat display. "Release him. Now."
The second Team Rocket member—female voice, sharper than the first—laughed. "Or what? Are you going to stop us? You and your little lizard?"
"Gible," the little dragon said aloud, the vocal correction carrying an edge of offense.
I looked at the boy they were holding. He was still struggling weakly, the black cloth covering his face muffling any sounds he was trying to make. I couldn't see his features to identify him, but it didn't matter.
Nobody deserved to be dragged off by Team Rocket.
Not after what I'd just remembered. Not after seeing what violence looked like in this world.
"Last chance," I said, keeping my voice level low despite the adrenaline flooding my system and the anger still burning from the recovered memories. "Let him go, or we make you let him go."
The two Team Rocket members exchanged a glance. Then the male reached for his belt and pulled out a Pokéball.
"Your funeral, kid."
He threw the ball, and it burst open in a flash of red light.