It started the way many bad stories start—with Brutus poking something he shouldn't have.
He hadn't meant to go off-trail that morning. He was just trying to find a shortcut behind the trainer hostel, maybe get a less painful jogging path that didn't involve being chased by Beedrill-sized mosquitoes or breathing in the divine aroma of Machop sweat from the battle dojo nearby.
Clove was chewing on a twig with the unrelenting bitterness of a creature personally betrayed by nature. Brutus had read somewhere that Nidoran chewed sticks to keep their teeth sharp, or maybe to spite gravity. Either way, it made a satisfying crunch-crunch as they wandered between overgrown fences and the lazy shade of old trees that had been there long before people started painting lines on dirt and calling them towns.
Then Brutus saw it.
Half-buried under a bush like some cosmic Easter joke: a pale, smooth oval about the size of a rugby ball, covered in faint green swirls and one very aggressive-looking crack down the middle.
It looked like the sort of thing that came with ominous violin music in the background. Or a government warning label. Or a faint psychic whisper saying run, child.
And Brutus, being Brutus, said aloud:
"…The hell is that?"
Clove gave it a sniff, sneezed violently, and immediately tried to headbutt it.
"No—stop! Jesus, it's not a Rattata. It's not even moving. It might be… dead."
Clove headbutted it again, less gently this time.
"Okay. So it's not dead. Might be undead. Or asleep. Or a bomb. And you—stop licking it!"
Brutus knelt by the strange egg, heart hammering.
It was warm.
Too warm.
And then—it twitched.
He recoiled. Nearly fell backward into the bush.
"Oh no. No no no. This is how horror movies start. This is the part where the fat guy dies first."
Clove snorted.
"…You're not helping."
---
Back at the Viridian Center, Nurse Joy looked at the egg, then at Brutus, then back at the egg, and slowly raised one eyebrow.
"You found this?"
"In the bushes. Swear to Arceus. Just lying there like someone abandoned it—or forgot it—or got eaten before they could come back for it."
Clove made a flat chirp, which Brutus was choosing to interpret as accurate but tactless.
Joy sighed and gently tapped the egg's surface with a diagnostic rod. It glowed faintly.
"No trainer tag. No incubation file. And that crack… hmm."
She gave him a very flat look. "You're not hatching this unsupervised."
Brutus blinked. "What?"
"Trainer code section 23-B. Mystery eggs are considered volatile biological entities until classified. For all we know it's a baby Kangaskhan. Or a baby Gyarados. Or a baby explosion."
"That's not a real species."
"Not yet," she muttered darkly.
Brutus leaned over the counter. "Okay but… let's hypothetically say I wanted to keep it. Not that I do. Hypothetically. What would happen?"
Joy gave him a long, weary look that screamed why do I get all the weird ones?
"…You'd need to register it with the League, agree to a standard observation period, and prepare for a sleepless hell of crying, feeding, cleaning, and the constant fear of waking up with your face half-melted by an accidental Ember."
Brutus turned to Clove.
"I think I'm ready for fatherhood."
Clove looked positively aghast.
---
The hostel didn't allow unregistered eggs, so Brutus had to splurge on a private room.
Which meant no more dinner. Or lunch. Possibly no breakfast either.
He sat on the floor beside the glowing incubator Joy had reluctantly lent him—under strict instruction not to tamper with the settings—and watched the egg like it might start reciting Shakespeare.
It didn't. It just pulsed softly in the darkness like a jellyfish heart.
Clove was curled up on the bed, blanket halfway over his face, tail flicking in protest at the absurdity of it all.
"You know," Brutus murmured, rubbing a sore calf muscle, "when I was a kid—back in the old world—I used to beg for a puppy. Beg. I made a PowerPoint presentation. With transitions. My mom said no. Said I wasn't 'responsible enough.'"
He glanced at the egg.
"Lady, wherever you are now… I'm in a different dimension, with a poisonous hedgehog and an unhatched cosmic mistake, and I just bought a protein bar for dinner. Who's irresponsible now?"
The egg twitched again.
"Not funny."
---
It hatched at 3:17 AM.
Brutus had dozed off, head slumped against the wall, dreaming of vending machines that spat out roast chicken. Clove snored beside him like a tiny chainsaw.
And then—CRACK.
He jolted upright. Blinked blearily.
The egg was glowing. Shaking.
"Oh, no no no—wait—I didn't even pick a name—"
Another crack.
Then a muffled squeal.
And with a sudden burst of radiant light, the shell split in two, and out flopped the wet, steaming, utterly confused form of a baby—
"What the hell is that."
It was pink.
Tiny.
Bulbous-headed.
Massive ears. Round, watery eyes. Two stubby arms, two stubbier legs, and a tail like a popped balloon.
Clove shrieked like it had seen Satan.
Brutus just stared.
"It's a… Cleffa?"
The baby made a noise like blurp, looked at him, and sneezed so hard it fell over.
He picked it up gingerly with both hands. It weighed less than a bottle of ketchup. It looked like it couldn't hurt a Metapod.
Its eyes met his.
"Ba!"
"…You're gonna ruin my life, aren't you."
---
The next morning, Brutus shuffled into the Pokémon Center with the expression of a man who had been milked emotionally dry by something soft and squeaky.
"Name?" Joy asked.
Brutus held up the Cleffa, who had tied his shoelaces together while he wasn't looking.
"Pain. Its name is Pain."
Cleffa squealed with delight.
Joy sighed. "Congratulations. You're now officially its trainer."
Clove facepalmed.
---
Brutus sat outside the Center later that day, Cleffa napping in his lap like a lump of sugar and sin, Clove nibbling nearby on a raw berry like he wanted to commit crimes.
"You're too kind, Clove," Brutus murmured. "You could've jumped ship days ago. You could've chewed through your Pokéball and sprinted into the forest screaming. But you're still here."
Clove looked up, slow and unimpressed.
"…Okay, fine, you're here for the snacks and revenge. But still."
Then his eyes drifted up.
Across the street, near a post office bulletin board, was a new notice.
In sharp, bold red letters:
> Mission Board – Indigo League Certified Tasks
"Trainers Needed: Assist in Egg Classification and Relocation Program."
High pay. Dangerous routes. Wild encounters likely.
Brutus stared.
Then back at Cleffa, who had now somehow peed on his shirt.
Then at Clove.
"…How do you feel about getting paid to carry other people's nightmare eggs?"
Clove nodded.
Firmly.
Brutus smiled, weary, grimy, and just barely brave.
"Let's get moving, boys."
And the team—one fat trainer, one grumpy porcupine, and one squeaky god of chaos—walked into the mission office like they hadn't just barely survived a dog attack, a toddler from hell, and a city that charged 500₽ for a sandwich.
This was going to be the weirdest journey of his life.
And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what he needed.
---
END OF CHAPTER 7