Warning: the following one-shot contains dark and suggestive themes, mentions of drugs, suicide, and imagery that may not be suitable for all audiences.

Come to Kanto, and the folks here will tell you that the only dark side of this happy-go-lucky region is Team Rocket, which is a big load of crap if you ask me.

Put simply, the grunts were just youth who were impoverished and uneducated. They did bad things for the sake of labeling themselves as bad; what they were doing, really, was plain stupidity. All they ever did was steal some folks' Pokémon, call it "evil", and then like an amateur, leave behind enough evidence so that anyone can trace them back all the way to their headquarters.

It's true that you don't hear about crimes and people dying in Kanto much. It's too nice of a region for those things. Take any magazine or newspaper, and you'll see articles discussing how delicious golden Magikarps apparently taste, but none referring to the graveness of the recent opioid epidemic. There is news introducing the possibility of new Poké Balls from the Silph Co. but none on how many young trainers—some as young as ten years old—die each year after falling off their flying-types due to a lack of knowledge on the safety procedures of mounting a flying Pokémon. The media covers what some random guy feels about the Pokémon Butterfree yet fails to mention how a scientist based in Vermillion just recently discovered an easier way of detecting liver cancer. It's all so messed up.

And here's why: the government along with the rest of entire Kanto population are blind to a lot of what goes on in the region. It may be the place that first came up with the concept of Pokémon battling, but damn it, not everything revolves around this sport!

People are obsessed with it—too obsessed. The reason why it's practically a ghost town near my work building is because most people can't accept what I do. Kanto is too nice of a region for them to ever realize that. The people are too nice. Nice, but also ignorant and naive. Everything is all about battling, battling, and more battling until they see what I do every day. Some may have heard rumors about my place, and whether those rumors are true or false, I don't really know. But here's the part where I reveal myself.

I'm a crime-scene cleaner.

Yes, that's right.

Ask me what I do for a living, and I'll tell you truthfully that that's my occupation. While everyone is going around and fantasizing about going on their own journeys, I'm doing a job few think about and even fewer consider doing themselves. I do what it sounds like I do: I clean up what gets left behind in the murders, the suicides, the accidental killings, and the homicides from the slums of Saffron City.

Someone's gotta do it, and this is exactly what makes the job so profitable. I'm what you can consider a veteran now: I've been running the business on my own with my small team for over ten years now. And yet, it's not like I have much of a choice. Once you do it enough, you develop your own ways of coping.

About two months ago, I was approached by a peculiar journalist who was interested in meeting me and following me through my work. In the last decade I've been working, about six journalists or reporters have come to me, and I've declined all of them after allowing the second one through.

That was the biggest mistake of my life.

I applaud the rest of these journalists' curiosity, but I turn them all down now because I know none of them can be prepared to see what I see.

What struck me about this particular journalist at the time—Julie Ciders is her name—was her unrelenting persistence. She has a certain spark of ambition that I find admirable. In her email, she insisted that she conduct this meeting. She added that she was once an ER nurse and that she has seen it all: trainers coming in broken bones, deep cut-wounds, heat strokes, concussions, and more.

She swore to Arceus she could handle it, and I tried many times to convince her otherwise. I told her that disturbed scenes are never quite the same as when they are fresh. People can handle blood and guts, sure, but just give it some time and decompositional organisms will start appearing at exponential rates. It's never pretty by then.

But with me being the type of guy who can't bring himself to turn down an enthusiastic person, I agreed. I just prayed this wouldn't be yet another mistake.

We arranged the time and the location. Thursday—today—at three o'clock sharp.

That's my lunch time, and six minutes before the clock struck three, I see a woman wearing jeans and a floral blouse walk in my office. She looks short, a bit plump, and has skin and hair the color of mocha. She immediately recognizes me, shakes my hand, and greets me formally. I stop eating my sandwich to do the same.

"Richard Moore," I say to her. "Pleased to meet you. Lucky for you, Ms. Ciders, I just got a call."

"You sound like you expected it," she says, her brow raised.

"Exactly," I say, leading her out. "I get three or four calls a day, and this happens to be the second one of today. The location's near, and it doesn't seem too messy. I told the client I'd be there about now."

"Perfect," she says. She flashes her near-flawless teeth. "I'm ready."

I lead her to the small, back warehouse behind the building to where my ol' buddy and Pokémon, Bubby or Bubs the Slowbro, is washing my pickup truck with Water Gun. He stops what he's doing when I arrive and makes a sound similar to what an opera singer would sound like when ze yawns.

"Yeah, you wanna come along and help buddy? There might not be much to do. It's only inspection day."

He makes a loud noise that I take as a "yes" and starts picking up all the cleaning supplies to put away at speed so fast, you won't even realize he's a Slowbro.

"You take your Pokémon to work, Mr. Moore?" Ciders asks. I have a habit of mentally referring to people by their last names.

"It's Bubby's choice," I say, "I don't force him. He wants to come along. I don't know what goes on inside a Slowbro's brain, but I take it he finds the job satisfying. As strange as that may sound."

"I see." She doesn't question further.

The two of us hop in the front and buckle up. Bubby goes in the truck's trunk. I flick a switch on a small remote, and the warehouse's back door opens. I pull out with a three-point turn and then we're on our way to the address. Ciders takes this time to ask me some of the questions she prepared.

"How much do you charge?"

"Depends. To clean up a single blood splatter on the wall can cost up to a hundred. Three hundred to eighteen thousand is the range, though there are exceptions. There are always exceptions. But really," I say, turning to face her for a second,"there's no job we turn down. We can't turn down anything."

She looks out the window, and I notice that we're passing by the Saffron Police Station already.

"What made you decide to do this? Why not something else?"

I laugh. "It's because I couldn't make a living out of anything else. I might not look like it, but I liked drawing. I liked baking, playing chess, and at one point, I enjoyed Pokémon Battling. I hate it now of course—"

"—so you're what? A liberal?" she chuckles.

"If that's how you want to put it," I say. "I couldn't expect to do anything half decent out of just what I liked. Reality's harsh like that. I saw that there was a problem, an opportunity, and I seized it. Haven't looked back since then." I turn to look behind me for a second to make sure the moron driving the car behind me isn't following too close.

"Maybe that's why I'm single," I joke, and she laughs, to my surprise.

"You're funny, Mr. Moore," Ciders says, half-smiling now. "Although, I hope you don't mind me asking so suddenly—what's the worse case you've ever gotten?"

I whistle. "Go big or go home. You sure you ready to hear it?"

"Of course."

"Worse one I got...let's see. I'll have to say it was that time when a teenager jumped into the Magnet Train tracks as one was just coming. Everything about the boy just went everywhere, limbs and all. I won't tell you what I find underneath that train. It put the Train out of service for a good month or so. Sometimes, I sit and wonder if people who do these things to themselves think about what people like me have to do afterward."

"Valid thought."

Shortly after, I pull up into the driveway of a small townhouse among many others. Saffron City is known for finding ways to squeeze as many people as possible in a small square of land. The population's enormous--all the more reason why things happen when they do.

I get out and slam the door behind me. Bubby makes a moaning sound and tosses me a pair of white coveralls from the back. Completely liquid impermeable. I pass a set to Ciders, and then we both put on protective eyewear, thick gloves, and shoe covers. They're all part of the standard operating procedures for cleanup. It's hard to believe, but this job can be considered dangerous from infectious events—hepatitis and HIV included. Bubby has his own Slowbro-shaped suit to get in as well. Honestly, the only thing goofier than me wearing it is Bubby wearing it.

The owner of the building must've heard us from inside. He's an old man, old enough to be my grandfather, with a curved back and barely enough white hair to cover his baldness. Though despite how worried he looks, his tone of voice tells me that he's partly relieved that we've arrived.

"Mr. Duncan?" I ask.

He nods.

"This is my...er, assistant," I introduce Julie Cider and she waves. "I'll cut straight to it the chase. Show me where the location is and we'll finish inspection in...I want to say a maximum of two hours. Unless it's worse than what you described to me over the phone."

"No, no," he exclaims. "It's just the carpet and some portions of the walls."

"We'll see about that," I tell Mr. Duncan as I begin walking forward; he leads the way inside. "Also, I didn't look into the records, but tell me more about the deceased, Mr. Duncan."

"Sam Weinberger was the name," he croaks as he shuffles forward. We follow him down a narrow, dark hallway. "He reminded me of my son...I-I rented the basement to him at just a five hundred a month, but I didn't realize how troubled he was until I heard that noise that night..." His voice trembles before he resumes his sentence. "...that horrible, horrible night. My wife found him first the next morning...the gun in his stiffened hand..."

He stops at a door and reveals the keys inside his pocket.

"The room hasn't been touched since the incident," Mr. Duncan says with a crestfallen glance. "But if you would, I would rather not revisit it...again."

I take the keys from him. "I understand. I'll just inspect the room like I promised today and tell you more when I finish."

He nods like he understands and passes me the keys. Without a word, he turns and walks away.

"The hardest part about cleanup is having to show genuine compassion. I've done this too much," I tell Ciders as I insert the key in. "These people saw something that they won't forget. For the rest of their life. It's hard to get the image out of your head once you've seen it. I hope you're mentally and physically prepared."

I turn the doorknob and the door creaks open. I push it further with my hand while my other hand grabs a flashlight attached to the side of the trousers. I gesture Bubby and Ciders inwards.

It's a mess inside. The room is dim, and there isn't even a real proper light source. There's a small toilet in a cramped room to side, a microwave in a corner, and then a mattress and dresser in the middle of the room. A small window sits above the mattress and near the ceiling. There are clothes everywhere and broken pieces of electronics. I take the first step over a fallen piece of radio, and then I see it.

There's a large blood splatter stain on the right wall. More on the floor and on a small carpet and along the edges of the mattress. The color is near dark crimson after being dried on the materials' surface for so long.

"Bingo. There it is."

It's a lot better than what I usually see, but then that's generally the case with firearm suicides. Probably the most popular method of self-killing too: it's quick, and it's done. Just like that. 99% success rate.

I bend down and reach for the utility knife in my back pouch. I dig at the section of contaminated carpet, cutting it and tearing it away from the whole. It's about three feet long and four and a half feet wide.

"Imagine if this is what Little Johnny's mother sees the next time she sees him," I say flatly. "It's worse than seeing him just dead."

I face Ciders with the spoiled piece of material before tossing it to the side. "And that's not all. When my team and I go to clean all of this up tomorrow, we have to make sure every spot has been triple-checked." I wipe my hands against my suit. "And who knows what we'll find. Pieces of skulls. Parts of ears. Eyes and teeth.I've seen it all."

Ciders is silent for a long time. I think maybe the nauseating smell is getting to her until she nods and starts walking elsewhere, her eyes scanning and alert. I command Bubby to take care of the area, and I follow her.

"Mr. Moore? Look at this."

She's standing in front of the victim's dresser. There's a picture frame of whom I guessed to be the victim and his girlfriend. Next to it is an old phone, like the kind you see secretaries use in schools that are rarely provided for by the government. My eyes find something else hidden in the drawers.

"It looks like he tried to leave a message," she says, her voice quivering. I know she's crashing into sympathy. Not surprising. I've seen full-grown males break a little at the sight of scenes like this. "Imagine what his family must've felt. Or what his girlfriend would've wanted from him. Imagine what he could've said if he were still alive—"

"Even worse," I say, yanking out the bottom drawer. I dump out all the contents--there are clear bags filled with colorful capsules and more small bags containing what appears to be white powder. "He was a drug addict. Cocaine, from the looks of it. You know those steroid capsules that trainers use on their Pokémon to boost their speed? Twenty-two percent of it is cocaine, and it's harmless to Pokémon, but addictive to us. It's easy to harvest from the capsules and available in every PokéMart. It isn't hard for guys like him to get ahold of it. That girl in the picture may very well be his ex."

"He didn't want this," Ciders says. I watch as she crumples to her knees and starts to cry. To me, it's better that she cry than do anything else in this situation. Vomit or pass out, for instance.

"None of us do, sweetheart." I extend a hand. "Come on. We've got another hour or so before we've got to leave. The inspection isn't supposed to last long."

I pause.

"At the very least, I hope this experience gives you enough of what you're looking for, Ms. Ciders."

She bites down on her lip to control her emotions. "Of course, Mr. Moore, of course."

Then Julie Ciders hesitates before speaking once more. Her expression changes to a serious, and her eyes are fixated on me in a piercing gaze.

"Would you ever quit, Mr. Moore? This job, I mean. Would you ever grow tired of it?"

I stare at her. There are two answers I could say: one answer is the one that's expected and the other is the one that's true and from the heart.

"Tired?" I say, laughing a little.

"Never."