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My name is Zachariah Brannigan. This is a troubling tale.
I was a surgeon for the Pokémon Center housed in Jubilife city. It was a low wage, as healing Pokémon wasn't excatly a difficult feat, but it was enough to get me the money for an apartment in one of Jubilife's many apartment blocks. I often saw aspiring Pokémon Trainers walking down the main road in search of adventure and companionship. They were good times.
One day the Center was incredibly crowded, and before I knew what was happening, a young boy burst into the main lobby carrying a Dunsparce in his bleeding arms. He slumped against the counter and shoved the fainted, nearly dead Pokémon towards the Nurse managing the desk before he slumped to the ground. By the time we got to him, he was already dead and there was nothing we could do.
I did all I could for the little Dunsparce, as it was the boy's dying wish to see the young Pokémon well. For such a usually dense species, this Dunsparce was as alert as most other Pokémon and seemed keen to learn anything and everything. I took a shine to him immediately.
Of course, it wasn't all to go as planned. I took him out for a stroll one day and he wandered off into the local convenience store. Before I knew it, the store exploded. There had been a gas leak, and no one had realised. But I know little Duncy had. He wanted to save them.
And now I sit here in my diryt apartment with a dead-end job, clinging onto each bit of money I get, just so I can go and spend it on drugs and booze and drown myself in the sorrows. I will never love another Pokémon again.
