After all that we've been through [Diseases]

   It was a base. A concrete layered, twice over insulated, supposedly mixed-mode ventilated base of the secretive variety. It was not a storage for valuable or strange objects, at least not in the conventional sense. In fact, it paid host to a rather unusual ongoing trend, people inadvertently becoming Pokemon, in some respects unfortunate, in others, slightly less so.


   Raggy was one such resident of this pine box. Afflicted with youth and optimism, his rough countenance was only really a drape to his hardboiled enthusiasm. Before his body’s slight rebellion, people had complimented his chocolate brown hair, now as a pinkish Granbull, he rather strangely received admiration for his large jaw instead. He liked to joke that once upon a time, he had a respectable name, it got laughs out of most everyone, even though hardly anyone listened.


   It was his concrete homestead. He lived among others like himself, but he was his own pillar, his own strength. Not to imply other Pokemon were below his trust or perhaps inadequate, that was not the case. Simply put, it would be impossible for him to get a taste of his own medicine because he was his own medicine. This concept was lost in translation one-hundred percent of the time, so he was more or less reduced to self-describing as weird, an act that tortured him to no end. His only comfort was in his confidant, Yado.


    If Raggy was considered a loser in the “Pokemon lottery”, Yado as a Sudowoodo was basically a super loser. Possibly befitting of his tree-ish appearance, he was often content to remain in place, on better days striking a silly pose to amuse himself. He spoke rarely, smiled infrequently, did weird things occasionally. He wasn’t hard to get along with, mostly because there was hardly anything to get along to.


   Raggy and Yado were a room apart, 341 to his 342. As such, in addition to being a Pokemon, Yado also somewhat unwittingly played the part of an ear. Raggys’ grievances numbered well into the thousands, and not a single one was really worth any thought. It passed the time though, both Yado’s and Raggy’s, and that was likely the unspoken aim. 47 and 32 years of age respectively, they had no obligations, aspirations, or motivation. While in Raggy’s case, it was simply a lack of appliance of willingness, Yado was content in inaction.  


  Together they should have been like lemons and limes, apples and oranges, grapefruits and peanuts, but instead they were like two black piano keys, abominations on a color wheel, the first and third shelves on a bookcase. The point was, they were close, but not really. They started a weekly fitless club, it was like a fitness club, except the point was to strive for worthlessness, the riding thought being that purposefully pursuing an outward pathetic demeanor would enhance their charisma.


Needless to say, it didn’t really work.

👍(≖‿‿≖👍)


  Some day or another, Yado and Raggy were traipsing about, alternating between moseying and slow jogging. The path was the same, a mile long stretch of monotonous vaulted hallways, painted a deep red and lined with goldenrod embellishments. Back and forth down the hall, they made good headway in nothing at all. Then they met Hank along the way, trudging mysteriously.


  Hank was a Weepinbell. Conscripted into the role of medicinal expert due to the surprising accuracy of vines, he spent weekends on WebMD and the weekdays with General Hospital. If he were still a human, his salary would have seen a huge increase from the paltry sum he received as a waiter. Despite the general distrust of his actual level of expertise, he was the only one remotely qualified to handle a scalpel, and so he was and treated well.


  They engaged him of course, ignoring his slight reluctance with aggressive swagger. Hank was badgered with the disrespect of a cadaver without clothes, a half full pumpkin latte, a hatchback stuck in third gear, and other assorted nasty things. It was a short time later that he broke down in tears, begging the pair to leave him alone.


  After some subsequent pressing, he revealed to them the reason for his discontent. Some time ago, a resident of their domain had come to him complaining of general discomfort, a younger Luxio. It was a simple matter, a few prescription pills of dubious origin, and an hours’ worth of rest. It was not to be a pleasant outcome however.


  Somehow, a disease of some negative effects manifested itself in the poor Luxio. His discomfort turned to wracking coughs, dry eyes, and disorientation. Acute weakness plagued his muscles, rendering him unable to move, and his fur began to fall off in tufts. Coughing mucus turned to blood then to nothing at all, and the nails on his feet fell off. In addition, at another point one of his eyes turned a sickly green color. Hank didn’t notice this part as he was busy managing multiple tabs of inquiry into the maladies. At a point, the disease became something of an anomaly, transcending possibility and causing truly fearful effects. The Luxio’s bones had become exceedingly brittle, his neck could not support the weight of his head, this was further exacerbated by his body seizing up intermittently, coupled with continued chest pain later confirmed as sudden coronary artery disease. After two hours, he was naught more than a convulsive shell, as if by the force of the devil himself one eye outright detached itself from his head and rolled away earlier. It was another half hour before the poor creature finally stopped breathing and an immediate autopsy was performed. Thanks to Hank’s binging on Forensic Files and other assorted police procedurals, he had a general idea of what to do and in cutting him open discovered another unpleasant consequence of the mysterious affliction. Defying common sense and expectation, the blood had turned a sickly orange color, and a variety of organs had seemingly disintegrated. The spinal column crumbled upon contact, and the heart was bizarrely rock hard.


  Hank was more confused than horrified at first, Google had assumed he was writing a science fiction novel and viciously mocked his claims by returning roleplaying forums instead of medical advice. Later on, he realized it probably wouldn’t have helped much anyway. Now faced with the dilemma of a desecrated corpse bearing a disease of which he knew nothing about its transmission, he locked the doors and sealed the air vents. Hiding in one corner of the room, he realized moments later that if the patient had come to him, the disease had probably already spread. Thus he became dejected and sad, and in his moping encountered Yado and Raggy in the hall.


  To his horror, they seemed unconcerned. Yado had no qualms about dying, but was duly concerned with the actual process. Raggy appeared psychotically bent, considering the prospect of dying in such a fantastic way something of an intrigue. They followed him to the office of the manager, a boorish Ludicolo who heard Hank’s description of the disease, briefly viewed the body, and promptly declared a state of emergency, locking the base completely.


  The absurd pain and cruelty inflicted through the disease led to Hank referring to it as a “Poet’s disease”, so unflinchingly fantastic and otherworldly that its symptoms seemed to jump straight from the mind of an auteur. Unfortunately, it also had an immaculate transmission. The diseases reappeared the next day, an older Charizard, whose wings had quite literally shriveled, a Torterra who’s tree rotted, Hank was almost amused by how creative the disease could be in its methods, but the end result was always the same. Death and putrefaction shortly afterwards. Hank considered himself lucky he hadn’t contracted the monster yet, but had already resigned himself to a similar fate given the circumstances.


  Through all this, Raggy and Yado were taking advantage of opportunities. The unfortunate effects of the malaise were widely known at this point and a state of panic had descended upon the base. The halls were unusually quiet, most other Pokeumans hiding in their rooms, so Raggy and Yado were virtually free to wander the halls in ineptitude. It was almost a horrible joke, the disease was resourceful and found its way into one room after another, yet Raggy and Yado were not afflicted. Hank had been afflicted at some point too, they found his small body crumpled in the makeshift hospital, several tabs still open on the small laptop he used. For Raggy and Yado however, despite their views towards the virus, Hank’s death was immensely sobering. They hardly talked to anyone, even each other, no one did.


  Sometime after the disease had introduced itself, the manager called a meeting. Out of some 240 occupants of the base, around 38 or so remained, a shuffling group of survivors waiting for death. Gone was any comfort that could be found in each other, it was fairly meaningless. Speaking with an immensely strained smile and a somber tone, the manager said without much fanfare that death was inevitable, but also that they should as a group throw a big party one last time to get the most out of what was left. The idea was met with great enthusiasm, most of the surviving Pokeumans hardly left their rooms, let alone their beds, so the subsequent bustle of activity was a nice change.


  It was rather quiet that night. For a party, there was no wild activities, simply slow and quiet music in the background and a large table with whatever food could be scrounged up. It was a supper of confiding, the survivors all shared their pasts. The meat clerk who made eight dollars an hour, the college student who had spent the summer mowing lawns, in these stories, there was no sadness, no bitterness, just reminiscing. Slowly as the time went on, the table would briefly shake as someone else collapsed. There was something immensely ethereal about sitting at a table with the dead, but all did their best to avoid it.


  Raggy sat in the middle of the table, those across and to the right and left of him had knocked off some time ago, so he had little in the way of conversation. Yado had long since gone, their relationship ended as it had started, in silence. Raggy contemplated for some time if Yado was actually a friend of his or something else entirely. Eventually, Raggy felt himself falling asleep and confided in himself that whatever it may have been, he had enjoyed it.


  Silence, bright light, dim recollection. Startled, Raggy realized he had fallen asleep, but only felt slightly uncomfortable. As he looked around he realized with some humor that he had obtained the dubious honor of being the last one alive. He sat at a table of ghosts, and he even carried on a one sided conversation for some time. Eventually, he got up and resolved to take one last walk around the base. The silence was complete, Raggy’s paws hardly made any echoes as he wandered the compound. He discovered the manager’s office, where after searching the bookcase for trinkets, he discovered the controls to disengage the lockdown. At this point, he was heedless of the possibility of spreading the disease to the world outside, he just found the thought of seeing the sun interesting.


  As Raggy made his way outside the base, he sat under a nearby tree and relaxed without much thought. He felt no pain, he wondered if it was his final moments. He felt confident again that his life had been meaningful and so accepted that he would die, he wondered if it was a bad idea to die outside, but dismissed it, his body would become part of the soil, maggots removing all trace of his existence.


  Unfortunately for Raggy, he learned at a point that he had inadvertently cured himself with the aptly named technique “Heal Bell”. At a loss for words could barely describe what he felt at that moment, was it disappointment or anger? In fact, Raggy felt nothing, the whole thing was just too funny. He had no new outlook on life, he had nothing. So Raggy walked away, never once looking back at the entrance to the base.