
The last week had been hell. Hunter was gone, and now we were fugitives from the government. Life wasn’t fun. Articuno pounded the chilly air slowly and methodically toward our destination. We had flown for hours, away from the Seafoam Island tragedy to the nearest refuge of society. To my hometown of Cinnabar Island. The rest of the landmass leapt from the early fog like a hungry animal lying in ambush.

The dull crimson burst of daybreak shone off the white sands of Lapras Beach, where I spent so many youthful, sunny days. I inhaled a sharp breath with nostalgia as I beheld the Eden where I was born. The enormous, lavish hotels spread out far below us. The Dragonair Resort, known all around this part of the world, lounged on the crystalline beach of Squirtle Lagoon. I whispered softly to Articuno and directed it to descend to the sands below. It began a slow spiral downward. I shouted, “Tech, you alright buddy?”
“I’m fine,” he responded. “Are we landing now?”
“Oh yeah,” I replied.
“Good,” he said, “because I can’t feel my feet.” He weakly laughed, and started kicking them back and forth over the rapidly approaching beach. With a final, mighty burst, Articuno killed our velocity and raised a large cloud of white quartz sand around us. We were safe, and back on solid ground.

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