PMD 2: Crawling.

Level B1

Here’s the game screen. Nothing’s happening yet.

: Oh, look. A pleasant little seed… thing. And money, too. What the hell is that doing there?

: Hey! The little bugger bit me!

(Not pictured: Our little Sunkern friend gets the ever-loving crap beaten out of him.)

: That was refreshingly violent!

: That is just so wrong. How would a forest build itself off of a vertical progression? Is this thing a bunch of big slabs of ground stacked on top of each other? And even then one has to consider the origin of such a system. How could you even build-

: It’s generally accepted that our ancestors were more advanced than the cave paintings let on.

:That’s just stupid.

Level B2

Nothing to see here. Trust me, this is a thoroughly dull floor.

Level B3

: Berries. Lying on the ground. In the middle of a forest.

: Completely safe!

: But of course. After all, they’re natural.

: This is not a good thing. Where there’s leveling, there’s grinding.

(Not pictured (I could have sworn I got it…): Learning absorb.)

: I’m a vampire!

: Why am I such a low level? This natural disaster bollocks may have only started recently, but it’s not like it’s completely new. Have I just never dealt with anything before? What is my backstory, anyway?

: Don’t think to hard about these things. It’s not good for the continued non-asplosion of your head.

Level B4

: Mommy… Where are you? Sniffle…

: Telegram.

: Huh?

: Well… it’s like, you know, sometime on TV and stuff, you know, people come up to the door and say ‘telegram?’ And sometimes it’s not really a-

: Admit it, it was a dumb joke.

: I don’t see you doing any better.

: Um…

: Oh, yeah. Right, right. Your mom sent us to get you.

: OK.


You’re Winner

: I don’t know how I could ever thank you properly…

: How about next time you get the police instead?

: Didn’t they break up?

: (They got back together.) Yes, ha ha, cultural references are funny. Good job. But, seriously, get somebody qualified next time.

: That’d be us.

: …Wait, what?

: When Pokemon are in trouble, they send out a request for help (somehow…) and then some random strangers pop in and help. Quite frankly, this whole situation is entirely expected.

: …God dammit.

: Um… Right, well, can I at least get your names?

: I’m Floyd.

: Name’s Trielo.

: … Cool…

: Hey, you managed to find someone who likes your retarded name!

: You shut up.

: Thank you! Floyd and Trielo!

: I know it isn’t really enough, but this is a token of our thanks. Please accept it.

-Oran Berry Get- -Pecha Berry Get- -Rawst Berry Get-

: Thank you so much. Good bye.

(Not Pictured: Parent and child leave. Nothing special.)

: …So, what now?

: It just so happens that I have a shack lying around and going to no good use.

: How incredibly convenient!

: (I’m inexplicably happy. Maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that I don’t have to sleep in the woods now.)

: I’ll show you around so the player knows what these things do.

: It’s where you get mail.

: How astoundingly obtuse!

: I want to help Pokemon. We should form a rescue team.

: Wait, how does that relate to the mailbox?

: They had to get the setup in there somehow.

: Besides, I’m not really sure I want to…

: But thou must!

: Nope, not feeling it.

: But you have to!

: I suppose. It’s not like they’ll let me leave the dialog box.

: Your planning is impeccable.

: So, what do you think we should call it?

: How about… Team Bugger Off?

: No.

: (Hmm… I know! I’ll call it ‘NOT DONGS’ as an elaborate form of criticism!)

: That not criticism, that’s irony. Irony of the unintentional sort. The kind of irony that takes your point and breaks it into a million pieces.

: Damn telepaths.

: Okay, fine. Let’s just stick with the old standby of heavily layered, ham fisted meta irony.


:And that’s terrible.

And that is how

Trielo and Floyd

Began their careers together

As a rescue team.

The next morning…

: Ah well. Back to bed.

Next: The adventure begins anew again.

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