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[color=gray]Soft breezes entered the small town of Slopadelphia, slipping through the cracks of houses and bringing the scent of wet mud to anyone up this early in the morning. Rainwater rolled off of crops in fat dewdrops and glistened against a backdrop of rust and wood. It was one of those mornings where the sky looked like an old blue blanket and every breath taken felt heavier than usual. 

Slopadelphia had its humble start in the old world as a series of mediocre bus stops and later evolved into a series of mediocre train tracks several decades after the explosion. Although it was now vaguely considered to be a town, most of the tracks still remained embedded into the ground and divided the area in two rough sections with a town square in the middle. The houses in both sections were all in various states of disrepair, sporting old paint, clutter, bulky air conditioning units and the occasional tasteful bare doorframe. Navigating the cramped and maze-like paths was near impossible unless you were a local, and on this particular day, againt all odds, someone wasn't.

[color=lightgray]"I [i]said[/i], please let me [i]in[/i]!!!"[/color] 

Hector Mineshaft. Late twenties, soot colored hair and eyes. Tendency to apologize, especially when unnecessary. Currently trying to meet the local territory professor with mixed success.

[color=#f5b041]"First you eat my oranges, and now you come to bang my door down? Your generation needs to know a lesson or two in RESPECT!"[/color]

Professor Charcoal. Old. It was accurate to say that he was bitter at having his radio calisthenics interrupted, but it was also accurate to say that he was always bitter and this was just a convenient way to justify it at the moment.

The professor's house was isolated and far away from the rest of Slopadelphia, which made it easier to spot. The ceramic zigzagoon statues and various warning signs scattered along the way helped as well, although every local simply identified the off-white shack by its pale orange trees and their infamous hermit of an owner. The younger citizens of Kasparc especially feared his horde of pampered zigzagoon. If a toy was stolen with one of their pickup abilities, it wasn't getting returned. 

[color=lightgray]"I said I was sorry!"[/color], pleaded Hector. He had made the mistake of plucking one of the professor's many, many oranges from one of his many, many trees, as despite his lawful nature he had skipped breakfast and had regretted it. The young man straightened himself up a bit and mustered the courage to continue begging the professor to open the door. [color=lightgray]"Kasparc law states that an area's designated professor has to assist in the pokemon delivery process!"[/color], he shouted. His eyes teared up a bit. [color=lightgray]"Failing to comply will result in [i]various[/i] legal [i]consequences[/i]!"[/color]

The inside of the door grew quiet for some time, until the professor raised his voice again. It had the softness and grace of a trash compactor. [color=#f5b041]"Well, I don't HEAR any damn kids there, it's just you! How do I know you're not just trying to rob an old man of his resources!?"[/color]

It was no use, Hector would have to wait on the teenagers that were selected by his coworker. As was typical for less developed areas where nominations were less frequent, they were on the older side of the scale. His coworker, Helena, had various ways of letting them know, from ominous letters to speaking with their parents to hunting down a mutation with a crossbow and carving the coordinates onto its intestines. She had approached one of them in groucho glasses at one point. For Hector, she represented everything wrong with their organization. He thought of her with a sigh and waited for the new scouts to arrive.

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