The Tauros stamped nervously in their pen, muscles twitching in time to the rumbles of the black clouds overhead. The tattered wood fence, repaired many times over, bowed outward where the beasts gathered. No wind blew, no Nincada sang. As often happened when the summer rains came, Murkrows flocked to town, hunched together in the shaded eaves of the old courthouse. Today, the gallows were empty, but their red eyes were watchful. They could be patient.

The school bell rang. Twelve noon. Silence and stillness. White, frightened faces appeared at the windows facing Main Street. The swinging doors of the saloon parted. A figure in black ambled lazily into the center of the street, spurs clinking with each deliberate step. He glared at the onlookers with flashing, feline eyes from between a broad-brimmed black hat and red handkerchief mask. People said he was disfigured, on account of his mask and short, hunched stature. That he had taken to MooMoo Milk for its restorative powers. People said that he some kind of monster, a man transformed by greed; that he was former bandit, a train robber, an outlaw. When he took over the town, he was known simply as Boss. He gathered a small pack from his Ponyta and picked out a single, shining Masterball.

Silence and stillness. The Murkrow rustled uneasily; a lost Tangela scurried across the avenue. At the end of the lane, a single cloaked figure entered town on a Rapidash. The figure in black watched as they approached, tossing and catching the purple ball, as casually as flipping a coin. With only a few steps between them, the figure dismounted. She drew back her hood. Her long red hair streamed behind her even without the aid of a breeze.

"Well, Meowth, you've done well for yourself."

The figure in black tipped his hat and pulled down the handkerchief mask to speak. "This town belongs to me, Jesse, and I'm prepared for trouble." His whiskers twitched.

"Where is he?"

"Take a look for yourself."

A saloon girl burst onto the street. "You don't have to do this," she rasped, voice husky on the verge of tears. "Jesse, just surrender now!"

In her hurry to get between the two, the girl's heavy wig fell askew, revealing short blue hair. Jesse hesitated at first, but at the sound of her old friend's voice, she knew. Besides, "she" was as flat as a Stunfisk. And the red of the dancer's dress was really not his color.

"James," she said quietly, "I came prepared to fight."

Meowth cackled. "That's right!"

James, revealed and resigned, stepped back with a dramatic swish.

"Very well then," he said, "Twenty paces each, and turn on my count."

Jesse and Meowth nodded to each other, then counted out their steps. "One!" Jesse closed her eyes and fingered the pokeballs at her hip. This would be her only chance. The consequences of losing—the image of James in yet another dress flashed in her mind—would be too much to bear. "Two!" The town drew a collective breath. The Murkrows chittered with glee. "Three!"

Lightning cracked and the clouds broke. The staccato of torrential rain tapped angrily on the tin roofs, bringing the quiet valley awake with a roar. The wooden fence snapped. Before a single Pokeball could be thrown, the Tauros stampeded down Main Street.