My grandfather used to talk about it. The day it happened. It was not a happy story. He told us, his children, as a bedtime story. As a warning. The story always started the same: a new nuclear reactor, a new fission invented by humans, and a promise to power the entire Eastern Hemisphere for years. All eyes turned to the savior as it was switched on, watching the lights glow and the turbines stir the strange, ethereal liquid--
And then they were gone.
The events that followed can only be described as cataclysmic failures by every disaster relief agency in every government on the plant. I'm sure you remember the figures. The initial statistics were staggering. 5% of the population were immune. Everything else died. Plants. Animals. Humans. Everything.
Those that were immune were treated to an interesting side-effect of the radiation. The radiation transformed from a poison into a mutagenic agent; a chemical that effected life on a molecular level. Their entire molecular structure changed. To this day, no one is sure why. It showed quickly, within the second or third generation of the life on the island. Even the humans were effected. Only one percent of life was uneffected.
That led to the quarantine. The main island of Japan was completely shut off from the rest of the world. No one in, no one out. Except my grandfather. He got permission in. Being the world's expert on the effects of radiation has its perks; if being quarantined along with an island of toxic waste is a perk.
The one percent started to rebuild, rebuild in a new process that started to scare people. Specifically people in governments. That was one of the many factors that led to the war. The last straw was the sinking of the HMS Arnold. But really, that was just an excuse. The battle had been planned on all sides for months now. The one percent fought hard, using their newfound companionships with the beasts on the island. Even the plants and animals seemed to understand that they were fighting for their homeland. My father knew this, from my grandfather's work, and warned the government to not go through with the war. This is where my grandfather's story becomes my father's.
The war lasted five months and thirteen days. The Battle of Nagasaki was the last stand for the survivors. They fought hard, but they eventually fell. Japan fell. The natives lost, and the worlds governments took the island for themselves.
Six governments took the island of Japan. Six governments drew on a map and divided up their slice of the pie. The former natives of Japan were not invited to this conference. From west to east: China took Hoenn and used the region as a testing grounds for experimental pollution reduction techniques, The United States took Kanto, The United Kingdom took Johto, France took Kalos and quickly outlawed Japanese and made French the official language, and Australia took Unova. Besides China and France, the governments left the regions alone. This was their punishment, to be forgotten and ignored. A monument to the sins of nuclear researchers.
But while they were forgotten, the island quickly recovered. It was no longer called Japan, and within one generation, that name was dropped from their culture. They never stopped working to retake their land. They developed new ways to interact with the so-called monsters, perfected their methods of capturing and controlling them, training them to make them stronger. The population of the island also rebounded, faster than any government could predict.
The revolution was swift and decisive. Each of the regions worked together to quickly expel the foreign governments. Again, the outside world decided a quarantine was the best action. The natives had no complaints.
I moved there shortly after to finish my father's work. Again, the perks of our field. I added to my father's by studying the interactions between the monsters and the humans of the island. It is my life's work. I met my wife here. I had my grandchildren here. I understand this island, its beauties and dangers, for more than any other outsider. I could never have imagined you would plan what you speak of.
Forgive my ramblings. I recount the past as a warning, despite the fact that I am sure you know it well. I must make you understand what you are planning. You call these mutated creatures "monsters", and you are not wrong in that title. These creatures are not playthings. You keep them as pets, and find them useful in daily life. Religion has sprung up around them. Life has adapted to them.
And no, as the 100 year quarantine lifts, you wish to showcase these monsters as toys? You expect outsiders, who have only heard ghost stories and rumors, to respect them? To understand the dangers of monsters? They do not uphold the tradition. They will not fear and respect monsters.
You asked for my recommendation. You expect me, the outsider, to seal this letter with no more than "Yes, go right ahead" and some hot wax. I do not wish to see this island, my home, turned into a safari zone for tourists.
The Pocket Monster League is, in my professional recommendation, an incorrect use of the unnatural wonders of this island. I cannot in good conscience recommend this course of action.
Sincerely,
Professor Samuel Oak Ph.D
Director of Research - Pallet Town Laboratories

































