The Withered Gym was not actually located in the urban centre of Harmony City. It sat in a small town at the city's northern edge, close to the border of the Tamar Desert.
The town had started out as nothing more than an informal settlement. It was only after the Withered Gym established itself there forty years ago that people began calling the place Withered Town. Even then, the Gym's presence had done little to bring the town any real attention. It stayed quiet, out of the way, and largely forgotten.
The reason for that came down to one man: Mort Cotterill, the Gym Leader.
Mort spent long stretches deep in the desert and rarely showed up to oversee his own Gym. Unlike conscientious Gym Leaders such as Mr. Charlie, he had never recruited staff or built any kind of team to keep things running in his absence. The Gym operated, in the loosest possible sense of the word, like a locked storage shed — its main gate shut for all but one day each month.
In his younger years, Mort Cotterill had been a well-regarded Ground-type specialist. He had competed in the Master Tournament and earned the title "Withered Earth." But that reputation did little for the Gym now. Even locals in Harmony City weren't particularly aware of it, let alone Trainers who might consider making the journey out to challenge it.
As a result, the Withered Gym held a Class Three rating — the lowest official classification in the Norlandia Alliance's Gym system — despite having a Master-level Trainer as its leader. It was nowhere near the same standing as a Class One Gym like the Luma Gym.
The only Trainers who came out this way were the ones who had set their sights on collecting every Gym Badge in the region and couldn't bring themselves to leave one unchecked.
Nova had worked odd jobs at the Withered Gym after finishing general education — taking care of the Trainers who showed up on opening days, keeping things moving. During that time, the Gym had managed to stay open for half the month. Once Nova left to pursue an internship at the Luma Gym in search of a Grass-type Pokémon Egg, Mort had given up on keeping any kind of regular schedule. One day a month, nothing more.
Corviknight made the two-hour flight at a steady, unhurried pace. That was one of the things that set Corviknight apart from faster fliers like Pidgeot — where Pidgeot hunted by speed, Corviknight flew with a smooth and rock-solid stability. For anyone who struggled with heights, that steadiness made a real difference. It was part of why the species had long been the top choice for aerial transport across the region. Only in areas where Tinkaton were active did that reputation take a hit.
Of course, there was the time Corviknight had deliberately made the ride unpleasant for Aresdra — but that was a different matter. It would never try the same thing with Nova. Nova would actually withhold its meals.
Withered Town came into view below, and Corviknight descended into the plaza in front of the Gym. Even from the air it was clear the place was nearly empty. A small handful of Trainers — identifiable by their gear — were waiting near the locked gate.
Nova landed with Sprigatito in his arms. The waiting Trainers drifted over almost immediately.
A stout man with a faint accent from Ice Field City greeted him with easy familiarity. "Hey, brother — that Pokémon of yours doesn't look like it's from around this region."
"Corviknight," Nova said, nodding. "And this one is a Sprigatito. Neither of them is common out here in Norlandia."
A woman with wavy hair and large sunglasses tilted her head. "Have you been out to the western alliances, young man?"
As she spoke, she reached out to scratch Sprigatito under the chin.
Sprigatito hissed at her.
"Oh!" The woman pulled her hand back with a delighted laugh. "It's got spirit!"
She was thoroughly charmed, though she kept a polite distance given that she had only just met Nova.
Nova looked toward the Gym gate, still firmly shut. "Wasn't today supposed to be the opening day? It's past nine-thirty and the door hasn't moved."
The stout man from Ice Field City shrugged with the ease of someone who had made peace with the situation. "Who can say? They say Old Man Mort has a temper all his own. If the door doesn't open today, then it just wasn't meant to be. Come back next month."
"Not opening?" Nova said flatly. "It's once a month — once — and he's still not opening it?"
A more serious-looking man stepped in quickly. "Easy, brother. Watch your words. Withered Earth is a respected senior in this Alliance."
"Respected or not, that doesn't mean people can be kept standing out here like this," Nova said. "I'd bet anything the old man just overslept. Nobody stop me — I'm going in to wake him up."
He turned and walked toward the Gym entrance with Corviknight at his side. Behind him, the Trainers exchanged glances.
"What's his problem?"
"No idea. Doesn't exactly come across as polite."
"Maybe he's got connections somewhere and doesn't feel like he needs to be."
"Even so—"
"I say we let him go first. Better him than us standing here doing nothing."
The stout man from Ice Field City hadn't even finished the thought when there was a sharp, clear clang. Corviknight had clamped its beak around the iron chain securing the gate and bitten straight through it.
The Trainers stared.
Nova recalled Corviknight into its Poké Ball and walked inside as if he owned the place.
A long silence followed.
"Should we go in?" the wavy-haired woman asked.
The serious man shook his head. "I don't think that's wise. If the old Gym Leader takes offense, we'd be caught in it too."
The stout man nodded slowly. "Fair point. Let's wait and see how this plays out."
Nova, meanwhile, had already pushed through to the living quarters at the back of the Gym — and stopped with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.
On the sofa, in vest and shorts, was a shrivelled old man somewhere north of seventy, fast asleep.
The television in front of him was on at full volume. It had presumably started life as a screen for reviewing battle footage and explaining strategy. The sounds coming out of it at this moment were rather less educational.
Nova stared at the ceiling for a moment.
Seventy-something years old, still staying up all night watching that sort of thing, and then falling asleep with the volume maxed out because his hearing wasn't what it used to be.
How exactly was anyone supposed to regard this person as a pillar of the community?
Nova switched the television off without ceremony, went to the bathroom, found a floor cloth, ran it under the tap, and pressed it firmly onto the old man's face.
The old man shot upright, fully awake in an instant. He squinted at Nova's face.
Then he closed his eyes again, shifted himself into a better position on the sofa, and muttered drowsily:
"Blasted thing. Of all the days to dream about this nuisance..."