The next morning, Ron arrived early at the factory gate.
He'd casually planted grass seeds in a corner yesterday and now checked their progress. Relief washed over him—green shoots had taken root even in the saline soil.
Just then, something flickered through the grass.
Ron froze, pulled out his Pokédex, and scanned the patch.
[Nacli: the Rock Salt Pokémon]
It was born in a layer of rock salt deep under the earth. This species was particularly treasured in the old days, as they would share precious salt. The ground scrapes its body as it travels, causing it to leave salt behind.
Parting the grass, Ron revealed a trembling Nacli. White salt residue dusted the ground—a clear reason this plot of land had stayed barren. This had been its territory long before Ron claimed the land.
But how did a Paldean Pokémon end up here?
"Abandoned?" he murmured, reaching out.
Before his fingers touched it, a memory surged into his mind: a Trainer from Paldea, arriving in Kalos… then leaving the Nacli behind. Unsuitable for the local ecosystem, it had been trapped here, its salt trails slowly sterilizing the soil. During construction, the timid creature had hidden beyond the site, returning only after completion.
Ron crouched, reached into its burrow—and pulled out a cracked Poké Ball. Faded stickers clung to its surface: proof of a bond once carefully tended.
Without warning, the Nacli lunged at him in fury.
Ron sidestepped. Froakie, perched on his shoulder, unleashed a Water Gun.
The blast struck true. The Nacli crumpled, unconscious.
"…Thanks," Ron said, patting Froakie's head. He lifted the heavy stone body and sighed. "It's scared I'd take its Ball." He pocketed the damaged sphere.
Froakie watched silently. As a Pokémon, it understood that fear.
Plenty of time before 9 a.m. Ron jogged to the Pokémon Center, breathless by the time he placed the Nacli on the counter. "Help—"
Joy didn't wait for details. She whisked the Pokémon away.
By the time Ron caught his breath, Nacli stirred under her care. Its cube-like eyes darted wildly before it let out a panicked chirp.
"It's here," Ron said gently, setting the Poké Ball beside it.
The Nacli stilled.
"Better?"
"Nacli…"
Ron pulled a Poké Bean from his pack. Unsure of Nacli's tastes—but knowing Geodude loved them—he handed it to Froakie. "I've got to get back. Stay with it?" He left another bean for Froakie.
Froakie nodded.
After Ron departed, Froakie approached Nacli, offering the bean. It couldn't find a mouth—but something must be there.
"Na…" The Nacli barely glanced at the treat, gaze locked on its broken Ball.
It wasn't foolish. It knew abandonment. Yet a fragile hope had kept it clinging to this desolate patch, hiding from Santalune Forest's Grass-types it couldn't face. Nacli needed no food—it regenerated salt internally—but years without nourishment had left it frail, its crystalline body shedding uncontrollably.
Froakie patted its head.
Crunch.
A salt shard stuck to Froakie's paw. "Froakie?!" It winced at the dry sting, frantically wiping its paw before rinsing it with a tiny Water Gun.
"Are you alright?" Joy hurried over, gently cleaning the residue. "It's malnourished," she murmured, glancing at the dazed Nacli. "Its salt structure's unstable. It can't control the shedding."
Once its paw was clean, Froakie sighed in relief. It scratched its neck and forgave the Nacli with quiet grace—but made a silent vow to itself: No more patting with bare paws.
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