:solitude:
.
.
He stands on a mountain and gazes down at the world.
Mt. Silver is an unforgiving place, full of powerful wild Pokemon and temperatures that can drop into negatives at a moment's notice. The ones who aren't prepared, who think that this will be another easy trek, are always the ones devoured by the cold, their bodies sinking into white tides that are as unyielding as stone. Summer never manages to penetrate the omnipresent gloom. Perhaps it is because the mountain itself no longer comprehends warmth, its facets worn into smooth curves by years-aeons, really-of melting snow. Brightness flows around the rounded corners, deflected by layers of earth. The chill seeps into the pores of the brown rock and lingers there forever like trapped spirits. The coldness never really goes away.
The sole Pokemon Center that still remains is almost always empty, its rooms desolate and devoid of anything but the patches of frost. Nurse Joy and her Chansey have long since departed to more pleasant regions, and the Center sits unmanned adrift in an endless pale sea. What was left behind has already been scavenged by the wild types prowling the area, in a constant search for sustenance that the mountain is incapable of providing.
Even in these freezing conditions, there are always a select few who manage to make it to the pinnacle. The hardy ones, the ones who come with some semblance of preparation for what lies ahead; they are the ones who battle their way through Rhydon and Raticate and climb polished stairs up to the roof of Mt. Silver, snowflakes swirling all around their shivering bodies.
It is there that they face him.
He is the mountain's sentinel, a remnant of something from the outside now ensnared within its clutches. Turning towards the frozen challenger, he inspects them with eyes glowing red and sees if they are worthy. The ones who have reached the top always are, though. With hands as white as ice, he withdraws several Pokeballs from a tattered brown pack and releases the monsters within. A Pikachu. A Charizard. A Venasaur. A Snorlax. A Lapras. A Poliwrath. Each springs from the colorful plastic orbs, each one manifesting with teeth bared and claws upraised, with fangs brimming with fire or mouths exhaling plumes of wintry breath, with tails crackling with pent-up electricity.
The challenger will stutter, or maybe make a feeble attempt at calling out one of his or her own Pokemon, or they will be brave enough to actually fight the dark-haired boy that faces them. They all lose. The weak go down easily, but the courageous go down even harder.
Their bodies sink into the piling snowdrifts and they are lost.
The dark-haired boy with the curious scarlet irises will recall his Pokemon and turn away, eyes resuming their watch. He watches and does not utter a word. Ever.
He does not breathe. He does not stir.
He stands on a mountain and gazes down at the world.
And tries to remember what it felt like to be alive.