Hey y'all, I'm back after a very, very, VERY long absence. *Sweatdrops* I guess you could say I had to think some things over? PLEASE DON'T TORCH ME! Okay, so I'm really into Pokemon Ranger at this moment in time, and ever since I finished the game, this plot child would not leave me alone, and too be honest, I didn't want it to.

Basic Summary: It's an alternative story ending. All I will divulge (ohh, big word) is that Keith got caught in the dark world haze...thing...with Kate and this is kind of the aftermath.

This will be multi-chaptered story. Disclaimer: I do NOT own Pokemon. Only the OC's I have thrown in to help the plot move along.

Question of the day: How do you get the accent on top of the "e" in Pokemon? The only way I managed it in this story is that my laptop kept telling me I spelled it wrong and its suggested spelling had the accent in it.

Hope you enjoy!

How had things gotten so bad?

Keith kicked his feet restlessly from his perch. He was sitting on the highest level the boat could offer, right on the edge of the deck, arms hung carelessly on the middle safety rail. He liked the rush it gave him, sitting so close to the edge, knowing he could end it all with one flick of the hands, and plummet to his death.

Well, maybe "like" was too strong a word to describe what he got out of this. It was necessary to keep control, always be in control. The ranger gear sitting innocently beside his hunched over figure was brought out of pure habit, not used to being left behind.

Keith's gaze shifted to stare listlessly at the Wingull flitting about on the deck below his dangling feet. If Kate were with him, he'd already be challenging her to see who could catch the most. Like they did with the Bidoof back at Ranger School. And he would watch those eyes, blessed with Kyogre's sea, flash and narrow as the girl's competitive streak came out to play.

Kate…

He jerked back from the rail as though his thoughts had reached out and turned the rail he was gripping red hot. Which by this point; it wouldn't surprise him in the least.

Keith exhaled slowly and placed a shaky hand on his forehead. Mildly warm. Which didn't surprise him either. After all, he was running on 15 hours of sleeps and caffeine for an entire week. His eyes shut involuntarily, and a small moan escaped his lips, one that he, if anyone else heard it, would've died of from embarrassment. The kind of breathless moan that never failed to make Keith's ears turn bright red. It was just that it…it made him sound so weak and pathetic.

"Are you alright there, son?"

…And cue the funeral music.

He didn't even bother to turn around; he already knew it was Steve Barton, the grandfatherly boat attendant. He was also the one who Chairperson Erma probably contacted via voicemail to keep an eye on Keith for the duration of the boat trip. With white hair and sharp silver eyes, the old man looked like a wringed out piece of paper though he could surprise a person with his strong grip and scrutinizing stare like he could pry out all your secrets.

Kind of like the one drilling into the back of his head right now. Keith wanted nothing more than to spin around and stick his tongue out in mutiny at the old geezer. He didn't need babysitting. And that's what bugged him the most. The fact that everyone treaded around him like he was broken glass and spoke to him gently like if they didn't, he would break further beyond repair. Please. He had a lot more control than that. Barton was just rubbing salt into the already aggravated wound.

Then he felt a stab of guilt and doubt. Alright, maybe that was a little on the unfair side. Maybe Barton really was just a friendly old man with the tendencies of a retired police officer.

Yeah right. And maybe Professor Hastings would dye his hair purple.

Ignoring the question, Keith let his eyes wander over the horizon. In the pre-dawn hours, one could see the beginnings of pinkish red and purple hues reach across the cloudless night sky like the sun was stretching awake. Like the dawn when Kate…. Keith flinched and swallowed dryly.

"Son?" a hand clapped onto his shoulder. Completely startled and not wanting to be touched, Keith yelped and tried lunging away from the hand. Unfortunately, he only succeeded in ramming his head into the safety rail.

Dazed, he ended up blinking stars out of his line of vision, clutching his forehead. A spectacular bruise was going to form later, he could feel it.

"Sorry there, son," the old man chuckled, "Didn't mean to frighten you."

Keith wanted to snap at the geezer to leave him alone, but there were at least three of Barton in his range of vision so he settled for glaring silent murder at the one on the left.

As if suddenly realizing his charge was going slightly cross-eyed while blinking rapidly, Barton kneeled down and shoved three fingers in front of the boy's face. "How many fingers, boy?"

Keith edged backwards as multiple fingers were shoved in his personal space. He blinked as the fingers from all three Bartons went in and out of focus. "Nine," he muttered.

"Oh lordy Arceus, Bertha is going to skin me," Barton fretted, hands flapping wildly.

Keith was a hairbreadth away from telling the old man in no uncertain terms he would do much worse than his wife if he didn't stop moving so much. Control….Control… He breathed in deeply while squeezing his eyes shut tightly. After counting backwards from ten extremely slowly and blocking out the old man's frantic babble, he opened his eyes again, and found his vision was better in the way that there were no more extra Bartons.

Forcing his lips to curl up in a smile, Keith managed to croak out, "Fine, M'fine."

The old man was leaning in his face again –Keith had to fight not to flinch away-, round silver eyes widening even further as he studied the boy's eyes.

"Are you sure? You can still see Bertha about it-," here the old man winced, "-if you want."

Standing up in order to regain a bit of control and space, Keith smiled even wider. "Nah," he shrugged as he discreetly clutched the railing to keep any and all dizziness at bay, "Not that big of a deal, just a bump is all."

The old man looked at him doubtfully, "If you say so, young man." He stood as well, ancient joints popping as he got up, grunting. He surveyed the boy through white bangs, noting the slumped shoulders and prominent dark bags under the youngster's brown eyes. He couldn't help, but wonder how much sleep the lad got working as a Pokémon Ranger.

…And what did that lad ever see that prompted such a haunted look? Steve wasn't an idiot. He'd seen enough in his days to recognize the signs of PTSD.

Nevertheless, Steve clapped a friendly and weathered hand onto the youth's shoulder, barely registering the suppressed flinch. And why shouldn't he be a little freaked? The old man thought ruefully. He'd used the hand that was missing a few fingers courtesy of a few mishaps in his sailing days.

"Get some sleep," Steve said, voice filled with grandfatherly warmth. The boy, not meeting his gaze, nodded briefly and brushed by. Steve didn't take it personally. After all, he could sympathize with the boy's sleeplessness what with Bertha's general moodiness and his grandchildren –twin boys- being in the infamous "terrible twos."

The rising sun made something gleam from his peripheral vision. He bent down and picked up what people today were calling "Capture Stylers." Turning it around in his aged hands, he realized that this wasn't the simple styler that he'd seen Pueltown or Fall City rangers use. This one, though it had the same red shade as other stylers, seemed like it wrapped around the wrist instead of being handheld.

He realized what it meant with a start, and glanced over sharply to the retreating figure. Was this…boy…really a Top Ranger? But…He was so young! Faintly, Steve recalled a newspaper heading a few months ago about a Gyarados attack in Summerland. The ranger that finally made the rampage stop was a boy around sixteen years of age with a Buizel as a partner. He'd had spiky brown hair and a determined chin jut in the blurry picture that reminded Steve so much of Bertha at the time.

He'd heard rumors that the youth had requested to be transferred to Almia when promoted, and after that, the youth had practically dropped off the face of the earth so Steve just went on with his business as he did every other day.

The ranger from the paper and the ranger in front of him were one and the same!

Unconsciously clutching the styler tighter, Steve cried out, "WAIT!"

The young man was halfway across the deck before Steve's cry froze him in his tracks. Without moving from his spot, the youth turned around slowly, looking unseeingly at the old man. Slightly unnerved at such a blank stare, Steve softened his voice with less urgency, "Wait just a moment young man. You forgot your styler." He held out the aforementioned item.

Slowly, the youth shook his head from whatever was plaguing his thoughts before retracing his steps towards Steve. Pausing about a foot away, the lad made no move to reclaim what was his through hard work. The old man was startled to find an almost resigned expression on the boy's features.

Recklessly on his part, the old man reached across the distance and grabbed the boy's lank hand, placing the styler inside, and firmly smoothing tan fingers on top of it.

"You can't lose this," he was murmuring to the boy who quite visibly tensed under his grip. Oh dear Arceus, what was he doing? "People look up to you rangers keeping the peace and all."

The lad's discomfort disappeared in place of the oddest smile. "It's nothing special," he told the old man, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant manner.

That was about the time when Steve's foot decided it was better off in its owner's mouth. "But you're that ranger who stopped the Gyarados rampage back in Summerland! You're a hero in the eyes of many!"

As though he's been slapped, the boy recoiled harshly, breaking the grip Steve had on his hand with an almost violent gesture. "I'm no hero!" he spat, clenching his styler tightly in a white-knuckled hold, "How can I be when I ki-," he choked off from his sentence abruptly as if a bug had lodged itself in the boy's airway.

He spun angrily on his foot and stormed away only to pause suddenly at the entrance leading down into the cabins. So softly, Steve had to strain his ancient ears to hear it, the boy muttered, "How can I be a hero when I couldn't even save her?"

Her?

Steve blinked, but the boy was gone by then. He wondered briefly if he imagined that last part.

He sighed. He was too old for this sort of thing. Turning toward the rail, he contemplated the small favor Erma had asked of him the day the ship to the Fiore region had set sail. "Watch the boy, will you?" she'd asked him over the sea tavern's only voicemail receiver. "Just make sure he doesn't do anything rash is all I ask."

He wasn't given any specifics. He didn't expect he would. Erma was always like that when they were children too. Always keeping everything on a need-to-know basis until things really hit the metaphorical frying pan. Then she'd met Lamont and Hastings and those three went on to complete their shared dreams, leaving Steve behind with sailing his only option to feed his family.

He didn't hold anyone in accusation, especially not Erma. He had long gotten over his bitterness. Besides, it was through sailing that he'd managed to meet his wife, Bertha, at the Boyleland Harbor. He supposed that was all he could ever ask for.

A glance at the sun climbing its way steadily to its place in the sky said Bertha would not be amused in the least if he didn't move to do his chores now.

Crazy, demanding women, he grumbled as he started heading towards the crew's quarters, making a mental note to self to contact Erma the second they landed in Fall City's Harbor.

Keith shut the door to his room roughly, not caring who he woke up –why should he, when they were beginning to get up anyway? He would be helping them along.-, and flung himself across the gray-blanketed bed. The cabin was small, but modestly furnished with light gray steel walls, a wooden desk and chair bolted to the floor. The bed, also secured firmly to the floor, had a lumpy white pillow and matching white mattress. A circular mirror rested in another corner as well.

To Keith, it was just another prison cell.

The Buizel who had been curled up sleeping on the pillow, startled awake as his ranger partner landed unceremoniously on the bed. He squeaked in the kind of sleepy anger that would normally have amused Keith to no end. The Buizel rubbed his eyes before taking in his partner's collapsed form.

"Buizel…bui, bui?" he chittered anxiously, pawing at Keith with an orange fin.

"Sorry buddy," Keith murmured, rolling onto his back, "Go back to sleep."

Not to be deterred, Buizel jumped onto his human's stomach, ignoring the "Oomph!" He crossed his orange fins and tapped both his tails against his human's legs, impatiently.

Keith took one look at the Buizel's stubborn face, and groaned. "You're not letting this go, are you?" Buizel shook his head. "Nothing happened." Buizel glared as if to say, do you think I'm stupid?

"Fine, believe what you want," he snapped, throwing an arm over his eyes.

A long moment of wills ensued before the weight off his stomach disappeared. He peeked out from under his arm, curious as to what made Buizel give up so easily. Only to be greeted with impossibly wide eyes, orange fins dangling in resignation, tails drooping, and overall sadness was permeating from his partner.

Keith sat up. He could take whatever pity or sadness people threw at him even if he hated it, but the one friend he could never stand being sad was his partner. Not with everything they've been through together.

"Hey," he said, gentling his tone as he scooped the orange Pokémon up, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell."

He hugged the Buizel close to him, letting a rare moment of vulnerability slip through the cracks of his control. "I'm worried about tomorrow," he admitted softly, squeezing the Pokémon a little tighter, "And I miss Rhythmi."

It seemed like a lifetime ago he was stationed in Fiore. Having risen through the levels of advancement so quickly, had left Keith feeling bold enough to request being transferred back to Almia. It wasn't that he'd hated Fiore or the people he'd worked with or sometimes if the situation called for it, fought tooth and nail for; he'd wanted to see his friends again, wanted to flaunt and measure himself up to Kate again, have Rhythmi boss him around and be the voice of reason if things got too heated between his and Kate's many capturing contests in Ranger School. He'd wanted the old trio back again.

What a joke.

It was too early to go back, but here he was trapped on this floating prison being sent back like a naughty child by Chairperson Erma herself.

His styler caught his gaze, and held it. Maybe he could ring up Rhythmi? But what would he say? What could he possibly say to her? Would she even want to speak to him with what happened in the days following his release from the infirmary? Keith swallowed dryly. Those leaf green eyes bright with shock, and tinged with the faintest fear, but fear nevertheless.

Fear of him. Her supposed best friend.

He broke out of his reverie, and buried his face in Buizel's soft fur, feeling equally furry arms slide around his neck in comfort. They remained that way for a long moment, human and Pokémon soaking in each other's presence.

It wasn't long before soft snores met Keith's ears. He eased away, suppressing a chuckle at Buizel's dopey look as his partner slept hanging off of his neck. At least one of them was getting enough sleep for the both of them each night. Keith sighed and reached over to grab his styler at the foot of the bed, flipping it open to check the time.

He still had a couple hours to kill before anyone was truly awake besides the crew. He closed his styler and stared at it fixedly, fiddling with it absently. The weight in his hands felt foreign now, more of a burden than extension of himself. He gritted his teeth as his fingers clenched the styler roughly, a dark sort of anger creeping into his stomach to take firm root.

But the moment passed, and Keith squeezed his eyes shut tightly, dropping the styler so abruptly that it cracked against the floor sharply. He clenched his fingers together, trying to stop the small tremors racking them, and relishing the pain his fingernails caused digging into his palm. The pain kept him grounded, kept him from floating into oblivion.

Placing a shaking fist to his forehead, Keith smiled bitterly. Didn't he look just the picture of a Top Ranger?

Sighing again, he forced the trembles to stop before slipping off the bed to properly pack his styler away in his bag. His eyes slid quizzically to his partner who hadn't even twitched during his mini-breakdown. A pang of guilt shot through the young ranger. Buizel must have been completely wiped out from last week. Keith didn't blame him. Not one bit.

He carefully got into the bed, making sure not to disturb his partner, and focused his eyes blankly on the steel ceiling above him. His stomach twisted into a knot. The same restless, uncertain feelings he usually got before ever considering sleep thrashed about in his stomach, fighting for dominance over his tiredness. His eyes went half-lidded.

No, going to sleep meant going back there. To utter pitch black and absolute hopelessness. Keith swallowed harshly, perspiration beginning to bead on his forehead. No, he wouldn't, couldn't go back there.

He briefly contemplated sneaking back onto deck, but just as promptly, rejected the idea. He didn't want to accidentally run into Steve again, or his huge wife, Bertha. He shuddered. One death hug per voyage or lifetime was enough for him no questions asked. That woman had the strength that might've rivaled Barlow's on a bad day.

He rolled onto his side facing the wall, resigning himself to wait as the hours crawled slowly by.

Whew! Someone's feeling angsty. But I must admit, it feeds the muse. The next chapter...which I must write...will hopefully come out this month 'cause of NaNoWriMo. But I must get my ideas straight in the form of graphic organizers! Yayyyy *coughs*

Reviews make me happy! Please? *Puppy eyes* I wanna know what you guys think.

~Kneazle-Chan