Summary: Ten years after the original storyline Team Rocket is the governing power of the Pokemon World. The Rocket Regime is merciless and cruel not even to those who haven't accepted them but to everybody else. Only a few people have the courage to do something against the totalitarian Regime but will they succeed in overthrowing it when they are plagued by their own unforgivable sins?
Author's Note (from 27th of April):Well, the only thing I have to add is that some characters might be OOC since this story takes place ten years after the whole events of Pokémon and time changes people. I also changed this a bit and caught a few (actually more than a few mistakes) but I'm not sure if I have found every mistake.
Disclaimer: I don't own Pokémon.
Chapter One
Der Anfang
All he could do in the moment was running. His legs protested with soaring pain. But he kept running. He would feel more pain if he were to be caught.
The wind was whipping his face brutally. He blinked furiously, trying to keep the moistness of his eyes. His heart was beating rapidly. His breaths were shallow and flat. His body filled with adrenalin. His lungs burned from the overexertion. Every intake of breath ached. Beads of sweat poured down from his temples.
He didn't care.
The sounds of several steps came nearer. He didn't dare to turn around. He didn't dare to look at his right. He didn't dare to look at his left. He looked only straight ahead. The ambiguous feeling of fear his only companion.
A bang echoed through the forest. A bullet grazed his cheek. It bled. It burnt.
He didn't care.
He was gasping. He tried to distance himself from them more.
Another bang resounded.
He fell to the ground. His leg had been hit. It hurt. He did not care. His body did care. White-hot pain shot through his body. He pushed himself up. He fell down again. An outcry of pain was heard. He closed his eyes. He hissed out a curse. He opened his eyes. He dragged himself on the dirty ground. It was pathetic and hopeless.
He didn't care. He didn't want to die. After seven years. He didn't want to end his life.
A pursuer said something. He snorted. He was kicked in his abdomen. He groaned out. They taunted him. They teased him. They humiliated him. He did not care. He was still alive. They kicked him again. And again. And again. They kicked him countless times.
One of them spoke to him. His voice was sneering. He did not hear. Another one spoke to him. Or was it the same? He did not care. They looked all the same. Uniforms black as death. Voices deep as hell. Weapons expensive as heaven.
They forced him up. His head was bent down. The ground was fascinating. They weren't. One made him look up. But he didn't see. He only looked. His eyes were dull. Dull green.
They were irritated. He did not care. He was stupefied. They were angry. Still, he did not care. He was stupid. He was hopeless.
They were furious.
He found himself starting to care. His senses were coming back. His will of life was returning. They were readying their guns. He did care. Eyes shot open. Once again. The pain in his leg forgotten.
He punched one of them. Took his gun. Shot another one. Shot the next one. And the other one. The depot was empty. He cussed. One was still standing. He had a gun. His gun was useless.
A bullet hit his shoulder. He fell back. It hurt. And he did care. His face contorted with terror. The other smirked.
Sadist.
He shot him again. His uninjured leg was hit.
He was going to die. He was going to die! He was going to die?
He didn't want to. But he would. He was powerless. He was weak. Pathetic. Defenceless. Half-dead.
He resigned himself to Death. Maybe it wasn't so bad. Maybe he would come to heaven. He looked in his murderer-to-be's eyes.
Soulless. Black. Merciless.
He closed his eyes. Awaited the final blow. It took long. Too long.
A bang resounded.
He was in pure agony. But he was alive. He opened his eyes. His murderer-to-be was lying on the ground. Dead?
He was confused. He was happy. He was in pain.
Someone was there. A woman.
Maybe an angel. But angels were not clad in black. But he liked black better than white. Maybe she was an Angel of Death? She kneeled beside him. He didn't see what she did. For he surrendered himself to blissful oblivion. He was unconscious.
The silver beams of the full moon shone through the nearly-ragged curtains illuminating the small room eerily. The door to the room appeared as if it consisted of a heavy metal and made the room almost look like a prison cell. It was barely furnished. Something akin to a drawer was on the right wall, a small filthy carpet covered only a little part of the cold floor, and a commode was right next to the bed, which was the only source of comfort for the one who was sleeping on it.
He was covered in bandages and was tossing and turning in his sleep as if plagued by a nightmare. If someone had been present in the room, he or she would have heard the injured men mumbling incoherently. Although the content of his sentences could have been barely understood, anyone would have immediately heard the fear in his voice.
The sleeper cried out faintly and as if on cue someone opened the door.
In stepped a girl, who was approximately about twenty years of age. Her cautious blue eyes scanned the room first and eventually looked at the male figure on the bed. She walked up to his side and shook him gently avoiding to touch a wound. He still spoke in his sleep and did not take any notice of the shaking. The woman shook him with a bit more force.
"Wake up," she said softly.
He opened his eyes, shut them and reopened them. Upon seeing the woman he flinched away his green eyes wide. He tried to heave himself up to a sitting position but agony invaded his body and he fell back into the white pillow with a groan. His eyes were still fixated on the supposed enemy, who studied him with a partly amused and a partly irritated glance.
"Don't worry,"she began her voice calm, "I don't belong to the ones who did this to you," she spoke further and pointed to his injured shoulder.
"Who are you?" the young man spoke and coughed immediately after.
His throat ached from the disuse of it he continued to speak nevertheless, "And where am I?"
"You are in a safe place," she merely replied and didn't enlighten him further, "I am someone, who lives here since Team Rocket..."
She didn't finish her sentence; there was no need to, he knew exactly what she meant.
He tried to frown as much at her as it was possible in his current condition.
"Why won't you say me your name?" he asked.
"We don't know if we can trust you yet," she replied, "tell me how you managed to escape."
"I don't quite remember," he responded, "Everything seems so blurry. I only remember fragments."
He looked at the woman closer, she did not look threatening. He could only think of how the stoic face didn't suit her overall appearance. She was dressed rather fancily with a lot of colour and frills.
"I will get a doctor. I will be right back," she said and went out of the room closing the door behind her.
An eerie silence governed the small room once again. He let his eyes wander over every aspect of the room. A small amount of relief filled him upon seeing that nothing resembled his old room. He also felt rather comfortable in the darkness.
The door opened again and the woman from before entered with an elderly man, who was probably in his sixties. The doctor switched the light on, the young man flinched involuntarily and had to clench his eyes tightly.
"Ah, so you are the lucky young man," the doctor began with a smile on his face, "I will have to change your bandages, I cannot guarantee you anything painless," he said sounding regretful.
Receiving only a nod the doctor approached his patient and began to change the bandages.
The young man only seemed to study the ceiling with unseeing eyes, once in a time his breath hitched when the doctor involuntarily hurt him. He didn't see nor feel the glance the other occupant of the room gave him. Her eyes were filled with pity and her once stoic facial expression crumbled.
"I must say you heal pretty well," the doctor pulled both of them out of their reverie, "You have been hit by three bullets and you manage to recover that well. It is almost - dare I say - inhumane. You only need a bit more rest and it won't take long until you can walk," he explained smiling slightly, "Oh, by the way I am Samuel Oak."
"But Professor," the woman gasped, "it is strictly forbidden to tell our names to a stranger."
The smile on Professor Oak's face fell.
"I must correct you. We are not allowed to introduce ourselves to possible Rockets. And what did she say? She said he had been followed by four Rocket Grunts and that he," Prof Oak pointed with his thumb to his patient, who seemed slightly curious about their conversation, "was the one who... took out three of them. Do you really believe he belongs to them?"
"Well, I actually do not believe that he belongs to the Rockets but I am not sure either. Maybe it was all initiated in order to fool us. I would not put sacrificing the low level members past them professor," she answered back heatedly.
The Professor sighed, "How could they have known that she would be there. She just picked the route, where she found him, randomly."
"Yes, but...but," not knowing what else to say she heaved a much heavier sigh than Professor Oak and muttered something the patient couldn't make out. Now he was truly interested in the things they talked about.
They were certainly not members of Team Rocket. That was good. But who was She, the one who obviously saved him from being shot to death? The one whom he thought - in his delusional state - to be his Angel of Death? And where was he? This certainly was not a hospital room and the one who examined him was apparently not a real doctor. Why would have the woman called him Professor instead?
"Might as well introduce myself then," the young woman mumbled for everyone to hear and put on a ridiculously bright smile.
"Hello, lucky one, my name is Dawn," she introduced herself rather cheerily and held her hand out to shake his.
Before he could introduce himself as well the Professor cleared his throat and caught the attention of the woman, Dawn.
"You know that he is unable to heave his arm right now without feeling pain, Dawn?" Professor Oak asked rhetorically.
"Oops, my bad," she said sheepishly and turned away from the professor to look at him with an apologetic smile.
He couldn't quite return her cheerful antics neither did he have the will to, so he only managed a wry smile. It was surprising how his cheeks hurt from the small movement. He had been entirely too deprived from social interaction that he even had unlearned how to smile properly.
"It is nice to meet you," he said without telling them his own name.
"Uh, excuse me?" Dawn spoke a bit uncertainly, "But what is your name?"
He was astonished how the stoic and cautious young woman from before turned into such a cheerful and social girl.
"My name?" he asked dubiously.
No, he hadn't forgotten his name but he hadn't been addressed by his name nor had he been asked for his name for a long time. He could not quite remember what they had called him but it was far from his real name.
"Eh, yes your name," Dawn was surely becoming irritated by him and her smile was faltering.
"My name…," he began and the young woman leaned slightly in to hear him better, since he was talking very quietly.
"Yes?" spoke Dawn anticipating his voice like a present.
"My name is...Drew."
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