I. Heartstrings Mean Nothing

She never did come back to him and he'd stay up every night worried sick. She'd visit their room once a day, during the period of time in which he worked. She preferred to avoid looking at him, knowing she tread over him like the shabbiest of doormats. Contrary to popular belief, she did actually have a conscience, but she didn't much like to show it. In this world, she knew, having heartstrings meant nothing. They were just another way for others to pick you apart.

Nocturnal, she slept through most days, but not in her room. Usually she'd go over to Wendy's or to Tyson's. They understood her need to be away, or pretended to. And her promiscuity was uncontrollable usually. She never pressured Butch, though. Deep down somewhere in the dark abyss, she felt a pang in her chest whenever she saw the pain that the trail of footsteps across his back was causing. Escape it at all costs, she decided, and the problem would solve itself. Especially when her heels were so sharp.

The day she decided to go drinking with Tyson and Wendy was the be-all and the end-all. It was the beginning of the end for her, the death spiral downwards, a plane crash, a splatter against a cold, stone wall. A mistake she'd always regret, imprinted in Butch's innocent, almost child-like corneas.

"I'm sorry, kid," Cassidy always apologized thereafter. She had an addiction for making herself out to be a better person than she was. Her apologies never meant much to her.

Butch liked to play along with a false smile. His face appeared so strained and it made Cassidy wince. It was excruciating. "It's okay, Cass. I'm…f-fine…"

"I'm fine," according to most statistics is the lie most often told by even the most honest among us. And this lie was familiar territory to both the perpetually flustered male and the blonde bombshell; in other words, the ones that absolutely loved to eat their true feelings at every opportunity.

Cassidy bought this white lie over and over again. She didn't question it. She never knew what else to do. She wasn't a "people-person" and that was putting it lightly.

Stop, shock, pick up and drop, Cassidy fled over to Tyson's again. It was her haven, her getaway, a place she could feel better about the world and about the obvious fact that she was multiple times damned to hell.

Tyson swung open the door after hearing the twice-rung doorbell. "Hey, Cass."

"Hi. Wendy here?"

"No. Just me and the Fearow. And Mondo's out back fixing something, too, but I didn't think he counted."

"Okay."

"Come in, come in…"

So Cassidy wandered into his grand foyer, admiring the collection of masculine firearms that adorned the wall.

"Very nice," she said. "You've added to your collection since last week."

"Toldja Mondo had been around! But I've been collecting for ages," Tyson bragged. "They're my passion. It's a pretty damn good collection, not to toot my own horn or something." He smiled his conceited smile and subtly flexed his biceps, hoping she'd notice. "Impressive, huh?"

"Astounding." She picked up what appeared to be a small rifle. It was purple, and she dropped it to the floor with a small shout as she realized it was dripping a violet fluid that smoked upon making contact with the musty air.

Tyson guffawed and carefully picked up the weapon. "Wimp."

"What the hell is that?"

"Venom," Tyson said. "Mondo's creation. Has ten times the effects of a Nidoking's toxic attack."

"I could use one of those," Cassidy commented, scrutinizing it from afar.

"Lethal to humans, so you know."

"Even better."

They made their way into the living room. Tyson plopped himself down on the leather sofa and rested his feet on the coffee table. Cassidy stood and crossed her arms, uncomfortably.

"So what brings you to this neck of the woods?" he wondered.

"Nothing in particular. Just…a bit of conflict, I suppose."

"With that green haired idiot of yours? Whatshisface…?"

"Botch. I feel so bad, Ty."

Tyson scratched his head and motioned for her to sit down next to him. She shook her head and stayed on her feet, crossing her arms tighter across her chest. He shrugged and asked, "What for?"

"He cares a lot more for me than I do for him."

Tyson nodded. "That's a well-known fact. The kid's nuts for you."

"Mhm. I don't…I don't know what to do. And I'm stuck with him. It's such a bad situation. Awkward. Itchy."

"So lose the partner," Tyson suggested. "Ride solo like I do. Better yet, be my partner."

"No thanks," Cassidy politely declined.

"No big. But get it together, alright? Can't have the two of you mopin' around all the time. Then again, that kid's usually got enough pep in him to light Celadon for a night if he wanted."

"More efficient than a Voltorb," Cassidy said, rolling her eyes with the faintest hint of a smile.

"So…" Tyson began, again gesturing for Cassidy to sit next to him. And again she declined. Tyson pouted boyishly. "I'm so disappointed."

"You won't be," Cassidy remarked, smirking darkly. "Mind if we move this conversation to the bedroom?"

He practically ran. She made sure to leave her knee-high white boots in the foyer so they wouldn't be ruined, and then followed him up the creaky stairs in stocking feet.