The VIP room pulsed with the beat of an inaudible rap song, the words fading into the crimson lighted walls of the private lounge. The red light gave the room an eerie, thick appearance, the figure in the middle casting a long, dark shadow.
A shining, silver pole ran from floor the ceiling in the center of the lounge, the figure in fact a averagely talented stripper, her lithe form grinding and sliding against the steel cylinder. Her hair was short and fiery red, blending into the rest of the room, her yellow bra and panties the only striking thing about her.
A man swirled his amber filled glass of scotch, his expression both bored and tired. Dark, brown eyes watched the too-skinny writhing girl before him, a sneer fighting to break out on his face. What was so special about her? Nothing. She couldn't even take her clothes off and get his interest. He should learn to pick strippers for skills, not out of spite.
But he couldn't help it. She reminded him of a certain someone, and that was enough to let her sub par skin show slide by.
Easing himself out of the cushy, red couch, he tossed the rest of his drink down his throat and moved to the one-way glass wall that overlooked the rest of the club. The dance floor was a mass of people all trying to be as close as possible, they all just looked like one churning mass of flesh and leather. He let the sneer mar his perfect face. Mindless drones that were only here because they either thought they could make a little money or he'd sleep with them. 'Fraid they'd all be disappointed tonight.
Turning back to his crimson-headed stripper, he circled her for a few, watching her repetitive routine falter under his scrutiny. She knew she wasn't doing a good of a job as he'd like, but when the boss man told you to strip for you, you stripped for him, no matter how good you were. All you asked was where's the pole.
His creamy-colored Italian leather shoes clacked against the marble floor, blue suit pants brushing edges, not too long but not too short. His shirt was, well, he didn't know really, he had shoppers for all this. All he knew was it breathed beautifully, and that shade of purple was to die for.
He had always cared about how he looked, how everyone saw him. What they thought of him. Hell, he use to pay those girls to wear those ridiculous cheerleader outfits and ride around in his convertible. Oh, those were the days. He ran with better company back then.
He paused by a window, a real window, that looked out over the city. Naturally his club was up high, a few floors under his penthouse. Building regulations didn't mean much to him. The dark shapes of nightly predators shot by the window, the cry familiar but still made him shiver.
People who lived isolated, little towns, idolized the beasts of nature that they struggled so hard to control. It wasn't till he got out, away, he saw what they could really do. Boats devoured nearly whole, families ripped apart in the middle of the night, children carried off into the sky. A terrifying world he lived in.
The city was alive with the twinkling of lights in the night sky, and he was on top of that world.
So why didn't he feel like the king he truly was.
Snapping his fingers, the girl stepped away from the pole and poured him another drink, kneeling at his feet like a dog after she handed it him. Absentmindedly, he stroked her hair with his free hand, thankful she had take than God awful side-ponytail out before she had arrived. Downing his whoknowswhatupteenth drink of the night, he threw the glass to the floor, the shards spinning across the black floor.
The girl jumped, and he clenched his fist, dragging her to her feet as tears spilled down her face.
Worthless.
He threw her on a couch, and there she stayed, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
Weak.
When he had met her in that gym, that stupidly designed gym with all the water, she had acted like Hercules himself and marched into her life. Women were so easy to play with, like wounded rats.
But, in part, he couldn't blame her. After all, he had just left her, and he knew that feeling all too well.
Turning back to the window, he raked his hand through his spiky brown hair, his body tense and angry. Happy, he was never happy. No matter how good of an interview he did, or who he trashed and left in the gutters, he never felt the bliss that everyone else seemed to.
He blinked, and for that split second, he saw him. Always on the edge of his thoughts, his very sight. Roaring, he smashed the window with his now bloody knuckles, staring numbly as the red of his hand spilled out into the red of the room.
He barely noticed that fat thing come rolling in, her round form jiggling and swaying as she marched over to where he stood, bandaging his hand in a flash. She was so ugly and so stupid, but she had her uses, he supposed, watching the idiotic nurse hat she wore disappear back out the door. Back to the room where he made them all stay, he didn't force them in cramped little pocket storage, he cared enough for that. Not much beyond that.
Now, with a nicely opened window, he gripped the sides and leaned enough to get his head outside, inhaling the smoky city air with a sigh.
He would like it here. He always had a thing for the city.
Dropping his head, the ground blurred below him, shapes fading in and out of his mind, scenes playing and rewinding.
In his grandpa's house, when they were kids. His silly grandfather filling their heads with tales of power and victory and cute little monster that would follow their every whim and order. All they had to do was believe, right? Belief didn't get him much when his obedient little water turtle has sunk its teeth into his ankle, snapping the tendon, in the middle of the forest. And there's no telling what he suffered at the hands of that fire lizard he kept around for God knows how long.
Or that time in the Rocket Game Corner, sharing coins in a brief moment of comaraderie, where he had reigned in his ego, let his feelings, for once, flow free. He had gotten a hug for it, too, and that little act had been one of the best moments of his life.
Together in Lavender Town, listening to the screeching wind, chased by that hungry ghost. He had sprained his ankle, he remembered that. Had to be carried, and even with the terror of running, carrying him made one feel amazing.
And yet, it all ended the same. He'd say something mean, force them all to leave.
A life, wasted, because he was too afraid to let people know him. The real him.
He stepped on the windowsill, the images behind his eyes forming into a face, his face. That inky black hair, that stupid hat. Where was he now? He hadn't called in months and months. Just up and vanished with that ugly gym leader, Brock.
Anger flared up in him like a fire, spreading down to the tips of his toes. Images of beating up a certain tan, dark-haired trainer to a pulp, jealousy was a vicious monster.
He had always put him down. Made him feel like such a loser, beating him at every turn, saying how much he hated him.
He didn't hate him, though, not at all. He hated himself that he couldn't tell him that, that he would hold back all these years, and all for nothing. He was gone now.
The last time he had saw him, was back home, in Pallet. For his grandpa's birthday. He'd never forget the look on his face as he had rolled up in his Spyder, women pouring out, one even on his lap as he drove. He had looked so hurt, and had left within the hour.
Ruined it, he had ruined it all. Stupid, stupid, stupid, arrogant bastard, that's what he was.
He leapt from the window, a name whispered over his magazine-cover-perfect lips.
Ash.
"Gary!" the girl screamed from inside, her mop of red hair appearing over the edge as she watched her boss soar towards the ground. Choking on tears and words, she scrambled to the door, jamming the emergency button over and over, crying so loud it drowned out the thrum of blood in her ears.
Too late.
A crowd gathered around the smeared remains of human being, the sky already dotted with circling Fearows and Murkrows, the former a little more dangerous. Sirens sounded in a song that played after the party was over, and Misty exploded out onto the street, tears running down her face.
Somewhere else in the world, a boy with hair as dark as night flipped open his phone, and then a moment later he crushed in a gloved palm, his own salty tears mingling with the air.
Another male, older, with dark skin and hair appeared at his side instantly, his lined face concerned as he hovered over his crying friend.
"Ash, what's wrong?"