PROLOGUE

She wasn't entirely sure, but it really did look like Samuel was crying. Until tonight, she had never seen him emote - but now, for the first time since she'd known him, he seemed driven to tears. For the first time since she'd known him, he seemed desperate. Across the massive wooden desk that stood like a wedge between them, for the first time in all this time, he seemed human.

But she'd tried compassion already. Compassion was the reason she had been stuck in the middle of nowhere for nineteen years. If she tried to be nice he'd just sucker her into more. There was no time for her to be nice. There was only time for her to be firm, to be strong, to be indepen-

- oh gods, he really is crying, isn't he…

His hand was a wrinkly, greyish cloud, and through it a droplet fell to the plains of his lap, and then he heaved with a single, solitary sob, but it echoed, amplified, it reverberated in her head and around the room and in her head and she must reach out, hug him, say it would be all right and that she was there for him, just like she'd done to so many others before –

- she remained silent. Stoic. In control. This was the time to say no, once and for all.

"Please…" murmured Samuel.

"No," she replied. There.

"… Martha-"

"No!"

He had looked at her, lowered his hand to reveal shiny, bloodshot eyes and a mouth folded into a frightful frown – but at that word, a word which came out a lot more harshly than she meant it to, at that word he retreated again. And she felt an impulse to reach out, to touch him, to comfort – damn him, he was trying to soften her…

"Martha… Why?" It was a pitiful question, asked in a pitiful manner, by a pitiful person, but Martha forced herself not to feel any pity. She couldn't let herself feel any pity. She would have to steel herself, and feel no pity.

No remorse. No regrets. Regrets would only bring her back into that dreary old house, and remorse would lock her up for two decades longer. Don't feel sorry for him, damn you –

"I – I'm bored, and tired," she said. "I've been stuck here for – for ages, you know, ages – I need to do something else, or I swear I'll, I'll go insane, Samuel…"

"But Martha…"

"I'm going stir crazy, Samuel! And – and I can't stir because there's nowhere for me to move and that means there's just more crazy –"

"But we need you, Martha!" He looked straight at her, his eyes like autumn puddles, his voice cracked and dry, as though he was crying all the moisture out of himself. "And you…"

"You – find someone else." Oh gods… "I can't do it. I won't… No."

Samuel hadn't listened. He was looking down at his lap, gesturing with his mottled hands. "And Martha… I have been here just as long as you," he murmured. "We started these jobs together…"

And the problem was, he was right – he had been here just as long as she, to the minute. But that was different. Nineteen years as a well-respected professor and former regional Champion, with frequent trips to Johto to do a radio show, that was interesting. Nineteen years of sitting around in a house, watching the ten-year-old du jour run out the door to get their first Pokémon, that was not.

She had tried to care at first. She really had. Sending them off properly, making sure they were dressed and prepared for all sorts of weather, encouraging them as they set off with their sights on the Pokémon League – but they didn't care to stop and listen. They never did. She had watched through the window as they tore towards Viridian, followed them with her mind as they saw beyond the confines of Pallet, and eventually, hated them in her heart as they lived the life she wasn't allowed to live.

"… I'm sorry, Samuel," she said, shaking her head. Be firm. Be strong. "I can't do it any more. I – I – I need out. I need change. Don't –" be firm, be strong, be firm, be strong – "don't take this away from me. Please."

"Martha. You don't understand… You don't know what happens if you leave… You don't know –"

"You don't know anything!" she shouted, and immediately regretted it. She might as well have punched him in the face. With bleary, bloodshot eyes he stared at her, silent, as his last tear crawled down towards his chin.

"… I… Samuel…"

"… Please…"

She swallowed. "… No, Samuel. That's my final word."

"But…"

"Don't try – don't try, Samuel, don't try to make me stay." You're breaking, don't break, oh gods, you already broke – "I… need to leave. I can't take another day of this."

And she realised that he was completely empty. He had no more tears, no more strength, no more protests. Old Samuel Oak sank back in his chair, and waved uselessly with his hand. "… Then go," he said, so weakly that she almost had to strain her ears to hear it. "Just go. Leave us. I can't... Go. Please…"

She didn't know if the 'please' was a 'please go' or 'please don't do this'. She didn't want to know. She wanted out, out and away, before she started to pity him, before she collapsed under the weight of her conviction and crawled back into Samuel's lap.

She got to her feet, and pried her fingers off the armrest, turned around, and sighed.

Told herself not to look back.

Looked back.

Rushed out.

The professor was out of tears. Now they were all Martha's.