A/N: Wow, it's surprising to find myself posting this old piece of work once again. Considering the long amount of time this story has been absent, I figure an explanation would help. This is an old contestshipping fic I was writing a while ago, like around two years ago, that ended up getting scrapped due to loss of interest and slow progress. I knew I'd never get around to finishing it, so I decided to pull it off the site and delete it. Well, after a long time in what movie-goers might call "developement hell" it's back in decent quality. I've rewritten the story a couple times over now, and I think I've finally established a good atmosphere. As stated in the summary, this story focuses on two major plotlines. On one hand, you have everyone's favorite green-haired trainer Drew trying to cope with his growing infatuation with May. On the other, you have a fellow named Mitchell Emerson, a brutal teenager with a lone-wolf attitude. Both of these characters have their own trials and struggles they'll endure over the course of the story, until their stories meet and spin out of control in a violent and romantic turn of events. Some readers may remember reading this rather lackluster story a while back, especially if you like the whole May/Drew pairing, and spend time searching for contestshipping fics. What brought this fic out of retirement was a bad case of writer's block I'm experiencing with the novel I'm writing. As usual, fanfiction offered a break from the story and a practical cure for the loss of inspiration. What drew me to this particular fic over the two years that it was missing was that I always felt I could do better. So, without further ado, enjoy this rather dark and gritty pokemon fanfiction, finally returning after such a long time of absence, better than ever!

-Chapter One-

Depression

He didn't know what it was at first, this effect she had on him. It had started years before, manifesting itself through a simple twinge on his heartstrings, incurred by even the most fleeting glance of her adorable visage. Then, over their years of acquaintanceship and fierce competition, it grew. Before long it had become something so powerful, that Drew had come it fear it as a threat to his coordinating skill. May began to win contests against him, taking advantage of his scrambled thoughts. Out of nowhere she'd look at him right before their matches. Just a simple look, as if a gesture of respect and a wish for good luck. But the effect, which had spent their time apart growing stronger and more evident, would appear and render him an incoherent mess, unable to perform well with the image of her stunning features etched into his mind. And so she would win, gaining many a ribbon over him. Eventually, he'd managed to let the Grand Festival slip through his fingers, falling short of her newfound skill over him.

Indeed, Drew Thorndale was confused, and possibly a little scared. What could be so powerful as to render him helpless during a contest? And what could it have to do with May Montevale? He'd only recently admitted to himself that he'd become infatuated with her, but how could a simple crush become so powerful. It was like her mere presence could make him melt. At first, he figured it might have been love, but he refused to be that naïve. Teenagers didn't fall in love, their hormones instead being geared towards lust and more superficial attractions. Knowing this, he'd quickly come to the conclusion that he was definitely not in love with May.

But that raised the question of what caused him to become a stuttering, incompetent, helpless mess whenever she was around him. Could it be the puppy love that he'd harbored for her since they'd met in Hoenn? Or was it something much deeper, more complex? Drew didn't know, and the idea of not knowing scared the hell out of him. So, he'd decided one day, he would need to find out. Without another thought, he'd looked up her parents, introducing himself as a "friend" of May's, and asking where it was she'd gone off to, now that her brother Max had embarked on his own adventure as a trainer. That was what had lead him to the Kanto Region, home of May's best friend Ash Ketchum, where a new set of contests was beginning for coordinators all around. He planned to find her, confront her, and confess whatever it was he felt in the hopes that she could fill in the blanks herself. It was true: he'd become desperate.

* * *

Actually finding May herself was harder than Drew had anticipated. Kanto was huge, spanning several hundred kilometers and consisting of several towns. These all included gyms, battlegrounds for trainers to test their skill, but useless nonetheless for coordinators, who commonly had no interest in serious fighting competition. Coordinators, like May and Drew, chose to compete through contests of style and, for lack of a better term, coordination.

He'd asked around upon arriving in the Kanto Region, soon learning that May had gone to Commerce City, a large sprawl of civilization with a small park. After finding his way from where he'd arrived in Porta Vista, Drew ended up in the city's pokémon center. A brief conversation with a reluctant Nurse Joy got him her room number, and also the fact that she was residing there with a friend. Dismissing it as one of her pals tagging along while she attended contests around the region, Drew made his way to the upper floor and was somewhat surprised to see the very door he was walking towards opening inwardly.

"So where are we going next?" He heard a delicate feminine voice ask from inside the room down the hall, and recognized it foremost by the buckle in his knees at the sound of every enunciation. Seconds later he saw her flawless figure step out of the room, and felt his words get stuck in his throat. What would he say to her? Would she be happy to see him, or annoyed?

His elation and nervousness died down, just in time to see her lips being taken by those of a certain raven haired teenager. One who Drew knew to have traveled with her all over Hoenn, and one who he hadn't considered to be romantically involved with the object of his affections. It was Ash Ketchum, and he'd just made it to the top of Drew's enemies list.

"Son of a..." Was all he'd been able to murmur before the two of them parted, and then that was when she saw him. At first, he saw surprise sweep across her face, before the glint in her eyes returned and she smiled, waving innocently at him from down the hall.

"Drew! Hi!" May called, before running down the hall towards the place where he was standing, just slightly open mouthed and wide-eyed at the sight he'd witnessed. She left her boyfriend―he prayed to God they were just dating―to close and lock the door to their room while she stopped in front of her old rival. "What are you doing here?"

She almost hadn't recognized him. In the amount of time it had been since they'd last competed, Drew had grown perhaps an inch or two. His usual purple jacket had been replaced by a very nice suede brown one, with sleeves that were maybe just a bit too long. Below him was a pair of jeans with a simple black belt and conservative buckle. His face was more or less the same, still easily recognizable, despite the fact that the rest of his outfit betrayed his old look.

It occurred to Drew that he had to come up with an adequate answer to her question, lest she think he was actually there looking for her. At seeing her kiss her old partner, the confidence had been sucked right out of the thirteen-year-old, and his only desire was to quickly and politely end their brief meeting and slink away to whatever hole he'd crawled out of to come see her. "Oh nothing." He lied. "Just checking out the sights around here. Kanto's a nice place."

"Are you going to be competing?" She asked him while Ash walked up quietly behind her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder that sickened the green-haired boy to the gut. For a split second, Drew thought he'd seen excitement reach her beautiful features, and the lump in his throat promptly reappeared. "It'd be fun to catch up and compete together again."

Left without anything to say, he simply nodded his head with a pitiful smile that denied what he felt inside. "Yeah. Just scouting around, looking for a place to train and all that." He swallowed hard. "What about you?"

"Same thing pretty much." She responded in that casual happiness that would have been contagious under any other circumstances. May had an uncanny ability to make those around her happy with her uplifting persona, but Drew had fallen in so deep an emotional hole that not even her peppiest attitude could pull him out. "Me and Ash are just waiting until the first contest. It's going to be nearby you know!"

"You know, I don't believe we've really met." Ash smiled and held out his hand. "Ash Ketchum."

Drew stared at his gloved hand and for a brief second, wondered if refusing it would reveal the bitterness he now felt inside. Deciding against it, more out of his respect for May, he shook the equally eccentric teenager's hand with a limp movement before clearing his throat. "Drew Thorndale. Nice to..." He struggled. "Nice to meet you too. You're her..." He let his voice trail.

"Boyfriend." And with that all of Drew's hope sunk, lower than the floor below his feet. He managed another weak smile before concluding the conversation with: "Well it's nice to meet you Ash. I'd like to stay and catch up with you two, but I've got to get to my room."

Both accepted the excuse without a second thought, and May bid him farewell before she and her new boyfriend walked―hand in hand―to the stairs, disappearing as they traversed them down to the first floor. Drew's legs managed to bring him several feet further. Stopping right in front of the wall at the end of the short corridor, he turned and fell against it, sinking slowly to a sitting position, letting his arms go limp on the floor. Then he sighed heavily, letting his mind sink into a darkened corner of depression. And sitting there, Drew Thorndale thought: what besides love could hurt this much?

* * *

Across the Atlantic in a particularly seedy Florida resort city, another teenager of the same age was just as miserable, though his mental gutter had nothing to do with love or anything of the sort. Mitchell Emerson was sad at the pathetic state his life had fallen in. He didn't exactly match the superficial profile of a teenage drug dealer, racially, psychologically, or physically. But there was one thing he had in common with all those other lost souls in the same profession. He'd very recently, a few months prior, suffered a tragedy that had left him with no one to care for him. Mitch had no home, no family, no reason for living. The only thing keeping him functional was the will to survive in a world he'd proven himself worthy of prospering in.

Drug lords Armando and Diego Mendez had been reluctant to take him into their ring, the Mendez Cartel. But from what Mitch had heard at the time, they were shorthanded on account of the fierce gang war they'd been fighting with neighboring pushers. So, they'd allowed him to make some cash selling drugs on the corners of downtown Vice City. But when he'd come back one night with triple the profits they'd figured he'd produce, he was given a chance at the bigger stuff. He'd rode along with some Mendez Cartel heavies on a high-profile deal with Ricardo Diaz, a rival drug baron who'd offered to make peace with the brothers by purchasing ten kilos of cocaine from their cartel. That had gone to hell pretty quickly, ending with a hail of bullets that Mitch had survived. Then he shocked them all. Mitch Emerson returned to the Mendez mansion on Prawn Island that night with all but one of the men he'd accompanied, in addition to a briefcase full of money that the Diaz goons had never planned on handing over in the first place. Netting that cash had earned the teenager a place within the Mendez Cartel that few men had ever been trusted with. He was now in charge of overseeing the security for all major deals.

Mitch had never wanted to be a drug dealer. His ability to thrive in the "snow business" stemmed from his sharp intellect and skill with a firearm, both of which being things he'd gained from time spent with his father, a Pittsburgh police lieutenant. But this, like many things he now did as a routine part of life in Vice City, made him ashamed and, as a result, he spent little time trying to remember his family. Instead, thirteen-year-old Mitch wanted to forget the father who loved him at one time, and who'd made his son proud to call him "dad." And so, the cell phone which he'd carried over from his previous, normal life, was thrown away. It was a gift from his father, which he never wished to see again, lest he remember how much shame he'd brought to his family through his so-called "survival."

"Yo! Pay attention kid!" The thick Latin accent was enough to ram Mitch off his mental trail, face-first into the side rails of reality. It was Hugo, the Peruvian enforcer for the Mendez Cartel, whom Mitch actually got along with, unlike the rest of the cartel goons. Experience quickly informed the teenager that grown men who made a living off murder and killing didn't like to be told what to do by someone who they figured hadn't even hit puberty yet. Hugo, while still possessing that same smug attitude, was a little easier going. "C'mon! That sharp head of yours isn't going to be any good to us with a hole in it!"

Mitch grunted his response. "Duly noted. Keep driving." The deal they were out for that night was to take place in a armpit of a cul de sac in the heart of Little Haiti. The place was a hole, much more decrepit and dilapidated than the neighboring Little Havana to the south. Moreover, it was dangerous, serving as the stomping ground for Vice City's treacherous Haitian gang, which operated under the leadership of their matriarch, Auntie Poulet. Staying still in such a place, in the dead of night, could be lethal, and the Volkswagen they rode in didn't go very fast in the first place.

For temporary reassurance, Mitch touched his hand to the butt of his pistol, safely in a holster on his belt. The Browning Hi-Power was loaded, with a round in the chamber, and the safety engaged. On a moment's notice, Mitch could draw the pistol, needing only thumb the safety lever before squeezing the trigger. He'd always fancied guns, something that put some of his friends from his past life on edge. Many times he'd accompanied his father to a rifle range they both liked, and it was there that he'd learned to shoot. Of course, he pushed these thoughts away as he realized where it was taking him. And soon, his father and his old life, his normal life, were gone from his mind, replaced by the constant state of caution he'd learned to adopt in Vice City.

Hugo pulled the Volkswagen onto the small, beat up street that lead down to the cul de sac, flashing his hazard lights to let the other car following behind know that they were almost to their destination. The four-door sedan stopped a minute or so later, and the two men in the back, armed with Uzi submachine guns, got out first. Hugo rubbed his bushy black mustache before reaching under his seat and pulling out his own weapon, a Remington 870 shotgun, with the barrel sawed off for more maneuverability in tight quarters. The brawny Peruvian then fished two rifled slugs out of his jacket pocket and loaded them into the weapon, before pumping the forward grip. "You gonna be okay in here kid?" Hugo was a nice guy to people he liked. Mitch had been a bit flattered at first by the idea. The drug runner was almost like an estranged... Mitch didn't let his thoughts get any further.

"Yeah. You guys just try not to screw this up!" He shot back with what had once resembled a smile. Mitch had lost his smile months ago.

Hugo scoffed in that way that he did whenever he was trying to sound like a tough guy, before kicking open the driver's side door and stepping out of the small sedan, closing it quickly behind him as he walked out with the rest of the men from the car behind them. Overall there were eight Mendez personnel out on this deal, Mitch being one of them. The rest, with the exception of Hugo and his shotgun, were all armed with 9mm SMGs. The teenager had been sure to get Armando, the smarter and more charismatic of the two Mendez brothers, to get better weapons for the men since the incident with Diaz and his cronies. It was by Mitch's own personal preference that he was armed only with a pistol. He was quicker with them, and in any combat situation, even gangland, a split second could mean the difference between life and death, the latter of which Mitch sometime wished for.

Already the Haitians were trying to instigate a fight. Mitch counted five or six of the dark-skinned gang members, all wearing the uniform purple shirt or sweater with tan khaki pants. None of them paid attention to the teenager in the Volkswagen. Another of the advantages of being a young drug dealer: no one really suspected much out of him. It was a common occurrence that his enemies and allies would underestimate him. More than once people had ended up dead on account of that fatal flaw.

Mitch noted one of the Haitians flailing his arms about, obviously complaining about the prices of the Mendez Cartel, or something to that effect. More important was the small bulge in his purple tee shirt. This one's armed with just a pistol, it looks like. But these guys are too paranoid to just bring handguns. Who's got the big guns? His eyes scanned the other dark-skinned males, looking for their weapons. One or two had their arms behind their backs, in the way that a soldier standing at a parade rest might have. It was hard to see in the darkness but―yes! Mitch easily noticed the distinct shape of a a TEC-9's barrel. So the Haitians have SMGs too? We still outgun them, but this could still get real ugly, real fast.

By the looks of things, Mitch figured it might. The angry Haitian was now cursing in his native patois, before suddenly growing silent and backing away. Then he screamed something, a single word, and double timed it backwards.

The teenager saw it first, before any of the big, tough, arrogant Latino men he'd come with. One of the Haitians who'd been poorly hiding his TEC-9 behind his back now brought the weapon up in one hand, slower than he should have. He'd been trying to be tough about it, looking macho as he took aim at Hugo with the 9mm weapon. It was a pathetic gesture that cost him his life. Mitch was out of the Volkswagen in seconds, drawing the Hi-Power before cradling it in both hands. Already the safety was disengaged, and he had the sights lined up perfectly with the shooter's head.

Mitch squeezed the trigger two times, in what those in the military profession called a "double-tap." Two shots in quick succession, aimed at the head, intended to quickly drop and neutralize a target without having to worry about him or her being simply wounded by the shot. It worked like a charm on this Haitian, and before the slide on his pistol had locked into place, Mitch saw the Haitian's head snap back in a ugly pink mist, before his joints gave out and his body crumpled like a beer can.

It was enough to alert Hugo, who was just as fast as his teenage associate in bringing up his shotgun. Already it was level with the big angry Haitian who'd screaming profanities. The shocked look on his face was enough satisfaction, and Hugo fired once into the poor bastard's chest. The shotgun pellets spread wide, a result of the sawed off barrel, ravaging the Haitian's upper torso and tearing apart his heart and lungs. He fell back as though hit with a murderously hard punch, bleeding profusely all over the pavement, in a gasping, choking, dying mess. Hugo jumped back a few feet, swiveling his shotgun left and firing his second and last slug at another Haitian. His target was too far this time though, and did little more than sting him from the pellet's impact.

What followed was a loud, chaotic frenzy of gunfire and swearing. The Mendez goons had the upper hand at first, having more men and better firearms. The six Haitians, who'd been narrowed to four thanks to brutally precise shots by Mitch and Hugo, were massacred quickly. The one who'd been carrying two briefcases full of cash went down without a fight, having been unable to draw his weapon due to being stuck carrying their payment. Once his remaining friends were killed by a flurry of 9mm bullets from the several Uzis firing at them, one of the braver Mendez heavies jogged out to claim the briefcases full of money. When he opened them, he was surprised to find both empty, and immediately he stood to rejoin the rest of his pals. The entire deal had been a setup, designed to steal the Mendez Cartel's drugs and kill their men.

They hadn't even realized exactly how much of a setup it had been, until the head of the man who'd run out to check the briefcases burst like a ripe melon from a prolonged burst of heavy automatic weapons fire. As though they'd disturbed a hornets nest, dozens of Haitians armed with AKM Russian assault rifles rushed the eight Mendez drug dealers, firing wildly at them.

Mitch was shocked at first, and raised his Browning to aim at one, dropping him with three well-placed shots that caught the angry Haitian square in the chest. Without another thought he spun to the left, and fired three times again, with the same result. He took a second to look over the hood of the Volkswagen to see how Hugo was holding up.

The big Peruvian had struggled to reload his shotgun, shoving another two slugs in hastily before aiming it again as he backed up towards their car. He'd only fired once before a 7.62 rifle round from one of the Haitian's brutal AKMs struck his leg right beside the femur, brining him crashing down with a strangled gasp.

Mitch was fast to act, bolting around the rear of the Volkswagen and firing blindly at the attacking Haitians, suppressing their deadly advance so he could help the Peruvian enforcer to his feet. As he grasped the upper left arm of the wounded Hugo, he raised his Hi-Power and fired one more shot before his .40 Smith and Wesson magazine ran dry. Cursing loudly, he lifted Hugo in the direction of the Volkswagen's driver's side door before hitting the mag release on his handgun. As his associate clambered to seat himself in the vehicle, Mitch pulled another thirteen round box magazine from his belt and pushed it up into the well before racking the slide and taking aim. One Haitian had taken advantage of his lack of ammo, getting a little too close for comfort. Mitch shot him twice in the head in an accurate double-tap. As his body dropped backwards, the Haitian's finger depressed on the trigger of his rifle in a posthumous twitch, firing a random volley of shots that happened to strike one of the Mendez thugs, killing him. Swearing yet again, Mitch lined up another shot and fired once more, before turning to run around to the passenger's side of the Volkswagen―

―only to see it driving off down the cul de sac, the other following closely behind it. It was hard for the teenager to fathom, but his so-called "friends" had left him, with a dozen Haitians running towards him with assault rifles. Standing there, shocked, Mitch looked up in time to see death coming, and decided he wouldn't go out quietly.

Firing three times at one of the several remaining Haitian goons, Mitch promptly cut him down and focused the sights on his pistol over another target. Right then one of his enemies managed a lucky shot, placing a round in Mitch's right shoulder, leaving the teenager's shooting arm worthless. The pistol dropped from his hand, and the shock of the impact forced him onto his behind, falling onto the pavement. With the rest of the dark-skinned males rushing towards him, Mitch was smart enough to apply pressure to the bullet hole right below his shoulder blade. Then, just as he was sure he was about to die before even reaching the modest age of fourteen, Mitch Emerson heard a sound he'd heard so many times before, but never really appreciated.

The blaring monotone of approaching police sirens.

Two VCPD patrol cars whirled around the corner him and his Latino pals had entered through, screaming down the street into the cul de sac, before screeching to a halt several yards away. Obviously responding to the gunfire, four police officers leaped out of the cars before a third came onto the scene. Firing their pistols with equal precision as the bleeding teenager nearby, the cops were quick to disperse the angry Haitians, clearing a way to the boy, who slipped out of consciousness just as they reached him, his last thought being a cry for forgiveness that his father would never hear.

* * *

The grassy hill near Commerce City was quiet enough to allow Drew to ponder his thoughts. He'd come to the Kanto Region with the sole intent of confessing his crush to May, hoping that maybe then, with everything out in the open, things would start to make sense. Now he was heartbroken, or as close to it as an awkward teenager could get. He'd been too slow, and now the girl he yearned for was out making out with her long-time friend. If it didn't hurt so much, he might have had the selflessness to feel happy for them, but the sting of rejection was too strong to allow such feelings.

Lying on his back, he spent the better half of that night staring up at the clouds, and then the stars after nightfall. He'd summoned Roserade to keep him company in his emotional rut, and now both he and his pokémon companion were resting on the hill in the hopes that time would heal the wound Drew had suffered. A wound that, though not as gruesome as a gunshot, was just as painful.

"I love her don't I?" He asked Roserade, though he would have accepted an answer from the stars would they have given him one. He turned to face the green creature, who responded with a movement its owner could only assume was a nod. It was a hard conclusion to come to, especially given the fact that Drew found it impossible. He was a hopeless romantic, and proud of it, but the idea of he himself being in love was something that scared him, though he realized it didn't matter now. The girl he supposedly loved was dating someone else, and that left him alone to contemplate his powerful affection. Without another thought, he stared back up at the stars once more. "Damn."

A few hours later, Drew packed up what few things he'd brought with him on his trip, and spent the rest of the night traveling back to Porta Vista, where he arrived the next morning. Having traded sleep for the chance to cover more ground, he bought tickets for the next ferry back to his home in Hoenn. Some hours later, Drew fell asleep and spent the entire trip dreaming of what his so-called "love" could have blossomed into, had he not forfeited his chance to Ash Ketchum.

A/N: And so there you have it. The revised and reworked rendition of an old failure than never really died. I hope anyone who read this enjoyed it, and if you did (or especially if you didn't) review. All it takes is a moment of your time to explain what was liked and what was not. I accept all criticism with an odd enthusiasm. Just, as usual, please refrain from any useless trash talk, commonly known as flaming. If you have nothing productive to say then don't say anything at all. I'll look forward to any reviews, and will update the story as soon as possible. But please, do not expect a routine update schedule. Having my work dictated often keeps me from producing any quality work, so please be patient if you want another chapter.