Red was facing down the barrel of a gun.

He let his hand fall to his side, ignoring the urge to throw a Poké Ball he didn't have. It was over. He'd been had.

He breathed in a deep shudder, trying to calm his racing heart, struggling not to panic – to accept his death in dignity. He had no last words, no final pleas, no cool smirk to tell his killer that he wouldn't die like an animal.

In front of him, the Rocket stared him down, wide-eyed, grinning as he saw the silent, cold panic grip his victim in his final moments. Red cursed himself – cursed his heavy tongue, his cold sweat, the way his body seized and his limbs locked uselessly. He looked scared; he looked vulnerable.

I don't want to die. Please. I'm not ready. My mother... My Pokemon... God, I just can't...

Hot tears stung him with shame, and the Rocket laughed, cruelly enjoying watching the Legendary Pokémon Trainer break down before him.

Red cursed himself again. He'd let this monster of a man, this nobody, be the only person to ever witness him for who he really was – a shameful, spineless coward.

More than anything, he didn't want to die knowing he'd give this man the satisfaction of glimpsing more of him than anyone ever had.

He swayed, his shaky, stiff limbs threatening to collapse beneath him, but fortunately he heard the loud pang of a gunshot, saving him from the further indignity before his head was split with terrible, white-hot pain.

And then nothing.