I can't stop with the angst... Jeez... Also, this chapter ran way longer than expected, too, and I had to cut the ending short. Maybe I should just keep going anyways...? I dunno. I just don't want to leave anything out, that's all.

Many thanks go out to everyone who's followed or favorited this story so far; you guys really do help me to get out the chapters faster. As should be obvious from how quickly this chapter went up, ehe.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, which makes me feel like a communist, but that's beyond the point. I do own Brendan's Flygon, who shows up in this chapter, and the idea for this fic, so no stealing, m'kay? And by "stealing," I literally mean that, unless your story has literally the exact same plot, we're good. 'Kay? 'Kay.

Chapter Three: The Price of Mercy

A trembling brunette, his limbs bound and bleeding, let out a quiet moan as his body was racked with sobs. Each time he moved, another bout of burning agony flashed through his back. The fifteen welts that crisscrossed over his once smooth skin were oozing so much thick crimson liquid that most would assume them to be lacerations.

A single footstep tapped against the floor and he flinched, only to hiss in pain when doing so further aggravated his wounds. An older man with steel-blue hair and an imposing black suit stood over the boy, casting an ominous shadow over his quivering form. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were misty and pink. Only when the earpiece he wore flickered to life did he allow his nonchalant facade to slip, exposing a glare which held such animosity and malice that the temperature in the room plummeted noticeably.

As soon as the earpiece clicked back off, he sighed, suddenly appearing at least ten years older, before rearranging his face to appear uncaring once more.

"Have you learned your lesson?"

Steven had enough time to send a desperate prayer to Arceus, begging that no one else had heard the crack in his voice, before he got any response. The forsaken boy that lay at his feet (he could no longer bear to call him "Brendan;" it made them seem too familiar and friendly) simply drew in a shaky breath, unsure how he was to respond. What lesson? He'd decided to avoid Steven as much as possible for as long as possible after this, but he highly doubted that was what the older man meant.

"Well?"

Another flinch. Summoning his meager bits of remaining strength to his sandpaper-dry mouth, Brendan quickly stammered out "Y-yes!" As soon as the word left his mouth, he began to pray to Arceus, much as Steven had only seconds ago. 'Please, please, let this be it. Please; I-I can't...'

Steven closed his eyes, unable to look at what he'd done for any longer. 'Don't look away. You did this. The least you can do is suffer through the aftermath.' Ignoring the tiny whisper at the back of his mind, he turned aside and muttered under his breath, "There. I did it. I'm done. Let them go." This time, he made no effort to hide the tremor in his words; he was too exhausted to keep the act up for a second longer.

Bzzt. "Not so fast, Mister Stone," a bemused voice replied, acting like the ex-Champion had truly been impatient. "Knock him out first." Hastily interrupting the start of a protest, he added firmly, "And don't give me any crap about not wanting to hurt him anymore. You know as well as I do that you can grab the base of his neck without causing any pain."

Steven was far too numb to be annoyed; there was room in his heart for nothing but dull resignation now. Offering the prone form of his best friend a dubious glance, he sighed lugubriously, realizing begrudgingly that the man was right. Kneeling on unstable legs (since when had he been shaking?), he softly placed his fingertips on the fragile skin of Brendan's neck, earning another flinch, another whimper, and another addition to the laundry list of reasons to hate himself. Taking great care that he wouldn't cause any pain, he pinched right where he knew the pressure point was, cutting the whisper of "Steven, ple—" short. With a single shudder and one last moan, Brendan collapsed, his body instantly going slack.

Lurching forward, Steven just managed to catch him before he hit the ground, his arms moving so low and fast that they burned roughly against the carpet through his sleeve, which was stained with tiny streaks. His face twisted in concern as he carefully lay the Trainer down and stood once again, hoping beyond any form of hope that the man on the phone was satisfied by now.

Opening his mouth to demand to be released, he only managed to gag slightly as his eyes accidentally fell on Brendan and the blood-stained marks across his back. Quickly turning away, he found, was no good; he could still catch glances of the boy in his peripherals, making his stomach twist and flip like it was using Teeter Dance. Gritting his teeth, he turned and walked into the next room, cursing himself for his cowardliness all the way. "Okay," he murmured tersely once there, no longer needing to speak quietly but doing so anyway out of pure habit.

For a long while, there was no reply. "Hello?" he tried after a few moments had passed. Still, nothing moved except himself. He quickly began to grow anxious, tapping his fingers rapidly against the side of his leg. Without the stifled sobs from Brendan, all he could hear was a maddening tick, tick, tick.

Just before he could snap and demand an answer, the man returned, seeming rather pleased with himself. "Very well, Mister Stone. The parents and children of Lilycove City are in your debt."

At first, Steven remained in an apathetic daze, his gaze somewhere off in the distance. The words did not register; he didn't understand. The earpiece remained silent, as if the man on the other end had anticipated this reaction. Once again, the only sound was the faint tick, tick, tick of the clock.

Then that all came crashing down when he absorbed those two simple sentences and everything fell away. The children were safe. They presumably were or would soon be back home in their beds, where they would wake their parents and tell them with teary eyes what had happened. He was free. The man had no more bait to use against him; no other way to control him. "It's—it's over?" he breathed, barely daring to hope that he'd heard the man right.

The man's smile was practically audible and, for once, Steven doubted it was the smug smirk he'd imagined earlier.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mister Stone."

The dial tone was the most beautiful sound Steven had ever heard.

This was it. He'd done it. They'd done it. It was over. The distress; the heartbreak; the cries of agony that made him wish he was dead. It was all over.

He'd made it. They'd made it. He and Brendan had—

Then, everything came rushing back in an instant, and Steven felt his sagging eyelids snap back open.

'Brendan!'

He took off in a sprint before he'd even fully snapped out of it, rocketing across the room faster than he'd ever moved before; so fast that the wind's whistle in his ears was practically the scream of a Skarmory. The carpet stained his trousers and burned his knees as he slid to a stop beside Brendan's limp form, making him acutely aware of the throbbing on his forearms, but he couldn't possibly care less. Peeling away the hardened shell of apathy, he let his emotions run free and, for the first time that night, assessed the damage he had dealt.

Brendan was still bound to the table leg, but he'd rolled over onto his side, his legs bent awkwardly behind him. Even in his exhausted void of a sleep, he was trembling with the effort of remaining silent. From the front, the damage didn't appear too terrible: although his chest was littered with bruises, they were more of a dull red than black or blue. But his back was covered in welts and smeared with blood. His wrists and ankles were slick enough that they could probably be slid out of their restraints, given how much he'd struggled. And, although the blindfold around his face covered his eyes, just a glance at the rest of his expression was enough to see that his face was contorted in agony.

'The agony of betrayal.' Not for the first time that night, he ignored the voice that niggled at his conscience.

His eyes widening at the terrible state of his friend (did he even have the right to call him a friend anymore?), Steven frantically reached for his pocket, his fingers fumbling for the simple pocketknife he carried with him. 'Arceus, how could I let it get so bad?!' Finally grasping the knife within sweaty fingers, he yanked it free and flicked it open masterfully. Jerking himself forward, he stumbled over to the ropes that secured Brendan's hands and hastily sawed through them, nicking himself but paying no mind. Pulling the cut segments of rope away and tossing them aside, he moved on to the boy's feet, liberating those as well, before carefully picking the knot of the blindfold apart. He didn't trust a knife anywhere near Brendan's face. Especially not in his hands.

Deep in his mind, all he could seem to hear was "Unless, of course, you want to keep going."

Of course he didn't want to hurt Brendan.

But he wasn't taking any chances after tonight.

Reaching to pull Brendan's arms down from their stretched position, Steven recoiled the second his fingers touched the boy's arm, a concerned frown taking over his face. Replacing his hand, he felt his already massive amounts of worry rocket even higher up. The boy's skin was practically freezing cold! 'How did I not notice this before?' he wondered incredulously, becoming more and more distraught with every passing moment.

Suddenly aware of how imperitive it was to get the boy warmed up, Steven ran to find the thermostat, which he turned up quite a bit. Rifling around in his bag as he went, he pulled out a Super Potion and a roll of gauze; he'd managed to sneak them in before leaving Mossdeep. They would have to do. Although pretty weak as a healing spray for humans, Potions were very potent as numbing agents, and they would help with a little bit of the bleeding. Shaking the Potion bottle lightly, he sprayed it over the welts that covered Brendan's back, hoping for both Trainers' sakes that this stuff worked fast, because they had to fly to a hospital whether Brendan could feel the pain still or not.

There weren't enough bandages—not really—but they would do well enough. He slowed down a bit when dressing Brendan's wounds, assuring that he covered everything that needed to be covered, and pretended not to feel his heart sink when the linen became instantly crimson and heavy.

'A shirt. He needs a shirt.' Steven glanced uncertainly at the door that he knew led to Brendan's bedroom, but it was a chilly night, and all of Brendan's shirts would likely be even colder than he was. The choice was so obvious that he didn't even think about it. He simply shrugged off his jacket, sat Brendan up, and tenderly manipulated his arms into the sleeves. Wrapping the black-and-purple garment around the unconscious boy, he lifted Brendan into his arms and cradled him carefully. As if sensing the sudden change in position, the boy almost awoke, instead remaining in some half-asleep state. Shivering violently, he unconsciously gravitated towards the new heat source, a mewl escaping his mouth as he grabbed a fistful of Steven's shirt.

Steven glanced down at him and felt repulsion well up—'Look at what you've done; look at who you've done it to.'—before determination coursed through his veins. There was no magic solution; no way to make things right. But he could still try his best. Maybe he could at least prevent Brendan from hating him forever. Pulling his charge closer, he stood, hefting the smaller boy up and carrying him bridal style.

Glancing at the clock—1:15—he winced. It was later than he'd expected, and they needed to get to a hospital. More specifically, they needed to already be at a hospital, but that was a sad impossibility, so they'd have to settle for getting to the nearest one as quickly as possible. The Pokémon center wasn't really advanced enough; it was meant for Pokémon, who were much easier to heal. No, he needed a real hospital. And the closest one he could think of was...

"Slateport," he muttered aloud to himself after a quick scan of his memories. It was a 20-minute fly; fifteen if you had a fast enough Pokémon and urged it to hurry. But Skarmory would be too hard to ride while carrying someone; it was smaller than a lot of fully-evolved flying Pokémon. 'Come on, Steven! Think!' What could he do, what could he—

'Connie!'

It came back to him in a flash: a flashback, to be precise. He could recall a familiar brunette with blue eyes—this version much more conscious than the one in his arms—sitting with him in his house, drinking coffee, and just chatting. He remembered very specifically—the boy had told him about the one Pokéball that never left his side, no matter what. And, unless he remembered incorrectly...

He hurried to the boy's bedroom, eyes darting across it in a quick sweep. Sure enough, he found a Pokéball on the boy's bedside table, and the Pokémon that emerged was a familiar Flygon whom Brendan had affectionately nicknamed Connie. The large dragon growled softly in worry when she saw her Master unconscious in his arms and hurried closer, her black eyes wide and concerned through the red-tinted shades that covered them.

"Connie, please," Steven started, catching her attention with his desperate voice. She looked up, her dark green antennae swaying side to side, and offered an almost Lillipup-like whine, asking for an explanation. "Brendan needs to get to Slateport's hospital. I can explain later."

Connie glanced at her Master reluctantly, knowing from her journeys with the boy that Pokémon thieves would often employ tactics like this. But Brendan shifted and whimpered, his brow furrowing, and Connie's expression evened out into a fierce resolve. She gave a sharp nod to show that she understood, shortly followed by a gentle hum of acceptance. She would let this strange man ride her. For her Master's sake.

Steven quickly strode over to the door, undid the safety chain, and opened it. The three ran into the hall and he approached the fretting Flygon, who bent over to give him access to her shoulders. He cautiously sat atop her back, careful to give her room to flap her wings. His grip on Brendan tightened and he bent over, laying flat against her back so that he wouldn't fall off even though he was unable to hold on like he normally would.

With one last glance at Mauville Hills, Connie took off, starting off slowly to give her riders time to adjust, then increasing the beats of her diamond-shaped wings, which began to give off their famous "singing" sound. As soon as she was clear off the walls of Mauville, she throttled up until she was hurtling towards Slateport at top speed. Behind them, Skarmory saw a flash of his owner's distinctive hair and took off from Mauville's tower with a shriek, leveling off at Connie's shoulder.

They made record time, and, soon, Connie was swooping down to land in front of the hospital, Skarmory right behind her. Steven jumped off before she could even land, crouching to absorb the impact before sprinting through the front doors. "Doctor!" he bellowed, turning heads and widening eyes as people caught sight of the bloodied form that lay limply in his hold

The next thing he knew was a blur of white as nurses and doctors swarmed him, their voices blurring together into one generic racket. He winced when their hands fell on Brendan, instinctively tightening his hold on his charge, and he had to physically force himself to let go. The doctors responded, taking Brendan from his arms, which painstakingly fell away at his brain's insistence. His subconscious was still hesitant to release the boy for fear of the man over the phone and his apparent hatred of them both.

His eyes never left Brendan. Not as he was loaded onto a bed and Steven's jacket was put aside, revealing the bloodied bandages that covered him. Not as a nurse, seeing the shell-shocked, guilty look on his face, placed a hand on his upper arm and told him, sir, maybe he should sit down. Not as she gently guided him back, his feet stumbling along if only because his mind was too preoccupied to resist, and sat him down in a waiting room chair.

Not until Brendan disappeared through the swinging double doors and, with a start, Steven realized that he was alone.

What now?

Well, obviously, he had to call May, but he couldn't seem to sway himself to move to do so. A part of him—the largest part of him—was terrified of what she'd surely have to say about the whole ordeal. He feared the accusations he excepted to receive; the confirmation that, yes, it was his fault. As it was, he could ignore the fact that he was such a disgusting, revolting excuse for a human being. But when May confirmed his fears; when another of his best friends was the one assuring him that he would never be accepted by his once-close companions again—he wasn't sure he could take that.

He didn't want to lose her as a friend, too.

'Selfish,' his mind snarled, and he winced. 'You hurt Brendan, but you don't want to face the consequences, so you just neglect to tell May? You call yourself their friend.'

And so, taking a deep breath for what must have been the millionth time that night, Steven pulled out his PokéNav with shaking hands and hit Speed Dial 2.

It took three missed calls before the disgruntled Champion finally picked up. Her voice was a grumble that, had he not known better, Steven would've very likely mistaken for a Houndoom's growl. "It's the middle of the night," she ground out forcefully, the anger in her tone enough to make an actual Houndoom freeze in its tracks. "This'd better be pretty freakin' important."

Steven readied himself for a violent bout of incriminations, content with the knowledge that he deserved it, and bluntly told her, "Brendan's in the Slateport hospital."

He had meant to follow that up with an explanation; to tell her shortly what had happened and admit that it was his fault. Before he could say any more, however, the sound of plastic on tile crackled through. After barely a second of pause, he heard several serene notes—the usually calming tune of the Eon Flute, which, today, gave him nothing but some extra dread in his chest. It certainly didn't help that May had played it at least three times faster than usual, the notes coming in such quick succession that they sounded jumbled and foreign to even his well-trained ears. Then came a faint but familiar "Schwaaaan!" followed by two loud crashes in quick succession, each of which sounded like, well, like a Latias crashing through a wall.

It really shouldn't have surprised him that May would call in Lissa through the walls. That sounded exactly like something May would do. In a way, it didn't surprise him, really. But, in every other way, it caused a cauldron of sudden panic to boil in his chest.

You know what else sounded like something May would do? Screaming at him for an hour straight; giving him a straight-up list of all the awful, selfish things he'd done over the course of the past hour and a half or so.

Just like he'd feared.

With no real control over his limbs, he turned, his mind racing and reeling, and sprinted out the door. Connie perked up, only to mumble in confusion when he ignored her, instead jumping onto the back of his Skarmory. He threw his arms around Skarmory's neck, took a firm hold, and yelled the first thing that came to his mouth—"Rustboro!"

Skarmory obeyed without question; he always did, because he respected his Master more than he respected any other person or Pokémon. All of Steven's team respected him; therein lay the reason he was such a strong Trainer. So Skarmory simply took off, his silver and red wings flashing in the small glimpses of light they saw, leaving Slateport behind and making a mad dash for Rustboro. Sensing the urgence of his Trainer's plea, Skarmory tucked in his head and sped up, going as close to his full speed of 140 miles an hour as he could without throwing his Trainer off.

No, Steven wasn't sure why he ran.

But, now that he was running, was he ever glad that he had.

N'aaw. Poor, poor Steven. And poor, poor Brendan, too. And poor, poor Latias, having to bust through the walls like that to get to her owner. Honestly, though, I can totally see May or Brendan doing that, which is why I even thought to include it in the first place. It also has a lot to do with the fact that I hate always having to run outside before I can use the Eon Flute in ORAS, particularly in the Delta Episode, so, yeah... BIAS!

Next chapter: May finally comes in for more than five seconds and everything goes to hell and back! Will Steven get out of this alive? Obviously! But you could at least pretend to be in suspense or something; it's common decency, people!