"I know this is hard to accept," Ada says, her voice soothing yet wrought with experience as she gazes at Mott with saddened eyes, "but Lenny might not make it back from this one."
Mott nods.
Ada regards him carefully. "Are you listening to me?"
"Yes," he responds.
"Okay," she relents, still studying him. "You just look very… neutral about this whole thing."
He should. He didn't practice schooling his features and shoving his emotions down at his father's behest for nothing, after all. If he was letting everything he feels play out on his face, he'd be shifting through different expressions so rapidly they'd think he was possessed. He's feeling too much, too intensely. There's no words for what he's feeling—might as well keep it quiet.
These feelings have been churning inside him since the night the museum burned down. After Lenny was attacked and Zekrom busied itself with destroying the building, Mott hauled Lenny onto his back and staggered out of the fire. Although the sun hadn't risen yet, a crowd had gathered on a hill overlooking the museum, watching the destruction in horror. Ada was there, she was the first person he saw, and he practically thrust Lenny into her arms and begged her to fix him. She kept talking about healing his wounds, though, and Mott wouldn't hear any of it. He didn't care if he was dripping blood everywhere, Lenny was the priority.
That was about when Florian hit him on the back of the head to subdue him. His wounds were treated, after that.
Bandages cover his arms and back. Turns out, the electricity really did a number on him, marking his body with burns and sores that will take weeks to heal. Too many hits like these, Ada said, and he would've died.
He should've died. If it weren't for Lenny…
"Are you… okay to hear his condition?" She wonders, cautious, like she's walking on glass. "Or would you rather not?"
His voice stays level. Monotone. "You can tell me."
She speaks slowly. Gently. Carefully. Like she's not sure what word might break him. Mott takes it all in with an impassive face, although he doesn't hear her all that well. Blood is pounding in his ears, pounding in his chest, pounding in his throat; it constricts him, chokes him, suffocates him—but he gets the gist.
Lenny is in critical condition. He wavers between deep unconsciousness and flimsy states of consciousness, where he's delusional and incoherent. When he's asleep, it's uncertain if he'll ever wake again. When he's awake, he's in excruciating pain. The burns cover him head to toe, and it's a miracle he's even lived this long. He can't be visited right now; it will exacerbate his condition. He needs to be left alone to rest.
He may never recover.
He may die at any moment.
Ada asks Mott, again, if he's okay. He responds with the affirmative. She tells him he's allowed to express his emotions. He responds with nothing.
What good would showing his emotions do? It doesn't heal Lenny. It doesn't take him back in time to stop Lenny from saving him. It doesn't make him a better person, a stronger person, a person who can protect the people they love and a person who doesn't just fail, fail, fail—
Everything he's bottling up nearly bursts out of him like a dam. He takes a deep breath and shoves it back down. There's no time for his emotions. No place. After everything he's put Lenny through, he doesn't have the right to make this all about himself.
There's no denying it—this is his fault. Even if he was more capable, even if he wasn't a failure, this would still be his fault. He brought Lenny on this doomed mission. Fighting Zekrom, beating Zekrom: it's nothing more than an extended suicide. No one can defeat that thing, least of all someone like Mott. How did he get so deluded to think he had a shot? Was it desperation? Arrogance?
Arrogance, that must be it. He's probably the only person in the world arrogant enough to send Lenny to his death for the sake of his own pride.
Chasing Zekrom. Regaining his family status. Attaining his father's acceptance. Earning the family crest. These things are everything he's ever wanted, but right now, they ring hollow. As if they're the most unappetizing dish in a banquet, Mott feels like pushing them farther and farther away from himself. He's begun to realize he's felt this way for a while, now.
So why chase Zekrom? Why put himself through this?
Why put Lenny through this?
Everything he's feeling is closing in around him and rising up like bile in his throat. Any second now, it's going to burst, and he's going to erupt like some pent up volcano and destroy everything around him.
He needs to get out of here, now.
Ada shouts for him as he exits her house. The door slams shut behind him, and he walks. He doesn't know where, just not here. He just needs to go.
Unfortunately, two incredibly irritating people have a different idea. Before he gets too far, Torquil and Florian stand in his path. They plant themselves in the ground, firm. Mott glares at them with all the fire he can muster. And after last night, he knows fire.
"Move," he orders through clenched teeth.
"No," Florian responds shortly, narrowing his eyes. "You're injured. Severely."
"You need to rest," Torquil urges, an expression of worry clear on his face.
"Why are you two even here? You placed your bids on Sapphire City; your business here is done," he sharply states. Shoving past them, wincing slightly at the contact, he spits, "You two have duties to your families and your estates. Maybe you should just focus on that instead of inserting yourselves in everyone else's business."
"Mott," Torquil says, sounding strangely pained, "you sound an awful lot like your dad."
Mott goes rigid.
A beat of silence passes them by.
"Just go home," he hisses, forcing each word out with taxing strain. He stalks away. "Just leave me alone."
Behind him, he swears he hears Florian smack Torquil.
He walks for a few minutes before he sees where he's headed—the street he's on is a deadend, leading to the hill that overlooks the town. It's high up, far away from everyone in town. Far enough away that no one would exert themselves just to come up and talk to him.
Good.
It's exhausting getting to the top, and it makes his injuries ache and sting in protest. He ignores it, gritting his teeth and refusing to slow down. It becomes a numb repetition: one foot in front of the other, like a soldier marching off to war. By the time he reaches the top, he's winded and some of his bandages bled through.
Now that he's at the top of the hill, he realizes he has no idea why he's here. The only thing a place like this is good for is a picnic, and Mott is in no mood to sit idly around and watch the day go by, even if that's exactly what Ada and the others would like him to do. Sitting around while Lenny is dying—how can he? How dare he?
There's not much around him. Some low bushes, a few sparse trees, some medium sized rocks. They're all dull and faded, like the life has been drained out of them. Even the grass he stands on is more yellow than green. With nothing interesting to see here, he turns and looks back at the town.
All of Roselake City is visible from where he stands. He sees the cluster of cottages, small and quaint, where Ada's rests. He sees the sprawling cobblestone streets, the vendor's market, and the town square. He sees the medical ward and the police station. He sees people bustling about, busy and eager to start the day.
He sees the remains of the museum, still smoldering.
He stops looking.
Still, it burns in his mind, refusing to leave him in peace. It's like it's been carved into his flesh, somewhere so deep and integral that it's become a part of his person. Even when he's not looking, he still sees it—he sees the inferno, and the ashes, and the smoke, and the blood and the electricity and the blackened body and the—
No. Stop.
Thinking of that is only making his emotions stronger, more difficult to tuck away. So, swallowing his expression and silencing the pain in his heart, he decides to not think about it anymore.
He won't think about it. He won't think about the battle with Zekrom, when he thought he was going to die. He won't think about Lenny taking the hit for him. He won't think about the way Lenny screamed, and how he can still hear it in his brain.
No, he won't. His emotions aren't productive. It's time to do something meaningful. If he had been stronger, would this have happened? No. So, he's going to get stronger. Right now.
The area he's in is empty and perfect for training. There's plenty of open space to use his moves however he likes. Ada told him that the dehydration from the intense fire and the strain from the battle with Zekrom exhausted his body, and he should avoid using any moves until she clears him. But he feels fine. In fact, he almost can't feel his body at all.
Drawing one of his sharp scallop shells, studies it in the sunlight for a moment. It's sharp, glinting at the point. He should've used this more effectively in the battle with Zekrom. Even if it wouldn't be enough to defeat it, it could've done enough damage to get Lenny out of there.
Failure.
He shakes his head, but the thought doesn't leave. All he can do is push it down in order to focus on summoning his water abilities.
A blade of water shoots from his shell, wavering before taking shape. The energy flickers, unstable, as Mott forces it through himself. His muscles ache and tense as if he's squeezing every last drop of life out of them. Pushing through it, he raises his arm and strikes down to slash a nearby boulder. A straight, shallow line slices through the surface.
The corner of his mouth twists downward in a frown. A shallow slice isn't enough. How is he going to beat Zekrom with a shallow slice? Irritated, he grinds more energy out through his scallop. His entire arm goes numb, this time, and he swipes at the rock again. Another shallow slice, fainter this time, crosses over the last. He scowls.
Failure. Worthless, useless, no-good waste of time.
He turns away from the rock, sheathing his weapon. His power churns inside him, unsettled and agitated. He needs to do something with it. Even if it kills him, he needs to do something.
Mustering whatever drop of water still resides within him, he shoots a jet of water at a smaller rock about thirty feet away. On a normal day, he could easily reach that distance; on a better day, he could reach double. But today, his power flickers and shuts down midway, and the stream of water staggers to a halt barely fifteen feet away. It's not even a strong jet. All it does is pour into the dirt and make a mud puddle.
He grits his teeth. His own weakness has always been obvious, but never before has it so blatantly slapped him in the face. Nothing he does is good enough. Not just in this training session, either—this entire journey has been a testament to his failings. After all, this quest started because he had failed.
Is this what his life is destined to be? One failure after another? And is he really selfish enough to drag people around him down, too?
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of chattering coming from the other side of the hill, away from the city. Turning, he sees a procession coming up the hill, numbered around thirty people. Most of the people walk, but some sit in a lavishly adorned carriage towed by servant bouffalants. A few small carts are dragged behind the magnificent one, likely containing cargo.
Mott has been a part of enough of these to know what he's looking at: a noble is travelling. Through the royal purple veils of the carriage, Mott sees an elderly palpitoad woman surrounded by personal attendants. They fawn and fret over her like she hung the stars in the sky. One of the servants bows deferentially and says, "We'll be at the former museum in ten minutes, my lady."
Mott's blood runs cold.
The lady's voice is weathered and haughty when she speaks, and her head is held high. "Very good. Have any nobles placed bids on the land, yet?"
A painful nausea grips him.
"Not yet, my lady."
"Good, good," she crows, delight crinkling in her eyes. "When I buy that land, I'll turn it into a Zekrom-themed horror attraction. Imagine the flocks of people lining up to pay for that! Why, it makes my heart race with joy!"
Then the carriage passes him by, and he can't see or hear her anymore. But somehow, her voice is still ringing in his head.
The land. She's bidding on the land where a devastating atrocity just occured. Images of Sapphire City and the smoldering wreckage and the blackened corpses flash through his mind. His heart twinges like it's been crippled.
At the start of this journey, there was nothing he wanted more than his father's approval. Attaining his family crest was his whole world, the sole motivation in his life. His obsession with it was so consuming that he was willing to follow Zekrom across the region while blindly chasing his own death. But after listening to the lady's plans, he can't ignore the repulsion in his gut that orders him away from the very notion of association with people like her.
These are the people he's trying to get back into the good graces of? People who bid on decimated lands mere hours after the tragedy?
Chasing Zekrom. Regaining his family status. Attaining his father's acceptance. Earning the family crest. These things are everything he's ever wanted, but right now, they ring hollow.
Anxiety grips him as the reality of his situation settles in.
His life's goal, his deepest desire, his sole motivation: it rings hollow. The crest, the thing he's spent every waking moment striving toward, it now means… what? He's constructed his entire life around the crest. Every part of him has been carefully crafted to appease his father enough to gain his recognition. If the crest suddenly doesn't matter to him, then…
His heart beats, frantic.
Then why is he doing this; why is he dragging Lenny out to die?
Horror settles in a deep pit in his stomach. Panic threatens to overwhelm him. Why? Desperate, he scours his brain for an answer. None come to him, and his panic grows. Anxious and overflowing with something unstable, Mott begins to pace.
Why, why, why? Why does he do this, if not for his crest? Why does he fight, fail, persevere, fail, suffer, fail—why?
He has no answer. No matter how hard, how deep, nor how thoroughly he searches, he finds no explanation. No explanation… no motivation. He's floundering, untethered in the universe, wandering aimlessly to slay a dragon without a cause. Without the crest to motivate him, why does he do anything?
Who even is he?
Something volatile boils up inside him, threatening to burst. He only catches glimpses of each thing: anger, fear, frustration, confusion, abandonment, guilt—but they culminate into something so powerful and unbearable that every inch of Mott's essence revolts against him. He's going to vomit; he's going to pass out. He can't do this anymore, he doesn't even know what this is but he can't do it, he can't, he won't—
With a sudden surge of emotion, Mott snatches his scallop and slashes blindly. In reckless abandon, he cuts straight through the trunk of a maple tree, splintering it in half.
It's not until the shattered wood groans that he realizes what he's done. The trunk grows larger, toppling toward him faster than he can react. In haste, he lunges out of the way—not soon enough. The tree slams into his back leg, throwing him off course and veering him into the boulder. He crashes into it, shoulder first, shooting painful flares up his arm.
He doesn't cry out, because he doesn't allow himself to. Instead, he grits his teeth and swallows it back. The tree is on the ground behind him; he just barely avoided being crushed under it. His entire body leans against the boulder, pitiful and weak, before he gingerly draws himself away. Blood drips downward from the two cuts gouged into the rock's surface. When he inspects his arm, he confirms that it is indeed bleeding.
The sting is like fire. But somehow, he just feels numb.
He sits down. Every limb in his body trembles with exhaustion, both physical and emotional. The wounds from his battle with Zekrom reintroduce themselves unkindly, charging pain through his nerves. The water powers within him fall dormant, refusing to be reactivated. He must've overexerted himself.
Of course. It seems he can't even train correctly.
Rain begins to fall. It starts in small, slow, insignificant drops. He keeps his head down and watches the dirt. An indeterminable amount of time later, the sprinkle escalates into a harsh downpour, lambasting him.
He stares at the growing puddle beneath him. His reflection is confused and distorted.
No motivation.
No identity.
There's nothing valuable about him. Maybe, if he sits here long enough, the storm will just wash him away.
He sits, and he waits to be washed away.
Unfortunately, that doesn't happen. At least, not before he's approached by two achingly familiar presences. He doesn't look up from the puddle to see Florian and Torquil arrive. He doesn't need to. Even if the rain casts ripples in the surface every now and then, he can still see their reflections clear as day.
"Mott," Torquil utters, oddly choked. "We should go back to Ada's house."
Mott is honestly surprised to see Torquil outside in a storm. Torquil has never liked water, even since they were young. He looks up at the fire-type to yell at him for risking a cold when he sees blue skies and a bright sun above them.
It stopped raining? He didn't even notice. But—wait. If it isn't raining, how come the puddle beneath him is still distorted with raindrops?
He looks back down just as something hot and wet slides down his cheek. It drops into the puddle.
Oh.
Silence settles between them.
Eventually, Florian reaches a tail out to him, taking his arm and urging him up.
"Come on," Florian says, softly. Torquil takes his other arm. "Let's go inside."
They return to Ada's house without a word.