AN: Delta Emerald AU = ORAS verse, but where both Team Aqua and Team Magma are the villains. May is in her mid-late teens.


A few days after Courtney and Matt nearly destroy the universe, May arrives at Ever Grande on the cusp of tears. I do not pry. She is so sensitive that any number of trivial things could upset her, and besides, I am not paid to be her friend.

Do not misunderstand me. I try my best to be kind to her. All things considered, she is extraordinarily nice, and she saved the region (perhaps the world) when it was not her duty to do so. In all respects, she is a perfect successor. She asks all the right questions, attends all the necessary meetings, and stays up until 3 AM to help me figure out paperwork. She is even able to extract information from Zinnia, who remained tight-lipped no matter how I tried.

But she makes me think about Steven, and I do not like to remember Steven.

Eventually, she begins to cry, and my curiosity gets the better of me. I ask her if she's okay. She hands me a meticulously folded note, written upon gray stationery that I identify immediately.

Dear May,

I have something in mind, so I will be away in training for some time. I do not expect to return to my home anytime soon. Which brings me to a request: I want you to take the Poke Ball that you should find on my desk. The beldum inside is one of my favorite pokemon, so I hope you'll treat it like one of your own. Trusting that we will meet again,

Steven Stone.

"'Trusting that we will meet again?'" May whispers. "'Trusting?' He never said anything about leaving…"

"He travels a lot. Did he ever tell you he would never leave?"

"No. But he seemed so settled, in his house in Mossdeep, and he-he-"

She collapses into sobs. I carefully pat her back and hand her water.

"I'm just going to miss him so much," May says after a few deep breaths. "He just sprung this on me. It's not going to be the same. We went to so many places together. Did so many things."

"You'll always have those memories."

"But they're ruined now."

"Don't take it so personally," I tell her. "Not even his father can tether him to Hoenn." Or his (former) best friend, apparently.

She bristles, or as much as she can underneath her eternally peppy facade. But her umbrage fades as soon as it appears, because she can never be anything but sticky-sweet marzipan.

"It will sound so stupid," she whispers, "but I thought he cared."

Oh, May. You fool.

"When I talked to him, it felt like there was something between us. Maybe he didn't feel anything, and it was just me."

I can see her brain working in overdrive, trying to play the movie of their supposed romance only to run into cracks at every unwinding of the tape. It embarasses me. She is so powerful. She can tame legends and put men decades her senior to shame. Yet, all it takes is a man who can't even bother to talk to her before he abandons her.

Love makes a fool of us all, I remind myself. I was foolish too, once upon a time, and so I inhale deeply.

"He's nicer to you than he usually is, and you take that as 'he loves you'," I explain. "But has he ever told you, in those specific words, that he loves you?"

"No, but people don't always-"

"Did he take you to dinner with his mother? She's much more private than Mr. Stone, you know. Has he ever introduced you to his friends," who are his age, I add quietly, "or ever ask you where you hoped to live in the future, so that you two could settle down together? Did he ever ask to kiss you, or ever get to know your father in preparation for your life together?"

May looks progressively more gutted with every point, so I stop. Finally, she lets out a sad, quiet "No".

"Well," I sigh. "None of that matters. He did all of that with me, and look where we are now."

"Oh." Her eyes widen. "I didn't realize he…swung that way."

"He swings in any direction that he chooses. You must understand that Steven Stone does as he wishes, and there is nothing you can do about that. Cherish the pokemon he left you, and forget about him."

"I can't just forget about him."

"No, he is quite difficult to forget."

"I wish," and she whimpers through her stuffy breathing, "I didn't cling so much to him. I wonder if he felt…stifled."

"By what?"

"We went everywhere. I saw him every day, for weeks. I think I shouldn't have asked him to come to Mirage Island with me. He had no real business there. And I think even if he was interested in the Soul Dew at one point he already figured it out. He seemed kind of stressed, maybe a little annoyed." Her inhales sound like the whistles of a boiling teapot. "We were doing fine before that. We went to see the Litleonids just a few days before, and he held me in his arms through the night."

"But he did voluntarily go with you. To the Mirage Island."

"Maybe he felt like he couldn't say no."

We sit for a bit, pretending to read through Maxie's tax forms. I used to wonder what fool missed a national lab pivoting from horticultural development to awakening ancient gods. Now I can see why no one noticed these jarring changes. From vertical plant growth and terrariums, to soil studies, to terraforming, to studying the history of the land...it's a progression that anyone can excuse. And Steven Stone, of all people, would have been too interested in this research to question its strangeness.

What we really should have noticed, I realize, were the tonal shifts. Tabitha is an exceedingly reasonable man. An upstanding citizen, former jewel of Devon, who could not notice the water slowly boiling about him. He writes very sane proposals, for lack of a better word. Pragmatic, earnest, and convincing without the grandiosity that taints Maxie's diction. But later on, I can only assume they delegated Tabitha elsewhere, because Maxie writes like a megalomaniac given five minutes to put out a completed proposal (under threat of death by scizor squad), and Courtney writes as if she finds it ludicrous that you'd want good reasons for giving her millions of pokeyen.

May eventually gives up the ruse. "So why," she asks, "did Steven leave? The first time, I mean."

"He wanted to study rocks. He's always thought big. Been interested in creations and apocalypses, and rocks apparently record those in great detail. And PhDs are long and hard, so he had to quit his post. It's why he's still gone."

"I can see that. That's why he was chasing those murals."

"I asked him why geology couldn't wait." I make sure to keep my eyes on the papers in front of me, as if this conversation were light and easy for me. "He spent his entire life trying to be Champion. He told me that technically, anything could wait, and he couldn't bear to sit in Ever Grande while the entire world lay outside."

"But Champions have hobbies and second jobs all the time. Cynthia does archeology."

And Cynthia is a terrible Champion, I almost say, more interested in the glory and complimentary safety clearances than actually ruling. I could rant about Cynthia for hours, though, so I say nothing and try, without success, to sift through yet another of Maxie's suspicious tax filings.

"Well," I say eventually, "Steven wanted to see everything with his own eyes. And I'll always remember how he looked when he told me. He smiled, and his eyes beamed at the world. He braced his fingers into a fist, like this." I mime the gesture. It's so familiar to me that I recreate it perfectly. Sans the rings, of course. Steven Stone always loved his jewelry, perhaps to excess. "He filled me with excitement and hope. I never thought I could become a Champion, or even a Gym Leader, before I met him."

"Me neither," May breathes. Looking at her wide blue eyes, I can believe that. Norman's a difficult man, they say. He must have beaten the life out of her in recreating the illustrious career that he believed her birth stole from him. But Steven: Steven must have treated her like an equal, instead of a child, and filled her ears with how amazing and prodigious she was.

"It all changed between us," I continue, "that day, when he told me he wanted to see the world. And after that day, when he looked at me, he looked past me, as if he were looking towards a future that did not include me. He promised me he would stay for three more weeks. Yet, he vanished on the fourteenth day, and it was never the same again."

"But he came back for you," she whispers. I genuinely don't think she means to be argumentative. She must think she's consoling me. "This last time, he seemed so excited to talk to you."

She knows nothing. She wasn't here for that sudden chilliness, or my painful, sleepless nights. I remind myself it's not her fault. It really isn't. But I can't unpack my sorrow with her, unless I want the pain to leach out of my heart into my blood and my brain.

"We've known each other for two decades, May." Longer than you've been alive, I almost say. "Don't you think that warrants a bit more than a quick tea time or a phone call every month?"

"I-"

At this point, I put aside any pretense of attending the paperwork. I turn my chair so that I can look her in the eye.

"I played his game for a few years," and all the rage I've ever felt towards Steven Stone bubbles in my stomach. "He called, and I came at whatever impossibly slim time slot he offered. I pretend that nothing's changed, and we'd have a jolly old time for a little bit. Hours, usually, but sometimes days or even a week. Then he disappears into the ether, with nothing but a text and a pat until he wants me again, and then I feel lonelier than if I never spoke to him."

May stares at me. In spite of my annoyance, I see why Lisia scouted her so quickly. She has such a captivating, adorable stare. Her large oceanic eyes remind you of childhood and all of its endless potential. But her full lips and exquisitely shaped face are undoubtedly sophisticated.

"Isn't that kind of unfair?" she asks finally. "If he's doing research, he's bound to be busy."

"Sure. But there's a difference between someone who's busy but thinks of you constantly and treasures every second together, and someone who only talks to you when they feel like it."

"I understand, but-"

"It's really atrocious, when I think about it. How cold he seems after how long we've loved each other."

That word slips out before I can think better of it. Love. As if it ever existed between us. I am still a fool. I have no right to look down on May for it.

"Maybe he's stressed," she says, always a Pollyanna, reciting all these platitudes for herself as much for me. "He's doing a doctorate, right? Once it's over, he'll be back."

He'll be back.

"No, he won't," I retort. "You don't just undo these things. He was already dropping off at that point. He never became sloppy, of course, but you could tell. He already stopped caring about us."

"He could be depressed," May points out.

"Oh, I'm sure he was. So? We're all depressed. It's what the job does to you. Unless you're Cynthia, and you think the world revolves around you."

"She seems fine."

Oh, forget it.

"Well, she's fine. But is Sinnoh fine? Cynthia literally does nothing except battle challengers. She will skip rampages to explore archaeological sites. You know how Lucian disappeared for three months, a year ago? Well, if someone and their Lucario were there, he wouldn't have been kidnapped by a flock of ghosts. But no, the Sinjoh ruins were more important-"

I inhale deeply. I can never talk about Cynthia for very long without ranting.

"I see." May grimaces. "But not everyone's depressed, right? Are you all okay?"

She's so much like me, I realize. Beautiful, with roots in coordinating, but ultimately made for battling. And yet, made such a mess at the hands of Steven Stone. No wonder I hate her. She's pathetic like me, but so cloyingly sweet that I can feel my teeth rot when she talks.

I can only laugh. I tell myself it is because of her naivete. But perhaps it is because she makes me feel so empty that I can't help but laugh. Of course, none of us are okay.

"You shouldn't make excuses for Steven," I say.

"I'm not making excuses. I just mean…"

"May, look at me."

She turns towards me, as docile as a puppet. I can't hate her. I really can't. Her eyes are always so genuine. So respectful, as if she truly cares what I'd say.

"You're still young. You have your entire life ahead of you."

Her lips open, as if to reassure me that I too am young, with my entire life ahead of me. I hold up my hand and ask her if I can speak. She nods quickly.

"Steven Stone is like his element. Aloof and sharp, just like steel, even if you can swaddle it with your hands and trick yourself into thinking it's warm. But you will always love him more than he loves you, and it will bring you misery. I'm sure one day he will marry someone as cold as he is. She'll probably be from a good family, and she'll happily let him run around the world doing whatever he wants, because it'll give her the peace and quiet to do the same."

"And it doesn't break your heart?"

"Not anymore," I lie. "May. He will never be yours, just as he will never be mine. The earlier you understand this, the happier you will be. You are still young. You have so much to do, and so many people to love. Brendan…he worships the ground you walk on. He's a sweet boy, and he will have a good future. I think you can be very happy with him. Or even Archie."

"Wallace, he's like my dad."

She looks so disgusted that I can't help but smile. "He's too old for you, yes. But he is so full of life. So much vigor. You can tell that he's the kind of man who puts in more than he gets, in all his relationships. Except for Matt, apparently."

"He did well with Matt," May protests. "He always loved and appreciated him. Matt–and I adore Matt, he's great–just wanted too much from him."

"Really, now. I was under the impression Archie and Shelly left him out of the loop. Many times. He's an admin too, and I do believe Team Aqua would have fallen apart faster if they didn't have him around. He was supposed to go with them to the cavern, you know. But they left him behind at the base."

"I know."

"I do think he was stupid to try what he did. Moving the world never won anyone over, unless they wanted to be won over."

"That's true, but Matt…he's just a little too possessive. Sometimes, I feel like he acts like he owns Archie. But he has no right to control where Archie wanders off to, or how Archie feels, or who Archie likes."

"No, he doesn't. But-Oh, I see. No wonder you think you somehow made Steven Stone want to leave Hoenn."

"What do you mean?"

"You seem to believe," and I make sure to look her squarely in the eye, "that if only you'd acted differently, you could have prevented his departure."

She stares at me incredulously, as if I told her the sky was blue.

"In your world, it's always yours, or Matt's fault-"

I almost want to ask if she thought it was Courtney's fault, too, but either I discover that she makes apologies for men who groom women (girls) half their age, or I'm treated to a rant about how tragic Courtney's life is. I have the patience for neither outcome.

"-because you dared to want someone, and they seemed to love you in return. But for some reason, you don't view that love as something you deserve. You think it is magnanimity, that they adore you, instead of understanding that you are beautiful, powerful, and sweet, and that they are getting so much out of your company. When you talk about Matt and Archie, all you say is that Matt overstepped. Matt wanted too much. Matt asked too much. But nothing about how Archie disregarded him, until he became a problem."

Her mouth falls open. "I-"

"Steven undoubtedly enjoyed his time with you, as Archie did with Matt. It is not fair to you that they savored your love until they did not want it anymore."

I wonder if it's a byproduct of her upbringing. I'm sure in Norman's universe, emotion is something only to indulge in after you've reached the top of the world. If craving love is a fault in its own, then complaining that someone did not love you correctly was ungrateful and greedy.

But May will always imagine herself falling short, even when she's sitting on a throne her father could only dream of. I don't think I can deprogram her in one afternoon. And so I school my expression into one of brotherly concern and do my best with what remains behind of her self-worth.

"Steven," I whisper, "he will suck the life out of you. If you don't give him up, you will pine after him and fritter away the best years of your youth. Brendan will wait for you, but he will only wait so long before he learns that you will never truly love him."

I hesitate. It both hurts and exhausts me to speak so openly. But she is young enough to believe herself invincible, and she will not take me seriously unless she can see what I have lost.

"Winona brings me a special kind of pain. She used to adore me. In many respects, I think she is my soulmate. But she's not dazzling in the way that Steven is. I used to resent that she's eccentric, and says strange things, and isn't blindingly charismatic like he is. I overlooked her elegance. How discreet and put-together and smart she is, how she doesn't care what anyone thinks. I always thought she would be here forever. And she was, until she wasn't."

And now I cannot forget her whenever I see the telephone poles and the flocks of swellow in the fall.

"Let yourself be happy. You are young. The world is your cloyster. It is up to you what you want to do with the beldum. I have no doubts it will grow to be powerful. But you decide if you always want that reminder of him on your team."

May chews upon my words. I turn back to the paperwork. If she won't listen to me, then so be it.

"I understand," she says finally. Her voice is small and meek.

I turn to her. "Do you?"

"I think so." Turning to me, she bows her head slightly. "Thank you, Wallace. For your advice and for being so vulnerable with me. You're right. I have a lot to think about."

She grabs a handful of papers off the unfiled stack, and we spend the rest of the day in stilted, cordial conversation.


When I get home that night, I open the drawer fifth from the top of my clothing dresser, where I keep my most prized contest ribbons and those pieces of jewelry so valuable that I can't bear to wear them.

It's tucked all the way in the back, in a box in a protective dust bag that lies under a thin slip of silk.

Steven believes in mementoes. He traps memories into objects, I think, and he believes everyone else does the same. Hence, May and her new beldum, which in his mind is an adequate summary of his affection for her.

On the other hand, I place little value in keepsakes. I'll look at them, of course, and reminisce about events I can never relive. But when I love someone, I cannot quarantine my memories of them to a singular talisman.

There is that grove by the waterfall on Route 119 that I still can't dissociate from Steven. We used to spend so many afternoons there, training and swimming and drinking in a seemingly endless childhood.

(Winona, with her eagle eye, noticed how wistful I am in that locale. Whenever we meet up, she always offers to meet me somewhere that does not involve passing through there at all.)

That last day, before Steven disappeared, we'd been walking down by the river. It was a beautiful, beautiful spring day. Clear blue sky, a tinge of warmth. Splendid, splendid grass, littered with glorious flowers. His arm was nestled in the crook of mine, just as it'd been for years before, and he patted my head when I leaned upon his shoulder. Though he seemed more distant than usual, I could still call him my Steven.

"Have you ever wondered," he'd asked, his voice laced with wonder and wanderlust, "how the universe came together? Where all the stones in the earth and the stars in the sky came from, to form our current reality?"

"Steven." I rolled my eyes. "I was trained to be a Lorekeeper. Of course I've wondered."

"You inspire me," he said. He regarded me with the same wonder he reserved for the universe. That expression and that tone of voice used to make me weak to my knees. I felt as if I were the only person in the world for him. Too late did I learn that Steven Stone is as reflective as finely polished metal, that he only mirrors how you gaze upon him.

"All those stories you told me," he murmured, "how you've dedicated your entire life to upholding the lore of our region…It made me realize, the world is much larger than just our league."

His other hand reached for mine, and I let my fingers fall into his palm. They were rough, like those of any Steel or Rock specialist.

"I will be away for a while," he murmured. "I trust we will meet again. But here…"

And he slid a ring onto the ring finger of my left hand.

"This is one of my favorite stones."

I stared at him incredulously. "A Water Stone?"

"It's a kind of Water Stone, yes. But it is clearer than all the others." He paused. "It is especially potent. It enhances water attacks, and of course, exposure to it will induce evolution in certain pokemon. They say this particular specimen is derived from pokemon tears, hardened and recrystallized. But I think it might only be a legend." He winked at me, and my heart melted. "Regardless, it is one of my favorite stones, and I hope it will serve you well."

It could have, if it did not fill me with both nostalgia and revulsion until I could not even bear to look at it.

I used to wear it everywhere, taking it off only when I slept. In the very beginning, I'd thought of it as a promise. A tangible sign that he would eventually yield to me. Eventually, it became a brand and a reminder that I was a fool.

Gingerly, I fish the velvet box from the corners of my drawer. It opens softly, and I hold the ring below my light. The stone is as pristine as ever, and I think I can believe that it is pokemon tears, a symbol of love so strong it reverses death.

Steven Stone has given me many, many gifts. After all, he is a generous man. But this one seemed–no, seems–especially intimate.

The ring, delicate silver filigree, slides onto my finger as if it were molded for me. I hold my hand further away from me to see how it looks from a distance.

At first, the pain is not as acute as I remember. When I look at the stone, I can truly admire its beauty, how utterly clear and blue it is. I can even appreciate how happy I used to be, without pining for a return to those old days. Eventually, the cold limpid pond becomes a deluge, a sea of recollections so fresh and vibrant I can't breathe.

Once upon a time, Steven gave me a music box. It was a beautiful trinket, with delicate filigree and carefully painted enamel. "The fairy reminds me of you," he whispered softly to me. And it resembled me so well that I would have assumed it was made in my honor if I didn't know better. For years, I believed that it was me, the little androgynous figurine with its teal hair and its wings of translucent green-blue. And the music…Just the sort of arrangement I would have picked for a contest.

One night, on a whim, I pulled the music box from its corner in my drawer. I wound it up, five times, carefully, before I let it play on the pedestal of my dresser. I can't remember what happened after, only that in the morning, I woke up amidst a pile of shattered glass and crumpled metal. My hands were caked with blood, and my head pounded painfully with the beat of my heart. I still don't know if I'm relieved to be liberated from the spell of the music, or if I bitterly hate myself for destroying one of the last tokens I have of him.

It's one of those nights again, when the memories are especially potent. I slip the ring off and tuck it away before I'm tempted to destroy it, too.

I've tried, again and again, to forget Steven. I used to believe that with time, I would become strong enough to find joy in what little remains behind of him, enough to enjoy the gifts and memories without wishing I could abandon my life and disappear into them. Yet, right when I think I'm finally free, I relapse. And rinse and repeat, until I no longer dare to hope for an escape from this cycle.

I am a hypocrite. Everything I told May, I have blatantly disregarded. But perhaps she will do better than I have.


"Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower

We will grieve not; rather find

Strength in what remains behind."

Intimations of Immortality, Wordsworth


I find Steven's letter interesting. It doesn't get talked about enough, I don't think, even though it essentially cuts his and May/Brendan's relationship short. I think if May/Brendan saw him purely as a mentor of sorts, or maybe a distant friendly acquaintance, it's a very sweet and flattering letter, especially when you consider the gift that comes with it. But if you think about it from a Hoennchampionshipping perspective, it really is heartbreaking, and confirmation that Steven either doesn't see her in that way or feels that he must keep his distance.