(edited. 2020-03-28)

Locked Away, Chapter 8

As Ash suspected, Misty's departure caused a brief conflict of interest within himself. The day following her departure, he laid in bed through his morning exercises. Today was a struggle. Morning came the same way as it always had, the daunting morning rays blasting him in the face as they rose over the horizon. His room was in direct line with the sunrise, so he was never able to sleep in. Once the light hit his face, he was up. He was awake, living, breathing, thinking...

He just didn't want to get up today.

It was already 8:00 AM, typically, Misty would have arrived around 7:00 AM and Ash would have woken at 6:00 AM when the sun was first poured forth from his window. However, today Ash had not touched his morning newspaper or even the magazines that Misty left him—no, he curled up in his bed, face pressed into his pillow. As a recovering coma patient, he was allowed one day to vegetate, right? Even if it was pathetic. He tried to imagine what Misty would say to him—for the first time in weeks imagining this Misty's voice instead of his.

"Get out of bed!" She would say, "We have a lot to do today!" She would yell, even if they didn't have anything to do. In reality, she rarely needed to wake Ash; he was always a self-starter. Why should today be any different?

So, Ash pulled himself forward, allowing the blankets to fall around his waist; with a sigh, he rubbed his eyes and shifted his legs over the edge of the bed, letting his bare feet press against the carpet. It was an improvement from tile, but he still didn't like the professional feel of it. He would much have preferred his mother's shag carpet back at home—the one he berated, and hated, most of his childhood.

It was funny how that worked; the longer he was awake, the less he could recall from his dream world, and the more he remembered about his real life. Things that never mattered—the way that he and Gary were barely friends; how often they used to fight over everything. The way his mom dressed up every morning by spraying lilac perfumes before she headed into the market for work. He spent a lot of time alone as a child. With his mom working a normal five days a week job, eight hours a day; Ash spent his time playing at Professor Oak's laboratory or playing in the forest leading into route one, or by classic tradition, fighting with Gary.

Sometimes, he wondered about Professor Oak, and Gary... if there was some way to get a hold of them? He hadn't thought about it before, but they would know where his mom was. Plus, they were the closest he had to a real family, after all. Ash sucked in and exhaled. Perhaps his perception of his mother in his dreams was his way of giving the woman a break. She never seemed to work in his world; always had the money for their house, and seemed to always have a green garden. In his world, his mother was on a perfect vacation all the time. Ash wondered now if she had to work twice as hard to pay for his hospital bills. Ash groaned as he shifted his gaze to the window, where he saw the highest leaves of the forest trees changing into a shade of yellow.

The seasons, he found, were the most absent of his dreams. While regions had places that were snow-covered, hot deserts and muggy forests—the weather itself never seemed to change unless it rained, and even then, full seasons seemed to completely nonexistent. He didn't know when summer was, or winter, or fall; everything happened in nice weather, except when the plot drove him otherwise. According to his therapist, his weather beliefs were a reflection of his life—sunny weather meant he was mentally happy, rain and discomfort reflected his body's depression.

Ash nearly forgot how cold the fall weather was in Kanto. The start of winter stripped the world of its green luster and replaced the world with a quiet, frigid hibernation. Wild pokemon hid in caves for the winter seasons, and those that could survive did so carefully. Ash couldn't remember it snowing very often in the southern region, but he remembered the temperature drops.

Shivering because he left his window open overnight, he snapped it closed with a shudder. He would know better for next time. Then, he found an outfit in the wardrobe. Behind the wooden doors of the small closet, nestled in the warmth of Misty's scarf and a few of his shirts—including the one that he wore yesterday-was the egg that Misty gave him. Habitually, he brushed his fingers over the smooth surface to assure that the egg was still warm. Feeling the heat press into his fingertips, he hummed gently to himself, trying to put the memory of pikachu out of his mind while he grabbed his clothes for the day. He missed the small mouse pokemon most of all. While Misty's gift was thoughtful and provoked him to take care of something other than himself, it was also a painful reminder that pikachu was not here and most likely—Ash swallowed—would never be again. Stifling the thought, he ran the palm of his hand against the rough shell of the egg, and then covered it entirely with the scarf. He then pulled out a simple blue t-shirt, and black sweat pants. A gloom swayed through his mind, slumping his shoulders sorely. The days were considerably easier if he didn't think about pikachu.

Occasionally, that's why he missed Misty the most. When she was around, he had little time to think for himself. What time wasn't filled with routine was filled with her stories, specifically, stories about how the world operated compared to his own fragmented memories. When she wasn't talking about water pokemon and the students she handled at the gym, she was talking about politics; even though Ash didn't really seem to understand them. Without her persistent storytelling, he needed to find something else to fill his spare time... and he wasn't sure burying himself in a book would entertain him for an entire month.

Ash pushed towards the washroom, shuffling across his floor like a thoughtless zombie. He shut the door behind him, exhaled the breath he'd been holding, and removed his clean clothes from the hook behind the door. He stretched and twisted his back while he removed his white pajama t-shirt. These mundane tasks didn't suffice as a proper distract anymore, so Ash fell into his own thoughts. He discovered that the longer he slept, the more often his every solution became 'pokemon'; if he didn't understand how it worked, he fabricated a pokemon-related solution to fit the needs of the world. The first was the absurd lack of executive government; there were police, hospitals, banks—really everything that required a government-but his world worked without politics, at least, in the official capacity. That wasn't the case in the real world, as Misty eagerly told him a million times—mentioning not once, but twice, that raising pokemon without a license and before the age of ten was a felony housed by years in juvenile or prison. In Ash's world, every other young person he met had a pokemon before the age of ten! He sighed.

Truthfully, Ash tried to stay out of politics as much as possible, as they not only confused him, he never knew who was being honest, and who was a liar. Worst of all, the regions ran sort of like an oligarchy—the elite-four of each region were like the senate—public figures in the media. The regional champion was like the governor—they made and enforced the rules via the police, and most of the services of the region derived from their publicity, tournaments, jobs, farming etc. The Regional champion worked with the Elite-four and is the political power that manned and operated a region's government duties. They supplied jobs and opportunities. Above them was what Misty called "the higher-ups", a group of known "Pokemon Masters" that ran the League for years. Misty, however, used the term 'pokemon masters' in a light, condescending way, citing that no one really knew what a master was; it was a moniker they took, and probably didn't deserve. Regardless, they were the people in charge of all of the Region's champions and the Elite-four; they kept all the leagues and different regions unified under one figurehead. Every once in a while, a regional champion would campaign to replace a member of 'the higher-ups' by advertising and challenging them to battle for the title of "Pokemon Master". Ash didn't think it was fair that only regional champions were allowed the position, and Misty couldn't disagree with him. Below the Elite-four were the gym leaders, or as Misty lovingly called them; the 'scapegoats'.

Ash turned the shower taps on, ran his fingers through his hair, and then removed his pants. Misty's way of describing the election method was "idiocy at its best". When Ash asked her what she meant by that, she described the method as superficial and medieval. He heard her voice in his head.

"The best gym leaders become part of the Elite-Four— if a gym leader wants to become a member of the Elite-Four, as in, replace a former member, they have to put in an application, go through a set of tests, some schooling, and then a silent vote is cast amongst said region's remaining gym leaders, other regions Elite-four members, and then the regional champion. They decide who replaces an old member, but the whole situation is screwed because the only people eligible for the title are gym leaders. This means that the same people can have power for years. The only person who is subject to change whenever is the regional champion when a winner of the pokemon league, a 'league champion', challenges the Elite Four; and once he or she defeats them, they can then challenge the reigning regional champion for his position; and if they win, the title and power changes to this new person. It's crazy. Rumor has it a ten-year-old held the title a long time ago, but there's rules against that now."

Ash seemed amazed by her spiel the first time she said it; his only question was: "What if someone bad beat the regional champion?"

"Then the Elite-Four are allowed to technically over-throw them and kick him or her out, or, the 'higher-ups' step in and remove the regional champion by any means necessary; for that to happen, though, the Elite-Four and the higher-ups have to be uncorrupted, and if you'd ask me; they're not. We base our beliefs on an old-idea that a pokemon trainer can only win the title of Regional Champion if they share a true bond with their pokemon—and most people, stupid people, believe that to share a bond strong enough to beat the best—you have to be good and pure of heart. As I said, it's a stupid set up that completely isolates other trainers who aren't battlers from ever being in a position of power—which makes some walks of life—anyone who isn't a pokemon battler, per-say, very angry."

As Ash crawled into the steaming water, he remembered the look of complete detest over her features while she threw up her arms in aggravation—the can of worms he opened was endless and quite humorous. He pressed his head against the shower wall in memory and squeezed his eyes shut as the liquid trailed down his back.

"Gym leaders are supposed to be these leading officials in each large city to maintain the peace.. but it's to the point that being a gym leader is synonymous with being a police officer but instead of managing criminals we're supposed to manage ten-year-old kids and pissed off riots. With the exception of battlers, the community that used to revere and respect gym leaders now consider us corrupt and detrimental to society because we weren't voted in—we were given our positions from the Elite-Four, who also weren't voted in, and we are expected to...just..." She exhaled when she told the story, turning to face Ash as if she had gone off on a rampage and was embarrassed.

"Were just the whipping boys for the damn pokemon league. There's a problem? Send in a gym leader! Obviously they know what they're doing!"

"..So why do you stay a gym leader?" Ash asked her, as sincerely as he could.

"It's not exactly something you just abandon; besides, my sisters and I have been the gym leaders since my parents owned the gym before us, back when being a gym leader was simply that; helping trainers, taking in students, raising pokemon... to just up and leave would be like leaving home..." Ash recalled the way her face scrunched up heatedly, frustrated by even mentioning her position as a gym leader. Obviously, it wasn't everything she made it out to be—even if she said she loved it.

"It doesn't matter who the gym leader is, we don't really have any authority or say in what happens; that's why it's so damn easy for me to 'vacation' like this. People hold us accountable like we're greater than the mayor of our towns, but we're no different than other trainers, we're just treated specially and it makes me sick. Acting for the league shouldn't be synonymous with running the rest of the world's operations-Especially since that incident with Giovanni."

"..Incident with Giovanni?" Ash questioned her; hearing only briefly about the incident via the news when he was in the hospital.

Misty's face fell automatically, "That's a story for another time." Misty told Ash sadly, unable to make eye contact.

Her rant died as if he opened a fresh wound when he asked about Giovanni. The look in her eye was...something he wasn't familiar with, sadness? or disappointment? Either way, Ash knew that Giovanni was the Team Rocket leader in his dreams and in this world; an oddity to recall such an event. According to the news, Giovanni supposedly gave up after a short battle with the Kanto Elite-four and was sentenced life in prison for a list longer than Ash could ever hope to remember. Not much else was ever mentioned about him, where he was, what happened... Ash grimaced while washing his dark hair, the scent overpowered his senses and he shuddered.

Because Giovanni was a gym leader when his foul deeds came to fruition, Ash imagined that the remaining gym leaders faced severe scrutiny as a result. Misty didn't specify, but he was sure there were questions if the rest of the leaders were working alongside him. Did they know? Ash knew Misty must have been pestered with questions because it wasn't something other gym leaders were shy about discussing on national television. Who did, or did not support Giovanni. Weird to think some people thought he was innocent... Though, Ash thought that Misty seemed extra reclusive about the subject, trying extremely hard to keep Ash out of the loop. As he rinsed and washed his body, he couldn't help but think that maybe the reason Misty never wanted to talk about it was that she hadn't quite coped with it herself. From the way that she talked, she knew of the gym leaders decently, and if she and Giovanni were friends...

Turning off the water, Ash's fingers raked through his freshly cut hair—pulling like it would peel his thoughts from his skull. He was tired of thinking, but couldn't turn his brain off. When he pulled open the shower curtain and saw the reflection of himself in the mirror for the first time that day, he exhaled sharp. In the mist, he almost looked like his former ten-year-old self, albeit, slightly taller... and if he squinted, stood on one foot, and tilted his head the right way. Laughing at himself, he grabbed his blue towel off the rack, wrapped his torso then stepped over the lip of the shower and onto the small bath rug. He was taller, yes, at least as tall, or slightly taller than Misty, depending on which shoes she wore on that particular day. But that was only the second biggest change in his image—the first was everything else. His bone structure was different, his shoulders broader, his chest wider though, having been comatose for ten years, his physical therapist did mention that he might be stunted height-wise, but he felt huge in comparison to what he used to look like. His bones almost seemed too big for his skin. At the start of his recovery, he felt like a shambled mess—but now, he was beginning to feel more human, like a big human, but human none-the-less.

Along with physical attributes, there were the scars that were growing more present as the days grew longer. Ash didn't notice them right away, he even neglected to mention them to anyone who did bring them up—but his arms and stomach around his abdomen were fitted with multiple scars.

While he never asked the specific reasons why they were there—he assumed that the tiny pinpricks decorating his left arm were the reminder of how many IVs were pressed through his skin over the years to force production of the proper enzymes to heal his wounds. Honestly, he thought he looked like a heroin addict upon closer examination of the marks. His right arm wasn't any better, he had tiny holes all along his veins. Only when his skin was transparent, it wasn't as much of an issue—now that the peach color returned, they were like unintentional bee stings. He hated needles, and he was sure that the reason why was because of the constant prodding they provided him when he was asleep. He always wondered what those small jots of pain were when he was in his dream world—now he knew.

His stomach was another matter. It was covered in surgical scars: he could tell because of the precision accuracy and accuracy of each line. Ash wasn't clear on the whole life support thing, but he was pretty sure that he had undergone some exploratory surgery at some point to make sure that nothing else was adhering his recovery aside from his own brain. Tracing his fingers along the neatly healed scars, he exhaled and flexed his abs. Before he left the hospital, his stomach felt like skin and tissue holding in his organs, now, he felt solid muscle when he pressed his fingers against his stomach. Sure, he wasn't anywhere near a six-pack, but he was far from the concave walking skeleton that he was at the start of this recovery process.

Ash was better. Much better. He let his towel drop carelessly to the floor and then immediately pulled on his trousers, trying his hardest to forget other parts of his body that changed as well. There were still some things he couldn't explain with words that confused him, and while the physical therapists tried to push the issue occasionally—Ash was perfectly comfortable never discussing anything of that specific caliber ever. Primarily, he wanted to avoid anything revolving around the phrase "change in hormones" or "puberty". Pressing his face close to the mirror, he recognized that the z-shaped birthmarks that were so prominent in his dreams were faint reminders of his childhood. Like all birthmarks and scars, they seemed to mostly fade away, only visible in certain lights.

Twenty years old, huh? Ash thought, doing a once over of his body—he looked older—so different—but himself. He didn't always look in the mirror in fear of what he would see there. The image staring back at him did not feel like him. Not yet, anyways. He was told that came with time.

Knock knock

The tapping at the bathroom door pulled Ash from his thoughts. Thankfully. He wasn't sure how much more his head could take. The wicked headaches served with all the extra thoughts were grating on him. Most likely, a nursing assistant was rapping on his door to ask why he hadn't gone to breakfast that morning.

"Just a minute." Ash called quietly, unfamiliar with the nurse coming for him. Typically, Misty was here, so they would tell her, and she would relay the message to Ash once he was done with whatever he was doing at the time. Ash hummed slightly, tugging his blue t-shirt over his head all in one swift movement while pulling open the bathroom door. It swung open with a start, staring back at him was a yellow-haired woman with big brown eyes and her hair tied back in a bun. She wore a simple set of scrubs and sucked in air at the image before her.

Her face flushed as she spoke; "The therapist from the hospital, Dr. Sebastian, is here to see you."

"Oh, wonderful." Ash remarked sarcastically with an eye roll. He wished that she was only asking about breakfast now. "That's today. I almost forgot."

"...yeah." She shifted her weight between her feet while Ash's eyes darted to the window, as if asking himself why the nurse was still here.

"I'm Mary. It's nice to meet you."

"Hi, Mary," Ash muttered, unsure if he should offer to shake her hand or awkwardly walk away. He chose the latter as he moved around her and towards his dresser for a pair of socks and his sweater.

"It's pretty cool how you know the Cerulean City gym leader..." She twiddled her fingers, eyes cast downward, though her interest in Misty perked his otherwise occupied attention.

"You mean Misty? What about it?" Ash asked gleefully, having almost forgotten that gym leaders were better known in this world than in his.

"Oh, you're on a first-name basis." Her face flushed more and she partially fanned herself before bringing her fingers to her chest and resting them there. "She's got a reputation, her and her sisters—she's really friendly in person, even though people say she has a mean streak."

Her words caused Ash to laugh while he pulled his sweater over his shoulders. He shook his head with disbelief. So, she could be mean after all. He was almost starting to believe that wasn't possible in this world's version of Misty. She was always so friendly with him, and the staff—except his nosy therapist. Ash sighed while Mary pressed her palms together.

"Have you two been friends long?" She gestured towards him as he pulled on his socks, and his brows scrunched in response. That was right, the staff at the assisted living home didn't know Ash's predicament, that he was a coma patient—just that he was enrolled in physical therapy. He sighed, a breath of fresh air at the uncommon knowledge, and grinned at Mary.

"Not really..." Ash replied honestly, albeit sadly.

"Then why did she stay so long?" The girl suddenly snapped and Ash raised his eyebrows.

"...Are you a fan or something...?" Ash blinked in confusion at the suddenly very angry nurse, but he didn't have time to pester her as s cold clack of heels pressed against his doorway before walking in uninvited.

"Hmm, it's a bit smaller than I imagined." The therapist, in his cold, uncouth demeanor narrated as he entered Ash's room; he exhaled as Mary shuddered and bowed her way out of the room without needing to be told. Ash scowled at the appearance of the man. He always wore a black suit with a blue and red tie to match his already cold features. As if making him look more like a villain than his personality, he had a goatee to match his perfectly combed hair and beady, gleaming glasses.

"Hey Sebastian." Ash announced, finding it impossible to place 'doctor' before a man such as him. The improper association didn't seem to fluster the man, however. He ran his leather-clad fingers against the surface of Ash's dresser and inhaled.

"I see the gym leader finally left." He responded coolly and Ash felt a pang of anger rise in his chest.

"You mean Misty." Ash corrected coldly, wishing that he hadn't needed to deal with this therapist. There had to be someone else. Anyone else.

"...of course." the man muttered in return, slapping out his chart and scribbling whatever nonsense down. "And have you had breakfast yet this morning?"

"No, I'm just getting up." Ash offered while tying his sneakers on.

Dr. Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "At a quarter after ten?"

Ash's eyes shifted. "Yeah, so? It's still technically morning."

"...hmmp." the doctor hummed before sitting in the same seat that Misty usually sat in. The one the nice nurses specifically brought for her. Tainted by this alien wearing a man's suit. Ash grit his teeth together as the therapist wrote more down on his list—the thing that basically would determine if and when Ash would be allowed to leave. Ash barely got an okay to leave the hospital from the man—and the constant presence of his scratching pencil made Ash want to snap it over his head. Ash felt like he was always being graded on a scale from one to basket level insane; Ash was neither of those things and he certainly wasn't unstable—opposed to what was written on Ash's last mental health evaluation.

If Ash wanted to leave in a month, he would have to follow the silly man's pestering questions and answer as vaguely as possible without drawing too much attention to anything—that's the advice Misty gave him. Yes and no answers were better than elaborating because Dr. Sebastian didn't seem to like Ash very much; or really, any of his patients.

"Do you plan on skipping breakfast often?"

"What?" Ash snapped out of his thoughts, slumping onto his bed. "No! Of course not. I just wanted to sleep in today."

"And why is that?" the therapist paused. "Is it because the gym leader left? Are you feeling depressed again?"

Her name is Misty, damn it. Ash swore before cracking his neck and exhaling—all of his sessions went like this, being accused instead of being helped—it seemed so unjustifiably wrong.

"No, I was just tired today." Ash spoke earnestly, hoping that would suffice as an answer.

"Lying is a key sign of denial—which is an early sign of depression." The therapist called Ash out, smacking his lips while he jotted a few notes down on his clipboard. Ash felt sweat build on the back of his neck, trying to will himself nerves of steel. Damn, he'd barely been speaking with the man for less than two minutes, and he was already flustered. He needed to calm down. Ash clenched his fist beside his thigh, hidden from the therapist.

"A little bit then." Ash broke and bit down on his lip. "But I'm not depressed. It's normal to miss people when they're not around." he offered cooly, but the therapist once again followed with a sharp 'hmm' and scribbled more information down.

"The nurses say that you haven't been making any friends."

"I've only been here a week!" Ash snapped, getting an eyebrow raise from the therapist who wrote down that reaction, for sure.

"Random bouts of anger still, I see..."

Are you here to help me or assess me because I can't tell the difference! Ash almost shouted, but bit down hard on his tongue, knowing that he couldn't afford another rise.

"Sorry." Ash apologized quickly. "I have been getting used to the new environment and trying to focus my energy on getting better and exercise... I'm just a little exhausted at the end of the day."

"I see..." the doctor paused. "Tell me about your time here thus far?"

Ash thought twice about about telling him about the egg that Misty put him in charge of, or about the freedom to walk around the forest however much he wanted.

"It's been nice, the staff is friendly and the food isn't bad. There is a lot more sun here and occasionally I get to sit on the deck when the sun is out." Ash grumbled, keeping his eyes trained on the yellow lilies poking out of his blue vase. The therapist jot all of this information down, carefully writing each word Ash uttered—only, Ash had no idea if anything he was writing was good or not; apparently, he wrote a lot of bad things about Ash.

"And what about those dreams?"

"What about them? They weren't real." Ash snapped and pursed his lips. that's what he'd been told a million times. The therapist practically crammed the idea into Ash's throat. It wasn't real. It was a dream. You've fabricated a world that doesn't exist. Ash exhaled.

"Correct, but talking about them is a way to move past them; which was the last story we talked about? Something about a... Palkia?"

Ash eyed the therapist who was always so keen to talk about the pokemon Ash found, but not the fact that Ash created imaginary people to spend time with—imaginary people who weren't really imaginary.

"Actually, I wanted to talk about the people I traveled with," Ash said awkwardly, remembering that he and Misty agreed to bring up that his dream friends were actually real. The therapist appeared slightly agitated, clucking his tongue against his teeth, but smiled curtly. Ash wasn't sure whether or not to bring it up with the man, but regardless, he did.

"Misty and I discovered that those people I traveled with, they all really exist in this world." Ash stammered, looking carefully at the man, the way his hand paused as he wrote, his face mixed with slight abrasive anger, and then melted into frustration. He forced the emotions back with a smile.

"So she has been feeding into your subconscious thoughts?" He marked this down quickly, and Ash knew right away by the tone of his voice that it was a very bad note. "This could be a very serious problem, enabling your insanity..."

"I'm not insane! What's so wrong with checking?" Ahh, he knew he shouldn't have brought this up with his therapist after all. Ash wasn't ready for these kinds of conversations. His nerves were on fire.

"How are you so sure that they are who you thought they were? There is no viable way to address this, is there? It's not like they remember you; so why enable the idea that your dreams could have meant anything more than a barrier to keep you unconscious?"

How do you know they don't remember me? Ash wanted to ask, to scream. Anything. Instead, he exhaled, then inhaled, and exhaled again. Breathing exercises to control his temper, not something Misty outright told him, but something she demonstrated. If the word hate was properly engraved in Ash's vocabulary, he would have used that now. He hated this man. The doctor's cocky, verbose attitude and the unjust way that he treated people frayed on Ash's every nerve. For a therapist, he didn't listen. He put Ash down. He squished everything he was hopeful about, anything that inspired him. Ash hated the way that he felt around this man.

"I know they weren't real..." Ash tried, but it only seemed to grind the therapist's frustrations.

"But do you? You were easily willing to accept that the people existed without proper background research. You're obviously pulling at all hopes and strings to realize that your dreams truly meant something..." The therapist tapped his pen against his clipboard, deciding he'd had enough. It was almost like Ash was his patient, but he had no patience for his patient. Unless Ash was talking about majestic, powerful pokemon, Dr. Sebastian gave a ratatas ass about anything-

"We may need to file a restraining order against..." Misty. Ash's eyes went wide.

"Get out."

Ash stood up and pointed demandingly to his door. His feet squared into the carpet beneath him, solid on his feet despite the curling in his gut. The therapist obviously didn't believe that Ash was serious, so rather than listen, he raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. He took his glasses off and cleaned them, an action that almost pushed Ash to take his glasses and throw them into the hallway; but instead, Ash crossed his arms and kept a fierce eye on the therapist. This had gone too far.

Stand up for yourself, you know, in a healthy way. Don't let people talk down to you. Misty words echoed in his head. Her advice that she gave Ash shortly after her own spat with the man sitting before him.

"It's very important that people don't enable you during this weakened state of mind. That-"

"She's the only friend I have and you want to put a restraining order on her? How does that help? How can you even do that?" Ash snapped, half-shouting. He clenched his fists tightly and exhaled. "You sit here and tell me to talk about my adventures, constantly reminding me of them when in fact it's easier when I forget about them. I don't think you actually have any idea what the hell you're doing! Misty has helped me a million times more than you have!" his booming voice caught the attention of the nurses. Mary, the one Ash had been introduced to before, walked in to check on the situation.

Dr. Sebastian's glasses gleamed as he licked his lips. "It's a process..."

"Yeah? It's a process that isn't working for me!" Ash threw up his arms as he roared.

His anger was directed at Sebastian, so when the yellow-haired nurse turned the corner, he immediately settled down. Ash looked back at Sebastian.

"Get out," he demanded again, and the therapist simply shook his head. Rolled his shoulders. Decided he was above Ash's complaints.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Slowly, Ash nodded and then smiled slightly-his boyish charm almost offputting for what he was prepared to do.

"Mary, can you alert security for me, please?" Ash asked and Mary nodded immediately, turned and darted into the hallway.

"No, that won't be necessary." The therapist called after the girl, rising from his seat and adjusting his glasses. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his suit, standing a few inches taller than Ash, who even in his weakened state didn't back down.

"You do know you'll need me to verify your mental stability before you can leave this place..." He offered, to which Ash smirked and cocked his jaw.

"Is that a threat?" it sure as hell sounded like one.

The therapist smirked, "No, it's a suggestion."

"You know what else is a suggestion?" Ash chimed mockingly. He stepped closer to the doctor, his chest puffed up and shoulders high. "I don't...no, I never needed you... You were never helpful."

Ash nodded, staring into the man's cold, black eyes and then whispered; "Get the fuck out of my room."

Finally, Sebastian backed away, scoffing at Ash's behavior.

"This won't turn up well on your report, really you should..." he tried, but Ash shook his head fiercely. Ash refused to hear the threat or the back-handed offer. Really, he was done with anything and everything this man offered.

"That's fine. I'll get a new therapist. I heard there's a good one at this facility." Ash paused as if to let the words sink in. "Maybe I'll get re-assessed after all. Maybe I'll stay here until I can walk out the door without being assessed at all."

Ash paused, brow twitching. "But I'm done being bullied by you."

Chewing on his words, the therapist's jaw clenched and unclenched before he took a step back and exhaled.

"Alright, I'll transfer your reports." He slithered, words toxic and full of venom as he nodded to Ash, and without speaking further, stepped out of Ash's room.

Suffocating. Ash was suffocating, and then as the breath he held fell from his lips, he collapsed onto his bed and wrapped his fingers over his stomach. He did it! He was shaking and his head was spinning, but he did it! The spat with the man was probably going to leave Ash with a longer waiting period than he wanted, it probably had other repercussions he wasn't aware of... but even with all that he felt good about himself. A smile tugged at his lips, and he sat up, looking out his window with a new perspective. Every time he spoke with the therapist, he left feeling worse than when he went in. If Ash wasn't talking about pokemon, he wasn't getting a good review—even when Ash remained silent for a full two weeks, the only prompt goal that Dr. Sebastian spoke about was Ash's association with pokemon. No mention of the people he traveled with aside from what they probably represented—so why were the pokemon in his dream so damn important? According to Misty, it was because Sebastian was a weirdo.

Ash sighed, slapping himself on the forehead for his last thought. According to Misty, he sighed. He placed so much emphasis on the female. Even now, the real set off during his session was the implication that Misty wasn't holding Ash's best interests at heart. His eyes opened, looking up at his ceiling as a strange pounding roared behind his chest. Misty's laugh echoed in his ears, then all of a sudden, he was winded and sat up to catch his breath. What in the world was that? He blinked, rubbing his chest painfully before hopping off of his bed to re-gather his thoughts. After the adrenaline rush, he was starving again; and felt like he wanted, no, he needed to go for a run. Zipping up his sweater, he marched quickly from his bedroom, out into the halls where he stayed close to the railings, just to be safe.

Making his way to the dining room by himself for the first time was terrifying, but the polite nurses and the even politer residents made the process easier. Ash ordered a late breakfast then went to sit with some of the older men and women playing cards at the back of the dining hall.

"So, the recluse does come out and play after all?" An older woman with large, hoop earrings and groovy yellow and green glasses gleamed at him. Ash offered a weak smile as she waved for him to sit in the seat beside her.

"That pretty red-head finally left, did she?" A man who started to deal out the cards suggested.

"Don't worry son, they always come back." The groovy-shaded woman cooed while patting him on the shoulder Ash felt heat rise to his cheeks at their absurd friendliness and shifted his gaze downward from embarrassment.

"You ever played poker before boy?" A large, older man with a mustache asked Ash, who shook his head in response. The man rested his tray on his lap as he pulled off his sandwich wrap. Squeaking his wheelchair, he grinned and showed the lack of three teeth from the corners of his smile.

"Then pay attention, we'll show ya'."

Ash grinned, looking up to the table as they dealt cards out amongst each other, and divided a few blue, red, and white chips. At that moment, while Ash cracked open his sandwich and ate it gratefully, he thought that a month with this kind of company couldn't be too bad. So long as they were always this friendly. Misty did tell him that the residents here seemed really nice—but Ash never made much time for them—she was usually out here when he was in physical therapy and his heart pounded again at the thought of her.

Maybe he was having a heart attack or something? The red on his cheeks warmed his face, and he picked at the bread while the older company talked him through the rules of having an 'affective' poker face. Apparently, the key was to administer sedatives before a game, according to the groovy-old woman.

"Oh, before we get started. I'm Agatha, that's Todd, and that's Scott." the old woman counseled Ash while she easily flipped through her cards; Ash smiled.

"I'm Ash," he replied happily.

"Oh, we know who you are. Being friends with a gym leader doesn't go entirely unnoticed to us older folks—" She nudged Ash and raised an eyebrow. "At least us folks with our heads on straight, anyways. We like to pretend we don't know what's going on so those nurses leave us alone."

Ash laughed loudly at her reasoning, sharing a chuckle with the rest of the group—that was the truth; whatever could be said or done to spend as little time being monitored was typically the best route—even he was finding that out and he'd only been here a week. He grinned, satisfied with his first time being out of his room. Maybe the real world wasn't as scary as he thought that it was.

XOX

Dr. Sebastian sat in his black impala across from the home Ash was residing in, scrolling through information on his laptop screen—messages full of trainer profiles and listings.

"Sir." The therapist echoed into the phone he held to his face, glancing once over the assisted living facility. "Apparently, those people were real, too."

"...Interesting..." the voice through his phone spoke quietly.

"He's alert and awake enough to make his own choices now, sir. I've been retired as his primary therapist." the raven-haired man spoke with a snarl.

"...I thought I told you not to screw up..." replied the man, whose voice was shrouded in static.

"There were some," his shielded eyes moved from windshield to his laptop screen and he groaned. Misty's profile reflected on the screen and his jaw clenched. "...unforeseen complications." he finished.

"I don't pay you to make excuses. I want the location of the others." A nervous sound left Sebastian's throat and he sighed.

"I've got most of them—he doesn't seem to remember the rest." He lied, he knew that Ash remembered everything from his dreams perfectly, but he was covering his own ass. He couldn't walk back in and apologize for his behavior, so getting any more information from Ash was out of the question. They would simply have to learn the whereabouts of the others on their own.

A brief snarl from the other line made Sebastian swallow hard against the lump in his throat until finally, the static replied; "Fine. Bring your information to me."

"Yes, sir."

A click ended the call. Dr. Sebastian glanced at the assisted living home and shook his head. What a way to go, at least he made progress on his mission. He grinned. Ash had been a huge success after all.

Author's note:

edited 2020-03-28