Inamorata
5.

When Professor Rowan visits, there is little you expect him to reveal. However, to your pleasant surprise, he tells you everything: unfortunately, after much effort, Grey has been stubborn, refusing to discuss her work with the authorities. That is until she specifically asked for you; she wants to see you, and only you.

'Are you going to tell me about it then?' You begin. 'About her research. I asked you before, and you wouldn't give me an answer.'

He still views you as a child; the sweet girl he met so long ago. But at your approach, he's bewildered. The man's age shows, and, for a moment, his face darkens and you're certain he might yell. He doesn't, however.

Instead he sort of reclines. Drops his shoulders, and shakes his head lightly; giving up.

'Many curious students have asked me about this sort of thing.' He places his hands in his pockets, and avoids your gaze. There's a hint of shame in his tone; you're treading into grounds he has no wish to return to. 'One, in particular, I believed meant sincerely. He was only seventeen at the time, and he came to me with his research. Asked for my thoughts.'

You know this he. Cyrus pops into your head and your insides go cold.

'I never thought he would become so beastly.'

Now you look away.

Beastly?

Is that what to call a trainer? A trainer who has put so much passion and hard work into what they do? Beastly. Ought Rowan not call you that as well?

'The wrong student had the wrong interests.' Rowan sighs. 'I wish he studied myths; at least, then, he might not have turned into such a maddened man. I don't know what happened to him really: one moment he was curious, almost angelic. The next? Well. I could not recognise him at first. You may not believe me, but Cyrus was a good person. Once.'

You can believe it.

Of course you can.

'Perhaps it's not that simple anyway.' He clears his throat. 'Perhaps he just didn't have somebody to guide him. Dare I say: love him.'

You recall Cynthia's description of the young Cyrus. Ambitious, highly competitive, and emotionally ruined. 'Is that what causes insanity, Professor?' Your voice is unusually pitched. 'Lack of love?'

'I'm not exactly an expert when it comes to human psychology, child.' He stops himself. You ignore the child remark, but it bites. 'Maybe not. Some people can overcome it; I know many who have. It really depends.'

'Depends?'

Rowan smiles. It's not patronising; it's just friendly.

'I did have one student; the best student I've ever had. Her grandmother raised her. The girl's parents had been killed by a very vicious kind of Pokemon; they went out to train, and were ambushed. Unfortunately the Pokemon they had on them were too weak to defend them. They died and, for some, that would be an excuse to hate the Pokemon species. To refuse to move on.'

'What happened to her?'

'Oh, she's around.' Rowan inhales. 'Now, come on. If we want this to be put to at end, we can't waste anymore time.' He takes your jacket from the end of the hospital bed, and hands it over. 'Are you all right to walk?'

You're thinking about the girl, orphaned at a young age; adopted by her grandmother.

Rowan's favourite student.

Your heart flutters.

'I am.'

There is a bit of friction between Pokemon trainers and the police; trainers have a habit in breaking the law for the advantage of their own Pokemon and, naturally, police officers aren't too crazy about that. So when you enter the police station, not many officers are eager to acknowledge your presence. If Rowan weren't such a respected professor, you doubt you'd be able to get in at all.

One officer is cold with you at first, but once Rowan has convinced him you're here to help, he softens up slightly. You're not entirely sure what you will achieve. Yet, if Professor Grey is that keen to see you, then this venture might not be so fruitless.

The person you don't expect to meet is Professor Oak. He flew into Sinnoh only yesterday. Although he isn't to blame for Grey's work, he clearly has some insight on it. Considering you two have met before, Oak welcomes you fondly. 'I was hoping we would meet again!' He takes your hand to shake it. 'Tell me, how has your Pokedex progressed?'

'Ah…' You've forgotten, but Rowan steps in.

'I actually stole Dawn's Pokedex from her for the moment. So far? Excellent work. I will be happy to share her data with you, Oak.'

'That is very kind.' He smiles shortly. 'I imagine you aren't here to see me?' A chuckle. 'I assure you, if I had any idea she would resort to such madness, I would have put an end to it immediately.' You believe him, but don't speak. It all just sounds like Cyrus again. The brilliant, enthusiastic student, and the professor who has gone soft.

Wrong information in the wrong hands.

'Grey shall be in the interrogation room soon,' Oak says. 'The good news is that we have been able to discover two bases where her experiments are being conducted. It is only a matter of time until this all blows over finally.'

A part of you snaps, but your frustration fails to express itself.

Blows over? What a joke. This will go on for years and years and years. You highly doubt Cyrus was the first genius to think of this sort of thing. Perhaps Oak and Rowan are starting to get a bit too old, but you can't understand their naivety.

Words spill from your mouth: 'You knew, though. I read your letters.' Oak looks down to the floor. 'She asked you to work with her.'

'For her,' Oak corrects, and when he meets your eyes, there's a sternness. Maybe he isn't as silly as you think. 'I know what she wrote; I know what our letters contained, but, no: you're wrong. I did not know she would amount to this.' His face hardens, and you know he is lying. Your respect for this man dampens considerably, and it's an ugly revelation.

Rowan is clearly the most level-headed. He laughs: 'Dawn, you can be forward. Come on now.' You step down obediently, but Oak doesn't speak to you after that. In fact, as you and he are escorted to the interrogation room, he can't even look at you anymore. You know you've prodded a sensitive spot, but the fact he is too proud to admit to it angers you.

After everything Grey has done––killing your Pokemon for starters!––Oak could have the decency to tell the truth.

The officer who spoke to you before comes forward. 'Dawn, you and I shall go in alone. The rest of you can watch.' He turns to you. 'I won't be saying anything; I'll simply be there to make sure things go all right.' He sneers a little. 'Listen, I don't expect anything out of this, so if nothing happens in the next ten minutes, you're out.'

You nod, jaw clenched.

Oak and Rowan depart into the observatory room, and you follow the officer to where Professor Grey is.

Now that she has been stripped from her lab coat, you nearly don't recognise her. It's bizarre that an item of clothing can become such a signature identity. The officer closes the door, and as you approach your seat, Grey looks up, with a wide grin. 'Our heroine returns!' You sit opposite. 'How is your darling Luxray? Better?'

You don't give her the pleasure of a response.

'Why did you ask for me?'

Grey stretches out, leans back in her seat. 'Do you want to know where my other labs are located?' You don't answer. She smirks. 'I am willing to cooperate, but, you see, these chummy gentlemen––' she glances at the police officer, '––don't intend to let me out anytime soon. I'll tell you everything, Dawn, but you got to get me out of here.'

There it is: that insecurity, that fear.

It's about time it showed itself, and you hate it.

Letting this woman out? You restrain yourself. You don't think about Luxray, how much it still stings; don't think about how Garchomp loathed you in those few days. How when it looked at you, you were no longer a respectable trainer.

Friend, for that matter.

If Cyrus did not show in time, you would be dead.

If Cynthia did not show in time, you both would be dead.

Because of this woman.

You look at her, and all of that anger, frustration, sadness––it all crumbles into a state of numbness. You are sick. Tired of this.

'I can't allow that.' You're about to stand.

'Dawn. Wait.'

You stop.

'Where is he? Where is Cyrus?'

You frown at her. 'Why?'

'Fine: if you can't imagine the idea of me being released, why not think who's really to blame here? I would never have thought about any of this if it weren't for Cyrus's brilliance. It was his idea. His plan. Oak provided me the basics, but him? He is the reason.'

Heat, red hot, burns in your abdomen. 'You're avoiding blame?'

'No. But if you want justice, you know who's really to blame. Don't you?' Grey smiles crookedly. 'Dawn, who put you through all of this? Who made you walk into that Distortion World? Who made you face the Devil? Who made you into the trainer you are?' She pauses. Cocks a brow. 'In fact, who groomed you into the trainer you are today? You really want your justice? There was Cyrus, but also your Champion. They both made you into what you are now.'

Every element of you rejects her spite, and you feel a sudden rush to grab the chair and throw it at her.

But all sense of humour has disappeared. For the first time, Grey is serious; she means what she's saying, and as much as you cannot imagine what she's implying, you can't deny it. If it weren't for Team Galactic, you wouldn't be who you are right now. You wouldn't be considered Sinnoh's heroine; nothing close to it.

Of course, Team Galactic wouldn't have run into your path if it weren't for Cynthia. Who took you under your wing from the very start.

It shouldn't hurt this much, but the fact it hurts at all is reason enough.

You sink into your seat. Grey leans over the table. 'Dawn? Listen to me: give me Cyrus, and I'll tell you everything.'

'Why do you want him?'

'That's not a part of the deal. You let out your anger on the person who deserves it, and I'll let out my anger to the man who groomed me as well. We are victims, Dawn. We were once trapped infants, looking up to older, more superior trainers and they manipulated us. We would not be here, wrecked, if it were not for them.'

You look up at Grey, and hate her.

'God, you are an image. What she has done to you.'

'She has done nothing.' You stand. 'You are wrong. You are so very wrong.'

Grey's expression hardens. 'So be it. Don't believe me. But the moment you leave those doors, you'll realise. It will all sink in. And when it does, then you'll understand why I want to see Cyrus. I shall tell you everything afterwards.'

The officer has come closer; you can feel his eyes on your back, but all you can focus on is Grey. And you see yourself in her. Ambitious, innocent and wanting to be the best. Crawling behind the one man she looked up to.

Is that what you are?

Carved into a stone cold warrior. For somebody else's gain.

No wonder the kiss doesn't escape your frazzled mind.

You turn away, don't wait for the officer, and leave the room. A door opens nearby and you hear Rowan call out to you, but you can't face him right now.

Grey's word sink into your mind and, as the woman predicted, they become engrained.

The Elite Four building is familiar, although you haven't visited in years. One Elite Four member, Flint, is the first to identity you, and he comes running over, grinning ear-to-ear. Naturally his first assumption is that you wish to battle, but, and you word this carefully, you tell him it is Cynthia you want to see.

To your relief, he doesn't think anything of it; your voice has not betrayed you, and he escorts you to the Champion's office. At the door, he leaves you be, and you're given a moment to think through what you want to say.

But hundreds of words, demands, questions, screams, fill your chest and you can't breathe. You can't pinpoint what you're feeling; if you're gullible to take on what Grey said, but there is no falsity in it. Isn't her own prediction what you have considered all along?

You've always known, always felt that way, even when Cynthia lost to you, and took her defeat proudly.

You don't know what to think.

But you enter the room, anyway. It doesn't surprise you that Cynthia is busy studying, several books and papers scattered across her desk. However, she is surprised to see you. 'Shouldn't you still be at the hospital?'

You close the door, and press your back against it.

Cynthia's face turns puzzled, and she stands up. 'Dawn? What are you doing here?'

'I came to see you.' Now, your voice betrays you; it shakes slightly and there's an edge. Cynthia registers it as well. The puzzlement transforms into curiosity, and you wonder if it's at all possible to make this woman angry. You could throw insult after insult, and she would probably still look at you the exact same way. 'I want to––talk.'

She blinks, and shrugs lightly. 'Go ahead.'

You're still gripping the door handle. 'Why did you choose me?'

'I don't understand.'

'After I defeated the second Gym Leader, you approached me. Deliberately.'

'Deliberately? Not at all.' Cynthia opens her mouth to speak again, stops, and then smiles. 'I don't understand what you're saying.'

'My friend, Barry. He was more advanced than I was; he could have defeated Team Galactic easily. In fact, there were hundreds of trainers who had started around the same time as I, but you picked me. Out of the lot, you picked me.'

'I did. You had a gift.'

'Did you know what would happen? When you picked me, did you… did you make it so that I would become what I am now?'

The curiosity falls. Sympathy appears, and then puzzlement. All mixed into a clumsy, yet tender mess. 'What have you become, pray tell?'

'I don't know,' you confess.

Your throat narrows, and it's exactly how it felt when you battled her the first time; how she destroyed you with relative ease. You feel small, embarrassed, not good enough.

'I don't know what I have become. All I know is that I can't sleep anymore. I am riddled with nightmares, and constantly plagued by the sight of that creature you made me face. I have lost my own Pokemon, I disappeared from my home for years. I don't know who I have become, but certainly not the person I was when I left Twinleaf at fourteen.'

Cynthia watches, and it is impossible to know what she is thinking.

You're frustrated; no, more than frustrated. Livid. Livid. 'I was blind in my admiration for you, I didn't really care what you put me through. As long as you saw me.'

'And I am to blame?'

'You kissed me when I had been knocked down. You act as if it never happened.' Now her expression changes. Now you see something close to anger, but it's not quite that. You might even consider the emotion as betrayal if you weren't so absorbed in your own chaos. 'I came to you to help me. To help me understand.'

'Dawn––'

'I didn't want to think she was right, but maybe you are like him.' You stop. Whisper: 'I don't know.' Because what does it matter if you knew? You can't form what you're feeling into words, and you're aware that the comradeship you both shared has been torn.

She looks at you in a way which squeezes your heart, and it isn't fair. Not fair. It is not fair that you have to suffer.

It was never fair.

Tears sting your eyes and it all makes sense. Why you're like this, why you feel the way you do, and it rips your insides apart.

Opening the door, you walk away––perhaps cowardly––and force yourself not to cry.

It isn't worth the pain.

But you cry when you're out of sight; cannot be heard. Not weeping, but just sobbing. Your eyes leak with tears, and you have to cover your mouth from not letting out a wail. As you bustle between civilians and proceed for the nearest Pokemon Centre, you wipe your eyes with your sleeves, and pretend there's nothing wrong.

Fuck. When is there ever nothing wrong?

You send in your Pokemon for treatment; they're not harmed necessarily, but you want them treated regardless. The nurse assures you that they will be given the best hospitality for the evening and you are free to collect them in the morning. A room is given to you, and you don't waste a further second in public eye.

Pokemon gone, you sit on the edge of the bed, and stare at the wall.

They say loneliness is empty. An empty sensation.

To you, it's heavy. Full of agony. You have never felt so weighed down in your life.

Window open, you seat yourself on the window ledge, and gaze out. Civilians are wide awake and excited at night. Some returning home, some stepping out with plans. Pokemon either fly by, or scurry past; you're not noticed. You're invisible again, and you wish you felt relieved. The last time you felt invisible was when you disappeared from Sinnoh.

You think about that.

Running away again. Maybe returning to Sinnoh was a bad idea, because, the whole while, all you've endured is a grim reminder of the past.

Giratina's face flashes in your mind, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

Then there's Dialga, Palkia; those vicious, godly creatures who you've captured, stored safely in your PC. If you wanted, you could withdraw them, release them, but then what? Would they hunt after you? Grab you in your sleep––

You stiffen. A chill coils itself around your spine.

Let me out. Let me out.

If you could go back, would you change it all? Would you refuse your first Pokemon, your Chimchar, your best friend, and refuse? Would you walk away from the nightmare of becoming a trainer? Would you search for a new life, a better one; one far away from everything?

You imagine this other self. This pretty, delicate Dawn whose face does not reflect the scars of the earth.

A Dawn, much younger than yourself, whose years has not aged her so terribly.

Would you go back?

Let me out of my Hell.

You hear a light tap, and look out of the window, thinking the noise came from outside. Then you hear it again, louder, and look over to the door.

Instinctively you think it bad news. In fact, your first thought is Cyrus. Has he discovered your whereabouts and decided to finish you off once and for all? You frown. No. No, he wouldn't do that. Certainly not now.

Nevertheless, you remain cautious when you approach the door.

A gasp nearly passes your lips. Your heart is stopped, and you feel it tighten. Your visitor is the last person you expected to see.

Cynthia looks resigned. As if since you approached her, she has fallen into a state of exhaustion, and it shows in her eyes. 'I don't mean to disturb you. I had to ask around to know where you were staying this evening. The nurses here were kind enough to inform me.'

You open the door a little more, but not enough for her to see you entirely. You're still on your guard, and she's aware.

It kind of hurts; the two of you, that you have to be this way.

'May I come in?'

You can't refuse her. As much as that would make things so much easier. You leave the door ajar, and walk further into the room so she can enter. Cynthia is quiet as she closes the door, but she remains where she entered; not at all daring to infect your territory.

Holding your wrist, you wait. Now it is her time to spill it all out, and you actually want her to. To throw everything out into the open so you can both depart from each other in peace. You realise your innocence in that thought, and nearly scowl.

'It wasn't my intention. Not at first.'

You look at her properly.

'When I first met you, I never intended for any of this to occur. If you want me to be perfectly honest, I didn't really know how far you would go. Not until later, much later, when Team Galactic start to cause problems; when I realised they were sincere about their plans.'

You inhale. Hold your breath.

'I didn't consider the repercussions. Out of all the trainers I knew, you were the best. You not only had a strong and fit party, but you were young. You had a different idea about everything. You weren't damaged from experience, and I knew you would go about ridding Galactic without question. You thought it was the right thing to do, so you did it––quietly.'

Even if you could speak, you wouldn't know what to say. So you just stand there.

'I walked into the Distortion Wold with you, but I let you lead. I, too, was disturbed. And yes, perhaps I should have stopped Cyrus myself. But, compared to you, I was, well… In that moment, I was small in comparison. I was scared, and you weren't.'

Nothing she says has an impact; you expect each word, and it only makes it harder.

Worse.

'I never meant to hurt you. Please know that.'

Cyrus's words echo in your head: 'You sound like her, you know? She's good at speaking confidently; good at fooling you. But, really, inside––she's fragile. Insecure and scared…'

'If it's any conciliation, I lost myself along the way as well. There was a long period in my life when I just wasn't myself.'

Your eyes sting again, tears threatening to break free; but this isn't about you now.

'Were you the orphan Rowan took in?'

Time halts, and you can feel her presence suddenly. Burning and yet soft, as always. Your question is welcomed.

'I was one orphan Rowan took in, yes.'

She's trying. She came all this way to find you, to tell you and––

––she's trying.

'You are brilliant. I can only hope to achieve your level.'

Somehow, again, you've assumed too much; taken too much. You've thought too much, and you still are clueless as to where you stand. Whether you really think she used you, or if it is something more; something you couldn't understand back then, but can, at least, comprehend at the age you are now. Because that feeling, that admiration, it still persists.

Jabbing at you over and over.

Your heart caves in, and you allow yourself to fall.

When you approach her, as you begin to close the large gap you have created between yourselves, your pulse races. You meet her eyes and it's not an effort. Not when you were young and untainted, looking up at her as if she were beyond what you could ever have. When you were naive, when you were young and small.

Because you look at her now, and age loses its meaning. She's barely an inch taller; you realise the years which have passed, how heavy and tiring they have been. What they have done to you both, not just yourself.

Yes, you faced Giratina, the League, you faced horror, but so did she.

You don't feel so alone.

Not in its most purest sense.

You may be lonely, but, at least, you are lonely with her.

Either she trusts you entirely, or she doesn't have energy left in her to stay cautious. Concerned. She lets you come closer, until she's too close, too near, and you could hurt her if you wished. She has allowed herself to be open and vulnerable against you, but you don't raise your fist, and there is not the slightest negative desire possessing you.

Nothing like that.

'I wanted to get away from everything––' you stop. Catch your breath, '––but when I am apart from you, everything is all I can think about.'

She hesitates.

Reaches out to you, and her palm is gentle against your cheek. And then she's kissing you. And it's not just one kiss, not just two kisses; not a kiss to heal the pain. She kisses you for you, kisses you so softly, her lips grazing over yours, your breath released in a hot rush across her skin.

You fall into her slightly, and press your mouth harder to hers. You are dazed, dizzied; and your fingers curl into her jacket, in fear you might actually drop. It is shy, timid; how you both kiss. The seconds count, and your senses are overwhelmed by her.

You are overwhelmed, and your body struggles; it trembles and she can feel you shaking.

As you expect, she parts from you, worried she might have possibly done something, but your words are drowned––you are suffocating in her––and so you press your lips to hers again. Heat rises in your cheeks, your limbs, your body, and you can feel her hand brushing a little above your chest. Kissing her still, you find her hand, lowering it just slightly.

It is her touch alone which sends a shock through your body. You gasp against her mouth, her hand tender on your breast, and you start to become undone. You've forgotten the room you're in, the floor in which you stand on; you forget. And your mind pounds, and your hands are still shaking, and she holds you by the waist to steady you.

She allows you to strip apart your beaten, dented armoury; she allows you to uncover the history dragged into your flesh. Your scarred back and stomach, burnt and incapable of healing. The damage thrown onto you, and she is a mirror: what you are precisely, only slightly older. Both of you victim to the years of a reluctant trainer.

One of you––you're not sure who––is guided to the bed, and it's all effortless and a daze and so delayed; she kisses the corner of your mouth, your neck, and you sink into the sheets, and it's all blinding and wonderful and terrifying and perfect.

She gives you a release; the sort of release which has you writhing, covering your mouth, and arching your back. You gasp out, trembling and riddled with emotion and this wonderful, wonderful rush of bliss she gives you––and you take it; let it hold you, and you moan, gripping and breathless, and, afterwards, you fall back, and reach for her.

Then you kiss her, kiss her, and then you kiss her.

A shadow of what you are; seamless.