5 Years Later

I caught her singing once.

She never knew it, but I was there. It was almost two in the morning, and I had lost all sense of orientation. As a result, I was slumped against her door, half-asleep. I had been forced to steel myself against waves of fagitue and nausea. I don't even know why I was there, leaning against her door frame, wishing I'd gotten a peaceful sleep the night before. Then I heard the sharp cry of her XTranciever. I had to bite my tounge to keep from yelping in surprise. I assume she left the chair to pick it up, but I wouldn't know.

I think I saw her, I just can't remember seeing her.

She didn't say anything throughout the duration of the call. I could only barely hear her uneven, ragged breaths.

When she finally set the XTranciever down on the cedar nightstand, the room felt thick with sadness. I could hear her slow footfalls on the carpet, puncturing the still air every few seconds. Then, a heavy sigh, more sharp exhales.

There was a song Anthea sang to me, back when she found me injured after Team Plasma had taken control of a Haxorus. Ash and his friends couldn't hear the song, but I could, every word resonating in a niche deep within the folds of my soul.

This was what she sang.

I think of the song now, how she gave it a bleak, hopeless tone. Anthea made it sound rejuvinating, like nothing mattered but happiness.

I guess Anthea, Concordia, and I were living a lie.

But they're dead now. It doesn't matter anymore. She died almost 5 years ago, on a night when a crescent moon illuminated the sky.

5 whole years. Half a decade. A twentieth of a century.

In 5 years, you can lose many things. The Pokémon League is just a myth now, something trainers can only recall. The last one was held 2 years ago, in Sinnoh: The League Massacre.

Sinnoh was the last to go.

Unova has since defrosted. Team Plasma is still in very strict control there, holding mass killings they call Freezings. They had held me captive for almost half a year when some G-Men- followers of the Dragonian Cult- set me free.

There are two Cults, each located in a region. The Dragonian Cult is the largest organized group in the Kanto-Johto landmass, sometimes called DC, for Dragonian Cult. The Cult has about 1000 men and 50 or so women, each willing to give their life for their freedom.

Hoenn was weak and frail, at the time of invasion. Pokémon were going mad, reacting to buired nuclear waste letting off dangerous levels of radioactivity. Most Pokémon were held in a sort of mass quarantine on an uninhabited island. When Team Plasma attacked, they took the mainland first. All military forces were rushed to stop the enemy, and the Pokémon were left unguarded. Plasma easily took the big island and bombed the quarantine.

I was a thousand miles away, but I could hear the Pokémon screaming.

There is a Cult in Hoenn, the Resistance Cult. Everyone just calls it the HR- the Hoenn Resistance. Being the smallest of the two Cults, it only has 30 members, most of which are the Gym Leaders and Elite Four that are still alive. It was formed just a few months ago, from the only city stable enough to sustain the population- Lilycove City. Nobody has sent supplies or help to Hoenn. Nobody even cares about Hoenn, because Sinnoh is facing far worse.

What I'm relaying may alarm you. It may frighten you. But I know it will make you thank Arceus that you, people of the future, do not live in our time.

Nate, the "Hero that Failed," had ancestry in Sinnoh's Aura Guardian family lines. His mother had left Unova for Sinnoh undetected, like many others. The region was known as a savehaven and held high in that regard- everything was perfect. Life went on as it should have, even when Team Plasma loomed miles away. The Pokémon League was still held, though the 14-day-long event was somber. Kalos had refused to accept any survivors from the 5 Regions, wanting to retain its neutrality. Most of the tournament went soundly, up until the semifinals, when a Darkrai appeared on League Premises and there occured several unexplained dissapearances.

During the final battle, the aforementioned Darkrai entered the stadium and fired a massive Dark Void, enveloping the crowd and putting all but a few terrified onlookers to sleep. A mysterious haze filled the room and the security cameras faded to black. The rest of this is commonly accepted as a true, eyewitness acount of what happened.

The Darkrai was commanded to use Giga Impact on the row where the Elite Four were seated. Aaron, the Bug-type user, died instantly, and Lucian, the Psychic-Type user, was Protected by his Alakazam. Bertha was not present at the League, and Flint had just left his seat to prepare for a later exhibition match. Then, a hooded man, presumably the Darkrai's trainer, entered the arena, sent out a Latios, and killed the two finalists with Luster Purge. The normally sealed entrances to the stadium were opened and a flood of Team Plasma members filed in, each wielding a Poké Ball. In unison, they called out their Pokémon and attacked.

70,000 of the 100,000 spectators died that day. The Plasma members just kept coming, and by the time it took a Trainer to defeat one of them, a hundred of his comrades might have also been hurt or killed.

There is no cult in Sinnoh. There was no will to resist in Sinnoh after the League Massacre.

If anybody finds this, whether by accident or purpose, spread the word. Tell the story of what really happened.

Maybe one day, the truth will not be hidden. Maybe one day, this sun will set.

I memorized that note. I know exactly where I buried it. I was stupid back then, to think that I could change something.

Words may be powerful, but they're nowhere near enough to stop a war.

I've been told Ash joined the DC. With his strong opinions and additude, he'd fit right in with the best of us. It's just that we're so big, he could be anywhere- in our Sinnoh Base, around Undella Town, even in Kalos.

I am in Kanto right now with Steven Stone, Champion of Hoenn. It was his idea to investigate the recent murders of Professor Oak and his assistant, Tracey Sketchit, and use it publically against Team Plasma. I once made the mistake of asking him why he was in Kanto instead of helping his people in Hoenn. He glared at me with such an intensity, that for a second, I could see inside him.

His deepest memories, darkest secrets. The things he held dearest to his heart. It was so raw and personal that I had to look away to break the connection.

This man loved his people. To leave them behind, even for the greater good, was literally tearing him apart. His heart was tainted black, his soul a deep red. He was troubled, yes, but his mind was a crisp white that looked almost like freshly fallen snow.

Steven's mind will dull in due time, just like the snow. The snow isn't white anymore, it's gray.

And occaisonally I come across a red patch of it.

But reality awaits.

Steven stops walking suddenly. He closes his eyes and whispers something.

"Steven," I say, as impartially as I can. "We have to keep going."

"Yes, yes, I know. Just old age catching up to me." He gives me a grin. "I'm only in my thirties, but this world has taken its toll on me."

I try to mask my occasional sideward glances as I help him sit next to a tree. We wait there a while, both on opposite sides of the same, massive being. I see a Butterfree land nearby on another tree. It has a bloodstained yellow ribbon tied to its neck.

"N," Steven says suddenly.

"What is is?" I ask, but my question goes unanswered.

The Plasma member in front of me pulls out his gun and shoots twice. Steven gets up and kicks the man in the chest before grabbing me and running.

I can't really feel any pain. But everytime I look at my arm, I see the dark red and the empty gap in my wrist. It should hurt. Why doesn't it, then?

I hear gunshots, so many that it sounds like maybe Thundrus has come to Kanto. I am honestly quite comfortable where I am, perfectly positioned on Steven's shoulders so I can see both the road behind us and the meadow ahead of us.

Then I hear a single crack; I swear I can distinguish it from the others. Steven's grip goes slack and I tumble to the ground about three feet away from where he lies.

"Play dead," he whispers, and I do what he says.

A Plasma Member walks up to Steven, I can locate his menacing Aura. He kicks the Hoenn Champion a couple of times before doing the same to me. He steps on my bloody wrist and I hear the crack of bones snapping out of place. Why the Hell don't I feel anything?

"Are they dead?"

"Shoot the Champ a couple times to make sure."

I want to stop this, I really do. I've stood idly by while someone is killed a couple of times, and I always felt guilt, depressing, skull-numbing guilt. I really want this time to be the last time I feel that kind of pain.

Blood erupts in a cloud from his chest, and gushes out onto the flowers, who peek out bravely from under the snow.

They leave.

I stand up. I look at his body.

Still, I feel no pain.

I am a coward, but cowards survive. In the end, heroes never survive.

The snow is probably as red as it will ever be, and I feel so little that I might as well be dead.

Well, this chapter was mostly a worldbuilding one. Hope I didn't cram it in your faces too hard...

If you didn't already, check out my updated ending to Chapter 2, and I hope I see you in the review section.

Oh, yes. I must thank thechisnkyguy for motivating me to get this chapter out waaaaaaaaay earlier than it was supposed to come out. This is pretty long, too. I wrote this in a day, edited it in an hour, and it's going up today.

Thanks for reading, and hope you have a great day!

-MSD