I like being alone. I'm not sure why. The peace, maybe. I don't feel pressured to finish my projects. I'm better this way. I don't need anyone to help me.

I'm not sure why she's here. She slows me down. I function by doing things myself. Everyone–mentors, gym leaders, anyone who had a sense of power over me–made me feel like no one can do a better job of taking care of you than yourself. If you want something done right, do it yourself, and don't you dare get connected to the people involved. When you start caring, when you start loving, when you start empathizing, you lose sight of the bigger picture. Such useless emotion ... It's illogical and irrational. I think someone told me that. I don't remember who.

...

Hair color: Dark blue.
Height: Roughly five foot.
Weight: Specimen wouldn't give me the chance to analyze this.

Chapter Three

He went down the street. He was in Jubilife.

Why?

He wasn't sure. A lot of kids from school were walking in the opposite direction.

He was in the mood for ice cream.

. . .

"Lane!" shouted Alyson. "Come on! It's already seven-thirty, and your breakfast is getting cold! You're going to be late for school!"

No response. No loud stomping. No doors creaking. No water running. Nothing.

Wiping damp fingers across her jeans, Alyson turned off the tap of the kitchen sink and shuffled across the floor. She kicked off her slippers as soon as she reached the carpet of her living room, letting her toes sink into its thickness before heading down the narrow hallway. It was dusty in here, spider webs hanging from the ceiling, but with Lane being the handful that he is and a never-ending basket of laundry needing to be washed or folded ... Ah, it wasn't the time to think about what she had to do later. What important was now, and what needed to happen now was Lane's awakening.

She knocked–Arceus knows why; it was her home after all–before pushing the bedroom door back, the hinges squeaking, her mind making a mental note to tell Eldritch about the annoying noise. Lane was tucked into his sheets, his body rising and falling lightly as he breathed. Black bangs teased his eyelids (it reminded her that she needed to cut his hair), but he didn't seem to mind considering he was still, well, sleeping.

"Lane!" she said sharply. "It's time to get up! Let's go!"

Lane didn't respond other than the gentle lifting and lowering of his chest.

She walked in further, stepping past toys thrown about his room. She peered over his body. His hands were outside the covers and stretched over his head, palms faced up with fingers slightly curled. The sleeves of his pajamas were pushed back to the elbow. Lips, dry, were partially open, showing the tips of his two front teeth.

Alyson bent down a bit and gently shook Lane by the shoulder. "C'mon, love. You've slept in long enough." She shook harder. If that didn't wake him up, nothing would.

... Nothing?

Frustration turned to nervousness turned to anxiety as she pressed two of her fingers against Lane's neck, looking for his pulse. She felt it beating, not too slow, not too fast. Normal, really – er, whatever a normal pulse was. It wasn't any different from hers anyway.

He would. He would pretend to be asleep so he wouldn't have to go to school and skip his spelling test today.

"All right, Lane," she said in a mock disapproving tone. She placed her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. "If you're not going to wake up in time for school, then I guess you get to stick around when Aunt Beatrice visits. She'll just love pinching those cute little cheeks of yours." The mock threat went over Lane's head as he continued to sleep – or fake sleep. Whatever he was doing.

That biting anxiety continued to nibble at Alyson's insides, building its way up from her stomach to her throat. She felt his forehead – she wasn't sure why she did that. Foreheads don't tell you anything except if a person is too hot, and sure enough, he wasn't too hot. So why did she feel his forehead?

She racked her brain for answers, swallowing a lump in her throat. Coma? But ... but she saw him last night and he was just fine. Unless that thumping – did he hit his head? A concussion? No. Lane always kicks the wall when he's frustrated – being grounded is frustrating for a little kid, right? There's no reason to jump to conclusions. You're no doctor. But what else could it be if he wasn't responding?

Alyson walked around Lane's bed toward the window, fingers wrapping around the cord of the blinds. She pulled on them, letting sunlight pour into the room while keeping her eyes fixated on Lane. She saw it: twitching eyes, eyeballs rolling around in their sockets but were trapped underneath closed eyelids. It was like he was dreaming. So he was able to respond–sort of–but ... huh? What the hell was going on?

"Lane," she pleaded. She let go of the cord, letting it hit the wall. "Please wake up."

The boy simply grunted and rolled onto his side.

Lane wasn't good with playing along with jokes – at least for this long. He usually cracked after a while, the corners of his lips pulling into a smile and a quiet laugh peeping its way through. But there was no smile, no laughter. Just snores.

Alyson hurriedly ran toward the phone.

. . .

He was in the supermarket, the one at the corner, and he was going to buy some ice cream. The lady at the register pressured him–peer pressure, old lady pressure, tire pressure–to get candy too, and he did like candy. So he got it. Why? Who knows. He didn't have money.

He was lured to the back of the store by the manager, and the manager adopted a baby girl from some place called Hoenn. He watched the adoption tape (there were a lot of palm trees), and where did the ice cream go? He was holding it. The candy was melting in his pocket into goop. Green, bubbly goop. The room had brown walls and was dark. The only light was the television. It was kind of cold. Smelled of fish. The manager was talking in gibberish, some awkward, cawing language.

He was back home–no, not his home but his neighbor's. He switched homes with his neighbor, but it looked like his house except the kitchen was to his left instead of the right. He went to the backyard. Aipom heads in ice bordered the garden, and in the heads were knives sticking through the eye sockets. Bizarre, though the oran tree was still there.

A starly crashed into the glass door and caught on fire.

. . .

Ropes are heavy. Don't ever let someone tell you they're not because they are, and if they tell you ropes are light, then you tell them they're liars. Really. Straight up. Especially when they're coiled and several are stacked upon each other – the ropes, not the people. But Eldritch was a man, and no rope was taking him down today. Fight the good fight against the rope. Justice will prevail another day ... assuming rope is evil.

He dropped the rope (serves it right!) in a pile on the wooden docks before wiping his brow and turning around to stare at the ocean. It was a nice day: breezy but thick. Did that make sense? Thick wind? The oceans were calmer than usual too. Were they thick as well?

Still, despite the cool weather and thick wind, sweat trickled down his neck. It bothered him, but he tried to ignore it, climbing up the ramp leading up to the small ship he was maintaining. Its metal surface glinted in the morning sunlight. Wooden floorboards were spotless. Sails stood tall. Perfect. It was going to be a boring day; he had been assigned for local work, shipping people back and forth between the various islands that dotted Sinnoh's seas. He had preferred it for a while, though; he missed his boy quite a bit on his last trip to the Sevii Islands. He was sure his itch for adventure would come biting sooner or later.

Eldritch looked up, watching the wingull circle lazily above as they squawked. It was going to be a slow morning. Trainers–slow trainers–didn't appear until noon or so where he would ship them to Iron Island. That was the more popular destination, Iron Island, as it had tough terrain trainers liked to make their pokémon tackle. God, hit that rock, Onix! or whatever. The other islands were peaceful but nothing was on them besides wildflowers and tropical trees. God, hit that flower, Onix! just didn't have the same ring.

"Eldritch!" A voice broke through the squawks. Eldritch snapped his head down to see a co-worker running on the docks, one of his arms waving him down frantically.

"Hey, Jason!" Eldritch hollered back heartily, grinning. Jason was such a funny character, a tall and gawky creature with arms that easily hung at the knees when he stood up straight. Okay, so he over-exaggerated – sue him. He was always oily looking, too. Eldritch never questioned why. That would be rude, and he had bigger issues to worry about, like saving the world from rope.

Jason was particularly oily today, sweat glistening off his forehead. He stumbled by tripping over his sneakers but quickly regained balance with a flail of thin limbs. He stopped and panted near the boat Eldritch was standing on.

"What's your problem?" asked Eldritch playfully, leaning on the metal railing. He rested his chin on his fists.

"Not ... my ... problem ..." Jason managed to pant out, rolling back the sleeves of his jacket. "... Yours."

"Yeah, I suppose." The young father gave one of his charming grins. Then he blinked twice. "Wait, why?"

"Your son."

. . .

Black. Maybe it was for an hour. A minute. A second.

He was on a boat with his dad wearing a cape – no, he was wearing the cape, not his dad. A huge magikarp jumped over the boat, and he shouted, and the magikarp opened his mouth, and smaller magikarp flopped onto the boat. He was up to his knees in flailing magikarp, and his dad laughed. He grabbed a magikarp by its tail and threw it at his dad's head, but he ducked.

The sky was purple, he noticed, blueish-purple, like right after the sun had set below the horizon. He reached into his pockets for his marbles but color pencils came out instead. The boat was filled with magikarp, and they flopped into the sea with a splash. It got him wet. They landed on a sandy island, boat scraping the shore, and on the island were crawdaunt that were green.

. . .

"What do you mean he won't wake up?" He opened the door of his home, making the white shutters covering the windows quiver, and stormed inside, not caring that he was trekking dirt onto the carpet his wife worked hard on to keep clean. Alyson grimaced.

"I tried everything." Alyson matched Eldritch's long strides down the hallway toward Lane's bedroom.

"Are you sure he isn't kidding? He has that spelling test today." One of Eldritch's arms accidentally knocked down a picture hanging on the wall, but the married couple stepped past it. "You know how he acts when he has a test."

"If it's a joke, he's been at it for a while." Alyson stepped forward and pushed open Lane's bedroom door where the sleeping boy resided, still cozy in his covers. Eldritch stopped, staring, before stepping inside the room. "I think something is wrong."

"Well, obviously." He cringed at his bitter tone. "Lane!"

Lane's nose twitched.

"Well, he responds to things like sleeping people can do sometimes," Alyson murmured. "His eyes twitched at sudden amounts of light hitting him, he swatted at his face when I ran a feather across it ... But he just won't wake up."

Eyes in the Inn. Why the hell are you thinking about myths now?

Eldritch looked back and forth between his sleeping son and worried wife, heart racing. He finally decided to pick up his son, blanket in tow. "Come on," he urged, walking swiftly toward the door. Alyson was on his heels. "We're taking him to the hospital."

. . .

More black? Was it for a day? A millisecond?

He was at school, and he was practicing pokémon battling with one of the school pokémon. It was a bidoof, but it kept crying out, "Budew budew budew." He was inside his classroom for some reason instead of on the field. Things kept slipping through the cracks of the doors: flowers, paper cranes, paper dolls.

"Hey, some guy left a crane in the room. Did you find it?"

Yeah. The crane was brown nor did it look like a crane but a rotten banana peel. He didn't know how to imagine a crane. He slid it back under the door.

Why did he shrink? He was the size of an ant, and he ran toward the bidoof and climbed on it and away they ran ran ran, but he never got the chance to get his trainer's card–

"Laneeeyyyy!"

. . .

Nothing was wrong with him. They ran tests for a day and a half so far and nothing had come up. Eldritch had never felt so frustrated – or tired for that matter. He ran his hands through his hair before running his fingers down his face, feeling the black stubble poke out around his chin. He rubbed his eyes.

Someone gently clasped a hand around his shoulder, making him jump. "Take a nap. Please," Alyson pleaded. "He'll be fine. I'll watch him for both of us."

"Lane would hate it here," he murmured. Hospital decor was plain: white walls, white tiles, white bedsheets. They allowed Lane to wear his pajamas, a vibrant blue against the white. The room was, dare he say, boring. Eldritch ripped his eyes away from Lane to look out the window. It was dark already, golden light from street posts pouring into the room. He saw his reflection in the clear glass. Damn, he looked worn out. He needed a shave.

"I'm not sure how to say this," he remembered the doctor telling him earlier. "We ran tests but we cannot find anything ... unusual. He really is just sleeping. We'll keep him here to monitor and to run tests, but I'm not sure what else we can do."

He's okay, right?

"In the stable sense, I suppose. There is obviously something wrong; we're just not sure what."

This can't be the first case.

"We suspect a pokémon has something to do with it. A human falling under a pokémon's hypnosis spell has happened before. Inhaling sleep-inducing spores is common, too."

What are you saying? A pokémon is the reason for this?

"It's plausible. We're asking for the opinion of people who specialize in sleep-inducing pokémon."

What can they do? They're not doctors.

"If a Pokémon is causing your son's sleeping state, then they'd know better than us."

Lane isn't a pokémon.

"I know. But, again, if a Pokémon is causing this, then they'd know–"

You're a doctor. You have to know–

"Eldritch!"

Eldritch blinked as Alyson snapped her fingers in front of his face. "What?"

"You dazed out on me. Go home."

"I'm fine," he muttered. He jumped up from the stool near his son's bed and strode across the room, collapsing into one of the stiff armchairs. He tapped his foot, staring at the heart monitor, listening to its beeps and watching the green line rise and fall. He leaned forward, digging his elbows into his thighs, resting his fallen head into his hands. "I'm fine."

"You just said that." Alyson took Eldritch's spot, sitting on the wooden stool and squirming, trying to get comfortable. She reached through the metal rails and lightly pressed her hand against Lane's tinier one. His hand was warm, and while it made her smile lightly, it brought little comfort to the beautifly in her stomach. She wrapped her hand around his fingers and squeezed gently.

"Well, I am. I'm fine."

"You're tired."

"I'm fine."

"Fine." She looked at her husband. "And he's fine, too."

"Fine."

"Go to bed."

"No."

"You're being stubborn."

Eldritch stuck out his tongue.

"And childish."

"A little. And fine my ass, Aly."

She glared.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"How come no one here knows what's wrong with him? How come no one seems to be trying anything anymore?"

"Who else is there, Eldritch?"

"I don't know. Have you called God yet?"

"Your sarcasm woos me."

"I am quite the charmer."

She ran a thumb down the smooth skin of Lane's hand, running it past his knuckles and resting it on his nails. A lock of wavy hair fell into her eyesight. "They're trying, Eldritch. Keep positive. For me. For yourself. For Lane."

"I'm trying. It's just ... is there nothing we can do?" He racked his brain for answers, trying to review today's events, fingernails scratching his scalp. "There has to be an answer somewhere."

Yes, humans have fallen asleep by cause of pokémon, Eldritch. It's quite common, really. We can either wait for the spell to wear off–this takes a couple of days–or we can try to counter the effects with different medication. This varies, depending on how your son was attacked. The most common way a human falls asleep due to a pokémon is via spores, such as sleep powder.

"Medication, Nurse Joy?" he murmured quietly. "The doctors gave Lane a shot earlier, but it had no effect."

Yes, that would be it. Next would be via audio, such as sing or grasswhistle. This one is a little bit trickier, but the effects usually wear off.

"I don't think so." His voice got louder though still inaudible to his wife's ears. "I guess it's possible, but I'm sure my wife and I would have heard something last night if that were the case. He was just down the hallway."

Well, if he is still in a sleeping state after a few days, then we'll know it's not from an audio attack. Neurological attacks, such as hypnosis, aren't as common though quite possible. Perhaps some sort of pokémon put your son under a spell.

"That sounds likely, but I'm not too convinced. Are there any pokémon in the Canalave area that use hypnosis against humans?"

Not many. But let's keep it in mind. It's a little more complicated to snap a human out of a hypnotic state, but it can be done.

"Thank you, Nurse Joy."

"Who are you talking to?" asked Alyson, staring at her husband.

Eldritch blinked a few times. "I was talking out loud? I thought that was in my head."

She sighed. "Go home. Come back in a few hours after you get some sleep."

"I'm–"

"Fine?"

"Mhm."

She stood up and reached over, cupping Lane's chin delicately in her hand. Lane was such a peaceful sleeper. She looked around – her husband was right; Lane would hate it here. It needed more ... color, more vibrancy. She needed to clean it, decorate it, make it her own.

"Why is everyone so sure it has to do with a pokémon anyway?" he asked. "Or that a pokémon can help? Lane isn't a pokémon."

"It's keeping your options open, Eldritch."

"He's not a pokémon," he repeated.

"I know. You're grumpy. You need sleep."

"No. You go home and sleep."

"I did. It's your turn."

"I'm not leaving."

"It's only for a few hours. A clearer head will help you think."

"I'm thinking just fine."

His wife gave another all-knowing sigh and slowly stood up, the folds of her skirt flowing downward. White, sandaled feet crossed the cold linoleum toward him, leather bands stringed and crossed around her ankles like some sort of Greek goddess. Fair, brown hair, slightly curled, framed her face. No profound wrinkles, though worry tugged at her lips and rested in the crinkles at the edge of eyes.

Young, he thought, too young to be worried about an eight year-old child. He was, too. But with Eldritch often out at sea, dare he say his homecomings were ... well-receptive. It was almost cliché, thinking about his love life. A young woman waiting for him at home, hands clasped against her chest and hair blowing wildly in the wind as she stood on a cliff (or something – Canalave had no major cliffs) while he was off doing god-knows-what. In a romantic world, he would be fighting pirates, (but in all reality he was probably negotiating with other regions about goods), thinking about her – and no, he had no lock of her hair in a pocket watch, though he did keep her picture in his wallet that was bent and faded due to the seawater.

How could he say it politely? Lane was a ...

Well ...

When he came home and she told him she was pregnant, he was in absolute ...

Yeah.

It gave him another reason to come home in one piece. He wasn't sure if he liked that as horrible as it sounded out loud – or in his head. Tied down with wife and child ... Wasn't that the reason he became a sailor, to travel? To escape that?

He loved his wife. He always would no matter what. He knew that things were tense between them lately. Fights, arguments, disagreements ... however you want to phrase it. They were more frequent, more intense, but held behind closed doors. What did they even fight about? Things just happened too fast, he supposed.

The calmness she radiated scared him a little. She would normally be stressed out beyond belief (she was such a neurotic lady) but she was quite mellow, relaxed. It was weird. "Eldritch," she said in a quiet voice, finger wrapping around the cord of the blinds.

He looked up from the armchair. "Hmm?"

"You smell awful."

"Thanks."

She smiled. "At least shower."

"Fine."

"Good."

He got up, his rear impressed into the cushion of the armchair, and stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles in the process. Sneakers squeaking across the floor, he walked past Lane's bed, giving it a look–not a look of worry or despair, mind you, but pure curiosity–and toward the heavy door, hands grasping the cold handle and turning it where even more silence greeted him. Whispers: "There's Eldritch, Lane's father," from nurses, custodians, doctors even.

"Poor guy," he heard.

The smell of disinfectant tickled his nostrils. Hospitals were always so cold. Was the air conditioner on full blast? Was it the circumstances of the place that made it cold – and hushed for that matter? Yet at the same time it was stuffy, like the hospital was waiting on bated breath, not breathing but hoping.

Doors swished and he stood outside near a concrete fountain, observing it for some reason – or maybe he enjoyed the sound of splashing water. Canalave was a quiet town, pushed to the side and surrounded by sea, leaving little room to escape. That was the first thing he noted when he came to town: ships and sea and nothing more. It was its own world. Sure, there were visitors but rarely anyone came back. All the locals knew each other. It was a take-it-or-leave-it kind of town. It's hard to handle it if you don't like your life being pried into.

Needless to say he was surprised when he flicked his brown eyes from the fountain to the life past the railing and saw someone he remembered years ago stomp down the pavement. A trainer. Trainers come for one purpose (Iron Island to hit rocks–not flowers–with onix) and that was the end of it. They don't return, especially not him. Out of all trainers, he must have something more important to do.

The trainer was talking with some whiny girl in a mumbled tone, eyes cast toward the floor as he tugged at his scarf. The girl let out a shriek at something he said, pounded the floor with her boot, and stopped, but the boy kept walking, so she chased after him. Their stomps got louder as they approached, and they were about to pass him by when Eldritch yelled, "Hey!"

The boy stopped and looked up, unflinching in the chilly breeze. The girl, meanwhile, let out a whimper, grabbing at her upper arms and running her hands up and down the goose-bumped skin.

"Hey," he replied, staring. "Uh ... Eldritch, right?"

"It's cold!" the girl whined. She tugged at his shirt sleeve. "C'mon!"

He snapped his head toward the side and sighed. "You didn't have to come. Rowan asked me to"

"And I AM Rowan's closest researcher," she said in a haughty tone, arms crossed.

"That's by choice – you could leave Sandgem, you know." He brushed her off, ignoring her fuming, and turned around to face the sailor again. "It's nice to see you," he said politely.

"Back at ya, kid." The cold wind that whipped around his jacket awoke Eldritch from his sleep-deprived state. "How's that riolu?"

"Good. He's growing strong. He evolved, actually," he replied.

Another question: "So what brings you round these parts again?"

Gripped in between the boy's hands was a package wrapped in brown paper. He held it up. "Delivery," he murmured. "Rowan asked me to drop it off. I think they're just research packets for the library."

"I could have done it," muttered the girl, staring at the ground. "By myself, too."

He ignored this, dropping his hands to his sides, fingers still wrapped tightly around the package. "Still a delivery boy for the old man after all this time." Another soft sigh. He looked up, noticing they were standing in front of a hospital. "Hey ..." he trailed off. "What about you? Why are you here?"

His heart dropped. For a moment, Lane's state slipped from his mind. "Troubled times, kid."

This caught the girl's attention. "What's wrong, sir?"

. . .

"Did you hear me?" Giggle. "I said wake up! I said your name!" Another giggle.

Something bopped him on the forehead.

"I saw you move! I swear I did! Wake up!"

Another bop.

Lane grunted, rolling onto his belly. Wet. What the? Why wet? Oh, crud ... Did he pee the bed again? No, it was wet all over. Cold, too, and spiky, like wet grass. Fingers stretched away from each other, grasping the floor – yep, definitely wet grass.

Weird.

"See! I was right! You're moving!"

It was going through his pajamas–er, the wetness, not the voice, though he figured that could be debated–and his eyes flicked open, blurry. He was on his stomach. It smelled fresh like after a rainstorm. Another bop, this time harder and right in the back, and he yelped, pushing himself up onto his knees. He ran his fingers across the front of his jeans, wiping off blades of grass. His eyesight became clearer. There were trees. Dead, waving trees. At least that's what he thought. Maybe it was tiredness – him, not the trees. Or were the trees tired too? He could not read tree or talk tree for that matter, so he couldn't ask Tree if it was tired. He could mime tree, maybe.

Did trees have genders?

A gasp, followed by squeals of delight.

"I did it!"

Then a thought, a horrible thought.

He was going to be late for school. And he had a spelling test today!

Last revised: April 26, 2011