I hate her. I'm not even sure how I can properly express how angry she makes me other than repeating those three words. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

Someone told me that if I can't express myself out loud, I should try writing it down. It's why this stupid research journal is filled with tangents than analysis. I don't feel better. I hate how she makes me so angry. I hate what she thinks about me. Why do I even care?

Dammit so much.

...

Personality: Nosy.

Chapter Six

"Hello, Professor Rowan! My name is Dawn. I'm eleven years old, and I'm originally from Sandgem, Sinnoh. I am interested in enrolling in your pokémon apprenticeship program."

Lucas watched the young girl with wide, burning eyes.

"Why do I want to apply for an apprenticeship?" she repeated slowly, careful to pronounce each syllable. "I love pokémon, for starters. I think they're awesome, and we have a lot to learn from them."

Lucas heard mutters, which made Dawn pause.

"Yeah, I think we have a lot to learn from pokémon as humans. The way they build communities, families – I like the way they interact. Some species have strong family dynamic. Others are able to able to disconnect from each other easily because they separate quickly. It's interesting, don't you think?"

He supposed so.

More mutters off screen.

"What makes a human trustworthy in the eyes of the pokémon?" she repeated. "Hmm ... It's easy for a trainer to pick a pokémon: strength, type, appearance, whatever ... But some pokémon never fully trust their human companions while others would risk everything for them. Interacting with humans sometimes betters the pokémon physically. How is that possible? It makes me–"

A shout: "Who's there!" The lights turned on, making Lucas cringe. He blinked rapidly and turned around in the swivel chair to where the voice called out. He didn't bother to stop the DVD; Dawn's younger self continued to babble.

Breaking in was easy. Whoever said pokémon trainers were an honest, clean bunch was obviously never a pokémon trainer. You learned to steal – food mostly, though toilet paper was a close second. You learned to find haven in dusky corners. You learned that feces make excellent sources of heat when you cannot make fires. You learned to be sneaky. You become a crafty lad. Besides, Lucas had visited Rowan's laboratory so many times that he knew all the weak spots, back doors, and loose ends.

Also, he had a key.

He already knew who it was. The messy, thin white strands that pointed up in different directions, the wrinkled blue pajamas, the pair of buneary slippers ... T'was the Old Fart as Lucas liked to call him (in his head, of course) in his disheveled glory, a mug of something steamy in hand.

"It's me, Professor," Lucas said. He raised a hand and waved though remained seated. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"No, no. I was up anyway." The Old Fart walked closer and peered around Lucas, gazing at the television. "Application videos," he murmured. "What for?" He took a sip of his steamy drink then wiped at his mustache.

He didn't answer. Lucas turned around in his chair back toward the television and stared at Dawn before it faded to black. It was quickly replaced with Lucas's fresh, smiling face. The Lucas on the video shifted awkwardly in his seat, shoulders stiff. His hat was still new – oh, look. There was the price tag swinging from the back as he bobbed his head. Lucas remembered feeling embarrassed when he saw the tag still there five days into his journey. His eyes were bright with wonder. Or dumbness. Or excitement. Something or another.

"I'm Lucas, and I'm eleven years old. I'm originally from Twinleaf, Sinnoh," the eleven year-old Lucas on T.V. nervously told the fourteen year-old Lucas in real life. He felt Professor Rowan rest one hand on the back of the swivel chair, leaning into it. "I would ... I'd like to apply for your apprenticeship program."

"Feeling nostalgic?" asked the Old Fart. Lucas heard slurping soon after.

He didn't respond to this either and continued to watch and listen. "You offered me this position after me and Barry were attacked by starly and used the pokémon in your briefcase. Sorry about that again." The eleven year-old wiped at the back of his neck and grinned wider. "It interested me. I'm sure it would have interested Barry too if he hadn't run off ... Actually, Professor, I'm curious. I mean, keeping a pokémon is one thing but giving me an interview for an apprentice researcher position is just ... nuts."

That was what the Old Fart was. An old, nutty fart.

"Don't worry about that, Lucas," answered a voice off screen. "Just answer why you're interested in the program." The Old Fart's chuckle hadn't changed a bit.

He shifted his cap, letting it sit askew purposely. "Well ... I like pokémon, Professor, a whole lot. Battles are interesting. I like all the strategies. I like all the type differences, the different techniques ..." The eleven year old paused. "But really, I always ... I always dreamed of just being ... of being morethan a trainer. I really want to solve things. I want to make a difference somehow. This seems like the perfect opportunity."

That was totally a beauty contest answer. Lucas stretched over and stopped the video before turning off the television with a sigh.

"It feels like it has been a long time, hasn't it?" asked Professor Rowan. He strolled over and grabbed a nearby stool, plopping himself in it. His face was stern, unmoving.

"Have I changed, Professor?"

"You tell me, Lucas."

"I was so ... hopeful back then. I had no idea what I was going to go up against, what direction I was headed. Life was simple then. It should have stayed that way for a long, long time."

Professor Rowan nodded.

"I feel like I did a lot in three years."

Another nod.

"I mean, I even became champion of Sinnoh. That has to count for something, right?"

A third nod followed by wrinkled fingers running down a chiseled jawline.

"I accomplished what I set myself up for. But why don't I feel proud of myself? I don't believe in myself like I used to. What the hell happened?"

Professor Rowan set his mug on the floor and laced his hands together, setting them down on his lap. "Statistically, Lucas, how many trainers give up on the pokémon league challenge a month after they start their journey?"

"One out of five," the boy immediately replied. "Then the amount of league-bound trainers decreases – that is, most league-bound trainers may not give up becoming a trainer, but they quit the 'badge quest' route due to monetary, physical, or emotional constraints."

A tight-lipped grin appeared on the old professor's face. It was solemn, disappointed kind of. "League-bound trainers, even if they do not rank high in the competition, end up becoming some of the most prominent figures in society. Why do you think this is?"

Let the reasons flow. Because they're strong? Obviously. Dedication sounded fitting for the Old Fart's mindset. Confidence – you have to have balls to travel and be on stage in front of millions of viewers. Intelligence. By the time you hit the league, the trainer relies more on strategy and knowledge than dumb luck. God hope so anyway. Then you dive into corny reasons. Love. Trust. Friendship. You know, the BS responses that trainers use when being interviewed with painted grins abroad. He grimaced at that last thought. When had he become so bitter?

"I'm going to go with dedication," Lucas replied. "If a person is dedicated to a cause, he is going to prepare himself for that cause. He may become faster, stronger, or whatever it takes to accomplish that goal. Everything builds up so long as you are dedicated."

There was a twinkle in Professor Rowan's eye. It appeared when he was feeling mischievous or when one of his brilliant thoughts came into his head ... or candy, whenever the Old Fart saw candy. "I want you to be truthful, Lucas. You have done great things with your life, and you are only fourteen. You are currently one of Sinnoh's strongest trainers. The pokémon you have reported back to me has been useful with my pokémon evolution research. Your own research in the field of pokémon battle tactics is quite insightful in itself. Single-handed, you managed to wipe out one of the most notorious groups in the world. Were you dedicated to all these causes?"

"I always wanted to be a trainer, Professor."

"A researcher? A hero?"

There was hesitation. "It's not that I minded the researcher part once I really got into it. I didn't know I would go in that direction, but I did so–"

"A hero? The young child who took down Team Galactic with little help? Did you plan on becoming that person?"

He was bemused. "Well, no. Who plans on becoming that?"

He heard a weird noise slip out between the professor's lips, a mixture between a grunt and a sigh. He watched the old man reach out toward him, like he was going to pat him on the knee, but he withdrew his hand. "It's time you realize that great responsibility is often thrust upon those we trust most. In the process, the trust grows to the point that those who threw that responsibility in the first place believe those persons can do anything. We forget that those we place so high on pedestals are fallible, that they are capable of error, that they are human. So much so that even the person–the hero, the child who wanted to make a difference and was eager to please–starts to forget that, too.

"And by the time he realizes what has happened to him and how much he has changed, he doesn't know how to function without trying to please people, and it bothers him. He teaches this to those who look up to him–out of vengeance, because it's all he knows, what have you–and the pattern repeats. And then, suddenly, you're a sixty year-old man with buneary slippers on his swollen, wrinkly feet while talking to the genius that is the fourteen year-old champion of Sinnoh. And he can't help but wonder how exactly he got here ..."

Lucas watched as the professor trailed off thoughtfully. Clearly the Old Fart was so tired that he was babbling nonsense.

The Old Fart shook his head as he snapped out of his own thoughts. "In the end, Lucas, there are always going to be people that want you to be something you may not have pictured yourself to be. Sometimes it takes another set of eyes to realize the potential that is within. You are going to change – and you have, if you must know. What's important is that when you go to bed, you feel satisfied with who you have become. You're worried. I know. That's okay. That's normal. You don't have to know the answers right away."

Lucas remained quiet. "I digress," said the professor after a few seconds of silence. "I will ask you the same question I asked you three years prior, but this time, I want you to really think about it. Who are you, and who do you want to be?"

. . .

The old cabin looked a lot like Harbor Inn, Lane realized. It had similar windows except these still had the glass intact. There were the red, dusty curtains. There was the jagged, cracked concrete path. And there were the weeds, twisted and gnarled like claws coming up from the depths of hell.

Squish went somewhere – he didn't realize he left until now, actually. Julie was still here, standing next to him. They were looking at a map mounted on a tack board. It was the region of Sinnoh. They were volcano markers, brown triangles tipped with red. According to the legend, each marker was a "burn zone," which meant that the people in the area were all dead. Canalave had three.

"You shouldn't be here. Go home."

Lane and Julie turned around. It was a woman, old, wrinkled, and short. She wore a hood. Dry strands of dark hair poked out from below the hood, like twigs.

"Where are we? When did the volcanoes erupt? Class taught us they were dormant!" exclaimed Julie. "My mom and dad live there! My friends!" She gasped, hands reaching down and grabbing Lane's wrist. He felt her nails dig into his skin, but he didn't complain.

Wait. He had family there, too ... But for some reason he kept thinking about pancakes ... Mm, pancakes drenched in butter and maple syrup and whipped cream. Ooh, chocolate chip pancakes with a nice, cold glass of chocolate milk with a straw. Or blueberry pancakes. Yeah, blueberry. Wait! Strawberry! Thick slices of strawberry with powdered sugar!

"You shouldn't be here. Go home," she repeated, walking toward them. One of her gnarled hands reached forward. Such long nails. There was a color scheme to her nails. One nail was pink, the other blue, the other yellow, then rinse, wash, repeat. The two stepped back.

"Where is ... pancakes?" asked Lane.

"I said GO HOME!" She lunged at them and turned into a dragonite. It was a slow transformation, playing out like an action replay, like when watching a basketball game on T.V. and they replayed the same shot five times at different angles. His dad watched the most boring stuff.

He could hear the bones of the dragonite woman grind, the old, wrinkled skin stretching and turning light brown. How painful it must have been for the wings to erupt from her back. They were wet with goo. She roared. It echoed through the trees. She flapped her wings, creating a breeze. Lane admired her tail and the way she swung it around. Every swing created fire. Holy Arceus, fire! She was the volcano! The burn zone creator!

Julie tugged at his arm and quickly pulled them toward the cabin's entrance. She let go of Lane's wrist and jiggled the doorknob, but it wouldn't open.

"It's locked!" she screamed.

Lane felt the hot, hot heat at his back. The dragonite took off into the skies, and the sky turned orange from the flames she released from her mouth. He pushed Julie out of the way and used both hands to twist and turn the rusty knob. Nothing. Kicking! Kicking is always the solution! He used his dirty sneaker to kick at the ancient wood, and the door opened with a loud bang. The two quickly rushed inside, and Lane slammed the door shut. The wooden floor was damp and smelled like pee. Something gray and small was quivering in the corner.

"It's Squish!" Julie yelled, pointing with her free hand. "What happened to you?" She went over and dropped onto her knees, poking the squishy thing with her finger. "Are you okay? What's wrong?" she asked worriedly.

The castform responded with a quiver. Lane felt Squish's vibrations with his feet. Thump, thump, thump.

That boy has too much energy. I wish he would be quieter.

Thump, thump, thump.

It's time to get up, Lane.

"Get out of there, you brats!" snarled the dragonite woman. Lane yelped and jumped back as he turned toward the window and saw the beast's angry, yellow eyes glare at him. Smoke poured out between the gaps of her sharp teeth. "You have no idea what you're up against!"

"Julie! Come on! We can't stay here!" he warned. He stepped back and tripped over a loose plank, landing on his bottom with his thud. At his feet was something black and made out of shiny vinyl. He picked it up and rubbed it between his fingers, making an annoying squeaking noise that hurt his ears. Actually, his ears were starting to feel funny. He felt them up. Why did they feel ... bigger?

"Squish? Say something!" she demanded.

Please wake up.

Lane pulled the vinyl thing into his lap and flapped it in the air. It was like a flag ...

This is our flag, our gallant flag
It waves with the ocean breeze.
Canalave be strong as this flag,
The city that greets the open seas!
Although many of us come and go,
We come and then depart,
The spirit of Canalave
remains in all our hearts!

It really wasn't the time to think about the city's flag song. It's funny to replace "hearts" with "farts" by the way.

"Squish!" Lane heard distress in Julie's voice like she was on the brink of crying. "You're not dying, are you?"

Lane!

Lane quickly got up, swung the black vinyl material around his shoulders, and rushed over, hunching over to stare at the castform. The poor thing was breathing heavily now, and its color was draining away, wasting away in a pool of his own color. He picked him up, ignoring the cold liquid that dripped onto his fingers. He patted him on the back, and more colored liquid oozed out.

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.

"Don't die, Squish!" Julie pleaded, tears forming in her eyes.

We're taking him to the hospital.

Lane turned Squish around. Horrible, blue eyes stared at him, startled him, scared him. He tried to drop Squish, but something sharp dug into his hand and clung onto him. His breath got caught in his throat. He wasn't sure if it was from surprise or pain.

He found his voice. "I ... who are–"

There is obviously something wrong. We're just not sure what.

"Why, Lane!" Squish's adorable squeaks were replaced with a low, gritty voice. "You're not scared, are you?"

"Let him go!" Julie immediately grabbed Squish, tore him away from Lane's hand and threw him against the wall. Squish hit the wall like a wet sponge before flopping onto the floor.

"It's too late, you stupid girl! He's mine!" he shrieked with glee before melting into a pool of gray liquid. White wisps of smoke rose from his body. Those horrible, blue eyes were still there, floating in the liquid. That was the last thing he remembered. Eyes in a pool of black and the screams of a girl, pleading him to stay.

But where was he going?

"Dark ... Dar is watching me ..."

Last Revised: April 27, 2011