Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon.

oOo

Once, when he was young and inexperienced, he'd been bitten by a Nidoran.

It had been his brother's Pokémon; a skittish creature, fairly large with glossy purple skin and gleaming red eyes. He'd been foolish; in a rare moment of childish glee he'd run at the animal, intent on stroking that strange and shining skin. It had been a mistake.

Later, amidst the tears and blood, Reggie had calmly, gently explained that he had frightened the thing. "Nidoran doesn't know you," he'd said softly, bandaging the wound with all the patience of a parent. "It's just like with humans. You have to introduce yourself first, earn his trust. It's rude to touch or grab someone without introducing yourself." Even at age eleven his brother had been disgustingly compassionate.

Of course, he'd neglected to mention to a then four year old Paul how lucky he'd been that he'd simply been bitten by the Pokémon and not poisoned.

He straightened, panting from the exertion of his emesis. It was with startling clarity that he recalled the event. Even now, braced weakly against the sink, eyes slipping shut and with darkness creeping along the edges of his psyche, the alacrity with which it shone was unsettling.

At length he opened his eyes, staring dully into the mirror. The image seemed to glare back; angry, accusing. It was the first sign of life he'd seen in those eyes since awakening. Here were his eyes. These, he thought, staring into the mirror with grim satisfaction. Not that flat, lifeless gaze from before. That lost and helpless look had no place on him.

The image shifted, leaned closer as though to divulge some secret– or was it he himself who had moved closer to the mirror? A tongue darted out to wet cracked lips, and then the lips were moving, whispering something too low and too fast to decipher. His hands gripped the basin; the image in the mirror took on a concentrated expression.

Was he drunk? It wasn't something he did, but then nothing so far had been normal. He shook his head slowly. The reflection did the same, looking both reproachful and mildly disgusted, and just as suddenly the spell was broken. The boy staring back at him was again weak and sunburned with dull, flat eyes. He looked away from the mirror, turning on the tap.

His mind was playing tricks on him, he thought darkly, casting a feeble glare into the basin. At least he hadn't eaten anything solid recently, if the evidence in the sink was any indication. Actually, it looked as though he hadn't eaten much of anything, lately. He felt completely empty on the inside, but just the thought of food was turning his stomach. He wiped his mouth, suddenly thirsty. Moments later his hands were under the tap, glorifying in the coolness, sloshing water onto his face, gulping down the liquid in desperate swallows. It wasn't the best he'd ever tasted; it was hard and chlorinated and tasted mildly of hydrogen sulfide but oh. At that moment it had to be the best thing in the world.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware of how he looked; head poised pathetically under the tap, hands trembling as the water slipped between shaky fingers. That part of him seethed in disapproval, disgusted at his obvious lack of control. Lapping from the tap like some dog-

The thought struck home.

He was up so fast that his head was spinning. Too fast… for his vision blurred; a moment later he found himself flat on his back, spread-eagle, staring dazedly up into the bright florescent lights of the bathroom. He'd fallen.

Fallen! Him! Like…like some sort of …invalid.

Except that invalids are weak, he reminded himself fiercely. They were weak and frail and pathetic and completely useless; they couldn't do anything for themselves without assistance. He wasn't like that. He wasn't! Something clenched in his chest, his stilted breathing turned to torrid gasps. His limbs didn't seem to want to move; his horror escalated.

He didn't know how long he lay there, struggling for control, unable to move. Above him, the tap continued to run, and the brightness of the lights blurred into an indistinct fuzz. He might have dozed, because when he opened his eyes his body felt thoroughly chilled. But the choking anxiety he'd felt was gone, and when he cautiously attempted to lift an arm, he was relieved to find that it actually obeyed.

But as soon as he moved his head he was assaulted by pain so severe that his vision blanked out. Okay, he thought grimly. Slower, then. He managed to pull himself into a sitting position, gritting his teeth against the agony in his head. Reaching a stiff hand behind him, he shuffled gingerly through the matted locks of hair. The spot was tender, and his fingers came back red. But head wounds almost always bled and were usually not as serious as they looked, weren't they? He remembered reading that somewhere.

Somewhere, but at the moment he couldn't remember much of anything.

Great. A possible concussion along with amnesia and God only knew what else. He grimaced. The irony wasn't lost to him: weak as a Skitty, sprawled across the floor like some…loser. It was weakness…something he despised in his Pokémon. In people in general, really. There is a logical explanation for this, he thought gritting his teeth. There was. He was simply going about it the wrong way. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. The sudden darkness took him by surprise, and he opened them again, feeling suddenly, inexplicably, anxious.

Okaay… What do I know so far?

His apparent amnesia, the blistering skin, his cloths…

The memory of the Nidoran attacking swam again to the surface.

If he had to guess, which was all that he could do really, he'd say the most obvious explanation would be that he'd been attacked by a Pokémon. Probably while trying to catch one, or maybe even during a training exercise. An attack gone awry, maybe. The younger and or newly evolved Pokémon tended to have trouble with their aim, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd been hit by a wayward attack. Something to do with fire most definitely, judging from his skin. And a confusion or amnesia attack…maybe even some sort of poison. He could almost see it; a phantom image of himself pitting two of his creatures against each other in a free-for-all. Or perhaps, he thought suddenly, he'd been training a newly captured Pokémon. The wild ones were often rebellious and had to be broken in.

Except that he wasn't some novice. He just couldn't see himself being taken by surprise like that.

Still, he admitted grudgingly, it made sense in a way. Sort of. There were a lot of problems with the scenario. The most obvious being how he had managed to make it back to a hotel in the condition he was in. He could barely stand on his own, as it was.

He scowled. Either way you looked at it, the end result was the same.

He'd been careless.

Careless! Him! It was almost worse than being weak, this negligence, and yet even so, it made him feel slightly less vulnerable to be able to work out a hypothesis, regardless of the holes.

But it still didn't explain the additional sighting on his dex.

Nothing he could come up with could explain that…except that the dex had probably been damaged when he got caught up in whatever attack he'd been hit with. And what Pokémon had attacked him? There were any number of attacks that his symptoms could fit under, and without his memory, without some sort of clue… He was frustrated to find that he couldn't even remember the Pokémon he was currently carrying. His hand curled into a fist. The small bubble of control he'd managed to cultivate was growing thin. He hadn't made much - if any - progress since waking; It all came back to the same conclusion: I can't remember.

I CAN'T REMEMBER!

A sudden stab of pain assaulted his senses, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to calm.

Okay. He took a breath, opening his eyes and staring at the lone sneaker on his foot. How many hours had passed since he'd awoken in the bed? Several, if the soiled condition of his body was any indication. But his dex, he was sure, would have been fully charged at the time of his…excursion. He would have made certain of it. He was always prepared. That meant – hypothetically speaking, of course- that he would've had to have been unconscious – or at least without memory - for over a day. At least three days, because that's how long it took for a fully charged dex to completely lose power.

But maybe it hadn't lost power. If whatever attack he'd been hit with had hit the dex, it was possible that it would be damaged as well, possibly resulting in power failure.

Except that the dex had been in perfect condition, he realized suddenly. He hadn't remembered seeing any burn or melt marks when he'd handled it, and despite his dazed state, he was fairly certain he would have noticed such a thing. With the exception of a few chinks and nicks from travel, the case was still as smooth as the day he'd gotten it. The screen hadn't even been cracked. Dexes were resilient, true, but they weren't that durable. There would have been some sort of evidence of mishap had it occurred, and something…something had definitely occurred. He ran a hand across his face, and mindless of the pain, struggled to his feet. Automatically he reached for his Pokéballs, only just remembering that they lay strewn across the floor of the bedroom. Cursing, he made his way there, the running tap momentarily forgotten, the blood roaring in his ears, a dull throb of pain beating glaringly with each step.

He stopped just outside of the bathroom doorway.

He'd never been afraid of the dark before - it was ridiculous for a wandering trainer to have such fears - but just as before he felt his body tense up. He was nervous. His pulse sped up, his eyes widened.

The shadows seemed to loom on the edges of the sparsely lit bedroom, like predators. His skin tingled. Disgusted, he shrugged it off. Unused to being this helpless, he was making himself unaccountably paranoid. Even worse was the fact that he found he felt strangely relieved for the muted television, for the slightly opened curtains and the sparse bit of light they provided. His body visibly relaxed at the sight, and the realization of this made him angry, to be thusly dependent on something. Weaknesses were crutches, handicaps. He was too old to be nursing these habits!

It's just the side-effects of the Pokémon attack. It ran like a mantra through his head, though it was a small consolation, more irritation than comfort, that he would even have to make such excuses. His gaze turned dark as he searched the room. He remembered seeing them when he'd first woken up, discarded haphazardly in the center of the room. Five, he counted spotting them finally. Five, when there should have been six. He dropped stiffly to his knees. Didn't he always carry six, now-a-days? He was sure—

But then, was he really sure of anything right now?

He didn't finish the thought, reaching out slowly, one by one pulling each ball methodically from the belt. They were cold against his skin, felt foreign and alien. There was no connection, no familiarity about them whatsoever. They might have been empty, for all that he felt. What was inside them, he wondered, disgusted at his inability to remember? Which of these creatures, if any, was responsible for his current state? His grip tightened; just as suddenly he found himself enlarging it, stretching out his arm, thumb over the release button-

And then the phone rang.

He cast an exasperated glare at the ringing obstruction. Now of all times—!

Come to think of it, it had been ringing nearly nonstop since he'd been awake, and he could think of no reason why anyone would know his room number in the first place. Not to mention the small but undeniable fact that he still had no idea if this was even actually his room. And did he really want news of what had happened to him getting out? Though there was the distinct possibility that it was already news; the hotel staff had to have come across him at some point. He didn't think he'd have been coherent enough to put up a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. He grimaced.

Although, he conceded already rising, if he did answer it he could probably learn something. And really, he couldn't be any worse off than he already was. Right?

He picked up the receiver.

"Paul speaking." It was the first time he'd spoken aloud since he'd awakened. His voice was hoarse, dry. As if he'd been coughing.

Or screaming-

"Hello…is this room 351?" As if he knew the answer to that! The voice was female, hesitant and childlike.

And one he didn't recognize, he thought, eyes narrowing.

"Did you want something?," he snapped. It was a safe response, he decided finally. Quick and to the point and delivered with enough impatience and sharpness that he'd probably disarmed the person. Predictably, the voice on the other end hesitated, and he kicked off his lone shoe impatiently. It hit the wall before him with a resounding THUMP.

Over the phone, the voice sounded slightly put off. Obviously he had offended her. "Um…well…this is nurse Poppy Joy from the Floaroma Town Pokécenter. I was calling to inform you about your Chimchar. Its condition is currently stable, and you can even pick it up today if you like…"

A pause.

A long pause. She seemed to be waiting for him to respond. His grip tightened a little on the phone.

"…my Chimchar?"

"Yes, sir." The voice sounded uncertain. It did nothing to relieve his confusion.

"You're mistaken," he replied finally. "You must have the wrong person." And he moved to hang up the phone. Except that the nurse continued talking, oblivious to his actions.

"You're the Sinnoh region's Hopeful, aren't you? You were the one who brought in that little Chimchar three days ago. I worked on it personally. We weren't sure at first if it would even survive the night, but it's awake now and…hello? Hello??"

He yanked the cord from the jack and threw down the receiver. He was panting again, and suddenly his skin was burning and his head was aching and—

"You're not looking too well," she chided gently. But her pale eyes twinkled, and he got the vaguest impression that she was making fun of him.

"Don't patronize me," he spat, summoning Houndoom back to its ball. It was useless and he'd deal with it later. Bowing stiffly, he turned away from the blonde. It was a ritual, a cycle with no obvious end in sight. He had yet to defeat her, even after eight long years. His jaw clenched, but then she was suddenly speaking, interrupting his brooding thoughts.

"Do you recognize this place, Paul?" He glanced back. She was looking away, blonde hair blowing around her, gaze tilted upward towards the sunset. He grunted, stooping to collect his pack.

"We had our very first match here. Do you remember?" She didn't wait for an answer, turning to walk towards him. Her sudden intensity disturbed him. She stopped about a foot away, watching him with pale, glinting eyes.

"You really don't look well. You should take better care of yourself. A haggard trainer is a liability in battle." He bristled. He disliked this side of her, the lecturing 'holier than thou' attitude as though she knew what was best for everyone.

"Thanks for the advice," But his tone spoke the opposite. "and the battle." He turned to go. He was always the first to leave. It gave him a sort of childish satisfaction to do so, to present her with his back. And really, there was no reason to stay.

Her responding laughter was like bells.

"You're like I was, back then." She said softly, and something in her voice gave him pause.

She did not disappoint. "I'll make a deal with you. I'll give you your battle. Two weeks from now." He turned, regarding her through dark, hooded eyes. She never offered to battle. It was he who always did the challenging.

"But…" she smiled, that same coy, enigmatic expression that had become her signature. She was leading him, he knew. She was always leading him, baiting him, and he hated it, but just like always he found himself reacting.

"…but?" And then he frowned. The sun had settled behind her, and it gave her form an ethereal glow, the blonde hair fanning behind her like molten flames.

"But," she continued slowly, "there's a condition."

Heavy breathing filled his ears, loud, unsteady. He was on the floor, facing the wall, the telephone cord clutched tightly in his grip.

Cynthia.

His mind was in a whirl. Had he seen her? Recently? How current was this memory, if it were even that? Realistically, it made sense that he would have seen her; she was the only thing standing in his way to becoming Sinnoh's champion, after all, but without knowing the full details it was nearly impossible to gauge anything. Had this supposed battle already taken place? Frustration mounted as he realized that, once again, he couldn't remember.

There's a condition.

She had switched tactics so quickly. To so readily agree to another battle, when she was always telling him to 'slow down' was so out of character that—

-and had he accepted her 'condition'?

No…yes. No. Wait.

There was no reason to believe that he wouldn't, he concluded finally. Even without knowing, without remembering what the condition was—

And the 'nurse'.

She had claimed to see him. Had even appeared to recognize his voice. Of course, this was entirely possible. Everyone knew his voice and face by now. He was everywhere; on TV, radio stations, billboards, magazine covers… The supposed nurse's testimony was anything but original. It was highly possible that she might not even be a nurse. She could just as easily be some obsessive fanatic trying to see him. And most importantly-

He didn't even have a Chimchar. That much he DID remember, and it was what confused him most of all.

You're the Sinnoh region's Hopeful, right?

He was, but…

His glare deepened, tightened into a steely mask. That was the trouble with fame. The general public knew nearly all there was to know about you. Yes, he'd had a Chimchar once…years ago. A weak and useless thing more suited perhaps as a child's pet than for battling. He'd gotten rid of it, and-

…and what the hell was he even doing in Floaroma Town of all places? It wasn't exactly a battle hotspot.

He stood, braced carefully against the wall. The pain in his head had begun to subside, fading into little more than a dull ache, and he worried briefly that his body might be going into shock, but more important was the situation. He had to make sense of it before he started thinking about anything else. Although the unfailing stiffness in his limbs was irritating, distracting to say the least. It made each step awkward and stilted, and his body's dilapidated state did not help matters, but he kept walking, did not stop until he'd reached the opposite end of the room, to the small wooden desk in the corner. Atop it was the knapsack he always carried. Perhaps it held a clue. Maybe, but he doubted it. In all probability the dex was probably his best bet, but until it was fully charged again, it was completely useless. He made a mental note to plug it in, reaching over to slide the bag towards him.

In contrast to his other belongings, it had been neatly deposited on the table, which puzzled him. If he'd had the energy to walk across the room and set his bag down, why hadn't he done so for the rest of his things? Why hadn't he at least undressed? His Pokémon were much more valuable. Why would he leave them carelessly on the floor and take such care with his bag? Again he was struck by the thought that perhaps he'd been put to bed, but once more he forced it from his mind, fumbling now with the latch.

He normally only carried the bare essentials; ramen, water, an extra change of clothing, Pokémon food and medicine. But the bag felt unusually heavy, and when he'd shuffled through to the bottom, he found the last thing he'd ever think to carry.

A book.

A thick book.

What the hell—

Worn and frayed, it was a dark green hardcover that could probably double as a weapon. On the front, he could just barely make out the faded title, Sinnoh Myths and Legends.

Even in his current state, he could not, would not believe, that he'd willingly tote around a book of fairy tales. It was the sort of shit Cynthia got off on, and more importantly, it easily weighed a good 20 pounds…there was no way in hell he'd lug the thing around, much less waste time reading it.

Just what the hell had he been doing before he lost his memory?

His expression twisted, darkened. He felt faintly nauseous. He didn't like the feeling, this unpredictability, this not knowing. He'd been attacked by a Pokémon, of this much he was certain. But why was he in Floaroma Town? What had brought him here? He didn't wander aimlessly; he always had an objective, a reason. He didn't like to waste his time…

He decided then, in that split second, that he would see the nurse.

oOo

I had to split this chapter in half; it was getting WAY too long, bordering on sixteen pages.

You guys are great! I want to thank those who reviewed the previous chapter: Dark Angel of the Underworld, Jordan-Daniel, SecretAgent99, fire spirit, Caldazar Atreides, as well as those who might not have reviewed, but who never-the-less added me to their 'favorites' or put the fic on 'alert'. I apologize for the 5 month delay in getting this out; This chapter was a bit hard to write, mostly because it was an intermediary chapter -more introspective than anything else- but also because even though it's been a good five or so months, the DP series seems to have come to a standstill. NOTHING has been happening! It's quite frustrating, and the addition of the whole contest arc as a main part of the series seems to have slowed the plot down to a snails trail. I'm anxious to get to Team Galactic, to perhaps see more of Hunter Jay, (and of course get more screen time/background info on Shinji).

Please review and tell me what you think! The next chapter is already over halfway written, and will probably be up pretty soon.