(A/N: ...do I even say something about being late? I'm exceptionally sorry. Real life has been kind of really ugly lately, and it's been super hard to find any inspiration. So sorry for the wait, and thank you for being patient if you're still here.
The lyrics quoted at the end of the chapter are from "The Wolf" by Phildel. Which is probably partially responsible for the plot of this story, as I was listening to it back as I laid it out.
Oh, and in case you don't remember, the events briefly mentioned in regards to the Viridian City gym happened in the anime in EP063 - The Battle of the Badge.)

RETURNING HOME

CHAPTER 10

The first time she had the nightmare was the night after they told them the body was his, when she finally fell asleep after lying awake for hours, her body emptied of tears and of anything else too. The same nightmare she'd have over and over again: Ash lying in his sleeping bag, his face turned away from her. Asleep, or so she thought. But his skin cold and wet to the touch when she grabbed his arm to shake him awake, and when she turned him—when she turned him—

She woke up with a scream and as she made out the room around her for a moment she felt relief, because it was only a nightmare and it was over and gone, and then she remembered and the world shattered all over again.

—-

"...kachu-pi! Pikachu-pi! Pikachu-pi!"

Pikachu's panicked voice tearing through her sleep sets off an alarm at the back of her mind before she's even fully conscious, like a jolt of electricity down her spine. Less than a moment later her eyes have flown open and her heart is in her throat, her hand scrambling to untangle itself from the mess of her sheets and prop her up: "What? What's happening?!"

(What happened? Where's Ash?)

Pikachu doesn't answer—just nods urgently for her to follow and jumps down the ladder. Down: towards Ash's bunk, and her stomach crumples so tight at once that her breath's cut in two. Now and then confusedly overlapped in her still-not-entirely-awake mind, she grabs the edge of her mattress and looks down.

Ash's bed is empty. The blanket is pushed to the side and the sheets and the pillow still look like someone's slept on them, still holding onto the vague shape of a body, and his backpack is there but he's not. Misty's eyes dart across the room. The bathroom door's ajar like she left it last evening, the light off on the other side. There's a flicker of movement at the edge of her vision and she turns, startled, but it's only the window, swinging open in a gust of wind. It smacks against the wall with a sudden thud.

She tosses her own blanket aside and jumps out of bed. Shoving her hair away from her face, she runs to it and leans outside, half-stumbling on her own steps as she does. There's no one there either, only the street stretching out silent in both directions, still immersed in the pale sheen of dawn and asleep. The sill is cold against her palms. She tightens her fingers around it for a second; then turns back around.

"Did you hear something, Pikachu? Did you see where he went?"

The pokémon shakes his head. Misty swallows and helplessly runs her eyes over the empty room one more time, trying to force herself to think, to steer her mind away from—

(the sleeping bag the empty sleeping bag and the rain drowning out his name)

She rushes to the door and flings it open, her mouth full of sand. Across the hallway Brock lifts his glance from the book he's holding.

"Have you seen Ash?" she cuts him off before he gets the chance to ask. He frowns.

"He's not there?"

"He's not." Her heart is still in her throat. "I woke up and his bed is empty. Brock—"

Brock drops the book and stands. Seconds later he's hurried past her and into the room, scanning it up and down just like she did. He stops at the window. "I found it like that," she adds, but he's walking up to it already and bending to look closely at the latch, his face pale and drawn tight at the temples. Misty tucks her hair behind her ear again and shakes her head.

"Do you think—maybe someone could have broken in while we slept and—?"

He sent people trained just for that, she remembers him saying; they're good at their job. But Brock presses his lips together and keeps examining the window. "It doesn't—look like it was broken into," he says, grim. Like it hurts to admit it, like there's a weight on his chest. "The latch was just pulled. It doesn't look like there's a way to do that from outside. If someone wanted to they'd have to force it, break something." He moves the window on its hinges, pushing it closed. "Nothing's broken. And I didn't see anyone walk in or out of the door all night, so…"

"So—what, he ran off? Is that what you're saying?"

Brock closes his hands around the sill and his shoulders heave as he breathes in. He turns. "Yeah. I think that's what he did."

She closes her eyes. A tremble stirs somewhere deep in her middle, spreads to her hands like an itch. She balls them into shaky fists. "I'm going to strangle him."

"It's been a few hours at most, he can't have gone too far. We'll find him."

"You said the same thing a year ago!"

Her words hit the floor hard and lie for a long moment between the two of them. In the heavy silence she forces herself to take a breath. Her nails have dug burning marks into her palms.

"Sorry. I didn't—"

"...No, you're right," he sighs. "You're right. No use wasting time with with words anyway. Get dressed, we'll take a look around."

She does as he said, all the while feeling not quite there, not quite awake still despite the present, tangible feeling of the floor under her feet, the fabric against her hands. As she tugs a clean t-shirt over her head her eyes fall again on the empty bed, on the creases in the sheets and the dip on the pillow and the backpack still there, and her fingers stiffen and her breath pauses in her chest. He was there just hours ago, maybe less. He was there and she let him—let him—

"Ready?" Brock's voice shakes her. She jumps a little and nods, pulling down the hem of her shirt.

"Yes."

Brock nods back and steps towards the door after Pikachu. "Good. Let's go then."

—-

They look. They circle the pokémon center and then the block and at the end of the street she cups her hands around her mouth and calls, adding a "where the hell are you?!" for good measure, her stomach a knot, her pulse a drumbeat in her temples. A couple houses down a woman locking her door turns to give them a puzzled glance, but aside from that everything is still quiet and the echo of her voice fades away unanswered. Brock gently closes one hand around her elbow: "Better not risk drawing too much attention. I don't think calling's any help anyway."

So they go on looking, but it's pointless and he's got to know it as well. He could be anywhere, and after a handful of minutes she stops again and bends over, bracing her hands against her knees as if to catch her breath after a run. He could be anywhere. The sun shines a blinding white on the asphalt below, wobbling in front of her eyes.

"We're not going to find him."

"We can keep lookin—"

"You know we're not going to find him!" She tightens her fingers and rights herself. "He could be on the other side of town by now, or—hiding who even knows where! He doesn't want us to find him."

He doesn't retort, but the way his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows is enough of an answer. Anger and frustration hit her at once like a wave of nausea, like a fist, and it rattles her all over but she clings to it all the same because anger's easy, anger's better than admitting to the blistering panic beneath. Her breath hitches and erupts in an almost-gasp: "That—idiot! How could he do something so stupid?!"

"He's scared," Brock sighs. She presses her fists to her temples.

"I should have heard something. I should—how could I not—I was right there. I should have stopped him."

Saying it out loud feels like something being ripped out of her chest. She didn't. She didn't: not now, not a year ago. "...It's not your fault," Brock tries to tell her, but his voice sounds far away and her legs stagger, hollow. She thinks of the empty sleeping bag. She thinks of the rain hitting the window of the pokémon center, of Delia's face across the room turning sheet-pale as she listened on the phone, and she sits down on the edge of the sidewalk and crumples around that sudden gaping emptiness. Pikachu nudges her leg once, twice; calls her name trying to get her to stand. She doesn't turn.

I'll take care of him, Mrs. Ketchum, she said. I won't let anything happen to him this time.

I promise.

Brock lets out another sigh. He kicks a pebble under his foot; then walks up to her and sits by her side. A moment goes by.

"It's not your fault," he tells her again. "Ash is old enough not to need a babysitter. And you know better than me how stubborn he is. There's... no stopping him once he gets something in his head, no matter how stupid it is."

She stares at the asphalt still. Her chin quivers. "What do we do, Brock?"

He doesn't know, at least not right away, and something like a furious dry sob tears its way out of her throat. She sinks her teeth into her lip before any more can follow, but they shake her all the same, like waves hitting the shore hard in a storm, and she folds tighter around her knees and tries to push back against them. Idiot, she thinks, idiot, idiot, idiot. Next to her Brock draws a small breath as if to say something but stops there, not finding it. She shakes her head:

"We need to find him before they do," comes out of her somehow, and it's not her voice—her voice is brash and loud and not whispered, this is not it, this strangled squeezed out hiccup. If he says again we will or some other useless empty promise she'll start screaming or sobbing for real, she's sure, but this time he doesn't. This time he guesses her thoughts and lets another few seconds pass.

"Giovanni wants him alive," he says finally instead. "We know that much. I—I hope we find him first, I hope it won't come to that, but even if—they do, even if they find him before we can, we won't stop looking. We know everything now, we know he's alive. We're not gonna leave him in that psycho's hands for another year, okay? Not even for a month or a week. We'll take him back."

But they'll hurt him again in the meantime she wants to yell, but she doesn't because the dam's barely holding already and so she just nods, her lips clamped shut. Brock's hand finds her shoulder; squeezes once, stays.

"Now take a deep breath. Just try."

It takes her a second to understand what he means—she hadn't realized that in her desperation to keep the sobs in for the last who-knows-how-many seconds she hasn't really been breathing either. She lets her muscles ease up a bit and it feels sort of like the moment after the surface of her pool breaks into pieces, the first mouthful of air too urgent a gasp to be a breath at all, her lungs burning and too tight and too hungry for air. He strokes her shoulder a little.

"That's better. See? Deep breaths. Good."

After a minute or two she's calmed down enough that she's at least not shaking anymore, and he tells her, "Let's go back to the pokémon center. You're right, we're not going to find him just wandering around like this. I'll call Jessie, they might be able to help us somehow, maybe—who knows, they might know some hiding place Ash could know as well, or something like that. It may be a long shot, but at least it's a start. Okay?"

She takes one more deep breath. "I'm still going to strangle him when we find him."

"I know." He gives her shoulder a pat. "Come on, let's go."

—-

Brock calls Jessie from his pokégear. She listens to his urgent, hushed voice for a bit, biting down on the inside of her cheek; then turns. Nurse Joy is sitting behind the counter, busy reading through a pile of medical records. Misty clenches her fists a bit and heads in that direction. The woman looks up hearing her footsteps and her lips curve into a smile, but her eyes hold a stern note despite the kindness in them.

"Your Gyarados is ready to leave," she says. She places her pokéball on the counter, but doesn't take her hand off it just yet. "Whatever happened exactly, though, be sure to be more careful in the future. Your pokémon are not weapons, and they shouldn't be used as weapons either."

"I know," she nearly stops her. She sees the woman's lips tighten slightly and breathes in, trying again. "I mean—I will. It won't happen again."

"Hm. Are you sure you don't want to file a police report?"

"I'm sure."

Nurse Joy watches her for a moment still, then takes her hand away. Her breath catching in her throat a little, Misty gathers the pokéball up and cups her ten fingers around it, and for a long moment holds it to her lips, feeling tears sting behind her eyelids: "I'm sorry," she whispers to it, the thunder of Abbie's gun still vivid in her mind. "I'm so sorry."

When she slips the pokéball in her pocket and turns around Brock is done with his phonecall. "They're gonna reach us here," he tells her as she walks back, and for a second the corners of his mouth fold into the brief semblance of a smile. "She didn't exactly say it, but I think they stayed close in case we needed their help again."

"Do you really think they can?" She shakes her head a bit. "Help?"

"I hope."

She sits down on the couch and wraps her arms around herself, fingers restlessly tugging at the fabric of her shirt. Pikachu's eyes stare miserably up at her from the floor. After a few moments he climbs next to her on the cushions and huddles against her side with a faint sound.

I promise, she said. I promise.

—-

Half an hour later the Meowth-shaped balloon is hovering above the pokémon center, and after another handful of minutes they're all crammed back into their room, the trio standing kind of awkwardly in the middle of the floor and shuffling their feet. They're wearing normal clothes, Jessie and James are—not Team Rocket uniforms, not weird costumes, just clothes, and she tries to remember if she's ever seen them both look like normal people before but then the corner of her eye hitches again on the empty bed, on the blankets still thrown to the side, and her stomach twists and the thread of that thought slips silently through her fingers.

Brock closes the window they left open and explains again the whole situation, starting from what happened at Mrs. R's safehouse. Misty sits on Ash's bed, kicking her heel impatiently against the frame, and when he gets to Abbie and the way Gyarados' hyper beam threw her across the room she shudders and kicks hard enough that a jolt of pain shoots through the back of her foot. Her nails dig into the sheet. Brock gets to the end of the story and his voice trails off into silence.

"...Dang, that sure wasn't a smart move," says James after a beat, rubbing the nape of his neck. "You sure he took off?"

"Yeah, pretty sure," Brock sighs. "There's no sign that the window might have been broken into. And Ash's backpack's here but his shoes aren't."

Jessie crosses her arms. "Well, has he lost it or what? We go through all that trouble to try and keep him protected and the first thing he does as soon as everyone looks away is run off in the middle of the night?"—she catches the glares that both Misty and Pikachu are throwing in her direction and backtracks a little, waving her palms into the air. "Fine, fine, if you don't want to hear that your friend went completely bonkers I won't say it, but just so you know I think your friend went completely bonkers."

"It doesn't matter how stupid what he did is right now," Brock steps in. "What matters is that we need to find him. Fast. Possibly before Giovanni does. And we need your help."

Jessie and James look at each other and then down at Meowth. "...Er, sure, just—how exactly?"

He sighs one more time and his hand runs to his temples. "I don't know. We were hoping maybe—you could at least give us something to start from. We can't just... wander around the city hoping that we'll stumble into him sooner or later, it's no use. Maybe there's some... hiding spot that you think Ash might know about, or something like that? Think."

Another exchange of glances. James smushes his lips together and runs his fingers through the hair on the back of his head again: "Yeah, um. There isn't really some... 'list of good hiding spots to use in case the boss is really pissed at you someday' that you learn about the moment you join the team, y'know? And even if there was I doubt your friend would've had the chance to hear about it." His shoulders drop a little. "Sorry, kids. I'm afraid there ain't a lot we can do to help this time."

"There is."

Everyone's eyes turn to her. "Well speak then," says Jessie with a slight shrug. Misty takes a breath.

"I want to talk to Mrs. R again."

Jessie and James both look at her and then again at each other. "...Huh, kid," says James, "After all that I'm not sure she'll—"

"I want to talk to her again," she insists. She pulls harder at the bedsheet, clenching her fists around it. "And she's gonna have to help us. This—all happened because she put us in the hands of someone who would have sold Ash back to your piece of shit boss."

"Yeeeah, about that, he's not really our boss anymore," he tries to argue, gesturing to the plain white shirt he's wearing. "We're quittin—"

"That's not my point!" He recoils a little at her snap and she forces herself to breathe in again. "The point was, she put us in that situation and now she's gonna help us find him."

"...Are you sure it's a good idea?" Brock asks, concern furrowing his voice. Her glare darts to him, and she shrugs helplessly and after a second looks away again, her hands still tight, tight at her sides.

"Do you have a better one?"

He doesn't. She turns back to the trio and tries to keep her voice firm. "She's got a lot of people too, doesn't she? Spies," she says. "We need that. It could give us a chance to find him, or—she's got someone inside the team's headquarters too, she told us about that. It could—at least it could tell us if—Giovanni's got him already."

The three of them exchange concerned stares once again. "You know, that's kind of a whole lot you're asking there," Jessie comments after a moment, quirking one eyebrow. "I don't know if she'll agree."

Misty's fingers dig further into the sheet. At the bottom of her chest something quivers; pushes. "If she doesn't agree tell her Giovanni's gonna be the last of her worries."

There's a pause. "...Um, yeah." Jessie blinks then. "Not to say you can't look pretty threatening if you put your mind to it, but I'm afraid you're really gonna have to step up your game a bit if you want to compete with the bo—err, with Giovanni on that front."

She closes her eyes. In the dark of her eyelids she sees the glow of Gyarados' hyper beam like it's burned onto her retinas; sees it shoot towards Abbie and throw her off her feet. "Has Giovanni actually killed any of her kids yet?"

A perplexed silence. She opens her eyes. "Has he?"

"...huh, I don't think—"

"Because I might have." The tremble deepens, rising like nausea, and she thinks again of the yellow glow, of the terrible sound of the woman's head against the door, finally letting the thought she had been pushing down at the back of her mind click into shape. She swallows. Her mouth feels like dust. "That should make me reasonably threatening. Shouldn't it?"

"Misty—" Brock starts. The mattress dips as he leans down on one knee next to her and tries to lay a hand on her arm. She flinches away from it and keeps her eyes fixed into Jessie's despite the burning growing at the back of them, despite the queasiness climbing up her throat.

"So tell her that," she manages, "if she refuses to help us—tell her—" and then something gives way and she lowers her head and presses her palms against her eyes, tears filtering warm through her lashes. Around her there's silence again for a moment. Then Jessie's voice, but so different this time it almost doesn't sound like her voice at all, all of its sharp edges sandpapered away.

"...You didn't kill anyone, kid. You were cornered, so was your pokémon, and it defended you and itself. That's all that happened."

She wipes her eyes and looks back up. "It doesn't matter. If she's dead she isn't—any less dead because it was self defense, is she?"

"Well, she had it coming anyway," Meowth shrugs. Jessie steps on his tail. "Ow! What? I just said what everyone was thinking!"

"Shut that mouth," she barks. Then turns back to her with a sigh and her voice softens a little again: "Alright, alright, we'll talk to her." A hesitation. "...We'll see if we can convince her without threatening her remaining family first."

"Great." She rubs the corner of one eye again. "Thanks."

"He's only been gone a few hours anyway," James adds. "I'm sure we're still in time. Don't worry."

"A few minutes could have been enough for them to take him. So don't tell me not to worry. Just—do something."

He doesn't retort. Another moment goes by; then Jessie claps her hands to break the silence and turns on her heels to the door. "Fine. Enough with the talking. Let's see if we can get a hold of the lady, go go!"

James and Meowth follow suit, but James stops in his track after half a step and turns back around. "By the way," he says, "I'd stay here and keep my eyes well open in the meantime, if I were you. Don't go about looking for him. The boss—err, our former boss sure ain't happy about this whole situation. For all we know he's just waiting for the right chance to get rid of you both and make it look like some freak accident."

"Gotcha," Brock sighs. Then adds: "Thank you for the help. Again."

Jessie rolls her eyes and steps out of the room. "Yeah, yeah. Thank us later."

—-

The slits in the blinds draw thin rectangles of sunlight on the floor. Misty watches them move slowly, slowly, and disappear finally as the sun turns the corner. Her palms twinge: when she looks at them there's red crescent-shaped marks dug deep across her lifelines. She closes her fists again and her nails slot back into them. One whole morning later and he's still gone and the trio is still not back, and she can't do anything about it but sit and wait.

The door creaks open. At the edge of her vision Brock steps back in, a plastic cup in each hand; softly kicks it closed again with his heel. Creee-ak. He walks up to her and she sticks her nails deeper into her skin.

"Don't say it," she warns him. "They could be—torturing him right now for all we know, so don't say that it's all gonna be okay or that we'll find him and he'll be fine. Just don't."

He sits down and places one of the cups under her nose. "I was just going to say that I got you this. Tea."

She blinks. Then lets her breath out in a sigh and takes it, but holds it in her hands without taking the lid off, watching the floor still. She pulls her lip between her teeth.

"I thought—" The plastic of the cup crinkles under her fingers. "I thought he wouldn't do it. I thought I'd managed to—at least talk some sense into him."

Brock clicks his tongue. For a second he says nothing. "Well, I told him not to do anything stupid and he said he wouldn't," he sighs then. "Twice. So I guess that makes two of us who overestimated his common sense, if it makes you feel any better." He pauses, then lowers one hand and ruffles the fur on Pikachu's back. "Or three."

She shakes her head: "Arceus, what was he thinking?!"

"Probably that it was the best he could do to keep us safe."

"Well what did he expect? That we'd just—go back home and pretend nothing happened? That we wouldn't try to find him?"

Brock takes a sip of his tea. "Sometimes fear makes you do... really stupid things."

Misty thinks of the concern she heard in his voice earlier, spread like ripples on the water. Thinks of how a couple hours ago she went to the bathroom and when she walked back out he was sitting with his head in his hands, his shoulders shaken by a slight tremble like a weight was on them. She let the door click behind her back and he looked up and immediately forced his lips into a smile: Just resting my eyes for a moment. She takes the lid off her cup and stares down at it. "You know, Brock, you don't—have to do this."

He gives a small shrug: "Do what? Bring you tea?"

"No I mean—this." She closes her eyes. "If you don't think it's a good idea you don't have to—I can do it alone. I can talk to her alone. I just have to do something."

"Don't be silly. Come on now, I can only take one of you being unreasonable at once, don't do this to me." Brock's voice is soft. "It may not be the best idea, but it's all we've got, right?, so it's still better than leaving him alone out there. And I'm definitely not gonna leave both of you alone, nope, not gonna happen, so... of course I'm in too."

She doesn't retort. She blows on her tea and forces herself to gulp down some, even though nausea is still twisting her stomach into wet rags; and they wait. There isn't anything else to do.

—-

Please be alright. Please, you stupid idiot, just be alright.

—-

It's nearing sunset by the time Brock's pokégear finally rings, and she's paced back and forth across the room about a million times and driven her nails so hard into her palms that they sting now every time she opens or closes her fingers. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, one hand already reaching for the strap of her backpack, she watches him nod a couple times at whatever Jessie is saying and then hang up: "James is gonna take us to her. Come on, let's go."

The balloon ride is short and bumpy: gusts of a sharp wind rock the basket and whistle between the ropes, keeping James busy fumbling with the burner. Below them unfold streets and rooftops and the green splashes of gardens. The gray of what looks to be a small industrial complex at last.

They land next to a warehouse. Misty takes her hair off her face with numb fingers while James secures the balloon, the flesh of her arms rolled up into goosebumps. At her feet Pikachu's cheeks flicker with nervous static sparkles.

She's already waiting when they walk in, stood between Jessie and Meowth, and Misty's hands twitch again into fists. She wonders if Jessie did have to resort to her half-baked threat to get her to come and for a second hesitates to meet her glance, but she swallows then and forces herself to look up, her mouth dry, dry. Mrs. R's face is unreadable and tight, a marble statue's face; yet somehow she looks smaller, like she shrank slightly into herself, the gold of her eyes clouded behind her glasses. For a thick, lingering moment no one says a word. Then the woman clears her voice.

"I suppose I owe you an apology."

"Your apologies aren't going to get Ash back here," Misty snaps. Brock's hand squeezes her elbow slightly, a warning. The woman's eyes narrow.

"From what Jessie told me, you still need my help," she says. "I've made an error in judgment and you paid the consequences, and for that I am terribly sorry. Believe me, I am. But what your friend did after was his own reckless decision and I'm not responsible for it. I will help you because I think I should, but not because I'm under some obligation to do so, so kindly put your anger aside and then we'll talk."

Misty bites the inside of her cheek and holds the words on her tongue. Brock keeps his fingers around her arm. "We're just really worried," he puts in. Mrs. R nods.

"You have a reason to be. Now," and her glance turns back to Misty, flint behind her lens "if you will let me speak: I heard from my contact at the headquarters before you came here. He informed me that Giovanni's tracking parties still haven't been called back to the base."

She lets her breath out a little. "So they haven't found him?"

"So it would seem." But: there's a but in her voice. "There's something else you should probably be aware of, though."

"Something what?"

"Giovanni himself has headed for Viridian City this morning. He's in town as we speak," Mrs R. says. Misty's gut wrenches. "Now, we can't entirely rule out a coincidence. I don't believe much in those, especially when it comes to him, but he does preside over several businesses in town, including the Viridian City gym, so his presence might be due to something unrelated to us, but—"

"Wait—the gym?" Brock stops her. He shakes his head, his brow crumpled into a frown: "I thought—Agatha ran it while a new permanent gym leader is being selected?"

The woman makes a small "hm" sound. "And she's been doing that for... I believe short of three years now? Quite a long time for the position to remain vacant, you'll concur." She sighs. "I think at this point you have at least an idea of just how much Giovanni has his hands into, aye? The Viridian City gym has been under his control for quite a long while. He used to administrate it himself, even, but he stepped back after part of it was destroyed during a match if my memory doesn't fail me."

Misty blinks—a faint echo at the back of her mind, James' voice: Team Rocket's plans are far too complex for you to understand, or something like that. The three of them standing on the platform on one side of the arena as Ash tried to challenge the gym leader for an Earth Badge and the roof collapsing after the explosion. Next to her James rubs the back of his neck, exhaling a low whistle through his teeth.

"...Oh. Yeah," Brock says. "I think—that was us."

Mrs. R's eyebrows shoot up. "It is a small world," she comments. "Well, officially Giovanni gave up the position after that, both for his safety and because the incident brought some unwanted media attention on the gym and his person. Of course though he made sure to find some clause that would allow him to retain ownership of the place and select a deputy who would do his bidding, so the practice to elect a new permanent gym leader has been delayed indefinitely for the past three years and will probably be for years to come, the gym has remained at his disposal to function as a cover for his activities, and Agatha has been acting as a figurehead for him to meddle with League decisions. In exchange for some really nice extras in her paycheck, I suppose." A click of her tongue. "So as I was saying, Giovanni's presence in Viridian might not concern us. Still, I think it's best to keep our eyes open."

"We need to find Ash." It comes out wobbly, hitching along the way. "We need to find him before he does."

"Aye, I was getting there. Jessie's told me about what you wanted me to do. I've already spoken to a few trusted people and asked them to be on the lookout for someone who might match his description." She pauses and for a second her face seems to be drawn tighter at the edges, her lips pulled into a thin line. "Actually trusted this time. But regardless, I didn't disclose any details on who he is or who is after him and asked as a personal favor. They should get back to me if they see him. I'm afraid that's the extent of what I can do."

Misty breathes. Tries: slowly, in and out, like Brock told her to do this morning, but it still caches in her throat and hardly seems to reach her lungs at all. It's not enough, they might still not find him fast enough. "As for you," the woman is saying, "you can spend the night here if you want. It's not as nice as the other place, but there's a couple bunk beds in the back. After that, though, you should go back to your gyms." She punctuates the words with a tip of her head. "I am still helping you. I understand you might no longer be too keen on helping me after our... mishap, but it's in your interest as well that you do what we agreed on. Also, while it's true that Giovanni wouldn't enjoy the fuss that the death of a gym leader or former gym leader would likely bring, you're not untouchable, and hiding away and covering your tracks might actually make it easier for him to get at you without causing much of a sensation. You're probably safer hidden in plain sight."

Neither of them retorts. The woman fishes a pokégear out of her skirt pocket and hands it to Jessie, who in turn walks up to drop it in Misty's hands. "I will use that to get in touch if I have any news."

Misty clutches her fingers around it. Swallows. "There's—something else."

Mrs. R makes a "speak" gesture. Misty breathes in again.

"I want a weapon. A—a gun, or something."

"You don't," says Brock. She glares at him:

"I already nearly got one of my pokémon killed. I'm not going to risk that again." She turns back to Mrs. R. "I want a gun."

The woman raises one eyebrow. For a second her features looks a lot like Abbie's, the same quirk, same gold, and Misty's stomach squeezes and turns. "I believe Jessie, James and Meowth can provide for that and find you a gun or something. Can't you?" she replies. "Now, if you haven't got any more requests, I think I've said everything I intended to say."

With that she turns and makes to leave, hands firmly knotted behind her back; but after a few steps she pauses again. In the oblique neon light Misty sees her shoulders stiffen. "By the way," she says, "Abigail, my daughter, is alive. Thought you might want to know."

Misty's insides turn to water. "She's—she is?"

"A woman in her thirties, matching her description, was brought into Viridian City's hospital yesterday with a few cracked ribs and a mild head injury," Mrs. R continues, still without turning. "No identification documents on her. Vanished as soon as she regained consciousness. I thought knowing might give you some peace of mind."

She swallows again. The woman glances back at her from above her shoulder. The gold of her eyes is sharp, cutting; sunlight on glass.

"Threats don't suit you, child. Leave them to those you're fighting against."

—-

I know my way through the night to your door

you know the blood that I'm owed is all yours

Most of the day he spends hidden away in a smelly alley, after putting as much distance between himself and the pokémon center as his legs let him. His back flat against the wall, he listens to the rabbit's run of his his heart and drags his knees up to his chest, trying and failing to gather the courage for what he needs to do next. He squeezes his eyes shut and his throat's all sand, all gravel, so dry swallowing makes a painful clicking sound.

But: for as long as he's alive and free there's no place in the world I'll be safe from him, he told Brock and Misty yesterday. And it's not just him that won't be, is it? It stopped being just him the moment he knocked on Misty's door, the moment he waited for her to open instead of realizing what he'd done and turning on his heels to run off again. Going, gone, without letting her know. But now it's too late and he's dragged them all with him, Misty, then Brock, Pikachu, and maybe his mom too, maybe the professor, maybe everyone else. They're never going to be safe either, not if they don't give up on him and they won't, so he has to, has to, and they'll hate him for it probably but that's fine, that's nothing more than he deserves. They'll be okay eventually. They were before he came back.

They'll be alive.

The day rolls by. Shadows stretch and deepen and his head lolls and maybe he sleeps a little, and awakes with a gasp after what might be a minute or an hour. His stomach twinges with hunger. But still he can't get his legs to move, can't get his body to unfold from the tight knot he's gathered it into.

It's dark again when he finally forces himself to stand. Shivering in the harsh wind that's risen, half-stumbling on a plastic bag swept at his feet, he steps out of the alley and tries to orient himself. He's seen this part of Viridian City before, he thinks: he was sent here once on a mission. Not this exact corner, but close—he recognizes a neon sign peeking between rooftops. The Team Rocket headquarters are way too far from the city to reach on foot; he'll have to go for the next best thing.

He finds the Viridian City gym after some wandering. For a while he just stands in front of it, his breath frozen at the bottom of his chest.

Breaking the window open is easy enough. He taught him how to do that, after all. Swinging his legs over the sill and letting himself inside is even easier. The carpet swallows his footsteps.

Blinking, he makes out the room in the semi-dark: the thick wooden desk, the armchair. He's been here too, Giovanni showed him this place. Sat on that armchair and told him about everything he controlled, all the strings he held in his hand. You might, someday.

So he crumples up again on the floor behind the desk and waits, clenching his hands on his knees to keep them from shaking. For hours the only noises he hears are the occasional chatter and engine spluttering outside, and the window he left open swinging against the wall. He's not really expecting him to be here now; but with some luck there'll still be someone who can get him to him.

But after a time there's the slow, gut-wrenchingly familiar sound of footsteps along the hallway, leather shoes against marble floor, and something in him cracks, goes to pieces like ice underfoot, like windowpanes in a storm. He glances towards the door and his hands tremble harder, harder, and the rest of him follows suit, his throat clamped shut.

The footsteps stop. A key turning in the lock; the soft creak of the door turning on its hinges. The click of the switch and then light, suddenly, thrusting into his pupils.

A pause.

He can't see him, he knows he can't see him, not yet, not from there, the desk has to be blocking his view. But he still pauses. Maybe it's the open window that clues him in. Or maybe he can just tell.

"I hope you cleaned your shoes before stepping on my carpet," Giovanni says.

Ash swallows. Gravel; sand. Takes a breath like through a concrete wall.

"Did you know?" he hears himself ask, in a hoarse husk of a voice. "Did you know I'd come back? Is that why you didn't do anything?"

"I suspected you might," comes the answer. "I'm curious as to what prompted it, though."

I'll kill you, Ash thinks. If it's the last thing I do. But he unfolds, standing on shaky legs, and out loud he says: "You were right. I don't—belong out there anymore. It's not my place. This is."

Giovanni raises his eyebrows. He stands tall on the door and Ash's heart thunders in his ears. He could do it now: could try. But he can tell Giovanni is wary enough of his change of heart to be prepared to react, knows him well enough to know that he's more than capable of getting his hands dirty if he has to, much as he doesn't like it; and if he fails he won't have another chance for who knows how long. He needs to wait, needs him to trust him enough to let him close first.

So he doesn't. And, "Well," the man says. "Surely you'll understand that your little act of rebellion can't go unpunished. Although, since you came back on your own accord, perhaps this time I'll tell my men to be a little gentler."

Ash musters a shrug. "Just—leave my friends out of it."

"Oh, I won't do anything to your friends." He doesn't like the way he puts emphasis on that I. "Unless they force me to."

Ash bites his lips and says nothing. I'll kill you, he thinks again, and his fists shake, shake. Even if I die trying. I will.

the wishes I've made are too vicious to tell

everyone knows I am going to hell

—-

and if it's true

I'll go there with you