Ascension
ACT TWO - DUST OF DREAMS
Chapter 3 - A Prison Without Locks
"MAWAWAA!"
"Mawile!" Red screamed in excitement, bodily pushing himself up, only to hiss out in harrowing pain, as the stitches near his calves strained in protest. Oak shot up from his chair and pulled the agonized teen down to a less-strenuous position on the bed. Despite the sudden jolt, the excited grin returned to his lips, and his eyes gained a spark in them.
"Mawile, you're here, finally!" He gushed in elation, seeing the rapidly shifting expressions on his starter's face. "I—I—"
The rest of his words died in his throat, as Mawile leaped, stepping on the chair and then on the bed, before she was right there, beside Red and pushing her face into his chest, nuzzling against him affectionately. The little creature kept murmuring things in her own tongue, uncaring about her open display of affection towards her trainer.
"She does seem very happy to see you." Delia, who had just stepped in, commented at the sight.
"That she is," He replied softly, reaching down to stroke her head "I'm happy to see her too," Red smiled happily, not looking up from his starter. He began to caress the fur on the back of her neck. "Though I'm glad she's forgotten about the whole affair—"
Mawile glanced up at him with an expression far too murderous to be on something that small. For some reason, that only made him smile wider.
"—Or not," Red finished, "not that I can blame her. It was stupid of me to just give up like that."
Apparently that was the right thing to say. The little fairy seemed content with his answer and returned to her comfortable position.
Really, she was a spoiled little princess. Not that he'd have it any other way though. If anything, he was glad that she—
A wave of extreme disorientation slammed into him like a sledgehammer. It was almost like something was trying to pull him out of his skin.
It was… jarring. It had come out of nowhere, and he'd probably be thinking about where it came from if not for the sudden undercurrent of anger that flitted through his mind. He felt an overwhelming sensation to grab his starter closer as if the intruder— who had stepped into the room — would snatch it away.
He looked up at his mom. It was almost like her voice had triggered an eruption of violent insanity inside the pits of his mind, one that would fight tooth and nail before it could be subdued.
If he had to describe it in a single word, it would be wrong.
After all, this was his mother. She had come to Pewter for him. She cared for him, she—
His thoughts were interrupted by Mawile, as she gently nuzzled her face into his shirt, making soft, cute noises even as she adjusted herself into a more comfortable posture.
And just like that, the dark blob of insanity receded back into the murky depths it emerged from.
Red blinked.
What was that? Why… Why did I feel that way? Did—?
A sharp nudge interrupted his train of thought.
Mawile had cuddled into him, her little arms holding onto him, almost as if afraid he would vanish. It was endearing how the little thing—whose hands wouldn't even encircle his leg completely, was trying to pull him together.
His eyes softened. His attention now shifted, Red ignored the strangeness of the situation and began to caress her soft fur all over again.
"Don't think you're in the clear," Delia commented, "Your choices do not engender any degree of confidence, young man."
Red met her eyes momentarily, before turning towards Oak with a scowl, nearly missing the hurt expression that flitted across his mother's face. "I thought I cleared it all out with the old man here."
"Honestly, kids these days. Why can't they be a bit more respectful?" The professor grumbled good-naturedly.
"I would be, if you didn't force my options the way you did," Red refuted, before raising his hands in mock surrender, " I'm not whining about it. But that doesn't change the fact that you forced it on me."
"What's he talking about?" Delia intervened, a little confused about the shift in topic.
"The old man let me keep the growlithe instead of handing him over the League."
"He did?" Delia asked, curious. She peered at the elder man, as if trying to ascertain the crux of the matter before returning her eyes on her son, "And why would that upset you?"
"Red is now employed at the Parthenon, my dear." Oak replied, looking smug at getting his way, "he'll be serving as a field researcher, taking care of that growlithe, training it to reach its maximum potential and a couple of other things I'd need him to do every now and then. Of course, I've yet to send for an official contract but I presume it'll be done before we leave Pewter."
Delia pursed her lips, almost like she was conflicted about whether to be irritated or pleased. "You mean, he's not returning to Pallet."
Oak shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Besides, at least now I'll be able to keep track of him. You know the perks provided to field researchers. You were one, after all."
Red looked up at his mother, surprised. "You were?"
"Of course I was," Delia snorted. "Did you think that someone would just pick a trainer— explorer or not —and drop her in one of the highest-profile labs in Kanto? I had to show that I had the skill and the tenacity for the job."
"You forgot about 'willingness to tinker with dangerous forces'," Oak interjected.
"That too," Delia smirked.
"Don't let her stoic outlook fool you, Red," the professor turned to address the surprised teen, "Delia was quite the impulsive poliwag back in her youth. Why, during the Galar expedition—"
"Professor!" Delia squeaked sheepishly, "please don't go about embarrassing me like that."
"Uhm… I wouldn't mind hearing about that." Red mumbled. Truth be told, he knew very little about his mother's early life apart from a few snippets from her time as an explorer. Then again, he had no clue what happened to her original team.
"As flattered as I am about your interest regarding my past… foolishness, now is not the time for it." Delia seemed slightly conflicted for a moment, before turning towards the old man, "What were you saying about the job offer then?"
"Ah right, I got distracted," Oak mused, cupping his chin, "The usual perks apply. Expenses will be reimbursed appropriately. From what I understand, this growlithe might well diverge to form a whole new subspecies of the growlithe line."
Red blinked at that. He had never thought that the growlithe could be that important. That was probably why Travers was so desperate to get it back.
"Yes, while that is very interesting," Delia said uninterestedly, "Has anyone considered the fact that this new progenitor might also invite the attention of the more… unsavory kind?"
Red paled at that. "Team Rocket."
"That, and Hunters, should someone leak the news out in public." Delia turned to Oak, "do you still think it's advisable to let my son in the wild with that creature in the interests of science?"
"Hunters?" Red repeated in confusion.
"They're poachers who catch pokémon and sell them," Oak explained, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"You cannot honestly equate a mere poacher to those mercenaries, professor," Delia fought back before turning towards Red, "I know you feel strongly against poachers, but understand this. You even hear about a Hunter nearby, you leave town. Immediately."
"But—"
"You leave. Immediately."
"Delia," Oak intervened, "perhaps we should try to break middle ground?"
The old man turned to Red before continuing, "Your mother is speaking for your benefit. Hunters are dangerous. Very dangerous. Nothing short of an Ace Squad can stand against them."
Red blinked slowly. "Then Travers—"
"Would not be able to stand against them. If you happen to run into one… Oak paused briefly, "You don't have to be overly worried. Information about the growlithe is on a need-to-know basis, and the people who know about it can be counted on one hand. As long as you are discreet, you will be fine."
"But—" Delia began.
"But I'll take care of it. As Red put it, it's just a color variant. Not as common as a Shiny but a simple color variant nonetheless. Besides, a growlithe isn't a very profitable venture for a hunter. "
"I don't like this. Why must my son be the one to deal with this?" Delia complained.
"Because I don't want him to land up in another prison, Mom," Red stressed, " I asked for it."
"And why would you? You refused my apprenticeship offer point-blank. Why would you chain yourself back into my world when you're free to pursue your dreams?"
And wasn't that a loaded question? Red didn't like it, but that didn't make her words any less true. He had longed to start on his journey since he was eight. And now, he was volunteering to serve as a field researcher for a Growlithe that for all he knew, didn't even want to be with him in the first place.
But what if he did? He made friends with Mawile after all. He—
A soul-wrenching scream tore through his psyche causing waves of agony to pore through his mind.
What was going on?
He couldn't understand it, but he felt like he could recognize it.
Like he should recognize it.
It felt feminine and yet alien. It screamed for help and yet, darkness and rage was all it left behind in its wake. And in that darkness, something else arose.
Annoyance.
Irritation.
Apathy.
Hate.
It almost felt like his mind was being shredded. Like—
"MAWAWAA!"
And just like that, it was over.
Red looked up, opening his eyes. The constant sounds of something beating kept reverberating in his mind. Struggling to focus, he found himself falling head-first into the bed. The sudden pressure from his chest had made Mawile squeak out in anger, and that had shaken him out of whatever that eeriness had been. Even now he was reliving the sensation of being stretched and pulled in all directions.
He glanced at his starter, who glared at him unhappily. Clearly she wasn't very appreciative of being squeezed like that.
"Sorry," he muttered, before he picked her up, even as the buzzing faded from his ears. And then it was gone.
Just like the previous time.
"Red?" Delia asked, concerned. The woman had approached him during… those moments— and was standing right next to him. The distance felt awfully comforting and discomforting at the same time."Are you okay? What happened?"
"...nothing, just…" He controlled himself. It was strange, whatever was happening to him. "I'm okay."
Please stay away from me.
He blinked. Why had he thought of that?
"Are you feeling sick again? Do you want me to call the doctor? Professor, perhaps he can—" Delia began.
"It's nothing just—" Why do you keep—
"—needs to rest." — trying to push your opinions—
"—a headache, and please—" —down my throat?
He gritted his teeth in anger and irritation.
He wasn't sure when he had last felt emotions like that, at least on this scale. Even back there in the forest, all he had felt was a reluctant admittance of his wrong decisions, and some regret, before it had all culminated into embracing the possibility of certain death. And more importantly, why was she speaking like she gave a damn again?
She wasn't there when he needed her. Yet now she spoke with a passion as if she had been caring for him all her life. Such blatant hypocritical—
He physically shook himself out of that train of thought. Why were his thoughts becoming so… fazed... jumbled… ?
He really couldn't think of an appropriate description for it.
He shook his head, several times this time for good measure. He wasn't sure why he did that, but it did help him feel slightly better. At least now, his thoughts were cohesive now.
Blinking several times and taking a deep breath, he looked up. Delia stood at his side, her face split into concern and something like fear. Oak, on the other hand, had a searching expression on his face.
It only made him feel worse.
Great. I suppose even he thinks I'm a lunatic or something. Oh come on, say something.
As if in answer to his prayers, Oak spoke aloud. "Are you feeling… sick or something?"
"It's— It's just a headache."
"Do you want to get some rest?" Delia asked, bringing her face closer. Red could spot something like doubt marring her features.
"No, I'm okay," he took a sip of water from the glass next to him. What were we— I mean— Don't worry. I'm sure the old man must have thought of something. I doubt it'd be a big issue. I mean, it's just a growlithe. Right?"
"I don't understand why you are taking this so lightly," Delia replied tersely. "Why don't you come back home with us? The growlithe can stay at the ranch, with your team. You'd be safe from harm there."
He frowned. "I'm not going home."
"And why not?" his mom looked like she was starting to get upset."Red, this isn't a joke. You could have been injured, or worse, dead. This is already the third incident—"
"The fourth," Oak supplied helpfully.
Delia's right eye twitched.
"Mawawaa!" Surprisingly enough, it was Mawile this time, hollering at Oak, raising her tiny hands to mimic a large, two-legged creature, presumably one that was jumping on him.
"She's referring to the zangoose," Red translated. From Mawile's satisfied expression, he was probably right. The looks on the two people in the room, however—
Oh right. Shouldn't have done that.
"Five times then," Oak confirmed, nodding his head sagely. Red decided to ignore the soft harrumph that his starter made as she pushed herself into his shirt.
And on that note, it would probably be smart to ignore the look on his mother's face as well.
"Red you have to understand how dangerous this is," Delia began furiously, "There's nothing that you can learn on your journey that we can't give you at the lab. Why don't you—"
"Mom," Red groaned and palmed his face, not wanting to quarrel, especially with the way the strange emotional rollercoaster his mind seemed to be on, "I still have to complete my customary year-long journey, remember? Every graduate has to do that before they pick their profession."
"Only for those without a recommendation," Delia corrected him in her teacher-voice, "I believe I offered you a direct apprenticeship contract. Between my own credibility as an independent researcher and the professor here vouching, I highly doubt something like a formal journey would be remotely—"
"It is important," Red interrupted. "To me."
Delia looked like she wanted to protest but apparently couldn't find it in herself to refute.
"But Red," she began in earnest, "surely you realize you're putting your life in danger?"
"I didn't jump into trouble if that's what you're saying," he snapped.
Did she think he did it on purpose? And what should he have done? Let the Growlithe die?
Red opened his mouth to continue but before he could speak his vision faded and he found himself in his room back in Pallet, kneeling on the floor, his mother bandaging his scraped knee while lecturing him loudly.
"Picking fights with the other kid? Like a bully? Why would you do something like that?"
"I didn't pick a fight," Red found himself yelling back. "Gary was the one. He made fun of me. He started it."
"And you finished it!" Delia thundered, "You hurt him. You don't get to play the victim card here."
"But—" he began, but no more words left his lips.
"You'll go to school and apologize to Gary tomorrow. I want this matter to end right here."
Red looked away, not wanting to continue yelling. She wouldn't understand. She never did. She'd always blame him.
For trapping her in a taking her time. For not being perfect For creating distractions at work. For—
For existing.
Somewhere deep within him, a tiny fire began to burn.
"RED?" Delia repeated. Her voice brought him back to the present. Right, the hospital.
What was that?
Red didn't ever remember actually feeling like that. Why were his memories being so… messy?
"Uh… yeah?" He said carefully. What were they talking about again? Oh right, the growlithe.
The dull throb echoing through his head was becoming worse. And this conversation was not helping. He couldn't understand why his mother was being so… obstinate about it all. It wasn't like she had any business poking her nose into his life as a trainer. She had never been present in—
Red stilled.
The mere thought was bringing up memories. Memories that were making him experience strong emotions. Emotions that were beginning to cycle. The question was—what was causing this?
Was it… was it the headache? Or was it something else? Why was he remembering all those events after all this time? Why was it so difficult to….not be angry?
Deep breaths. He told himself. Deep breaths.
Steady breaths often calmed him down. It was pretty much the only technique he had learned from Kaz that had actually turned out to be useful.
Having regained a modicum of control, he refuted back. "I'm more than just a low-rookie, you know?"
"I don't see how!" Delia confronted him. "You've yet to get your first badge."
Red clenched his fists. He was back to a different memory. One of him running down the stairs, ready to tell his mother about the medal he won in school, only to find her preoccupied with her work. She had nodded indifferently before returning to her files. Red had waited for thirty minutes before excusing himself.
She hadn't even seen him go.
That was the first time he wondered if he even mattered. Would she even realize if he left home?
He had been very close to testing that assumption.
And then Mia had shown up and he had ended up… distracting himself. But now as he stood, back in the shoes of his eleven-year-old self, he couldn't help but feel angry about it all. The rage, the feeling of powerlessness and contempt—
He looked up at his mother in the eye and retorted. "Just because I have no badges, doesn't mean that I'm weak— Regardless of your disregard!"
Delia blinked in surprise. "Dis— Red, I'm not disregarding your skill. I'm telling you that you've merely begun your trainer's journey and already you've run into trouble."
"I didn't ask for that trouble," Red shot back, definitely"I do not go looking for trouble. And just so you know, I fought a High-Intermediate trainer and won."
"I'm not discounting that," Delia replied, taken aback at the sudden vitriol, before the meaning in his words struck her, "wait, a high-intermediate trainer? When?"
"At the Trainer Square," Oak answered instead, never taking off his eyes from him.
For some reason, it made him feel uncomfortable. The professor's discerning gaze seemed to see through him, almost like his very feelings were naked in front of him. It wasn't a pleasant experience, and speaking of unpleasantness—
I can't believe I came at her like that.
It was strange. Come to think of it, when was the last time he had really acted out in anger?
Even so, it felt good. Much better than before.
And the fire inside him burned a little hotter.
"Red?" Oak questioned again.
"Uh… yeah?"
"Can you please explain what caused you to take part in such a travesty? I thought I taught you better than that."
Affronted, Red repeated stubbornly "I won."
"Yes, you did, there is no denying that. But at the same time, you realize that Mawile could have been seriously injured? In fact, given how… vulnerable a mawile's physiology is, it is entirely possible that you could have crippled your starter permanently. "
Red felt like he had been slapped. "But.."
"But what?" Oak stressed.
Red scowled, looking away. His right hand, that was slowly caressing Mawile, stilled. "I know. It was insanely stupid of me to go ahead with that. But the opponent—Ashley something —was using a new pokémon. She just started training it. She has this weird habit of resetting her team after every conference, so—"
"Resetting her team?" Delia looked stupefied. "As in… she builds an entirely new team every year?"
"I know right?" Red asked hopefully, ignoring the angry whispers in his mind and turning towards Oak. For some reason, prioritizing the old man over her seemed to work.
"The new pokémon was an ursaring," He continued speaking, "—and Mawile managed to win—"
He winced at the cold stares he was receiving "— which is how I got Skarmory... "
More staring.
"—and I'll just shut up now."
"A capital idea," Oak agreed. He turned to face Delia. "I was surprised when his trainer profile registered those promotions. I was a bit skeptical about it all, so I contacted Trainer Square for verification."
"Hang on, what are you blabbering on about?"
Oak shook his head, muttering about respect and teenagers. "Your trainer level isn't Low Rookie, but High."
"High Rookie?" Red asked, flabbergasted. "But how?"
From her looks, it seemed his mother was just as surprised as well.
"Huh, and I thought this was common knowledge. I really need to–– never mind. While it is traditionally the duties of the gyms to validate your trainer rankings, there are some private organizations that were recently allowed to assess trainer levels as well. The Trainer Square you frequented in Viridian is one such place. There's the Battle Tower in Cremini Town as well as the annual SS Anne Challenge. There are also some less-than-proper contests that are included. A rather quirky situation that should be addressed for sure but—"
Delia coughed.
"...Right," the professor paused, blushing slightly, "You must forgive me, I do tend to wander at times. Anyway, all these institutions get to validate and edit your trainer levels when you visit them."
"The Parthenon has the authority to do that too," Delia said irritatedly. "We can give him everything a trainer journey can and more."
Oak snorted at that. "Don't be so cross about it, Delia. And while I agree that little Red here," —the old man ignored the glare that Red sent him over the little comment— "has spent a significant amount of time attending to the ranch, he still needs some survival training before he can settle down in any career. Besides, if he sticks to the main routes, I'm sure he'd be just—"
"Are you sure you guys aren't overreacting?" Red asked, absently rubbing his forehead. "I'm a High-Rookie, so obviously I've proved I can survive out there, right?"
He could seriously do without these two bickering about security and instead allow him to spend some time with his team.
Or visit Mia for that matter.
And while he was at it, he should invest in some aspirin. The headache was returning with a vengeance.
"Being a High-Rookie means nothing," Delia shot back, "four out of ten Mid-Intermediates drop out of their trainer journeys. They choose a different profession or go back to technical school."
"Huh?" Red asked, befuddled. He tried very hard to not translate her words as a lack of faith in him. "Why would anyone do that?"
Willingly give up being a trainer and change professions? Return to school? It was absurd.
"Why would anyone in their right mind do that?"He repeated.
"Because not everyone has the proclivity or the inclination to become a soldier," Delia replied, her tone colder than he had seen her use so far. "No matter what people think, there is more to life than loitering around in forests and mountains."
"What— what do you mean?" Red questioned.
Delia on the other hand, remained silent and looked away.
Oak sighed. "That… That was a remarkably crude way to put it, Delia."
"I'm not wrong," Delia looked back unflinchingly.
The old man sighed again before turning to Red.
"You know how trainers are divided into three ranks—Rookie, Intermediate and Elite. And each rank is subdivided into the Low, Mid and High categories?"
Nod.
"Gym-leaders are official mandates that analyze a trainer's prowess through the 'gym-battle'," he went on, using air-quotes to emphasize his point, "—and make appropriate changes to the trainer's levels. That is why each gym battle tends to be more difficult than the previous one."
"Like a training circuit?" Red offered.
Oak smiled. "Exactly. One that produces strong trainers, and just like any effective model, the circuit also, for lack of a better word, weeds out the weak ones. If a trainer doesn't reach a Mid-Intermediate rank within a year of travel, he is usually advised to change professions and settle for something... less glamorous, I suppose."
"Within a year…." Red mused, "I doubt this restriction holds back too many people."
"You'd be surprised," Oak's grin didn't reach his eyes, "By the time a trainer usually manages to win eight badges, he's usually ranked High-Intermediate. Competent trainers usually finish within a year and a half. Once you've achieved that, you are eligible to participate in either the Indigo or the Silver Conference— whichever comes first."
"I already knew about that Conference part. Though it sounds like you don't necessarily need to get all eight badges to participate in a conference."
"Well," Oak paused. "Some choose to get ranked through private organizations. Pokémon Tech is one such example. It isn't recommended though. The trainer journey teaches you a lot, and some jobs like explorers require over three years of experience in the field."
"Makes sense," Red mused before sighing deeply. Hearing about Pokémon Tech reminded him of a certain orangette— one who had become fast friends with. Someone who had lost her starter because of him. Someone who he had thought was dead.
"The gaps between trainer-levels get larger, the higher you go. The difference between Mid-Rookie and High-Rookie is negligible. but the difference for the Intermediate stage is much greater."
"Then for Elite Stage it must be—" Red began.
"A single High-Elite can usually defeat over ten Mid-Elite in consecutive battles, with a single team of six. Then again, a High-Elite trainer usually has several years of diligent training under his belt. I myself reached that level five years after I won my first Conference."
Red felt his jaw drop at that statement. "...Five years?"
"Well…" Oak shrugged, "I'll admit it's somewhat easier to reach that level nowadays, what with Move Tutors and TMs speeding the entire thing up. Orca took some fifteen months to move up from Flamethrower to Fire Blast. Today's trainers do that in five months or so."
"When you put it like that..." Red paused "It almost feels like we're cheating."
"Well, it kind of is," Oak grumbled, "but our traditional method had its advantages. Orca understood it, all by himself, learned how to manipulate it in terms of his own body, and then honed it to perfection. Today's generation simply imitates the same results. It's much faster to learn, but since it has been incubated through another pokémon's muscle memory, modifying the attack becomes incredibly difficult. But that's not the point. It took some trainers nearly a decade to reach that point. Even if it is flawed, today's trainers do it in—"
"I get it," he looked the old man in the eye. "Numerical superiority. Quantity over quality. You— the League, wanted more powerful trainers."
Oak looked at him for a long moment.
"Yes," The old man said slowly. "The league did. Now don't get me wrong, we had powerful trainers back in the day. Blaine and his magmortar were a nightmare. But it took time. You have no idea how many years it took Dragonite to get to her current level."
"You mean—"
Delia coughed.
"…"
"Anyway," Oak looked a tad embarrassed. "We can talk about this later. Now stop diverting the conversation." The man looked at him calmly almost as if he was the reason that he tended to go on tangents. "Now, what was I saying again?"
"You were talking about Elite trainers," Red said dryly, "but if that is the kind of trainer that fights at the Conference, what chance do the newbies have?"
Oak chortled at that. "If they were participating? None at all. But don't worry. A High-Elite doesn't fight at the Conference. Conferences are usually filled with High-Intermediate and perhaps borderline Elite trainers. People who have finished their gym-circuit."
"Oh!" Red allowed himself to feel slightly elated at that. The conversation was beginning to make him feel out of place. Like a little kid trying to survive in an adult world.
"So… what do these Elite trainers do? Do they challenge the Elite Four or the Champion or something?"
"Not exactly. You don't challenge the Elite Four. At all. The only position that one can contest for is the position of Champion. And even so, there are certain... conditions to fulfill before a High-Elite can try to challenge an existing Champion. Of course, that's only after the Champion's term completes."
"Conditions?" Red asked.
"Well, yes. Tactics and training can only take you so far. The requirement to challenge the champion… is a bit more esoteric. A wall that cannot easily be overcome." The old man paused, "You will find out, in time, should you reach that stage. Don't worry about it for now."
Red's eyes dilated slightly as he studied the man in front of him. He suspected that the old man was withholding something vital from him. It was unlikely that this had anything to do with the Chiron Brigade he had gotten to know during the Ranger visit, but something about it screamed familiar.
Then, his mind threw up another random bit of information. About the threats above Level 8 — something, the ranger had held back as classified information. Finally, his mental review threw up another oddity— a seemingly normal conversation he had had with Misty back in the forest. About the Blastoise using moves with power requirements, its body should not be able to provide. And about how such information was also restricted by the league.
It was almost like looking through a kaleidoscope that had suddenly come into focus. Pushing himself up a little straighter, he met the elder man in a direct stare. "Has this…Has this got something to do with moves that require power from… somewhere else?"
Oak looked at him for a long moment. "...somewhere else?
"Moves," Red went on, "like the Hydro Cannon?"
Oak had an inscrutable expression on his face. "I know that part of the blame does fall on me, but Red, I should tell you… you're dangerously well-informed about certain things."
Red blinked.
"Tell me Red," the old man spoke softly. "Instead of powerful moves, or dangerous moves or any other description, why did you call them moves that require power from somewhere else."
"..." Red tried to come up with a reason, but nothing came to his mind. His discussion with Misty only resulted in a bunch of contradictions that went against everything he had learned from the professor all his life.
"..."
"Nevermind," Oak muttered. "That's enough for now. Why don't you catch up with Mawile? You can meet the rest of your team, and Mia in a few hours."
"I suppose I should let—" Delia began, walking towards the man.
"Why don't you stay as well?" Oak countered, surprising the woman. "Spend some time with your son."
"But shouldn't you be—" Delia whispered back, glancing back at Red with something like concern on her face.
"He's still recovering, and he's admitted to having headaches. I think as his mother, you should stay here," Oak countered calmly, "I'll… get back soon."
"But—"
"I thought you wanted to be his friend," Oak chastised her, "get to know your son. Take this from someone that fell into the same pitfalls you did."
"Professor you—"
"Delia."
The woman opened her mouth to refute, but no words came out. Finally, she turned and glanced at Red's face. "Would you like me to stay?"
Another loaded question. Did he? Half of him wanted to agree wholeheartedly, while the other half felt repulsed with the suggestion.
Such a question should have an easy answer. And yet, he wasn't sure. What did he want? He wanted to say that he wouldn't mind. Wasn't this what he always wanted as a kid? To have his mother stay with him, and give him her attention?
He looked up. Intending to give his consent, he met her gaze. But the moment their eyes met, something exploded. Memories of loneliness, feeling of being unwanted, feelings of inferiority, of neglect, of rejection, of abandonment, of—
He looked away. "Yeah, you can stay."
Delia had a perturbed expression on her face. If he didn't know better, he'd have assumed that she was feeling… judged?
What right does she have to feel judged?
The flame within him that had almost burned out, ignited once again.
And now she comes in pretending that she's my loving mother and everything will be fine?
The fire raged hotter and hotter. The flames flickered dangerously, and so did his emotions.
He fidgeted, baring his teeth. His head felt like it weighed a ton. His entire body was screaming for him to do something, to get away, to jump out of this bed and out of the window, away from her. If he wasn't so lost in trying to subdue it, he'd have recognized that he was shaking.
Literally.
His hands clenched the sheets and pulled them, slamming his fists over and over like a cornered wild animal.
"Red— what's wrong— what—" He could hear confused screams and whispers from all sides. He could hear surprised squeals from his starter. He could hear sounds of linen tearing and snapping and something metallic clink near him as two hands came closer and held his shoulders—
"No, don't—" He gnashed his teeth, and he locked eyes again.
And found himself staring at those eyes from the other side of a mist-covered window. Unlike Pallet Town, the Seafoam islands had absurd and paradoxical weather patterns. It was mid-august, and yet, it was windy, cold and snowing. He hadn't learned the word then, but he'd later learn to associate the word oxymoron with the Seafoam weather shifts. But currently, he was standing outside the window, peering into the house, listening to his mother and Aunt Ivy.
"Why don't you talk to him about it?" Ivy was saying. "You cannot keep avoiding the question forever."
"And what am I going to tell him? That I don't—that I don't remember?"
"Delia," Ivy spoke sympathetically, "I understand what you might—"
"You don't, Felina!" Delia shot back. Even from her tone, it was clear that she was crying. "What am I going to tell him? That he reminds me of my own mistakes? That I fucked some guy who' I can't even remember and now I have to take care of a child?"
"Delia—"
"Don't Delia me," The woman continued, her voice filled with self-loathing, "you have no idea what the years have been to me. Every time I see him, I'm reminded of what happened to me. All my memories of that time are gone, Felina. This was basically rape! I— I didn't want a child, and I certainly didn't want to be a mother. I wanted to work and fulfill my passion. Instead, I got— I got this!"
"So is it Red's fault that it happened?" Ivy returned in a cold tone. "He's a child. It's obvious he'd want to—"
"I'm not blaming him. I know it's not his fault. But I give him whatever he needs. I've repeatedly asked him not to talk about his father,"—Delia spoke the last word venomously—''I know he deserves a father, and neither one of us deserves to be punished like this, but we don't always get what we want. We—"
The rest of her words remained unheard, for the eavesdropper had stepped back from the mist-covered window, running away— far away from the house.
It didn't matter where he was running to. Even the snow beneath his feet seemed to get coarser and coarser as he panted. His vision started to black as his heart began to throb violently. His lungs screamed for air and his muscles strained, begging him to stop.
But he kept on running, and finally reached for the doorknob and opened—
"Ah, Red, there you are! Where were you?"
He gazed at the person in front of him blankly. Hadn't he just left her with Aunt Ivy? And yet, here she was, standing in her normal clothes instead of that formal lab coat, with a kitchen apron on. She smiled at him. "I got something for you. You'll love it."
"I—I will?" Red croaked, unsure about what to say. She had all but admitted that she didn't want him in her life, and now this—what the hell was happening? Was this another memory or—
Wait.
He glanced down at the doorknob in his hand. He didn't know how, but he knew what was going to happen. He had been here before. He knew this room. He had walked upon this floor.
How did I get back to Pallet town? Red found himself wondering. Before he could come to a conclusion, Delia walked up to him. "Do you not want to see it?"
"Uh… sure?"
Delia beamed. "Come with me."
She held his hand and led him into the drawing-room. Flabbergasted, he dumbly followed. It was only when they reached the small tea-table that Red realized what it was.
This… is another memory. He realized. That was why it seemed so familiar. This was his ninth birthday.
The one…. The one that had proved just how little she knew her only son.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Delia grinned, shoving a rather large box into his hands, before proceeding to tear open the wrappers herself.
His mother could be rather impatient at times. Not that it made any difference. He already knew what was inside it. His mind was busy with something vastly more important.
Why am I living in this memory? More importantly, how am I living this memory?
"Well, what do you think?" Delia asked, beaming at him.
Red sighed and glanced at the object of her fascination, the gift packed beneath the layers of colored paper.
A board-game.
More specifically, the board-game. It had only been a few weeks since its launch, and was all over the TV and the papers. Everyone in school was talking about it. An elaborate treasure-quest built all across Kanto with awesome illustrations and quirky game rules.
The problem was, it needed six people to play it. And therein lay all the difference.
"Mom, this is—" he began.
"Awesome right?" She grinned. "Now you can play this with your friends. You can invite Gary home as well as the others. I am going out for some work, and will be back in—two weeks, I think."
And that was what it was about. She was leaving, and this— this was a distraction.
Red chuckled mirthlessly. At that time, his mother hadn't known that he didn't have friends. After his debacle with Gary, he had ended up an antisocial recluse. The other kids at school tended to avoid him, and talk in whispers whenever he was around.
Was it a surprise that he hated going to school in those days? Studying at home and playing with Mia was far more enjoyable.
He looked down at the board game in his hand, and then glanced at the oblivious expression on her face even as his lips twisted into a smile. "Thank you. I should… go and get some of my friends to play with it."
Delia grinned. "Enjoy!
He nodded briskly, turning away from the woman that never understood him. There was nothing new under the sun. He had been through this— it was his memory after all. And yet—and yet—
The pain feels just as fresh.
With calm, confident steps he walked out of the house, closing the gates softly as he escaped out of the garden. This was the time when Mia had evolved into a kirlia and had been avoiding him for some reason.
At least she came back to me.
Ensuring that he was far enough, Red clenched the gift tightly, his nails digging into the cardboard encasing, contorting through it. He didn't know why he was experiencing these memories, or what sick bastard had him going through all of his worst experiences.
At this point, after all that he had seen, all that he had felt, all that he knew he would feel—
Red screamed, rage and frustration brimming out of him, as he tore through the box. The board game twisted and turned before his fingers cleaved it into two, and then again, and then again, and again. From the very start— ever since this perverse game of memories had begun, he had been feeling all sorts of emotions.
He had felt lonely like never before.
Feelings of unwantedness and neglect consumed him.
Anger at his mother's rejection, her own admission about her true feelings for him as well as her lack of interest and knowledge in her son's life— all of it had cut deep gashes into the armor of indifference he had built around himself. He had thought that he had grown past it, that he had learned to ignore it, to be happy despite it.
What he hadn't known was that it was just a potion waiting to explode.
And it did.
And what came next was anger. Primeval, mindless rage that threatened to destroy everything, even the very mind and heart of its own origin. It rushed in to destroy the walls Red was trying to build to block the pain, and destroy them it did with extreme prejudice. No matter what he did, no matter how much he tried to ignore them, the emotions kept flooding in. Madness ensued, and Red found himself drowning in a sea of emotional turmoil.
Is this really worth it?
Red suffocated—or was it his own hands trying to choke his own neck? He didn't know. It didn't matter.
You can just step outside. Close the door on all those dreadful things that happened. You can lock them away.
Forever.
And wasn't that an alluring prospect? It was appealing at the very least. Complete detachment from those that hurt him. It would feel… odd, but the pain would be gone. He'd be away—far away from her, beyond her reach. She wouldn't be able to harm him there. And yet, if he did it, he'd lose whatever he was. He wouldn't be Red. He wouldn't have Mawile demanding poképuffs. He wouldn't have Shellder sucking on his hairs. Skarmory and her protectiveness. Oak and his friendship. Kaz and his eccentricities. And Mia.
Mia.
He didn't know why, but something stirred in the darkness as he thought of her.
And he stood up.
He'd not give up. Not for this pain from the past. Not out of fear for the future. But he would not give up.
He would embrace it.
He would suffer it.
And he would overcome it.
For his team. For Mia.
Fuck it! Red cursed with as much vindication as he could muster. Do your worst!
With pleasure.
The incoming barrage threatened to overwhelm and overload his senses. Another memory—him being picked upon Gary—him suffering from a wound and trying to heal it by himself—him trying to emulate his mother by noticing interesting things and reporting them to her—
The memories came and went. But the more it hurt, the more he reminded himself that this was not real. This was a dream. A nightmare. He would survive, and he would thrive. But the more the endless loops continued, the more he could feel himself becoming less.
This is it. This is the end.
It hurt to think, and yet, those thoughts had incredible clarity. His situation was so eerily familiar with the way it had ended in the forest. He had nearly gotten his team killed by his stupidity, and now he was being erased by a past far more traumatic than he ever remembered it being.
There was no going back. All he could do was be overwhelmed as his mind played his worst memories in a continuous loop.
And each time he saw them, it felt even worse. He felt afraid of closing his eyes. As if closing them would throw him into the darkness of another infringement of sorrow upon his life, another memory, another trauma he had experienced but had chosen to forget.
The memories—those vile, repulsive brutes—they kept bombarding against him. One after another, and then another, and so on. Every time he thought he had seen the worst, something even more sinister would rise up to correct his ignorance.
He had no head. And yet, it moved in denial.
He had no eyes. And yet, they stared back in defiance.
He would break, but he would not bend.
Not to this.
And then it happened.
His heart began to throb violently, the dull humming slowly turning louder and louder, as a growing sense of unease led to one of mounting dread and terror. He shut his eyes tightly and tried to ignore it, but every inch of his body could tell that something was coming. Something unnatural. A new and frightening uncertainty that was alien and taboo and wrong and above all, beyond Red's own understanding.
"Get out!" He cursed.
It only drew nearer.
"Get out!" He repeated.
And nearer.
Was it coming from outside him, around him, or inside him? He didn't know. He didn't want to know. The growing sound of his own heart throbbing was only getting louder.
"GET OUT!"
But that would not be. Instead, his vision was filled with light— burning, dazzling, bright, white light.
His eyes seared with pain as he was bombarded with memories that ripped through his mind. Uncountable and endless, they continued over and over again in an eternal loop, forcing him to view them without pause or reprieve.
And they simply would not stop.
Slowly, Red began to change.
The memories themselves were clear, but the feelings associated with them began to fade.
He still cared, intellectually, but emotionally he was… less.
The pain, the sorrow, and the solitude were still there, but he viewed them as if they were someone else's, the memories themselves were beginning to feel as if they were being viewed through a television screen.
How long had it been? His perception of time was long gone.
He had thought that he could beat whatever this was. Come out on top and win.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
This nightmare never ended and would rage on. A never-ending loop, cursed to go on forever and ever. And he'd be trapped inside it. An endless stream of negativity gnawing through his sanity until there'd be nothing left.
And something inside Red broke.
Something fundamental.
Something… that was once part of the existence known as Red Ketchum.
Something that burned.
And throughout it all, Red continued to watch, the memories continuing to cycle endlessly. And yet the anger had burnt away. The sorrow, the resentment, and the solitude had vanished.
All that remained was—
Nothing.
Pewter City Gym
"Brock, there is something you must know."
Brock Pebblemann frowned at the document laying inconspicuously on his desk.
For a clan-leader originating from a place as insular as Pewter, Brock was far too familiar with the outside world. He had embraced it with open arms. Tried to become a part of it, and ensure that the latest generation of his tribe would experience the same.
That was why he was so supportive of Pewter City— a technological behemoth carved out of the mountainous fortress that the Kush tribe— his people —called home.
Come to think of it, things had been changing for Pewter. It had been fifteen years since his grandfather had gotten the tribe into profitable negotiations with the Kanto government.
Nine years since the original excavation unit had grown into a sprawling estate that was the archaeological haven of Pewter.
Five years since Brock had been appointed dhrutinaz—the clan leader of his folk —and had accepted Lance's proposal. Pewter City now had a Gym—babysitting rookie trainers and giving them… pointers.
Not that he believed himself unfit for the job— far from it —but the archaeologist and clan-leader had never been able to fight off this odd sensation that things were happening too soon and too fast. Brock tended to push back whenever life pushed him forward. He did not enjoy going out of his comfort zone.
The present situation was similar, only this time, he'd be unable to push back.
Literally.
It presented a glorious opportunity, one that could serve as the ladder for Pewter's meteoric rise in the world, but at the same time, it could destroy everything that he and his ancestors had strived for over generations.
Damn it, Lance.
It had all started with that discussion he had had with the Champion two weeks ago.
"The Parthenon conducted an expedition in the Tanoby Ruins two years ago. It led to some… interesting discoveries. They found some fossilized remains of what they assume to be an ancient creature, and have been studying it ever since."
"At the Mt. Hideaway facility, I presume?"
The man laughed. "I have no idea. The Parthenon has seven branches in Kanto-Johto mainland, and even more so, spread out on other continents. I myself am not privy to the fossil's present location."
"You're the Champion."
Another laugh. "Let's not go into the what and why's of bureaucracy. What you need to know is that there have been some new developments regarding the fossil. Reports from the Parthenon state that they have finally purified enough… genetic samples to attempt a resurrection."
From what he had been told, the genetic sample would be teleported to the museum—a location that housed one of the cutting-edge technologies in the world —sometime on Saturday.
The resurrection of an extinct pokémon species from some of its preserved genetic makeup.
It was almost funny that such cutting-edge technology, developed through a joint operation between Silph Co. and Devon Corp, had found its base in Pewter— a place that had been in a subsidiary alliance with the rest of Kanto, until a decade ago. Well, Hoenn too did have its own installation setup in Rustboro City but that was beside the point.
"A… resurrection." Brock frowned, as if tasting the word. "Are you sure? A revived extinct pokémon is always nasty business. I don't need to remind you what happened when Aerodactyl went loose."
Lance chortled. "I know. She's been giving me some serious trouble, even now. You'd think a Champion's team would be able to keep her grounded, but she's too… feisty. Too primal. Kind of like your resident deity Kuku…wan?"
Brock's eye twitched. "Kukulkan."
"Ah, yes," Lance had the decency to look sheepish, "No disrespect intended."
"I did not take any," Brock responded calmly. "Outsider's need not follow our customs."
"Ah, well…" Lance said awkwardly. "Anyway, resurrections tend to be incomplete. I can only imagine what Aerodactyl might have been, back during her time."
Brock frowned. "A resurrection is always exciting. But what's so special about this one?"
"The fossil in question is… special."
"Special? How?"
" Do you remember the recent breakthroughs in medical technology," Lance asked, abruptly changing the topic.
"Of course," Brock frowned. "It's been all over the news. Ditto cell therapy, right?"
"Well that's the official stance," Lance agreed.
Brock leaned forward, interested. "And the unofficial stance?"
"Ditto cells are great. They can turn into nearly anything with the right stimulant. But they are not stable. They revert back to their original form the minute they run out of energy."
"So, what was the breakthrough?" Brock asked. He really wished Lance would just get to the point.
The fossil..." Lance paused dramatically, " The fossil seems to be related to ditto."
Brock sighed. Apparently the Champion wouldn't just tell him.
"Alright," He muttered," So it's some kind of ancient ditto."
"Better," Lance grinned. "It's some kind of precursor to the original ditto-line. Just studying the remains advanced our medical industry by fifty years."
"If it's so valuable, then why are you risking the sample in a resurrection attempt? You must know that there is a possibility of failure."
"It is risky," Lance admitted. "But we've reached the limit of what we can learn from the fossil. The scientists predict that the ditto-precursor, if successfully resurrected, will generate an infinite supply of such cells."
The champion stood up, spreading his arms theatrically. "Regeneration of limbs. Regrowth of organs. Perfect cellular regeneration. This could revolutionize our society."
"It cannot be that drastic," Brock argued.
"You still don't understand," Lance's eyes were shining, the excitement practically oozing off the man. "Scientists have determined that the fossil is over a million years old. And do you know what they found when they opened the fossil?"
The remains of the precursor ditto?"
"Yes," Lance agreed. "The remains of the precursor ditto. Alive."
"A-Alive? That's impossible. A cell cannot survive for that long. Even rock-types—" Brock stood up from his chair, losing his composure for the first time since the meeting started."To survive that long. That— Such knowledge would change everything."
"Exactly," Lance confirmed. "And that, my friend, is why this is such a big deal."
And it was a big deal.
Brock was no doctor but even he could see the value of such a thing.
While normal cells stopped dividing after a certain number, cancerous cells could theoretically keep on dividing into offsprings for an indefinite period of time. Ditto-cells incorporated the biological-immortality of cancerous cells, along with an extremely powerful and rapid ability to differentiate into any other cell type. The problem with ditto cells was that this transformation required an immense amount of energy to maintain, without which it would revert back into ditto. Problems that this new finding apparently did not have.
Furthermore, cells require energy to maintain their existence. Energy that was usually derived from food.
Not something that would be present inside a fossil. Certainly not when said fossil was over a million years old.
Which left a simple but terrifying conclusion...
Unless of course, he was looking at it the wrong way. In which case he might as well give up.
But...
But if he was right…
If Lance was right, if the Parthenon was correct in its claims, then this… this was going to blow minds.
"Are you telling me that the Parthenon excavated a Legendary?"
"A Legendary?" Lance pursed his lips. "I think not. We would not run the risk of resurrecting it if it was. But this creature… it is definitely not ordinary. At the very least, its capability to survive is beyond anything we have seen before."
Brock bit his lip. "What are they… calling this… creature?"
"Well," Lance drawled "The scientists came up with several names, but they settled with the ancient hieroglyphic symbol for fluidity. For change."
"Change… MU?" Brock chuckled. "It does fit, in its own way. Ditto is transfiguration-incarnate. Fluidity given form. It suits it perfectly."
"I'm sure the scientists at the facility will feel validated by your approval."
And that was it.
Mu.
An ancient symbol representing fluidity and change. And this creature of antiquity was going to be resurrected in a public event.
In the presence of VVIPs from all across the world.
Inside his city.
Did Lance not understand the target it painted on Pewter? That Pewter which had only started treading upon the path to a better life? That Pewter that he called his home— the place where he was adorned and obeyed as the current dhrutinaz?
Of course, the Champion did. But in his words, he had Brock as Gym-leader for that. Also, the researchers at the Parthenon had gotten a little worried about it all. There was reasonable intelligence on Team Rocket planning something about it.
He had made sure to show his displeasure with the entire plan to the Champion. And in turn, he had received a taste of the anarchic and byzantine mind of the man that ruled the continent.
"Let me get this straight." Brock began incredulously "You are using the invitees as a shield to ensure that the resurrection goes through flawlessly?"
Lance smirked. "I suppose it is the dragon-master in me that has a flair for the dramatic."
Snapping his hand forward with a quick flourish, he handed a sheet of paper to the Pewter gym-leader. One that had NOT been in his hand a moment ago.
"Where did that—" Brock closed his eyes, before starting again. No need to get swept up in the other man's pace. He slowly scanned the document, which turned out to be a list of people invited for the event. Very important people.
"And how," Brock swallowed, the invitation list showing him just how seriously the league was taking the event. "How did you manage to get all these… dignitaries to attend this event? And without even telling them what was going to happen."
Lance smirked. "Professor Oak and I came to a… agreement over something."
And that was it.
Apparently, Samuel Oak had used a little authority to wrestle the ownership of the experimental hybrid the rangers had rescued from the burning forest. As of now, the teen— Red something —was going to be its handler.
And in turn, the Champion, in his own typical fashion, had managed to make the esteemed researcher make a move.
Brock glanced at the envelope on his desk and chuckled. It was a parting joke from the Champion— a letter addressed from Samuel J. Oak, inviting Brock Pebblemann to the event held at the Pewter Museum of Natural History.
Very few people on the planet would have the bravado to send out last-minute invitations that essentially read—Sunday evening. Be there. Trust Me. And even fewer would be able to persuade VVIP's, eminent researchers and politicians at the highest levels from all over the world to drop everything and rush to Pewter City to attend the event.
The sad part was, it would even work.
Arrangements would need to be made, and then the resurrection process would happen as a public event, in front of the world media. Brock had assigned himself, two temporary secretaries, just to deal with the relentlessly increasing paperwork. The Champion had already dispatched four ACE squads for security, and the police had been put on high alert. He should probably bring in the ranger squads to patrol the outer gates of the city.
Speaking of which...
He picked up the receiver and dialed a number. "Zinnia? Please send for Ranger Tyson." Without further delay, he dropped the receiver and pulled up a folder that was sitting inside his drawer. He had procrastinated about the issue long enough, and it was time he dealt with the situation.
Especially in the light of….
"Gym leader?"
"Ah, come in," Brock replied blithely, as Tyson stepped into the chamber. "I went through the report."
Tyson wiped off the half-afflicted expression on his face, taking the seat on the other side, "I can accept that it was my foolishness that caused this—"
"Nonsense," Brock waved it away as inconsequential, "Whatever happened was terrible but there's nothing to be gained by pointing fingers. Have your units managed to recover any information from this entire mess?"
"We did." Tyson had a dark look on his face. "From the constant feeds we received from the investigating troops, there was a hidden base in the middle of the forest. Optical illusions were used to keep it out of sight. Our troops were able to provide us with very little details before the—" Tyson breathed, "—explosion."
"What sort of details?"
"The facility was mostly cleaned out, so they expected our arrival—"
"And set a trap," Brock concluded, "How many did we lose?"
Tyson winced. "Fifteen sir. Fifteen of our best.
Brock gently rested his head in the palms of his hands and paused a long moment before responding. "Make sure to compensate their families. Make a list of their families too. I will go visit them and apologize, in person."
"It's not your fault, sir," Tyson said softly. "And the families may not receive you well."
"Nonetheless," Brock said firmly, "I will meet them. We are part of Kanto now, but the tribes of Pewter will always be my people. I will take care of them, and if I am unable too, I will mourn them. It is my familial duty and becoming a Gym-Leader has not changed that."
"I… I see."
"I don't expect you to understand," Brock sighed. "Anyway, the facility. It was probably being used to create these experimental hybrids. Speaking of which that growlithe—"
Tyson perked up at that.
"—will be handled by Professor Oak and anyone he might deem fit," he finished, pausing as he observed the somewhat bitter expression on the ranger's face. "Do you have a problem with that, Tyson?"
"Not… particularly," Tyson measured his words, "just wondering about the intelligence of such a decision. I've met the teen in question. He is a good kid, but he is not qualified to hold a specimen of such value."
"The Champion has approved of that decision. That's all there is to say, I believe."
Tyson nodded silently and stood up from his chair. "There isn't. What about the other pokémon caught in the forest?"
"The scyther technically belongs to Red Ketchum and while charges of manslaughter may be brought up, the person in question was a terrorist. As for the golem… I'll see if it can be trained to serve the ranger squad."
"And your orders about the event? Do we continue to keep it under wraps or pursue further investigations?"
"I'd normally be in favor of an investigation but certain issues have forced my hand. There's an upcoming event and I need Pewter City secure. I need all available personnel. Arrange for a meeting with your entire group in the next two hours. I'll address everyone shortly. That will be all."
Tyson stood ramrod straight and saluted. "Sir."
His eyes snapped open.
The first thing he noticed was the cold sweat covering his body. His heart was pounding like crazy and his body was frozen stiff— stunned in fear. Fear of—
Red scrunched his face. Fear of what? He didn't remember. Almost like it wasn't important.
He maintained his stiff posture for a while, feeling no true desire to get up.
I know this place. I've been here before.
The feeling of familiarity and recognition seemed to stem from some unused sixth sense. How said senses worked, he had no idea. But he knew they did.
And that led to a different thought.
Is this a memory?
He looked around, trying to ignore the overwhelming sense of deja-vu that the room seemed to emanate. The bed, the linen sheets, the covers, the blinding white ceiling— all he was missing was Mawile rubbing her head against his shirt and he'd—
Mawile.
And with that recognition, came another.
This is the hospital room. I was here. I have walked on this floor. I have slept in this bed. I have—
I have been here, before it all started.
Yes, that seemed like it. And from the looks of it, the room was empty. How much time had passed before he had been sucked in? Minutes? Hours?
...
Years?
Had he fallen into another comatose state only to break out after a long time? He had heard of patients staying comatose for years before they gained consciousness.
This was a dangerous thought process. Almost instinctively, his hands rose up and cupped his face.
No beard. Just the same roguish, disheveled stubble that had begun to take form.
Days then. He decided. But even so, where was everyone?
He looked down on his lap. He was wearing the same orange shirt with black stripes. There was a glass of water—
Half-full. Just like he had left it.
Hours. He deduced. Not comatose then. But if so, where was everyone? Why wasn't the old man, Mawile or his mother there? Had he fallen asleep on them?
Or is this some kind of dream?
The curious thought flitted around his mind. But he rejected it even as it came forth. The mental violation was too real, too personal for it to simply be a dream.
Not that it mattered now. Somewhere in the endless loop of memories, he had grown used to it. He had grown detached.
It was almost boring.
And now this.
At least this is a change.
It was almost funny. After everything he had been through, even this sudden change in scenery was reminding him of his memories. Frankly, he was almost sure that a little bit of poking around would send him tumbling into another infinite loop all over again.
Pessimistic?
Perhaps, but just because you're paranoid didn't mean there wasn't an invisible monster out there ready to eat your face.
It wasn't a comforting thought. Red decided he liked it.
"Let me see…" He heard himself speak. It was so strange, being so calm. He had screamed and screamed until he had become nothing. He had cried in agonizing pain and felt himself being constructed and deconstructed several times over. He had felt his mind shatter and reform endlessly.
And yet after every reformation, there was more pain to deal with.
And now he felt nothing.
A slow grin appeared on his face as he touched his shirt.
Warm.
The covers were the same.
Mawile had been here, and yet she wasn't.
Interesting.
He pushed the covers away from himself and dragged himself out of the bed to stand on his shaky legs. No surprises there, considering how he had literally fallen face-first when trying to get to the bathroom without his crutch. Injuries like the one on his back took a while to heal and—
Wait a minute.
He glanced downwards.
Not shaking.
"Very interesting," he murmured. The pain on his back was suspiciously absent. As was the constantly throbbing headache that had overwhelmed him. In fact, the only thing that could be remotely qualified as emotion was confusion. The strangeness of the situation, his trauma from the infinite memory-loop, the endless waves of negative thoughts trying to rip his sanity to threads—
There was no trace of them.
"How very strange," He whispered.
He took an unsteady step forward, trying to test his balance. His knees held, and he quickly covered the distance. The doorknob now cupped within his palm, he looked back at the room.
Empty. Apart from the bed, the glass and the table on the other side, there was nothing in it. He glanced at the clock.
11:58 AM.
Visitors were allowed from nine to five. Oak had been there some thirty minutes after that. His mother had shown up after… an hour or something. So why wasn't anyone here?
Bewildered, Red twisted the doorknob and opened the door.
The hell?
The entire corridor was empty. No sign of life anywhere. All the doors were closed, and that reminded him—
This is the first time I stepped outside the door. Pewter City General Hospital, I think.
"Hello?" He called out.
No answer.
Without further thought, he sauntered along the corridor. His footsteps echoed throughout the empty halls. There were sounds of water dripping somewhere, creating a hollow dripping noise that was impossible to ignore.
Red kept walking, and yet he wasn't getting anywhere. Not that he knew how to get anywhere but that was beside the point.
The walls themselves seemed to shift whenever he turned past a corridor—and after every one he crossed, there was always another. Several doors, long corridors, arched hallways, and thin soulless spaces, offering nothing but random dead ends with closed doors that didn't open no matter what he did.
Red's lip curled.
Interesting. He thought again. He had already noticed a feeling of innate wrongness well up within him as well as fear. But those emotions seemed to be… disconnected to him. He knew he was feeling them intellectually, and yet he was not experiencing them. Feeling them.
How strange.
There were rooms with lights on.
The heaters were running.
Some of the tables had coffee cups that were still hot— as evidenced by the tiny wisps of smoke coming out of it.
There was even a match running on the large screen. An old match— the Elite Four Karen versus an elite trainer from Johto..
He moved faster. It was strange. The entire place screamed human, and yet, there were none.
He banged open doors, broke into rooms, and in every single one, he found several doors which led to newer and newer corridors. The doors creaked upon application of force, but nothing was more damning than the looming emptiness all around.
The entire place was open, and yet there was not a single person to be found.
He had traveled so far, and yet he could not find the exit.
How interesting, Red's lip curled.
Truly a prison without locks.
We hope that you enjoyed the chapter. If so, please fav/follow us, and more importantly, do review. Feedback gives us the motivation to write.
If you have something to share with us, or just want to talk to us about our stories, join us at our Discord Server - discord .gg/hqWqhtW (Remove the space)
You can also support us and our work on Patre0n at patre0n.c0m/theBlackStaffAndNightMarE (replace the 0 with o)
Thanks once again, and we hope you continue to enjoy our stories.
~The BlackStaff and NightMarE~