Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Incoming!" 

Diantha's shout rings through the air, and even before he registers what she means, Steven feels the pressure rise around him.  The Megalith Zygarde is preparing its counterattack.

"Brace yourselves!"

Metagross is at his side in an instant, a fellow pokemon also shielding itself behind its bulk. From where he's kneeling, Steven allows himself a precious few seconds to scan the battlefield.

Diantha and Gardevoir, Serena and Braixen, Alain and Charizard. All accounted for. Mairin and… wait, where was Mairin?!

An "oof!" comes from his blind side, and Steven whirls around to see Mairin trip and fall to the dirt, short of their cover. Chespie, still cradled in her grasp, begins to panic, trying to urge his clumsy trainer back to her feet.  The air whines with Megalith Zygarde's attack.

Steven's body moves before his brain can catch up. In two steps he's lunging out from behind Metagross, his partner's panicked screech reverberating through his bones. 

Chespin notices him first and its startled cry shakes Mairin from her stupor.  “Mr. Steven?”  Eyes tearful and wide, her expression sends terror surging down Steven’s spine.

Two more steps and he dives, arms outstretched toward her cowering form.  Gods, he was never the athletic type.

He hits the ground on top of her just as their world explodes.  Steven feels Mairin’s scream more than he hears it, and he squeezes her tight.  The air is hot against his back, searing the exposed skin of his neck.  He tucks Mairin’s head to his chest and prays just as the earth gives way and they’re sent airborne.

Time seems to slow down and speed up at the same time.  The sensation of weightlessness lasts forever, punctuated by hot, sharp pain that flashes by in a second.  Steven doesn’t remember hitting the ground.  

It takes a few moments to blink himself back to the present.  It still feels like everything is moving in slow motion.  Murky light filters through the air so thick with dust that the only thing telling him which way is up is the solid sensation of dirt and gravel beneath his cheek.  Everything else is still a hum of noise, ringing punctuated by the sound of his breath too stuffy and too close in his ears.  It’s hard to tell if the dust is to blame for his vision swimming in and out of focus in time with the throbbing of his head.  Something wet and warm mattes the side of his face, and he grimaces, feeling the dull, sticky crunch of dirt against his temple.  Probably not the dust.

A flash of clarity darts through his mind, immediately punctuated with a jolt of pain down his arm, and he sucks in a hissed breath.  It feels like he's been trampled by a herd of Tauros. But, as far as he can tell, he's in one piece.

Which is a good thing, because the ground rumbles beneath him, signaling the battle is far from over.  Megalith Zygarde has begun its advance once more.  He has to get up.  He has to keep fighting.

Trying to jostle his arm as little as possible, he attempts to pick himself up, only to find a weight pressing into his midsection.  Cradled against his chest is a bundle of red and green clutching an exhausted Chespin.

That’s right.  He’d made a last minute decision and dove out from behind his own cover to reach her.

Mairin’s eyes are closed, and for a minute he panics, the fear that shielding her from the blast with his body wasn’t enough to protect the junior trainer.  But as he wraps his uninjured arm around her, he can feel the rise and fall of her breathing.  He sighs in relief, although the dust makes it come out more as a wheeze.  He could never forgive himself if the brazen attack had claimed a life as innocent as hers.

A pulse of psychic energy washes over him.  It’s not Metagross’s, but the sensation is familiar enough that he knows to reply back in kind, although with the amount of worry carried in the original message, he is sure this psychic is already well aware of his presence.  Moments later, the melodic sound of Gardevoir’s cry floats through the dusty air, and two shadows melt out of the haze.

The Kalos Champion looks a mess, her pristine white clothes now soiled a dirty brown, and one wing is torn and drooping.  Regardless, she’s standing, and he’s not, so with as much effort as he can muster, he offers Mairin’s limp form up toward her.

“Take her,” he manages through a wince as his arm protests the motion.

But instead of Diantha reaching down, Gardevoir scoops the child into her arms, cradling her gently with a soft murmur.  Steven blinks as his head swims a bit from sitting up only to find a hand offered his way.  

Diantha smiles as he accepts her hand. "I know there's still more fight in you."

Steven is surprised how easily she hoists him to his feet. "Steel doesn't yield that easily," he quips, though his own smile fades quickly, and he clutches at his arm with a grimace.

He knows the injury is obvious, and he's thankful that Diantha's eyes only flick down in concern for a moment before meeting his own with a determined gaze. "Then let's go. For Kalos."

She never questions his resolve, and he nods. One arm doesn't matter if there's no tomorrow for anyone.  He catches a glimpse of where Mairin rests in Gardevoir's arms, the same look of determination as her trainer shines in her eyes.

"For Kalos," he echoes.

Chapter Text

127.

That's how many stitches paraded up and down Wallace's left side.

He knew because he did the math. Three stitches for each Sharpedo tooth. Twenty one teeth of gods-knew-how-many found skin. Forty two punctures riddled his chest, back, and arm —front and back— when the terrified pokemon's jaws clamped down.  And they all hurt.

Gingerly, Wallace shifted in his hospital bed so as not to disturb the only person sleeping in the room.  Steven had fallen asleep in the bedside chair over an hour ago.  Slumped over in a wholly ungraceful position, his suit jacket was long since discarded and balled into a makeshift pillow in his lap, which amusingly was rendered useless by the way his head was propped against his hand, barely.

The sight of his friend finally getting some well-deserved rest provided Wallace some temporary relief.  Funny enough, of the two of them, Steven had taken the whole ordeal way worse, and he wasn't the one currently admitted into the hospital.

"What a hypocrite," Wallace muttered, a small smile flitting across his lips as he lay back against the pillows, only interrupted as all 127 stitches tugged at the motion.

It certainly wasn't the souvenir Wallace had hoped to bring back from the shore that day.  A rare day off for both of them, and even rarer that Wallace had been able to convince Steven to spend the day with him at the beach. Part of it might have been because it was one of Hoenn's famous mirage islands, and the region's biggest geology nerd would have been hard pressed to pass up the opportunity to explore a vanishing landmass.  But Wallace was not one to stoop to such levels of bribery…

Regardless of how they got there, the day had been as peaceful as Wallace had hoped. He'd spent the majority of the day in the crystal waters with his pokemon, and after a hike around the island, Steven had joined him on the shore, content to discard his boots and plop down in the sand.

Steven had watched Wallace and Victoria's practice performance for a while before his mind wandered, and found himself gazing off into the distance, until a sudden splash interrupted his thoughts. Looking toward the water's edge, he caught sight of Wallace coming up from the surf, and his heart lurched into his throat. 

He'd never seen so much blood.

Wallace knew it wasn't good when he emerged from the waves; it was hard to miss the rivulets of red trailing down his torso and arm.  He only knew how bad it was by how rapidly the color drained from Steven's face as he shot to his feet and splashed into the shallows.

Wallace gratefully sagged into his arms.  "I think we may need to cut our excursion short for the day," he said, grimacing.

"You think?" said Steven, breathless, cradling Wallace's soggy weight as best he could.  "Wallace, we need to get you to a hospital."

"My things first," Wallace said, tipping his head in the direction of their blanket in the sand. When Steven shot him an incredulous look, he clarified, "Something to stem the bleeding."

Steven couldn't argue with that.  Wordlessly, he led the two of them toward the blanket, and lowered Wallace to the ground. He was back in two seconds, pressing a wadded up towel tight to Wallace's back.  The Gym Leader flinched, and Steven mumbled a quiet apology.

Another towel was pressed to Wallace's chest, and he guided Wallace's hand to apply pressure.   "Hold this please," he instructed.

Wallace had barely acknowledged the command before his scarf was wound firmly, but gently, around his left arm.  

Steven finally sat back, hand still pressing against the towel on Wallace's back, his lips tight. With his other hand, he released a pokeball from his belt.  Skarmory appeared on the sand with a caw. It fretted for a moment at being so rudely called out, but settled quickly upon seeing its trainer's harried expression.

"Let's go." Steven urged Wallace to his feet. "I'll come back for our things later."

Wallace didn't protest, and Skarmory ducked low for both men to climb aboard. Steven made sure Wallace was settled, still holding pressure to his chest, before seating himself atop Skarmory behind him.  

"Slateport Hospital please, Skarmory."

Wallace had never heard his friend's voice sound so withdrawn. As they lifted off, Steven's arm wrapped around his frame and gripped his wrist tight. The white of his knuckles matched Wallace's own paling skin. Adrenaline fading into fatigue, Wallace let himself slump against Steven's chest. He couldn’t remember much of the flight, but he does remember the feel of Steven's voice, reassuring him the whole way to Slateport.

A sleepy snort sounded from Wallace's right snapping him from his memory, and he watched Steven jolt upright in his seat, his head finally slipping from his hand.  Wallace couldn't keep the smile from his face.

Steven blinked blearily before he noticed. "Wallace!"

The emotions that flickered across his expression were almost too many for Wallace to count. Surprise, a hint of embarrassment, then came the worry, but what Steven finally landed on was...  

"Hello there, sleepy head." Wallace quipped, extending his uninjured hand Steven's way.

Steven still watched him, relief welling up in his eyes. "How long have you…?”  He shook his head. “No, that doesn't matter.  I'm just glad you're okay."

Wallace's smile widened as he felt Steven's hand slide into his and hold tight.  "I'll be even better if you can get the doctor to promise these won't leave any scars."

Chapter Text

His luck had finally run out, and in Lilycove of all places.  Happy tourists flocked by in droves, paying no mind to the man stumbling his way through the crowd with a hand pressed to his stomach. Never mind the drops of bright crimson staining the pavement behind him.  Mixing with the colorful confetti and cherry blossoms, the frivolous carpet that draped over the city's underbelly, sweeping the seedy parts from people's view.  He was the seedy part, the part that Lilycove wanted to pretend didn't exist.  Too bad he couldn't just pretend the knife jabbed into his gut by a panicked bookie didn't exist either.

His vision blurred and Sidney stumbled around the nearest corner, slamming into the alley with his back to the brick. Sweat dotted his shaved head, rendering his mohawk limp and lifeless.  Sucking in a sharp breath, he dared to peek beneath his blood soaked hand.

Not good.

His eyes squeezed shut against the pain, his head tilting back until it bumped into brick. He was going to die in this alley.  He was going to die in this shitty alley, and the world wouldn't even bat an eye.  His mom was right.  What a pathetic excuse for an existence.

Rolling his head to the side, he could see passersbys mere arm lengths from him. All he had to do was call out, shout for help, from someone, anyone. But it came out weak, feeble, drowned out by the noise of the crowd.  Of course no one paid him any mind. Who would expect anything else from someone like him.  He couldn't even find a peaceful place to die.

Something indignant flared within him, and he pushed off the wall and stumbled further into the alley. He hadn't made it five steps before his knees buckled and he toppled into a trash can, falling to the ground with a crash.

The sound drew the attention of a bystander who paused and stared down the alley. Two feet peeked out from behind a toppled bin, and they shook their head before moving on. "That poor homeless soul," they tutted, missing the red smears against the brick.

But Sidney never noticed.  He was marveling at just how cold he was. Lilycove in the spring, a frigid town of ruined dreams and disappointment.  Or at least that's what Sidney thought the crumpled brochure by his face should have read.

"Goddamnit!"  A bloody fist slammed into the pavement as Sidney curled onto his side.  The throbbing from his wound was incessant.  A pit of fire stabbed through his gut. It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe. It made him want to retch. The thought of retching made him not want to anymore.  

For some reason though, and Sidney would never know why, he felt a set of eyes watching his pathetic last moments. A presence at the opening of the alley, just watching, staring at his very soul. He hated it.

"Either help, or fuck off and let me die in peace," he growled, turning just enough to glare at the presence.  He didn't care if the shadow was the angel of death itself.  It sure as hell wasn't doing him any favors right now.

There, shadowed against the light spilling from the thoroughfare, was the unmistakable form of a pokemon.  A pokemon Sidney had seen but once before in his life.  And that one time, their roles were very much reversed.  No longer matted with blood and rain, the proud form of Absol stood silhouetted in light.  Wicked horn in contrast with the white fur of its coat, it was almost as if the angel and the devil couldn’t decide who to send for him, so they merged their messengers into one.

“You,” Sidney breathed, not sure if his sudden numbness was from disbelief or blood loss.

The Absol stared down at where he lay, and Sidney thought for sure it had passed some kind of divine judgement against his soul.  Their eyes met, red on red, blood on blood.  And then it threw its head to the sky and howled.

The reaction was immediate.  Screams and shouts could be heard from beyond the alley, and a rush of footsteps echoed all around.  The commotion closed in, and yet all Sidney could do was stare.  His hand seemed to act on its own, reaching out toward his savior.  “Absol… you…”

Absol’s eyes closed before it tilted its head as if to say, ‘save your strength, dummy.’  In a flash, it leaped from the alley to the nearby roof.  It seemed to vanish, white fur against the bright sky, but Sidney knew it lingered for a second longer; he could feel its gaze upon him.  The foolish human who now had his debt repaid.

Sidney’s hand flopped back against the pavement as his eyes slid shut.  “Absol… thank you.”

“Someone’s here!  They’re hurt!”

“Hang on, a medic is on the way!”

As he was lifted onto a stretcher, Sidney fought against the urge to laugh.  How absurd, someone like him deserving a second chance.  But here he was.

They say Absol are the harbingers of bad luck, and appear whenever disaster is imminent.  He was a human disaster after all, and if lady luck was so insistent, maybe he’d stick around this earth for a bit longer.  Who was he to disappoint her?

Chapter Text

If Steven ever had wondered what torture felt like, all he had to do was think back to the day they buried his mother in the ground.  What it felt like to be standing in a room, surrounded by people, and still be utterly and entirely alone.  

People he knew streamed by with condolences and well wishes, but did they really know him ?  Or was he just “Joseph’s son, a good lad who had his mother’s eyes”?  Eyes that, if he looked hard enough in the mirror, would haunt him with the reminder he’d never see her again.  The only person who knew who he was, who bothered to want to know.  And she was gone.

A faceless businessman ruffled his hair while addressing his father, and that’s when the tears started.  Silent, unnoticed, just like Steven himself.  They poured forth unlike all the things he wished he said before he had to say goodbye.  He hates himself for never being able to say the words.  He’d been hopeful, he said he’d see her again, he begged her not to go, he promised he’d give up on everything and be the best son his father ever wanted if only she could stay.

In some way, he figured she knew that last one was a pathetic lie; something he could never do, something she’d never want him to do.  He still blames himself for not being able to do more.  For not being able to change.  For not being glued to his father’s coattails and burdening her with his foolish ideas of going out and exploring and pokemon training and anything that wasn’t some prison of an office job that locked him away from the world he so desperately wanted to see— 

“Steven?”

He gave a tearful hiccup at his father’s voice.

“Hey,” Joseph kneeled down to Steven’s eye level and pulled him into a hug.  “I miss her, too.”

Steven knew his father's words were sincere. But that still didn’t stop him from clinging on to his father's suit jacket like a lifeline.  Because when he stood back up, the distance between them might as well have become miles.  Back to the realm of adults and figures and late nights and Steven would be an afterthought on a busy day with the promise of doing it all over again the next.  Because if Steven held on tight enough to keep his father all for himself, maybe, just maybe, he could fill the empty void she left behind.  But he had to let go, and the tears dried up as he watched his father leave him behind all over again.

It was then that he decided. Even if it was too late, he could change.  He wouldn’t be a burden to anyone anymore.  He needed to stand on his own two feet and carry the weight he was born to bear.

Even if it meant he could never be free.

Chapter Text

Glacia drifted through the halls on her way to the League building's kitchen. It was her nightly ritual; a cup of chamomile to go with her book before bed. Usually the last one to turn in, the League's halls were normally silent at this time of night.  Tonight, though, she heard something coming from the lounge, and paused. 

Listening closely, Glacia definitely heard something that sounded a lot like muffled crying, and she peered into the darkness toward the far end of the room.  Huddled in the corner was the shadowy shape of Phoebe curled up in one of the armchairs, quietly sobbing with her back to the door.

The newest addition to the Elite Four, the young girl had arrived at the League a week ago and despite being quiet and reserved, had been mostly chipper.  Glacia had chalked her earlier quietness up to being shy, but now she wasn't so sure. 

"Phoebe, dear?" Glacia asked as she turned on the nearby lamp. “What are you doing up this late?”

At the sudden light, Phoebe stiffened with a startled sniffle.  She kept her back to Glacia as she wiped at her eyes.  “Can’t sleep,” came her quiet reply.

Glacia’s expression softened, and she padded toward Phoebe’s hunched form, a comforting hand outstretched.  “Maybe a cup of tea will help.  I can make you one as well—”

She’d almost reached Phoebe’s shoulder when the girl shouted, “No!  Stay away!”

Glacia recoiled at Phoebe’s sudden outburst, but she did not retreat.  Smoothing her hand back against her dress, she tried again.  “Perhaps a story, then?  I’d be happy to read with you if you like.”

Phoebe’s head turned this time, offering just a sliver of an eye as she shook her head.  “It’s okay.  Sometimes… Sometimes they won’t let me sleep.”

“They?”

Over Glacia's shoulder, shadows materialized into solid form.  The zippered grin of a Banette sneered down the back of Glacia's neck. Phoebe watched, wide-eyed, as Banette's hands extended into claws and curled themselves around Glacia's throat.

Tears began to form in Phoebe's eyes. "Miss Glacia," her voice wavered, "Please. Don't move."

Glacia waited calmly, eyes downturned at the trembling girl in front of her. The girl who could not sleep.  The girl who was sent to the League because of her gift. The very gift that tortured her and drove her to tears. Glacia would not stand to see such a child suffer from the failings of her elders.

Without hesitation, Glacia strode forward, ignoring the way Banette's claws scraped at her neck, tearing fabric and drawing blood.  Kneeling down, she pulled Phoebe into her arms in a firm, yet gentle hug.  Her hand cradled Phoebe's head against her cheek.

The younger trainer sobbed openly against her shoulder.  "Miss Glacia, why? Your neck… Your dress… Weren't you scared? Banette… She could have killed you."

Glacia drew back, meeting Phoebe's tearful eyes with the icy blue of her own.

"But she did not.  Phoebe, you were sent here for our help.  I will not let fear stand in the way of providing you that help. I think your pokemon understands that."

The conviction in her voice seemed to ground the younger trainer, and Phoebe's shaking slowed to a stop.  Glacia hugged Phoebe to her chest again.

"I will protect you from the nightmares until you are able to protect yourself.  One day you will become stronger, I know it.  But until that day comes, we are here for you."

Shadows melted from the edge of the room like ice against a flame, and Glacia felt the tension melt from Phoebe’s thin frame along with them.  When she pulled back from the embrace, the young trainer’s eyes were wide with awe.  

Glacia smiled, wrapping an arm protectively around Phoebe’s shoulders and guiding the two of them toward the kitchen.  “I hear a spot of chamomile does wonders for a tired soul.”

Chapter Text

Steven grimaced as he wandered the halls of Lysandre Labs.  The building was like a labyrinth, and with each passing minute his concern for the missing junior trainer, Mairin, grew.  She had accompanied him on the trip to Kalos, intent on rejoining with her fellow trainer, Alain.  Steven had assumed her to be with Alain as the young man engaged in some kind of battle circuit, but when he and Lysandre arrived in the spectator’s box, she was nowhere to be seen.  

It was rude, but he left Lysandre as soon as he realized she was missing.  He’d never forgive himself if something happened to her alone in a strange place.  Ever since they arrived, something hadn’t sat right with him.  About the Megalith, about Lysandre Labs, about Lysandre himself.

And now Steven realized why.  The research facility was designed to keep its secrets buried deep inside.  Turn after turn, the hallways looked the same.  Polished aluminum and doors locked with card readers.  He was pretty sure even he was lost, now.  

He rounded another corner and finally met the first signs of life since he left.  Two security guards dressed in black suits flanked a door at the end of the passage, and they quickly noticed his presence.

“Stop, what are you doing down here?”

Steven frowned; for how secure the rest of the facility was, why the special guard?  He had a good reason though, so he explained.  “I’m looking for a young trainer.  She and I are Mr. Lysandre’s guests, but she’s gone missing.  Have you seen her?”

“No one can be down here, this is a restricted access area.  You need to leave.”

Steven buried his annoyance with how the guard ignored his question.  “I’ll leave, but can you tell me, have you seen a young girl in green with a Chespin?”

One of the guards finally shifted from his place against the wall and started to approach.  “Sir, please leave, or we will be forced to make you leave.”

It was difficult to resist the urge to roll his eyes, but Steven managed.  These guys were of no help, and he couldn’t waste any more time.  “Look, I’ll be on my way.  Just please, keep an eye out for her.”  

He spun on his heel to head back the way he had come when a sudden chill flooded the passage.  The malicious presence was so overwhelming, it froze him in his tracks.  Behind him, he heard the two security guards cry out in surprise, only to fall silent an instant later.  Slowly, Steven turned, alarm bells ringing in his head.

Floating in the passageway was the biggest Malamar he’d ever seen.  The bodies of the two guards lay crumpled on the ground like its discarded playthings.  He was very familiar with psychic type pokemon, but he had never felt one ooze such a sinister intent as this.  Steven’s heart felt like it was beating out of his chest, icy terror flooding his veins.  The part-psychic fixed its wicked gaze on him, and then it spoke.

“What delicious timing.  Master Xerosic is very interested in you.  You will come with me.”

There was no time to protest even if Steven could formulate the words.  The Malamar’s hypnosis wave washed over him, and the last thing he saw through heavy lids was the floor rushing up to greet him.

Chapter Text

Steven awoke cold and uncomfortable.  He was laying flat on his back on something hard and unforgiving, and it was then he realized just why it was so cold.  The metal pressed into his bare back, as well as the rest of him; he was undressed down to his briefs.  

He shivered at the unexpected revelation and tried to move to cover himself, only to find his movement restricted.  The sensation of metal around his wrists was familiar, except that instead of a pleasant weight that moved with his jacket, the cuffs were tight against his skin and anchored firmly to the metal surface beneath him, holding his arms out from his sides.  Metal shackles also encircled both ankles, while something wider and softer than steel was cinched across his chest and waist.

Steven tried to wiggle against the restraints to no avail.  They wouldn’t budge, and as his breathing began to quicken with his rising panic, they dug tighter.  He tried to crane his neck to ascertain something— anything — about what was going on, but he had barely moved when a strap across his throat pulled taut, and he choked.

“Oh-ho!” came the surprised shout from off to his right.  A shuffle of papers and the scraping of a chair could be heard, and then a shadow fell across his vision.  “You’re awake.  Magnificent.”

Peering down at him was the palest man he’d ever seen.  His bright red hair, almost glowing in contrast, was tucked into a neat bun that flared upward as if defying gravity.  The portly man adjusted his red-tinted spectacles and leaned on one of the manacles at Steven’s wrists.

“Sorry about that,” the man wiggled a finger at his own throat, “I’m afraid it’s necessary after the last subject bashed their own head in.

“The… they what?” Steven croaked, feeling his adam’s apple bob against the restraint in question.

“Oh-ho my, I’m so sorry!  Look at me, getting right down to business and I haven’t even properly introduced myself.  My name is Xerosic, Chief Science Officer of Lysandre Labs.”  

Steven’s heart sank, confirming his worries far too late.  “Is this what Lysandre considers science?” 

"Why of course! Monsieur Lysandre is a brilliant visionary. I am but his humble servant who serves the greater good.  Everything we do here is for the benefit of humanity."

Steven shook his head as best he could.  "So chaining a person to a table against their will benefits humanity?"

Xerosic simply nodded. "For the greater good," he repeated, and his Malamar murmured in agreement. "You will see in time."

“You… You undressed me!”  Steven wasn’t sure why exactly that was suddenly the most objectionable part of the whole ordeal.  Maybe because being strapped to the operating table of a mad scientist was too absurd to process.

“Well, the leads won’t stick to clothes, now will they.”

Steven mouthed “Leads?” just as he felt something press and stick against his ribs.  Once, twice.  And again.  This time against his temple, then the other.  He tried to pull away, to lift a hand and yank off the leads, but the restraints held firm.

“What are you doing?”  Steven asked, unable to hide the waver in his voice.

“Ah, an excellent question!” Xerosic said, abruptly stopping his ministrations and appearing back in Steven’s view.  “Surely you are aware how Lysandre Labs is conducting research into the phenomenon of Mega Evolution?”

Steven offered the best nod he could manage.

“Well, research on Mega Evolution’s effects on pokemon is quite simple.  There is ample opportunity for field and lab evaluations.”

Steven’s stomach dropped.  He did not like the way Xerosic emphasized the word ‘pokemon’...

The mad scientist’s face split into a demented grin.  “The hardest task is conducting research on how Mega Evolution affects human subjects."

That’s when the panic switch flipped.  Steven heaved against his restraints, fear fueling every attempt to break free. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on anything to pull or pry or grab, but the manacles held fast.

Xerosic continued on, oblivious, as if Steven were still paying rapt attention. "...And you are our valued guest! Oh, sure we've had other mega evolution users come through here, but none as powerful as you." Xerosic's hands began to rub together. "Just think of the unlimited potential that comes from a bond as strong as yours!"

But Steven wasn't listening.  His mind was consumed with only one thing.  He had to save himself.  He had to break free.  Writhing and twisting, a frustrated scream was the only thing that managed to escape, but it was cut short as Steven bucked against the strap across his throat.

Malamar rolled its eyes as their test subject fell limp, coughing and spluttering from his own struggles.  Xerosic sighed at his pokemon’s annoyance.  “I already told you, we can’t sedate them, it interferes with the test.”

The dark type pokemon muttered something beneath its breath, and Xerosic threw his hands up.  “If we just start the test now, will that make you happy?”

Steven didn’t have time to marvel at how a grown man and his pokemon were arguing like children over the best way to perform human experimentation, because by the time his panicked breathing slowed to a step just below hyperventilation, Xerosic threw the switch.

Every muscle contracted at once, and Steven's vision went white, his back arching so violently that the surface he was secured to creaked in protest. Every nerve screamed, every synapse, every fiber of his being seared with pain as the infinite energy surged through him.  

It was haunting how beneath the agony there was a thread of familiarity; the same sensation when his bond with Metagross would connect.  Except it felt wrong.  It felt like the power was trying to tear him apart from the inside.

Steven’s vision dulled to gray, fading to the promise of sweet unconsciousness.  But something reached through the haze and dragged him back.  That familiar thread dug deep and pulled him back to the light, where he was greeted with a fresh wave of agony.  

His eyes snapped open, searching for the new source of pain.  He watched in horror as burns began to form across his arms, eating their way to the surface from within.  But as quickly as they formed, they melted away, healing right before his eyes.  His fingers spasmed involuntarily, curling into animalistic claws as the pain bored deep into his core.  

A strangled scream pushed its way through Steven’s clenched jaws, a guttural howl that finally broke free as his body spasmed from the onslaught.  He just could not pass out.  His body wouldn’t let him.  The energy that was killing him also was keeping him alive.

Xerosic’s pen could barely keep up as he scribbled furiously, childlike glee clearly written on his face.  Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined such incredible results.  The answer had been right in front of their noses all along.

“This must be how the Ancient King achieved immortality!” he crowed.  “If we can increase the exposure to mimic the epicenter of the Ancient Weapon—!”

A tap on the shoulder interrupted his mad hypothesis.  Malamar released the off lever with its tentacle and pointed down at the table where their subject lay quiet and still.  

“Oh ho?” Xerosic leaned over and adjusted his spectacles.  For all intents and purposes, it looked as if Steven was asleep.  He was breathing, eyes shut, head lolled to one side, and his hands were limp beneath their shackles.  But for all the torture he had endured, not a single injury was visible.  

Gingerly, Xerosic undid the leather restraint across Steven’s chest, and right before his eyes the angry red mark beneath the strap melted back to unblemished skin.  A demented grin curled across Xerosic’s lips.

“Ready the mind control device for a memory wipe.  And be sure the footage from today’s experiment is backed up on the main server.  Lysandre is going to want to see this.”

Chapter Text

Drake stared at the gun barrel trained at his chest and stifled a shaky sigh.  No matter how many times it had happened in the past, it never made it any easier.

Next to him, he could hear Briney shifting uneasily.  Old navy buddies, Drake knew he hated it just as much. That feeling when your fate rested in the hands of a stranger. 

Good thing Drake didn't believe in fate.  It at least made their ruined afternoon boating excursion more tolerable.

"I said, hands up where I can see 'em!"

The pirate waved the gun to make his point, and Drake scowled. Nobody needed an accidental discharge…. But he did as he was told, and raised his hands in surrender.  Briney growled something unintelligible and did the same.

Satisfied, the pirate gave a smirk.  "No funny stuff, y'hear?" He said, swinging the barrel between the two men.

Drake stole a sidelong glance at his sailing partner before tipping his cap once with a nod. "Aye."

"'Aight. Now sit tight. This won't be a minute." The pirate turned and whistled over his shoulder.  Drake could hear several more pirates scrambling to board Briney's boat. They were running out of time.

"Hang on," Drake started, waving one hand to get their captor's attention.

"I said no funny stuff!" the pirate shouted, wheeling back around, gun at the ready.

"Nuthin' funny, nuthin' funny. Just wanted to point you in the direction of the hold."  Drake tipped three fingers to where the bandits were climbing over the railing before flicking a thumb over his shoulder toward the cabin behind him.  "Don't want you tearin' the damn thing apart to find it.  The man here needs his boat to make a livin'," he explained.

The pirate scowled, ignoring the increasingly noisy Wingull circling overhead. "Not sure you're in a position to make requests."

Drake stared back, ticking down the seconds in his head. Three, two, one. A Wingull screeched overhead.  Drake grinned. "It wasn't a request."

"What did you— ?" The pirate didn't have time to finish his sentence before Drake grabbed Briney by the back of the shirt and dove for the deck.

The sky split with a deafening roar as Salamence sliced from out of the blue. 

Eyes wide in shock, the pirate half stuttered, half screamed and tried to bring the gun to bear on the enraged dragon. He wasn't fast enough. 

Salamence dive bombed the deck so low it's wings brushed the railings, bunting all four pirates overboard.  Just as it soared past, a mighty splash sounded from over the bow, followed by a crunch.  Kingdra trumpeted proudly as it freed its horns from the hull of the pirate's boat.

Briney sat up and rubbed the back of his head, marvelling at their would-be captor's vessel slowly sinking into the sea.  Peeko landed atop his shoulder with a happy caw.

"You think those scoundrels would know better than to mess with a former Champion.”

Drake shrugged, taking out his pipe.  "You can always tell when we're in international waters."  He lit it and gave a contemplative puff.  "No one ever seems to recognize me."

Chapter Text

Their plan for the evening had been harmless enough.  One of their last nights in Kalos, and Wallace deemed it perfect for a night of fun out on the town.  Steven wasn’t enamored with the idea, but he figured the nightlife in Lumiose was interesting enough to warrant one night of what Wallace liked to call “drinking and debauchery”.  Or as Steven liked to call it, “playing the responsible one and making sure Wallace gets home in one piece”.

Over dinner they had planned a route to a series of various clubs and bars, and things had been going swimmingly for the first half of the night.  Wallace wasn’t a hot mess just yet, and Steven found himself enjoying the atmosphere and the few drinks he’d had.  They had just arrived at the third establishment on their list when things began to go downhill.

The dance floor was far too crowded, and the music was far too loud, and Steven found a headache coming on despite not having that much to drink.  Surprisingly— or not— Wallace was unaffected, and he continued to make friends up and down the bar, garnering drink after drink from the adoring locals.  Thankfully though, things still seemed to be under control for the time being, so Steven allowed himself a moment to step outside for a bit of fresh air.

As he was enjoying the sensation of his head not pounding in time with the music, a couple brushed past him at the entrance, and he overheard part of their not-so-hushed conversation.

“He really was making a scene.”

“Yeah, with that weird accent of his.”

“Thank goodness his friend finally talked him into that drink.”

“They should just go home, he was looking really wobbly.”

“He even spilled some of it on my new shoes!”

Steven sighed.  Part of him believed it might not have been Wallace they were talking about, and that everything was fine.  Usually, Wallace making a scene wasn’t a bad thing.  He did have an uncanny ability to win fans no matter how much of a scene he was making.  But, the other part of Steven was blaring warning signs left and right.  Who was this friend who was buying him drinks?  They’d stuck to themselves for the night, with Wallace’s dancing partners being numerous, but fleeting.

The warning signs won, and Steven quickly made his way back inside the club, searching for his friend through the sea of people.  The flashing lights and pounding music hadn’t let up, but he was just in time to catch a glimpse of white disappearing out the side door.

Odd, Steven thought, that Wallace would try to sneak away like that, although perhaps he really had met someone he’d grown attached to.  Who was Steven to get in the way of his friend’s fun night out?  But again, that gnawing worry settled in the pit of his stomach, and he turned back the way he came and headed outside once more.  He’d just follow Wallace from a respectful distance.  To make sure he was alright.  Just in case…

Once outside, Steven hung a quick right toward where he assumed the side exit spilled into the nearby alley.  He squinted through the dark, hoping he had gotten there quick enough to see which way Wallace had gone.  There was no sign of his friend, but Steven hadn’t seen Wallace pass by on the street either, so that could only mean one thing.  Steven started on a brisk pace down the alley and around the back of the building.

Thankfully a drunken Wallace wasn’t very fleet of foot.  Steven only had turned one corner before he caught up to him.  Except his hunch was correct, and Wallace was not alone.  Their voices drifted above the city’s ambient noise.

“Come on .” 

“Mmmno.  Ssstop.”

Steven froze.  That was Wallace’s voice.  It was slurred, but he definitely said stop.  There was a slight scuffle, and the first voice spoke up again, cutting through another of Wallace’s protests.

“Fine.  If you’re gonna be a baby about it, we’ll do it here.”

“Get… Gerroff me.”

Icy dread rushed through Steven’s veins.  He’d been out with his friend plenty of times, and he’d never heard him like this.  Something was wrong.  Very, very wrong.  Taking a deep breath, he surged around the corner.

“Stop, what are—”

The words died in his throat as his stomach lurched at what he saw.  Wallace was slumped against the wall, pinned across the chest by his “friend’s” forearm.  The man’s other hand was feverishly working to undo his belt.

“Wallace…” Steven managed to choke out when he saw how listlessly the Gym Leader tried to fight back.  Like his strength had been drained, and every last effort was put into remaining conscious.

“Hey.  Mind your own business.”  

Steven flinched, realizing the assailant was now staring at him.

“Scram, and let the adults have their fun.”

Wallace let out a pathetic moan, his head lolling weakly to the side, unfocused gaze falling where Steven stood rooted in terror.  The pleading look in his eyes was all Steven needed to know that in no way did he leave that club of his own consent.  

A surge of fury swept over Steven, and his hand instinctively went for his belt where Metagross’s pokeball sat.  But he paused.  He couldn’t call his pokemon out on an unarmed man, especially not in a foreign region.  Instead, he casually slid his hand into his jacket pocket, gaze never leaving his friend’s, and prayed he was dialing the right three digits on his PokeNav.

The assailant was tired of waiting.  “I said beat it!”

“No.”

“What’d you say?”  By now the man had straightened, belt buckle forgotten, and was staring hard at Steven.  

“I said no.  Now leave him alone.”

Wallace all but forgotten, the man released his hold on the Gym Leader, letting him slump against the nearby fence.  Steven’s heart leaped into his throat as the man stalked down the alleyway toward him.

He couldn’t retreat; he wasn’t leaving Wallace.  But the man was at least a full head taller than him, and nearly twice as heavy.  

“Stay back!” he shouted, but the man didn’t stop.

He was three strides away now.  Now two.  Steven was justified in calling out Metagross now, right?  The man closed in, and Steven’s hand moved on its own.  But not for his pokeballs.  Only once the pain hit did he realize he’d just punched the man square in the face.

The assailant howled, clutching at his face with his hand.  Steven had broken his nose.  But Steven hardly fared better, his hand throbbing from the impact.  Hissing and cradling his probably broken hand, Steven tried to brush past the man while he was distracted, trying to get to Wallace’s side.  Except he should have known a broken nose was not going to be enough of a deterrent.  The man’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, spinning him around in time to be met with a fist of his own.  

Steven hit the ground hard, stars dancing in his vision.  He could feel his cheek swelling up already, and the adrenaline was the only thing that allowed him to pick himself up from the pavement and scramble backwards, trying to put distance between him and his assailant.

Even in the dim alley lighting Steven could see the blood dripping down the man’s face, making him even more menacing as he stalked toward his newest target, the glint of a switchblade bright between his bloodied fingers.  Sight still swimming from the punch, Steven kept retreating, his good hand outstretched as if it could halt the attacker’s advance.  Two more steps and he felt chain link against his back.  The fence rattled as he stumbled over something.  Something clad in white that let out a small moan as his leg made contact.  Wallace.  Drugged up, helpless Wallace, in an incoherent heap on the ground.  

As Wallace curled into an even tighter ball at his feet, a cold realization settled in Steven’s stomach; he’d made a grave mistake.  Not by intervening, he’d never ever regret that.  But in the chaos he’d gotten turned around, managing to bring the attacker’s attention back toward the very person he was trying to protect.  And now the only way out of the alley was blocked by said attacker.

Steven’s hand flew to his belt, and he winced as his injured fingers closed around Metagross’s ball.  There was no option left.  He’d have to take his chances with the Lumiose authorities, otherwise he and Wallace might not make it out of this alley.

He was just about to pull the pokeball free when a high pitched whine came from overhead, and the bright beam of a searchlight split the night.  A Magnezone with lights of blinking blue and red came to a halt over the alleyway and fixed its eye on the three figures below.

Steven shielded his eyes against the light as a tinny voice sounded from the Magnezone’s audio system.  “ C'est le service de police de Lumiose.   Posez votre arme et pokeballs et levez les mains.   This is the Lumiose PD.  Drop your weapons and pokeballs and put your hands in the air.”

Their assailant froze, issuing a loud Kalosian curse.  He pocketed his knife and affixed Steven with a stare so full of rage, it made the former Champ’s blood run cold.  The message began to repeat as the Magnezone hovered above them, and the faint sound of boots on pavement filtered over the recording.  Without another word, the man spat, then turned and ran from the alley.

Steven nearly sunk to the ground next to Wallace in relief.  The silhouette of several officers flashed by the alley’s distant opening, and the shadows of several more melted through the Magnezone’s spotlight with flashlights of their own.  Steven raised his hands and stumbled through his rusty Kalosian.

“Please, I’m the one who called.  My friend, he needs help.  Uh, adier, s’il vous plait. ”

The officer’s lights danced from Steven’s disheveled jacket and swollen eye to Wallace’s shivering form, then back to Steven.  Their radios crackled with a call that parsed to something about ‘chasing’ and ‘a third person’.  More footsteps sounded down the alleyway, and the police parted to allow two medics through.

“We’ll take it from here.”

Steven watched as the first medic kneeled at Wallace’s side, his stomach twisting itself into a new knot.  He was so fixated on the condition of his friend, he flinched when a hand rested against his forearm, gently guiding his injured hand toward an ice pack.

“Sorry,” the second medic apologized through a heavy accent.  “Please, we’ll get you both to the hospital.  Your friend will be okay.  The officers will have some questions for you, though.”

“Questions are fine,” Steven managed, suddenly feeling very drained as he followed along in the medic’s gentle grasp.  He squinted against the flashing red lights as he emerged from the alley and was helped into the back of the waiting ambulance.

The medic had already finished his cursory examination of Steven when Wallace was lifted up into the ambulance next to Steven.  He was still disoriented, and his speech was still slurred, but immediately he recognized who was sitting at the head of his stretcher.

“Steven?”

Steven reached out and grasped Wallace’s hand with his own that wasn’t cradled in an icepack.  “Hey, Wallace.  I’m here.”

“I think… That last drink…  Might’ve done me in.”  Wallace’s nose scrunched up, his head rolling with the motion of the ambulance.  He was almost back to his usual tipsy self.

In spite of everything, Steven chuckled, offering a smile that crinkled his swollen eye shut.  “Yeah.  It was a real doozy.”

They both had spent the night in the hospital; Wallace on an IV and Steven because he refused to leave Wallace’s side.  

The police had been waiting for them when they arrived, and Steven did his best to answer their questions as the doctor splinted and wrapped his hand.

Dawn light was filtering through the blinds when Wallace began to stir.  Steven was already awake, not having slept much on the uncomfortable guest couch in the room.  

“Good morning, Wallace.”  His voice was rough, but he was too tired and too relieved to care.

Wallace sat up gingerly, turning to the sound of his friend on the couch.  “Mph… Steven?”  

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I had a run in with a group of very angry Drowzee.”  He blinked muzzily, bringing a hand up to swipe at his face, only to discover the IV still attached.  “Looks like I’m not too far off.”

Steven chuckled.   “Well we’ve both had worse, I’m sure.  Nights and pokemon encounters.”

Wallace offered a small laugh in agreement.  “I must have told you about the time I was swept into a Tentacool swarm—”  He stopped suddenly, staring wide eyed.  “Steven, your face!”

“Oh, this?”  He reached up to touch his cheek lightly  with his unbandaged hand. “It’s nothing.  You should see the other guy.”

Wallace moved his mouth like he wanted to say something, but no words came out. Instead he settled for a very skeptical look at his friend.  Steven laughed.

"Not exactly how we thought our vacation would end up, is it."

Wallace shook his head, smile dancing back across his lips.  "No, but at least I can tell everyone you got into a bar fight.  They'll never believe it."

Chapter Text

Six days.  It had been six days since Phoebe last slept.  Eight-year-olds should not be going six days without sleep.  Then again, most eight-year-olds didn’t have spirits keeping them up at night.  At this point, Phoebe wasn’t even sure what was real and what was her imagination.  Was it all in her mind?  Every ghost, every disembodied voice, every feeling that she was being watched?  

No, they were real.  

Her eyes drifted to the little girl sitting in a chair in the corner of her room.  The same little girl that had visited her for the past three years.  She wasn’t a figment of Phoebe’s imagination.  She was as tangible as the Shuppets and Duskulls that drifted through her home night in and night out, drawn like magnets to her powers.

Mom and Dad could see the ghost pokemon; they tried to shoo them from the house with brooms and backscratchers and fly swatters.  Her parents never even batted an eye at the little girl.  Phoebe didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“It’s all in your head, dear.”

“There’s no other girl in here.”

“Just go to sleep.  We’ll keep the ghost pokemon away, so get some rest.”

When the lights went out, Phoebe tried to ignore the girl sitting in the chair, just like her parents told her.  And each night she couldn’t catch a wink of sleep knowing that girl was sitting there, watching, waiting, whispering.

Until on the seventh night, she finally mustered the courage to talk to the girl.  Or was it that she was too tired to be scared anymore?  Phoebe lay in bed, like she did every night, and closed her eyes (because maybe she was scared a little).

"Who are you?"

Nothing but silence.  Because it was all in her head, wasn’t it?  A delirious giggle escaped her lips.  She was just talking to herself in the dark, like a crazy girl should.  She giggled and giggled until a faint breeze ruffled her short hair even though the windows were closed.

“I’m yours,” whispered the voice right next to her ear.

Phoebe’s eyes snapped open and she jolted upright.  She didn’t scream, no, she was too exhausted to scream.  The girl had moved, now standing right at her bedside.  Staring.

“I’m yours,” she repeated softly, her serene smile mirroring Phoebe’s half-dazed own.

“My… my what?”

“Your ghost, silly.”  The little girl reached out and cupped Phoebe’s hands in her own.  “Everyone has one.  I’m yours.”

“So, I’m really not talking to myself right now?”

“Nope!”

“Can anyone else see you?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“S-so… So I’m not crazy?”

The little girl shook her head side to side, brown hair swishing in time with the motion.

This time Phoebe laughed aloud on purpose.  She laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks.  The relief was just too much to bear.

“Are you okay?” her ghost asked with genuine concern.

Phoebe shook her head ‘no’.  “I think… I think I want to sleep now.”

The ghost paused for a moment, considering, before she nodded and headed back to her chair.  Phoebe watched as the little girl faded out of view, and for the first time in six days, she slept.

Chapter Text

There was something unsettling about the situation as Steven stared at the monitor inside the Mossdeep Space Center.  How the blip of about ten pixels slowly tracking its way across the screen could bring about the end of the world.  A meteor the size of four city blocks was hurtling their way, and that was after it would lose almost sixty percent of its mass from burning up during its entry though the atmosphere…  

No, it didn’t matter.  If it hit, it would erase Hoenn from the map, not to mention the fallout of the impact felt around the globe.  Steven’s fist tightened against the computer console, knuckles a bloodless white.  He had to do everything in his power to prevent this from happening.  He had to.  There was no other choice.  

A swirl of emotions churned in his gut, and yet the pokeball at his hip remained eerily still.   Fear, conviction, hurt, desperation, anger .  He’d been backed into a corner, left helpless because of the actions of others.  It wasn’t fair.  He chided himself; he knows life isn’t fair.  But it didn’t stop the sense of betrayal.  And by his own father, no less.  It took every ounce of willpower not to drive his fist into the tabletop in frustration as the conversation replayed in his mind for the umpteenth time.  Every waking moment that wasn’t devoted to figuring out a way out of this mess, he was haunted by the look on his father’s face.  

Inexcusable.  What he did was inexcusable.  And in the end, Steven was too weak to stand up to him.

This time, the pokeball on his belt did shake once, weakly, and it was enough to startle Steven from drowning in his anger.  Metagross at least forced him to be honest with himself.  But it only served to bury that emotion with a new one.  Regret flooded in, and Steven planted both hands on the desktop and bowed his head.  It wasn’t weakness.  His hand was forced into this decision.  A ticking clock and deliberate withholding of information.  He’d always prided himself in thinking on the fly, but this was something else entirely.  One misstep, and that was it.  No second chance to make things right.  And even then, it wasn’t him that paid the price.

“Metagross.”

It was a strangled whisper, the only thing he could muster in present company.  No one had heard him, the scientists too buried in their calculations and simulations.  The scream he truly wanted to let out was inappropriate, so he buried it deep, spun on his heel, and marched from the room.

-  [Two days earlier] -

His father’s message had been innocent enough.  Steven had been unpacking boxes at his Mossdeep house when his PokeNav beeped.  Not that he’d had that much stuff from his tenure as Champion, but checking his Nav was a welcome interruption.

Hi Steven, If you have some free time, could you stop by the office in Rustboro?  There’s something I’d like to show you.

Steven’s eyebrow quirked as he read it.  “Well that’s… vague.”

Metagross rumbled a question, its red eyes settling on the device in Steven’s hand.  Steven sighed in response.

“It’s from Dad.  Inevitable, I guess.  It’s been a week since we lost, so that’s enough of a grace period for him, probably.”

Metagross tilted on its axis, not unlike how Skarmory would cock its head when it was puzzled.  It seemed his team’s mannerisms were wearing off on one another.  Steven chuckled despite the heaviness in his heart.

“He wants to talk to me about Devon, most likely,” he explained, resting a hand against Metagross’s cross.  Steven thumbed to the message again just to see if he’d missed anything.  “I can’t think of any other reason he’d want me to stop by his office.”

The steel beneath his hand shifted, nudging up against him with purpose as a nearby cardboard box outlined in blue and folded itself shut.  Metagross looked up at its trainer with thinly veiled intent as the psychic hue vanished from its eyes.  Steven got the hint.

“Looks like I just came across some unexpected free time, then.  I wasn’t going to ignore him, you know.  I’ll get Skarmory and then we can head out.”

Satisfied, Metagross rumbled contentedly, and shuffled its way to the back of the house while Steven disappeared into the bedroom for a moment to grab his jacket and Skarmory’s pokeball.  

He reemerged, folding the sleeves of his shirt back down.  “I swear, if I find out Dad’s been bribing you to to keep tabs on me—”

Steven laughed as Metagross grated an annoyed sound and narrowed its eyes.

“I’m kidding.  Let’s go, I’m sure he’ll be happy to see us, regardless.”

Whatever unease that had been tumbling around in Steven’s gut had calmed on the flight to Rustboro.  It had been a long time since he could remember flying on Skarmory’s back without a weight on his shoulders.  The Championship was a thing of the past now, and the crisis of Kyogre and Groudon’s revival had been resolved.  Sure, the weight of Devon loomed on the horizon, but at present, Steven felt strangely unburdened.  It was… refreshing.  Which meant the smile he wore when the elevator dinged its arrival to the top floor of Devon Co.’s headquarters was, for once, completely genuine.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Steven!”  Joseph was already striding out of his office with arms spread wide.  He easily enveloped his son in a generous hug.  “You surprised me, I figured I wouldn’t see you for another week at least.  You know, mourning the loss and all that.”

“Ah, it’s not like that,” Steven said as he gently ducked out of his father’s hug.  “Losing is never fun, but it was bound to happen.”

Joseph gave a fond smile.  “Looks like my boy’s grown into a fine young man.”

“Dad.”

“Haha, right, right,” Joseph laughed, wrapping an arm around Steven’s shoulder and ignoring his son’s annoyed look.  “All business.  You know, you take after me a little too much sometimes.  Come on, there’s something I want to show you in one of the labs.”

They took the elevator down together, chatting easily as they walked through Devon’s polished corridors.  Did Steven miss the League?  How are his pokemon coping?  What’s the new Champion like?  Is she cute? (Steven groaned at this one)  What did he plan to do next?  Any great adventures in the works?  Or perhaps would he show his face around Rustboro more often? 

Thankfully, Steven was able to dodge the last question as his father stopped in front of a pair of double doors.  

“Ah, we’re here.” Joseph produced a keycard from his inner pocket and swiped them inside.

The automatic lights clicked on as they stepped through the threshold, and Steven’s eyes went wide.  He was familiar with most of Devon’s research, top secret or otherwise.  He’d never seen anything like this.

Towering in front of him were two huge dynamos, each at least two stories tall.  Beneath, the floor had been removed save for two platforms illuminated in soft blue light that pulsed in and out, almost as if it was alive.  In the void below, small coils were arrayed in a circle, spiralling down the length of the shaft until they fell out of view.  The air in the room was charged with something that set his hair on end.  

It was a minute before Steven could find his voice.  “Dad, what is all this?”

“It’s an energy collection device.  The largest we’ve ever built.”  The grim expression on his father’s face sent a knot of dread tumbling in his chest.  “Son, what do you remember about Infinity Energy?”

Steven recoiled as if he’d been slapped.  “What?”

Joseph’s voice was pleading.  “Believe me, if there were any other way—” 

“I thought we agreed to never consider Infinity Energy again!”  Steven shouted, jabbing a finger at the ground.  Even the name burned him as he said it.  Energy that powered an ancient weapon.  Energy that murdered countless thousands.  Energy coveted by a mad king.  Energy stolen from a pokemon’s life force.  His glare burned into his father.  “What were you thinking, building this thing?”

“Steven.”  Joseph’s gaze fell to the floor, unable to hold his son’s incredulous stare.  “I had no choice.”

“What do you mean you had no choice?  There is always a choice, and we cannot choose this!”  Steven swept his hand at the machine, the gesture both aggressive and empty.  It was too late, he was too late.  Or was he?  Metagross’s pokeball was in his hand before he realized.

“Steven, wait, please!  We need this machine, this energy!  There’s a meteor headed straight for Hoenn, and this is the only thing that can stop it!”

Steven froze, turning in what felt like slow motion, his arm still poised mid-throw.  “What did you just say?”

His father seemed to shrink in on himself, his hands wringing together.  “There’s a meteor.  The science center detected it a few weeks ago.  It didn’t look like there was any danger but…  It suddenly changed course.  We’re right in its path.  There are only four days until impact.”

The color drained from Steven’s face.  “Why…  Why did you wait to tell me this?”

“There was no time.  We had to start the dynamo construction right away to finish in time.  And if you had known…”  Joseph trailed off.

“...I would have stopped you,” Steven finished.  

Joseph nodded, but Steven hardly noticed.  His hand had fallen to his side in disbelief.  Metagross’s pokeball shook in his furious grasp, and it wasn’t from the pokemon inside.  “You knew and you deliberately kept me in the dark.”

“Steven…”

“The meteor.  The device.  You hid everything from me!  Why?”

“Steven.”

“I’m your son.  I’m the Champion.  I could have helped you!”

“Steven, please. You still can.”

“I can’t believe this— Wait, what?”

Steven’s tirade stopped in its tracks.  His father was staring at him in earnest.

“You can still help.  That’s why I called you.  Even with everything Devon can offer, I can’t do this on my own.”

The sincerity in his father’s voice cooled Steven’s head just a bit.  But it was far from an apology.  The sting of betrayal still burned bright with his smouldering anger.  It should never have come to this between them, but here they were.  Steven turned his back to the machine and crossed his arms, eyes sharp.

“Explain.  And don’t leave anything out.  I don’t like being deceived.”

“No deception, I promise.  This is everything I know.”  Joseph walked over to the console and powered up the screen.  Steven turned to face him, but otherwise did not react.  “The plan requires Infinity Energy to power both the rocket and the dimensional shifter we’re planning to use to transport the meteor away from its collision course.”

With a few keystrokes, a gauge appeared on the screen reading at forty percent.  Steven’s eyes narrowed.

“We’ve already tested the dynamo, and it’s working at full capacity.  However, the amount of energy we’ve collected is not enough.”

A single, incredulous laugh echoed through the lab, but there was no mirth in Steven’s eyes.  He shook his head.  “Unbelievable.  So that’s why you finally told me.  That’s why you wanted me here.”

“Steven if there was any other way.  The energy your pokemon could contribute, with their power… Metagross alone might almost be enough!”

“Absolutely not.  I refuse.  You are not taking my partner’s life force to fuel your insane plan!  How many pokemon have you sacrificed already?”  Steven was shouting, but this time his father did not back down.  

Joseph slammed a palm against the top of the console.  “We monitored the health of every pokemon we siphoned!  Not a single pokemon has died for this endeavor!  It was our promise!”

“No, this is absurd.  There has to be another way.  There has to—”

“There is no other way.  Not with what little time we have left.  Steven, we have to use this.  Otherwise… Four days from now, there will be no tomorrow.”

Steven turned from his father with a noise of disgust.  There was truth in those words.  It still was almost impossible to stomach.  His fist squeezed around Metagross’s pokeball so hard it hurt, the metal of his rings digging against his skin.  The metal floor of the lab was suddenly the most palatable thing for him to stare at.  Behind him, a rustle of fabric told him his father was headed his way.  

Steven shook his head.  “Don’t.”

But instead of a protest from his father, the pokeball in his hand began to quake.  Startled, Steven looked down at the rebellious object.

“Metagross, what are you—? No, we can’t.  I can’t.”

“Steven—”

Incensed, Steven spun on his heel, finger outstretched.  “I said don’t!”  But the pokeball in his other hand only shook harder.  “Metagross, stop!  You don’t understand.  We are not doing this!  This is your life we are talking about!”

“Steven, it’s all of our lives at stake.” Joseph’s voice was nearly a whisper, but Steven heard it loud and clear.

“You think I don’t know that?  A meteor, Dad.  It won’t be just Hoenn.  An impact that large will have global consequences.”  Steven paled, his eyes going wide.  “Have any of the other regions been alerted?  What if they could do something—”

Joseph shook his head.  “They knew there was a meteor, but that was before it was on a collision course.”

“There’s still four days though!  We could contact them, pool our resources, surely someone will have an idea on how to prevent this!”

“Steven, we already have a way to stop it.  We ran the models.  There is no uncertainty, the dimensional shifter will work.  We just need the energy to power it.  This is the last step to save Hoenn.  We can save everyone.”

Metagross’s pokeball shook hard enough to almost loosen it from Steven’s white-knuckled grip.  

“Steven, please .”

Steven opened his mouth as if to say something, but his voice failed him.  Whatever protest, whatever alternative solution, whatever argument he could come up with, he’d exhausted them all.  The empty resignation filled him with dread.  Steven turned away from his father again and squared his shoulders with the lab’s exit… And stopped.  He closed his mouth briefly, lips tight, before addressing his next words to the pokeball in his hand.  “Are you sure about this?”

The ball rocked once with conviction, and Steven bowed his head.  Swallowing once, he turned around and met his father’s eyes.

“What do we need to do?”

The sea breeze that blew in over the Mossdeep cliffside wasn’t as calming as he’d hoped.  Standing at the precipice, Steven looked down at the churning waters below, unbuttoned blazer flapping in the wind.  The ocean roar felt muffled from this high up, dull and pulsing to his ears.  A few small stones slipped loose from the cliff beneath his feet and bounced down the rocky face only to be swallowed up in the white spray.  There was something almost liberating in watching them fall, and he dug into the ground with the toe of his shoe, dislodging another victim to be sent to its doom.  Perhaps… if he joined them… it would be the end of this nightmare…

A hand slipped up and loosened his cravat, the fine silk sliding out from beneath his collar.  An easy shrug, and his jacket joined it, hanging loosely in his left hand.  In his right, the single pokeball retrieved from his belt and held at eye height.  His unfocused gaze finally locked on to the polished surface, gleaming even under the cloudy skies.  He could see every knick, every scratch and scuff from years of service.  Nearly fourteen, if he was counting.  His first pokemon, his most beloved partner.

Steven didn’t bother to turn around as he pushed the button and aimed the pokeball over his shoulder.  The flash of light dissipated quickly, and the familiar presence of his pokemon materialized behind him.  He knew Metagross could feel his emotions, he wasn’t hiding them, not that he could even if he had been trying.  His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath; crisp and clean, salty and sharp.  

One, two, three seconds… Metagross’s startled screech pierced through the air, though he could still hear how weak it was.  The ground shook with its clumsy approach, a rush of jumbled limbs too terrified to bother with appearances.

“It’s okay.  I’m not going to do it,” Steven said, staring out across the horizon, prompting Metagross to come to a sudden halt with a harried cry.  

“It’s just that…  I don’t even know anymore.”

Steven’s eyes rolled skyward, his head tilting back to follow.  The flat, gray clouds a perfect match to his half lidded gaze.  It wasn’t like he could do anything even if he could see the giant fireball plummeting closer and closer.  The breeze picked up in its intensity, and Steven swayed dangerously on his feet, prompting Metagross to cry out again in warning.  

Then, suddenly, as if he were a puppet with its strings cut, Steven sat down hard, jacket and cravat discarded on the ground in a pile.  Metagross’s pokeball fell from his grasp, rolling to a stop between where his legs dangled over the cliff’s edge, and Steven buried his head in his hands and screamed.

Chapter Text

Wallace had always been taught to respect the sea.  From a young age he was in awe of water’s duality.  How it could be so calm and serene, the picture of beauty, and how quickly it could turn violent and tumultuous in an angry display of power.  Yes, the sea was a thing to be respected as both a giver and taker of life.  

The lesson was never more clear than on one summer day on the shores of a hidden archipelago just beyond the Sky Pillar.  The secret beaches there were a favorite spot for the children of Sootopolis to relax and play in the waves, since the city’s crater lake tended to be mirror-smooth most of the year.  Wallace had been to this spot many times in his thirteen years under the creator’s watch, and this particular afternoon he decided to play hooky with his Lorekeeper studies and join his friends for some fun in the sun.

While most of the girls tended to hang near the beach and wade in the shallows, Wallace and the other boys were enthralled with the challenge of seeing who could venture the furthest from shore.  The waves that day weren’t rough, which meant the conditions were ideal for the boys’ contest.

The rules were simple:  each contestant was allowed one pokemon to assist with their attempt.  The boy who got the furthest before turning around and returning to the group was the winner.  Wallace had claimed victory several times in the past, but the current champ was a boy he traded wins with often.  And they were the last two to go that day.  Wallace and his Goldeen, Charles, versus Laurel and his Magikarp.  

Glancing over, Wallace had a thought.  “Hey Laurel, want to go at the same time today?”

The taller boy bobbing atop his Magikarp met Wallace’s gaze with a fiery grin.  “You’re on, Wallace!  Last one to that rock is a rotten Exeggcute!”

Wallace grinned in return as Charles trilled a feisty rebuttal.  “Ready?”

“Go!” shouted the other boys, and Wallace and Laurel took off like a shot.

Both strong swimmers, the pair were neck and neck the whole way.  Charles provided extra propulsion with his full, frilly tail, while Laurel’s Magikarp’s tenacity made up for its species’ lack of coordination.  They both reached the rock at nearly the same time, Laurel finishing a hand-width ahead of Wallace, and both boys shared a laugh between catching their breath.

“So,” started Laurel, bobbing in the waves, “wanna see how much further we can go?”

Wallace treaded water, drifting slightly ahead of the rock they set as their goal.  “Mm, probably not much further today.  That race took more out of me than I thought!”

Laurel laughed and kicked off the rock past Wallace.  “What’s the matter, Combusken?”

Wallace pulled a face at the older boy as he floated further out.  “No, just, Master Juan said to not go too far past the Sky Pillar.”

“Ha, I just think you’re scared I’ll beat you again.  Two weeks in a row!”  Charles flipped a fin Laurel’s way, and the older boy ducked away from the splash with a graceful dive, splashing water back at Wallace and his partner.  “C’mon, just a bit further.”

“Fine,” said Wallace. “But let’s start from the rock again.  It’s only fair.”

But when Wallace reached out to find their rock, it wasn’t right behind him anymore.  Both boys must have drifted further than they thought; it was well out of reach.  Wallace kicked to head back, but after a few strokes, the rock seemed to have gotten even further away.  Even Charles was having difficulty closing the distance, and Wallace’s blood ran cold.

“Laurel!” he cried as he bobbed frantically, legs suddenly feeling like lead.  Charles ducked beneath his tired trainer, trying to carry the both of them to safety.  But the tide was too strong.  Wallace began to panic.  “Laurel!  Laurel come back!  We’re in a rip current!”

The older boy turned at Wallace’s shout, but somehow he’d drifted even further than before.  Wallace watched as Laurel swam against the tide, only for his form to get smaller and smaller, dragged away by the merciless rip tide. 

“Laurel!”  This time Wallace’s head dipped under, and he came up coughing to find no sign of his friend on the wide blue horizon.  Charles’ exhausted form bobbed listlessly next to him, and the only thing sinking faster than Wallace himself was his heart.  There was no escaping the rip, and they were too exhausted to even try to swim to the side and out of its grip.  Who knew how wide the current was.  

It was then that Wallace stopped fighting.  The sea would have its way with him, just as it had with Laurel.  So he hugged Charles close, and he closed his eyes, and they floated along the current with a silent promise that should they survive the sea’s whim this day, he would never take it for granted again.

The next morning, Juan received a phone call that two Sootopolitan boys had been fished out of the Pacifidlog currents by a local charter.  One was found exhausted and dehydrated, clutching onto a Goldeen and a Magikarp.  The other didn't make it.

Chapter Text

"Sir. Sir, please wait! I need to see your discharge papers!"

Sidney pretended he didn't hear the nurse as he strode past the hospital desk and out into the bustling streets of Lilycove.

The surgeon had barely finished tying the knot of his stitches before he yanked his IV and got the hell out of that hospital. That damn bookie put a real damper on his plans. He'd been in one place for too long already…

The crowds milled around him, and Sidney's pulse quickened. It felt eerily like when the knife sunk into his gut in broad daylight.  Out here in the crowd, he was a sitting Ducklett. The blue of his "liberated" hospital scrubs felt like a target on his back.  They could be anywhere, watching, waiting, ready to snatch him back the first chance they got. The paranoia was overwhelming.

Sidney swiped a hand across his face. "I gotta get out of this fucking city," he muttered.  "But first…"

Ducking around the corner, Sidney located the first second-hand clothing store he could find, thankful the clerk didn't comment on the blood stained wad of cash he tossed on the counter.  Soon, he was stepping back onto the street, new wardrobe on, complete with a worn leather jacket that hopefully was a bit more knife-proof than his old one…

Unconsciously, he rubbed at the stitches beneath his shirt, sweat starting to bead on his brow as he tried to gain his bearings.  “Which way is the port?” he hissed, scanning the area for any sign of the ferry docks.  

Sidney’s heart rate hadn’t slowed any further.  The anxiety purely from standing still was getting to him.  Gripping the pokeball in his pocket tight, he took a breath and plunged into the crowd.  

He quickly found his way out of the shopping district and into the hustle and bustle of the lower city.  The increase in commercial vehicles and workers moving in and out of the tourists told him he was on the right track.

Find the ferry.  Get a ticket.  Get the hell outta dodge.  Simple enough, right?

Without warning, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.  Someone was watching him.  Whirling around, the sudden movement yanked on his stitches, and he nearly groaned.  When he caught sight of his worst nightmare through the throng of people, he did groan.  Motherfucking Gray .  Was here .  They’d found him.

Panic spiked through Sidney’s veins, and he turned and bolted.  His wound screamed in protest, but he paid it no mind.  One stab was nothing compared to what Gray would do to him if he got caught.  Nothing.   So Sidney ran because his life, and the life of his pokemon, depended on it.  

Pulse pounding in his ears, Sidney thundered through the crowd, bowling over pedestrians left and right.  He was making a scene, but it didn’t matter.  Gray saw him, and a red mohawk stood out in a crowd.  But maybe this worked to his advantage.  Would Gray try something if there were witnesses?  Although if  he got to the ferry before Gray got to him, there’d be no uncertainty involved.  

His legs churned against the brick, blowing by the ticketing booths and the shouting ticket collectors.  A horn sounded.  The ferry was leaving.  Sidney didn’t care where it was headed.  Right now, any city was better than this one.  No time to stop.  The gangplank was just ahead.

A police officer materialized out of the crowd, barring his way.  “Whoa, hold on there.”

Sidney’s eyes went wide as he tried to brake.  Too much momentum and not enough time to be a law abiding citizen.  He grit his teeth and socked the man across the jaw.  The officer tumbled in a heap, and a bystander screamed.

“Shit, sorry man!” said Sidney as he hustled by, though it was doubtful anyone heard him over the chaos.

Thirty feet from the ferry, another horn.  Twenty five feet and the gangplank lifted off from the dock.  Twenty feet, the gap was widening.  Fifteen feet, he wasn’t going to make it.  Ten feet, he was a dead man.

The last five steps were fueled by pure adrenaline.  Sidney reached the edge of the dock and jumped.  His stomach lurched with his leap, arms windmilling as he soared over the water.  He caught the railing in the midsection, knocking the wind from him, but he clung onto the metal for dear life, blissfully ignorant of the warm sensation pooling at his side.

The deck of the ferry was a flurry of commotion, and two sets of strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and hoisted him aboard.  The sailors weren’t all helpful though, and they held Sidney down against the planks with scowls that said stowaways weren’t welcome aboard their ship.

But Sidney didn’t care.  Bleeding through his new clothes, face smushed against the deck, he was laughing.  Arrest him, throw him in jail, who cares.  As long as he was beyond Gray’s clutches, he was a free man.

Chapter Text

Laughter floated through the air as two men made their way down the quiet, lamp-lighted streets of Lilycove.  Champion and Gym Leader, it was rare that they were able to find the time in their busy schedules to spend an evening together.  It was an even rarer occurrence that Steven did not regret having Wallace talk him into going to some kind of film or play, but the show they had gone to that night was indeed, as Wallace had put, “magnificent enough to not be missed”.  

Punch-drunk on the cool nighttime breeze, a refreshing change from the crowded theater, Steven was laughing at Wallace’s animated impersonations of the performance.  Perhaps a little actually-drunk as well, Wallace had suggested a midnight snack at a local creperie right around the corner.  Steven was too giddy to question why “right around the corner” had already taken them fifteen minutes to get to, and Wallace insisted he knew where he was going in the city he referred to as “his home away from home” at least five times since they had started walking.

But it didn’t matter.  They were having a grand time, and as Wallace somehow managed to stumble his way into an alley, Steven laughed even harder and jogged to catch up to his wayward friend.

“Wallace, you’re being ridiculous.  Come back he—”

Steven rounded the corner and froze.  Even in the darkness of the alley, it was apparent that Wallace did not accidentally stumble into it.  The Scyther’s blade shone bright against Wallace’s throat.  A man cloaked in shadows stood behind him, hand pressed against Wallace’s mouth.

“Move and he dies.”

The command was redundant, because Steven couldn’t have moved if he tried.  The look of sheer terror on his friend’s face rooted him to the spot.  Steven was vaguely aware of another presence appearing behind him, sealing off the alley entrance.  In the back of his mind, something screamed for his attention—that this wasn’t a normal robbery—but he couldn’t tear his eyes from Wallace or the thin line of red against his skin that Steven prayed was just a trick of the light.

Suddenly, Wallace’s eyes went even wider and he gave a muffled whimper.  The second presence moved over Steven’s shoulder, and he was roughly grabbed from behind.  A plastic tie cinched around his wrists and pulled tight, securing his hands behind his back.  He was too stunned to fight back.  This wasn’t supposed to be happening.  This hadn’t happened in years.  He was the Champion now.  Who would be stupid enough to go after the Champion?  And yet…  Now Wallace was involved in all this...

A firm hand clamped down on his shoulder.  “You’re coming with us.  Both of you.”

Steven’s head snapped up in surprise.  The blade slid back from Wallace’s throat as he too was bound by his captor, and Steven finally found himself.  He stiffened, leaning forward, but their assailants left him no room to act on it.  The grip on his arms tugged sharply back in an unspoken warning, and Steven’s strength fizzled.  His heart sunk even further when an Alakazam stepped out from behind Wallace, spoon raised.  The message was clear; it was too late.  He found his friend’s frantic gaze with doleful eyes.

“Wallace,” he choked out.  “I’m so sorry.”

He only caught a glimpse of a black bag being pulled over Wallace’s head before his own vision was obscured.  A sharp kick to the back of his legs sent him stumbling, and he landed hard on his knees with a grunt.

“Steven!?” Wallace’s cry was like a dagger to his heart.  “What is happe—!?” 

The sound of teleportation cut Wallace’s outburst short, and Steven bowed his head.  The weight of guilt burying him on the spot.  This was all his fault.   He sucked in a sharp breath between clenched teeth.  Wallace should never have...

Something tapped against the top of his head, and the nausea-inducing sensation of a teleport swallowed him whole.

If there was one thing Steven was thankful for in the immediate situation, it was that he was kneeling when the teleport occurred.  The dizziness combined with his sightlessness would have resulted in him falling with no way to catch himself before he hit the ground.  Instead, he wavered unsteadily on his knees before a strong grip dragged him back to his feet and held him in place.  A rough search occurred before he was marched somewhere else, still blindfolded and bound.

Doors opened and shut in succession as he stumbled along in his captor’s grip.  There was no way to even guess where they might be taking him.  He could only hope it was the same place as Wallace…

Steven didn’t have to wait much longer to get his answer.  Another door opened and this time the grip on his arm shifted, halting him in place.  The bag was yanked from his head as he was shoved in the back, and the door slammed shut behind him with finality.

He was still squinting against the offending light when another sound caught his attention. 

“Steven?”  

Wallace’s voice had never sounded so meek, so timid, and yet Steven never had felt such relief.

“Wallace, thank the gods,” he said, unable to hide the waver in his tone.  “Are you okay?”  came tumbling out, and he paused, feeling rather silly as both he and Wallace were still bound not to mention locked in a room in an unknown location.  “Well… all things considered.”

“I’m unharmed if that’s what you mean,” said Wallace.  “Though, I don’t understand what’s going on?  Who are these people?  Why are they after us?”

The desperation in Wallace’s questions drove a new dagger into Steven’s heart.  His gaze fell to the floor.  “Wallace, they’re after me.   They’re always after me.  You just—” his breath hitched.  “You’re caught up in all this because of me.”

“Don’t be preposterous!”  Wallace actually sounded offended, and Steven’s gaze shot back up in surprise.  “If anyone should be feeling guilty about all this, it’s me.  Who else was the tipsy fool that suggested midnight crepes, only to be used as a hostage in his best friend’s abduction?”

Silence hung between them for a beat, Steven noting how quickly such an event sobered the pair of them.  But he shook his head.  “I don’t buy it.  It’s not unreasonable to expect to be able to go out for an evening without having to worry about never making it back home.”

Wallace sighed, knowing he’d never convince his stubborn cellmate.  “Fine. But what do we do now?  What can we do now?”

It was unnerving how easily Steven replied with a shrug.  “We wait.”

Wallace watched as Steven moved over to the nearest wall, leaning against it to ease himself into a seated position.  A look from Steven invited Wallace to do the same, but the Gym Leader was not interested.  Instead, he took to staring at the locked door of their room with a huff.  Left with no other choice, both men settled in as best they could for the wait, whatever it might bring.

An uneasy silence settled over the dingy storage room turned prison cell.  Wallace had not been able to continue his staring contest for long, nor was he able to sit still for more than two minutes at a time.  He would pace, then stop, then perch atop one of the random boxes littered at the back of the room, then pace again.  It was exhausting to witness.  

Steven had to stop watching him ages ago.  In contrast, he hadn’t moved the entire time, sitting cross-legged on the floor and staring at the ground, wiggling his fingers every now and again to stave off the growing numbness.  If looks could kill there would have been a hole in the concrete by now for how intensely he had been studying it.

A rustle of fabric and a quiet grumble signaled Wallace was starting another of his pacing rounds when he cleared his throat with enough authority to cause Steven to jump.

“Excuse me!  Hello!  Whoever is out there, answer me!”

“Wallace,” Steven hissed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m demanding answers, what does it look like I’m doing?  I say, hello out there!”

“Wallace, stop,” Steven warned, sitting up ramrod straight.

“No, I will not stop!”  Wallace’s voice grew in volume, rising in time with his indignance.  “I won’t stop because this is absurdity!   Being kept here!   Against our will! ”

“Wallace, please…  They know all of this.  They already made the decision to commit these acts.  You yelling at them for it is not going to help things.  The last thing we need right now is for them to come in here.” The look on Steven’s face was near desperation, but Wallace was too incensed to listen.

“Well maybe they need to have some sense talked into them!   We are already in a locked room!  If we are being kept here for hours on end , at least untie us!  It’s awfully difficult to relieve oneself with their hands tied behind their back! ”  Wallace was now shouting every other word, and no amount of Steven’s begging could get him to calm down.  

Until the door was thrown open with a commanding bang.  The sound caused both men to flinch, Wallace temporarily quieting down before he spotted a figure approaching.  

“Oh, well it’s about time.  I swear, this is just ridiculous.  I have had to use the bathroom for hours .”  Too caught up in his tirade, Wallace didn’t notice that the man storming into the room did not seem to be listening, nor slowing down.  “Now if you’d be so kind as to untie—”

He was cut off as their captor slugged him across the jaw so hard, the Gym Leader crumpled to the floor in a heap.  

Steven’s heart was in his throat, his back pressed painfully against the wall.   It took everything he had to not shout after his friend, lest he too attracted the attention of their very angry jailor.   He sucked in a breath as he watched Wallace writhe on the ground in pain.

Without a word, their captor grabbed the Gym Leader by a fistful of hair and pulled his head from the floor.  Wallace’s groan was silenced as a thick strip of tape was slapped tight across his mouth.  Several more joined the first before the man let go, dropping Wallace back to the ground face-first.

Blood pounded in Steven’s ears as he watched their captor stalk back out of the room and slam the door shut behind him.  Immediate threat gone, his terrified gaze snapped back to Wallace, his friend’s breath now audible as he panted through his nose.

“Wallace?” Steven croaked.  His gut churned as his friend stirred, slowly curling in on himself.  Steven couldn’t see Wallace’s face, but the way his bound hands slowly clenched and unclenched made Steven’s heart sink.  Wallace had paid dearly for that mistake.

He wasn’t really sure what he’d be able to do in his current predicament, but Steven dragged himself over to Wallace’s side anyway.  He’d just kneeled back down near his friend when the door opened once more.  Steven froze, panic surging that their captor’s anger hadn’t abated, but no one stepped through the door.  Instead, a gallon bucket was hurled into the room where it bounced with a rattle and a thonk, rolling to a stop off to the side.  The door slammed shut again, this time the lock rattling with enough force to be heard.

Steven watched the bucket rock back and forth until it stilled, dirty bottom staring back at him mockingly.  His anger rose in seething silence.   A bucket for a toilet that was still impossible to use.  This is what their captors thought of them.  And yet he was powerless to do anything.  Steven squeezed his eyes shut, willing his racing heart to slow.

A muffled whimper at his side cooled his head, and he turned his full attention back to his stricken friend.

“Wallace?” he asked again, this time earning a look that sent a knife through his chest.  

Tears had cut a track through the grime that marred Wallace’s cheeks, muddy in contrast to the angry red mark blooming across his jaw.  His chest still heaved as he breathed against the gag, but it was his eyes that drove Steven’s fear.  The regret, the despair, the sheer and utter helplessness.  He’d never seen Wallace so fragile.  It nearly shattered his own resolve.

“We’ll get through this, okay?” he breathed, the tie around his wrists digging tighter.  “We’ll get through this.” 

Steven eased himself down next to Wallace and curled up beside him. Wallace shifted, eyes meeting Steven's own.

"Together," Steven promised. His gaze never wavered, and to his relief, some of the tension melted from Wallace's face, his eyes closing with a muffled sob.

Exhaustion suddenly hit Steven like a truck, and he felt his own lids grow heavy.  He pushed off the fatigue, though, determined to be there if Wallace opened his eyes again. 

But the Gym Leader kept his eyes shut, intermittently shaking with silent sobs, and Steven could fight it no more. His head lolled against the cold concrete and he gave in to sleep's embrace.

Steven had no idea how long he'd been asleep. It could have been only minutes, or several hours.  All he knew was that he was awakened by a boot being buried in his ribcage.

"Wake up!"

His cry of pain was reduced to a wheeze as a masked man reached down and dragged him upright by his lapels.  Beside him, Wallace fared no better, thrashing blearily in his captor's grip, shouts muted by his gag.

A bright light shone directly in their faces, both men flinching away in discomfort.  It was disorienting, but before either Steven or Wallace could discern what was going on, it was all over.

Two clicks sounded followed by a short whir, and they were both unceremoniously deposited back on the ground.  Their surprise visitors retreated from whence they came, leaving the two captives stunned and alone once more.  

Shakily, Wallace rose to a sitting position, finding Steven's eyes with his terror-laced own.  Steven held Wallace's gaze a moment before his own flicked nervously to the door of their cell, wincing as his ribs protested.  He had no answers this time. 

As tired as both men were, sleep was not in the cards any longer. The rest of the night was spent watching the cell door for any sign of movement, flinching at the slightest sound.

At some point Steven must have dozed off again, because he jolted awake from where he’d been leaning against Wallace’s shoulder.  Wallace glanced his way as he readjusted himself to sit upright, and Steven couldn’t help but notice the dark circles beneath his friend’s eyes.  A pang of guilt hit him, realizing it probably wasn’t Wallace’s choice to stay awake; breathing must be an awful challenge with his mouth sealed shut.

Steven flexed his hands behind his back.  They weren’t that numb, yet.  He couldn’t reach much, but at the very least he might be able to pry a corner of the tape off… He was about to suggest just that when a rattle came from the door, and his heart leaped into his throat.  Beside him, Wallace went stiff, shaking his head ‘no’ with a small whimper.

The door cracked open, a far cry from the violent visits they’d had earlier.  In the small breathing space it afforded, Steven rose to a knee, protectively sliding himself in front of Wallace.  It wasn’t much, but with the way Wallace huddled behind him, it was going to have to be.

Steven glared daggers at the door as it finally swung wide, but his brave facade could only hold so long as three figures stepped through the opening; two men wearing masks and the Alakazam between them.  Steven’s heart sank, but he did not budge.  He couldn’t let Wallace be their target again, he just couldn’t.

Mercifully, the Alakazam held back at the door, but the masked men kept walking.  Steven stiffened, but was promptly ignored.  The two men marched over, shouldered him out of the way, and hauled a terrified Wallace to his feet. 

"Wallace!” Steven surged forward, only to be stopped by an Alakazam's spoon in his face. “Leave him alone!"

"Hey, he won this fair and square. Don't be a sore loser."

Steven backed down, confused. "Won?" 

But the two men disregarded him again, dragging the weakly protesting Wallace toward the door. "You've got time to make up some ground, though.  It's not over yet."

Panic and confusion vied for supremacy as Steven was forced to watch, helpless, as Wallace disappeared through the open door.  The Alakazam slowly retreated in their wake, spoon still brandished forward in warning, and closed the door behind it.  

It was only then that Steven realized he could no longer hear Wallace’s muffled cries, and his chest tightened to the point where he had to double over from the pain.  Helpless, he hated being helpless.

“WALLACE!”

His breath came in short, heavy gasps, and as the room began to spin he stumbled back until his backside met with a wayward box and he sat down hard.  The panic was still not subsiding.  Wallace was gone.  He’d promised him.  They’d get through this together.  And he’d failed.  

Steven let out a frustrated scream, pulling with all his might against the zip tie, but it wouldn’t budge.  His shoulders heaved as he sagged forward, defeated.  

He was too tired to be angry or afraid.  He was too weak to break free of his bonds.  He was too inept to protect his friend.  And so, numbly, the pathetic excuse for a Champion bowed his head and accepted the inevitability of his fate.

Steven barely flinched when he heard the door lock disengage.  He didn’t bother to look up; it was only a matter of time before they came back for him.  But when the door opened only to close a moment later, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Steven?”

His head shot up at the sound of Wallace’s voice.  He studied him for a moment, too shocked to speak.  Whatever Steven was expecting, this certainly wasn’t it.  Wallace looked… fine.  His hands were still tied, but in front this time.  The tape was gone, obviously, and although the bruise from earlier had taken on a lovely shade of purple, he looked no worse for wear.  In fact, aside from the ghostly pallor of his skin, he looked even better than before they’d dragged him from the cell.  But despite his relief, when Wallace spoke it chilled him to the bone.

“Oh gods, Steven.  It’s…”  Wallace fumbled, searching for the words, but the agony written across his face did all the talking for him.

“What… What happened, Wallace?”

Wallace held Steven’s gaze, his eyes hauntingly distant.  “The ransom…  Our ransom… They showed me… As a… reward .”

Steven’s stomach did a flip.  He felt sick.  He didn’t want to ask, but he had to.  “What do you mean, reward?”

“It’s… A contest.  Between us.” Wallace shuddered, suddenly unable to meet Steven’s incredulous gaze.  “They’ve posted it publicly, the photos from last night and everything, and…”  

“And what?” Steven pressed as Wallace faltered.  “Wallace, tell me.”

The Gym Leader’s eyes shot up. “And whoever garners the largest amount goes free!” he spat, fear turning to fury.  “Steven, they think our lives are a game! ”

Steven’s eyes fell, darting around the room as his mind started churning.  This was all wrong.  This was not how this was supposed to go.  They were supposed to contact his father, and his father would be terrified but he’d pay, and this would all be a mess he could sweep under the rug.  But this… This?

“But the reward,” he asked slowly.  “What was it for?” 

“Steven…” Wallace’s eyes were full of guilt.  “I’m winning.”

It became a rhythm.  Long periods of nothing, followed by the door opening and Wallace being taken away.  The visits were never frequent, nor were they on a schedule, but each time Steven watched Wallace go, his heart gave a pang that he hated. 

Because each time the door opened, the way their captors treated Wallace softened.  At first it was a rough grab, then a gentle tug, and the last time they simply beckoned from the door and Wallace obeyed.  And every time he returned, it was nothing but silence.  Wallace never talked about what they’d rewarded him with, and Steven never found it in him to ask.

But as the visits passed, Steven found his strength waning away, the pangs of hunger intensifying, the bite against his wrists more and more uncomfortable.  Wallace found it harder and harder to make eye contact, and they sat in silence, waiting for the next time a rattle came from the cell door.

Until the last time when Wallace walked back through the door, something finally was different.  Steven wasn’t in his usual spot, and Wallace panicked.  He rushed into the room, frantically searching for his friend.  

“Steven?”  

He was nowhere to be seen.  Had the ransom period ended?  Did their captors take him while he’d been away?  They never said what would happen to the one who lost…  

Somehow, a sliver of logic cut through Wallace’s rising panic.  Determinedly, he pushed to the back of the room that was littered with boxes, and shoved aside the one they had discovered to be lightest.  He wasn’t sure whether to cry out from joy or from terror.  There was Steven slumped in the corner, eyes closed.

“Steven!”  Wallace squeezed his way into the space, shaking his friend’s shoulder.  “Steven, oh gods, please wake up.”

Groggily, Steven looked up, a weak smile plastered on his face.  “Hey, Wallace.”

“Steven, what are you doing back here?  C’mon, let’s get you up.”

Wallace was as gentle as he could be in trying to help Steven back to his feet, but his grip was tenuous with his hands bound.  Finally, he got his hands hooked around Steven’s arm and lifted.  Steven didn’t move.  Well, his arms moved, which earned a weak groan, but the rest of him stayed curled on the floor, dead weight in Wallace’s arms.

“Steven?”

His question earned Wallace a blank stare, as if Steven had only barely registered his name.  “I don’t… I don’t know what my father is doing…” he mumbled.

“What?”

“He pays.  Whatever they’re asking.  He always pays.”

Wallace’s gut churned at the fact that Steven said "always."  “Steven, you can’t stay back here.  You have to get up, please.  This nightmare will be over soon, I just need you to stay strong until then.  Can you do that for me?”

Steven fixed him with a hauntingly distant stare that seemed to look straight through Wallace.  “Did… Did they ever tell you… What happens to the loser?”

There were no words that Wallace could come up with, so to his horror he watched a delirious smile spread across his friend’s face.

“So… If both ransoms are met, can we both go free?”

“We’re…” Wallace’s breath hitched as Steven’s head lolled to the side, too tired to even wait for an answer.  “We’re both going to get out of here.  I’ll make sure of it.  You have to get up, though.  Unless…”

Wallace gently let Steven fall back into his nest of boxes, and picked his way back to the front of the room, where he immediately brought both fists against the door of their cell.

“Hey, hello out there!  Open up!”

A rustle from behind him told Wallace he was at least making enough of a stir to rouse his friend.  That would definitely draw the attention of their captors.  He paused, leaning closer to the door to see if he could hear anything outside, but he was greeted with nothing but silence.  He banged on the door again.

“Hello, I have an urgent request!  We— Uh, I need water!  Something to drink, please!”  

Still no response, but maybe their captors weren’t standing guard outside at all hours of the day.  They had just returned him to the cell, and it’s not like he and Steven were going anywhere.  That was the problem, though.  

Wallace glanced over his shoulder, ear still pressed to the door.  The guilt churned in his stomach.  Every time he’d been pulled from the room and “rewarded,” their captors gave him food and water.  Steven… he hadn’t left the cell once…

He bore back down on the door and pounded until his hands stung.

“Just some water, that’s all!”

The desperation in his voice was ugly, but Wallace was past the point of caring.  Anyone who could hear him already had seen him with his dignity stripped away, and dignity was not going to help Steven stay conscious.  

Just as he was about to swing again, the door flew open, nearly knocking him off his feet.  He stumbled backward, only to be greeted with a Scyther blade pointed at his nose.  One of their captors stood behind the bug type, expression unreadable behind their mask save for the anger in their eyes.

“You sure make a lot of noise for someone who’s already been told to shut up once.”

Reflexively, Wallace’s hands came up to shield his bruised cheek.  Slowly, he backed away from the bristling Scyther.

“I’m sorry. It’s for my friend. He’s… he’s in bad shape.”

“Not my problem,” the man deadpanned, and Wallace’s blood boiled; Scyther be damned.

“Oh, but it is your problem if he’s unwell when it’s time for the exchange.  Would you be happy if you had paid for damaged goods?” He knew he was toeing the line with his comment, but he also knew the bruise on his chin would punctuate his point.  

Wallace froze as their captor paused, the eyes beneath the mask darkening dangerously.  He held his breath, partially out of fear, partially to prevent himself from saying anything that might tip their captors over the edge, and partially to keep himself from throwing up at the casual way he referred to Steven as if he were nothing more than a piece of luggage.

Finally, the masked man waved over his shoulder, and a second person stepped up at his side.  Wallace couldn’t see what was in his hands, but he had a feeling their captors had given in to his request.

“And… maybe something to eat, too?” he ventured, bolstered by the minor victory.

Suddenly, something was thrown at him.  Wallace flinched, bringing his hands up to shield himself.  Unprepared for the catch, the water bottle bounced off his forearms and skittered across the floor before he could even register what had happened.

“Don’t push your luck,” their captor growled before slamming the cell door shut.

The lock had hardly rattled back into place before Wallace was diving after the water bottle, fumbling to grab it and crack open the top.

“Steven, Steven!” Wallace nearly tripped over himself in his hurry to get back to Steven’s side.  He set the bottle down momentarily to help prop Steven upright against one of the boxes.  Gently, he raised the bottle to Steven’s lips.  “Here, drink this.”  It took a concerted amount of effort to still the tremor in his hands so he wouldn’t spill a single, precious drop. 

Steven swallowed gingerly before closing his eyes and letting his head roll to the side.  His breathing seemed to have steadied for now, but he made no move to stand up, and the knot in Wallace’s gut churned harder.

“You should drink more,” he said, setting the bottle down to tip Steven’s head back upright with a hand against his cheek.  

Steven didn’t resist as Wallace brought the bottle back up, his half-lidded gaze staring somewhere past Wallace to a corner of the dirty ceiling tiles.

Wallace felt sick.  He had no idea how long they’d been here, but he knew one thing; this couldn’t go on any longer.  The plastic of the water bottle crackled beneath his grip.

“I’ll think of something,” he whispered, glaring holes in the locked cell door.  “I’ll think of something.”

The next time the cell door opened, it was with little ceremony, but right away something was different.  For starters, Wallace was on high alert the second they heard the approaching footsteps.  He sprung to his feet, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt as best he could and clearing his throat like he was preparing for something. 

What it was Steven couldn’t fathom.  From where he sat, slouched against one of the boxes for support, it was too taxing to even begin to try to straighten his posture. So much for the dignity of the doomed. It might have been Steven's weakened mind playing tricks on him, but it seemed as if Wallace moved even closer to his side as the door lock rattled.  He heard Wallace draw a steadying breath as the door swung open. 

Four men now came into the room accompanied by both a Scyther and the ever-present Alakazam.  Wallace stood tall and stared straight ahead, chin high. Steven couldn't help but stare at the glint from the Scyther's blades.

Two of the men strode forward and roughly grabbed both Steven and Wallace by the arm, which seemed to startle the latter.  “Let’s go.  On your feet.”

It was easy for Wallace to comply, but as the men tugged them toward the door, Steven struggled to find his footing, much to the annoyance of their captors.  The first man had hustled Wallace out the door before the second ran out of patience and resorted to simply dragging Steven behind him.  

Hearing Steven’s sudden gasp of pain, Wallace spun in his captor’s grip. “Stop!  Let me help him up.”

“Shut up,” came the grumpy reply before Wallace was shoved ahead once more.  He tried to turn back, but the Scyther stepped between him and Steven, blocking his view.  Wallace grit his teeth and complied with being marched along, the sounds of Steven’s struggles fading behind him.

He’d been brought to a halt where the Alakazam had stopped, patiently waiting with spoons in hand.  Wallace took a shaky breath as silence held in the room.  One breath.  Two breaths.  An aggravated sigh from the man holding his arm, who then addressed the Alakazam.  “If he tries anything, kill him.”

And then he was gone back toward the cell.  Wallace dared a glance at the Alakazam, channeling the thought ‘I’m only looking’ before turning to stare over his shoulder just in time to see two men practically carry Steven into the room, each with an arm hooked under one of his elbows.  Neither captor looked pleased as they simply let go, dropping Steven in a heap at Wallace’s feet.

Wallace’s stomach churned as Steven was powerless to stop his chin from bouncing off the floor.  He let out a weak groan between labored breaths, and Wallace was nearly fast enough to get to his side before he was roughly pulled back, and a hood tugged over his head.  Wallace tensed as he heard Steven’s breathing grow quieter, a sign that the same fate had befallen him as well.

“It’s time.”

The shuffling step of the Alakazam drew near, and Wallace clenched his fists, drawing in one final breath before its spoon came down upon his head and the world vanished with a sharp pop.  

This time when he hit solid ground again, Steven did heave.  Mercifully, his empty stomach meant nothing came up.  A sharp tug at his elbow jerked him upright, though he sagged against the iron grip anyway; his head swam in the semi-darkness, and his legs were like jelly.  Off to his right, he heard Wallace’s sharp inhale and a shuffle of gravel underfoot.  Steven turned his head toward the sound in the hope that the hood rustling with his movements was enough for Wallace to know that he was there, despite neither being able to see the other.

“Gentlemen, glad you could make it.”

Steven swiveled his head to follow the sound of their captor’s greeting.  Whoever he had addressed seemed to be far enough away that he had to raise his voice.  

“This better not be a trick,” growled an all-too familiar voice in response, and Steven’s heart spiraled into a nosedive.

The rush of shame that accompanied his father's voice —the tone and inflection reserved for those special times when his son royally screwed up— was immediate and overwhelming.

“Dad, I'm so sorry...” he choked out, only to earn a rough shake for daring to speak aloud.  Wallace must have heard him, though, because an uneasy shuffle garnered a warning hiss from the ever-present Scyther.

“I’m inclined to agree.  These are dire circumstances.  How can we know you’re being truthful?” floated a smooth voice with just the barest hint of accent.  Steven recognized the speaker, and the uttered, “No…” from Wallace meant he did, too.

“Of course, of course.  Who are we to defy the great Juan, himself?” their captor jeered across the distance.  Then, in a lower voice, “Take ‘em off.”

In a flash, Steven was blinded with sunlight as the hood was yanked off and tossed aside.  Too ashamed to look up, he stared hard at the ground.  He certainly could have done without hearing the collective gasp rise from their welcome committee.  

“Convincing enough for you?”

Joseph growled something unintelligible, so Juan answered with a terse, “Indeed.”

“Alright then.  Go ahead, Champion ,” their captor sneered.  “Congrats on your victory.”

Steven tensed, but the grip on his arm never shifted.  Instead Wallace’s white shoes stumbled through his field of view, and he realized with a sinking heart what their captor meant.  

Wallace’s footsteps hesitated until someone growled, “Keep walkin’,” and slowly Wallace obeyed, the crunch of gravel growing further and further away.

“Wait… Wait!”

Wallace froze, and finally Steven mustered the strength to raise his head in alarm.  His father’s panicked stare was firmly locked on their captor.

“What are you doing?  Release my son.  I’ve met your demands.”

Suddenly, as if it were the funniest thing in the world, the man holding Steven’s arm began to laugh.  It was a deep, foul thing that sent Steven’s stomach into knots.

“No can do, old man.  Terms have changed.”

“What?!  What do you mean they changed?!  That’s not how this works!”  Joseph took an aggressive step forward, only for him to flinch back as Steven felt the cold touch of Scyther’s blade against his throat.

“It’s just like I said.  The terms of the deal changed.  Only one ransom met it, so only one hostage goes free.”

“You can’t!” Joseph cried.  

Steven didn’t dare move, let alone breathe, as the grip on his arm tightened in conjunction with Scyther’s threatening hiss.

“I can and I did.  Now go home, you got your reward.”

Joseph began to say something else, but an even voice cut him off.  “If we’re speaking of rewards, as the winner, I’d like to change my final one.”

Panicked, Steven’s gaze shot from his father to the middle of the field where Wallace had turned back to face him and their captor.  His friend’s cool gaze was now firmly locked onto him.

“I request that Steven be released in my stead.  That is the reward I want.”

Steven’s eyes went wide, and his blood turned to ice.  “Wallace, no…”

“Shut up,” their captor grumbled with a rough shake.  Steven was thankful that Scyther’s blade had relaxed when Wallace had spoken, but their captor’s attention was fully on Wallace again.  “Now why on earth would you want somethin’ stupid like that?”

Wallace’s jaw set in determination, but his voice held its airy tone.  “Well, you said it yourself.  I was able to generate more than the largest corporation in Hoenn.”  He paused, his head tilting toward where Steven hung in their captor’s grip.  “He’s not your most valuable asset.  I am.”

Steven wasn’t sure if the exchange was loud enough for Juan and his father to hear, and from the windswept silence that fell over the area it was impossible to tell either way.  Not that any of them had the power to do anything about it.  Even he was helpless to stop what Wallace had set in motion, as he felt a tug on his arm, like he was being weighed like a sack of flour.  Finally, Steven found his voice again.

“Wallace, no.”  It was hardly a croak.  Whether Wallace read his lips or not, they finally broke eye contact and Wallace stared hard back at their captor.

A sharp laugh shattered the silence.  “Y’know what, why not?  Alakazam.”

With the command, the yellow paws of the psychic type plodded past Steven’s field of vision, on their way to reclaim Wallace as their captive.

“Wallace, no!” Steven shouted, only to be cut off as he was dumped unceremoniously in the dirt.  A short snap signaled the Scyther had severed the tie around his wrists.  Finally free, Steven tried to pick himself up off the ground, but his arms wouldn’t obey.  With a grunt, he dug a shoulder into the gravel and craned his head as far as he could, as if that would do anything to stop the approaching Alakazam.  

“Wallace!”

Without warning, the shadows at Wallace’s feet leapt to life.  Fangs coated in darkness sunk into the shocked Alakazam’s outstretched arm, while a giant ghostly palm swept up around Wallace, shielding him from view.  The Dusknoir materialized alongside its hand and placed its body squarely between Wallace and their captor.  The Mightyena sunk another crunch into Alakazam’s other wrist, causing the psychic to drop its spoon with a shriek.

“What?!”  The startled shout from behind where Steven lay was followed by the Scyther’s sharp hiss, and gravel crunched as both pokemon and captor stormed back to claim their only hostage in the double-cross.

Panicked, Steven tried to will his body to move, but the most he could manage was a pathetic wiggle, his arms still unresponsive from being bound for so long.  He cursed, desperation fueling his desire to do something, anything, to get away, and pressed his forehead to the dirt and shoved with all his might.

The ground exploded behind him, sending dirt and sand stinging across his face.  Before he could open his eyes again, a pair of strong hands hooked under his arms and lifted.  Steven thrashed, unwilling to be taken again, but the voice at his ear made him freeze.

“Whoa, easy there, lad.  I’ve got ya.”  Drake held tight, bracing Steven’s back against his chest.  “Can ya stand?”

Steven blinked for a moment, the dragon master’s words registering at the same time as he spotted the Scyther’s crumpled form buried in the rubble at Drake’s Flygon’s feet.  Salamence’s wide red wings encircled them in a protective shield.  Steven managed a nod.

Unconvinced, Drake instead shifted to support Steven with one arm across his chest, and with the other signaled to his Salamence that it was time to go.  “Let’s get you out of here, then.”

Salamence lowered its neck for the two trainers to mount, and Steven was grateful for Drake’s help in clambering aboard.  The dragon pumped its wings once, and they were airborne.

Relief poured over Steven for only a moment before he stiffened beneath Drake’s grasp.  “Wait, what about Wallace?  He’s still down there.”

“Not to worry, Phoebe’s got ‘im.”

True to Drake’s word, Steven peered over Salamence’s wing to see an army of ghosts had materialized in a barrier around Wallace, shielding his retreat back to where Juan was waiting, his own Walrein out and ready to defend.

“Then what about— ?”

“The kidnapper?”  Drake chuckled.  “Sidney drew the honors ever since we found out they had a psychic with them.  Wouldn’t want to be them right about now.”

Steven sagged in Drake’s grasp, bracing against Salamence’s neck with both hands and finally allowing the relief to overwhelm him.  “But… how?”

Drake quirked a brow.  “How’d we plan this out?  Your pictures were all over the news, lad.  We were ready to jump the second we had a lead.  Turns out, both Juan and your father were on the same page.  They reached out as soon as the kidnapper contacted them for the exchange.”

Steven covered his face with a hand, a muttered, “Gods…” finding its way over the wind.

“What’s done is done.  What matters is both you and Wallace are okay.”

Steven’s shoulders heaved with a shaky sigh.  “You’re right.  But…”

“But nothin’.   We can all talk about it when we’re back at the League.  Now hang on, Salazar will never let me hear the end of it if we don’t beat Phoebe and her ghosts back to Ever Grande.”

The sun was just beginning to sink below the horizon when they arrived at the League. Drake ushered the pair of them to the living quarters, leaving them under Glacia’s watchful eye.  He muttered something about going to save Sidney from himself, and took his leave.

All was quiet for now, and Wallace stood hovering in the doorway, face pinched in concern at the way Steven slumped in one of the lounge’s plush armchairs.  The dark circles were heavy under his friend’s eyes, a half-finished glass of water forgotten on the nearby table.

They both started speaking at the same time.

“Steven, you really should get to a hospit—”

“Wallace, I’m so sorry you were involved in all—”

“Sorry.”

“Ah, sorry.”

Steven’s hand tightened around the arm of the chair.  Wallace moved forward and settled into the armchair across from him.  A thin smile worked its way across his lips.

“Let’s let that be the last apology between us for this whole thing, hm?”

To his credit, Steven gave a short laugh before reaching for a sip of water.  “I’ll try.  You know I’m no good at keeping promises like that, though.”

This time Wallace’s smile was easy, though the levity was cut short as he noticed the ugly red mark on Steven’s wrist peeking out from below his sleeve.

“You didn’t have to do that,” said Steven as he set the glass back down.

“Do what?”  Wallace asked a bit too innocently.

Steven finally met his friend’s gaze.  “Your final request.  You didn’t have to do that.”

“No, but I wanted to.”

Silence fell as Steven took another drink of water, but this time he cradled the glass in his hands.  “Did you know?”

Puzzlement flashed across Wallace’s expression.  “...About?”

“About the rescue.”

Wallace shook his head.

“But you knew about the exchange.”

This time Wallace nodded.  “I did.  But only when it might happen.  I didn’t know it was going to be today, and I had no idea they were planning to only let one of us go.  Remember the time… In the cell.  When you asked me what would happen to the loser?  I truly didn’t know.”

Steven’s gaze fell to his lap, watching the water slosh against the sides of the glass.  “So… so you just made that deal up on the spot?”

“Steven…” Wallace warned.

“Your freedom for mine.  Without knowing what would happen to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.  It worked out in the end.”

The hand holding the water glass squeezed, turning Steven’s knuckles white.  “But it does matter.”

“Steven, it turned out fine.”

“But what if it didn’t!” Steven’s shout seemed to startle both men, and the glass made an unsteady trip back up to Steven’s lips.  Wallace frowned as it was deposited, empty, back on the side table.

“If something had happened to you—”

Wallace cut him off.  “But nothing did.  And besides, they weren’t going to kill me.  If I wasn’t so valuable to them, they never would have taken the deal in the first place.  Believe it or not, Steven, I did think it through.”

“I believe you.  I just…”  Steven sighed, a tired smile sneaking its way across his face.  “I’m not going to win this one am I?”

“No.”  Wallace rested his head against the hand propped up on the arm of the chair, and crossed one leg over the other.  “You’re not.  And I’d like it if you lost the next argument as well and found your way to the nearest hospital to get looked at, please.”

"Ah, I'm afraid I've won this one, my friend.  Glacia has already made me some soup, and I am under strict orders to not leave this chair under any circumstances."

Wallace hummed. "Well, Glacia's watch is sharper than a mother Blaziken's. I concede."

Steven smiled for a moment. Then his face quickly fell. "Wallace, I'm sor—"  He caught himself. "...I'm glad you're okay. That we're both okay."

"Me, too, Steven.  Perhaps I could even still interest you in those crepes we had talked about?"

Steven looked at Wallace like he'd grown an extra head.

"Only if you want to, though."

"Yes, well, maybe when Glacia lets me out of her sight."

"Maybe she'd like to join us, too? I hear she has quite the sweet tooth."

This time Steven genuinely laughed. "Sure, why not."

Wallace beamed before rising and heading for the door. He turned and gave a sly wink. "Marvelous.  I'll even look up the address this time."