Here it is, Chapter two. My longest to date, around 10,000 words. One day, 
I’m going to get a life. Mind you, they’re not all they’re cracked up to be, 
so I hear.


This story has been inspired a lot by Dragoness’s tales (especially One 
Heart) and I can’t post this without giving her due credit for the 
influence, and I suggest if you haven’t read One Heart DO IT NOW! Anyhow, 
enough of my rantings, might as well get on with the story.


Disclaimer: I own none of the Characters in this story, although the 
location is mine, and the pyjama design is patent. Pend. All other things 
belong to the owners and proprietors of Pokemon.




Child of the Light One - Chapter II.




: Now it is clear to me. I have unwillingly brought untold stress and 
confusion onto him, and those around him. Him, if only I had taken notice of 
that little word, it would have made life ever so slightly easier. He will 
have enough to go through from now, without that. But I was lonely and 
naïve, I wanted a daughter to be with me, to carry on after me in the 
future. I cannot repeal the sentence I bestowed, so still longer I must 
wait….:



The hardest thing to believe is that this is happening to me. Anyone in the 
world could be suffering right now, but it always falls in the lap of the 
chosen one. I look up again, into the mirror. Facially I look the same, or 
it could just appear that way having stared at myself for hours in the 
darkness, and now finally the first suggestion of the dawn. My hands move 
unbidden to my chest, as if to manually check the evidence. I bite my lip, 
praying to god that there is some trick of the eye or the mirror, but no. I 
do have.....breasts developing on my chest. There, I’ve said it. How? I am, 
and always have been a man. But things have slowly been changing for months, 
ever since the fire began showing me images, stories past. I’ve lost my 
impetuous streak, a lot of my brash side. I have become more emotional but 
simultaneously more withdrawn. Just the other day Pikachu asked me if I was 
feeling my normal self, and of course I laughed it off. But she’s right, 
I’ve been feeling completely wrong. Or maybe my “normal self” has changed. I 
still think of these moments as “morphs” - they’re too strange and sudden to 
be progressive - but something else is progressing quietly where I can’t see 
it. It’s been nagging at me all night, for oh about nine hours. I can hardly 
remember half-listening to the unusually subdued evening sounds before they 
all go to bed through the plywood party wall. First Misty giving them a 
bollocking for being “cruel and insensitive” to me, then the inevitable 
showering sounds, and Brock screaming “What did I tell you about cleaning 
the shower?!” and then very little. Normally the bubbling of normal 
conversation would run on for hours, but it all went quiet by ten. They must 
have gone to sleep. Something in my head tells me, with utmost certainty, 
that Misty was up for two hours, just listening for any noise from me. I 
guess I must have disappointed her, my screams, tears and cries have all 
been silent, the only noise the endless scritching of frenzied writing. I 
wonder if she heard that? My mind jumps back to my current situation, and 
the memories of last night. Brock, Pikachu and Chikorita giggling madly, 
teasing and smirking. Maybe if that’s all Ash the teenage guy is to them, I 
should become someone else. I’ve even thought of running tonight, leaving 
and hiding away. But Ash Ketchum is not a quitter, ever. Whether he’s 
himself or not. I would never leave my Pikachu, Chikorita or any of the 
others behind if it weren’t what they wanted. I would never leave my friends 
without a full and reasoned explanation. I’ll never use anyone or anything 
like Gary, and I’ll never do what.....she did. That poor excuse for a human 
I fought that day on the Indigo Plateau. Six months, that’s all it has been, 
since that day.....



*'And here we are folks, at the end of a full six-on-six matchup for the 
Pokemon league title and the right to battle the elite four. Green trainer 
Ayla Marino has two Pokemon left, red trainer Ash Ketchum three. Ash 
Ketchum's Cyndaquil is out there and looking fit and ready, so who will Ayla 
choose next?' I lock eyes with her from across the arena, and can see the 
concern. I know, and she knows that she’s only got one choice against my 
fire type, a choice that will be whipped soundly by Pikachu or Chikorita  
stood proudly beside me. And following that, her last chance.....
“Go, Wartortle!” The red light dissipates to reveal a mean-looking turtle, 
and I nod. Yes, this is how it was going to go. I call out to Cyndaquil.
“Hang in there, And do what you can!” He turns, and nods.
(“You got it!”)
“Wartortle, water gun!”
“Dodge it!” The jet of water passed through exactly the spot he’d stood a 
split-second before.
“Great going, Cyndaquil! Now, just keep that up as long as you can.” He nods 
in response, and for the next few minutes the game of cat and mouse 
continues, with Ayla getting more and more annoyed at every dodged shot, 
until Cyndaquil and Wartortle look exhausted.
“Can you dodge any more of those?” I call out. He looks back, face set in 
determination.
(“I’m sure as hell gonna try!”) The next water gun flies towards him, and he 
dives to the right, but gets clipped by the beam of water which sends him 
rolling through the dust.
“You want to come back?” I whip out the Pokeball readily.
(“Give me…one shot at this, this overgrown tortoise!”) He drags himself to 
his feet, and powers up.
“More! Hit it again!” Ayla screams, and the tired Wartortle responds, 
sending another water shot at Cyndaquil, this time striking full on.
(“Eat this!”) Cyndaquil spun desperately out of the stream, and launched a 
fire blast before slumping down. The exhausted Wartortle could only draw its 
head into its shell as the attack struck, sending it tumbling end-over-end 
into her trainer box.
“Superb Cyndaquil, return.” I wink to him and he winks back from the floor 
as he is sucked into his ball. Lifting my gaze, I see Wartortle, its 
normally gleaming shell blackened and smoking, struggling to move. Cyndaquil 
had put every ounce of his fire into that last attack, and it had done 
massive damage. The next few minutes would stay with me forever.....*



I shake the line of thought from my mind, not wanting to remember any more. 
There comes the the sudden urge to get a hot drink, some comfort from my 
thoughts and the darkness. Dropping the open diary clasped in my hand onto 
the bed, I pull my now ill-fitting pyjamas on, tighter around the chest and 
looser around the shoulders and examine them. They are dark blue, and quite 
loose overall, so unless someone looks closely they probably won’t notice. 
Then, I pace over to the door. I hesitate for a second as I put my hand on 
the handle, but reason that I haven’t heard anyone moving for hours, and it 
isn’t five AM yet. Cautiously, I open the door, and after stepping through 
it shut it silently. The centre is deathly silent, not a soul awake. I pad 
down the corridor to the common room provided by the centre, with bathrooms, 
sofas and a kettle for making hot drinks. Hell, maybe even a television 
sometimes. I stop outside the door, just listening again for a second. I 
know from experience that these rooms can be popular make-out spots for 
pairs of trainers who normally are part of a group and want a little 
privacy, but again I hear nothing. Breathing a sigh of relief, I open the 
door and click the light on. It illuminates a few battered old sofas, a pair 
of doors marked male and female, and a sink unit and fridge with a red 
kettle perched on it. I fill it and turn it on, and cast an eye over the 
drinks on offer. So, tea? Coffee? Mmmm, hot chocolate. I put a few heaped 
spoonfuls of the powder into the cup and add one for luck, and begin 
scouting for some milk in the fridge. Miracles will never cease, a bottle 
that hasn’t curdled up yet! I put it on the unit and look for a cup that 
doesn’t look like someone has half-filled it with mud. I finally find one 
(with a mildly indecent joke on it, but I’ve never known that to make the 
drink taste different) and wait for the kettle to boil, still nervously 
listening out for noise or movement. Eventually the thing is ready, and I 
pour out the steaming water, followed by a little milk, and stir the cup 
thoroughly. Sinking down onto one of the sofas, I take a sip slowly and 
smile at the taste. Hot chocolate is one of my biggest vices, and I don’t 
have it often so that it is extra good when I do. It’s one of my little 
secrets that it can usually put me to sleep quicker than a lullaby, relax me 
like a hot bath. I’ve nearly let more slip under the influence of the drink 
than with anything else. I let my mind sink into a comforting state of 
limbo, just letting time pass while I sip idly. I could sleep now, sink into 
a mattress of clouds and drift until morning comes. I don’t want to as the 
threat of being caught is too great, but my eyes begin closing nonetheless, 
the gravity of a wakeful night weighing heavy on them. They slip 
closed.....and slam open at the sound of a cough. I spin around, praying to 
god that it isn’t Misty. In this state I don’t think I could fight off those 
aqua eyes. It’s not, but it’s almost as bad. Brock looks over at me, leaning 
casually on the doorframe.
“Can’t sleep?” I nearly panic, but come to my senses. The only way not to 
evoke suspicion is to act normal.
“Nah.” My voice tremors a little, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He walks 
across to the still hot kettle, and pops a teabag into a cup.
“Yeah, Misty is talking in her sleep, and Chikorita is snoring. I thought a 
hot drink might settle me a little.” He glances over at me, and I draw my 
knees up to my chest. “What’s your poison?”
“Oh, uh,” I glance down at my almost empty cup. “Hot chocolate.”
“You want another?” I think for a moment about saying no, but my taste buds 
say yes, and who am I to argue?
“Yeah, that’d be good.” He measures out the recommended dosage with 
practised speed. But I know how I like mine - a chocolate overdose. “Hang on 
a minute there cowboy, top that up a little would ya?” Without acknowledging 
my call, he wordlessly shovels another two spoonfuls into the cup before 
reaching for the milk. I let my mind drift out again as he finishes 
concocting the drinks, and pours out the hot water.
“Here you go!” I look up, and he’s right in front of me holding out my 
drink.
“T-thanks.” I feel nerves build up again as he plops himself down on the 
chair across from me, and sticks his feet on the table. He leans back, and 
looks over at me. My mind screams for me to get out, but the legs aren’t 
listening.
“Sorry about last night, I didn’t think you’d take it so hard.” I shrug, 
unable to meet his gaze.
“Ah, don’t worry. I was just being over-sensitive.” I just know his look has 
become calculating.
“Yeah, right.” His voice is so dry you could use it as a towel. “I can’t 
read you like I used to, but it’s obvious that you were upset.”
“It was nothing.” His now apologetic tone is wearing me down, I can feel it.
“Ash, it obviously did something since you were so upset.”
“It was something else.” Damn my mouth, damn the hot chocolate. I can hear 
the chair creak as he leans forwards in it, and I know I’ve let myself in 
for it now.
“Something else? Like what, are you ill?” He leans across and places a hand 
on my forehead.
“Uh, yeah! I wasn’t feeling myself yesterday.” Not to mention I was becoming 
someone else of course.
“You do feel hot.” He looks me up and down closely, and something inside me 
snaps. Before he can blink, I’m up off the chair and on my way to the door. 
“Well obviously, you’re a little more than a little hot.” He calls across 
the room as I hurry through the door. I don’t care, I just want to get out, 
get back to my sanctuary. I hurry down the corridor, get to the end and 
reach my door. I pull the handle.....it doesn’t move. I try again, then 
automatically reach for my keycard. Which is in my shorts, which are in the 
room.
“Shit!” I bang the door, shove it again, but no joy.
“Ash, calm down!” He skids out of the common room and hurtles towards me.
“No Brock, leave me alone!” I shove the door again, and hear a loud curse 
come from the other room. Mistys awake..... Brock puts his arms around my 
waist and pulls me off the door handle, and lifts me up..... and yells in 
pain as he drops me, nursing his hands. I hesitate and turn to see what 
happened, but my mind screams for me to run. I dash past Brocks room as 
Misty pops her head out with a squeak of surprise, and hurtle back into the 
common room, and vault the sofa, heading for the male bathroom.
“Pikachu, shock him!” Mistys voice rings through my ears as I shove the door 
open, and I hear the electric charge thud into it as I slam it shut. I turn 
the lock, and retreat backwards until I reach the wall, still staring at the 
inside of the door. Then it hits me, what I’ve just done, and my legs sag, 
back sliding down the cream-tiled wall. They must think I’m crazy. They’ll 
never give me any peace, leave me alone until they find out. I pull my knees 
up to my chin and bury my face in them. My only wish is for a hole to 
swallow me up right now, take me away, leave me by myself for all eternity.



A loud banging stirs me to consciousness, and I look up in surprise. 
Surprise mirrored perfectly by Pikachu on the bed beside me, and Misty 
sleeping nearest the door. Then - ”Ash, calm down!” Pikachu springs to her 
feet. “No Brock, leave me alone!” Another bang from the corridor, and sounds 
of a scuffle.
“What the hell?!” Misty shoots out of bed, in time to hear Brock cry out in 
pain. Pikachu blurs across the room as Misty yanks open the door, and nearly 
spins back in as someone flies past. In the blink of an eye she’s out of the 
room, followed by Pikachu. I grab the room key with a vine, and scuttle out 
after them. The first thing I see is Brock looking in shock at his hands, 
which are bright red, and then from my right Misty shouting “Pikachu shock 
him!” Followed by a slam and a dull thud. I run over to Brock, and begin 
examining his hands, which look raw and scorched.
(“What the hell happened to you?”) He shakes his head, brown hair in 
disarray.
“I-I dunno. Ash was going crazy so I picked him up to stop him breaking the 
door down, and my hands seemed to start burning.” He looks shocked, and I 
don’t blame him. How could he have been burned by Ash? And why was he going 
crazy in the first place?
(“Are you okay for a second? I’m going to see what Misty and Pikachu are 
doing.”)
“I’ll come with you.” He puts his hand to the floor to push himself up, but 
stops instantly, wincing and biting his lip. I wind my vines around him, and 
gently set him on his feet. He smiles at me with unspoken thanks, and we 
walk down the corridor into the common room, to see Misty and Pikachu 
pushing on the bathroom door.
(“What’s up?”) Pikachu looks over to me, and shakes her head.
(“He’s locked himself in the bathroom.”) Misty steps back, eyes flashing 
dangerously.
“Ash Ketchum, if you don’t step outside this moment, I’ll..... I’ll..... ” 
She falters, looking a little foolish. There isn’t a lot she can do if he 
doesn’t come out.
“Misty, leave him be.” Brock steps in and lays a hand on her shoulder, 
fighting off the urge to wince. She looks at the door for a few moments 
longer before sagging and looking at the floor.
“Yeah, okay Brock.” She mumbles, turning away from the door and heading for 
one of the sofas.
(“Ash, come out when you’re ready!”) I call, in the hope it’ll calm him 
down. He’ll know we’re not pressurising him, but that we’re there 
nonetheless. Pikachu, meanwhile is studying Brocks hands closely.
(“These are just like the scorches I’ve had after receiving a flamethrower 
attack. How the hell could Ash have done that to you?”)
“I’m just as puzzled as you are.” He replies, thrusting his hands under the 
cold tap and trying not to scream as the water washes over them. “Jesus, 
this hurts more than the burns do by themselves!”
“Ash.” I run over to Misty, who looks utterly lost. “What are you doing? 
You’re scared of us! Of me!”
(“Hey!”) I push in, trying to stop her over-reacting. (“Whatever Ash is 
scared of, it’s not us. It’s almost like he was trying to run away from 
himself.”) I pat her on the back as her shoulders slump further, drawing 
herself into a cocoon of negativity.
“I don’t get it, not at all.” Brock is still shaking his head,  hand still 
beneath the stream of  cold water. “But I know we’re not going to get 
whatever it is from him.”
(“I’ll go and get you some burn cream. Ash keeps some in his bag just in 
case.”) She jumps down from the sink, but Brocks call stops her.
“He’s locked himself out. That’s why he isn’t in that room right now. He 
didn’t take the keycard with him, so when the door auto-locked he couldn’t 
get back in.” Pikachu stops, shaking her head.
(“Today’s getting better and better ain’t it.”) She grumbles, kicking the 
side of the sofa in annoyance. (“Ooooooowwww! Ow, ow, ow! Bastard sofa!”) 
Hopping on one leg, she scrambles onto the arm of the sofa and begins 
nursing her injured foot.
(“You said it, it gets better and better.”) My dry joke brings a scowl from 
Pikachu and a choking laugh from Misty, which I’m glad of. She seems to be 
coming round from the shock a little.
“Guys, you know that the doors are auto lock.....” Brock begins.
(“I got the key.”) I extend a vine to him, and drop it beside the sink. 
(“Good thing someone here is up to speed this morning!”) Pikachu doesn’t 
seem to appreciate my comment, and I smile sweetly at her just to aggravate 
her a little more.
“I think I’ve got some burn cream somewhere. It’s for Pokemon, but a burn is 
a burn.” Misty pulls herself out of her slumped position, and walks over to 
Brock. “Come on, let’s go and get that seen to.” She picks up the keycard, 
before turning to Pikachu and myself. “Can one of you guys stay here and 
keep an eye over Ash?” I look up at her, and nod.
(“I’ll do it. You guys go get yourselves sorted out, and finish your night’s 
sleep.”) Pikachu looks about to argue, but Misty nods in agreement.
“Yes. I need you Pikachu to try and work out what’s up with him from a 
Pokemon point of view, you’ve known him longer.” She isn’t happy with this, 
I can see it in her eyes, but she agrees.
(“Okay, fine.”) She turns to me. (“Now you take good care of him if he comes 
out.”) I meet her stare, and nod once.
(“I’ll never let him down.”) Rarely have I ever meant something so truly. I 
spin around, and walk up to the door. I’ll stay here at my post until my 
leaf wrinkles and my vines rot if needs be. The silence presses heavily, and 
from within I fell I can hear a barely audible whimpering. (“Hey Ash, what’s 
wrong? Why won’t you tell me?”) I can hear shuffling, movement. Maybe I’m 
getting through to him. (“Whatever it is, I won’t tell a soul. Or maybe 
you’re waiting for another young, virile girl to share your problems with?”) 
A sound then, almost like a snort of laughter. (“You know, you’d better come 
out of there eventually, I still want my pyjamas you know.”) I’m sure I 
heard the rippling of giggles then. But I feel like I need to get something 
off my chest. (“You know, I’m not sure if you realise how much this stings, 
being shut out. I feel like I’m young again, and my brothers are plotting 
something against me.”) Another memory bundles into me. (“Like the day they 
decided to shut me out completely. They said it was because I was 
“different”. Just because I’m a girl.”) I feel a tear form in my left eye, 
and fight to stop it. (“Because of what I am, not who I am.”) The tears win, 
and slip down onto my face. I don’t care, I need to say this to someone, 
anyone. (“You were the only one who never shut me away, but now..... 
now.....”) I lay my cheek on the floor, squeezing my eyes shut tightly 
against the burning pain clawing at them. (“Now it feels the same, and I 
can’t help thinking its because I’m different.....”) I feel a warm pair of 
arms scoop me up, and the sound of a door shutting. Then the sensation of 
dropping, and eventually rest..... and I open them again to see Ash staring 
into my eyes with smouldering compassion.
“I know perfectly, I know too well.” He croaks dryly, his hazel orbs 
brimming with more than tears. Fear? Despair?
(“How? How can you?”) I don’t want to say that, but it comes tearing from my 
throat, ripped out by an invisible hand.
“Because, because of this.” He puts me down, and slowly slips his pyjama top 
over his head. My eyes travel down from his face, and stop suddenly. He sees 
them widen, and tucks his knees up into his chin, concealing himself.
(“How-how did this happen?”) I gasp, my mind screaming in shock.
“It first happened about six months ago, but only traces, and for a few 
minutes. It has happened a few times since, but this is the longest it’s 
gone on, almost a whole night. I can feel it, it’s fading now, by breakfast 
I’ll look normal. But what is normal? Am I Ash or someone else? Every time 
this happens it gets worse and worse, lasts longer and appears stronger. As 
if I’m trying to evolve somehow. What does that make me? Am I even - human?” 
A look of such anguish passed into his face that I was burrowing into his 
chest before I even thought of it.
(“Don’t ever ask that! You’re Ash, and you’re as real as anyone! If anything 
you’re larger than life!”) I cry, somehow hoping if I hug him tightly enough 
he’ll believe me all the more.
“But I’m so confused.” I look up into his hazel eyes, and see floods of 
uncertainty, floods threatening to sweep him into a whirlpool of hysteria.
(“I know.”) I rear up, and place my front paws on his neck, craning upwards 
to look at him more closely. (“But you have to realise that to me, you’re 
you no matter how you look.”) To prove my point, I place my lips onto his 
cheek, in a human display of affection. He seems to relax, sighing like the 
last wisps of a hurricane through the trees. (“As long as I can feel your 
touch, taste your tears, hear your laughter that’s all I need.”) Our eyes 
lock again, and now I’m overjoyed to see the glint of a smile in them as he 
draws me tightly to himself.
“Thank you, thank you Chikorita.” He rocks me gently, stroking my leaf with 
exquisite tenderness. ”But please, do not tell anyone about this, anyone.” 
He must sense my surprise, so he continues. “If anyone else finds out my 
life might not be worth living. You’ve accepted me with no qualms, but think 
of everyone else. Pikachu may be not have a problem, but she’d surely tell 
Misty and Brock if she found out from you. And if any human found out.....” 
I feel him shudder, trembling again.
(“What? I don’t understand.”) I snuggle into him, hoping that it’ll help him 
relax again.
“Right from the start, humans have been afraid of the unknown, the unusual. 
It’s always been a case of “us” and “them”. We’re us, and we’re normal, 
friends. They’re them, the strange and malformed, the enemy. As civilisation 
developed, greed became more and more important, and the greediest the most 
important. They'd try to get all they wanted, and when they got it they 
wanted more, and protected it against all they didn’t know, or all they saw 
as different. So as life became what it is today, people claim to co-exist 
and respect each other, but beneath so many smiles are scorn. Some people 
still find it necessary to discriminate just because others appear 
different, and I hate it. Hell, some of us fight because we support a 
different sports team! So what if someone found out about what happens to 
me?! If people judge, enslave and even kill according to race, what would 
happen to me? I’d be scorned, branded a mistake, and strapped to some table 
somewhere to find out exactly how I work, why I’m such a fucking freak.” I 
slowly let this sink in. I may be naïve to the history of the human race, 
but I never knew that such things happened. “I don’t want to tar everyone 
with the same brush,” he continues, trembling once again, “but for every 
Misty or Brock there’s someone like Ayla Marino.” The name brings a shudder 
to me as I remember who he’s talking of.


*I jumped in delight at Ashs’ side as Cyndaquils’ fire blast struck the 
Wartortle, sending it flying into Aylas’ trainer tower. A red light flicked 
out as Ash recalled Cyndaquil, and he looked across the arena.....and 
gasped. Wartortle lay at the foot of her tower, unmoving, with an ugly crack 
running almost the length of the upper shell.
“Get up you waste of skin, get up!” She rants, and although it tries 
valiantly it can’t move.
“What the hell are you doing?!” The entire stadiums eyes flicked as one to 
Ash who’d screamed, aghast at the trainer opposite.
“Getting her to get off her lazy shell and battle!” She replies, eyes 
flashing.
“That’s a major injury! I’m sorry I ordered the attack now, but it can’t be 
helped.”
“She’ll be fine once she’s on her feet!” Ash threw his arms up in the air.
“If she gets up it could be fatal!” The entire stadium gasped as one. “If 
you want it so badly, I’ll forfeit one of my Pokemon, so you don’t go 
behind!” She eyes him up, and looks satisfied.
“Fine, do it.” Ash shoots another look of disgust across at her, before 
crouching down.
“I’m sorry you two, but one of you is going to have to forfeit. I can’t see 
her threatening the life of one of her Pokemon for a little trophy. Will one 
of you step down?” I cast a look across at Pikachu, who is set in 
determination, and sigh.
(“I’ll do it, I’ll step down.”) He gives me a grateful pat, and stands up 
again.
“My Chikorita has agreed to forfeit her part in the battle.” Another rumble 
flows through the crowd.
“Whaddaya mean your Chikorita?” Ayla looks suspiciously at me.
“I mean she told me she’d be willing to step down so your Wartortle can be 
treated.”
“Everyone knows Pokemon can’t speak like humans!” She sniffs scornfully. I 
have to fight the urge to gape, it’s not unknown for people to understand 
their Pokemon once they’ve been around them for a long time. But perhaps she 
doesn’t know because she’s never listened.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t understand Pokemon.” The crowd cheers as Chikorita 
takes a step back, and the penultimate light blinks out on my tally, leaving 
one light each. Then, Ayla looks across at me again, and smiles.....*


“You see what I mean don’t you?” I land with a bump back into reality, and 
into his wry smile.
(“Yeah.”)
“We haven’t had the best history as a species. But don’t forget there are 
good as well as bad people.” He casts his gaze to the ceiling. “But maybe 
you understand why I’m scared too. And as for Misty, I’m terrified how she’d 
react if we got closer, or even now.” I can see why. She’s volatile at 
times, and I can’t predict how she’d react.
(“How long are you going to be in here?”) He looks down at me, then at 
himself.
“It’s probably safe now. But what the hell am I going to tell them? It’s 
hard to find a reason for running away from your companions like a crazed 
rabbit.”
(“Hey, stop getting so worked up at little things!”) I reach a vine around 
his back, and give him a rub. (“You’ve been running a temperature recently 
as Brock said, and you could say you had hallucinations as a result. Just 
take it easy, I’ll back you up, and get you out if it gets too much.”) He’s 
still for a moment, but then slowly slides upright, stretching his cramped 
body.
“Yeah, it’s got to be done, let’s go do it now.”



“So you grabbed him and got scorched hands. Do you know how?” Misty paced 
around the room, arms folded.
“Nope. He didn’t have a lighter or anything on him, so I don’t know how the 
hell he did this.” Brock looked at Misty, almost apologetically.
“No idea at all?!” Misty bent down near to Brock, and glared at him.
“No. And I don’t like how you’re talking to me Misty. It’s not my fault, so 
stop speaking like it is.” She took a step back, and wrung her hands 
together.
“Sorry Brock, I guess I’ve been a little unhinged by what’s gone on this 
morning.”
(“We all have, but we don’t go around blaming everyone else. Keep a lid on 
it Misty.”) Pikachu scolded from her bed.
“Doesn’t it feel like we’ve been here before?” Brock sighed, having seen the 
conversation chasing its tail for the last half an hour.
(“Tell me about it.”) Pikachu growled in frustration, examining her sofa-d 
foot for scratches.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to shed much light on the situation myself.” 
Three pairs of eyes shot over to the doorway to see an ashen-faced boy 
holding a Chikorita in his arms, and struggling to maintain a winsome grin.
“Ash!” Misty launched herself across the room, before stopping dead about a 
foot from him, trying to decide whether to reach out and kiss him or reach 
out and strangle him. In the end she decided on the happy medium, and put 
her hands on her hips. “What do you have to say for yourself?!”
“Uh, sorry.” Ash looked down to the Chikorita nestled in his arms, who gave 
him an encouraging look. “I wasn’t thinking straight earlier, I must have 
been delirious. I’ve been feeling a bit unwell recently.” *Yeah, sure that 
was lame but it’s the only explanation I can give for now.* He looked around 
hopefully, for some shred of agreement around the room.
“But you said to me that there as something more.” Brock eyes me, leaning 
against the headboard of his bed. “More than being ill. What is it?”
“Uh.....” Ash mentally flailed for an excuse, until it caught the thing 
which had been on his mind before the previous night. “It’s about what I’ve 
been seeing in - in the fire.....” *And it’s true, there is a link 
somewhere, but I can’t find out what. *
“Fire?” Brock and Pikachu cast a confused glance at each other, whilst 
Mistys expression softened visibly.
“What is it Ash, it’s still troubling you?”
“Yeah.” *It is still troubling me because there’s more to it than you would 
believe.* To his shock, Misty reached out a hand and gently stroked his 
cheek.
“No need to worry about it, it’s just your imagination. Now, don’t let it 
trouble you so much.” She drew her fingers away, aqua eyes mellowing 
further. “And you are hot, very hot. Do you want me to get you a cold towel? 
Or a drink?” Ash shook his head silently, glad the bright red of his flushed 
cheeks were concealing a new flush, creeping up from his feet at Mistys 
caress.
“Hey, I’m glad that it’s nothing serious, but what about my hands?” Brock 
raised them palm-up towards Ash, who gasped at the red scorch marks, and the 
blister at the base of his index finger.
“How the hell did that happen?!” his eyes travelled up the arm, to his face. 
“Honestly Brock, I would never do that to you, any of you!” Their stares met 
for a moment, until Brock nodded his assent.
“For the first time tonight, I believe you.” He cast another glance to his 
hands. “That still leaves a little mystery unsolved though.”
(“Yeah…”) Pikachu ran over to Ash, and sniffed deeply. (“And you’ve started 
to smell a little different for a while, only its stronger today.”) She 
shook her head, mystified. (“Placing this smell, it’s..... it’s like trying 
to make out a shape from behind a waterfall, indistinct yet familiar.”) She 
cocked her head as Ash unwittingly gasped. (“Why do I get the feeling that 
you perhaps were worried that would happen?”)
“It makes me feel like I’m changing, which is enough to make anyone worry.” 
Misty herself cocked her head at that statement. *He’s told us the truth 
then, but why do I feel he hasn’t told us the reality?* “Now, does anyone 
know how I can get back into my room?” Ashs voice shattered the brief 
silence, and brought her mind to reality.
“To be honest, you can’t. Unless you go and wake up Joy at six in the 
morning asking for the key and explaining what the hell happened when you 
lost it!” She snapped, unwittingly harshly.
“I’ll go and ask her. Oh Joy, I love your pyjamas.....” Brock almost floated 
off the bed, eyes dreamy, bringing sweat-drops to the brows of all present, 
including Togepi who had seen it happen often enough to know the correct 
response.
“Ah, in that case I’ll go find myself an early breakfast!” Ash turned to 
leave.
“God, does your stomach ever go to sleep?” Misty sighed, shaking her head.
“Misty, I haven’t eaten in fourteen hours.” Ash moaned, even though he 
wasn’t really hungry.
“Well, I’m coming along too. I’m as hungry as you are.” She grabbed her 
clothes, once neatly folded from the night before now in a crinkled heap 
after being kicked off the bed when she’d got up, and walked into the 
bathroom to change.
“Erm, okay.” *Damn!* Ash turned back to the other to see if they wanted to 
come, but Brock was smoking quietly and Pikachu lay with a smug smile on her 
apparently sleeping face. Maybe not now.
“There’s gotta be somewhere in this city that is open, even at this time of 
the morning.” Mistys muffled voice echoed dully through the bathroom door. 
“I just hope it doesn’t sell grease on toast.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby.” Ash called, before turning to go back into the 
green-tiled hallway. “After I’ve ordered up my sewing kit and fabric.” He 
murmured to Chikorita, who grinned in response as they entered the main 
concourse of the centre.


“Not a bad bit of munch.” Ash nodded contentedly beside me, selling an aura 
of cheerfulness. I’m not buying.
“Ash, you left half of it. And I finished my toast before you’d even done 
that.” It was true, as soon as we’d set foot in the café he’d looked almost 
nauseated. He’d eaten some beans, a rasher of bacon, a sausage and about 
half a slice of fried bread in the time it took for me to eat two rounds of 
toast and a tall mug of coffee. “Usually you’d put away twice that in half 
the time.” He looks twitchy now, uncomfortable.
“Yeah, maybe I’m growing up.” I snort with derision.
“You? Growing up? I think I’ll get a hernia if I laugh any harder.” He looks 
like he’s been slapped, and I nearly bite my tongue in two. I wish I could 
when I see a shimmering of tears in the corner of his hazel eyes. But damn 
my pride, it won’t allow me to step down. But I can’t help it, I was trying 
to catch him in conversation the whole time we were there, and he wouldn’t 
even catch my eye. Does he even know I’m there?
“.....” His silence is more biting than any remark. I’d always been told 
silence was golden, but now it’s as potent as hot lead. It hangs in the air 
like an acidic mist until we reach the centre doors.
“Ah, Mister Ketchum!” Nurse Joy called across the still deserted centre 
lobby, seven thirty being a little early for most trainers. “We’ve received 
your-” She cut off, and I caught frantic shushing gestures from Ash beside 
me.
“What is it?” I turned to face him, my face a study in interest, or nosiness 
if you want to look at it another way.
“Nothing important.” He says, voice completely flat.
“If not then why so secretive?!”  I retort.
“Because there some things I like to keep to myself.” He replies, with a 
little more life.
“What could be so bad?!” I snap, feeling a warm glow flood into me. We 
haven’t had a good argument for weeks, months, and I’ve missed them. It 
feels like the only time he really *notices* me.
“It’s nothing bad.” He can’t help it, he’s rising to the bait. Little by 
little.
“Then why can’t you tell me?” I counter.
“Why do you need to know?” Predictable.
“I’m just expressing an interest.” He really set himself up with that reply.
“So you only have a desire to know, therefore it isn’t actually necessary 
for me to tell you.” Wha? I’ve got to admit he floored me with that one.
“But isn’t it polite to tell someone if they wish to know?” I can’t remember 
an argument getting this complicated before.
“Is it polite to pry into something someone wishes to hide?” He has grown 
up, that’s for certain.
“If it means no harm, and as you said yourself it isn’t important.” I 
counter. I’m really enjoying this!
“Not important doesn’t mean not personal.” He’s still cool, I’ll give him 
that.
“So you’re afraid of telling me personal things?” I inject a tone of (not 
entirely false) angst into my voice, and give him a hurt glance.
“Everyone has something they wish to hide.” He’s stonewalling now, and I 
can’t work out a way to break it.
“Even from me?” it’s a desperate plea, and I know it. And I know his answer.
“Yes.” With that, he walks over to the desk, and begins a quiet conversation 
with Joy. I fight the urge to scream at him, and instead furiously stomp to 
my room. I’m going to *make* him notice me, if he can’t do it by 
himself.....


I unlock the door with the spare keycard, and drop the bag of sewing kit on 
the bed. It’s a talent I found I had when my mum asked me to try and repair 
a tear in my shirt I got from falling out of a tree, and I’ve been 
practising it in secret ever since. I’ve actually got very good, but it’s 
not worth the insults I would receive by telling Brock and Misty. God knows 
I had enough of that from starting a diary. Chikorita leaps off my shoulder, 
and settles on the red bedspread, looking on with interest. I reach inside 
the bag, and draw out a long roll of material. I don’t need to ask if she 
likes it, the way her eyes light up as she sets them on it is enough. It’s 
not cheap either, in fact it’s twice as expensive as my pyjamas, but only 
the best for my Pokemon. Very good quality, soft cotton in pale green, 
patterned with blue chicory flowers and ash leaves (a little personal 
touch). I hold out the end of the fabric, and she touches it carefully, 
before nodding.
(“It feels gorgeous.”) She breathes, looking up at me with an expression of 
delight.
“I ordered it specially. You can pull a few strings when you’re seen as the 
Pokemon master, even if you aren’t in name.” I pull out a notepad and a tape 
measure. “Now, I’m gonna have to take a few measurements, like foreleg 
length, hindleg length, distance between the two, waist size although most 
girls prefer it if a guy doesn’t find out.” She lies still as I take the 
measurements down, and work out what I need. Eventually, I plot out some 
rough patterns on the fabric, and set to cutting. It’s therapeutic to work 
on something like this, and it does a good job of distracting me. I wouldn’t 
even know Chikorita was in the room.
(“Do you think you could go into a business doing this?”) I carefully turn a 
corner with my scissors, and shrug.
“I could when I get too old for training. But now I’m more concerned with 
that.” She looks down at the green cotton, then back up at me.
(“Do you think I’ve got it in me to be a seamstress?”) I smile, still 
cutting.
“Depends on how dextrous your paws are. But with your vines you’d make a 
great assistant.”
(“Maybe we should go into partnership!”) She giggles, handing me a smaller 
pair of scissors for the more complicated parts of the cutting.
“Not a bad idea, not a bad idea at all.” I finish cutting out the main 
body-piece and hold it up. “Now stand up, I need to check this against you 
to see if it fits. She stands up, and puts her legs through the four holes 
in the fabric, and I draw it around her. Need about half a centimetre off 
half way down, a centimetre around the chest, the neck is fine.
(“You know that it’s taken you a whole hour to do that piece?”) I glance at 
my watch, it reads quarter to nine.
“Yeah, time flies when you’re having fun. I think I can probably do the main 
body-sock and legs today, and put the finishing touches on it tomorrow with 
any luck.” I start carefully trimming the edges down to size, but stop as 
something catches my eye. My diary, still sitting open on the bed, Chikorita 
not so idly glancing at the scrawled writing filling the page. I struggle 
for a moment to choke down the anguish scrabbling for my voice. The first 
time anyone, anyone ever has seen anything written on those pages, it’s 
enough to make me want to cry. To be so weak, for someone to read my soul in 
black and white.…the silence seeps into her consciousness, and she casts a 
guilty look up at me. Guilt which dissolves into panic. Eventually I break 
the painting, dropping my gaze back down to the fabric, trying to ignore the 
shaking of my fingers.
(“Oh, Ash.....”) I can feel her moving towards me, and try to fight off the 
burning of my eyes, the sob in my chest. It’s a fruitless attempt, I feel 
two lines of wetness burn down my cheeks and drop onto the soft fabric, 
staining it a darker green.
“Why?” I whisper, clenching my hands into fists. “Why did you read it?” She 
looks as woebegone as I feel devastated.
(“It just caught my eye, and I couldn’t help it, I just couldn’t.”) A slow 
breath, a quiet hiccup.
“How much did you see?” I don’t know what I wrote most of last night, but I 
know that whatever was written was impassioned and unrestrained. Foolish of 
me to leave myself so exposed.
(“All of it, all of these two pages.....”) She creeps further into my field 
of view, eyes and leaf cast down in a gesture of submission.
“Why?” I can only gasp, voice strangled by fear.
(“There were things I wanted to know, know how you really felt last night 
going through it all.”) She sighs, still looking away. (“Now I understand 
more, better. But that wasn’t all I found.”) I feel my shoulders slump, 
pressed down by an invisible force. (“What do you mean by “The real change 
is yet to come?””) That’s the question, the question I want no one to ask. I 
don’t know, but something is telling me that a change is coming, something 
to not only change my life, but maybe who I am. The only answer I can give 
is the truth.
“I don’t know.....”


Just a little touch there, a hint more here. Now, twilight blue or meadow 
green? Blue, goes with my top better…I carefully brush some of the eyeshadow 
on, and smile at the result. Yeah, I’d say I look pretty good. Now for the 
other side.
(“Boo!”) A well-timed squeak from Pikachu has the effect of making my body 
go vertical, and adding a long stripe of blue to my face. I spin around and 
grit my teeth to stop myself going to town on her, an effort that gets even 
more difficult when she bursts out laughing.
“Why the hell did you just do that?!”
(“It w-was j-just tooooo tempting!”) She sniggers, and I decide it’s hammer 
time. After suitably satisfying retribution, she’s seeing pidgeys and I’ve 
moved on to the trial of trying to remove the long scar of eyeshadow without 
ruining the rest of the make-up. Not very successfully.
“Look at this, I might as well start again!” I throw a comb at the mirror, 
annoyed what it insists on showing me, which is me with a blue streak from 
eye to chin.
(“I think it’s very tropical. You know, face paint!”)
“I’ll give you face paint.” I growl, hand tightening on a compact with 
intention to throw. “Do you know how long it takes to do this?”
(“Nope.”) She grins, sitting down on the edge of the sink beside me. (“But 
it’s amazing, the things you’ll do for Ash.”)
“This is not for Ash! It is the first night in a new city, and I’m proving 
I’m a worthwhile catch!” I still don’t know why I have some sort of 
auto-response whenever someone says that, and I can see Pikachu is 
unimpressed.
(“Yeah, for anyone who is sixteen with black hair and a runners-up medal in 
the Pokemon league.”) Even thinking of him is enough to convince me I have 
to look perfect, and I sigh at my reflection. (“Hey, what is it?”) Pikachu 
edges nearer to me, sounding cautious.
“Does he ever even notice me?” I voice the question to the world, not really 
asking for an answer, more for the release of saying it.
(“Of course. Brock told you the other day he was checking you out, so to 
speak.”) That isn’t what I want, anyone can look at someone else.
“But when I try to get close he doesn’t seem to care. He even backs off.”
(“Misty, he’s got problems. You said he’s changed, something is worrying 
him. Before that he was too young to really notice or understand, and so 
were you to be honest. When he’s resolved whatever it is, you’ll be the one 
he turns to. Trust your very own agony Pikachu on this one.”) I smile at 
her, although I can almost hear my muscles creak with effort. Satisfied, she 
hops down and scurries to the door. I look back to the mirror and sag, 
biting my lip. Why am I lying to myself? I strive for perfection, but I’m 
me. Damaged goods, already faulty. Just a redhead with an outsized mouth and 
a temper like napalm. Unseen, but burns hot as the sun, and almost 
impossible to extinguish. At least when I was younger he used to pay me some 
attention. I cast a forlorn look over myself, everywhere there’s fault. Nose 
a little to small, eyes too big, chin too pointed, hair too red. I can feel 
myself tearing up, and choke it off. Crying won’t help any. Slowly, I reach 
for the foundation again, to try and clean up the dark streak adorning my 
face. It’s too reminiscent for me to bear it any longer.


I peek through the crack in the door, and see her staring blankly at the 
mirror. Somehow I don’t think she believes me. Especially as she reaches up 
and runs a hand down her left cheek, tracing the line of make-up.
“You know there’s places you can go in the city for a peep show.” Brock's 
sarcastic voice chops through my concentration, and I glare up at him as he 
sits on the end of his bed, a sardonic smile on his lips. “What’s so 
interesting? If it was me looking at a girl through the crack of a door 
you’d not be surprised, although I’d be 'shocked', I’m sure.” I shoot one 
last glance through the crack in the door, to see Misty snap out of her 
trance and pick up some more make up.
(“She’s going into silly season about Ash.”) He groans, and his brown eyes 
gaze at the ceiling.
“Why do I feel like I’m going to get dragged into another turf war between 
those two?”
(“Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen. Although the stakes are 
high this time.”) I hop onto the bed, and sit down next to him in the human 
pose, legs dangling over the edge. He looks like he’s contemplating 
something he doesn’t like. (“Penny for you thoughts, Brocko?”) He sighs 
pensively, scratching the back of his head.
“Ash is stubborn and secretive, Misty is persistent and short-tempered. If 
she’s got her sights set on him but he’s hiding something, she won’t give 
in. And neither will he. And we’ll be stuck between a rock and a hard place. 
I know, and you know Ash only wants her, but he doesn’t seem to be in a 
position to do anything. Misty wants Ash, and she’ll do everything. This 
could explode at any time, and we can’t really do anything.”
(“Except put on the helmets and take cover.”) I finish, slumping backwards. 
It’s on days like this I wish I’d stayed in my Pokeball.


(“I’m really sorry.”) He doesn’t reply, just keeps on cutting, cutting, 
cutting metronome like, swathed in an air of anger and fear. The same way 
he’s been for the last, oh, two hours. (“I’m really really sorry.”) I creep 
a little closer to him, but he keeps his chocolate eyes fixed on the cloth, 
unwilling to listen. He’s cutting and stitching like a man possessed, he’s 
done almost all of it now.  (“I’m really really really.....”) The scissors 
go whistling into the wall, where they stick. I step back, suddenly scared 
by his glare which sears into me like molten steel.
“Sorry huh?” His tone is deathly, the whispering of trees in a silent 
graveyard. “Will that make me forgive? Maybe, but forget? Forget that I 
trusted you with my secrets for which you replay me by looking for more 
without my knowing?” I can’t answer, paralysed by guilt. “Sorry, well that 
means you feel remorse, but repentance?” He picks up his small scissors, and 
goes back to cutting.
(“I don’t know how I can make it up to you…”) I begin, and his eyes flash 
again.
“You can’t. All you can do is not tell anyone what you saw, and don’t quiz 
me on it either. Over time, you could prove your loyalty to me again.” 
Something in his tone makes me angry, perhaps the suggestion that I have to 
prove anything to him. Without thinking, I blindly growl back.
(“Don’t patronise me. Besides, it would only take one slip of my tongue and 
you couldn’t make them forget.”) I’m a fucking idiot. Why the hell did I say 
that? (“No, I wouldn’t do that. Not to anyone, and especially not to you!”) 
He pauses in his cutting, thinking.
“Well if you were to do that, it’d be the end of our partnership. And how 
can I believe you now when you say you wouldn’t?” He goes back to his work. 
“But right now, I’d prefer it if I was alone, so close the door on your way 
out please.” His emotionless tone leaves no room for argument, and I shuffle 
out dejectedly. Now I need to prove myself to him, and soon. And I don’t 
know how.....



I feel guilty as she makes her dejected way out of the door, but shake off 
the sentiment quickly. It’s just another example of why I shouldn’t trust 
anyone. I’ve been betrayed enough in the past to know not to let anyone know 
my present. Wasn’t it George Orwell who wrote “They who control the present 
control the future, and they who control the future control the past”? Bet 
the others don’t know I’ve read 1984. But he’s right. Chikorita found out 
something, and it’s in the past, irreversible. This changes my future, which 
changes what happens now. And I don’t like it, not one bit. All there is to 
do is sit tight and wait. I pick up a needle and some grass-green thread, 
and thread the needle in one without thinking about it. She may have just 
done something stupid, but a promise is a promise. I’m just settling into a 
comfortable silence when a rap on the door makes me jump, and prick myself.
“Ash, we’re going out in about half an-” he breaks off as my yell of pain 
bounces around the room, and I yank the needle out of my finger. However, 
the finger itself persists with its over-enthusiastic bleeding, so I stick 
it in my mouth.  “Are you okay in there Ash? I’m coming in.”
“No! Just give me a second!” I hurriedly pull the blanket off my bed and 
throw it over the sewing kit, material and my diary, as he pushes the still 
ajar door open and paces into the room.
“What’s the problem?” I show him my left hand, index finger seeping blood, 
and he examines it closely. “Hmmm, not too bad, quite deep but not too 
serious.” He glances around the room, then back at me. “How did you do this? 
It looks like a pin or a needle, but I can’t see one.”
“Uh, I nicked it on something as I stood up.” Well, it’s not entirely a lie.
“Anyway, the reason I came in here is to tell you we’re off out in fifteen 
minutes, so get ready. And one other thing-” He sits down on my bed, and 
frowns. “Uh, why does it feel like I’m sitting on something?”
“Because you are-my bed.” He glares at my flippant response, and in one 
fluid movement pulls the sheets off and turns around before I can blink.
“What’s this?!” I shoot to the other end of the bed, pick up my diary and 
cradle it as he gapes at my creation. He picks it up slowly and examines it 
from every angle. “It’s amazing, I’ve never seen something like this, they 
don’t make things this well in the shops if they do anything like it at 
all.” I look down at the floor, wishing he’d just go away. “Ash, did you 
make this?” A tone of disbelief is rich in his voice. I incline my head 
silently, still looking down. “I-I’ve got to say, this is the best piece of 
Pokemon clothing I’ve ever seen made. It’s rare to see any, and all there 
are is for kids to dress up Snubbuls or something. Why did you keep this 
quiet?” He’s now almost whispering, voice awash with awe.
“After the scorn I got for getting a diary, I didn’t want anyone to know of 
this, it’d seem silly or pathetic.” I look down to the ground as I say it. 
Now I know what seems silly or pathetic. Me.
“Ahhh, you baka. You really think that we’d look down on you because of 
that? I’m not bad with a needle myself, you learn that looking after as many 
kids as I did.” Yeah, it seems obvious now.
“It’s not done yet, I’ve still got to add the fourth leg, and then the 
trim.”
“These are Chikory flowers yes?”
“Yes.”
“And leaves?” He looks at me quizzically.
“Ah, Ash leaves.” He stares at me for a second longer before smiling.
“You know, there’s far more to you than meets the eye. Chikory and Ash. 
Chikory for Chikorita, Ash for Ashton. Both plants for a plant type to wear, 
and nicknames for you both. I take back anything I ever said about you being 
dense.”
“Ah, it’s nothing.” I feel my cheeks begin to glow at the praise.
“Misty’ll love it too.” My cheeks glow further, but this time out of 
shyness.
“Nah, don’t tell her Brock, I’ll tell her myself.” He smiles again.
“Want to impress her do you?” He laughs as I scramble for some sort of 
cover.
“Nah, I’ve got my image to protect remember?” A pathetic rebuff, but he 
takes it at face value.
“Don’t worry, I’ll not tell a soul.” He takes a last look at the garment 
before laying it almost reverently back onto the bed.
“Thanks Brock.” I give him a gentle nudge towards the door. “Now I’m going 
to change, so if you don’t mind…”
“Oh! One other thing, make sure you are nice to Misty today, she needs it.” 
With that ambiguous comment he’s out of the door. I push it shut, just to 
make sure I’m not disturbed while changing. I grab a pair of long black 
shorts and a tight, short-sleeved navy T-shirt, and change quickly. I still 
feel hot even on an spring morning, and it’s no less confusing than 
yesterday. But with Chikorita knowing what she does, things are going to get 
a lot more confusing from here.



Okay, I hope you enjoyed that chapter, and even if you didn’t please R&R! 
The next chapter should be up in a week, so see you soon.
Bye for now.
Dan