[leaving]

Summertime's when he makes his decision.

(Of course, to him it was still winter. On the mountain, there were no seasons, only the cold.)

It wasn't easy.

Yes, the mountain was cold. No, he didn't enjoy watching his Pokémon die slowly, day by day, as they endured the god-forsaken blizzards together.

But, he couldn't give it up.

Battling.

For, it makes his blood boil, sends surges of adrenaline through his veins like quicksilver; for a few, glorious moments, he felt like himself again. The memories are returning, knowledge coming forth from nothing – his name, it was –

Then, the enemy is defeated, their last Pokémon faints, and the high fades away, leaving only that familiar emptiness.

He needs those highs; he's addicted to it, for it is a drug, ensnaring him in its clutches and refusing to let him go.

He clutches his cap, ragged and worn; the holes, the grime deep-seated into the fabric, the thin threads of cloth unraveling in his hands – he feels it all. He could say, with little confidence, that it had once been red.

Red eyes, staring back at him in the mirror.

(What had happened to the brown?)

His uncovered hair, matted and oily, lifts under the cool (freezing) wind. It feels refreshing to his scalp, covered for so long.

What is my purpose?

His grip on the fabric grows tighter as he continues to think, arguing with himself pointlessly, going in spirals and spirals and spirals.

But I have to keep them safe.

Keep who safe?

A soft sound, one that he barely manages to catch.

"Pika…"

-Please…-

He was a fool, wasn't he?

Why had he stayed for so long?

Like so many other things, he couldn't remember.

Only, this was a question he didn't want to answer.

The next day, he's gone, the only trace of his presence a fluttering red jacket.

[notes]

The prologue.