There's a thousand stories that retell Colosseum, but I don't think there's one story on this site that only explores the protagonist's back story. Sure there's stories that mention it or include it as an element, but none that entirely focus on it. In honor of my most recent run through of my favorite Pokemon game and (in belated acknowledgement) to its tenth anniversary, here's my account of the past behind our mysterious protagonist.

Inspired partially by the Orreexpansionpack on Tumblr and the few fangroups I've found scattered around various art sites. I love all of you, please bear my children.

DISCLAIMER: Author has a strange sense of humor, and the story itself has heavy implications of sex, violence, drugs, extreme poverty and other icky things. Please only advance if you are of equal mental maturity. If you are of acceptable mental maturity, then you probably also understand that the author does not have any affiliation with Genius Sonority, Nintendo, The Pokemon Company, Game Freak or anything. Likewise she doesn't own any locations or characters mentioned in the games, only the plot told in this jumble of words.

Everyone knew about the explosion within a matter of a few hours, thanks to the news being on the scene before the police got there. Despite the story being pulled off the air as quickly as it had aired, it had been just long enough to get to the people of Orre and spread miles on the wind via word of mouth. Very few in the desert region could afford to own televisions, but as sure as the sun sets in the west people would circulate rumors until the day humanity forgets how to speak. The prospect of a crime ring's base of operations suddenly going up in two concentrated blasts of smoke and fire was interesting to people, a morbid beacon of light to break the more recent influx of stories centering around recent mysterious murders.

Surely enough when dealing with the grapevine, eventually the story became distorted. First it was two explosions that only damaged the base but revealed its whereabouts to the public forcing it to be abandoned, then it was changed to three explosions that damaged Team Snagem's base of operations beyond repair, and eventually it became an all-consuming explosion that scattered the dust that used to be bricks and metal to the wind. Some said a rival crime gang did it, others claimed it was the police, though the most popular theory was that a member of Team Snagem got sick of the pay.

But people could think what they wanted of the how and why, the most shameful of the gossip was how the public spoke of the body count. Surely enough with two violent explosions in areas densely populated with thugs, there would be a few that just didn't move fast enough or were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Two people died in the blasts, one of blood loss once his leg was blown off by the first explosion, and the other as he tried to escape the building and was crushed by the ceiling that fell upon him caused by the second. The public would never know of the panicked hollers and frantic efforts of the thieving team as they tried to excavate the corpses from the building, never would they know of the solemn and heavy command of their leader to leave them where they lay. All that would be known to the public was that there were two bloodied bodies, abandoned like the building that became the closest thing they would have for coffins.

The world jumped on those bodies like scavengers fighting for decaying morsels.

"Serves 'em right!" You can hear the men yell in the bars of PyriteTown, batting their beer mugs together like weapons, "They stole my Vibrava! They got what's comin' to 'em!"

"They just left the bodies there, too risky for them to stay long enough to retrieve them," The ladies chatter like Meowth squabbling over coins, standing to the side away from the town square so they can feel the cool spray of the water that trickles down the walls of PhenacCity. Only just far enough that they can be heard if you listen carefully, "Not even criminals respect criminals, you know?" Her friend responds, fingering the solid gold engagement ring with the sparkling red rubies embedded in the exquisite metal.

The bodies were buried in unmarked graves, the crushed one too damaged to identify and the legless one had no family come forth to claim his body. They were nameless, friendless, men swallowed by the desert and promptly forgotten by it. In a hundred years some traveler would come across a bleached white skull and a few fragments in the sand as he traveled, and assume that they were just unlucky travelers. He would never know the miles they walked before they finally stopped walking forever.

They were children once. Everyone comes to this world as a baby, we are quick to forget this common fact. From drug lords who sit on a thrones of shadows and deceit and street whores who sell their bodies to keep themselves alive, to leaders of nations to bask in glory and humble, hard working men who spend their days toiling away in the sooty mines below ground. Someone cradled them, fed them, taught them how to speak and held their hands as they learned how to walk. Every person who passes us on the street and all the news stories we watch of adults who fight in a never ending battle of 'good' and 'evil' were cared for by someone, even if it was a long time ago...

Their murderer was a child once, too. They even called him a friend at one point. Eventually he would become many things, he would be a son, a delivery boy, an escapee, a criminal, a traitor and maybe some day a hero... but first he was born to a loving mother.

A loud squeal of pain ripped through the house, followed by a loud and scratchy command of "Quiet! I'm trying to focus."

A young woman lay on a large cotton bed, the sheets plain but the quilt draped over it of a burnt yellow-brown color held an intricate patchwork of small tiles. A handmade blanket. A younger woman gathered up a corner of the blanket and wiped it over the woman's sweating forehead, smiling up at her from her knelt position at the side of the bed. "It's okay, you're doing great!" She reassured her, brown eyes full of kindness. She was about to return the kindly smile, but then another stabbing contraction ripped through her and wracked her body with pain. The older lady at the head of the bed looked up at her for a moment, rough old voice giddy with excitement, "The head's almost out! Keep going, Anca, just a little bit more!"

.

.

.

Twenty minutes later, new noises filled the house. "It's a boy!" The midwife announced loudly over the cries of a newborn that easily put to shame any noise that his mother had been making.

Gnarled old hands held a wrinkled mess of red flesh in a tattered white cloth swaddled around it. Baby screams died down into troubled whining and babbling, and after a quick cleaning to wash the afterbirth off the tiny body, she hobbled to her assistant and the new mother.

Anca extended her arms out to take the child, her silver eyes filling with warmth and spilling out with tears. She couldn't stop smiling as she looked down at the swollen wrinklebag with its bloated cheeks and discolored skin. "He's perfect," she said, almost buried by the half-sobs and contracting vocal cords. She was too choked up to laugh at the old woman's playful interjection, "Woman, he looks like he was stung by a hive of bees." Her wrinkled face twisted upwards into a gleeful grin devoid of at least four teeth, "Wait until he's older, he'll be a real heartbreaker. See it in those devious little eyes of his?" The little boy, as if on cue, opened his heavy eyelids and tried to look at the room around him, fighting to keep them open as he attempted to use his brand new body to crane his neck and move his head. It wasn't working very well, and he looked like a awkward pinkish bag of meat being squished in random places. Anca pondered how confused he must feel right now, suddenly thrust into a world of voices, color and touch.

She used a spare hand to swipe her sandy-pale locks out of her face, then used the same fingers to gently brush the top of his head where the same colored locks had barely begun to sprout. His eyes were blue right now, like every newborn's unused gaze, but she just knew that they would someday turn golden. Call it a mother's instinct, the father always kept his eyes on her somehow...

She was wrenched from her thoughts by the gentle voice of the midwife's assistant. "What's his name?"

The boisterous voice of the elder woman piqued up, "Yes! We have a baby without a name! You must have thought of some by now, hm?"

She had some names, but she hadn't decided yet. She had thought early on that his name could be Seth Jr., but since the father was no where to be seen she decided not to. She wouldn't name her child after a man he may never get to meet and raise him on stories of the man who was never there for him. Her father, and her baby's grandfather, was a strong man by the name of Thomas. A man who worked very hard to support his family of nine by toiling away in the mines of Pyrite his entire life. She loved her father and missed him very much, as she had been seen him in a year or two, but she wanted more for her baby than a hard life of labor in a sooty mine where there was always a threat of losing life or limb...

A tiny hand wrapped around her finger, and the baby blue gaze the newborn had seemed to examine it as if it was something sacred yet foreign. He wrapped his other hand around it and pulled it close to his chest before promptly sticking the tip of his mother's finger into his mouth. Then he closed his eyes and began to fade into a dream world. She nodded down at him. He was not going to be his father nor was he going to be his grandfather. He needed his own name, and there was a name that she always loved.

"His name is Wesley," She announced after a long moment of thought. Wesley, the child of the west wind. Always chasing the sunset, refusing to let the day end, running in the west direction towards new opportunities and hope.

The midwife and her assistant left later that day. In a week or so, it was back to business for Anca and now she didn't only have herself to support. He would need clothing, formula, and toys. They say it's not healthy for women to reenter promiscuous activities shortly after birth, but she would have no choice. She would have to get back to work or her and her baby would starve. Such is the fate of a whore and her newborn child in the underworld of Pyrite town, the only sky they would see was the crack in the ceiling above them, its light just barely reaching the tips of the tallest buildings.

The child tripped once as he ran through the house, but he scrambled back up and took off as if his life depended on it. Sounds of his feet hitting the concrete floor and the distant sound of a woman counting down were muffled by the sound of light giggles and the groan of a table on the ground as the sandy-haired toddler dove behind its leg.

Even in the bare house there were better places to hide than behind the table leg. There were three rooms, his room, his mom's room and the central room. Either bed was a better place to crawl under, but the bookshelf in his mother's room was up against the wall and his room only had his bed and his toys were stored under the mattress. The only other places to hide were in the oven in the central room (which he had gotten yelled at for hiding in once), under the oddly fancy yet badly worn table, or by tipping over the tin bath pan hanging up besides the other few pots and utensils they owned. Once though, he hid behind a long coat hanging on a hook on the door to his bedroom. For some reason however, he decided this time a skinny wooden leg would hide him the best.

He clutched the wooden leg like it would turn him invisible, his giggling stopped as he stared at his mother's bedroom door intently. It was a game before, but now that he was behind that table he was the leg. Playtime is serious time for kids. He watched the door open up with apprehension, holding onto the leg harder. She couldn't find him because he was the table leg. She saw him immediately but rolled her eyes and looked around the room with a knowing smile on her face. The little boy nodded to himself. See? He was the table leg now. They were one.

She walked around the room slowly, "Hmmmmmm..." A long and thoughtful noise of puzzlement. The Table Leg broke character for a second and snorted a giggle, but at the sharp pierce of a silver eye the boy stiffened into wood again. She approached him and leaned down onto one knee, the boy recoiled for a moment and met her in the eyes. What? She thought she found a boy? There was no boy. Only Table Leg.

"Have you seen my son Wesley?" She asked, "He's a little boy, with eyes like rubber duckies and pudgy little cheeks I could just sque-"

"He does not!" The Table Leg protested, lunging out from under the table with a pursed lower lip which puffed out the pudgy little cheeks that Anca could just squeeze. The woman just put her hands on her hips and straightened her spine up, however still keeping her knees on the ground. "Is that so? What does he look like then?"

"He got" -"has" "Has yellow eyes like a Persian! And... and cheeks made 'a iron so you can't squeeze 'em!" The Table Leg removed his hands from the table leg in front of him and placed them on his hips just like Anca did, quickly followed by the straightening of his spine but his knees remaining on the floor. "Is that so? What about his sides?" Anca asked slyly. The Table Leg tilted its head, "Uh, they've got clothes on them." The mother smirked, the Table Leg's eyes widened and he scooted backwards.

Too late! Anca snatched up her son and viciously tickled his sides, and was met with roaring laughter and loud squeals of protest. "-And they're ticklish!" She announced over his childish hoots and hollers.

This was life during the morning and Mondays (which Wesley thought where called 'Momdays' until he was ten, because no one ever corrected him for some reason), though the activity changed. Sometimes they played games, other times she took him shopping with her. One time they baked cookies together, but there were days where they took forever to get out of bed and Anca read books and told him stories. Occasionally they also had a Wednesday, or a Thursday, many times they had afternoons on weekdays. But it was only ever consistent on Mondays and mornings. Sometimes Wesley would hear angry voices outside the house, or glass shattering or once even a loud bang, and would rush into his mother's bedroom. He sometimes found her there and sometimes didn't, each time he barged in at night she would remind him it was a bad idea to come into her room after she got home from work unless she called for him (she never told him why), but he didn't listen when the noises got too loud outside.

Mama protected him and kept him safe. She was always warm, rarely yelled at him, and when the noises and the hunger hit him too hard she would cuddle him until he stopped crying. When she was home, everything was all right.

Though she couldn't be home all the time, but those moments that she could be beside him were some of the fondest memories he possessed.

It was very late at night for a six year old to be up. Maybe eleven o'clock? Maybe twelve? Whatever time it was, it didn't really matter much to Wesley. It was Thursday, a week night, and his mother was out at work. Plastic crashed against plastic as he smashed his Tyrantrum and Aurorous action figures together, adding roaring and chomping sounds for dramatic effect. When he asked what she did at night, she simply told him that she had a job to do, so she could pay the bills, and gave him no further answers. All children were naturally curious, but Wesley was satisfied with the simple answer. He didn't really have a pressing reason to desire a specific answer anyway.

His mother didn't like it when he stayed up passed eight, but as long as he was in bed before she came home she would never know. The idea only struck him recently that he could defy her when she wasn't around and not get in trouble for it. There was a sort of illusion that children had, thinking that their parents were omnipotent gods who just naturally knew everything. Wesley was rather young to come to the conclusion that his mother wasn't all-knowing, but such things happened when one was left alone.

When he was younger, he was often watched by one of his mother's friends and played with their children. But they could wear on his nerves. He had a good friend in Zada, born on the same day as him, but she was very forgetful and was always missing important details in their games of imagination. Gurks was the kid he was really forced to hang out with due to the arrangement. He just loved to brag about how he was a year older, claim he was a 'ladies' man' (whatever that meant), and attempt to boss Wesley and Zada around. Even when he tried to play nice, the two of them were oil and water. He had just gotten old enough to be on his own, and he was enjoying the nights he had to himself now.

The child froze as he heard the front door creak open and then slam shut. He dropped his Tyrantrum toy and his tiny heart felt a wave of relief as he realized his door was closed. Good, Mom wouldn't see his light on, but he better get to bed before she saw anything! He dashed to his feet, rushed towards the light, stood on his tippy-toes and pulled the light switch down. Then he turned around and got ready to zip into bed.

But then there was a voice from behind the door, a man's voice.

It was against all better judgment that he didn't rush into bed. If his mother came in to check on him, she would find him pressed up to the door and she would yell at him. But he wanted to hear, he needed to hear. If he didn't, it would bother him! He was a big boy anyway, he could afford to stay up a few more minutes, just until he learned who that man was. He leaned closer to the door and pressed his ear up to the crack between the door and the wall in the dark room, to better hear what was happening...

"...years." He heard his mother say. Her voice was so low and gentle, Wes could barely hear it. But he could hear the male voice much easier.

"It's been that long?" Wesley didn't have the words to describe the male's voice yet, but when he recanted his memories to a friend later on in life he would describe the voice as having presence. It was charming, clear, and never skipped a beat. So full of confidence... the exact opposite of his mother's soothing and submissive voice. Unknowingly, he pressed his hands up to the door harder, as if trying to get closer to the sound or perhaps come between that voice and his mother.

Another meek sound from his mother, but it was too weak to hear it. The male he could hear perfectly clear, "Far, far too long..." Wesley didn't like the way he said that. He didn't know why he disliked it, either! But this guy spoke the same way that jerk Gurks did when he was trying to annoy Zada, or when either of their mothers came around.

The table slid, making a loud noise on the tiled floor. He heard a faint "No-!" in protest from his mother, but it sounded like she got cut off by something. Like someone tricked her into opening her mouth and having it stuffed full of broccoli.

He better not be hurting her! He clenched his tiny hands, his little body filling with protective anger. He had to save her!

He was armed with his Tyrantrum quicker than one could shout 'this means war!', but he had to work to open the door, since the doorknob was so much taller than him. But once it came open, he was met with a frightful sight. There was his mother, cornered against the table with her back digging into it, a strange man with his hands on her hips and his face buried in her neck. She was pushing against his chest, eyes tightly shut and tearing up. The big fat bully was hurting her! Wesley shot a seething glare and then stepped forward, throwing his entire arm into lobbing Tyrantrum at the man. "I choose you!" He shouted, just as the plastic figure collided with the man's head and bounced off with a painful "THOK".

"Ouch! The hell?!" The man's head shot away from Anca's neck, quickly followed by his body as he tried to identify what caused the welt forming on his head. If he had known to look down at first instinct, he would have seen the world's angriest six-year-old ram into his leg and start beating at his thigh with bite-sized fists of fury. "Wesley!" His mother called out incredulously, she herself not fully grasping what had transpired in less than ten seconds. Her hands held onto the table, reaching out only when it was too late. The male grabbed her son by the back of the shirt and pulled him back, once he pried the little beast off his leg, he was able to quickly realize that the furious hands belonged to a toddler. There was no threat here. Wesley's feet left the ground as the man lifted him by the back of the shirt... and hung him by it on the coat hook on the front of his bedroom door.

And Wesley hung there, kicking and punching for the first few seconds, hollering childlike insults the next few ("Scab picker! Stupid face! I HATE YOUUU!"), and finally, as his mother grasped the situation, hanging limply with his eyes filling up with tears of frustration. His arms jutted to the sides as the shirt rode up his body and caught there.

The man grabbed the toddler's chin, and tilted his face up towards him to get a better look at him. Wesley's mother watched on with a face full of guilt and despair, the same face her son would make if he was caught in a lie, or something was found that he had been hiding. The child's face was red from emotion, his nose running and mouth drooling, tears running down in hot rivers and getting his shirt and the man's fingers wet. His sandy pale hair, color just like his mother's, was beginning to stick up in certain spots as the cowlicks began to develop. His skin, pale now from lack of sunlight, the man was certain would tan the moment he set foot in sunlight. How did he know this for sure? The boy's tear-brimmed golden eyes were too familiar for him to not know immediately. They would both have the same exact skin.

The golden-eyed man turned Wesley's head to the side, examining his flawless skin. Not one scar marred the young face. "So you kept it?" The male referred to Wesley as if he was a dog bought from a store, and as if he wasn't even there. He expected to get even angrier at the man who had hurt his mother and hung him on a coat hook. He thought it would fill him with such rage that he could turn into a miniature Machamp, and he would have the strength to beat up the man and force him out of his house. But instead of boundless power, Wesley's anger was ebbing away, crumbling at the edges and being replaced with a void. In this void now filling his brave little chest, unease took dominion. Tears of frustration were mixed with tears of fear. Wesley was finding himself terrified of this man, bigger and stronger than he was, manhandling him however he pleased. He felt helpless. He took in heavy breaths and let out shaky exhales, snot, spit and tears running down in hearty rivers.

"...Yes, I kept him," Anca answered quietly. Her motherly instincts told her to get over there and comfort her baby, especially now when he was truly scared for a reason. This man was no imaginary monster Wesley made up because he was afraid of the dark. This man was a monster that emerged from the dark, a real boogeyman, and Wesley didn't even know the half of why he should be afraid. The table moved as she got off it making a noise on the floor again, but the man turned around and shot a glare at her. 'Don't move' his eyes hissed at her, 'Don't interrupt me.' And she just relocated to a chair and took a seat. She was powerless against him...

The next place the stranger checked was his teeth, pulling back his lips to examine them. He smiled a crooked grin. "You've taken good care of it," he didn't say it unkindly, but just his wording alone implied he saw the boy as goods, or at the very most a valuable Pokemon. Too late, Wesley thought of biting him. Hands were under his armpits now, hoisting him and his shirt off the coat hook. "If you hit me again, I will hang you back up," the older man warned in a stern voice, just as Wesley's feet touched the ground. If he was listening or not, it didn't matter. The toddler lost all interest in the man and scurried to his mother, who picked him up and hugged him to her chest, running her hand through his pale hair and rocking him with the other.

The sound of weight being added to a chair across from them at the table drew Anca's attention and made Wesley bury his face harder as if it would make him go away. The man had a terrible smirk and his eyes never left Wesley, as if proud of some action... Anca wanted to hate that damn grin on his face and that enjoyment in his eyes, but she knew him too well. He wasn't smiling out of pride that he could scare a child.

His yellow eyes shot up to her silver ones. His gaze was too intense for the meek woman, like staring at the sun itself... she turned her face away from his. But she felt his stare on her cheek and caught him staring out of the corner of her eye. He was waiting for her to speak, his stare full of anticipation like a cat waiting for a bird to make the first move.

Wesley's head slowly turned towards the man again, his back still facing him, but now he actually looked at the man instead of just... looking in his direction. He had an aristocratic face, with a long, straight nose and a pointed chin. His hair, full of cowlicks that lifted his hair up in odd spikes, was white- a pure white. Wesley had never seen such a pure color before, even his baby 'blankets' held a gray shade to them due to constant usage for other tasks, and Tyrantrum's feather decorations were chipped and dirtied from years of play long before Wesley ever possessed him. He wore a long blue trench coat that covered most of his arms and body, but the most startling feature was his eyes. Just like his. In fact he looked a lot like him if he was older. The man looked back down at him, and Wesley turned his head... but never far enough that he couldn't look at him. The fear was being replaced with cautious curiosity.

"Mama... who is he?" This was a day she had doubts would ever happen, but was a day she feared nonetheless. She took in a deep breath, if this day ever had to come it was better that it came now -while he was so young- rather than later on in life where he wouldn't understand as well. The golden-eyed man watched on with enjoyment, his mind seemingly in other places. "Wesley, this man is Seth. He's your father."

Wesley clutched his Tyrantrum tightly as he curled up on the foreign couch, the plastic object smashed between his chest and knees. The little boy stayed as still as he could on the couch cushion he had come to occupy, the only movement being made was the turning of his head to observe the room around him.

It was easily the nicest room he'd ever been in. There were no holes in the walls, the whitewashed paint had no noticeable chips in it, and all the lights were bright and brilliant. The furniture was undamaged and clean, the leather couch smelling as if it was bought brand new and a glass table only a foot in front of it, shining in the bright light like a beacon of elegance. Well, the most elegant one could get in the Under.

But this just made Wesley feel even more homesick. He didn't understand why his mother imposed this on him, or her logic behind it.

"Wesley, I'm going to be at work for two days," She explained to him three days after his first meeting with Seth, kneeling down to see her son eye-to-eye. Wesley's eyes were already a little teary and a long whine was rumbling in his throat and lips. "Mamaaa I don't want you to gooo..." He protested, grumbles present in his vowels, "I don't wanna stay with Gurks 'n Zada." When he felt her hand rubbing at the back of his head and a kind smile on her face, he instantly swallowed his words knowing that what she had in mind was going to be even worse.

She told him that he had to spend time with his father, and that Seth 'had a right to see him'. But since Seth had acted like such a beast the first time that Wesley saw him that he had made his own son afraid of him. Anca had to carry Wesley to his flat crying, and once she dropped him off Wesley had gone silent. He did what Seth told him to do for fear of getting hung up on a coat hook or manhandled again. When Seth said, "Don't move, I'll be right back," Wesley took it literally and curled up on the couch, and hadn't moved since.

Seth reentered the room five minutes later, a plate in his hands with Wesley could only identify as red stuff with black stones in it, as it was something he'd never seen before, and a few yellow boxes with pictures of more red stuff on them. Still, he was frozen in place on the couch, watching Seth as if he was going to throw the objects aside and attack him like a Liepard.

Seth set the plate and boxes on the glass table, asking a quick "You hungry?" before he sat down on the couch across from Wesley. The boy nodded meekly, and then looked back down at Tyrantrum, apposing his arms and legs downwards so he could hug him better without being jabbed by its plastic limbs. A short silence held the room before Seth spoke, "Hey, when I said 'don't move' I didn't mean freeze in place, kid."

When Wesley still didn't move, Seth sat up himself and brought the plate to the child. "You said you were hungry? Here..." No movement from Wesley, The boy just looked at the odd red cubes like they were inedible objects.

"...What is it?" Finally, a verbal response!

"It's watermelon. Obviously. It's not easy to get down here but I happened to have some." Just happened to have some. Seth was relieved that this kid was six, no one else would have bought that. The white-haired man took a piece off the plate and popped it in his mouth, then spit the seeds out of his mouth back at the tray. "See?"

After seeing Seth eat a cube, Wesley quickly picked one up and put it in his mouth, then another, and didn't stop to spit out the seeds until he'd devoured the third piece. His eyes lit up, enthralled by the fruit offered to him.

"Woah, kid! When's the last time you ate?" He said it as a joke, a wicked smile on his face and eyebrows raised to the ceiling. The smile left when he realized Wesley stopped eating and had to think about the question. "Um... Yesterday I hada biscuit. But it's okay 'cuz I slept a long time." He spoke as if this was just common logic. Seth's cold heart felt a hot thorn; his son was surviving on moldy bread while he had the option to feast every night. He wanted to blame Anca, but he was too intelligent to shift the blame. He knew she was pushing herself to the limit, and even Dittoes need breaks... but she was barely taking any. In fact she was probably on this two-day trip because she was behind on some bills or wasn't making enough to buy weedle-infested crackers to feed her child with. He got her pregnant and walked out on her, leaving her to deal with the consequences.

If he wanted to, he could just growl and say she brought it on herself for keeping it. But as Wesley's grin of appreciation grew, a spark of enjoyment in his golden eyes, cheeks puffing out with watermelon slices and juice dribbling down his chin Seth was growing farther and farther away from that mindset.

The watermelon was gone, and Seth haphazardly tossed the plate over to the glass table. The seeds upon it bounced in protest as it hit the clear surface. As soon as the boy had swallowed the last bit, there was one of those little boxes being offered to him. The hesitation was gone from his movements as he snatched it out of the larger hand, turning it around and examining every inch of it.

"It's a juice box," Seth explained, and he went to reach over to show him how to use it. But he was interrupted,

"I thought you were gonna be scary," Wesley commented absentmindedly, having ripped the straw off the box but still trying to figure out how to use it, "But you're different."

Seth was taken aback for a moment by his honesty. Guess it was true that kids just said whatever was on their minds. He reflected on his behavior a few days ago, he knew himself better than anyone but he always became so different when Anca was involved. Something about her made him want to prove to her that he was a real animal, unredeemable, yet also unstoppable. He always smiled and cackled like a madman in her presence, he treated her (and her son) like objects he owned. But she always saw something in him, some actual gold in his pyrite heart, no matter what he did to break or abandon her. At the same time he wanted to be near her, he wanted to cast her away... but she would do anything for him but leave him.

Maybe it was the fact that she defied him by staying loyal to him, it made him want to prove he could get rid of her or discover that her love was undying. That someone's love was unconditional.

Either way he was really fucked up, "I'm not different, kid. I'm a very scary man." It was a warning for Wesley, the same warning once extended to his mother eons ago. But the boy was either too wise, or not wise enough to see it in such a way. That was the funny thing about kids, they sounded like they had the secrets of the universe in the palms of their hands but at the same time didn't always know how to operate a juice box. "Naaah. I think you're just lonely."

Wesley stretched himself out, and laid his head on Seth's lap affectionately. At first there was no movement or response, then his larger hand moved and rubbed the boy's soft pale hair. Maybe he was just lonely, maybe he needed these loving influences to purify his shadowed heart... more likely was that he was just selfish, and there was just no cure for selfishness. But maybe, there just may be the slightest chance that Seth could be selfish for someone else.

If that made any sense.

"Wesley, huh?" He asked while scratching gently as his son's scalp.

"Mhm." Seth could feel a nod on his lap.

He shook his head, mostly to himself. "That's a sissy name. Wesley. No one'll take you seriously with a name like that," Seth's voice was cynical and critical, the same voice used when picking gnats out of someone's hair. He heard Wesley take in a sharp breath of air and saw his golden eyes flare up with offense, but he cut him off before there could be a word in edgewise. "Your name is Wes. It's short and to the point." The newly 'christened' boy opened his mouth to protest again, but he only got the first sound out before he was cut off again. "Bu-" "It's a compromise, Wes. You don't have to completely change your name, but no son of mine is going to walk around with a name like Wesley."

Son. The word felt weird and heavy on Seth's tongue. Like it was from a foreign language. Wes looked away from Seth for a minute, brows knitted and lower lip protruding. Then he moved off his father's lap and crossed his arms, Tyrantrum still pressed close to his chest.. He was pouting. "Wesley's the best name," he grumbled lowly.

Silence reigned for a while as the child pouted and the adult gathered his thoughts. At least Wes wasn't the kind of boy to throw intense tantrums or kick or scream... but Seth never had to deal with an annoyed son on his couch before. "Come on, Wes," The response Seth received was a huff and a dramatic turn of the head as said child turned his body away from him. Just then, a light bulb went off over Seth's head.

"Ever seen a Pokemon up close?"

The grip on Tyrantrum loosened, and two golden eyes slowly turned back to meet his.

Two days later Anca returned from her 'trip.'

Seth answered the door with a tired face, yet there was no relief to see her. If anything, as soon as he realized who it was, he seemed even more exhausted. She still greeted him with her polite smile, and then quietly walked in as soon as he moved to the side to allow her. The door swung shut with a soft click, not a word was exchanged, and the air was tensely silent. Full of the quiet apprehension of walking on thin ice.

But someone had to break it. Seth cleared his throat and then whispered, "Wes is sleeping right now. Don't wake him up yet." She was genuinely surprised. There was no Cheshire grin on his face, no spark of sadistic insanity in his fiery yellow eyes. She thought she knew him decently well, but she couldn't read the look on his face. He seemed almost sad, yet then again not, there was a mask of... sorrowful acceptance? Realization? Boredom? Something. His face had emotion written all over, in a language Anca did not know she did not know.

"I haven't seen him in two days, please let me see my son," She missed him as much as any mother would, but as soon as the words left her mouth Seth was staring at her with that spotlight stare that made her feel like she was being interrogated. Now she could read his expression, he was annoyed. She stuttered as she defended herself, "I-I won't wake him yet."

There was always too much silence in the man's house. Some houses smelled like food and other houses had yellowing walls, even more were residences of a constant din of a TV that never went off. Seth's house was blindingly clean white walls, a stuffy smell of constant air conditioning and the sound of the static that sat in one's ears when there was nothing to hear or listen for.

His house only took after him. He was quiet as he stared at her, thinking about her words as if she harbored some vile ulterior motive. But eventually he nodded and lead her into the house and down the hall, to a guest room of some sort.

The first thing she saw through the gap in the door was the Houndoom. The room was dark but the light from the hall caught on its curled horns and bony growths, making them eerily shine in the dim room. She was instantly worried, a flash of a thought screaming that maybe Seth had some kind of lapse of sanity and fed the six-year-old to his dark-type and this was his morbid was of telling her he would crush everything she loved if she trusted him. But then she also saw the Flareon. The Pokemon, with his fluffy and warm fur, formed one half of a circle while Houndoom created the other crescent. The fox-like Pokemon's head shifted gently, opening its eyes for just a split second as it searched for a hand to nuzzle its nose into. The hand belonged to the child sleeping comfortably between the two fire-types. Houndoom was the only one awake, and its red eyes looked directly at Anca and Seth protectively.

Swirling in her chest were so many emotions. She was afraid, scared that the Pokemon would injure him accidentally, nostalgic, as she remembered the little boy she felt like she'd only just brought into the world a few days ago... and proud. Proud and blissful beyond any imagining. Pokemon didn't love just any trainer, any man who lived in another region with 100 Pokedollars could run out into the tall grass and catch a Pokemon, but not all of them were naturally loved by the elemental beasts. Pokemon, loving her son after such a short time meant that he had a chance. He had a chance to train his own, become a coordinator or a trainer, and escape the life he'd been dragged down into. He could escape a dark fate assigned to him by the Under... her son could be more than a starving vagrant who sat on the street and begged for coins...

Her eyes filled with moisture and she fought to keep herself from breaking down next to Seth and waking up the boy. Seth gazed at her fighting her tears and smirked, out of his own sense of pride.

What Anca didn't notice was Wesley's Tyrantrum action figure, discarded in a corner of the dark room with bite marks on its tail and paint chipped from its age, plastic eyes lifelessly staring at the ceiling.

Edited: 6/11/14

I was writing the next chapter and realized it completed the stub that used to be here. Instead of just uploading it as chapter two, it felt right to edit it. To the one follower who's with me, I hope you're not confused.

((Also, the documents get botched in the uploading process. I had to edit this bastard about seven times because it throws random formatting tantrums. See any awkward scene cuts or other strange issues? Please let me know.))

To anyone who came along and is new, ignore that sentence up there. It was always this stunning and beautiful. Always.

Like what I'm doing? Let me know. Tell me how it impacted your life and you finally decided to pursue your dreams because the thought of a baby Wes was just so inspiring that you couldn't sleep at night knowing you weren't doing what you love. Or just tell me that you like it. Or even criticism, I like to know how to better myself. Writing a review lets me know someone enjoys my work, or cares enough to help me improve.

Or you can just add to favorites without telling me anything. That's an option too.