The sequel to 'All We Know Is Falling.' You don't necessarily have to read the prequel. Just PM me and I'll give you the abridged version.

There will be at least two story lines, running simultaneously throughout the whole fic, one in the past, the other in the present, picking up about a year after 'All We Know' left off. The flashbacks are written in 'past-tense' and the other in 'present-tense.' They jump back and forth pretty frequently too, it's an experiential device to give a non-linear, choppy effect to the story. So, I apologize in advance if it messes with your brain.

There isn't as much AAML as the last one, but it's still part of the story. Ikarishipping too.

For my sake, please read this in 3/4. It just looks better.

Part I - Please Be Careful

A figure runs through a dark corridor, splashing the scattered shallow pools of water in every direction. Labored breathing stays in rhythm with his boots against the steel floor until he stops just before the hallway turns, then only the sound of his subdued exhales remain. With his back to the wall, he brings his silver USP match pistol against his chest, and slides down until one knee rests on the ground, his free hand remaining still upon the wall as he peers carefully out of the corner.

The adjoining hallway is just as dark with a few overhead lights blinking erratically above, but his sight never strays from the shadows. Another sound is heard, much like his own footsteps moments before, but these sound closer together, which means whomever is approaching is foolishly unaware of his presence. Curling his finger around the trigger, he flashes in view, weapon wielded and ready.

Not even a second passes and the intruder stops dead in his tracks, preceded by a single piercing bullet and a fountain of blood gushing from the red 'R' on his shirt. The man grasps the mortal wound with one hand, the other still against his holstered weapon. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out, until he falls to the ground and lets out one last whimper as his blood mixes with the dirty puddles saturating his clothing and drifts off to sleep.

A startling voice whips him around, and two men standing at the end of the hallway point their semi-automatic weapons his way. Escaping their poor aim through a smooth set of back flips, he lands in a crouch and fires two succinct gunshots. Their heads jerk backward, the life drains from their bodies and they collapse in unison, dead.

Rising to his feet, his hand drops to the side and eyes a single strand of smoke from the nozzle crawl up his arm and dissipate into the air.

"Ash!"

His wristwatch surprises him at first, as evident by his sudden jerk, but he quickly recovers and slides up his sleeve before speaking into the small communicator.

"What is it?" he replies in a low irritated mumble.

"How's it coming in there?" the voice asks before being cut off by the static.

"Great." His eyes shift behind, then aim to the fore. "I've been in here thirty minutes and I'm already lost. Whoever gave us the intelligence on their floor plans were completely wrong. Nothing's where it's suppose to be."

"What did you expect? There aren't a lot of them left. How's your team?"

"Gone." He unhinges the clip and it clanks against the floor. "I'm the only one left."

The voice sighs. "This isn't going very well. OK, I'll check on the other team, you just stay focused and complete the objective."

Unconvincingly and without feeling, he responds, "I'll do my best."

"We're running out of time. Get to that laboratory."

"Sure thing." He smirks apathetically and shoves another round into the gun's handle. The weapon makes a high two-syllable click as he pulls on the barrel to load it.

"And remember, stick to the mission. Don't go off script like last time."

"No promises."

More static. "Damn it, Ash! If you put another mission in jeopardy because of her, I swear-" the voice is cut off again, but it isn't because of the interference.

"Sorry, Brock." He looks down at his nickle plated pistol, the broken lighting reflecting its outline against his dark green eyes. "But that's one order I can't follow."

Ten years earlier...

"Wake up."

He shifted under the blanket and slid his face away from her voice as she shook him playfully by the shoulder. She waited a few moments but got nothing more than an incoherent mumble - an obvious sign he was ignoring her. Another persistent shake spurned a second muffled groan as he dug further away, slapping the pillow across his face.

"Wake up!" She rolled her eyes and rose from his bed, causing the mattress to wave up and down. In one quick motion, she ripped the heavy checkered comforter off his body and threw it across the room. The sudden drop of temperature instantly caused his limp body to tense and he curled into a ball to conserve warmth. The light hurt his eyes when he first opened them, as she raked his drapes open to usher in the afternoon sun, and all the poor boy could do was groan a third time and turn the opposite way.

"What are you doing?" he grumbled, without preamble.

"What does it look like? Waking you up."

It was a painfully obvious statement. He sluggishly turned around to face her, sitting on the very edge of his bed with such an opposing cheerful look he frowned when he saw it. Using his elbows to prop up the upper half of his body, he sighed and looked at his Pokeball alarm clock on the night stand to the right. His concentration hung as his eyes scanned the four numbers and accompanying annotation, non-blinking and completely visible in solid red digital lettering.

"Look, Ash," she began, following his line of sight. "I know upstart trainers and future Pokemon Masters have a lot on their plate, but as far as sleeping in... two o' clock's pushin' it."

A second look at his novelty alarm reaffirmed her point. It was indeed two o' clock in the afternoon and he, before her rude awakening, was still snoozing in his room.

"Wow, thanks for the concern, mom."

His sarcasm only fed her annoying sunny disposition, and she giggled softly with a closed smile. Finally lifting off the bed, she headed out, halting just before exiting he doorway. "You'd better hurry or you'll miss lunch. I think there's still some left over from breakfast, but it won't be for long."

"We'll see about that."

"Wait."

He stared at her blankly. "What?"

"Hold your Horseas, Romeo." Her smiled intensified then added, "You better put some clothes on first."

It was apparent as soon as he obeyed the command, because when he looked down he realized why she was so giddy. He was wearing nothing but white boxer briefs, pretty tight too. No wonder he was cold.

She laughed again, and somehow made the door slam the rousing end to her fun. But she could do that, as he was always the butt of her jokes.

"Dang it, Misty! Come back here!"

Ten years later...

"Dawn! Dawn!"

She opens her eyes - the first one, then the other - both hands shielding her head as she cowers behind a thick wooden crate. A volley of bullets riddles off her cover, bouncing in every direction, and she screams again and retreats more into her hiding place.

"Come on, let's go!" Paul sneers. The purple haired agent peeks over his box - just a few yards away from her - and empties his clip against the enemy. The tactic proves useless however, as his poorly aimed shots miss their intended targets: three Rocket henchmen armed with semi-automatic weapons. They stand across the room and chisel their hiding places down with their superior fire power.

He reloads his gun. "Dawn! Stop it!"

"I can't help it!" she cries above the gunshots, head bowed low to the ground as humanly possible.

This time he concentrates on his aim, rather than firing haphazardly into the vicinity of the rockets. Three shots yields one fatal hit, and takes one rocket in the chest dead center. The man yelps and falls backward, spraying his weapon accidentally onto the rocket to his right. By the time the remaining henchmen gathers his senses, Paul vacates his spot, rushes him and claims his life with a single shot.

The agent spits to his side and walks back to his partner, still shivering against her cover.

He crouches in front of her. "We don't have time for this! We have to keep moving!"

"I can't do this," she sniffs, wiping her nose. "I'm not ready! I don't belong here!"

He picks up her disregarded weapon off the floor and places it in her hands. "I agree. This is the last place you should be, but we need to get to the lab."

"But-"

"Get it together!" he hisses, rising to his feet. "I'm not letting you screw this mission up! Let's go!"

His heated words springs some action from her and she jumps up to meet him, holding her firearm with both hands. She's still shaking, and her fresh tears aren't dried off her reddened cheeks yet, but it's enough for him. Without acknowledgment he presses on and takes point, while she defaults behind to guard the rear. The unlikely tandem take the left corridor.

She peers back nervously, thinking she heard approaching footsteps.

"Relax," Paul tones unsympathetically. "Brock's team disabled the alarm, their communications and he's got most of their forces occupied outside. They don't know we're here."

His words are true but hardly give her peace.

"Do you even know where you're going?" she asks after a few eerily quiet minutes.

"What are you getting at?"

She swallows. "Nothing. The blueprints we were given were wrong. We're not even using them anymore."

His eyes focus down the hallway, making sure his steps don't echo. The two inch their way through, careful not to arouse attention. The steel hallway seems to run forever, with a medium size door spaced every few dozen yards. The two agents keep vigilant every step of the way, eyes never astray from their objective. In mere seconds, a squadron of rockets can pour out of any junction at any moment and end this mission.

No one is more aware of this than Paul. "I've learned to trust my instincts."

"Are they ever wrong?" She flinches at a stray sound and quickens her pace, almost bumping into him.

"Not often. See?" The agent crouches before the hallway breaks. He gestures to Dawn, who reluctantly takes a peek into the larger room where the hallway will eventually end. Four rockets stand guard, each with a MP5 9mm sub-machine gun. Behind them is a large metal archway, magnetically sealed with a swipe-card key lock to the right.

She retracts and glues herself to the wall. "Is that the lab?" When she doesn't get a response she adds, "What do we do?"

Paul nods and cocks his gun. "We go in hard."

"What?"

Her reaction is too loud for his liking, and he quickly covers her mouth with his hand. They sit there a moment, making sure their cover isn't blown. Slowly, Paul slides his gloved hand off her lips and scowls. "Quiet. We have the element of surprise. As long as you have good aim, we shouldn't have a problem."

"But I-"

"Just remember you're training."

"Paul-"

"Stop it!" he cut sharply, but after regaining composure, and reminding himself who he's talking to, his voice softens. "Don't worry. Look... I'll go first."

"Please be careful." She isn't quite sure if he hears him - the warning is more for her anyway, because her breathing refuses to normalize and her gun still shakes in her grip no matter how hard she tries to regain control. Patiently, she holds her breath and waits for the signal.

He unhooks a silver canister from his belt, removes the pin and tosses it past the corner. Dawn covers her ears in anticipation, expecting the worst, but nothing is heard. Then, a large beam of white light flashes out from the other room and shoots past them, followed by a series of groans from the rockets. She winces and blocks the light with her forearm.

"Now!"

Pure reaction overpower thought as she follows her partner into the room, rushing the disoriented rockets still blinded by Paul's well timed flash bang grenade. Her bullets hit one Rocket in the shoulder, spinning him to the ground, and another square in his chest, throwing him against the wall. The Rocket grips his wound and slides to the floor with a trail of dark red blood staining the wall. Paul's shots are just as on target, hitting one in the stomach and chest. The remaining grunt he reserves for himself, taking him out in a brutal punch combo directly to the chest, followed by one final right hook, rendering him unconscious.

"Not bad. For a rook," he says, searching one Rocket for the key card.

Dawn stands in horror, half in shock because of what took place in just a few seconds, the other from the left over adrenaline racing through her veins.

"T-thanks."

After searching the third rocket, he fishes the key card from his pocket and swipes it through the lock. The light from the pad turns from a neon red to a light green, chimes a low 'beep,' and unlocks the previously sealed doors. They slowly slide apart and the two agents slip inside.

"What now?" Dawn asks, surveying the laboratory. Several benches crowd the walls - on them are some computers connecting to different servers and redundancy backup stations. A table is at center, with a few notes and pencils scattered on it. She walks over to a stainless steel machine with dozens of lighted buttons and knocks the metal cover with her knuckle.

"Wow, what do you think this is used for?"

"Does it matter? Come on, we need to find their database."

"Right," she nods and sits on one of the chairs, scooting it towards one of the computer stations. Her slender fingers rap on the keys, stopping only to move the mouse. After a few seconds of browsing, a 'log-in' box prompts on the monitor.

Paul leans over her shoulder, placing a hand on top of the screen. "Can you break in?"

"Me? No," she smiles and pulls a thin CD-ROM case from the inside of her black jumpsuit, "but this can." The optical drive bay slides open and she sets it inside. Moments later and another screen pops up, full of binary and hexadecimal code.

"This is Max's latest code breaking software. He's been designing it for weeks."

He grunts unimpressed. "Is it working?"

"We'll find out in a bit," she answers, eyes following the segmented 0s and 1s.

They both stare into the screen, letting the code-breaker command line interface do its thing. Thirty seconds pass and the firewall is easily bypassed, allowing them complete access.

"Bingo," she smiles and connects her flash drive into one of the USB ports. "Copying data now. There's quite a bit of data here, give it a few minutes."

"We don't have a few minutes!" Paul blares impatiently. He whips his head back to make sure the coast is still clear. "We're already behind schedule."

"There's nothing we can do. It's working as fast as it-"

Her voice is cut short by a loud gunshot and the bullet slicing the thin gap between their faces. Both agents instinctively duck for cover. Paul overturns the table in the middle of the lab and fires a few shots through the still open arch-shaped door. For the first time that day, Dawn isn't concerned about her life, as she checks the computer. Fortunately, it's unharmed, the download is still in progress, the timer on the screen signaling 55 seconds left. She growls, then rolls out of the way of a bullet that would have claimed her life.

45 seconds remaining.

Paul's gun makes an empty click and he sinks lower, back against the table, searching for another clip. He jerks to the right when a flood of bullets is fired into the laboratory.

"Dawn! I'm out!"

She complies and tosses her last round to him. He snatches it in mid-air and loads his gun before sending a few shots the Rocket's way.

30 seconds remaining.

She senses the fear course through her body again, so much that she tastes it on her dry lips and feels the pressure building in her chest. She tries to move from her spot, but the fear is far too great, rendering her paralyzed.

"How's that download coming?" He turns back. "Dawn! Dawn!"

15 seconds remaining.

She doesn't answer him - she can't. Not when her life hangs in the balance, trapped in a god forsaken hideout of organized thugs. "I-I can't! I can't!"

Four gunshots end the rest of the Rocket's on the other side, and the sound of emptiness is so foreign they look at each other in confusion and pop their head over their worn down covers. A man with lightly bronzed skin wearing a jet black ensemble stands in the threshold of the lab. He holsters his weapon and lets his forearms rest against the half drawn doors.

"You two alright?"

"Ketchum?"

"Ash! Where have you been?"

"Lost." He steps over a piece of table and helps her up. "How are you two doing?"

"Great," Paul answers for her, flipping his head her way. "Can't believe they stuck me with this rook."

"I'm trying my best," she whispers weakly, eyes dropping to the floor. It isn't a reply to Paul's belittling remark as it is encouragement for her, but he does hear her pitiful attempt to explain her behavior, and he kicks the already broken table in frustration.

"Hey, you're doing fine," Ash assures her, with a hand on her shoulder just to let her know he means it. "This is a really high profile mission. It would make any agent nervous. Don't worry about it."

It's too late for that, but nevertheless, she nods and checks the computer again.

Download Complete.

A smile of relief breaks across her face and she swipes the flash drive from the computer... objective complete.

"Perfect... now we have to find a way to get the hell out of here," Paul grumbles pessimistically, shattering the new found optimism. He wields his Mark XIX Desert Eagle from his holster and takes the lead as the other two agents follow suit, with Dawn in the middle and Ash manning the rear.

"What's in that data that's so important anyways?"

"Most likely, plans for their next covert operations," Paul stops, halfway facing her. "But hopefully, the location to their secret headquarters. We find that, and we end this war once and for-"

"Incoming!"

Before he can finish his sentence, Ash grabs Dawn and pushes her back into the lab. Paul turns just as a squad of Rockets pours through the corridor they are headed. His eyes finally focus on the reason for Ash's warning, as he just misses the lead Rocket throw a metal spherical object in their direction.

"Paul! Hit the deck!"

He readily obeys and as soon as he's out of the way, Ash wields his gun in a spit second and shoots the grenade dead center just as it leaves the Rocket's hand. The massive explosion throws the agents back into the steel wall, followed by debris of warm human flesh and twisting tendrils of fire. The squadron of Rockets lie in ruins, and the lucky few who are left intact remain face down on the ground.

But the fallen Ash Ketchum refuses defeat and plants his feet on the floor, using the wall against his back to slide upright. As soon as he regains his footing he staggers toward the grunts left alive. One Rocket jumps to his feet to engage him. He throws a wild three punch combo at him but does not land a single blow. Ash bobs and weaves before uppercutting him square in the jaw. Before the henchmen flies back from the force, he catches him by the collar, knees him in the gut and sends him away with a devastating round house kick to the temple.

The remaining Rocket meets Ash in the center of the room, unsheathes a small knife from his boot and lunges for the agent's stomach. He easily dodges the attempt and catches him by the forearm and neck. One quick snap of his wrist causes the Rocket to drop the knife, and is forced to meet the enraged agent in his cold eyes.

"Where is she?"

The Rocket manages a cocky smile, earning him a vicious blow to the face and a trickle of blood down his broken nose.

He shakes him again. "Damn it, tell me! Where is she?" he screams and slams him to the floor, holding him tightly by the collar. The man dangles in his grasp, completely at the will of his ferocity, but his broken smile still lingers through his battered countenance.

"You fool," he chokes out. "Did you really think she'd be here?"

His patience ends with another strike to the jaw. The man grunts and falls to the floor, reeling in pain. Ash stands over the Rocket, face a mantle of hatred, eyes swollen with anger - and what few tears he cannot hold back, bravely escape down his cheeks and outlines his profile before falling freely on his clothes. Shaking off the Rocket's blood burning his knuckles he wraps his fingers around his neck and squeezes.

"I'll kill you," he whispers face to face.

"Look at you," the Rocket coughs weakly as his grip intensifies. "You can't even help yourself... how can you help her?"

"Tell me where she is. Now."

Ten years earlier...

He dressed faster than normal - not that Ash was usually meticulous about his morning ritual by any means, but he did make it a point to throw on his clothes in no particular scheme. He slid on his jeans, socks, shirt and adorned his usual custom fit Pokemon League hat. It didn't matter if he never changed his 'you-know-whats' as his mother affectionately called them, or that his shirt was inside out, all he cared about was getting to the table before Misty, to which he was already at a thirty second disadvantage.

Common sense notwithstanding, he flew down the flight of stairs connecting the second story to the living room, skipping every other step along the way. A sharp turn and he entered the kitchen and grounded to a halt in the doorway. A tantalizing array of aromas smacked him right in the face - so much so that he momentary lost the ability to stand. Freshly squeezed orange juice, hot sizzling bacon and eggs, flaky golden brown toast and Mom's famous blueberry pancakes with maple syrup - he recognized them a mile away.

Lifting his eyes however, proved to be a severe disappointment. The sweet citrus odor he smelled was reduced to an empty pitcher and a half empty glass. The pop of bacon and eggs were replaced with few scraps of fat, as were the leftover crusts from the toast - a blatant sign of her handy work. And the last of the mouth watering pancakes he remembered were at that very moment, being mashed between her teeth. Sticky syrup lips and a few loose blueberries were the only pieces of evidence left to confirm there was an actual meal here.

She swallowed. "Mornin', sunshine."

"Gosh, Misty!" he cried. "You ate all the food!"

"So?" she shrugged.

There were so many things he wanted to emote that nothing actually came out, just a bunch of sputtering sentences without words. Head hanging in defeat, he slid to the table and took the seat opposite of hers. Tiny particles of blackened toast lay on the table, and he flicked them away with a sigh, but in his trance, he came to a realization.

"Misty?"

"Mmhm?" She polished off the rest of her orange juice and slammed it on the table with a satisfied moan.

"What are you doing here?"

She covered her mouth in a half laugh. "Well, nice to see you too."

"Seriously. Why are you here?"

"Misty always visits, Ash." Delia answered for her. She walked to the kitchen table, stacked all the plates together and carried them to the sink.

"Always?"

"Well, no," she amended. "I'd say... once a week?"

Misty gave her a nod. "Sounds 'bout right."

"It's been great having her here, hon. She helps me with different errands and chores around the house. I tell you, she's a life saver." She turned on the hot water and ran the plates under the faucet.

"Misty? Really?"

The red head gave him a quick wink and shielded her mouth just in case the chatter from the the dishes wasn't sufficient enough to nullify her words. "What's the matter, Ash? You look like a Majikarp out of water."

He copied her motion and leaned over the table. "Just never pegged you as the 'helping type,' that's all. It's not like you were ever the 'Nurse Joy' of the group."

"Glad I wasn't," she scoffed. "But things change, Ketchum. You think being a Gym Leader is limited to just battling?"

"Well..."

"Right," she flopped back on her chair. "Look who I'm talking to."

He smirked - now that was the Misty he remembered. He flicked a forgotten piece of toast her way before she could dodge it. Misty laughed and bombed him with a wadded napkin, to which he countered with a poorly thrown blueberry. Fifteen year old's usually don't get sucked into a juvenile breakfast skirmish, but it was tolerated, as long as they made sure their actions were covert enough from the only adult in the room.

"Ew, Ash! That napkin still had food in it!"

Ten years later...

Paul groans, slamming his hands over his ringing ears. He lurches on the floor and coughs violently, gripping his chest. A small alert beeps from his wrist watch, signaling an incoming transmission, but he cannot conjure up the strength to answer. Rolling to his stomach, he finally slams his palm over the watch and blares into the speaker with eyes closed.

"What?"

"Paul! It's Brock. Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for the last-"

"Busy," he sputters.

"Report! Now!"

He coughs into the floor and wipes some blood running down from the corner of his mouth. "We have the data, but we're pretty messed up over here... we need backup."

"Ash should be there any minute, once he is, get out as fast as-"

"He's already here!" he shouts, rolling on his back

"He is? Why haven't you left yet? We can't last much longer out here!"

"I'm on it." He focuses his vision and turns on his side, lifting his head up as much as he can. "Ash! We have to get out of here! Now!"

"No!" Ash barks, still holding the Rocket by his collar. "Not until he tells me!"

The lavender haired agent climbs to his knees and spits blood to his right. The fogginess begins to lift, and he hears some footsteps looming down the corridor they used to enter the lab. Shadows appear, and the footsteps begin to multiply with increasing volume. He unlatches a small silver disc from his belt and balances it neatly in his palm. With all of his might, he tosses the metal disc across the room, it slides in the archway of the corridor right before it branches into their room. The tiny disc makes a high pitched buzzing sound and emits a yellow tinted force field blocking the entryway just as the Rocket squadron reach it.

"Let's go, Ketchum. We're running out of time!"

But he isn't listening. The agent slams the weakened henchmen on the floor again and strikes him across his face.

"Son of a bitch!" Paul sneers and manages to pull himself to the lab doors. "Dawn! Dawn!"

She whimpers against the wall, curling her arms around her legs. Navy bangs fall against her sweaty forehead and she slowly lifts her tear mangled eyes.

"Come on! We have to go!"

"What about Ash?" she whispers.

"He's preoccupied. Do you have the data?"

She brings the flash drive from her chest and hands it to him, and after regaining her footing, follows Paul into the larger room. Bullets hit the force field like hail from a storm, causing the thin tint to ripple with every contact. The Rockets continue to barrage the force field, slowly weakening it until it finally it shatters.

No time left.

Dawn retreats back into the lab, and Paul dives forward before a bullet splits his skull. Enough is enough. He runs to Ash and wrestles the unconscious man from his hands and grabs hold of him by his shoulders.

"Move it, agent!"

"No!" He breaks his hold and pushes him away.

"Think, moron or you're dead. We all are!" It was enough to gather some remnant of common sense. Through the shattering gunfire and Paul's commandeering orders, Dawn's high scream echos throughout the room, causing both agents to turn her way. In that moment he realizes he failed. He let his emotions consume him, the mission, and because of his actions there's a thin chance of them making it out alive. Peering back at Dawn, then to Paul, he comes to a horrible realization: it's too late to save them both.

"Take it," Paul slams the flash drive to his chest. "I'll go back for Dawn!"

"No! I can do it! I can save her!"

"The hell you can! Look, the data on that drive is the reason why we're here! If you don't get that out, all this is for nothing!"

He nods. "Fine. I'll cover you."

Without a parting word, both agents wield their weapons and head their separate ways. Ash backs away with cover fire as Paul shoots into the crowd of Rocket's pouring through the hallway as he fights his way to the lab. He flips and somersaults pass the gunfire and dives through the doors, peeking briefly to gain some time his way.

"Let's go, rook!" he blares out, extending his hand.

She takes it without question, but as soon as their hands touch a single bullet grazes Paul in the shoulder. The agent grunts and spins to the floor, holding onto his right arm.

"Paul!" she screams, immediately at his side. "Are you alright?" But all concerns liquefy into fear as a single click draws their attention and they find themselves looking into a barrel of a black Spectre M4 sub-machine gun. Instinctively, the wounded agent shoves his silver Desert Eagle forward in response. Three more Rockets peel from the now completely open doors and aim their guns at them.

The lead Rocket raises his gun so the laser sight lands directly on Paul's forehead, his mouth curling upward in a mixture of anger and pleasure. "Do it. I dare you."

He wouldn't think twice about sending these punks to the grave, even though there's a slim chance of making it out alive. The surge for vengeance makes his blood boil. Murderers deserve justice and justice requires sacrifice. He fights every fiber in his being begging him to pull the trigger, but when he sees Dawn shivering out of the corner of his eye he reluctantly loosens his grip on the handle, and it hangs on his finger before one of the men snatch it away.

The lead Rocket grins darkly and motions to the other two.

"Take them away."

He runs with everything he has, away from the men screaming from the hot lead piercing through their bodies, away from the bullet' echoes cascading down the hallway, growing louder with each step he takes. But he must keep going, he must reach the end. He kicks open the door to the outside and slips under the cloak of night, a few dewdrops wet his face and damp his agent clothing.

It's not any better here than it is inside. A white light explodes a few yards to his right, shaking the entire compound. His gun is ready, and aims toward the figures dressed in back. They're everywhere - to his left, to his right, on the roof barely discernible from the large spotlight, but he takes them out easily, along with two Rocket's guarding the opening of the barbwire fencing surrounding the base. As soon as he crosses the perimeter, a familiar voice rings in his ears through the machine guns following his every movement.

"It's Ash! He's back! Let's go!" The man motions the others to follow, and they retreat either by foot or by vehicle.

He catches up to him and the two run side by side.

"Did you get it?" the spiky haired man asks.

"Yes, Brock! We did," Ash huffs angrily.

"Where's Dawn and Paul?"

He doesn't say a word, all he can do is shake his head and run as fast as he can. Taking one last look at the Rocket base of operations, surrounded by barb wire fencing and lights, he unhooks a ball from the left side of his belt and flings it in the air.

A Charizard materializes in thin air with a heavy roar and swoops down low enough so they can jump on. As soon as they are secured, Ash signals his Pokemon to fly higher and it bursts through the cloud formations in the sky. The cold wind slices through their hair, the pale moonlight ignites their outline in the night, and the rain pummels their bodies, almost begging them to stay. But he doesn't. He doesn't look back.

Not once.

The cork pops in the hair, with the accompanying sound and bounces to the ground somewhere, forgotten. He holds the green tinted bottle by its elongated neck with one hand and a small glass in the other. The wine is dark, pungent, and it ripples when he pours it, filling the glass half way.

"This is a very special bottle of wine," Brock starts with a heavy sigh - everyone in the small cavern can hear it. "Merlot... '22. A very good year. Lance was saving it for a special occasion, the end of the war even." He pans the audience all around him. "But, he won't be here to drink it. Not anymore."

A bout of sobs permeates through the crowd, some even fall to their knees and weep bitterly. But one refuses to abandon his cold surface. All he does it lean against the far wall, half covered by the shoulders in front of him, emotionless, stern and distant.

Brock continues. "Lance was the Dragon Master. He was our leader, and more importantly, he was our friend. I'll miss him very much." He sips the glass and adds, "I drink this glass in his honor. His memory will live on. His death will not be in vain."

The rock trainer pulls the empty glass from his lips and hands the bottle to the next person who mimics his movements. After he passes the bottle, Brock pulls a small necklace from his pocket. It's thin and black, with a single dragon fang looped around it. He places it on a small rock on the floor. The rock accompanies three others, with other small relics on them. Lance's is the last one, the last of four.

He picks himself off the ground, dusts off his pants and looks just quick enough to catch Ash leave the mouth of the cavern and down the long rocky hallway. With a half mumbled apology, bumps some people out of the way and tries to follow. The cave's ceiling lines with small florescent lights, strung together by black wires, and Brock can barely make his shape walking farther and farther away.

"Ash!"

He stops, doesn't turn, and waits for him to catchup.

"Where are you going?"

He starts walking again. "To see Max."

"What? We just gave him the drive. It'll take him a few hours to go through all the encrypted data."

"And I want to be there when he does."

"Ash," he reaches for his shoulder. "Stop."

His hand is crudely shaken off and he continues down the dimmed hallway.

"I need to talk to you!"

"I know what you're going to say, Brock!" he growls.

"You do?"

"Sure." A quick turn, and they find themselves face to face. "You're angry. You're disappointed. The mission failed and it's all my fault. More than half the team was killed, Paul and Dawn are captured, and because I didn't follow orders Lance is dead! He's dead! I know!"

"But-"

"Am I leaving anything out?"

Brock takes a few steps back, about to wring him out. But one long look of Ash Ketchum changes his mind. Ash is older, the boy he knew from his childhood has all but disappeared. Ash is taller than he is, by a good few inches too. But all those changes don't bother him. It's how his eyes look when he stares so coldly back at him, or how the two can never carry on a meaningful conversation without escalating into an argument. The spiky haired agent takes a deep breath and lifts his eyes to meet him.

"That's not what I was going to talk to you about."

"You weren't?" Ash asks skeptically.

"No," he sighs. "Things have gotten so bad, even a mission as screwed up as that one was consolation enough for me. And Lance went down fighting, he wouldn't want it any other way."

"Then what?"

"Ash. I think you should be Lance's successor."

"Me? You're crazy." He shakes his head and continues on his way.

"Since the Elite Four are all gone now, that leaves you."

"Forget it. Not happening. You do it."

"Come on, we all know I'm not the leader type," he pleads, trailing behind him.

He accelerates his steps, turning a corner. "Sure you are. You give out orders all the time. You organized the last counter-attack, and if I'm not mistaken that was you on the other end of my microphone bossing me around."

"That's not what I mean. Being a commander requires more than just barking out orders. It's about courage, bravery, instincts, leadership..."

He waves his hand dismissively, shushing him.

The spiky haired trainer slows to a halt, pauses reluctantly and calls again. "Ash, I know it's been a rough year-"

"Don't!" He stops dead in his tracks, extending his hand like a bridge then adds a softer, "Don't. Just... don't."

"I still believe in you, Ash. You're still a Master, a Champion. People just don't forget that."

He remains silent, soaking in all of Brock's words and what they represent. Yes, he is a Pokemon Master and Kanto's Champion, but it seems like decades ago, with little remembrance of its meaning. He's not a poster boy, the League's token Champion or a celebrity basking in the lime light. Fancy titles and likability polls are of little value here, in the midst of war, especially on the losing side.

"I forgot," he whispers stubbornly and halts just before the hallway breaks off into a smaller cave. "Max!"

"Just think about it-"

"Max!" he continues, completely ignoring him. "Where are you?"

"Here." A short teenage boy pokes his head up from behind a flat screen monitor and pushes his glasses back up his nose. "What's the problem, gentlemen?"

"The problem is," Ash slams his hands down on his desk. The resulting bang moves some office utensils, rolls a pencil off the table and pops a small plastic bust of Norman in the air. "Those blue prints you gave us were wrong. Because of you we almost didn't make it there alive."

Max tuts quietly. He types steadily on the keyboard and keeps his eyes on the screen. "That's not the way I heard it. Sure, the floor plans were wrong. They're the designs to some Rocket installation in the region, I just don't know where. But I hear you," he pauses to look up "Ash, were the real problem out there."

Brock bars his arm across his body to stop him from lunging.

"Enough. I know we haven't given you a lot of time, but we want an update on the data we stole."

"Are you done?" Ash asks as patiently as he can.

"For some time now." His thin straw chokes the remaining soda out of his can and he taps the keys. "I decrypted it in less than an hour. What would you like to know?"

"Well-"

"What's their next target?" Ash interrupts, bumping him a little.

"Looks like a small munitions deposit in Lavender Town. Cakewalk job. Very little security."

Brock adjusts his collar and clears his throat to regain the floor. "What about their secret headquarters? Did you find the location?"

"Sure did," Max smiles, clicking the file. "Looks like an old, small abandoned outpost on the outskirts of Pallet Town. Pretty smart. No one would've guessed that."

"Pallet? That's not too far from here. If we mobilize now-"

"No. We should stop the munitions job first."

"Ash, our numbers are pretty thin as they are. We have a chance to end this. We know where their secret headquarters are. Chop off the head and the Ekans will die."

He matches his level. "No. We're going to Lavender... because I'm accepting your offer."

"What?"

"You said it yourself, I'm the best fit to be Lance's successor, so I'm accepting your offer. I'm tired of hiding in Mt. Moon! I'm tired of burying all my friends! I say we're going to Lavender."

"Him?" Max groans, palming his face. "You're making him leader?"

"I can do this. I can lead this team."

"A real leader weighs decisions logically. Why would we waste manpower on a small job in Lavender when we can focus on their secret headquarters. Answer me that."

"She'll be there," he shoots back. "I know she will."

"How do you know?" Max taunts, rolling his eyes.

He's about to reply more forcefully, but after stricken by a pause, he drops his hands, exhales for control and starts again. "I just do."

"Ash, I want Misty back just like you but we need to be smart about this."

"Brock." The boy's voice wavers, eyes red almost on the brink of tears. "Please... I need you to trust me. I have to find her. I have to get her back."

The heavy sigh from Brock signals defeat, but as he faces Ash again, somehow he looks different. He can see the zeal coursing through his veins. His face is still barely readable, cold, but now there's an aura of determination to him. Purpose reappears behind his eyes, a look he hasn't seen in nine months, before the unthinkable happened. Those brave qualities have been buried under months of fighting and death, but now - even if its only for a brief moment - they're starting to show again.

"Fine. If you want us to go to Lavender, that's just what we'll do," he nods obediently, with Ash's silence as token.

After a stiff pause, he turns and exits from Max's small lab. The cave is narrow, and the staggered lights only illuminate him briefly, but Max and Brock continue watching him - head down, hands deep in his pockets, growing smaller and smaller as he walks away.

"He can't do it, he can't lead us, Brock. He's gonna get us all killed."

"Give him a chance, he's been through a lot, we all have. He's still the best we have."

"You better know what you're doing, Brock."

"I know," he nods.

"He hasn't been the same since it happened."

"I know that too."

"I don't get it!" Max blurts out suddenly, peering to the distant Ash fading in the background. "What does Misty have that nobody else has? What makes her so damn special?"

"For Ash?" The dark figure finally vanishes from sight, and its only then does Brock give him an answer. "More than you know, Max. More than you know."

Ten years earlier...

He was surprised that she was still here, and then he realized he shouldn't be. By the type of bizarre day he was having, she would have to be involved. From the very minute he woke up she made things a living hell for him. First, it was the rude awakening, then is was the fact she practically scarfed down a meal made for four. Now, it was Pikachu's purr as she rubbed his back and scratched him gently behind his ears. She giggled and hugged the electric Pokemon closer, spurring another satisfied "Cha."

He pouted. Only he could produce a response like that from Pikachu. "Give him back. It's my turn."

"Sorry, Ash," Misty laughed. "Looks like Pikachu likes me more than he likes you."

"You're insane. I'm still your buddy, right Pikachu?"

The Pokemon in question merely smiled, nuzzled in Misty's arms and cooed his name gently.

He grumbled. "Traitor."

His response only made the situation worse, and he slouched on the couch and crossed his feet stubbornly.

"Ash, dear, I forgot to tell you Professor Oak called," Delia called from the other room.

"What did he want?"

"I don't know. It sounded important, though. I think there was a mishap at the lab."

"Sounds like fun," Misty rocketed to her feet. Instantly, Pikachu ran up her back and perched on her shoulder with an energetic, "Chu!"

"You comin'?" she asked.

He groaned lazily and sunk further in his seat.

"Come on... an adventure at the lab is a million times more fun than lounging around the house."

The electric mouse added a cheery "Pikachu," and Misty extended her hand for him to take. He did, and as soon as they let Mrs. Ketchum know where they were going, they were out the door and down the paved streets of Pallet. Around two blocks in did Ash decide to break the silence, as they passed the neatly lined mailboxes and perfectly manicured lawns of the neighbors.

"You know something, Misty?" he began, stealing a peek of her.

"What's that?"

"I gotta admit, I wasn't particularly glad you were here. You were buggin' me the entire day."

She knocked him on the shoulder.

"But now I'm glad you're here. I mean, you always know what to say to help me. Even though you bug me to no end, I'm still glad you're here."

"It's my job." He wasn't quite sure if her words were sincere of not, but when she hooked her arm around his neck and smiled, he lost all doubt. She did care about him.

"Face it, kiddo. You'd be hopeless without me."

"Would not," he playfully fought back.

"Would too."

"Would not!"

"Would too!"

They raced to Professor Oak's lab, laughing the whole way there. She had the loveliest laugh, he thought. He never quite noticed it before. It sounded smart - a kid-like giggle, high pitched and abrupt, but still nice to hear. He liked it, and he liked the fact it was making his day so much more enjoyable. It was the small things like that: her laugh, voice, the way she played with her food - little mannerisms specifically to her that seemed to make the most profound impression on him.

Maybe that was the reason why she was his best friend, and why he told her he appreciated her visits, and why he was currently chasing her up Professor Oak's stone steps, with Pikachu zigzagging through their legs, all the way up to the door. Only for a moment did his euphoria become stifled, when the thought of losing her oddly popped into his head, but dismissed it just as swiftly. Because never could he visualize a world without Misty, and dared not to venture a reason why she'd be gone. Things would always stay this way.

Always.

Author's Notes: Updates will be less than sporadic.