The last of their adrenaline had burned away on the frantic run from the forest, leaving nothing but a hollow, aching exhaustion in its place. Their bodies moved on instinct alone, one foot in front of the other, through the outskirts of Pewter. They kept to the shadows, skirting the edges of lamplight as though the glow itself might expose them. The memory of the crowd's jeers and accusations still clung to them like smoke, a fresh wound that hadn't even begun to scab. Every sound of laughter or conversation drifting from the streets made them flinch, as though it might turn into shouting, into blame.
When the warm, welcoming lights of the Pokémon Centre finally came into view, it felt less like a sanctuary and more like a different planet. The building glowed with a steady, artificial warmth, its windows spilling amber light into the twilight. To Ash, it looked unreal, like a painting hung in the middle of the street. To Yellow, it looked fragile, as though if she blinked too hard, the whole thing might vanish and leave them stranded in the dark.
The automatic doors slid open with a soft, sterile hiss. The sound was so alien after the rustle of leaves and the wet crunch of the forest floor that both of them startled, shoulders jerking. The air that greeted them was clean, almost painfully so — a sharp wave of antiseptic and polished linoleum that scrubbed at the lingering copper tang of blood and rot still clinging to their clothes. The contrast was dizzying.
The lobby stretched before them, a cavern of murmurs and soft, amber light. Trainers lounged in chairs, their Pokémon curled at their feet, the low hum of conversation and the occasional laugh filling the space. It was a world away from the suffocating darkness they had just escaped. For a moment, Ash felt like an intruder, a ghost wandering into a place meant for the living.
Nurse Joy looked up from the counter, her welcoming smile already in place. It faltered the instant she saw them.
They stood there, two small, haunted figures. Their clothes were torn and smeared with dirt and something darker. Their faces were ashen, their eyes wide and hollow, carrying the reflection of a horror she couldn't yet see.
"My goodness," she breathed, her voice soft with alarm. "What happened to you two?"
Neither of them spoke. The words wouldn't come. Ash's throat was raw, his tongue heavy. Yellow's lips parted, but no sound emerged. They just looked at each other, a shared, silent acknowledgement passing between them, before turning back to her.
Ash fumbled with the Poké Balls on his belt, his hands shaking so badly it took him two tries to unclip them. The metallic clicks echoed too loudly in the quiet lobby. He lined them up on the counter without a word, his fingers lingering on the last one as though reluctant to let go.
Nurse Joy's gaze softened with a deep, professional concern. She didn't press for an answer. She simply took the Pokémon, her expression unreadable, and then watched as Ash and Yellow shuffled over to the nearest empty chairs.
They didn't sit so much as collapse. Their bodies slumped together, leaning into each other as if they were the only two solid things left in the world. Ash's head dropped forward, his cap shadowing his eyes. Yellow curled into her blanket, her flute case clutched tight against her chest. Their eyes closed, and in the clean, safe quiet of the lobby, exhaustion finally claimed them.
Time passed without their noticing.
They woke to the gentle weight of a warm wool blanket draped over their shoulders, its heat a stark contrast to the deep, settled chill in their bones. Pikachu was curled in their laps, a small, vibrant ball of warmth, his soft snores a comforting rhythm. Eevee had tucked himself against Yellow's side, his tail draped protectively across her knees. Butterfree perched silently on the back of the chair, wings folded tight, as though standing guard.
Nurse Joy was kneeling before them, her hand gently nudging Ash's shoulder.
"Hey," she said softly. "It's getting late."
Ash blinked, disoriented. The lobby was empty now, the earlier chatter gone, the lights dimmed for the night. The clock on the wall read nearly ten.
He and Yellow began to stir, their movements stiff and slow, every muscle protesting. Their stomachs gave a simultaneous, hollow growl. They hadn't eaten since that morning, and their breakfast had been lost to the horrors of the forest. The thought of food, however, brought a fresh wave of nausea.
Tiredly, they started to push themselves up, their only thought the quiet refuge of their room.
"Not so fast," Nurse Joy's voice stopped them, gentle but firm. She gestured to a nearby table where two plates, wrapped in foil, were waiting. "I've already fed your Pokémon. They're resting. Now it's your turn."
Ash shook his head, his voice hoarse. "We're not hungry."
Yellow raised her hands, her movements small and weary. We just want to sleep.
Nurse Joy's expression didn't waver. She picked up the plates and pressed them into their hands. They were still warm.
"I didn't ask if you were hungry," she said, her voice now carrying a compassionate but unyielding authority, the tone of a mother who would not be argued with. "I know what you've seen has stolen your appetite. But you are both growing children who have been through a severe ordeal. Your bodies need fuel to heal. I finished my shift and made this for you myself. You will take it. And you will eat it. That's an order."
They looked at her, at the unwavering resolve in her tired eyes, and knew it was a battle they couldn't win.
Begrudgingly, they took the plates and retreated to the quiet of their room.
Inside, the silence was thick but gentler than the forest's. Their Pokémon were already asleep, sprawled in small, tired heaps. Pikachu stirred briefly as they entered, then nestled back into the blanket.
They unwrapped the foil. One plate held a simple stir‑fry of fresh vegetables, the other, a small mound of warm, white rice. Steam curled upward, carrying the faint scent of sesame and garlic.
Their stomachs growled again, a primal, traitorous signal of a need their minds had rejected. Ash stared at the food, his throat tightening. The smell of cooked vegetables clashed with the phantom memory of copper and rot. He forced himself to take a bite, chewing slowly, each motion mechanical.
Yellow hesitated longer. Her hands trembled as she lifted the fork. She glanced at Ash, saw him chewing, and finally, reluctantly, mirrored him. The first bite sat heavily in her mouth, but the warmth spread through her chest, grounding her.
They ate in silence, each bite a conscious effort, a small, difficult step away from the forest and back toward the world of the living.
When the plates were empty, they set them aside and sat together on the bed, their shoulders touching. Neither spoke. There were no words yet for what they had seen. But in the quiet, with their Pokémon breathing softly around them and the taste of warm rice still lingering on their tongues, they felt the faintest thread of safety return.
It wasn't peace. It wasn't healing. But it was a beginning.
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The meal sat like a lead weight in Ash's stomach, a forced truce with a body that still screamed for anything but sustenance. He and Yellow had eaten because Nurse Joy had insisted, because their bodies demanded it, but the food had not brought comfort. It had been mechanical, each bite a negotiation with nausea, each swallow a reminder of what they had seen. When the plates were empty, they washed them in silence, the sound of running water too clean, too normal, against the backdrop of their memories.
They retreated to the main room with the ghosts of the day clinging to them like a second skin.
The motions of preparing for bed were slow, weary pantomimes. Ash pulled off his jacket, folded it with stiff, automatic precision, and set it on the chair. Yellow unwrapped her blanket from around her shoulders, smoothing it out on the bed with trembling hands. Neither looked at the other. Their silence was not companionable but heavy, thick with unspoken horror. Every glance risked breaking the fragile dam holding back the flood.
When at last they lay down, it was on opposite sides of the bed, a chasm of starched linen between them. Their backs turned, as if the angle of their bodies could shield them from the other's pain. But there was no sleep. Sleep was a distant country they could no longer reach.
For Ash, every time he closed his eyes, the images returned in a sickening, chaotic rush: the glint of a Scyther's blade, the flash of a red symbol on torn cloth, the vacant, staring eyes of a skull being gnawed clean by tiny, eager jaws. He forced his eyes open again and again, staring at the unfamiliar wallpaper, tracing its faded floral pattern in the dim moonlight spilling through the window. He tried to count the lines, to follow them like paths, anything to keep the memories at bay. But the thought hammered at him, dull and relentless: I brought her there. To help her. And I led her straight into a nightmare.
On her side of the bed, Yellow was just as lost. She lay perfectly still, her breathing so shallow it was almost non‑existent. She was afraid to move, afraid to breathe too deeply, as if any small action might shatter the fragile control she had over the terror still coiling in her gut. She could feel the ghost of the Scyther's blade on her arm, a phantom sting that made the real, shallow cut burn. But worse than that was the guilt. He was helping me, her mind whispered. For me. If it wasn't for me, he would have been safe. He would never have seen those things. The thought was a cold, sharp stone in her chest, and she pressed her bandaged hand against it, as if she could physically hold the pain in.
From the foot of the bed, Pikachu watched them, his small body tense. His ears twitched at every shift of breath, his tail flicked with unease. He could feel their distress, a chaotic storm of fear and sorrow that filled the quiet room. He let out a soft, questioning chirp, but neither of them moved.
The fragile balance broke when a memory, more vivid than the rest, tore through Yellow. The sight of the bodies. The overwhelming stench. The furious charge of the Rattata. Her body convulsed in a violent, full‑body shiver, a desperate attempt to shake off a horror that was already inside her. The small movement rocked the mattress, a seismic tremor in the stillness.
Ash's head snapped around. In the dim light, he could just make out her shape, curled into a tight ball, her shoulders shaking. Pikachu was instantly on his feet, padding toward her with a worried squeak.
He saw her panting, her breath coming in short, hitched gasps. Their eyes met across the small distance, and in that shared, haunted look, a silent, heartbreaking story was told. You're not sleeping either.
The need to do something, anything, was overwhelming. Ash rose from the bed, his movements stiff and slow, every joint aching with exhaustion. Yellow watched him go, panic rising in her chest. He's leaving. Her bandaged hand twitched, reaching out into the empty air for a moment before falling back. Her mind screamed at her that it was better this way. Better for him to be away from her.
Her frantic thoughts were cut short when something cool and solid was gently placed against her forehead. She flinched, her eyes flying open to see Ash standing beside the bed, holding a glass of water, the condensation cool against her skin. He then held the glass out to her.
She shakily extended her bandaged hands, her fingers stiff and clumsy. She tried to take the glass, but her grip was weak, her nerves shot. The glass slipped, tipping sideways and spilling a cascade of cold water across the mattress and the edge of her pyjamas. She froze, her eyes wide with a fresh wave of guilt, staring at the dark, spreading stain as if it were another monumental failure.
Ash didn't say a word. He just took a deep, steadying breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh. He picked up the empty glass from the bed, refilled it from the pitcher on the desk, and returned. This time, he didn't offer it to her. He knelt by the bed, holding the glass steady in his own hands, and gently brought it to her lips. He raised an eyebrow, a silent, patient prompt.
Embarrassed, she leaned forward and drank. The cool water slid down her throat, soothing the rawness there, grounding her in the present.
When she was finished, he placed the cup back on the table. He went to the wardrobe, his eyes following him, and took out a spare, folded bedsheet. He returned to the bed and, without a word, spread it out neatly over the wet patch. Then, he lay down on top of it and pulled the cover over himself, turning his back to her once more. The room fell back into its heavy silence.
He closed his eyes, but a moment later, he felt a hesitant poke on his back.
He turned his head. In the moonlight, he could see her face, her eyes wide and apologetic. He turned over fully to face her and, for a long moment, they just looked at each other, two lost children in a quiet, dark room. With a soft sigh, he patted the space on the bed beside him.
She took the invitation, shifting closer, lying on her side to face him. The distance between them shrank, the chasm of linen bridged by a few inches of courage.
Ash remembered nights when he was younger, waking from a nightmare, his mother coming into his room and gently rubbing his back until the fear faded and sleep returned. Without thinking, he extended his right hand, his arm going behind her, and began to gently rub her back in slow, steady circles.
He felt her whole body go rigid, and she squeezed her eyes shut, a faint blush rising on her cheeks even in the dim light. He froze, confused. Does she have a fever? He moved his left hand to her forehead to check. It was warm, but not hot. Confused, he placed his hand back at his side. He kept rubbing her back, the simple, repetitive motion a silent promise: I'm here. You're not alone.
He didn't know how much time had passed. He just kept up the slow, steady rhythm, his own jagged thoughts gradually smoothing out with the motion. The wallpaper faded from his mind. The skulls, the blood, the cage — all of it dulled under the rhythm of his hand and the sound of her breathing.
After a while, he felt the tension in her shoulders finally begin to ease. Her breathing deepened, evening out into the soft, vulnerable rhythm of sleep. Only then did he allow himself to stop. He pulled his hand back, his own exhaustion washing over him like a tide. A few moments later, he was asleep too, his face softened in the moonlight, the lines of guilt and fear smoothed by rest.
From the foot of the bed, Pikachu watched them. He rose quietly, padded up the length of the blanket, and curled into a small, warm ball on the pillow between their sleeping heads. His ears twitched, his eyes half‑closed but alert. A silent, steadfast guardian for the rest of the night.
And in that fragile, exhausted quiet, the horrors of the forest finally loosened their grip, if only for a few hours.