(AN: Sorry for the late update. I noticed how slow the chapters have felt as of late, so I crammed two chapters' worth of content in one. Forgive the quality.)
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It was early in the morning when they returned to the power plant. The air was cool and faintly damp, the kind of air that still carried the hush of night. After breakfast at the Centre, Ash had used the kitchen to pack a few things — simple sandwiches, fruit, and a couple of energy bars from the cafeteria shop — enough to keep them going through the day's work.
The plant stood just as they'd left it, the waterwheel still and dark against the pale sky. The dry riverbed lay quiet, its cracked clay and scattered stones catching the first light.
Ash stepped onto the open ground and unclipped his Poké Balls one by one. In quick bursts of light, Pidgeotto, Spearow, Chansey, and Butterfree appeared, joining Pikachu and Eevee. Wings rustled, feathers shook, and the air filled with the faint hum of Butterfree's wings.
Crouching down, he said to them while trying not to look at Pikachu, "Alright, everyone, we are going to have the gym battle for the Boulder Badge at the Pewter Gym in a week. The gym leader uses Rock-type Pokémon. Are you ready?"
A chorus of cries answered him — Pidgeotto's sharp call, Spearow's rasp, Butterfree's soft trill, Chansey's warm hum.
"Alright, Chansey. I know you won't be taking part in the fight, but your help is just as important. I'll need you to keep using Gravity, Heal Pulse, and Heal Bell, just as you've been doing before."
"Butterfree, use Confusion to lift the smaller rocks first. Gradually work your way up until you can handle boulders. Once you've thrown them, catch them again with String Shot — that way, you'll be training both skills at once. Build your endurance so you can repeat the process as many times as possible without faltering. At the same time, practice scattering your powders across a wide area, not just in a narrow stream. During all of this, you'll need to dodge Pidgeotto and Spearow's attacks. Treat their strikes as if they were the rocks coming at you in a real battle."
"Pidgeotto, Spearow — I want the two of you to strike at Butterfree with Steel Wing. Don't just attack him—turn your wings against each other as well. Clash in the air, force your strikes to meet. This will temper your wings, build your stamina, and teach you how to endure blows without faltering by increasing your defence."
"Eevee, you'll be training on the ground, unlike the others. Run across the uneven riverbed and get used to moving on this kind of terrain. While you do, keep practising Iron Tail, Swift, and Quick Attack so your body learns to flow with the moves and keep on dodging invisible attacks. Once we're done here, Pikachu will join you in the drills, too. Pikachu, come with me."
Without another word, he led Pikachu into the shadowed interior of the power plant, the cool air inside carrying the faint scent of rust and old oil. They stopped before the dynamo, its iron casing dull in the morning light.
Ash crouched beside it, running his fingers along the thick, tar‑black insulation until he found the output terminals. Reaching for the wires carefully and deliberately, he removed them and connected them to Pikachu's red electric sacs with the electric tape he had bought the previous day, ensuring they remained firmly in place. His eyes stayed fixed on the small, red pouches of Pikachu's cheeks, avoiding the sight of the yellow fur that stirred memories he wasn't ready to face.
After confirming that, Ash rose and stepped out into the morning light to turn the wheel. Climbing the still and weather-worn paddles of the waterwheel, he reached the broad wooden handle. After gripping the handle, he pressed his feet against the paddle. At first, the wheel resisted, weighed down by disuse. Then, with a groan of wood and a slow, deep creak, it began to move. The paddles dipped and rose in their slow arc, the iron hub turning, feeding motion into the dynamo inside.
From within the plant came a low hum, and a moment later, a faint sound reached him - Pikachu's soft whimper. Ash's jaw tightened, but he kept walking the circle, the strain building in his legs and shoulders.
'Hang in there, buddy.'
Ash kept going until the hum steadied, then slowed the wheel to a stop. He stepped down and went inside. Pikachu was still standing, cheeks faintly glowing, but its ears were angled back. Ash knelt, carefully removing the wires.
"You, okay?"
"Pika," came the tired, but steady reply.
"Ready?"
Pikachu nodded.
Outside again, Ash led Pikachu to a jagged rock jutting from the dry riverbed. Looking at Pikachu, Ash ordered, "Do it."
Nodding once, Pikachu's cheeks flared with light, sparks leaping outward as the charge built. The air itself seemed to tremble with the tension, and when the Thunder Shock burst forth it struck the rock with a force unlike anything before. Stone blackened and smoked, the surface seared by the raw surge of power.
"Again," Ash ordered, his tone steady but sharp.
Pikachu obeyed, unleashing another Thunder Shock. This time the strike was weaker, more familiar—its strength paling in comparison to the first. Pikachu tilted its head, ears twitching in confusion. Ash frowned. Another attempt, then another; each one matched the second in power, but none touched the brilliance of the first.
That was when Roshi's voice stirred in Ash's mind."You see what's wrong by now?"
Ash's thoughts flickered back to the moment at the plant. 'I had Pikachu charged up by the dynamo. He must've been… supercharged. But what exactly was that?'
'The move is called Charge,' Roshi explained. 'It amplifies only the next Electric-type attack. Nothing more, nothing less.'
Ash's eyes lit with realization. 'So that's what it was. Thanks.'
He turned back to Pikachu, who was watching intently, sparks still faintly crackling along its fur. "Pikachu, we'll get you charged again. Remember that feeling—how it built up inside you—and try to recreate it. Okay?"
"Pika!" Pikachu barked, eyes bright with determination.
They began at once, drilling the rhythm of Charge into the body and memory, chasing the sensation until it could be summoned at will. The hours until lunch vanished in the crackle of lightning and the burn of repetition. After they ate, training shifted—mock battles on the broken riverbed, swift exchanges under the watch of Ash's voice. Then they had conditioning exercises to increase physical strength. All the while, the pull of increased Gravity pressed down on them.
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They returned in the evening exhausted. They ate, rested, and healed before doing the routine again. And again, for whole three days before Nurse Joy stopped them in the evening, when they arrived earlier than usual.
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As the sliding doors parted, Nurse Joy was already at the counter, watching them approach. She watched the team with a professional eye - Pikachu slumped over the boy's shoulder, Eevee dragging his feet, and Ash walking slower than usual.
"You have been training hard," she said with a calm voice edged with something firmer. "It's as if you are trying to run from something."
Ash's steps faltered for a heartbeat, but it was enough for her to notice. Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer before she gestured for Chansey to take the Pokémon to the treatment room.
Once the team had gone, she came around the counter. "Walk with me," she ordered.
They moved to a quieter corner of the lobby. "Ash," she began, "I've seen trainers push themselves before a gym match. But this… this is different. You're not just training. You're driving yourself into the ground with them too."
Ash quickly said, "I am fine."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "That's not what I asked."
He looked away. "It's nothing."
"Ash." Her tone was gentle, but it left no room to hide. "You flinched when I said you were running from something. I've been a nurse long enough to know when someone's carrying more than they're saying."
He stood there for a long moment, jaw tight. Then, with a quiet exhale, he said while fiddling his hat and shifting his weight, "It's Yellow."
"What about that girl? Didn't you go to visit her in the hospital a few days back?"
"I did and...we got into an argument," Ash finished uncomfortably.
Concerned, Nurse Joy asked, "Why?"
With that, Ash told how his meeting with Yellow went without leaving any details. Sometimes Roshi filled in the gaps in his head with some stuff he muddled up. At the end of it, Nurse Joy sighed and held the palm of one of her hands at her forehead. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she said.
"Ash, I can't pretend that doesn't upset me — not what happened to her, and not that you've been carrying it alone. But as a nurse, I'm telling you this: you need to rest. You and your Pokémon. And visit her too. Both of you need it. Rest and go visit her, okay?"
With that she left, leaving him alone in the lobby.
'You know that she is right. It's better to not run away from it forever, you know?'
'I know now.'
With that he sat on one of the lobby chairs, resting and thinking about what he was going to speak to her and if she will forgive him.
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Yellow thought that the room will feel calmer after Ash left. It didn't.
The low hum of the ceiling fan, the faint smell of antiseptic clinging to the sheets, the muted footsteps passing in the corridor outside. All of them remained the same, but the quiet inside her chest felt heavier and unsettled.
She kept replaying the conversation in her head. The words. The voice. The tightening of eyes. The quick and abrupt way he had left - as if staying a moment longer would have been too much.
The first day, she told herself it didn't matter. She focused on the routine: the morning check‑ups, the slow walk to the therapy room, the careful exercises that left her muscles aching. She smiled for the nurses, thanked them for the smallest kindnesses, and kept her tone light. But when the door closed and she was alone again, the smile slipped.
By the second day, the ache in her chest had settled into something heavier. She found herself staring out the window, watching the street below more often. Trainers passed with their Pokémon, children ran ahead of their parents, people carried baskets of groceries. Life kept moving, and she was still here — in this room, in this bed, with the smell of disinfectant in the air. Her appetite began to fade; she picked at her meals, leaving more than she ate.
On the third day, she stopped pretending to the nurses that she was fine. She didn't cry, but her answers grew shorter, her gaze more distant. When they asked if she wanted to go outside for fresh air, she shook her head gently and sadly. She drank only half the water they brought her, and the untouched tea on her tray went cold.
By the fourth morning, the weight in her chest had spread to her limbs. She moved slower and spoke less. The breakfast tray sat on the table by her bed, barely touched. The nurses exchanged quiet looks when they thought she wasn't watching. She knew they were worried, but she couldn't bring herself to explain. Her eyes were slowly becoming hollow.
She missed the warmth and company of her first friends more.
That afternoon, she lay back against the pillows, eyes half‑closed, the muted light from the window falling across her face. She thought about what she would say if Ash came back. Whether she would forgive him. Whether she even wanted to.
And yet, beneath the hurt and the stubbornness, there was a small, unwelcome flicker of hope — that he would come back. That he'd walk through the door, awkward and unsure, but there.
She hated that she couldn't decide if she'd turn away from him… or reach for his hand.
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It was late at night, when the lights of most of the houses have been shut and people were going to sleep.
The silhouette of a gently swaying man in a dark robe entered the hospital.
Tick...tock...
Hearing the door open at this hour, the night duty hospital clerk at the desk looked up to see the man swaying on his feet a little upon entering through the glass door.
"May I help you, sir?" He asked with a hint of trepidation.
Tick...tock...
Upon reaching the desk, the man said in a monotone voice, "V-Visit."
"I am sorry sir, but the visitation hours are over. Please come back tomorrow."
Tick...tock...
The man said something.
Confused as to what he was trying to say with that, the clerk opened the register to look up the unusual and clearly fake name, just to humor the man and turn him away.
Flutter...schliff...flutter...schliff...flutter...
Tick...tock...
The clerk's eyes widened upon reading a name that clearly existed in the register.
"Ah, she is actually here. So, you must be the..."
Whatever the clerk was going to say would never be known. When the clerk was starting to turn his head to look at the man, the man had buried a knife in the clerk's throat.
Tick...tock...gurgle...skleech...thud
The man pulled out the knife from the throat. The clerk fell face down on the desk with the blood pooling on it, drenching the books. The man took the blood-drenched book and saw the room number of the person all the while not having a change in his expression.
Tick...tock...
Discarding the blood-drenched book, he walked inwards with the blade in his hand, still dripping blood on the floor.
Tick...tock...
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Step...tick...step...tock...
The man continued walking inwards.
Some nurses and patients were about to scream, but they would not do so anymore. His emptied six-chamber discarded gun and bloodied knife, and crowbar made it so.
Step...tick...step...tock...
After walking for a few more minutes, he finally reached the door.
With a blank face and half-lidded eyes, he reached for the door with his blood-soaked hands.