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He’d just gotten Ash back, he couldn’t...
Not again.
It’d been a stupid villain, like always. One with a half-baked plan to channel the power of a god to serve their own power-hungry goals. Ash and Pikachu, of course, were always in the right place at the right time (or, conversely and more accurately, the wrong place at the wrong time) to come in and save the day.
The problem arose when they both underestimated the danger of this particular adventure.
Pikachu was ripped from his reverie by the crumbling of the dark walls around them. Small rocks and dust fell on his head, and he coughed a little, though it hurt tremendously to do so; his throat was sore from yelling.
Yelling for Ash.
The villain’s plans hadn’t worked out, as always, because it was no easy feat to control a legendary. Instead of serving his own goals, it went on a rampage, and here they were, suffering for it.
The earth trembled once more.
An unfortunate incident that started with Pikachu falling off a cliff and into the ravine below and ended with him having no idea where Ash was had led them to this point. The water had been cold, choppy, and hard as ice. It had pulled him under until he could no longer hear Ash’s desperate cries. He had not known which way was up or down, right or left, and his immediate instinct to lash out with his electricity would not bode well for any being who called this water home. It was dark, and painful, like needles sinking into his already matted fur.
He had surfaced some time later, hacking, freezing, and numb. There had been only one thing on his mind.
Pikapi.
He coughed. The dust in the air, in this cold, damp cave, was thick and heavy and choking.
The ground shook again, and the entrance far above closed a little more.
Pikachu didn’t know how far he had walked. He’d yelled for his trainer until his throat was shredded and raw and he could not breathe without pain. He was hungry. He was thirsty. He was cold. None of those things mattered, not as long as he was separated from Ash. Not as long as it was the end of the world and Ash was in the center of it. Not as long as Ash was without him in the center of it.
His paws were bleeding, but he barely noticed the pain. He needed to get to Ash, to make sure he was okay.
The rumble was louder this time, and Pikachu looked away from his trainer’s slack face for a moment to watch the walls for signs of crumbling.
It was a long time—Pikachu had no idea how long—until they found each other again, and by then Pikachu knew it was too late. Pikachu did not need to know the sorry state he himself he was in to know that Ash was worse. His trainer had run to his buddy, despite how much Pikachu could see it hurt him to do so, crying his name. He muttered sweet nothings into his shoulder, along with whispers that convinced Pikachu his partner had dealt with the villain, somehow.
The rampaging legendary was still out there.
It was just their luck, Pikachu thought. Just their luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The ground had shook, a loud growling sound, and, like a hungry pyroar, opened its dark, gaping maw.
And they fell in.
Pikachu looked to his trainer’s face again and keened. The fall had not been kind; rocks falling and cutting into Pikachu’s fur. He cried out when something sharp dug into his side, but Ash was silent.
It was not until they reached the ground, until Pikachu could muster up the energy to even open his eyes, when he realized that Ash had hit his head. It was bleeding, a lot, and though Pikachu remembered Brock’s kind voice reassuring Ash that head wounds, even when shallow, bled a lot, Ash had never bled this much.
The walls shook, and closed in a little more, and Ash’s body shook with it. Other than that, he was still. He was cold.
Pikachu knew what death was. He had felt it, firsthand, stone clawing its cold way up his body; or the strange, tingly feeling of disappearing from existence. He had felt it crushed under rocks and chandeliers, by fire and by frostbite.
He had seen it, and that was always worse. Ash turning to stone, in a vague memory that, like a dream, he forgot the more he tried to remember. Ash drowning, in ice cold water, when Pikachu wasn’t big enough to keep him afloat when he was already struggling himself. Drowning, again, in an underwater temple. Ice taking over his body, running out of air on the edge of space.
Pikachu knew what death was.
They always bounced back from it. He knew this would be the same, right?
Right?
It was only a matter of time.
Still, there was no other way to put it. It’s what his trainer was.
The earth shook.
But what if, his traitorous brain questioned, what if this time he doesn’t come back?
He would!
...right?
It was dark, and cold, and lonely, and Pikachu hurt all over. Ash’s blood was in his fur, on his paws and his cheek.
Pikachu did not want to face a future where that was a possibility.
Just in case, just in case, he called his name. Pikapi tore its way out of his shredded throat, a guttural, desperate sound, but there was no response.
And so Pikachu picked his way gingerly onto Ash’s chest, in the usual spot he perched for sleeping, and curled up. His tail was tightly wrapped round him, and he tried to get at much of Ash’s smell as he could. One quick glance to the side, and there was Ash’s hat, splotched with blood.
Pikachu pressed it to his face, and curled up again.
The earth shook once more, long and loud. They would be crushed soon, probably.
Pikachu was going to lie here with Ash until that happened. Until they both came back.
If they both came back.
But the world, his mind said. It needs saving.
The world could save itself.
Pikachu laid there, trying to stop the steady flow of tears that found there way down his already soiled fur.
Hello darkness, I’m ready to succumb.
Silence.
The cave shook once more, and there was a distant, vicious roar.
The world was not going to save itself.
The grief was heavy, and dark, and cold. He could not get up. Not without Ash.
The world was not going to save itself.
Pikachu could not save the world without Ash. Even if he was going to be inevitably revived, even if they were all going to be okay.
They would only be okay after the world was saved.
Pikachu could not save the world by himself.
He could, however, rise to his feet. With tremendous effort, he heaved himself up. He gripped Ash’s hat in his teeth, and stepped to the ground.
Pikachu did not know if there would be a sunrise tomorrow. For Ash, for him, or for anyone.
He took a step, and almost stumbled. His paws were rusty red with blood, still, both his and Ash’s. He took a breath, looked back, and took another step.
Pikachu could not save the world on his own. But he could do the next right thing. He stepped, and stepped again, and raised his head to look at the light above.
He needed to get out.
There were ledges large enough for him to stand on. Pikachu had to climb them.
He could not save the world on his own. But if he just, if he just—
Took a step, took a breath. Climbed on one ledge, and then the next, that was all he needed to do, all he could do—
He hopped to the first ledge. The world shook, and he stumbled, and almost fell. But he gripped Ash’s hat in his teeth and dug his tail into the dirt.
He could do this. Next ledge.
Hop. Next ledge. Hop. Next ledge.
After he got out of here, what would he do? How could he face the legendary without Ash? How could he—
Hop. Next ledge. Hop.
Next ledge—
The earth shook. The ledge crumbled. Pikachu twisted through the air as the debris scratched his body. He just managed to find purchase on a lower ledge and caught himself. It hurt his paws, and his body, but he snarled and pulled himself up, using his tail for balance and momentum.
Okay then. Next ledge. Hop.
He pulled himself up to the surface, panting, bleeding all over again, and glanced down below. He could barely see Ash.
It shook, and he leaped away from the edge as, with a great grumble, the rocks collapsed.
The gaping maw in the earth was forcefully closed.
Okay. Step. Step again.
His ears perked as he tried to locate the legendary. He needed to get there. It was okay. It was okay. He just needed to do this, and then he would see Ash again. Not that cold, broken body, but his smiling face, full of light and laughter.
Another roar, another shake, and Pikachu swiveled his head. There.
Okay. Step. Step, step, step, bloody paw prints on the dirt. Pikachu did not let go of Ash’s hat, didn’t dare.
He couldn’t save the world alone.
What if this time was different? What if Ash never came back?
What if this really was the world he was stuck in? What if his life was never the same?
No. No, no, it would. Ash would wake up, and he would be okay, and they’d all remember this as barely more than a bad dream.
It had to be.
Roar. Shake. Step. He was close.
He tripped, gritting his teeth on the hat as he stumbled to his feet once more, pure determination coursing through his veins.
He was there.
The legendary rampaged, roaring gutturally, viciously, angrily. It was not all there, still enraged by the villain’s attempt to control it.
A screech tore itself out of Pikachu’s mouth, and the giant thing snapped its head down to the tiny yellow mouse with blood and dust on his fur and a hat in his mouth.
It would not regard him as insignificant.
Or, as it looked away immediately, maybe it would; but that was a mistake.
Pikachu viciously yelled, a more vicious sound than he’d ever made while Ash lived.
He didn’t have to save the world. All he had to do was the most insurmountable task yet. Fell the legendary.
No, no. Just let out a bolt. Just run. Just attack.
Pikachu called down the lightning of the heavens onto the god. Ash had always told him to subdue his electricity when they faced lesser opponents—no need to go overkill—but Ash was not here, and this legendary was going down.
It may not have purposefully made the choice, but it had inadvertently killed his trainer.
That was a mistake.
(Ash would come back, he would, he would—)
The legendary screamed before launching explosions at him. Pikachu could do this. He dodged. He did it again. Webs of lightning encased the beast, bigger than ever before. He snarled and cursed Arceus before launching himself onto the beast’s shoulder, Volt Tackle at the ready. Lightning arced out of his small body.
The sky was black.
Clouds swirled, thunder rumbling as rain poured down in sheets.
Pikachu smirked.
The blood grew wet as his fur slickened with rain, dripping off in a gross mixture of rust and dust and sweat. Static crackled in the air, jumping from raindrop to raindrop, and the buzzing crescendoed.
The earth shook.
Pikachu volleyed thunderbolt after thunderbolt with the ferocity and lack of restraint of one who’d lost everything. The legendary fought back, and Pikachu threw caution to the whistling wind, not even trying to dodge. What was more important was saving the world.
He could do it himself.
It was a brutal fight of electricity and fire and debilitating ear-piercing shrieks—made by both parties. Pikachu had only one thought in his mind.
Win.
Rain fell like sleet, hard as hail, and it was difficult to see through the electrified water. Pikachu moved too fast to see in Quick Attacks, a blur of yellow against the black of the sky.
The legendary roared.
The earth shook.
Pikachu did not let his thoughts return to the cave.
He called to the heavens again, to the earth, and electricity exploded from his body. He knew it was a last-resort move. He wouldn’t be able to fight after this. But he had to save the world.
Everything went black as the lightning boomed; when he opened his eyes again his ears were ringing.
The legendary was felled.
The sky cleared.
He gingerly, gingerly, picked his way out of the rubble and made his way to the creature. It was opening its eyes.
They were cleared.
He chirped, and it grumbled back. It understood, now.
The world was saved.
Pikachu quivered, absolutely spent, and he let darkness take him.
Now it was Arceus’ turn, and he better damn well play his part.
He woke to warm hands around him.