Chapter Text
N stands in the middle of his childhood room, the vibrant, unnatural colors pressing in on him from all sides. He clenches his fists at his sides, taking it all in- the toys scattered across the floor seem almost desperate, offering memories he wants nothing to do with. Dust hangs in the air, thick and almost tangible, as if the room itself hasn’t breathed in years.
The room is smaller than he remembers—or maybe it’s him, standing taller now, grown but still feeling that tightness in his chest. He thought time would change this space. He thought it would feel different when he returned, but it didn't. A deflated basketball catches his eye, a little wrinkled, it sits there in front of the skate ramp he barely used. He picks it up, squeezing it in his hand. It gives easily, too easily, like it hasn’t been touched in a lifetime. With a frown, he drops it, the ball rolling listlessly toward the ramp that cuts through the room.
His eyes follow the ball as it rolls, stopping only when it hits the base of the ramp. The gouges carved into the painted wood make his stomach twist, a sharp jab of unease running through him. His heart races for a moment, faster than it should, and he steps forward, drawn to the damage like a moth to a flame. The claw marks are deep, rough, and jagged. He runs a finger along one, and the memory flares—there had been a Pokémon, scared and wild, hurt by its trainer. Ghetsis had brought it to him, told him to calm it. His job. His purpose.
He forces a breath, steadying himself, but the room feels smaller now. He feels the weight of it—walls too close, the air too still. Why did he come here? The tower calls to him, Ghetsis waits at the top, and yet something brings him here, to this windowless room where time has stood still. His chest tightens, that old fear clawing at him, and for a moment he’s not here, he’s there—back in that moment, the Pokémon thrashing, frightened, and him trying, failing, to soothe it. The deep gouges in the ramp had been its last desperate attempt to escape.
His back hits something soft. N whirls around, startled, coming face to face with Anthea. She’s standing just behind him, her face a calm mask. Concordia’s behind her, peeking out from the doorway. The weight of their gaze feels heavy, like they’ve seen through him, seen the crack in the armor he’s tried so hard to keep in place.
“The door was open,” Concordia says, her voice soft but unnerving in the silence of the room. “It hasn’t been opened in years.”
“Oh.” The word leaves his mouth without any weight behind it, as if he’s not even sure why he’s saying it. The ramp’s scars burned into his mind.
Anthea’s gaze sweeps over the room, her lips pressing into a thin line. “We were worried about you.”
N frowns, trying to push back the unease rising in his throat. “Worried? About me? There’s no reason to be.”
Anthea and Concordia exchange a glance, their silence speaking volumes. The room feels smaller, suffocating. N’s fingers twitch at his sides, the memory of the Pokémon, the claws, still gnawing at him. He wants to leave, but his feet won’t move. They know something. Anthea speaks first. “This room... it doesn’t hold many kind memories.”
N’s brow furrows. He looks around again, at the toys scattered on the ground, at the too-bright walls. “It doesn’t?”
Concordia steps closer, her voice low but filled with something unspoken. “Do you not remember?”
“I remember being bored,” N replies, his voice tight. “The lighting was always too bright.” He says it like a defense, something safe to grasp onto, but even as the words leave his mouth, they feel wrong. He knows there’s more, something lurking just beneath the surface. His eyes lock onto the ramp again, the scars pulling at him. “There was... a Pokémon. It was hurt. It scratched the ramp.”
He can hear his pulse pounding in his ears. The words come out, flat, mechanical, but there’s something more, something clawing at him from the back of his mind.
Anthea steps closer, her voice softening. “Do you remember why it was brought to you?”
The pieces are there, fragmented and scattered in his mind, but he can’t piece them together. Why had the Pokémon been brought here, to him, in this room? He remembers Ghetsis giving the order, remembers being told he could help it, but something feels off. His mind races, grasping at the memory, but it’s slippery, like it’s been hidden from him, just out of reach. N’s fingers twitch at his sides, his throat tightens. The memory feels distant, like looking through fog, but something clicks, and it feels wrong. “Why was that Pokémon brought to me? Why was it here?”
The question lingers in the air, heavy and oppressive. He doesn’t understand why it’s suddenly so important, why the memory feels like it’s been hidden from him. His stomach twists again, tighter this time. He remembers being alone here, bored, and sometimes scared. His toys were just distractions—there was always something deeper, something he couldn’t grasp. His mind drifts to when he was younger, wishing for someone to play with, someone to talk to. And the ramp—the damage was so severe, so angry, so frightened. Why?
Concordia watches him closely, her voice steady. “Ghetsis made sure you were always alone.”
N blinks, a tremor running down his spine. “No, he... Ghetsis took care of me.” His voice wavers as he says it, the words more fragile than he intended. His gaze shifts back to the gouges in the ramp, his heart pounding in his chest. “He wouldn’t—he didn’t—” N’s voice falters. “I was supposed to help it. That’s what Ghetsis said.”
“You were a child, N,” Anthea’s voice is soft, almost pleading. “You didn’t understand what was happening.”
N flinches at the words, a sudden rush of anger rising up. The room feels even smaller now, closing in on him, the colors suffocating. His hands ball into fists, his nails digging into his palms as anger bubbles up, sharp and quick. He turns to her, his voice sharper than he intends. “I don’t doubt Ghetsis. His ideals are my ideals.”
Anthea and Concordia exchange another look. Concordia’s eyes harden, and for a moment, he sees something in her face he’s never seen before. Pity. “Are they?”
His chest tightens, his breaths coming shorter now. Why don’t they say anything? Why are they just standing there, watching him? The room feels too bright, too small. The ramp, the toys, the walls—they’re all pressing in on him, squeezing him until he can barely breathe.
“I have to go,” N mutters, stepping away from them, the walls closing in. “Ghetsis is waiting.”
Neither of them moves to stop him. They don’t say a word, just watch as he pushes past them, his footsteps quick, too loud in the empty hall. He doesn’t look back. He can’t. They won’t follow him.
When he’s far enough away from the room, from them, he stops, leaning against the cold stone wall. His hands shake, his chest tight. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Ghetsis is waiting. He has to be ready. He has to be certain.
But deep down, something is unraveling. Something is shifting.
With a final breath, N straightens and heads for the top of the tower.