Bandages wrapped around Patrick’s hands, tightening, gripping his hands just like how despair gripped his heart. Amber walked a few steps in front of him, looking at her beautiful silky hair usually would have lightened his mood, but this time it offered nothing. He remembered the Pokeball dragging through the dirt, carrying away his only purpose in life, stealing it from him.

  Amber looked back, watching Patrick trudge, his arms drooping. He looked at the ground, not bothering to look in front of him as he walked. “Come on, Patrick. That Mimikyu was dangerous anyway. I told you that a million times before. Maybe it’s for the better.”

  Patrick grunted. He didn’t feel like humoring her with talking, so he kept walking back to his home.

  Amber climbed up the stairs of his porch, entering the house with him. The sun was setting and they were returning late, so seeing Mom standing in front of the door with her eyebrows knitted together was no surprise. “Sorry, Mrs. Gage. We had quite the…accident.” Her eyes flicked from Patrick’s bandages to Mom. “Let’s say Patrick got…carried away.”

  Mom’s expression softened as she ran over to hug Patrick. “Patrick, what happened? What injured you so?”

  Patrick grunted once more, pushing Mom away, heading to the stairs.

  “I’ll explain, Mrs. Gage. Let him go get some rest.”

  Patrick climbed the stairs, every step heavy as he entered his room. He walked over to his window and opened it for a breath of fresh air. Pictures of Hop plastered the wall. The champion he looked up to, the one he found as his role model. Pamphlets were neatly placed on his table by his mother who tidied the room. His Pokedex weighed in his pocket. Everything teased him, reminding him of the unjust world he lived in. The world that gave people the chance to steal loved ones from one another. Would this same world accept someone stealing another’s newborn? No. Why was it okay for such a thing to happen with Pokemon? Why was Mimikyu stolen from his very fingertips?

  The bandages were doing nothing. He pulled them off his hands as he tried to move his bruised fingers. Wincing with every small attempt. He piled the pamphlets, photos, infographics, and all other random bits and bobs related to Pokemon. He took out the old blocky Pokedex from his pocket. This one’s metal, it probably wouldn’t burn, he thought as he pocketed it. Even Mimikyu’s plush stood tall amidst the crowd. They were all thrown into a metal bin—the same one meant to hold his rubbish. He pulled the matches from his hiking backpack, along with the flammable objects. He lit them on fire and threw them inside the bin. He watched with a smile on his face as warmth enveloped him, his old past leaving his body. The smell of burning objects filled the room and he stared into the blaze, the orange glow dancing in his eyes.

  The bin was overflowing, the flame was roaring. A gust of wind slammed through the window. It whipped a burning pamphlet’s remains across the room, landing directly on Patrick’s bedsheets. The blanket caught on fire. Patrick shook with terror as his feet stood glued to the floor. Sweat ran lines down his face, stinging his eyes.

  He wasn’t burning his past, he was burning everything.

  He ran over to the bed, stomping the growing flame that engulfed his blanket to no avail. A second pamphlet flew over and caught the curtains. The room was a roaring mess of flames as smoke flew to the top of the room, choking Patrick. He clawed at his throat trying to find an opening, sending jolts of pain through his raw fingertips. He looked around searching for water. An image of Amber’s Sobble popped into his brain. He ran over to the door to find its bottom engulfed in a glowing rage of flame that slowly crept up. He tried opening the handle anyway, burning his already bruised, bloodied hand. A searing sound came from his hand as he found a line of blisters in the middle of his palm. He whipped his head in every direction, his heart thumping into his chest. What had he done?

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Arson.

  The open window threw another gust into the room, stoking the fire further. Patrick had an idea he didn’t like but it was his only option. He ran and vaulted out the window, landing in a rustle of bushes. It caught his landing, yet it didn’t break the fall completely. Many thorns prickled his body as pain covered every inch of his skin. He crawled out of the bushes, his clothes tattered from the bushes’ thorns. He limped slowly around, standing in front of the door, looking at the glowing flame rising up in his bedroom’s window. He waited and waited, yet no one left the home. Where was Mom?

  She was going to leave, surely. There was no need for him to enter the home, he was already battered and exhausted. He couldn’t do much more. The flame spread to the walls of the building. Windows shattered, the roof creaked as the building started to crumble. Sirens blared in the distance as conversation carried to Patrick from the town behind him. He thought of what they would think if they found him in front of the home as it burned to the ground. He found his feet moving, running—not in the direction of the house—but the other way, running away. Leaving his mother behind, in a raging, roaring mess of flames he caused.

  He glanced behind him to see the roof crumbling, caving inwards. With a thunderous crash, the second floor caved in, crushing the house—and everyone inside it—under tons of burning rubble.

  It was them. They killed Mom. They took Mimikyu. They caused this. It wasn’t me, I didn’t mean to burn the house, I didn’t mean to burn Mom. I did nothing wrong. No. Nothing wrong. Whoever took Mimikyu killed Mom. I’ll kill them.

  Patrick marched through darkness, avoiding the judgmental eyes of his neighbors. He got far, hiding behind the shade of the trees and bushes, until Wedgehurst came into sight. He didn’t know his destination but he knew one thing: he was going far. Anywhere miles away from his burning past. The town of Wedgehurst was quiet and dark, bar the few fire trucks that exited with sirens blaring.

  The alleyways supported and shielded Patrick, as his legs were giving out with every second. The brick walls around him supported his weight as he kept one hand on them despite the stabbing pain he felt. A pile of rubbish overflowed from the dumpster behind the Pokecenter and tripped Patrick. The ground rushed up to meet him. He struggled to push himself up, but his arms refused. The adrenaline of the escape evaporated in seconds, leaving his body as heavy as lead. He fell back down and before the dirt of the ground even met his cheek, his vision blacked out.

  A blinding light streamed into his eyes as he first woke up. It took him a few seconds to acclimate to the luminosity of his surroundings. His head spun and a bruise on its apex pulsed, sending waves of pain down his spine. The smell of rotten fruit and old shoes shot him back to reality. He stood up, brushing the dirt off the…remains of his clothes. His shirt didn’t really do anything for him now, with the many cuts and openings torn by the thorns of the bush beside his home. He took it off and tied it around his waist, leaving his chest bare for the world. His shorts still had some life in them, tattered, but wearable. He looked below the shorts, crinkling his nose, at whatever tripped him. The pile had quite a few garbage bags filled to the brim, but one thing shone amidst the mess. Patrick hesitated before digging into the rubbish, but one look at his bruised and bloodied hand pushed him forward.

  A Premier Ball. Patrick clicked his tongue at the ball. It was an unpleasant reminder of his past mistake, of his slowness, of the very same system he’s vying to topple. He threw the ball over his shoulder, back into the rubbish. A pop echoed off the walls as a faint sound of music followed. Patrick recognized the sound and turned around slowly, his brows knitted together. The Pokemon left its ball.

  He saw nothing behind him until a prickly object touched his shin. He looked down to find black and white spiky stripes. A pair of black stars acted as shadows around its eyes. And a pink tongue protruded from its mouth. Galarian Zigzagoon. It was no surprise finding one in the dumpster. It was the trash of this region, caught by a ‘bonus’ ball. It was one the trainer didn’t even buy and got for free. It looked up at Patrick with damp eyes, flattening down on the ground, looking even more pitiful than usual.

  Zigzagoon closed its eyes, bracing for a kick. Waiting to be thrown away. It opened one and found Patrick reaching his hand to it. It flinched.

  Patrick reached out. His hand—burnt, bruised, and bloodied—hovered over Zigzagoon.

  “You too, huh?” Patrick whispered, his voice raspy from the smoke.

  Zigzagoon opened one eye and nuzzled into Patrick’s hand. Patrick rested his hand on its spiky fur. He took the Premier Ball from the ground and pushed it into his pocket.

  “Let’s go,” Patrick said, ignoring the screaming pain in his legs. “We’ve got a system to topple.”