AN: Warning! This chapter is a bit intense. Reader discretion is advised.

The dusty old stairs creaked under my weight as I made my way up to the front door. The porch wasn't much better either, I noticed, as I stared down at the chipped away paint. It squeaked whenever I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. I waited a moment, collecting my thoughts before pushing the door open. I needed the time to myself, however brief, after an exhausting day.

"Mom, I'm home," I announced to an empty front room.

"I'm in the kitchen," she replied a second later.

I set my backpack down next to my bedroom door before continuing on into the house. It was only a short turn from the entryway to my room. The small one-story house didn't allow for much space, but we managed. I lived in what used to be an office space. A full desk with a computer and printer set up used to take up a majority of my current residence. My parents had always lived in this little house, and they simply converted the space into what they needed it to be at the moment. Mom told me that she thought it was cramped, but she loved it all the same because it let her be close to the ones she loved. Or, that was what she claimed. Her eyes usually told a different story.

I moved through the living room and toward the kitchen, glancing at old family photos that hung on the wall as I passed. The journey began with a picture of my mother and father smiling. They looked happy, carefree. He wore his uniform proudly in the next photo, taken after he graduated. His hat covered his smooth brown hair, and his clothes were as stiff as a board. The portrait was attached to a plaque with his class photo and his badge. Men and women wore the same uniform that he did. The same blue hat, jacket, and pants--skirts in the case of the women. The photo next to it showed him smiling with the squad's Office Jenny, their fearless female commander. Jenny wasn't her real name, but I recalled it was the nickname given to women chiefs.

A framed newspaper hung next to the plaque. "LOCAL HERO SAVES KIDNAPPING VICTIM," exclaimed the headline. On the cover was a picture of my father shaking hands with the mayor. A frame over was a simple picture taken with an old camera that printed pictures instantly. The kind that used to be all the rage when they were first invented but only hipsters used now. The stained picture depicted my mom and dad gazing happily at the onlooker. My mom's belly was swollen, and one of her hands rested on it comfortably. My father next to her also had a hand on her stomach and his other arm around her shoulders. The date on it read "5/9 Police Picnic." Only weeks before my birthday.

"You still out there, sweetie?" my mom asked.

"Yeah, just looking at some old memories." I didn't realize I had tears in my eyes until she snapped me out of the past. I had to pass the pictures after it in fear of completely breaking down into tears. Especially the newspaper that hung a short distance away from my birthday photos. The triangularly folded flag with its bright colors was the hardest item to ignore, but I had learned to manage since shortly after it gained a spot in our house.

I continued the rest of the way down the wall before noticing a new frame at the end of the timeline. I paused again, looking it over. This time, the focus was on me. Sure, the pictures prior to it were focused on me too, but none of them were recent. They were a sprinkling of awards from my elementary school years. This one, however, was from yesterday. My photo smiled at the camera with the headline "16-YEAR-OLD FROM PALLET CATCHES 'EM ALL." It was typed in the same bold font that was used to highlight my father's headline almost twenty years ago.

"Is this new?" I asked. It was obvious that it was, but curiosity still drove me to ask my mother about the new addition.

"What is it?"

I rounded the corner to face her before continuing. "My newspaper up on the wall."

My mom stood up from her position at the table, closing her laptop as she rose. She was wearing her scrubs with the Bulbasaurs on them and her black zip-up hoodie over it. Her ID still dangled loosely from her hip. She shuffled over to wrap me in a tight hug. "Yes, it is, sweetie. I am so proud of you, and I just had to hang it up when I saw that you were the front cover story."

I smiled down at the floor as she released me from her hold. "Thanks, mom. I know you weren't sure about sending me off on that adventure, but it was so rewarding. Thanks again for letting me go."

My mother sighed. "I'm just glad you didn't get hurt. We get too many people--especially kids--at the urgent care with injuries caused by Pokémon because they don't know how to handle them correctly. You wouldn't believe the panic I had when Professor Oak told me he wanted you to go on that trip for him. Oh, but I'm so glad that you came back safe and sound. I'm so happy for you, and your father would have been too." A twinge of pain struck my heart at her last statement.

"Thanks," I said. I ignored the part about my father.

"Want anything to eat?" She asked as she moved over to the countertops. When she wasn't on duty, she loved to cook tasty treats for me and my Pokémon.

"Not right now," I replied. My mind was running in circles, trying to find the best way to tell her about Johto. It would break her heart if I left on for another adventure so quickly, but I had to go. My mind began to wander back to the night before, that morning, and the lab. I quickly pushed the thoughts aside lest they fill me with worry again. I had to focus on coming up with a way to tell her before the interviews began to circle the evening news stories. She had been at work when it aired live and only just got home.

"Well, I'm going to make some cookies if you want any. Do you mind helping me at least?" she asked as she struggled to grab something from the top shelf.

"Of course, I will," I responded cheerfully. I was taller than her and slightly taller than the average girl. My mom always told me to thank my father for that advantage. Any feeling of being close to my father simultaneously me smile and hurt. Adults always used to tell me that I looked like his kid. It made me happy. It related me to a figure that I never really knew. The pain came from knowing that I would never meet this second half of my home. That I could never hear his voice, feel his touch, or listen to his lectures. That I was only getting half of the experience.

I reached up easily and grabbed a pile of bowls. I placed them on the counter, letting my mother take her pick. She removed a large pink one and a smaller green one. She then compiled the remaining bowls and handed them back to me to take care of the rest.

"It's green, like our eyes," my mom said as I put the bowls away. I turned to see her holding a bowl up to me. Sure enough, it was a popping green color.

"Yeah, it is." I smiled at my mom's antics, then gave her a peck of a kiss on the forehead. She stood on her tip-toes and did the same thing. I had to bow my head so that she could reach. It was quite funny in my mind, but I didn't dare laugh. Her height bugged her, and the little spitfire of a woman would have my head if I let my amusement show.

"Green like our eyes," she repeated, quieter this time. "That's one of the few traits you got from me. Almost everything else comes from your dad."

There it was again, her reminiscing about my father. Why did I feel so sympathetic about a man that I never actually knew? And why did she always have to bring it up? Even before I left, it was the same way. Did part of me really expect it to change when I came back? Did this one week without her mentioning it cause me to think things were different? It grated on my nerves, and it baffled me why I felt the way I did. I continued gathering ingredients, now with my jaw clenched and my eyes narrowed. I slammed the milk onto the countertop before reaching back into the fridge to grab some eggs. I grasped them firmly, setting them down a little bit too hard. I felt goo in my hand, and I looked down to see the yellow mess of a broken egg in my palm.

"What's wrong?" my mom asked. Her voice was half concern and half something else that I couldn't recognize. Whatever it was, it showed that she wasn't happy with my reaction. Honestly, I wasn't either.

"It's nothing," I barked. I took a deep breath, clearing my mind before returning to the task at hand. Wiping my hands on a clean rag, I went to the cabinets again in search of measuring cups. The cabinet door slammed closed, and I had to pull my hand back to avoid getting it caught in the impact. My mom's hand sealed the cabinet shut, and her eyes locked onto mine. They were filled with warning, like an angry Pokémon about to attack if I made one more wrong move.

"No, something is wrong," she said. It wasn't a question, but a statement. It was usually how she spoke before lecturing me. "You know that you can tell me anything, right?"

"Yeah," I muttered. I tried to open the door again, but her hand still barred the motion. I glared at her, now unafraid of the confrontation.

Her eyes softened, and she removed her hand from the cabinet. She shook her head and pulled her hair, a sure sign that she was stressed. Work, maybe. Or had I caused it? "You just..." she sighed, trailing off and looking away. She then turned her eyes back to me with a stony expression. "You always get so defensive when I mention anything about your father. He was a good man, and he knew what he was risking when he went to work on the day of the riots. But, he still insisted. He was courageous and strong headed like you. I try to remind you of him so that you don't feel like this. What else do you want me to do for you?"

I was done with the conversation at that point. Her last sentence echoed in my mind, resonating as passive aggressive and patronizing. I was arm deep in the pantry, and I pulled out at that moment leaving the measurement cups where they were. Deep breaths weren't enough to hold back the flood of emotions, and I slammed the door shut. My anger exploded inside of me now.

"Stop talking about it!" I yelled, unable to contain myself. "It's all you ever talk about around me. Dad this, dad that. 'It's a shame you never knew him, he was a good man,' or 'I see him in you.' It gets old! I get it, I can never live up to this wonderful human being that I just so happen to share genes with. I can't fill his shoes no matter how much you or any other adult wants me to."

My mother backed away at first, terrified of my outburst. Then, she began her rebuttal. "Do not play that card with me," she scolded. I rolled my eyes at her response. It was the same line that she always used. "Your father was a good man, and I see you as a good person too. That's all that I ever meant by that. I'm proud of you, just like I was proud of him. I'm not asking you to fill anyone's shoes."

"Then why do you bring it up that 'He was a hard worker' line whenever I get crap grades?" I was crying now. I recalled my last report card with straight C's, a B+ in math, and an A in science. She didn't talk to me much after it came in, only reminding me that "Your father would have done better."

"I have never done that," she gasped.

"Yes, you have! Don't lie to me. You just want another him, you don't want me or my talents. I'm a hard worker too, but not in the way that you want. You want a book-smart kid, not whatever the hell kind of science freak I am. News flash! I'm not him--or you, for that matter. I'm sorry that some of us can't waste years of our lives in school for a nursing degree or in the police academy."

"Watch your language, missy," she warned, blatantly ignoring the valid points I made. She waved the spoon that she was holding at me.

"I'll say whatever the hell I damn well please!" I was fuming at this point. She was denying me my victory in this battle of words by treating me like the child she desperately wanted me to be. I was far more mature than most other kids my age due to my experiences, and she knew that. "You're just stuck in the past. I had to push forward alone through most of my life because you can't see my unique talents. You only want the talents that measure up to his. That's why I always disappoint you. Because he's gone and I can't replace him--no one can. No matter what I do, no matter what newspaper I appear in, no matter how many Pokémon I collect, it's not enough."

Out of seemingly nowhere, I felt a burning sensation in my right cheek. My mind took a few seconds to register what had just occurred as I looked at the ground where my head was now directed. It took me lifting my eyes to see my mom with the spoon raised in the air to figure out what had caused the sudden pain. I grabbed my face, feeling the warm spot where the spoon had just made contact. A mixture of emotions welled up inside of me. Which one was right? Anger? Pain? Sadness? My head spun as it tried to figure it out.

The spoon made a clanging sound when it collided with the floor. "I'm sorry," my mother whispered. She had tears in her eyes too. Identical to mine, but caused by different reasons. Hers were from pain and anger, mine were from betrayal.

I shook my head while curling my lips into what I imagined was the nastiest snarl ever. I stormed out of the room, still holding my cherry cheek. "Wait!" I heard my mother cry, but I did no such thing. I lifted my backpack from the ground and marched out the front door, slamming it behind me. I thundered down the squeaking front steps and down the road. I had no idea where I was going, and honestly, I didn't really care.

I finally stopped at the park at the end of my street. My chest heaved and my body was numb as my head still reeled after the confrontation. Children were squealing and running around in their free time after school. Their mothers sat on benches placed around the playground, chatting with each other before calling their respective kid over to them to leave. Each child, I noticed, ran up lovingly to their mothers and embraced them in a hug. My tears flowed freely now as I watched the sweet sight. I missed the finite number of memories that I had like that with my mom, back during the few years that both my father and I were alive. I still wish that I had it now, but it just wasn't meant to be anymore.

After letting my sadness run its course, I pulled out my Pokégear and flipped over to the "Contacts" page. Professor Oak was the second person on the alphabetical list. I pressed the call number and waited for his answer.

"Hey Professor," I began. My voice was still hoarse from the shouting match. "How long do I have until I can leave for Johto?

"Three weeks, you say?" I confirmed what he said through the device. "I can be ready to leave in two."