Prologue

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

The clock on the hospital wall never shut up. It was one of the few constants in Sinclair's life, monotonously ticking away his lifespan.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Ever since he was young, the 17-year-old boy had trouble breathing. All the doctors his parents could afford to have him see said it was asthma, asthma, asthma. Well, now he was in a hospital dying from some random lung disease. The doctors speculated that it was caused by bronchopulmonary dysplasia as a baby, but it didn't really matter anymore.

It would be over for him soon.

Sighing, Sinclair turned his attention back to the TV mounted on the wall. It was small, as far as TVs went, but at least he could indulge in some good-old escapism with it. As of right then, it displayed the third episode of Pokemon the Series: XY. He'd watched the whole thing during the last two weeks, binging night and day, and now he was replaying it.

Pokemon, the boy recalled, was huge in middle school. Everyone would bring their cards to school and trade or show off new and rare ones- something he never got to do, with his family's tight budget. Even so, he'd fallen in love with the franchise when his best friend had given him an old, beat-up card with a bright pink shellos on it. It was his prized possession for years.

*I would give anything to go back and see her again.*

Suddenly, the once-colorful screen went black. Instead of seeing a young boy with short black hair and his pokemon, the reflection showed him an older one. This boy had shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and murky green eyes, but the rest of his face was covered with an oxygen mask.

"Damn TV. Of course it dies when there's no one around to fix it." Coarse from lack of use, Sinclair's voice was ragged like a smoker's. As he looked around for the remote, a realization dawned on him, eyes widening.

The TV wasn't the only thing that had gone out.

Everything was off.

Panicking at the realization that there was no oxygen coming from his mask, Sinclair gasped for breath. His chest heaved at the effort his breathing took, and black dots began to crowd his vision, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut.

*Well, fuck.*

Unable to speak, he forced himself to calm down. He had come to terms with his death months ago. The boy knew he didn't have long anyways, so why not die right then?

*Yeah, why not…*

His breathing slowed to a near stop as he relaxed his grip on the covers of his moth-eaten mattress.

*No. I don't wanna die, but…

But…*

What was the point of living out his days in a hospital his family couldn't afford? What was the point of all those hours spent lying in bed? Why couldn't he have done something with his life?

With his final thoughts, he saw himself as Ash Ketchum, running around with pokemon and friends. Never having a care in the world, but always stopping evil in its tracks. Most importantly, breathing easy every second of every day, laughing without coughing and running without stopping.