Two years before Pokémon Sun and Moon.

Gladion barely ever saw other children. His mother kept him locked away like a secret now, and when she did introduce him to somebody, he was dangled in front of their eyes like an object, an ornament. They could tell him what a lovely boy he was as much as they wanted, but that didn't mean he had friends, freedom, or a mother who loved him. He wasn't a lovely child, after all; he could hide behind masks all his life, but what lay beneath would stay the same.                  

Beneath the mask, a chill had come over him, a chill so fierce he feared it had frozen his heart over. The sharp, petulant ice of hatred had become his best friend; he'd married himself to it. If he simply hated everything, if he didn't get involved or attached, it wouldn't hurt as badly, would it?

His eyes strayed to Lillie, playing with dolls. She was nine years old and still played with dolls, which Gladion thought was ridiculous but would never attack her for. Perhaps that was one of their mother's twisted ideas of how to try and preserve their beauty and purity, keeping his too-old sister from growing up.

Even if he kept himself from gaining new attachments, he would always have a part of his heart infinitely bound to Lillie, and he knew that. He wanted to protect her.

But he was twelve years old and nobody heard him any more than they heard some other twelve-year-old.

How could he possibly save her if he couldn't even save himself?

Lillie's charming little giggle of a laugh broke Gladion out of his stupor, and he glanced over at her once again, this time watching her closely. She picked up an almost criminally adorable doll with dark brown hair in pigtails, freckles, and dimples. The doll was wearing a fancy, ruffled red dress that Lillie was making it speak to another doll about the exquisiteness of.

Sometimes Lillie frightened her older brother. Every once in a while she'd sound far too much like their mother, using words like "exquisite" and "splendid" and "marvelous." She was nothing like their mother, kind and selfless to the point where it was almost absurd, but Gladion couldn't help taking extra measures to make sure she didn't change.

The young girl made a face, announcing to no one in particular that she was bored with the adorable doll and looking particularly displeased as she tossed it aside. It rattled hollowly as it hit the cold, hard ground, and Gladion shuddered.

Was that all they were to their mother?

Were they just dolls in her eyes, things to throw away when she saw fit?

Gladion remembered when they weren't. He remembered when they were loved, when they had a father and a sane, caring mother.

He remembered when he had friends.

He'd been eight years old when their father had disappeared into an Ultra Wormhole; Lillie had been only five. And he could recall the features of various children he had called "friends," but when he tried to put a picture of them together as a whole, they just twisted and contorted until they were nothing. One of them had blue eyes like crystal that were so wide looking into them felt like getting a peak into someone else's soul; another had a sweet, rose-pink blush on their cheeks at all times; yet another had hair such a dark brown it looked raven-black.

Gladion closed his eyes, knowing the images of his old friends wouldn't ever come together but hoping his memories were less obscure. He remembered outbursts of light, pretty laughter, and smiles so bright they seemed to shine with a passion greater than the sun itself. But what were they laughing at? What were they smiling at? What were their names?

And why had they disappeared from his life?

In the first three questions the blonde boy could find no answers. But in the last he could feel a pang in his heart of something like pain, but not the same pain he felt daily—it resembled longing. He recalled crying and Lillie, not really understanding what was happening, trying solemnly to wipe away his tears.

Where had they gone?

Blinking open his vivid green eyes, he let out a huff of annoyance at the lack of solutions.

Then he gritted his teeth, unable to tell if he couldn't remember...

Or if he just didn't want to.

Crying never felt good, but it had been a long time since he'd cried like he did in that memory. In that memory, he felt like he was disintegrating into a puddle of sorrow and yearning. He could feel his entire face getting wet and his heart melting in a pool of acid.

But now, when Gladion cried, he barely felt anything. It was difficult to explain. Crying came from a rush of uncontrollable emotions—that he knew. His tears, though, felt...dry. His entire body felt dry and numb and like absolutely nothing. It was awful, and yet, he knew he'd done it to himself.

He felt dead. When he was walking around, he always felt fatigued, and the only feeling he felt now was spite. The spite didn't burn or give him any compassion, though, negative or positive. It was coarse and limp. Once in a while anger would awaken him from this state of not-aliveness, but it was never enough, and it never lasted.

Gladion's only friend was Lillie, but that didn't even count, did it?