Long shadows stretched between the trees like claws, dragging across the jungle floor. The sky above the canopy glowed amber, bleeding into violet. It wasn't dark yet, but it was coming.
I slipped back into the outpost ruins just as the air began to cool.
The zigzagoon was long gone. So were the birds and smaller creatures I'd seen earlier. The forest quieted in a way I didn't trust. I dropped my gear beside the leaning wall and set about building a fire, not for warmth, but for light. For security.
I still had the waterproof matches. Struck one against stone. The flame bloomed, tiny and bright, before I fed it dry moss and splinters from broken crates. It caught quickly.
A small fire. Controlled. Enough to see, to boil water.
I filled the metal canteen with the last of the river water and placed it over the flame. It hissed and steamed. I had a few purification tablets left, but I wanted to ration those. Just in case.
Then came the harder part.
Tending the wound.
I pulled off the jacket and peeled away the gauze on my side. The scratch had stopped bleeding, but it was red. But its starting to heal, faster than I expected.
It wasn't serious.
But in my old body, that hit would've cracked a rib. Maybe ruptured something. And the infection would've set in quick. Hell, I might not have even survived the fall earlier this morning.
That truth sat uncomfortably in my bones.
This body—young, vital, relentless. It moved too easily. Healed too quickly. The fire in it burned hotter, brighter. My thoughts were still sharp, still mine… but the emotions beneath them churned like a storm with no anchor.
I wasn't used to this kind of volatility anymore.
A sharp memory punched through the haze.
My granddaughter.
She'd once danced through the hallway wearing a ridiculous Eevee onesie, tail bouncing with every step. Cards in her hand—glossy, bright, covered in creatures.
"Grampa, name this one!"
She'd shoved the card into my face, giggling.
I'd grumbled. She'd laughed harder.
I remembered the moment.
But not her face.
Not her name.
The image frayed like old fabric, the details slipping away no matter how hard I clung to them.
God.
It hit like a blade to the gut. A sharp, sudden grief.
She was real. They all were. My daughter. My wife. My son. The wedding. The laughter. The toast. My life.
All of it—ripped from me.
And I couldn't even remember their faces.
I slammed a fist into the stone beside me, biting back a yell. The fire crackled in response.
I wouldn't break.
Not here. Not yet.
I took that pain, that raw nerve of rage, and wrapped it tight around my thoughts like a shield. Let it harden. Let it keep me sharp. I needed to stay focused.
Whoever did this—whatever thing had torn me from my world and dumped me here like garbage—I would find it.
And when I did?
There would be reckoning.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I boiled river water, packed the wound, cleaned my tools, and rested with my back to stone and hatchet in reach.
*
I didn't want to leave the outpost.
But the sounds were getting closer.
At first, it was just a distant rumble—low, like a landslide rolling beneath the jungle's skin. I'd hoped it would pass. But then came the screech—sharp, animal, something hurt or dying.
Then another. Closer.
I stood fast, instincts kicking in.
Whatever was making that noise—it wasn't going around me.
It was coming straight through.
I didn't have a choice.
Staying put would be suicide.
I moved quick, working by muscle memory. I stored the water, grabbed the satchel, slung it over my shoulder. Belt secured. Hatchet in the loop, one Poké Ball clipped to the front strap. I stomped out the fire in three fast jabs, scattering the last embers into black ash.
The clearing fell into darkness.
Good.
It would help hide me just as much as them.
I stepped into the forest without another sound. The heat had faded slightly, but the night air felt thick, close. Like the jungle was holding its breath.
My boots barely kissed the loam as I moved downhill toward the noise.
Every step was careful. Measured. My body was tense but my mind clear. That old soldier part of me took over again—the one that knew how to navigate through threat and silence and sweat without thinking too hard.
The cries were louder now. No longer just pain—battle. Thrashing. Branches breaking. Two things fighting for survival.
I crept forward and reached a small ridge that overlooked a shallow clearing choked with broken trees and churned mud.
And there—beneath the glow of the moonlight filtering through the canopy—I saw it.
A monster.
Not a bear. Not even close.
It was the thing I'd sensed earlier that day. The one that shook the forest with each step. The "bear" I'd been too naive to name.
Snorlax.
But not like any Snorlax I remembered from the Pokédex or the shows. This one was massive—easily over eight feet tall, its bulk more akin to a grizzly fused with a wrecking ball. Its limbs were tree-trunk thick, and its round belly shook with every thunderous breath. The soft blue-gray fur was matted with blood, and its claws—jagged and yellowed—were slick with fresh gore.
Facing it down was something much smaller, but no less fierce.
A Vigoroth. Female, if the protective behavior meant anything. She was limping, side heaving, fur slicked with sweat and red streaks. Behind her, half-concealed under a bush, was a trembling Slakoth.
Her child.
I stayed low and watched.
The Vigoroth screamed and lunged, claws flaring with fury. It raked across the Snorlax's chest, drawing a shallow line that barely bled. The larger beast grunted, almost bored, and swung its massive paw.
The blow hit.
The Vigoroth went skidding across the clearing, smashed through a dead log, and rolled before scrambling upright again—snarling, foaming at the mouth, eyes wild.
She wasn't giving up.
She darted forward again, a blur in the dark. Fury Swipes—a flurry of slashing strikes, relentless, aimed at joints, eyes, throat. Desperation turned her into a blur of motion.
But Snorlax simply… endured.
Its hide was like armor. The attacks glanced off, leaving shallow cuts at best.
Then it moved.
Slower, yes—but each step hit like thunder. It lunged, opened that wide, gaping mouth and bit—a savage crunch into the Vigoroth's shoulder. She screamed, twisted, and raked her claws across its snout in a frenzy.
It let go.
She staggered back, blood pouring from her shoulder, then leapt again—Slash, this time. Her claws glowed white with the move's edge, landing clean across the creature's eye.
That finally did something.
Snorlax roared in genuine pain now, stumbling backward, paw raised to its wounded face. The earth shook when it slammed its bulk down—Body Slam, and the shockwave knocked leaves from the canopy and sent the Vigoroth sprawling.
Her breathing was ragged. Legs trembling. But she dragged herself back to her feet.
Not for herself.
For the Slakoth.
The small creature hadn't moved once. It watched with wide, terrified eyes, its body limp, almost catatonic. It couldn't fight. Couldn't run.
And the mother knew it.
Another roar. Snorlax raised a paw the size of a dinner table, prepared to end it.
I should've walked away.
Hell, I almost did.
I stayed low behind the ridge, jaw clenched tight, watching the Vigoroth claw and shriek and bleed for a creature that could barely stand.
The Slakoth, its charge, lay curled against a fallen tree, chest rising in fast, shallow breaths. It was alive. But not for long if the bigger one lost.
The Snorlax was worse up close.
Not just large. Massive. It moved like a mountain, slow and deliberate—but every step shook the ground. Its fur was torn, matted with blood where the Vigoroth's claws had gotten through. But it didn't care. It smiled. Or at least, its lip twitched up in something smug and monstrous.
It was hungry.
I could see it in the way it licked its lips.
It swatted again—too fast for something that size—and sent the Vigoroth skidding through the underbrush, coughing up blood. The forest groaned from the impact. It struggles to get up.
I gripped my hatchet.
The Snorlax turned to the Slakoth
It wasn't my fight.
It's steps are like a countdown to its impending doom.
I could let nature take its course. Predator. Prey. Harsh, but logical. That was how this world worked, right?
But as I crouched there, something twisted in my gut.
It was the same damn feeling I got watching a convoy get ambushed in the desert. When command told us to stay back—but a kid screamed from inside the wreckage. When I knew walking away meant living with it.
And I never was that kind of man.
Then I when I saw it.
The Slakoth.
It saw me also, looking at me wide eyes. Innocent, pure and full of fear.
It overlaps into something vaguely familiar, my granddaughter.
In her Eevee costume, arms outstretched, cheeks dimpled, asking me to name the Pokémon on her little plastic cards. I'd laughed. She'd giggled. The sunlight had caught in her curls—
But I couldn't see her face.
Not clearly.
Just like before.
A blank. A smear. As if someone had wiped it from memory with a wet cloth.
My knees buckled.
Pain knifed through my chest. Rage twisted in my gut. Hot and sudden and violent. Not the quiet burn I'd been carrying—but a roaring inferno. And this young body reacts to the fury.
No!!, I mentally screamed.
Before I knew what I was doing, I was moving. Bursting from the shadows like a cannonball.
I shouted. Something raw and wordless. The Snorlax stop midway and turned slowly, confused.
I didn't give it time.
I hurled the Poké Ball at the Slakoth.
It struck the creature's back, burst open with a flash of red light—and sucked it in. The capsule bounced once, twice, then rolled to a stop.
Still.
Secure.
Safe.
I turned just as the Snorlax roared.
Its eyes locked on me. A new threat. A new meal.
And I ran straight at it.
The hatchet bit into its side—not deep, but enough to draw blood. It bellowed, swiped, and I ducked low, adrenaline shoving my thoughts into a blur. My muscles moved on instinct—muscle memory from a life of training, of war.
A paw the size of a truck tire slammed down where I'd been standing. I rolled, came up swinging, aimed for the knee.
The Snorlax stumbled.
Roars echoed from the forest, distant but approaching. Trees shook. But I barely heard them. Barely noticed.
All I saw was this monster.
All I saw was death, looming and hungry.
I moved like a ghost. Like a man possessed. Strikes, dodges, breathless fury. My side burned. My limbs screamed.
And still I fought.
I would buy time.
My mind is clouded with rage. No it is so full of it from the moment I realize I was snatched from my world.
And its keeps stacking and stacking that it needed an outlet. I am keeping it grounded to stay focused but Im not yet adjusted to this younger body. My mind and soul may be old and experienced but this body is young and raw.
I screamed again then raised my hatchet for another blow.
But the world shook.
A roar—deeper, louder, primal—shook the trees.
From the opposite edge of the clearing, something massive charged.
A Slaking.
It barreled in like a freight train, fists pounding the ground. The Snorlax turned too late. The Slaking's body collided with its side like a boulder. Flesh and fur and fury slammed together with a sound that cracked branches.
I stumbled back.
Then the jungle exploded.
Shapes burst from the treeline—Vigoroth, a dozen of them, shrieking as they joined the fray. Smaller shadows darted through the underbrush. Slakoth. Young. Old. Some climbing, some clinging to trees.
The troop had come.
The Vigoroth I'd seen earlier, the mother limped back into the chaos with a scream, claws flashing.
The Snorlax bellowed, enraged, its feast stolen.
But now it was surrounded.
I stood there, gasping.