I hit the ground—
—or I think I do.
There's a soft whump, like a pillow being dropped.
Then I keep going.
Half my body sinks straight into the dirt.
Cold earth swallows my legs up to the thigh like I'm being politely buried alive.
"…That's not encouraging."
I try to push myself up.
My arms bend wrong.
Not broken-wrong.
Elastic wrong.
They fold at angles that feel like elbows but stretch past where elbows should logically stop. There's no muscle strain. No joint resistance. Just smooth, unnatural flexibility.
I plant my hands against the ground.
My hands are not hands.
They're elongated, white shapes — smooth and seamless, like porcelain gloves melted directly onto my arms. No knuckles. No fingernails. Just rounded ends that taper slightly, like simplified mannequin hands.
I push.
My arms compress like rubber bands.
Instead of lifting me, they wobble.
I flop sideways.
My upper body slides across the forest floor while my lower half remains partially inside it.
"I have lost the ability to exist correctly."
I attempt to kick free.
My legs stretch.
Actually stretch.
They lengthen a few inches before snapping back like they're made of tensioned silk.
That's when I finally get a proper look at myself.
I roll onto my back—slowly, awkwardly, like a newborn giraffe made of marshmallow.
My body is slender. Almost unnaturally thin. Pure matte white from head to toe. No seams. No visible skin texture. It's smooth, like polished bone or ceramic.
My torso is narrow. Waist tapered. Shoulders slight but flexible.
My limbs are too long for human proportions — arms that reach nearly to my knees even while lying down. Legs that seem built more for gliding than walking.
And my face—
I sit up abruptly.
Bad idea.
I overshoot and tip forward because my center of gravity is wrong.
I catch myself with my hands— which bend again like rubber suction cups.
I lean toward the puddle nearby.
My reflection stares back.
A smooth, mask-like face.
No nose.
No visible mouth movement.
Where my eyes should be are long, curved, black slits — angled slightly downward toward the center, giving a permanently unreadable expression. Not angry. Not happy. Just blank.
Empty.
The head is slightly elongated at the back, tapering subtly.
It's not monstrous.
It's not bulky.
It's eerily minimal.
Clean.
Like something that wasn't designed to be human — just shaped vaguely like one.
A memory flickers.
White.
Slender.
Silent enemies that moved in groups.
The basic foot soldiers from Kingdom Hearts II.
The ones that twisted and bent like ribbons when they attacked.
The ones that glided instead of ran.
No.
No, no, no.
I immediately shake my head.
"That's just coincidence," I think firmly. "Lots of things are white and weird."
I try to stand.
This is where things truly fall apart.
I plant one foot beneath me.
It doesn't feel like a foot.
There are no toes.
No arch.
It's just a smooth extension of my leg, slightly widened at the base.
I push upward.
Instead of rising normally, my body lifts too easily.
I overshoot.
My feet leave the ground entirely.
I am now hovering.
Not intentionally.
I flail.
That was a mistake.
Hovering plus flailing equals spinning.
I rotate slowly in midair like a confused balloon animal.
"Stop. Stop. Stop."
I attempt to force my feet down.
They pass slightly into the dirt again.
Apparently I have two settings:
• Sink• Float
There is no "stand like a normal creature."
I try bending my knees.
They bend beautifully.
Too beautifully.
Almost boneless.
I lower myself carefully, concentrating as hard as I can on the concept of weight.
Gravity.
Heaviness.
Please.
Slowly… slowly… my feet press into the soil without sinking through it.
I wobble upright.
I am technically standing.
Victory.
I take one step.
My leg stretches forward an extra few inches and my torso lags behind like I'm on mild latency.
I almost faceplant.
I catch myself with an arm that elongates to compensate.
"…I am on factory default settings."
I try again.
Smaller step.
Better.
Still awkward.
Walking feels wrong.
There's no heel-to-toe motion.
It's more like gliding with commitment issues.
Each step is a careful negotiation between "solid enough to exist" and "accidentally phase into the planet."
I lift one arm and flex experimentally.
It coils slightly.
The limb narrows and lengthens as if responding to tension, then snaps back to its original shape.
That movement—
That exact elastic recoil—
I've seen it before.
On screen.
In battle animations.
White figures that bent like whips and snapped back to strike.
They never made sounds.
They never showed expressions.
They just moved with eerie smoothness.
I stare at my reflection again.
Long limbs.
Featureless white body.
Black slit eyes.
Hovering tendencies.
Elastic physics.
My stomach — or whatever equivalent I have — drops.
"…No."
I lift both hands in front of me.
They ripple slightly, like silk under a breeze.
I twist my torso.
It rotates more fluidly than any spine should allow.
I lean backward.
Too far.
My upper body arches in a near semicircle before springing back upright.
I freeze.
That was not human.
That was not Pokémon.
That was—
I stop the thought before it finishes forming.
"Nope. We are not thinking that. We are not labeling that. We are not spiraling."
A twig snaps somewhere in the forest.
I immediately try to turn toward the sound.
My body rotates too fast.
I overcorrect.
I spin halfway around.
Then drift two inches off the ground again.
This is humiliating.
If any wild Pokémon are watching this, my intimidation factor is at zero.
Another rustle.
Closer.
I attempt a defensive stance.
My legs spread slightly.
My arms lift.
They extend a little too far, tapering at the ends.
I look like a haunted inflatable tube man trying to look threatening.
"…I need a tutorial."
For a brief, horrifying second, I imagine someone throwing a Poké Ball at me right now.
Would it work?
Would I get caught?
Would it shake three times?
Would I become someone's early-route encounter?
I glance at my reflection again.
The blank mask stares back.
Unreadable.
Silent.
My movements are smoother now.
Not natural—
But learning.
Adapting.
Whatever this body is… it responds to intent more than muscle.
Which means one thing.
If I panic—
I might phase through the forest floor again.
The bushes part.
Something small steps into the clearing.
I brace myself.
Carefully.
Very carefully.
And for once…
I manage to stay standing.