The heat was getting worse.
Sweat rolled down my back in slow, itchy rivers. Noon light filtered through the splintered remains of the ranger outpost's roof, carving golden shafts through the dust. The air felt heavier, thicker—as if the forest were pressing in from all sides. My shirt clung to me, soaked through, and my legs ached from crouching and crawling through the ruins.
I'd already changed into the old ranger uniform, strapped the belt tight, and tested every pouch and pocket. The satchel was slung across my shoulder, packed with the essentials: field knife, water filter, rope, hatchet, what little medical gear remained. The five red-and-white marbles still clinked faintly in one pouch—familiar, yet meaningless.
I'd found food, too. Or something close to it.
A vacuum-sealed protein bar—dense, brown, probably disgusting, but still edible. I didn't care about the flavor. My stomach twisted itself into knots the moment I held it. Real food meant time. Time to think. Time to plan.
I sat against a cracked support beam and tore the wrapper.
Then I heard it.
A low growl—wet and rattling. Close.
I froze.
It came from just beyond a collapsed shelf—shadow pooled thick between broken crates and spilled moss. Then, from the dark: movement. Low to the ground. Fast.
It crept into the light.
A pokemon.
But not the cartoon creature I half-remembered from childhood. This one was feral. Mud-caked fur. Eyes wide, red-veined. Its striped coat was matted with dirt and dried blood. Ribs jutted from its sides. One ear was half-gone, torn and healed over rough.
It sniffed the air, locked eyes with me—and lunged.
I barely got my arm up as it tackled me with a speed that didn't match its size. My back hit the floor hard, knocking the air from my lungs. The protein bar skittered away.
"Goddamn—!"
It snarled, teeth snapping inches from my face. I jammed my forearm between us as it clawed for my chest. Its breath reeked—rotten and wild.
I brought my knee up, slammed it into its gut. It yelped, staggered—but didn't run. Instead, it crouched low again, and then—
It moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
It was a blur of brown and cream—glowing, faintly, like light beneath its fur. It smashed into my ribs with a force I didn't expect from something so small.
Quick Attack.
I grunted, rolled with the impact, pain sparking down my side. The creature spun midair, landing with a feral growl. It wasn't just fighting. It was using moves.
"Unbelievable…" I hissed, staggering upright, hatchet in hand.
It lunged again. I swung—missed by inches. The hatchet bit air, then wood.
Another tackle. I braced and caught it mid-leap, slamming it against a crate. The impact cracked old planks and sent the creature tumbling.
It didn't stay down.
The thing came back at me with a snarl, blood now matting one side of its face. No fear. Just hunger and fury.
I kicked. It dodged. I swung. It clipped my forearm with a scratch that stung deep.
"You want the damn bar? Fine!"
I flung it across the room.
It darted after it like a shot, glowing again as it dashed. Quick Attack—again.
It snatched the bar and scrambled up the side of a splintered shelf, snarling down at me, foam on its lips. I raised the hatchet, breathing hard, but it didn't come back.
Not yet.
It was fast. Cunning. And not stupid.
The creature watched me. Eyes narrowed. As if weighing the risk. Deciding whether to try again. I met its gaze, sweat and blood dripping down my brow.
Then it vanished into the trees—silent as it had come.
I leaned back against the ruined wall, the weight of the hatchet still heavy in my hand. My breathing slowed, but the pounding in my chest didn't. It wasn't just adrenaline.
It was clarity.
I'd fought in wars. Real ones. I'd stared down men with rifles and the kind of hollow eyes that never left you. But that?
That skirmish just now? It shook me in a different way.
Because it shouldn't have.
It was a Zigzagoon.
I remembered the name now. Vaguely. My grandkids used to shove their tablets in my face, make me watch clips from those old Pokémon shows. Happy creatures battling for sport, cheering on trainers, bouncing around like mascots. Bright colors. Safe danger.
That thing I just fought wasn't a mascot.
It didn't want to play.
It wanted food.
It wanted blood.
The way it moved, the way it glowed. That was instinct turned weapon. It didn't hesitate. Didn't blink. It went for my throat like it had done it a hundred times before.
And it would do it again.
I looked down at the shallow cut across my side, just above the hip. The bastard had gotten me after all. Not deep, but enough to sting. I pressed a scrap of gauze from the ranger kit against it.
Pocket monsters.
That's what it stood for, didn't it?
We forgot that part. Somewhere along the way, people got obsessed with collecting, training, evolving. They forgot what the name meant.
Monsters.
And if something like a Zigzagoon could hit that hard—what the hell else was out here?
I looked at the red-and-white balls again on the belt, clipped neatly beside the shattered one. Still cold in my memory, but starting to make more sense. These were tools, not toys. Control mechanisms. Weapons.
That thing I fought didn't belong in a stadium.
My jaw clenched
---
I left the ruins soon after. There was nothing else of value—no batteries, no working tech, no maps. The tools I had would have to be enough.
I moved carefully through the trees, one hand resting on the handle of my hatchet, the other holding one of the red-and-white balls. To my surprise, it expanded in my palm with a small mechanical shnk.
That sound...
Vaguely familiar. From the games, maybe. But my brain wasn't in it for nostalgia.
I wasn't walking through a game world.
I was hunting for water.
Eventually, I found it. I heard it before I saw it—a rush of liquid rolling across rock.
I pushed through a curtain of ferns and came to a river.
Wide. Deep. Clean, from the look of it. The water sparkled in the sunlight that broke through the canopy.
And I wasn't alone.
Pokémon. Dozens of them.
Some small, deer-like creatures with mossy backs. A few reptiles sunning themselves on stones. Birds flitting between branches, eyeing the water.
It was beautiful.
It was peaceful.
And it was a lie.
I crouched behind a fallen log, watching. They were cautious. Always watching the treeline, the sky. Tension hummed beneath the calm.
Then a blur shot from the river—a sleek, blue predator. Water burst from its jaws—slamming into one of the smaller Pokémon with brutal force. Screeches echoed. The herd scattered.
A wild battle.
No trainers. No flashy commands. Just instinct and survival.
While they were distracted, I moved.
I sprinted low to the bank, dropped to my knees, and filled my bottle. Twice. Then again. My hands moved fast. Efficient. Years of muscle memory from wartime deployments kicked in.
By the time I backed away into the jungle again, the predator had vanished beneath the current, and the prey had fled.
Only silence remained.
I walked. Slowly. Back toward the outpost, or at least the direction I thought it was.
Berries grew on a bush nearby. I eyed them—red, blue, round. Didn't touch them. I wasn't stupid. Not yet.
I needed a clearer head. So I spoke aloud.
"Okay," I muttered. "Let's think."
Names bubbled up. Pidgey. Rattata. Arbok. My kids played the games. My grandkids forced me to watch the cartoons—laughing every time I got the names wrong.
I chuckled bitterly.
Then the smile died.
Because I couldn't remember their faces.
Not clearly. Not anymore.
Their names slipped from my tongue like soap in the shower. Their laughter—faded. Their voices—gone.
Pain shot through my chest. Not physical. Deeper.
God. It hurt.
Just hours ago, I was at the wedding. Holding a glass. Watching my daughter dance. Laughing with my wife. My son. The kids.
Gone.
Stolen.
Their images ran like wet paint the harder I tried to recall them.
I clenched my jaw. My hand gripped the hatchet tighter.
I couldn't afford this. Not now.
My body—a younger version—burned with rage. Emotions hit harder. Like lightning through dry wood. I wasn't built for this volatility anymore.
But it was mine now.
So I used it.
I focused the fury. The grief. The raw, seething hatred for whatever thing plucked me from my life like a child snatching a toy.
That rage would be my anchor.
It would keep me from breaking.
Because if I cracked now, I wouldn't come back.
I breathed in through my nose. Out through gritted teeth.
And I kept walking.