Pokemon: Primatus

The area is still.

Not silence, the jungle was alive with sound but a kind of unnatural stillness, like something was watching. Every breath I drew filled my lungs with thick, humid air that clung to my skin like oil. The rustle of leaves, the buzz of unseen insects, the distant groan of wood shifting in the wind—it all felt sharpened, edged with warning.

Everything was too vivid.

My senses were raw. The brush of air across my arms felt like claws. The earth smelled wet and deep, like rot and birth all at once. Somewhere, far off, something cried out—not a bird. Not anything I could place.

I forced myself to breathe.

The rage still burned in me. Smoldering. Coiled like a serpent in my chest. My hands curled and uncurled without thinking. I wanted to scream again, to beat my fists against the trees and curse the thing that had taken everything from me.

But rage didn't get you far on a battlefield.

So I focused.

I closed my eyes and took stock.

The body was mine—sort of. Younger, yes. More capable. Stronger. But wild, too. Hormonal. Emotional. A powder keg lit at both ends. Everything hit harder: smells, sounds, feelings. My heart thundered with a kind of urgency I hadn't felt since I was twenty maybe younger.

It was unnerving.

I flexed my fingers. Stretched my legs. The motion was fluid, efficient. No stiffness in the joints, no grinding pain in the knees. That part, at least, I could appreciate.

But it made the loss sharper.

I'd had decades etched into my bones. Proof of a life lived. A life earned.

Now I was just... this. A raw version of myself. A weapon with no orders. A father with no family.

The grief gnawed at me beneath the surface.

I pushed it down and stood up straighter, scanning the dense greenery around me.

The forest stretched on, thick with ferns and moss. Trees rose like pillars, their bark dark and wet. The light above was dim, filtered green through the canopy. Every shadow looked like a predator waiting to pounce.

I turned in a slow circle. No signs. No trails. Just endless wild.

A branch cracked.

My head snapped to the sound.

Something big was moving through the trees. I felt it more than heard it—a low tremor underfoot, the soft rattle of leaves dislodged above.

Another step. Closer. Heavier.

My breath caught.

"Bear," I muttered.

Had to be. Big. Slow. Deliberate.

Maybe I was still somewhere remote. Canada? Siberia? I didn't know. It didn't matter. What mattered was moving. Standing still meant dying.

I crouched low, heart pounding, and began to move in the opposite direction. Not running—not yet. Just enough to make distance. Enough to find shelter. High ground. Anything.

My boots sank a little in the loam with each step. The ground was damp and littered with leaf litter and strange, pulpy fungi. The sound of my own breathing was too loud in my ears.

The thudding got louder.

I ducked behind a tree, shoulder pressing into mossy bark. A flash of movement—wide, lumbering—broke through the trees to my left. I didn't see it clearly, but the weight of it made the forest seem smaller.

I held my breath.

The trees trembled again. Leaves fluttered from the canopy like falling ash. The thing was moving parallel now, heading downslope through the foliage. Whatever it was, it didn't seem to be hunting. Just wandering.

Still, I wasn't about to test its patience.

I kept moving, quieter this time. I counted each step, scanning for open paths, listening for water or shelter.

Then I found it.

A break in the treeline. A half-collapsed hill, swallowed by vines, overgrown with thick roots and what might've once been stone steps. Something old. Something forgotten.

I didn't know what it had been. A shrine? An outpost? It didn't matter. It was structure. And structure meant shelter.

I climbed inside the hollow between the rocks, breathing hard, heart pounding.

Inside, I found more than just cover.

There were remnants of something—someone. A satchel in the corner, aged but intact. I opened it carefully and found tools. A compass. Rope. Water purifier. A bundle of tightly wrapped waterproof matches. A survival hatchet tucked under a fold. A field knife strapped to the side of the bag. A rolled-up emergency thermal blanket. Whoever had used this had prepared well. Ranger gear, maybe?

Next came the belt. Thick leather. Military-grade. Pouches attached. One held what looked like a medical kit—basic antiseptic, gauze, painkillers. Another held five strange balls, no bigger than marbles. Red on top, white on bottom. Familiar somehow, but I couldn't place why. A sixth sat in a broken cradle—shattered. Useless.

And then there was the uniform.

Old, forest green. Practical. Reinforced in places, padded in others. Definitely a ranger's garb. The insignia was faded, but the design looked... off. Not any park ranger I knew. But it fit. Well enough, at least.

I changed. The clothes clung to me with that worn, sun-dried stiffness of gear that had seen better days. But it felt good to be dressed for work. For survival.

Tucked into a folded pouch, I found a photo.

It showed a man in uniform, standing beside a creature—somewhere between a wolf and a blade. Its body gleamed silver, its eyes calm. The man had a strong jaw, a tired smile. His hand rested on the creature's shoulder like they were partners.

I stared at it for a long time.

Something about the image stirred a memory. Not specific. Not clear. But like a radio catching a distant signal.

I placed the photo in my shirt pocket.

Then I found the final thing—a battered ID card. The text was smeared, but one word stood out.

Hoenn.

And just like that, the haze began to clear.

My breath hitched.

I stared down at the red-and-white balls again. Not marbles. Not toys. Not weapons.

Poké Balls.

The photo. The insignia. The creatures. That name—Hoenn.

It all snapped together like bones popping into place.

I wasn't on Earth.

I wasn't even in the same universe.

Somehow, impossibly, I'd been thrown into a world I only half-remembered. A world from games, from stories. From fragments of a childhood long buried.

Pokémon.

I'd been plucked. Torn from one of the happiest moments of my life and dumped here like discarded trash.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't just.

And whoever did this—whatever thing had that kind of power. Only left me a damn! Letter.

It had stolen me.

It lit the fuse again.

I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms, rage crackling in my gut like wildfire.

No time to grief. Not now.

I would survive.

But I would not forgive.

And I sure as hell would not entertain.