The rain battered the windshield of Erick's 2017 Honda Ridgeline, creating a relentless curtain that blurred the highway into a smear of black and silver. The storm had caught him off guard, transforming the quiet stretch into a treacherous gauntlet lit by jagged bolts of lightning. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him; hours of lecturing on game theory at the university had drained his energy, and the vacant stares of his students felt like a lingering bad taste. Yet, a flicker of excitement kept his hands steady on the steering wheel. Tonight, he'd join his StarCraft crew online, testing a new Protoss funneling strategy for their 3v3 match—a plan they had developed throughout the week.
A crumpled gas station bag lay slumped on the passenger seat, holding a white Monster energy drink—his fuel for the night ahead. He planned to pop it open when he got home, let the caffeine sharpen his focus, and dive into the game. The thought coaxed a faint smile as he navigated through the downpour.
A red light loomed ahead, its glow bleeding through the rain-soaked Glass. Erick eased the truck to a stop, the engine's low rumble a steady pulse beneath the storm's roar. His eyes drifted to the bag. The Monster was right there, a small reward for a grueling day. He reached over, his fingers brushing the plastic.
Then, the world shattered.
A horn wailed—a desperate cry drowned out by the relentless storm. Headlights flared through the passenger window, blinding and merciless. Another truck slammed into the Ridgeline's side, metal shrieking as the cab crumpled. Glass sprayed inward; the seatbelt bit into his chest, and pain erupted—a white-hot blaze that erased the rain, the light, and sent the Monster can tumbling loose. Then, nothing. Darkness enveloped him.
He should have stayed dead.
Awareness crept back slowly, fragmented and sluggish. Cold struck first—a piercing chill that sank into his bones. Then came the sound: a mournful wind weaving through unseen gaps, punctuated by sharp cracks akin to snapping branches. His cheek pressed against something wet and coarse—mud, thick and clinging. A groan slipped out, but the voice wasn't his; it was too high-pitched and young, cracking with unfamiliar strain. He cracked open his eyes to find a sky choked with gray clouds.
He pushed himself up, hands sinking into the sludge, and froze. These weren't his hands. They were small, smooth, delicate—not the rough, calloused ones of his thirty-two years. Panic surged, but he suppressed it, scanning his surroundings. He knelt in a clearing surrounded by the devastation—shattered trees, scorched earth, and the air thick with smoke and a metallic tang that twisted his gut. As he stood, his legs trembled in a body that felt alien, shorter, wirier, pulsing with restless energy he had long forgotten.
A glance downward deepened the strangeness: mud-crusted boots and a ragged tunic plastered to his frame, along with patched pants stiff with dirt. These weren't his clothes. He touched his face—smooth skin, a sharp jaw, a crooked nose that didn't match his memory. His fingers brushed against pitch-black hair, damp and tangled, and he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a nearby puddle. Deep, dark blue eyes stared back, glowing faintly, set against tannish skin that hinted at the tropical sun of Hoenn. Who am I? he thought, the face both foreign and hauntingly familiar.
"What the hell?" he rasped, the teenage timbre jolting him further. He turned, surveying the ruins. This had been a village. Huts lay in smoldering piles of ash and fractured wood, their edges blackened as if seared by unrelenting fury. Bodies littered the ground—humans among them, their broken forms stark against the wreckage. A woman lay near a collapsed wall, her torso crushed beneath timber, her lifeless hand outstretched in a final, futile grasp. Nearby, a man sprawled face-down, his back torn open, blood pooling into the mud. A child, no older than ten, curled near a shattered doorway, limbs twisted unnaturally, a sight that clawed at Erick's chest. He tore his gaze away, bile rising, but the scene held him fast.
Amid the human toll were creatures. His breath hitched as he spotted one: a bird, feathers singed, wings splayed at odd angles, its lifeless beak parted. A flicker of recognition stirred—something from the Pokémon games he'd played—but he dismissed it. Stumbling forward, he nearly tripped over another body—a massive, gray-skinned beast with three ridges cresting its skull, its chest a ruin of splintered bone. Machoke. The name clicked, but he recoiled. This wasn't a screen.
The air grew heavier, reeking of death. By a fallen beam, a small, blue-skinned creature lay still, its gills quivering once before stopping. Mudkip. The name snapped into place, a relic of late nights with those games, but he pushed it back. This was flesh, blood, and ruin.
Pain stabbed his skull, a throbbing that erupted into a flood of images—memories not his own. A boy, fifteen, racing through tall grass, laughing as a big, big-headed creature splashed ahead. That boy, older, hauling nets with his father while a larger Pokémon lifted logs. A swamp teeming with life, a family, and then chaos. A shadow blotting the sky, wings edged with golden light, a shriek that sundered everything. Lightning ripped the village apart, screams silenced, and the boy fled until darkness took him.
Erick clutched his head, gasping. The boy's name was Kaito. These were Kaito's memories, his world, now stitched into Erick's fractured mind. He sank to his knees, mud seeping through his pants, staring at his—Kaito's—hands. He'd died in that crash and felt his life slip away. Yet here he was, reborn in this boy's shell, in a place steeped in tragedy.
A faint cry pierced the fog. "Mud… kip?" He turned, spotting a small blue creature beneath a fallen beam, its wide eyes locked on him. Mudkip—Kaito's Mudkip, a tether from those borrowed memories. Erick staggered over, dropping beside it. The Mudkip nudged his palm, trembling, and clarity hit like a shockwave.
This was a Pokémon world. Not the bright one from his childhood, nor the Pokémon games he'd once mastered—a grind of numbers he'd left behind. This was brutal, tangible, a realm where creatures and humans died together and where villages burned. He brushed Mudkip's head, feeling its shaky warmth, and a vision flared: numbers—31, 29, 30, 31, 30, 31. IVs, like in the games. Then, a sensation—a lively, almost cheerful energy pulsing from Mudkip despite the carnage. Jolly. Its nature boosts speed and softens special defense. And another layer—a surge of agility tied to water, an ability he pinned as Swift Swim. That's wrong, he thought, frowning. Mudkip should have Torrent or Damp, not Swift Swim. At least, it did in the games. But this was no game; it was real, and the rules might twist here.
His throat tightened. This was no accident. He'd been given a second life, a strange gift, thrust into a world harsher than he'd dreamed. "We're in this together," he murmured, voice steadying. "We'll make it." Mudkip pressed closer, a fragile trust in its gaze, and he held onto it.
He didn't grasp this place, not fully. The games had been tame and predictable, but this was raw chaos. He'd learn its workings, piece together what had obliterated Kaito's village, and keep them alive. He recognized that shadow-those-those—electric wings: Zapdos, the legendary bird from Gen 1. But he buried the name, wary of what it meant here. Knowledge could be dangerous, and he needed to tread carefully.