Waking up face-first in the dirt wasn't exactly on Orion's post-grad to-do list.
But there he was. Mouth full of pine needles, neck stiff, lungs burning from air that was way too crisp to be city-filtered. He groaned, rolled over, and squinted up at a sky that didn't have a single plane, contrail, or satellite in it.
It was... too blue.
Too perfect.
Unnatural in a way that made his skin itch.
"What the hell…" he muttered. His voice sounded weird—higher, thinner. He sat up slowly, pain skittering up his spine like a bad joke, and stared down at his hands.
Wrong hands.
Too small. Too clean. No burn scars from cooking, no calluses from long nights on a keyboard. Just smooth, soft fingers that looked like they belonged to a ten-year-old.
"Okay," he croaked. "Okay, we're doing this."
He checked himself over. Plain shirt. Heavy pants. Rough boots. Clothes were functional, a little too big on his frame.
He wasn't just in the woods.
He was in something.
And whatever it was, it didn't feel like Earth.
The forest around him was dense. Not in the national park, "bring your trail mix and selfie stick" kind of way. This place was wild. Untouched. There were no trails, no signs of civilization—just the endless rustle of wind through branches, distant birdcalls, and the cold.
God, the cold.
He rubbed his arms, teeth clacking. It wasn't snowing, but there were patches of frost on the ground. His breath fogged in front of him.
No backpack. No phone. No emergency whistle or conveniently-placed guide NPC to tell him what tutorial he'd skipped.
Just him.
Alone.
He wandered. Not because he had a plan—because sitting still felt like giving up.
The first hour was quiet, broken only by the crunch of his boots and his own muttered cursing.
The second hour was worse.
He was hungry. Cold. And starting to really notice how little strength this new body had. Climbing even small hills left his lungs screaming. His legs trembled when he stopped.
At one point, he kicked a rock in frustration.
It didn't move.
He nearly fell.
"Awesome," he wheezed. "Can't even bully a pebble. Definitely going to survive out here."
Then he heard it.
A three-note chirp. Familiar. Distinct.
He turned, scanning the trees.
And there, perched on a low branch, was a bird.
Gray feathers. White face. A sharp little crest above its eyes.
Orion stared.
"…That's a Starly."
The word tasted surreal coming out of his mouth.
The Starly tilted its head, eyes shiny in the light.
"No. Nope. No way."
But then he said it out loud.
"This is Sinnoh."
The world dropped out from under him.
He staggered back a step, nearly tripped over a root. His heart slammed into his ribs like it wanted out.
"This is Sinnoh. This is Pokémon."
He looked down at his hands again.
A kid's hands.
Not his.
"I got… transmigrated? Isekai'd? Whatever?"
He laughed. It wasn't funny.
This is either the wish-fulfillment fantasy of every burned-out college student… or the prologue to my obituary.
Because here's the thing: Pokémon on TV? Cute. Friendly. Fun.
Pokémon in a world with teeth, hunger, and physics?
That was a nightmare.
There are creatures in this world that shoot lightning from their faces. Dragons the size of buildings. Ghosts that literally drag souls into the afterlife.
He wasn't a Trainer.
He didn't have a team.
He didn't even have a stick.
He walked more.
Each hour bled into the next. The Starly was long gone, and the silence was heavier now.
Eventually, he found a rise in the terrain and climbed—slow, hands scraping against rocks. When he reached the top, he saw what he feared most:
Endless forest.
Mountains in the far east.
No towns. No smoke. No sign of life.
His legs gave out. He sat on the edge of the ridge and buried his face in his hands.
I don't want to die here.
That was the truth of it.
All the jokes, all the sarcasm—they were just paint over a broken window.
He didn't want to die in some forgotten forest in a body that wasn't his.
The quiet cracked.
A low growl rolled through the trees.
He turned.
And froze.
From the shadows came a creature—sleek, muscular, eyes burning with yellow heat. A Houndoom. Real. Huge. Teeth glinting with drool and ash.
It didn't bark. It just watched him.
And behind it—
A man.
He stepped into view like a ghost from another century. Heavy coat of fur. Long knife at his side. Broad shoulders. Gray hair tied back. Face like it had forgotten how to smile.
"You alright?" the man asked.
Orion opened his mouth.
Closed it.
What do I say? "Hi, I'm from another universe and mildly freaking out"?
"…Yeah," he said. "Just cold."
The man nodded once. That was all.
Then he turned and walked away—past the Houndoom.
Who followed.
And after a heartbeat of panic and resignation… Orion followed too.
The cabin was older than it looked.
Partly buried in the side of a cliff. Smoke rising from a battered chimney. Tools stacked in rows. A small corral of wire fencing. Everything neat. Functional.
There was no welcome mat.
Just survival.
The man didn't speak much. He gave Orion a bowl of hot meat stew and pointed him to the hearth.
"Eat," was all he said.
Orion sniffed it.
"…This isn't, like, Starly, is it?"
"Would it matter?"
He sighed. "Only if it's still chirping."
That night, he lay on a cot by the fire under a blanket that smelled like wet fur and ash. The man—Reid, he eventually offered—sat across the room, sharpening a knife by firelight.
No small talk.
No questions.
Just the sound of metal and fire and the occasional huff from the Houndoom sleeping near the door.
Orion stared at the ceiling and let the silence press against his ribs.
This isn't a game.
No Professor Oak.
No Pokédex.
No starter.
No safe zones.
Just cold. Hunger. And one guy with a knife who hadn't decided yet if Orion was worth feeding tomorrow.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep didn't come easy.
When it did, it came with dreams full of fire, teeth, and Starly feathers falling like snow.