With a final, silent nod to the river that had been my salvation and my near-drowning, I turned my amorphous blob of a body inland. My HP—or whatever you want to call it—was almost full, and my stomach was content from my little fishy rampage. But I was still a Ditto. A slow, squishy, ground-based puddle of a creature. Moving through this forest was going to be an absolute slog. I needed an upgrade. I needed to get off the ground.
As I oozed my way through the undergrowth, my mind raced. The rock transformation was a neat trick for hiding, but about as useful for travel as a chocolate teapot. I needed something with legs. Or, even better, wings.
And then I saw it. Perched on a branch, preening its feathers without a care in the world, was a Pidgey. The quintessential Route 1 trash mob. And right now, it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
I wanna be that bird, I thought, a manic grin spreading across my featureless face. I locked onto its form, the simple brown and cream feathers, the sharp little beak, the beady black eyes. I poured my will into it, and my body responded with that familiar, sickening lurch. My cells dissolved and re-formed, stretching, hardening, sprouting.
With my new wings tucked against my sides and my talons gripping the dirt, I took a moment to appreciate my new form. I gave my wings a confident stretch, took a bold step forward to begin my new life as a creature of the sky... and immediately ate shit.
Beak-plant.
"Pidge-dge?!" (The fuck?!)
I picked myself up, spitting out a mouthful of dirt and leaves. Right. I remembered now. I get the hardware, not the software. The body, not the instruction manual. This was going to take some practice.
What followed was less "majestic flight" and more "drunken, feathery belly-flop." I'd flap my wings furiously, get about two feet of air, stall, and plummet back to earth with an undignified thump. It was pathetic. It was embarrassing. And if any other Pokémon were watching, they were probably dying of laughter.
But then, on the fifth try, something clicked. I pushed off with my legs as I flapped, a real gust of wind caught under my wings, and suddenly, the ground wasn't rushing up to kiss my beak anymore. I was up. I was actually flying.
Holy. Shit.
The world wasn't a series of blurry shapes or a ground-level crawl anymore. It was a map, a breathtaking tapestry of green and brown stretching out beneath me. The wind whistled past my feathers, a feeling so exhilarating it made my short-lived career as a bootleg space god feel like a boring desk job. This was freedom. This was awesome.
"Pidge-yoooooooooo!" I shrieked, my voice echoing across the canopy, a triumphant cry of pure, unadulterated joy. I was one with the wind, a master of the sky, a feathery god of—
A searing ache shot through my wings.
"Pidge-ow!"
Okay, maybe not a god. My wings felt like they were on fire, and I was suddenly huffing and puffing like I'd just run a marathon. It seemed my core stamina—the base stat tied to my Ditto-ness—was apparently hot garbage. So, while the Pidgey form gave me the ability to fly, it didn't give me the endurance. Thanks, system. Another beautifully balanced feature.
Gaining altitude was out of the question for now. I settled for gliding just above the treetops, taking frequent breaks on high branches to catch my breath. It was during one of these rest stops that I saw it: a thin ribbon of brown cutting through the endless green. A path. A human path.
Civilization. Or, at the very least, a sign that I was heading toward it.
With renewed purpose, I flew along the route, my aching wings protesting with every flap. After a few minutes, I spotted a black dot moving along the path in the distance. I pushed myself, putting on a burst of speed I immediately regretted, and got closer for a better look.
It was a human, all right. A boy. Maybe sixteen. White cap, backpack straining at the seams, and the unmistakable jingle of Poké Balls on his belt.
And of course, it was a dude. My luck. I was hoping for a Nurse Joy-in-training, or at least a cute Lass, but no. Reality is a cruel mistress with a terrible sense of humor.
Sighing an airy Pidgey sigh, I landed on a branch overlooking the path, both to rest my screaming wing muscles and to observe. I played it cool, puffing out my chest and pretending to scan the horizon for worms, or whatever it is Pidgeys do. Nothing to see here, trainer boy. Just a totally normal bird. Don't you even think about reaching for one of those balls.
As I watched him trudge along, my stomach, which was now a gizzard or something, let out a demanding chirp. My Satiated status from the fish feast had clearly worn off. The hunger hit me like a ton of bricks. I hadn't eaten a thing since that minnow buffet, and my energy was tanking fast.
I scanned the nearby trees, my bird eyes sharp and focused. And there it was. A small tree, just off the path, laden with plump, juicy-looking blue fruits. They were practically glowing.
My hunger overrode all caution. I swooped down, snagged one of the berries in my talons, and landed on a lower branch to devour my prize.
The moment my beak pierced the skin, it was heaven. The juice exploded in my beak, a flavor so sweet and refreshing it made the memory of that god-awful riverweed feel like a war crime. But it wasn't just the taste. A wave of pure, vibrant energy surged through my body. The deep ache in my wings vanished. The exhaustion lifted. It was like chugging a Red Bull mixed with a shot of pure, unadulterated yes.
Holy crap. These had to be Oran Berries. They didn't just heal you, they restored your stamina! This was a game-changer! I could fly for miles on these things!
A furious shriek cut through my celebration.
I looked up. A Spearow was dive-bombing towards me, its wings a blur of angry motion. Its beak was sharp, its eyes were tiny black dots of pure, territorial rage, and it was making a beeline straight for my face.
Ah. Right.
This was probably its tree.
The Spearow let out another furious shriek, ruffling its spiky brown feathers and puffing out its chest. It looked less like a fearsome bird of prey and more like an angry, feathered potato. It fixed me with what I could only assume was its best attempt at a Leer. Its beady little eyes narrowed, and it tried to look intimidating.
It was, to put it mildly, adorable.
I almost chirped with laughter. Was that it? Was that the big, scary move meant to lower my defense? It was like watching a fluffy hand puppet try to look menacing. My fear evaporated, replaced by pure, unadulterated mockery.
"Pidge?" I chirped, tilting my head. (You done?)
The Spearow, enraged by my lack of terror, let out a low growl—or the bird equivalent, a sort of guttural grrrrrr.
Okay, pal. You wanna play scary? We can play scary.
I was still a Ditto, after all. And Dittos are basically walking, talking body horror.
"Pidge-dge..." (Time to get weird.)
I let my Ditto biology take the wheel. My beak softened and began to drip like melting wax. My perfectly normal Pidgey eyes swirled into hypnotic spirals, and a third, unblinking eye socket tore itself open in the middle of my forehead. My face contorted into something that would give H.P. Lovecraft nightmares. It was a masterpiece of avian terror.
The Spearow stopped dead in its tracks. Its angry squawking died in its throat, replaced by a choked gurgle of pure, pants-shitting panic.
That's more like it.
My grotesque display seemed to have broken its brain. It rebooted with the only protocol it had left: violence. Its beak began to glow with a faint white light, and with a final, desperate shriek, it rocketed towards me. Quick Attack.
My Pidgey instincts screamed DODGE, but my half-second of flight training wasn't nearly enough. Panicked, I did the only thing I could think of. I hawked up a big, gooey loogie of half-digested Oran Berry and Pidgey-saliva and spat it right in its general direction.
It was a stupid, desperate move, but it worked. The Spearow flinched, trying to avoid the glob of fruity spit, and its trajectory shifted by a few crucial inches. It missed my head and, with a sickening THUNK, plowed face-first into the solid trunk of the tree.
Its beak was stuck. Deep.
It let out a muffled, pathetic "SPPK!" and struggled frantically, its little legs kicking uselessly in the air.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
An opportunity like this doesn't come knocking twice. Before it could even process its own stupidity, I pounced. I launched myself off my branch, flying straight into its exposed back like a feathered freight train in what I mentally dubbed "Discount Tackle."
"Spearrr Spearr..." it whimpered, its voice muffled by the wood.
"PIDGE-DGE!" (SHUT UP!)
I wasn't having it. I pinned its flapping wings with my talons and began my magnum opus. I started pecking. Not just random pecks, but a relentless, piston-like assault on the back of its stupid, spiky head. It was a percussive symphony of violence, a one-bird drum solo on a feathered skull. Even when it managed to wiggle its beak free, my grip was like steel. Or, you know, Pidgey-talon-strong.
A few moments later, the fight was over. The poor thing had gone limp, its head and wings looking decidedly worse for wear. It was whimpering, a sad little "spearrr" sound escaping its beak. I gave it one last, definitive peck for good measure before letting go.
I stood victorious, puffing out my chest over the defeated, traumatized bird cowering at the base of the tree. Take that, you dipshit! Don't challenge a hyper-intelligent Pidgey like me!
...Okay, okay, maybe "hyper-intelligent" is a stretch. But I'm definitely more intelligent than you, you bird-brained bully.
As I stood there, basking in the glory of my first real win, a flicker of something... not quite pity, but maybe pragmatism... stirred within me. I looked at the whimpering Spearow, then at the half-eaten Oran Berry still clutched in my talon.
I wasn't a total asshole.
With a sigh, I dropped the remaining half of the berry near its head. It flinched, then looked up at me, its eyes a mixture of terror and utter confusion.
"Pidge." (Don't say I never gave you anything.)
As I turned to leave, a familiar blue screen flickered into my vision, a welcome sight after the frantic, messy reality of the fight.
[You have defeated a wild Spearow - Lv. 5!]
[EXP Gained: 60]
[Congratulations! You have reached Level 1!]
[Congratulations! You have reached Level 2!]
[Congratulations! You have reached Level 3!]
Three levels from one angry potato-bird. Not bad.
I flew off, feeling the Oran Berry's energy coursing through me, a pleasant warmth that was now amplified by the distinct, empowering thrum of a level-up. Maybe this little act of kindness would start a chain reaction of good deeds. Or maybe it just meant the Spearow wouldn't immediately form a gang to hunt me down and peck my eyes out.
Either way, I was feeling pretty good about myself. And I was ready for whatever came next.
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15K words passed , woohoo!