Pikachu sat under the leafy roof of Viridian Forest like a rodent-sized philosopher in deep existential crisis. Except instead of pondering the meaning of life, he was considering how to assert dominance over an angry wasp the size of a lawn chair. You know—normal forest things.
The wind rustled above. Caterpie snored softly, curled up next to a half-eaten berry. Pidgeotto flapped overhead like an airborne snob, glaring down with all the judgment of a bird who definitely thought it was too cool to be here.
And in Pikachu's mind? Naruto's voice echoed like some ancient forest spirit with spiky hair and way too much motivational energy.
"You've got the power to lead, Pikachu," Naruto said, like this was some superhero movie trailer. "The first step is claiming the forest. Starting with the Beedrill."
Beedrill. The name alone made Pikachu's ears twitch. The dude was basically an airborne war machine with drills for hands and the attitude of someone who hadn't had coffee in three years.
"You need to subjugate him," Naruto continued calmly, like he wasn't asking a tiny electric mouse to go one-on-one with Death Stinger 9000. "Bring the leaders of the forest under your wing."
Pikachu glanced at his literal wingspan—read: zero—and tried not to panic.
Still... the words stirred something. He had been Ash's first. The original. The day-one partner. Now he was being told to step up. Lead the team. Level up from adorable mascot to full-on commander.
Great. No pressure.
"Start with Caterpie and Pidgeotto," Naruto advised. "Caterpie's easy. Get him strong enough, he evolves. Two, maybe three good fights and boom: Metapod. Then Butterfree. Pidgeotto, though..."
Pikachu didn't need Naruto to finish that sentence. He already knew.
Pidgeotto was a jerk.
Ever since the fight, Pidgeotto had been acting like Pikachu was just a fluke. A fluke with yellow cheeks and a lucky hit. Which, okay—maybe technically accurate. But still insulting.
"He doesn't respect you," Naruto added, unhelpfully. "Electricity won't fix that. You'll need to beat him with brain and brawn. Go old-school."
Old-school? As in... Tackle, Growl, and Tail Whip? The preschool starter pack?
Pikachu almost groaned aloud. That was like being told to win a sword fight using a spoon and a good attitude.
But Naruto wasn't wrong. Back in the wild, before electricity danced through his fur like fireflies on espresso, Pikachu had won with just instincts and grit. And okay—rage. Lots of that too.
"Trust in your speed," Naruto said. "Trust in your heart. You've already come this far. Now finish the climb."
Pikachu took a deep breath. The air smelled like moss, smoke, and determination. (Okay, maybe just moss and a very burnt pot of rice.)
He glanced at Caterpie, who was still losing a wrestling match to a berry.
"Alright, bug-buddy," Pikachu said, standing tall (as tall as a foot-high rodent can stand). "Time to stop playing with your food. You're going to fight. You're going to evolve. And you're going to stop screaming when you see your reflection."
Caterpie blinked up at him.
Pikachu didn't wait. He crouched low, tail swishing, eyes locked. "Let's start simple. Dodge and counter. You'll learn, just like I did."
A rustle in the trees. A sharp screech.
Pidgeotto. Watching. Judging.
Pikachu didn't flinch.
"You want respect?" he thought. "Come get it."
The battle lines were drawn. No electric shocks. No flashy moves. Just pure instinct and willpower. A forest full of wild Pokémon, one sassy bird, and a thunder mouse with something to prove.
Pikachu grinned.
"Let's show them what the first partner can do."
----------------------
Pikachu stood next to Caterpie under the mottled shadows of the Viridian Forest canopy. The place smelled like damp leaves and adventure—or danger. Sometimes they were the same thing.
The breeze ruffled his fur. Somewhere off in the trees, a Beedrill buzzed like a chainsaw having a bad day.
But Pikachu wasn't listening to the forest. Not really. His ears twitched, sure, but his mind? That was busy replaying Naruto's voice like an ancient prophecy with attitude.
"Don't take the easy path."
Great. No pressure, right?
Caterpie wobbled beside him, all nervous antennae and jittery bug eyes. It looked up like Pikachu was the hero in some bedtime story. Which was ridiculous, because Pikachu? He used to be the bug. The underdog. The tiny sparkball nobody took seriously.
But then Ash came. And now—well, now Pikachu had to figure out how to be someone else's Ash.
He looked at Caterpie again. Fragile. Shaky. Basically a snack for anything with teeth. The smart move? Let Caterpie get some free experience. Pick off weakened Weedles, maybe bully a Wurmple or two. Easy wins. Fast growth.
He'd thought about it. A lot.
And then Naruto's voice cut back in like a mental text notification:
"If it evolves without learning to fight—without knowing what it means to struggle—it'll break the first time things get real. A true leader doesn't build strength on shortcuts."
Pikachu sighed. Why couldn't mystical ninja spirits ever suggest nap time?
Still… Naruto had a point. Pikachu had seen too many Pokémon evolve too fast, then freeze the moment they were outmatched. Ash had taught him better. Painfully. With lots of falling and zapping and—yeah, learning.
He straightened up.
"No," Pikachu said aloud.
Caterpie blinked. "…Pi?"
"You don't need easy," Pikachu muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "You need to be ready."
Caterpie kept blinking, but something in its wiggly little posture shifted. Less panic, more… listening.
"I'll teach you to fight," Pikachu said, crouching to the bug's level. "You'll learn to use that web. How to trap, stall, counter. Not just flailing around hoping you survive. You'll be smart. You'll be sharp."
Caterpie made a tiny squeaky noise. It sounded scared. But not just scared. There was something else in there too—a spark. Pikachu recognized it. That little whisper in the dark that says, maybe I'm not worthless after all.
Pikachu smiled. It felt weird and warm and a little bit terrifying.
"Okay," he said, flicking his tail toward a clump of undergrowth. A few low-level Wurmple were nosing around for berries, completely unaware that today, they were getting drafted into a motivational training montage.
"We start with practice. No easy wins. No sneak attacks. Just lessons."
Caterpie nodded.
The wind stirred again, and far off, that ominous Beedrill buzz returned—louder now. Like destiny revving its engine.
Pikachu narrowed his eyes.
"Let's begin."
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All was calm—well, as calm as a giant bug-filled forest full of predators, mystery, and potential doom could get.
Under the crooked shade of a pine tree that looked like it had seen better centuries, Pikachu was deep in what I'd call "mentor mode." His ears twitched with every rustle, his expression the same intense look you'd expect from a sensei who just saw their student try to punch with their face.
Caterpie was right beside him, spinning thread like its life depended on it—which, honestly, wasn't far from the truth. The little guy worked in slow, nervous circles, producing silky strands that gleamed in the pale moonlight.
"You're not weaving a friendship bracelet," Pikachu muttered, tail flicking. "A trap isn't just string. It's strategy. Purpose. Drama."
Caterpie looked up, eyes round and a little glassy, like, Wait, this isn't arts and crafts? Which, no. It absolutely wasn't.
See, Caterpie had always been on the bottom rung of the forest food chain. It wasn't poisonous. It didn't have wings. It wasn't fast. Basically, it was a walking snack. But Pikachu saw something more. He remembered being weak once too. He also remembered how bad it sucked.
So, boot camp began.
They started with the basics—low-hanging shrubs, tiny webs, and the occasional stick that Pikachu found and used like a pointer. Caterpie missed more than he hit. One of his webs snapped right off a branch and landed on Pikachu's face.
"Nice," Pikachu deadpanned. "You've successfully annoyed me. Not the enemy. Try again."
Progress was slow, but it came. Eventually, Caterpie figured out how to anchor his thread with tiny pebbles, tighten the angles, and even yank a broken branch hard enough to swing it like a toddler with a baseball bat.
"That's the spirit," Pikachu said when a branch actually clipped his leg. "Imagine your opponent's face right there. Not mine. Thanks."
Meanwhile, just a few feet away, Ash and Misty were snoozing peacefully in their high-tech, trainer-grade tents. Those things could probably survive a Charizard tantrum. They had weird frequency emitters that kept wild Pokémon at bay—which, let's be honest, was a great idea when your idea of protection was sleeping in a bag in a monster-infested forest.
Ash had his hat over his face like he was auditioning for "Laid-back Hero of the Year." Misty, meanwhile, was snoring with the intensity of a Gyarados in a bubble bath. Neither of them noticed the tactical web-training operation happening just outside their magical security bubble.
Pikachu didn't blame them. They had their own struggles. But here, out where safety didn't reach, the real training happened.
"Again," Pikachu said, crouching low.
Caterpie fired. The string zipped forward, looped around Pikachu's foreleg, and tugged. Not bad. Then a second strand launched, caught a branch, and yanked it down with a solid thunk against Pikachu's side.
"Better," Pikachu said with a grunt. "Still needs more weight. Try adding shame next time. It hits harder."
Caterpie wobbled, clearly running on fumes. The poor bug was basically one more web away from passing out. But he didn't stop. Not until Pikachu told him to.
"One more set," Pikachu said, gentler now.
Caterpie nodded, fired again, and finally collapsed onto a bed of moss with the slow-motion drama of someone finishing a five-hour gym session without water or a snack.
Pikachu grabbed a few wide green leaves—the good kind, not the weird ones that give you swamp burps—and nudged them toward Caterpie.
The bug ate like his life depended on it. Which, again, it sort of did.
"Rest," Pikachu told him. "Tomorrow, we make our first real trap. And if you do it right, the forest might finally stop calling you lunch."
Caterpie gave a sleepy blink of agreement and nestled into the leaves.
Pikachu sat beside him, tail curling slightly, eyes on the stars through the tangled branches. He thought of Ash. Of the road ahead. Of what it would take to become more than just a Pokémon in a ball.
The night was calm.
But evolution?
Evolution was coming.
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The trees in Viridian Forest looked like they'd been standing since the dawn of time, silently judging everything that dared move beneath their mossy feet. Sunlight filtered through the leaves like lazy golden arrows, not really helping anyone see anything. The forest floor was slick and damp, and mist curled around the roots like it had nowhere better to be.
Pikachu stood on a patch of squishy moss, ears twitching, tail flicking like a metronome set to "try harder." His eyes were locked on Caterpie, who was currently losing a staring contest with a twig.
Caterpie fired a thread of silk.
It wobbled through the air like a drunk Spinarak and sagged instantly. The thread didn't so much trap the twig as politely ask it to stay put.
"Again," Pikachu said. His voice was calm—way too calm. The kind of calm that meant, You're doing great but also... what was that supposed to be, exactly?
Caterpie gave a tiny whimper, his whole noodle-like body drooping with exhaustion. Hours of training had turned his silk glands into overworked spaghetti dispensers, but hey, progress was progress.
Then the wind changed.
Now, normally when the air shifts in the forest, it's just nature doing its thing. But this? This was different. The kind of gust that whispered, "Hey, look up or die."
Pikachu's ears twitched just as—
WOOSH!
A blur of feathers and attitude sliced through the mist. Talons whistled past Caterpie's back like a pair of scissors at a really bad haircut.
Caterpie shrieked, dove under a leaf, and curled up like a terrified cinnamon roll.
The blur landed with a crunch of leaves and a whole lot of smug.
Pidgeotto.
He stood there like he owned the place—talons flexing, crest feathers preened to perfection, and eyes that said, "I've eaten bigger things than you for breakfast. Literally."
"Well, well…" Pidgeotto purred, like a villain in a soap opera. "The mighty Pikachu. Babysitting a bug. How the mighty have fallen."
Caterpie let out a terrified squeak. He sounded like a rubber duck on life support.
Pikachu stepped between them, all cool confidence and subtle threat. "I'm teaching him."
Pidgeotto tilted his head. "To do what, cry on command? You're not training a Pokémon. You're coddling a snack."
He started circling them like a vulture with an attitude problem. "You think you're going to lead Pokémon like him? That he's going to evolve just because you believe in him?"
Pikachu didn't respond. Not because he didn't have a comeback—because he was too focused to waste words.
Pidgeotto clearly wasn't done being awful.
With a sudden beat of wings, he took to the air, vanished into the mist, and came back way too fast for comfort—with another Caterpie in his talons. A wild one.
It was writhing. Screaming. Very, very alive.
"This one's about the same level," Pidgeotto said, his voice suddenly ice. "Let's see what happens when the world stops pretending it's nice."
And before anyone could blink—
Snap.
He crushed it.
Caterpie—the one training—screamed in sheer horror. He backpedaled so fast he flipped over himself.
Pidgeotto? He ate the poor thing. Right there. Wings ruffled. Beak wiped. No regrets.
The forest went silent.
Pikachu didn't shout. He didn't spark or lunge. He just looked at Pidgeotto with eyes like stormclouds—quiet, heavy, and way more powerful than thunder.
"You didn't have to do that," Pikachu said.
Pidgeotto fluffed his feathers. "Didn't I? You talk like a human. Like battles are speeches and friendship bracelets. But we're wild. We eat or we die. That's the real world, little mouse."
"That's why I'm training him," Pikachu said, voice soft but steady. "So he won't have to die scared. So maybe... neither will anyone else."
For the first time, Pidgeotto hesitated.
It lasted all of one second.
He huffed, tossed his beak in the air, and said, "Try not to let him get skewered by a Beedrill, then. I'd hate to waste another lecture."
Then he was gone—back into the sky, slicing through the leaves like a smug missile.
But he didn't go far.
Up in the canopy, he lingered—watching.
Down below, Caterpie was still shaking. Tiny. Afraid. Alone.
Until Pikachu walked over, touched one of his drooping antennae with a paw, and said, "You're not ending up like that. Not on my watch."
And for just a second, the fear faded. The forest still loomed. The danger was still real.
But Caterpie believed him.
And sometimes, belief is the most powerful move you've got.