The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the shallow, uneven rhythm of Yellow's breathing against his chest. Ash held the makeshift bandage in place, the torn fabric of the blanket warm and rough beneath his fingers. The quiet of the forest rushed back in, thick and watchful, and for a moment, the only thing that felt real was the trembling of the girl in his arms. He pulled her closer, enveloping her in a shaky hug. It was meant to soothe her, but he knew, deep down, it was as much for himself.
Stay in control, he told himself, the thought a frantic mantra. She can't see you break. Not now.
He could feel his own legs trembling beneath him, weak and unreliable, and he subtly shifted his weight, using her small frame to keep himself upright. He could be weak later. Alone. When she wasn't looking.
For a long moment, the frantic hammering in both their chests slowed to a heavy, weary beat. Their breathing fell into a fragile rhythm, two heartbeats trying to steady each other. When they finally broke apart, it was reluctant, as though letting go might undo the fragile calm they had built.
The clearing came back into focus, and their eyes were drawn to the only other body that still breathed.
The Scyther.
It lay unconscious, a broken thing of green and silver, its chest rising and falling in shallow, painful gasps. Its wings twitched weakly, a pathetic buzz that carried no strength. The Pokémon clustered around it, forming a silent, wary circle of guards. Pikachu's cheeks still sparked faintly, his body tense. Doduo's heads bobbed in restless unease. Even Butterfree hovered low, wings beating a slow, uncertain rhythm, as though unsure whether to shield or flee.
Ash's mind raced, a chaotic storm of conflicting instincts.
Leave it, a primal, terrified part of him screamed. It attacked us. It tried to kill her. It deserves whatever the forest gives it.
But then his gaze lingered on the chipped scythes, the raw patches on its hide where it had thrown itself against the bars, the proud, warrior spirit that had refused to break even as its body failed. He couldn't. He couldn't just leave it to die.
But what if I take it to the Centre? The thought brought a fresh wave of nausea. He pictured the stares, the whispers, the accusations. The memory of the mob in the gym was still raw, still bleeding. They would see him, battered and bruised, with another dangerous Pokémon at his side, and the story would write itself. He brought this on us. Just like the hospital. Just like the gym. He couldn't face that again.
He glanced at Yellow. Her fear had softened into something else now: a deep, aching pity. She stared at the downed Scyther with wide, sorrowful eyes. She wanted to help it—he could see it in the sad, gentle set of her shoulders, in the way her fingers twitched faintly as though reaching for her healing gift. But she was also scared. Her hand strayed unconsciously to the fresh bandage on her arm, pressing against the sting of the wound.
And what if I catch it? The thought was a lead weight in his stomach. It would be his. His responsibility. Could he handle a Pokémon this fierce, this broken? Did his team have the strength to keep it in check? He had one Poké Ball left. One last choice.
His eyes fell on the broken cage, the trampled earth, the blood‑red symbol on the torn cloth still snagged on a branch. And a cold, grim clarity cut through his panic. Proof.
He pulled out his Pokédex, its cool metal a comfort in his trembling hand. He didn't say a word, just moved with slow, deliberate purpose. He captured photos of the scene from every angle: the cage, the dents in the bars, the unconscious Scyther, and the surrounding area. His hands shook, but he forced them steady, framing each shot like evidence. Then he composed a short, clinical message to Professor Oak, attaching the images.
Found this in Viridian. Something's wrong.
The message was sent with a soft chime that felt deafening in the silence.
Only then did he unclip his last Poké Ball. Yellow clung to the back of his jacket, her fingers curling into the fabric as though to anchor herself. His Pokémon formed a tense, protective wall around him, their eyes never leaving the Scyther.
Ash approached slowly. He knelt, his knees protesting, the damp earth seeping into his pants. His hand shook as he extended the ball, pressing it gently against the creature's forehead.
The red light enveloped the Scyther, pulling it into the ball. Ash's breath caught. And in that moment, a final, unnerving question struck him.
Why did I send that message?
Was it to give Oak evidence for his research? Or was it to cover himself, to create an alibi against a city that had already judged him? Was it to offload this broken, dangerous creature onto someone else, anyone else, so he wouldn't have to carry its weight?
The Poké Ball twitched once. Twice. Then clicked shut with a soft, final sound.
A moment later, it vanished in a shimmer of light, teleported to the safety of the lab.
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The clearing was quiet now, the object of their fear and compassion gone. The cage stood empty, the earth scarred, the silence pressing in heavier than before.
Ash stayed kneeling for a long moment, his head bowed, the weight of his own complicated motives pressing down on him heavier than any physical blow had. His hands hung limp at his sides, the phantom warmth of the Poké Ball still lingering in his palm.
Yellow stood behind him, her hand still clutching his jacket, her eyes fixed on the space where the Scyther had been. She didn't speak. She couldn't. The forest had swallowed the sound, leaving only the echo of their choices behind.
The clearing was quiet now, the object of their fear and compassion gone. The cage stood empty, its bent bars like broken ribs, the earth around it scarred and churned. The silence pressed in heavier than before, as though the forest itself had drawn a long, slow breath and was holding it. Ash stayed kneeling for a long moment, his head bowed, the weight of his own complicated motives pressing down on him heavier than any physical blow had. His hands hung limp at his sides, the phantom warmth of the vanished Poké Ball still lingering in his palm. He had to get them out of here. Now.
Shakily, he pushed himself to his feet. His knees wobbled, his ribs ached, but he forced his body upright. "We're leaving," he said, his voice rough, scraped raw by fear and bile. "Back to the main road. As fast as we can."
There were no arguments. The shared horror of the last few minutes had stripped them of everything but the primal need to escape. Yellow's face was pale, her lips pressed tight, her eyes glassy. She clutched her flute case to her chest as though it were a shield. Pikachu pressed close to Ash's leg, sparks still twitching faintly across his cheeks. Doduo stamped once, both heads jerking in opposite directions, restless and uneasy. Butterfree hovered low, wings beating a slow, uncertain rhythm.
As they looked around, desperate for a landmark, Ash's eyes caught on a trail of broken and bent shrubs leading away from the clearing, as if something large—or several somethings—had left in a great hurry. The branches were snapped clean, bark scraped away, the undergrowth trampled flat. Without a second thought, he pointed. "That way."
If they had been thinking clearly, they would have questioned it, approached with caution, and tested the air for danger. But their minds were a frantic buzz of adrenaline and fear, and the broken path was the only sign of direction in a forest that had none. They plunged into the undergrowth, power‑walking through the trees without looking back.
Above them, Pidgeotto and Spearow flew in tight, anxious circles, their sharp eyes catching the unnatural signs along the path. Every so often, one of them would cry out, a short, clipped note that made Ash's stomach twist. The birds were unsettled. They saw things the humans could not.
The forest grew darker as they pressed on. The canopy thickened, swallowing the last of the afternoon light. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of moss and rot. Their boots sank into the loam with soft, sucking sounds. Every step felt like trespass.
It was the sound that reached them first, echoing unnaturally in the hush. A wet, rhythmic crunching. A series of high‑pitched squeaks. And then, a sharp snap, like a dry twig breaking, but heavier, denser.
All of them froze.
Every instinct screamed at them to turn back, to run, to vanish into the trees. But curiosity—that morbid, human impulse—held them fast. Something about the sounds was horribly familiar to Ash and Pikachu. They had heard this symphony of dread before, in a dark place under the earth, but their panicked minds couldn't place the memory.
Then came the smell.
The faint, tangy scent of copper. And beneath it, a sickly‑sweet odour that struck Ash with a jolt of recognition—Razz berries. His stomach dropped. The fear in his gut turned to a cold, sinking worry, and he pushed forward, faster now, his breath shallow.
The sounds and smells grew stronger, louder, the pit in his stomach deepening with every step. The crunching became clearer, the squeaks sharper, the snapping more frequent. The air itself seemed to thicken, heavy with the metallic tang of blood.
They parted a final screen of leaves and stumbled into a scene from a nightmare.
Ash's hand flew out to shield Yellow's eyes, but it was too late. She had already seen it.
She stumbled backwards, a strangled gasp tearing from her throat, and collapsed onto the forest floor. Her body convulsed, and she began to vomit, her wide, horrified eyes still locked on the carnage before her.
The ground was soaked with something dark and viscous. Dozens of Rattata swarmed over the remains of what had once been people. Their fur and tails were matted with blood. They feasted with a horrifying fervour, their faces smeared red, whiskers twitching. Shredded pieces of black clothing and a torn bag were scattered on the ground. Some gnawed on bones, their sharp teeth scraping against marrow with a sound that made Ash's skin crawl. Others dragged glistening pieces of intestine through the dirt, squeaking with excitement.
A human skull lay on its side, a gaping hole pierced through its temple. A few pathetic strands of muscle still clung to the bone, in the process of being torn away by tiny, eager jaws.
The sound of Yellow retching caught the Rattatas' attention.
Heads snapped up. Dozens of beady black eyes fixed on the intruders.
With a chorus of furious squeals, they charged.
For anyone else, the shock would have been paralysing. But for Ash and Pikachu, this was a familiar hell. The memory of the cavern slammed into them not as fear, but as a white‑hot, vengeful rage.
"NOW!" Ash roared, his voice raw instinct.
There was no plan, only chaos.
Spearow and Pidgeotto dove, their wind attacks not a coordinated strategy but a frantic wall of air meant to buy seconds. Pikachu and Eevee reacted on pure reflex; a crackling web of Thunder Shock and a glittering arc of Swift tore through the first wave of attackers, but more kept coming.
It wasn't a battle; it was a desperate, panicked brawl.
Butterfree's Sleep Powder billowed out, but the wind from the birds' frantic wingbeats scattered it unevenly. Some Rattata stumbled, falling into a drowsy heap, while others, untouched, leapt onto them, their own packmates becoming a gruesome stepping stone.
The fight was a frantic, ugly storm of fur, feathers, and panicked energy, driven by nothing more than the desperate need not to be dragged down.
Ash shouted commands, but his voice was hoarse, half‑lost in the chaos. Pikachu's sparks lit the clearing in harsh flashes, illuminating snarling faces and snapping teeth. Eevee's stars cut through the swarm, but for every one that fell, two more seemed to take its place. Doduo lashed out with its talons, stamping and kicking, both heads screeching in fury.
Yellow huddled against a tree, her hands pressed to her ears, her eyes squeezed shut. She couldn't watch. She couldn't bear it.
And then, just as quickly as it began, it was over.
The last of the Rattata lay in charred, beaten, and sleeping heaps. The sudden silence was deafening.
Ash stared at the scene, the adrenaline giving way to a sickening lurch in his stomach. His throat burned. He turned away and vomited, his breakfast coming up in a hot, acidic rush.
He collapsed to his knees, his body trembling, his gaze fixed on the dirt. He could hear Yellow's ragged, hitched sobs behind him, a sound with no voice but all the more painful for it. She had curled into a tight ball, her arms wrapped around her head, refusing to look up, her whole body shaking.
The silence that followed was heavy and oppressive. Every snap of a twig in the distance made Ash flinch. Every rustle of leaves sounded like another approaching threat. He didn't dare look at the remains, focusing instead on a single, unremarkable fern, tracing its shape with his eyes over and over, as though memorising it could keep him sane.
It was Spearow who broke the trance, nudging the torn, blood‑stained bag of the deceased toward Ash with his beak.
Ash stared at it, his eyes wide with revulsion. The thought of touching it, of reaching into that space contaminated by death, made his skin crawl. It was the same violation he had felt with the Scyther's cage, but a hundred times worse. The bag was a part of the horror. He couldn't.
Spearow nudged it again, harder this time, a sharp, insistent command in his eyes. There might be something useful.
His hands shaking, Ash reluctantly reached for it, his fingers recoiling at the damp, slick texture. He emptied the contents onto a relatively clean patch of grass, his breath held tight in his chest.
A note with a scribbled address in Viridian City.
A small wad of cash.
A coiled whip.
A case of unused injection needles.
A single key.
And a map.
The map was of the Viridian Forest, more detailed than his own, marked with routes he'd never seen. In the corner was a red symbol, a jagged "P," the rest of the logo bitten away, the edges of the hole greasy. A small, pencilled "X" marked a route not far from their position, leading straight to the main road.
Ash's throat tightened. His fingers hovered over the map, unwilling to touch it longer than necessary. The paper was damp, the edges stained, but the lines were clear enough. He folded it quickly, putting it down with the rest of the contents on the ground before his stomach could rebel again.
"Pidgeotto," Ash croaked, his voice raw. "This way."
The bird launched into the air without a sound, wings slicing through the heavy silence.
They waited in the suffocating stillness, surrounded by death. Ash forced himself to take a photo of the items, his hands trembling so badly the image blurred. He didn't look at Yellow, who had not moved from where she had collapsed. Her quiet, broken sobs were the only sound in the clearing. He didn't look at the bodies. He couldn't. He just stared at the treeline, waiting, every second stretching into an eternity.
When Pidgeotto returned with a single, clear trill, the relief was so sharp it was painful. The road was there.
Ash moved quickly, crouching beside Yellow. She had curled into herself, arms wrapped around her head, her whole body shaking. He touched her shoulder gently. "Yellow," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "We have to go. Now."
She didn't respond at first, her eyes glazed, her lips trembling. He slid an arm under hers, coaxing her upright. She swayed, her knees buckling, but he held her steady. Pikachu pressed against her leg, nuzzling her with a soft, insistent squeak. Eevee climbed into her lap as she staggered to her feet, clinging to her blanket with tiny claws.
"Just a little further," Ash murmured, though the words felt hollow. "We're almost out."
They moved. Slowly at first, then faster, driven by the need to escape the clearing. The forest seemed to close in behind them, swallowing the nightmare whole. Branches clawed at their clothes, roots caught at their boots, but they didn't stop.
The smell lingered, clinging to their skin and hair, a metallic tang that no amount of distance could shake. Every rustle in the undergrowth made Ash's heart lurch. Every squeak in the canopy sent Pikachu's ears twitching.
And then, at last, the trees thinned.
They burst onto the familiar, league‑approved path, the sudden openness like a gasp of air after drowning. The sun was setting, the shadows of the trees stretching long and skeletal across the road. The sky above was streaked with orange and violet, a reminder that the world outside the forest still moved, still lived.
They didn't slow down.
They ran until their lungs burned, until their legs threatened to give out. They ran until the forest was behind them, until the first lanterns of Pewter City flickered in the twilight.
Only then did Ash stop, his chest heaving, his ribs screaming with every breath. He bent double, hands on his knees, sweat dripping into the dirt. Yellow stood beside him, pale and silent, her eyes fixed on nothing. Pikachu clung to his shoulder, Eevee to her blanket, both trembling but alive.
The city loomed ahead, its stone walls catching the last rays of the sun. It should have felt like safety. Instead, it felt like the edge of another trial.
Ash straightened slowly, his jaw tight. He didn't know how they would explain what they had seen. He didn't know if anyone would believe them. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
The forest had not finished with them.
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(AN: Sorry for taking time to post the chapter. I had altitude sickness for a few days, and a person casually telling me that their friend died a few years back when I was eating wasn't a good combo for me, and I might have gone a bit too much into the gore.)