Professor Oak turned away from Red, his white lab coat swishing with the movement. The fabric carried a sharp, clinical smell—formaldehyde mixed with something else, something organic and vaguely sweet that Red couldn't quite identify. The professor walked deeper into the laboratory, toward a tall metal cabinet that stood against the far wall like a monolith.
Red's body sagged the moment Oak's attention shifted away. The tension that had been keeping his spine rigid drained out of him all at once, leaving his muscles trembling with exhaustion. Cold sweat had soaked through his undershirt hours ago—or maybe minutes ago; time felt slippery in this place—and now the damp fabric clung to his skin like a second layer of clammy flesh.
He was alive.
For now, at least, the monster wearing human skin had no intention of tearing off its disguise and showing Red what lurked beneath.
"As a new trainer," Professor Oak's voice drifted from behind the open cabinet door, accompanied by the crisp clatter of metal against metal, "these are what you deserve."
He turned around, arms laden with equipment. That same benevolent smile was still plastered across his face—perfect, unchanging, like a mask that had been glued in place years ago and never removed.
Red extended both hands to receive the items, trying to keep them steady despite the tremor running through his fingers.
The moment his fingertips made contact with Oak's hands, the world flickered.
It was just a split second—a frame dropped from reality's film reel—but in that instant, Red saw the truth beneath the professor's skin.
Oak's fingers weren't fingers at all. The knuckles were grotesquely swollen, pale and bloodless like the joints of a corpse left in water too long. The skin was wrong—gray-brown and papery, covered in a fine network of black lines that Red initially mistook for prominent veins.
Then he looked closer.
They weren't veins. They were sutures.
Hundreds of tiny, precise stitches ran across every surface of Oak's hands, binding sections of skin together like a quilt made from human leather. The thread was black and coarse, visible beneath the translucent dead flesh. Each stitch looked like a black centipede frozen mid-crawl, legs burrowed into the meat on either side of the seam.
These hands hadn't grown. They'd been assembled.
Red's stomach lurched, bile rising hot and acidic in his throat. Every instinct screamed at him to jerk his hands away, to recoil from those horrible stitched-together appendages.
He didn't move.
Instead, he carefully, respectfully took the items from Oak's grip, even going so far as to bow his head slightly in a gesture of gratitude.
"Thank you, Professor."
Oak's smile, if possible, grew even wider. "You're very welcome, Red. For the future of humanity, this small investment is more than worthwhile."
The professor seemed genuinely pleased by Red's "obedience." He gestured toward the items now cradled in Red's arms, focusing on the five spherical objects sitting on top of the pile.
Poké Balls.
At least, that's what they were supposed to be.
Red stared down at them. Classic design—red and white hemispheres that met in a perfect circle, smooth and rounded like oversized marbles. In any other context, in any other world, they would have looked perfectly normal. Iconic, even.
But here, they radiated wrongness like heat from a flame.
The red half of each sphere was too dark. Under the laboratory's dim fluorescent lighting, the color didn't look like paint at all. It had the dull, rust-brown hue of dried blood—the kind that stains permanently, that you can never quite scrub away no matter how hard you try. The surface had a matte quality that absorbed light rather than reflecting it, creating the unsettling impression that the spheres were somehow hollow, like painted eggshells with nothing inside.
The moment the balls settled into Red's palm, cold shot up his arm like an injection of ice water directly into his veins.
His vision sparked with static.
A mechanical voice—cold, clinical, utterly devoid of emotion—sliced through his consciousness like a scalpel.
[TRUE POKÉDEX: Analyzing object—"Poké Ball"]
[Item: Ordinary Blood Nest Ball (Disguised Name: Poké Ball)]
[Description: WARNING. This is not a conventional Poké Ball and cannot capture normal Pokémon. This device is not a comfortable hibernation chamber or a cozy resting space. It is a precision instrument of sustained torture. The red-and-white color scheme serves only to conceal the constant hemorrhaging phenomenon occurring within the containment matrix. The capture mechanism functions as follows: the target creature must first be beaten to the edge of death, reducing it to a state where its fear of the external environment overwhelms its natural resistance to confinement. Only when the subject's will has been completely shattered—when it would rather endure perpetual agony than face the world outside—will it willingly enter this prison. Once inside, the occupant experiences sensations analogous to being fed slowly through an industrial meat grinder. This process continues indefinitely.]
[Note: Listen carefully. You can hear the sound of claws scratching against the inner wall.]
Red's hands spasmed. He nearly dropped all five of the torture devices onto the laboratory floor, barely catching them at the last second.
So this was the truth of "capturing."
All that propaganda about bonds and trust and partnership—it was all lies. Every bit of it. The Pokémon world he'd thought he knew, the one from the games and shows where trainers and their partners grew together through friendship and mutual respect, was nothing but a thin veneer stretched over something far more sinister.
Trainers didn't befriend their Pokémon. They broke them.
"What's wrong?" Professor Oak's voice cut through Red's spiraling thoughts. The professor's glasses caught the light, turning the lenses into twin mirrors that completely obscured his eyes. His head tilted slightly, like a bird examining a particularly interesting insect. "Don't you like them?"
Red's mouth had gone completely dry. He forced his throat to work, pushing words past the lump of fear lodged there.
"No, they're... they're great." His voice came out thin and reedy. He quickly shoved the five blood nest balls into his waist pouch, desperate to get them out of his hands. The spheres clinked together with a sound like wind chimes made from bone. "The red is very... festive."
Oak's smile didn't waver. "That's good to hear."
The professor then produced another item from the pile—a red device roughly the size and shape of a small tablet computer.
Except it wasn't made from plastic or metal or any kind of synthetic material. The surface had a warm, organic texture that reminded Red uncomfortably of fingernails or teeth. Smooth but somehow alive. When his fingers closed around it, he could feel a faint pulse beating beneath the surface—slow, rhythmic, like a heart that had been transplanted into the casing.
Red looked down at the object in his hands.
This wasn't manufactured technology. It was grown.
The "case" was clearly fashioned from some kind of arthropod shell—chitin, maybe, or something similar. Natural growth patterns were still visible along the edges, the kind of organic striations you'd see on a beetle's carapace or a crab's exoskeleton. Someone had polished and shaped it, but they hadn't bothered to remove the telltale signs of its origin. Beneath the thin coating of red paint, Red could see the ghost of muscle fibers, still faintly visible like watermarks in expensive paper.
A Pokédex.
[Rule Three Recurrence: The Pokédex is for recording data, not for recording "recipes" and "optimal dismemberment procedures."]
The text blazed across Red's vision in dripping crimson letters.
Professor Oak's hand came down on Red's shoulder. The weight of it was wrong—too heavy, too cold, like being touched by something that had been dead for a while but hadn't stopped moving yet.
"This is your Pokédex," Oak said, his voice dropping into a lower register that carried an almost religious fervor. "Keep it with you at all times. You can set off now!"
The professor leaned in closer. Red could smell his breath—formaldehyde and copper and something rotten underneath.
"It will help you record all the Pokémon you encounter on your journey," Oak continued, his words coming faster now, almost eager. "It will teach you to understand their structure, their composition. The texture of their meat. The location of their vital organs. Their weaknesses."
"I will, Professor." Red tucked the Pokédex against his chest, feeling its horrible pulse beat against his sternum. His hands moved automatically, reaching for the red backpack that Oak had provided. He needed to get out. Now. Immediately.
The air in the laboratory was growing thinner with each passing second. The formaldehyde smell had intensified, mixing with that underlying scent of blood—copper and iron and salt—until Red felt like he was breathing through a wet cloth. His lungs couldn't quite get enough oxygen. Black spots were beginning to dance at the edges of his vision.
"Then I'll be on my way." Red's voice came out strangled. He turned toward the laboratory door, lifting one foot to take that first crucial step toward escape.
"Don't forget your partner."
Professor Oak's voice drifted from behind him—gentle, benevolent, utterly wrong. The words seemed to hang in the air like smoke, curling around Red's throat and tightening.
Red's body locked up. Against every screaming instinct, he forced himself to turn around.
The Pikachu was still lying on the examination table where Oak had left it earlier. It had maintained its "cute" disguise perfectly—yellow fur groomed and fluffy, round cheeks slightly puffed, those big black eyes tilted just so to achieve maximum adorableness.
But something was different now.
The creature was staring at Red. Not at his face. At his waist.
At the blood nest balls.
The Pikachu's gaze was fixed on those spheres with an intensity that made Red's skin crawl. In those black eyes—currently masquerading as innocent and friendly—Red thought he could see something else lurking. Was it fear? Or was it hunger? Some twisted combination of both, perhaps—the look of a starving animal that knows the food in front of it is poisoned but is too desperate to care anymore.
Red's fingers trembled as he reached for one of the balls at his waist.
"Come back, Pikachu." The words felt like broken glass in his mouth.
According to his memories—the ones from his old world, from the games he'd played and the shows he'd watched—this was supposed to be a simple, gentle process. You tossed the ball, or pressed the button, and a beam of harmless red light would reach out and envelop your Pokémon. The creature would dissolve into particles of energy and flow peacefully into the ball's interior, where it would rest comfortably until you needed it again.
The moment Red's fingers closed around one of the blood nest balls, the Pikachu's entire body went rigid.
The yellow creature's muscles locked up beneath its fur, every line of its body broadcasting pure terror. The corner of its mouth twitched—just once, just for a fraction of a second—and Red saw the disguise start to slip. The cute little mouth began to split open, revealing the spiraling teeth beneath.
Then the creature's gaze flicked toward Professor Oak, who stood watching silently from the shadows, and the mouth snapped shut again. The Pikachu remained frozen in place, trembling almost imperceptibly.
Its eyes never left the dark circular button on the front of the ball. A low sound came from its throat—not a "pika" or anything remotely resembling the cheerful cries from the shows. This was a gurgle, wet and organic, like someone trying to breathe through a throat full of blood.
Red gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. His thumb found the button.
He pressed it.
The blood nest ball split open down the middle with a crisp click that sounded unnaturally loud in the silent laboratory.
What emerged wasn't a gentle beam of light. It was a violent eruption of dark red energy—the color of arterial spray, of meat left too long in the butcher's case. The beam lashed out like a crimson whip, wrapping around the Pikachu's body with predatory precision. The light didn't envelop the creature gently. It seized it, coiling around limbs and torso like the tentacles of some deep-sea horror dragging prey into the depths.
"PIIII—!!!"
The sound that came out of the Pikachu was nothing remotely cute or endearing.
It was a shriek of pure, undiluted agony—the kind of sound that gets torn from a throat when something fundamental inside snaps. It reminded Red of recordings he'd heard once, years ago, of animals caught in industrial machinery. That same note of helpless terror, that same awareness that escape was impossible and suffering was inevitable.
The Pikachu's body twisted and stretched in the red light's grip, limbs elongating at impossible angles as if the bones inside had turned to rubber. The creature's claws—no longer hidden beneath the cute facade—extended fully and dug into the metal examination table, leaving deep gouges in the steel. Sparks flew where metal met metal. The scratching sound was horrible, like nails on a chalkboard amplified a thousand times.
The creature fought with everything it had. Its body contorted, spine bending in ways that should have snapped vertebrae. Its mouth split open fully now, rows of spiral teeth exposed and gnashing at empty air. Those empty eye sockets Red had seen before were visible again, the cute eyes revealed as nothing but painted shells that had been glued over bottomless voids.
But the blood nest ball's suction was inexorable. Irresistible.
With a final, wet slurp that made Red's stomach turn, the Pikachu was yanked off the table and dragged into the interior of the sphere.
The ball's two halves snapped shut with a sound like a jaw closing.
Thud.
The sphere shook violently in Red's palm. Once. Twice. Three times. Each shake was accompanied by a muffled thump from inside—the sound of something throwing itself desperately against the walls of its prison, trying to claw its way back out.
Dark red light pulsed beneath the ball's surface, visible through the translucent material. It looked exactly like blood splattering against glass—thick arterial spray painting the interior walls of the chamber.
Then, abruptly, the shaking stopped.
The blood nest ball fell silent and still.
The sphere in Red's hand was warm now. Not pleasantly warm, like something sun-heated or freshly baked. It was body-warm, with that slightly damp quality of living flesh. Red could still feel that faint pulse beating against his palm, synchronized with his own racing heartbeat.
Was this what capturing a Pokémon felt like?
This violation? This cruelty?
"Go on."
Professor Oak's voice cut through the ringing in Red's ears.
Red turned his head, moving like he was underwater, everything slow and dreamlike.
Professor Oak stood deep in the laboratory's shadows, positioned so that the overhead lights only illuminated the bottom half of his face. His mouth was still curved in that gentle smile, but his eyes—lost in darkness above the light's reach—were completely hidden.
"Go on, Red." Oak's voice had taken on that strange, eager quality again. Like someone watching a particularly fascinating experiment unfold.
"Go and become..." The professor paused, letting the silence stretch. "A Master."
The word Master came out heavy with emphasis, each syllable dripping with something that might have been mockery or might have been something worse. The way Oak said it, it didn't sound like an honorific or a title of achievement. It sounded like he was saying survivor. Or perhaps—and this thought made ice shoot through Red's spine—new monster.
Red didn't trust himself to speak. His throat had closed up entirely, muscles locked tight against the scream trying to claw its way out of his chest.
Instead, he reached for his cap—the red and white one that had been waiting on his desk when he woke up—and pulled it down low over his eyes. The shadow of the brim helped hide the turbulent emotions warring across his face: terror and disgust and a helpless, impotent rage at being trapped in this nightmare with no clear way out.
He turned toward the door, footsteps heavy as lead. The blood nest balls at his waist clinked together with each step, their faint pulse creating a discordant rhythm against his hip. The Pokédex pressed against his chest like a second heart, beating out of sync with his own.
Red's hand closed around the laboratory door's handle. The metal was cold enough to burn. He pulled it open and stepped through into the world beyond—a world he had no choice but to face, no matter how twisted and wrong it revealed itself to be.
The door slammed shut behind him with a hollow boom that echoed down the empty hallway.
On the other side of that door, alone in the shadows of his laboratory, Professor Oak slowly raised his stitched hands. The black threads holding his fingers together caught what little light remained. He made a grasping motion toward the empty air, fingers curling like he was reaching for something only he could see.
His smile—that perfect, benevolent, grandfatherly smile that had never wavered once during the entire encounter—finally began to collapse. The corners of his mouth twitched and spasmed. The mask slipped, just for a moment, revealing something underneath that wore human features the way Red might wear a Halloween costume.
"Truly..." Oak's voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible even in the laboratory's perfect silence. His stitched fingers continued their grasping motion, closing around invisible prey.
"Perfect material."
The words hung in the air long after Professor Oak's smile had reassembled itself, the mask clicking back into place with the practiced ease of something that had been put on and taken off a thousand times before.
Throw Some Powerstones For
Next BONUS CHAPTER at 200 powerstones