The heavy laboratory doors slammed shut behind Red with a sound like a coffin lid sealing.
The oppressive smell—that sickening cocktail of formaldehyde and congealed blood—was mercifully cut off. Red stood on the concrete steps outside Professor Oak's lab, his lungs expanding greedily as he sucked in breath after desperate breath.
The air outside was cold and dry, carrying an antiseptic quality that should have been refreshing after the laboratory's chemical stench. Instead, it felt wrong. Too clean. The kind of sterile emptiness you'd find in a hospital operating room, not a small town on a spring morning.
Red's breathing slowed as the realization crept over him like frost.
It was too quiet.
The Pallet Town he remembered from his inherited memories—the one that belonged to the body he now inhabited—was supposed to be a peaceful village. A place where children played in yards, where Pidgey chirped from shingled rooftops, where neighbors called greetings to each other across white picket fences. A retirement community for trainers who'd completed their journeys. A place where nothing bad ever happened.
But now, standing on these steps with his heart hammering against his ribs like a prisoner trying to break free, Red couldn't hear anything except his own ragged breathing and the blood rushing in his ears.
No birdsong. No distant laughter. No footsteps or conversation or the hum of daily life.
Nothing.
Red's gaze swept across the street before him, and his stomach dropped.
The town was too clean.
Unnaturally, impossibly clean.
There were no weeds poking through cracks in the sidewalk. No fallen leaves scattered across lawns despite the trees overhead. Not even a single scrap of windblown trash or a stray pebble disrupted the perfect order of the scene. The asphalt of the main road had a sickly grayish-white color, smooth and almost wet-looking in the dim light. It reminded Red of a tongue—like the entire street had been licked over and over by something massive, something with a tongue rough enough to scour away every trace of organic matter.
Even the moss that should have grown in the gaps between paving stones had been scraped completely clean, leaving only pale grooves in the concrete.
This wasn't a town where people lived. This was a sterilized zone. A feeding ground that had been picked clean and was now waiting for the next meal to arrive.
Red pulled the brim of his cap down low, hiding eyes that were still wide with barely-suppressed terror. His pupils felt too large, like his body was stuck in fight-or-flight mode and couldn't find its way back to normal. He descended the laboratory steps quickly, shoes clicking against concrete with sounds that seemed impossibly loud in the dead silence.
Move. Keep moving. Don't stop.
His instincts screamed at him that standing still was death.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Each footfall echoed down the empty street like a drumbeat announcing his presence. Red winced at the noise but forced himself to maintain his pace. Walking too fast would look like running—like prey fleeing from a predator. But walking too slowly meant staying in this place longer than necessary.
He passed the neighbor's house—a cozy two-story with yellow siding and flower boxes under the windows. According to his memories, a kind woman lived here. Plump and cheerful, always smiling, the type who baked berry pies and brought them over on special occasions. She and his "mother" Delia had been friends.
The house's curtains were drawn tight, heavy fabric blocking any view of the interior. The windows were dark and lifeless.
But as Red's gaze swept past, he caught it—a tiny flutter in the fabric. Just a tremor, really. The kind of movement that happens when someone standing behind a curtain shifts their weight, and their body brushes against the material.
Someone was watching him.
The hairs on the back of Red's neck stood up so fast it was almost painful.
He kept walking, forcing his eyes forward, but his peripheral vision was screaming warnings at him. As he continued down the main street, past house after silent house, he became acutely aware of movement in every window.
Curtains twitching. Blinds shifting. Shadows moving behind frosted glass.
The closed houses on both sides of the road seemed to wake up as he passed, coming alive with hidden observers. He couldn't see them directly—didn't dare look—but he could feel their gazes crawling across his skin like thousands of insects. The weight of their attention was physical, oppressive, coating him in an invisible slime that made his flesh want to crawl off his bones.
There was nothing friendly in those stares. No neighborly curiosity about the kid from down the street finally starting his Pokémon journey. No warmth or well-wishes or the kind of gentle nostalgia adults usually had when watching children grow up.
Only hunger.
Raw, naked, nauseating hunger.
The kind of stare a starving wolf gives a wounded deer. The kind of attention a butcher gives a prime cut of meat hanging in the window.
Zzzzt—
The static burst across Red's consciousness like a live wire touching water. His vision sparked with interference as that cold, mechanical voice sliced through his thoughts with surgical precision.
[TRUE POKÉDEX: WARNING—Environmental Analysis]
[Location: Pallet Town]
[Status: Post-Predation Dormancy Phase]
[Rule Hint: Do not respond to those gazes. Do not make eye contact. Do not acknowledge their presence. In this location, any form of visual engagement will be interpreted as either "courtship behavior" or "territorial provocation." The majority of Pallet Town residents are expert-class "Breeders." They do not see you as the neighbor's child or a fellow human being. They see you as a mobile storage container. A walking warehouse carrying premium ingredients. You have just received your "Starter Calamity" from the laboratory, which marks you as a provisioned trainer—fully stocked and ready for harvest.]
[Note: Maintain forward momentum at all times. The moment you stop moving, they will emerge to "assist" you in disposing of the flesh you "cannot properly control."]
Red's throat constricted. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed convulsively, forcing down the bile that was trying to climb up his esophagus. He locked his gaze on the pavement directly in front of his feet and shoved both hands deep into his jacket pockets.
His fingers found the blood nest ball containing Pikachu. The sphere was cold—so cold it almost burned—but for some reason that icy sensation was the only thing keeping him grounded. The only thing preventing his mind from fragmenting completely under the weight of this nightmare.
So that explained the streets.
The unnatural cleanliness. The scraped-clean pavement and the complete absence of organic debris.
The residents of Pallet Town had already fed. They'd come out at some point—last night? this morning? he had no way of knowing—and systematically stripped the streets of anything edible. Every scrap of plant matter, every insect, every small animal unlucky enough to be caught outside when the feeding began.
All of it scraped up, divided, and consumed.
Red kept his eyes down and kept walking. His destination was just ahead—he could see it now. The small two-story house with white exterior paint that had faded to a dingy gray under the perpetually overcast sky. The house where this body's memories said he'd grown up. Where "his" mother waited.
His footsteps faltered.
Someone was standing at the entrance to the yard.
She wore a familiar pink apron over a simple floral dress. Brown hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her waist in a posture of patient waiting.
Delia. His "mother."
She stood perfectly still in the middle of the walkway leading to the front door. Not shifting her weight. Not adjusting her clothing. Not making any of the small, unconscious movements that living people make when they're standing in place.
She looked like a department store mannequin that had been dressed up and positioned in a garden display.
Red's first instinct was to turn around and find another route. But even as the thought formed, he knew it was impossible. This was the only road that led to the town's exit. The only path to Route 1 and escape. If he turned back now, he'd be trapped here, circling endlessly while those hungry eyes watched from every window.
He had no choice.
Red steeled himself and continued walking, each step bringing him closer to the figure in the pink apron.
As the distance closed, details came into focus.
Delia was smiling.
The expression was flawless—the kind of warm, welcoming smile a mother might give her child when seeing them off on an adventure. Her lips curved upward in a perfect arc. Her teeth were visible, straight and white and just slightly parted. Every muscle in her face was positioned exactly right to convey maternal affection and pride.
But her eyes were wrong.
They were open—wide open, actually, without even the suggestion of a blink—but there was nothing behind them. No warmth. No recognition. No life. Just a flat, murky gray like pond water that had gone stagnant and was slowly filling with algae. Her pupils were dilated so wide they nearly swallowed the iris, giving her the fixed, glassy stare of a corpse.
The smile never wavered. The muscles holding that expression seemed locked in place, frozen there so long they'd probably cramped hours ago. How long had she been standing here? Waiting for him with that rictus grin plastered across her face?
"Red."
The voice that emerged from those smiling lips was soft and gentle. Melodious, even. The kind of voice that should have conveyed comfort and safety.
But it was hollow. Empty as a tomb. The words had no weight, no emotion behind them. It was like listening to a recording of a human voice being played through a cheap speaker—technically accurate but fundamentally off.
"Are you leaving?"
Red stopped walking. He maintained a distance of about three meters—close enough to be conversational, far enough to run if those mannequin-still limbs suddenly jerked into motion.
"Yes, Mom." His voice came out strained, tight with the effort of keeping it level. "I'm going to... to challenge the Gym Circuit."
The words felt like sandpaper scraping across his throat.
Delia's head tilted to one side. Not a natural movement—not the kind of casual head-tilt someone makes when they're curious or thoughtful. This was mechanical. Robotic. Her neck bent at a precise angle like it was mounted on a ball joint, and her head just... pivoted. The rest of her body remained perfectly still.
"Ah, that's wonderful." The smile somehow widened, though her eyes remained dead and glassy. "A boy should go out and see the world. Experience new things."
She raised her hands—slowly, smoothly, with the eerie grace of a hydraulic lift. Her arms had been folded demurely at her waist, but now they extended forward, holding out a package wrapped in printed blue cloth. The fabric was decorated with cheerful patterns—little Pokémon silhouettes dancing across the surface. The bundle was tied at the top with a neat bow.
"This is a bento box. For your journey." Her voice maintained that same hollow sweetness. "Eat it when you're hungry on the road. You need to keep your strength up."
Red's gaze dropped to the package.
It looked perfectly normal. Exactly the kind of thing a caring mother would prepare for her child before a long trip. The cloth was clean and neatly pressed. The bow was tied with obvious care. It should have been touching. A sweet gesture of maternal love.
If not for the dark stains.
Rust-red and oily, they were spreading slowly from the bottom of the cloth bundle, seeping into the cheerful blue fabric like blood into gauze. The stains had a wet sheen to them, glistening faintly in the dim morning light.
And there was sound coming from inside the package.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A rhythmic pulsing. Steady and strong. The unmistakable sound of a heartbeat—not the faint, distant beat you might hear if you pressed your ear to someone's chest, but loud and clear, like the organ was barely contained within its wrapping.
Red's stomach lurched violently. Acid surged up his throat and he had to clench his jaw to keep from vomiting right there on the walkway.
What the hell was in that box?
A heart? Actually still beating, torn fresh from some creature's chest cavity and wrapped up like a sandwich?
Or was it something worse? Some kind of living thing, cramped and squirming inside the confines of the bento box, its body pressed so tight against the walls that every pulse of its organs was audible?
Every instinct Red possessed screamed at him to refuse. To back away slowly with his hands raised, to make some excuse and run.
But he couldn't.
Delia's arms remained extended, holding the package out toward him with mechanical patience. Those dead gray eyes stared straight through him, unblinking, unmoving. And her smile—that horrible, perfect smile—had begun to crack at the edges.
Literally crack.
The corners of her mouth had been stretched so far for so long that the skin was starting to split. Tiny fissures appeared where lip met cheek, and through those hairline cracks, Red could see bright red muscle tissue glistening wetly beneath the skin.
If he refused this gift—if he rejected his "mother's" loving gesture—he had no doubt what would happen next. That smile would split wide open. Those dead eyes would fill with something far worse than emptiness.
And the things watching from every window would come pouring out.
"Thank you..." Red forced the words past his locked throat. "Mom."
He stepped forward. The distance closed. His hands reached out—trembling slightly despite his best efforts to control them—and took the cloth-wrapped package from Delia's outstretched arms.
The moment his fingers made contact, warmth flooded into his palms.
Not the gentle, fading warmth of something that had been cooked hours ago and was slowly cooling to room temperature. This was active heat. Body temperature. The kind of warmth that comes from living flesh with blood pumping through it.
And beneath his palms, through the layers of cloth, he could feel it.
Thump.
The impact was solid, meaty, powerful enough to vibrate his fingertips.
Thump.
Whatever was in this box was very much alive. Its heart—or hearts, there might be more than one—slammed against the container's walls with desperate force, making Red's hands tingle from the percussion.
"Be sure to finish it."
Delia's voice dropped to something that might have been meant as conspiratorial. Intimate. Like she was sharing a secret just between the two of them. The cracks in her smile widened, splitting further up her cheeks, revealing more of that raw red tissue underneath.
"Don't let any of it go to waste. I prepared this especially for you. With love."
The word "love" came out wet and thick, like her mouth was full of something other than saliva.
"I will," Red lied. The words came out automatically, his survival instincts overriding his conscious mind. "Thank you. I won't waste it."
He turned away from her—couldn't look at that cracking smile for another second—and shoved the horrible package deep into his backpack. His hands moved frantically, burying the bento box under spare clothes, under his rain jacket, under anything that might muffle that obscene heartbeat that continued to pulse against his spine through the fabric.
"Then... I'm going now."
Red didn't wait for a response. Didn't look back. He pivoted on his heel and started walking—fast. Too fast, probably. His walk became a brisk stride, then a jog, his shoes slapping against the pavement as the desperate need to escape overwhelmed any attempt at appearing casual.
He had to get out. Had to reach the boundary. Had to—
BANG!
The sound exploded behind him like a gunshot. Not just one—dozens of them, a synchronized cacophony of slamming doors that echoed down the empty street like thunder.
Red's body reacted before his mind could catch up. He spun around, heart in his throat, expecting to see a horde of creatures pouring out of those houses, expecting to be surrounded, expecting—
Nothing.
The street was empty.
Every single door on both sides of the road had slammed shut in perfect unison. The windows were dark again. The curtains hung still and lifeless. Even Delia had vanished—the yard where she'd been standing was empty now, and the front door of his childhood home was closed tight, as if no one had been outside at all.
The entire town had gone silent again. Waiting. Dormant.
Like a massive predator that had briefly opened its jaws to let prey escape, then closed them again and settled back into patient hibernation.
"Jesus Christ," Red gasped. His lungs burned. When had he stopped breathing?
He bent over, hands on his knees, and dragged air into his chest in great heaving gulps. Cold sweat dripped from his chin and spattered onto the dry, cracked soil beneath his feet.
The soil. He wasn't on pavement anymore.
Red looked up slowly, blinking away the spots dancing across his vision.
He'd made it. The Pallet Town boundary marker—a simple stone post with faded lettering—stood a few meters behind him. Ahead, the landscape opened up into Route 1.
Rolling hills covered in tall grass. A worn dirt path winding between patches of wildflowers. The sun breaking through gaps in the gray cloud cover, casting long golden beams across the fields.
It looked peaceful. Idyllic, even. Exactly like a starting route should look in a Pokémon game—a gentle introduction to the world of adventure that lay ahead.
But Red's skin crawled as he stared at that seemingly innocent landscape.
Because he could hear them. Distant sounds carried on the wind from somewhere in those tall grass fields. Roars that didn't sound like any Pokémon he'd ever heard in the games or anime. They were wrong—too shrill, too distorted, warped into frequencies that made his inner ear throb with pain. Underneath the roars were other sounds. Wet sounds. Tearing sounds. The crunch of bones and the slurp of meat being stripped from them.
Red straightened up slowly, his muscles protesting after being locked in terror for so long. He reached down and pressed his palm against the blood nest ball at his waist. The sphere was still ice-cold, still pulsing faintly with whatever horrible process was happening to Pikachu inside.
But right now, knowing he had something—even something as nightmarish as that creature—was better than being completely defenseless.
Red adjusted the straps of his backpack, trying to ignore the rhythmic thumping coming from the bento box buried at the bottom. He pulled his cap down low one more time, took a deep breath of the cold morning air, and stepped forward onto the path.
His figure gradually disappeared into the gray mist that clung to the tall grass, swallowed by Route 1 and whatever fresh horrors waited in the fields ahead.
Throw Some Powerstones For
Next BONUS CHAPTER at 200 powerstones