Flying sucked. Period.
Okay, maybe not the actual flying part. Soaring above the trees, the wind in my borrowed feathers? Still awesome. The stamina drain from hauling my inherently lazy Ditto-ass around via Pidgey wings? Fucking agony.
"Piiiiiidge... wheeeeeze..."
I circled back, spotting the trainer boy again far below on the snaking brown path. The kid was practically power-walking, backpack probably stuffed with gym gear, potions (if they existed here, the jury was still out), and enough snacks to survive a siege. And he wasn't even sweating! He moved with the relaxed determination of someone pacing themselves for a hundred-mile trek.
Back in my old world, Gen Z me would have called an Uber after five minutes on flat ground. Hell, thinking about walking too far made me want to lie down. These Pokemon world kids were built different. Absolute units. Probably chugged Protein shakes instead of breast milk. Tch tch. Learn cardio, you pixelated basement dwellers! My internal monologue was dripping with hypocritical judgement.
"Fucking hell," I thought, translating to an exhausted bird-sigh. "How far is this damn city?!"
The sun was starting its slide towards the horizon, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples. Just as my borrowed wings felt like they were about to detach and migrate south without me, I spotted it. Clustered rooftops in a valley ahead, nestled between gentle hills. Not exactly a metropolis, but compared to the endless green ocean of trees? Civilization! Or at least, pokémart access.
I flapped harder, pushing through the burn, and dipped lower as I approached the outskirts. There it was. A sign, worn but legible, nailed to a post where the path widened into a proper road:
WELCOME TO
PALLET TOWN
"A Simple Place for a Fresh Start"
"Pallet Town?! PIDGE-WHOA!" My squawk of surprise almost made me stall out mid-air. Pallet Town? The Pallet Town? Birthplace of legends (depending on which canon you followed)? This was… unexpected. And kinda trippy. I knew it intimately from the games, the anime, probably a dozen fanfics… and here it was, looking deceptively sleepy.
How did I know? THE SIGN SAID SO, YOU FEATHERED FUCKWIT!
Right. Still a bird. Pidgey-brain momentarily overlord. Got it.
Landing shakily on the surprisingly sturdy tin roof of what looked like someone's garden shed, I tried to reconcile the mental image with reality. The game map showed, like, four buildings crammed onto a postage stamp. This? This had houses. Actual houses, spaced out with decent-sized yards, a proper main street visible further on, and yeah… dominating a hillside overlooking it all: Professor Oak's Lab. No mistaking that windmill tower and the sleek, modern-ish building attached to it. Picture-postcard perfect, glowing warmly in the late afternoon sun.
Exhaustion finally won. The frantic escape from angry Spearows, the near-drowning with fish-bro, and this marathon flight? Yeah, I was done. My Pidgey body screamed for rest. So, I did the natural thing. I relaxed. Fluffed imaginary feathers (still felt weird) and let my borrowed form… go limp.
WHOOSH-SHPLORP
The sudden sensation of spreading jolted me. Instead of feathers, cool metal pressed against my… everything. I'd become one with the tin roof. My pink, amorphous Ditto form had leaked everywhere, a gelatinous pink puddle reflecting the evening sky.
Yawnnnnnn… The thought echoed sluggishly. Screw recon. Screw Professor Oak. Screw everything that wasn't sleep. My conscious mind drifted away, leaving my slimy self securely suction-cupped to the corrugated metal. Surprisingly comfortable. Like sleeping on a memory foam mattress made of jello. Five-star? Nah. But free lodging beats wilderness any day. Consciousness slipped blissfully into darkness.
THUNK... ROLL... ROLL... ROLL... FWOOSH!
Waking up on a roof as a jiggly pink mass is one thing. Waking up mid-air is another.
My sluggish morning stretch went horribly wrong. One moment I was vaguely pancake-shaped, the next my relaxation attempt accidentally concentrated mass downhill. The gentle slope of the roof became a washboard slide for my frictionless slime-body.
"DIIIIIITTTTTT-OOOOOOHHHHHH-SHIIIII—"
The world became a pink-and-green blur tumbling end-over-end. Ground rushed up fast. This was it. The splatening. Third time's the charm for dignity destruction.
SQUISH... boing!
My impact was… anticlimactic. Not a splat. More like… a bounce. A big bounce. Like a technicolour superball getting punted. I hit the grass, compressed almost flat, then rebounded a foot back into the air, spun lazily, landed again (another smaller bounce), wobbled violently, and finally settled into a quivering pink puddle in a well-trimmed grassy patch beside the shed.
Huh.
I stared at my own jiggling form. My metaphorical heart was doing jumping jacks against my non-existent ribs. That… was horrifying. And kind of amazing. I'd just smacked into the ground and bounced. Like Wile E. Coyote hitting pavement painted by Acme.
"Diii… diitto?" (The fuck?!) I managed, testing a small, experimental hop. It felt oddly natural.
"Ra?"
The dry rustle came from the thick bushes lining the property edge. Then another, louder.
"Rata?"
Two massive, lavender rats emerged, each easily the size of a corgi on steroids. Not Rattata.
Ratattatatata.
Their beady little eyes locked onto my vivid pink mishap sprawled in their morning grass. They tilted their heads in tandem, expressions pure, unadulterated confusion. What fresh slime-based hell is this?
I stared back, momentarily captivated. Four perfectly functional legs! Four! The freedom! The lack of wing cramps! The efficiency! Oh, the envy.
My form, reacting to the focused envy like a heat-seeking missile, gave another familiar lurch. Cells dissolved, reorganized. Pinkness flowed upwards and solidified. A moment later, I wasn't a puddle. I was a perfect, slightly perplexed-looking Rattata, emitting the scent of crushed grass and existential dread.
Ratattatatata.
Ratattatatata.
The two Rattata stopped breathing. Blinked. Stared. Lower jaws literally dropped.
It was absolute, Grade-A, rodent-shattering horror. Their tiny brains tried to process it: One second, existential-threat pink slime soup. The next second… Clive? Clive had identical lunch-stealing habits, that scar near his left ear, the slightly crooked yellow tooth…
Everything they knew about stable reality crumbled. Was this a deeply specific nightmare? Did they accidentally eat some sparkly, reality-bending Oran Berries? Was Skrull Invasion Week FUCKING TODAY?!
Their tiny squeaks turned into pure psychic static shrieks they couldn't actually vocalize. Panic overrode every instinct except RUN. They didn't just bolt; they performed synchronized acrobatics – simultaneous 180-degree spins with tail-over-heels flair – before pelting back into the bushes like furry purple comets, leaves rustling hysterically in their wake. Gone.
"Ta?" My newly formed mouth squeaked. Seriously? Magikarp hadn't blinked an eye at my transformation antics. Fish-bro had just nibbled rocks. These morons acted like I'd just summoned Missingno right into their vegetable patch.
Maybe Magikarp breed naturally oblivious? Maybe Alan needed psychic therapy now? Or maybe… just maybe… Rattata brains truly were optimized solely for scurrying, screeching, and forgetting their dignity for tail swipes. It took a specific kind of… rat-titude to react that extremely. A majestic display of cowardice.
"Tata-ta?" (Did I just psychologically scar them?) I mused, wiggling my whiskers.
Then it hit me.
"Ta-ta! Tata-ta!" (Wait—what if they're coming back with reinforcements?!)
I had no idea if Rattata operated on mob mentality, but I wasn't about to stick around and find out. The last thing I needed was twenty angry Lavender Town rejects swarming me with Tackles and Hyper Fangs like some rodent-based gang initiation.
Time to skedaddle.
My new rat legs carried me with surprising efficiency—much smoother than flying, at least. I darted across the lawn toward the row of bushes marking the property edge. Unlike the clumsy Pidgey flight attempt, this form came with built-in instincts—low stance, quick steps, nose twitching with reflexive awareness.
Peeking through the foliage, I got my first proper look at Pallet Town.
It was... quieter than I expected.
The games made it seem rustic, sure, but this was real. Morning mist clung to the ground, curling around wooden fences and garden patches. Smoke spiraled lazily from chimneys. Somewhere nearby, a Miltank lowed—probably from Oak's ranch. The houses were spaced out, cozy but not cramped, their wooden walls weathered by seasons of salt air.
A far cry from Alamos Town's chaos.
A pang of something—longing? Relief?—hit me. This place felt safe.
And boring.
...Which was fine. Boring was good. Boring meant no angry deities, no collapsing timelines, no accidental world-ending stumbles.
But where to go next?
The lab was the obvious choice. If anyone had answers about my weird existence—or at least a Potion—it was Oak. But waltzing up to the Professor as a suspiciously intelligent Rattata? That screamed Team Rocket experiment or legendary accident—both headache-inducing scenarios.
Alternatively... food.
My stomach growled (or rat-equivalent gurgled). I hadn't eaten since the Oran Berry, and my HP wasn't critical, but I could already feel that sluggish drag of low energy.
Then—smell.
Something rich, savory, unmistakable.
Bacon.
Okay, what the hell?
I followed my nose, creeping along the fence line until I reached the backyard of a modest two-story house. Through an open window, the sizzle of frying meat hit me like a Love Tap
The smell was obscene.
Not in the "this is probably poisoned" way, but in the oh sweet Arceus that's actual bacon way. My Rattata nose twitched furiously, saliva glands kicking into overdrive. I hadn't tasted real meat since—hell, since before I became a sentient puddle.
Through the open kitchen window, steam curled into the morning air. A woman stood at the stove, humming.
And. Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Asian. Bombshell Asian. Like, "did a modeling agency lose their top MILF talent to rural Kanto?" levels of unfair genetic lottery. Tight blouse, curved in ways that defied physics—Pokémon world physics, and yet not a single wrinkle. How?! Was she a ghost-type? Did Chansey eggs confer eternal youth? Was this just how women aged here?!
I was still mid-existential crisis when my ears finally processed the tune.
"I wanna be the very best…"
Wait.
Hold the fuck up.
"Like no one ever was…"
MY BRAIN SHORT-CIRCUITED.
What.
WHAT.
WHAT?!
___
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