Chapter Text
The first thing I notice is the light.
It’s not blinding. But soft. Dapples through leaves. It’s the kind of green-gold that only happens when the sun has just barely started to climb and the whole world’s still deciding whether to wake up or go back to sleep.
I’m lying on my side in damp moss. My fingers are curled in it like I was holding— or trying to hold— onto something during a fall but when I try to think of anything specific, my mind comes up entirely blank. My jacket is wet along one sleeve. Cold in a way that clings, but not painfully so. My legs are stiff and something small is stuck to my cheek— probably a leaf.
Everything smells alive. But not like a hiking trail or a national park. There’s no asphalt, either. No engine grease. In fact, there’s no trace of human noise at all. It smells like earth. And roots. And berries crushed under paws. It smells like every part of the forest that people never touch, deep, deep in the wilderness.
And underneath all that… something else.
Something strangely familiar. Something known.
I don’t move. Not yet. I just listen. There’s a distant chirp. And something else, something soft. Rhythmic. Not a bird exactly. No mammal, either. More tonal. Insects? No. Not quite.
I open my eyes. Slowly.
Above me, there’s nothing but trees. They’re tall and strange, shaped slightly wrong in a way that makes my chest seize up with recognition.
But not from memory.
From fiction.
Their trunks stretch impossibly high before branching. Their bark is a soft grey-green, the kind that looks like it would hush beneath your fingers. Some trees twists gently as they rise while others lean toward each other in crooked little gatherings. The leaves are thick and glossy, a dozen shades of green I have never seen anywhere else— one of them glows slightly when the light hits it just right. Not bright. Just… alive, in an aware kind of sense.
The canopy sways in slow motion, almost as if the forest is breathing. There’s a breeze, cool and sweet and entirely wrong—
Because this isn’t my world.
This isn’t anyone’s world.
This is—
My breath hitches.
It shouldn’t be possible. But it is—
I’m in Eterna Forest.
Not metaphorically. Not in a dream. Not in a game. Not in some weirdly realistic VR setup or lucid hallucination.
Actually— physically— here.
I recognise the trees from fanmaps and fanart, the forest floor from countless speedruns and nuzlockes, the way the light filters down like every fanart I’ve ever saved to my hard drive in secret. I’m not just seeing it. I’m in it. And that… knowing settles deep in my bones with the same kind of undeniable weight as gravity.
I don’t scream.
I should. Probably.
Instead, I sit up. Slowly. Carefully. My back cracks and it’s such a stupidly, endearingly human sound that for one flicker of a second I almost believe I’ve just had a very realistic dream on some very damp forest floor in my own now very disappointing reality.
But then I see it.
It’s a small thing. Barely a few metres away. Red and brown. Tiny. Round. Eyes like polished stone, antennae twitching like it’s trying to tune into the right station. Tapping out a rhythm against a fallen stick.
Click. Click-click.
Click.
A Kricketot.
And not a 3D model. Not pixel art. Not binaries in a game. A real, living creature. With breathing sides. Twitching limbs. Curiosity in its posture. Caution in the way it doesn’t quite lean forward, in the way it still stays back. Bravery in the way it doesn’t run away.
It sees me. I know it does.
And for a long, impossibly still moment, we just watch each other.
I want to cry. Not because I’m scared (which I am, let’s be honest). But because something inside me— the part that used to believe in magic and then suddenly, unreasonably stopped— is lighting up like it never went out.
Kricketot doesn’t run. Instead, it tilts its little head. Clicks again. Quieter this time. Less like a warning or a cry and more like a greeting.
I shift. Slowly. Cross my legs.
Breathe.
Then, I lift one hand— open, palm-up. Fingers loose. The kind of posture you use with wounded or scared animals. And old friends. “Hey,” I say softly. And still my voice sounds too loud in the stillness.
Kricketot doesn’t flinch. Its antennae flick once. Then it walks forward. Tiny steps. Each one deliberate. Careful. Curious. It stops just short of touching me. Looks up. Black eyes reflecting golden morning light.
It sits.
That’s it. No dramatic bonding moment. No glitter, no music cue, no glowing heart connection. It just sits down, like it’s decided I’m not a threat. Or maybe I am, and it just doesn’t care. We sit together in this comforting silence for… I don’t know how long. Long enough for the sun to shift, to rise higher. Long enough for the forest to feel like it’s accepted me.
Welcomed me.
It’s in that moment— with moss beneath me and Kricketot watching the trees like it’s waiting for a song I can’t possibly hear to begin—
I believe it. I really, truly believe it for the first time. All of it. Gently. Wholly. Like I remembered something I was never meant to forget. I don’t remember how I got here. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back. But something about the way Kricketot hums without sound… the way the trees move like they’ve known me forever… it doesn’t feel like a place I need to escape from. It feels like coming home.
I lay back down on my back, watching the canopy sway in the wind. Time stretches, entirely unhurried, as Kricketot begins its quiet clicking again. This one sounds more like a rhythm or melody than anything else, like it’s not trying to communicate just now. Just marking the air. Keeping time.
I exhale. The forest exhales back.
It’s real.
It’s real.
Okay. Maybe I can’t really believe it quite just yet.
My brain feels like someone shoved a childhood dream and a hiking manual into a blender but the scout part of me— the part of me that’s trained to assess, adapt, and survive; the part of me that’s spent so many hours in the wilderness, alone and with others— it’s still there. And it’s pushing back. Quietly. Gently. Take stock. Check gear. Find shelter. Fire. Water. Food. Everything else can wait.
I move slowly, trying not to startle Kricketot. Though I get the strange but undeniably certain feeling it wouldn’t leave even if I did a cartwheel or suddenly started screaming like a maniac. It watches me with vague interest as I pull my hiking backpack close.
It’s still here, thank Arceus. The exact same one I left the house with yesterday— yesterday?— before all… this happened. Zippers. A busted carabiner. There’s even the smear of dried chocolate on the outside from a Clif bar I regret eating on a too-quickly moving bus.
I unzip it. The zzzzt of the teeth opening feels absurdly loud in the stillness. Kricketot clicks in time with it.
I check the top compartment first, standard order. Small tools, first aid. Still there. My pocketknife, dull as ever but still working. A basic first-aid kit. It’s slightly squished but still unopened, unused. Lighter. Flint striker. Backup waterproof matches in their little plastic tube. A tiny sewing kit I never use but keep anyway. Tradition. And a compass— it doesn’t spin wildly, which is somehow incredibly disappointing. Still points north, though. Still real.
Okay. Good. I set everything out on the moss— damp, but not soaked. Still springy. Good drainage, probably— like I’m preparing a casual ritual. Kricketot leans in, carefully inspecting the lighter with grave interest.
I move on to the next layer, the bulk gear compartment. A foldable camping mat, rolled tight. An ultralight tent; olive in colour— blends in well with nature— compact and a little beat up around the corners. One lightweight sleeping bag, stuffed like a reluctant burrito into its sack. Some fire starter sticks. A cook set: pan, pot, a large water bottle, utensils, a tiny fold-out stove that needs gas I don’t have. But it’s there. My notebook. Two pens. Some cloth pouches for berries or herbs. A second thermal shirt and a pair of hiking pants. Some underwear and socks. All still folded. Still smelling faintly of cedar and detergent.
It’s enough.
Not luxury. Not long-term.
But I can work with this.
I pause. Exhale again. My fingers sink into the moss as if I’m trying to sync with the ground itself. I let the rhythm of Kricketot’s clicks carry me through the growing stillness inside my head.
Then, I scan the treeline and take a closer look at the trees.
Thick brush. Not in a creepy or ominous kind of way, just dense like trees allowed to grow freely and take up all the space they need. Light still dapples through the canopy, but not it looks like filtered gold. The trees have bark textures like braided ropes and moss like old velvet clinging to it. I can hear water, too. Not far. A stream, maybe. Or a creek. Birds call to each other in unfamiliar cadences.
There’s no sound of roads. No distant hum of anything made by people.
Only nature.
I catch my reflection in the small metal pot. I look… normal. Exactly how I looked before… how I’ve looked all my life. A little rumpled, sure. Eyes wide. Dirt on my cheek. A small scratch, not even deep enough to draw blood, just above my eyebrow.
But alive. Well.
I press my hands together, grounding myself in the touch. Then, I count backwards from ten. Okay, I tell myself. Breathe. Again.
Next priority: shelter.
This clearing will do. The ground is flat, the bushes and scrubs provided descent cover, and there is a proper water source nearby. And I can see no obvious burrows or nests too close. I don’t want to intrude on anything’s, or anyone’s, home. Especially not, if it’s the home of an Ursaring.
I reach for the tent. It’s soothingly familiar. Evey pole, every loop, every knot muscle memory from a hundred trips before. I can practically put it up blindfolded. Kricketot doesn’t move as I work. It shifts a little, occasionally hopping closer to poke or strap or tap at a pole with a curious antenna or hand.
Somewhere between threading the last pole and pinning the corners down with rocks I found a bit further away, I say quietly, without thinking, “You don’t have to stay.”
Kricketot clicks once in response. Sharp. Almost offended.
I blink. Then I smile. Just a little. “Okay,” I say.
I doesn’t understand the words, I think. Maybe. Or maybe it does. Either way, it stays. Clicks again. Softer this time. Maybe approval.
I finish my tent. I unroll the mat. Sit.
I look around this clearing— this starting point, in a way. I’m not sure what day it is. I don’t even know what brought me here, or how, or if there’s a way back. But I have shelter. I have fire. I have food. Water’s not far. And I have a tiny, clicking companion who’s made no effort to leave.
I reach for my notebook. It’s old. Duct-taped spine. Wrinkled cover. The kind of thing you keep more out of habit and for any potential ideas that then never end up coming. The first few pages are grocery lists— mushrooms, berries, fish, rice, eggs, ham, bread. Nothing extraordinary. Then come some half-finished doodles. Scattered thoughts. One of them looks… vaguely like Cynthia. And behind her—
a shape that might be Garchomp.
Probably inspired by her ruining my last Pokémon Platinum nuzlocke.
I flip to an empty page. My pen still works, thankfully.
Day One, I write.
eterna forest?? i think. it's def a forest, not one i've ever been in for sure. and the Kricketot is also def real. does it want a name?
I want to keep writing, but my body keeps humming with this restless energy that can’t be tamed by sitting around and waiting. I need to do something. Anything. Maybe something useful—
Foraging.
Yeah. That’ll do.
I scan the edges of the clearing. Nothing far. Nothing foolish. Just a short loop. I turn slowly, stretching my legs, Kricketot trailing close behind with its staccato little feet tapping over moss and packed soil. It clicks in slow rhythm, sort of like a walking song. A little mechanical metronome keeping time with my thoughts.
There’s a patch of underbrush not ten steps away, opposite of the direction I found the rocks. The brush is low and dense, with wide leaves and a faint reddish glimmer between them. I crouch, brush the foliage aside.
Berries.
Actual berries.
They’re glossy, round, and deep red. About the size of marbles, clumped in little fans. I blink and tilt my head. Are these… Razz Berries? They look right. Smooth, almost waxy skin. Faint citrus smell. Slight warmth rising from the stem, like they’d been basking in filtered sun just for this moment.
I glance back at Kricketot. “What do you think?”
It waddles closer, antennae twitching. Leans in.
It freezes.
One beat. Two—
Panic-clicking. A full warning trill. High-pitched. It backs up two steps and starts vibrating like it’s caught between a threat response and an urgent PSA.
“Okay, okay!”
I pull my hand back immediately.
The bush rustles slightly, like it heard me. Like it knows it’s been rejected. The air shifts— something bitter, faintly resinous underneath the sweet hits my nose. Not Razz Berries. Not quite. Close enough to fool me, not close enough to eat.
“Thanks,” I say and I mean it.
Kricketot’s still ticking softly, pacing tiny agitated steps in place.
I make a mental note to draw the leaves later and to sketch the colour pattern. Dangerous look-alikes. This world has rules— though they’re not too dissimilar to those of my old word, as far as I can tell— and I will have to learn them again, even if I already know them in theory.
We keep walking, looping around the clearing edge, maybe twenty metres out at most. I move slowly, marking odd trees in my head. There’s a crooked pine. A flat stone like a table. And then—
Another bush. Different, this time. Rounder leaves, smaller berries, blue and glossy and speckled like stars.
I hesitate. “Round two?”
Kricketot approaches, cautious but calm this time. A sniff. A click. Then—
Happy buzz. It taps the ground twice with one foot like a stamp of approval. Then clicks out a tiny rhythmic ditty like it’s made an official announcement.
I smile. “Okay. Those are good, then.”
I pick a few. Just a few. Enough for a taste. I press one between my fingers; it gives slightly, juices my skin with a sweet-sour scent I’ve never actually experienced in real life but knew immediately. Oran Berries. Real ones. The kind you grow in pots in games. The kind that restore ten HP and save your sorry ass when you’re about to wipe out due to the silliest of reasons.
I take a cautious bite.
It’s…
Oh.
It tastes like a real fruit, but with a strange undertone I can’t quite place. Wild. Slightly spiced. Sharp at the end. Not like store-bought sweetness. Not like anything manufactured. This is the kind of flavour that grows far from cities, far from humans. The kind you eat with your hands and no expectations.
Kricketot makes another happy chirp. I pop a second berry into my mouth just for that reaction.
We gather a few more of the Oran Berries, placing them gently in a soft cloth pouch I’ve used for herbs before. I’ll need to find a better container soon, maybe carve something.
Then, I return to the tent slowly, with the berries bundles in my hand, Kricketot humming its contented rhythm behind me like it’s claiming this space with sound. Back at camp, I sit. I place the cloth pouch near a fire ring I’ve built earlier, just a simple circle of flat stones with a shallow hollow in the centre where I’d cleared out the moss.
I light a small fire and lean back. The sky’s a little paler now— afternoon giving way to evening. The light is soft and slow.
Kricketot hops up beside me. Click. Click.
I click back.
Field Notes – Day One
Location: Eterna Forest, I think. Mid-elevation clearing. Good cover. Flat ground. Close to running water (head but not yet located; needs to be checked out asap).
Weather: Mild. Cool shade, light breeze. No sign of incoming rain. Air smells clean.
Initial Thoughts:
Woke up here with no warning. I remember nothing of whatever happened before waking up. But memories starting of what I think might be two days prior to waking up here are still there. Some clearer than others. But this is not a dream. Every sense confirms it— this is real. Kricketot met me almost immediately. Possibly a local. Possibly fate. Either way, it hasn’t left my side. Camp set up successfully. Tent intact. Gear complete. Food limited but manageable short-term. Fire starter functional.
Foraging Notes:
- False Razz Berries?
- visually similar to Razz Berries
- same colour, same shape; smells incredibly convincing, but can’t tell if same smell yet
- Kricketot gave a hard no. Trusting that over my assumptions
- Marked location with pinecones, will sketch later
- Possible toxin? Bitter-sour scent when crushed
- Oran Berries
- Found in shallow east-facing patch near crooked pine
- Taste sharp, clean, slightly spicy on the back of the tongue
- Kricketot approved with a small victory dance (may request repeat performance)
- Harvested a handful. Will test for cooking/preservation methods tomorrow
- Fruit holds well, firm skin, minimal bruising
Creature Behaviour:
- Kricketot appears to respond to tone, rhythm, and body language more than speech
- Doesn’t like sudden movements
- Clicks to fill silence. Possibly nervous habit. Possibly communication. Possibly music.
- Warns with higher pitch. Approves with low, rolling trill.
- Sat next to me during camp setup like it belonged there.
- I didn’t stop it.
Personal Notes:
- No signs of humans yet
- No tech interference
- Don’t know if I’m meant to go somewhere or if staying put is the answer
- Might wake up in a different place tomorrow
- For now: learn. Stay warm. Don’t eat the red ones.
To-Do Tomorrow:
- Find water source
- Try cooking Oran Berries
- Sketch false berries for reference
- Watch Kricketot more closely during idle periods— there might be a pattern there
- Remember to breathe
Kricketot is curled next to the tent wall now, antennae twitching in its sleep. I don’t know what is dreams about— if it dreams at all— but it clicks sometimes in its sleep. Quiet. Like it’s keeping time even without me.
So, I guess we’re both still here.
That’s enough for today.
— End Entry