Pokemon: Primatus

The wood beneath me felt sun-warmed and old. I could hear the slow sway of trees overhead, the creak of a porch swing. Somewhere inside, something sweet was baking.

I sat still. At peace. And she was beside me.

Her hand rested against mine, rough in all the right ways. Familiar. Anchoring. Loved.

In the distance, I heard a laugh and the patter of small feet rushing across grass. A little figure darted toward us, too quick to catch in detail, but I knew her. I knew her laugh.

"Papa!"

I turned to look, heart tightening. The voice lit something deep inside my chest.

I knew that sound.

I knew it like I knew how to breathe.

My lips parted. The name waited on my tongue, ready to leap.

But it didn't.

My throat rasped dryly, the name trapped behind clenched muscle.

Come on. Just say it. Just say her name.

I pushed harder, trying to summon it with every ounce of will I had. But the harder I reached, the more it slipped. Their faces blurred, too bright or too distant, like trying to remember a dream already fading. Every detail was made of smoke.

And then, just before I could touch it—

It shattered.

*

I gasped awake.

The air was thick with pollen and the scent of rich soil. Sap clung to the breeze. Woodsmoke hung faintly in the distance. From somewhere outside, I heard the deep-throated bark of a Primeape and the high-pitched chittering of Aipom echoing through the forest canopy. A heavy thump reverberated from afar, like something large had just landed or dropped from a branch.

The Hollow Tree was alive with strange life.

I sat up, my limbs slow and sore from sleep. The moss beneath me was still warm from my body. Thin shafts of light cut through the cracks above, painting faint golden lines across the bark walls.

The ache in my chest lingered.

They were gone again. The dream clung to me, cruel in its clarity and vague in its truths. No names. No faces. Just warmth, just laughter, just the hollow that remained when it ended.

Grief curled quietly inside my ribs.

My hands had already curled into fists before I noticed. My pulse surged. Muscles tensed. Anger rose like it always did—sudden, sharp, and unreasonable. The fire burned fast.

But I caught it.

I took a breath. And another. The weight of emotion threatened to spill over, but I held it in. I was starting to understand this new body of mine, this younger skin too eager to move, too eager to fight.

Discipline hadn't caught up with strength. But I was learning. Slowly.

I let my fists open. Let the air come in and go out again. The rage didn't vanish, but it sat. Contained.

I listened to the wild world around me. The distant cries of Pokémon. The chatter of unseen simian watchers. The low hum of life moving through a place older than memory.

Morning had come.

And with it, the pain of something precious just out of reach… and the strength to keep going anyway.

I sat cross-legged, still and silent, in the quiet gut of the Hollow Tree.

Moss cushioned the curve of the root I leaned against, soft and springy beneath my back. High above, faint light filtered through cracks in the bark, lancing down in dim gold columns. Far off, a guttural hoot echoed, followed by a rhythmic beat—more simian than songbird. Like drums built into bone.

Somewhere outside, the troop was waking.

I closed my eyes again. Tried to breathe slower.

My hands trembled less than they used to. That was something. Yesterday, they wouldn't stop shaking—rage crawling just beneath the skin like fire ants. But here, at least for now, he could breathe.

I'd come down here after the long talk last night. After I'd told them I couldn't remember my own name.

Oranguru hadn't questioned it. Slaking just stared. For a moment, neither of them moved—and yet I felt it, through whatever strange thread connected us. They understood. Not in the way humans pretend to. They felt it.

The grief. The fury. That endless, gaping hole where a life used to be.

Oranguru had been the one to speak first. His voice had been soft and deliberate, like leaves falling on still water.

"Even fire must cool to burn again. Rest now. And when the morning comes, seek me beneath the hanging roots. There may yet be something I can offer… to help you remember who you were....or decide who you will be."

Then Slaking had nudged me with one massive hand. Not a push—an invitation. Wordless, gentle. I'd followed, and he'd led me into this hidden crevice deep in the root system, like a den or hollowed-out lung. Stone and bark curled overhead in rib-like shapes, and the walls were soft with moss and old fur. The scent of earth and age filled the place. No predators, no fire, no screams.

Only nature.

They hadn't said much. But they'd done what mattered.

That kind of bond… I knew it. Had lived it. With my squad, back in that other world. The looks you give after a hellfire ambush. The quiet nods after hauling a wounded man out by the teeth. You don't need words when you've seen each other crawl out of the dark.

My anger still simmered beneath the surface—sharp and waiting—but now it had walls to press against. Space to move. It no longer ruled me. That was progress.

I inhaled slowly, holding the air in my lungs. Then let it go.

Oranguru said to seek him come morning.

It was morning.

*

I rose with a grunt, rolled my shoulders and take stock. The war-trained part of me took over and routine followed. Even in this young body I can't forget other part of what made me, me. Having a name or otherwise.

I checked the wound first—the shallow gash on my side from Zigzagoon scuffle. It had been a clean cut, but even in my younger body, something like that should've taken a few days. I rolled up my sleeve and carefully unwraps it.

Nothing. Just smooth, unblemished skin. Like it never happened.

I blinked at it. Ran a thumb across the skin. No scab. No tenderness. Just healed.

"What the hell…?" I muttered under my breath, my voice husky.

A note of unease settled in my gut. Another strange quirk in this strange world. This body, my body—wasn't just younger. It was... enhanced? Accelerated?

I'd think on it later.

Next came my gear.

Hatchet? Checked the weight, edge, handle secured.

Satchel? Unbuckled the flap and mentally logged the contents:

Two purification pills, tucked in a side pouch.

Compass, still working.

Coiled rope, looped and neat.

Waterproof matchbook, slightly damp at the edges but usable.

Two canteens of water—half-full. I drank from one, swishing before swallowing. Still clean.

The torn remains of a medical kit. A few antiseptic packets, some gauze, and one last bandage.

Field knife, secured to the side by leather straps.

The emergency thermal blanket I used last night folded tightly and re-packed.

Five Pokéballs. One used. The others dormant, clipped and waiting.

Satisfied, I slung the satchel over my shoulder and hook the hatchet in my belt. A calm breath followed. My routine. My armor.

Time to move.

I climbed out of the crevice and into the golden light of morning. The inside of the tree no longer looked like a cave or cathedral, but something in between—alive and sacred. Sunlight filtered through thick, veined membranes high above, turning the air a pale green.

The smell of moss and sap was stronger now, laced with the scent of sweat and warm fur.

Grunts echoed from deeper in the roots—short bursts, monkey-like barks, and long, drawn-out hoots. Life was in motion.

I passed markings carved along the bark—symbols, territorial signs, perhaps. Faded paint and claw marks etched paths. Some were rings. Others, slashes arranged in careful patterns. Boundaries. Warnings. Structure.

A nursery lay nestled between two large, spiraling root columns. The same Vigoroth and Slakoth pair from last night were off to the side again, nursing the still large Slakoth in quiet vigilance. The mother kept her body curled protectively, wary but not hostile as I passed.

Further on, a clearing opened near the base of the great tree.

A crude training field.

There, Primeapes slammed fists against one another in sparring matches. Vigoroths danced in wild flurries of movement. Smaller Mankeys watched from the edges or mimicked their elders with smaller jabs and kicks. But there were others too—unfamiliar.

White-furred, leaner than the Primeapes, and wearing strange coconut-like helmets or maybe armor. They moved in coordinated strikes, passing berries between them like a baton mid-fight before landing synchronized blows. Tactical. Efficient.

I'd never seen their kind before. I can maybe recall pokemons from generation 1 to 3 and thats stretching, maybe they are from later generations of pokemon. But they moved like a team. Their teamwork almost flawless.

High above it all, sprawled lazily along a massive branch like a gargoyle, the leader of the troop, the Alpha himself—Slaking.

His body was motionless, heavy-lidded and sprawled sideways in that familiar, almost comical pose I'd once seen on game sprites and old media. But his eyes… sharp.

Watching everything. Watching me.

I nodded up at him. Just once.

He didn't move. Didn't need to.

I continued on.

The path sloped down, tapering beneath a curtain of dangling roots that formed a natural arch. Light dimmed, filtered through green and brown like stained glass. The air thickened with the scent of earth, herbs, and something faintly metallic.

I stepped through and entered a small hollow chamber carved beneath the roots. Smooth stone lined the ground, ringed with stacked fruit husks and small trinkets—claws, feathers, carved bones, tools worn by time.

At the far end sat Oranguru. Cross-legged. Still. Like he had always been there.

His white fur shimmered slightly in the filtered light, his fan held across his lap. His eyes opened when I approached—steady, ancient, filled with patience.

He gestured once. I sat across from him.

The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable. It was... deliberate. Like the pause before a symphony.

He studied me for a long time. Then finally, he spoke—not aloud, but within the hollow of my skull.

A voice without voice. A thought that wasn't mine.

"You are far from your world," he said at last. "And even farther from your truth. I cannot return you home. I cannot age your body to match the man you once were. But the mind... the mind is my domain."

Something stirred in the man's chest. His fingers twitched at his side.

"You mean... you can help me remember?" he asked. "Not just flashes. Everything. The names. The faces. My family."

"Perhaps," Oranguru said. "If you will allow me to walk your thoughts, I may guide you toward what is buried. But memories are fragile. We are not made to see them all at once."

"What are the risks?"

"Pain. Confusion. Perhaps nothing at all. In the worst case, damage that cannot be undone. But the decision is yours."

A pause.

Then the man lowered his head and stepped forward.

"I'll take that risk," he said. "You don't understand. I've lost the people I swore I'd never forget. I can't even remember my own name. I'd rather die than let them fade forever."

Oranguru gave a small nod—sad, solemn, understanding.

"Then open your mind to me."