The road out of Pallet wasn't paved.
It was a lazy snake of dust and stone that rolled its way north, past wheat-choked fields, rusted signposts, and the gnarled silhouettes of wild apricorn trees. The air smelled like cracked bark and pollen—thick, musky, almost sweet in the wrong way. It made Brutus sneeze. Twice.
He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt and trudged forward, backpack sagging, every step echoing with the soft crunch of dry grass under his heels.
Clove trotted ahead, alert and twitchy, his tiny ears swiveling like radar dishes. The little purple Nidoran didn't talk—not that Brutus expected it—but somehow, the silence between them already felt familiar. Like an old roommate who didn't need to speak to make a point.
The road bent slightly, dipping into a shallow hollow flanked by low hills. The shadows were longer there, cooler. Brutus paused at the base, leaned against a weather-worn fence post, and tried not to pant like an asthmatic Growlithe.
"Jesus," he muttered. "How does anyone do this every day?"
No answer, of course. Just the distant chirp of a Pidgey somewhere overhead, and the rustle of wind in grass tall enough to hide a Rattata—or worse.
He sat down, gasping a little, the straps of his backpack digging into his shoulders like guilt. He wasn't just tired. He felt... disappointed. In himself. In the way his body felt like it had been built by committee, all soft angles and wasted potential.
The kind of frame that was made for spreadsheets, not survival.
---
He tried to remember the old Brutus—this body's previous owner. A few flickers danced behind his eyes: grainy memories of berry-picking shifts, running around barefoot on muddy festival days, staring longingly at trainers walking the main road with their fresh starters and too much hope.
That Brutus had been chubby, sure, but strong in his own way—weathered by labor, hardened by doing things the slow, painful, honest way. The kind of kid who didn't get chosen for the League fast track, but kept applying anyway.
And now he—whatever soul or force had hijacked that poor boy's life—was stuck with the consequences of both of their choices.
He sighed.
"I gotta get in shape," he muttered.
Clove turned to look at him, snorted, then kept walking.
"Yeah, yeah," Brutus grumbled, forcing himself back to his feet. "No rest for the overfed."
---
The path wound upward now, climbing gently through denser thickets. The trees here weren't friendly. They were tall, old things, their trunks split with age and vines coiled like veins along their bark. The kind of trees that whispered in the wind like gossiping old women, and seemed to lean in just a little too close.
Brutus walked slower now—not just from fatigue, but caution. This was still technically Route 1, the most beginner-friendly stretch of wild in the Kanto region, but "beginner" didn't mean safe.
He remembered that now. Not from the shows, not from the games. But from half-revealed whispers in the mind he'd inherited. Hushed stories about rookies going missing. About a flock of Spearow mauling a kid just outside Viridian last year. About Zubat attacks that left people blind and twitching for weeks.
The League couldn't patrol it all. There weren't enough Rangers, not for every bush and trail.
"Keep your head on a swivel," Brutus muttered to himself, clutching Clove's Poké Ball just a little tighter.
---
An hour passed.
Then another.
The sun climbed to its peak and began its slow descent. Brutus had made maybe seven kilometers of progress. His legs were shaking. His back ached. His mouth was dry, his canteen already half-empty. Every time he heard a rustle, he flinched.
And worst of all—he stank.
Not the cute, cinematic kind of sweat. Not "training montage" glisten. This was barn-floor, mid-July, forgot-to-wash-your-gym-bag kind of stink. Brutus groaned and peeled his shirt off, letting the hot air bite at his pale, flabby torso.
Clove side-eyed him and sneezed again.
"Yeah, yeah, no need to judge," Brutus snapped. "I'm adjusting, alright?"
The Nidoran didn't reply, but wagged his stubby tail once in what could either have been support… or sarcasm.
---
It was just past midafternoon when they hit the edge of the next landmark: a broken signpost that once read "Route 1 Outpost — 2km." The arrow was still there, but the sign had clearly been clawed at. Deep gouges. Not fresh, but not ancient either.
Clove growled.
Brutus held still, breathing through his nose.
"Stay close," he whispered.
They moved on, slower now.
The path beyond was more overgrown, with tall weeds and brambles clawing at his pants. The trees leaned tighter here, and the road narrowed into little more than a dirt trail.
They were officially off-grid now.
And then the rustle came.
Not soft.
Loud.
Bushes trembled. Leaves scattered. A shape darted out from the undergrowth—a blur of beige fur, whiskers, and sharp, twitching paws.
A Rattata.
Wild.
Not the cute kind.
This one was lean, scarred, and mad-eyed, with a half-torn ear and sharp yellow teeth bared in a snarl. It wasn't curious.
It was hungry.
Brutus barely had time to shout.
"Clove! Front!"
The Nidoran jumped between them with shocking speed, his body bristling, horn lowered.
The Rattata didn't wait.
It lunged.
---
The fight was chaos.
No slow-motion. No move-calling. Just a blur of teeth, growls, and impact.
Clove took a bite to the flank but answered with a brutal horn jab that sent the Rattata skidding. Poison. Brutus saw the little shimmer of it on the horn tip. The wild rat screeched, staggered, then made one last leap—
Clove pivoted.
Brutus barely saw it happen.
A headbutt, low and fast.
Crack.
The Rattata slammed to the ground.
Twitching.
Still.
Brutus panted.
Clove stood over the body, chest heaving, one ear torn.
Brutus knelt beside him immediately.
"You okay?" he whispered, afraid to touch the little beast.
Clove growled low, not at him, but at the corpse.
Brutus looked at it.
It was the first time he'd seen something die.
No fade to black.
No disappearance in pixels.
Just… a rodent. Breathless. Gone.
And somehow, he knew — if Clove had lost, it would've been him on the ground instead.
That was the moment it truly hit him.
This world wasn't a game.
And he had so much work to do.
---
That night, Brutus camped under an overhang of rock near the creek line. It wasn't much—a sloped patch of dirt with a weak fire and one sleeping bag he couldn't fit in all the way—but it felt like the closest thing to a home he had now.
Clove lay curled by the fire, licking his wounds.
Brutus looked down at his own body, sore and soft and useless in the worst ways.
He'd survived today because Clove had carried him.
But that wouldn't last forever.
He knew it now.
"I'm gonna change," he whispered.
Clove looked up.
"I don't mean, like, all at once," he said quickly. "But I will. I swear it."
Clove blinked.
Then—barely—nodded.
Brutus laid back, arms behind his head, eyes full of stars that looked nothing like the ones he remembered.
Tomorrow would be worse.
But tomorrow… he'd be ready.
---
END OF CHAPTER 4