Pokémon: Life Finds a Way

The first thing he noticed was how wrong everything felt.

His body was small, weak, and completely foreign. Moving his arms was an impossible task, and even the act of breathing felt like it took an effort he didn't remember needing before. A strange, sinking awareness settled in the back of his mind. This wasn't his body. It couldn't be.

Then came the memories—not clear, vivid memories, but fractured shards of something distant. He remembered being older, an adult. He remembered living a different life. The details were blurred, too far away to reach, but one thing was unmistakable:

I died.

The realization sent a jolt through his mind, but there was no panic, no flood of emotion. Just a heavy, undeniable truth. He had died, and yet... here he was.

For a long time, he floated in and out of consciousness. Each time he woke, the pieces of his new reality came into sharper focus. There was warmth beneath him, a soft blanket covering his tiny frame. The air smelled faintly floral, mixed with the chemical tang of antiseptic. Somewhere nearby, a machine beeped in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

When he tried to open his eyes, the light burned, and he shut them tight again. His body felt impossibly small and fragile, but his mind remained... his. Adult. Intact. This isn't normal.

He couldn't dwell on the strangeness for long. Voices interrupted his thoughts, faint at first but growing clearer with each passing second.

"...still a miracle he survived at all," said a man, his voice low and filled with quiet disbelief.

"I know," replied a woman. Her tone was soft, tinged with pity. "But to lose both parents like that... The poor child."

The words cut through the fog in his mind, and he felt the first stirrings of unease. Parents? Accident? He tried to move again, straining with all his will, but his tiny limbs refused to respond. His body was his prison, and all he could do was listen.

"Thank goodness his grandfather's stepping in," the man continued. "He's already made arrangements to take the boy home once he's stable."

The voices faded, leaving only silence and the hum of machines.

My parents are dead.

The thought surfaced, but it didn't hit as hard as he thought it might. Maybe it was the haze of his still-recovering mind, or maybe it was the detached, analytical part of him that had carried over from his previous life. His parents in this life—whoever they had been—were gone. And while he felt a pang of sadness, it wasn't the all-consuming grief he might have expected.

Still, it left him with more questions than answers. Who had they been? What kind of life had he been born into this time?

And what happens now?

Time passed in a strange blur. He didn't know if hours or days had gone by, but each time he woke, his senses grew sharper. He began to notice more details: the pale yellow walls of the room, the faint murmur of voices outside the door, the soft hum of a machine keeping time with his heartbeat.

One day, he turned his head—his first successful movement—and began to truly take in his surroundings. The bed he lay on was plush and clean, covered with crisp white sheets that smelled faintly of lavender. The furniture in the room was high-quality, with a polished wooden nightstand beside him and a glass vase filled with fresh flowers on top of it.

Even the machines monitoring his vitals looked sleek and well-maintained, with none of the wear and tear he might have expected in a less privileged setting. A faint shimmer caught his eye, and he noticed a golden engraving on the door handle—intricate, expensive, and completely unnecessary.

Rich, he thought. The realization came not with excitement, but with a sense of calm detachment. He had lived long enough in his past life to recognize wealth when he saw it. Whoever his family was—or had been—they clearly had money.

That opened up a dozen more questions, but none of them had answers yet. For now, all he could do was observe and wait.

A humming noise drew him to a pink, egg-shaped creature standing near the machines, adjusting something on the monitor. It turned slightly, revealing a pouch on its stomach, inside which rested an egg.

A Chansey.

His thoughts froze, then stumbled over themselves. He blinked several times, but the creature didn't vanish. It moved with purpose, its small, stubby hands carefully tending to the equipment.

I'm dreaming, he thought at first. But no, this was too real. The sterile smell of the air, the soft texture of the blanket beneath him, the faint ache in his body—they all grounded him in reality.

And that reality included a Pokémon standing just a few feet away.

His heart raced, not from fear but from the sheer absurdity of it all. He hadn't just been reincarnated into another life. He'd been reincarnated into the Pokémon world.

He stared at the Chansey, his mind scrambling to process the implications. This wasn't supposed to happen. Reincarnation was strange enough, but into a world that wasn't supposed to exist?

The Chansey glanced at him, its round eyes sparkling with warmth and care. It chirped softly, patting his arm with one of its stubby hands before returning to its work.

This can't be real, was his last thought, as he drifted onto dreamland, but the beeping of the machines and the Chansey's soft hum were undeniable proof.

One day, the sound of heavy footsteps roused him from a light nap. He turned his head—a small victory in itself—and saw a man enter the room.

The first thing he noticed was the man's beard, neatly trimmed and snow-white. His suit was beige, impeccably tailored, and he carried a cane, though he didn't seem to rely on it. His posture was straight, his movements deliberate.

The man approached the bed, his eyes softening as they landed on the boy. There was grief there, buried deep, but also determination.

"Hello, little one," the man said, his voice deep and steady. He leaned down, placing a gentle hand on the boy's tiny arm.

The boy stared up at him, studying the lines of his face, the subtle weight in his gaze.

"You've been through so much already," the man continued. "More than anyone your age should ever have to endure. But you're strong. I can see that."

There was a pause, and the man's expression softened further. "You don't know me yet, but I'm your grandfather. I've made arrangements to bring you home as soon as you're well enough."

The boy's chest tightened, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the way the man spoke, his voice tinged with a quiet sadness that he was clearly trying to mask. Or maybe it was the overwhelming sense that this man, whoever he was, truly cared.

"My name," the man said after a moment, "is John Hammond."

The boy's thoughts froze.

John Hammond.

The name sent a shockwave through his mind, and for a moment, everything else faded. He stared at the man, his mind reeling. The white beard, the suit, the voice—it was him. The John Hammond from Jurassic Park.

A thousand questions exploded in his mind, none of which he could ask. He could only lie there, stunned, as the man—his grandfather, apparently—adjusted the blanket over him with care.

"You're safe now," Hammond said softly. "I promise."

The Chansey chirped in the background, its soft, soothing hum filling the room as the boy tried to make sense of the impossible.