"You can steal memories. You can erase names. But grief... grief stains the soul."
---
Ash didn't remember how long they'd been walking.
The days bled together. The city was a labyrinth of concrete and steel, sterile and soulless. A place built to forget warmth. A place built to forget… magic.
They were invisible here.
Not because they wanted to be—but because they had to be.
Ash kept his head down, his hoodie up, and his partner hidden beneath the folds of cloth and grief. Every time a child passed by and didn't gasp in excitement at the sight of Pikachu's yellow fur, something inside Ash crumbled further.
He hadn't just crossed into another world.
He had shattered the narrative.
---
It had begun subtly.
No Poké Balls. No Gyms. No Professor Oaks.
No Champion Leagues.
Then came the news broadcasts.
The world was normal—but not his normal.
Wars over energy.
Corporations replacing governments.
No Pokémon—only artificial intelligence simulations of them used in games and marketing.
Everything else was... cold. Synthetic.
The people were grey inside.
Ash saw it in their eyes—no spark. No hunger for adventure. No love for the unknown.
Just survival.
Numbers. Metrics. Goals.
He whispered once to Pikachu, "They don't believe in anything, buddy…"
And Pikachu, barely able to lift his head, whimpered softly.
---
He hadn't noticed the changes at first.
But over time, they grew louder.
Pikachu sparked… differently.
His cheeks sizzled not with light but with… static.
Sometimes, he froze mid-movement.
Sometimes, he looked at Ash like he didn't recognize him.
But worst of all—sometimes, he seemed to disappear completely for a heartbeat. Like reality forgot him. Like the fabric of this world couldn't hold his code.
Ash never let go.
But he did start breaking.
---
The whispers started around day four.
Not in the wind. Not in the shadows.
Inside him.
> "This is not your home."
> "You infected this world with your grief."
> "Your choice fractured the hinge of everything."
He would wake up choking.
He would stare at the wall and feel it staring back.
One night, he saw his reflection twitch.
But not him—something wearing his face.
That was when the Agents came.
---
He was sleeping beneath a subway station, one arm around Pikachu, the other gripping a broken glass shard.
The sound came like a dial-up modem from hell.
Screeching digital noise folded into a sharp, clean hum.
And then they were there.
Three of them.
Clean suits. Black gloves. Featureless masks.
Eyes like old CRT screens, flickering with symbols Ash couldn't understand.
> "Subject 019. Core memory deviation. Begin retrieval."
Ash stood up slowly, heart pounding.
"No. No. Stay back—he's not yours."
The tallest one stepped forward.
> "It does not belong. You do not belong. Infection must be cleansed."
He didn't hesitate.
He threw the glass into the nearest one's face.
It bounced off.
Then came the fight.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't cinematic. It was raw survival.
Ash screamed and punched and clawed.
They moved without sound, like they didn't feel pain. Like they weren't really there.
"Pikachu—Thunderbolt!"
But what came out wasn't Thunderbolt.
It was a hiccup of light, like a dying battery trying to scream.
Ash shielded Pikachu with his body and ran.
Blood ran down his arms. His legs were cut from a tumble off a dumpster.
They didn't stop chasing.
---
He found a broken fence and slipped through, tearing his side open in the process.
He didn't scream.
He just kept running.
Because this wasn't about his pain anymore.
This was about Pikachu.
About the one thing he refused to let die.
---
When they finally reached an abandoned chemical plant on the outskirts of the city, Ash collapsed behind rusted barrels, chest heaving, arms shaking.
Pikachu twitched in his lap.
"Ash…?"
It wasn't spoken in a human voice. But he heard it anyway.
He touched the electric mouse's cheeks.
They were cold.
No—worse.
They were flickering.
"Ash…" Pikachu repeated, broken.
Like a corrupted sound file playing a familiar tune.
Ash's tears came without permission.
"I'm sorry," he choked. "I thought I could save you. I thought love was enough."
---
That was when the sky split.
Like the air itself remembered something it was forbidden to.
A figure stepped through—not from above or behind—but from inside the fracture.
Ash's blood froze.
It was himself.
Older.
Worn.
Dead in the eyes.
Wearing all black.
Holding something glowing at his side—a blade made of fractured memories. Of erased timelines.
Ash stood.
The clone—no, the Alternative—spoke:
> "You chose pain. I chose peace. I let go."
Ash shook his head, tears still wet.
"I couldn't."
The other Ash's face didn't change.
> "I know. That's why you're here. And why you'll never leave."
Behind him, thousands of glowing threads pulsed—timelines. Branches. Echoes.
Each one where Pikachu never made it.
Each one where Ash walked away.
And at the heart of it all, one final branch… burning black.
The one he carved with his choice.
---