Chapter 2: Fear and Instinct

The stillness of the night pressed in around Alex, broken only by the soft ripple of water beside him. The moon cast a silver glow over the landscape, turning the world into an eerie, unfamiliar place. Every shadow seemed to move, every sound felt amplified. His small chest rose and fell with shallow, uncertain breaths.

It had been hours—maybe longer—since he first woke up in this strange form. And no matter how many times he looked at his reflection, no matter how much he tried to shake himself awake, the truth remained the same.

I'm really a Froakie.

The thought made his stomach tighten. He was stuck in this body, alone in this vast, alien world. No people. No familiar voices. Just silence, broken occasionally by the rustling of leaves or the distant call of unseen creatures.

His anxiety clawed at him, a constant, gnawing weight in his chest. How was he supposed to survive here? What if something bigger—something dangerous—found him? He had no idea what lurked in the darkness, and the thought made his skin prickle with unease.

His old life felt like a dream slipping through his fingers, and the more he tried to grasp it, the further away it drifted. He could almost hear his mother calling him for breakfast, his little sister laughing as she ran around the house. It felt so close—yet impossibly distant.

A lump formed in his throat.

What if I never see them again?

The thought was unbearable. The idea that they were out there, unaware that he was gone—no, worse, thinking he was dead—made his tiny body tremble. He wanted to scream, to call out to them, to let them know he was still here.

But even if he could, what would it matter? He was in an entirely different world now.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Calm down, Alex. Panicking won't help.

Breathing in, he tried to focus on something else—anything else. His body. His surroundings. Anything to distract from the loneliness crushing his chest.

His senses were sharper than before. He could hear the wind shifting through the trees, the distant trickle of water. The damp air clung to his skin, cool yet oddly comfortable. He flexed his webbed fingers, feeling how light and nimble he was.

Instinct told him to move—to leap. It was an odd sensation, this quiet whisper in his mind, urging him forward. He had felt it earlier when he first tried to jump, when he had glided through the water effortlessly. There was something buried deep within him, something more than just human reason.

Froakie instincts.

The thought made his stomach twist. How much of himself would he lose to them? Would he wake up one day and realize he wasn't Alex anymore? Just some mindless Pokémon running on instinct?

No. He clenched his tiny fists. I won't let that happen.

But for now, he had bigger concerns. Hunger gnawed at his belly, making him painfully aware of how weak he felt. He needed food. He needed shelter. He needed to do something before his anxiety swallowed him whole.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to his feet—or rather, his small, crouched stance. His legs still felt strange, but he was beginning to understand them. If he was going to survive, he had to start moving.

I don't know what's out there, he thought, swallowing his fear. But sitting here won't change anything.

With one last glance at his reflection, he turned away from the water and hopped into the unknown.

The forest loomed around him, dark and endless. Every tree, every rustling bush felt enormous. The grass was taller than he expected, and it brushed against his damp skin as he moved. He kept low, his body tense, listening for any sign of danger.

But his hunger only worsened.

At first, he ignored it, focusing instead on moving through the underbrush, getting used to the way his new body moved. But soon, the pangs became too much to bear. His stomach churned, and his mouth felt dry. He needed to eat.

That was when another problem hit him.

What exactly do Froakies eat?

His human brain instantly thought of normal food—bread, rice, meat, fruits. But even as the images passed through his mind, a sinking feeling settled in his gut. He was a frog now. And what did frogs eat?

He swallowed hard. No… no way. It can't be.

His stomach had other plans. The hunger sharpened, and his senses suddenly became hyper-focused. His eyes twitched as movement in the grass caught his attention.

A cricket.

Small. Moving. Alive.

Alex's whole body froze, a deep-rooted instinct stirring in his chest. His vision locked onto the tiny insect as it twitched and hopped along a leaf. His mouth felt dry, but oddly—his throat did not.

He hated the way his body reacted. His muscles coiled. His tongue twitched. Every part of him screamed that this was food.

No. No way in hell.

He turned away sharply, his stomach twisting at the thought. There had to be something else—berries, fruit, anything but bugs. He forced himself forward, searching the forest floor desperately.

But there was nothing. No berry bushes in sight, no fallen fruit. Just damp earth, tall grass, and the occasional crawling insect.

Minutes passed. His hunger grew worse.

And then, to his horror, his body moved on its own.

His long, slimy tongue shot out without warning, striking something in the grass. The sensation of movement struggling against it sent a shudder of disgust through him. He yanked his tongue back instantly, his mouth clamping shut before he could think.

Something wriggled inside.

His whole body convulsed, his stomach twisting in revulsion. He gagged, panic surging through him. The taste of the cricket spread across his tongue—earthy, bitter, slightly salty. His instincts told him to swallow, to let it slide down his throat effortlessly.

His human mind screamed at him to spit it out.

But the damage was done. The second the cricket moved down his throat, his stomach welcomed it with an unsettling warmth, and—shockingly—the hunger lessened.

Alex shuddered, shaking his head violently.

Oh god. Oh god. That was disgusting.

He gagged again, but nothing came up. His new body didn't seem to care about his human disgust—it had gotten what it needed.

For a long moment, he sat there, trying to steady his breathing. The nausea remained, but deep down, a small part of him realized something.

It worked. He had eaten. He had survived another moment in this strange world.

He hated it. He despised it.

But for now, survival mattered more than disgust.

Swallowing hard, he wiped his mouth with his webbed arm and took a deep, shaky breath.

This is my life now.