Switching Shelves

Consciousness returned to Archie with frustrating reluctance. Slowly, gradually, he became aware of separate sensations: a slight coolness to the air against his form, a dull ache at the back of his head, the grass slightly tickling... wait, grass? A sense of unease crept over him, intensifying as he attempted to stand up. What were those large, green claws in front of him? As he attempted to close his right hand, the right claw flexed... Wait, no... he thought. Beginning to panic, his head whipped around, left and right, attempting to find some means of viewing himself, and finding his head felt strangely heavy. His surroundings became apparent to him - he was in some kind of forest, though off in one direction was an area of abruptly raised elevation, and in another was an area of lowered elevation. That raised bit was particularly bizarre, with only a limited amount of soil over nothing, almost like a shelf. As he spied a small nearby lake, a flash of gray, white and red slipped out of his line of sight - something in the woods with him? Since it seemed small, it slid onto a lower shelf in his mind - other matters were more pressing, like standing up. When he attempted to rise into an upright position, that feeling of wrongness spiked; his balance was badly off, and remaining on his legs - his hind legs, he thought with worry - proved enough of a hassle that he returned to all fours.

Anxiety threatening to overtake him, he curled up on the ground to refocus himself and think; at least that headache was fading. As his hands - claws? - approached his face, they came in contact with some kind of mask - he forced himself to ignore that detail for now. What Archie knew: he had gone to bed having asked Claire out after impressing her with his understanding of Neitzsche, and awakened someplace completely different, in a clearly different body (don't think about it, he thought). Panicking would solve nothing and likely endanger him, so the only thing left to do was take stock of the situation. And that meant getting a look at himself. Steeling himself, he rose unsteadily to his four feet, and slowly walked towards the lake. As he peered into the water, a crest rose in his reflection...

Oh. Ohhhhhhh.

He knew that face. That mask. As he looked down, those claws.

#0772
Type: Null
The Syntetic Pokemon.
The Beast Killer.

So he was a Pokemon now. Huh. Pinching himself proved fruitless, and he gave up after the fifth attempt. At least these claws could pinch, plenty of 'mons had forelimbs that were basically useless as manipulators, and some didn't even have limbs.

Well, this wasn't the worst news he could have received; in fact, he found himself calming significantly. If his form was familiar, then maybe the world would be familiar too. Many questions still, but one stood out in particular: when he tried to speak, what would come out? Only one way to find out...

"The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain." Idly, he wondered if there was a Spain where he was now.
"Richard of York gave battle in vain." That one wasn't really a diction exercise, he realized. His color vision did seem to be fine, though.
"The epitome of femininity." There we go. His voice was deeper than he remembered, and resonated within his metal helmet. At least his diction didn't seem hindered.
"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog." As he stared back at his reflection, he figured it didn't sound like Pokemon speak, so that left two possibilities... 1) This was a Mystery Dungeon-style world (probable), or 2) he was an aberration, like Team Rocket's Meowth (considering Type: Null's odd nature, this was also quite possible).

"Pineco! Pinecoco!" came a call from his right, shortly before something hard and rough slammed into his midsection. Tackle.

Option two it is then, he thought, somewhat dejectedly turning to face this... opponent. He already knew his new form was rather large by Pokemon standards, but peering down at the not-Grass pine cone really hammered that home for him. He wagered his eye level on all fours now was equal to where it used to be when he stood up straight. But more importantly, he felt awareness of combat attributes seep into his mind. Apparently he had six moves at his disposal? Two of which weren't "natural"? (Was anything about him natural? Was anything about any of this natural?)

• Tackle, basic attack, same type bonus.
• Aerial Ace, Flying, never misses.
• Pursuit... counterattacking stance? Okay then. (Option one?)
• Scary Face. Slows things down. A lot.
• Swords Dance (TM), makes physical attacks hit harder.
• Rest (TM), full heal after a few seconds of hibernation.

His stats were about what he expected (balanced and decent barring Speed), but Special Attack was deficient, for some reason. Oh well. Seeing as this creature was but a small fraction of his size, he decided he didn't really want to harm it if he didn't have to. Focusing on the idea of Scary Face, he did his best to stare down the thing in an intimidating manner. Real life Pokemon fighting apparently lacked the visual cues of the games, but somehow he could still tell his technique had its intended effect. Scary Face. As he backed away, it began to glow...

Oh. Oh no.

He began to sprint away from the Pineco, but before he'd gone five paces a loud BOOM issued behind him and threw him another three. Selfdestruct. As he picked himself back up, he at least felt unhurt. Soberly, he realized that likely wouldn't have been the case had he chosen a different move. Turning around to observe his assailant, he saw only pieces of its shell, some still smoking.

So that's how it was then. The geography of this place was odd, but he had yet to see or read of a forest in any work that wasn't ominous (and this place didn't fit that bill) but was still "high level", for whatever that might mean. That meant the stakes in this world were already high, and things would likely only get more dangerous from here.

He had to fight for his life here. Thoughts like "how do I get back" and "what would Claire think if she saw me like this" were buried deep underneath this pressing need to survive, and didn't even occur to his conscious mind.

Grimly, he thought of Swords Dance, letting his body move on its own. The result was one part drawing on the ground with his claws, one part twirling back and forth, and one part striking a pose. When it was done, he felt a certain strength fill his form. Swords Dance. With that, he set out through the woods, looking for... he wasn't sure. But he figured he'd know when he found it.