Pikachu darts through tangled fern and root, nose twitching as it drags a half-eaten oran berry back toward the colony's shallow burrow. Behind, Rattata scrabbles in the leaf litter, purple fur bristling at every shadow. Above, the shrill cry of a distant Spearow cuts through the morning hush. Pikachu freezes, ears up, every muscle tight. Sunlight filters through the branches, dappling the ground where the colony’s youngest chase sparks across the moss. Rattata's whiskers tremble.
“They’re circling early,”
it squeaks, voice barely louder than the wind. Pikachu bares its teeth and drops the berry. Static crackles in its cheeks, stinging in warning. To the south, a rustle, a glint of something bright, maybe human, shimmers through the undergrowth. Pikachu must decide: warn the colony now and risk being seen, or hide and watch, claws digging into the earth as the danger draws closer from both sky and ground.