He learned to recognize humans by absence.
The river changed when they were near—not dramatically, not at first, but in subtle disruptions that rippled outward from the surface. Shadows fell where no clouds passed. The water vibrated with irregular rhythms: footsteps, shifting weight, the scrape of equipment against stone. Even before sound reached him, the river *tensed*.
So did he.
This time, he did not hide immediately.
Curiosity—dangerous, human curiosity—kept him hovering near the edge of the deeper channel, where the current softened just enough for him to remain unseen if he angled himself correctly. From here, he could sense them without exposing himself fully.
Two humans stood on the bank above, their silhouettes broken by tall grass and uneven rock. One knelt, adjusting something metallic that caught the light. The other scanned the water with open impatience, foot tapping against stone.
A trainer.
The word carried weight. History. Power.
*They change things,* he thought. *They decide what matters.*
A line sliced into the water nearby, sending a sharp vibration through the current. The lure splashed down, artificial and wrong, its movement erratic in a way no living thing would choose. Instinct screamed at him to retreat deeper, but he stayed, anchored by something colder than fear.
The lure drifted past him.
He did not bite.
Another Feebas did.
The smaller fish darted forward clumsily, snapping at the bright object before the hook caught. Panic exploded through the water as the line went taut. The Feebas thrashed wildly, its fear raw and unfiltered, echoing through the river like a scream.
The human above laughed.
"Finally," the kneeling one said. "Got something."
The Feebas was hauled upward, body breaking the surface in a violent spray of water. For a brief, terrible moment, he felt the shock of air through the other Pokémon—its sudden, frantic confusion, its instinctive certainty that something was very wrong.
Then the connection broke.
He drifted closer without realizing it, drawn by a mix of dread and desperate hope.
*This is it,* part of him whispered. *This is how it changes.*
The Feebas reappeared moments later, splashing back into the river with a weak, disoriented thrash. The hook was gone. So was the line.
"Seriously?" the standing trainer scoffed. "A Feebas? That's not even worth a Poké Ball."
"Yeah," the other replied, already reeling in to recast. "Just toss it back. These things are useless."
Useless.
The word hit harder than the splash had.
The injured Feebas drifted past him slowly, shock dulling its movements. A faint trail of disturbed water followed it where scales had been scraped raw. It did not understand what had happened—only that something had hurt it, lifted it, rejected it.
He watched it disappear downstream.
Something inside him twisted—not jealousy, not relief, but a cold, sinking clarity.
*This is what selection looks like,* he realized. *Not cruelty. Indifference.*
The humans weren't monsters. They weren't villains reveling in suffering. They were efficient, practical, bored. They sought rarity, power, potential—things the world had taught them to value.
A Feebas did not fit the equation.
Another line splashed into the water, closer this time. He felt the vibration brush against his side, the lure's artificial movements pulsing insistently.
His body reacted instinctively, angling away.
His mind overrode it.
For one reckless moment, he considered it—what would happen if he let himself be caught? If he rose to the surface, met human eyes, forced them to *see* him?
The answer came swiftly and without mercy.
*They would throw me back.*
Or worse—capture him only to box him away, forgotten, a failed investment.
The idea hollowed something out inside him.
He retreated then, slipping deeper into the river's embrace, letting silt and shadow swallow his outline. Above, the humans continued fishing, their laughter and complaints filtering faintly through the water.
"Why do people even hype this place?" one said. "It's just trash Pokémon."
"Route's outdated," the other replied. "Needs better spawns."
Trash.
The word sank slowly, settling somewhere deep and unpleasant.
When the vibrations finally faded and the river relaxed again, he remained hidden longer than necessary. Stillness wrapped around him, heavy and suffocating. He realized his fins were trembling—not from cold or exhaustion, but from something closer to anger.
He had not felt anger since waking in this world.
Fear, yes. Confusion. Despair.
But this was sharper.
*I am alive,* he thought, the certainty surprising him with its intensity. *I think. I choose. I endure.*
None of that mattered to them.
He drifted upward just enough to glimpse the empty shore. The humans were gone, leaving behind nothing but faint impressions in the grass and a disturbed patch of mud where they had stood.
No trace of significance.
The river did not care that they had been there.
Neither, he realized, should he.
The thought did not bring comfort—but it brought distance.
If humans were not saviors, not judges, not inevitable forces of change, then their rejection did not define him. It simply *was*.
A fact. Like the current. Like hunger. Like the shape of his body.
He turned away from the shore and swam downstream, deliberately choosing the longer, more difficult path that curved away from common fishing spots. The effort burned faintly, a reminder of his limitations—but also of his agency.
No trainer had chosen him.
No Poké Ball waited in his future.
The realization settled quietly, stripped of its earlier sting.
If meaning was to exist for him in this world, it would not come from the shore.
It would come from the river.
And for the first time since waking as a Feebas, the thought did not feel like a loss.
It felt like a beginning.