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Darkness. Warm warm darkness.
It cocooned him, like a womb. Nourishing his roots, almost…
It was soothing to his hazy mind, here in the dark. Nothing mattered here. Not work, not his finances, not even the ability to think at all.
He could drown in it forever, if it weren't for a small blistering in his…
In his…
It was the slight burning in his lungs that snapped him out of his drowsy trance. Memories began to trickle back to him, one of which was where he was. And a very important fact along with it:
The air of this planet is 70% oxygen. Oxygen is utterly toxic. Signs of oxygen poisoning include paleness of the face, fatigue, and a burning sensation in the lungs.
Yes, that burning sensation was there. But faint, not unlike an old scar. His breath hitched nevertheless, trying to remember how he got here.
He remembered a crash. His beloved Dolphin, its parts scattered across a distant, uncharted plant. He remembered encountering strange plant creatures, not unlike his beloved PikPik carrots. He remembered enlisting their help, his whistle their only method of communicating, gathering the parts, failure after failure, and then…
Thirty days…The words sent a jolt through his system. And with it, the cause of the aching in his lungs and a dawning dread.
He had thirty days until his life-support failed. He could not gather all thirty ship parts before that fateful thirtieth day. He had attempted to leave this strange planet nevertheless, knowing it was do or die, and well…
I failed.
The last thing he remembered was being ejected from his pilot's chair faraway from the ensuing inferno. His leg and ribcage shattered, his suit torn just slightly enough to not let it leak in. He had looked up at the starry sky, hoping to glimpse Plant Hocotate just one last time…
Please…I don't want to die, not yet…Please…one last glimpse, oh just one last glimpse of Apricot's sweet face! One last hug with Rosie and Xavier, they're still so young…
Please…I want to live, I want to live! Even if it costs me everything I still can give…
Then…blackness.
He had died, no doubt. Surely this was death, in the process of making him into a star? At least then, he'd still always be able to watch over his family. Even if he can no longer be with them…
But then why does he ache still? Shouldn't he feel nothing but the warm embrace of darkness? To feel stimuli meant to live, and since he feels the stimuli of his pain receptors…
…I'm alive?
That had to be. How else could he feel, sense the tremors above him, smell the anxiety and excitement dispersed through his resting place? All of these were signs of life!
But then…how? He remembered the inky void closing in on his trembling, lowering hand quite clearly. He should be dead of oxygen poisoning right now.
…No wait. One more thing swam its way into the forefront of his memory. Several Pikmin, their red, yellow, and blue bodies, swarmed him in his last few seconds. Shaking him, their little voices chittering amongst themselves.
He saw a strange glint of pity and desire well up in their beady eyes…As if hungering…
…No. It can't be that. Could it be? After everything?
The question of if he would become food for them upon his death was always a question that tormented him in the darkest crannies of his mind, amongst the backdrop of agonizing over his wretched fate. It was not a question he pondered long enough to consider an answer to, but was aware of enough to never be certain of his unlikely companions exact loyalties.
Perhaps it's becoming so reliant on them, but he had always dismissed that question out of hand. It was unthinkable, given their ample opportunities to kill him. But now? He couldn't say he was that certain anymore…
But whether the Pikmin did intend to use him as food or not, it did nothing to explain his current state.
What by Hocotate's soiled earth happened to him?!
Fear flickers through him. The darkness surrounding him, warm and comforting initially, was now constraining and blinding. The weight of these unanswered questions, now that his consciousness has returned enough to ponder them, permeated his bones far too much for him to ignore.
He needed to get out of here.
Out.
Out.
OUT!
It was like a switch had flipped in him. One moment he was pondering idly, the next he was pushing, straining, clawing against his prison with every ounce of strength left in his body. It almost scared him how instinctual his actions are.
He pushed himself up, up, up, guided by the vague sense that up was the way to go. It wasn't until cool air met his fingertips that he understood why.
He was underground. Somehow, only the stars know somehow, he was buried alive, up to his nose in dirt. How he could breathe, he didn't know, but he did not dare question it.
All he could concentrate on was the overwhelming thought of getting out of here.
He pulled his body, inch by inch, further and further out of the ground. First his arm, then his other hand, followed by his other arm, and then the straining as he forces his head up and out of the ground.
Cheers, like little squeaks of joy, erupted around him. The sound, overlapping chaos, was overwhelming. He heard himself groan, the only thing he could do like this.
It was then that countless tiny hands grab his and pull him the rest of the way out. And when his legs kissed sweet air at long last, he finds himself face down on the ground.
He pants, each gulp of fresh air quenching his aching lungs. His entire body felt weak, as if woven together anew. The cheers, shrieks, overlapped without any clear way of telling what for. The scents of joy, excitement, concern all penetrated his nostrils with incredible strength.
It was too much. Far far too much.
He opted to cover his weeping ears, panting as he tried to process everything. Something, anything, to block out all the noise…
He could touch his ears. His helmet was gone.
He was breathing the very air that should've killed him.
His eyes blew wide open, squinting in the blinding daylight.
Pikmin, red, yellow, and blue, all surrounded him. Watched his every move. Listened carefully, as if awaiting orders like usual.
He was indeed alive. Somehow, somehow, despite the toxic air, he was still alive. He had thought for sure that even if the Pikmin didn't feed his body to their Onions, that they'd probably bury him, like he's seen a yellow or two do to a chewed up stem or a charred fallen comrade.
Except…feeding corpses to Onions served a secondary purpose beyond mere sustenance. He was very, very familiar with that secondary purpose, much more than the primary one he occasionally wondered about…
How do Pikmin make more of themselves again?
It was an answer he did not wish to confront, for fear of what he would find. He remembered explicitly writing about it once, out of a maddened envy for their simplicity, but he had assumed such to be merely a flight of fancy.
And yet, it was the most logical conclusion he could come to. He had woken up underground, after all, and what else could explain himself being alive long after his life-support should have ceased operation?
Slowly, ever so slowly, he tilted his wobbly head to look down at himself.
He couldn't help the small gasp that escaped him upon finally catching a glimpse. The Pikmin around him let out equally small squeaks of their own, surrounding him.
His hands were no longer the hardened, calloused, or even Hocotatian pair he was used to, but the three-fingered, plantlike ones of a Pikmin. He wasn't sure if there were more types of Pikmin out there yet, but he was quite certain they didn't come in grey as far as he knew.
His gaze trailed downward, taking in the sight. His arms looked more like his arms past his wrists, but even then grey splotches decorated along his arms. He look behind himself and observed a similar pattern going on with his feet and legs.
His main body…Words couldn't describe it. The concerned chitters of Pikmin around him drowned out any that could. He couldn't even feel nude, like the concept wasn't needed for him anymore. A sobering thought, now that he could put his finger on.
Finally, he gave his exposed face a long, thorough pat, in a trance. It all felt the same. His nose, his ears, the crinkles of his eyes, his matted hair…It was all his same old face, at least to his hands.
But then he felt it, reaching back through his hair.
His fingers trailed along the perimeter of what he was anticipating, confirming it was a growth. Then, trembling, ever so slowly, his hand reaches up to grip it. He winces when he feels it as much as his hand, an alien sensation.
A physical part of him.
Swallowing hard, he pulls it down, in front of his vision. He knew what it was by now, how could he not, but that knowledge did nothing to stop the flood of ice that froze his bloodstream at the sight.
It was a long black stem, ending in a small red bud.
A Pikmin stem. The one trait completely universal amongst the three Pikmin types before him.
He was a Pikmin.
He let go, feeling the foreign, unreal, sensation of it swinging back into place above his head. His teeth chatter, the urge to curl up into a ball and hide weighing heavily on his mind. He hadn't felt anything like that since he was a kid, no older than his own son.
His son…
My family…
Ice turned to fire as he looks up from the ground, his head darting to and fro as he searched for it. Pikmin meep, their little beady eyes wide all around him. A red and yellow one, the two closest to him since being unearthed, walk towards him. Both reeked of what he could only describe as concern. (He didn't know how he knew, just that he did.) Unease flowed through him as he scooted back, trying to escape the barrage of sensory information, but it only made the smell of concern grow stronger. Strong enough to hurt his nose.
The little red reaches out to touch his shoulder, as if to ask him if he was alright…
SMACK!
Before he was even aware of it, his backhand met the red's at full force. His eyes burned as he abruptly stood up, his legs wobbling.
"Don't you dare touch me! Not after what you've done!"
Gasps filled the empty air. The red Pikmin stumbles back, hurt written all over its face. As for him? His hand was at his throat, tracing the bob of his vocal chords.
This wasn't his voice. It was too high-pitched to be his voice, the gruff thing that Apricot always admired about him.
This wasn't him.
No…
No no no-
…He needed to get out of here. Away from all the noise and scents that clogged his mind. Away from the blending, overlapping of emotions and desires that just weren't his.
So he ran.
It was more a stumble than a run to be quite frank. Everything felt wobbly, especially on these three-toed feet that weren't Hocotation. He didn't know where he was going, except somewhere. It wasn't until the clamour of Pikmin presumably running after him faded into the background that he could think clearly.
Feel more like himself.
He stopped, gasping for air that didn't want to come. The thought of lurking predators didn't even occur to him until that very moment.
He wasn't entirely sure if he would fight back if one were to strike, even if he could.
This is all a nightmare…
Yes, that must be what this all is. A mere nightmare. A delusion, drudged up by his worried, trauma-addled mind. He wasn't a Pikmin, he was fast asleep. And soon, he was gonna wake up, lay his eyes on his Dolphin, and forget this ever happened like a bad memory.
Yes, this is just an odd nightmare of mine…
It brought comfort to his heart. His pulse began to slow, fade away from his eardrums. His muscles slow, relaxing…
And then he sees it. Undeniable proof of reality.
No!!!
Any sort of illusion that he spun to shield himself from the truth shattered the moment he laid eyes on it. He burst forward, faster than ever, even for his prime. A wordless cry, not unlike a Pikmin's squeal of terror, escapes his throat as he takes the sight in.
There it was. His beloved Dolphin. Buried in the ground, charred, and up in flames. And this time, he knew there was not even the slim hope of repairing it. The frame was partially melted, something that made his hairs with his knowledge of mechanics stand on edge.
If this were a nightmare, the flames wouldn't feel so hot this close, would they?
He stepped forward. And then, noticed the ground.
It was covered in pieces of glass and soiled fabric. He knew exactly where those came from. It made his stomach churn.
…He carefully worked his way around the carnage. When he made it to the hull, he saw his reflection in the busted glass meant to shield the pilot.
He looked weary, a shell of his former self. His teeth were lined with sharp teeth, not unlike those of a blue Pikmin's. His new stem waved in the air, despite there being no wind to blow it. If he were to survive long enough for it to, perhaps, the bud at the end will one day bloom into a beautiful red flower…
If I live long enough…
His hands covered his mouth as he took a step back. And then another, his sight blurring.
He was trapped here.
He got his wish to live alright. But when he thought he could pay any price to live for even just a day more, he didn't think there could be a cost too high for him to pay.
And it wasn't even being in a body that wasn't his.
No, the true price he paid to live again was to never see his family again.
Oh stars, what would they tell his family? No doubt he would become yet another figure who vanished into the cosmos, never to return. Perhaps they'd presume him dead? He might as well be that, for all the good being some bizarre Pikmin-Hocotation hybrid does him.
Would Apricot be mad at herself amidst her grief for pushing him to take the fatal vacation that landed him here? Would Xavier tremble in disgust every time he walked past his accomplishments as a pilot (even if they weren't much)? Would Rosie come to hate him for breaking his promise that he would be there for the play she's been working day and night on?
Oh how he hoped not. Oh how he wished he could be back there. Oh how he wanted to take everything back…
He was better off dead if this is what getting to live got him. At least if he were dead, he wouldn't be able to think about how his family might grieve him, unaware he's still alive but unable to return to them.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, the bud drooping down in front of his line of sight. He buried his face in his hands, unable to bear looking at it.
And that's when he heard a small hum behind him, "Is Leader okay? We don't understand what we did wrong."
He turned his head to look behind himself.
There was a red Pikmin there, looking down at him with an expression of confusion and hurt.
It wasn't just a red Pikmin. It was the very red Pikmin he had slapped the hand of away in his initial fit of anger and terror. It smelled of worry and guilt, like it had done something wrong.
Guilt nestled its way into his gut along with all his other negative feelings. He felt terrible for lashing out the way he did. Was he angry at the Pikmin, for altering him so thoroughly like this? Yes. How could he not be? How could he not be outraged at becoming a prisoner, an alien, in his own body?
But did that mean the Pikmin deserved to be the subject of his anger for it? …No. He was indebted to the little creatures. They did not have to help him, to listen to his every command, and yet they did so anyway.
Even when all the signs pointed that he would leave the moment he got what he wanted.
In the end, all he could do was wipe his tears away and shake his head, "No no, you did nothing wrong. If anything, I should be the one apologizing. I shouldn't have lashed out like I did when you and your friend were only trying to help."
"But Leader is still sad and it's because of us. Leader is one with our garden now, and yet Leader smells angry and afraid of us. Why?" The red Pikmin wouldn't meet his eyes.
Foolishly, it was only then that the realization he was actually talking to, understanding, a Pikmin dawned on him. His heart twinged in his chest.
He couldn't even give it the proper exploration it deserved, much less give it even one question. He just felt so…So…
"I'm so very tired…."
The Pikmin's eyes widened, and then the next thing he knew, it had embraced him. Wrapped him in a tight hug, not unlike that of Rosie's.
Oh stars, the children…
It was then, amidst the burning rubble of his prized vessel, that the brave Captain Olimar fell to his knees, loud, choked sobs escaping his throat. He wrapped his arms around the Pikmin, cupping the back of its head like one of his children.
Yes, he got to live. But it would be as a Pikmin, forever separated from his family and everything he knew.
And as more and more Pikmin came surging forward, each wrapping their tiny arms around him and the little carrot person he held, that an icky sense of finality, that the role of their leader that they had assigned him was now fully cemented, washed over him.
He belonged here now. He must live here now.
He wasn't entirely sure how he could ever love the Pikmin as they did him like this yet.
And he was even less sure of if he would ever call this planet "home".