His back met the rough stone surface with a welcome thump, breath coming to him in desperate heaves, extremities tingling with the instinctive urge to continue flight. Fierce jaws snapped at the opening of his niche of sanctuary and the Bulborb growled in frustration, pressing its great maw into the unyielding rock and casting waves of hot breath over its tantalizingly sheltered prey.
But he barely registered this; his mind still swam with those horrible screams, the high-pitched, pain-filled wails of the Pikmin as they perished en masse. Olimar clenched his eyes shut, trying not to remember the look of pure terror on each and every strange little face, the snap of delicate bones and squelch of viscera between cruel jaws, and the screaming, always screaming....
It had been a massacre; there was no other word for it.
The huge insect grew weary of its prey, turning and lumbering off with an annoyed squawk. Still Olimar hid there, spread-eagled against the rock, listening to his heart drumming in his ears and wishing it would drown out that screaming. Every single one....He remembered now with painful clarity, thirty-six of the red ones, twenty-two of the yellow ones, and twenty-five of the blue ones. That made eighty-three, all eighty-three Pikmin he had freed from the earth since landing. Eighty-three lives had been lost because of his poor judgement, eighty-three little beings who had done nothing wrong were torn limb from limb and it was all his fault.
A cold feeling settled in his gut. Why had he even done it? Why had he taken command of these simple creatures, leading them into battle like so many mice into the jaws of cats? It was selfish of him, a disgusting and greedy act, to sacrifice so many lives in lieu of his own.
Fatigue came now, slipping in where the adrenaline had begun to fade. He bent, placing his hands on his knees and wishing that he could wipe away the sweat trickling slowly down the side of his head. What could he do now? He still had no way to get home and no more time than he had started with, but could he really persevere? Could he really cause so many more to suffer and die and still live with himself?
A slight movement began at the edge of his peripheral vision. Wearily raising his head, he saw a tiny red sprout, tipped with a vibrant, faintly glowing leaf, struggling free of the soil. One more. There was one more Pikmin left, one that had been replanted or grown from a fallen comrade's seed or whatever, it didn't matter as long as that sprout was there, waving at him. He approached slowly, scarcely believing the sight. The sprout sat there in the ground, its leaf swishing gently to and fro like always.
And without bidding from his addled mind, Olimar's hands wrapped around the sleek red stem and pulled, the plump body popping free and emitting a greeting-like squeak. He stared at the plant-creature, and the plant-creature stared back. Another Pikmin. Another charge. Another soldier. Not again, he couldn't do it again....
But there was something in the Pikmin's gaze that startled Olimar when he finally identified it; trust. It looked up at him as though awaiting his order and wanting to obey whatever he commanded, offering condition-free acceptance of anything its father figure might ask of it. The creature blinked a few times and then scurried behind Olimar, ready to follow. He turned to look at the creature and again met its gaze, which was now slightly confused but that trust was still there.
How could that single remaining Pikmin trust him? Didn't it know that he had slaughtered a teeming army of its brethren? He saw then, in those big round eyes, that even if it did know, the Pikmin didn't care. It would fight for him, willingly and with every ounce of its strength, just as the others had. It wanted to succeed for Olimar and was willing to chance its life.
Everything suddenly made sense to him. The Pikmin threw themselves into battle against overwhelming foes not just for his sake, but for everyone's sake, for all those who had fallen before them and to safeguard those who would come after them. They fought for life and he was their general, using his brain where muscle alone failed so that they could succeed. He wasn't their shepherd so much as their...teammate. And in the end, they were all fighting for the same thing.
Swallowing the thick feeling in his throat, Olimar turned from the smaller creature and peered out of their crevice. No predators were in sight, only the local flora that bobbed with the passing breeze. He whistled sharply and then took off at a jog, knowing that the Pikmin would scurry faithfully at his heels. They all would, once they had grown and been plucked, and they would succeed.
As long as there was life, there was hope.
But he barely registered this; his mind still swam with those horrible screams, the high-pitched, pain-filled wails of the Pikmin as they perished en masse. Olimar clenched his eyes shut, trying not to remember the look of pure terror on each and every strange little face, the snap of delicate bones and squelch of viscera between cruel jaws, and the screaming, always screaming....
It had been a massacre; there was no other word for it.
The huge insect grew weary of its prey, turning and lumbering off with an annoyed squawk. Still Olimar hid there, spread-eagled against the rock, listening to his heart drumming in his ears and wishing it would drown out that screaming. Every single one....He remembered now with painful clarity, thirty-six of the red ones, twenty-two of the yellow ones, and twenty-five of the blue ones. That made eighty-three, all eighty-three Pikmin he had freed from the earth since landing. Eighty-three lives had been lost because of his poor judgement, eighty-three little beings who had done nothing wrong were torn limb from limb and it was all his fault.
A cold feeling settled in his gut. Why had he even done it? Why had he taken command of these simple creatures, leading them into battle like so many mice into the jaws of cats? It was selfish of him, a disgusting and greedy act, to sacrifice so many lives in lieu of his own.
Fatigue came now, slipping in where the adrenaline had begun to fade. He bent, placing his hands on his knees and wishing that he could wipe away the sweat trickling slowly down the side of his head. What could he do now? He still had no way to get home and no more time than he had started with, but could he really persevere? Could he really cause so many more to suffer and die and still live with himself?
A slight movement began at the edge of his peripheral vision. Wearily raising his head, he saw a tiny red sprout, tipped with a vibrant, faintly glowing leaf, struggling free of the soil. One more. There was one more Pikmin left, one that had been replanted or grown from a fallen comrade's seed or whatever, it didn't matter as long as that sprout was there, waving at him. He approached slowly, scarcely believing the sight. The sprout sat there in the ground, its leaf swishing gently to and fro like always.
And without bidding from his addled mind, Olimar's hands wrapped around the sleek red stem and pulled, the plump body popping free and emitting a greeting-like squeak. He stared at the plant-creature, and the plant-creature stared back. Another Pikmin. Another charge. Another soldier. Not again, he couldn't do it again....
But there was something in the Pikmin's gaze that startled Olimar when he finally identified it; trust. It looked up at him as though awaiting his order and wanting to obey whatever he commanded, offering condition-free acceptance of anything its father figure might ask of it. The creature blinked a few times and then scurried behind Olimar, ready to follow. He turned to look at the creature and again met its gaze, which was now slightly confused but that trust was still there.
How could that single remaining Pikmin trust him? Didn't it know that he had slaughtered a teeming army of its brethren? He saw then, in those big round eyes, that even if it did know, the Pikmin didn't care. It would fight for him, willingly and with every ounce of its strength, just as the others had. It wanted to succeed for Olimar and was willing to chance its life.
Everything suddenly made sense to him. The Pikmin threw themselves into battle against overwhelming foes not just for his sake, but for everyone's sake, for all those who had fallen before them and to safeguard those who would come after them. They fought for life and he was their general, using his brain where muscle alone failed so that they could succeed. He wasn't their shepherd so much as their...teammate. And in the end, they were all fighting for the same thing.
Swallowing the thick feeling in his throat, Olimar turned from the smaller creature and peered out of their crevice. No predators were in sight, only the local flora that bobbed with the passing breeze. He whistled sharply and then took off at a jog, knowing that the Pikmin would scurry faithfully at his heels. They all would, once they had grown and been plucked, and they would succeed.
As long as there was life, there was hope.