Hi, hello~ Guess who decided it's about time she contributed something to the piles of SI stories already found in this lovely, little website. I'd say try reading the whole thing before deciding whether there needs to be a pressing of the back button and pretending you hadn't just wasted a couple minutes of your life, but it's really up to you.

So, here's my own attempt at a self-insert. Well, technically, an original character insert, because I'm very sure the character in this chapter is leagues away from my actual personality and identity... I think. ANYWAY. Do read on!


Chapter One

Note to self: the next time someone told me not to eat something because it came from a highly questionable source, take them seriously instead of being an idiot and eating the food anyway. Maybe then I wouldn't have ended up six feet under with a headstone that said, "Here lies Hope Summers, bested by a slice of pie."

Or, well, avoided a very irreversible outcome, full stop.

You see, by not falling prey to a deceptively good-looking dessert, I would've been able to continue thriving in the pandemonium known as public high school. And by not becoming yet another victim of natural selection, I would've been able to a lot of stuff: graduate, get to college, earn a living, finally get kicked out by my loving aunt and uncle (they've been waiting to do that for years), graduate again, live to a ripe old age where I could get away with yelling at kids to get off my lawn...

And so many more.

But most importantly, not end up in a situation where it turned out that a sudden death was the least of my problems.

That last part was actually what made me really, really wish I noticed that tinge of green on that pie's filling. Because the moment I realized where I ended up next—which was someplace pitch black, cramped, yet surprisingly warm—all my earthly concerns became minuscule in comparison.

I mean, I've gone from seeing the light to floating in the dark. I was suddenly a lot more sightless than all three blind mice combined. I was weak, and I was… who knew what else, because I sure as hell didn't. My mind drifted in and out of consciousness at long intervals. My sense of time had gone to the seven winds. I was stuck in this place without so much as an explanation.

And, if I thought I was already Lady Luck personified, this place, wherever it was, was also steadily growing smaller and smaller. That was not a winning combination at all.

When at first I had room for moving a body part or two, now I could barely do so much as kick the wall. Which had been my past time during my lucid moments… I was really bored, okay?

Ahem. Anyway.

Forget about the hows and whys. Forget about whatever I lost in the process. Mourning? Seven stages of grief? Hah, no time for that, and there wasn't really a lot to mourn about, anyway. I needed to get out of this death trap before I was squished like a grape. That's my priority.

Fortunately for me, I had a plan. It was so simple, it was ingenious.

Based on the assumption that everything has a way out, it would also imply that this place had one, too. Whether it was a simple hole, waiting to be pried open, or something a bit more complex that might involve some extensive maneuvering, an exit was an exit. And if I could find it, I was well on my way to sweet freedom. It was a great logical assumption. Had to be.

So, I did the first thing that came to mind.

I fussed and fussed and fussed like my life depended on it. I squirmed, moved my arms, legs, anything that could get me going. I didn't stop until I found a way out. I also could've sworn I've heard some muffled, panicked voices from somewhere as I continually launched my weak assault against the taut walls, but I decided that I was going to bother with that later.

Eyes on the prize, champ—well, figuratively speaking.

Eventually, in what seemed like forever, I felt it. That movement. That pressure. Overwhelming at first, but relieving at the same time because I was finally sliding down to somewhere. For a moment, I thought my head was going to explode since my way out was a tight fit and weirdly squishy. But then I slipped through and…

And I immediately felt cold. And wet. And slimy, like I've just been extracted from a pool of, well, slime. Disgusting. And yet… pretty interesting. Ooh. I tried to touch my body so I could get a feel of the stuff—curiosity was probably going to kill this cat someday—but then I couldn't.

Huh. As it turned out, I might have escaped that prison, but I was still weak as a newborn. I've got matching sets of jelly arms and legs.

Well, that bites—hey!

The next thing I knew, I was being manhandled. There were hands under my head and body, like I was being carried. Actually, I was. I wouldn't say it was done bridal-style at all, considering how the hands felt huge in comparison, but it was somewhere close. Still, ugh, creepy.

Was I being handled by a giant? An alien? Did they finally have a reason to visit Earth? And more importantly, did it involve anything I might actually fancy?

I blinked my eyes open, ready to verbally lash out at the bastard all the same, but then all violent, sadistic thoughts disappeared with a poof as I realized I could barely see anything. The colors were too vibrant, the edges too blurry, and the light… gah, too blinding. Like staring at the sun, only worse. The most I could make out before I shut my eyes again were huge, moving, flesh-colored blobs that blended with some other colors, mostly light blue.

Okay, not an alien then.

Darn.

I was then submerged in water, cleaned off, and had a blanket wrapped around me. At least, I thought it was a blanket, soft and comfy as it felt. I made a mental note to find out what kind that was so I could buy it sometime in the future.

Still…

T-this was all getting a bit too much, really.

Okay, scratch that. Understatement of the year, right there. I really, truly couldn't understand what was happening.

Maybe my disoriented brain had something to do with it, maybe not, but it was one thing after another and I really could use a break. I was dead, and now I was… what, exactly? Something else? Unamused beyond all reality? Mystery of the day right there.

So, overwhelmed beyond belief, I responded to my situation with the only way I knew how. I cried like I've never cried before. It was almost instinctive, almost, gosh, natural and if I hadn't been putting my all into that long wail like I was aiming to win a platinum medal (gold was for losers) for bawling, I probably would have realized that my voice was off. Very off.

Hell, I probably would have noticed many other things, too. Things that might have made me go into cardiac arrest at the nearest opportunity or, at the very least, in a coma for a couple years.

Alas, I remained blissfully unaware.

Things only became a little less chaotic and a little clearer once I was finally passed to someone else. The moment I felt myself being pressed against something warm, my crying stopped. I didn't hesitate on leaning into that sweet, sweet warmth like my very existence depended on it. I didn't even care what it was.

Too cold. Too freaked out. Need comfort. And sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. Gimme.

"Congratulations, by the way," someone then said. "She's quite an adorable baby, don't you think?"

What?


London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down...


London bridge was right. Never in my entire life had I envisioned myself becoming a pink raisin wrapped in blankets. Even worse, a baby. Was it too late to ask for divine interference and have time reversed? Because I could use some time-reversing. Nothing too fancy, just a rewind here and there…

Oh, scratch that, make that a lot—I'd sooner get a lifetime's worth of detention with boring, coma-inducing Mr. Brown from history class. Heck, I'd rather get my ponytail cut off again by a bully from fifth grade! Not… this.

The fascination of being a fifteen-year-old in the body of a baby could only last for so long. At first it was all oohs and ahhs, pretty colors and funny shapes, but after the novelty had worn off… I wouldn't call my days "barrels of fun," exactly.

First, there was that part about losing track of time because I alternated between waking, sucking the sweet, sweet nectar known as milk from a bottle, being hummed lullabies to, being rocked (while fearing for my life because dropping was not what my thrill-seeking self would even enjoy), sleeping… rinse and repeat. Busy, busy, busy. It wouldn't be until several months down the line when things finally slowed down to a more lucid pace. But by then, I was pretty sure I was twitching from all the madness.

Then there was that part about having to develop my body again. Which was absolutely not fun at all. There was my blurry sight, which didn't completely clear up until I was several months deep into the whole infancy thing, and then there was my body. The traitor wouldn't move how I wanted it to. Punching something instead of gripping it, rolling to my left when I was aiming for my right, crying instead of cussing someone—anything—out… Argh. It was only after a lot of time had passed before I could even do so much as grip my blanket and keep it that way for as long as I could.

(Or, if I felt adventurous, roll myself around said blanket until I closely resembled a burrito.)

What about sitting up, you ask? Oh, that was still fifty-fifty in regards to success. There were days I'd be the victor and I'd let out a pleased yell, and then there were days when my head somehow decided to be as heavy as the dumbbell I accidentally flung against a window years ago… which had me babysitting the kid of the family who owned the house for a month. And standing? In my dreams, darling.

I didn't think it possible, but I actually missed my old body. Sure, people made fun of me for still looking more like a preteen despite being fifteen (for the love of God, Marcus, I was a late-bloomer and going out with me does not make you a pedophile). But that body was controllable. And free. I could jump, kick someone in the shins, push them into a swimming pool (with the knowledge that said victim could swim), run like hell, do a food fight, anything. Now, if I could toss my baby bottle over the crib, I'd be lucky.

On the plus side, it wasn't all doom and gloom. There was still a big enough silver lining to not plot revenge against the person responsible for my current predicament. Not that I could, but the sentiment was there.

Anything I could possibly think of doing, I got away with it. If I decided to just… let off steam because of my frustrating situation, I got a bottle of milk for it and a lot of snuggling. I could sleep whenever I wanted, and nobody would wake me up because not a single soul was crazy enough to incur the wrath of a wailing infant. Nope, I slept and slept like nobody's business—more than half the time, I was even the one waking people up. And if I broke something, I didn't get chased out of the house and disallowed to return for a week.

I was also still growing. Which meant that, in due time, I was going to be back with a vengeance. Just you wait, Earth, I'll be getting my revenge. Hehehe…

Whoops, lost myself for a moment there.

Anyway. The cherry on top, though? I had parents, which I never had before. Aunt and Uncle said I lost them when I was three, but apparently, the reason why varied like the phases of the moon. They'd sometimes mutter about them dying in a car crash. On a good day, they'd say they died saving me from an accident. I think there was also something along the lines of them doing hardcore drugs and left me at their doorstep to continue their addiction… but I still liked the heroic version the best.

Still, if I was forced at gunpoint to say what good dying gave me, it was most likely this. And speaking of parents…

I heard the distant footsteps before I heard the whoosh of a door sliding open. I didn't know whether it was because my hearing was just that insanely sensitive at this age, but any sound I heard, even from afar, rang pretty loud in my ears.

Step, step, step. A couple more… and then… stop. A shadow loomed over me as a smiling woman leaned into the crib.

Enter Mom, the person who was always around since day one. She was probably the last person you'd guess to be a mother with the way she presented herself in clothing and action—like she was always fresh out of a fashion show in Paris—but here she was, beaming down at her own infant with the warm fondness that mothers had a natural talent for.

Admittedly, there were still some things about her that I found weird. Braided, bubblegum pink hair (probably dyed); clothes no doubt high-end but peculiar in a way that I couldn't put a finger on; and a scent that sometimes varied between metallic and earthy, like she'd been either spending time in a welding station or the great outdoors. Seen a lot of action. But maybe that was just me. I

I was the neighborhood eccentric from time to time, why couldn't anyone else be?

"Hey there, Mallow, sweetie," she said, ruffling what little hair had grown since my birth. I could've sworn there was also something else on my head that felt strangely sensitive to her touch, but again, that was probably just my wild, out-of-control imagination. My mental health did get a bit compromised after the unbelievable discovery that there was life after death.

That, or my milk was spiked.

…And, oh, right. Hope Summers was now an ancient myth and in her place stood Mallow, last name still unknown. Mostly because I hadn't heard it thrown around in the room yet. Took some getting used to, though; I didn't always respond to it. What I did know, though, was that somewhere down the line kids would be picking on me for being named after a marshmallow. Just those little ankle-biters try.

I put on the gummiest smile I could muster and let out a pleased noise. Hi, Mom.

Mom's smile grew a thousand watts brighter. She reached down, picked me up, and started carrying me out of the room. As if to answer the curious stare I sent her, she said, "We're going out for a walk today. It's about time we both had a little sun, don't you think?"

"Guh," was my very eloquent reply. I started playing with her hair as we walked.

Y'know, I'd once thought that it was going to take some serious acting skills to convince anyone that I wasn't a fifteen-year-old in a baby's body. But after making a lot of responses and doing actions by sheer instinct alone, coupled with a just-do-the-first-thing-that-comes-to-mind attitude, that fear turned out to be baseless.

I was a natural.

…I was also apparently living decently, financially speaking.

As Mom carried me around to explore the house a bit (she'd noticed me staring curiously at everything and indulged), I couldn't help but go glassy-eyed over how tastefully-decorated everything was. The hallway we've passed through was decorated with all sorts of fancy paintings. The ceilings high above were lit up by equally fancy lights I'd usually see on display at a home furnishing store. The master bedroom that my parents no doubt had their, ahem, private moments had a king-sized bed that I'd kill to jump on, along with wooden and glass furniture that made me wonder how many zeroes were involved in the purchasing of all these stuff. The kitchen was pristine, and the dining room made me think of a restaurant, except smaller. Then there was the living room that was the physical embodiment of "rest and relaxation" and "making people realize that the ones that welcomed them into the household did not screw around."

I'll admit, I was probably painting too extravagant a picture there, considering I came from a more modest kind of lifestyle. What seemed expensive to me might just be because the way they looked. So, maybe my parents were just good interior decorations and made a humble adobe resemble a shiny palace. Not that I was complaining. Never, perish the thought.

Anyway, it was at the living room where we both stopped. I was placed on a stroller that oozed soft comfort, taken outside, and then we got rolling. As we set out, I heard my Mom run a soft commentary about how my dad was getting so busy that the last time he saw a ray of sunlight not filtered through a glass pane was more than a month ago.

I considered that for a moment. So, my parents were busy little bees. Not just in the bedroom on their private time. That could mean some neglecting was going to be involved, but I've handled worse. I doubted anything was compared to the nightmare known as my relatives begrudgingly raising me to become the fine, upstanding citizen I used to be. They were like the real life version of the Dursleys, minus the having-to-live-in-a-cupboard part. Or the hand-me-downs… or the magic. Darn that last part—I loved anything fantasy.

I guessed that was another pro in regards to kicking the bucket. No more having to deal with them. Good bye, hasta la vista, see you, wouldn't want to be you. I might just enjoy my new life, after all.

Mom and I walked for some time under the cool, afternoon sun. Judging from that nip in the air, not to mention that nice, crispy, orange leaf that drifted into my stroller, it was currently autumn. Goodie, that was my favorite season. That crunchy sound of leaves being stepped on was music to my ears.

Be still, my heart.

Darn it, I said be still.

We passed through several houses along the way, indicating that we were somewhere residential. But whatever enjoyment I got out of seeing everything painted orange immediately went down the drain the moment the architecture of the houses caught my eye.

I wasn't deluded enough to assume I ended up in the same place as before—I'd have to have the equivalent luck of winning the lottery for that to happen—but even if I was armed with that knowledge, I still couldn't tell what part of the world I lived in now. And that threw me off a lot. Not knowing.

But if I had to take a guess, I was probably not in America. The houses looked too aged in design. Definitely not the kind that were screaming to be decorated with toilet paper. Too dignified to be vandalized. I'd probably just end up being guilty over ruining such a fine-looking piece of architecture.

So, maybe… Europe? Yeah, that might just work… except it was definitely not modern Europe.

I think I've seen pictures about what kind of houses these resembled. From history class, I think? Or even those hardbound books I could knock someone out with. The name was at the tip of my tongue, though. Curses. Must've been during those lectures I slept through.

But if I was in Europe, then there would've been a distinctive accent. My school's had its share of exchange students before. Most of them often stuck with whom they were familiar with instead of interacting with us hellions, but there was no mistaking that impressionable twang whenever they spoke. My mother had no telling accent whatsoever.

Ugh, shiver me timbers, what a pain to think about. I could already feel my brain demanding I just cease and desist and take things one at a time.

That was exactly what I decided to do. I took my own advice like it was the sagest thing since time immemorial. So when Mom stopped to point out something interesting, like two black birds fighting over a piece of bread, I put my all into focusing on exactly that. Whatever mumble-bumble my brain did about how out-of-place I was and how I was being set up for a huge surprise was willfully ignored.

Lalala, can't hear you, lalala. What's that? The fridge was running? Well, better go catch it.

Alas, despite my best efforts, I couldn't help but continue feeling that something was off. Very off. A moment of mulling that over had me realizing that this was the exact thing I felt when I first saw that slice of pie that killed me. Another note to self: trust the gut. It could potentially save me from future pie-related disasters.

Whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, though, was up in the air right now.

My ponderous mood persisted the entire trip.

Mom was blissfully unaware.


We went out for a stroll again the next day. But instead of doing some aimless wandering, this time we headed towards the park.

Ah, the park. The perfect place for people of all ages. Okay, they were generally people with equally unique fashion tastes as my mom, but they were people all the same. Grandpas and grandmas sitting by the stools and feeding the birds… joggers secretly out-jogging their buddies… teenagers who were dangerously toeing the line between public decency and stripping each others' clothes off then and there… and kids like me, either infants in strollers or walking, talking little hellions running around the playground, going down the slide, commandeering the swing set, or…

Punching each other's lights out?

I, Mallow, did the one thing I rarely envisioned myself doing. I did a double-take.

The result: I really didn't imagine it. The kids I saw, probably around ten or eleven, were really fighting. And it wasn't even your typical schoolyard fight where there was hair pulling, some blind punching or kicking, a lot of kids cheering, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" and a lot of crying. Instead, the kids were moving and dodging around in a way that was, oh, my heart, practiced.

No. Trained—that was the word I was looking for. Each strike was well-placed, though not always accurate, and definitely intended for a specific body part. They were also backflipping, twirling, or doing those leg-sweeps I thought were only restricted to action movies. Not neatly since there was still a lot of stumbling involved, mind you, but they were doing it again and again like it was a core part of their very being. And it was awesome.

Though for the parents? Maybe not. Unless they were psychopaths. Or sadists.

I decided to steal a glance at my mom as she rolled me towards the nearby bench. There was little to no trace of alarm on her face. In fact, she actually looked nostalgic as she watched the kids continue having a go at each other. I could have even sworn there was a sigh merrily involved.

My jaw dropped at that, and before my mom even noticed such an atrocious, out-of-character reaction, I quickly picked up the rattle beside me and shoved it into my mouth. Tried to, anyway, because the thing was huge. And probably dirty… oops.

I decided to perish any germ-related thoughts and focused on observing at the other adults milling around... and they weren't even remotely appalled. Heck, they might as well be watching their kids play with dolls or toy cars. Absolutely no care in the world—there was a person even coaching one of the kids! Punch there. No, no, you'll want to throw off her balance. Okay, here, a kick would've been better. No, you're still doing great. Keep going.

…Either I landed in an alternate dimension where knocking the everloving socks off of each other was the norm, or I was dropped on my head this morning and I just didn't remember it.

Eventually, the two tired each other out and concluded their fight as a draw. They grinned, turned to their parents watching nearby, and moments later, the two families made their way out of the park like there wasn't anyone fighting for their lives five seconds ago. In fact, a closer look at kids as they passed by my mom and I showed that there wasn't even so much as a red mark on their exposed body parts. No swelling, bruises, nothing. Or blood. Why was there no blood? The last time I was punched in the face, I was called "Panda" for days. No cookies for any correct guesses as to why.

"Next time, I'm totally gonna kick your butt!" one of them said, unaware that I was staring with wide, fascinated eyes.

The other kid snorted. "Yeah, right! By the time that happens I'm already a Huntsman and you're still training to be one."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yeah-uh!"

"You're just saying that 'cause you think you're the best on Remnant."

Pause. "Yeah, well, we'll find out if that's true. And if it is, you're totally getting wrecked."

That was the last bit of conversation I heard from them before they completely gone from sight. However, it didn't occur to me until several seconds later that they were so far already that I shouldn't have heard their hearts' deepest desires. Yet somehow, I still did. With clarity. Like they were actually just close by—and were shouting.

That was utterly cool and alarming at the same time.

Just when I thought that was the most outlandish thing I've realized today, though, recalling those kids' conversations made me pause and realize that there were bigger concerns. Huntsman? Remnant? I might have been more of a B-average kind of person, but there was definitely something about those words that cracked a fine dent in whatever I'd been making myself believe.

From the way it was put in that context… Remnant sounded like a place. A world.

But that was silly! I was still on Earth, was I not? Maybe I was just born in a very isolated country somewhere in the world. And English was the lingua franca. Yeah, that worked, didn't it? Of course it did! Haha, why ever should I believe otherwise?

Mom saw me staring at the kids, sat me on her lap, and smiled knowingly. "I suppose that should've been a more fitting way to introduce you to the world of Remnant, sweetie. You might be seeing a lot more of that when you grow up." At my confused stare (which she definitely confused for me thinking she was speaking gibberish or something equally alien), she nodded like she'd been making a lot of sense. "After all, someone's gotta be able to keep the nasty monsters at bay, right?"

For the second time in this entire lifetime, I ended up echoing the same word I've thought of after I realized I've turned into a baby.

What?


And London bridge came falling down.


A/N: And before anyone asks, yes, Mallow is definitely what you wouldn't think of when the word "absolutely serious" comes to mind. There will be those moments if the situation demands it, but for the most part? Pfffft.

Standard "no OPness or I'm supah dupah perfect" rules shall apply here. I like the thought of imagining how a character would react when sent into another world, but I'm not one for power fantasies. Or whatever counts as Mary Suedom, anyway, because it seems that's everyone's primary concern. That said, more info about Mallow's current family background, and general info, will come in the future - I'm trying not to show everything in one chapter.

Like the story? Hate it with every fiber of your being? Feel free to leave me a scathing review, a favorite, or a grudging follow. I appreciate feedback, good or bad!