This place was like a desert, kind of. It warmed up to glorious, spring-time temperatures during the day, and dropped into the negatives as soon as the Sun was an inch to the left past noon. Frankly, I knew as much about playing survivalist as a kid learning how to walk. My mom had tried to get me interested throughout my elementary years, but really, it just wasn't my thing. I'd choose the internet over hiking any day. Now Skylar, that boy was a Scout to the bone, and whenever I came across a plant I happened to know, I owed it to him; and the occasional sprig of some poisonous leaf he'd leave between my sheets.

At least I knew I wasn't allergic to any ivy's, yet.

So far, though, the only plants I'd recognized were normal, run o' the mill weeds. I'm not even wholly sure what I was looking for, or if I was looking for anything at all. Every move I made, every thought I had was draped in a blanket of hazy mist, somewhat reminiscent of a dream. Sometimes I remembered, a lot of the time I didn't. At no point did I care.

On day three I knew I needed to eat something, if the sharp, nauseating clench of my stomach said anything; while at the same time a vague notion came to mind, a barely-there goal I'd been leaning toward over the last few days. Oh. That made sense. Hello instinct, my name is Jemma.

Looking back on whatever my brain could conjure up as a memory, there wasn't really anything particularly edible – or non, really, just wholly unappetizing – I could recall stumbling upon. Just a bunch of weeds and sticky vines that left seeds in places that itched. Although… as I sat there against the roots of a tree, I wondered. There was a book we had to read in school once, middle-school, where in it the protagonist saved himself by eating tree-bark while he was lost in the woods. Willow bark, to be exact.

Except there were no Willow trees here. I didn't know what kind of trees these were, and any search back home had yielded nothing of interest. Bark isn't poisonous though, I thought, eyeballing the tree I leaned on. No harm giving it a try, right?

Until I realized that biting through bark wasn't nearly as appealing as surviving made it out to be and that sharp crunch sliced my gums and choked me. With tears in my eyes, I hocked blood and bark, and thought maybe I'd made a mistake. Not only that, but I'd also forgotten that the protagonist of that particular book had been a horse, and maybe I didn't read it in school. What was that book called? I couldn't remember. Staring down at the broken strip in my hand, my stomach rolled as nausea swelled behind my eyes. Instinct, I decided, was a funny thing; drove you to do equally funny – horrible – things when it meant the difference between life and death.

As I moved to get up, something clinked. Clinked. Slowly, searching the ground by my side, I came upon the fabric of my pocket, and found it was occupied. Reaching inside, I pulled out the long, slender tube that I immediately identified as a lighter. The very one I'd been carrying with me for the last five months on some back-handed whim that it could come in handy should I have an emergency. Sort of like the one I was having now. But how in the world could a measly lighter help deter the starvation I now faced? Maybe by, I don't know, lighting a fire? You could always start there, my mind supplied, and I frowned.

Was I always this dumb? I might not have been scout savvy, but even I knew how to start a fire.

And oh, it was wonderful.

Each pop of oxygen and bitter wisp of smoke made my toes curl.

In that moment I was man, discovering fire for the very first time, and I knew what the top of the world felt like. I scrabbled around the small clearing, gathering any viable tender I could get my hands on, determined to keep this baby going. Night would come soon enough, and I was going to spend it warm if I had anything to say about it.

Days turned into a week, and I was still alive. After discovering fire, crying, and sleeping into half the next day; I'd come upon a small pond a few meters from camp. After what felt like an epiphany, I peeled several strips of bark, and soaked them. It sounded like a good idea at first, but bark wasn't leather, and the results were disappointing. At least I could chew it now. If I'd been proficient with a weapon, I might have considered sharpening a stick. I'd seen several rabbits and meat always sounded better than a plant-based diet. But I wasn't, and I had no desire to try, so I sufficed to watch them instead.

They weren't very entertaining.

I was playing with my gums when he found me, putting pressure against the healing wounds and wondering if I'd have scars now – what do those kinds of scars even look like? He stepped out from behind a tree as if he'd been a part of it. Tall, dark-skinned, and all green eyes; I stared like an idiot with my thumb shoved under my lip.

I was afraid, but also not. Suspicion reared its head, but it was wrong. The desire to run, to flee, was suspiciously absent from my thoughts as I listened. I knew what he was, who he was, without ever having to be told. Anyone with a brain could recognize his ilk, but even then, everything was wrong. Just like that night at my Gate, and every night since; I felt, but it was twisted into something… less. Or possibly worse, I couldn't decide.

Where were my instincts when I needed them most?

Obviously not here, stepped out for tea.

His name is Giro – san, sama, something – and he needed help with his cart, the wheel had come off and he couldn't get it back on alone. Of course not. I smiled because I didn't have a reason not to, not yet. I agreed to help him with his tire, because the similarities were uncanny, and I couldn't picture a cart in my head. I took his hand and let him lead me away from the place I'd turned into a haven of familiarity. All the while something slithered uncomfortably just below my skin, pressing against the haze that had come to rule my life.

When I saw the rest of them, I did not struggle. Even when I saw them sneer and whisper amongst themselves. Even when I saw the girls – and women, and a few young boys – clinging to the far side of a rather large wagon. I pretended like their clothes weren't torn and tattered, and their bodies weren't tattooed in scars old and new. Giro brought me all the way to the front, he smiled as he lifted me bodily onto the bench.

I smiled back as he clambered up to sit beside me, and maybe his smile was kind of nice.

The oxen – because he never used horses, horses were weak – groaned as his whip opened new wounds on their shoulders. I kept smiling, even as something tightened and bled inside my breast. I smiled because I had to. I smiled because I didn't know what else to do.

NOTE: So this sucks, but getting past the first few always do. Even in one-shot style, apparently. As a final reminder: This story is Mature and the content lives up to that rating. If you don't care for disturbing material, move on. I tag chapters with specific content at the beginning so you know what you're getting into. On another note, forgive me as I find my way around the character, we're still getting to know each other. Thanks for the interest so far!