Orion didn't so much wake up as he did resurface. Like someone dragging a half-drowned body from a freezing lake.
His eyes cracked open to dim orange light. A low fire still crackled in the stone hearth, casting shadows along the wooden walls of the cabin. He was on a cot covered in rough blankets that smelled like smoke and dog fur. The muscles in his neck and back screamed as he sat up.
Yep. Still here. Still small. Still stuck in a world where the local wildlife can breathe fire.
For a moment, he just sat there, hands in his lap, watching the flames dance like they were going to tell him something useful. They didn't.
Reid was in the far corner, perched on a stool with a knife in one hand and a whetstone in the other. His eyes didn't leave the blade. His expression didn't change. He hadn't slept—Orion could tell. There was a stillness to him, a predator's calm. As if he'd been listening to Orion breathe all night and judging whether or not it was worth keeping him alive another day.
"Morning," Orion rasped.
Reid didn't look up. "Get up. Eat. Then we work."
Ah yes, the holy trinity of survival: breakfast, manual labor, and emotionally repressed companionship.
The food was a reheated stew that smelled faintly of smoked fish and dirt. Orion didn't ask what was in it. He wasn't ready for that truth yet.
He ate in silence, occasionally side-eyeing Reid, who now sat near the door, drinking something steaming from a battered tin cup. It looked like coffee, but Orion doubted it. If it was coffee, it probably tasted like regret and wood ash.
He forced the stew down. Every bite reminded him that this body wasn't used to hunger—at least, not this kind. It burned fast, demanding more. His stomach hurt by the end of the bowl, not from fullness but from emptiness finally noticing itself.
"Outside," Reid said, already putting on his coat.
"Should've known a second bowl was too much to hope for," Orion muttered, dragging himself up. His legs still felt too thin, like a bad cosplay of a real person.
Outside, the air slapped him like it had a grudge.
The wind cut through his sleeves. His breath fogged instantly. He hunched down into his coat—which was too big for him and smelled strongly of wet leather and pine—and followed Reid down a narrow trail behind the cabin.
They entered a clearing dotted with half-buried stumps, rough logs, and large stones arranged in a loose circle. Orion could see claw marks on some of the wood. Not recent, but still deep.
"This is training ground," Reid said, voice curt. "You don't learn here, you die out there."
"Motivational. Very inspiring."
"Not supposed to be inspiring."
"Ah. Brutal honesty. My favorite learning method."
Reid tossed a small pack at his feet. It hit the ground with a thump.
"Sort it."
Orion crouched and opened the pack. Inside: cord, a dull knife, two flints, strips of dried meat, folded cloth, and a bundle of something that looked suspiciously like bones.
"Not gonna lie, if this is a test to see how fast I scream, you're getting warmer."
Reid didn't laugh. Of course.
The next hour was a masterclass in humiliation.
Orion fumbled almost every item. Got the cord knotted. Dropped the knife. Asked what the bones were for (traps, apparently). Tried to start a fire. Failed. Tried again. Failed worse. Got a blister.
Reid gave corrections with military efficiency:
"Not like that."
"You're wasting it."
"Again."
It was harsh. Blunt. Cold.
But not cruel.
And Orion could tell.
Reid didn't berate him for being weak. He corrected him because weakness killed people out here. And maybe—just maybe—he didn't want Orion to be the next frozen corpse buried under three feet of pine needles.
They broke for water by midday.
Reid handed him a canteen that tasted like metal and moss. Orion downed half of it, wiped his mouth, and leaned against a frost-covered stump.
"Does this get easier?" he asked, voice raw.
"No."
Cool.
Reid stood, checked the straps on his boots. "We're doing a route."
"Like a jog? Or…?"
"Hunting trail. Traps. Wild signs. If we see movement, you shut up and listen."
"Why do I feel like we're not the apex predator out here?"
Reid didn't answer.
Which Orion took as confirmation.
The trail wound through old woods—gnarled roots, patches of hard-packed snow, claw marks on bark. Orion kept slipping. His boots weren't made for this terrain. He fell twice and stopped announcing it after the third.
Reid walked ahead in silence, stopping occasionally to check tree marks or crouch by disturbed dirt. Orion tried to mimic his posture. Failed again.
They passed several snares. One was empty. Another had been triggered but not caught anything. The third…
The third had a Bidoof.
Still alive.
Its leg was twisted in the trap, eyes wide, body trembling.
Orion froze.
Reid didn't.
One clean step forward. One motion. The knife flashed.
Silence.
Blood on snow.
Reid wiped the blade in the grass and kept walking.
Orion didn't move right away.
This world doesn't wait for you to be ready, huh?
He jogged to catch up, biting his tongue.
By the time they reached a narrow stream, his legs were shaking. His coat was soaked. He was breathing like he'd just run a marathon in molasses.
Reid handed him dried meat. Orion chewed, forcing himself not to gag at the texture.
"You're slow," Reid said.
"You don't say."
"But you don't quit."
Orion blinked.
It wasn't praise.
Not really.
But it wasn't nothing.
He looked at Reid, who crouched by a stone to check a fishing line. Houndoom had returned, sniffing the snow around them with quiet precision.
He lives like this. Every day. No distractions. No safety net. Just this.
"How long've you been out here?" Orion asked.
Reid didn't look up. "Long enough."
"You don't miss people?"
"I don't need people."
"That's not the same as not missing them."
No answer.
Just wind.
They made it back by dusk. Orion could barely lift the axe to chop firewood. Reid didn't help. He just sat on the porch sharpening another blade.
Orion chopped. Badly. Unevenly. Almost lost a toe once.
But he didn't stop.
Later, by the fire, muscles screaming, skin red from cold, he ate again.
This time, Reid said nothing.
And neither did Orion.
The silence felt different.
Not friendly.
But shared.
Like two animals learning to tolerate each other's heat through winter.
He lay in bed that night, staring at the rafters, breath still fogging with every exhale.
This isn't a starter town. I'm not the hero. There's no Pokémon Professor waiting to hand me a shiny red gadget and a level 5 lizard.
I don't even know if I'm legally a person here.
He rolled over, buried his face in the blanket.
If I survive this week, it'll be a miracle.
Outside, something howled.
Houndoom didn't even lift his head.
And Orion, curled under a stranger's roof in a stranger's body, whispered one more thought:
"…This world better hope I don't get good at this."