My enemy - who?

I rush to each body, flipping their corpse, tearing and ripping their gambesons apart. There upon each wound, I spread both cotton and flesh and organs about, stretching and angling them for my peering eyes to inspect. What are these wounds? What weapons have struck through these poor soldiers?

One of them, wound shape akin to slug shots of size 12 gauge. Another of them, a hole on the neck so ravaged and deep, it must have struck through the shattered spine and bounced throughout his skull. Almost every wound thus far, every bone shattered so far, they all point to slug shots damage, and for the wounds that have not ruptured or exploded, they were bruises which seemed they result from a wooden bat or a buttstroke.

Wait, what about these tear in my clothing? What's all these slices, and clean cuts into my blouse? How could these wounds appear? This uniform, this whole fucking day, it wasn't damaged or cut in any way. No weapon was used. No blade pierced me. None of the wounds have any sign of origin.

I looked by the soldiers. They were wielding halberds.

I looked down by my hip. My shotgun hung there slung from my shoulders.

No. This requires further investigation.

With my arms held open like the stance of a crucifix, I stand upright; a shining glimmer stream through my humors. The translation chains fail and recombine, reforging into another spell. As if a curtain, the veil is ripped open revealing a bright orange glow emanating from my fingertips. The light engulfs my cranium in a bubble of energy; my neurons and senses drenches with arcane flux. Oh stupid fantasy powers, translate my fucking memories!

Ripples of clarity and fog crash through; my soul brought through the cycle of moving life and slumbering dreaming. It's a paradox. I'm sent through slumber dreams just to re-experience these scattered moments of life. Blood drips from my pores, yet I press on and refocus the memory translation down to a recent moment. Scenarios and simulations flash through my cerebral cortex. From one moment before the shriek, I had only my skin. The next moment, I had my shotgun.

What the fuck did that shriek cause?!

Then the spell stops short, and my eardrums rupture once more. My legs fold in on themselves, and I stumble from my ankles and hit the dirt once more, sound and colors blurring into each other. Everything hurts. Mine own gray matter boils over with a simultaneous deep fry and bleeding rot. The world swings about my vision, and I can barely open my eyelids. My limbs tremble and shake, and there I roll onto my rumbling stomach. Waves of crimson seep from my nose and ears and trickles from the corner of my lip. I cough out blood, and every hack tears out pulmonary cells out through my esophagus. I cannot move. I am unable to stand up, unable to lift a limb.

The seeping light coming down from the silhouette of treetop foliage changes and flows about; moonlight gives way to dawnlight. How many dizzying hours has it been? Where was I before I woke up? I need to get up. I need to find my teammates. They need to know that I'm okay.

With every effort, I try fire my neurons and lift my body up on itself. I should have, yet I could not, and before I press further on, I feel someone grab hold of my arms, lifting me up from my deathly stupor. Someone, not just someone, a person.

A person who's alive and breathing.

"Tiberius? Holy fuck! You're alive!" My rescuer smiles.

I open my ghoulish eyes. "Virgil?!"

The frontlines echoed a cold quiet. Maybe it's just autumn, with the deep forests glowing a bright orange. Foliage of forestry hummed softly, whistling still to the tune of a soft breeze. The air was cool but crisp, with an earthy tang in it. The forest stretched on around, and save for the siegeworks and logistics breaking landscape, there'd be no end of tall trunks and rich soil whichever angle one looked. And though I didn't see much of it, I knew there was an ocean guarded by distant mountains. Everything looked calm, peaceful and beautiful and warm, but the cold quiet still echoed on.

I lifted myself from the medical bedding, brushing off warming layers of fur; my butt stung from the discomfort of straw stuffing. At least this tent kept whatever rain or torrent out from my sleeping quarters; it's happened several times in the barracks and I was most irritated.

"Virgil, dear friend, how goes the fight?" I crack my shoulders.

Virgil looked away, twisting his mustache a little. "Well, uh, sorry to say but in one of the patrols, you fell behind."

"Yeah, the unit was too preoccupied with sending poachers out the protection zone, but don't worry, at least someone rescued me back."

If I was left alone, worse things could have killed me. Nature stays away from this haunted wilderness; all the animals are too terrified. I've heard a flock of sheep was being led here, but all the herd animals ran away. After all, this corridor is haunted and tortured by the east.

"Well, just fucking look at this." Virgil hands me a mirror.

I took the mirror; held it to my face and wiped away the fog and grime off the shiny thing.

The ghoul stared at me, and I stared back at the ghoul.

I jumped up, yelling for dear Christ. "What did they do to me?! Did they take my teeth? Jesus!" The mirror fell and stumbled across the board. My jaw looks like it should hurt, so badly I couldn't even chew on a gum stick, but I've felt nothing but a numb sensation. My tongue felt strange inside of me, so swollen and thick; a sharp taste lingers through my mouth. My beautiful tastebuds, the ones that once tasted all sorts of shitty rations, now felt burnt up. Rot swirled through my insides, strangely in harmonic order.

"Aaron! Aaron, are you okay?!"

The goth girl helps me by my shoulder, yet I shove her from my bed. In the motion, she stumbles backward and thumps against the poor table. Her messy hair, now brunette, fights over the tableware. A glass of water spills over, soaking her pink tank top, yet sparing her black jeans and red sneakers. The girl groans at the pain, her lips quivering and her hazel eyes dilating with fright and worry.

"Shit! I'm sorry!" I thrust myself off the bed, but my boiling insides catch up to me. My body reacts back, and so I droop over the bed and puke a sorry mess against the floor.

Pathetic, aren't we? The girl limpers in pain, and I hurl in fever. My entire face burns; dry blood stings my poor eyes terribly. The excruciation dared to knock me back unconscious, yet I will myself to sit in bed and see to this goth chick; her face ripples with horror and disgust. Her brows scrunch together, her mind rocks back and forth deciphering what my injuries mean.

The girl gets up. "Fuck you."

She tugs at my blanket, pulls it over me and leaves the room. With a loud slam, she slams the door shut, and calls for some help.

I lie still on the bed. My strength needs to come back, but it won't return. I need to leave this bed; no, I must leave this place. This fantasy world is a shithole and I need my damned modern conveniences back here. Where's my fucking phone?! I don't want to die here. I don't want to die here at all. My body aches, my head pounds, my bones throb, and my eyes burn. How long will this torment last? Will I remain conscious until tomorrow? I don't know, and I certainly hope for not much longer.

The door bursts open, and then the not-goth girl (normal girl?) waltzes in with a tray of food and towels of cleaning.

"Drink some water." She hands me a glass.

"Th-Thanks." I chugged down the water greedily; it made my throat burn like hell but soothed my raw nerves.

She got down, cleaning up my puke.

"Did you, uh, run out of makeup?" My words came out scratchy. I cleared my throat.

"No. I'm just rationing them out."

"What about your clothes? How'd you get new street wear?"

"I have friends."

It seems I'm not resting underneath a tent, but rather the ceiling of some mansion. The same mansion I was in for the first day? The ceiling had the same ornate wallpapering just like the walls themselves, and upon walls there hung some couple lamps. The windows laid open, curtains pulled aside, and azure skylight clearly filled the entire sickroom. It smelled like roses, vanilla, and lilac; whatever those flower names meant. Most assuredly, this sickroom must've been a repurposed guest room. It's only a blessing that this floor is all just stone and not carpet, and intelligently enough, it seems that my bedding is all a bunch of easily washable linens.

"Hey, uh." I coughed. "I just want to apologize. Can I, uh, learn your name?"

"It's Eris."

"Your real name, not your fantas-"

"It is my real name!"

When she got done with the puke, throwing the last fouled towel into a disposable bag, she passed the tray onto my lap.

Wait, disposable bag? It's not plastic, but rather a kind of cheap burlap. Does this medieval society know what waste disposal is? Wait, I think this society is along the more classical era; are these people the Romans of their world? What's going on here, anyways?

As I stare at the technological ingenuity - the puke bag - the girl stands up and heads for the doorway.

"Aaron, you've always been an asshole." Eris leaves.