When you were a child, did you ever reach out towards the stove, little fingers reaching to touch a dancing fire? Did you howl, the worse pain you've ever known rippling through your arms, released as tears as it rippled through your skull? Children learn to respect fire very early on, or they don't grow up to become adults. Even when adults tamed fire, even when we can create and destroy it with the turn of a knob and a flick of an igniter, it still bites our children and babes, ever ready to ignite.

There are tribes who have never tamed fire. They have witnessed fire, but not the itty-bitty fires that you snuff out when the food is done. Their fire is the fire that laughs at your wants, the fire that devours those too slow to run from their house. Their fire is the fire of lightning, the crackle and roar of a world strong and uncaring to the insects crushed below its rage.

Ironic then, that Alex knew neither flame on their third day of new life. Sitting below the rising sun with two very-rubbed sticks, Alex had made nothing but a growing frustration.

How hard could getting Isekai'd be, I said. A Neanderthal could make fire and clothing, I said. And here I am, naked and shivering.

Alex was not truly naked, of course. When you are covered head to claw in a smooth brown carapace stronger than bronze and airtight, "naked" and "thermoregulation" mean very little. Unfortunately, Alex's emotions didn't care about this neat piece of trivia. It was the affront to their dignity that mattered.

I am not dumber than a literal Neanderthal. Hegelian dialectics and knowing the past five hundreds years of history mean nothing when I need to speed-run the paleolithic.

If I ever get to watch a youtube video again, I'm definitely binging more crazy survivalists. Maybe not at four in the morning, though.

Alex's attention was drawn elsewhere, however. While the finer points of making fire via rubbing sticks together eluded them, sharpening the sticks did not.

Alex had sworn to themselves to become a hunter, and found it easier done than said. Stalking prey came easier than thought, their eyes tracking every rustle as they stalked the forest, internal sensors picking apart every footstep. On the other hand, being a successful hunter was easier said than done. Their body was quick, but the foxes and avians were quicker. Already on edge by the Jerkrilla's constant stomping about as they monitored Alex, their prey easily evaded their desperate grasp. Alex's body was adapted to the wilds, but not enough. It still had the taint of civilization, of their humanity.

Alex had eaten an entire fox the day before, but they felt the meal wasn't going to last. The pangs of hunger were faintly calling already. Just the thought of needing another lucky break, and Alex was squirming. They spawned in the absolute best possible location for newbies, got wildlife that didn't immediately aggro, and had their dinner literally thrown at them. If they were gonna make this their life, they would need better tools. And as far as they went, Alex's spears were very good tools.

The spear in Alex's hand was the best spear they had ever made in their two hours of frenzied experimentation. It was three fourths their height and as thick as their clenched fist, with a tip manically sharpened by their claws to a razor's edge. They found a dead tree with delightfully thick and large branches, and spent thirty minutes ripping off its limbs with gusto. They had shorn the dead bark from a branch, leaving a smooth and firm base from which to sculpt. Alex had vaguely recalled how wood needed to be dried and cured for long term use, and was equally peeved and thankful for this convenient occurrence of nature.

Holding the spear in their two left arms, they quickly aimed at the dead tree's trunk not twenty feet away.

They missed, the shot going wildly to the left and loudly snapping against a rock.

After a good thirty seconds of cursing, Alex went to inspect their wayward projectile. It was cleaved in half, with the front bit an broken mess of jagged splinters. The rock was slightly chipped from the sheer force of the throw.

I'm still getting to used to this body, but it would be rather convenient if I knew my own strength. Throwing in this body is going to be difficult. Alex conveniently neglected to mention to themselves that they were always picked last for dodgeball in their previous life.

Several broken spears and bad memories later, Alex was getting the hang of hitting non-moving targets. They hadn't been exploring their capabilities these past few days, and so they made a valiant effort to find their limits.

Alex found their limits, but not in their body. Their four insect hands were far more responsive than their two human ones. So much so they couldn't use more than two at once. Their tipped claws were far better at climbing trees than their weak , stubby fingers. They were so good, that they could climb faster than their common sense. Their chitinous skin was strong enough to slough off a large, unstable branch falling on their body, and flexible enough to cushion their fall from said branch to the ground. Their hearing was good enough to make out the individual chirruping of birds and the soft plop of their feet rising out of the mud, but their focus couldn't handle it.

And for their concern of getting getting the runs, they found to their relief their excrement was rather solid and easily buriable in the soft ground.

Apart from their general worthlessness, Alex was doing quite well. After several hours of practice, Alex could hit a fox sized target half the time, and no longer broke their spears by accident. One problem though: the spears didn't work. Alex was targeting the foxes and one unlucky bird, but couldn't kill them. They had to hunt in the dense thickets of the forest to avoid alerting the prey, and when they could hit the target, couldn't down the foxes before they scurried down a hole or escaped Alex's vision. They needed something sharper.

Alex had tried adding a pointy rock to their design, but found this quite difficult. Alex found it hard to stuff a rock in a branch, and very hard to find string or glue in the middle of nowhere. Rocks are quite fond of gravity, and move about no matter how firmly you shove them. Vines are flaky, and don't want to stick around when you need support, or even worse, don't remember how to tie a knot. Claws are inflexible, and get dislodged when you ask them to carve out a space for others without enough room to maneuver .

Why do I keep going like this? Alex asked. Though Alex was reluctant to admit it, they had met a genuine challenge in relearning the works of their ancestors.

My world was soft, full of fresh fruits and soft pillows and medicine made to taste like candy.

How did I expect myself to survive in a world where victory was not handed on a silver platter?

Alex flashed back to an evening of their life before. They were playing Starstruck Maruders, a MMO taking place in the cold reaches of capitalistic space.

"Alex-one to Ghost, we have lock-on."

"Roger that, Alex."

Alex remembered gazing upon the the virtual world, seeing a cargo ship a mile wide blotting out a sun, accompanied by several dozen smaller escort ships. Every one of those ships was a player transporting thousands of real life dollars worth of goods, who spent weeks mining, haggling, and sometimes killing for these virtual resources. Each one of these players had a bounty of several hundred thousand credits on their capsules, enough to catapult a lucky corp to the big leagues. Enough to make a living, both inside and out of the game.

Today, Alex was going go big.

"Minnow, delta formation on your six."

Minnow-21 silently acquiesced, cloaking their ship and drones for the kill.

Alex had raised a team of loyal compatriots, armed with the best ships they could steal and six months worth of training. They got an informant on the inside, waiting for when the enemy corp was weak and off-guard. Alex had gotten fired from their minimum wage job to prep for this raid, and was going to make it big. They were going to be someone.

For their friends, and for their aging father.

They had to.

Unfortunately, there were other plans in store.

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They were denied first by the red glare of an incoming missile from behind, and then by the sight of their ship being blown to pixelated rubble.

"Ghost, hostiles on our 6."

But Alex's voice was silenced.

Their killer had come far more prepared, and jammed their in-game comms.

Alex watched as their friends were gutted, blown up, and riddled with lead.

Alex watched as months of rent evaded their grasp, and went to someone more prepared and ruthless than them.

Alex watched as they realized that their informant sold them out.

Alex watched silently, not reacting one bit. Their voice was silenced, so why scream?

My efforts are nothing, so why struggle?

Deep within themselves, Alex gave the answer they wish they gave so long ago:

"I need to continue. I can still fix this."

They could have recouped their losses. Swallowed their pride and got out their backup ships, after their initial killers softened up their target. They were the leader. Alex called the shots, and controlled. But they choked, and just logged off that evening. They woke up to friends asking what happened to them, and read articles saying they missed the largest raid in Marauders history. The total worth of the cargo was in the hundreds of thousands, and none of it was rightfully theirs. None of it went to pay for the desperately needed medical bills of Alex's father.

But it could have been.

Alex logged off then and there, and never opened Starstruck Marauders again. Never reached out to their friends of five years again, despite their texts and desperate calls. Slammed the door in the face of Judas. Cowardice or shame, it didn't matter.

It could have been fixed.

The prize could have been won.

And now, with the prize being another day of living in this perfect body?

I am going to make this damnable stone spear. I will hurl it into the flesh of another, and I will enjoy the sweet taste of victory.

The taste of victory was that of flesh, and it was sweet indeed, the thought alone enough to make Alex's mouth water.

If only they had a way to perfectly dissolve the wood and lodge the stone within.

A thought occurred to Alex.

Alex experimentally dipped their claw in their yellow, acidic saliva.

Their chitin did not burn.

Alex touched their finger to their spear.

A thin outer coating turned to wooden slurry.

Alex touched their finger to a particularly sharp, grey rock, tracing the base.

An infinitesimally small yellow grey drop fell to the ground. The rock was now smooth where it was jagged.

Grinning, Alex set to work.

Alex lay behind a bush, with a sharpened stone spear in their right hands. The moons of their world shone down on them, the canopy thin in this stretch of the woods.

Not ten feet away was a collection of fruits and flowers, layed in a seemingly natural and haphazard circle.

It was washed of Alex's scent, covered in a light helping of mud and dirt.

No Jerkillas were stomping about. No bird chirped their song this late at night. The only sound was of Alex's muffled breathing, and their thousandfold insect kin peppered all around.

And soon, the sound of an unaware fox joined, their soft paws plipping against the mud as they sniffed the air, weary of those who would take their flesh.

But they weren't afraid enough this time.

As their head bent down to eat, as Alex's blood quickened and their weapons softly bit against their tightening grip, they were unaware.

Soon, they knew sharpened stone , and they knew it as an overwhelming pain striking their stomach, knocking the breath from their alien lungs as they fell against the ground, splattering two fruits against their side.

They knew their end as Alex came, muttering a silent thanks to whichever deity of the hunt was watching them.

Did they feel confusion as Alex looked into their eyes, finding within them a worthy foe?

Did they feel comfort or panic as Alex stroked their head and staunched their rapidly bleeding side, stilling their movement?

Did any of it matter, as Alex dealt them a final blow?

Only Alex was there to make any meaning of it, and they found it much more preferable to begin their grisly meal. All thoughts of civilization fled from them, and the fruits of their hunt filled their mind and stomach and arms. For some time, all was well, as the arteries and bones of the fox became outlined within their mind, added to their mental image from their previous feast. Alex could reconstruct the fox from memory now.

I am not just prey, gristle for the mill of others. Tonight, I am a predator.

But Alex should have remembered that prey and predator were relative things. To these hapless foxes, Alex struck an imposing figure indeed, but not to the swooping bird of prey with claws aiming directly at their throat. Alex struck a rather pitiable and delicious figure, knocked to the ground and scrambling to realize what was happening. They were not bleeding, but their throat was dented and they found it hard to breathe, especially as they witnessed the hawk turn around for another go. it was a regal bird, with their wingspan twice as wide as Alex was tall, and plumage a golden brown lit against the moonlight. It's claws looked like rusted iron, and felt as strong against Alex's throat. It's head was sharper than an arrow, with golden eyes and wicked beak aimed directly at Alex.

Alex's spear was on the ground some distance, abandoned in their feeding daze. The only thing at hand was their half devoured fox, entrails messily peaking out.

Without thinking, Alex threw their meal directly at their hunter. It struck true, disrupting their flight as they crashed to the ground, temporarily dazed.

Shall I be this bird's equal, or will I turn tail and run? To run was quite tempting, Alex's augmented instinct telling them that this foe was on an entirely different level than they.

But the glory of victory was far more tempting than mere survival.

Rushing for their spear, Alex assumed what they hoped was a fighting stance, legs low and balanced against the slightly uneven ground. Their spear was pointed towards the bird, ready to impale should they charge once again. Their arms were outstretched, ready to maul at the slightest chance of bloodshed. They waited for the slightest movement of their foe, not willing to be baited into action.

The hawk watched. It's foe assumed a unfamiliar stance, holding a long and sturdy stick. It's claws were ready to catch it at a moments notice, and from its current vantage point, it would not have any of the momentum necessary to guarantee a kill. Even caught unaware, the skin of it's prey had not even broken, with the smell of blood coming not the creature, but the viscera of it's prey that now covered it's plumage.

What would one do against such a foe?

All it could do was use it's hidden art {Slash of Unseen Wind} to guarantee a strike, but it could unleash it but once a day. If this foe survived, or worse, could somehow retaliate with it's own art, then it would certainly need to expend it's daily use of {Evanescent Gale} to dodge, and it would risk death every moment thereafter.

So the eagle flew upwards, content to remain a hungry predator than to become prey.

Alex wanted a fight, and so they threw their spear at the avian. Alex knew not what their many eyes saw, but the hawk-creature phased through their spear like water against a fish, shimmering as they did so. Alex could have sworn that the avian flicked it's claws and screeched in retaliation, but was soon distracted by a burst of pain in their middle right eye. Alex did not know that the hawk was afraid of them and only retaliated to avoid their pursuit, but was keenly aware that they could no longer see in one of their eyes, with some liquid now oozing out of their now ruined flesh. Alex touched their claw to their broken eye, and saw their blood was a yellow-green substance.

Alex roared into the night, their claws stretched to the night stars that seemed to twinkle only for them, chelicerae twitching in ecstasy.

A hawk tried to make me their meal, and I made them turn tail and flee, scratching me from afar as they flee. I am wounded, and this wound is mine alone. No longer is this eye a giver of sight, but a marker of my ferocity! Hark the uncaring wilds! Hark the silent wilderness that is my hunting grounds! I am me, and my will has been done!

After their self-congratulatory masochism, Alex tore into what remained of their splattered meal. The gore tasted much sweeter than before, accompanied by what felt like victory.

In the morning, Alex was likely to be concerned about their injury. But for now, they were happy.

Searching for a safe place amongst the rolling hills (with care taken to make sure they didn't hide amongst a fruit giving bush), Alex went to sleep, their chest now heavy.

I have come out victorious, but what now? I need a new dominion, someway to make my victory not pyrrhic. if I lose a limb every-time I fight, then soon I will be a nugget of pain.

I desire a dog, something to aid me in my hunt and to act as a companion.

But not a dog like those I had in my previous life. Something as alien as this world, and clearly marked as my own.

Alex's mind turned towards the foxes they had eaten, with their taste and form etched into their mind. Alex imagined their skin replaced with chitin, eyes replaced with antenna and vocal cords with whining drones.

It would be an abomination.

It would be beautiful.

In the morning, Alex found they had laid an egg.