A/N: OFC-Insert/Isekai. So I occasionally enjoy reading these kinds of stories, and while I was working on Time Crackers and This Time Between Us, this idea came to me. I think I'd been awake for about 20-some hours at that point? It seemed like a good way to whittle away at my writer's block, and before I knew it I had enough written down to post a chapter or two. I have only a vague idea where I'll be taking this, but... well it's fun to write so who knows?

This will eventually have pairings, though none with the OFC. And I reserve the right to change the character tags later.

Warnings: Potty Mouths; My first attempt at first person POV; 95% chance this eventually has F!Byleth/Rhea content. Uh, lots of humor and possible crack.

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My journey to consciousness was as slow as it was painful, and as painful as it was confusing.

The first thing I became aware of in my struggle to open my eyes was that sometime while I wasn't paying attention, the mother of all migraines had decided to take up residence in my head without so much as a by-your-leave. And like all annoying, unwanted tenants it was doing its damn hardest to be the best nuisance it could be.

Now I'm not exactly a stranger to migraines, but the throbbing pain was so intense that I wouldn't be surprised if I had slipped and cracked my skull open on a patch of ice sometime in the immediate past. At least it would explain the memory loss.

Which brought me to my second point of concern; the all-important question of just what, for the love of all that is good and smothered in maple syrup, did I do to warrant such pain? Seriously, did I kick a bag of puppies and forget about it? Because holy-crap-on-a-stick being in this amount of pain isn't normal.

I try to think back, but it's hard – the memories, blurry and disjointed, come slowly as if I'm trying to scoop them out of molasses with a fishing net.

The last thing I remember is…

I think….

Was I at work?

I don't know. Maybe?

Fuck it hurts to think. Can a person sprain their brain? I think I sprained my brain.

A muddled thought flits through the molasses, and I'm suddenly filled with dread.

What if I died?

What if that's why I can't remember where I am or what happened? What if I died and my memories are slowly fading away, my soul being put through the afterlife's version of a rinse-and-spin cycle before I'm reborn as a blade of grass or a stick-bug or a chihuahua?

Or…

Oh God.

What If I died at work and my punishment for being a useless human being is that I can never leave?! I don't want to spend the rest of eternity haunting-

Oh, wait – hold that thought.

Hello stomach; nice to feel you again. Could you stop with the nausea? I feel like I'm about to puke my internal organs out all over my lap like a sea cucumber - and isn't that a lovely visual?

After careful consideration - if careful means beating back my anxiety with a metaphorical stick - I conclude that I'm probably still alive, because being dead probably doesn't come with this much intense pain and gut-roiling nausea.

Probably.

It's a working theory, which is more than I had a moment ago so I'm rolling with it.

Now let's see here; time for another try at being a human and not a limp noodle.

Head? Mother of all migraines. Check.

Stomach? Nausea. Check.

Eyes… still won't open, we'll come back to that.

Fingers and toes? No- oh, wait a minute. Pretty sure that was a twitch, so I'm going to go ahead and put that down in the yes column.

Ears? …I think I hear something, but that could just be the pounding in my head. Or could be actual noise that is exasperating the pounding in my head. I'm just going to go ahead and mark that one as inconclusive.

Well. After careful deliberation with Me, Myself, and I, we have come to some concerning conclusions.

Theory One – I'm dying. We don't really like this theory so we're just going to go ahead and use the sane response of complete denial.

Theory Two – I got completely wasted and am now paying the high price of being on a major bender. While this option is highly unlikely, we like it better than The-Theory-That-We-Shan't-Speak-Of.

Theory Three – I slipped on the ice at work and am now in a coma. This one is… worryingly plausible, partially due to my chronic klutziness, but personally I'd like to point out that it's not my fault that the asshole management doesn't regularly salt the driveway. I'd like to see a normal person walk across that icy obstacle course from hell without falling on their ass.

That's it. That's all I can think of.

And, since I'm human, I'm going to deny the worst theories to my dying breath and go with option number two.

…I really hope nobody took any embarrassing videos. The last time I was drunk was over two years ago and my little sister, who was my DD at the time, took vicious delight in recording me for a solid hour and then playing it the next morning.

On repeat.

With commentary.

Some things should never be spoken of - let alone witnessed - in the light of day whilst stone-cold sober.

I-

"-think it's wakin' up, Butch."

Fuck.

Ow.

My ears just popped and goddamn everything is loud and ringing and just feeding the headache from hell and-

"Wha'd'ya mean it's wakin' up? Well knock it back out, you moron!"

My eyes crack open and I think I'm crying because everything hurts and everything's blurry and all I can focus on is the pain-

I hear more than feel a sharp crack, which is funny – but not haha funny – because my world literally explodes for a split second before I fade into blissful nothingness.

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I wake up faster this time, though I'm still in a shitton of pain. My head hurts even more now - which I honestly didn't think was possible - and the nausea is still pretty bad. But on the bright side, my thoughts feel less like they were dipped in molasses and smothered in cotton balls. And I can wiggle my fingers even if I can't move my arms, so that's a definite improvement.

I take a few minutes to just breathe slowly and it helps, I think. Passed the rushing of blood in my ears, I'm able to hear the occasional shuffling sound made by fabric brushing against something, and a faint pop and crack that sounds familiar, but I just can't place at the moment.

Steeling myself, I take another measured breath and crack my eyes open slowly only to slam them shut not a second later. After ten more inhales and exhales, I try again and manage a bit better this time. Eyes half-lidded, I slowly try to blink away the blurriness until my surroundings start to come into focus.

Okay, step one is staying calm. Step two is pretending I'm a normal person that doesn't occasionally suffer from crippling anxiety. Step three is definitely not panicking and bursting into uncontrollable tears.

Repeating those three steps in my mind like a mantra, I let my gaze slowly drift around and take in my surroundings as much as I can without moving my head.

It's dark out. I'm in what appears to be a forest, sitting propped up against what is most likely a tree. There is a campfire – hello crackly noise, I knew I recognized you - but it's far enough away that my feet are barely visible in the darkness and I can't feel any heat. I strain my eyes as I take in the silhouette of my bare feet and push back the incessant thought that something about them looks weird as I manage to wiggle my toes.

I'm in a fucking forest in the middle of nowhere with no memory of how I got here, of course everything seems weird-

No.

I close my eyes and breathe.

Disassociate. Observe. Be clinical, not emotional.

When I'm fairly certain I have my emotions under as much control as I'm likely to get at the moment, I continue my covert appraisal.

Making sure not to look directly at the fire, I instead take in the objects around it and the obvious signs that wherever I am, I'm not alone.

A dented old-timey iron pan. A large pair of shabby boots. Two large packs sitting within arms reach of two worryingly human-sized piles of fur that shift occasionally as if they're breathing.

I try to focus on my own breathing again but despite my best efforts my eyes start to flick around faster.

There's a crude looking arrow sticking out of that tree over there. On the other side of the clearing I can just make out the large shape of what might just be an honest to god horse. Because of course that makes sense, it's not like I live in the city or anything.

My anxiety is banging at the door to my mind, screaming shrilly that I've been kidnapped by a roving band of forest hobo drug addicts who stole somebody's horse and decided, in their drug addled minds, to LARP some sort of wild west situation except this was real life and holy fuck I've been kidnapped.

Have you ever had an anxiety attack, and it just keeps building and building until woops, you reach your emotional limit and then just feel sort of numb?

I didn't even jump when a third hobo drug addict came out of nowhere and stared down at me silently. I just blinked at him. The guy – and he was definitely a guy – was huge, towering over my seated position like Hagrid over the first years, and looking just as scraggly. The lighting was poor this far from the fire and his back was to the light, but I could see that he was sporting a thick bushy black beard – or some equally dark color – and his nose was too big for his face. Or anyone's face, really. That honker was huge.

There were dark lines that I figure might probably be scars but couldn't tell for certain. All in all, it looked like he was whacked with the ugly stick one too many times as a child and never really recovered.

"Hello."

Oh, wow. Was that hoarse whisper really me? That was kind of pathetic.

Hobo Drug Addict Number Three didn't answer, or even acknowledge my attempt at speech. Which – okay, rude - but I could barely hear me so I guess I can give him the benefit of the doubt.

Before I could open my mouth again, Hobo Drug – fuck it I'm going to call him Beardo – thrust what looked suspiciously like a wineskin at me. And grunted.

I eyed the proffered sack of liquid for a long moment before gazing back up in the vague direction of his shrouded eyes.

"No thanks, I'm good," I croaked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Which was a boldfaced lie. My throat is like extra coarse sandpaper and I think my saliva forgot how to saliva, but I'm not stupid. Despite how much I would love some liquid to soothe my pain, Beardo was definitely a stranger and my momma didn't raise no fool.

Also, that spout was definitely not sanitary. And growing up with a little sister taught me that backwash is definitely a thing to be worried about.

Beardo either didn't hear my refusal or didn't care, because he just insistently thrust the spout closer to my face. And grunted again.

"I really don't wa-,"

My second attempt at refusal was summarily cut off and overruled when Beardo took matters into his own hands and squirted a generous amount of definitely-not-water into my open mouth. Between coughing and choking, I unfortunately ended up swallowing quite a bit despite my best attempts at the contrary. The liquid was lukewarm, bitter, and left an aftertaste akin to sucking on a sweaty gym sock soaked in lemon juice.

While I was trying valiantly not to drown, Beardo grunted in what was probably sadistic satisfaction and wandered away.

Fuck you too, Beardo. Fuck you too.

I could feel my thoughts slowing again as my head began to swim. The constant throbbing of my migraine lessening a smidge was a happy side effect, sure, but the vague knowledge that I had just been drugged managed to keep me from sighing in relief.

My last thought was that I had to stay strong.

Because as much as I hate my job, becoming Hobo Drug Addict Number Four is not on my to-do list.

And I will tell that straight to Beardo's big nose.

Maybe.

A yawn split my face, and my eyes blinked slowly one after the other.

Maybe instead I'll ask Beardo what he dosed me with because holy crud-buckets that was oddly fast acting and I've never really had the best of luck with sleep-aids.

…

…

I think I might… take a little nap first though.

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It's been three days – or at least three days that I've been conscious for – and I think I have a better grasp of the situation I'm in. I mean, okay, so I spent the entirety of Day One swearing up and down the forest that I was actually in a hospital bed tripping on morphine or some other pain medication and that everything I was experiencing was one big drug-induced hallucination.

I even rationalized the fact that I was tied to a tree away as medical restraints.

That didn't really go over well with Butch and Clyde – that's what Hobo Drug Addicts One and Two called each other, no joke – and one of them actually threw their boot at my head when they got tired of telling me to shut up. At the subsequent explosion of pain and the worrying prospect that I might have a broken nose, I was forced to re-evaluate my entire hypothesis.

So, I spent Day Two back to my original theory that I was snatched by weird LARPing kidnappers. Who were hobos that lived in a forest. And kept liquid drugs in their gross wineskins. Not to mention the lack of hygiene – holy crud did I ever lament the return of my olfactory senses every time the wind shifted in my direction.

Butch and Clyde were loud, obviously lacked a standard education, and kept referring to me as 'It'. You know, your garden-variety asshole, tripping druggie edition. They kept mentioning someone called Boss – very original, I know – and how they were going to sell me to some shady dude who was apparently some sort of mysterious mole-person who was also very powerful and could teleport. And that was why It – meaning me – had to be undamaged before they handed me over or they'd be turned into frogs or hit with lightning or both.

The punishment varied in intensity and credulousness, but those two were the most recurring.

At least, that was what I got from trying to follow one of their conversations. To be honest, I came away from that experience feeling even more confused than before I started eavesdropping. The only thing I was certain of was that those drugs they were taking apparently came with some really flipping trippy hallucinations.

Hound – that's what the others called Beardo – was even uglier than I first pictured. Despite this, he was also the one I minded the least. Though bigger and just as smelly and uneducated as the other two, I'm pretty sure he had the excuse of being genuinely mentally challenged. He was rough and gruff and grunted all of five words since I met him - but having worked with people with similar difficulties, I could tell that he lacked the same sense of greed and malice that the other two all but radiated.

While Butch and Clyde whined about having to wait for me to heal from the head-wound they had caused and plotted what they were going to do with their share of the money they'd get for selling me, Hound actually attempted to take care of me. He fed me hard bread crusts, made me drink the drug-laced water every few hours, checked my head every morning and night, and brought me to pee in a bush.

…

So maybe he treated me like a pet, but at least he wasn't mean about it.

Which brings me to Day Three.

I didn't think my situation could get any worse. I didn't think I could be more miserable than I already was. I was wrong.

Oh, was I ever wrong.

It rained during the night. Like, a lot. The fire went out and everything, and Butch and Clyde cursed up a storm as they rednecked some sort of tarp over the makeshift camp a little too late to save anything from getting utterly soaked.

The tree I was tied to didn't do that great a job at being an umbrella, to be honest. I normally like the rain, find it soothing - but in that moment all I could do was brood and give Murphy a silent fuck-you because it was really just the icing on the goddamn cake at that point.

So, there I was. Tied to a tree in a rainstorm, in the middle of nowhere, with my three kidnappers. I was injured, hungry, soaked, caked in mud and finally starting to feel the cold.

But none of that's what finally broke me, no.

There was this dip in the ground - maybe it was caused by the tree roots, I don't know. But it collected the rainwater pretty well, and it was close enough that I could see most of my reflection.

Or at least what should have been my reflection.

I just… I thought I had been kidnapped by abnormally tall people, okay? And I was never the tallest to begin with. And- and with how much Butch and Clyde ranted and raved, I figured there was a hallucinogenic compound to the drug water which is how I rationalized away the little things I had noticed over the passed three days.

But my reflection…

Okay, so I'm a little on the short side, maybe a little overweight. Plain features, short brown hair, brown eyes. I had just turned twenty-six not too long ago and was very clearly an adult. All in all, just your average Caucasian female, nothing special - but at least I was me, you know?

That's not what was currently staring back at me through the raindrops.

The first thing I noticed was the eyes - which considering everything else is kind of odd, but when you're used to muddy brown staring back at you it's kind of a jolt to suddenly see a light green so vibrant that they're practically glowing.

I blinked just to see if the reflection would too… then realized how dumb that really was.

My eyes drifted to the reflection's hair next. Her really long and really green hair was a few shades darker than her eyes, two details which were both really very wrong. Though the hair was currently wet and matted - and was that blood? Yes, that was definitely blood caked into the strands on one side of her head, though it looks like most of it had already rinsed out - so the color would probably be around the same shade as her eyes when dry.

I swallowed thickly and tore my eyes away to continue my inspection.

The um, the face was very youthful. Like, really youthful. And a little chubby – but not chubby chubby, you know? More like a youthful chubby. Because she was really very… youthful.

I blinked rapidly and stared at her nose next. It was a cute nose. Definitely not broken. Not too big. Didn't protrude out of her head like it was trying to shout at the world to look and stare. Nope. Just a normal sized nose for her normal sized youthful face.

It was with the sense of not being able to pull your eyes away from a train going off the rails that I finally looked up at the most obviously wrong part of the reflection. The little girl – because who was I kidding, there's youthful and then there's this – had two very large ears. Ears that protruded sideways from her head far more than was even close to normal. And did I mention that they ended in a point? Because they did.

They. Fucking. Did.

I can't deny it anymore. I've played Fire Emblem one too many times to not make the association. What I've got on my hands here is a puddle that insists on showing me a vision of a young and bedraggled, yet still very obvious, Tiki.

…Oh my God.

My reflection is a Tiki. I mean a kid. A Kid Tiki.

Like some sort of special event summon from Fire Emblem Heroes.

…And now Kid Tiki looks like she's hyperventilating.

Don't worry Kid Tiki, we can hyperventilate together in solidarity.

Just what in the actual hell is in those drugs?

Because I'm done.

I want to wake up now.

Because this was too strange to be reality.

Because this was one fucked up dream.

Because I didn't want to be tired and injured, alone and scared, hungry and lost.

Because this reality sucked, and as the days passed it became harder and harder to rationalize all of this away.

Because whoever that was in my reflection - it wasn't me.

Because I was a grown-ass woman and wasn't ashamed to admit that I wanted my mommy, and my grandma, and my sister. And my nephew. My god; my nephew. He just turned two for fucks sake and now he won't even recognize me anymore. Hell, I barely look older than he does! I look like a – like a fucking kindergartner, all cherubic and innocent and fuck.

I mean Kid Tiki. Kid Tiki looks like a kindergartner.

I managed to move my feet just enough to slosh some clumps of mud into the puddle. The water rippled, the image of Kid Tiki distorting and for one split second I thought I saw brown hair and brown eyes.

It was with a discomfiting sinking feeling that my hopes were dashed. The water settled except for the occasional ripple caused by a raindrop. A pit opened wide in my stomach.

Green eyes stared back at me.

It's funny, but with the rain and everything, it looked like Kid Tiki was crying.

I blinked through the wetness, my vision blurring even as the rain slowed to a trickle, then a barely-there mist.

Hound heard Kid Tiki crying and came over to give me more drug water. I guess the noise disturbed him or something.

I didn't argue this time and for once took a big swig of the disgusting liquid without complaint.

I didn't want to hear her crying either.

I just wanted to go to sleep, wake up, and just… be home.

I just wanted to go home.

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Everything felt unreal, but at the same time super clear. I felt strung out emotionally, and through the numbness I felt an odd sense of peace creeping in. Is this what acceptance feels like? I've already run through the gamut of denial, anger, bargaining, and depression, so it must be.

Huh.

It's not a bad feeling, per se, but I'm not entirely sure that it's an appropriate one either. I mean, feeling acceptance while tied to a tree in the middle of nowhere while your dirty kidnappers argue over the burnt husk of a squirrel probably isn't the best response, but I guess it beats sobbing like a baby.

Not to point fingers, but Kid Tiki is kind of a crybaby, if I'm being honest.

Like, as soon as I woke up from my drug-induced nap I was subjected to her annoying wailing. I think I might have allergies though, because I kept sniffling and my face feels all splotchy and phlegmy. My only consolation is that my kidnappers finally realized that the more they injured me to shut up Kid Tiki, the longer I would take to heal, and the longer it would take for them to get their money.

The bastards whined almost as much as Kid Tiki before quitting the camp altogether to get some peace and quiet. Only Hound stayed within earshot, but at least the camp managed to air out a bit without their filthy odours constantly making my nose-hairs cringe.

I stubbornly persist in ignoring the thick locks of green that have been obstructing half of my view for the better part of a day. Kid Tiki should learn to control her hair better because that wasn't my hair and I still wasn't ready to touch that issue with a ten-foot pole. Nope. No siree. One emotional rollercoaster while under duress had nicely filled my quota for the year, thank you very much.

Oh look, here comes Hound with my daily ration of hard bread crusts topped with a garnish of mold.

If only I had the option of actually refusing.

If I could see Kid Tiki right now, I bet you anything that her pale skin would be just as green as her eyes and hair.

What I wouldn't give for a hamburger right now. Or some chicken.

Mmm.

Chicken.

The moldy bread tastes even worse than usual, and not for the first time I wish that my taste buds would just hurry up and die.

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It's Day… Four? No wait, Day Four was spent listening to Kid Tiki cry her heart out, then Day Five I spent in blissful silence and emotional numbness. So… Day Six? Yeah, let's go with Day Six.

The pain is almost completely gone, which is both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because – yay, no more pain.

But that also meant that the hour of my doom was soon approaching. I heard Butch and Clyde discussing what supplies they'd need to acquire before we left to meet up with Boss, and that we'd be leaving in two days tops.

Which left me in somewhat of a dilemma, because I didn't want to be sold to some unknown creep mole-person who may or may not be able to teleport and shoot lightning out of his eyeballs.

Shocker, I know.

So, to that effect, I was trying to come up with a plan of escape now that I felt better. Well, excluding the weakness I felt due to the gnawing hunger and constant lethargy that clung to me due to being in a regularly drugged haze. Not to mention the tumultuous tangle of emotions I had unceremoniously shoved in a box and buried in the back of my mind.

But besides that, I was feeling better than I had all week, so it was time to escape.

Unfortunately, my current plan was all of two steps long and – I'm not going to lie – was lacking in a few details.

My plan was thus:

Step One – Escape

Step Two – Don't get caught

…Okay, so maybe it was lacking most of the details. Fine, okay, all of the details. But it was a start, and really - having goals was important for a healthy psyche. I just needed to visualize it. Be one with my goals. Really, truly, believe it, you know - and just do it.

Just do it.

…

I mean, there was always tomorrow. No need to rush things and make a stupid amateur mistake. Yeah, maybe an opportunity would present itself tomorrow.

…

Yeah.

…

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Kid Tiki's ears twitched as a faint gurgling sound reached me, and seconds later an unfamiliar yet oddly pleasant aroma cut through the stench of unwashed bodies and caused my mouth to salivate. I opened my eyes just in time to see Butch fall limply to the ground beside a sleeping Clyde, which was odd because from the look of the sun it was at least midday. His mouth was wide open, and it looked like he had been messily eating some red berries because there was red liquid trailing down his chin. It just kept gushing out in thick rivulets and-

Oh.

Oh.

That… that wasn't berry juice.

A snapping twig caused my eyes to dart wildly to the side, where a literal giant was coming straight at me.

I was out of time.

A monster had found our camp, and I was the bow-tied sacrifice.

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