Near a cluster of mud and straw huts at the edge of the forest, I found some heavy linen cloaks and hemp rags, soaked with the smell of sweat and earth. I took them and wrapped the strips of fabric over my head and neck, hiding the silver rivets and raw flesh under heavy layers of dark, worn cloth. The only thing my face showed now was a formless mass of shadows and plant fibers; only the purple glow of my eyes' recognition lights was visible through the gaps.

  The first lights of day were arriving and revealed the outlines of a city that seemed to be from the past, without polymers or intelligent alloys, without concrete or steel; I didn't even find glass in the houses. The structures were made of carved wood and rough stone, joined by manual fittings and lime mortar. I ended up standing there observing the overlapping ceramic tiles and massive wooden gates; everything there was different.

  The walk along the dirt path made my feet sink slightly, a constant reminder that I was not from that bucolic setting. As the sun rose, tinting the whitewashed walls orange, hunger, a sharp blade in my stomach, reminded me that I needed fuel to regenerate.

  The old rags and filthy linen wrapped around me swayed with every step, but the familiar weight on my feet was what still anchored me to reality. The central market began to swarm with the awakening of the day. I leaned against a stone wall in a shaded corner, adopting the posture of a beggar to avoid curious eyes. The sight was humiliating to me, but I snapped out of my thoughts as soon as I noticed one thing: the people.

  Those people were different, tiny. The men carrying wicker baskets on their heads, baskets and all, would barely reach my shoulders if I were standing. They were scrawny creatures, with thin bones and skin that looked like paper; watching that mass of people was like looking at a hive of particularly slow insects. It was then that the feeling of something being very wrong hit me with full force.

  — This is wrong, where am I?

  I tried, out of pure conditioned reflex, to catalog the information around me. I focused my black eyes on a carved wooden sign swinging over a stall of fried foods. I stood still, staring at the black and winding strokes, looking for any pattern that made sense. Nothing. I was capable of calculating the ballistics of a shot from two kilometers away under crosswinds, but I had no idea if what was written there was "Pork" or "Monster Wanted." The irony hit me with the force of a punch: I was the pinnacle of war engineering, a weapon of mass destruction wrapped in rags and wearing state-of-the-art combat boots... and I was being defeated by a piece of painted wood. I was a complete illiterate.

  — Not even the pictures, I can't even read the pictures — I grumbled angrily.

  The noise from the other side of the square cut through my thoughts. In the middle of that mess of people and the smell of animals, a man in a stiff tunic with a sword at his waist was shouting non-stop, waving a yellowed paper in the air. My eyes focused on him instantly. The way he moved, pointing to the poster and calling the crowd, was something I knew well. It was recruitment. In my world, it would be lights and sounds coming from a holograph; here, it was just a sweaty guy yelling with a piece of dried tree in his hand.

  I stood up and the heavy sole of my tactical boots made a dry crack against the ground, crushing the stones. The people around moved away quickly, clearing a path as if I had the black plague. I walked toward the soldier; the closer I got, the smaller he became. This agony of the world appearing too small was bothering me, but not as much as the hunger hammering my stomach. When I stopped in front of him, the top of the man's head barely passed my chest covered by those stinking rags. He stopped shouting instantly; his arm holding the paper slumped down, he swallowed hard, having to tilt his neck all the way back to try to see my face under the cloths.

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  I needed food. Meat. Lots of meat. But how to explain to that armed midget that I was a beggar needing food and that I wanted the job?

  I pointed to the paper in his hand with a thick finger, full of silver nerves glowing in the gaps of the linen. He held the paper out to me with a shaking hand. I looked at those black symbols — a bunch of scratches that made no sense to me — and pretended I was reading with great attention.

  — I see. Absolutely nothing, it's a bunch of ugly drawings; even a caveman should paint walls better.

  Then, I looked at him and slapped my own chest.

  — This is humiliating, I look like some random RPG barbarian.

  The man took a step back, startled. I had to be clearer with the mimicry. I pointed to his sword and then threw a punch in the air. My arm moved so fast that the wind from the blow made his hair fly. I tried to speak, but it sounded like an Indian asking for rain in old movies.

  — Aoooo, bumm bumm, ahhhhh.

  The message was simple: I fight. Then, I brought my hand to my mouth and made an exaggerated eating gesture with my hand, finishing with my hand rubbing my belly. My stomach helped, letting out a wet and deep growl that sounded like a beast snarling right in his face. The message was: I eat a lot.

  — NHAM NHAM.

  He looked at me with a face that didn't know whether to run or fall to his knees. I tried to make it easier: I rubbed my thumb against my index finger, making the sign for money, and pointed to a stall of roast pigs right behind us. The man looked at the meat, looked at my black rubber and metal boots shining in the sun, and then at the paper. He stuttered something and held out a brush with ink, pointing to a blank space at the end of the letters. He wanted a signature. I froze. I didn't even know if the paper was upside down. I took the brush with the tips of my fingers, trying not to break it with my strength. With the care of someone trying not to crush an egg, I drew a gigantic X that took up almost the whole paper, smearing ink everywhere. I handed the brush back, crossed my arms, and let out a sound from my throat that sounded like a broken engine. The little man nodded non-stop, tucked the paper away quickly, and signaled for me to follow him. I didn't know where he was taking me.

  I followed the recruiter out of the market, the sound of my tactical boots hitting the stone ground now mixing with the creak of old wood. Ahead, a transport caravan was parked at the exit of the city. They were heavy wagons, made of rough boards and tied with hemp ropes, loaded with dark wooden boxes. What caught my attention, however, were the men. Their mission clearly hadn't been easy. Many soldiers were sitting on the edges of the wagons, with bandages soiled with real, fresh blood wrapped around arms and legs. I watched them and a sense of strangeness took over my processing. They had such... human faces. But it was a different humanity than mine; looking at them gave me a feeling of discomfort, as if I were looking at meat dolls. The recruiter stopped in front of a man with a long gray beard, who seemed to be the leader. They began to talk.

  — Gah-ra kahn! Tsuru-mê? — the leader pointed at me, eyes wide.

  The little soldier who brought me started waving his hands.

  — Hah! Zun-to! Grrr-ahn! — he said, trying to imitate my growl.

  The leader looked at my boots, then at my size under the rags, and spat on the ground, signaling for me to get onto one of the wagons. They were leaving. It was at that moment that I realized the mistake: the smell of food in the camp was just smoke and scraps. I had arrived too late for their lunch. My stomach let out a wet crack so loud that the little soldier next to me jumped. He looked at me, saw my silence under the cloth, and seemed to understand. He turned red, scratched the back of his neck and, without saying anything, ran back toward the city stalls while the caravan began to move slowly.

  A few minutes later, he came running back, out of breath, and held out his hand to me while trotting alongside the moving wagon. In it, there was a wooden skewer with pieces of fatty meat, still dripping and steaming.

  — Chun! — he said with a short, almost embarrassed smile, handing me the skewer.

  I took the wood carefully; the smell of the meat flooded what was left of my nose. I shoved the meat into my mouth all at once, feeling what my body craved so much. The fat ran down my titanium teeth, but for the first time since I woke up in that forest, the void in my chest diminished. I looked at the short guy who was now walking beside me, wiping sweat from his forehead. They were fragile, strange, and talked like birds, but the taste of that meat made me think that, maybe, following this group was the best tactical decision I had taken.