The Forest

A young woman moved through the forest, her steps steady but her thoughts tangled in frustration.

"These merchants will be the end of me." Io tightened her grip on the basket she carried, jaw clenched as she replayed the day's negotiations.

They had smiled, bowed, spoken in polite tones—right up until they thought they could corner her.

"A fair deal, lady, but the roads are dangerous these days. What if your shipment were to get... lost? You understand, of course. Just a precaution. Lower the price a little, and we can ensure your goods reach their destination safely."

She could still hear the syrupy undertone in his voice, the veiled threat dressed up as business. It was the same game, every time.

And they call themselves pious men.

If she had power, real power, she might have reported them to the church, turned their own faith against them. "I could call them out for their blasphemy, demand an inquiry."

But she knew better. The church would never take her side. She wasn’t human in their eyes. Even the merchants, for all their dealings, never let her forget it.

Io exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought. The world was rarely fair. No use dwelling on it.

Then, a shiver ran through her. A sensation she knew well but hadn’t expected.

Her steps slowed. What now?

The presence—the silent hum beneath all things—stirred. It was faint but unmistakable.

"Is there a wounded animal nearby? Is someone dying?"

Annoyance flickered through her. The day had already been long, and she had enough on her plate without playing rescuer. But ignoring the call wasn’t an option.

With a sigh, she stepped off the path, moving between the trees, senses sharp as she searched for the source of the disturbance.

###

"Ughhh…" My throat is dry, and my head feels like I’ve been hit by a brick. When did I fall asleep? And—what is that smell?

I open my eyes. Trees. Pines, maybe? A damp, earthy scent fills my lungs—definitely not the lab. I blink a few times, waiting for my vision to adjust. No flickering lights. No electrical hum. Just silence. Okay. That’s concerning.

…Huh. That’s a tree.

And another.

And a whole damn forest.

I sit up, heart pounding. Tall, dark pines stretch endlessly in every direction, mist curling between them like something out of a Scandinavian travel brochure. The lab is gone. My desk, my office, the half-eaten protein bar—all gone.

How did I get here?

Occam’s razor—simplest explanation first. Sleepwalking? No. Kidnapped? Unlikely. Some kind of experiment gone wrong? That’s more concerning. I glance at my watch. 11:34. Huh. I could’ve sworn it was the middle of the night a moment ago. Alright. One test: I’ll wait a few minutes and check again.

I need a baseline test. Time feels off, but how long should I wait? One song should do—something I know by heart. 'It’s a god-awful small affair…' My voice is hoarse, but the familiar melody steadies me. Four minutes. That should be enough.

11:38.

Okay. Either that internet factoid about checking time in dreams is a bust, or I am really awake.

I press my palms into the damp ground. No logical explanation connects "working late in a high-tech lab" to "waking up in the middle of a primeval forest." Something is very, very wrong.

Okay. Test cognitive function. Basic recall. Who won the 1994 CGI Oscar? Forrest Gump. Approximation of e? 2.72. Space Shuttle fuel? LOX and Hydrogen. Parent’s names? Marcus and Lillian. Memory intact. So either I’m not concussed, or I’m experiencing a very high-functioning delusion.

Then I realize.

The itch is gone.

That strange, persistent static in the back of my mind—the thing that had been nudging me toward impossible ideas, leading me through research, driving me here—is just… silent.

I should be relieved. But instead, my stomach twists.

Because if the itch is gone… then what the hell led me here?

###

I can't just lay here forever.

With a deep breath, I push myself up and start walking. The forest stretches around me, quiet but alive—no flickering lights, no glitches, nothing shifting out of place. Just trees, dirt, and the scent of damp earth.

Not a simulation.

Weirdly, that should terrify me, but mostly? It’s just boring.

I need to pick a direction. I can’t make out where the sun might be. Then let’s go right. I wonder what lives here. If this is some kind of a natural reserve I may bump into animals. Bears, wolves, I have no idea how to deal with anything like that.

A flash of movement ahead. Oh no.

I hide behind a tree trying to observe what might be ahead of me.

Someone.

A person, strolling through the woods like it’s a casual morning walk. A tourist? A hiker? Someone who can tell me where the hell I am?

That would be perfect, too perfect. What if they are a hostile guard, what if they brought me here? Do I really have the luxury of being cautious? At this point I will die in this forest, I have no idea how to survive outside the corpo world. If I have to risk it, better keep it polite.

“Hello! Over here! Good morning!” I call out, voice trembling, trying to keep my voice loud enough to be heard but not aggressive.

They turn. And the moment of truth.

A woman—tall, blonde. My age, maybe.

“Hello?” My voice cracked. No response. Oh no. What if she doesn't speak english? I hope at least I can understand her.

“Esh stravind?” The mysterious figure says with a hint of caution in her voice.

I blink. That’s… not, not anything I recognize.

Why isn’t my implant translating?

Shit.

Okay, don’t panic. She doesn’t look hostile, I think. I hope so. Probably best to show I’m not, either.

I lift my hands—no weapons—then bow slightly, hoping "I mean no harm" body language does the trick.

She tilts her head.

Not the reaction I was hoping for.

“Ja zovu Io.” she says, tapping her chest, then gestures at me. “Ah too?”

A name? An introduction? I hope so.

“Nate,” I say, pointing to myself and offering what I hope is a non-creepy smile.

“Io,” she repeats, tapping her chest again.

Io. Huh. Like the moon? Or Greek mythology? Either her parents were nerds, or I just met someone from a culture my implant doesn’t recognize.

Alright, pleasantries exchanged. Now what?

She steps closer, gesturing. Have I offended her?

Hand curled into a fist, she raises it to her mouth, tilting her head back slightly—like she’s drinking from a cup.

“Esh too vil vodan?”

Thirsty? That makes sense.

I nod. Hopefully, nodding means yes here.

She seems to get it, waving me forward before turning to walk.

I follow.

“Esh too vil yedna?”

Another question. This time, both hands go to her mouth, miming a bite.

Food?

I nod again. “Esh too vill yedna,” I repeat, testing the sounds. I hope my pronunciation is somewhat close to what she said.

She smiles. Nods. Repeats it back—except this time, I hear it differently.

"Do you want yedna?"

My implant must be picking up patterns, slowly piecing together the language. “Esh too vill” must mean something like “Do you want.” And “yedna”… food? I should try to respond, I am kinda hungry. But how? How to say I want food?

I will try again with my best guess. “Vill yedna.”

She grins, nodding in approval.

Finally, something clicks. If I can break simple sentences down, I can build from it. This might actually work. I can now ask for food and water. The words were ‘yedna’ and… vodan.

It seems she doesn’t mean any harm, I hope so. I wonder where she is leading me. And what is this basket she is holding?

###

Again, that feeling.

Something is in distress. A dull pressure running through me—a sensation I’ve learned not to ignore.

A wounded animal? One that slipped away from the hunting party? If they botched another kill and left a creature suffering, I swear—how many times do I have to remind them? A clean kill is not just efficient—it’s humane.

I sigh. Just another problem to add to the pile.

If it’s a boar again, I’m in trouble. I have nothing but a knife. No bow, no spear. Not exactly equipped to finish a messy job. And on top of everything else, I should be back at the storehouse recounting our dwindling supplies, not trudging through the forest cleaning up after others.

But then—something shifts.

Not an animal.

A human.

I stop. Focus.

A man, moving through the trees, not like a hunter, not even like a traveler who knows where he’s going. He’s aimless. Lost.

What is he wearing?

Not a villager, that much is obvious. Not a merchant either. And certainly not a noble—no silks, no insignias, no blade at his hip. His clothes are strange—fabric I don’t recognize, a cut I’ve never seen before.

He’s hiding.

I keep my posture easy, relaxed. Let’s see what he does next.

"Hello! Over here! Good morning!"

His voice shakes, but he’s trying to sound friendly. A little too friendly.

I narrow my eyes. That accent—where is he from? Not from any settlement I know. Not even the traders speak like that. Some fringe dialect? A lesser church sect?

I test the waters. “Are you lost?”

Nothing. A blank stare.

So, he doesn’t understand. He should. Even if he came from a distant city, the trade routes ensure at least a basic level of comprehension. Maybe I should switch to my language?

Interesting.

Then, he does something completely baffling.

He lifts his hands—showing he’s unarmed. And then… bows.

I don’t react, but my mind sharpens.

No human—no human—would bow to one of us.

Not unless they were mocking us or somehow couldn’t recognize us.

Even merchants I’ve known for years, ones who rely on us for trade, never go beyond strained politeness. At best, they tolerate me. At worst, they look at me like something to be scrubbed off their boots.

So, what is his game?

He’s not a fighter. His build is wrong for it. No weapons, no visible armor, nothing in his stance suggests training. He’s cautious, but not in the way of someone expecting a fight—more like someone trying not to step on broken glass.

Too close to the village to just leave him here.

The guards will have questions. Some might suggest we dispose of him before he brings trouble. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Or…

He could be useful.

A hostage could help in negotiations. The merchants wouldn’t risk offending their precious church if one of their own was in our care.

Let’s see what he does next.

I tap my chest. “I am Io.” Then I point to him. “And you?”

He hesitates before responding. “Nate.”

A peculiar name. But not the strangest I’ve heard.

Alright, Nate. Let’s see if you’re intelligent—or just another fool in over his head.

He’s slow. Simple conversation through gestures takes far too long. Even my niece could manage better. But still… he’s learning.

He’s thirsty. Hungry. That explains the presence I felt.

I turn, motioning for him to follow. If he’s a threat, I’ll know soon enough. If he’s lying, he’ll slip up.

But if he’s telling the truth…

Then I need to know why.

###

We keep walking through the forest, but if I want to survive here, I need more than just “food” and “water” in my vocabulary.

Time to go full caveman.

I clear my throat, then make a questioning hum. A sound that, hopefully, translates to: Hey, I’m stupid and need to know what you call that thing.

Io pauses mid-step, eyes narrowing. Then, she catches on. “Dreva,” she says, patting the rough bark of a tree.

“Dreva. Tree.” I repeat it, slow and deliberate.

She watches me for a second, then continues. “Komen, Trava, Vyeta.” With each word, she gestures—rock, grass, flower.

I echo them back.

She nods approvingly, then picks up the pace. I have no idea where we’re going, but she’s clearly got an agenda.

Thank god she finds this amusing—otherwise, I’d be completely screwed.

We keep moving, and our little game turns into a full-blown language lesson. Io starts pointing out more things around us, her voice steady and patient, as if she’s teaching a child.

No, scratch that—a slow child.

I struggle with some of the words, trying to wrap my tongue around unfamiliar sounds. She corrects me without hesitation, sometimes repeating a word until I get it right. I must sound ridiculous, but if I let my pride get in the way, I’ll never learn.

She starts mixing in questions.

She points to the sky. “Kako ovo?”

I blink. “Uh…” What is she asking? Oh—what is this? That’s gotta be it.

I hesitate before guessing. “Nebo?”

She smiles. “Da.”

I mentally fist-pump.

We go on like this for a while. She throws new words at me—some I get, some I butcher so badly she stops walking just to stare at me in horror.

I try again.

And again.

Left alone, at this rate, I would be fluent by next century. Or at least on par with a very patient toddler.

But by now, my sweet, sweet implant is actually helping me form simple sentences. The pattern recognition must be kicking in.

Thank you, deranged billionaire, for sticking wires in my brain. Not a thought I ever expected to have, but life is weird now.

Io tests me again. She stops abruptly, points at a nearby branch, and raises a brow.

I hesitate. “Uh… dreva?”

She smirks. “Ne. (No)”

Shit. Okay, not a tree. Think.

I glance at the branch. It’s small. Thin. “Mala dreva?”

Her lips twitch, like she’s holding back a laugh. “Blizu. Grana.”

Branch. Alright, that makes sense.

She suddenly crouches, picking up a handful of dirt, then holds it out.

I stare. “Uh…”

She tilts her head expectantly.

Oh, she’s definitely testing me now.

She wants to see if I can connect new words myself.

I rack my brain. Soil. Earth. Something close to that.

“…Zem?” I guess.

She hums, considering. “Zema.”

Not bad.

We keep walking, but I realize something—Io is deliberately slowing us down.

She could’ve taken a straight path to wherever we’re going. Instead, she’s weaving us through the trees, extending this impromptu lesson.

She’s assessing me. Or they have a weird way of navigation.

Testing how quickly I learn. Seeing if I can adapt. It’s smart. If I were in her position, I’d do the same.

Beep.

A sharp vibration hums behind my ear. The implant.

“Similarities found. Extrapolate?”

Oh, finally. It’s been struggling with the patterns in her speech, trying to force meaning from unfamiliar structures. But now? It’s found something.

Somehow, this language shares enough with the data set for partial translation. How? No clue. But I have nothing to lose.

“Yes,” I whisper.

A momentary pressure—then a subtle shift in sound. A barely noticeable recalibration.

It won’t make me fluent. But it’ll fill in the gaps, smoothing the edges of what I’ve already figured out. Complex sentences might still trip me up, but this should make basic conversations easier.

Io doesn’t know what just happened. But she must have sensed something.

She slows her pace, glancing at me, her expression unreadable.

She’s holding back for my sake. Adjusting her speech, making things easier for me. It’s… kind. But also calculated.

She doesn’t trust me.

Not yet.

And I don’t blame her.

Finally, she breaks the silence.

“Why are you here?”

I exhale, rolling my shoulders.

The real test begins.

###

At this point, I should officially ask the chief to put me in charge of teaching the young ones. Clearly, I’m a natural-born instructor.

And Nate? Not a half-bad student.

If anything, he’s learning faster than I expected. It took me months to hold conversations like this with merchants, and they actually spoke a dialect I was familiar with.

He doesn’t seem dangerous, but I keep my guard up. A man a head taller than me, and all I have is my knife. If I’m wrong, the consequences would be… unfortunate.

Still, it’s hard to imagine him as any kind of spy. Why go through the trouble of pretending not to understand a language? Maybe to earn trust—but that seems far-fetched. A real infiltrator wouldn’t fumble his way through simple words.

And then there’s the presence.

It led me to him. That alone tells me something was wrong. It has never deceived me before.

I watch him carefully as we walk. He’s picking up words quickly. I should start pressing him for answers. Maybe he’ll actually be able to give them.

At the very least, this is more interesting than dealing with merchants.

And I suppose that’s its own kind of reward.

###

Why are you here? Now the real fun begins, try to answer such a loaded question with a language you just started learning! At least the implant helps a bit. It’s still designed for translating to english and not allowing me to speak any specific language. I’m pretty much on my own.

I have to respond somehow.

“I woke up here,” I answer. No need to get into the quantum shenanigans. I’d rather not explain how I single-handedly destroyed my scientific credibility. Also I need to keep my sentences as simple as I can.

She tilts her head. “Are you a merchant?”

“No, I’m not. I’m a thinker. A sage.”

Yup. That’s what we’re going with. No clue what kind of culture this is, so I’m trying to frame myself in a way that makes sense. I could be in some kind of cult territory or an uncontacted tribe. Neither is ideal. So, roleplaying it is. At least those years of D&D are finally paying off.

Her response? Laughter.

She’s laughing. At me.

“You, a sage? A helpless man in a forest is a thinker?”

Ouch. That stings. I mean, I wouldn’t normally call myself that either, but hearing her say it still hurts.

“Not really,” I admit. “I don’t know what to call myself anymore.”

And that’s the truth. My career is basically dead. Time for a rebranding.

She just smiles. “Nate. You are Nate.”

Simple. Obvious. But there’s warmth in it.

Before I can respond, she suddenly stops and throws out an arm, blocking my path.

“What are—”

“Shh. Be silent.”

Her voice is low. Serious.

I shut up.

Then I see it.

A wolf.

No—too big. Too heavy. Definitely not a dog.

I hold my breath as it moves through the trees, massive and predatory. It doesn’t look at us. Doesn’t seem to care we’re here.

Still, we wait. A long, silent moment passes before it finally disappears into the undergrowth.

Only then does Io relax and start walking again.

I exhale. “Did you see that?”

“I sensed it,” she says. “Didn’t you?”

That’s a weird way to put it.

“No. Should I have?”

She gives me an odd look. “Oh. So you must be one of them.”

“One of who?”

“The deaf. The insensitive.”

The implant gives me two words instead of one—an approximation. There must not be a perfect translation.

“Who are the deaf?” I ask, trying to stick to her wording.

“That’s what we call most humans. They can’t feel the presence.”

Oh god. It is a cult. I knew it.

But… something about her tone makes me hesitate.

“The way you say it,” I start carefully, “are you… not human?”

Please, please let this be a good answer.

She sighs. “We are. But not according to them.”

That’s… a depressing thing to say.

“What do you mean? And what is this presence?”

She glances at me, considering. Then, with another small sigh, she begins to explain.

###

He’s not from around here. That much is obvious. When I spoke to him, he didn’t flinch the way the others do. No suspicion, no recoil. Just… confusion.

I used my own language—slow, careful—and he didn’t push me away. Didn’t sneer or spit. He listened. Even tried to answer. Clumsy, broken words, but they were meant to meet me halfway.

I still have to guess at half of what he’s saying, but he tries. That counts for something.

And the strangest part? He doesn’t know about the divide.

Doesn’t even realize there is one.

He assumed I was human.

I mean… I see myself as one. Always have. But for an outsider to say something like that so casually… strange.

A mistake? Or does he truly not see the difference?

Either way, something tells me he’s worth keeping around. Just for a bit.

But now he’s asking about the divide. And the presence.

He doesn’t know anything.

Even children are taught to keep away from those who can sense the presence. It’s one of the first lessons. Something so ingrained that even the most stubborn skeptics wouldn’t question it.

Yet here he is—standing in front of me, asking about it like it’s nothing.

How am I supposed to explain this?

It’s not a happy story.

And the day had been going relatively well.

Maybe… maybe I should see what he thinks. How he reacts.

I take a slow breath.