Muscle Memory Without Memories
Air slammed into Victor's lungs.
He gasped violently and rolled onto his side as his body convulsed. Cold dirt pressed into his cheek. Leaves stuck to his skin. The smell of earth flooded his senses. Sharp. Wet. Alive.
He coughed hard, dragging in breath after breath until his chest burned. Each inhale came too fast until he forced it to slow.
Panic flared.
Contained.
He stayed where he was, fingers digging into soil, anchoring himself through touch. The ground was solid. It did not give way beneath him.
When he opened his eyes, green filled his vision. Leaves. Branches. Sunlight fractured through a canopy far above.
Victor pushed himself upright slowly. His balance wavered for half a second.
His body felt different.
Light.
Responsive.
Young.
Not weak. Just unprepared. Like something taken off a shelf and thrown into use without warning.
He sat still and let sensation settle. Muscles ached in unfamiliar ways. Not injured. Not strained. Just unused.
He took inventory.
Clothes: rough fabric. Practical. No insignia. Nothing decorative.
Boots: broken in, but not worn out.
Hair fell into his face. Dark. Longer than expected. He pushed it back and felt it brush his shoulders.
That detail registered without context.
He touched his face.
Smooth.
No scars.
The absence bothered him more than the idea of scars ever could.
He pressed inward, searching for memory.
There was a gap.
Not a blur.
An absence.
When he pushed against it, something pushed back. Not pain. Pressure. Like pressing a bruise that refused to surface.
Victor withdrew.
Fine.
If the past was unavailable, he would work with the present.
He stood. His posture corrected automatically. Feet set. Weight distributed evenly. Shoulders relaxed.
He scanned the forest.
Birds overhead.
Insects.
Wind through leaves.
No immediate threat.
The quiet felt large. Expansive in a way that made him aware of himself inside it.
He was alone.
That certainty settled heavily in his chest.
Victor began moving.
Each step placed carefully. He chose firm ground. Adjusted to slope without thought. Shifted weight naturally to avoid noise.
Muscle memory without memory.
Hunger followed soon after. Slow. Persistent.
Thirst came sharper.
Both felt real.
Grounding.
He found water by sound. A narrow stream threading through the trees.
He crouched, scanned upstream, then downstream, then drank.
Cold. Clean.
He splashed his face and welcomed the shock.
His reflection rippled back at him.
Young. Eighteen, maybe.
His eyes looked older than the rest of him.
The mismatch irritated him.
As he moved, fragments surfaced.
Not images.
Not events.
Certainties.
Something is wrong.
It must be corrected.
He did not know what that meant.
Only that the thought existed.
He stopped when the light shifted. Shadows lengthened across the forest floor.
Shelter mattered. Not urgently. But soon.
He chose high ground. Dry. Defensible.
He cleared space methodically. Broke branches. Positioned them deliberately. Built a crude lean-to that would block wind and conceal shape.
When he finally sat with his back against a tree, the forest settling around him, pressure built in his chest.
Not fear.
Not despair.
Placement.
He had been moved.
Without consent.
"Fine," he muttered quietly. "Then I survive first."
He slept lightly.
Exhaustion dragged him under, but never fully. Hunger gnawed. The mental strain of pushing against memory left a dull ache behind his eyes.
He woke before dawn.
His eyes opened without conscious decision.
He did not move.
Tree bark pressed against his back. Damp air cooled his neck. The ground beneath him was uneven and promised bruises later.
He swallowed. His throat was dry. His stomach hollow.
Real problems.
Good.
Victor ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair, pushing it back. The motion felt familiar. Repeated. Practiced.
No memory attached.
He did not chase that thought. Pressing against the gap only increased resistance.
He stayed with what he could verify.
He was alive.
His name was Victor Graves.
He was alone.
He had no intention of dying because memory refused to cooperate.
His hand drifted to the knife at his waist.
He touched the handle lightly.
Solid.
Reliable.
He rose carefully. Muscles stiff. Body young but untrained.
It moved like it had not yet been asked for violence.
Victor exhaled slowly.
In.
Out.
He re-assessed his surroundings. The rise he chose gave visibility without trapping him. The tree at his back removed one blind angle.
The forest began to wake.
Birdsong.
Insects.
Light filtering in fractured sheets.
Victor listened for what did not fit.
Nothing obvious.
That meant nothing.
He followed the stream further downhill and drank again. Teeth aching at the cold.
When he stared at his reflection this time, the irritation sharpened.
Young face.
Hard eyes.
The expression did not belong to the features carrying it.
He stood and moved, keeping the stream to his left. Water meant animals. Animals meant food.
Or threat.
Hunger sharpened as he walked. His eyes lingered on berries he did not recognize. Roots he could not name.
Then he saw the tracks.
He stopped immediately.
Not human.
Hoofed.
But wrong.
Too narrow.
Too deep.
The mud was crushed inward more than displaced.
Victor crouched.
The depth did not match what he expected from weight alone.
Density.
His stomach tightened.
"What the fuck left these tracks," he muttered quietly. "It's like it crushed the ground."
He scanned the tree line.
Silence.
The birds had stopped.
The insects followed seconds later.
The forest did not gradually quiet.
It cut.
Victor rose slowly.
Every muscle settled into readiness without conscious command.
His breathing slowed.
His stance shifted.
He did not know what was coming.
But something was.
And it was heavy.