baby goblin or goblin baby

I blink, or at least, I think I do. Everything's a blur of colors and sensations slamming into me like a bad hangover after one of my legendary college parties. No white room. No booming Santa laugh. Just... wet? Cold? And a whole lot of screaming that isn't mine.

Wait. The screaming is mine. High-pitched, wobbly, like some pathetic mewling kitten. My throat burns from it, and I can't stop. Why can't I stop? Panic hits harder than the truck did, oh God, not again, and I flail, tiny fists punching at nothing. Tiny? What the actual fuck?

The world sharpens just enough for me to make out shapes: a thatched roof leaking rainwater onto a dirt floor, walls of cracked mud bricks that look one storm away from collapsing. A woman, no, a girl, barely out of her teens, hovers over me, her face gaunt and streaked with tears, cradling me against a threadbare cloth that's doing double duty as a blanket and a bandage for her own wounds. Her eyes are hollow, like she's seen too many winters without enough food. "Shh, little one," she whispers in a language I somehow understand, raspy, desperate. "Mama's here. You'll be strong. You have to be."

Strong? Lady, if this is my "fresh start," Zilla's got a twisted sense of humor. I crane my neck, ow, neck? Why does everything feel so floppy?, and catch my reflection in a puddle on the floor. Puddle? No, that's a cracked clay bowl half-filled with murky water. Staring back at me is... not me. Not even close.

Freckles everywhere, like someone sprinkled cinnamon on a potato. A nose that's crooked, probably broken at some point and left to heal wrong. Hair that's a mousy brown tangle, sticking up in every direction like I lost a fight with a bird's nest. And my eyes, beady, too close together, the kind that make you look shifty even when you're innocent. Which I'm not, but still. I'm a goblin. A literal goblin in human skin. If my old girlfriends saw this, they'd laugh so hard they'd snort their lattes.

The debuffs. Oh, they're here, alright. Not subtle, either. I try to sit up, baby body, duh, and my arms give out like wet noodles. Weak as hell. I bet I couldn't lift a spoon, let alone bench-press fate. And my brain? Foggy. I rack it for memories of my old life: Dad's yacht parties, Mom's designer closet, that one time I charmed my way out of a speeding ticket with a wink. They're there, but jumbled, like someone's shuffled the deck and hid half the cards. Concentration? Gone. I try to remember basic math, something I used to do in my sleep, and it slips away like water through fingers. 2 + 2? Uh... fish? What the hell?

A cramp hits my gut, sharp and unrelenting. Hunger? No, worse, something's wrong inside. I wail again, and the girl, Mama?, winces, pressing a rag to my forehead. It's hot. Feverish. Great, add "chronically ill" to the list. Zilla said physical, mental, social. Check, check... and oh boy, social's gonna be a riot.

The door, more like a flap of hide, swings open, letting in a gust of wind that smells like smoke and regret. A burly man stomps in, his face weathered like old leather, arms like tree trunks scarred from what looks like beast claws. Villager? Farmer? He glances at Mama, then at me, and his lip curls. "Another mouth to feed, and it looks half-dead already. What curse did we piss off this time, Mira?"

Mira, Mama, flinches but holds me tighter. "It's a boy, Garr. Strong lungs, see? He'll pull through."

Garr snorts, hawking a glob of spit into the corner. "Lungs don't pay debts. Or fight off the raiders. Look at him, scrawny whelp with those buggy eyes. Mark my words, he'll be beggin' scraps by five." He doesn't even touch me. Just looms, like I'm a stain on his boot.

Social debuff: activated. Instant pariah status. In my old life, people flocked to me like moths to a flame. Here? I'm the flame that's already guttered out. Awesome.

Days blur into a haze of colic and crap. Can't be more than a week, but it feels eternal. Mira feeds me what she can, sour goat milk that tastes like defeat, and whispers stories of heroes who rose from nothing. Yeah, right. Heroes with my luck get trucked into oblivion. I try to focus, to bring some OP skill into existence like in those animes, but nada. Instead, I soil myself for the third time that morning, and Garr's mutter of "useless runt" echoes from the next room.

By the time I can roll over, milestone, whoop-de-doo, I'm maybe two months old, give or take. The village is a shithole: mud huts clustered around a muddy square, folks in rags trading turnips for tools that look forged by a blind smith. No magic academies, no elves with pointy ears offering quests. Just grind and grit. And me, the debuffed disaster, drawing stares like I'm a walking bad omen.

One night, as Mira rocks me by a pitiful fire, she hums a lullaby about the gods balancing scales. I want to laugh, or cry, the same difference. Zilla, you fat bastard, this your idea of entertainment? Fine. I'll earn it. I'll claw my way up from goblin-baby to something resembling a winner. But if I ever get back to that white room, I'm shoving that red tie where the sun doesn't shine.

Little do I know, the real fun's just starting. Because out in the dark, beyond the village palisade, something howls a beast with eyes like the truck's headlights. And it's hungry.

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