Pulling my feet out of the piled sand, I settle into a fighting stance. Legs spread apart a little more than shoulder width. My knees are slightly bent. I’ve a solid center of gravity and feel completely balanced. My hands are in front, ready to take on anything within reach.

  As the closest scorpion scuttles forward, I pivot and place a powerful kick to the scorpion's face. "Sons of scorpions," slips out as I feel the frailty of my exposed foot contacting hard exoskeleton. The scorpion flips end over end, ten feet away. One of its pincers is hanging awkwardly, and it adopts a new hissy tune.

  I quickly note not to rely on my hands or feet as my primary weapon in this fight. Before the remaining killer crawlers can close the circle on me, I use the opening my initial attack gives to sprint out of their trap.

  No longer surrounded, I feel a calmness wash over me. I got this. A few oversized bugs will not be bringing this nameless wanderer down. Sparks of my former life kick in. Fluidly, I adapt my stance to the scorpions' positioning.

  One of the scorpions, feeling confident, outpaces the pack and strikes first. A tail with a razor-sharp stinger launches toward me. Reflexively, I step to the side. Before registering my next step, my hand has a firm grip on the tail below the stinger.

  The scorpion simultaneously tries to pull back its tail and cut my leg with a viscous oversized claw.

  Sensing the claw strike coming, my legs step back. Dodging the claw causes the scorpion to be dragged in the process. There's a moment of enlightenment as I realize the bugger is lighter than I expected.

  I look at the scorpion, back toward his partners, and then back at my scorpion. Inspiration rushes in, and a plan starts to form. Grinning like a fool, I whip my hand, holding the tail in a windmill motion bringing the screeching beast to an abrupt crash on the sand behind me.

  Not letting go of the creature, I reverse the motion and bring the disoriented scorpion to a crash in front of me. The scorpion impacts the sand for a second time. Even though the blasted sand is a no-good pillow of nature's bed, the slams are enough to kill the creature.

  Now, I'm no longer weaponless. A Ball 'n Chain of the Scorpion is equipped in my right hand. And since I’m in the business of creating weapons, I add an imaginary plus five to strength and dexterity. The weapon in hand, if only mentally, becomes even deadlier.

  Swinging my Chain of Stinging Scorpion Claws above my head, I take a more aggressive attack stance. Now it is my turn to take the initiative.

  Stepping forward, I bring the Scorpion Chain swinging over my head down with all my strength on the first attacker within range. With a satisfying thud, the hit lands on the head of the now concussed creature. The impact is followed by my left arm grabbing the tail of the dazed foe. Dragging the second scorpion behind me, I continue to spin my newly named Scorpion Chain of Concussion above my head.

  The three remaining scorpions take a more coordinated approach stepping into the fray together. Their pincers and stingers are ready.

  It doesn't matter. I’ve become a sandstorm of movement

  The momentum of my dual swinging Scorps of Debilitating Power transfers into a spinning attack aimed at the creature on my left. At the apex of my swing, the right and left Scorp Chain combines into a massive wrecking ball. The jumbled madness smashes into my target.

  The colossal impact hits the scorpion with enough force it collides with its fellow pack member in the middle. I'm rewarded with loud cracks of chitin snapping. One swing knocks out two scorpions.

  Letting the momentum of my swing carry me a couple of steps to my right, I'm now directly in front of the last scorpion. The largest of the bunch and what I assume to be the alpha.

  It attacks furiously as both claws snatch at my legs. I dodge to the left, narrowly avoiding being caught. My trailing Scorpion Whip, however, gets caught in the combo of attacks. As the alpha's claws snap down on my weapon, its stinger shoots forward lightning fast with much more range than expected.

  Alph, hoping that I step back to avoid the claws, overcompensates with its actual attack. Had I stepped back, I would have been hit. Fortunately for me, I've always been more of a sidestepper. Instead of hitting me with the stinger, the scorpion is now tangled with my weapon and is overextended.

  I jerk my right arm just enough to bring the trapped creature into striking distance. With a powerful windmill motion, the scorpion in my left arm descends upon the alpha's body. My aim isn't perfect, and I only manage to crush a couple of its legs. Instinctively the predator attacks the cause of its pain.

  Even with its injuries, Alph can still launch a vicious counterattack at my Scorpion Whip. With it distracted, I bring the whip in my right arm down onto its head.

  I'm slightly out of breath. Sand is covering my sweaty body. I'm thirsty, and my bloody heart is acting like a coward again. "Bloody hell, scorpions." I curse my new pile of loot and the heap of work I now have before me.

  Guts and goop poor out as I cut apart valuable resources from four of the scorpions. The alpha scorpion I keep primarily intact, only removing its innards. My thoughts drift as I get to harvesting the scorpions. As rewarding as it is, the unpleasant task isn’t something I want to be entirely present for.

  I wonder around this life of mine. Questioning what it is to live and how I ended up in this mess. My best guess is a coven of witches were bitter about my scathing remarks on their brewery. No witch wants to be told how to brew their potions. When a confident potion connoisseur walks into their shop demanding better, there will be consequences. It is like them to leave a picky customer in a prickly situation. I can practically hear them cackling. Just like they say, ‘Witches be witching.’ I’m no closer to cracking my memories than I’m figuring out what living is all about.

  An hour of gross work later, I’m left with five stingers, ten claws, five large exoskeleton plating, some meat-like sustenance, and a sled to carry all my material in.

  Packing my gear into the sled, I walk a couple of miles, putting some distance between me and the butchered remains of the scorpions. If there are any large scavengers, I don't want to get into another fight. I stop walking only when I reach the more solid ground surrounded by small tree bushes. Before I get settled, I quickly check my area, ensuring there aren't any ambushing predators.

  I estimate that maybe five hours have passed since I found myself lying in the desert and only thirty minutes since the scorpion encounter. The sun is now positioned above the mountains. Probably giving me an hour or two of daylight.

  I'm hungry, thirsty, and tired, and although the fight with the scorpions was quick, my body feels drained from the adrenaline. Lack of nourishment and excessive expenditure of energy are taking their toll. On top of that, the sun has gotten increasingly hot, and only now is it beginning to cool back down. Even if I want to continue walking, I won't make it much longer if I continue to push on like this. Now is as good a time as ever to rest, inspect my new gear, and take inventory of all my resources.

  Food is an option if I can start a fire. That is at the top of my list. Weapons from the claws and stingers can be crafted, and the shells can be used as a shield for protection. That leaves me in need of water and cover. Just two out of the three basic needs for survival are missing. Pretty good if you ask me.

  Utilizing one of the stingers as a knife, I shape one of the claws into a more useful tool; the bigger, heftier claw makes for a solid wood harvester. Sharp jagged edges towards the bottom allow me to do a good amount of sawing, and the top section is strong enough to split the wood. That is, if I work with wood that isn't too thick. Thinness happens to be a trait that these blessed desert bushes excel at.

  I use the stinger to create some kindling and tinder. Starting a fire from nothing becomes easier with preparation and suitable material. Preferably the kind of material with an optimistic disposition for burning. None of that damp, soggy stuff.

  After preparing my fuel, I start the process of creating fire from friction. Using a round, sturdier stick, I drill into a thicker branch, applying loads of pressure. Thirty minutes later, bloody hands and a bit of smoke are all I have to show for my work. Sweat keeps dripping into my eyes, making it even harder to maintain a consistent drill.

  I take a moment to reassess. Rather than faulting my technique, I blame the wood for refusing to just burn. The assessment leads me to collect more things to burn, specifically the finely dry hair fibers that cover the scorpions' claws. I repeat the process by scraping a claws worth of fibers into my drill hole.

  Hair fibers are quick to react to friction turning into tiny embers. Carefully I place the embers into my prepared pile of shredded wood fibers and blow softly. Smoke thickens. Each breath fuels the heat catching onto the fine threads of hair.

  One blow later, the nest for the fiber is covered in smoke.

  The nest begins to glow with another blow, putting off a little heat.

  After two more soft blows, my nest of tinder catches flame. I move the quickly burning tinder to the kindling, providing the fire with longer-lasting fuel. As the fire grows, I add more substantial fuel. Crackling noises ensure the fire is off to a healthy start. Now I just need to feed the flame, a task made more accessible with the bountiful wood stash I collected prior.

  With a pointy stick, I skewer a chunk of scorpion meat and set it over the fire. It takes a little finagling to get the skewer to maintain the proper placement over the flame. All my attempts to lazily spike the stick into the ground proved unsuccessful. Instead, I spike two posts deep into the sand, causing them to crisscross and do the same thing on the other side of the fire. The scorpion meat is slid towards the middle of the skewer, which is then placed on the two makeshift stick holders.

  Fatty juices drip off the roasting meat, letting me know it is in enough heat to cook. While cooking my meal, I decide to take care of my future food. Two more roasters are added that holds the meat in the thick of the smoke. Ideally, the smoke will dry it out, leaving no room for bacteria.

  That takes care of food, leaving me with only water and shelter to worry about. Hopefully, eating won't make my thirst a more significant threat. I'm not concerned about cover because I don't plan to stay long in the desert.

  Live… what does that even mean? Am I supposed to take that literally or theoretically? Maybe both? Who sends a one-word message to a man in the desert with no memories? That’s a stupid game. Maybe I’m supposed to make the most of life. Like it is a challenge of some sort. Live it up. That’s my quest… mission — answer?

  I look to the cooking scorpion steaks in response to my quest. Surely a desert meat fest counts as living. Though a little more variety would be nice. One can’t live off meat alone. I know it is a silly thought. I should be content. But now that I think of that blasted word, I don’t feel like I have enough.

  Maybe more consumption is what I need to live. Thinking of ways to spice up my meat entices me to observe more thoroughly what is around me. Unwelcoming cacti become the focus of my attention. Sure they are a prickly bunch now, but after some depoking and healthy roasting, they will become much more pleasant. Within minutes, I prepare and add cactus to the meat on the roasting stick.

  As dinner cooks, I continue to be productive.

  Technically, I'd say I'm already productive. Not only am I taking care of my current food needs, but I’m also taking care of the next three days of food if I ration…. Most likely, I won't ration. I can think of nothing better to pass the dull time through the desert than munching on my jerky.

  To be more productive, I examine other resources I harvested from the scorpions. Using the scorpion stinger as a blade has been a helpful tool. The stinger is sharp, pointy, sturdy, and about a foot in length.

  My only complaint is that it is unwieldy, with all blade and no handle. Likewise, the severed claw has also been valuable in processing wood. With some extra modifications, I think I can make drastic improvements.

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  Creative thoughts play through my mind as I examine my resources and decide how they will best serve me. Knives with cord-wrapped handles fashioned out of the stingers. Short swords with cord-wrapped handles made from claws. Shields from the shells with a cord to grip onto. Backpack from woven shells, rope, and corded straps to hold my weapons and tools.

  I can see how the items from my inventory can be used. How to modify them, and how to carry all my gear. My only problem is I don't have any cord. Yet.

  Following the thoughts running through my head, I delicately strip the fibers from the scrub trees and plants around me and begin to weave some cord. Occasionally, as I sit by my fire and work, I catch the aromas of my roasting desert scorpion and cacti kabob.

  No longer able to withstand the enticing smell, my mouth begins to water. Or it would start to water if it weren't so dry. My mouth attempts to salivate but can't because deserts are naturally thirsty. That checks out.

  Cord production is running smoothly as I continue to lament my lack of water. Delicate, brittle fibers are woven together to form stronger, longer fibers. My hands are steady and efficient throughout the entire process. This proficiency makes me believe I was likely a rope maker of the highest order in my previous life. By the time I deem my kabab ready to eat, I’ve produced five strands of cord, a foot in length each.

  Removing the hot meal from the fire, I blow on it repeatedly to get the temperature to a manageable level and take a bite of the scorpion.

  Charred meat crunches beneath my teeth, followed by soft chewiness, juices, and flavor. Hungrily, I devour the entire kabob, appreciating the textures, bland flavors, and, most of all, the eradication of my hunger. Desert scorpion kabobs aren't bad. They aren't good. They’re edible, and that’s enough.

  After I finish my meal, I get back to work on my cord production. Another hour goes by. The sun is gone, leaving me alone to work by the light of my fire. Piles of cord and a deficiency of nearby vegetation result from my work. Now that I have plenty of cord to work with, I can get to the modifications of my gear.

  Using the Original Sting Blade, I start to fashion a knife out of one of the other stingers. Hard chitin resists as I whittle away at the base of the stinger. Thinking of improving the process, I grab a claw and shape the stinger into something more comfortable to hold.

  When I’m close to the width of the handle I want, I replace the claw for my blade and do some more nuanced work. To add to the durability and grip, I wrap a cord around the handle until it has the right feel. As a result of my efforts, I’m rewarded with something that resembles a hunting knife. This process is replicated two more times.

  On my fourth attempt, I try to make the forming of the handle easier by adding heat. Previously somewhat malleable chitin hardens when exposed to the flame, rewarding me with a stinger too durable to modify and a way to improve my newly created knives.

  Unwrapping the cord, I place my finished knives into the heat and let them harden. Two of the knives I pull out after around the same amount of time as the first hardened blade. The third knife I leave in the heat for the sake of science. A cord is added back on the hardened knives giving me two finished products.

  Satisfied with my work, I take advantage of the last bit of night remaining and rest. The warmth from the small fire is comfortable enough to allow me to relax. Keeping my tools close, my eyes shut. Soon after, I fall asleep.

  Bright beams of yellow sun wake me from my light slumber. Throughout the night, I would wake up cold and had to add more fuel to the fire. On the plus side of that inconvenience, I could keep my meat in constant smoke. A few more hours and it will be done.

  I begin the day with some stretching routines. Pulling on my muscles not only eases me into the grind but also allows me to clear my mind and be empty in thought for a moment.

  Muscles loosen up, and my body relaxes. I feel pretty good. Thirsty? Yeah. Hungry? Sort of, yeah. Other than that, I feel good.

  I finish my forms and then throw some prepared cactus into the flames.

  This morning's menu will be cactus jacks and scorpion jerky. Cactus jacks are like flapjacks if you take everything in the flapjack and replace it with a mashed cactus. The verdict is still out on whether it will be a breakfast-time hit. I'm guessing it is more of a post-breakfast pre-lunch type of dish.

  My new knife makes processing the cactus much more manageable. I'm already grateful for the time I put into making the tool.

  Thinking about my knives, I check on the one I left in the heat. There is no trace of the extra heated knife in my fire pit. It either burned up, or a thieving knife swiper swiped my knife. Regardless of what happened to it, I decide not to overheat any more of my gear.

  Breakfast over the fire gives me time to tinker with more of the scorpion parts. My next project is working on weapons to protect myself with. Who knows when lurking scorps will decide to do more than lurk? Massive sharp claws will soon become slightly longer machetes.

  All I need to do is smooth out excess bulk, shape the handles, add a cord for support, and cook in the fire to harden. Wait, no, it is set in fire, then add the cord.

  Sloppy thinking almost cost me cordage.

  Following the template, I use the hardened blade to bring the design to life. My knife isn't precisely slicing through the claws like it is water. However, it no longer feels like I'm carving rocks. Instead, I make reasonable progress and have my first machete hardening by the time my jacks and jerky are ready to eat.

  Cactus jacks, though drier than kabobs, are tasty. Smoke and slight char season the fried mush. Each bite has a satisfying crunch while maintaining enough moisture that it doesn't dry out my mouth more.

  I enjoy my cactus and undercooked jerky breakfast, savoring each bite. If I hurry, I can take advantage of the cool morning as I walk through the desert. Or, if I linger long enough, the cool morning will turn to warmer temperatures that aren't conducive to walking. Looking around my small camp is all it takes to motivate me to linger. The key to living is to do what you want right?

  "Rest now; work hard later — if I have to," I mutter, convincing myself this is the best decision.

  Resting isn't entirely resting. I do a good amount of pure resting, but that is mixed in with active resting, where I continue to work on equipment.

  I add finishing touches to my machete and test it on nearby trees. I’m more than satisfied with its slicing effectiveness. Happy with the results, I make three more.

  After the machetes, I work on body cover. This takes up most of my rest time and cord as I tie the segmented shells from the scorpion together to create a loose-fitting armor.

  Creating this work of art involves punching holes in various places of the chitin and then hardening them over the flame. Once set, I tie the chitin together to have chitin plating covering my upper body and shoulders.

  I think I do a pretty good job for not being an armorer. Or maybe I was an exotic armorer. Who's to say?

  Leggings are a little more complicated, but with dedication and a strong desire to not walk during the day, I put in the effort and create some covering for my legs. By mid-afternoon, I look like a desert inhabitant covered in desert scorpion plating and armed with desert-slicing machetes.

  More time is spent working on my gear. To my growing inventory, I add two shields, sheaths for two machetes and the two knives, and a couple of pouches to store the remainder of my gear and food separately.

  I also work on the scorpion sled, making it more efficient to pull through the sand by stabilizing the sides and preventing it from being tippy.

  To my dismay, no matter how hard I try, I can't figure out shoes. They are either too uncomfortable or impractical. Failed attempt after failed attempt leaves me shoeless and absolutely positive I was never a shoemaker in my former life.

  It is late in the afternoon when I finish my projects. This was a day well spent avoiding walking. I sprawl out and nap on my sandy bed with no more pressing tasks.

  Lightly twinkling stars and an eager moon have replaced the overzealous sun by the time I wake up. Chilly air no longer combats the heat of my now diminished fire. Raising to my feet, I stretch out my body and then pack up my camp. It is time to continue my journey.

  I equip my scorpion armor. Knives are in their corded sheaths tied to my belt. The shield and machetes are slung over my shoulder and rest on my back, held by more cord. Everything else, including my jerky, are placed in my scorpion cart in their designated containers.

  Rested and now equipped with my gear, I continue my heroic pilgrimage out of the infested desert with a mouthful of jerky and a scorpion sled in haul. Five steps and a drier mouth later, I'm already regretting all my life's decisions that got me to this point.

  "Succubuses!" The thought turns into a vocal curse.

  That is where I went wrong. I fell in love with a succubus. Since succubuses are monogamous in nature, she had to ditch me. No, that does not add up. Succubuses collectively fell in love with me. A whole flock of succubuses and me — the world-famous roper turned exotic armor maker — courting. Societal norms be damned.

  However, succubuses are naturally monogamous. They couldn't cope with the shared relationship. Adopting the all-or-nothing mindset, the flock of succubuses united in their decision. Heartbroken and empowered, the demon seducers stripped me of all my armor and rope and left me unbound in the dry wild.

  It was a long con.

  The succubuses never really loved me. They just wanted me for my discounted goods. Now they have it all and I have nothing. Well, not any more flocking succubuses! This armorer doesn't need inventory to equip himself. I can do that on my own. Like I said when the demons walked into my shop, succubuses are the worst customers.

  Five steps later, I'm still miserable. Maybe some people just aren't made for walking. Perhaps deserts are just the worst.

  That's the nugget of truth I was digging for. Of all my travels, this is the absolute worst. Sure, this is the only trip that I remember. Yet I’ve the utmost confidence that this one is the worst of all my travels, including my previous life.

  Five out of five scorpions would agree.

  First, sand is only good when it is next to a body of water. If sand isn't next to water, what is the point?

  Secondly, every footstep requires way more energy than it should. It takes two steps to move one pace forward. Forcing your inhabitants to take double the steps is unnecessary and redundant if you ask me.

  Secondly-part-two, why don't I have any shoes? Who would abandon someone in the desert without shoes? Succubuses have no use for shoes due to their cloven devil feet. On top of that, shoes would most definitely interfere with the witches' brewing process. Bats are also disqualified due to not belonging to the foot family. That leaves vampires, who have more honor than stooping to boot snatching.

  A soulless act of cowardice. That's what that is.

  What is the deal with shoes anyway? Why do they have to be so sandblasted hard to make? They are the epitome of the bottom of apparel. They have no right to be so complicated to make.

  On top of everything else, the food is bland, drinks are not included, my lips are beyond parched, scorpions are popping out of nowhere, and there is no shade. Even at night, the desert moon is brighter than it needs to be. I'm certainly not impressed, moon.

  Just then, I lift my head to examine the scenery unfolding before me. Enhanced by the low light-giving moon, the scrub trees, cactus, and dunes give off their most majestic look.

  "I take that back, Sir or Miss Moon. You are doing great."

  Still, desert trips are the worst. Bright lighting or low lighting, it doesn't matter. It's all just sand with no water — definitely a bottom-tier environment.

  In fact, I swear, with the relenting moon as my witness, after I get out of here, one day, I will return. Then I'll burn this desolate sandpit and all its unwelcoming, unreasonably-giant scorpions to the ground. And when the sand has turned to glass, I will flood the land into an oasis. And then I will make signs that will not permit a single scorpion or scorpions into my beautiful oasis. And there will be trees. Lots of shade-giving trees.

  Yeah… that feels right. Perhaps I let my thoughts run a speck too wild. On the other hand, it's good to be thorough when it comes to schemes, and my revenge plot is practically perfect. If I know anything, revenge is the best way to fill your life with purpose.

  I’m willing to place my bets. The desert is the only reason I was stranded in the first place.

  Somehow the lifeless desert sought me out, grabbed me while I was in the deepest depths of sleep, and brought me to its dried-out lands. Most likely, the desert was hungry and thought the handsome sleeping man would be a tasty treat. All the minions of the desert are its weird way of devouring food and nourishing its gritty greedy self.

  Well, not anymore, greedy desert. Here is one morsel you will not swallow. Consider me the chink of meat perfectly lodged in your tooth that you will never get out. Now your gums are swollen and bleeding.

  Nope.

  That's quite gross. I’m the morsel you swallowed and choked on. Your own gluttonous nature is your downfall, and there is no one here to blame but yourself.

  Nameless, thirsty, and lost in more ways than one, I continue to walk towards the mountains blindly with slightly more vigor in my step, pushed by a false sense of purpose. Perhaps near the mountains, there will be more direction. If nothing else, I will no longer be stuck in the desert.

  Step by step, I push forward. Slowly, I escape my capturer.

  With the passing of the moon and miles, the wavy dunes have settled. I can see the tree line in the distance. Sand has turned into the more crusty ground providing better footing and extra wear on my bare feet. The vegetation is more significant in size and growing in variations as I get closer.

  What once was a quiet, peaceful night is becoming louder with wild activity. Curious about the cause of the commotion, I turn my head toward all the noise.

  South of me, a thick cloud of sand is traveling fast in my direction. Sprinting ahead of the sandstorm is an assortment of desert dwellers I haven't seen before. They try to outpace the storm, only to be swallowed shortly after.

  There is no chance of escaping the sandstorm. It is moving too fast. Without many options, I hunker down, doing my best to cover my face and other exposed skin. Hopefully, I can come out of this storm with my flesh.