It had been an hour or two since Dean woke up. This was not Dalmarnock. And he was pretty sure this wasn''t Glasgow. For one thing, it was hot. Taps are hot... at least it was. Now Dean felt weirdly acclimated to the heat. It was supposed to be December, a week or so before the new year, the last time he checked. Snow was predicted over the next few days. He enjoyed the snow, especially when it coincided with the winter festivities. Not Scotland, then. Probably not anywhere nearby either. His first guess was Australia.


    The last thing he remembered was that he was a rite mess. He’d just been laid off and arrived home to find his girlfriend- His ex-girlfriend- in bed with his ex-best friend/flatmate. Naturally, he dropped everything to drink away what little he had in his savings. He vaguely remembered flashes of being booted from the last bar somewhere and stumbling his way to the bank of the Clyde near Kingston Bridge. He sobbed. The real ugly stuff. Snot and saliva everywhere. Usually, in stories like this, there would be a suspicious truck hurtling down a nearby street, only to veer wildly, or a mysterious figure falling into the river, just begging to be saved. Maybe there was. Maybe.


    But how did he end up here? He knew no self-respecting polis would let him near the airport, let alone board a plane in that state. Perhaps he was kidnapped and had his not-so-vital organs and belongings taken. At least that would explain why he was missing his phone and his clothes and why he woke up with a crackin'' headache, but it wouldn''t explain why he was clothed in someone else''s clothes nor why he otherwise felt fine. Nae, he felt good. “Wait. didn''t I just have a crackin'' headache?” Dean pondered. Coming to his senses, he looked around, then down at himself, and then back around. He realized he was dressed a bit weirdly, but that was not a concern to him right now. He was in a rocky alcove, almost a cave, but not quite. The morning sun stretched down, casting him in the shade. He could hear running water but saw no signs of a creak or brook from where he sat. Dean knew that if he were dumped in the middle of nowhere in an unknown land (possibly Australia), he would need Shelter, clean water, and food. He could do without a fire for the time being. The alcove would provide immediate shelter, but water and food would become problematic. He sat still, trying his hardest to listen for the direction of the water source, but he knew his hearing wasn''t great, nor was his eyesight. Panic suddenly shot through him, and he jumped to his feet. “My glasses! Where are my glasses?!” he screamed silently. He patted himself down, finding a pair of circular-rimmed glasses in his shirt pocket. These were not his glasses, but he tried them anyway. They seemed to be in a similar prescription. He also found a belt sheath with a big ‘fuck-off’ ''-looking blade. “Call that a knife?” He mused to himself as he unsheathed it for the first time. He was 100% certain he was in Australia.


    Now equipped with decent specs and protection, he took a proper gander around. There was still no sign of the water source, but in the center of the clearing was a strange plant, and Dean found himself strangely drawn to it. He crouched down and examined it. It was an effervescent teal color, at least, the leaves were. He couldn’t see any flower buds. The strange sensation drew him to unearth the exotic plant. With his knife in hand (which he was tempted to name Sheila), he gently dug out the roots of the unique fern thing. He was incredibly disappointed. It looked a bit like ginger but much smaller and a lot more shriveled up. It''s naff looking. He was contemplating re-planting the thing when his stomach began to rumble.


    In his youth, Dean had been an avid Boy Scout. Even much later, in his late teens and early adulthood, Dean enjoyed going out into the wilds to set up camp, picking seasonal plants, and fishing. So, it was out of character when he popped the whole thing in his mouth with a shrug and ate it. Dean was familiar with the “toxin testing” methodology, where you start by rubbing the food into your skin and wait an absolute age. Then, should there be no adverse effects, you should gradually take more steps to test its safety. It was compulsive and impatient, and he was being a rite dolly, but he had a gut feeling it would be fine.


    His stomach immediately cramped, and his head swam. “You absolute bampot,” he cursed himself under his breath as he fell to his knees, convulsing in pain. He could hardly breathe. He was drowning in his sweat. He thought his sweat was black and viscous. Was this thing psychoactive? He could feel his heart speed up, faster than he was sure it had ever beat. He swore he could hear his hair growing. Dean woke up from his turbulent state after an indeterminate amount of time. His lips felt parched; he was hungry. Wait. Was he hungry? Not really. He was pretty thirsty, though. Without any pain or effort, Dean rose from the ground. The stream was above him. He knew that now, in the rainy season, it would be overspill, and some would enter the cave from a small crevice in the roof. That’s how the 8-point Heavenly root was watered. He could see the slight change in the color of the dirt on the roof, which held the slightest moisture from the last rainfall. A sharp pain shot through Dean’s head, followed by an equally bright flash of light. Shaking his head, Dean recovered. There was no bright light, no pain—just the dim light from outside the cave.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    *Crack*


    He froze. That was the sound of a nearby branch being snapped approximately 50 yards away. That was something he could tell. There was something odd about the fact he was so certain, but he didn’t bother to explore that train of thought. He wanted to investigate. Dean didn’t know if Australia had bears or wolves, but he was sure he could not take them in a fight. Doubly sure he could not talk his way out of a hungry beast’s mouth. He pulled his knife and crept towards the open side of the cave with his back pressed against the wall. As he peaked around the corner of the cave wall, his heart pumping, Dean stared and retracted his previous belief. He was not in Australia.


    Before Dean stood a child, at least that is what his initial, surprisingly logical, thought told him. No, Dean, that is not a child. He thought to himself, uncertainty and wonder rising. That is a goblin. A goblin with a fucking gun.


    It was about 5 feet tall, grey in complexion, with wispy hair tied in a kind of top knot; it was covered in tattoos and wore shabby leather pants and shoulder straps. And it held a gun. It faced away, crouched over a bush, and used its gun to dig.  The entire sight was baffling. Maybe there was a logical explanation for this? Maybe Dean had been drugged, and this was some side effect? Dean made to step back into the alcove but lost his balance on a very inconveniently placed pebble and stumbled forward, alerting the goblin to his presence.


    The goblin span towards him with a yelp, gesturing his gun wildly with little care for proper trigger discipline. It shouted at him incomprehensibly. Dean winced at a sudden bright flash and pain behind his eyes. “What was that?” he thought.


    “Oi! Oi! I got a big boy! You! Don’t you move!” the creature yelled over its shoulder, suddenly speaking English.” Gimmie the short and pointy! Any munching you got! But don’t you move a bit, or I’ll get you nasty!”


    “Um, what?” Dean enquired very eloquently. The goblin looked confused for a second, halting his erratic firearm toting.


    “You. Give. The. Shorty. Pointy. And. Munchings.” The goblin barked, exasperated. It was gaining confidence, and its evident excitement grew as it realized it had the upper hand. It started jostling the revolver in Dean’s general direction, coming closer.


    Dean’s mind was blank. There was so much to digest, but he found it impossible, no matter how hard he tried to collect his thoughts. He had to do something, but nothing was coming to his mind. Maybe he could surprise the goblin once it got close. Or throw the knife, hoping it would, at the very least, startle the creature. For the briefest moment, he saw it, the way he could throw the knife and how he could disarm the goblin. It would be effortless to do so.


    “And give the big coat, too! Gets cold tits!” The goblin said again, gesturing emphatically, drawing Dean from his thoughts.


    “Gallus wee shite, you,” Dean mumbled while carefully, begrudgingly removing his overcoat after dropping the knife. It was a nice duster; he had always wanted one. But I thought he might look a bit daft; now that he was wearing one, he felt chuffed.


    He saw it again right now. Like time had slowed, and the future overlayed. An instinct he didn’t know he had had taken over. He threw the opened duster at the goblin, blinding his view. It fired, but the trajectory was wide. He kicked down at Sheila the knife from where he had dropped it and plunged the blade deep into the creature’s vital point; darting forward, he snatched the gun and reclaimed his blade before the goblin even realized it was dead. Immediately realizing something, he turned and fired a single round into the wood; there was a quick yelp and then silence.


    As quickly as it came to him, the strange feeling left. Dean had just killed someone. Sure, it was probably going to kill him, but could he not have tried to talk his way out of the situation, maybe learned more about where he was? Perhaps the goblins had a family? He was starting to shake. The way he moved was like some real-life John Wick shite. He could have died!


    But no. He was still alive. He was alive and in another world.


    Dean threw up.