Where was he?
That was the first thought that came to mind when he became self-aware.
But as much as he thought. He couldn't answer that question.
So he reached to the conclusion that the questions could wait a few days.
It wasn't like he had much else to do.
Lie down, stare at the same ceiling, eat, and defecate.
Life was, obviously, fantastic.
The only saving grace was that he was a baby.
Apparently, all his energy was being funneled into whatever Herculean task was going on inside his brain.
He was awake maybe two hours a day—the rest of the time, he slept, trying to recover from the absurdity of existing like that.
Still, he was disturbingly self-aware. He could think rationally—probably more rationally than some adults he might've known.
Not that he remembered any. Because that was the kicker: he could think, but he couldn't remember a damn thing.
No surroundings, no context, just floating thoughts.
Words and phrases randomly popped into his mind, but he couldn't be sure they were even real.
Maybe they were just thought-forms that felt like speech. But they kept coming anyway.
And none of it should've been happening to a baby.
But there he was.
And he wanted answers. About himself. About the baby-him that clearly needed another nap.
About whoever he was before. Because he was sure—he knew—he had been someone before.
He couldn't justify the belief.
It just was.
He didn't even have the comfort of a gut feeling or a logical argument.
Just a firm conviction: he had been someone.
And damn it, he wanted to know who.
What had he done to end up here? Was this reincarnation? A second chance? Maybe punishment?
Could be either, but honestly, it felt more like a reward so far.
Let's hope it stayed that way.
...
..
.
Three years later, and he still didn't utter a single word.
What was the rush?
Until recently, his brain hadn't even been able to retain visual memories.
He'd had vague impressions of his surroundings, sure, but actual recollection? Forget it.
But once he turned four, things started to click. Images sharpened. His brain—finally—began mapping out his world. And his first thought? He'd been born somewhere in Asia.
Don't ask him how he knew. The words just surfaced when he saw low tables, tea sets, chopsticks… all the stereotypical trimmings.
Although, the building he lived in didn't quite match the aesthetic.
It was more like a weird fusion of cultures, with the occasional steampunk-ish touch: iron pipes and steam-powered contraptions scattered around like the early days of an industrial revolution cosplay.
Steampunk.
That word surfaced too. Steam, pipes, copper colors—it all clicked. No clue where he'd learned it, but the associations were there.
His past life must've been interesting.
Language was another mess. Total gibberish at first.
Completely unfamiliar.
But either he was a genius or toddler brains really did absorb information like sponges, because he started forming associations pretty fast. Names of objects, basic communication—slowly but surely, it all came together.
He finally saw his father when he was three. Probably saw him earlier, but the memories hadn't been recorded.
The man had a sharp, aristocratic face. High cheekbones, long jet-black hair styled in some traditional way, and clothes that screamed, "I'm important."
He looked at his son like a piece of furniture, nodded, muttered something, and left.
Classy.
Apparently, he had an older brother too.
About three years older, clinging to their father like a mini-me.
Same expression.
Same indifference.
He was basically Draco Malfoy if Draco were born in a pseudo-Asian steampunk society.
Not that he knew who Draco Malfoy was. Just another name that popped into his head.
Then one day, an entire delegation marched into his room.
A flock of pale, high-cheekboned, black-haired nobles, all eerily similar. Among them were his father and brother, standing stiffly at a distance like he was a failed experiment they'd rather not be near.
Then the big boss stepped forward—looked just like his father but dressed even fancier.
Probably an elder or clan leader. His family stood behind him.
They placed candles around the boy and observed in silence.
Waiting.
Watching.
Judging.
Eventually, they left.
What a bunch of weirdos.
After that? His father and brother barely acknowledged him. If they looked his way at all, it was like he'd insulted their ancestors.
He guessed he failed the ritual.
No idea what they were expecting from a five-year-old raised exclusively by servants. It wasn't like anyone had taught him etiquette or drilled him in noble customs.
Maybe they'd wanted him to display some innate quality?
Some bloodline trait?
Whatever it was, he hadn't shown it.
And apparently, that made him a disappointment.
He wasn't bitter, just annoyed.
Maybe a little insulted.
Failing a test you didn't even know existed stung—especially when the consequences were social exile.
But the most significant event in his young life was the first word he ever uttered… and it happened during a walk to the local kindergarten.
Yes, nannies. Maybe he had several mothers—harems and all that—but he had a distinct feeling that his mother was a dark-haired, well-dressed girl of about twenty, who occasionally flashed before his eyes and spent very little time with him.
Clearly, she didn't know what to do with him. And he was her second child. You'd think she'd have experience by now.
So, he made the logical conclusion that the older and less well-dressed women around him were nannies.
It was in their company that he spoke his first word.
He'd finally gotten a view of the house from outside, carefully averting his gaze from the massive castle nearby. Internally, the architecture was solid and mostly European in style, despite the occasional shoji—those doors made of thick transparent paper stretched over a wooden frame.
Those typically Asian rooms seemed to serve as guest reception areas.
Thankfully, most of the large rooms were still separated by understandable, normal doors.
So, the inside was bearable. The outside? Pure Asia.
Massive roof of red tiles, decorative metal curlicues, and, of course, pipes.
Steam pipes.
Everywhere.
They didn't seem like modern additions either.
These had clearly been planned into the house's design.
That said a lot.
The house was old. And so were the steam devices.
Which meant a few things:
One, he should stay away from pipes. Sure, scars might be a man's badge of honor, but he could do without them.
Two, technological progress had likely stalled. They were aristocrats—not a poor family.
If they didn't upgrade their systems, it was probably because the current technology was the peak… or no longer advancing.
And three, those systems had been reliable enough to be installed confidently back when the house was built, and that had to be decades ago.
It was a stalled, Asian-style steampunk setting.
And for some reason, the inefficiencies of the system kept bothering him.
He had vague thoughts about how to improve them, even without seeing the heart of the machines. Sadly, those thoughts were always too fleeting—like trying to remember a dream from two days ago.
But all of that was background noise to the real event.
Above the entrance to the house hung a flag—or maybe a banner—with a clear emblem.
Three distinct tongues of flame, depicted in black ink on a red background.
He stared at it for several minutes.
And then he said the first word that came to mind:
"Fuck."
Naturally, the nannies around him erupted into excitement. The child had spoken!
They didn't understand the word, of course, but it didn't matter. He'd made a sound!
They cooed, cheered, begged him to repeat it.
And him?
He just stared at that flag and whispered to himself, "I'm in Avatar, fuck."