Mother Nature and Mun-a's Wild Mood Swings
It was morning, one ordinary day.
More precisely, not morning at all—late afternoon. I had woken, as usual, somewhere in that hazy stretch between breakfast and lunch, and immediately felt something strange and off, nothing like my normal self.
First, my body was heavy. A little foggy, too. I was awake, yet somehow no strength would go into my limbs.
And everything ached.
Shoulders, lower back, stomach, thighs. For reasons I couldn't name, even my large chest felt a little tight and sore.
Was I coming down with something? This was the first time I'd experienced anything like it since becoming Camilla's body, so I was more than a little rattled.
Back in the old days I hadn't exactly been healthy; minor illnesses had been common. But after this body, none of that. I'd always woken up feeling refreshed.
I could only wonder at the sudden drop in condition, with no idea what was causing it.
"Ugh…"
Still, lying there forever wasn't going to fix anything, so I forced myself upright. If it was a cold, I needed a hospital for medicine—or at least a pharmacy. Even if I rested, I ought to eat something first. There was no guarantee that pure rest alone would make me better.
Living alone had taught me years ago that you needed real survival skills. No matter how bad I felt, my body still more or less obeyed me.
Hesitation was short; action was fast.
I pushed up from the bed, set my feet on the floor—and stopped cold.
"…?"
A wrongness hit me. Amid the heavy, flu-like body, the needle-prick pain in my stomach and chest, something alien stood out.
Why were my pants so sticky?
Sticky and damp sleep pants. A faint, peculiar smell rising from them.
Even wetting the bed in my sleep wouldn't have been more shocking. One possibility flashed through my mind; I tried to deny it even as I looked down to confirm the reality.
Ah. There it was. My guess had been right.
Only then did I understand why I'd hurt since morning, why my condition had tanked.
Camilla was a hero who fought in Abyss, but before that she was a woman—and women had certain unavoidable, everyday inconveniences.
When I'd first become Camilla, healthy and whole, it had all seemed pure upside. I never expected a trial like this. So there really was no free lunch in the world.
"Haa…"
I sighed and looked at the bed I'd been lying on. The spot where I'd slept was stained a deep red in one place.
…Guess I should clean this up first.
Shortest route: pharmacy, then the porridge place.
After a brief but decisive outing, I came home.
"Mm…"
Sure enough, after porridge, painkillers, and a nap, the pain had eased a lot. Not gone completely, but reduced enough to count as real improvement.
Earlier my arms and legs had felt like lead, and my back and waist had been stabbed by needles; even lying down I'd kept whimpering and shifting position.
Whirr—
With the washing machine running on the veranda as background noise, I finished every last bit of the remaining porridge.
Even accounting for the price, buying the porridge had been worth it. No wonder people said to eat stuff like this when you were sick—warm food going down really did help.
Today was a no-team-practice day. I did have a solo stream scheduled, though, and only yesterday I'd told the viewers I'd see them tomorrow.
Honestly, I wasn't at full strength. Objectively, that was clear. But was I so sick I couldn't play? Not quite.
I could just turn on the stream, keep the vibe chill, and grind some ranked games. That was the idea.
And the thought of the viewers waiting for me with bated breath.
In the end, with a restless, unsettled feeling, I sat down at the computer—small cushion tucked against my middle.
"It's just not working…"
Black-and-white screen.
I stared blankly at the darkened display, then shifted my eyes to chat.
Even I wasn't happy with my play that game. I never thought a bad condition would hit my performance this hard.
The viewers had noticed the change fast. Nobody was outright flaming, but most of the reactions were puzzled at how different I looked from usual.
In that moment my emotions started swinging hard. A split-second shift I didn't even fully register myself—something surging up from inside with no clear reason.
First: disappointment in my own skill. Frustration that a little body pain, a little period, could drop my level this far.
Second: anger at teammates who just got rolled the second I underperformed.
Third: irritation at the handful of toxic people who'd wandered in just to trash me.
On top of that, the unusually heavy chest today, the subtle sweat gathering on my back…
The pads I'd grabbed in a rush from the convenience store were so uncomfortable I had no idea how women lived with this every single cycle—
"Ah, damn…"
Black-and-white screen again.
What was I even doing, not focusing? Of course I was throwing if my head was full of weird thoughts.
I couldn't concentrate at all. As if to prove how off I was, the game spat out another loss right away.
Three losses in a row already.
Ever since this body, starting placements in a lower bracket than where I used to play, red marks on my record had been rare. At worst I'd win two and drop one here and there. Two-loss streaks were hard to find; most of the time one loss was followed by two or three straight wins that climbed the ladder.
Given that history, it wasn't strange for people to go, "Huh, something's off with her today," and type worried messages.
But why did those worries—chats I would normally listen to or brush off—feel so irritating and hurtful today?
"…Do you all think I'm going to lose again?"
Did these people not trust me? Was I that unreliable? The words came out blunt and sulky.
"Why—why do you keep telling me to leave? I turned the stream on on purpose because I promised you all yesterday."
It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.
I could have rested, but I turned the stream on for them—couldn't we just laugh and hang out?
I couldn't understand why they kept telling me to go; I only felt left out and sad.
What if—just what if—these people didn't actually like me that much?
Lately turning on stream, talking, chatting, playing together had been so much fun… but maybe that was only me?
The thought went that far, and the second the possibility hit, something welled up hard.
Tears pricked without my noticing; my throat tightened.
"I hate you. I hate all of you. I thought you were good people. You just keep telling me to leave… I came because I wanted to see you, but I'm the only one who feels that way, right?"
"I don't care. Stream's over for today. Come tomorrow or don't…"
They told me to leave, and the second I said I was going they tried to hold me back. What was this, dog training? Too late for that.
In a full sulk I ended the stream right there. Still feeling unsettled, I sipped my way through the imported beer I'd bought last time—four cans for ten thousand won—and fell asleep.
"Aaaah!!! Aah!! Why, why!!!!"
And the next morning, after I woke up.
I spun on the bed like I was breakdancing, kicking my legs in circles; the blanket went flying into a corner under the violent kicks.
Why had I said those things? Seriously. No—before that, why had something that small ruined my mood so badly?
Memories of yesterday's inexplicable behavior crashed over me in a wave, and I writhed in pure self-loathing.
For a long while I rolled around on the bed, screaming.