Fate/Ludonarrative

Chapter 1 - Tinman of Oz

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First thing I noticed were four snub barrels pointed right at me, followed by the five crisp suits bearing them. The gleaming modernity of the architecture came next and finally a jolt running down my spine as the Nanosuit's stabilisers kicked in. The sheer cleanliness of the alley is so surprising to me I'm actually weirded out by it, and that in turn weirds me out more considering all the other batshit insane things I've seen.

    My mind, or SECOND, makes an assessment in less than a tenth of a second and determines based on everything I'm maybe in Asia, likely northern oriental. Given how the scent of the sea is weak but stronger than whatever's in the alley, it's got to be a coastal city. Chilly, too, so make it winter.

    Key word, maybe, because knowing my streak only Oz right now knows if this is Earth.

    Right, I know, I'm being held up. I was getting to that.

    Turns out I'm right. The goons' genetic sequences match those of Japanese descent – with scant traces of Genghis Khan no less, oh baby! - and based on the clothes likely Yakuza, unless the Triad started branching out. Not a friendly welcome by any means, but it's great seeing faces I recognise.

    They also looked ready to die on the spot, which is understandable: I just so happen to look like if a boulder was chiseled into a half-baked Terminator imitation, if I saw myself I would grab a torch and pitchfork too.

    As bad as I usually am with people, though, there's no way a quintet of eager perforators would anticipate my arrival here. I'm clearly interrupting something, so I turn and look behind me because... well where else?

    My expectations began with a standoff with rival Yakuza or armed police or, Hell, some guy with a fucking samurai sword. Instead, if I still had eyes they would've rolled into my boots because standing right there was just some kid, wide-eyed like a deer in headlights.

    There's not shit about him that would warrant five gangsters to go after one high-schooler and the scan came back with nothing. Not even a wild hair colour like from one of Folsom's cartoons, he looks completely normal for a young respectable Japanese man.

    It doesn't matter. I signed up for situations just like this, it's clear cut to me. I don't need a neon sign to tell me who the bad guys are.

    So, I straighten up, say, "So, are we going to stand around all day, or are we going to fight," and hope for the best.

    One of them, however, twitched a little too hard and let off a hot load. The 9mm slid off my dome harmlessly enough, nothing more than a golf ball could do against Reactive Nano-Fibre. But it was enough.

    "Alright then."

    Stepping long, lunging with my left I whip against his crown, a snap fresher than a kit kat bar rolling through the alley and throwing him back into his friends.

    While the two with a dragon on his sleeve and another with sunglasses were distracted with him to the right, I targeted left. And you should've seen the look on his face when I pulled the whole upper assembly off his Beretta, all before he could even pull the trigger. It was-

    Sorry, forgot about the mask. Guess we're back to that square, then?

    If it's any consolation, you at least don't remind me of my last shrink.

    But yeah, it didn't last long since his face folded around my jab to his nose. Scrunched up like a bowling ball going to town on a cheap paper doll.

    Didn't have time to admire my handiwork, though, Dragon and Shades had forgotten about their fallen brother and were reengaging me. Mook Number Five was also getting in on the action, having finally drawn his weapon.