There was spluttering- before any thought, any true sensation.
The ingrained need to get liquid out of the lungs.
A horrid violent tug to shuddering wakefulness. And choking. And retching, coughing, gasping and-
Emiya leaned over and divulged his burning lungs of the rest of their water. He could do nothing but rollover and heave as his mind, lost from him, roared for him breath in.
A few moments of this desperate state, gasping for air, hearing nothing but the silence and his own thoughts before his mind finally caught up to the reality of the situation- life.
He was alive. Again.
Not in the sense that he had been summoned made manifest as spirits were; he was truly alive- inhabiting a body now his own. He took in a deep, calming, breath and rolled over, laying spread eagle on cold steel.
Throat raw, he staired blankly at the ceiling- he could almost laugh.
The body was physical, with its own magic circuits. How, how was this even possible? It was senseless.
He was supposed to have remained phantasmal, or, at least, bound in contract. Yet, as he closed his eyes and felt through his soul steadily hunting for a sign that he fed off the mana of another. There was none.
His eyes came to focus as he breathed in shakenly. He tried to render himself non-physical. He failed. Emiya continued for the next five minutes, on edge, searching for any indication he was bound to a will not his own.
And after it all, he could only conclude that this body was his and his alone.
-Even the tell-tail 'fullness' that would permeate across his sense of smell, indicating nearby magecraft, was absent.
The ghost of a smile pulled at his lips.
Well, first things first. Think, plan, act.
He needed to know where he was, needed to assess his immediate situation. If it was unstable, he would relocate.
He looked around, taking in the room.
He was in a morgue, he realised, lying on one of the sliding gurneys horizontal to the stainless steel 'corps locker' within one of its cold chambers. The room was empty of people; occupied by just the chemicals for cleaning and preparing the dead, sat behind a glass case along the counter against the wall above him. Rather, behind him? There was a muffin sitting on the counters edge, the dust-scent of coco radiating from it.
Artificial light was streaming through slit like rectangular windows along the top of the wall to his left, the tips of damp grass brushed against the bottom windowsill.
He was just under the ground floor? And the way out? Grey dull stairs leading up and somewhere sat squat in the corner to his right, close to a wide doorway leading deeper into the facility.
He breathed in, slow and steady, enjoying the clean zesty sent of lemon and the corrosive burning of embalming fluids permeating throughout the room, concealing the memory of death natural to this habitat.
Safe enough to plan then, Emiya decided as he sat up, reaching out to the top of the long rectangular locker his gurney was slotted to.
He griped the edge, noticing his slighter, emancipated, arms as he pulled, sliding the gurney into its box. He lay back down on the cold steel as he reached back to close the locker door, leaving him to darkness.
Safe enough to think.
He needed to know his physical state. He looked inwards assessing his new- albeit decidedly second hand- body, using structural analyses to check for any lingering injuries. First in his ravaged lungs, then brain and heart. No damage.
He checked next his peripheral nervous system and magic circuits, finding nothing out of the ordinary. Still twenty-seven, still quality poor. Finally, he checked his musculature, ligaments, joints, veins, arteries, and bones. All functioning, although weak. His core temperature was dropping, however, so Emiya began to breathe rapidly while opening and closing his circuits, running just enough magical energy through them to burn some calories and produce heat.
The door by the stairs burst open and the staccato of heels waltzed into the room.
His smile cut into a smile. He had reincarnated then, or rather, someone had seen fit to reincarnate him.
That made less sense than him spontaneously reincarnating.
Emiya could understand why one might summon him; after all he would be dependent on them and, as such, exist at their command. If they really did it right, they'd have the ability to truly enforce said commands.
But with reincarnation? He was completely independent of whomever had caused this; they could never have leverage over him. Well, outside of threatening to murder indiscriminately till I came to heel, but even that would just make them my immediate enemy. Why put the immense amount of energy required to reincarnate me just to be in mortal conflict with the reincarnated? So, assuming his 'benefactor' was not without their sanity, who could have an interest in him functioning independently? Who benefited from this?
"Did you move the John Doe to the sub-zero chamber?!" The person outside called out, their voice light and tired- the mortician perhaps. "What part of don't move him did you not get!?"
Emiya couldn't think of a single person, nor entity, who would want his independence. It was such an antithetical concept for the denizens of the moonlit world to have the ability to control another, relatively powerful being, and then choose not to.
"Water? The hell did you spill?" The mortician muttered.
On to the second conclusion then.
He was somebody's accident and, as was the case for most accidents, he was about to be cleaned up.
"He should still be on the table?" Came a shouted reply as another mortician entered the cold room. They added in a more level tone, "the centre most locker- not the negative temp' chamber. I guess I closed it."
Emiya tensed.
Ah. Time to be somewhere else then.
He slowed his breathing down and focused his activated circuits reinforcing his arm, shoulder to fist, as he drew back in the tight space and punched his locker's door off its hinges.
There was a shriek and an out-of-breath "urgh" as he quickly slid the steal gurney back out and swung his legs over the side. He looked the two strangers in the eye and assessed. Their faces painted in shock and horror as they stumbled back towards the left side of the counter- away from Emiya.
Probably best not project any clothes till I'm out of sight. He found his balance and stood making for the stairs.
He snatched the muffin- his body needed the calories- as he climbed the stairs and entered a hallway, listening to the vague sounds of panic from bellow as he searched for an exit.
There was a side door, so he moved towards it placing his hand flat against it as he structurally analysed the lock. His circuits twinged with the action, but it was unlocked. Good. And the muffin was still warm. Better. Emiya moaned lowly as he took a bite rested a hand on the door handle.
Right, first the clothes…
Black slacks, boxers and a grey washed flax shirt appeared in his mind's eye, along with a thick beige scarf and a knee length black woollen overcoat. He pulled again on his magecraft to project them onto himself-
-before spitting out the next bite of muffin, gasping through the wrenching pain of his circuits cutting and eating into their surrounding flesh.
That's not how that's supposed to go. It was never so easy, something was up with the body, and he'd need to be at his peak before he was found by any 'cleaners'.
Now onto the running…
...
...
Notes?
This is going to be, at some point, a dopy crossover. But first it'll be a book one- and this, chapter one.
Edited: 19/05/2021