Chapter Text
I am dead.
I couldn't believe it either. The last thing I remember is the flash of a blade under the hazy summer streetlights. There wasn't even a sharp pain at first, just a brutal, cold pressure in my chest, a shocking violation that stole the air from my lungs. Then the agony hit, a searing fire that spread through my entire being. I tasted metal and felt a terrifying warmth seeping through my shirt. And then poof, I was gone.
The day had started so well, too. Early June, the air already thick with the promise of a sweltering Tokyo summer. Being an office worker meant my life was a monotonous cycle of work and exhaustion, but that day was different. That day was for me. A rare, perfect day to indulge in my hobbies.
I remember the simple joy of it all. Browsing the toy shops in Nakano Broadway for Kamen Rider merch, the satisfying weight of a new S. box in my hand. Visiting a quiet cafe for a late lunch, the rich aroma of curry and coffee a welcome comfort. The final stop: picking up the newest Blu-ray volume of an anime called Mahou Shoujo no Record.
I was smiling as I walked back toward the station, my bags full, my mind already at home, picturing myself booting up the Blu-ray player to rewatch the third season.
That was when the tragedy struck. A hooded man slammed into me. A woman's cry echoed just behind him: "Robber! Help!" Everything happened in a blur, but my body moved on pure, stupid instinct.
Yeah, dumb me. Playing the hero for someone I didn't even know. I lunged, throwing my weight against the thief. He stumbled, falling to the pavement with a grunt, the woman's purse skittering across the concrete. He looked up at me, his eyes filled with a desperate, cornered-animal rage. I was about to pin him down, to wait for the police, but then I saw that glint of steel.
The man snarled, a knife appearing in his hand as if from nowhere. It moved too fast for me to see, too suddenly for me to react. In retrospect, maybe I was just scared, frozen in fear due to the unexpectedness of a weapon about to take my life. But I felt it. The cold, hard steel burying itself deep in my chest.
My breath caught, a choked gasp escaping my lips as the colors of the world blurred into a meaningless smear. With the last ounce of will in my body, I forced myself to fall forward, collapsing on top of him. It would be dangerous to leave him free. This way, at least, someone could catch him. That was the last thing I remember thinking before the darkness claimed me completely.
So then, if I'm dead, how am I telling you this? Good question. Because for a while, I was just… floating. A disembodied consciousness adrift in a vast, silent darkness. There was no sensation, just a feeling of absolute weightlessness. I didn't have a body, didn't have a 'self.' There was no up, no down. Just an ethereal calm as what was left of my consciousness began to dim. Is this death? A slow fade into nothing? The thought was terrifying.
But just as the last flicker of 'me' was about to be extinguished, something pulled. It felt like a hand yanking me back from the abyss, a sudden, violent snap.
And then, poof.
I jolted awake, a deep, ragged breath tearing through lungs I hadn't possessed a moment ago. The first thing I saw was a sterile white ceiling, its featureless surface illuminated by a soft, indirect light.
My mind was a mess of disconnected gears, slowly, painfully grinding back into motion. It took a long moment to realize it: I had a body again. I had a 'self.' Unlike that dark, empty place, my senses were screaming with input. I could feel the cool, crisp fabric of the sheet beneath me, the faint, clean scent of antiseptic in the air. I ran a hand over my chest. No searing pain. No wound. No bandages.
Nothing.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. I wasn't wearing a hospital gown. I was dressed in a simple, comfortable black undershirt and a pair of dark navy-blue pants, the kind of practical attire I'd seen in sci-fi movies. My feet were clad in soft, indoor shoes. I looked around. The room was clearly some kind of infirmary or medical bay. Cabinets lined one wall, filled with tools I didn't recognize, and a single, large mirror was mounted on the other.
That was when the second shock hit.
The face staring back wasn't mine. Well, it was, but it was the face of Kazehaya Haruto from a decade ago. The tired lines around my eyes, the faint shadow of a beard I had to shave every single morning—all gone. The face in the mirror was smoother, younger, with darker hair and eyes that seemed to hold a genuine spark. No facial hair. I stood and walked closer, my movements feeling strangely light, more energetic than I could remember. Had I gotten shorter? No way, I was so proud when I finally hit 175cm.
Where in the world was this place?
A single, seamless door was set into the far wall. I felt clear-headed, no lingering fog from drugs or injury. My body felt… perfect. Healthy. It was a nice feeling, but it only deepened the pit of unanswered questions in my stomach. Well, only one way to go.
I stepped toward the door, and it slid open sideways with a soft, pneumatic hiss, just like in the movies. I walked out into a long, curved hallway, the floor, walls, and ceiling all made of the same cool, grey metal. But it wasn't the hallway that stole my breath. It was the window.
A massive, floor-to-ceiling pane of reinforced glass stood directly in front of me, and beyond it… was Earth.
My jaw dropped.
The blue planet shimmered in the silent, absolute blackness, massive and overwhelmingly alive. Swirls of brilliant white clouds drifted lazily over continents of deep green and brown. I could see the distinct, familiar shape of Japan. The sheer scale of it, the impossible, silent beauty—it hit me all at once, a profound, humbling awe that made me feel infinitesimally small. This wasn't a picture. It wasn't a movie. This was space.
My hand reached out, my fingers pressing against the cold, unyielding glass. It was real. I pressed my forehead against it, the coolness a strange anchor in the dizzying unreality of the moment. Yes, that's Earth.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
The voice, a deep and dignified baritone, came from behind me. It was calm, but it still made me jump back from the window as if I'd been electrocuted, my heart hammering against my ribs.
A man stood there, tall and powerfully built, his presence filling the corridor. He was dressed in a formal black kimono, thick and immaculate, with a family crest I didn't recognize embroidered on the shoulder. Something about him was deeply, unnervingly familiar. Not like someone I'd met, but like a memory from a dream I couldn't quite grasp. The feeling was a persistent itch at the back of my mind.
He looked strong, with a square jaw and piercing eyes. His black hair was streaked with silver at the temples, giving him an air of calm, commanding authority. His expression was gentle, but I could see a profound weariness in the lines around his eyes.
"Apologies for startling you," he said, his voice a warm baritone. "You must have many questions. You must be the one our benefactor sent."
I stared at him, my mind scrambling for purchase. "Benefactor? Sent? I… I'm Kazehaya Haruto," I finally managed, my voice sounding strange. Lighter. Higher. It was the voice of my teenage self. "Where… where am I?"
The man's expression softened slightly as he heard my name, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Kazehaya Haruto," he repeated, as if confirming a piece of vital intelligence. "That is the name I was given. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Ishikawa Genjuuro." He gestured to the planet hanging in the void behind me. "And as for where we are… not on Earth, that much is certain. Though, in a way, we are still in Japan."
"What is this place?" I asked.
"I was told that if you heard its name, you'd recognize it," he said calmly. "This is the Communication Satellite Zea."
I blinked. The name was a jolt, a piece of a different puzzle slotting into place with an impossible click. "Zea? As in… from the tokusatsu series, Kamen Rider Zero-One?"
Ishikawa looked genuinely confused. "A 'tokusatsu series'?" he asked, the words foreign on his tongue. "Our benefactor simply informed me that this station, this asset, was procured from another reality. I was not aware of its… fictional origins."
"In my world, it's a TV show for kids," I explained, the sheer absurdity of the words hitting me as I said them. "Zea was a key part of the story, an AI satellite built by Hiden Intelligence. It was never meant for people to live in. And… at one point, it turns into a giant robot."
Ishikawa processed this information with a quiet, weary sigh, the kind of sigh a man makes when he's been forced to accept one too many impossible things. "A giant robot," he murmured, rubbing his temples. "Our benefactor's methods are… unconventional." He gestured down the curved corridor. "Let us proceed to the command room. There is much to discuss." He began to walk, his steps measured and silent.
After a few paces, he glanced over his shoulder, his piercing gaze meeting mine. "And since you know of this Zea… then perhaps the name Ishikawa Genjuuro is familiar to you as well?"
I froze mid-step.
Ishikawa Genjuuro.
It hit me like a physical blow. The name. The voice. The deep, unsettling familiarity. It all finally, horribly, clicked into place. I knew him. But not like this. I knew him from an anime. He was the unshakable commander from Mahou Shoujo no Record.
He was a character. He was fiction.
Right?
…So why was I standing in a fictional satellite from one show, talking to a fictional character from another? Why did everything around me feel so terrifyingly real?
No way. No way.
Am I… inside an anime?
My stunned silence was an answer in itself. Ishikawa stopped, his back still to me, but this time, he didn't sigh. He closed his eyes for a single, heavy moment, a look of grim confirmation settling on his features.
"So it's true," he said, not as a question, but as a quiet, final acceptance of an impossible fact. He finally turned to face me fully, and the commander's stern mask was still there, but underneath it, I could see a man grappling with the sheer weight of his new reality. "The benefactor explained it to me… He called it 'echoes between worlds.' He said that my life, my struggles, this entire world… it exists as a work of fiction in your reality. Your reaction just now confirms his theory."
My mind, already reeling, felt like it was short-circuiting. "Yeah," I managed, my voice a croak. "An anime. It's called Mahou Shoujo no Record."
"An anime," he repeated the word, tasting its foreignness. A flicker of something—pain, irony, resignation—crossed his face before he mastered it. "Come. The command room is this way. We have allies to introduce you to, and a story that needs to be finished."
I walked, my feet moving on autopilot as I followed his broad, black-clad back. My mind was a maelstrom. A fictional character. He's a fictional character. Which means this world, this reality, is fictional. Which means I'm in a story. What does that even mean? The corridor was a perfect, silent curve, the soft hum of the satellite's life support system the only sound. The metal under my feet was cool and solid, an unnerving contrast to the complete unreality of my situation.
"Ishikawa-san," I began, the name feeling strange and heavy on my tongue. "This satellite, Zea… you said it was from another reality. If your world is a story in mine, then it has to be the other way around, too. The world where Zea and Hiden Intelligence are real must exist somewhere."
He nodded grimly. "That is the conclusion I reached as well. A multiverse of stories, all real. However, I am not really good with sciences. Never part of my job. Heard some theories from colleges, but that it."
Finally, we reached a larger set of double doors, the words 'COMMAND ROOM' etched in clean, minimalist text above them. Ishikawa placed his hand on a panel beside the door. It glowed a soft green, and the doors hissed open.
My eyes were immediately drawn to the massive viewscreen that dominated the far wall, the unmistakable white logo of Hiden Intelligence glowing softly. The space was an industrial gray, lined with pipes and control junctions that disappeared into the ceiling like the roots of a cybernetic tree. But it wasn't just a sterile command deck. Tucked into one corner, in a way that was so jarring it was almost charming, was a small, cozy-looking café counter, painted a cheerful green and flanked by mismatched stools. In another corner, humming softly with contained power, stood a monolith of blue-and-yellow machinery I recognized with a jolt: the Hiden 3D Dimensional Printing System.
And standing behind the cafe counter, meticulously wiping down an already spotless cup, was a maid.
She was of average height, with thick, medium-length blue hair that shimmered under the room's soft lighting. She carried herself with an elegant, flawless grace. She looked up as we entered, and a polite, welcoming smile touched her lips.
"Welcome, Master Haruto," she said, her voice a perfect, synthesized blend of warmth and professionalism. She placed the cup down and gave a slight, perfect bow. "I am Maid-Type Ann4. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I have prepared some tea, if you would like."
Before I could even respond, the air in the room grew heavy. A brilliant, silent flash of light erupted in the center of the room, and my breath caught in my throat.
A figure stood there, where there had been nothing a second before. Its humanoid shape shimmered as if woven from starlight, its face a beautiful, unsettling vortex of constantly shifting features. My mind didn't even have to ask who—or what—this was. A label, clean and absolute, surfaced from a place deeper than memory: The Sponsor. The knowledge felt both utterly alien and as fundamental as my own name.
"Ah, Haruto. Good to see you on your feet," the being's voice echoed, seeming to come from everywhere at once. "It seems Commander Ishikawa has brought you up to speed on the… cross-dimensional nature of our little production." The shifting face that was not a face turned towards me. "Please, join us. We have a story to discuss, and my time in this dimension is always so fleeting."
I followed Ishikawa to the small green counter, my legs feeling unsteady. I took a seat on one of the mismatched stools as Ann4, with that same unnerving, perfect grace, poured three cups of tea from a ceramic pot. She placed one in front of me, one in front of Ishikawa, and one at an empty spot on the table with a practiced ease.
The Sponsor's shimmering form drifted over and settled into the empty seat. "I have brought you here, Haruto, because your unique knowledge makes you the only person who can truly appreciate the gravity of our situation," it began, its voice a symphony of overlapping tones. "As you and the Commander have no doubt discussed, the script for this world has been violently edited. A rival of mine, a being who delights in tragedies rather than heroic epics, has meddled in this story. Their agent has torn out the first chapter and rewritten it as a prologue of despair."
The shifting kaleidoscope of its face turned fully toward me. "Tell us, Haruto. In the story you remember, in the original draft... how was the first act supposed to begin?"
I took a breath, the warm cup of tea in my hands a fragile anchor to reality. The words felt like lines from a script I'd memorized long ago. "In the original story, all three girls—Kanae, Mifuyu, and Nanami—were summoned to the Izumo Institute for the final experiment. But they were all running late. By the time Ishikawa-san drove them there, the experiment had already started without them. That's when it went wrong. A portal opened, but because they were outside, they survived the initial blast."
I looked at Ishikawa, expecting a nod, some kind of confirmation. Instead, his face, which had been a mask of stoic command, seemed to crumble. He stared down into his untouched tea, his jaw tight, his knuckles white where he gripped the cup.
The Sponsor's voice cut through the silence, soft yet firm. "But that is not what transpired here, is it, Genjuuro?"
Ishikawa shook his head, his gaze never leaving the cup. His voice was low, heavy, and thick with a grief that was still raw. "No," he said, the word a stone dropping into a deep well. "That's not what happened at all." He finally looked up, and the sorrow in his eyes was so real, so absolute, that it made my own chest ache.
"I received a call that morning," he continued, his voice a strained whisper, forcing the memory out. "Kanae and… and my niece, Mifuyu, they had decided to go to the institute early. Full of excitement. I was driving Nanami there myself, to meet them. We were still on the approach road... when the world went silent." He took a ragged breath. "There was no sound. Just a flash of light on the horizon that was so bright it bleached the sky white. Then the shockwave hit. The car shook so violently I thought it would be torn apart. The entire building… it wasn't destroyed. It was erased. A hole was carved out of reality."
His voice broke, and he stopped, his hand clenching into a white-knuckled fist on the table. "In the days that followed, I participated in the recovery. There were no bodies. Just rubble, and… pieces." He looked away, his gaze unfocused, staring into a past he couldn't escape. "We found a single severed arm. And a leg, from the knee down. We never even knew for sure who they belonged to. I don't think I stuck around to found out..." Ishikawa stopped to take a deep breath, "I just...leave everything."
The words hit me like a physical blow. The story I knew was gone, replaced by a raw, personal tragedy. My heart ached for this man's loss. "The portal..." I managed to ask, my own voice hoarse. "In the original story, the explosion opened a portal. What happened to it?"
"It's still there," Ishikawa said grimly. "A wound in the world that never healed. It's the reason the Kegare attacks have become so frequent in the city. It's their doorway. But for some reason, the authorities can't see it. Their instruments detect nothing. They treat each attack as a random manifestation."
"And Nanami?" I asked, my voice softer. "What happened to her after that?"
"She became a ghost," he said, shaking his head. "The JSDF and the TSB took her into immediate custody. She was the sole survivor of a national disaster; they hid her from the world while they tried to understand what happened. To be honest," he admitted, a look of profound shame on his face, "I was lost. Drowning in my grief. And then the Sponsor appeared, and the task of building this entire organization from nothing began. By the time I had my feet under me again, weeks had passed. I only learned of her fate when she reappeared on the news feeds, fighting alone as the first and only member of the newly formed Division 7."
He looked at me, his eyes filled with a deep, unsettling worry. "The girl I saw on that monitor… she fought with a terrifying desperation, Haruto, as if she had no regard for her own safety. She is shouldering that entire burden alone."
"But I did not bring you here to simply watch another tragedy unfold," the Sponsor interjected, its form leaning forward. "I chose you because of who you are. You see the people behind the story, you feel their pain. That empathy is a strength my Foe's agent lacks. It is what will allow you to mend what has been broken."
It gestured around the command room. "And I have provided the tools. This satellite, Zea, as your sanctuary. A staff of loyal assistants in the Humagears. And, of course," its form shimmered, and a large, unmarked black case appeared on the table with a soft thud, "the very power to fight back."
I stared at the box, my heart hammering against my ribs. Slowly, I reached out and lifted the lid. My eyes widened. Resting inside on a bed of custom-fit foam was a sleek, gun-like device—blue and black, its shape instantly, shockingly familiar. The Shotriser. And beside it, a blue Progrisekey, marked with the silhouette of a wolf. SHOOTING WOLF.
"In your world, Haruto," the Sponsor said, its voice drawing both our gazes, "this was a toy from a children's television program." It paused, letting the absurdity hang in the air. "But I assure you both, what lies in that box is no mere plaything. It is a tangible piece of that world, brought into this one. It is your key to becoming her shield."
Just then, a shrill, piercing alarm blared through the command room. The massive screens on the wall lit up, a map of Tamakigami City flashing with an angry, red alert.
"A Kegare attack," Ishikawa announced, his voice instantly shifting. The grieving man vanished, replaced by the grim, automatic focus of a seasoned commander. He strode to the main console, his eyes locked on the tactical display. "Ann4, Show us the attacked area."
He watched the chaos unfold on the screen, his face a mask of intense concentration, his mind clearly weighing the impossible odds. The silence from him was heavy, analytical.
It was the Sponsor who broke it. The being's shimmering form turned from the screen to me, its voice resonating with the clear, delighted tone of a storyteller seeing the plot fall perfectly into place.
"Ah, a perfect entrance for our hero," it chimed. "This is it, then. Our only counter-measure."
The Sponsor's declaration hung in the air, a cosmic decree. It was all the push I needed. A surge of pure, unadulterated adrenaline shot through me, hot and sharp. This was it. My mind, a chaotic mess of fanboy excitement and sheer terror, focused on a single point. My hands, surprisingly steady, closed around the cool, heavy metal of the Shotriser and the blue Progrisekey.
I snapped the gun into the belt holder on my waist and moved toward the glowing red 'Exit' door, my purpose absolute. This wasn't a story on a screen anymore. People were in danger.
"Wait, Haruto! Stop!"
Ishikawa's voice was a sharp, commanding bark. He turned from the console, his analysis complete, and his face was a mask of alarm and disbelief. He moved with a speed that belied his size, planting himself directly between me and the exit.
"You can't go," he said, his voice low and urgent. "You have no training. No experience. We don't even know the full capabilities of that device." He gestured toward the Shotriser at my hip. "Sending you in now is reckless. It's a suicide mission! I will not send a boy to his death!"
"Oh, but isn't this the most thrilling way for a hero's story to begin?" the Sponsor's voice chimed in, full of a storyteller's delight. It gestured a shimmering hand toward the tactical screen. "The overwhelming odds are what make it heroic! A trial by fire! Think of the character development! You can't introduce a protagonist with a powerful new weapon and not have him use it at the first opportunity. It's narratively unsatisfying!"
I looked from Ishikawa's desperate, worried face to the cold, abstract chaos on the screen. He was right. It was insane. I was just an office worker. A fanboy. But the memory of that knife, of my own helplessness as my life bled out onto a dirty sidewalk, was a fresh wound in my mind.
"I know. You're right. It's a terrible plan," I said, my voice quiet but unyielding. I met his gaze, and for the first time, I felt like his equal. "But someone needs help right now. I can't just stand here and do nothing. Not again. I won't."
Before he could argue, I pushed past him. My fingers closed around the blue Progrisekey. This was it. I pulled the key from my belt, unfolding it with a satisfying click. My thumb found the button on top and pressed it.
"BULLET!" the key declared, its synthesized voice sharp and clear.
With a surge of adrenaline, I slammed the opened key into the Shotriser.
"AUTHORIZE!" the gun announced, immediately followed by a rapid-fire chant that echoed in the quiet command room: "KAMEN RIDER! KAMEN RIDER! KAMEN RIDER!"
I gripped the gun, my stance firm, my eyes locked on the reflection of a determined stranger in the massive window overlooking Earth.
"Henshin!" I shouted, the word a release, a vow. I squeezed the trigger.
"SHOTRISE!" the weapon roared.
A conceptual bullet of pure cyan energy shot out, a streak of impossible light. It ricocheted off the reinforced glass of the window and shot back toward me in a blur. I didn't flinch. I clenched my fist and punched it.
The bullet shattered, and from the fragments of light, plates of sleek blue and silver armor materialized from nothing. They slammed into my body with a series of satisfying, percussive clacks, locking into place around me as a wolf-themed helmet sealed itself over my head, my vision snapping into the crisp, analytical grid of a heads-up display.
"SHOOTING WOLF!" the belt boomed, its final confirmation a promise of power. "The elevation increases as the bullet is fired."
The transformation was complete. The armor was heavy, real, humming with a power that vibrated through my very bones. I looked at my reflection in the window—at the armored hero staring back at me. "Man," my voice came out, amplified and filtered into something stronger, more confident. "That was so cool."
"Haruto…" Ishikawa breathed out, his professional composure shattered by sheer awe and terror.
"Excellent," the Sponsor stated, its voice resonating with satisfaction. "It seems my choice was a sound one. Ann4, open the gate."
The 'Exit' door slid open, revealing the swirling, colorful vortex within.
"Haruto, wait! We need a strategy!" Ishikawa made one last, desperate plea, his commander's instincts warring with the impossible sight before him.
But I was already moving. I turned at the edge of the portal, giving them a single, confident thumbs-up.
"Leave it to me!" I replied, my new voice ringing with a conviction I didn't know I possessed.
With a final nod, I turned and leaped into the vortex, ready for my first fight.