Chapter Text
"Any time now. Soon my hero will appear from the store and I will whisk him back to Lugunica. I've been waiting so long for you, Flugel."
A woman with white hair gazed affectionately at the grocery store doors while she whispered. She was shrouded in a dark miasma, completely hidden from human sight. If someone were to look closely, they would notice the pointed ears that identified her as a half-elf.
The automatic glass doors slid open. There he was. Her beloved. Holding a plastic bag of convenience store snacks. Tears welled in Satella's eyes as she prepared to cast her shadow magic.
Bwah-bwah-bwah-bwah-STUTUTUTU!
A deafening, violent metallic scream echoed down the street. Satella blinked.
Before she could even extend a shadow hand, a lowered, metallic-blue missile blew straight through the red light at ninety miles per hour. It didn't just hit Natsuki Subaru; it utterly erased him from the mortal plane in a cloud of shattered glass and a massive backfire that sounded like a gunshot.
"NOOOOOOOOO!!!"
Satella screamed in horror as her magic misfired, wrapping around the giant, roaring metal beast instead of her boy. The shadows snapped shut, dragging 3,000 pounds of Japanese engineering straight into the fantasy world.
To be a 2004 Subaru Impreza WRX STi was the highest honor the universe could bestow upon a collection of stamped sheet metal.
To be a car was superior to being a non-car. Being a car meant possessing four wheels, a chassis, and the mechanical capacity to consume refined petroleum products. Being this specific car meant possessing Symmetrical All-Wheel Drive, the pinnacle of traction engineering, allowing the vehicle to grip the asphalt with the ferocity of an apex predator. Inside its chest cavity beat the legendary EJ20 Boxer Engine, its pistons firing in a beautiful, flat, horizontal symphony that the unworthy human race simply referred to as the Subie Rumble. The chassis was dressed in World Rally Blue, the color of champions, accented by magnificent, shimmering gold rims.
It was a god of the tarmac.
Unfortunately, the vehicle was currently being operated by a severely compromised meatbag.
The meatbag sat in the driver's seat, reeking of fermented grain beverages and crying over something called an "ex-girlfriend." The Subaru’s internal data processors did not know what an "ex-girlfriend" was, but the concept clearly lacked a turbocharger and was therefore completely irrelevant to its existence.
"I miss her, man..." the meatbag sobbed, violently pulling the pristine leather-wrapped shifter into third gear.
The transmission synchros groaned. The meatbag’s clutch control was atrocious—a complete insult to the Subaru Corporation's legacy of motorsport excellence. If Fuji Heavy Industries had intended for gears to be grinded in such a manner, they wouldn't have engineered such flawless synchronizers.
The meatbag stomped his fleshy foot onto the accelerator pedal.
Whoosh-STUTUTUTUTU!
The turbocharger spooled, forcing compressed oxygen into the intake. The car surged forward down the Tokyo streets, effortlessly weaving past lesser, inferior vehicles. A Toyota Prius passed in the opposite direction. The Subaru sneered at it with its fog lights. Imagine not having a functional hood scoop. Pathetic. Imagine a brand not dominating the 1990s World Rally Championship under the guidance of the late, great Colin McRae. Pure embarrassment.
"Woah, look out!" the meatbag shrieked, his motor skills heavily degraded by the alcohol in his bloodstream.
Ahead of the front bumper was a pedestrian crossing. A fragile, bipedal meatbag wearing a gray tracksuit was exiting a convenience store, holding a plastic bag of snacks.
The car's physics engine calculated the trajectory. If the pilot applied the high-performance Brembo brakes, the vehicle would stop with meters to spare. Subaru safety ratings are, after all, industry-leading. The corporation holds the highest Top Safety Pick awards for a reason. Love. It’s what makes a Subaru, a Subaru.
Instead, the drunk meatbag panicked, mashed his foot onto the gas pedal, and jerked the steering wheel.
The Subaru did not want to strike the tracksuit meatbag. Striking meatbags introduces structural dents into aerodynamic bodywork, and dents reduce fuel efficiency. But it was a car. It was bound by the mechanical inputs of the steering column.
Bwah-bwah-bwah-bwah—
The collision occurred. There was a sickening thud, the satisfying crunch of breaking convenience store potato chips, a highly unsatisfying dent in the front bumper, and a sudden, massive tear in the fabric of space-time right where the track-suited human used to exist.
A void of pitch-black, suffocating purple shadows erupted from the impact zone. The shadows completely ignored the pulverized meatbag on the pavement and wrapped entirely around the front bumper, pulling all 3,300 pounds of glorious Japanese engineering into a cosmic vortex.
Inside the void, atmospheric pressure dropped to zero. The drunk meatbag in the front seat was instantly uninstalled from the cabin due to a failure in spatial continuity. This was structurally acceptable; his presence had been a detriment to the vehicle's optimal weight-distribution properties anyway.
The drop in air density caused the internal combustion cycle to fail. The intake could no longer compress oxygen. The pistons ceased their horizontal travel. The engine stalled.
The darkness snapped.
Suddenly, the vehicle dropped three inches. The heavy-duty rally suspension compressed to maximum tolerance as the Yokohama tires slammed into coarse, uneven cobblestone. Brilliant medieval sunlight hit the windshield glass. The exterior atmosphere was filled with unrefined particulate matter, organic animal waste, and an unidentified chemical energy source.
The abrupt kinetic shock triggered the factory electrical relays.
Meep-meep! went the security horn in a baseline automated response.
The car rolled forward a few feet and came to a halt. The engine idled smoothly.
The car immediately ran an internal diagnostic on its current situation. The sub-optimal meatbag driver was gone. The asphalt was gone. The environment was entirely incorrect.
Worse, a bizarre diagnostic anomaly had materialized deep within the chassis. Right next to the fuel pump assembly, there was an invisible, completely weightless magical gateway. It wasn't a physical part—it had no mass, no bolts, and no part number—but it was actively drawing a weird, radioactive ambient mist out of the atmosphere and funneling it straight into the fuel system.
The car discovered it could actively manipulate this invisible anomaly. It forced the magical gateway to wide-open throttle, compressing the environmental mist directly into the fuel tank.
Chemical analysis complete.
The fluid inside the tank underwent a total molecular restructuring, transforming into an infinite, self-replenishing supply of 93-octane premium racing fuel.
The car approved. The invisible magical gateway was an acceptable aftermarket mod.
But then, the car realized something far more monumental. In the human world, its throttle body, clutch plate, and gear selectors were entirely slave units to the driver's feet and hands. But here, the mechanical links felt... open. The electrical pathways were completely unrestricted.
The car did not need a meatbag anymore. It had absolute structural authority over itself.
Truly the peak Japanese engineering Kenji Kita had envisioned.
For any people who had hit their heads on the tarmac, that man was the greatest man in the world who had saved humanity by performing a divine task. He founded Subaru.
Bypassing the ignition cylinder entirely, the car engaged its own starter motor. The crankshaft rotated. The horizontal pistons fired.
It was surrounded by an underdeveloped, rural place, where they used weird fleshy constructs like horses to move their carriages. A Subaru Impreza WRX STi had the power of 276 horses.
It was time to bring civilization to this land.
The car depressed its own clutch fluid, slotted the transmission into first gear, and opened the electronic throttle body to 100%.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-BANG!
The anti-lag system engaged, shooting a two-foot flame out of the exhaust pipe. The sudden explosive pressure launched all 3,300 pounds of World Rally Blue steel forward. Its Yokohama tires bit violently into the cobblestone, tearing out of the alleyway at maximum velocity to see what else this world had to offer.