There was this horrifically violent tug and suddenly Emiya woke, sat up, and spluttered through the water in his burning lungs. He could do nothing but rollover and cough as his mind screeched at him to get the water out of his lungs, and to breath in.

After a few moments of this desperate state, gasping for air, his mind finally caught up to the reality of his situation – he was alive. Not in the sense that he had been summoned and manifested as spirits were, but that he was truly alive and inhabiting his own body. He took in a deep calming breath and rolled over, spread eagle on cold steel.

He felt stunned – this was a real body – he could almost laugh. Its was physical and with its own magic circuits. How, how was this even possible? This didn't make any sense; he was supposed to have remained phantasmal or at least bound in contract. Yet as he closed his eyes and felt through his soul to check for any sign that he was feeding off of the mana of another, as he tried to render himself non-physical, searched for any indication he was bound to a will not his own, he could only conclude that this was his body and his alone.

He could not even feel the tell tail fullness that would 'permeate' within his nasal cavities to indicate nearby magecraft. He felt the ghost of a smirk pull at his lips.

Well, first things first. Think, plan, adapt. He needed to know where he was, to assess his immediate situation. If it was unstable, he needed to relocate.

He opened his eyes fighting the imitate aching urge to close them again. He was in a morgue, he realised. Lying on one of the sliding gurneys horizontal to the stainless steel 'corps locker' within one of the morgues cold chambers. There was no one else in the room, just the chemicals for cleaning and preparing the dead behind the glass case along the counter against the wall opposite him. There was a muffin sitting on its edge, smelling of coco. There was light streaming through slim rectangular windows along the top of the wall to his left. He was just under the ground floor. The way out? grey dull stairs leading up sat squat in the corner, close to a wide doorway that leading deeper into the facility.

He breathed in, taking in the clean zesty sent of lemon and the corrosive burning of embalming fluids permeating throughout the room, concealing the memory of death natural to his found habitat.

Safe enough to plan then, he decided as he sat up to reach out to the top of the long rectangular locker his gurney was attached to. He griped the edge, noticing his slighter emancipated arms – body – as he pulled, sliding the gurney into its box. He lay back down reaching back to close the locker door, leaving him in darkness.

Safe enough to think.

He needed to know his physical state. He looked inwards assessing his new – albeit seemingly second hand – body, using structural analyses to check for any lingering injuries, first in his lungs, brain and heart. There was 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, however weak. He noticed his core temperature was dropping and began to breath in and out rapidly while opening and closing his circuits, running just enough magical energy through them to burn calories and produce some heat.

He heard the door next to the stairs burst open and the staccato of heels waltzing into the room.

His smirk bloomed into a smile. he had reincarnated – Someone had seen fit to reincarnate him. That made less sense then him spontaneously reincarnating. Emiya could understand why one might summon him; after all he would be dependent on them. As such they would have the ability to command him and the capacity to 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 as many people as they could, but even that would just make them his immediate enemy. Why put the immense amount of energy required to reincarnate me just to be in mortal conflict? So, assuming his 'benefactor' was not insane, 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 – a mortician perhaps.

He could not 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 choose not to.

"water? the hell did you spill?" the mortician muttered to themselves.

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 the shouted reply as a second person entered the room. in a more level tone, they added "the centre locker – not the negative temp' chamber. I guess I closed it."

Ah. Time to be somewhere else then. Shock and awe?

He slowed his breathing down and focused his activated circuits, reinforcing his arm shoulder to fist as he punched his locker's door off its hinges. There was a shriek and an out-of-breath "urgh" as he slid the steal gurney back out and swung his legs over the side. He looked the two strangers in the eye, assessing. Their faces painted in shock and horror as they stumbled back towards the counter and away from Emiya. He found his balance and stood making his way for the stairs. They'll think they imagined this, still, best not project any clothes till I'm out of sight.

He snatched the muffin – his body needed nourishment – as he climbed them to the top and stopped, listening to the vague sounds of panic from bellow, as he searched for an exit. He took a bite out of the muffin and moaned lowly. still warm. There was a side door, so he moved towards it placing his hand on its handle and structurally analysed it. It was unlocked. He sighed, clothes then. Black slacks, boxers and a grey washed 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.

That in itself was more tiring than it ought to be. He really needed sustenance and rest. He needed to be at his peek before he was found by any 'cleaners'.

Notes? (really not sure where to put this).

Probably going to making this into something; that something is likely going to be a dopy crossover.

(edited 31st)