While I work on the next chapter.....

Try this out.

This is for my John Wick/Jormungand/Kingsman/Black Lagoon fic I mentioned earlier?

Someone asked what that would look like so here it is.

_____________________

Chapter 1 - Humble Beginnings.

I stared at the Time magazine issue on display before me with a shell shocked look.

"Madarchod."

Motherfucker.

I whispered as I drew close to the glass.

I knew I couldn't dare ask for it. No.

That was above my station.

On principle, the fact that the librarian at the North Eastern Railway Public Library even allowed a poor, rotten brat like me to read here, without charge, and more importantly, without dismissing my efforts to study up, even covering up for me to their superiors time and again, was almost a miracle in this shithole of a country.

But one look at it, that Time issue of November 1989 and I knew, my life was never going to be the same again.

That ROB must be laughing his ass off right now.

To think until today, until minutes ago when I first caught a glimpse of this month's Time issue, I didn't even know that this wasn't a parallel reality but a fictional one.

Bastard.

Isekai'd me to animu-land and dumped me in dead end Gorakhpur.

India.

In the 1980s.

I couldn't help but sigh.

Not that I had met any ROBs. No golden fingers. No wishes. No special advantages save for my memories.

But I wasn't naive enough to assume that I was reincarnated, not to mention reincarnated into the world of fiction as an accident or twist of fate.

I wasn't that lucky.

In either life.

In my previous life... To be honest I don't remember how I died.

It all happened so fast. I think there was a bike. And it skid off a breaker trying to avoid a wayward cow on the street.

I think it cracked me skull right through. Or maybe it was the cold, hard asphalt that ventilated my brains.

In the end, it didn't matter.

A freak motorbike accident. An innocent bystander dead. Just another day in India.

Gods I fucking hate this country. Cuntry more like it.

Can't keep the bloody cows in their pens. Oh no no.

You gotta let them fucking roam on the roads so they can send bikers into civilians, because cow murder is a crime. Yes, even by accident.

God forbid this country have a half decent legal code or common sense laws.

I swear, this time, this life, I'll make beef bowls the national dish of this goddamn country. I'll become the prime minister specifically to do that.

That was my actual goal by the way.

I fumed every time I remembered it.

But now that I know.....now that a greater horizon is just within sight, prime minister is a post too low.

Tsk tsk tsk.

Too low.

I need to dream bigger.

No. Not president of the USA.

Or usurping Jeff Bezos for that matter.

I'm thinking more....God Emperor Of Mankind.

Too high?

Well watch me.

I grinned.

Sure, I was born the son of a lowly godown worker. But the future prime minister of India sold tea on the railway station, so it wasn't out of reach.

And I would be smarter too. With all the foreknowledge my years of otakudom brought me.

Jaggu Mistry. That was my new name, by the way.

A fanfic-y name if I ever heard one.

Jack Mystery. Seriously, ROB?

At least try to hide that authorial hand. It's poking into the boundaries of this comic.

Still it wasn't all bad.

My family for one.

One of the small mercies I had lucked into in this life.

My father was a decent man with a 3rd grade education.

Worked in a godown and somehow managed to get married and pump out eight kids.

Eight. Motherfucking. Kids.

On a godown labourer's salary.

Use a condom my man!

We'll starve sooner than later if you keep making babies at this rate!

Still at least they weren't abusive or neglectful. As much as they tried.

They were just a bit pork-happy, is that a word?

Had I been born in a muslim family instead of a hindu one, I'm afraid I'd have been labelled devil spawn for being able to talk, walk and read early and summarily disposed off.

In this family however, it just afforded me more freedom to roam around, even visit the library to read up, on account of my seeming maturity. Because I don't know if you know this, but 1980s India is fucking boring.

No tv. No internet. Not even that many newspapers, not that my family could afford them at the best of times.

So that left me only one choice.

The one free public library in the city. The NER Central Library.

Since I turned three, it was practically a second home to me. I devoured any books I could get my hands on and by now, I had cleared almost the entirety of their catalogue. The entire 4800 books, most of them being engineering and telecom manuals, though I did notice the surreptitious increase in books with a lower bar of entry after I began frequenting the place.

Truly, the librarian was a blessing unto this world.

Cared more for me than my own mum.

And not in a pedo sort of way.

Nah. He was just a good guy. Unmarried and childless, so maybe that played a hand in it.

Something I used to great effect to mooch off of his lunch daily.

What? A growing boy needs all the food he can get.

I sighed, and looked back the magazine on the other side of the glass cover, still in the wrapping, just the cover visible and on display.

On it, was featured a man. Time magazine's man of the year for the second time in a row.

Suit and boots. Royal in disposition and steely of eye. His pale blue eyes and stark white hair reminded me of the white walkers from Game Of Thrones.

Only the slight tan of his skin giving him a human touch.

Around him stood ambitious titles.

The Blue Magnate.

The Sultan Of The Seas.

The rising star of global shipping.

Floyd Hekmatyar.

The father of one future pest, and total babe, Koko Hekmatyar.

I could feel my hands clamming up at the thought of what hell she would unleash in the future I knew of, from the anime at least.

Complete dominion of the skies.

Project Jormungand.

And I just couldn't let that happen.

Not unless she became my queen.

Which, she wouldn't. And I knew it.

I mean, I know I'm not ugly but I am no looker. That's for sure.

10/10 girls like that, especially rich ones don't go for guys like me. And I'd rather not have a barely tolerable marriage with the threat of an insulin overdose a breath away.

So the only option that remains is elimination.

"Come back early tomorrow before the bada saheb shows up if you want to read the latest Time issue." The kindly librarian suggested.

Bada saheb. The big boss of this place. The station master who was serving double duty with the library as a way to embezzle some government moolah.

He was this imperious shitstick who didn't know right from left but acted like he was the lord's gift to the world.

Did not like him in the slightest but he was just one among the many corrupt officials one could encounter in this era of license raj under the filthy communist rule. Can't do shit about that.

But there is something else I could do.

Get out.

I can't achieve my goals in small town Gorakhpur.

The nineties were going to be a very productive decade and I couldn't harness my knowledge about the from here. I need access to the big city.

Money. Contacts. Connections.

Fast.

After all, if one fictional world exists here, how many others could possibly exist too?

Harry Potter?

The MCU?

DC?

SCP?

Ignorance meant death, especially in the case of the last one.

So I needed to get out and get up. A position of relative safety and power if possible.

Something to give me negotiating rights for some small life in case of an apocalypse.

"Say, Librarian-chacha, do you know of any scholarships for kids like me. Preferably from some big institute or charitable trust that guarantees admission and boarding?" I asked.

"Looking to move up in the world and leave poor old, Librarian-chacha behind?" He joked.

"No, not at all, just..."

"Nah, kid. I get it. I see that drive. The look in your eyes. You're not meant to rot in a small town like this." He said, patting my head, "Unfortunately, no one is up to give seven year olds scholarships. Maybe if you found a private investor but.... that's a fairy tale. It only happens in the movies. You know, the rich guy that helps out a poor boy climb out of poverty and adopts him as his son and heir. This isn't the talkies....." He lamented.

"Don't be so sure yet." I replied.

Because I knew. It literally was a fictional world. And where there's fiction, there are paragons and useful, but unnaturally good people in places of power where they have no logical right to be.

A benefit of fiction.

"Think about it. Maybe.. There might be a solution to this problem somewhere....just waiting to be found."

At that, it seemed as if something clicked in his mind as he turned back to me.

"If it's a solution you're looking for, I hear there's a retired army officer in Khandala who's famous for helping advise people for free. You will need to write him though."

"Hm? A retired officer....in Khandala."

Where have I heard that before.....

"Say, is this officer by chance a colonel Singh?" I asked.

"Why yes! That's the name. I had forgotten. But yes. That's him.

You know him?"

"I have heard of him. In the papers." I lied.

No. I knew of him from somewhere else. A very famous old film my mother loved to watch in my previous life.

He was a ....character to say the least. Eccentric, disciplined and highly effective as a teacher and guide. A man of sharp intellect and sharper skills who worked as a consultant for everyone, from governments to celebrities.

And most important of all, he had connections to the upper echelon of society.

My ladder into the top rungs of the world.

Perhaps...yes. Yes. He can help me.

Definitely.

"Say, can I have a pen and paper. I have a letter to write."

The librarian smiled and tore out a page from his register and handed it to me.

"Thanks."

I took a seat at the back of the library, out of sight and cpunted the money I had on me. Saved up after years of foregoing treats and sweets. Hiding it from everyone.

A whole rupee and 10 paise.

Or 3 cents in dollar terms.

Enough for a single postage.

Better make this shit count.

I gripped the money tight and looked down at the paper and began to write.

"Dear Colonel Julius Nagendranath Wilfred Singh,

I am in need of assistance, financial or otherwise...."

The colonel was a kind and rather emotional man when it came to it, but he didn't get to his position believing sob stories. No. I needed to give him something more concrete.

Something that made me seem like a valuable investment.

Something beyond the capabilities of an average seven year old.

An hour later and with three more pages full of mathematical proofs, future market predictions and a heartfelt (read begging) letter, I sent it in to the post office and watched the postman tuck it away in his bag as a nervousness took me over.

Let's hope this works.

Because if not.....I don't know what I'll do.

Now, it's time to wait. And watch.