Strange Samsara of Migrant Myth Prologue(Touhou/Worm Crossover)

“Name?”

Brockton Bay’s City Hall was a bustling place. It had to be for the city was constantly under siege under its own resident gangs and villains, and the busywork of paperwork to keep things orderly and maintained was a nigh constant onslaught. Buckling under the weight of its own failures, every department had its arms full in trying to stem the fall.

The Immigration Office was an anomaly in how sleepy it was then, but an understandable one. Few wished to move into the Bay with its plethora of gangs and variety of bigoted discrimination.

Which made the Man from the Orient so peculiar.

A facial structure that didn’t hint so much as scream that he was Japanese, the star-silver hair and the sleepy golden eyes sharpened behind a pair of half-moon spectacles implied that he was happa. Dressed in black and blue with silver designs for flair, a European-styled leather satchel tied the crossed shirt together. Tall for a Japanese man, the Man from the Orient had a quiet demeanor.

“Morichika Rinnosuke.”

This was supposed to be an easy position, the break position. Trust the one time the clerk got to work in Immigrations, there’d be the one idiot who wanted to move to Brockton. Looking up from examining the papers, the clerk sighed, “That first name, last name, or last name, first name?”

“Ah,” the man bowed his head, “Apologies. First name Rinnosuke, last name Morichika.”

Flipping through the papers, the clerk nodded when everything seemed to be in order. Weird, most times, there was something wrong, but everything was in order. Only one last thing left to do, and this was one that had to be done on the spot, “What made you choose Brockton Bay?”

The clerk didn’t know why that had to be done on the spot, but eh, it was the last thing. Maybe it was some weird holdover from the interview process. This guy did good paperwork to get everything perfect on the first try.

“One of the common complaints of my old homeland was that there was no sea to visit,” Rinnosuke smiled, seemingly laughing at a joke only he understood.

“Aren't you from Japan?” the clerk drawled, not actually caring about the accuracy. Writing down the answer, he looked everything over once more.

Rinnosuke Morichika. Refugee from Japan. Age: 30. Graduated from High School and had been in the middle of going to University before the shitshow that was Leviathan had hit. Bit of a ghost with how little paperwork and medical work he had, but he was from Japan. Place was a shitshow even a decade after Leviathan sunk Kyushu. Hopefully, he wouldn’t join the ABB, but the clerk wouldn’t blame him if he did.

Brockton Bay was unkind to outcasts, crueler still to those who chose to be neutral.

“Nippon, yes, but I came from the inland.”

“Wouldn’t you have an easier time settling on the West Coast of America?” the clerk wondered. Left unsaid was that it’d be much safer than settling into a city besieged by the E88 or the ABB.

“Perhaps, but a certain lady asked me to move here,” there was a fond but exasperated sigh, “Left unsaid was what would happen if I didn’t move here.”

“Heh,” the clerk snorted, “Women. Always ordering us around and being noisy and nosy in good measure.”

“...Yes, well, we do miss them when they’re gone.”

Silence reigned as the clerk realized that he may or may not have tread upon touchy ground. Clearing his throat twice, the clerk tapped the sheaf of papers into alignment and handed them back to Rinnosuke.

“Hope you have a pleasant stay in Brockton then. Stay safe out there.” Surprisingly, the clerk meant it. Brockton Bay wasn’t kind to anyone, but it was crueler to those different. For a half-asian, half-european guy like this guy, he’d be facing enemies on every front.

Taking the papers to flip through them twice in checkover, the Man from the Orient bowed his head, “Thank you very much, Clerk-san.” Reaching back to put away the sheaf of papers, he pulled out a trinket, “Here, a gift in thanks for your assistance.”

Good accent, the clerk noted. If this Morichika guy played his cards right, he might be able to get through the nicer parts of town without being lynched. Examining the trinket, he found that it was a remarkably well-brocaided

“What is this?” the clerk asked, turning the square pouch over and over.

“An Omamori. A protection charm for good luck. This one is a Kanai-Anzen, dedicated for the safety, prosperity, and well-being of the family.”

“Make it yourself?” the clerk asked, holding the thing up to the light. He didn’t know what the fancy weird symbols meant, but the flower designs certainly looked pretty enough.

“Yes,” the man answered, having already stood up in preparation to leave, “I was taught how by a shrine maiden long ago.”

“Huh,” the clerk scratched his chin and put the charm off to the side, “Well, thank you for the gift. What are you going to do anyways?”

Pausing at the doorway, Rinnosuke pushed his spectacles up his nose and murmured, “I’ve always fancied myself a shopkeeper.”

Then he stepped out and was gone.

Quiet for a moment, the clerk had the sudden and irrational urge to breathe a sigh of relief. Had that man been a cape? A superpowered Tinker who was going to add yet another vector of chaos to Brockton?

…No, the clerk shook his head. It was probably nothing. The chill up his spine was just from the broken AC. It always spewed cold air in the middle of damn winter.

Swiveling on his chair to lean down to grab a box, the clerk almost fell out of his chair at the sudden interruption.

“Ah, I almost forgot to tell you,” Rinnosuke said, having tucked his head back into the office, “Do not open the pouch under any circumstances. Doing so will cause the protection to dissipate. Once the kifuda inside breaks, burn the entirety of the Omamori in a place of spirit to cleanse it.”

Then as suddenly as he had returned, the Man from the Orient disappeared.

Hand over heart, the clerk shivered. Maybe the guy was a cape after all. A moment passed and he went back to pulling out the box to file in the new paperwork. He paused for a bit, and then reached for the omamori to tuck it into his shirtpocket.

Maybe Roger Alcott was being superstitious, but in a world where superheroes, supervillains, and superpowers existed, maybe it was best to be superstitious.