Waking up in another world is unpleasantly like being drunk. What’s so unpleasant about being drunk, you ask?

Talk to a glass of water. 

Yeah, I know. Real comedian here, me and Arthur Dent. 

But much like the pajama-clad hero of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, no one really asked me if I wanted to be teleported to another frigging world. 

One second, I was in the middle of a firefight. The next second, boom, I was in a stone room, which the fantasy nerd part of my brain immediately pegged as a dungeon, surrounded by all sorts of glowing amber lights. What’s more, my head felt like someone was driving a spike through it, and the strength left my body so fast, I had to wonder if I had been shot and didn’t realize it yet. 

I collapsed to my knees, my rifle falling from limp arms as I struggled to make sense of what was happening. I patted myself down with hands and fingers that weren’t quite working. No blood, no signs of injury. I still had my weapons, my ammo, and my go bag. My helmet was still strapped to my head, night vision goggles still attached. I didn’t dare see if they were working though, not with all that weird light. I’d burn the sensor out for sure. 

All of this happened in the span of a couple of seconds. I was already in fight or flight mode, thanks to trying not to die. Long experience taught me to react to any sudden change in circumstances as though I might’ve been shot, and to inventory my equipment and check for injury. Adrenaline had my heart pumping at about a million miles a minute, so if I had sprung a leak, I’d have found it, and fast. 

I’ve gotten my bell rung in a firefight before. When you’re high on adrenaline and your sense of time and space are distorting, a concussion on top of all that can make you see some really weird shit. But I’d never seen myself in a freaking dungeon before. 

“What the hell?”

“Oh. You are awake. This is good.”

The amber lights dimmed and faded away, leaving only the flickering of torches. The pain lancing through my skull faded with it.

I squinted through the gloom as my eyes adjusted, looking for the source of the voice. Ah, there he was. 

Standing in front of me, at the other end of the dungeon, was a teenage boy. His features had a distinctly East Asian cast to them. Japanese, maybe? Either way, he was young, no more than 16, and on the small and skinny side to boot. He wore his hair on the longer side, the tips just brushing his shoulders, and his bangs shrouded his face in dramatic shadows. He wore a long black greatcoat, black boots, trousers, and shirt, and had what looked to be an oversized sword slung across his back. 

The second I saw the weapon, the adrenaline, which had been subsiding, shot through my veins like chemical lightning again. I sprang to my feet, my rifle trained on the kid’s chest.

“DROP THE WEAPON!” I bellowed.

If you think I won’t shoot a teenager with a weapon just because they’re a kid, you don’t know me very well. Give it time.

Through my scope, I could see all the color drain from his face, but to his credit, he didn’t flinch. He threw his right hand behind him, but where I could still see, as though he was signaling someone to hold their position. With his left hand, he slowly unbuckled the strap that held his sword close to his body. It clattered to the floor with a surprising amount of noise. That thing must have weighed a ton. 

“Easy,” he said. “I am a friend from your world. Please, lower your rifle so we can speak. I don’t want my friends to get the wrong idea.”

His words were lightly accented, but recognizable as English. That was a good sign. The bit about “your world” wasn’t, and I wasn’t all too thrilled about the notion that he had friends I couldn’t see, either. 

The boy’s right hand twitched subtly, directing my gaze to the room beyond. Arrayed in what I can only assume was a battle formation were four women, each one of them stunningly beautiful and visibly angry, wearing various types of armor and equipment. Each had a different style of weapon, too: knives, sabers, staff (magic?), and a longbow. 

Okay. It was time to turn my brain on and start connecting the dots. I’ve always had a talent for analysis. My memory might be shit, my morals questionable, and my luck with women awful, but I can Sherlock the shit out of any given situation, provided I have a second to take a step back and think.  

Let’s see. Life imperiling situation that led to an immediate and disorienting awakening in a strange place? Check. Scrawny, generic Japanese kid dressed like a every edgy anime protagonist ever? Check. Coterie of gorgeous women who were clearly out of his league, but nonetheless taking their cues from said scrawny, generic Japanese kid? Check. 

“Oh shit,” I groaned, putting two and two together. “I got isekaied.”