How not to be Multiverse Mercenary

The San Francisco night air bit at Leo's exposed arms as he cursed under his breath. "Seriously," he grumbled, "if pineapple-on-ketchup pizza wasn't a thing at Mexican parties, I'd never bother with them."

Despite the darkness and a slight buzz, it was hard to miss the attractive face, a captivating blend of Asian and Western features, framed by dark blonde hair. Lean and muscular despite his young age (nineteen, to be exact), Leo shuffled along in his rumpled Aloha shirt and white pants. Finding his car was proving to be a monumental task.

"Ugh," he groaned again, "that spicy burrito is going to declare war on my toilet later." Finally, salvation arrived in the form of his gleaming Bugatti. He flopped into the driver's seat, popped some antacids, and resigned himself to waiting until the alcohol wore off.

Alcohol wasn't usually his vice, but tonight, heartbreak had painted the town red. Despite his wealth and good looks, Leo seemed to have a talent for disastrous relationships. Just a few weeks prior, he'd met a woman with a kind smile and polite manners. Her story – her mother battling cancer and struggling financially – tugged at his heartstrings. Though a nagging suspicion lingered, he decided to be the hero; he'd pay for the surgery. It felt good, doing a good deed.

Fast forward to today. After days spent by the worried mother's bedside, the surgery proved a success. He arrived at their home for a celebratory dinner, only to find the place empty. Gone. Credit cards, cash, even her and her mother's carefully saved stocks – vanished. Turns out, the "depressed because of Mom's illness" spiel was a lie. Europe, here she comes!

The news devastated the real victim – the mother. The shock triggered a heart attack, and she was gone. So, here Leo was, fresh off arranging a quick funeral, drowning his sorrows at a Mexican party with questionable pizza toppings.

This wasn't an isolated incident. Women came and went, leaving him confused and heartbroken despite his genuine efforts. Maybe, Leo thought with a bitter chuckle, he was just cursed in love. The ex-girlfriend herself wasn't a concern; his ever-efficient "Terminator Maid" would handle that. She would become fish food in some dirty waters soon.

"Is it just me, or are those two guys assaulting a woman?" Leo muttered, his senses sharpening as he sobered up. Across the street, he witnessed two black men forcing a white woman, a scene sadly familiar in America.

"Should I intervene?" Leo pondered, his past haunting him. He couldn't bear to ignore a crime again, not after the consequences of his inaction last time. Yet, despite his good deeds earlier that day, nothing seemed to change. "Well, my life isn't exactly a bed of roses anyway."

He shoved the cynical thought aside. Rolling his eyes, he threw open the Bugatti's door and stalked across the street.

"Yo, yo, yo! Hold up! That ain't none of yo' damn business!" one of the men yelled as Leo approached, brandishing a knife.

"Why not? A perfect white American saving a white woman from two black dudes, it would be quite the heroic play," Leo retorted with a smile.

"Bitch, you look Asian. Get your Jackie Chan ass outta here!" the man countered.

Leo sighed. "Actually, I'm half Japanese."

"Then get your anime weaboo ass outta here!" the man spat.

Leo stared, dumbfounded. This wasn't how his heroic entrance was supposed to go. Shrugging off the absurdity, he squared his shoulders.

"Fine," he declared. "Today, Leo Stellafarius, with his Jackie Chan ass, is saving the day."

"Fuck, not only are you a weaboo, you're also cringe!" the man cursed before charging towards Leo, knife in hand.

Leo ducked with a yawn, the movement almost casual. It was then Leo raised his fist.

BAM!

A well-placed right hook connected with a satisfying crunch. The assailant flew back, landing in a crumpled heap, unconscious.

Regaining his senses, the remaining man raised his gun. "Die!"

Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

BANG!

The gunshot echoed in the night, but Leo remained standing, a bewildered frown on his face. The bullet lodged harmlessly in his upper arm.

"Like the Winter Soldier?" the man exclaimed.

"Yep," Leo confirmed.

Seizing the opportunity, Leo darted forward, his reinforced arm slamming into the man's chest. A guttural groan escaped the attacker's lips as he crumpled to the ground, foam bubbling from his mouth.

Leo then dialed 911, his voice grim. Rapists preying on the vulnerable were a line he wouldn't cross. Stealing was one thing, but this... this was unforgivable.

[911, what's your emergency? (SERIOUSLY, WHERE THE FUCK IS MY COFFEE?)]

Leo gritted his teeth. People working late nights shouldn't have to deal with this kind of unprofessionalism.

"I just witnessed an assault," he stated clearly. "Two men were attacking a woman across the street. I knocked them out, but-"

[Look, dude, don't interfere. Just report and let the police handle it. Those chubs do nothing but sit around, eating donuts all day while getting paid.]

Clearly, this dispatcher had some beef with law enforcement.

[Well, slurp how does the woman look? I mean, does she look like a hooker?]

Leo rolled his eyes. He glanced at the woman, now regaining her composure. Short, white hair in a Karen-esque style, a body-con dress clinging to every curve. Her face held a pinched expression, the kind that screamed of loud WOKE woman.

"Well, the woman looks like she's in trouble," Leo continued, describing her appearance. "And the assailants are black—"

[You didn't say that before, sir! We're on our way, code red! Dispatch, get a unit to this location ASAP!]

Leo stared at his phone, dumbfounded. A wry smile played on his lips. "Man, I love America."

He approached the woman cautiously, offering a hand to help her up. Something about her rubbed him the wrong way, but he couldn't explain why. "Are you alright?"

"Excuse me, did you just assume my gender? I'm non-binary, and it's they/them, and also—"

Leo cut her off with a sigh. This woman was trouble with a capital T. Before she could launch into another tirade, he landed a swift blow to her face, sending her to slumber.

"But seriously, they should stop supporting these... individuals," Leo muttered with disgust as he made his way to his car and drove off.

Leo's opulent mansion, a monument to his wealth, loomed before him as he pulled up in his Bugatti. He wasn't unlike other rich teenagers, indulging in the occasional splurge on property and luxury cars.

He tossed his keys to a waiting security guard, barely registering the crisp hundred-dollar bill pressed into his palm. Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of wealth and privilege. Clothes were shed in a whirlwind as Leo made a beeline for his bedroom, collapsing onto the impossibly soft bed with a groan of contentment.

"Ah, this is the life," he sighed, relishing the enveloping warmth. Nothing beat sinking into a luxurious bed after a night of...well, a night that defied easy categorization.

But Leo wasn't without his problems. The first was his superhuman stamina. Thanks to his Saitama-inspired training regimen, fatigue was a foreign concept.

In his second life, fueled by a typical teenage power fantasy, he'd dreamt of immense power and world domination. Unfortunately, with a J-titan as your author pulling the strings, that dream quickly devolved into suffering.

So, screw world domination, he'd settled for a life of opulent leisure.

The second problem? His unshakeable American fetish.

"Guns!" he declared, abruptly jolting out of bed.

Rising, he padded over to his closet. Gone were the rumpled clothes; in their place hung a sleek, custom-made, three-piece suit. The dark grey fabric shimmered, courtesy of Mosca, a notorious underworld figure known for crafting bulletproof suits for discerning clientele.

With a practiced flick of his wrist, a hidden switch activated, transforming the closet wall into a doorway. Stepping through, Leo descended a short flight of stairs into a brightly lit, state-of-the-art shooting range – his personal playground.

He bypassed the rows of gleaming rifles and semi-automatics, his gaze settling on a Colt Python revolver. The Magnum series held a certain appeal, but for revolvers, nothing beat the classic elegance of the Python. With a practiced ease, he loaded the gun, donned protective eye wear, and raised his arm.

This was the moment. The moment Leo activated his unique ability, a gift bestowed upon him in this new life: Simulation.

It wasn't just enhanced senses. Simulation dialed them up to eleven, granting him a 360-degree perception within a twenty-meter radius. Every detail, from the dust motes dancing in the air to the faint rustle of unseen insects, flooded his awareness. It was as if an invisible dome enveloped him, transforming the world into a hyper-realistic sensory experience.

But Simulation offered more. It wove a tapestry of possibilities, a prediction of future events based on his intent and the actions of those around him. Say he entered a crowded venue, activated Simulation with the grim objective of eliminating someone – the world around him would morph. Holographic blue figures would appear, mimicking the potential movements of those present, illustrating the most likely course of action for his assassination attempt.

A flurry of blue targets erupted in front of Leo, their movements blurring as they darted across his field of vision. Each one appeared for a fleeting second before vanishing again. Yet, within those milliseconds, a spectral blue figure – a mirror image of himself – mirrored their actions. In his spectral form, Leo raised his own virtual gun, firing off precise shots. Some found their mark, others missed by a hair's breadth.

Five seconds. That was all the glimpse into the future his ability offered. But even that sliver of foreknowledge was enough.

He squeezed the trigger of his real Colt Python, the sharp crack echoing through the range as the rounds left the barrel.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Each bullet found its mark, perfectly replicating the actions of his spectral counterpart. Even the ones he'd missed in the simulation found purchase this time, leaving a string of perfect bulls-eyes on the digital targets.

Soon the targets stopped moving and he got perfect score.

With a satisfied sigh, Leo lowered his visor, the virtual world dissolving back into the stark reality of the shooting range.

"Ah, that hits the spot," he murmured, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Despite his half-Japanese heritage, American blood undeniably pumped through his veins. Guns were his passion, a deep-seated love that had driven him to explore nearly every firearm the US and its neighbors had to offer. Sure, he appreciated swords and blades, but nothing held the same allure as a well-crafted gun.

"Even after all the messes I made," he mused, meticulously polishing the Colt Python, "I can't deny the thrill they bring."

He'd been blessed with a good family, yet he'd chosen the path of the gun, a path that had irrevocably altered his life. In a twisted pursuit of using firearms for a "greater good," he'd waded through rivers of blood. Denied the opportunity in his first life, this second life was supposed to be his chance to indulge in his gun-wielding fantasies. But fueled by youthful arrogance, he'd failed to see the shades of gray that painted his actions.

With a final click, he secured the revolver back on its designated shelf, gazing across his impressive arsenal.

"Well, with guns and money, I don't have to worry about anything," he mused. "Even though I have a special ability in a world with no supernatural elements, at least I'm not some kind of main character with a system—hmm?"

A sudden flicker in his vision caught his attention. A single, holographic blue screen materialized before him, its text stark and clear.

[You have been referred to as the perfect candidate for this system.]

[Welcome to the Mercenary System.]

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I am trying this fanfic since it has been rotting in my drafts for a long time.