[@Ayazi][i]...Really?[/i]

Just that one word crossed Kiritsugu's mind, as he witnessed either an infallible display of backfiring rudeness, or a miscalculation of how clumsy one was. The case at least happened to not be completely devoid of logic, as Kiritsugu deduced several facts which did help the girl save face (pun unintended). It happened that the bus running the route from school along this boulevard was just pulling up to the corner, no doubt preparing to cross the intersection towards the nearby bus stop. He'd just passed the pharmacy along his way, which its unmistakably recognizable plastic bag was at present in the limp clutch of the victim's hand. Thus the valid statement (if so proffered after he removed the body from blocking the crime scene...sidewalk) would run along the lines of, "I'm so sorry mister, but I had to catch the bus on time, there's this medicine I have to deliver to my sick parent(s), I didn't mean to trouble you, please be a gentleman and forgive me!"

[i](Not that physical height even attested equivalency to mental age. Wow, I definitely did not sign up for insecurities of tallness when puberty the robocall salesman rang.)[/i]

And there was something else, scratched just below the surface, or perhaps a red herring to distract Kiritsugu tapping the girl's shoulder and voicing prerecorded statements of forced concern. He recalled her accent as subtly foreign, almost easing into the local vibe, yet distinctly operating on its own wavelength. What at first he mistook for the shadows, as she began to stir, turned out to be an even tanner complexion in the sunlight than the half Chinese could give due credit. And upon general inspection of her appearance, an involuntary, inward groan followed his fond memories of clothes shopping with mother in the trendier retail row of Harbor City; he knew the American brands of AE and Hollister. Certainly all this tied into the cruder gait of a gaijin bumping into him (he wasn't one to talk), yet with airs that suggested a grace not necessarily of Japanese culture.

All this pandering for truth was made moot the instant that truck roared past the startled bus driver stomping the brake, the even more startled students backpedaling from the crosswalk just in time, and Kiritsugu just raising an eyebrow and wondering what more could be wrong with Earth's denizens today. Perhaps the sounds of crashing, erupting flame, and screaming metal should have elicited more than a wince drawn deep from Kiritsugu's empathy. While the bus driver dealt with the gathering crowd blocking the intersection by honking his horn before throwing his hands up to kami-sama and releasing his passengers early, Kiritsugu unceremoniously grabbed the girl under the shoulders and hauled her upright. Steadying her arm against the side of the bus, he muttered something along the lines of get home quickly.

He felt his first pangs of guilt and horror as he passed through the crowd; whoever was driving apparently didn't even try to save himself or at least swerve to avoid head on. He heard one of the students begin to yell at the dazed spectators to get away, claiming an explosion, and the mixed signals were received by another student charging ahead towards the scene, then suddenly stooping to grab a metal bat like a baseball lunatic. But wait -- why did multiple lights all of a sudden flash? ...There be robots?

Multiple clicks and whirring gears sequenced within the part of Kirtsugu's brain that had been trained to be technologically savvy since his childhood under paternal care. He took off in the opposite direction to the bus, while fumbling to retrieve the MS Surface from his backpack. Just a few furious taps and a swipe would be all Kiritsugu needed on an Internet search to confirm his knowledge on those robots, but first a simple question directed at the bus driver,

"Excuse me mister, can you please leave the bus WiFi on, so I can access the Internet urgently?"