Trinity Angles (Discussion Thread)

[Kieran]

somehow, i have this image of Hades ( the orihalcum-forged Gun from Black Cat) as a reference point..

I wouldn't know - I don't think I got far enough in that series to see it. If I did, it was too long ago.

[MWkillkenny84]

I wouldn't know - I don't think I got far enough in that series to see it. If I did, it was too long ago.

It is basically Train's signature revolver, but with Train that had temporally acquired the ability to emit bio-electricity so to transform the Hades into a portable railgun (four shots a day, require 24 hours to 'recharge' the amount of bio-electricity).

Coincidentally, Train also lost this ability at the end of the manga... this after wreking the Hades at such a level that if he had tried to use it on the 'reborn' one (not made of orihalcum) it would have basted apart the gun and the hand it was in.

[TheAbsolutistsCreed]

A railgun... what kind of killer recoil did Shirou have to scale down on that thing? I'm just assuming runes made it possible and leave it at that.

Now i have the image in my head of Galen going 'Whitman Fever' on Pureblood bigots and gaining a worse reputation to the magicals from the mundane in that they have more effective killing curses. Don't mind me on my fantasies.

[Kieran]

A railgun... what kind of killer recoil did Shirou have to scale down on that thing? I'm just assuming runes made it possible and leave it at that.

Pretty much.

Now i have the image in my head of Galen going 'Whitman Fever' on Pureblood bigots and gaining a worse reputation to the magicals from the mundane in that they have more effective killing curses. Don't mind me on my fantasies.

Nah - it is tempting. But, ultimately, too easy . . .


. . . However, the next snippet I have in mind (this week's been really rushed, so it's all I'll have time for - besides, this has been in my head for weeks) involves Persona 5, and since they actually use guns . . .

[Rai Burnout]

For the recent snippet, Tfs Alucard says it best.

[Kieran]

I understand where you're drawing the reference from, but not the reference itself.

[Rai Burnout]

"Bitches love cannons" it's his second most said quote, right behind "Police Girl".

[Kieran]

November, 2016








The casino was a glittering monument of steel, glass, and neon; dazzling to the eye, it stood as a shining beacon against the black velvet of the night. That light, taken with the coruscating rainbow of the city at night, was further scattered into glittering fragments on the dark waters which surrounded it, forming a breathtaking counterpoint to the clear, star-filled sky above.

Not that the casino patrons paid much attention to the poetic beauty of their surroundings. No, to them, poetry was manifested in the perfect dealing of a hand of cards, spin of a roulette wheel, or cast of the dice—and “beauty” could be measured in the size, colour and organisation of the chips they piled around themselves. It was a rare sort who could even be bothered to look up, and see the beautiful full moon glowing down at them through the skylight directly overhead.

. . . Of course, when lightning suddenly flashed out of that clear sky—bright enough to briefly eclipse even the blinking neon which surrounded virtually every game machine in the house—and was followed by a roll of thunder straight out of a Gothic horror film, everyone looked up.

Standing atop one of the chandeliers, silhouetted against the moon, was a tall figure, carrying a briefcase and cloaked in black; literally, as evidenced by the long, trailing coat that swept down to his ankles. The top of his head was obscured by an equally black, wide-brimmed hat—but what could be seen of the figure’s face was deathly-white, accented by patterns of red and blue. It was only later that those present would realise the markings were similar to Kabuki makeup, including the colours: red to represent the hero—and blue to represent something otherworldly, such as a ghost . . .

Or, perhaps, a demon.

With a casual gesture, he touched two fingers to the brim of his hat in a mocking salute to the crowd, and a low, sinister chuckle seemed to emanate from the figure, though its lips were never seen to move . . . And despite the quiet, unsettlingly intimate nature of the laughter, it seemed to echo around each listener, as though he was actually standing right behind them.

That did it: whatever nerve the crowd had didn’t simply break, it was shattered utterly. Screams of terror rang from every corner of the room as panicked people rushed towards the nearest exit, not particularly caring if anyone else got trampled along the way.

The casino’s security agents, comprised of nondescript, grey-suited figures in sunglasses, ignored the stampede in favour of making their way towards the intruder—though against the teeming masses, it was admittedly an uphill struggle.

“He’s here!” called the most intelligent member of the trio over his headset. “All units, move in immediately!”

Taking that as his cue, the masked figure cut a short, half-kneeling bow, before abruptly launching forward; the bow, his watchers realised, had been to camouflage his assuming a runner’s stance.

“That wasn’t my style, but it was pretty slick, as entrances go,” Mona’s boyish voice commented in the runner’s ear.

“I dunno if I’d call it ‘slick,’” Skull grumbled. “I almost wet myself when the sky lit up like that—did you have to scare the crap outta everybody?”

“You have no sense of aesthetics in your soul, Skull,” chided Inari, his voice deeper and cultured than either of the other two guys. “While it’s admittedly not my preferred milieu either, that was a brilliant dramatic display, fit to chill one to the very soul, and I cannot help but applaud such an artistic execution of theatrics.”

“No one asked you, Inari!” Skull retorted.

“Both of you, shut it!” snapped Panther, before softening her tone to address the runner. “Just stay calm, and you can get away now.”

Queen chimed in with her deeper tones, “We’ll retrieve the briefcase on our end.”

At that moment, buzzing voice broke into the conversation, with flashes of static omitting various words. “Suspects—not confirmed. Hold—positions.”

“Huh?” said Panther, confused. “What was that?”

“Don’t worry about us,” Mona interrupted. “Just concentrate on getting away!”

In truth, he’d never stopped doing that, even as he followed the along with the chatter. Given that he was alone, in fact, he felt free to use a few tricks he’d been hiding even from the others; such as just how strong and quick he actually was.

Dashing along the top of the light fixtures hanging from the ceiling (although at this size, calling them “catwalks” wouldn’t be inappropriate) he quickly made his way to the elevator on the casino’s balcony level. Once there, he leaped almost casually across the intervening space to land directly in front of it—

Just as it opened to reveal a trio of guards inside.

He sprang from his landing position instantly, forearms braced to drive them back into the elevator. Momentum and surprise were on his side; his weight was roughly equal to any one of them, at least, and his strength belied even his size. The doors had barely opened wide enough to accommodate the group before they found themselves slammed up against the far wall—and he’d slapped both the “ground floor” and “close doors” buttons before they had a chance to catch their collective breath.

He slipped as easily out through the doors as he’d gone in, just before they closed themselves completely, leaving a bewildered trio at least one floor below him before they recovered the presence of mind to halt the elevator.

“That’s our Ace,” commented Oracle cheerily. “Wins the fight before they even know it’s started . . . OK, pull out before their backup gets here; there’s a door above and behind you, you should be able to get out that way, hurry! Everyone else, head to positions—use Route B!”

Never one to doubt Oracle—she was their eye in the sky for good reason—he followed her instructions, and quickly found himself in the back area of the casino, amidst a maze of narrow hallways of the sort common to any office structure. From there, he needed only for her to give him directions; his natural talents towards speed and stealth, to say nothing of the acuity of his senses, made it easy to avoid detection by any of the security agents travelling through the back ways with him.

. . . Really, it was astonishing how many people just never looked up.

At the end of the hall, he got caught by a guard—at least, in the sense that the guard was too close to avoid. Worse, this one was visibly armed, holding an electrical “stun baton” crackling away in one hand. Much like with the light fixtures, it was oversized to a degree that “cattle prod” was probably the more accurate term.

The solution was to leap high and to the right, forcing to guard to swing inward, where his range of motion was less than optimal (particularly if he wanted to avoid zapping himself). Tucking his legs underneath him briefly to evade the swing, the cloaked man then lashed out with both feet, catching the guard under the chin and sending the mask he wore flying along the corridor, with the guard himself tumbling after it.

The thief flipped backwards to make a perfect two-point landing, even as he drew his weapon—because, while free of the mask’s restraints, the guard’s body exploded into red-black plasma as the Shadow’s true nature revealed itself. At the other end of the hall, there now stood a bizarre centaur-like mix of human, scorpion . . . And possibly a tank.

Oracle, as always, was quick to analyse the foe as she announced, “Comparing power le—”

He double-tapped the head, twice, and the Shadow dissolved once more into the red-black plasma, but this time melting away entirely. He lifted the barrel of his gun, and casually blew on it, as though to drive away smoke.

“—never mind,” Oracle said, her tone indicating that she wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed at the interruption, or awed at the gunplay. “The exit’s just up ahead, through that door—go!”

He went, and immediately ran into the second problem. The exit was on the ground floor—which was currently swarming with more “guards” than even he could likely handle. He was on the second floor landing, and the closest alternative to the front door was a picture window on the opposite side of the room that he’d need to walk along the balustrade to reach.

“Something wrong?” Oracle asked. “The exit should be right there.”

“You want me to the use the window?” he clarified.

“That’s just how it is,” she said apologetically. “After all that commotion, the bottom floor’s—”

“Completely closed off,” Panther finished with a disheartened groan. Sudden concern coloured her tone as she abruptly asked, “Hey, can you make it?”

Any number of ways, in truth—though admittedly, few of the easier (and less-than-subtle) ones were an option since he was still trying to keep his magical abilities a secret, even from his team . . . But that wasn’t the important part. She, and the others, needed the reassurance. And so, he compartmentalised any concerns he had over how high up he was, and how narrow that railing actually was, and pasted on the wolfish grin they’d learned to tell he was wearing, even under a full-face mask.

“Like it’s even a question,” he quipped, and he could practically feel the tension on the other side of the line melt away. Their Ace had everything handled, so they could relax and focus on their own jobs . . .

And now to put my money where my mouth is, he thought.

Hopping on top of the railing was the easy part. Moving along what amounted to a narrow balance beam at speed was trickier, but he managed it reasonably well. It helped that he was very good at long-distance jumps, too; and that he had more than a little experience with both high falls and being hurled bodily through plate-glass windows.

Granted, his “phantom thief” outfit wasn’t quite as resilient as his preferred choice of body armour, but in the absence of rune-inscribed dragon’s hide lined with alchemically-treated Kevlar plates, it wasn’t a bad second choice—he made it outside, uninjured, with little difficulty . . . Really, it was harder for him to look surprised as the floodlights highlighted him once he rose from his landing point on the street, and simultaneously revealing the platoon of cops in riot gear surrounding him.

Did they honestly think he wouldn’t have spotted them on the way down? The fall had been twenty or thirty feet, after all. Maybe they just weren’t used to dealing with people with supernaturally-enhanced senses . . .?

. . .. No, scratch that—there was no “maybe” about it, or the lunkheads waiting on the rooftop above and to his right wouldn’t be breathing so hard from downwind, lest they give away the fact that the fire escape ladder was a trap, too.

“What the--?!” Oracle blurted. “Where did they come from?!”

He shrugged mentally, even as he raised his hands—but not before letting a smoke bomb drop out of its pouch in his sleeve. The mixture had, among other things, Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder in its makeup; it didn’t reach as far, last as long, or was quite as flammable as part of the concoction, but it was just as quick to spread as the pure stuff—and just as impenetrable. Better still, he’d practised to time the sound of its release to cover that of Disapparition.

He was gone before they even started panic-firing, reappearing on a rooftop, some blocks away, that he’d spotted on the way in—

Instinct had him whirling the instant he touched down, gun in hand, as a sense of presence told him that he was neither alone, nor out of danger.

“So,” said a feminine voice, as cold and soft as falling snow, “you are a wizard.”

He stared into the icy eyes of Takara Aozaki, glittering as they reflected the electricity writhing along her drawn blade.

“It will not save you, murderer,” she hissed—and whether she was referring to the gun or his magic didn’t matter, because she earnestly believed that neither did.

And he couldn’t say that she was necessarily wrong.

Instead, all that he could say—all he had time to say—as his wife dashed forward to incapacitate or kill him, was “Oh, fuck my life . . .”

[Xamusel]

Kieran... what... did... I... just... read?

[Kieran]

Kieran... what... did... I... just... read?

The opening of Persona 5, as experienced by Galen - in which he fares both better and worse than the original protagonist.

[Xamusel]

...wait. How come Takara's after his criminal alter ego?

[Kieran]

Ah . . . For that, we'd have to wait for it to be revealed in interrogation - or flashback.

[Kieran]

I regret to say that I haven't had any time to write, this week; Friday marked the end of working 12 days straight, and I needed the weekend just to resume some sense of energy and normalcy. Sorry.

(. . . The fact that my sister and I are going to see Wonder Woman in a couple of hours doesn't help, either - and I'm sorry about that, but I'm also not, if you catch my drift. )

. . . Anyways, I've recently (as in, the last hour or so) been struck by an idea that I think might actually work as a "Trinity" sequel; it's not too far off of the "MI-13" idea I've had, after all . . .

[Kieran]

Shuttle Nimue
Sowilo System, Hourglass Nebula
July 7, 2184








“All right, I’ll bite,” muttered nineteen-year-old Scott Ryder. “What the heck are we doing out here, Dad?”

“Indulging your love of adventure, and your sister’s love of discovery,” was the answer he received, in a tone so flat he assumed it had to be sarcasm—but his father rarely went to that sort of effort where his children were concerned.

Or any sort of effort, really.

This in particular was why the deadpan response had him trading looks with his older-by-one-minute twin (as she rarely failed to remind him) in puzzlement. To say it was out of character for a distant figure like their father to pull them out of military training for a family emergency was such an understatement that it ought to count as a criminal offense. The only thing that could qualify was—

“Your father thinks he’s come up with a way to save me,” answered their mother’s voice over the communications console, as weary as the statement was blunt. “And he’s hoping that having you two along will help convince the people behind it to comply.”

Scott couldn’t see his father’s face, but the wince in his voice was audible as he replied, “Ellen—”

At the same time, Sara said distastefully, “Emotional blackmail, Dad—really?!”

“This isn’t a fight I intend to lose,” their father answered. “If that’s what it takes to save your mother, then—”

“Alec!” The sharp reprimand cut him off, holding as it did more strength and force than Scott had heard in his mother’s voice in a while. “You’ve already burned every bridge you had with the Alliance, and you were lucky to avoid prison time for breaking Citadel law.” Her voice softened, as much with emotion as sudden weariness. “I understand why you’re doing this, Alec, but please remember that when this is all over, it’s very likely that you will be all the children have left—and do you really want this to be what they know of you?”

Scott could count on one hand the number of times his father had been rendered speechless, or lost an argument; adding this one still left him with unused fingers, but it was impressive, nonetheless.

“. . . All right, Ellen,” he allowed grudgingly. “I’ll use the kid gloves from here on out—and I’ll have to let you go now, we’re coming up on our destination.”

“All right, Alec. Be safe, and come back soon—all of you—and good luck.”

As the call cut out, Scott glanced out the shuttle’s viewport. So far as he could see, there was nothing but empty space; no moons, planets, or stations. Heck, there wasn’t even an asteroid!

“What ‘destination,’ Dad?” he asked. “There’s noth—”

His outburst was cut off, suddenly and violently, but the flaring light he’d learned to associate with the activation of a Mass Relay; a relay which had not been anywhere in sight, and were pretty hard to miss, on account of their size. When the transit effect faded, however, Scott was, if possible, more speechless, because there was now a planet in front of them—and according to the navigational instruments, they were still in the Sowilo system, at its seventh planet.

A planet which did not appear on any navigational chart he’d ever seen or heard of for the Sowilo system.

“. . . Dad, where are we?” Sara asked, her eyes alight with questions. “How on earth could you cloak something the size of a mass relay? Who even could?”

“The answer to the first should answer the other two, as well,” came their father’s deep-voiced, almost smug reply. “Welcome to Folkvangr, kids; an Arcanian colony.”

“Arcanian?” the twins repeated incredulously.

The Arcanians were a relatively recent development in galactic history; they’d been discovered not long before the end of the First Contact War; in point of fact, they’d been instrumental in ending it. They had a reputation for mysteriousness, secrecy, and above all, impossibility: a mastery of dark energy that even the asari couldn’t fully explain, an ability to confound physics that drove the salarians nuts—and perhaps the most puzzling thing of all, an identical appearance (and near-identical genetic structure) to humans.

Socially, they were a bit weird: there had been claims made that they were the inspiration for Earth’s myths of wizards, of all things. It was a claim that had several anthropologists and historians in both societies working to prove or disprove it . . . But a lot of the Arcanians claimed their biotic talents (biotic talents as natural as asari’s, at that) were “magic.”

“So,” Scott ventured, “you’re hoping to find some ‘magical’ cure to Mom’s condition?”

“I can understand why, if they can do that,” Sara remarked, her head still turned to look behind them—where, Scott realised, a mass relay was now perfectly visible. And given that the object in question was roughly the size of a spaceport, it seemed hard to believe they’d missed it previously.

“. . . Yeah, I’m hoping,” their dad said grimly. “But I also want to see if I can recruit them to the Andromeda Initiative; given their abilities, they could be invaluable.”

Scott nodded. It was early days yet, but everything his dad had said about the Andromeda Initiative—a private, multi-species effort to colonise the Andromeda Galaxy—sounded like it would be the adventure; real frontier stuff. Given what little he’d heard of what the Arcanians could do, he’d want them along, too.

And now, he realised, I’ve got a chance to see how much truth there is to the stories . . .








“That,” Scott remarked, on seeing the orange mass sprawled out on the porch, “is possibly the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen.”

So far, Scott found himself disappointingly underwhelmed by Folkvangr; with the scarcity of modern tech in sight, it seemed more like a historical re-enactment settlement than a colony. Ecologically, the place was nice, with lots of forest, clear air, and wide-open spaces . . . But it was more a little too “rustic” for his tastes.

It’d probably suit Dad, th—

“OW!” he cried, as the sudden punch to his forearm registered.

“You deserve it,” Sara chided him, even as she lowered her hand. “Honestly, Scott—how would you like having someone barge into your home uninvited, and start insulting your looks?” She turned to the cat. “We’re very sorry to disturb you; please pay us no mind.”

Scott rolled his eyes at his older (and allegedly more mature) sister’s antics—and they then widened as the cat immediately stood, stretched, and ambled over to Sara to brush against her shins, purring all the while.

“See?” Sara announced in vindication. “Manners, Scott.” She knelt, and gave the cat her hand to sniff, before tentatively rubbing behind his ears. “I’m Sara, that’s my dad, and Scott’s my baby brother—and what I should I call you, I wonder, besides ‘sweet . . . ?’”

“Probably ‘lord and master of the house,’ if you want to be accurate,” answered a woman’s amused voice, from the side of the house, “but he’ll answer to ‘Crookshanks,’ most of the time.”

Scott turned—and it was an effort to keep his face from showing any sort of reaction, because what confronted them was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

She had long, dark hair, straight and very fine; it moved behind her like a veil of black silk, the sun bringing out highlights in it that seemed to be a very deep blue. Her eyes were blue, as well, but a much paler shade: that of a cloudless winter sky. They were bright, kind, and almond-shaped—which fit perfectly with her otherwise Asian features. She would, Scott decided, need only a hint of powder with such a pale complexion as hers, and the proper outfit, to look like a life-sized geisha doll . . .

What really caught his attention, though, was the way she moved. Coming towards them, the lady walked with a gliding step that made it seem as though she barely touched the ground. Her limbs, hips and shoulders moved with a sinuous, almost predatory grace that hinted subtly at well-toned muscles under her otherwise flawlessly-smooth skin—

Down, boy, he admonished himself. She might not look like she’s outside the dateable range, but you’ve seen what happens to other cadets who make fools of themselves in front of older women—do you really want the only way you can have her be as a pity-screw?

Sara caught his attention with a nudge, looked at him, and raised her eyebrows. He didn’t need an implant to hear her: Really, Scott? Here and now, of all places?

Scott shrugged minimally, glancing towards the woman again. Can you blame me? I mean, look at her!

She scowled, but neither of them were able to follow up, silently or otherwise, as the lady had come within more normal conversational ranges.

“Crooks is usually a pretty good judge of character,” she said, still sounding mildly amused, “so I’ll assume you’re not a new bunch of door-to-door solicitors.”

The British idiom sounded a bit odd coming from someone who looked so thoroughly Asian, but her English betrayed a slight British accent—maybe, Scott pondered, she’d learned in Europe? Or was she using a translator, and it was a software quirk? “Can I help you?”

“My name is Alec Ryder,” their father replied. “These are my children, Scott and Sara. We—well, I—was hoping to speak to Doctor Juliet Croft, about a serious medical matter.”

“Misora Jeffries,” the lady replied, with a slight bow. Apologetically, she added, “The good doctor is something of a night-owl—particularly when she’s on sabbatical, and has no schedule to keep. You’re welcome to come back later tonight . . .?”

The older man scowled, and Scott held back a wince—he knew that look, and it meant nothing good.

“Would I get a different answer if I was looking to see Isabelle Villeneuve?” he asked tightly. “How about Charlotte Duerre, or Emma Watson?” He flashed his teeth in a wolfish smile. “Or maybe I ought to have just asked for Hermione Granger, instead?”

Despite the fact that it was a warm summer’s day, Scott swore he felt an Arctic breeze suddenly roll over his skin. Given that Ms. Jeffries’ eyes suddenly resembled chips of blue ice, he thought he could be forgiven for suddenly feeling a drop in temperature of thirty-odd degrees.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game, for a dishonourably-discharged attaché,” Ms. Jeffries said warningly, her voice as quiet as it was cold.

“I’m desperate,” their father admitted. “Desperate enough to do anything I can—anything I have to—in order to save my wife.”

“What happened to ‘I’ll use kid gloves,’ Dad?” Scott muttered to the older man under his breath, and was unsurprised to receive no response.

To be fair, though, Ms. Jeffries’ glare was fairly all-consuming, in terms of attention. She stared at him for a heartbeat, maybe two—and then she glanced at Scott, and over to Sara, who had stopped in mid-stroke of petting the large cat. His sister’s face reflected the odd mix of confusion and alarm he felt, while the cat looked tense, muscles coiled and ready.

Finally, the woman sighed.

“. . . I’ve been there before,” she admitted, not unsympathetically. “So this once, I’ll overlook the threats, and the insults—but any further attempts at either, and I assure you that you won’t like the consequences.” She gave their father that death glare again, unbelievably turned up a notch, and didn’t drop it until the larger man shivered.

“Come on inside,” she invited them. “I’m not the lady you came looking for, but I’m not unfamiliar with medicine, either.” She paused, before adding, “And I’ll assume that if you know those names, you also know you’re damned lucky that you pulled this on me and not my husband.”

“I’ve read his file, too,” the elder Ryder acknowledged. “Why do you think I’m here now? I’m desperate, but I’m not stupid . . .”

[hatori]

Oho..... going somewhere with this ME-crossover eh?

[Kieran]

Oho..... going somewhere with this ME-crossover eh?

More exploring the idea of what they could do in the other Mass Effect game - though I'd have trouble justifying them leaving the Reaper threat behind. Maybe Shirou . . .? *Shakes head*

And as you can see, I've taken a slightly different approach in terms of the Statute of Secrecy; the wizarding world now pass themselves off as aliens. Given some of the bizarre things life-forms in the Mass Effect universe can do, it didn't actually seem unreasonable . . .

However, as Alec Ryder hints, the truth is known to a lot of upper-echelon government, even if they can't release it; and he was a highly-ranked military attache on the Citadel, so he knows where to look for them. He's ruthless and aggressive, partly by nature, but partly because he is desperate; he was willing to do a fair number of shady things for his wife, in canon, even if he never reached Gendo Ikari levels.

. . . Whether the story would continue with Scott or Sara (or both) is undecided; Hermione is actually the biggest wrench in the plans. Her need for British soil, as well as a steady supply of blood, could make her using cryo-sleep untenable. And if I keep her awake for that time period, the blood is still a problem - and she's around nine hundred by the time they get to Andromeda. For a vampire, that's bloody ancient - not to mention powerful.

[Kieran]

After the Battle of Hogwarts








Nobody saw it coming, although they should have.

They had already collected most of the obvious facts involved, after all: Voldemort was fully capable of concocting and executing convoluted plans with backups and fail-safes, often taking years to reach fruition. He was also a vindictive son of a bitch, perfectly willing to destroy what he couldn’t possess—and he’d broken into the Ministry years before—to hear a prophecy, they’d thought at the time, and he’d certainly tried, but he’d also laid a Portkey enchantment as a later trap, allowing him to kidnap Neville’s grandmother long afterwards.

. . . Really, it should’ve come as no surprise that, on his way through the Department of Mysteries, he might’ve made another stop. But it hadn’t occurred to any of them, either at the time or years later—and so Voldemort’s dying curse, a final strike at his enemies, went unnoticed, until it was too late.

With the death of the Dark Lord, the Department of Mysteries ended its lockdown, returning once more to “normal” reality; and the enchantment, sensing the link to its master’s life having been severed, did as it was meant to do—and blew the veiled arch in the Room of Death to pieces.

And it took the world—or at least, a very significant part of that world—with it.








Ilyasviel awoke feeling like the Wicked Witch of the East; in other words, as though someone had dropped a tornado-propelled house on her head.

(. . . OK, so it was a ridiculous simile, and proof positive that she’d either spent far too much time around Galen and his stupid pop culture references, or she’d just seen that movie much too often—she’d liked the colours, as a child—but it didn’t make it any less accurate an observation.)

With that feeling in mind, however, one could perhaps forgive Ilyasviel for taking several moments to realise that A) she no longer had her wand on her person, and B), she wasn’t anywhere near Hogwarts.

She’d spent enough time in Japan to recognise a shrine, of course, even without particularly unpleasant memories of Ryudo Temple. This was the inner sanctum of one, no question about it—but it seemed . . . Odd. Not just used, but weathered. The colours weren’t quite so vivid, the cleaning not quite as thorough, that sort of thing. Not unlike Hogwarts or Durmstrang, before the appropriate charms were applied. Her clothes, too, were different: miko robes, and old-fashioned ones at that, in that neither the material nor the sewing techniques seemed on-par with modern manufacture.

So, either I’m at a really accurate historical re-enactment locale, she reasoned to herself, or I’ve somehow time-travelled, and skipped continents in the process . . .

Neither seeing nor sensing immediate threats, Ilyasviel closed her eyes and centred herself before performing a mental self-diagnostic. With absolutely no surprise, she found that her mental organisation was, comparatively, in shambles; her memories were still reintegrating themselves properly after whatever event had sent her here, and her magic was outright gone . . . No, wait—that wasn’t quite correct. There was, if not witchcraft as she’d grown accustomed to it, nevertheless some form of reaction when she probed her spiritual core. Systemically, it felt closer to the magic circuits she’d been born with, but her memories corrected the thought automatically to “chakra”—

. . . CHAKRA?!

Her eyes widened in panic as she confirmed through memories that yes, the term meant exactly what she thought it did. Meaning that she was in the world of Naruto, a land of giant monsters, alien life-sucking trees, stupidly overpowered people who were closer to Servants than actual ninjas—and a setting that tried to rival Dragon Ball Z in terms of both ridiculousness and overkill.

. . . And she didn’t even have full knowledge of it, because her idiot Servant had given up on the series midway through, and only picked up on odd references second- or third-hand thereafter!

Closing her eyes, she concentrated, tamping down on her emotions. Her magic might be gone, but meditation was mediation regardless of the world, and being mental, her basic skills hadn’t been lost in transition—and as much as she wanted to panic right now, it wouldn’t help her.

To begin with, she went through her own mind, examining her memories . . .

Much of her life seemed the same as it had been. She was still the daughter of Kiritsugu Emiya and his wife, Irisviel; in this world, a former member of Mist's Seven Swordsmen (as assassins were hardly rare) and a priestess with a special brand of chakra—

Ilyasviel blinked in realisation. I’m basically replacing that priestess from the first Shippuden movie, aren’t I?

That meant, if she remembered correctly, that she’d constantly get visions of her own death and send her mind back in time to avoid it, or something to that effect. Galen had seen that movie, at least, but it had been a while—and without Occlumency, she couldn’t guarantee recalling every detail of it perfectly.

Moving on, I’m still married to Shirou, who’s also a ninja, and the container of the Four-Tailed Gorilla . . .

. . . Wait, what?!




This was further proof, Galen decided, if any were needed, that the multiverse had a truly sick sense of humour.

Bad enough that he’d been reincarnated as a ninja of the Land of Snow—he was proud of his Canadian heritage, but this was reinforcing a stereotype—but to find himself the container of the Five-Tailed Beast . . .

In appearance, it was a dolphin-headed horse-thing. From what he’d read about the Tailed Beasts’ designs, though, it was supposed to be meant to represent a kirin.

Yes, the multiverse truly had a sick, sick sense of humour . . .








“So . . .” Hermione muttered to herself, scribbling down her thoughts as she did so to get it all straight.

“In this world’s timeline, the Tailed Beasts were handed out to the minor villages, rather than the major ones, to give them a trump against the larger ones’ superior numbers, and potential firepower?”

That was interesting, she thought. Theoretically, no one village had an overwhelming advantage, in that case—and any major strikes could cause an alliance among the major or minor powers in retaliation. The overall state, in other words, would probably end up not unlike the Cold War: everyone knew the button was there, and what it would do, and nobody really wanted to press it . . .

“Of course,” she growled, “that makes an utter hash of the canon timeline—what little of it I know.” She huffed, then continued, “The Uchiha mess should still happen; not the Kyubi attack, necessarily, but the coup attempt and massacre, certainly. Madara is still around, but is he still using ‘Tobi’ as his puppet? Was there even a war for him to be ‘killed’ in . . .?”

She huffed. No wonder Galen was so crazy at Hogwarts—trying to predict all these butterflies was murder on the sanity!

Hermione paused, before sighing in resignation. She needed more information, both on the world’s history and its present state. And under the current circumstances, there was only one potential source to get it from; no matter how unpleasant (if not downright impossible) such a task might prove to be.

On the other hand, it’s the reason I can be an “outcast,” and a “monster,” and still have a functioning heartbeat—there are worse things to have to deal with.

She slipped into a meditative state, diving deep into her mind.

“. . . Matatabi-sama? May I ask you a few questions . . .?”






Writer's Notes: I've been getting into "Boruto" lately - which, naturally, necessitates going back a bit and finding out what all I missed with Naruto. Weird . . .

[Xamusel]

Okay, I laughed when I read the whole thing, man... this is an amazing idea!

[Kieran]

Okay, I laughed when I read the whole thing, man

Glad you enjoyed it. I couldn't figure out how to work "Curse you, shonenverse physics" in there, but I did hit just about everything else I wanted to.

... this is an amazing idea!

Potentially, yes - it's also amazingly complicated.

As Hermione notes, while certain events won't be affected, you're still changing the history of the entire world by a considerable margin; Naruto himself may not exist (though she appears to have forgotten that his mom and predecessor was from Whirlpool, which is also a minor village ). But even aside from that, Naruto is a 72-volume series, not counting the anime filler arcs and movies - and consider how much trouble I've had with a 7-volume series . . .

It's nice to think about, occasionally, but I suspect this one won't be going anywhere, bar a really high demand.

[Xamusel]

True... I get the idea all too well. Thankfully, you'll have some thought into this, at the very least.