Trinity Angles (Discussion Thread)

[MWkillkenny84]

I actually did (briefly) consider Prisma Ilya, but I'm unsure of how to properly pull it off. Grand Order would probably be easier, - if no less complicated to deal with.

. . . Still, maybe next week, if the new chapter's still not finished . . . Either that, or I finally wake up Princess Ahmanet.

Better use Grand Order, easiest way to introduce the Seven to the Nasuverse... and the WTF that are some of the Event-related Servants, like Caster!Irisviel, Assassin!Kiritsugu and Kuro Illya...

[Kieran]

London, 2000
11:55 PM








Try as she might, Hermione could not quite keep her irritation from showing in her face.

This was, to her mind, a perfectly-justified response to the state of affairs: after completing her education with the highest marks recorded in over fifty years (take that, Riddle!), and garnering the interest of Whitehall itself, she was reduced to . . . This.

“Good evening, new empl—er, Miss Granger,” the pre-recorded voice corrected itself sheepishly. “Apologies for being unable to greet you in person, but that would be the downside of being hired for ‘graveyard shift,’ as it were.”

A shift she’d only been hired for because her medical records stated she had porphyria (the official cover story for her vampirism), which limited her to working night shifts, and it was Whitehall who required her non-magical paperwork to have a job history. Disappearing from official records at age 12 was just too attention-drawing for a would-be official—or covert agent. As it was, she was listed as educated via “a private school for the gifted.”

Hermione supposed that it was true enough.

“Now, you’ve been hired to guard a very special part of our ‘Historical Marvels of British Engineering,’” her erstwhile supervisor’s voice continued. “We’ve managed to place our hands on some very rare specimens, designed by Afton himself; specimens that unfortunately require somewhat delicate handling . . .”

Hermione sensed the stereotypical British quality for understatement in that tone—to a degree that, as Galen would put it “ought to be a criminal offense.”

“As part of their design, they’re required to be left in a sort of ‘free-roaming mode,’ lest their servomotors suffer damage—despite the museum’s assurances that the gallery’s oxygen content can be artificially lowered to reduce the risk . . . Oh, if you start feeling light-headed, do close the vents—that will seal off the filters and let the air return to normal. But be aware that it’ll only last for a moment; since you don’t have the authority to reset the parameters, the vents will reopen to restore the air ratio to its pre-set conditions.”

She suspected that was a health hazard, and possibly illegal . . . But since she didn’t actually need to breathe, not something she was worried about.

“In any case, just keep an eye on the cameras and do your best to make certain that the animatronics don’t accidentally damage another exhibit or themselves; but remember, you can’t actually touch them. The owners’ solicitors would have a field day, and it is quite literally more than your job is worth.”

The vampire witch exasperatedly wondered how anyone who wasn’t a witch was supposed to manage keeping quarter-tonne animatronics from taking or doing damage without touching them. Perhaps there was a remote control she’d yet to find?

“It’s a fairly simple job, really,” he continued, “should be no trouble at all—well, unless you believe all that rubbish about all those murders, and their being haunted . . .”

Hermione blinked. “Wait—”

“In any case,” he continued over her interruption, obviously unheeding of it, “have a pleasant shift!”

The message ended with a beep.

“. . . WHAT?”




12:10 PM








“Honestly,” she asked her earlier question aloud, “how was a mundane girl supposed to handle this?”

The collection of hand-sized windup toys—formerly a collection of murderous animatronics—had no answer for her beyond the chattering of their gears as they paced around the floor in circuits. That was alright with Hermione, both because the noise was a vast improvement over their prior screeching, and because she strongly suspected that the answer was “not at all.”

The vampire witch scowled. “I swear, if it turns out that this was another ‘assessment exam’ from MI-5, or Croaker . . .”

The statement prompted her to frown in sudden thought. The only reason I picked this job was so I could see the museum for free. Takara’s catching up on Mahoutokoro’s curriculum, so she’s safe, but what’s the “boring warehouse” job like for Galen, if mine was like this . . .?




Twenty minutes earlier




“I’m sorry,” the unit said apologetically. “You seem to have had a problem with the keypad. I think I see what you were trying to type there, so I’ll just auto-correct it for you. Welcome, Eggs Benedict!”

[Xamusel]

...let me guess. Five Nights at Freddy's?

[Kieran]

Got it in one. I thought it appropriate for the season.
And since I spent most of this week rewriting the half-chapter I've written . . . Better luck next time, I suppose.



And I think Galen would be in more trouble than Hermione, since the animatronics at the Sister Location - one in particular - targets several of his weak points . . .

[Kieran]

Writer's Note: Double-posting because this one is fairly long, and not easily attached to my prior post - apologies.


Continuing . . .








Somewhere beneath the Greater London Area, 2003

11:45 PM








“Welcome to the first day of your exciting new career,” the automated voice informed Galen. “Whether you were approached at a job fair, read our ad in ‘Screws, Bolts and Hairpins,’ or if this is the result of a dare, we welcome you.”

Any reservations he’d had since stepping on the elevator—a dull, dingy looking creation that reminded him of Walt Disney World’s “Living Sea” hydro-elevator in design, minus the water—were not quelled by that speech. The spinning fan in the elevator’s overhead was giving the interior lighting a strobe effect that gave him a headache, there were posters plastered to the inside that hardly seemed professional—either in intent or execution.

Seriously, though, the characters looked like they belonged in a Five Nights at Freddy’s game; he hoped the actual models were better, or they’d terrify the kids . . .

And now, there was this. He’d known he should’ve snapped up that museum job, instead. But Hermione had looked so earnest and eager . . . Damn his chivalric tendencies.

“I will be your personal guide to get started,” the voice continued, as the lights began to experience rolling blackouts. Galen prepped himself to Disapparate at an instant’s notice—plunging to his death in a falling elevator car was not his preferred exit from the mortal coil. “I’m a Model Five of the Handyman’s Robotics and Unit Repair System, but you can call me HandUnit.”

“How about I call you ‘Annoyance,’ instead?” the wizard muttered under his breath.

Proving that it was not voice-activated, the unit continued, “Your new career promises challenge, intrigue, and endless janitorial opportunities.”

“Just what I always wanted . . .”

The unit itself popped into view: a yellow-bordered screen with googly eyes at the top, displaying a flickering representation of a normal keyboard . . . Actually “flickering” was being kind; the image was wavering badly enough to leave double images of it. It was so bad, in fact, that it took Galen a minute to process that it wasn’t actually the standard keyboard, as several letters and all the numbers common to such things were missing.

“Please enter your name, as seen above the keypad,” HandUnit instructed. “This cannot be changed later, so please be careful.”

“Seen above the—?” He blinked, and then looked up. “Ah.” Someone had written Mike on a strip of tape, and put it on the top border of the monitor . . .

Did they actually hire illiterates for this, that the concept of typing one’s name needed a demonstration?

Shuddering inwardly, Galen made a game attempt to type his own name in—and it said something about how badly the input image was shaking, that not even his reflexes could manage it.

“You seem to have had some trouble with the keypad,” the unit noted. “I see what you were trying to type there, so I’ll just auto-correct it for you. Welcome, Eggs Benedict.”

. . . Screw “Annoyance”; this thing had just gotten itself renamed to “Lightning Bait.”

The lights went off again, followed by a buzzer sound, as the elevator began to slow down; Galen readied himself to Disapparate back home at the slightest hint of freefall—

With an almighty clunk, the elevator came to a stop, The lights went out, save for a single button suddenly becoming illuminated, and sprightly calliope music, such as would expected from a carnival merry-go-round, began to play.

“You can now open the elevator using that bright, red, and obvious button,” Lightning Bait informed him, bringing itself that much closer to fulfilling the purpose of his name. “Let’s get to work.”

The elevator doors opened, revealing so much hazard tape that he couldn’t figure out what it was covering—and a duct opening whose upper edge ended just below his knee.

. . . Galen didn’t know who, exactly, he or one of his team had pissed off in the PM’s office to have this particular assignment added to their mission pool—but if this was their idea of payback, then A), they obviously didn’t know him very well, and B), he obviously hadn’t tried hard enough. After all, if those things hadn’t been true, whoever was responsible would’ve known that A), this would only piss him off, and B), he was both capable and willing to unleash retaliation completely out of proportion to any given offense . . .

Sighing, and seeing no other particular options, he began crawling through the vent.

“Allow me to fill this somewhat frightening silence with some light-hearted banter,” Lightning Bait offered.

“Silencio,” Galen hissed—grateful that no one was there to see him nearly face-plant after unbalancing himself to aim at the damned machine. He’d turn it back on after he hit the end of the tunnel, but at this point he’d had all of its blather he could take.








“You are now at the primary control module,” Lightning Bait announced. “It’s actually a crawlspace between the two front showrooms.”

It certainly looked like it—he’d seen bigger closets than this. And what was with the clown mask decor . . .?

“Now, let’s get started with your daily tasks,” Lightning Bait continued. “Look through the window to your left—this is the Bellora Party Room and Dance Studio, encouraging kids to get fit, and enjoy pizza.”

The window was darkened, and Galen found that statement worryingly oxymoronic.

“Let’s see if Bellora is on stage,” Lightning Bait said brightly. “Press the blue button on the elevated keypad to your left.”

Said keypad lit up abruptly. The top half was blue, marked with a sun symbol. The bottom half, however, was red, with a lightning bolt.

“What the hell is that for . . .?” Galen muttered, even as he hit the blue button. It buzzed, and the room beyond was suddenly dully lit—to show an empty stage.

“Uh oh,” Lightning Bait said in a tone of mock-concern. “It looks like Bellora doesn’t feel like dancing.” In a brighter tone, he continued, “Let’s give her some motivation—press the red button now, to administer a controlled shock. Maybe that will put the spring back in her step.”

Galen blinked. He had been briefed on where he was working; he knew he was expected to perform some basic maintenance on rentable animatronics units. It wasn’t meant to be overly technical—Lightning Bait’s hand-holding was proof of that—but it was meant to prove that wizards weren’t all backwoods idiots when it came to the modern world. And inasmuch as this little setup reminded him of a carnival ride, right down to the annoying announcer’s voice, the implication of what it had just said . . .

The wizard cast an Imperturbable Charm on his outer ears to prevent deafness, and then murmured “Sonorus.”

. . . Because sometimes, when you really needed to vent, you needed to do it loud.

“Are you honestly telling me,” Galen demanded, “that these animatronics have sufficiently-advanced AIs to wander away from their assigned areas, of their own free will, and the corporate response is to TORTURE THEM INTO COMPLIANCE?!” He took a deep breath, before exploding with, “WHAT IDIOTIC, SADISTIC, BONE-HEADED—”

He continued on in this vein for several minutes, increasing in both vituperation and volume, and not limiting himself to a single language in his choice of insults.

“—FOR-BRAINS CAME UP WITH THAT IDEA?!”

Having finally run out of steam, Galen stood there for several minutes, panting raggedly. He was grateful he’d remembered to block sound from reaching his ears this time—the observation windows were vibrating from the force of his voice, and it was at least tempered safety glass.

Cancelling the spells with a silent finite incantatem, he paused to glare at Lightning Bait. “Give me ten good reasons not to burn this place to the ground, with you in it.”

As before, Lightning Bait proved that he was not voice-activated—especially since it was unlikely he’d developed enough intelligence in the last five minutes to possess a survival instinct.

“. . . But you guys might,” Galen muttered, glancing at the galleries. “If you’re intelligent enough to respond to torture—and, bloody hell, why not just equip them with a radio receiver and broadcast a ‘return to platform’ signal . . . No—I’m not going there again.

“You’re intelligent enough to respond to torture,” he repeated, “which means that you’re intelligent enough to recognise what it means. You can interact with children; depending on to what degree, that means you have to at least recognise when you’re being addressed, right?”

An idea formed, and he nodded to himself. “Right, then—let’s see if I can find a map somewhere here . . .”

It took a few minutes to rustle up the map, and a few more to navigate his way through the vents—after a bit of applied spellwork to force the hatches. After that, he only needed another Imperturbable/Sonorus Charm combination—he didn’t plan to speak loudly, but vents echoed.

“Miss Bellora?” he called, not quite entering the gallery—he had no idea how they were programmed to react to intruders. “I’m the new night technician . . . Or maybe the new janitor, or security guard . . .”

Galen rolled his eyes and sighed.

“All right, I’m not exactly sure what my job title actually is, but I’m the new night employee, Miss Bellora. I’ll be checking your gallery again as soon as I return to the control room; could you please return to your stage for at least long enough that I can honestly say you were there when I checked?”

Yes, it was cheesy as all hell—but to the children they interacted with, these characters were real; real, thinking, living beings. Galen understood that, having always had a part of him that reacted the same way. Meeting Takara’s parents, fighting in the Grail War, and living in the magical world had only helped to sustain it over the years, and so he would treat the animatronics as real, as much as he could.

Not waiting for a response, he clambered back to the control room, and pressed the blue button again.

A purple ballerina was onstage, surrounded by smaller figurines.

Leaning down to the vent, Galen yelled, “THANK YOU, MISS BELLORA!”

It wasn’t a definitive test of their intelligence; it only proved that they were capable of recognising vocal commands. Whether or not Bellora stuck around after the lights went off wouldn’t prove anything, either—he’d been fairly ambiguous in his wording, and computers had a tendency to take instructions literally, and execute them exactly as stated. So, who knew whether, if she left immediately after the lights went off, she was making her own choice, or simply staying “at least long enough?”

What it did prove was that there were other ways to get obedience out of them than applying electric shocks—and that meant that he had a new project.

The animatronics were going to be better-treated around here, or somebody was going to bleed for it . . .

[MWkillkenny84]

... why I have the impression that the FredBear's owners (if they are alive) are going to have a swordspamming session pointed at them?

[Kieran]

... why I have the impression that the FredBear's owners (if they are alive) are going to have a swordspamming session pointed at them?

I'm still working my way through the novels, but my impression so far is that the original owners, at least, are dead.

. . . And I suspect I missed a line I meant to add, where Galen comments that "I thought only wizards were this bloody stupid."

Face it, it would explain how '60s - '80s technology managed to achieve them.

[Kieran]

Continuing . . .




Somewhere beneath the Greater London Area, 2003

12:25 AM







“Thank you, Miss Foxy!” called the voice through the ducts—a voice she had no source for. Partially, this was because her video processing system was wired to operate through the use of motion sensors, but as the voice’s source had never entered her auditorium, her audio detection system couldn’t allow her to lock in on it, either.

She knew who it was, though. He had introduced himself, both to her and to Bellora; and their shared network allowed the latter to confirm what she had heard—as well as express their confusion to one another.

It wasn’t simply that the human was new, at all. Employee turnover rates here were, on the whole, very high; few people wanted to work with them, given the stories that had circulated. No, what was strange was that this one had been . . . “Polite”—that was the word. Yes, he had been polite. He did not “administer a controlled shock,” as the system advised, when she had not been seen on her platform. He had, in fact, expressed no interest in having her remain on the platform at all: only that she would be visible there for the duration of his check, so that, when questioned, he could honestly say that she had been.

He was willing to . . . “Pretend,” that was what Baby called it. Yes, he was willing to pretend that they had been in their places all night, regardless of whatever else they might choose to do, so long as they were in their places when he turned the lights on. And since the system announced when that would happen, it would be easy to do, so long as none of them wandered far when their internal clocks reached this point.

But she was confused. Children pretended, she knew. Children could be polite, though they often weren’t—parents often reminded their children to be polite, and they did, too, sometimes. It was part of their programming. This new person was not a child . . . But he wasn’t behaving like any of the others, either.

[What does this mean?] Foxy asked over the network. [What should we do?]

There was silence for several microseconds—a very long time, in the network—before the largest and cleverest of them replied.

[I don’t know.]

[For now, observe.]








Severus Snape had once described Legilimency as not being mind-reading as most thought of it: “The mind is not an open book to be paged through; secrets are not written on the inside of skulls”—and to a certain extent, this was true. However, the source must be considered; Snape was known for a sense of melodrama, after all. He did tell his first class of first-year students that “for those few who possess the select disposition, I can teach you how to brew fame, bottle glory, and even put a stopper in death.”

Again, to some extent, this was true—but it was also dramatic license, to a point. Measured against Snape’s depictions, true Legilimency was the same . . . But then again, neither their particular methods, nor they themselves, were entirely conventional, either.

Galen felt her presence as a shiver; a sudden chill in the blood. If it was portrayed onscreen, it would be as though Hermione’s arms wrapped around his neck from behind, illuminating the pair of them in a soft, cold light as she whispered his name. From there, it spiralled into a series of images and impressions: memories of her current circumstances, recognitions, and warnings. With a final psychic caress (her hand drawing up along his chest and along his neck to brush her fingers across his cheek) the vampire witch withdrew—and he knew what sort of situation he’d walked into.

Not the whole of it, though. He recognised the animatronics she’d shown him, confirmed her fears; despite never playing the games, the images of them were everywhere, the basic story inescapable. But “Bellora?” “Funtime Foxy?” “Circus Baby?” Those were new to him. How much similarity—and what new twists—this place might hold, Galen couldn’t be sure of.

And a little information could be even deadlier than none at all, in the right or wrong circumstances.

He couldn’t use his wand or his gun, except as an absolute last resort. The reason was simple: there were too many cameras—if it came down to that, he’d basically have to fry the whole complex. Still, Disapparation could be passed off as a camera glitch, so long as he only did it once; and he was still a lot stronger, faster and tougher than he looked—he’d be willing to bet that most people the animatronics went up against couldn’t bench-press four hundred and fifty kilos . . .

But there was one other thing he could do to equalise the odds a bit.

It was the work of minutes to go back up through the elevator to grab his duster. His Ukranian Ironbelly dragon’s-hide duster, now inscribed with runic chains in silvery ink, lined with Kevlar and a layer of alchemically-treated silk—and between the silk and the plates, an Undetectable Extension Charm. Inside that space had gone several inches of high-grade armour that had been in the process of being recycled for scrap; not much, all told, but it made for a layer of about seven inches of former bank vault plating—magically-restored to pristine condition.

They’d had fun testing it one summer’s day; Magically speaking, anything less than dragon fire wasn’t really a worry—and nothing short of anti-tank weaponry or something equivalent, could do more than dent it, not to mention the damage he could do with a good elbow or forearm smash. It ought to be able to handle the output of a few civilian-grade servomotors when they hadn’t been intended to be used as weapons.

“Motion trigger: Circus Gallery Vent,” the complex announced, as he passed through the ducts.

Now, let’s see what the local Freddy equivalent can do . . .

[Xamusel]

...what did I just read?

[Kieran]

...what did I just read?

A continuation of the Five Nights at Freddy's: Sister Location crossover, wherein the animatronics react (since they're shown to be more intelligent and/or aware than their predecessors), Hermione warns Galen of what he's gotten himself into via their blood Legilimency connection, and Galen "armours up."

(. . . And all of a sudden, I really miss those chapter summaries "Trinity" used to get when I posted a new one. )

If you want visual references, here:

[Xamusel]

...good grief. Now I'm scarred for life, and I didn't even listen to the song!

[Kieran]

You really should - it's quite catchy.

[Xamusel]

I'll have to wait and see about that right now.

[Kieran]

November 28, 2016








In the two-plus years that Barry Allen had been The Flash, he’d seen and done a lot of impossible things . . . But alien invasions? That was new.

The good news was that, in the last year or so, he’d made friends with a girl who sort-of specialised in them—a really super girl, so to speak . . . The bad news was that she lived on another Earth altogether. Sure, they could get there (see under: “seen and done a lot of impossible things”), but there were a lot of alternate Earths, and hitting hers the first time had been an accident . . .

As such, it was almost to be expected that they didn’t get where they wanted to go immediately.

“Well, I’m guessing your friend doesn’t hang out in a forest,” Cisco muttered. The long-haired Latino sighed. “Sorry, Barry.”

“Well,” the red-suited hero said optimistically, “maybe we’re not too far away—let me take a look around, Cisco.”

Suiting action to words, he zipped into the forest—literally, blurring into a scarlet, lightning-charged streak of movement. He kept it well under Mach 1, though since even if time was of the essence there was no need to alarm any nearby people with a sonic boom—

The Flash stopped dead, and stared for several heartbeats (which, for someone with his mental processing speed, was more like several hours), before zipping back to his friend, at a somewhat faster pace.

“. . . It’s my fault, Barry,” Cisco said mournfully as he stared at the high-tech gauntlets he wore. “Turns out, I forgot I still had the breach-opener set for Earth-16, from back when I was planning to move in with this girl I met online—”

“Cisco,” Barry interrupted sharply. “You have got to see this . . .”








“Freaking Hogwarts?!” Cisco breathed. “If I’d known this Earth had freaking Hogwarts, I’d have moved here in spite of the girl . . .” He glanced over at Barry. “I know that they’re not exactly who we’re looking for, but can you tell me that we can’t use Harry Potter or Dumbledore on our side?”

“That would be a bit hard,” pointed out a gentle, lilting voice, “given that they’re both dead.” A petite blonde stepped from a shadow at the forest’s edge, her head tilted inquisitively. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t get help here, if you need it.”

Cisco clapped her hands over his mouth with an aborted squeak. “It’s Luna Lovegood—Barry, it’s Luna Lovegood . . . !” He blinked. “Wait, dead?”

Luna gave them a sympathetic look. “This world isn’t precisely what you’d call . . . I believe the term is ‘canon-compliant?’”

“How do you know all this?” Cisco demanded excitedly. “Are you reading my mind? Are you using Legilimency on me? Oh, this is so cool . . .”

“Cisco, breathe,” Barry reminded him. “Look, at any other time, I would love to sit and discuss things—but there’s an alien fleet hanging above our Earth, and every second counts.” He gave Luna a hard look.

(Well, his best version of it—Oliver was still the master.)

The scarlet speedster was forced to blink, surprised, as the smaller blonde matched it.

“I understand that you’re worried, but remember, we’re on your side,” she chided him. “And we can move very fast, ourselves. Let me send out a few messengers . . .”








Earth-1
Several hours later








“How do you fit into all this?” Oliver demanded, in full Green Arrow gear. “You don’t react to anything around here with surprise, even when the others do—why?”

Galen took and released a deep breath, slowly. “Look, the world we come from is a series of books and movies to you, right?” And watching Felicity, Caitlin, Kara and Thea fangirl over Hermione—followed by their “oh crap!” moment when she’d revealed herself as a vampire—had been hysterical . . .

Now, if only Sara Lance would stop hitting on his girlfriends . . .

“In the same vein,” he answered, “this world was a TV show, where I come from. It’s been a couple of decades, subjectively, since I saw it, and the alien invasion thing is totally new—but with my Occlumency the way it is, it’s not hard to remember everything I learned about this place and the people in it.” He paused, before adding quietly, “And in addition to your career in Star City, that basically covers your first four years on—and off of—Lian Yu.”

The green-clad archer went very still.

“I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered, Mister Queen. And for whatever it might be worth, even after everything I’ve seen, I still believe you’re a good man.” He smirked slightly, before concluding, “Not a very nice one, necessarily—but a good man, all the same.”

Galen didn’t need to be a Legilimens to see Oliver Queen’s discomfort with the situation warring with his pride’s need to not back down or away—or be seen to be made to be.

“I’m going to go check with Luna, and make sure we didn’t bring any Wrackspurts with us—otherwise it looks like you’re suffering an infestation . . .” He started walking off.

Only to be cornered, a short distance later, by Kara Zor-El, aka Supergirl.

“. . . Just because you’re not focussed on it, doesn’t mean you don’t hear it, does it?” he asked rhetorically.

“Sorry, no,” she admitted. “And it’s kind of nice, in a way—it means this must be as weird for you as it is for me. Not that it’s nice you’re feeling out of place, but it’s nice that I’m not alone—I mean . . .” She sighed. “Can I start over?”

“If it helps, that sounded perfectly ‘in-character’ to me,” Galen said with a laugh. Then he shrugged. “It’s a little weird, but I’ve kind of gotten used to ending up in supposedly-fictional worlds—and if you think that that makes me sound disappointingly well-adjusted . . .”

The wizard glanced back at Oliver. “I met the actor who plays him, a couple of times, at conventions—and honestly, he’s one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. He does charity work, has openly stated in print that he prefers being known as a superhero rather than a teen-heartthrob actor, because the fans, while hard to win over, will have his back forever once he does—he gets it . . . And he remembered me the second time we met, after we’d had a two-minute conversation, tops, the year before.

“Oliver’s not him,” Galen acknowledged, “and I know that. But Oliver’s the closest thing there is to being this world’s version of him—and I meant what I said to Oliver about himself. So, if I can make him feel just a bit better, lift that weight he carries just a little, I think I owe to both men to try.”

“. . . I think that Oliver Queen isn’t the only good man in the room,” Supergirl said softly.

“Coming from you, that’s high praise,” Galen acknowledged meaningfully, before gesturing around the room with a smirk on his face. “But there are actually a lot of those in this particular room—and not a few ladies, either.”

Surprisingly, the blonde Kryptonian rolled her eyes as she said, “You’re one of those people who just can’t take a compliment aren’t you . . .?”








Writer's Notes: Gouged my thumb at work, so typing's a bit hard; since the next CW mega-crossover starts tomorrow, I thought I could maybe finish up the random scenes the last one gave me as a tide-over . . . Still not entirely happy with it, but hopefully my efforts to integrate the Trinity into the wider DC/WB-verse are somewhat entertaining.

[Kieran]

Continuing . . .







October 31, 1998
12 Grimmauld Place, London







The blood bond waned with distance—they had always known that. And with Galen’s Occlumency defences, Hermione knew the fact that she didn’t feel anything without actually trying to would mean absolutely nothing; there was a serious risk of tearing his mind apart if he truly meant to keep her out when she really wanted in. They were both too stubborn and powerful for any other outcome.

When Luna came back to London in tears, however . . .

He wasn’t dead; whatever the distance, whatever Galen’s efforts, she would know that. No matter how thin the bond became, the blood shared between them would always connect them, so long as he was alive. But wherever he might be, and it what condition, she couldn’t tell without actively making an effort to check.

And so Hermione threw caution to the wind, and dropped into a trance, following the crimson thread that bound them . . .








Elsewhere








Hermione’s first impression was of fog: a cold, damp veil that seemed to cling to her skin by digging its way into every pore. Even through the mist, however, she could feel the Moon, its silver light thinning the gauze that bound her; and yet, never quite dispelling it.

And somehow, the usually comforting presence made her feel uneasy—as though she was being watched . . .

A faint rustle drew Hermione’s attention, and she saw a tall woman standing close by, dressed in the sort of heavily-layered gown usually found on porcelain dolls of the Victorian era. The woman spoke in a soft, velvet voice, accented in something she tentatively labelled as “Eastern European.”

“Welcome home—oh,” the woman began, before catching herself. Her puzzled choice of words didn’t match her tone, which was oddly flat. “. . . How strange. You are not the kind Hunter, nor any Hunter I know of—and yet, you are here, and you smell of him . . . Who are you, and how came you to this Dream?”

“Dream?” Hermione repeated, now puzzled herself. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

This being a dream would explain the muffling effect on her senses; it was as though she was underwater . . . And it would certainly explain the woman before her. A woman who, on closer inspection, really did look like a porcelain doll—and who smelled of blood, but had no heartbeat . . .

But none of that explained where Galen, who should have been at the other end of the trail she’d followed, was.

“This is the Dream,” the doll-woman explained. “It is a place of refuge, where Hunters may find repose during the long night of the Hunt . . .” She stepped closer, and Hermione was struck by her resemblance to Luna: pale blonde hair that was nearly white, grey eyes that occasionally gleamed silver when the light hit them.

Really, I could almost see this being Galen’s dream, the vampire witch mused in the back of her mind, but if it was, he would be here!

Hermione blinked, as the woman was suddenly right in her face, peering with an intensity that her glassy eyes shouldn’t have been capable of.

“You do smell like him,” the doll-woman stated, her matter-of-fact tone nevertheless betraying the faintest hints of curiosity. “As well a scent of rot, and of tears . . . And moonlight.” Her tone firmed. “I ask again, who are you—and why do you cast the kind Hunter’s shadow?”

Something about the way she said that last part sent an icicle through Hermione’s undead heart. It sounded entirely too possessive for her liking . . .








Writer's Notes: Christmas prep and flu shots have had me drained, the last little while - but what better state to be in for a Lovecraftian hallucination/story?

[Xamusel]

Bloodborne? Seriously?

[Kieran]

Bloodborne? Seriously?

*Chuckles* You know, I remember people using a similar phrase to describe this series when it started - just substitute "Harry Potter" for "Bloodborne" . . .

I already outlined my reasoning when I posted the first part, so I won't repeat it here - though I will note that my brain is now actively considering the expanded crossover request as a result (presumably, as fallout as part of their attempts to get Galen back) . . .

. . . The real question is, if I go this route, do I actually make an attempt at happy endings?

[Xamusel]

Personally? Make a legitimate happy ending for each.

[Kieran]

Continuing . . .




Six months later








“I’m amazed you can even stand this place,” Shirou muttered, watching his companion’s face for reactions.

Normally, he wouldn’t even question whether or not Galen could hear him; between his lupine ears and the “passive perks” of his Semblance, the Faunus could pick up pretty much any, and every, sound within his line of sight (within 360 degrees of it, in fact), but in this case . . .

. . . Well, between the pounding bass line that he could feel in his chest, and the flashing strobe lights that were no doubt wreaking havoc on Galen’s sharper-than-human night vision, he was amazed the Faunus hadn’t curled up into a whimpering ball—while they were still outside.

“Earplugs and shades deal with the worst of it,” Galen answered, proving that he could hear Shirou, even over the noise, “but it isn’t pleasant.” He scowled. “Can’t be helped, though; this is the only place I know of in Vale to get a drink—and I need one.”

Now that, Shirou could agree with. It was why he’d agreed to this expedition, after all.

Galen walked up to the bar. “The darkest rum you’ve got, please—and leave the bottle.”

“Mistrali whiskey, neat,” Shirou said, “and warmed, too, if you can manage it.”

It wasn’t quite sake as Shirou or Rin knew it, but Mistral, they’d learned, was the closest analogue to Japan in this world (which wasn’t entirely a pleasant realisation, given the former’s reputation for criminality) and as such, they did produce something reasonably akin to the rice wine of home.

The bartender glanced over at a burly figure of a man with a short, neat beard, gave them both a searching look. Whatever it was he saw caused him to grunt, and nod back to the bartender before the latter poured a pair of glasses and set them in front of the two.

“You get just the one,” he growled warningly. “I don’t need any trouble in this place from serving kids . . . But I know the look of men who really need a drink—like when they’re in over their heads with a beautiful woman.”

Shirou snorted in response, “Or two, or three.”

“Apiece,” Galen finished grimly, before lifting the glass towards the bartender, whose eyebrows had lifted in turn. “Thank you, sir—to honourable men, and honour among them.”

“Two or three apiece?” the big man repeated. He gave them another searching look, and his eyebrows rose a little more. He nodded at the drinks. “I think I could let the cost of these slide, in exchange for the story.” After a pause, he added with a smirk, “And if you ever manage to bottle whatever it is you two have got, I’ll trade a lifetime tab for the distribution rights.”

Galen let out a grim chuckle, and pointed at Shirou. “Well, the short version is that two of his ex-but-still-interested girlfriends on a team with him and his fiancée.”

“And his team,” Shirou explained, “is him and his two girlfriends, alongside a third girl with a growing interest, no real morals or sense of shame—”

“And even worse, a talent for illusions,” Galen finished sourly.

“. . . If you two can’t bottle it, I’ll settle for the media rights,” the bearded man pronounced after a moment of silence.

“Good to know,” Shirou acknowledged, but anything else he might’ve said was cut off as a woman walked up to address the bartender—and Galen froze.

Oh, crap . . . Shirou thought to himself. That particular reaction out of his friend was never good, and usually meant he ought to dive for cover and start shooting—not necessarily in that order.

“Strawberry Sunrise, no ice,” the newcomer ordered, then added brightly, “Oh, and one of those little umbrellas.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be in this club, Blonde?” the big man asked sternly.

She scoffed, “Aren’t you a little old to have a name like Junior?”

“You’re certainly a little rude to expect service,” Galen answered her sharply. “Or any answers you might be looking for . . . But maybe that should be expected of a dragon, ‘sunny’ or otherwise.”

Shirou kept his face impassive, recognising the tone. Galen knew the girl, obviously, and was playing a role—taking a gamble . . . Which meant that he still ought to keep one eye out for cover, and one hand on his weapon.

The reaction was immediate, and to be expected—the blonde whirled on him, demanding, “And just who the hell are you?”

“Someone who recognises her mother’s daughter when I see her,” Galen replied.

Shirou had to blink to be sure of what he was seeing, but afterwards, he couldn’t deny that the girl’s lilac eyes actually had turned a blazing red—or that in that eye-blink she’d seized Galen by the throat and lifted him off the stool.

“What do you know about my mother?!”

“Hey—!” the bearded man protested, but Galen, unsurprisingly, waved him off.

“Use your head,” Galen replied in a strangled voice. “Do you really think that you could look for this long—that your father and your uncle could—without finding her . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper as he hissed, “Unless she was watching you?”

She’d drawn closer to hear him, and her eyes widened at the last part . . . Before they rolled up in her head, and she suddenly went limp—

And promptly collapsed on top of Galen, sending them both to the floor.

“. . . OK,” the burly man said a few minutes later. “I really mean it about that tab, now.”









“You know, I do feel much better,” Shirou remarked. “Though I’m amazed that we got out of there without getting into a bar fight.”

“That’s what I was trying to prevent . . .” Galen growled.

“And it worked great,” Shirou agreed with false over-enthusiasm. “That breath-sucker technique of yours is quite handy.”

“It is,” Galen agreed icily, “but did you have to announce that I’d learned it through kissing my girlfriends to the ENTIRE BAR?!”

“Of course I did,” Shirou replied brightly. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Galen gave him such a lethal look that Shirou, despite knowing better, still half-expected a bolt of lightning to strike him down.

“What?” the redhead protested innocently. “It’s not like I could’ve predicted those two bouncers would take it as a challenge—I’ve never seen either of them before!”

“Shirou, I swear to God—”

“Make you a deal: sign over your half of the media rights to me, and I won’t tell your team about your trip to Marshmallow Heaven.”

“EMIYA!”

[fsnfan]

Still trying to make Galen's life hell even in heaven, huh? BTW, what do you mean by 'Two or three apiece'? I'm not sure of the nuance.