Trinity Angles (Discussion Thread)

[Kieran]

Hey, where's Illya? And Ai?

Well, Ilya is playing Silk to Shirou's Spider-Man - both in terms of power sets and pheromone issues (I thought it made sense, given their similar backgrounds) - and Ai will, eventually, be inheriting some form of Spider-Girl mantle . . .

[Kieran]

Continuing . . .




The Burrow, Devon
December 20th, 1999








“Did you know,” Percy said casually, “that Father’s old office receives inputs from the Improper Use of Magic Office?”

Ginny wasn’t a Master Occlumens, by any means—too passionate by half, according to Neville (not that he considered that a bad thing)—but she was hardly unskilled in the discipline. Besides, she was the youngest Weasley and sole girl in a family of seven siblings; learning how to lie believably and keep a straight face were skills she’d spent years perfecting.

“. . . I’ve never thought about it,” she allowed, letting a hint of confusion colour her voice, “but that would make sense. After all, it’s rather hard to track down misused mundane artefacts if you’ve no idea what’s enchanted, after all.”

Unfortunately, Percy had been her brother—and the officious stickler, at that—for all of her life, so he wasn’t entirely unable to look past her “butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth; and by the way, I have the deed to this bridge . . .” facade.

“Naturally,” he agreed. “And as such, it registered several oddities around this time, last year. Give or take four days, or thereabouts, anyways, even though the primary magic sensors in the Ministry . . . Well, they weren’t deactivated, precisely, but there was a very powerful Confundus Charm applied to them. Expert work, too: it only ignored magic below a certain threshold—simple household charms, for example—it still sniffed out anything Dark, and the whole enchantment evaporated by sunrise, leaving no trace it’d ever been there.”

“That seems like an awful lot of work, just to let some kid play with their wand,” Ginny remarked with a snort.

“Indeed,” Percy said stoutly. “Especially when any pure-blood would know that the enchantments of their own home would nullify the usability of the Trace.” He raised an eyebrow imperiously. “If, however, a group of witches and wizards were inclined to go about the streets of mundane London—or elsewhere in England, say—and use magic in frivolous, potentially Statute-threatening ways . . .”

“And,” piped up Fred’s voice, “If a certain witch, say, was to be none-too-careful with the packets of letters she brought home—”

“Just left them lying around for anyone to stumble over, really,” added George innocently. “Well, in that case—”

“It could get a lot of people in a proper mess, couldn’t it?” Fred finished.

Now, Ginny really had to work at keeping her cool, regardless of her Occlumency. Inwardly, she was cursing herself six ways to Sunday—she’d gotten too used to being the only Weasley child at home, and gotten lax in her security habits.

“What do you want?” she said flatly, admitting nothing.

Fred shook his head. “Gin-Gin, you’ve got the wrong idea. This isn’t a shakedown—”

“This year, we want in,” George finished.

“And we’ll help to cover your tracks properly,” Percy finished.

The red-haired witch blinked. “All right, I can understand them”—she pointed at the twins—“as they’ve never met a rule they haven’t liked to try and bend into a pretzel, and rarely if ever considered the consequences . . . But you? The youngest department head in almost fifty years, He-Who-Is-Aiming-For-Dad’s-Position?”

“I hardly need to aim,” Percy scoffed. “We all know full well that Father will happily hand over the Undersecretary position as soon as I’ve got enough time in to justify my being put in it over some of the other candidates. And as for the risk . . .” He shook his head.

“We’ve never had as much as we would have liked, but we always had enough to get by, even if sometimes it was only just,” their oldest (present) brother said. “And a lot of that is down to the fact that we are wizards and witches, and can use magic to make up for much of the lack. How much worse can it be, for those who can’t?

“No, Gin,” he said firmly. “This is the sort of rule-breaking I understand.”

“And besides,” Fred added. “It’s the greatest prank possible!”

“Wish we’d thought of it first,” George chimed in.

“Indeed?” said a very mild but firm voice, causing all present to freeze—because when Arthur Weasley used that sort of tone, it meant that things were very, very bad.

For his own part, the Weasley patriarch gave a hard, searching look to each of his children in cold, stony, silence—long enough for each of them to consider the possible consequences and ramifications of their actions. Ginny was pale, but her chin was set stubbornly. The twins traded a glance between them and then pressed their lips together in thin, matching lines. And Percy . . .

The third son—who was never as rebellious as his two elder brothers, nor as infuriating as the two who’d followed him—paled at the disapproving look, but there was a spark in his eyes that was positively mutinous.

“Indeed,” their father repeated thoughtfully, before adding with a grin, “I wish I’d thought of it while old Lucius had still been alive—digesting the concept of the Weasleys giving to charity could’ve finished him off years earlier!”

“. . . You approve?” Percy said cautiously, and with no small amount of surprise.

“Officially,” their father retorted pompously, even as he waved his wand to put up a truly impressive number of privacy-ensuring spells, “I have not heard this conversation. In fact, I am puttering around in my shed at this very moment. In the event that you or any of your friends are captured or found out, the Undersecretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions—”

“I made a horrible mistake introducing you to spy movies,” Ginny muttered under her breath.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time—Galen’s and Hermione’s dads both seemed to enjoy them, and they were “normal” fathers, like hers . . .

“Nonsense, Ginny,” he refuted. “They’re delightful.” He cleared his throat. “In any case, while neither Kingsley nor I are Albus Dumbledore, we do miss very few tricks between us, and I try to keep my hand in on the non-magical side of things. I did miss the sensor alert, Percy—good on you for catching it—but there were a number of small articles on local ‘Christmas miracles,’ last year. Not enough to look genuinely suspicious—good on you, Ginny—but enough to have me quietly look into things on my own.

“As I said,” he warned, “officially, I know nothing, Kingsley knows nothing, and we’ll have to throw the book at anyone who forces us to do so—so don’t. Because unofficially, we’ll take any and every source of generating goodwill with our mundane counterparts we can possibly get.” He looked uncharacteristically grim as he said that, and explained, “We’ve had several talks with Prime Minister Blair, among others, and we largely agree that sooner or later the Statute is liable to be unworkable—maybe not in our lifetimes, or even yours, but I suspect it will happen . . . And there are far worse things that can—and probably will—be laid at our feet than a tradition of Christmas charity.”

“In any case,” he said more cheerfully. “That’s Undersecretary Weasley’s view of things. As your father . . .” He smiled, and said in a humbled voice, “I can honestly say that I have never been prouder of my children.”

That prompted a round of blushes and hugs—mostly from Ginny for the latter, granted, but it was a heavy and heady feeling amongst them.

“Well, enough of listening to an old man ramble on,” their father announced. “There’s lots of work to be done yet, Weasleys! You carry on, divide up your chores—and when it’s all said and done with, I’ll have a kettle waiting for when come on back home.” He grinned. “I’ll want to hear all the stories, after all . . . !”









Writer's Notes: I had sort-of planned for more, but the Weasley family kind of took this one away from me completely . . . then again, why should I be surprised? I am generally outnumbered seven-to-one or more, here . . .

And in setting this up, I see that my prior's New Year's resolution was to finish the story - in my defence, I got close(-ish). I'm hoping to have the next chapter out before New Year's, this time.

In any case, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, all.

[Kieran]

Continuing . . .







St. Peter of Alcantra’s Private Hospice
Washington, D.C., September 4, 1999








It was a very private building, and not one that many knew of: an isolated structure in what passed for a rustic setting in the American capital, where those living out their last days could do so in what peace and quiet could be found there.

It was also an answer to the question “where do you put retired spies who’ve become too mentally addled to keep secrets?”

As such, security around the building was extremely tight; or as much as it could be while remaining subtle. The motto of the agency behind this particular building was “secrecy through obscurity,” and it was a good foundation to build on—few people ever found things that they didn’t know to look for, after all.

But he did (or at least, he had several well-informed ideas for starting points), and on top of that, he was a teleporting mind-reader with the capacity to become invisible; and that was just for starters. There was very little information that could stay hidden from him when he really wanted to know it—and in this case, he really did.

The hard part, Galen reflected, had been assembling all the data he had. He couldn’t risk doing digital searches, because it was too easy to set traps and alarms on raw data; fortunately, they hadn’t quite reached the age of total digitalisation, but it wasn’t far off, either. Still, it had taken him the better part of a year to track down what he needed to know—and the rest of it to arrange passage.

And now, it was time to find out if he could actually do what he’d been planning to pull off . . .








S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters
November 18, 1999








“I am not a believer in coincidences,” Nick Fury stated flatly, “nor do I have much faith when it comes to miracles. So if you can in any way explain to me how a 77-year-old woman with signs of early-onset dementia can suddenly show an improvement to the point where there’s a good chance of her beating the damned thing, I would invite you to speak up.”

Agent Phil Coulson nodded automatically. “I asked Romanoff to go over her room, and she came up with nothing—no sign of outside entry or tampering with her medications. And from a medical standpoint, sir, the doctors have no clue how this is happening. They dose her as prescribed, but the effects are far more potent than the dosages should allow; even more so because, according to her blood work, she’s only getting about a third of what they put into her system.

“But the results . . .” the man trailed off with a trace of awe in his voice. “Sir, according to their notes, she’s in good shape for a woman at least thirty years younger than she actually is. Not even our super-soldier research has gotten close to human augmentation that good. If it’s not a miracle, I don’t know a better word for it.”

“If there is one, I want you to figure it out,” Fury commanded.

“Sir,” the agent replied with another automatic nod, recognising both the order and the dismissal.

Coulson would figure it out, Fury knew. He was one of the more perceptive and dogged agents that S.H.I.E.L.D. had—and a childhood fan of Captain America. Even above duty, which he held highly, for Cap’s “sweetheart,” as most of the world knew Peggy Carter’s name, Fury believed that Coulson would move heaven and earth to ensure her well-being. If whatever was causing this had malevolent intent, he’d find out—and then there would be hell to pay.

At which point, Fury would be more than happy to give Coulson the opportunity to play debt-collector—

His train of thought was interrupted, as it often was, by the ringing of his phone.

“Speak,” the man commanded, before listening to the voice on the other side.

“. . . You found what?!”








Writer's Notes: "We found Captain America, sir . . ."

Progress on the next chapter is (FINALLY!) being made - but not enough to have it done in time for this week. Sorry, all - and Happy New Year!

[Xamusel]

...what did I miss (in an abridged nutshell)?

[Kieran]

...what did I miss (in an abridged nutshell)?

My second/continuing attempt(s) to bring the Trinity into the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

[Xamusel]

Oh. I see now. (/)_-) Thanks for that one.

[Kieran]

When we will see the option "coming back full circle" and have the Seven deposited 'back' in the Nasuverse proper?

Well technically, we already have.

I was not referring to the MoonCell, but something like Fuyuki City (regular and/or Prisma Illya/Cardinal Phantasm, were Illya despair because she's returned to be a loli) or Grand Order in Chaldea, where Illya will glare dagger at both Lancer!Arturia... of course, with Chaldea there is also the risk that Shirou will have to share soulspace with Sengo Muramasa...

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.

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...

Writer's Notes: . . . As the above conversation shows, this is his fault.










London, England
May 2, 1998








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.








Chaldea Security Organisation
May 2, 2016








“Damn it, not again . . .” Doctor Roman cursed. He turned to the communications console. “Fujimura-kun, Mashu-chan, we’ve detected another singularity—”

“Another one?!” yelped the teenaged magus. “But I thought we’d finally finished off Flauros’ plans and all that?!”

“Calm down, Sempai,” came the reassuring voice of his demi-Servant partner. “I’m sure Roman-sensei will explain . . .”

“Yes,” Roman acknowledged. “According to SHEBA’s predictions, humanity will now end in 2018.”

“Terrific,” Fujimura muttered sarcastically, at a volume obviously not intended to be heard, but well within the audio pick-up’s range, “we managed to get a whole year out of all that.”

Under other circumstances, Doctor Roman might’ve enjoyed twisting the knife a little—it was always fun to watch Fujimura squirm when put on the spot—but given the current situation, he let the opportunity pass.

“I’m having trouble tracing the Singularity’s origin,” he admitted instead. “The system insists that the end of humanity is in 2018, but I’m getting a secondary echo from 1998 . . .” He frowned, refining the search parameters and studying the results—and then straightened suddenly.

“Ah! I see!” he announced. “Time travel is involved—the cataclysmic event takes place in 1998, but only as a result of what happens in 2018.”

“Time travel?” Mashu echoed. Worriedly, she asked, “Is it another rogue element within Chaldea?”

It was a reasonable question, given past events—and Chaldea was, to their knowledge, the only organisation with the capacity to time-travel . . .

“Unlikely,” Roman replied, with some relief. “The signature underlying the Singularity doesn’t match anything within Chaldea’s files—at least, not as belonging to us. But it is recognisable as a ‘Foreigner’-class Servant, and fairly easy to trace . . .

“Right,” he said briskly, all business. “Prepare yourselves to head back to Fuyuki City, circa 2018, this time. Your mission is simple: eliminate the rogue Servant Foreigner, or the magus acting as its Master. I’m sending images of the two through now . . .”



Rogue Master


Rogue Servant










Additional Writer's Notes: Once again, this was all MWkillkenny84's fault.

[Xamusel]

LOL!! XD I'm glad I got to see that right now... and, as of now, I finally have an accurate picture of what the real you looks like!

[MWkillkenny84]

Additional Writer's Notes: Once again, this was all MWkillkenny84's fault.

And I gladly accept all the blame!

[Kieran]

LOL!! XD I'm glad I got to see that right now...

Glad you enjoyed it.

and, as of now, I finally have an accurate picture of what the real you looks like!

*Shrugs* I figured it was time - though I'll admit it was a bear to get the image scaled down sufficiently.

And I gladly accept all the blame!

As well you should.


. . . In all seriousness, though - as you can see, this route would completely rewrite/screw over the series' history, since it basically goes all the way back to "Legacies of Fate."

I've always said I'd probably write that fic differently, knowing what I know about TYPE-MOON now, but this would really prove it. The fact that the "Foreigner" class alone exists now (because what are we to the Nasuverse, if not "Outer Gods"?) . . . And then there's the question of who else besides Shielder to send on this SI-killing mission . . .

[Kieran]

Later that night








“. . . You want me to what?” He obviously hadn’t heard her correctly . . .

“Play English teacher for a year, in a place that Margaret-san says will be under threat, the same way that Iwatodai and Yasoinaba were,”
Takara said it calmly—or so it would seem. Galen didn’t need enhanced senses to read her, just the years of experience that friendship, love and marriage had passed on. The tension was well hidden, but it was there: his wife did not want him to do this, but couldn’t see a way that he could afford not to.

Not that he blamed her. He’d stood in her place, the last time—a helpless bystander while his spouse was confronting a deity, with powers neither of them fully understood the limitations of. And that was with her as a native, not an outsider to the society that, traditionally, didn’t welcome outsiders . . .

“If I do this,” he said carefully, “you can’t come—you know that, right?”

Leaving aside the fact that their lives weren’t quite as flexible as when they were younger, it was always a question as to what might constitute “cheating” in these trials. There were reasons that each trial was undertaken by a different group of humans, after all (at least, the ones canon to the main series) . . . They just couldn’t risk adding a prior Persona-user to the mix, in case it invalidated things.

“I know,” she growled, in a way that would’ve done credit to him, before slumping and admitting quietly “But Marie-chan was very persuasive . . . Which is no doubt why Kirijo-san insisted on her presence.”

That last was muttered in a tone closer to the initial growl.

“Would we have done anything else, in her position?” Galen asked reasonably—only to wince at the responding glare.

“Reasonable” was not what his wife wanted to hear right now.

Finally, though, she slumped in defeat. “ . . . All right, I’ll give in . . .”

That was only to be expected, really. Takara had fought her way through one of these tests herself, after all—she knew the consequences of failure . . .

She cut off his train of thought by fixing him with the glare once more, and added in a tone of finality, “But you’re explaining it to the cats.”

Galen winced again. Even if they did get along much better now, Crookshanks would be annoyed more for Hermione’s sake than his own—but Mirai would not take the absence of her favourite chair/cuddle-toy well at all . . .








Tokyo, en route to Yongen-jaya
April 9, 2016








He remembered Japan being crowded during his last stay, but this was ridiculous. Even being six foot two and two hundred and forty pounds, in a city where most men averaged five-foot-eight, didn’t give him a lot of leeway with the crowds—though it certainly helped. Still, it made him long for the ease of Disapparition . . .

Unfortunately, that was only useful if he knew where he was going, first.

Galen’s mood was even less helped by the fact that he actually had to carry a bloody cell phone—not even the brick-sized paperweight he’d actually owned, a few decades back, but one of those “smart” models. Unfortunately, Kirijo had insisted that it was a necessity for his cover identity—and it was easier than carrying a map, he supposed . . . But that still meant that he had to remember to carry, charge, and not crush the damned thing! And that was without taking magic exposure into account!

“I hate this assignment already,” he muttered under his breath, glancing down at the screen once more—and then he froze.

There was an icon on the screen he hadn’t seen there before—and it quickly expanded to take over the screen.

Is this some kind of viral attack? Galen wondered worriedly—before abruptly realising that everything around him had frozen, as well, and then immediately amending his thought to “supernatural attack.”

Dropping the phone into his duster’s pocket, he drew his wand and pistol from their hidden holsters, even as he eyed the sudden burst of blue-black flames materialising some a short distance away . . .

A golden-eyed reflection of him stared back and smirked, briefly, before disappearing with a nod.

As time abruptly restarted, Galen barely had time to re-sheathe his weapons before they were noticed.

And that was, presumably, my Shadow—or my Persona . . .?

Either way, it looked like what he’d been here to deal with had started—though if things ran true to form as they had with the last two tests, he was liable to find that a lot of it had started a long time ago . . .








Shujin Academy
April 10, 2016







The name of the game, for now, was “low profile”; until they had a better understanding of the nature of this particular test, the more advantages that Galen could stack the deck with, the better.

And so, he didn’t travel through Nihon, or use any of the resources of MI-6 if it could be at all avoided; he’d have avoided the Kirijo Group too, if at all possible, but he was here on their proverbial dime. Nevertheless, he did his best to maintain a cover of “first-time teacher in a foreign land, with limited resources”—which was how he found himself rooming above a coffee shop, of all things.

To be fair, his “landlord” seemed like a decent enough guy, and the Leblanc Cafe was very much to his taste in terms of decor; black-and-white checkered floor, comfy booths, wooden furnishings, and tucked away in the back alleys—it reminded him of the place Takara’s parents had talked about going to when they were teenagers . . .

It did, however, mean that he had to use a public bathhouse, since there weren’t adequate facilities in the coffeehouse for actual residence—and that he needed to take a train to get to work. “Work,” in this case, being the newly-hired English teacher at Shujin Academy—which was apparently a school run by Jabba the Hutt . . .

Or maybe Majin Buu is more appropriate, Galen mused. The man looked the part, either way: a bald, bullet-headed blob that was almost impossible not to watch, in a horrifyingly fascinating sort of way.

Either way, he didn’t need to be a Legilimens to know that the man didn’t like foreigners—it was amazing how many people thought they were being subtle with their tones of voice—but since he wasn’t likely to have much to do with the man, Galen wasn’t overly worried.

No, what worried him was the session he’d had in the Velvet Room the night before.

Its appearance as a prison was alarming, to be sure; it was a lot darker than the Room’s prior incarnations, according to Shirou and Takara. Assuming that it was a reflection of what he was about to face, that meant that things were going to be bad . . . And the tonal shift to Igor was unsettling—but since he recalled that the actor who provided Igor’s voice in the games had died between Persona 4 and 5, that wasn’t necessarily a problem . . .

The real problem, however, was in his attendants: the one-eyed twins, Caroline and Justine—because if Shirou or Ilya ever found out he was dealing with a pair of preteens, the “Patron Saint of Lolicon” jokes would start up all over again . . .

[Xamusel]

Hoo, boy. You're gonna get in on the jokes at your own expense, aren't ya?

[Kieran]

Well, that was always one joke I found particularly amusing (and, if a lot of my favourite anime characters are anything to go by, possibly more accurate than I'd like ). So, yes.

And frankly, given the twins' ultimate importance to the story, there's more than a little truth to the idea that he could be in very deep trouble by the end of it all . . .

[Xamusel]

Well... crap. Should've seen that coming a solar system away.

[Kieran]

October 19, 2002








It started simply, if tragically—with the death of the older sister of one of Ai’s classmates, during a vacation.

A visit to share condolences, along with a few hesitant questions, revealed certain disturbing facts about the nature of the death, and had Ilya discreetly using a few spells to follow up.

She had Shirou mobilising less than half an hour later.








Headmaster’s Office, Hogwarts Castle
Classified Location, Scotland







“A Horcrux, you say . . .?” repeated the Sorting Hat. “You’ve found another one, Mister Einzbern?”

“Not one of his,” Shirou corrected the mistaken impression, “and not quite, in what it actually does—but effectively, that is what it is . . . And it’s already killed at least one girl.”

“. . . In that case, Mister Einzbern,” the Hat said grimly, “I see little issue at all in granting your request.” He tilted inquisitively. “If you would be so kind . . .?”

Carefully, Shirou lifted the Hat from his pedestal, reached under the brim—

The Sword of Gryffindor was little-changed from the last time he’d seen it; its blade still glowed the dull red that nearly made its metal a match for the rubies in its hilt, even as there was a faintly green sheen reflected in the metal. It still looked far too slight to be considered anything but an ornamental piece, rather than a combat blade.

But it was still the deadliest magical weapon on the planet.

As such, Shirou had no hesitation in swinging it down, with all his strength, on the offending object—and as expected, it destroyed the accursed artefact thoroughly . . . Unfortunately, it also gouged a rather sizable chip from the granite floor, the gash briefly smoking around the edges as it formed.

“Well,” the Sorting Hat remarked philosophically, “I suppose they could always cover it up with a carpet . . .”








Shelter Mountain Inn
Outside Seattle, Washington








On the whole, Ilya wasn’t overly enthused with having the memories of Galen Salvatore—at least, prior to his arrival in this reality—in her head.

Leaving aside the existential problems having that particular set of memories could evoke, he had been a teenage boy at one point, and got up to any number of things that really shouldn’t be something she knew about. Much less from his point of view . . . Needless to say, she’d devoted a fair amount of mental resources and Occlumency training sealing those memories away, or erasing them entirely—and otherwise ignoring the fact that they were present altogether.

But every now and then, Galen's memories were useful. They were never pleasant, mind you—not during those times when they were useful—but definitely useful.

After all, without them, she wouldn’t have known what they were dealing with; not immediately, at any rate, and not so precisely. It also would’ve taken her a lot longer to track down the source, or at least, its general location. Once she was on-site, on the other hand, it wouldn’t have taken long to zero in on it—detecting Dark magic was easy, with the right charms, and this was a lot of dark magic.

Fortunately, she had a countermeasure for that.

It was something that (so far as Ilya was aware) was a spell of her own design: a blending of her Veela magic and her witchcraft, augmented by studies into enchantments like Gubrathian Fire, the Patronus Charm, and Fiendfyre—mostly as a countermeasure for the latter.

The Shelter Moon Inn wasn’t much: a series of rent-a-cabins for short-term stays, in the middle of a wooded area. Where precisely it was, Ilya wasn’t sure; but for her purposes, it didn’t matter. She knew what it looked like, particularly the area she needed to be, and so Apparating there was no issue. After that, it was just a matter of setting up the appropriate Repelling Charms, and a few protective enchantments, just in case.

Then she pointed her wand and chanted, “Incendio empyreum!”

The fire that erupted from the tip of her wand was white, limned with pale blue and shot through with gold. It did not form shapes, as Fiendfyre did, but instead formed streams like comet trails, and the flares which showed in images of the sun’s surface. The flames incinerated the wooden well cover in a heartbeat, taking only slightly longer to liquefy the chains and other metal fixtures that had been embedded and entwined within it. Then, at Ilya’s direction, the fire poured downwards, into the well itself, even as the stone cylinder which contained it began to blacken, and then redden from the heat.

The water vaporised instantly, before beginning its work on the mildewed body it had buoyed. Over the roar of the flames, the half-Veela witch fancied she heard a faint, horrible scream . . .

Still, she didn’t stop—not until the red-hot well had crumbled in on itself, filling the space the well had occupied with molten stone. Only then did she release the spell, pausing to catch her breath before carving the stone away, levitating it out of place and magically smoothing in the empty space, until the ground appeared wholly undisturbed.

Shrinking the slab of newly-formed stone down, and levitating it into a bag with an Undetectable Extension Charm, Ilya spent a few moments removing her protective enchantments, or decaying them to the point that they’d unravel when she Disapparated. She had one last stop to make—to toss this whole thing through the arch in the Department of Mysteries. Only then would the (literal) spectre of Samara Morgan, and the threat she posed, be ended.

It’s just as well that Galen wasn’t involved in this, she thought whimsically as she vanished. With his luck, some part of her would’ve survived, and followed him home . . .








Writer's Notes: Been binging this all week, and it got me in the mood to revisit an old favourite.

[Xamusel]

...what did I just read? I have no clue what you mentioned in this particular crossover.

[Kieran]

...what did I just read? I have no clue what you mentioned in this particular crossover.

Huh - I would've thought it was fairly common knowledge by now . . . It's based on this; I went with the Americanised version just because the backstory is less complicated, though either would've been doable.

[Xamusel]

No wonder... never saw either version of the movie. Whoops.

[Kieran]

Continuing . . .




Chaldea Security Organisation
May 2, 2016








“This is going to be different from any other mission you’ve undertaken, Fujimura-kun,” Doctor Romani’s warning rang through his mind. “You’re not only going to be rayshifting into the future, which is uncertain at the best of times, but an active Holy Grail War. Mashu-chan will probably be alright, so long as she doesn’t transform—but any other Servants you summon are liable to be taken for participants.”

It’s a good warning, Ritsuka Fujimura thinks. They have been in situations that involved a Holy Grail War before; in the same location, even—his mind flashes back to his first mission—but not while the War itself was still ongoing. Not really.

This mission is not going to involve battling an army of monsters, familiars, or Servant copies. Instead, there will be only seven Servants—true Servants—and their Masters. In some ways, that’s a blessing, because it means they’ll have the weight of numbers on their side; no one faction is liable to possess three Servants working in concert, after all. But in other respects . . .

He will be the weak link in this—more so than ever before—because they’ll be fighting seven magi, as well. Magi who knew far more than he’d ever learned or dreamed about magecraft, magi who had spent years if not lifetimes preparing for this conflict.

And that made Ritsuka Fujimura very nervous, indeed.

“Sempai?” Mashu asked. “Are you all right?”

“. . . Just wondering who to recruit for this, Mashu-chan,” he said, not adding “Who to recruit to cover my weakness.”

“Hm . . .” The bespectacled girl thought out loud. “. . . Well, we have done fairly well in recruiting natives to the time period, before—maybe we’ll find some help when we get there?”

“Except that most of those will be looking to kill any Servants or Masters they find in the area,” Ritsuka pointed out. “Why wouldn’t they just assuming we’re lying or delusional, and eliminate us on sight?”

Her cheeks reddened. “W—well, you are very trustworthy, Sempai . . .” she admitted in a low voice, before flushing deeper. “N—never mind! It’s nothing! Pay no attention to me!”

“. . . I trust you too, Mashu-chan,” he said sincerely, and the girl continued perfecting her impression of a tomato. After a beat, however, he sighed. “But it still leaves us with the same problem—who do we recruit for this? I mean, the Servants are dangerous enough when they’re just people who are native to the time period. Who knows what they’ll be like if they’re summoned specifically for an all-out war . . .?”








Aozaki Home, Fuyuki
July 7, 2018








In the space of a heartbeat, his began again, and the world was a place of light and sensation. Colour and brightness stabbed his eyes; sound crashed through his ears with the force of an avalanche, and his mind was lost in a whirl of sharp, painful scents. The sensory deprivation of his repose was lifting, and the cacophony of the living world was threatening to overwhelm him with its suddenness, its intensity . . .

Gradually, however, things began to settle, and take comprehensible forms; at which point, he realised that he was still the butt of the universe’s joke.

“Foreigner” as a Class—and the requirements that define it . . .!

He wanted to bang his head against a wall; he really did. He was used to dealing with Murphy and his kin, and their sadism disguised as humour—but this was ridiculous!

As he adjusted to his surroundings, he made observations of the room. The girl was breathtakingly pretty, there was no question about it; she had just the right mix of “exotic” and “girl-next-door” to appeal to both Caucasians and Asians, he suspected. She was also in tears . . .

He’d always been a sucker for both crying girls and pretty faces; and more than that, she was desperate enough to call for Kieran Holt, a fictional character, for help.

So Kieran Holt he would be—but he still worried that he was being set up for someone’s amusement. After all, one of his Class Skills was written thusly:


Divinity (E-): Representative of his nature as a human fused with an Outer God . . .?

“Definitely ‘Outer,’ but ‘divinity’ . . . Well, ‘when someone asks you if you’re a god, you say ‘YES!’”

[Kieran]

May 2, 1998








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.




Earth Bet
April 2, 2011








He was the first—and most powerful—hero that the world had ever seen. No one could deny that; no one even tried to.

And yet, he was also the most mysterious superhero, as well. His arrival had heralded the dawn of the parahumans; yet in the nearly thirty years since Scion had appeared in the public eye, the glowing, golden man had spoken only once. He had whispered the word that had become his name, and gone on silently saving the world ever since.

Thus, it was obviously an event of some import when, moments after the cat he’d rescued from a tree jumped from his arms to the pavement, the shining superhero screamed—

And then popped like a soap bubble.









Brockton Bay, New Hampshire
Earth Bet, April 2, 2011








“And that’s that,” Ilya said, with some satisfaction, even as she panted from the exertion. Redirecting the energy of a collapsing universe to a single point—on top of everything else she’d been trying to accomplish—was hard.

Still, she blessed every power she could possibly think of that, while Galen hadn’t specifically read Worm, he had come across enough crossovers and alternate universes written by authors he liked to get the gist of the main events. Getting blindsided by the multidimensional, planet-devouring space creature masquerading as a superhero would’ve sucked.

. . . Not that things were all that great even now, given that Galen’s thoughts and memories on this place were encapsulated as “Superheroes as designed by Hideki Anno,” but even with the neo-Nazis, secret conspiracies, kaiju and the band of super-powered serial killers, things would be a lot easier without the alien parasite plotting to devour all iterations of Earth running around.

“All right,” Ilya announced, to an apparently empty room. “I’ve managed to integrate us into this world, just like I did with the last one, and while things aren’t good, they could be worse—”








“We all have powers,” her voice echoed in Galen’s mind, “but we’re not parahumans, by this world’s standards—I used a shard of Rin’s Kaleidostick in place of the native element. That means no Trigger Events, no bonding with a fragment of an alien . . . And most importantly, no subconscious whispers driving us to fight.”

He could practically see her shaking her head.

“The Kaleidoshards will allow us to access our original powers, instead,” she continued. “For Neville, Ginny, Luna and Hermione, that means witchcraft and wizardry; and for the rest of us . . . Other things.” There was a pause. “Oh! And their nature should make us immune to any powers in the Master, Stranger, or Thinker categories, so we’ve got some protections from a lot of the major players around here.

“I’ve gotten us as close together, and as close to the major timeline’s fulcrum as I could—there’s a lot wrong with this world, but hopefully, we’ll have the time and opportunities to fix things.”

Which was all well and good, Galen admitted, given three or four characters he could think of—but it didn’t allay all of his present worries. Of all of them, he didn’t really have “original” powers; not as a flesh-and-blood person, anyway.

And this was not a world he wanted to be helpless on . . .