Trinity Angles (Discussion Thread)

[B.B. Rain]

One minor error in your Terminator snip - you have the lockdown ending 13 days after Voldemort's defeat, and the earlier notable event happening 4 days before hand...except you say that's 7 days after Tom's defeat, instead of 9.

I know time's getting mucked with in this snippet, but I don't think it quite covers the missing two days.

[Kieran]

Thanks for catching it. I'll fix it when I can, I seem to be having login issues at the moment; as in, it forces me to re-login every time I undertake a step (like, for example, posting this - I'll undoubtedly have to do it again as soon as I hit "Post Quick Reply").

Any other reactions, comments, suggestions?

[Kieran]

Thanks for catching it. I'll fix it when I can, I seem to be having login issues at the moment; as in, it forces me to re-login every time I undertake a step (like, for example, posting this - I'll undoubtedly have to do it again as soon as I hit "Post Quick Reply").

Any other reactions, comments, suggestions?

. . . And I'm apparently unable to edit this post, for some reason, but I did many to apply the fix. Thanks again.

[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.


Somewhere else
Unknown time








Cold. Wet. PAIN!

Galen came awake with a start as someone dumped a bucket of ice-water over his body, thunder rolling in his ears—no, it was raining; storming, in fact.

While a corner of his mind asked himself why he was lying on what appeared to be a wooden dock, in a thunderstorm, the rest of his brain was pulling him to his feet, and sending him towards the big stone structure—lighthouse, he realised abruptly—in the distance.

Running pell-mell across the dock, he bared even paused at the door, one hand slamming against it with all his momentum even as the other went for the knob he could barely see. To his relief, it opened without resistance, and he hustled inside, absently registering the sound of tearing paper as he did so, before slamming the door behind him.

“Hello?” he called out, to the mostly-dark structure. “I’m s-sorry for b-barging in—”

Bugger, he thought, now that I’ve stopped moving, the chill is setting in.

The wizard weighed the risks, before casting a Revealing Charm; at its negative response to human presences, he then began to cast other spells to dry off and warm up, even as he tried to work out where he was. It obviously wasn’t Hogwarts—in fact it sort of reminded him of that island with the hut the Dursleys had used, in Potter canon. But there hadn’t been a lighthouse on that island . . .

And there was a faint sound of music, almost swallowed by the storm. Was this not an automated lighthouse, then? But then, why had the door been unlocked?

Abruptly, Galen realised there was a scrap of paper in his left hand that read “IRL.” Thinking on it, he realised what had happened—and with extreme reluctance, he reopened the door behind him, and put it together as quickly as he could, so he could shut the damned thing again.

DEWITT—
BRING US THE
GIRL AND WIPE
AWAY THE DEBT.
THIS IS YOUR
LAST CHANCE.

“Oh, that’s reassuring,” he whispered, noting the blood spatters in the bottom-right corner.

And also familiar, but nothing he could place at the moment. It might even have been just the general tone—this setting wouldn’t have been out of place for one of his favourite hardboiled mysteries, be it film or literature . . .

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Galen stretched out his senses, trying to figure out what he could tell about this place.

Faint music drifted from somewhere up above; big band type, he thought—or “barbershop quartet” might’ve been more accurate. Not his preference, but better than several alternatives. The central pillar of the lighthouse interior, which also served as the base for a metal spiral staircase like the one in the Venice library in “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade,” had a table in front of it with a lit candle, some hand towels, and a bowl of water. Hung on the pillar itself was a crocheted sign that said OF THY SINS SHALL I WASH THEE.

“No thanks,” he muttered. “With my luck, that’d translate to ‘drown the witch.’”

Looking past the pillar showed him a buffet like he had at home, but nothing in the drawers of it resembled clothes, or anything he could use as a weapon in case of trouble—unless you counted a jar of pickles, anyway. There were some loose coins, not a type he recognised, short of saying “American.” Either this guy was a coin collector, or he was a long way from Hogwarts.

Creeping carefully up the stairs, he passed another crocheted sign: FROM SODOM I SHALL LEAD THEE.

Oh great, mobsters threatening a fundamentalist Christian nut-job. There's no way that will end well . . .

The next level appeared to be the lighthouse keeper’s living quarters, as evidenced by the bed, desk, working electric lights in the wall over the desk, bookshelves and the old-style radio which was the source of the music he’d heard—more like the Wizarding Wireless sets than anything modern.

And in all this time, there was no sign of the lighthouse keeper, though there very evidently was one.

A quick search of the desk revealed it held an old rotary phone (dead), and very old-fashioned typewriter. A map on the wall above the desk displayed the United States; on it was drawn out an elongated shape in pins and threads that he couldn’t make sense of. It looked like some giant moth or bird, stretching from New York almost to the other end of the country.

Not a waterway, not with that range; it doesn’t follow any roads . . . The closest I can think of is a radio tower’s broadcast range, but the shape’s too big – and way too uneven. Is this guy trying to track a serial killer or something . . .?

The note pinned to the corner of the map lent some weight to that theory. It read: BE PREPARED. HE’S COMING. YOU MUST STOP HIM—C.

The other paper of note was what looked like a train schedule, or something similar; all he could make out at the top was “Columbia,” though. Was he in Washington?

Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to still be on Earth—as opposed to, say, any number of places I can think of—but why the hell would I have wound up there, when I was in Britain?

The only explanation that came to mind was “this was the equivalent location in the planet’s revolution and rotation to where I was”; which made sense, but wasn’t at all reassuring.

“OK,” he asked himself, sitting down on the bed to take stock. “What do I know?

“I’m still alive, so it’s at least likely that the others are; Neville and Hermione are at least as tough as I am, physically, and metaphysically, Shirou and Ilya probably have me beat. Where they are, I’ve got no clue—but if I made it, then so did they and hopefully not just them . . .”

“This place still has magic,” Galen reminded himself, “and it’s at least a compatible magic to Hogwarts' witchcraft and wizardry, if not the same thing entirely. The latter would be better—it’d mean I’m still on Rowling Earth—but since I’ve no way to prove that at the moment, I’ll take what I can get.

“And since I never did master the Patronus Charm, I’ve no easy way to contact the others, if they did survive,” he concluded—before a thought occurred to him. “Oh, wait—the mirrors . . .!”

A quick rummaging through his belt pouches revealed the pieces of the mirror, too small to be usable. The same devastation had been wreaked on his other items, too, except for the Deathcloak—though its survival wasn’t really a surprise, given its nature and origins. Still, whatever Galen had been through, it hadn’t been kind to extra-dimensional spaces and their associated enchantments; he’d been lucky not to lose a hand dipping into that pouch.

So, where did that leave him . . .? In a hell of a lot of trouble, to be honest; he needed to at least figure out where and/or when he was. The map was of America, but in addition to the oddness of that elongated shape, it didn’t exactly have a “You Are Here” written on it, either.

Getting off the bed, he moved over to the next round of the staircase, over which hung the crocheted sign: TO THINE OWN LAND I SHALL TAKE THEE. There was also, further up the stairway, a bloody handprint on the wall, which caused him to freeze in place.

Is that the lighthouse keeper’s blood, or is it from the guy he “must stop,” according to the note? And why the hell do I only smell it now?

Too much seawater and oxidising metal, Galen answered his own question. It smells too much like blood to separate the scents out in this form. But that just begs the question of the source . . .

Taking a firm grip on his wand, he continued on, where the top of the staircase revealed a golden cup of some form lying on the stairs themselves, along with broken bits of wood and a trail of blood at the very top. Said trail led to a man tied to a chair, with a burlap bag over his head and a sign hung around his neck, written in blood:

DON’T DISAPPOINT US.

Before the body—and it had to be one, with the amount of blood on the floor—was a stool, with a knife and what looked like a chisel resting on it. The knife’s blade was bloody, but not nearly as gore-soaked as he’d have expected, given the mess on the floor. The chisel was oddly clean.

OK, presumably the body’s not “DeWitt,” since the message is likely for him—the lighthouse keeper, then? Which means that DeWitt isn’t the lighthouse keeper . . .

It also meant that this “bring us the girl thing” was serious, and likely to be starting soon, since the blood was still looking wet—and the kind of people who’d leave a message like this wouldn’t let it just sit around . . .

He went back downstairs to help himself to the lighthouse keeper’s wallet and the loose change he’d spotted while working his way upwards. Was that a cold reaction? Yes, without a doubt; but the dead man didn’t need it anymore, whereas he almost certainly would. With the stuff in his bags all but destroyed, his money stash was unfortunately out of reach; it struck him as better to have some than trying to magically con his way into things.

From there, he made his way up the final staircase, hoping he’d catch sight of something familiar from the top of the lighthouse—a skyline, a particular building—heck, at this point, he’d settle for knowing the direction of land . . . Of course, he passed yet another crotched sign in the process: IN NEW EDEN SOIL SHALL I PLANT THEE.

I’m noting a theme, here—is this based in some kind of cult? Is “DeWitt” a deprogrammer, maybe?

Nice thought, but it wouldn’t explain the Russian-mafia-style tactics . . .

The storm was still ongoing when he got to the top, making seeing anything a difficult task. Worse still, the catwalk was narrow; he brushed something as he turned to try and manoeuvre on it, and heard a solid ringing as a result.

Bells . . .? Too small to be intended for warning ships—and what on earth are they attached to . . .?

He frowned, and paused to look closer, lifting the still pair for closer inspection; it seemed as though the bells were engraved.

“A key and a sword . . .?” Odd symbols to be using, and they meant nothing to him, so he set the bells back, letting them ring—why were there lights flashing in sequence with the ri—

A gigantic noise, like a tugboat’s horn or whale’s song, filled the air before the bells’ last notes had even cleared, loud enough to shake the top of the tower. At the same time, red light shone from somewhere unseen, turning the sky to blood. Doing his best to walk around the catwalk, he saw no source for either beyond up, though realised that the light was pulsing in tune with the notes of the horn—and it was a horn, of some sort. Was this some kind of recognition signal . . .?

With a series of mechanical clicks, the lighthouse’s bulb itself began to flash red in a pattern, which was met again by a brief exchange from the sky. Then mechanisms began to whir, opening the cage which contained the beacon, even as it was drawn upwards, out of reach, and the floor of the chamber revolved to reveal an unfolding dentist’s chair, or something like it.

“. . . Oh, sure,” Galen muttered sarcastically. “Get in the crazy fundamentalists’ chair—what could possibly go wrong with that idea?!” After a beat, however, he sighed. “ . . . I just had to see the note about the girl, didn’t I? Damn it all . . .”

It was a stupid idea. It was the worst idea he’d ever had, if not the worst idea in the whole long, sad history of bad ideas . . . But there was an implied hostage situation going on, possibly involving a little girl. He could walk away, but he could he live with himself if he did . . .?

And besides, based on prior experiences, he and his friends tended to ended up entangled in the “major plot events” of a given universe—if this wasn’t one of those, he’d eat chicken without complaint. So if there was any chance his friends had survived, he’d likely find them somewhere at the other end of wherever this went.

“And this,” he announced to the world, “will henceforth and forevermore be known as ‘Mistake Number One.’”

He sat in the chair.

Manacles sprang up out of the armrests to imprison his wrists.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Because why not?”

The floor opened up, and panels began to spring out and encircle him as a female voice—recorded, but not electronic—announced, “Make yourself ready, pilgrim. The bindings are there as a safeguard.”

More panels shifted, including the floor, giving him a glimpse of rocket engines.

“Oh, this is going to suck . . .” Galen hissed.

“Ascension,” replied the voice, gaining a second, male tone as it continued, “Ascension in the count of FIVE . . . Count of FOUR . . . THREE . . .TWO . . . ONE . . .”



The newly-revealed rocket capsule blasted off, streaming through the storm-clouds as the recording continued, “Ascension . . . Ascension . . . Five thousand feet . . . Ten thousand feet . . . Fifteen thousand feet . . .”

“Oh, God, I must be out of my mind . . .!”

“Hallelujah,” was the only response.




The man stopped rowing in mid-stroke, seeing their boat’s intended destination blast off into the clouds.

“I didn’t see that coming,” he remarked to his female companion. “Did you?”

“. . . No,” she admitted finally. “No, I did not.”

“I don’t particularly care,” the wizard most recently known as Shirou von Einzbern said, from the other end of the boat. “I want to know who you two are, and what’s going on—now.”

[fsnfan]

Bioshock? At least I think it is.

Seeing this, I wonder what Galen's response will be if they end up in Silent Hill or The Evil Within?

[Kieran]

Bioshock? At least I think it is.

Yep - BioShock Infinite, to be specific. The idea is that they're scattered over Columbia and Rapture, since the two games are connected . . . But it didn't occur to me until right until the end that Shirou (or Kiritsugu) ought to have been the one in the snippet; hence, the former's last-minute addition.

After all, going after a girl with messianic traits about her, trapped in a tower by a patriarchal figure and guarded by a monstrous companion? That's Illya to a "T," isn't it?

Seeing this, I wonder what Galen's response will be if they end up in Silent Hill or The Evil Within?

Panic, resignation, and a lot of whimpering, I'd think.

[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.








Somewhere else
Unknown time








The first sensation Takara became aware of was heat, and then brightness, even through the grey murk of her closed eyelids. Finally, her hearing settled the rushing in her ears into the distinct sound of ocean waves, overlaid dimly by an unfamiliar, but not far-off voice.

“. . . As you can see, we’ve lost all communications with Chaldea. That’s why . . . We don’t even know where we—hey! Fou! Come back!”

A faint shuffling sound, one more felt through the sand than heard (hey! She was lying on sand!), made its way over. A brief moment later, she heard a much more familiar voice.

“Oh, my—aren’t you interesting! I’ll have to write an article for Daddy; our readers will love you. It’s a pity I don’t have a camera . . .”

Reluctantly, Takara opened her eyes, and discovered two things.

First, as bright as it was with her eyes shut, it was far preferable to the amount of sunlight glaring at her when they were open. And second, she was somehow on a deserted island with Luna Lovegood . . .

Who was petting what looked like a dog, if the breed had been designed to resemble an Eevee from “Pokémon,” or a fox-squirrel from “Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind”—in white.

“Luna . . .?” she muttered, getting up off of—the beach, she was lying on a tropical beach, of all the places to wake up!

Shaking her head (and grimacing at the amount of sand that flew out of her hair), she took a breath, and started again. “Luna, what’s going on? Where are we? And where’s everyone—anyone—else?”

With a solemn look, Luna answered, “I was hoping you would tell me, I don’t know though Rin’s trying to find out, and Shirou took Neville, Ginny and Ilya to gather wood for a more permanent shelter.”

The Japanese witch noted two very important omissions from that list. “What about Galen and Hermione?”

Glimmering motes of light appeared as the last word left her lips, in a way that Takara found sickeningly familiar, swiftly coalescing into an equally familiar—and yet, wildly different—form.

“Hello, Takara,” Hermione said carefully, a sad smile on her lips. “. . . At least I’m not a Dead Apostle?”

Before she could answer, there was a second, far greater rustling from the greenery. They all turned as several battle-ready forms burst through, weapons held at the ready—

“WAIT!” cried one suddenly, causing the rest to freeze in mid-charge.

Without quite taking their eyes off the trio, they all glanced back at the speaker, who continued somewhat abashedly, “I . . . I know this one.”

Her green eyes, wide with disbelief, never wavered from Takara’s own. Takara imagined that her own expression was a perfect twin.

“Eh?!” came from several throats.

Relaxing (if that was the proper term) into a less combative, but no less formal pose, the armoured blonde bowed, and said. “Hello, Aozaki Takara—it has been a while. I hope that your father is well . . .?”

“EEEEH?!” The previous noise was repeated, at a much higher volume, by those present who recognised the surname.








Unknown Island
July 26, 2018 (. . .?)








Even keeping to the highlights, the exchange of stories took a while—and was pretty unbelievable, even given what Takara had already lived through. The end of humanity, Singularities, more Servant classes she’d never heard of, and using what amounted to a VR time machine . . .?

She suspected that even Galen, annoyingly (fore-) knowledgeable as he was, couldn’t have predicted this stuff.

Then again, it wasn’t as though they seemed any less fascinating to the “Chaldea” party: the idea of meeting characters from the “Harry Potter” series had Fujimura-san and Kyrielight-san absolutely stunned—even more so when Hermione materialised as “Caster.”

To be honest, that part stunned Takara, too; but it was a vast improvement, in many ways, over her being a vampire witch. And whatever a “Dead Apostle” was, she suspected that it was even worse . . .

Luna, for her part, seemed thrilled to meet with the long-haired spear-carrier, who’d been introduced as “Scathach—or something like it—and was doing her best to be politely nosy while seeming innocently oblivious to the discomfort and/or annoyance of the subject of her inquiries. Being Luna, she naturally had a great deal of practice at it, and was more successful than probably anyone wanted to admit to.

Takara, on the other hand, still worried over Galen’s seeming absence from their group. According to Luna, he hadn’t been on the beach, and Hermione said that she couldn’t sense him, either physically or metaphysically. So where . . .?

Tensing her muscles and steeling her resolve, Takara blocked out the world around her. She focussed on the one obvious answer to her question, and the means by which she could get it. She spoke his name—

“—known enemy on an unknown isl—” drifted past her hearing . . .

--and turned the Resurrection Stone.

. . . And as the smell of seawater and shellfish filled her nostrils, Takara felt a white-hot stab of pain, even as her answer came.

“That which is dead, still dreams.”








The tentacles erupted from Takara’s shadow: blade-tipped appendages whose lengths were adorned by equally sharp-looking serrated edges. And where they could not pierce the shells of the attacking crustaceans, they chose instead to crush, entangling them in grips as strong as any chain, dragging them into the dark depths with a fierce, inexorable hunger.

Floating to the surface of the shadow as the giant hermit crabs sank, Galen Salvatore’s shape appeared, lifted by the same tentacles, briefly, before they retracted into the folds of his duster—no longer made of dragon’s hide, but what appeared to be sharkskin, instead.

“Servant Foreigner, at your command, Milady,” he announced in a darkly amused tone. “And things are going to get strange . . .”








Writer's Notes: I am working on the new chapter - I'm even making progress! - but not quite fast enough. And given the weather around my home, of late, I thought something summery was appropriate.

[Kieran]

I'll be out of town on a family trip today, and thus unable to post until tomorrow - sorry.

[Xamusel]

Will you post the actual update when you get back?

[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.








Emiya Household
Fuyuki City, Japan
July 13, 2013








“Someone,” Ilya pronounced through clenched teeth, “is going to die.”

Oh, sure,[she was still alive, and healthy. Her parents were still alive, and healthy. She had a nice, normal life, with no wizards, magi, Servants or other issues . . . But on the other hand, her baby was gone, her husband was gone and her body was gone!

Scowling at the ten-year-old girl glaring back at her in the mirror, Ilya promised herself that the deaths of those responsible for this would be slow, painful, and only happen within her lifetime if they were very lucky. This was the third time she’d had to deal with being ten!

Swearing under her breath in German—Galen was right, it was a great language for invective—she left “her” room and moved to Shirou’s. It took some effort to sneak in, but not much; only one of the two homunculus maids in the household (though her native self wasn’t supposed to realise that) was really active in pursuing proprieties. As such, she managed to slip into bed with her once-and-future husband without any alarm being raised.

Settling against his back with a sigh, Ilya considered everything she knew, and once again blessed the fact that Galen possessed the origins he did. For all the headaches the man had thrown her way over the years, situations like this made all the efforts she’d had to make to keep him worth it—he was almost as valuable as Shirou.

So, this is “Fate/kaleid liner Prisma Illya,” she mused. That being a parody/homage to the “Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha” series where I’m actually as old as I look, and end up a replacement magical girl after Rin and Luvia—she couldn’t suppress a grin at this point—screw up horribly.

. . . And along the way, I get joined by a “rival” magical girl that’s basically my alternate self, and a second, more direct alternate who’s a split personality copying Shirou’s EMIYA self.

Ilya frowned. Given the way things were set up now, the appearance of “Kuro” was unlikely—she was herself as a magus, amongst other things, so a suppressed personality of that sort was unnecessary. Not to mention, being significantly older and more experienced than either of her two native “selves,” she could and had effectively subsumed them.

Which, knowing our luck, Ilya realised with a sinking feeling, probably means that the “normal” Ilya personality will be coming out to play as Caster, doesn’t it?

That was a thing, according to the “Fate/Grand Order” timeline, if she remembered correctly . . .

Regardless, Ilya decided, it all depended on whether or not she’d be dealing with the native Rin—who was more or less the teenager of the Fifth Holy Grail War that she remembered, minus the War itself—and the native Kaleidostick. The latter was very different from the more-or-less-lobotomised version that Rin Delacour had been using at Hogwarts, after all.

And what should we do about Miyu . . .? the former half-Veela wondered to herself.

From Galen’s memories, the girl was an innocent really, for all that she was also effectively Ilya’s counterpart in another world; something the series didn’t really dwell on—probably because it made shipping the pair of them even more awkward, and they already had Kuro for “self-cest.”

Regardless, however, she’d be appearing in this world very soon. And if Luvia didn’t show up to take care of her—for example, because Rin, having merged with her native self, was too mature to pick a fight with her and cause the Kaleidosticks to leave them in disgust—she was going to be in a terrible situation.

And Shirou will want to take care of her, if nothing else, Ilya sighed to herself. The fact that she’s basically me—down to the “big brother complex” and (apparent) age—doesn’t help. I don’t need the extra competition, especially now!

Sure, Shirou was her husband—but he was also biologically seventeen to her ten again, and that kind of age gap had all kinds of problems attached to it; not least of which was the need to (possibly?) go through their parents for approval, without a magical medical need to argue in their favour. The fact that Miyu had the same issues surrounding her mitigated things somewhat, but she also looked Japanese, unlike Ilya, which meant less social stigmatism if he did decide to wait . . .

And that’s not even getting into the problem of the Class Cards themselves, and everything attached to them . . .

Ilya frowned, and then mentally added another question to her list.

Not to mention—if Shirou and I are like this, then what the heck happened to Galen and Takara . . .?









The next day








“And here we are, Takara-chan!” Ciel said brightly. “Our new school!”

Takara smiled at her mother, even while mentally correcting her.

Only in this life, Kaa-san; I’ve already been through this place once, about fifteen years ago—which, funnily enough, was also now, more or less . . .

Will you post the actual update when you get back?

Yup.

[Xamusel]

LOL!! XD Thanks for the update.

[fsnfan]

....F**king YEEEEESSSSS x9999999999999999999.

Ahhhh (lamenting) if only this would be continued. Unfortunately, I know better than to hope.

[Kieran]

LOL!! XD Thanks for the update.

You're welcome.

....F**king YEEEEESSSSS x9999999999999999999.

Ahhhh (lamenting) if only this would be continued. Unfortunately, I know better than to hope.

Well, if the standard story chapter isn't complete by next Sunday, I may add more . . . If you mean as a genuine continuation of the Trinityverse, however - I'm always willing to experiment (as you've no doubt noticed ).

But while that is possible, it needs to be well-liked enough to support it. Thus far, I think, only the RWBY and Persona crossovers have managed that sort of scale. *Shrugs* Then again, this is a TYPE-MOON crossover, and I have most of the anime, so there's a solid basis for continuation - so who knows?

[Kieran]

Two hours earlier








It was a sad but undeniable fact of Takara Aozaki’s life that she’d been through enough reality-overwriting events to recognise them by now, though it still took her a moment to realise exactly what had happened. After all, she was typically at ground zero for this sort of thing, and there hadn’t even been a hint of anything wrong until everything suddenly began to tear itself apart . . .

The other factor that delayed her recognition was the fact that she found herself back in her room; her room in Fuyuki, rather than anywhere she’d stayed in London. And it was definitely her old room, because while the decorating was familiar, it hadn’t looked this way for several years—of course, her first glance into a mirror supplied the reason why.

Thinking it unlikely that she’d somehow managed to hallucinate almost a quarter-century of experiences (once you added up both lifetimes), Takara was left to consider the possibility that she’d somehow gone back in time . . . But the black cat curled up next to her head—not to mention the memories associated with it—eliminated that possibility entirely.

After all, in her original lifetime, Ren had been Aunt Aoko’s cat, rather than hers.

Red eyes opened at the thought, as though the familiar had been reading Takara’s mind—and perhaps she had. Certainly, Galen had told her something of Ren’s origins and capabilities when comparing her to her Kneazle version; claims that her father had later confirmed.

Ren blinked, and then stared at her intently. No longer having access to Legilimency or Occlumency, Takara couldn’t state with any kind of certainty exactly what was going on, but she had a prickling sensation running along her skull just the same . . .

Standing up and stretching out, the cat familiar leaned forward cautiously, sniffing at the Japanese girl’s skin—and without thinking, Takara reached up to rub behind her ears. It was an automatic reaction; a habit born of growing up around Ren’s visits, and later having Mirai for herself. And Mirai, it had to be admitted, was very much a reflection of the most playful and friendly parts of her mother, so the two were quite interchangeable in this case.

Ren stiffened at her touch, muscles tensing—but as Takara’s fingers went to work in the familiar movements, barring the adjustments needed for her smaller, lesser coordinated digits, the cat slowly relaxed. Her red eyes stared anew at her, even as her lids gradually lowered into the squint-eyed “smile” common to cats.

Her tail twitched after a moment, and Takara got the distinct impression that it meant “Good enough,” more or less.

“I’m still me, Ren,” she whispered. “I’m just a little more grown-up than I was . . . Sort of.” It was kind of hard to say for sure when she never managed to get to her eighteenth birthday, after all

“And I still love you,” Takara assured the cat. “Always have, always will.”

Now the purring started, and it was Takara’s turn to relax. Ren had always been her friend, and the thought of that not being true scared her . . . And as she went through her new memories, she found that it was even more the case here than it had been before. Here, Ren was not just a beautiful kitty to stroke and cuddle; she was a magic kitty who could also be a pretty little girl that liked to play games and have tea parties—as long as there was cake . . .

Takara blinked. Apparently, this version of her life knew a little bit more about magecraft than she had . . . There was nothing about the Tohnos or Godmother Arcueid that she could recall, though, so either something was different, or it was still waiting to blow up in their faces.

I really hope it’s the former, she thought. I don’t want to have to go through another Grail War—

She froze, and then began frantically ransacking her current memories. There was nothing of Galen, or Hermione—not even Shirou!

OhcrapwhatdoIdo . . .?!








Present time








“Class,” Taiga-sensei announced (and wasn’t that weird to think about? Ilya mused to herself). “We have a new student with us today. Please welcome Aozaki Takara.”

Naturally, the Einzbern’s eyes had been drawn to the open door before the name had ever been called. As might be expected, her eyes widened in recognition—and something more, as she felt her face heat up.

Eeeeeshe’ssoCUTE!

Ilya firmly blamed her mature perspective on her reaction, despite said reaction’s immaturity. Little girls were far more adorable to adults than they were to other children, after all. And she didn’t really have memories of Takara when she was little; her previous incarnation had mostly been away at Durmstrang when the younger girl was that age—and not really of a mind to pay attention to her, anyway, beyond “Shirou’s friend.”

(. . . Ilya briefly considered the possibility of her reaction being influenced by the naturally yuri-oriented writing of this universe, before setting a mental Berserker on the idea. Just like she didn’t need competition for Shirou’s heart, she really didn’t need competition for hers, either!)

Regardless, Taiga’s lessons proved an excellent distraction from both her own reaction to the girl, and her friends’ reaction to it—to say nothing of their reactions to the “new girl” herself. It wasn’t easy to communicate silently and unobtrusively without using magic—Legilmency or magecraft—but Ilya did glean enough to know that this Takara was the girl she was familiar with, and not a native analogue.

So, Ilya mused, she’s here, and Shirou remembers, too—thank goodness!—and I guess Papa might, too, if he was around to ask . . .

Knowing what she did, the white-haired girl had a lot more curiosity about her parents’ travels, now.

And judging by the time, I’ll probably meet Rin—or at least, Kaleidostick Ruby—tonight, which will tell us whether or not she remembers, too. So, barring any of the Potterverse people showing up, that just leaves . . .








“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ‘YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE HE IS?!”

“Exactly what I said,” Ilya said calmly, grateful they’d put up a bounded field to repel curious people before starting this conversation—and wishing she knew of one that would’ve spared her hearing.

Takara had a lung capacity all out of proportion with her size, to say nothing of her tonal range . . .

“My current self has no memory of him,” she continued, “and honestly, I’d have assumed he’d be tied to you, somehow.”

“No, he’s not,” Takara ground out. “That’s why I thought you’d know where he is.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not the Grail in this universe,” Ilya said. “In fact, the whole setup here is very different, even from our original timeline: Shirou’s still seventeen, for example. Assuming Galen is still the same age as before, he could be a teenager, too—or maybe closer to his actual age, which means he’d be pushing forty; possibly even sixty, if his last lifetime got added on.”

Takara winced. “Let’s not go there—I really don’t want to think about it.”

Ilya shrugged. “He should still be alive, if we are, so it’s a possibility . . . But assuming he survived like we did, but somehow managed to incarnate here as a spirit rather than flesh and blood, for some bizarre reason . . . That contract wouldn’t have brought him to me anyway, since I’m not the Holy Grail, and protecting that and the War was the point.

“Not that it matters,” she added, “since the system was apparently dismantled by my parents. There isn’t a Holy Grail for him to serve, anyw—”

Ilya stopped, walked over to the fence surrounded the roof, and promptly leaned her head against it, resisting the urge to beat her skull fiercely against the chain links in the hopes of knocking herself unconscious so as not to deal with the stupidity anymore.

“. . . Never mind, Takara,” she groaned. “I may not know what state we’ll find him in, or why—but I’m pretty sure I know exactly where Galen is, because of course he would be . . .”








“Onii-chan . . .?” Miyu whispered.

[Xamusel]

Let me guess... Galen became Miyu's elder brother?

[Kieran]

You'll have to wait for another/the next bit to find out - although, that would neatly solve the problem of the fourth third season . . .

[Xamusel]

Wait... there's a canonical fourth season?

[Kieran]

"Drei" is technically the fourth, naming aside, since it's preceded by "Zwei Herz"; and if you don't count that, then there still will be, since apparently they're working on a post-movie season.

[Xamusel]

...okay, that's a convoluted naming scheme, if I'm allowed to be honest here.

[hatori]

oh. hell.... so Galen vs Angelica...