Trinity Angles (Discussion Thread)

[fsnfan]

I both love and hate these kinds of teasers. I love it because it makes me brimming with anticipation. I hate it because it's unlikely to have a continuation.

[Kieran]

Admittedly, of the three Naruto crossover ideas, it's the trickiest to do . . . And there is the fact that tackling seven books is very different (and has taken me 8 years, to date) to tackling 72 . . . But if it's liked enough, I'll at least consider it - seriously.

As noted, this one is the hardest possible route, because the power balance is so uneven; not that either side has an inherent advantage, necessarily, but that you can go from one extreme to the other in relatively short order. For example, yes, wizards need wands to cast spells - but Legilimency, Apparition and Animagus transformations can all be used without one. And unless your surname is "Uchiha," a ninja generally needs to form at least one hand-seal to use a jutsu - and more often a string of them. Considering that you could Vanish the bones out of their arms as easily as a ninja can break a stick, I'd say they're relatively tied in the "ease of disarmament" category.

. . . As I see it, ninja are a mix between wizards and mundanes, in that they generally don't have the same versatility when it comes to combat as a wizard, but they're a lot better geared towards wide-spread destruction than most wizards. The main problem is that Trinity could tank or neutralise a lot of higher techniques, but are ridiculously vulnerable to some of the lower ones; for example, as a teleporting Occlumens, Galen would ignore Itachi's attempt at Tsukuyomi and forcibly Splinch him in mid-Apparition, or drop him off the highest cliff he could find before Disapparating to a safe distance - but Rock Lee would beat him to a pulp.

[hatori]

I'd like to see how Rock does against dragonhide armor though.

[Kieran]

Probably pretty decently, actually. The trinity's usual kit, as it were, is Kevlar-lined dragonhide; of the three different types, Shirou's is the most fireproof (Chinese Fireball, duh), Takara's is the best in general protection (it's why Swedish Short-Snout is the preferred hide for protective gloves in potion-making and other such work), whereas Galen's is best at soaking raw force - Ukrainian Ironbelly being the flat-out heaviest of the three.

Now, all three are bulletproof (and between the dragon-hide and the Kevlar, I do mean bulletproof), but that doesn't account for bullets the size of fists - and between Lee's raw strength and sheer speed, I don't think that's necessarily an unfair comparison. Even if it does allow them not to get splattered across the landscape on the first punch, they'll definitely feel it in the morning.

. . . Now, that's not to say that they're slouches, either: Shirou would drive Tenten nuts with his accuracy, Takara is as fast as Lee, reflex-wise, even if she'll never be able to outrun him (maybe even as fast as Neji), and Galen's sheer endurance is approximately 4.5x the maximum human capacity without the Elixir of Life. Truly, the Flames of Youth burn brightly within them, and shall grant all of Team 9 the rivals that will push them to ever-greater heights! YOSH!

[Kieran]

Tokyo, 2003








It was a warm spring day, and the streets were as busy as one would expect in the middle of the afternoon. More specifically, shortly before standard schools let out for the day: when children and teenagers would roam freely, and those shepherding them would need to be out corralling them.

Takara walked down the street, drawing glances briefly from those she passed, though she paid them little heed. It was, in a sense, gratifying; after years of being treated as an outsider at best, and being somehow beneath those around her simply by existing at worst, the unspoken acknowledgement that she was a strikingly attractive young woman pleased her—at the very least, she found it amusing.

. . . And she found it even more amusing that she was both already taken, and not nearly as young as most of her watchers would expect.

Still, the admiring looks were only noted casually as her eyes made a glancing sweep of her surroundings. Takara was in that state of heightened awareness that her training had instilled; one which her mission required. It wasn’t supposed to be dangerous—and she’d certainly taken a number of precautions to prevent it from being so—but as covert missions went, this one was high-profile, and definitely high-stakes. Moreover, her intelligence sources had given much more detailed information than what her current employers had managed to obtain, which did nothing to downplay a sense of paranoia.

As such, she scanned the area discreetly before flicking down briefly on the folded sheet of the map in her hand to confirm her location, and was gratified to notice no apparent threats, and that she appeared to have reached her destination.

Honestly, though, she hardly needed to check the map for that—the winged being with the punk-rocker hair floating above the one cluster of students was a dead giveaway.

It was the work of seconds to confirm that she was unobserved, and wrap herself in her husband’s cloak. And as always, upon donning it, she felt the distinct chill of its disapproval at being used by someone other than its rightful master, even as it did its work.

The years they’d spent trying to get a better handle on the Hallows’ natures had revealed that all of them had some degree of awareness if not necessarily sentience as humans, magical or otherwise, understood it. Still, the Deathshroud was the least malevolent of the three, and certainly the least aggressive: it was only dangerous to anyone who actually intended to steal it from its master—at which point, said thief was more or less beyond hope.

After all, the nature of both the cloak and the veil covering the arch in the Department of Mysteries had elements in common . . .

Regardless, Takara was only borrowing the cloak, and had permission to do so, so the danger to her from it was minimal, even if not being its outright master would make its functionality less than optimal. It would serve to keep her from the target’s sight, which was all she needed it to do—and with luck, only briefly, at that.

Concentrating on the winged being before her, she reached towards the amulet around her neck, twisting it in her fingers before uttering “Be gone, Ryuk. Be gone, and do not return—BE GONE.”

Hermione’s research proved correct as the Shinigami disappeared from view with not so much as a pop of air displacement: as mistress of the Deathstone, she could banish those belonging to Death, as well as call them forth, and apparently that applied equally to Shinigami, as well.

She pointed her wand at the boy, who seemed nonplussed by the sudden disappearance of his companion. “Accio, Death Note paper.”

As several sheets and scraps abruptly hurled themselves skyward, they were accompanied by an equally sudden cry of pain—apparently, the force of movement generated by the piece hidden in the boy’s watch had been enough to break or dislocate his wrist.

Unmoved, Takara added, “Incendio.”

The papers burst into flames that quickly rendered them into ashes, not unlike the incendiary device that the boy had stored the original notebook in, wired into the hidden bottom of his desk drawer. With that, the threat represented by “Kira,” both in terms of his murderous nature and his potential to reveal magic’s existence (at least, before they were ready for it) was dealt with—and all without having to resort to a mysterious, faceless detective. There was only one thing left to do.

Takara pointed her wand at the crowd.

“Obliviate.”








Writer's Notes: Sometimes, meta-knowledge and/or magic makes things just too easy (for example, she did put a Fidelius Charm on her true name, just in case) . . .

[fsnfan]

Say, what's the timeline in Death Note for this part?

[Kieran]

Say, what's the timeline in Death Note for this part?

Shortly before L becomes involved. That's why I think - much as I like the series in general - crossing this particular franchise with Trinity is a bad idea: it would take them an hour, maybe, to deal with it.

[Kieran]

Writer's Notes: I hate writer's block - even this took far longer than it should've . . .








Sloanville, Chinatown
August, 1998



Under ordinary circumstances, an operation like this would never have gone to an agent with three months’ training under their belt.

Oh, it would’ve gone to an agent that didn’t exist on paper, certainly (plausible deniability was the best advantage in any government’s arsenal, after all) but never one with so little training, even if he did have more experience than almost any rookie imaginable. In these circumstances, however, he was ideally placed to investigate—and if possible, quietly resolve—the issue, which led him to playing “lost white tourist in Chinatown,” for the moment.

. . . Yes, it was a ridiculous position for an undercover agent to take—he felt like a peacock hiding among penguins—but he didn’t need MACUSA breathing down his neck, so the Deathcloak and other concealment spells were staying off the table for now.

It occurred to him that maybe he was probably meant as a decoy; he was just so obvious, it would make sense. But until he was told otherwise, he’d assume that he actually was supposed to do the job they’d told him to do. And so, he kept an eye out for any signs of the artefacts that had vanished out of Hong Kong shortly before the handover—or, more likely, members of the tong that had smuggled them out of the country.

He sipped his drink while looking over the menu again, fighting a scowl: he’d been handed one written in one of the Chinese languages, rather than English. They must really want to get rid of him—which at least implied he was in the right place. Still, he wasn’t about to be chased out so easily . . .

Chinese characters had similarities to some of the Japanese systems, so he could sort of puzzle it out. It was kind of like reading something written in Spanish when you were only literate in English: the root language was the same, so you could figure out at least a few words here and there if you kept the Latin terms in mind.

He was having an easier time following the conversations around him, even with the noise level and number of voices. His Occlumency training and natural hearing let him parse and follow four different speakers at any given time, and as to the language . . . Well, between Hermione and Luna’s inquisitiveness when they’d been learning Japanese, and Cho Chang and Su Li’s presence at Hogwarts, he’d picked up a little Cantonese and Mandarin. Not that he blamed his two “study partners”—he’d been somewhat curious about the differences between the languages himself.

It wasn’t much, true, but it was more than was probably expected of him. And Kiritsugu had taught them all how to observe without looking like you were watching—

Hang on—why did that curly-haired guy look familiar . . .?








As the general bar brawl/shootout commenced, some five minutes later, he found himself running from bursts of automatic gunfire, briefcase full of antiques in hand.

Good news: I’ve got what I was looking for, and I got out. Bad news: I didn’t get out clean, and if I turn around to shoot back, I lose what protection I’ve got . . .

In the time since what was now being called “The Battle of Hogwarts,” he’d replaced—and in the process, redesigned—his duster, adding a hood as well as a runic scheme to the Kevlar plates in the lining. This meant that short of a shot to the face, he was more or less bulletproof, even against Teflon or other “armour-piercing” rounds . . . But he’d never tested it against sustained automatic fire from multiple weapons before—and they were delivering a beating that neither the materials nor the enchantments could withstand unscathed.

Pain erupted in his side as the trailing edge of his coat, already in motion from the momentum of his run, was pushed aside by the force of the fusillade of bullets to penetrate meat and bone. The shock of it caused him to halt, briefly, before he dove around a corner, glancing around wildly, and finally Disapparated.

He reappeared atop a third-floor embedded air conditioner that he’d spotted, several blocks down. Unfortunately, he’d misjudged its flat-seeming surface, and slid off it to fall to the street below. The coat did absorb the impact of the fall, at least—but he was still bleeding from a bullet wound that probably should’ve killed him, if he was anyone else.

Just before the adrenaline crash combined with the blood loss knocked him out, he thought he saw another familiar face: long, wispy hair and a hangdog expression that he couldn’t quite put a name to . . . Until the man did it himself.

[MWkillkenny84]

Shortly before L becomes involved. That's why I think - much as I like the series in general - crossing this particular franchise with Trinity is a bad idea: it would take them an hour, maybe, to deal with it.

Well, in this case, go on the 'Tube and play the Curbstomp Song, there is nothing wrong with it!

[Kieran]

Other than as a sequel, it would be a one-shot, at best.

[dpss]

Actually, English and Spanish do NOT have the same origin. English is a germanic language while Spanish comes from latin.

[hatori]

I swear.... Reddit's /WP is a hive of plotbunnies waiting to be written...

[Kieran]

Actually, English and Spanish do NOT have the same origin. English is a germanic language while Spanish comes from latin.

Not quite true; originating as a trade language, English picked up words from anywhere and everywhere - Latin included. I just simplified it, for the sake of explanation. Sorry about that.

Otherwise, yes, all the Romance languages (Spanish, French, Italian, and Portuguese if I remember correctly . . .) are derived from Latin.

I swear.... Reddit's /WP is a hive of plotbunnies waiting to be written...

I don't quite follow . . .?

[hatori]

There have been a few H/P writing prompts there, and the plotbunnies are basically scheming for a trinity insert.

[hatori]

There have been a few H/P writing prompts there, and the plotbunnies are basically scheming for a trinity insert.

[Funderfullness]

As long as it's not another prompt about "aliens have come but they don't understand <insert basic concept here>" then I'm OK with that.

[Kieran]

There have been a few H/P writing prompts there, and the plotbunnies are basically scheming for a trinity insert.

As long as it's not another prompt about "aliens have come but they don't understand <insert basic concept here>" then I'm OK with that.

Whereas I, sadly, am still lost.

[Funderfullness]

There's a subreddit called Writing Prompts where you give a short prompt and people write a short story in response. There are a few regular posters who are awesome and have their own subreddits for the stuff they write on WP.

[hatori]

https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingProm..._harry_potter/

oh this one is good.

[Kieran]

Amagi Inn, Yasoinaba
January 5, 2016








While she’d been to the Amagi Inn before during her stays in Inaba, it was usually while visiting or looking for Yukiko, not as an actual guest. The inn’s services didn’t quite fall into the “too rich for my blood” category, but it was definitely the sort of place she’d only visit on holidays, or special family occasions.

Its near-emptiness, on the other hand, was definitely a sign of wealth; but not hers. Moreover, she suspected that the said condition was actually meant to put her at ease after having been picked up by a private helicopter to be flown to Inaba and then chauffeured through the town by limousine. Casually throwing around money and power could be off-putting to people who lacked those things, and while Takara was far from a no-name pauper, she wasn’t habitually used to operating at this sort of scale—and certainly not alone.

Well, not quite “alone,” she corrected herself, glancing from her hostess to the bob-haired young woman sitting between them. Takara might be here without her family, but Mariko Kusumi, as she was legally and professionally known these days, was still one of her dearest friends, even after more than half a decade.

. . . But by the same token, that meant Takara knew Marie-chan; arguably better than anyone else in the world did—certainly better than anyone else of this world, at least. She could read the unspoken tension and nervousness in the other woman’s posture, as easily as she could read Hermione, Galen, or Elise.

. . . Whatever she’s here for, Takara concluded, whatever I’ve been brought here for, I’m not going to like it—and Marie knows it.

With that in mind, she turned to the woman sitting across from her, her erstwhile hostess—and the ultimate reason for this high-class cloak-and-dagger game.

While she was more closely connected to Shirou, Ilya and Rin, Takara wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with Mitsuru Kirijo. Aside from hearing many anecdotes from the aforementioned trio, their paths had crossed on several occasions over the years, and they’d become friendly enough. In many ways, Kirijo-san was very much the sort of woman Takara’s mother had wished her to become: refined, elegant, and worldly enough to fit seamlessly into any high-class establishment in Europe or elsewhere abroad, while remaining quintessentially Japanese.

This did not, however, mean that they were fast or even natural friends; Kirijo maintained a demeanour that was every bit as icy, if not quite as inherently predatory, as Takara’s Nanaya identity, for starters. She was also magical, and though the Kirijo family and its corporate holdings were impressive in the mundane world, they were nouveau riche compared to the ancient lineages of Aozaki and Nanaya. It also meant that she was fully aware of the history of Takara’s nature and accomplishments; like any sensible person, she respected highly dangerous potential threats.

And from the minute tremors in her hand—so slight that only Takara’s owl-enhanced eyes allowed her to notice them—as she lifted her teacup to her lip, Kirijo seemed to be expecting her to go from “potential” to “actual,” in terms of threat. Nevertheless, her voice was impressively even and clear when she spoke.

“Thank you for agreeing to come on such short notice, Salvatore-san,” she began, and then paused. “Or would you prefer to be addressed as ‘Aozaki’—you’ve apparently used both in the past . . .?”

“You may use whichever you find most comfortable, Kirijo-san,” Takara answered politely. “For future reference, however, my birth name is mostly used in dealings within Nihon—otherwise, I’m legally a Salvatore.”

“Salvatore-san, then,” the other woman confirmed with a nod. “Because while magic is involved in this, it’s not the sort that should require dealings in those circles.”

She turned to Mariko, who shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m not what I used to be,” Mariko began, in a “sorry/not sorry” tone.

Not that Takara blamed her for that; she’d suffered deeply, for her humanity and for humanity in general. And since then, she’d worked hard to build even an existence, to say nothing of a life; the effort of her achievements deserved praise, not scorn.

Unaware of Takara’s thoughts, the other woman continued, “And what I am still mostly limits me to Inaba, as far as power and influence go—but that doesn’t change where I came from. And I can still remember how Long-Nose used to tell fortunes. I’m not as good as him, but I’m good enough to tell a few things, for certain, when I try.”

“Another major Shadow incursion is coming in the year ahead,” Kirijo said grimly. “Worse than that—it’s another test.”

Takara wasn’t overly surprised. While the Persona series had always been more Arisa’s hobby than hers (though Momoko had liked the “cuter” ones like Jack Frost and Pixie), she’d known there were more games than the two whose plotlines they’d lived through—and associated “side games,” of course. Nor would she really have been surprised even if she hadn’t known about them; given the time gap before the second and third games, taking several years before another “test,” or “bet between entities,” or whatever drove that incarnation of the series, wasn’t unheard of.

. . . No, what surprised her was the amount of dancing around the subject that the pair of them were doing. Kirijo-san might be accustomed to speaking obliquely, but Mariko, though she’d softened many of her sharper edges, was still a very blunt individual. It wasn’t like her to hesitate unless it was something highly personal to her—or as often as not, embarrassing . . .

“And whatever the conditions of the test, it’s something that can’t be solved via a number of Anti-Shadow Operatives?” Takara asked in a light tone, more as a goad than anything else.

“. . . As much as I wish I could claim otherwise, apparently not,” Kirijo-san said, a moue marring her features. “The situation is apparently quite complicated.” She broke off to take a sip of tea, no doubt to buy herself time to think of a way to explain things—

“We want to rent your husband!” Mariko blurted in a desperate tone. “We’ll give him back, I promise!”

Now, Kirijo Mitsuru was a highborn, gently-reared young lady. As such, she possessed the skills and traits expected of such an individual, allowing her to appear at ease—and indeed, thrive—in all manner of social situations; her diction was erudite, her poise remarkable, and her manners impeccable.

Therefore, she did not spit-take. It must have been an optical illusion—and any future claims to the contrary would be grounds for the offending individual to receive one of her trademark executions.

For her own part, Takara worked to keep her face impassive, even as she mentally thanked Hermione for teaching her how to imperiously raise one eyebrow, and looked between the two younger women. The Kirijo heiress had momentarily paled, but her complexion was now approaching the same iridescent crimson that glowed from Mariko’s face.

Dryly, Takara remarked, “My, and here I’d thought it was Rise-chan who was infatuated with my husband—Yu-san will be crushed if he hears of this, Marie-chan . . .”

Impossibly (or maybe not, considering her nature), Mariko’s blush deepened, and she mumbled, “Shut up—I hate you . . . Please don’t tell him.”

“I love you, too,” Takara replied with a chuckle, before giving her a Cheshire grin and adding, “And I promise, not unless I’m very drunk.”

The redhead at the table cleared her throat in an effort to regain momentum, and announced, “While phrased entirely inappropriately”—she momentarily reddened again—“Kusumi-san was not wholly inaccurate in what she said. Based on certain information, we believe that Salvatore-san is the best qualified candidate for the trial ahead.”

She looked steadily at Takara. “What lies ahead, we’ve been told, is not a task for a saviour, or a seeker of truth—but a revolutionary. Someone angry, but temperedly so; who is willing and able to both burn the world as it exists down around them, and build something better in its place.”

She hesitated, before adding quietly, “. . . And someone who, even knowing the likely consequences of even making the attempt, still willingly accepts them.”

Takara closed her eyes. In other words, Galen-as-Avenger: wild, angry, and absolutely determined to claw his way through anything that stands between him and what he believes to be right . . .

“You are making a very dangerous gamble,” the Japanese witch warned. “How reliable is this source of yours?” She shifted her gaze to Mariko. “Not that I don’t trust you, Marie-chan, but I don’t exactly see your ‘mother,’ for example, slipping us this sort of information reliably.”

“We believe it to be our best, and possibly our only chance,” Kirijo-san replied. “And as to our source’s veracity . . .”

“Margaret-san told me the details,” Mariko said. “And she also passed me this, for you.”

From a pocket out of Takara’s line of sight, the incarnate kami produced an origami butterfly, folded from a beautiful blue paper. As she passed it into Takara’s hands, the butterfly unfolded to reveal elegantly scripted words written in glowing gold ink.


I am forbidden, by the terms of a prior contest, from direct interference in these contests.
However, those same rules demand a balance be maintained.
Therefore, I may, for example, allow my servant’s attendant to grant you some forewarning this time, of her own initiative, unpunished.
It is, after all, merely a token gesture; in repayment of a prior token of appreciation, graciously given—and gratefully received.

—Lord Philemon

Takara shook her head disbelievingly. “I’ve always said Galen’s brownies were magic, but this is ridiculous . . .”