Continuing . . .
Class 2
Even as she Vanished the sick with a wave of her wand (no sense in allowing Takara to be mortified any further or longer than possible), she repressed a frustrated sigh.
Ordinarily, Hermione would be thrilled to be going to school. She’d always excelled at academics, after all, and a classroom setting was second only to a library as her preferred environment. That it was a Japanese school was of lesser concern; she knew the language, spoken and written, and their renowned high standards were merely an intriguing challenge, in her eyes. And that it was a mundane school, set several years ahead of her own timeline, only piqued her interest further; what new knowledge and advances would have been uncovered in the intervening years?
Yes, she had a sort-of reference by means of Galen’s memories, but the man was not exactly technically-minded—nor was he the sort to pay much attention to the world around him at the time those memories was made. She and Takara had broken him of the habit, thankfully . . . To a point, at least.
In any case, all of this would have normally been exciting, even welcome—except that fifteen minutes ago, she’d been asleep, at home . . . And now, she had no idea whether or not she’d survive the day.
It wasn’t being woken from her sleep that concerned her; it had happened before, when Galen or someone else she had a blood-link to had made enough psychic “noise.” It was the fact that she needed her native soil to sleep in (or on, as they’d discovered years ago)—and she was now in another world entirely.
Granted, the school seems to make allowances for Shalltear (Hermione, through Galen’s memories, distinctly recalled seeing her with a wineglass of blood in the cafeteria at one point)—and they outright say the rules are different here—but that’s no guarantee that I’ll be all right . . .!
With an effort, Hermione calmed herself, and thought rationally. If Ilya had been able to bully whoever was actually responsible for everything here with the mere threat of Galen’s retribution, then surely they’d take her needs into account. After all, it made no sense for anyone afraid of a nuclear explosion to push the detonation button themselves—
She frowned. Something seemed off, now that she was reviewing his memories of the first season . . .
Wait—the Re:ZERO cast was the last group to arrive “before,” weren’t they? Why were they waiting in the classroom, this time?
It was tempting to just shrug it off as a ripple caused by their presence; Hermione had enough experience of the differences in “canon” history the trinity’s presence had caused in her own world, after all. But part of her uncertainty came from the fact that her connection to Galen was . . .
It was like seeing him through a paper screen: she was aware of him, certainly, and could, with effort, communicate—but at the same time, the distortions caused to his silhouette made it clear that trying to bypass the screen was a very BAD idea. And like Ilya, Hermione knew enough of why she might feel that way not to try—but it made her quite uncertain, and that had never been a state of mind she was prepared to tolerate for any longer than necessary.
Still, one glance at Galen’s eyes made her certain that trying to tear down the “screen” was a bad idea. They were distant, glassy, resembling those of an anime character when they were under mental influence, or had undergone a complete psychotic break—
The sudden appearance of scarlet eyes in her vision broke Hermione’s train of thought, and her ears registered the words that accompanied them too late.
“Well, now—don’t you look delicious . . . ?”
By the time Hermione realised that Shalltear Bloodfallen had spoken, and was very much in her personal space, the smaller vampire’s tongue was already darting its way into her mouth.
At twenty-six, Hermione was far from the proverbial blushing virgin. While she was admittedly normally limited in her perception of physical sensations, with the aid of a psychic link and the proper stimuli, she could be as hormone-driven as the seventeen-year-old she biologically was, and acted accordingly. Nor could it be said that she was unfamiliar with Sapphic pleasures: that was at least part of the reason that her “mother-in-law” on Takara’s side objected to their association (though admittedly, the far lesser part). Nor, sadly, was she unused to being propositioned by strange vampires; though it had to be said that only one had lived to regret their actions—and that was only because they hadn’t figured out how to kill him and not trigger a vampiric civil war in the process.
The differences between that situation and this one, however, were that Shalltear Bloodfallen was not the sole force of stability among vampires in the world . . .
(Rasping steel and acrid ozone as Melinoë is drawn, lightning crackling along its length—)
. . . And that no force in this world could save her.
(ANNIHILATE.)
All eyes turned to Galen—even Takara, who had been just as intent on murder a heartbeat ago. She couldn’t help it; no one among them could. None of them could move; even those with heartbeats would’ve sworn they felt them freeze in place at that moment. Even Ainz Ooal Gown, who was supernaturally immune to emotional overload, hesitated, and could not quite bring himself to act as Galen stood. As he stared at Shalltear as though it was possible to burn her out of existence with simply that look . . .
But how could anyone say that he could not? How could anyone be blamed for failing to move, to think, when faced with the sheer intensity before them . . .?
How could they ignore it when reality itself TREMBLED with every breath he—
“Meow?”
In a blink, form, colour and light suddenly returned to the world—including on Galen’s face—and all of them let out an exhalation, whether they actually needed to breathe or not. Hermione looked at her much more focussed (at least, in the sense of seeming visibly present) lover, before giving a concerned glance to the other one.
Nonchalantly, a voice called from the open door. “Yo—I brought your therapy cat. Sorry, it took a while to finish the paperwork . . .”
Hermione wasn’t the only one who blinked and looked towards the newcomer, but she would wager that she was one of the few who recognised Aoko Aozaki—even as she wondered just how the Japanese witch (or was it magus, now?) had gotten roped into this . . .
“Ooooh?” Roswaal drawled in that sing-song tone of his. “A ‘therapy cat,’ you say . . .?”
“Yeah,” Aoko replied. “You know—a licensed and trained working animal to help keep certain students calm, focussed, much less likely to literally shred reality into confetti . . .”
That last part was added in an undertone that was nearly below human hearing ranges, which probably meant that only Subaru missed it.
“Hi, precious,” Galen whispered, oblivious—even as the feline he directed it to darted towards him, shifting course only briefly enough to brush against Takara’s shin before leaping headlong into his lap, and accepting one nose-to-tail-tip stroke before settling into it with a familiar possessiveness.
Hermione stared—and out of the corner of her eye, noted Takara (understandably) doing the same.
The reason for the stares was simple: going by Galen’s reactions, and the cat’s behaviour, that was Mirai; even the earlier meow verified that, once she thought back on it—that was Mirai’s voice.
So why, Hermione wondered, was she looking at White Ren . . .?