This is posted as a mirror for this fic's story thread in Creative Writing forum of the SpaceBattles boards. It's technically a crossover, but I didn't put it up as one because I couldn't get Saito's name in the second character space if I did.

I decided to go with the "Saito is from another setting" plot device, and I hope I'll succeed in preventing him from becoming the dreaded SINO (Saito In Name Only). I'm going with the light novel continuity for Zero no Tsukaima, but I will integrate some stuff from the anime that I feel like working with (like the hair colors, for one). I was originally gonna do the same with Soul Eater—predominantly manga continuity with some anime stuff thrown in—but I decided to integrate whatever I like from either adaptation since the SE setting isn't the primary setting here anyway.

Chapter 1: Unsmiling Sun

It was a bright morning over the Tristain Academy of Magic, with the sun making its way slowly across the mostly cloudless sky, indifferent to the mages and commoners bustling about below. Likewise, those in the academy were too engrossed with their business to care about something as mundane as a clear sunny day, save maybe for some words of discomfort from those who were susceptible to the heat or were a little conscious of their skin complexion. Among the former was a group of second year students gathered in one of the courtyards, for they felt nothing but excitement for participating in the cherished and sacred Halkeginian rite known as the Springtime Familiar Summoning.

Well, all of them save one.

A pink-haired girl fidgeted as she watched her classmates summon their familiars one after the other, becoming increasingly pensive at each success. Her stomach did flip-flops and she found herself backing away farther and farther, dimly aware that she was now practically hiding behind the crowd of her classmates. At this rate, she would be the last one called upon to perform the ritual, which both gave her sense of relief and worsened her anxiety at the same time. One the one hand, she wanted to get this over and done with. On the other . . . well, there were only two ways this could possibly end: success or failure. By now she was intimately acquainted with the latter, and the all-too-likely prospect of it happening for this particularly important ritual terrified her to no end.

Involuntarily she started to grind her teeth, recalling her previous attempts at performing magic. No matter what she tried and how much she had studied, all of her spells always ended in disappointment. As if the shame of that wasn't enough, they had to be spectacular disappointments as well. Regardless of the spell, the element, or the willpower she put behind it, all she ever got were explosions, with the only variety being how large and how loud the explosions were.

She desperately wanted to succeed at actually summoning something—anything—to prove that she was worthy of the nobility she had been born into, especially provided her illustrious lineage. She was Louise Françoise le Blanc de La Vallière, third daughter of the House of La Vallière, one of the most powerful and influential noble houses in all of Tristain. It had seemed a cruel and spiteful joke at her expense for one such as her to be so terrible at magic.

And you would know of cruel, spiteful jokes, wouldn't you, Louise the Zero? After all, what else does a so-called noble who can't perform even the simplest magic deserve other than scorn and contempt? a traitorous voice in her head jeered.

"You've summoned an impressive familiar, Ms. Zerbst," said Professor Colbert, snapping her out of her rumination. "I don't believe I've ever seen such a fine fire salamander."

"Expect nothing less from a Zerbst, Mr. Colbert," a buxom dark-skinned redhead preened, showing off her new familiar to the appreciation of the students around her.

Of course, Louise mentally spat, her face setting into a grimace as she regarded one of her longtime tormentors. It would have to be Kirche that would come right before me, and she justhad to summon a fire salamander.

She drew back into the crowd of her classmates. Maybe if she was quiet and lucky enough Professor Colbert and everyone else would forget all about—

"Well, is that everyone?" Mr. Colbert asked, raising his voice over the din of the crowd.

Louise hissed a most unladylike curse under her breath.

"No, Mr. Colbert," Kirche said loudly, mischief in her voice. "There's still dear little Ms. Vallière."

The emphasis on the little didn't go over Louise's head. Louise fumed. The tall Germanian girl just always had to rub Louise's physical inadequecies in her face. As if it was normal for girls their age to be as ludicrously overdeveloped as she was.

Damn you, Zerbst, she thought as she threw a baleful look at Kirche. Damn you and your oversized height and your oversized breasts and your oversized lizard!

As one, her classmates turned to stare at her as she trudged slowly toward Mr. Colbert. After all, there was nothing like a potential spectacle to draw in a crowd. Her lips thinned into a line.

"It's Louise the Zero," someone whispered not-quite-loudly.

"Wonder what she's going to end up summoning," someone else voiced out.

"There's no way she'll summon anything. An explosion, that's all we'll get to see. That's all we ever get to see," a third voice, a female one this time, added helpfully.

The line of her lips thinned even more as everyone else began to shuffle backward, the memory of her explosive fiascos clear in their minds.

Kirche smiled at her, giving a theatrical pat to her salamander. "Given the grand reputation of the La Vallière, I'm sure we can expect a most impressive familiar. Right, Louise?"

"Of course," Louise snorted, puffing her cheeks defiantly.

Her grip on her wand tightened. Please. Oh, Dear Founder, please . . .

She took a deep breath to steady herself, recalling the spell she had written last night for the summoning. She had poured all of her heart and hopes into it, to the point that it was just as much a prayer to the Founder as it was a summoning spell.

"To my servant, wherever you may be . . ." she began, to the incredulity of her classmates.

"Just what kind of spell is that? Is she . . . personalizing it?" a girl with her long blond hair done in curls demanded, her eye twitching.

"Now, now, at least it has some originality," said a flamboyantly attired blond boy beside her.

"To my sacred, beautiful, and above all, powerful familiar," Louise continued, pointedly ignoring everyone else, "I appeal to the Founder from the bottom of my heart to bring you to me as He sees fit. With all sincerity, I implore you to hear my plea! Heed my guidance and answer my call!"

Some of her classmates were already ducking as she waved her wand overhead. A blue-haired girl quietly peeked over the top of the book she had been reading before bringing it up over her face again, this time as an impromptu shield. Many of them hit the deck, hands protectively over their ears or clutching their familiars, as Louise brought down her wand.

The world exploded.

The twisted crescent that was the moon loomed overhead, as always its one visible eye leered intently as a stream of blood steadily dribbled from its ever-present psychotic grin. To those few who bothered to look up at the night sky to consider it—most had simply learned to ignore its maddened gaze—it seemed that the only reason the moon even gave out its pale light was so that it could see properly as it sneered at everything below it. Well, that and so people could see its mockery of them. After all, condescension was most satisfying when the target got a good look at your smugness.

This night, however, its usually general gaze seemed to be focused on one particular person: a dark-haired Japanese teen in a blue-and-white high-collared parka and dark-colored pants. The boy was unaware of the lunatic interest as he settled to a crouch on the rooftop of a dilapidated building, his own sight directed down the PGO-7 scope of the RPG-7 he had hefted over his right shoulder. He peered intently at his target—a seemingly average-looking, slightly overweight man in a generic brown coat and wool cap. He paid particular attention to the jagged eight-point pattern tattooed quite visibly on the man's left cheek.

"That's him, all right. Denny Long-Legs," he pronounced in satisfaction. He'd said it in English for the benefit of his partner. Ever since he'd moved to Death City, Nevada, to begin his tutelage as a Death Weapon Meister his originally rudimentary English had improved to the point of fluency. He could even speak it with only a slight accent now.

Not that his partner ever really appreciated it.

Speak of the devil, a translucent image of his partner's human form appeared on the edge of the scope's viewfinder. As with such images when a Demon Weapon was in weapon form, said human form appeared naked. Saito was just glad that all that was ever visible was the upper torso and head area. Not for the first time he wished he had a cute girl as a partner instead.

The distinctive cataract-like irises glared at him in his partner's usual scowl, his brown skin and even darker brown hair just emphasizing all the white. The image raised a hand and began pointing at the range markers on the viewfinder.

Saito let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. "I know, Eyes. I have done this before, you know."

And I think I know exactly where this is going, he thought as an all-too-familiar pit formed in his stomach.

Lapsed attention before, Eyes signed to him curtly in simplified American Sign Language. Unlike spoken English, he was less proficient with ASL, but he understood enough to work with his voiceless partner—much as he sometimes wished he didn't.

"That's because someone always keeps distracting me just before I fire," he shot back, annoyed.

The Hispanic boy's scowl just deepened, and the visible scar on his throat seemed to darken. He raised a hand and flashed Saito a gesture that wasn't quite in the ASL Manual Alphabet. Saito just smirked in response, although it was wasted since all his partner could see of him right now was a single eye.

Saito's mirth quickly disappeared, and he pointedly turned his full attention back to his target. Well, let's get this over with.

He shifted slightly as he adjusted his aim, making sure that his footing remained sure and steady. A click told him that his partner had flipped the arming switch for him. He moved his trigger finger from the safety position and settled it lightly on the trigger as he tracked his target, who had begun to cross an agreeably wide and open cobblestone street. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the image of his partner sigh resignedly.

He knew that Eyes always hated this part.

Saito slowly exhaled and fired. Eyes's image on the viewfinder suddenly vanished.

With a puff, the antitank rocket jumped out of the tube and tore through the air with a bright, fiery tail and a loud whooshing, smoke trailing behind it. He felt the tube on his shoulder get lighter before it slackened. Saito had learned to dread that feeling.

When his partner transformed into his RPG form, his actual head always turned into the antitank rocket's warhead. This meant that the rest of his body became mindless and useless, and it was up to Saito to keep it safe until a new head regenerated in a few excruciatingly long seconds, then a longer wait until the dazed, newly reformed warhead-head regained its senses—

A loud explosion interrupted his thoughts, and Saito gazed intently at the target area, willing with all his might that the rocket had flown true. The smoke and dust began to clear, and Saito saw nothing but a small crater and some strewn debris. Against a normal human, it would have meant success. Against an Evil Human, however . . .

Saito cursed and tore his eyes away from the scope. Looking upward, he saw the image of a trench coated man high in the air, several long and wickedly sharp arachnoid legs had erupted from random places all over his now limp body. The man had reached the apex of his jump and was coming down. Right in Saito's direction.

He really hated this part.

"I seeeeeee youuuuu, little Meister!" Denny Long-Legs cackled as the boy tore off running, hopping from roof to roof. The Evil Human tore after him, spider-like legs moving impossibly fast. The thing didn't even need to jump from one rooftop to another; the legs were long enough to bridge the gaps.

Dammit! He silently raged as he ran. He knew this would happen. This always happened. Eyes either missed or their target was strong enough to take the first blow and keep on coming, and all the while Eyes's stupid reload time kept him useless. Saito was, naturally, left with the task of keeping them both alive long enough to reload and fire again while their now pissed off target retaliated with whatever weird, stupidly powerful ability their corrupted souls lent them.

It wouldn't have been too much of a problem if Saito had some weird or special ability of his own like many other Meisters did. But no, in their infinite wisdom the instructors at the DWMA had paired up the most useless Demon Weapon imaginable with one Hiraga Saito, seventeen years of age. Average teenager of somewhat below average academic ability—

And above average lack of a girlfriend, a sarcastic part of his mind added helpfully.

—and average athletic ability. Well, no, all the running away had given him excellent stamina and jumping skills, for all the good that did him against twisted monsters whose stamina and jumping skills were way beyond excellent. That's what happened when people listened to the recommendation to put him in the EAT class by some crazy weirdo with a big honking screw literally screwed into and through the head saying that his soul had "potential," whatever that meant. They probably expected said potential to come out in a fit of raw guts and determination, just like in some shonen manga.

Teachers shouldn't be allowed to read those because right now the only true potential Saito saw was the potential for getting himself and his partner killed—maimed if they were lucky.

"What, you hit me first, and now you're running away? What kind of cowardly, second-rate Meister are you?" Denny Long-Legs taunted, his wildly skittering legs had already closed the distance to too damned close. "If you're gonna start trouble, then face me!"

"Come on. Reload already, you white-eyed idiot!" Saito growled desperately. He began banging on the RPG-7 with his left hand in frustration. At the fifth pounding, the warhead suddenly reappeared at the end of the tube. Half-startled, Saito let out a strangled, "Finally."

Skidding to a halt, he whirled around and brought the RPG-7 up to bear, trigger-finger at ready. The move almost caused him to lose balance, but he managed to remain standing. Grinning fiercely, he thumbed the arming switch and . . . it didn't move. Eyes was still too freshly dazed to arm himself.

"Oh, come on!"

The nightmarish figure of Denny Long-Legs suddenly seemed to shrink as his spindly, jagged legs suddenly stopped running and bent down in one smooth, quick motion. Then, like an uncoiling spring, the legs suddenly straightened, propelling the Evil Human right at Saito. The legs curled around and forward to bring the sharp tips to bear.

The boy jumped back at the last second and just barely avoided getting impaled by the sharp leg-points as the once-human thing landed in right front of him and tore deep into the shingles of the roof of the European-style house they were on.

"Gah!" Saito yelped, finding himself literally face-to-face with Denny Long-Legs's chubby tattooed visage. The face gazed at him with empty eyes, the entire head bent oddly to the side by the gigantic bug leg growing out the left side of the man's neck. The rest of the body hung loosely, looking like a corpse skewered every which way by the multiple legs that had torn their way through the man's flesh like a sick parody of a pincushion.

Suddenly, the slack face grinned. "Hi."

"Hello." Saito hit it in with the RPG tube. Hard. The head bent back from the force of the blow with a loud, wet crack.

Saito hit him again and again, each blow stronger than the last. He was raising the RPG back for another hit when the embedded legs suddenly tore free from the roof in a shower of dust and dislodged shingles. Surprised and off-balance, Saito fell painfully on his back and began sliding toward the edge of the roof. He kept hold on the RPG with his right hand and tried desperately to stop his slide by trying to grab on to the shingles with the other. He only succeeded in sending himself into a roll.

He caught sight of the grinning moon looking down on him as he tumbled off the edge. In that instant time seemed to stop, and Saito could see the moon in absolutely clarity. He could have sworn that its smile seemed to widen as it rushed past his view to be replaced by the sight of the onrushing cobblestones of the street below.

Yeah, go and laugh, you sic—

Pain exploded in his right thigh, and Saito heard a loud scream that he belatedly realized was coming from his own mouth. In a rush of motion the cobblestones blurred and faded into white nothingness as the pain from his leg turned into an overwhelming wave of agony that rushed over him and drowned out everything else. For an impossibly long moment, he couldn't even hear himself , as the white began to fade, he heard chuckling.

"Sorry, you're not dying that quickly, kid. But you're gonna wish you had."

Again, he found himself face-to-face with Denny Long-Legs, only this time it was upside down . . . no, he was upside down he realized as the background came into focus. Saito could barely make out the eight-pointed tattoo on the man's face, so bloody and broken it was. Blearily, through the pain from his impaled leg and the disorientation, Saito wondered how Denny could even see him through all the blood. The young Meister let out a pained chuckle of his own.

"That's a good look for you."

Denny smiled, revealing several missing and broken teeth. "Let me return the favor."

One of the legs raised lazily off the ground and slowly positioned itself right in front of Saito's face. He tensed for the facial blow. Faster than he could properly see, it snapped forward in a blur—and stabbed into Saito's stomach. Surprised, the teen was jarred into letting go of the RPG, and it clattered to the roof and got lodged warhead-up into one of the holes Denny's legs had left earlier. He let out another scream, but forcefully bit his mouth close to stifle it. He wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction.

"Oops," Denny cooed mockingly, "I missed."

With a tearing sound and a spray of blood, Denny pulled the leg out of Saito's stomach and stabbed it into his upper left torso before Saito could even grunt in pain. Saito clenched his eyes and clamped his teeth down mightily against yet another scream, feeling his ribs shattering as the leg dug itself into his lung. He felt as if he was drowning as the blood from his now-ruptured lung flowed down his throat and pooled in his mouth, the coppery tang and the obstruction of the blood causing him to cough and hack it out in labored gasps.

Denny giggled hysterically. "Oh no, missed again."

Click.

At the sound, Saito's eyes snapped open. He saw the fallen RPG shift position, pointing its rocket directly at Denny's torso. He smiled.

"He won't."

The RPG fired; the rocket punched into Denny's chest, pushing him off the roof from the sheer force of impact. Saito, right thigh still pierced by one of Denny's legs, found himself falling off the roof for the second time that day. This time, however, he was ready and managed to grab hold of the rafters with both arms as he passed over the edge. It buckled but held, and Saito felt another stab of white-hot pain as Denny's leg tore free of his own, drowning out the pain in his arms from grabbing the rafters. Distantly, he heard the latter's body hit the street below, the rocket exploding it into a gory mess of human parts and inhuman legs.

Fighting through the pain, Saito pulled himself up from the rafters and onto the roof before said rafters could fail completely, several agonized moans now freely escaping from his throat. Not an easy task on raw, bleeding arms (the rafters' edges hadn't exactly been soft); a punctured lung; a stabbed gut; and a run-through leg that was refusing to move right. By the time he reached the roof, he collapsed in an exhausted heap, swimming in pain. His vision began to darken, but he stubbornly forced himself to stay awake.

Need . . . to get out . . . of here . . . Get soul . . .

He found himself laughingly weakly, which turned into a bloody gurgling. Who was he kidding? In this state he'd be lucky to call for help, much less get up and go to wherever that explosion had blown the soul of the late Denny Long-Legs to so they could catch it. And this was his first successful mission, too. For a given level of "successful."

Not fair . . .

He turned his head and caught sight of the RPG-7 that was his partner. He reached out slowly and closed his hand around the again-empty tube.

"Your fault . . ." he managed to wheeze out, giving the launcher a weak squeeze just as the warhead reappeared. His lips curled into a rueful smile. "Useless . . ."

Mrs. Hiraga, he imagined the message to his mother the DWMA would send, your son, Saito, has left the world of the living. He will not be able to attend school for quite some time, nor will he be able to study. Please forgive him.

At that moment, a shining mirror-like object appeared and hovered right above him. Saito stopped to take a good long look at it, not quite trusting his eyes—his natural curiosity at the sudden appearance somehow managing to ignore the intense pain.

Whuh? Mirror? His eyes widened. Mirror!

Lord Death himself must have seen how badly they had screwed up even this "success" and was stepping in to save their asses himself. At any other time, Saito's proud and stubborn side might have raged at the humiliation. Right now, however, all he felt was relief.

42-42-564, whenever you want to knock on Death's door . . . Heh, appropriate, he thought wryly—bitterly—as he reached with his free hand to scrawl the number on the mirror. His finger made contact.

He immediately regretted it. An intense shock assailed his senses, and Saito blacked out.

A pretty young woman hummed cheerfully as she opened the door to one of the rooms in the female students' dormitory. She had short black hair in a neat bob cut and looked young enough—and indeed, was young enough—to be mistaken for the room's occupant if it wasn't for the maid uniform she wore and the cleaning implements she carried along. Smiling, she looked around and regarded the room, nodding in approval at the size. It was a sizeable, well-furnished place and would take several minutes for any single servant to put in order.

Siesta of Tarbes was not just any single servant.

Closing the door firmly behind her, she set to work at a speed that would have been regarded as astounding had there been anyone there to observe her. In a span of time three—No, four,she thought, perhaps a little boastfully—times faster than any other servant in the academy could have achieved, she had finished cleaning and arranging the room and the fine bathroom adjacent to it. She knew this for certain since she had been observing how her coworkers generally moved since she'd been hired and had a very good idea of how fast they could do certain tasks. None of them could come remotely close to her thanks to her clan training. Not that anyone needed to know that, of course.

She now had the rest of her expected cleaning time to do with as she pleased. Just a relatively short moment, a few minutes at most, but she found that time enjoyable all the same. Sometimes she took short naps as doing so was something of a hobby for her, and napping on the job without being caught was great fun as a personal challenge. Other times, however, she indulged in another activity: people watching.

Satisfied, she went over to a window, careful to position herself in a way that would make her difficult to spot from the outside. She leaned against the wall in a way that allowed her well-honed senses to pick up sounds and vibrations. Siesta had come to love stonework castles. They carried sound so well; she could always tell when someone was approaching from quite a distance away.

She observed the group of second years gathered outside as they took part in the Springtime Familiar Summoning. It appeared that most of them had already completed the ritual since she could only see a few with anxious, fidgety body language. Having the opportunity to observe nobles learn their art like this was always interesting, especially since her clan elders had always admonished her and her siblings to be very careful and wary around nobles due to their power and avoid their attention whenever they were beyond clan grounds. In observing them like this unseen—like a shadow—she always felt like she was living the tales of her ancestors that had been passed down from her great-grandfather. Recently, she had embellished her fantasies with details borrowed from the charming books on romance and intrigue her fellow maids had introduced to her, though she was more interested in the intrigue than the romance. Well, mostly.

Mademoiselle Siesta regarded the duke demurely from the corner of her finely lashed eyes, allowing a light coquettish blush to color her cheeks. She knew beyond a doubt that despite the duke's seemingly animate flirtations with the ladies around him, his eyes were on her and her alone. She was confident of her skill and womanly wiles and already knew that, without even having to talk to or approach him, the duke was already wrapped around her finger.

She observed his immaculately groomed mustache as he finally approached her, which lent his middle-aged face a kind, soft, and almost paternal appearance. Her painted lips curled slightly.

This would be most enjoyable.

She would allow him to bed her tonight, and the next morning, he would tell her all his secrets. And if he did not?

Well, at least tonight would be quite pleasant . . .

Siesta placed a hand to her mouth, unable to suppress a giggle. She knew her flights of fancy were a childish indulgence her clan elders would have disapproved of, but it helped relieve the boredom of her relatively humdrum work days.

The students were just about finished now, with only the pink-haired noble trying to edge her way to the back of the crowd showing any signs of anxiety. Siesta knew of her—in fact, most in the academy did, albeit for different reasons. The nobles knew her as an inept mage, and Siesta knew many of her fellow students heaped scorn upon her for it. Siesta, who sometimes found herself annoyed by the arrogance of nobles (and the unwanted attention of noble males, men and boys alike), felt a twinge of pity for her. Just a twinge. She'd heard the girl could be quite arrogant herself, which wasn't surprising given her much-touted lineage.

Her fellow servants, however, knew of her in terms of exasperation rather than contempt. The young pink-haired noblewoman was notorious for her spell failures ending in explosions and, consequently, terrible messes that the commoners had to clean up after. Siesta, who had yet to experience cleaning up one of said messes, had seen one of such failures from a distance once. She recalled being envious of all the smoke the young girl had produced.

All that smoke at will without having to painstakingly make and carry smoke bombs? Founder, what I wouldn't give for that!

As if in agreement with her thoughts, she saw most of the courtyard below suddenly obscured by a cloud of black smoke. A short moment thereafter, she heard a muffled bang. Siesta felt another stab of jealousy as she watched the smoke begin to clear. She wondered if the noble girl had managed to summon anything at all. From the looks of things, this seemed like yet another failure. She also wonder if the gardeners around the area were either praying or cursing right about now.

She leaned just the slightest bit closer and squinted, noting a vague shape that she was starting to discern in the middle of the dissipating cloud. The shape appeared oddly . . .

Human? she thought. Despite all the observation she'd done since she had been hired, all she really knew about magic were vague generalities. Still, she was fairly certain that familiars could be all manner of creatures, but never humans.

Weren't they?

Then the last vestiges of the smoke cleared, and Siesta found herself suddenly becoming very alert.

The human form that the pink-haired mage had seemingly summoned was clearly sprawled on his back, and even at this distance Siesta could tell that there were dark spots of what was unmistakably blood on his clothing.

Louise heard several students hacking and coughing at the smoke from her attempt at summoning. She put her own hands over her mouth, desperately trying not to cough herself from the dirty clouds that had been raised by her explosion. She opened her eyes slowly, pointedly ignoring the several cries of "I knew it, I knew this would happen!"

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and rage as the expected mockery and jeering started among her classmates even before the others had stopped coughing. In the backdrop of the laughter and insults, she heard Kirche's distinctive "ohohohoh," causing Louise to bite her lower lip.

"Well, I have to admit, Vallière, that was amazing."

Louise felt herself growing even angrier. She rounded on Kirche to deliver an angry retort only to have even more of the lingering dust assault her throat, reducing her into a hacking, wheezing mess. Her face grew bright red from the shame, anger, and lack of oxygen even as the laughter and name-calling intensified around her.

"Way to go, Louise the Zero!" said a voice in mock congratulations. "I bet that was your biggest explosion yet!"

"They must have heard that all the way in Albion!" cried another amid the delighted cackling.

"Enough!" Professor Colbert's voice cut sternly through the air. "This heckling is no way for noble students to act."

"Founder!" a female voice suddenly gasped, interrupting the teacher in the middle of his reprimand. "Vallière k-killed somebody! The Zero finally went and killed somebody!"

At that exclamation Louise's head snapped around in near unison with everyone else's toward the center of the summoning field. Through the lasts wisps of smoke and dust, she could see a small crater, but that wasn't what caught her eye: in the middle was the dark-haired figure of a boy, perhaps about her age, lying on his back unmoving. On his clothes were dark stains.

Blood.

"V-Vallière . . ." she distantly heard Kirche mutter in shock as her own blood ran cold, "what have you done?"

Gasps of surprise and cries of accusation erupted all around Louise, but she was no longer paying attention to them. She stared transfixed at what she had apparently summoned, mind numb and mouth hanging open in shock, even as Mr. Colbert bolted toward the fallen figure, turning to the nearest two students.

"Guiche, Montmorency," he said urgently to the blond boy-and-girl pair, "go and call the academy healers. Hurry!"

The two students nodded quickly and, with an exchange of uncertain looks between them, levitated away hurriedly. The rest of the students milled around uncertainly, hovering over the scene in a disorganized semicircle.

I . . . I did that? Louise mentally uttered in sheer disbelief as she continued to stare, noting dimly that her teacher had begun to tear open the clothes of the fallen figure to expose the wounds, quickly administering one healing spell after another. But . . . how? He wasn't . . . I didn't . . . Did he walk into . . . But, no. No! There had been no one . . . But he's . . . Oh, oh Founder. Oh, Dear Founder . . .

Tears began to stream down her cheeks as her knees buckled, causing her to topple forward and land painfully on her elbows. She continued to stare at what had happ—no, what she had made happen. A groan escaped her lips and quickly degenerated into sobs.

It was over. She hadn't just failed, but her failure had hurt somebody . . . had possibly killed somebody. It didn't matter what had happened or how it had happened, the result was clear for all to see. Louise Françoise, shame of the House of La Vallière, had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was less than a noble—less than even a commoner. She was nothing but scum and—

She felt a had land lightly on her right shoulder, and she flinched violently. Looking up fearfully, Louise was surprised to see the familiar face of a certain blue-haired classmate. "T-Tabitha?"

"Not dead. Also not your fault," Tabitha stated in her usual taciturn monotone, and Louise could've sworn that it was a bit gentler than her usually cold demeanor. Or she would have had her mind not been trying to make sense of the Gallian girl's words.

"W-wha . . .?" the pink-haired girl managed to choke out.

"Stabbed," Tabitha pronounced as she pointed with her staff, and Louise found her eyes following it, "not exploded."

Wiping her eyes, Louise took a closer look at her summon, and she couldn't quite suppress a nauseated churn in her stomach now that she was seeing the boy's injuries without the haze of shock and tears. Professor Colbert, looking far more serious than Louise had ever seen him before, was still attending to the wounds and was currently using a water spell to drain blood from a large sucking hole just under the unconscious boy's left breast. And unconscious he was; Louise could see the bloodied chest move ever so slightly.

"She's right, Ms. Vallière," the balding bespectacled teacher reassured her even as he cast another spell to arrest the bleeding. "These are clearly injuries sustained from some sort of stabbing weapon, perhaps lances, just before you apparently summoned him here. The simple cut and color patterns of his clothing suggest a uniform of some sort, and I suspect this young man is military."

He turned to look at her, and the uncharacteristically serious expression on his face softened. "You must have summoned him just before he was about to be killed."

"I-I did?" Louise gasped, not daring to believe but hoping nonetheless.

"Yes, you might have just saved his life," Colbert added kindly, face barely showing the tiniest of hints of effort at the rapid string of healing spells he had just performed. Then his face hardened again as he began looking around. "I've managed to stem the bleeding and prevent the blood from drowning his punctured lung. The injuries themselves are quite severe, but he appears stable enough and the healers should be arriving soon."

Louise stood up slowly, her spirits finally lifting. "Oh, thank the Founder . . . Thank the gods . . ." she whispered under her breath. She hadn't killed anybody. She hadn't killed anybody!

She felt Tabitha removing the hand on her shoulder, and she found herself suddenly facing the blue-haired girl awkwardly, having just realized what she'd done. They'd never been friends—in fact, Louise usually counted her among her enemies, if only because the Gallian girl was friends with one of her most persistent tormentors, Kirche. On one hand, she'd never seen Tabitha actively joining in the taunting as the quiet girl usually preferred to hang back silently. On the other hand, she also never really seemed to oppose the sometimes utterly vicious teasing, and Louise couldn't quite shake the feeling that the girl judged her in silence.

Louise opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it again. She bit her lip and her eyes darted from side to side as Tabitha regarded her impassively. She just had no idea what to say to her given their history. She forced herself to open her mouth and look at Tabitha steadily, but at that point the blue-haired mage had already made the decision for her and was now looking at the unconscious form before them.

"A soldier, hm?" Kirche's singsong voice suddenly cut in. "Silly Little Louise, it's the dashing young warrior who saves the hapless noblewoman, not the other way around. Ah, even such a simple thing you apparently can't grasp? Tsk, tsk . . ."

Feeling her anger clawing its way free from the ball of feelings that her disastrous summoning had jumbled, Louise whirled on Kirche, ready to hurl abuse at her old rival. The smile on Kirche's face, however, gave her pause. It wasn't her usual mocking smirk but the kind of smile one would give to a friend to show that a disparaging remark had been meant in friendly jest. The anger stumbled and found itself again swimming in a roiling ball of confusion. This . . . this just wasn't right. Kirche of all people trying to lighten the mood with a friendly joke? They had never, ever been close to acting friendly, not since they had first met and figured out that they both belonged to long-opposed noble houses on opposite sides of a national border. In fact, some of the most hurtful insults she'd endured had come from the very same lips now smiling at her.

Just what in the world was the Germanian redhead playing at?

Apparently seeing the turmoil on her face, Kirche just gave her a theatrical shrug. Then, as if purposely changing the subject, she looked down and regarded the still unconscious figure on the ground.

"Hm . . . then that must be his weapon," Kirche declared. Seeing Louise's continued confusion, Kirche smiled. This time, it was a much more familiar mischievous smile. "Oh, I'm not looking at that weapon, Little Louise. That would be in very poor taste."

It took a second for Louise to process that, and when she did . . . "B-bwuh . . . that's not what I was thinking of, you lecherous deviant!"

She looked down in a huff as Kirche just gave her another infuriating smile (at least Kirche was acting as expected now). Louise noticed what she had missed in her earlier bout of despair. There was indeed something in the young boy's—soldier's?—right hand. On first glance it appeared to be a scepter made of wood and some black-painted material—metal?—with a head that appeared to be two cones placed together at the base. However, the shaft of the scepter seemed too thick to hold comfortably, and Louise wondered how one could properly wield such a heavy and clumsy-looking thing. Then she caught two extensions jutting out at a right angle on one side of the strange object. The first extension had what appeared to be trigger.

"A . . . a musket?" Louise said uncertainly. She'd never been too familiar with firearms as she thought them beneath her notice. They were mostly commoner weapons, after all.

"Too big," Professor Colbert said authoritatively. "The dimensions remind me more of a small canon, and the seeming handles appear rather awkwardly placed. I also see no visible indications of a matchlock, flintlock, or wheel-lock mechanism . . ."

"You seem to know quite a bit about muskets, Professor," Kirche observed, not quite accusingly, "and you seem to know your way around healing spells."

"I have a great interest in many subjects, Ms. Zerbst, and I've learned some useful things," he answered, smiling nonchalantly. "After all, I teach because I love learning and helping others learn."

Kirche quirked an eyebrow up at that, but dropped the matter with a slight shrug.

The teacher, meanwhile, had a taken on thoughtful expression on his face. Then, looking down, he cast what Louise recognized as a Detect Magic spell. Colbert's expression became puzzled. "Ah . . ."

Louise, still confused and starting to get a bit fidgety, said, "What? What is it?"

"There's magic," he answered, expression growing even more and more quizzical, ". . . of a sort."

"Magic? So does that mean"—Louise felt her mouth hit the floor—"I summoned a fighting mage, a noble?"

"Possibly," came the reply, "but I can't be completely certain as of now."

She felt her feelings plummeting again. A noble. She had summoned a fellow noble to be her familiar. An icy pit formed in her stomach. No, it wasn't as bad as accidentally killing someone with a misfired spell, but it was an undesirable outcome nonetheless. The political ramifications could be bad enough, especially if she had inadvertently summoned a scion of some powerful or influential house. Worse if the unconscious boy was a foreign noble. Oh, her mother was going to kill her . . .

. . . But hadn't Mr. Colbert said that she had saved the boy's life? And she'd yet to complete the familiar contract, so she technically hadn't made a servant of him yet. That had to count to for something, didn't it?

"Of a sort?" Tabitha prompted, repeating the words Louise had missed in her panic.

The professor remained silent for a bit, as if considering what to say. He looked at the students around him, all waiting expectantly for an answer. Finally, he opened his mouth, "The spell detected something, but it feels somehow . . . off. Perhaps the severity of his injuries and the possible willpower drain have something to do with it as the reading also seems rather weak—Ah! Over here, quickly!"

At the abrupt exclamation, the students turned to see a group of academy healers levitating toward them, Guiche and Montmorency in tow. Mr. Colbert and the students backed away to give the healers some room. One laid a stretcher on the ground as another prepared to cast a levitation spell to gently lift the unresponsive and injured form onto it. A third consulted with Mr. Colbert, who quickly filled him in on the healing spells that he had casted. Louise hovered nearby, careful to keep enough of a distance to allow the healers to move unimpeded. Whatever had happened and whoever she'd summoned, he was her responsibility now, so she would stay by his side and wait until she could explain herself to him personally.

Without warning, the two healers by the stretcher were thrown back. One of them almost crashed into Louise, causing her to yelp in alarm. Suddenly alert, Mr. Colbert moved, staff at ready, and yelled for everyone to back away. The healer he had been talking to had reacted more slowly, but he too now had his wand out and ready. As she backed away, Louise saw Tabitha around the corner of her eyes. The quiet girl's staff was also raised. Beside her was Kirche, grasping her wand with a serious expression on her face. All of them were looking intently at the figure that had appeared out of nowhere and was now standing protectively over the unconscious boy.

The figure was tall and lanky and draped in a loose and ill-fitting . . . coat? It was strangely colored in a haphazard mottle of grey, white, and black and was left unbuttoned—in fact, it didn't even seem to have buttons or laces or any other type of fastener Louise could see. Under the coat was what appeared to be a white cotton peasant's shirt that was sloppily not tucked into a pair of strange and baggy shortened trousers that stopped just below the knees. Completing the strange garb was a pair of thick boots with several bits of what looked like metal stuck to them. What skin she could see appeared to be brown, but of a lighter shade than Kirche's.

All in all, Louise would have thought the figure to be some sort of peasant in a weird manner of dress, possibly a performer of some sort, if it wasn't for one particular detail: instead of a human head, the figure sported an enlarged version of the head of the "scepter" instead.

And it was pointed right at them.

. . . Denny Long-Legs.

Expectation

I know, Eyes . . .

Irritation

. . . distracting me just before I fire.

Exasperation.

Resignation

A click. A breath. A trigger-pull.

Propulsion

Explosion

Breakneck speed. Sudden light. Faster darkness.

Oblivion

Oh, come on!

Wham! Wham! Wham!

Regeneration

Confusion

A drop. A jerk. A scream.

. . . not dying that quickly, kid . . .

A drop. An impact. Another scream.

. . . missed.

. . . missed again.

Realization

Decision

An adjustment. A click.

He won't.

Impaction

A slam. A thud. A boom.

Disorientation

A laugh. A gurgle. A squeeze.

Useless . . .

Consolation

A mirror.

Death's door.

42-42-564 . . .

A shock. A flash.

Commotion

Consternation

Agitation

A voice. Voices. Closer. Louder.

Restoration

Cognition

Eyes Javit's senses came back to him like a train into an unfortunate car; the muddled, half-formed thoughts and memories seemed to almost physically snap into him as they came into sharp focus. His vision, which defaulted to the PGO-7 scope when he was in RPG form, also came back just as suddenly, contributing to the momentary information overload. Forcing his attention to focus on sight alone, he peered out only to be annoyed by the too close image of a sleeved hand clutching onto the tube of his RPG form and obstructing the view.

Dammit, Hiraga, he thought as he shifted his vision onto the tip of the rocket projectile, which was his secondary viewing point in weapon form and the only viewing point during the unpleasant moments when he had to fire.

His view was blocked here as well, this time by what was clearly a pair of squatting legs. Immediately, the last thing he had seen before he had fired leapt forward from the confusing swirl of suddenly clearing memories: a nightmarish multi-legged form standing over him, with Hiraga impaled on one of its legs while being tortured. And now they were both on the ground, a form closely leaning over them—far too close for him to shoot at.

Panicking now, Eyes did the first thing that screamed desperately into his mind.

He suddenly shifted into his part-weapon form, swinging his arms as widely and as wildly as he could as he did so. He could feel both arms connecting hard and would have winced in pain had he possessed a face. Bringing down the now proportionately large HEAT warhead that remained in lieu of his head by bodily leaning his torso forward, Eyes quickly swept it from one side to the other, quietly cursing the fact that his viewing point in this form remained at the tip. What he saw turned wild panic into sudden puzzlement.

Wha . . . Daytime? . . . Grassy field? . . . People? . . . Where'd they? . . . What the hell is going on? he mentally demanded as his stunned brain tried to come up with an answer.

The two people closest to him struggled to stand up, and Eyes realized that these guys were the ones his sudden transformation had thrown. Neither of them looked like Denny Long-Legs. In fact, no one around looked like Denny Long-Legs. There were two others dressed in robes just like the two he had knocked down, and all four of them were clearly adults. The rest looked like kids around he and Hiraga's age range, and they were dressed in what looked like school uniforms with capes. Distributed throughout the crowd were creatures of all shapes and sizes, including what looked like a blue dragon and a giant floating eyeball. All of them were looking at him, and the people closest to him were pointing sticks—wands?—and staves in his direction. There was no mistaking the intent behind the pointing: those things were weapons of some kind.

Eyes cursed his luck. Out of the frying pan and into . . . well, whatever kind of fire this was. The crowd was keeping back right now, but given their numbers Eyes knew that he was in a bad situation. In his part-weapon form he couldn't fire unless he wanted to blow up his torso with the vented backblast, and in his full weapon form he couldn't aim himself. The only thing he could do right now was wave his weaponized noggin around and hope he could buy time for . . . something. He wished he had a face to grimace with.

Useless.

Hiraga's favorite descriptor of him came unbidden to his mind, and he ruthlessly fought it down. At least, he was trying to when a treacherous part of him sneered, But he's right, isn't he? You're more liability than weapon, always have been.

Had he teeth, the Weapon would have gritted them. It's not like he had wanted to be in the EAT (Especially Advantaged Talent) class; he would have been perfectly happy to have been placed in the NOT (Normally Overcome Target) class. Hell, he and Hiraga should have been in the NOT class, but no, he was an RPG-7 and Hiraga had "potential," so off to near-certain death you go to unlock it, kids!

He clenched his fists as he continued to look warily at the crowd around him, desperately looking for a way out and finding none. Well, no, not quite none. He could always shift to a thermobaric warhead and take a few down with him if they started in on them, but like hell did he want to die for Hiraga's sake. He didn't even want to die for his own sake.

Just what did you get us into, Hiraga? he thought as he slowly inched back to a distance that allowed him to view Hiraga with his now fixed field of vision while not looking away from the group who was also slowly taking positions around him.

His partner came to view, and he couldn't stop himself from cringing. Hiraga was seriously messed up, and there was blood all over his torso and right leg.

Oh, God . . . Is he . . .

Then he saw the older boy's chest moving, and his shoulders slumped slightly in relief. Looking even more closely now, he also realized that for all the blood he could see, it didn't seem to be pouring out and pooling. He started to slowly move forward again protectively. The Meister would never be his favorite person, but like hell did he deserve this.

Someone suddenly called out in a loud voice, and Eyes whipped around with a start, causing several in the crowd to jerk back nervously. The source of the voice, a balding man with glasses and a staff, had not been one of them and was looking at him steadily. The man's free hand was raised up in placating gesture, but Eyes still cast a wary glance at the staff, which was still held at the ready. Given the man's age, Eyes assumed that he was probably the one in authority here.

The man spoke to him again in a language he couldn't understand. Slowly, Eyes shook his head, both to signal that he couldn't understand and to keep an eye on the rest of the crowd. The balding man spoke again, this time slowly and enunciating clearly, which sparked some irritation in the Weapon. Receding Hairline reminded him of the idiots who thought he was deaf just because he used sign language and . . .

His annoyance trailed off as he realized that the words were familiar. He still couldn't understand it, but it had sounded a lot like French to him.

France? What the hell am I doing in France? Just what happened last night? Was it even last night? he wondered. He wracked his brain, trying to recall the details of the mission against Denny Long-Legs. Frustratingly, the only really clear memories were of events just before the two times he'd been fired. The rest were just relatively vague hints and flashes. He did recall something that seemed like Hiraga reaching for a mirror, though.

Glancing again at the uniforms around him, Eyes began to wonder if Hiraga's last call to Lord Death—if that was indeed what he had recalled—had somehow gotten its wires crossed and consequently plopped them in a French equivalent of the DWMA. As soon as that thought came to him, he recognized how unlikely it was. No, the DWMA was the Meister-Weapon academy, and he had never heard of Lord Death authorize any other such place. After all, Death City, Nevada, was the only place on Earth under the direct aegis of the very soul of Death. So just where was this exactly, and who were these people?

Another voice called out him, this time in what sounded a lot like German. Upon turning, Eyes found himself thankful for his current confusion, nervousness, and lack of face because they circumvented the instinctive reaction he would have had to the sight that greeted him. That she was a female around his age would've made him skittish (read, blubbering wreck) enough, but the fact that the dark-skinned redhead that came into his view was . . . damn . . . and had left her blouse unbuttoned to show off . . . no, no, he was adamantly refusing to go there. In every sense of the word. Adamantly.

She spoke again, this time doing so in a friendly manner that resulted in the movement of . . . Stop.

The Demon Weapon shook his head to signal his incomprehension again, glad for the excuse to turn away. Still, as he was shaking his head he managed to catch a view of her shrugging apologetically to Receding Hairline, causing—

No.

Adamantly.

"How about this language?" Receding Hairline suddenly cut in. "Do you understand Albionese?"

Finally, English, he thought, nodding slowly. But Albionese? What?

"Ah!" the man exclaimed in what sounded like pleased satisfaction, although Eyes noted that the man still looked wary and alert. "Good. I am Professor Jean Colbert, and you are in the Tristain Academy of Magic. It seems that you and your master were accidentally summoned here."

At that, a petite pink-haired girl in the group flinched, although he was trying his damnedest not to look at her, or any other girl for that matter.

Summoned? That explains the scenery change, Eyes considered. Then his eyes widened—well, figuratively. Wait, Tristain Academy of Magic? Then that means . . . Oh, we are so fucked.

Everyone knew that magic was the province of Witches, and most of the time that meant bad news. The Sway of Magic was known to exacerbate destructive tendencies over time, and most Witches usually got corrupted into twistedly dangerous monsters with a fetish for destruction and torture. If this was an entire academy of them . . . Suddenly, blowing themselves up started sounding like a very, very good option. Especially since they apparently came to the logical conclusion that Hiraga was his Meister—although using the English word for it kinda made him sound annoyingly like Hiraga's servant—and Witches, as a rule, really did not like students of Lord Death. The feeling was generally mutual.

But then again, Witches don't generally use wands, do they? They don't need them, right? Eyes asked himself, grasping at the slightest hope. And aren't they usually female? About half the kids here and all but one of the four adults are dudes. Also, no one's wearing a witch hat. Witches love those damn things—

A loud ah sounded from the pink-haired girl, interrupting his thoughts, as she opened her mouth to say something. Before she could, however, Receding Hairline raised a hand and shook his head kindly to stop her.

"Rest assured that no insult was meant in the summoning of your master," Receding Hairline continued, "and neither did we intend to bind him as a familiar after we ascertained his magical status."

Wait, what? Binding? And Hiraga's magic now? Then a word clicked in his mind, and Eyes's mood sank even further. "Familiar." He definitely said "familiar." Crap, they really are Witches. But if Hiraga's magic, then . . . he's one of them. But that's . . . Dammit, he's a jerk, but he's not a Witch . . . right?

"We know your first instinct as his . . . apparent familiar is to protect him," Receding Hairline was still talking, "but we assure you that we meant him no harm. We have applied medical spells to stabilize his condition, but he is still in dire need of further treatment."

Now this was making less and less sense to Eyes. He was clearly a Demon Weapon, not a familiar. Hell, hadn't they called Hiraga his Meister? No, wait, they had used the word master. So did that mean . . . But Witches' familiars were clearly and wholly inhuman—at this, Eyes, regarded the plethora of creatures around him warily—while right now he was mostly human aside from his grenade head. And for a bunch of apparent Witches, these guys were nice and considerate. . . Almost too nice and considerate. And, well, sane. Just what were they playing at here?

"Please, let our healers take him and finish his treatment. You have my assurance that we will do the utmost to heal him properly."

"A-and as the one who s-summoned your master," the pinked-haired girl—Cotton Candy, Eyes decided—began nervously, stuttering at first, "I, Louise Françoise le Blanc de La Vallière, third daughter of the House of La Vallière, take full responsibility for his well-being. I swear upon my noble duty that I will do everything within my ability to set this right, and I will explain myself fully to your master and his house when he regains consciousness."

Eyes stared at the two of them, trying and failing to process what they had just said. T-they think Hiraga is some sort of fancy ranked Witch? And that I'm Hiraga's familiar?

His mind percolated, trying to see if this was just some sort of elaborate ruse. Were these Witches just lulling them into a false sense of security so they could later . . . do things not worth thinking about right now. But then again, why? With their numbers and with Hiraga unconscious and seriously wounded, they had them dead to rights. There was no need to do all this just to get them to surrender.

Unless these Witches wanted them alive.

He shuddered.

But . . . a part of his mind still hoped, they . . . seem sincere enough. At least Cotton Candy does. Receding Hairline has one hell of a poker face. If they were serious, then maybe—just maybe—I can play this apparent case of mistaken identity for as much as it's worth. Or at least to buy us enough time to find a way to get out of here, maybe get Hiraga patched up in the process.

Eyes's stomach knotted. Trusting Witches was insane, but his only other options here were 1) try to run off with Hiraga and get jumped, so explode to prevent capture and horribleness; 2) try to fight his way out while carrying Hiraga, get his ass kicked, and explode to prevent capture and horribleness; or 3) try to bluff his way out, likely fail, get jumped, and explode to prevent capture and horribleness. At least this one had some remote chance. Some. And if this went ploin-shaped, well, he always had the option of exploding himself.

The sad part was, part of him actually did find that comforting. He was definitely going insane, or maybe the world was. Given his and Hiraga's recent luck, probably both.

Finally, he nodded his assent and backed away from Hiraga's still form. Cautiously, two of the healers approached, with one of them picking up the stretcher that had been cast aside when they had been hurled back earlier. Eyes kept a watchful warhead on them as they lay the stretcher flat on the ground beside his partner. One of them raised a wand, and Eyes tensed in response.

"I'm casting a spell to lift him gently to the stretcher, that's all," the healer assured him somewhat nervously.

After a moment of consideration, Eyes nodded again. The healer waved the wand and muttered something, and the unconscious Meister lifted ever so lightly off the ground, hovering a few inches above it, and slid gently over to the stretcher before settling down upon it. The two of them then picked up the stretcher, and a third one cast a similar spell on them. Hovering a few inches off the ground temselves now, the healers kept the stretcher as even and stable as possible as they moved forward faster than walking speed.

Satisfied, Eyes raised his warhead to the sky as a sign of good faith.

He froze.

The sun was . . . wrong. Instead of the smiling bright-yellow ball with lumpy spikes, it had been replaced by a glaringly bright orb that looked for all the world like an oversized spotlight. Most disturbing of all, it had no face.

Eyes's shock was severe enough to rock him back fully into his human form. He was still gaping at the sky as the crowd around him greeted his abrupt change with cries of surprise, only looking away when the pain in his eyes became unbearable.

Where the hell am I?