Chapter Text
The lights of STARRY were still half-dim when the man pushed open the door.
Nijika was crouched by the drum kit, tightening the rods of her drum so as to bring it back to that sweet spot it always seemed to fall out of. Simultaneously, Ryo leaned against the wall with her bass propped against the front of the stage, scrolling through something on her phone—certainly pictures of more basses—with a bored, almost listless expression. All the while Seika sat behind the counter, tapping away at her computer. Probably filling out forms, setting up schedules, or doing various other managerial tasks. The rare absence of her former Kouhai made it much easier to complete her work, so Seika fully intended to make use of every second of peace. Kita, however, was sitting at a table, itching for something to occupy her. The rest of the band seemed to be partaking in a waiting game for their fourth, and while Kita knew they wouldn’t truly do anything until the girl arrived, she ardently beseeched whatever lay above for even the smallest thing to break the silence.
The man who entered looked frumpy, rocking a plain jacket, plain pants, plain expression, he was the kind of person that people didn’t notice, a sort of bystander. He stopped just inside the doorway and looked around like it was his first time on Earth. Seika’s voice cut through the quiet, as well as his daze. “We’re not open. Who are you?”
The man froze and opened his mouth before seemingly resigning. But then, he lifted up his jacket and unholstered something that made the entire room stop.
It wasn’t the type of gun that would be seen in a movie—nor in a gun shop. The weapon bore the body, trigger, chamber, and hammer of a SIG Sauer P320, the barrel, muzzle, and handguard of an M16A4, a 3x30 compact prism scope (despite the small build), an HFG vertical front grip, a Magpul MOE SL-S Carbine Stock, and a BS8200S BEAMSHOT, some of the components obviously added for novelty. Regardless of the technical care that went into the making of the gun, the parts were held together by welding that could be characterized as nothing other than egregious–not that it was lackadaisical or unprepossessing, just evidently rushed. Nijika’s hands stopped moving at the glint of the metal in her peripheral. Ryo’s phone lowered an inch. Seika’s posture went rigid, ready to act, yet wary.
The man lifted both his hands in a mollifying gesture, the weapon still aimed generally toward the tile.
“It’s not lethal,” he said, voice calm, yet carrying a slight hint of ecstasy. “I promise. Watch.”
He raised the firearm and pulled the trigger.
There was no bang, no hiss of pain—just a shrill, instant crack and a thin blue beam that hit Seika in her left shoulder.
Nijika jolted, reaching towards her sister and letting out a raucous scream that could only be described as pure, unadulterated horror.
“Onee-chan!”
But the manager didn’t fall—let alone bleed. She stumbled rearwards, blinked hard, and then simply changed. The slight creases in her forehead evanesced, and her brow slackened, even her clothes had changed. She looked unmistakably younger, having convalesced from whatever stress had racked her frame. Almost as if the last year of her life had been purloined and overturned, restoring her to a youthful state.
The altered Seika peered down at her own hands. “What in the hell…”
The man smirked, pressed a button on the side of the gun and fired again.
Another flash. Seika lurched forward ever so slightly. She returned to her present form as quick as lightning could rush to hit an unsuspecting tree, identical to how she looked preceding this tribulation, only now she was unmistakably ticked off.
“Hmm?” Said the man, gesturing towards Seika with a toothy grin. “Sends a person to the past, or rather brings their past to the present. You can thank me now, not only does it restore their appearance, but also their mind. Basically, I’m a boss.” He raised his hands in a conceited manner.
Nijika was still recovering from the shock, her heart beating out of her chest. Ryo went motionless, she would have laughed had their drummer not practically suffered a heart attack.
Nijika spoke first. “Good for you. But why would you come here of all places?”
The drifter replied. “Ummm, I’m not really sure, I more or less went where the wind took me.”
Ryo channeled all of her willpower into stifling a laugh, only to be betrayed by her own countenance.
The door opened again.
Bocchi stepped inside, long hair cascading over her face. The signature pink tracksuit hung from her body as was customary. Her head was hung, stammering apologies for being late—as well as existing in general. She didn’t see the monstrosity the man had been wielding, for it was positioned away from the door.
The man looked back.
His eyes lit up with sheer waggishness.
“Hmm… interesting. Let’s try two years this time.”
He raised the gun and shot it, nailing the girl directly in the back.
She slumped over, then stiffened.
The jacket abruptly vanished. Taking its place: a white dress shirt, black tie knotted cleanly at the collar, black pleated skirt, black knee-high socks, and black shoes. A blue armband was positioned on her right bicep, cyrillic letters adorned the cloth as if they belonged, “школа № 24”. The same script was displayed on the nametag situated above the right breast pocket—Готовский.
Even her hair had turned black—a deep black, almost navy—with a lighter blue underside that could only be noticed when she moved. Perhaps it was a result of the contrast, but the color made her skin look even paler than usual, something Ryo thought an impossibility. Furthermore, the nervous hunch she always carried was gone. She no longer stood desultorily, her posture was straight and rather professional, almost uncomfortably so.
She looked… striking.
Nijika’s breath caught, this version of Bocchi—this darker-haired, sharper-eyed, almost foreign girl—was eyeing the band with complete befuddlement, and Nijika found it impossible to look away.
The girl’s gaze moved from Kita to Nijika to Ryo to Seika, then to the man who was still holding his invention. Her brow furrowed.
«Эээ, что за херня?»
(Uhh, what the fuck?)
She seemed to have been speaking in tongues—flat tone, clear, natural, the consonants slightly sharper and vowels more drawn out than Japanese.
Her eyes narrowed, she spoke again, still in Russian, voice rising with genuine bewilderment.
«Что ты, чёрт возьми, наделал?»
(What the hell did you do?)
The room went quiet.
Ryo’s eyes widened. Seika’s hand tightened on the edge of the bar top. Nijika felt her pulse in her throat. Kita regretted ever having wished for something to happen.
The man’s expression flickered—satisfaction, then a sudden remembrance. He muttered something under his breath and raised the weapon again, thumb fumbling the button.
Nothing happened.
He pressed it harder. Still nothing. An empty click from the device, then silence.
“Crap!” he exclaimed, turning the thing over in his hands. “This isn’t what’s supposed to happen.”
Bocchi—Gotovskiy—tilted her head slightly, one eyebrow lifting in a way the pink-haired version lacked the nerve to do. She still looked more confused than frightened.
The man backed toward the door, already stammering his elucidation. “I’ll be back. I just need to fix this, it’ll only take two seconds. Don’t—don’t go anywhere.”
Seika moved before he could reach the handle. She stepped into his path and said in an authoritarian voice, “Number. Now.”
He hesitated only a second, then pulled out a cheap business card and slapped it into her palm. A moment later he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft finality.
Seika pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, the live house returning to an eerie silence.
Focus returned to the uniform-clad girl standing in the middle of the room, dark hair framing her face, looking at the four of them like she had woken up in the wrong life.
Nijika still hadn’t looked away.