Chapter Text
Kurisu opened her eyes with the distinct feeling that she was late.
A dull echo throbbed in her chest, syncing with the rapid rhythm of a heart that felt far too heavy and reminded her that she was conscious.
Before her, the world faltered as if gripped by an earthquake, the horizon tilting and swaying in a confused blur.
The room was nothing more than an overlay of unstable colors.
Yellow, magenta, cyan.
They bled into each other, forming six colors.
Then twelve.
Thirty-four.
By the time the world fractured into sixty-eight agonizing shades, nausea surged.
She squeezed her eyes shut, holding back a retch and slapping a hand over her mouth.
Her lips felt like sandpaper beneath her fingers.
When she finally dared to open her eyes again, the earth had stabilized.
People were shouting, the fan was buzzing, the clock was ticking.
Everything was normal.
Sitting, with her legs spread wide and her back straight, she was thankful she wasn't standing: she would have collapsed without the strength to get back up.
A feeling of déjà-vu pervaded her as, appealing to every bit of reason her analytical mind could offer, she watched the room slowly begin to populate.
It felt like a university lecture hall: white, sterile, and filled with chairs, empty and occupied, arranged in rows of ten, like a large, monochrome chessboard.
She had stood in a place just like this only days before.
Come to think of it, it was the same place.
She remembered the whiteboard very well and the small red heart drawn on it in marker.
The bag of the girl in the front row, shaped like a cat.
The boy’s shirt in the third row, with a Dragonball print on it.
The projector, however, didn’t belong there at all. Back then, she hadn't had the chance to prepare slides. Instead, she had opted for a simple monologue and a lot of courage.
Time Travel: Between Theories and Conspiracies.
This was the headline vibrating in large pixels on the white panel.
She knew that topic very well. What else could she have talked about? Neuroscience? At an engineering school?
Her mind began to clear as she laboriously tried to piece her memories back together.
She glanced at the presentation slide. It was dated July 28.
The same day she had given a lecture at Tokyo Denki University.
A handful of minutes earlier, she and Okabe had attempted a time leap together and, judging by the situation she was in, they must have succeeded.
Compared to what they had planned, they had gone a little too far back in time. She would have preferred not to repeat the lecture, especially with the lingering malaise: a side effect of defying the laws of physics.
If she could have used a few minutes before the conference started, she would have looked for Okabe.
He had to be there. After all, they had met in that same classroom weeks ago, while he-
Weeks.
Kurisu pressed a hand to her temple, letting an unusually heavy sob slip from her lips.
She used to roll a long lock of hair between her fingers to calm herself down.
This time, her grip slipped, brushing through empty air.
They were too short.
Hesitantly, she tried again.
Her long, fluffy mahogany hair was gone, cut short before she could curl it around her fingers.
Wasn’t the maximum limit for a time leap forty-eight hours?
She sank both hands into her hair, wrapping large strands as if to tear them out, only to be left with tight, empty fists.
Fourteen days. Fifteen.
Maybe even sixteen.
Her palms slid down to cover her eyes.
She was a woman of science. There had to be a logical explanation behind all this.
She inhaled sharply through her fingers. The skin smelled familiar…
She didn’t understand where she could have gone wrong. Her calculations had been correct.
Maybe they had simply managed to overwrite their own theory.
It wasn’t a mistake.
It wasn’t supposed to be.
Maybe they really could go back in time together, for that long.
She held her breath for a few seconds. Then, forcefully expelling the stale air choking her lungs, she slid her hands along the lines of her face and down to her neck. Opening her eyes, she might feel a little better.
Her skin was unusually rough.
Her fingers traced her jaw, expecting a smooth, feminine curve.
Not a thick expanse of prickly needles brushing against her fingertips.
She touched her chin.
Then her neck.
Hard muscles. Broad, heavy bone.
A beard that shouldn’t have been there.
“We can get started. Are you feeling all right…?”
The voice broke the moment as her hands, those hands, tightened around her neck as if strangling it. She recognized the professor who had introduced the lecture the first time.
A crease of concern furrowed the man’s brow.
“I’m fine, thanks for your concern. We can start.”
The words gurgled from her throat.
A low, resonant vibration that rattled her entire ribcage.
As she stood, Kurisu cleared her throat.
Her mouth felt sandy, her tongue heavy and dry. She coughed, tapping a hand against her chest.
Her head turned sluggishly, numb. Her body felt heavier somehow. As she approached the lectern, she noticed how much lower it was compared to last time.
The world seemed to have shrunk by a foot.
A large hand rested on the stand.
Long, rough fingers. Knuckles marked by deep grooves.
It responded to her impulses, yet it wasn't hers.
She rotated the wrist, turning the palm toward her face. She spread the fingers wide, then clenched them into a fist.
It’s not my hand.
Kurisu thought, as the roar of the classroom fading into a dull hum and her heart began to hammer against her ribs again. The throb in her temples was so violent it drowned out the professor's introduction.
“…One of the brightest students in the Neuroscience Department in Tokyo…”
Kurisu heard the words as if they were stripped of meaning.
“…Published in one of the most important journals in the scientific field…”
She kept watching the unfamiliar hand move at her command, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.
“…Viktor Chondria University in September.
Mr. Okabe, please. The floor is yours.”