Side Chapter: What About the Clone Named Lara? (Rewritten)

Meanwhile, in a universe far, far away…

General (POV)

Her eyes snapped open.

A gasp escaped her lips as she stared up at the wooden beams of a ceiling, the sharp intake making her chest rise and fall beneath the thin silk covering her. Morning light spilled in through rice-paper screens, highlighting the delicate latticework of shadows against her bare skin. A soft breeze whispered through the open window, caressing her collarbone, teasing the curve of her neck, and sending a delicious shiver down her spine.

Everything smelled different—sharp, clean, with a hint of cedar and something floral she couldn't quite place. She shifted her weight, the delicate tatami mat beneath her crackling faintly, its texture brushing the back of her thighs. Her skin prickled at the sensation—soft, sensitive, alive in ways that felt too acute, too heightened.

Her hand drifted to her chest instinctively, searching for the gaping wound she expected to find. Her fingertips trembled, brushing across the thin silk camisole that barely concealed the swell of her breasts. No blood. No jagged edges of torn flesh. Only smooth skin, her heart pounding beneath.

She gasped again. "I'm okay… but what was that?" Her voice, breathy and shaken, filled the quiet room. "That felt way too real to be just a nightmare!"

Her lips parted as the memory slithered back—fragments of violence and agony that wrapped around her mind like creeping vines.

"What… where am I?"

The image of a sword, impossibly large, splitting her chest apart returned with brutal clarity. Her breath hitched. Names tumbled into place.

Kara.

Illyasviel.

Lara.

Lands of Shadows.

Hades.

Her muscles tensed, a pulse of panic making her limbs shake. She sucked in air, fast and shallow.

"I died."

I felt it—

I died.

She sat up too fast, her blonde hair cascading forward in a silken wave that brushed against her bare shoulders. The cool strands tickled her flushed skin, her body so keenly aware of every featherlight touch it was almost maddening. The futon creaked beneath her as she clutched its edge, her knuckles whitening.

Her gaze darted around the room, her heartbeat thrumming in her ears like a drumbeat. A simple dresser, its wooden finish polished to a subtle gleam. A mirror reflecting her wide-eyed panic. Neatly piled schoolbooks, stacked with an almost obsessive precision.

Her hand reached for her face, shaking fingers tracing her features as if she'd forgotten her own skin. She swallowed hard, a dry lump in her throat.

"Yes," she whispered. "It's me. I'm still me. Laura Vandervoort. Seventeen years old. Canadian." The words tumbled out in a rush, each one anchoring her like a lifeline. "I got here yesterday. An exchange student. Japan. One-year scholarship program. That's real. That's true."

But her reflection blurred as the truth unraveled in her mind.

Her eyes narrowed. Her fingers clenched.

"But…" Her lip curled, teeth scraping her lower lip hard enough to sting. "Why do I feel like I'm also… her? Lara. The one who died. The one who—"

Pain hit her like a wrecking ball.

A headache split her skull, fierce and unforgiving. She dropped to her knees, a scream clawing its way from her throat. Her back arched, her body shaking, every muscle pulled taut as fire blazed behind her eyes.

Memories slammed into her. Twisting. Splintering. Falling into place.

When the agony finally subsided, she lay there, breath coming in ragged gasps, sweat glistening on her skin. Minutes passed as her body felt too heavy to move.

Finally, she pushed herself up again, lips twitching into a sardonic smirk.

"Shit," she muttered, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. "I had actually been Lara at some point."

She blinked as the question clawed its way to the forefront of her mind.

"But why am I not dead?" Her brow furrowed, disbelief tightening her chest as her eyes darted around. "This is the same house I've been staying in since my arrival in Japan." She checked her watch, just to be absolutely sure, "Yesterday. So alien adoption is out of the window. Rebirth or something?"

She tried to digest the flood of fragmented knowledge now lodged in her brain, puzzling over her current situation with growing frustration.

"No actual information about me other than I used to be Lara. Mostly multimedia junk shoved into my head. Lara was just a girl who found herself in the Land of Shadows, trained under Scáthach, and ultimately died at the hands of Hades, who was trying to invade that realm."

Her voice trailed off as she rubbed her temples, her fingers digging into her skin.

"No details on how she got there. Just heavily fragmented garbage beyond that."

"So, anime universes are real now? What else out there is real?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. "God, Laura, what the hell is going on? What could this mean?"

Her mind whirled, every scattered truth a jagged piece of a puzzle that refused to fit.

"I still can't believe this crap. What the actual hell?"

She exhaled sharply, her breath an audible mix of exasperation and disbelief.

"Seriously?"

She paused, her brows knitting tighter as her eyes darkened with suspicion.

"In my memories, Laura Vandervoort was the actress who played Kara on Smallville. She was Canadian, like me. And we kind of look the same, though at sixteen, it's hard to compare to the image I have of her at least twenty-four. I, however, do not aspire to be an actress."

Her voice softened, touched with wary confusion.

"But other than that? I don't know anything about that Laura Vandervoort. No personal details. So, I can't even be sure if we're the same person."

She scowled, her lips twisting into a grimace as absurdity settled over her.

"Am I in another fantasy world come to life?" Hearing herself, she scoffed. "What am I saying? I'm just hallucinating, my usual craziness, for sure. Same as when I was a kid and convinced I could move objects with my mind and control shadows."

She pinched her arm, a sharp, stinging tug that did nothing to wake her from this bizarre fever dream.

"Get it together, Laura," she muttered, laughing at herself.

Stretching out her hand, she made a mock, theatrical pulling motion toward a nearby chair. "See? Nothing's—"

The chair twitched.

Her breath hitched.

"Oh no. Fuck."

The word slipped out in a sharp yelp of surprise.

It dawned on her, a truth sinking into her bones like ice water: telekinesis. Umbrakinesis. Abilities Lara had access to.

A different knot tightened in her chest—deeper, more insistent. Her body felt… different, alive, taut with a kind of electric hum she hadn't noticed before.

She stood slowly, legs steady but bare against the cool floor, her breath quickening as she desperately hoped she hadn't ended up disfigured with horns or something.

The wild panic crashed into hope as she moved toward the mirror.

Golden hair cascaded over her shoulders in thick, unruly waves, catching the light like molten silk. Two loose strands framed her face, curling rebelliously against her cheek.

Heart still pounding, she leaned closer, her fingers pressing against the cold glass.

Blue eyes—glacial, unnervingly bright—locked onto hers, searing with a raw, unapologetic intensity that peeled back layers of illusion.

Her lips parted, full and plush—the kind that spoke of sin and secrets, inviting chaos with a single, knowing curve. A dainty nose softened the sharp elegance of her face, adding a playful, almost mischievous allure.

"Still me," she whispered, relief flooding her veins. Her breath steadied.

But the hum beneath her skin didn't fade.

"Why do I feel like something has changed inside me?"

Her gaze sharpened. She studied her reflection more closely, lips moving as the thought hit her.

"I do resemble Lara. A lot."

Her gaze trailed downward.

The pajama top clung like a second skin, the fabric stretched and straining across her chest. The swell of her breasts—full, firm, too much for this flimsy little thing to handle—made the neckline dip just a little too low. Her nipples pressed faintly against the thin fabric, betraying their presence with shameless precision. The hem barely grazed her hips, revealing smooth, bare thighs and the tiniest flash of silken underwear riding scandalously high.

She swallowed hard, her tongue darting out to wet her dry lips as heat pooled low in her belly.

"Goddamn."

Her hands moved without thinking, sliding down her sides, the sensation of her own fingertips skimming her supple curves sending shivers across her skin. Her touch lingered on the tight curve of her waist, feeling the smooth slope as it narrowed before flaring out again to the enticing swell of her hips. A wicked little smile tugged at her lips, her fingers pressing just a bit harder as if testing the tension of lean muscle and feminine softness.

She shifted, catching a different angle of herself in the mirror. Her reflection was a vision of temptation—bare legs long and sculpted, every step and breath a whispered invitation. The pajama shorts, impossibly short, hugged her hips like a lover's hand, creeping upward with every motion.

"Guess the change is my personality," she murmured with a smirk, tilting her head as she adjusted the strap of her top when it slipped off her shoulder. The thin strip of fabric slid against her skin, slow and sensual. "I seem to have turned into a pervert, perving over my own body."

With a shake of her head, she forced herself to break her trance.

"Enough gawking. No need to act like I've just discovered mirrors," she muttered.

Shaking her head to clear it, she turned her attention to the room. Something in the back of her mind was gnawing at her—she really needed to verify something.

Her eyes landed on her suitcase, shoved haphazardly under the desk. She crouched down, her pajama shorts riding up further as she moved, the fabric bunching high on her thighs. The seam at the crotch pressed snugly between her legs, grinding her clit, sending a sharp breath past her lips as a jolt of sensation sparked through her.

Letting out a groan, she complained, "Christ, not only do I perv over myself now, but my body also seems way too sensitive."

Rummaging through the contents. Silk panties, she pushed them aside not what she needed. A pressed school uniform with such an absurdly short skirt that calling them indecent wouldn't even cut it. A wallet, ID card, and neatly folded transfer papers.

Her hand closed around a wallet, then an ID card. Finally, she pulled out her neatly folded transfer papers. Eyes narrowing, she scanned the text.

Laura Vandervoort. Fujimi Academy. Tokonosu City.

Her heart stopped.

"Highschool of the Dead."

The name escaped her lips like a curse, vivid, blood-soaked memories flashing behind her eyes. Screams. Chaos. The relentless dead. Hungry. Unstoppable.

The realization hit like a freight train with no brakes. Hands trembling, she yanked her laptop closer, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Maps. Local cultural guides. She typed feverishly, scanning the results. The words Tokonosu City and Fujimi Academy filled the screen, stark and undeniable.

Her blood ran cold.

"This can't be a coincidence," she whispered. "I've been shoved into a dying world."

She massaged her temples, the weight of the truth pressing in on her.

"Great, Laura. Why were you so obsessed with anime, manga, and superpowers as a kid? So much that you thought it was smart to study abroad in Japan?"

Her sarcasm did little to mask the gnawing dread in her gut.

"I'd rather be around family in an apocalypse."

A long, deflating sigh escaped her lips, her body sinking deeper into the chair. Blood. Screams. The nightmare. Her eyes stared ahead, hollow with understanding.

"This is going to be a clusterfuck."

"Fuck this! I'll cross the bridge when I get there. First things first—school." Laura muttered, her gaze dropping to her pajama top. The fabric stretched taut, clinging desperately to her chest, the neckline pulled low enough to verge on scandalous. She sighed heavily, hooking a finger under the hem and tugging upward. The strained cotton lifted momentarily, giving her a fleeting sense of relief before snapping back into place with a faint pop.

"What kind of perv were you, Laura?" she whispered.

Her fingertips grazed the hem as she pinched it between her thumb and forefinger, the thin cotton already riding high enough to leave her legs and a teasing hint of her hips bare. Without further hesitation, she grasped the pajama top and pulled it over her head in one smooth motion. The friction of fabric sliding over hypersensitive skin sent a jolt of heat curling through her body. She bit her lip, stifling a soft gasp before tossing the garment to the floor where it landed with a quiet thud.

"Guess I'll need to get used to that," she mumbled under her breath. "Now for a bra."

She knelt beside her bag, rummaging with growing frustration. Her breath hitched as realization dawned. One bra. Just one.

Her fingers closed around yesterday's bra with a groan. "Seriously? What was I thinking? Now where am I supposed to find a store that stocks American D-cups in Japan during the goddamn apocalypse?"

Muttering curses, she began squeezing herself into the bra. The fabric resisted, the cups suddenly feeling smaller—tighter. She gritted her teeth, wrangling her breasts into place.

"Huh." She frowned, tugging at the straps. "Did my boobs grow overnight?" Her mind flicked to an old term. "Don't tell me I need to wear a sarashi or something."

With a final tug, she managed to squeeze everything in, though the fit was far from comfortable. Her now-hardened nipple, thanks to all the fumbling with her breasts, pressed uncomfortably against the fabric. The underwire bit into her skin, and the straps dug into her shoulders.

"I can't believe this is better than nothing," she grumbled, adjusting it with a grimace. "But it's better than flashing everyone."

She reached for her Fujimi Academy uniform next, holding it up with a dubious expression. The skirt was a joke. Pleated, flared, and so short it looked more like a suggestion than clothing.

"Jesus Christ."

She slipped it on, tugging the fabric up her legs. It slid smoothly into place before settling snugly around her hips, flaring out with every breath and movement. It was indecently short. If she so much as bent forward, the world would get a free show.

A low groan rumbled from her throat as she searched for stockings. Drawers. The backpack. Even under the bed. Nothing.

She straightened, hands on her hips, her expression darkening.

"No bra? Fine. But no stockings?" Her reflection smirked back mockingly as she gestured at the mirror. "You expect me to run from zombies—whatever they're called—in this tiny-ass skirt? Bare legs?"

The sheer ridiculousness of her predicament almost made her burt into a hysterical laughter. She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly.

"...Fine," she muttered at last. "I'll cut her some slack. She didn't know."

Adjusting the blazer, she pulled it tight around her torso. The tailored fabric hugged her curves, emphasizing the dip of her waist and the fullness of her chest. The collar brushed her neck, a teasing caress that felt far too intimate for a school uniform. She tugged the skirt down another inch—it didn't help.

It was barely functional. And she hated how damn good it looked—perfectly fitting, as today marked her first official day as Laura Vandervoort, a freshly transferred student from Canada. She paused at the door, her fingers hovering just above the handle.

Excitement and a flicker of dread crashed into her. A new school, new faces, new beginnings. And the outbreak.

The when of it all was maddeningly vague in her memories. The original story had danced around specifics, a Monday in late summer, early spring? Today was a Monday. What if it started right after her transfer? What if today was the day? What if the outbreak began now?

She scowled at the thought, her hand dropping away from the door.

"Seriously? Zombies on my first day?"

She turned sharply, retracing her steps back to the living room. If she was walking straight into an apocalypse, she needed more than guts and a skirt that doubled as a wind hazard. Preparation was key.

Her body wasn't ordinary—according to her memories, she was roughly three to four times stronger than any athletic girl her age. No Kryptonian-level power here, sadly. No solar batteries humming beneath her skin. But she was strong enough to get banned from sports in Canada. No one wanted to play volleyball when the ball became a human-powered wrecking ball. She was sure that if her parents weren't in the military, she might have ended up a lab rat. Her parents had been so reassured. She'd be perfectly safe in Japan, they said. Self-defense wouldn't be an issue, they said.

The thought didn't comfort her nearly as much as it should.

She stretched, cracking her knuckles and rolling her shoulders. Her limbs felt lithe and powerful for a human. But that was basically her advantage—though she wasn't an energy construct anymore, she still carried over the degraded magic circuits she'd had as Lara. Yet there was no hum of magical energy coursing through her body. Only a faint static, like dead radio air. She exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of disappointment settle on her chest.

"Maybe it's the rules of this universe," she murmured. Whatever the cause, it left her feeling hollow. Exposed.

Still, she ran a quick mental and physical diagnostic.

Shadows? Check. Manipulation and access to the shadow dimension intact.

Telekinesis? Weak, but functional.

Elemental Control? Barely a whisper of what it once was.

Virtual Substance? It worked, though crafting even simple swords would take time and energy. But it was something.

But now she had to go to school.

Her eyes darted toward the kitchen. Survival meant thinking practically. She strode in, her gaze sweeping the counters until she spotted it. A Japanese kitchen knife—a Gyuto knife, quite long, but with her strength, it could be deadly.

"Not a katana, but I can certainly work with this." She muttered, her lips perking into a smile.

She picked it up, testing its balance. Her fingers tightened around the handle, the makeshift zombie-hunting tool already feeling like an extension of her arm.

"Needs must," she whispered, sliding it into her shadows.

In a world about to be overrun by them, blind faith wasn't an option. Unlike the anime, where the characters always seemed well-stocked and relatively unbothered by the logistics of survival, this was real. Reality didn't come with convenient plot armor or endless resources.

"At least I'm not completely helpless. I have superhuman strength. A decent knife. Fragmented remains of my magic, blocked as it was. Still useful." Laura permitted herself a smile. And since her arsenal also included firearms proficiency, hand-to-hand combat skills, spearmanship, and swordsmanship, she felt somewhat more at ease.

"For now, now I am good."

…

Gripping the straps of her backpack, Laura took a steady breath. Lamenting her situation wouldn't help her survive. Survive. Adapt. Endure. That was the mantra now. Satisfied for the moment, just about to leave, her satisfaction quickly gave way to unease. She knew what was coming—the blood, the carnage, the collapse of civilization. It hadn't happened yet, but every instinct screamed it was inevitable. The scenes from the anime played vividly in her mind, each frame etched in terrifying detail.

She needed to warn her parents. Her father, a general in the military, might dismiss her as paranoid, but the possibility of him taking her seriously, even slightly, was worth the risk. If he could get even a fraction of their forces prepared, it might make all the difference.

Her hand hovered over her phone, hesitating. What would she say? "Hey, Mom, Dad, I had a vision of the apocalypse, and you should probably prepare for the world to end." They'd think she'd lost her mind. Worse, her mother might panic. And what if it wasn't global? She wasn't if the outbreak spread beyond Japan in the anime. Still, she had to try.

Finally, she dialed her father's number. The phone rang, her pulse quickening with each tone. No answer. She checked the time. Right—Toronto was hours behind. They were probably asleep.

Frustration gnawed at her as she set the phone down and opened her laptop. If she couldn't call, she'd email. She typed quickly, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

"Mom, Dad, I know this will sound crazy, but please trust me. Something bad is coming. I don't have all the details, but it's serious. If you can, start making preparations. Stock up on supplies, review emergency protocols—anything to stay ahead of the curve. I don't know if it'll happen there, but better safe than sorry. I'll explain more later. Please, just trust me on this. Love you, Laura."

She reread the email, hesitated for a moment, then hit "send." The knot in her stomach didn't ease, but at least she'd done something. If nothing else, she'd planted the seed of doubt—one that might save lives when the time came.

"I hope that this thing isn't global," Laura mused.

Opening the door, she stepped out into the day. The narrow streets of Tokonosu stretched out before her, lined with compact houses and storefronts. Banners promoting local sales fluttered in the breeze, while vending machines hummed quietly on every corner, their bright colors a stark contrast to the muted tones of the buildings. The distant rumble of a train echoed through the air, mingling with the occasional ding of a crossing signal.

As she walked with her map in hand, she remembered a weapon she had never bothered using—point to her, and the reasons were obvious. Her scythe, of course. It wouldn't be practical for everyday situations. You don't want "them" to be closer to you at all.

She could rely on her proficiency with firearms, but she needed to find guns or take the time to make one herself. Hand-to-hand combat? The thought of getting up close and personal with "them," running the risk of getting bit—hell no.

Following the map's guidance, she arrived at the nearest supermarket. She quickly grabbed an assortment of non-perishables, stopping only when her meager funds were nearly depleted. In this twisted reality, money held no allure—a useless scrap incapable of even the most mundane task. What good was it if it couldn't provide even basic comfort in the face of the impending chaos?

Finding a secluded alley, she swiftly stashed the provisions within the Shadow dimension. Hailing a taxi, she set off for Fujimi Academy.