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Chapter Text

*CLANG CLANG CLANG*

*CLANG*

*WHOOSH*

On an otherwise tranquil, grassy plain, a man clad in red and black fought a young girl adorned in similar attire. The pink-haired girl gracefully flipped through the air.

The man, anticipating this maneuver, swung a shiny black shortsword directly in her flight path.

The girl, anticipating her opponent’s anticipation, spun and met his blade with her own, a perfect duplicate. Their blades clattered against each other. Using a purely instinctual knowledge of physics, the girl used the collision to push off and land several meters away. Whilst airborne, she created and threw three pairs of shortswords at her foe. She was certain the final set would score a lethal blow.

Her opponent, face never betraying a hint of emotion or worry, threw his own pair of shortswords behind him and turned to face the girl. Not missing a beat, he held up his hand and a brilliant, iridescent pink flower materialized before him.

Meanwhile, on a nearby rock sat a young blonde woman of ethereal beauty, quietly eating from a bento while observing the proceedings.

Two pairs of swords shattered against the shield. The third pair clashed futilely against the pair the man threw, falling to the ground. The man waved his hand and the shield disappeared. He lowered his fists to his side, opened his hands, and once again wielded dual shortswords. Taking a fighting pose, he raised his arms and took a step with his left foot towards the girl.

The girl, frustrated by the demonstration, threw her hands in the air and shook her head.

“Oh my god, why are we even here?”

The man, refusing to fully lower his guard, lowered his hands while still maintaining his weapons.

“Like I told you earlier, we’re training. You possess a vast amount of untapped potential, and it’s about goddamned time you start taking this seriously.”

The girl shook her head again.

“What are you, my sensei? Is this your dojo? And I asked why, not what.”

In all fairness, the “why” was a very crucial matter of discussion. Things had not exactly been going well for this Earth or its human population. Though Finis Chaldea had succeeded in its directive to thwart Goetia, they’d failed to foresee the Foreign God and its disciples and Crypters destroying the old Chaldea headquarters and bleaching the Earth. After a few months of intense combat, the remnants of Chaldea had destroyed three of the seven Lostbelts and established a new base of operations at the Wandering Sea, redesignating as Novum Chaldea. While the original mission was simple, resolve seven Singularities and defeat Goetia, this mission was far more complex. It went something like this:

Step One: Destroy the seven Lostbelts.

Step Two: Kill the Foreign God

Step Three: ???

Step Four: Unbleach the Earth.

Novum Chaldea, with the combined genius of Loli Da Vinci, Sherlock Holmes, and Sion Eltnam Sokaris, realized there was no clear-cut method of accomplishing Steps Two through Four. Armed with this knowledge of their known unknowns, they settled in for a mission that might take years to achieve. With no clear end date in sight, everyone aboard knew this was gonna be a long one.

Today, having some time in his schedule, Heroic Spirit EMIYA took it upon himself to train Chloe von Einzbern on the proper utilization of his Noble Phantasm, Unlimited Blade Works. Following some time spent trying to force her to a revelation about his ability through combat, he realized how futile this teaching method was.

“Chloe, you know damn well that you have so much more firepower at your disposal. Your application of my power- “

“Our power.”

“My power, that you stole through a tarot card, is being used rather impressively for someone who’s doing it all by instinct. But once you begin to understand the true power of the Reality Marble, then you can unlock your true potential. And once that potential is unlocked, you can protect Master with your full strength. You do want to keep him safe and help him in his mission, don’t you?”

Chloe von Einzbern, twin sister of magical girl Illyasviel von Einzbern, a parallel world doppelgänger of EMIYA’s adoptive older sister Illya, glared at him.

“Don’t think you’re so smart. I can recognize when someone is trying to emotionally blackmail me. Of course I want to help Master. But what the hell is a “Reality Marble”? And how does knowing about it make me stronger?”

Emiya was momentarily taken aback by this query. He assumed that at some point, somebody in the Chaldea madhouse had explained to her what a Reality Marble was. Remembering a time in his life when he had to figure all that shit out for himself, he realized he had to stop leading the horse to water and just give her a drink.

Showtime.

Emiya sighed heavily. He lowered his hands to his sides and allowed his blades to fall. Kanshou and Bakuya thudded and sank into the ground. He closed his eyes and raised his right hand. Chloe heard him sharply exhale and his eyes snapped open.

“I am the bone of my sword…

Steel is my body, and fire is my blood…”

Artoria sighed, and placed the lid back on her bento. Chloe whipped her head at her, a frantic look on her face. Emiya continued chanting, a surge of blue mana encircling him. His cloak started fluttering about as if caught in a strong wind.

“I have created over a thousand blades…”

“Artoria? What is he doing?!”

“Unknown to death…”

The Once and Future King replied with a twinge of sadness in her voice. The strong wind became a mighty gale.

“Something that will make me very sad, I suspect.”

“Nor known to life…”

Chloe’s hands went to her head.

“That doesn’t answer my question at all!”

“Have withstood pain to create many weapons…

But yet, these hands will never hold anything…”

“Seriously! What the FUCK is happening?!”

“So as I pray, Unlimited Blade Works.”

With that, a brilliant blue flame erupted forth from Emiya, enveloping all three of them.

It was that same, sad landscape Artoria had seen before. Barren. Desolate. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of weapons, littered all around. The vast majority were swords, but there were plenty of other bladed weaponry present. Knives. Halberds. Axes. Lances. Chloe whipped her head in every direction, trying to make some sense out of this inexplicable change of scenery. Her jaw dropped, seeing this lonely place of dying apparently summoned forth by her brother’s doppelgänger.

Artoria looked straight up into the dusty, sepia-toned sky. Just to sate her own curiosity, she scanned the clouds, hoping for the absence of something she soon realized was indeed present. She sighed again, seeing those same massive gears from her memory still turning.

Gears. Impossibly large, turning like clockwork, cogs interlocked. Truly the inner world of a man who sold his soul to become a tireless machine. Emiya’s calm voice pierced her sad introspection.

“This is my only magecraft. The only thing Shirou Emiya is capable of.”

Chloe pointed both her arms at Emiya, utterly dissatisfied with what she was beginning to suspect was a deliberate attempt to ignore her. She stamped her feet with each syllable.

“That! You! I! NO ONE HAS EXPLAINED ANYTHING!”

Emiya calmly walked over towards her.

“This is my power. The power you’ve borrowed. The inner world of Heroic Spirit EMIYA. You and I, we don’t create swords. We create a world filled with infinite swords.”

Chloe took stock of her surroundings. So many weapons she recognized from around campus. Caliburn, Gae Bolg, Hrunting, Caladbolg, Rule Breaker. Arondight. Excalibur Galatine. Aestus Estus. Crocea Mors. Others she didn’t recognize at all.

Like Durandal, Joyeuse, Tawrich & Zarich, Harpe, Zulfiqar, Tonbokiri, Chrysaor, Robigus Ironside.

Except, how did she know their names?

Chloe’s hands were on her head once more. She staggered backwards. Only this time, it wasn’t out of frustration. No. Now she felt like her head was going to split.

“Whatever the hell this is, shut it off!”

Emiya recognized the look of a brain trying to download too much information at once and acquiesced immediately. The inner world of Shirou Emiya stopped exerting itself atop the local reality and vanished. He addressed her, an uncharacteristically soothing tone to his voice.

“There. It’s gone. See? Back in the simulator. Open your eyes, Chloe.”

Chloe, still rubbing her temples with the heels of her palms, gingerly opened her eyes. Her not-brother spoke the truth. After blinking several times, akin to a person waiting while their eyes adjusted to the transition from dark to light, her head cleared up. She looked around, seeing that they were indeed back in the rolling hills of the simulator. She vigorously shook her head, clearing up the last of the cobwebs.

“Do you wanna explain what the fuck all that was about?”

“Go talk to some of the mages on the payroll. A Reality Marble is a unique type of Bounded Field, which can be projected directly on top of reality within a localized space. Each one represents the inner world of its users. Unlimited Blade Works is mine. Since you use its power, I thought I’d take the time to try and teach you how best to use it.”

Chloe held out her hand, and Durandal, the sword of the paladin Roland appeared. With a snort, she waved her hand and it disappeared.

“Yeah, well. Now my head hurts. That whole experience sucked. And why is your girlfriend here, creeping on us while stuffing her face?”

Artoria cleared her throat. She was above threatening children for their insolence. She, however, was not above sitting idly by while a man spoke on her behalf. And she sure as shit was not above defending meal time. And really, a Servant who has the mind of a child is still a Servant. The King of the Britons set her bento aside and strode over to the child. With each step, she progressed an Ascension, until she was standing in her full regalia, cape, crown and all, standing over Chloe.

“I go where I please. This afternoon, I wished to see you and Emiya train. I will not explain my motives for choosing the arenas where I consume my meals. Good day, young lady.”

There was an imposing dignity that made Chloe immediately regret talking about Artoria and not to her while she was within earshot. Also, vague flashes of her/Illya’s fight against the dark Alter Class Card of her in Fuyuki came to mind. That was a hell of a fight that nearly killed Chloe, Miyu, Ruby, Sapphire, Rin, and Luvia. Chloe, while not one to back down lightly, realized invoking any further ire was not trouble she needed.

Chloe turned around after her mental calculus and saw Artoria on that same rock, shoveling rice from the bento into her mouth via chopstick. She wondered if the scene she’d just lived through was all in her mind. She shook off the introspection as she realized Emiya was standing silently before her, arms crossed.

“What?”

“I said, training’s over for today.”

“Awesome. I’m gonna go suck some mana out of Master. I’m feeling kinda hungry after that shitshow.”

“I wouldn’t bother. You’ve got much bigger things to worry about.”

Chloe scoffed as Emiya walked calmly to the exit.

“Ha! Like what!”

Not breaking his stride or bothering to look back, Emiya answered loudly.

“I’m telling your mother you dropped the F-Bomb. Twice.”

Chloe laughed.

“Puh-leease. She’s not- “

And then she stopped cold. The Irisviel in Chaldea wasn’t her mother. Technically. Just one more doppelgänger in an endless sea of them. Still, together with Illya, the three of them had formed a tentative, ad hoc family unit, and the Black Grail-influenced Iris was more than willing to dole out discipline when required. Chloe’s eyes widened and she leapt at Emiya, clinging to his back.

“YAAAAAAAAH!!”

Emiya immediately started twisting and shaking, attempting to throw this insane gremlin aside.

“Get! The! Hell! Off!”

“No! You aren’t telling her shit!”

Their altercation spilled out into the hallway. Artoria calmly finished her food and set off to leave as well. The existence of those cogs in the sky of Unlimited Blade Works was confirmation that Emiya still saw himself as an uncaring machine, shackled to the whims of Alaya. For every glimpse of humanity that had shone through his façade of indifference, he was still, fundamentally, the tragic Archer Servant of the Fifth Fuyuki Holy Grail War. She shook her head, knowing there was much more to discuss with him.

That evening…

Time had passed since the founding of Novum Chaldea. Work stations established, introductions made, new bonds forged. In this place, the last bastion of humanity, things went back to a state of “business as usual” far quicker than anyone expected. As much as they missed their old home, no one could deny that the Wandering Sea was quite a bit cozier.

Take, for example, the living quarters. Brushed, blue-grey steel bulkheads gave off a far less “sterilized operating room” vibe. Beds were thicker. The rooms had computer terminals with fully holographic displays. The desks even came adjustable computer chairs. Sweet new digs. If there was anything Captain Nemo and his crew could do, it was interior decorating.

Emiya and Artoria sat on the edge of their bed. In an effort to efficiently allocate real estate, many Servants had taken to having roommates. Given the potentially indefinite length of their mission, the question of space was one of many logistical concerns to be had. The couple had been sitting in silence for some time when Artoria finally spoke.

“How are you, Shirou?”

Emiya turned his head slightly to her.

“Hmm? Fine.”

"You are certain?"

Emiya rolled his right shoulder forward, then up and backwards as he cracked his neck.

"That gremlin packs a bigger punch than her tiny frame betrays. I'm just a little sore is all."

Artoria inhaled softly as she mulled over Emiya's response. He was not a stupid man. Surely he had already discerned what she truly wished to discuss. And she knew it. Time to press, ever so slightly.

“And things are...all right?”

“Yes. I’m grateful for the addition of Beni-Enma to the kitchen’s ranks. I thought I knew everything there was to know about rice, but she’s proven to be quite knowledgeable.”

Artoria sighed. For all the progress they’d both made, sometimes candid conversations with him were still like pulling teeth.

“That was not to what I referred.”

Emiya looked at her. There was a fatigue in his face that she hadn’t seen him show before.

“I’m tired. Can we skip the preamble and get right to the part where you ask the question you really want to ask?”

“Surprising to hear from a man so insistent on foreplay- “

“Jokes? Really? That’s what we’re doing right now?”

“Are you alright, Shirou? I saw those gears again. In the sky of your Unlimited Blade Works. I had hoped- “

“Hoped what, exactly? That the power of love would heal my damaged soul, like some shitty anime? I saw myself as a machine long before my death. They were already in the sky of my inner world by the time I first saw it.”

Artoria sighed wearily.

“That is unbearably disheartening to hear.”

“Well. Was that all? I’m working breakfast tomorrow. I’d like to get some sleep before then.”

Artoria locked eyes with Emiya.

“How are you handling our new directive?”

“The extermination of the Lostbelts? Seven counts of genocide to proceed an as-yet-unidentified means of undoing the damage? Killing the desperate to preserve those who were already saved?”

“I do not count the seven billion people who lived on Earth before the bleaching as “already saved”.”

“And that has made all the difference. I pity the denizens of the Lostbelts. They’ve done nothing wrong, yet the Human Order has decided their worlds deviated so far from the “correct” path that they are aberrant and don't deserve to exist. It is a tragedy of such a grand scale it’s nigh incomprehensible.”

“So, you are not too adversely affected? You have been a bit morose since our arrival here.”

“Like I said. It’s tragic. But killing the few to preserve the many has been my business for what seems like an eternity now. I’m treating the situation with the proper gravitas. That’s all.”

“And you are certain that you are fine?”

Emiya gently brought his forehead to hers.

“Ask me a million times, and my answer will remain the same. Still, I’m grateful to have you with me.”

Artoria tilted her head and kissed his lips. She pulled away, not entirely convinced. Still, it was indeed time for bed. They got changed, shut off the lights, and settled in for the time they had before Emiya left for the morning kitchen shift. Another metaphorical sunset on their new home.

Chapter Text

In a long and lonesome hallway, east of Omaha, three blonde knights walked, making idle conversation. It would not remain idle for long. The youngest of the trio, a volatile and shaggy woman, was in the midst of regaling her companions with a story when she caught hold of the most contemptible sight she had ever seen.

“And so I said- THAT FUCKING CUNT!”

The middle knight, a cheerful sort with rosy cheeks and boundless optimism, clapped her hands over her ears.

“Language! You’re a knight!”

The eldest, having had the most time to become accustomed to the youngest’s overall demeanor and disposition, brushed it aside and actually failed to recognize the genuine hatred and urgency in her voice.

“I do not believe that was the correct punchline for that joke, sister. Unless this is one of those “non-sequiturs” Master was trying to explain to me?”

Mordred, having spotted a trigger for her unyielding rage and no patience to speak of, summoned Clarent and pointed it down the hall.

“What?! No, dumbasses, look!”

Gawain, having been in a lower state of alert during this surprisingly peaceful afternoon jaunt with his siblings, soon saw the source of Mordred’s ire. His face grew stern, and Excalibur Galatine materialized in his hand.

“Ah. Quite so. To war, then.”

Mordred and Gawain gave their fiercest battle cries and charged their enemy, weapons readied. After a brief pause to assess the situation, Gareth followed behind them, empty-handed, trying to calm them down.

“Would you two maniacs stop! Clearly something’s going on here!”

Having just turned a corner down the hall were Ritsuka Fujimaru and Morgan le Fay, enjoying a casual stroll and chat. Seeing the two dashing knights, Fujimaru sighed. It was another day at the office, and he had resigned himself to his fate. He muttered under his breath, knowing what was to come.

“Alright. Guess we’re doing this now.”

“HAVE AT THEE!”

Gawain leapt, planted his right foot on the wall, and mid-air slashed at Morgan, trying to cleave her from shoulder-to-hip. Morgan ducked skillfully, not breaking her stride. She had expected some of Chaldea’s cohort would not be pleased with her appearance, but she assumed the strongest resistance would be from faces she at least recognized. As she got low, she realized this obvious, aggressive overhand slash had been telegraphed not out of an amateurish lack of skill, but because it had been a feint. She’d evaded the first blow only to place her neck directly in the path of different sword’s forward thrust, this one from Mordred.

No time to dodge this blow, Morgan parried it with her staff. Like lightning, she threw out her hand, clutched a bull-like horn of her smaller assailant’s helm and flung her into the wall. Never one to halt an advance, Mordred pressed on with a vicious slash as she bounced off the wall, a spiderweb of cracks emanating from the point of impact. Far stronger than the first strike, Morgan had to put her back into this block. This left her flank exposed, a gap in her defenses that Gawain gleefully exploited.

Fujimaru nodded to himself in silent approval. For as big a headache as this was causing, he couldn’t help but be pleasantly surprised at the teamwork on display. It takes considerable effort for two individuals to fight so seamlessly without saying a word. Factoring in that while they were alive, Mordred killed Gawain, and he died never seeing her face, it was quite a display.

Morgan, however, was not privy to the behind-the-scenes information that made this fight so impressive to Fujimaru. Unwilling to suffer this impropriety even a moment longer, she raised and slammed her staff into the ground, releasing a wave of energy that threw back Mordred and Gawain before his blow could land. The knights from Proper Human History skidded backwards, Morgan deliberately not loosing enough power to harm them, out of deference for her new husband.

“Husband. Perhaps it is time for introductions? I assume these assailants take umbrage with a certain someone with whom I share a face.”

Mordred stood and cracked her neck. Her voice, distorted through the Noble Phantasm embedded in her helm, rang out to her brother-cousin.

“You hearing this shit?”

Gawain dusted himself off and readied his sword.

“Indeed. It has become all too apparent what has transpired. Master has been bewitched.”

“Oi, Master! If you can hear us through whatever bullshit magic she’s put you under, don’t worry! Once we cut off her head, everything’ll go back to normal!”

Hearing this, Fujimaru sprinted in front of Morgan, throwing out his arms to show his full wingspan.

“Enough! Stand down for thirty seconds and I’ll explain everything!”

Gawain and Mordred looked at each other. They also looked back at Gareth, who’d finally caught up and still hadn’t summoned her lance. She tried her best to break it up.

"Stop it, the both of you! Clearly she's not our enemy!"

Mordred spoke to Gawain.

“Mages are hard to kill.”

Gawain answered. They both ignored poor Gareth.

“Quite like cockroaches. As long as we don’t decapitate him, Lady Nightingale can put him back together later.”

“We’ll get chewed out for sure, but it’s fine. Been chewed out before.”

Mordred and Gawain each took a step forward. Morgan, who’d been readying a bit of magecraft, released a bright blue flash of light, freezing the two knights in place. Neither were pleased with this development. Gawain turned his head slightly toward his sister-cousin, not being able to manage any additional movement.

“Our Magic Resistance is quite strong. This is rather vexing.”

“Of course this bitch has more tricks up her sleeve. What else is new.”

Fujimaru cleared his throat and glanced back at Morgan.

“Ahem. Everyone, this is Queen Morgan, King of the British Lostbelt. To be explicitly clear, she is not the Morgan le Fay you all know from Proper Human History. So. Please. Can you two relax?”

Gawain and Mordred side-eyed each other. Well, Gawain side-eyed. He could only assume Mordred was meeting his gaze behind her helm. They were suspicious, of course. This was exactly the kind of dubious-ass shit their mother would pull. But Chaldea had destroyed six Lostbelts. Parallel worlds, doppelgängers, et cetera. It could be the truth. They nodded at Fujimaru, with as much range of motion as they could manage. Fujimaru, in turn, looked at Morgan. She sighed, snapped her fingers, and Gawain and Mordred were released from her hold. They lowered their weapons without dismissing them, still not fully trusting the situation.

“Okay, I’ll take what I can get at this point. Queen Morgan, these three are Knights of the Round Table. Mordred, Gareth, and Gawain.”

Fujimaru pointed at each of them as he introduced them. He saw recognition on her face only at their names. This puzzled him.

“This is Proper Human History’s Gawain?”

There was a trace of a hint of respect in her voice.

“Huh. I’m sorry, I thought you knew everything our Morgan knew.”

Morgan, while remaining stationary, thoroughly examined the three knights before her.

“Unfortunately not, my husband. When my counterpart Rayshifted her memories to me, the majority of that information pertained to Rayshifting and Chaldea. I know the names of the Round Table knights, but not their faces.”

Fujimaru answered.

“Huh. Well, that’s gonna make this next bit even more surprising.”

Mordred spoke up.

“What the fuck are you two talkin’ about?”

Fujimaru sighed.

“It’s a long story. I’ll push an email out when the report is filed. Anyway, Queen Morgan. One more thing these three have in common is that in Proper Human History, their mother was your counterpart, Morgan le Fay.”

This revelation floored Morgan. It was even more surprising to her than her summoning to Chaldea or Fujimaru’s immediate and gleeful acceptance of her semi-facetious suggestion she call him “husband” instead of “Master”. The frosty expression on her face betrayed the faintest hint of shock before she recomposed herself.

“My children in Proper Human History? I cannot imagine being blessed with children.”

She looked over Gawain and Gareth intently, studying their bearing, dress, countenance, aura.

“But they seem to have grown into upstanding knights, unlike me.”

Morgan’s eyes lingered on Mordred. Her armor was clearly meant to intimidate those who faced it. A warrior meant to terrorize enemies into submission? That felt more like what she imagined a child of Morgan le Fay ought to be like. Even without seeing her face, Morgan felt a palpable hatred emanate from her.

“You. Is that helm permanently affixed? Or do you wish to continue disrespecting me by hiding thine face?”

“Get fucked. I didn’t take orders from the real Morgan, and I sure as shit ain’t taking them from you.”

Morgan spat her response with curled lips.

“Such insolence.”

She raised her staff. Fujimaru, not at all surprised at how quickly peace talks had broken down, stepped between them. One palm raised to Morgan, one to Mordred. He looked at Morgan’s youngest child and spoke calmly.

“Please. Just. Come on, Mordred. Please take off the helmet.”

Mordred sighed heavily, then growled her response.

“Fiiiiiiine.”

The Knight of Treachery shook her head. She straightened her posture and waited as her helmet retracted into the recesses of her armor. Morgan actually took a half-step back at the reveal of her face. She decided, in that moment, to stop allowing surprise to enter her mind. Clearly, Chaldea and Proper Human History were even more unruly than she had previously imagined. For a moment, she thought she was staring a perfect facsimile of herself. It was only a fraction of a second before she intuited the truth.

“Why do you look just like Artoria?”

Mordred huffed and dismissively waved her hand.

“I’m not doing this. You want exposition, read a fucking history book. Welcome to the team or whatever. Do us all a favor and don’t try to take over this world. You might not be Mother, but I can tell you’ve got all her ambition.”

Mordred did a sloppy about face and walked away. She got three steps before calling back over her shoulder.

“And don’t think for a moment that this makes you my new stepfather, you got that Master?! I’m not having any of that!”

Morgan snarled at this latest show of disrespect and raised her staff again. Fujimaru quickly waved his arms in protest.

“Wait wait wait wait! Please don’t! Mordred’s. Well. All of Morgan’s children have a very. Uh. Complicated, relationship with their mother. It’s not your fault. It’s not their fault. It’s not anybody’s fault, okay? Can we please not disintegrate anyone on your first day here? Please?”

Morgan sighed. For Fujimaru to so vehemently argue the case of one lone scoundrel he was contracted with, he must truly value her. Or peace. Perhaps he was right. While she had no intention of making new enemies and truly loathed being disrespected, his logic rang true. Though she ruled with an iron fist in Fae Britain, she understood diplomacy quite well. Best to build up a stockpile of good will before atomizing that vexing little shit. She lowered her staff.

“As you wish. As for you two.”

Gawain bowed slightly. Gareth waved. The casual nature Gareth showed was confusing, to say the least. Gawain spoke.

“I apologize for my rashness in assaulting you. As you have surmised, there is considerable tension between us and our Mother. We have all learned that when Morgan le Fay is involved, it is best to strike first and strike fast.”

“You need not apologize, Sir Gawain. It was rather plain to see that your actions came from a place of honor. Of trying to protect your Master. I refuse to debase myself by apologizing for the actions of my counterpart. Instead, I shall not flay you for this transgression. I trust you find this judgement equitable?”

Gawain nodded. A Lostbelt King as arrogant and powerful as the others. He’d seen more than his fair share of monarchs come to terms with their stations as members of the team and not rulers. This was about as good an outcome as could be hoped for from this situation. Hell, it was already better than his relationship with his actual mother.

“Welcome to Chaldea.”

Morgan nodded at Gawain. Then she looked at Gareth. Still standing. Still patiently waiting her opportunity to speak. Still gently smiling.

“And what of you, little one? Do not think it escaped mine gaze that you refused to partake in that little display of violence. Were you not also wary of your Master’s safety?”

Gareth shrugged.

“Not especially. Master trusts the people he’s summoned, and I trust him. Besides, from the way you very clearly didn’t recognize Big Brother or Mordred, I took a guess that you weren’t our mother.”

“Hmm. Taking a moment to analyze the available information and understanding the situation before foolishly engaging in battle? It would seem Proper Human History’s knights are quite admirable indeed. Wait, why did you refer to Sir Gawain as “Big Brother” and Sir Mordred by name?”

Gareth sighed.

“As Master said, it’s all pretty complicated. I’m uncomfortable speaking of Mordred without her around. Suffice to say, it’s nothing good.”

“Hmm.”

Desperate to pull the ripcord on this discussion, Gawain cleared his throat.

“Come, sister. We should give Master and Queen Morgan their leave. We’ve obviously interrupted the customary tour of the facilities newly summoned Servants receive. I bid you both good day. And Master?”

“What up Big G?”

This casual address raised a curious eyebrow from Morgan.

“Please schedule a proper introduction to the team as soon as you are able. We will spread the word of your arrival, Queen Morgan. But we cannot promise our words will reach the ears of all those who would attack Morgan le Fay on sight.”

“I worry not for mine own safety.”

“Nor do I. But we take great pains not to damage our new home. Nor do we wish to put others at risk. Master is not the only mortal within the premises.”

Morgan nodded curtly.

“Very well. Good day to you both.”

Gareth nodded and waved. She and Gawain turned and quickly made their exit. Once they were out of sight, Morgan looked at Fujimaru.

“I had expected to at least get as far as the lavatory before being accosted, my husband.”

“Sometimes my luck is just terrible. Thankfully I can hold it a little longer.”

Fujimaru pulled out a tablet and fiddled with various displays as they continued walking down the hall.

“Aaand, done. An official introduction has been scheduled for this evening. Thank god your Tam Lin agreed to have Mash escort them around.”

“Quite. Had the four of us been assembled during that unpleasantness, a peaceful resolution would have been impossible.”

“I know it isn’t really a concern for you all since Servants here reconstitute later, but I prefer to stay out of the crossfire.”

“Do not speak so lightly of yourself. I may not be fond of open displays of emotion, but I have consented to our partnership, my husband. Your safety is always a concern.”

This surprised Fujimaru. Given the immense pride the Lostbelt Morgan felt, he knew getting her to address him as “Master” would be nigh impossible. But he wasn’t proud enough to demand such. Any title to show the other party acknowledged the partnership would suffice. King Hassan called him “Contractor”, and that was perfectly fine. Naturally, when Morgan suggested the title of “husband”, he jumped on the opportunity, even though he was fairly certain she was joking. Still, to actually hear her say she gave a shit about his welfare? A surprise to be sure, but a welcome one.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Morgan lazily waved her hand.

“Think nothing of it. Now, on the topic of Proper Human History Morgan’s children.”

“Riiight. That’s a big can of worms, but since they’re your coworkers now, there’s definitely some stuff you should be made aware of.”

“Young Gareth seems the most reasonable of the bunch. It defies expectation that my counterpart had three children of her own. Baobhan Sith was difficult enough to raise, even by her lonesome.”

Fujimaru shrugged.

“It would be overstating her involvement to say that Morgan raised all of them. And there were five, actually.”

Morgan stared in disbelief.

“Five?”

“Yup. There’re two more I haven’t summoned yet. The eldest, Agravain, and Gaheris, who was. I dunno. Somewhere between Agravain and Gareth.”

Fujimaru looked up at the ceiling and grabbed his chin.

“No, sorry, that was wrong. Gawain was definitely the oldest. Gareth definitely the youngest. Agravain and Gaheris are in between them. Don’t know which one was older.”

“Remarkable. And Gareth referring to Mordred by name?”

“Yeah, Mordred can get kinda touchy about family. So, the eldest four were all Morgan’s children with King Lot of Orkney. I’m not sure if he had a counterpart in your Lostbelt?”

“No. That name is unfamiliar to mine ears.”

“Okay. Well, Agravain might have an even worse relationship with Morgan than Mordred. It’s up for some scholarly debate that I’d love to get him in on if I could ever bring him here.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow at him.

“Right, sorry. Sidetracked myself. So, Morgan and Lot had four children. Sometime after Gareth’s birth and before she had the chance to form lasting negative memories of mommy dearest, Morgan spirited Agravain away to raise him as an assassin. A long game kinda plan, for him to infiltrate Artoria’s inner circle and kill her.”

“And how did that plan fare?”

“Poorly, believe it or not. All PHH- “

“PHH? What is that? It just sounded like noise.”

Fujimaru chuckled.

“Sorry. Guess there’s a limit, what with summoning magic turning Japanese into. Well, normally I’d guess Welsh, but now that I think about it, the odds of Fae Britain speaking any human language are probably nil. “PHH” is the abbreviation for Proper Human History.”

“Ah. Makes sense. Far fewer syllables.”

“Exactly. So! Morgan, in her efforts to raise an assassin, actually raised an angry woman-hater who jumped on the first chance to fuck up his mom’s plans and served Artoria as her most loyal knight.”

“Fascinating.”

“Yeah. Matter of fact, Agravain was instrumental in keeping Camelot together for so long. His loyalty was unwavering, and he saw Artoria as the best king Britain could have. Far better for the kingdom and people than Morgan could’ve been. His sharp intellect, political acumen, and willingness to do anything on behalf of the king helped keep the lights on for years. Things were eroding while he was around, but they all fell apart in short order once he died.”

“And that relationship is arguably better than the one between Mordred and my counterpart?”

“Yeah, like I said. PHH Morgan isn’t known by our history for her nurturing maternal instincts. So, Mordred, strictly speaking, is both half-sister and cousin to the Orkney Siblings.”

“What did you say?”

“No, you did in fact hear me correctly.”

Wary of speaking about Mordred behind her back, even in statements of historical record, Fujimaru got close and whispered into Morgan’s ear.

“She made a copy of Artoria!? Was the Proper Human History version of me THAT obsessed?!”

Morgan cleared her throat and calmed herself.

“No, forget I said that. It was a slip of the tongue. Mordred. I must say, she is well made. How could I fail after crafting such an excellent pawn?”

Fujimaru looked both ways and leaned in again, recounting more of the story.

“Wait. I succeeded?”

Fujimaru backed off and nodded. He got in close for one final bit of backstory. Morgan’s face betrayed no emotion. The detachment she’d fostered in herself after millennia in Fae Britain did not so easily vanish. However, her mood did go from curiosity to astonishment. A minute or so later, Fujimaru was finished. Morgan nodded in acknowledgement.

“No wonder she detests Morgan so completely. What could that madwoman’s endgame possibly have been, after setting all that in motion?”

“Honestly? I think she either underestimated how much carnage Mordred would cause, or she overestimated Britain’s ability to weather such storms. Ultimately, she wanted Mordred on the throne as a figurehead so she could solidify her power and eventually have the throne herself. But after Camlann? There was nothing left to rule.”

“Incredible. I slaughtered dissenters and ruled with an iron fist only because it was absolutely necessary to stop those stupid faeries from eradicating themselves.”

“Trust me, after several weeks in your Lostbelt, I comprehend the logic behind your actions.”

“But the me from Proper Human History undertook her schemes, why? Rage at being passed over for her rightful position as king? Every time I saved the faeries from a calamity, I had to hide and sleep for years, because they hunted me. She raised assassins and homunculi because she wanted to be king? For what reason did she covet that crown? Acclaim? Fortune? I took control of the fae because they would have gone extinct otherwise.”

Fujimaru held his palms up in mock surrender.

“Believe me, I know where you’re coming from.”

“To think my counterpart brought such devastation for no reason other than her own fragile ego.”

Morgan quickly noted Fujimaru raising his own curious eyebrow.

“Keep whatever thoughts you have to yourself, husband. My actions alone kept Cernunnos from annihilating Britain for millennia. Tell me, how soon after my murder was my home torn asunder.”

It was worded like a question, but the tone was clearly a statement. Fujimaru scratched his head.

“Almost immediately. They killed Cnoc na Riabh at her coronation. Tam Lin Gawain lost her shit and became the Black Dog Calamity like, the very next day. Habetrot died to give Mash back her Black Barrel to kill Cernunnos. Oberon never actually died and was actually partially Vortigern the entire time and we had to kill him to escape. It was a whole thing.”

Morgan’s lips curled into a sneer at the mention of Oberon-Vortigern.

“Vermin. I should have crushed him the moment I first laid eyes upon him.”

“Honestly, I’m just glad to be back home. I can’t believe only six hours passed on the outside.”

Morgan shook her head, saddened by the knowledge that everything went to shit as soon as she perished. Some uncharitable viewers of the tragedy might believe she would have been beside herself with righteous satisfaction that her cruelty did in fact extend the life of her Britain. Many a dictator throughout history believed their actions were the only solution, after all.

No. Instead, she quietly mourned for the world she’d ruled and lost. Even though they’d endlessly persecuted her and killed her beloved Uther. Stupid faeries. Perhaps if she’d simply killed them all and lived alone, her reign would have continued ad infinitum. An empty world, yes. But a peaceful one for her and Baobhan Sith. She mourned quietly, for all her struggles truly had been for nothing.

Morgan looked up from her introspection to see Fujimaru patiently gazing at her, a slight but warm smile on his face. Should she hate him, for his role in Fae Britain’s destruction? Arguably, Chaldea’s defeat of Cernunnos brought a measure of peace to their end. A coup de grace. A euthanasia to a world she had kept alive but suffering for millennia. Should he hate her, for keeping his loyal partner Mash separated from him so for long? For not executing Beryl Gut, allowing that vile, loathsome cockroach to do as he pleased?

No. He did what was necessary to restore his Earth. She did what was necessary to prolong hers. Sadly, their goals were mutually exclusive. He was not a man of schemes and ambitions. Not someone who fancied himself a noble hero. Just a normie, caught up in events far beyond his ken. Perhaps this partnership would not be the worst thing to ever happen to her. She looked at him once more.

Still staring. Same look on his face. She sighed. She looked around and realized they’d reached his destination.

“By all means, husband. Relieve yourself. You needn’t obtain permission in your own castle.”

“Well, I didn’t want to just leave without saying anything. But, you also looked like you were deep in thought and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

She waved her hand.

“Hurry about your business so we may resume the tour. The sooner my knights and I can be properly introduced and I can roam these halls unmolested, the better.”

“Be right back! And yeah, there’s plenty of Servants who’ve got a bone to pick with the other Morgan.”

Fujimaru took his brief leave of her. While he was gone, she continued to wonder if answering his summoning call was indeed the correct path to take. She assured herself it was. After all, there were no other paths. Besides. Fujimaru and Mash were friendly enough. Surely it couldn’t be too bad.

Chapter Text

There was a calm stillness in the air. It mingled well with the wafting aromas of the various foodstuffs that had just been prepared. Just another ordinary day in Novum Chaldea. Emiya sat behind the counter, quietly enjoying a cup of green tea. Officially, breakfast didn’t start for another forty-five minutes. The cafeteria would, of course, oblige any stragglers who found their way in. But for the sake of efficiency, feeding time for the masses happened at regularly scheduled intervals. Serving batch food meant the kitchen did not have to prepare full meals for two-hundred-plus patrons at a time. It was the calm before the storm, and every bit as ephemeral.

As Emiya sipped his hot leaf juice, a stranger staggered into the cafeteria. The stranger was a man of average height and athletic build. His garb was vaguely twenty-first century black tactical gear and a pale purple cape. The bulk of his hair was a similar shade of purple, while the sides were white. Simple, angular glasses framed his eyes. The most noticeable thing about this man, however, besides the pronounced limp, was the bleeding hole in his chest. It was a clean shot, and Emiya could see straight through it.

Emiya spotted the injury right away. He remained calm, however. He knew all the remaining mortals on staff. Not that that was a particularly remarkable feat, considering how low that figure was. Still, simple process of elimination meant this man was a Servant. And since this stranger didn’t seem particularly concerned with his gaping chest wound, Emiya didn’t feel overly concerned either. Still, he knew he should at least address this obvious, dangling plot hook. It was leaving a blood trail in his place of work, after all.

“Are you alright over there? Can I do anything for you?”

The stranger dragged himself over and sat at the counter. He leaned on one forearm while trying, futilely, to plug the hole with his other hand. He grinned, weakly, at Emiya. Not the masochistic grin of so many Servants who thrived on violence. But the sad grin of someone who’d made a mistake and needed some assistance.

“Well, I’m trying to hide from my wife. Don’t suppose you could fashion a spare apron into some makeshift disguise for me?”

The stranger coughed into his hand, a trickle of blood coming from his mouth. Emiya chuckled.

“You’ve come to the right place. I’d say you’re lucky, but…”

And Emiya wordlessly gestured to the bloody proof that this man was anything but lucky. The stranger raised an eyebrow at this remark. Emiya projected a baseball cap in one hand, and a black trench coat in the other. The man nodded and accepted these gifts, doffing his cape and placing it on the stool next to him.

“It would seem I’m quite lucky indeed. Despite outward appearances. Thank you.”

Emiya casually waved his aside, as if to brush aside his gratitude.

“Don’t mention it. Would you like me to call the sick bay? Another stroke of luck. Paracelsus is on duty right now. His bedside manner is far less…aggressive…than Nightingale’s.”

The stranger chuckled.

“I’m grateful for your concern, but I’m merely waiting it out until this body expires and I. How does Master put it? “Respawn”?”

Emiya nodded.

“Have it your way. Would you like me to finish the job? I promise it’ll be painless.”

The stranger waved his hand.

“No, thank you. Wouldn’t want my wife to become upset with you.”

He coughed again, wiping the blood onto his sweater. Emiya sighed.

“My preference is to keep my nose out of other people’s business, but you’ve piqued my curiosity. What happened? You sleep with someone else? You take the “til death do us part” stuff literally, only to realize your betrothed disagreed?”

The stranger laughed a wheezy, painful laugh.

“Were it so easy. No, I’m afraid my wife and I were intimate last night, and I awoke to her driving her lance through my chest. It’s not her fault, and I know she’ll be beside herself for quite some time.”

Emiya narrowed his eyes. He scanned this man up and down. This story seemed vaguely familiar. A doting and loving wife compelled to commit violence against her husband. A husband who understood the situation and didn’t blame his wife. A Lancer. Aided by all the histories he’d seen in the swords he’d made, it all clicked.

“Unless I’ve missed my guess, that would make you Sigurd.”

Sigurd tapped the tip of his nose twice.

“Got it in one.”

“Damn I’m good. Not to make light of your misfortune, but your presence will certainly alleviate some of the pressure off Siegfried and Master.”

Sigurd furrowed his brow.

“I hope my wife…*cough*…hasn’t caused too much distress.”

“Nothing of the sort. Brynhild has been a powerful asset. We’ve just had a few close calls. That’s all.”

“Ah. Well…as long as…no one’s…been hurt. Siegfried and I…are quite alike.”

“You’re not wrong. Hell, she’s even accused me of reminding her of you.”

Sigurd raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“Not in appearance. Just muttering that my sadness is familiar to her.”

“Huh. You don’t…seem sad at all.”

“We’ve been here a long time. Enough time to change my fortune. You know, you’re taking it quite well, being stabbed by your wife.”

Sigurd chuckled.

“My lady was cursed by her father…Hardly seems right…to be upset at her.”

“Odin, yes?”

Sigurd nodded. Emiya scoffed.

“Seems the one thing every pantheon has in common is how capricious their deities can be.”

Sigurd grinned.

“Well, if you…were all-powerful…you’d certainly do…whatever the hell you wanted…wouldn’t you?”

“Can’t deny I’d make some changes.”

“Not that power…excuses their crimes.”

“Only that it explains them.”

“Exactly.”

“Listen, are you sure I can’t call you a doctor? They could at least ease your pain.”

Sigurd coughed, laughed, then waved his hand. He replied with a cheesy British accent.

“Just a flesh wound.”

Emiya nodded.

“Monty Python? Nice reference. I’ve only seen Holy Grail, myself.”

“Life of Brian is a riot…The show’s not…half-bad either. Some bits are…problematic though.”

“Oh yeah? In what way?”

“Blackface…redface…yellowface.”

Emiya shook his head.

“Damn shame. A lot of comedians think you need to be edgy to be funny. You can push boundaries and show off dark humor without being racist.”

“Well…what do you expect…from a bunch of Brits.”

Sigurd smiled weakly after his jab. His face had taken on a deathly pallor. They could both tell he wasn’t long for this world. Emiya chuckled at him.

“You know what? You’re alright.”

“Thank you kindly.”

“Tell me. Was their blackface especially egregious?”

“How so?”

“Well, did they do it as background characters because they didn’t have any black people to hire as extras? Or was it all terribly racist caricatures, like Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s?”

“Haven’t…seen that one yet…but the show…was pretty bad.”

“What a shame.”

Emiya looked at his new companion. He knew of Sigurd from history, but not in person. Chaldea hadn’t undergone any Rayshifting or mass summonings recently. His curiosity was piqued once more. He projected a towel and handed it to Sigurd.

“Take this. It’ll be more effective at plugging that hole in your chest than your hand.”

Sigurd stuffed the rag into his chest.

“Thanks again…Say…I’ve been bleeding…all over your cafeteria…and I don’t even…know your name.”

“Don’t worry about it. Once you’re gone, I’ll just grab a mop. Or the blood’ll dematerialize along with you. And it’s Emiya, by the way.”

“Emiya…Pleasure to meet you.”

Sigurd’s breaths were haggard. The towel was already showing red.

“You’re taking an awfully long time to die.”

“Yes…I tried to dodge…she only got my lung…not my heart.”

“Condolences.”

“Thank…you.”

Emiya looked around. Still nobody else in the cafeteria. The rest of the kitchen crew were in the back, presumably having their own meals. Sigurd was quite tenacious. The fact he hadn’t yet perished made Emiya suspect he had some form of Battle Continuation. He thought for a moment about what to do. Rather quickly, he decided to just do what he should have done at the start.

“Can I get you something to eat?”

Sigurd, who was a bit woozy from the blood loss, looked up, confused. It took him a moment to process the question.

“Coffee…if it’s not any…trouble.”

“Sure thing.”

Emiya turned his back and fetched a ceramic mug. He filled it with the requested inky, bitter liquid from a carafe. He set it before Sigurd.

“Careful, it’s hot. You ever have coffee before?”

Sigurd nodded.

“First time…a few days ago…Lady Raikou.”

“Ah. Well then, I’ll save the speech about growing Coffea plants in the basement.”

“Thank you.”

Emiya nodded. Sigurd tried to blow on the mug, but struggled to do so with only one lung. Emiya sighed and projected a small folding fan. Sigurd took it and began fanning his drink.

“So. I don’t remember seeing you before the purge. What’s your story? Lostbelt? GudaGuda? Still pissed I missed it this year.”

“Scandinavian…Lostbelt…Summoned by…Ophelia…Possessed by…Surtr.”

This piqued Emiya’s interest. It also bugged him.

“Dammit. I’m still looking at the reports for the Russian Lostbelt. Now I know the big twist.”

Sigurd chuckled.

“Spoiler…alert.”

Emiya shook his head and smirked.

“You’re assimilating to modern pop culture quite well.”

Sigurd wheezed. There was a pause, and Emiya thought he might have finally perished. After a moment, he finally answered.

“There’s…shit else…to do.”

“Fair enough.”

Emiya eyed the wall clock. Barely five minutes had passed since Sigurd’s arrival. Still plenty of time before breakfast. Maybe he should push some food to pair with the drink.

“Something to eat, perhaps? Any special requests?”

Sigurd pondered this for a moment as he drank his coffee.

“Do you…serve dagmal?”

For once, Emiya was stumped. For all his encyclopedic knowledge of history and the culinary arts, this was a new one.

“I have to admit, I’ve never heard of that one before. What’s it made of? I might be able to whip up something similar.”

Sigurd nodded.

“Leftover stew…from last night…with…bread and fruit.”

Emiya looked at him.

“No. No we do not have leftover stew. Why don’t I make you a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel? Everybody likes those. Even David, though he really shouldn’t.”

“Bacon?”

“Salt-cured pork from the pig’s belly.”

Sigurd’s eyes lit up.

“Pork is good.”

“Coming right up. And while you wait…”

Emiya grabbed an apple, washed and dried it, and quickly sliced it. He slid the tiny plate to Sigurd. He took it, eating as heartily as he could with his severely impacted stamina. The hero of the Volsunga Saga watched silently as this mysterious man in red prepared him a small breakfast sandwich.

After setting a small digital timer before him, Emiya sliced a bagel in half. He buttered the insides and placed them on the grill. While they cooked, he whisked two eggs in a bowl with a pair of chopsticks. He set the bowl aside and cut three strips of what Sigurd assumed was the aforementioned “bacon” with meat shears, placing them in a small frying pan. By now, the bagel was done. Emiya placed the bagel halves on a medium-sized plate, gently laying a square of orange-yellow cheese on the bottom half. Emiya flipped the bacon and grabbed another plate, a piece of paper towel on it.

“What kind…of cheese…is that?”

Emiya replied without taking his eyes of his work station.

“Cheddar. It’s sharp, and very popular. Real crowd pleaser.”

“Cheddar.”

“Named for a village in Somerset County, England.”

“Huh.”

Emiya removed the bacon from the pan, setting it on the paper towel. He folded the paper towel over it, soaking up grease on both sides. He sprinkled salt and pepper into the whisked eggs and poured it into the pan where the bacon had been cooked.

“When you fry bacon, it renders the fat into liquid grease. It’s delicious, but also incredibly unhealthy. I figure you might as well enjoy your last meal.”

“You’re…the expert.”

As they spoke, Emiya continued to work the eggs in the pan with his chopsticks. It wasn’t the most picture prefect tamagoyaki, but time was of the essence, and he had to make it fit on the bagel. In a flash, it was ready. He brought the pan to the bagel and slid it out on top of the cheese. He placed the bacon on top of the egg, top half of the bagel on the bacon, and sliced it in half again, this time from top to bottom. He put the sandwich before the wounded King of Warriors, who eyed it greedily. The towel was soaked. The apple, all gone but the core.

Emiya took the tiny plate with the apple core and disposed of it. With a wave of his hand, the utensils vanished. He put the dishes in a sink to sit for a moment. He folded his arms and watched as Sigurd used what remained of his strength to eat. He got through the first half before pushing the plate back to Emiya.

“Delicious…but…can’t finish.”

Emiya accepted this with grace. Everybody loved bacon, egg, and cheese. But he knew from the look on Sigurd’s face, the absence of color, the sweat on his brow, that he had maybe a minute left before going all gold and glowy.

“You know…I’ve taken…advantage…of your hospitality…and know nothing…about you.”

Emiya shrugged nonchalantly.

“Not much to tell. No offense, but I don’t know you well enough to give you my life story.”

“You…dick…here I am…spilling my guts…”

“Not by choice.”

Sigurd smirked.

“Heh…all take…no give…with you.”

Emiya sniffed and looked at the clock. Still plenty of time. Still no other company. He sighed and relented.

“I’m an Archer. A Counter Guardian from late twentieth century Japan. You won’t find me in any historical document because I became a Heroic Spirit by making a deal with Alaya directly while I was still alive. I fight mostly with a pair of shortswords, except for when I hurl swords at people. Satisfied?”

“Meh.”

Emiya rolled his eyes.

“Cooking is a hobby I enjoyed in life, and being able to work in the kitchen was a fortunate outcome for me.”

“I’ll take…what I…can get.”

“What’ll you do when you wake up?”

Sigurd replied with no hesitation.

“Find Brynhild again…Remind her…it’s not her fault…tell her…I love her.”

Emiya nodded respectfully. Gold motes of light began drifting off Sigurd. Knowing his time had finally come, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Even though she’ll just spear you again?”

“Of course…Besides…I’ll just…come back…anyway.”

Emiya couldn’t help but respect this man’s foolhardy dedication. He had one last question for him.

“If she does make her way here, is there anything you’d like me to tell her?”

Sigurd took a deep breath.

“She already…knows everything…I have to say.”

As Sigurd vanished, his disembodied voice did give Emiya a request.

“Tell her to try your breakfast sandwich! She’d love it!”

And with a flash, Sigurd was gone.

Emiya reflected on this strange encounter. Sigurd was entirely correct. Brynhild, having been with Chaldea since the Goetia nonsense, did indeed enjoy his breakfast sandwiches. He found it wonderful that despite all the time that separated the two of them, Sigurd still knew enough about Brynhild to correctly guess what she’d like to eat.

Still, for Odin’s curse to persist even into Brynhild’s existence as a Heroic Spirit? For Sigurd to willingly run to her, knowing full well he would die horribly every time?

“And I thought my love life was complicated.”

But even with that last zinger, Emiya couldn’t help but think about his own long and painful path back to Saber. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all? Maybe he should stop trying to be his own worst enemy? From their perspective, only a few weeks had passed since they got together in OG Chaldea. If they were to be together for the long haul, he’d have to give it everything he had. Artoria Pendragon deserved no less. He’d never acknowledge the impact this conversation had to Sigurd, because that would require opening himself up far beyond his comfort zone. But he did feel gratitude, nonetheless. He resolved to find some way to thank Sigurd, when next they met.

Chapter Text

It was Christmastime, once again. Probably. Time had always been a weird soup for Chaldea, and this had never been more apparent after the bleaching of the Earth. The passage of time was harder to track and significantly less significant considering society had ceased to exist and the human population was a single-digit figure.

But!

Morale was still a top concern for the Chaldeans. Since their current struggle was a marathon and not a sprint, they decided to maintain a normal observance of holidays and thusly took all available measures to maintain even the slightest shred of normalcy. Quite some time had been missed by the Servants of Chaldea, a result of Fujimaru and company destroying the first three Lostbelts in rapid succession. As well as a Summer Event and a GudaGuda, neither of which fit cleanly into the timeline.

In fact, if Director Goredolf Musik had been asked, he’d testify that the recent Servant Summer Festival was just a massive, shared fever dream. At any rate, this Christmas was the first opportunity for Novum Chaldea to unwind, unclench, and decompress after what felt like a year of unending chaos.

Wreaths, tinsel, and lights adorned the halls, giving the Wandering Sea a warmth befitting the season. The interior temperature had been lowered a few degrees to remind everyone it was winter. Christmas and other holiday songs played on the intercom, a lovingly curated collection from all cultures and time periods. Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” was restricted to one play per day, to the relief of all parties. Emiya and Artoria walked down an empty hallway. Emiya had eschewed his cloak for a plain red sweater and held a tray covered in tinfoil. Artoria was in her regular casual attire with a gift baggie in her hands and a Santa hat on her head. As they proceeded to their destination, they bumped into Fujimaru, dressed as a reindeer. He greeted them excitedly.

“Hey guys! Merry Christmas!”

They nodded politely. Emiya addressed him.

“Greetings, Master. I must admit, I’m surprised you aren’t wearing a Santa costume. You seemed absolutely certain this was going to be your year.”

Fujimaru scratched his head and laughed gently.

“I really wanted to! But Quetz beat me to it.”

Artoria cocked her head slightly.

“And you are sure she would not appreciate you sharing her directive of spreading holiday cheer?”

Fujimaru shook his head and shuddered.

“No frigging way. You know how competitive she gets. She might take that as a challenge to her Christmas authority.”

Emiya smirked.

“And we all know how the Feathered Serpent deals with challenges.”

Fujimaru nodded.

“Yeah. I prefer my spine intact, the way god intended. So, where are you guys off to?”

Artoria and Emiya looked at each other, than back at Fujimaru. Artoria answered.

“The Einzberns have invited us for a Christmas dinner.”

“Oh! Well that’s nice. Also, kinda surprising.”

Emiya raised an eyebrow.

“In what way?”

Fujimaru shrugged.

“I dunno. I mean, I guess it makes sense Irisviel inviting Artoria, since you were Master and Servant in that one timeline.”

“But?”

“But they invited you too, Emiya? I’m just not seeing any connection there. Unless she’s trying to figure out why you and Chloe dress the same?”

Emiya narrowed his eyes.

“Let’s get one thing straight here, Master. Chloe dresses like me. I don’t dress like her, and we don’t dress similarly. My wardrobe is the original article.”

Fujimaru puts his hands up in mock surrender.

“Okay, okay. Didn’t mean anything by it. Sorry.”

Emiya sighed and relented.

“It’s fine. We’re all just glad this Christmas isn’t a shitshow like last year.”

A puzzled look formed on Fujimaru’s face.

“What are you talking about? Last Christmas (I gave you my heart) was great!”

The Servants exchanged glances before glaring at their Master. They also ignored his song reference, unwilling in this moment to give him the satisfaction. Artoria inquired about his recollection of previous events.

“Master, what exactly is it you remember about last year?”

Fujimaru turned his head and looked up, a physical indicator of him accessing his memories.

“Hmmmm. Let’s see. Altera became Attila the San(ta), we went to the Sumerian Underworld, saved Ereshkigal, and then saved Christmas. Oh! And right after, I summoned Ereshkigal here, my last summon with Finis Chaldea. Pretty cool holiday adventure.”

The glares intensified. Emiya deadpanned his response.

“Well, here’s how everyone else remembers last Christmas…”

One Year Ago(ish)

Chaldea had become a hell. A strange, Antarctic hell. The facility interior had become a sweltering forty-one degrees Celsius. Servants and staff were collapsing from the heat. There was a certain ironic humor to the situation. Depictions of the afterlife as a lake of fire were a convention of the Book of Revelations of the Christian New Testament. Many older cultures, such as Greek and Sumerian, thought of hell as cold and dark. A place deep underground, devoid of the warmth and light of the sun. That meant for many Servants, stepping foot in Antarctica at night would be the closest they could come to their peoples’ image of hell.

But no. On this day, the interior was increasingly blazing, just like Christian hell. For those few still conscious, they began to expect fires to start breaking out. In a personal quarters, Emiya and Artoria sat, backs propped against the walls, sweating into delirium. They were in their underwear. Not as a prelude for sexytimes, but to deal with the raging inferno. Artoria had even changed into her summer Archer Spirit Origin in a futile attempt to stave off the heat. She called weakly to Emiya.

“Shi…rou?”

Emiya, to his credit, was doing everything in his power to maintain a neutral expression on his face. He turned his head slightly towards Artoria.

“Hmm?”

“Are you…alright?”

“Never better.”

Artoria sighed.

“Liar.”

Emiya chuckled weakly and raised his index finger.

“One moment.”

He held his hands in front of his chest. With a faint glow of blue light, a small trash can appeared in his grasp. He leaned over and violently wretched into the waste bucket. He set it to the side. Beside it were two other buckets. Artoria spoke falteringly.

“I do not…understand. Why…the buckets?”

“Because I.”

Emiya stopped mid-sentence and projected a small cup. He sucked his teeth and spit into it, getting the last dregs of his stomach contents out of his mouth. The cup then went next to its big brothers.

“Because I don’t want to puke on the floor like an animal.”

Artoria rolled her eyes and threw her head back.

“Why not simply keep…one large bucket in…your lap?”

Emiya snorted.

“And sit upwind of my own vomit? No thank you.”

“Why not…set it aside…and draw it near…when needed?”

This drew a sigh from Emiya.

“Fuck me for trying to die with a little whimsy.”

“This is…not how I wanted…to spend our last week.”

Emiya sighed wearily.

“Of course not. I’m beginning to think I’m still here just to suffer.”

Artoria shook her head.

“Drama queen.”

“But you wouldn’t have me any other way?”

Artoria stared through him.

“There are…plenty of changes…I would make…to you.”

Emiya laughed heartily.

“Oh yeah? Well maybe we’ll get things right the next time around.”

Emiya reached his hand to Artoria. She placed her own in his. Before long, they both succumbed to the heat and passed out.

Present

Emiya and Artoria left out a few personally incriminating details in their recollection. Fujimaru nodded dutifully at their reminder.

“Riiiiight, the Sumerian Summer Fever! That’s why I went to the Underworld. I forgot how bad things must have sucked for you all while I was gone.”

Emiya shook his head.

“You say that so casually.”

“There was a lot of stuff was going on at the time!”

Artoria chimed in.

“Respectfully, Master, we must take our leave. We do not wish to be late.”

“Got it. Have fun you two! I’m gonna go round up some carolers!”

And with that, Fujimaru turned a corner, bristling with excitement. Artoria and Emiya carried on to their destination. They still had plenty of time, and thus, leisurely strolled along.

“Shirou?”

“Hm?”

“Is Christmas caroling commonplace in Japan?”

Emiya shot Artoria a sideways glance.

“In 2004? Absolutely not. In 2015, the last normal year in this Parallel World? Also probably not. But I couldn’t really say.”

“Untold lifetimes confusing your memories once more?”

Emiya smirked.

“No, no memory shenanigans this time. I’m just pretty sure I was already dead by this point. At the very least, I definitely wasn’t in Japan.”

Artoria looked up at him.

“You do not know for certain?”

Emiya shook his head.

“Like I said. After a pit stop to the Clock Tower, I travelled the world. I can’t remember how old I was when they hanged me. Partially because of all the memories blending together. Partially because I never considered my birthday important enough to celebrate.”

“Do you have an estimate of your approximate age at death?”

Emiya shrugged.

“Somewhere between thirty and thirty-five. Probably.”

Artoria reflected grimly on this most recently disclosed similarity between them, but said nothing. She wondered if a Shirou she managed to save from himself would have lived a long life. After a few moments, Emiya noticed the silence.

“Hey, c’mon. Cheer up. We have a Christmas dinner to attend. Let’s try to make it through the entrée before we kill the mood.”

Artoria sighed.

“Do you think this will fare poorly?”

“Hope not. But you never know.”

“Please be on your best behavior, Shirou.”

Emiya looked down at Artoria with a grin on his face.

“Aren’t I always?”

Artoria shook her head and rolled her eyes. After another minute or so, they’d arrived. It was a tiny lounge, with a small table in the center. A slightly decorated pine tree stood in the corner. From the smell in the air, Emiya immediately knew the tree was real. He resolved to ask where the hell the Wandering Sea got a pine tree from before they left. Waiting for Emiya and Artoria were Irisviel, Illyasviel, and Chloe von Einzbern. They wore matching red and green Christmas sweaters depicting Santa’s sleigh and reindeer team. Undoubtedly, the girls were press-ganged into their family uniforms by Irisviel. Iris ran up, hugged Artoria, and took the tray from Emiya, setting it on the table.

“Thank you so much for coming! We weren’t sure if you’d make it after skipping last year!”

For some people, that could have been interpreted as a passive aggressive dig. But considering the innocent earnestness Iris typically carried herself with, Emiya and Artoria both assumed she was being entirely genuine. Emiya smiled softly as he answered.

“Well, to be fair to us, last year was an absolute disaster.”

Iris nodded. It had indeed been quite a mess. Something about their appearance piqued her curiosity, but she couldn’t quite place it. As she ruminated, Artoria spoke up, bowing ever so slightly.

“Thank you for inviting us. I have to admit, I was astonished to discover that a traditional Japanese Christmas dinner was fried chicken.”

Illya started setting the table while Chloe haphazardly tore away at the tinfoil and other coverings of the rest of the meal. Three KFC Party Buckets sat in the center of the table, surrounded by an assortment of sides. Illya replied.

“Yeah! KFC has been a Japanese tradition since, like, the seventies! It’s older than any of us here!”

Emiya glanced at her.

“Speak for yourself kid. And where’s that stick of yours?”

Iris interjected.

“We gave her the night off. Illya’s told me how much you two hate each other.”

Emiya turned his nose up at that.

“I just don’t trust that thing. It’s sentient and connected to the Second Magic. Those facts alone should be enough to give anybody pause.”

Iris clapped her hands together.

“Anyway! Please, sit! Let’s break bread and dig in.”

Emiya pulled back the chair Artoria approached and pushed it in as she sat before sitting down beside her. She cocked her head at the buckets, staring at the little cartoon face and big letters.

“What does “KFC” mean?”

Emiya leaned over as he grabbed a drumstick.

“It’s an acronym. Stands for “Kentucky Fried Chicken”.”

Artoria looked up at him.

“It most certainly does not.”

There was a pause as Emiya narrowed his eyes and carefully considered his next words.

“Right. English to archaic Welsh. The acronym makes sense in the original language. Kentucky Fried Chicken is an American fast food chain.”

“Oh. It sounded like “KFC” was itself some strange word.”

Illya shrugged, her spoon lifting a heap of mac and cheese.

“I think magic language translators don’t do acronyms very well.”

Artoria nodded, then got distracted by another thought.

“Wait wait wait. How did an American fast food restaurant become so deeply ingrained into Japanese culture?”

Emiya and the Einzberns exchanged furtive glances. Before any else could reply, Emiya answered the best way he could think of.

“You and I can have a lengthy and in-depth discussion of how post-WWII Japanese culture was affected by American presence in the region, but that’s a discussion that will seriously bring down the mood.”

Chloe interjected, drumstick in hand, chicken in mouth.

“Yeah, don’t kill our vibe with a history lesson!”

Irisviel put a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t speak with a full mouth, sweetie.”

Chloe swallowed the food and nodded.

“Sorry.”

This struck Emiya as odd, given Chloe’s overall belligerent demeanor. It occurred to him that Iris must be taking her self-assigned role as de facto parent quite seriously. The eldest Einzbern turned to him.

“I know you work in the kitchen. You didn’t make this chicken, did you? When I invited you, I swear I wasn’t trying to make you cook for us all. It’s awful to have a guest make the main dish.”

Emiya dabbed a bit of grease from his lips and shook his head.

“No, thankfully. I just picked it up. You wouldn’t believe how many people wanted fried chicken today. I did make the buckets though.”

Illya, having just finished a breast piece, had a remark of her own.

“I can’t believe your friends in the kitchen got this to taste exactly like the real thing!”

Emiya snorted reflexively. The Chaldea kitchen crew was nothing to scoff at. But, mildly concerned about appearing condescending to a child, he answered calmly and plainly instead of sarcastically, as was his instinct.

“Yeah, well. With the combined genius of Da Vinci, Holmes, and Sion, it wasn’t too difficult to figure out the Colonel’s Eleven Herbs and Spices.”

Illya nodded, digging into her food once more. Iris gestured to the sides and small cakes.

“I would have liked to make something by myself, but it turns out I’m not actually that good at baking. Perils of living in a mansion and having maids, I’m sad to say.”

Iris rubbed the back of her head and smiled awkwardly. Emiya chuckled politely.

“It’s nothing to apologize for. Maybe you’ll get lucky and the next Pseudo-Servant Master summons will be Sella or Leysritt.”

The Einzberns all looked at Emiya with shock. Illya queried first.

“You know Sella and Leysritt?”

Emiya, who had known about his Illya’s attendants mostly through her stories, was now also surprised.

“Oh, you have them in your world too? Isn’t that interesting.”

Chloe eyeballed him suspiciously.

“What is your deal?”

Rather conspicuously, Artoria slid aside a plate stacked high with picked-clean chicken bones and got a clean one. The noise was enough to momentarily distract everyone. As Emiya prepared to quietly chide her into leaving enough food for everyone else, Iris leaned back in her seat, hands on her head. She had just remembered the question she wanted to ask earlier.

“Where are your plus ones?! I was expecting two more people! That’s why I ordered so much chicken.”

Artoria and Emiya looked at each other. Emiya smiled faintly. Artoria blushed, ever so slightly. Emiya looked back at the woman who, in some timelines, would have been his mother, and answered.

“We came together, actually.”

Iris and Illya both put their fists together under their chins with excitement.

“Awww!”

“That’s so precious!”

Chloe, ever the gremlin, hurriedly choked down some coleslaw and spoke, with confusion on her face and in her voice.

“Wait, if you two weren’t bringing guests, did you really need to grab that third bucket?”

As subtly as he could manage, Emiya glanced at Artoria and her first plate. He deadpanned his answer.

“Yes.”

Iris, fully in the spirit, started gushing.

“Please, tell us everything.”

Artoria, having filled her plate during the dialogue, cleared her throat.

“We do not have to leave as soon as the meal is finished. Perhaps we could eat first, tell tales later?”

The Einzberns looked at each and back at Artoria. Iris answered on their behalf.

“Okay, but I’m expecting a great story.”

They finished eating while making idle small talk. Thankfully, they collectively agreed that the food was best while still hot. A short while later, they had eaten their respective fills. The bones and other such unconsumable bits went into the trash, while the cutlery and dishware were consolidated on the tray Emiya used to bring the chicken. They would have to be returned to the cafeteria. He eyed Artoria and the mountain of bones she left behind, wondering if he should have grabbed a fourth bucket. She leaned back, covered her mouth with her fist, and burped. Her mouth remained closed as she did and she tried to discreetly exhale away from everyone’s nostrils. She leaned back put her hands on her stomach. If a Heroic Spirit could get fat, this would be the moment Artoria loosened her belt by a notch. Or two.

Emiya retrieved the gift baggie Artoria had brought with them and prepared for the holiday gift giving.

Iris waved her hands.

“Please, please. It’s okay, we weren’t expecting any gifts!”

Emiya shrugged.

“I agree. I told Artoria the food would be enough, but she insisted.”

Artoria looked nonplussed.

“I do not believe giving children gifts during Christmas needs any justification.”

Emiya put both hands into the bag. Illya politely agreed with not-her mother.

“It’s fine! You shouldn’t have!”

The Wrought Iron Hero took two small objects, one in each hand, and gave them to the twins. They accepted them with surprise bordering on indignation. Chloe spoke up, making no effort to hide her distaste for the gift.

“Yeah, you really shouldn’t have. What the- “

A saccharine smile hiding murderous intent from Iris cut her off. Chloe gulped.

“Heck. Is this?”

The assemblage looked at the gifts. Illya received a very simple wooden cup with a stick protruding from the bottom. Attached was a string. At the end of the string was a rubber ball, small enough to fit inside the cup. While simple in construction, it was elegant in decoration. A glossy pine green with a thick, horizontal red stripe on the cup. Clearly, for its simplicity, it was sturdy and pretty.

Chloe’s gift was similar, but slightly different. While there was still a ball attached by string to something of wood, its shape was different. It nearly resembled a small hammer or judge’s gavel, with a wooden spike protruding from the top. The grip was conical, flaring out towards the bottom. There was a hole in the ball, and as she inspected it, Chloe realized the sides were in fact two smaller cups. It too was decorated in Christmas colors. Something in the back of her mind told her this was a projection, but it seemed to be just as permanent as anything else in the room.

“Well, Illya’s is a standard ball in a cup. It’s a classic toy. You just swing the cup around and try to catch the ball in the cup. And if you miss, it’s okay! Because the ball is on a string and attached to the cup!”

Iris folded her arms and gave Emiya the strangest look. She couldn’t tell if he was just doing the real life equivalent of shitposting or if he was legitimately excited about the toys. He moved on to Chloe.

“Yours is a more traditional Japanese variant called a Kendama. You can catch the ball on the spike, the big cup, base cup, or small cup. You can hold it a variety of ways. You can even do tricks. The possibilities are endless!”

Chloe, utterly unamused, stared blankly at him.

“How old do you think we are, dude?”

Emiya stared back.

“Don’t mock the Kendama you mouthy little brat. It’s an incredibly popular game. There’s a World Cup held in Hatsukaichi every year.”

Iris, not wanting the children to be rude at this admittedly baffling exchange, looked at them. Chloe had the expression of an older child who bristled at being reminded of her age. Illya was distracted, as she was actually attempting to catch the ball with her cup.

“Girls, what do we say when we get gifts?”

They both looked up and answered in concert, one more begrudgingly than the other.

“Thank you!”

Emiya, fully aware that he had no idea what an actual child would like to get as a gift, was secretly highly amused by the entire ordeal. He was pleasantly surprised that Illya was trying the toy out.

“You’re welcome. By the way, I have absolutely no idea what kids your age are into. You want a Gameboy Advance or PSP or whatever, go send a wish list to Santa.”

Illya furrowed her brow in confusion.

“What year do you think it is?”

Chloe, unwilling to put up with any further delay, shook her head angrily.

“Alright, enough stalling! Who are you, infuriatingly vague guy with the same name as our dad and brother?!”

Emiya sighed quietly. He’d come to this dinner fully prepared to share a bit about himself. He’d been preparing for some time. Since Novum Chaldea’s mission was potentially indefinite, he knew there wasn’t much sense in trying to outlast his secrets. Still, these were literal children before him, so certain considerations had to be made for the story.

“I guess you could say my story starts in the year 1939 CE.”

This announcement was met with an array of facial responses. Illya did a doubletake, even more confused than before. Chloe was bewildered with a touch of disbelief. Iris leaned forward, fingers steepled, in grim expectation.

“With Hirohito’s invasion of China, the Second World War was already well underway. The West just didn’t know it yet. Meanwhile, in Fuyuki City, it was the eve of an entirely separate war. The Third Holy Grail War, to be precise. Dissatisfied with their losses in the first two wars, the Einzbern family decided to cheat…”

One sad, depressing tale later…

His sad, depressing tale concluded, Emiya leaned back, drinking in the reactions of the Einzberns. Artoria had raided what little chicken remained while he’d spun his yarn. They were about what he expected.

Iris nodded.

“That sounds about right.”

Illya looked up at not-her mom.

“That sounds right to you?!”

Iris shrugged.

“Based on my Fourth Grail War, that all pretty much lines up.”

Chloe’s hands were on her head, her jaw nearly on the floor.

“I have so many questions! You only projected Caliburn in that story! And you two didn’t even kiss! So how did Shirou Emiya become!”

And she paused, gesticulating wildly at Emiya.

“And how did you two end up together?!”

Illya piped up.

“You know what? It’s hard to tell because Big Brother wears his hair down, but I just realized they have the exact same eyebrows.”

Emiya nodded at her.

“Finally, someone noticed.”

Iris fired off the next question.

“How did you know about the parts you weren’t there for?”

Emiya smirked and answered casually.

“Conversations with Artoria, my Illya, records at the Clock Tower, et cetera.”

Chloe’s turn.

“There’s still a huge gap of story between Artoria going away and you becoming a Heroic Spirit. Just tell us what happened next!”

Emiya chuckled.

“Please. It’s Christmas Eve. Hardly the time to go into my supervillain origin story.”

Illya raised an eyebrow at him.

“Supervillain?”

“I’m certainly not a hero.”

“Hang on, does that mean my brother can do magic too?”

“Magecraft, technically. And most likely. Though if his domestic life is as boring as you describe, he almost certainly has no idea what he’s capable of.”

Illya pursed her lips, thinking for a moment.

“He doesn’t even know about magic.”

Chloe, frustrated, interjected again.

“Tell us your secrets!”

Emiya shrugged as he combed through the leftover sides, infuriatingly nonplussed.

“No.”

Before Chloe could fire a response, Iris scooped up her and Illya, one child under each arm.

“Okay girls! Time for bed! If you aren’t asleep by midnight, Santa won’t put anything under the tree for you!”

Chloe crossed her arms and pouted.

“We all know Santa’s not really real. It’s just a different Servant dressing up as him every year.”

Artoria chuckled.

“This might be the worst year on record to make such a bold declaration aloud.”

Emiya chimed in.

“Yeah, don’t let Quetzalcoatl catch you saying that. She’ll break a steel chair over your back with that ridiculous fanged grin on her face.”

Artoria smiled and waved.

“Good night girls!”

A few minutes after ushering not-her children away, Iris returned. She’d also fetched a fresh bottle of mid-tier red wine. As she looked at the cups they’d used for dinner, Emiya projected three wine goblets and a corkscrew. She graciously accepted the tool and a glass.

“Thank you so much! And thank you for your discretion.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean, I know quite a bit about Fuyuki, Grail Wars, the Three Families. I could tell there were parts you were leaving out.”

“That. Yeah. Well. There’re definitely parts of that story not safe for the ears of two ten-year-olds.”

*POP*

Iris pulled the cork from the bottle and began pouring. As she did, she continued the discussion.

“Still. It was very considerate of you.”

Emiya waved her off and accepted the first glass.

“It’s bad enough the kids already know Santa isn’t real. No reason to tell them about some of the nastier shit I’ve seen.”

“I do have some questions of my own, though.”

Iris was still jovial, but Emiya detected she was a bit more serious now that the children were in bed.

“Shoot.”

“In the entire multiverse, I believe my existence is closest to the Irisviel of the world you two came from.”

Artoria replied.

“I agree.”

“What can you tell me of the Kiritsugu and Illyasviel of your world? What happened after I died? I know you mentioned Kiritsugu took you in, and you didn’t know about Illya until the Fifth War, but there’s so much I’d like to know.”

Emiya and Artoria turned to each other. Artoria spoke first.

“By the time I was summoned to Fuyuki again, Kiritsugu had already passed away.”

Emiya continued.

“For the time I knew him, he was. How do I put it? Kind of a big kid?”

Iris took a sip from her glass.

“Really?”

Emiya nodded.

“He wore classical robes. Referred to himself with the pronoun “boku”, which is usually only used by children. Dad, was. Well. A goofball. Couldn’t cook for shit though. Him or Taiga.”

“Is that why you learned?”

“Yeah. To be fair to him, he tried. He really did. But it was a disaster enough times that eight-year-old me thought I could do better and set out to do so.”

“I loved that man, but I swear. He could’ve lived off military rations and fast food his whole life if he hadn’t moved into our mansion.”

“He always struck me as a guy who could’ve foraged for his own food on the battlefield, but couldn’t cook a bowl of rice to save his life.”

Iris snorted, then calmed herself.

“The first time I had dinner with him, he was totally silent the whole meal.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. He polished off his food, entrée, sides, all of it, in three minutes. I swear, even meeting other mages and spellcasters, I’ve never seen a jaw move so quick. I was halfway through my ribeye and he was just. Done. Done his whole dinner. It was. Uh.”

Iris paused. After sniffing and rubbing her nose, she continued.

“A mix of sad and funny. He never talked much about his childhood, but he ate like a man who didn’t know when he’d get his next meal, or if he’d even get the time to finish the meal he was having.”

Emiya nodded before answering.

“Even as a kid, I could tell he was a guy who tried his hardest, only to get nothing in return. After about two years, he started leaving. Once a month, he’d head to the port on the edge of town, hop on a boat, and just vanish. I used to imagine he was travelling all over the world, doing super secret magic stuff.”

This piqued her full attention.

“Really?”

Emiya sighed.

“Yeah. He did that for, I dunno. Two years? Maybe close to three? From what I gleaned, many years later, I think he kept trying to go back to the Einzbern estate in Germany to get Illya.”

“Did he?”

Emiya shook his head.

“No. No, best I could tell, my Illya was convinced her father had completely abandoned her. Maybe it was his old age. Maybe it was Grandpa Einzbern being a miserable and petulant bitch. Regardless, I don’t think Dad ever got to see Illya again before he died.”

Iris reached out and put her hand on Emiya’s forearm.

“I’m sorry to dig up the past so much. I’m just. I’m so curious about Kiri’s life. But I’m being selfish. Is there anything you’d like to know about him?”

Emiya pondered that idea briefly before answering.

“Not a thing.”

Iris was taken aback.

“You were pretty quick on the draw there. Are you sure?”

Emiya nodded.

“Yes. He saved my life. Gave me a direction. A path to follow. His dying words motivated my whole way of life. As childish as this might sound, the less I learn about who he was before he became my dad, the better. My most vivid memories of him are my first and my last. When he pulled me from the rubble. When I told him I’d become a hero of justice on his behalf because he was too old. He died smiling, looking up at the moon. That’s how I want to remember Kiritsugu Emiya. Not a ruthless mass murderer. Just a stupid, overgrown kid, dreaming uselessly about saving the world.”

Iris rubbed her hands. She sized up Emiya. There was a wistfulness in his voice that hurt her heart. Judging from the bits of his story he’d shared with not-her children, it was Kiritsugu’s dying wish that set the young orphan boy on the path to becoming the monster at the end of his own story. But even though one man’s foolish worldview was the genesis of the cynical, burned out Counter Guardian before her, she could tell he bore his adoptive father no ill will, no matter how much scorn he deserved.

Not that she was any better. With her connection to the Holy Grail and the strength of certain memories, she was closest to the Irisviel von Einzbern of worlds with five Holy Grail Wars. A unique homunculus made to be sacrificed. One who was never saved. One who was born solely to die. But still, talking about Kiritsugu made her happy. Well, mostly happy, with a tinge of sadness.

There was a lull in the conversation as Iris and Emiya quietly reminisced on their respective fond memories of Kiritsugu Emiya. Having no such memories herself, Artoria cleared her throat and spoke to them both, hoping to snap them back to reality.

“The wine is exquisite, Iris.”

Iris shook her head, roused from the stupor.

“Thank you! I was hoping to get something fancier, but this was surprisingly good. It’d probably go for fifty dollars in a fair market.”

Something about the price point of wine pulled Emiya out of his haze.

“You know, it’s been my experience that the difference between a five-dollar and fifty-dollar bottle of wine is remarkable, but the difference between a fifty-dollar bottle and five hundred-dollar bottle is nowhere near as distinct.”

Iris chuckled.

“I can’t say I’ve ever had a five-dollar bottle of wine. But from what I can recall, having drank a great many stupidly expensive wines? You’re right. At a certain point, it’s just wine snobs and rich folk circle-jerking each other over fancy labels and how much money they have to burn.”

Emiya smirked at that turn of phrase.

“Just how rich are the Einzberns, anyway?”

Iris stroked her chin in contemplation.

“Let’s just say this. If we ever ran out of firewood in that icy, palatial estate of ours? We could quite literally burn cash to keep warm.”

Emiya whistled.

“Damn. I grew up very comfortably with the estate the Old Man left behind. But I could never imagine literally burning money. Must be nice.”

The trio shared a hearty laugh as they continued their discussion. Evening turned into night. One bottle turned into three. They agreed to meet more frequently. Irisviel promised Emiya that she would answer any questions he had about Kiritsugu. Likewise, Emiya promised to tell her about Illyasviel. They called it a night and waited for the excitement of the following day.

Christmas Day

Having resolved the annual Christmas Singularity, Novum Chaldea was having an exhibition match in the simulator to celebrate.

It was configured into a massive outdoor arena, with a professional wrestling ring in the very center. The absolute center of attention. Just two people going blow-for-blow for the whole world to see. At the Announcers’ Table sat Jaguar Man, giving her best color commentary. In that ring stood three people.

Goredolf, who was befuddled that he’d been roped into this mess as the referee.

BB, the mysterious Moon Cell AI and evil kouhai who swore she wasn’t up to any wrongdoing and wore her standard attire, the vague, “student at a witch’s high school academy” look.

And Quetzalcoatl, this year’s Santa.

Having confused “Santa”, the mascot of Christmas, with “samba”, the Brazilian dance style, she was dressed in the least Christmasy Spirit Origin of any of Chaldea’s Santas. High heels, skimpy bikini showing way too much skin for December, flamboyant orange and green feathers from wings that came from nowhere and a headdress far more ornate than her usual one, complete with tinsel wrapped all around, with a few sleigh bells hanging off.

If spectators thought Quetz’s abs were magnificent beforehand, they were on full display today. They were abs a deli could grind meat on. Tall. Statuesque. Beautiful. Thighs that could crush a watermelon. The exuberant attitude of a supremely confident woman who oozed sexiness from every pore.

Ahem.

The very first Sakuraface duked it out with the Aztec Sun God(ess).

Meanwhile, amongst the spectators, Emiya and Artoria seats near the front. Emiya didn’t care about the distance to the ring, considering his Archer-class eyes, but he’d horse-traded with a few Servants to get him and Artoria seats close enough for her to see the Exhibition Match. Emiya was uncharacteristically excited about the proceedings, and Artoria leaned over to him, mouth filled with popcorn, to ask about it.

“I was not aware you so loved this sport, Shirou.”

Emiya, who was standing upright and pumping his arms, sat down and ran his hand through his hair. He leaned towards her, not wanting to take his eyes off the ring.

“There’re a lot of similarities between American professional wrestling, Mexican lucha libre, and Japanese professional wrestling. Old Man Raiga- “

“Who?”

“Taiga’s grandpa. When I was a kid, sometimes he’d take me along on random shit he’d do. He definitely preferred traditional sumo, but we saw a few New Japan Pro-Wrestling matches together.”

Artoria shook her head and sucked down some soda.

“And just when I began to think I had learned everything there is to know about you.”

In a rare public display of affection, Emiya wrapped his arm around Artoria’s shoulders and kissed her temple.

“I’m full of surprises.”

Artoria blushed. They’d been far more intimate on many occasions, but she couldn’t remember a time Emiya had kissed her in public. She was contemplating what to say or do when she saw Quetz slip during an attempted Powerbomb resulting in her and BB laying face-up on the mat. At that moment, Emiya stood up and excused himself.

“Sorry. Bathroom break. I’ll be right back.”

Artoria blinked, and Emiya was gone in a blue flash.

She was suspicious, of course. Emiya hadn’t had anything to drink the entire match. For him to suddenly need a visit to the lavatory was strange. As she scanned the arena for him, the audience roared. She looked at the ring, zeroing in on the disturbance.

There was a man. A fourth figure. An interloper. Not Santa/Samba Quetzalcoatl. Not BB. Not Goredolf.

But a mysterious new man, dressed in red with windswept white hair. A simple black domino mask covered his eyes. It was:

Heroic Spirit EMIYA.

Obviously.

But it was Emiya in his Third Ascension, the bright red cloak with gold piping. His vest was also simpler, losing the silver piping on the sides. From the Announcers’ Table, Jaguar Man leapt up in a fervor.

“Oh my gawd! I’d know that guy anywhere! It’s Santam! The legendary figure from two Christmases ago! A true Ghost of Christmas Past! But what’s he doing in the ring?!”

Artoria watched intently. The Christmas Singularity that spawned Jalter Santa Lily was before her time, so she had never seen this “Santam” before. She witnessed him blow a handful of dust into Goredolf’s eyes. While the new Chaldea Director rubbed his face, Santam turned to Quetzalcoatl and held up his hand. She met it with her own, doing a perfect Predator handshake in the middle. As BB began to stir, Emiya.

Excuse me.

Santam.

Knew his time was up. He projected a steel chair and gave it to Quetz, who accepted it with that hungry, violent shark grin of hers. In a flash of blue, the holiday hero vanished.

Quetzalcoatl, checking that Goredolf was still blinded, surged forward, her victory assured. She raised the chair overhead and brought it down on BB, who’d just returned to her feet. It was a titanic blow, so thunderous that even the spectators in the nosebleeds heard it. This year’s Santa casually discarded the ruined chair, dented beyond repair by BB’s skull, over the top rope and whipped her opponent by the arm into the ropes.

Hopelessly discombobulated, BB bounced off the rope and into a lariat from the Feathered Serpent. BB went down, limbs splayed like a corpse dropped off a high-rise. Quetz climbed the nearest turnbuckle, clutching the top rope in a coiled leaping position.

Goredolf finally wiped his eyes clear of obstruction and saw only Quetz in the corner and BB on the mat.

At that moment, Emiya reappeared before Artoria.

“Did I miss anything?”

Artoria whipped her head at him.

“Surely you jest.”

Emiya looked over at her.

“Of course not! I left for thirty seconds to relieve myself, and when I come back? The whole stadium is erupting.”

Imitating his detached deadpan, Artoria answered.

“Some deranged maniac known as “Santam” blinded the referee and gave Quetzalcoatl a steel chair.”

Emiya whipped his head toward Artoria.

“I missed Santam again?!”

Artoria threw her classic glare at him.

“Are we really doing this?”

Emiya shrugged.

“Don't judge me. The kids believe in Santa. I believe in Santam. I’d love to meet the guy someday.”

Emiya turned back to the ring. Artoria shook her head futilely, knowing Emiya would never relent. She had her suspicions, of course. First and foremost, no one had ever seen Santam and Heroic Spirit EMIYA in the same room at the same time. But she decided to let that sleep dog lie.

“The real mystery is why this “mysterious figure” deigned to disrupt the match at all.”

Emiya leaned over, the way someone who wished to explain without taking their eyes off the action would. As he did, Quetzalcoatl climbed to the top of the turnbuckle and unleashed a furious war cry. Whole lot of trilling and tongue-rolling as she pumped her arms, inciting the crowd. Emiya spoke to Artoria, his attention squarely focused on the unfolding violence.

“Just my humble assessment of the situation. But. BB seems like a woman who deserves a steel chair to the face every now and again.”

Artoria shook her head.

“Is that all you have to say?”

Emiya took a swig from a water bottle. A long swig. It was almost as if he was thirsty following a bout of brief but intense exercise. After he finished, he answered his girlfriend’s query.

“That woman is always up to something. I don’t exactly know what. All I know for certain is: she deserves all the bullying she gets.”

Back in the ring, Santa/Samba leapt from the turnbuckle, doing a somersault as she descended. Her arms were outstretched as she dived. She tucked them in as she landed a picture perfect Senton Bomb, her entire bodyweight plummeting through her lats as she landed on BB. Quetz bounced off her prey and tumbled forward, only to roll herself back to set up the pin.

Goredolf, wanting nothing more than to get the hell back to his “executive office” and away from the madness, gave a quick three-count and lifted Quetz’s arm by the wrist, declaring her the winner. She began a vibrant Samba dance center-ring, to wild acclaim from all parts of the gender spectrum. The crowd remained glued to their seats, mesmerized by the display.

Emiya turned to Artoria, brushed some stray popcorn bits aside with his thumb, and kissed her on the lips.

“Merry Christmas, Saber.”

Artoria looked at him while intertwining her fingers with his.

“Merry Christmas, Shirou.”

Chapter Text

Two men conversed in a cafeteria, a pristine counter separating them. It was a lazy evening, the kind conducive to an idle, meaningless conversation about nothing. Standing behind the counter was a tall, white-haired man clad in red. His arms were crossed, and he was clearly not entertaining the other man’s nonsense. The other man was a shirtless, barefooted, muscular dirty-blonde. His arms, chest and face were wrapped in scars. From the depth and texture of the scars, they were clearly the result of deep gashes, the kind one might imagine came from fighting a dragon. Having picked a rib clean, he dropped the bone onto his plate to join several others and licked his fingers when the chef answered his query.

“No.”

A simple, concise denial of an impassioned plea. This rejection was not received warmly.

“C’mon man, just give it a chance!”

But the chef stood resolute.

“Absolutely fucking not.”

The diner sighed and offered a dismissive handwave as his retort.

“Seriously? I thought you were cool, dude.”

It was a sophomoric attempt to get a rise out of his would-be opponent, and not one he would so easily fall for. Before he could fire off a snarky barb, a new challenger approached, waving cheerfully at the both of them.

“Emiya! Beowulf! Whatcha guys chatting about?”

The Servants directed their attention at their Master. His hair was shaggier than normal. A line divided his cheek. And a lazy energy wafted off him. Clearly, the tell-tale signs of recently awaking from a nap. He yawned as he sat next to the King of Savagery. Fujimaru rubbed the back of his head as he took a menu from Emiya. The Wrought Iron Chef, silently grateful for some fresh blood in this conversation, hoped to divert the subject.

“Nap? This late in the afternoon and you’ll be up all night, Master.”

Fujimaru rubbed his eyes and blinked before looking back up at Emiya.

“Hmm? Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m still catching up on sleep from my last adventure. Just wanted to get some food in me before packing it in for the night. What do you guys recommend?”

Beowulf nudged him with his elbow as he wiped his hands with a napkin.

“You oughta try these ribs, Master. This big red buzzkill may not be any fun, but he sure knows how to grill beef.”

Emiya held back a chuckle and shook his head.

“We’ve been experimenting with some dry rub recipes. This batch came out particularly well. And if you think mixing insults in with your praise is a good way to convince me to help you, you’re shit out of luck.”

Beowulf rolled his eyes and lazily flipped Emiya the bird. Fujimaru, his interest just as piqued as his appetite, felt a strong desire to learn more.

“Okay, so a half-rack to start, and what is happening?”

Emiya fired off his response while Beowulf was mid-swig. His drink of choice was an ordinary lager, stored in an insulated growler. Just a light little something to go with his dinner. Unlike certain kings in Chaldea, the Geatish Berserker was a man of simple tastes.

“Beowulf is trying to get me to abuse my Noble Phantasm for a stupid meme.”

Beowulf shook his head derisively and held his palms out.

“Nuh uh. No friggin’ way. Don’t spin this like I’m some terminally-online weirdo. It’s gonna be badass! And besides, you owe me.”

Emiya cocked his head, a fresh scowl on his face.

“And just what the hell makes you think that.”

Beowulf leaned forward, elbow on the counter, and pointed his index finger at Emiya.

“Ripping off my NP.”

In this instance, Beowulf was referring to Hrunting, the sword gifted to him by Unferth, thegn of the Danish king, Hrothgar. Emiya tossed his head back and scoffed.

“Spare me. Don’t act like you give a shit about that sword of yours. The first thing you do when you unleash your Noble Phantasm in battle is throw your swords to the ground.”

Emiya was referring to the attack Beowulf deployed in combat as his Noble Phantasm, Grendel Buster. It was a fearsome barrage of strikes which unleashed his full fury on his foe. Just as Emiya described, it did indeed begin with Beowulf discarding his weapons so he could close with and destroy his enemy using his bare hands.

“That doesn’t give you the right to just steal it whenever the mood strikes you!”

“I’m not stealing a goddamned thing! I make copies and alter them for my own purposes. Besides, at least I’m getting decent mileage out of it. Hrunting’s most famous feat is being “the sword that broke when Beowulf fought Grendel’s mother”. You can’t expect me to believe you feel any loyalty to it.”

Fujimaru, having gotten up and grabbed some ribs from the self-service line while the pair argued, had returned to his seat. His head ping-ponged between them as they continued. While this was not the opportune moment to disrupt, he silently admitted that Emiya had a point. His application of Hrunting’s target tracking capabilities was to far greater effect than Beowulf using his own copy in battle. Really, any sharp object would have sufficed for the Geat’s needs.

“Hey, don’t act like you treat your Noble Phantasm as anything other than a convenient tool, ya uppity bastard.”

Emiya pointed his own finger at Beowulf.

“I treat my magecraft with nothing but the utmost respect!”

“Motherfucker I watched you make a spatula to scrape a smudge off the counter just after breakfast!”

Emiya slammed his palm on the counter.

“And that was a spatula that could KILL A GOD!”

Beowulf lurched forward, getting nose-to-nose with Emiya.

“Just gimme my goddamn road roller!”

“No! You can’t just throw punches and yell “ORAORAORA!” like Jotaro, and then turn around and ask for a road roller like DIO! Reference one of them, and stay consistent! Pick a goddamned lane!”

Leaping at the chance to deescalate, Fujimaru dropped a bone onto his plate, wiped his mouth, and interjected.

“Okay, now you’ve lost me. Road roller? What are you guys talking about?”

Emiya and Beowulf simultaneously turned their heads toward Fujimaru. Having the audience of their Master reminded the Servants to not get swept up in the energy of the situation. They each took a deep breath and calmed themselves. Emiya addressed Fujimaru’s query.

“Ahem. Road roller. A construction vehicle with what is essentially a large pipe as its front wheel, used to flatten freshly-laid asphalt and other substrate in the creation and repair of paved roads. Also known to some as a “steamroller”, because the earliest models were powered by steam engines.”

Reading the look of confusion on Fujimaru’s face, Beowulf jumped in.

“You know. From JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure?”

Fujimaru shook his head.

“I don’t remember that episode of JoJo. Where was there a road roller?”

Emiya cocked his head at him.

“It’s from the end of Stardust Crusaders. You know, when Jotaro and DIO have their climactic showdown?”

Beowulf chimed in, pantomiming lifting something heavy overhead and slamming it below.

“Come on, Master! ROAD ROLLA DA!”

Fujimaru waved his hands and shook his head.

“Whoa! No spoilers!”

Beowulf and Emiya look at each other, eyes rife with suspicion, before returning their attention to Fujimaru. Their Master continued to plead his case.

“I know, I know. Stardust Crusaders finished not too long ago, but that was a really busy year for me! Finished high school, got headhunted by Chaldea, et cetera. I keep meaning to go back and finish it but stuff keeps getting in the way.”

Beowulf’s mouth was slightly agape. He lazily pointed a finger at Fujimaru as he collected his thoughts. Emiya took the opportunity to tug this thread their Master had dangled before them.

“Master, you’re aware Stardust Crusaders has been over for a great many years, aren’t you?”

Fujimaru shook his head and chuckled.

“I mean, sure, if you’re talking about that OVA from a while ago. But I heard it was pretty lame. Honestly, I can’t believe they decided to turn that into a two-season anime. They even made the first season a prequel, inventing a backstory about the Joestar Family. I thought that was a great way to really build up the tension for the war against DIO.”

Beowulf cocked his head at Emiya and mouthed “OVA” at him. Catching it from the corner of his eye, Emiya tilted his head toward Beowulf and answered, not taking his eyes off Fujimaru.

“Original Video Animation. Direct-to-video release, analogous to a miniseries in length and scope. There was one based on Stardust Crusaders released in the nineties. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t anything groundbreaking. DIO used an oil tanker vice a road roller in that one for some stupid reason.”

Beowulf nodded, then scratched his chin in contemplation. Something about the way his Master described the franchise seemed off to him. Fujimaru spoke as he gathered his thoughts.

“Yeah, but obviously, it was just called JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, since it was the first one.”

At this, Emiya and Beowulf turned to face each other and locked eyes. Beowulf pointed a finger at Fujimaru.

“Does he…?”

Emiya nodded.

“Yeah, I think he does.”

Beowulf shook his head softly in disbelief.

“Wow. I can’t believe it.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s pretty astonishing.”

Fujimaru put his hands up in frustration and started turning his head, switching his focus between both of them.

“What are you two talking about?!”

Emiya addressed him. There was a measured concern to the tone of his voice, not unlike that of someone trying to gently break difficult news. Similar to, for example, a doctor telling a recently comatose patient that he had been asleep for nine years.

“Master. Stardust Crusaders has been finished since 1992.”

Fujimaru rolled his eyes and nodded, bemused.

“Okay, funny prank guys. What’s the angle here? You gonna tell me that history corrected itself around the Singularities and JoJo's Bizarre Adventure somehow came out twenty years earlier than I remember? Gonna have to try harder than that to punk this guy.”

Fujimaru crossed his arms and wore a smug look on his face. Nobody was getting one over on him today. Beowulf turned to Emiya.

“You hearin’ this?”

Emiya hung his head.

“Unbelievable.”

Unwilling to let his Master’s erroneous beliefs go uncorrected, Beowulf put his hand on Fujimaru’s shoulder.

“JoJo is based on a long-running manga by Hirohiko Araki. It’s been in publication since 1987, first as a weekly, then as a monthly.”

But Fujimaru stood resolute in his delusion.

“Listen, I appreciate the dedication to the bit. Truly. Even more, I respect you two teaming up for it. Honestly, the arguing you did to suck me in? Brilliant. I mean, it never even occurred to me that I’ve never seen you two interact, even though Emiya projects Hrunting, like, all the time.”

The Servants glared at each other as Fujimaru took a pause to breathe, returning their attentions to him when he continued.

“But if JoJo was based on a manga, I’d know about it.”

Emiya rubbed his temples and outstretched his palm towards Fujimaru.

“Master, please. It plainly says during the opening credits of each part: “Based on the manga by Hirohiko Araki”!”

Fujimaru looked down and away, breaking eye contact.

“I always skip the opening credits.”

Beowulf smacked his own forehead in response.

“Are you shitting me? That’s the worst thing you’ve said all day!”

Sputtering, and clearly uncomfortable being on the backfoot, Fujimaru replied.

“Those OPs are always filled with spoilers! Even the ones that just hint with their imagery spoil huge plot stuff if you pay close enough attention!”

Astonished, Emiya couldn’t contain himself.

“That’s only for anime based on manga!”

Beowulf jumped in as well.

“And the OPs are amazing! You can’t just skip them!”

Before they could continue berating Fujimaru, a new person intervened. An erstwhile savior, come from nowhere to grant him deliverance.

“Would you two shut the hell up?! For the love of every god in every pantheon, enough already! Is that a JoJo reference? Knock it off! Not everything is a reference to some dumb cartoon! Plenty of people here don’t care about Japanese media you weebs!”

The trio whipped their heads towards the haughty interloper. They knew that voice and attitude quite well. A vain, surprisingly needy goddess:

Ishtar, who couldn’t stand not being the center of attention, and clearly hadn’t learned any lessons from her latest calamity.

Beowulf and Emiya side-eyed each other before addressing the famously spoiled Mesopotamian goddess of beauty, war, and fertility. Emiya initiated a rapid-fire tandem comeback with Beowulf.

“It’s not our fault there’s a lot of JoJo references to be found here.”

“Summer Martha’s Noble Phantasm is basically DIO’s road roller attack.”

“Summer Nobunaga manifesting a spirit to attack her foes? That’s literally a Stand.”

“Ozymandias sounds exactly like DIO.”

Fujimaru smacked his head.

“Holy crap, he does! That’s why I recognized his voice! No wonder you spent that farming run last week trying to make him yell “Za Warudo”!”

Beowulf pointed at Fujimaru.

“See? Even Master gets it.”

Emiya shook his head and chuckled.

“Besides, it’s not like you have any room to talk.”

Ishtar scowled at him.

“And just what is that supposed to mean.”

Emiya answered.

“I’m sorry, do you think we’ve forgotten “Dead Heat Summer Race”?”

“Watch it- “

Beowulf cut her off, starting another combo chain with Emiya.

“A cross-country race.”

“With vast riches as the prize.”

Ishtar pointed angrily at Emiya.

“Hey! I- “

The unlikely pair carried on, unperturbed,

“That was secretly just an evil scheme.”

Ishtar cut in, futilely.

“I am not evil- “

Beowulf and Emiya kept speaking over her.

“To reassemble a corpse of unimaginable power.”

“All planned by the race coordinator to become an all-powerful tyrant.”

At this, Ishtar slammed her hand on the counter.

“Shut up! I thought we all agreed to put summer behind us! And my plan wasn’t to become a tyrant! It was just to reascend to my full godhood! It was all to help Master!”

“You’ve lost your last marble if you think pouting and giving a shitty apology means we all forgot what you did.”

Ishtar growled.

“And what the hell did any of that have to do with your stupid show?!”

“That was literally the plot of Steel Ball Run!”

Fujimaru nudged Beowulf, whispering so as to not be a distraction.

“Steel Ball Run?”

“Part Seven of the manga.”

Fujimaru’s eyes lit up.

“There’s seven parts?!”

Emiya looked away from the angry Pseudo-Servant for a moment.

“Eight, actually. JoJolion is ongoing. And Part Four’s anime is ongoing as well. I think it’ll be done by Christmas.”

“Holy shit!”

“Honestly, one of the best parts of humanity being restored is all the continuations to random shit we watched/read/played during our apocalypse downtime.”

Beowulf turned to Ishtar.

“And then there was that bit with Medb’s prison! Part Six was set in a prison.”

“I haven’t watched the show! I don’t know what any of that is!”

Emiya looked at Beowulf.

“If memory serves, the prison stuff was pretty much an accident. The race was clearly inspired by SBR, but I think the rest of it was a coincidence.”

“Shit, that’s a good point. You’re probably right.”

“Would you two stop having sidebars while I’m right here! How many times do I have to say I don’t watch or read JoJo’s Weird Whatever?!”

“Bizarre Adventure.”

“Who gives a shit!”

Emiya crossed his arms and glared at Ishtar.

“Let’s assume, just for a moment, that you’re telling the truth.”

“Goddesses never lie!”

Emiya, Fujimaru, and Beowulf exchanged quiet glances before all staring at Ishtar in dead silence. She sighed and slumped her shoulders.

“Whatever.”

“Where’d you get that crazy idea from in the first place?”

“I came up with it myself.”

“Uh huh.”

Ishtar stamped her foot angrily, much akin to a child starting a tantrum.

“What? You don’t think I’m capable of coming up with a masterplan all by myself?”

Beowulf shrugged.

“If you were that smart, your plan wouldn’t have crumbled at the finish line.”

Emiya piled on.

“Better yet, you would have recognized it was a foolish idea in the first place and decided not to do it at all.”

“I have divine wisdom!”

“If you’re so smart, stop breaking my fucking microwaves!”

Ishtar got nose-to-nose with Emiya. Another trait Ishtar had picked up from her host was an inability to use modern technology. Across the cafeteria there was a corner with several microwave ovens, all placed for the convenience of the Servants and staff. On the wall behind those microwaves was a portrait of a Servant. It was Ishtar’s face, and superimposed atop that face was a red circle with a line through it.

“It wasn’t my fault! If it has a button with a picture of a potato on it, it should be able to bake a potato!”

“You have to take the foil off! Everyone knows that!”

Ishtar turned to Fujimaru, pleading for help.

“Master, aren’t you going to say anything?!”

This shook Fujimaru from his introspection. The look on his face told the assemblage that his mind had been elsewhere.

“Sorry, I was just remembering how cool it was that Babbage became a Transformer. What’s going on?”

Ishtar hung her head and sulked. She’d be getting no assistance in this fight she picked. Weary and angry, she grumbled under her breath. Emiya and Beowulf heard her voice, but couldn’t make out what she said.

“What was that?”

“I said it was Wacky Races, okay?! Most of the plan was mine, but I filled in the gaps with Wacky Races.”

Wacky Races, of course, was a Hanna-Barbera cartoon from 1968, featuring teams of competitors racing across North America, using era-appropriate gimmicks, schemes, and devices to beat their opponents.

“Hmm.”

Fujimaru chimed in.

“I mean, it’s no Scooby-Doo, but Wacky Races is still pretty good.”

Emiya and Beowulf locked eyes and broke into devilish grins. Beowulf spoke first.

“You think that makes miss “goddess of beauty” over here Penelope Pitstop?”

Emiya shook his head.

“No no, that’s a little too on the nose. We have to remember that she lost at the end.”

Beowulf nodded and pointed at Emiya.

“Great point. Who was that guy that never won any of the races?”

Fujimaru piped up.

“Dick Dastardly, right?”

Ishtar whined.

“Oh, don’t help these jackasses, Master.”

Emiya chuckled.

“That’s exactly right, Master. Hey Beowulf, you know what I’m thinking?”

Ishtar suddenly got very serious.

“You better not say what I think you’re thinking.”

Beowulf stroked his chin.

“Well, Dick Dastardly had a long-suffering animal companion who was way smarter than he was.”

“And just better overall in every conceivable way.”

Ishtar’s eyes lit up with fury.

“Don’t finish that thought.”

Beowulf paid her no mind.

“Which would make Gugalanna…”

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

Mana began to swirl around Ishtar. In far too deep to stop now, Emiya finished the comparison.

“Muttley.”

There was a blinding flash. Searing heat. And then. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Later

Emiya opened his eyes slowly. He scanned his surroundings, immediately piecing together what had transpired. Ishtar had lost her temper and killed him. Presumably Beowulf as well.

The summoning chamber. It was about what he expected. He shook his head and mumbled to himself.

“Shame she can’t use those gems to buy a sense of humor.”

A voice answered from the doorway. It was one he’d recognize anywhere.

“Why did you feel so compelled to antagonize Ishtar?”

Emiya looked up, stretching his newly-reconstituted limbs.

“Hey Artoria. Time is it?”

Artoria shook her head.

“Long past time for you to stop with such childish shenanigans.”

Emiya chuckled.

“Good to see you too. Seriously, what time is it?”

“Just before midnight.”

“Not bad. Beowulf come through yet?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“He beat me? Son of a bitch.”

“Why. Just why, Shirou?”

Emiya shrugged, making his way for the door.

“Maybe I think Ishtar has an attitude problem and should get taken down a peg or two every now and again.”

“Truly? And you believe it is your place to do so?”

“Maybe I’m morally and ethically opposed to humans getting body-jacked and used as vessels for Heroic Spirits.”

“Or perhaps you were in the mood to. What is the term? Be a “troll”?”

Emiya laughed.

“More than one thing can be true at once.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Besides, what brings you here so late? Figured you be asleep by now.”

Artoria glowered at him.

“You were supposed to cook for me after Book Club.”

“How was that, by the way?”

“Nothing extraordinary. We read Dante’s Divine Comedy.”

“Not bad, as far as Renaissance literature goes.”

“Come now. No more stalling. You owe me dinner.”

The pair walked off in the direction of the cafeteria.

"Ishtar isn't still hanging around, is she?"

"No. She has been given a one-week ban from the cafeteria for her actions."

"Thank goodness. At least my microwaves will be safe."

"You could at least pretend to sound remorseful. I can only assume you did everything in your power to make her lose her temper."

"Not my fault a so-called "higher being" can't take a damn joke."

"Deflect all you want, I still believe you are mostly to blame. And I expect "the works" with my meal as recompense for the delay."

“Seriously? I just died. Don’t I get a night off?”

“Not when you so carelessly brought it upon yourself.”

“Heh heh. Worth it.”

Chapter Text

Artoria sat alone in her room, thumbing through the pages of a book. It was a massive tome, and the spine read The Once and Future King. That was the title given to the collection of novels written by T.H. White, widely-regarded as one of the seminal works regarding the life and adventures of Arthur, King of the Britons. Beside Artoria on the table was a tablet, a text document opened. Occasionally she would pause her reading, hold the book open with her left index finger, and type into the text document with her right hand. The document held her various impressions of the work. Opinions on the veracity of this fictional account of her life as well as the quality of the work itself.

As she recorded her musings, the door slid open, revealing a familiar figure. A tall, tanned, broad-shouldered man in red, carrying a tray with two cloches on it. Artoria closed her book, saved and exited her text document, and turned to the man.

“In many cultures, it is considered impolite to enter places without knocking, Shirou.”

Heroic Spirit EMIYA chuckled and cocked his head slightly.

“But I live here.”

There was a pause. It was a true statement, after all. Following the move to the Wandering Sea, many Servants had taken to rooming in pairs, and these two were no exception.

“Well, what if I had been indecent?”

Emiya shrugged as he proceeded to place the tray down on the nearby desk.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Artoria scoffed and placed her hand on her chest, averting her gaze.

“You are a far cry from that awkward boy who would not consent to having his incredibly powerful magical familiar sleep in the same room.”

Emiya tossed back his head and cackled.

“Naturally. Welcome to having an adult relationship with an adult partner, Artoria.”

Artoria’s face shifted from faux dismay to genuine bemusement.

“You are aware I was married, are you not?”

Emiya eyeballed her.

“And we both know Guinevere was just your beard.”

At that statement, Artoria donned a look of confusion. Her eyes followed Emiya as he pulled a large bottle of red wine and a candle from a drawer and projected a simple corkscrew.

“Neither of us had facial hair.”

Emiya stopped what he was doing and turned his head to look at her.

“Seriously? Been in Chaldea how long and you haven’t heard that term? Huh.”

Artoria narrowed her eyes. She knew better than to allow him to explain things on his own schedule.

“Explain. And be brief. I do not wish for dinner to get cold.”

Emiya bowed. Artoria couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was being sarcastic.

“But of course. Begging your pardon, Your Majesty. A “beard” is a romantic partner who is dated, and often married, to disguise a person’s true sexual orientation.”

Artoria answered swiftly, a hint of offense audible in her tone.

“The nerve! My marriage to Guinevere was one of political alliance, and- “

“And it certainly helped you hide your true gender from the world, didn’t it? I know, my use of the term is a bit of a stretch, but it aligns with the spirit of it.”

Artoria glowered at Emiya.

“Do not speak of Guinevere as though she was simply some political tool. Regardless of the outcome of our marriage, she was a dear friend and I will not stand for such casual slander.”

Emiya put his hands up in mock surrender.

“Fine, fine. Obviously I’ve struck a nerve. I’ll drop it. Ready for dinner?”

Artoria’s glare softened, but did not disappear.

“Do not think it has escaped my notice that the majority of your apologies are not apologies at all.”

Emiya shrugged and projected a small wooden table as he replied.

“An apology is an admission of guilt or wrongdoing. I don’t think I’m wrong, so I won’t apologize. But I’m not so insensitive as to keep picking an exposed nerve to win an argument.”

Artoria sighed and shook her head. She watched him create two chairs and a tablecloth next.

“You can be exhausting, you know that?”

Emiya set the table. The two still-covered plates, two glasses, assortment of cutlery, and a small candleholder. To call it a candelabra would have been too generous, as it could clearly only fit a single candle. He spoke as he finished his chore, a sweet, almost cocky tone in his voice.

“But you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

Artoria raised a single eyebrow and answered flatly.

“Do not put words in my mouth.”

Emiya smirked and pulled out the chair closest to Artoria. She approached and sat down as he gently pushed it back in.

“Ready to eat?”

“I have been, for quite some time. And I still do not know why you insist on creating furniture from scratch each time we dine in this fashion.”

Emiya placed the candle in its holder and lit it with a snap of his fingers. He clapped twice, and the lighting dimmed. Finally, he grabbed the cloches and lifted them off the plates.

“Well, when it comes to dining, presentation is just as important as the meal itself. Besides, I enjoy showing off.”

Steam rose from the food. On each plate was a thick, twenty-ounce ribeye steak, baked potato, and serving of baked asparagus. The steaks were adorned with sprigs of rosemary and thyme. The potatoes were topped with melted cheese, chives, sour cream, and bacon bits. The asparagus was accompanied by lemon wedges. Artoria’s eyes went wide and tilted her head up, trying to catch as much of the decadent aromas as possible. Her mouth was watering, and it was all she could do to not allow any drool to escape. Ravenous eater though she was, she had to maintain some level of decorum.

While he waited for Artoria to recover from her stupor, Emiya opened the bottle and filled their glasses. After a moment, she regained her senses, and saw him patiently waiting. They put their hands together and spoke in unison.

“Itadakimasu.”

As she cut into the steak, Artoria looked at Emiya.

“Did you prepare this yourself?”

Emiya shook his head, slicing into the asparagus.

“Beni-Enma took care of us tonight. She was a bit frustrated after her cooking class and felt compelled to see a dish properly created.”

Artoria lifted her fork to her mouth and chewed her first piece. It was still at the perfect temperature for consumption. She could tell from the rest of the steak that it had been cooked to medium-rare, the optimal doneness for a steak of this fattiness. The juices swirled in her mouth and with a few chews, it was gone.

“Please give her my highest compliments if you see her before I do. Who would have thought an oni from hell would be such a great hostess and chef?”

Emiya nodded, and swallowed his vegetables.

“My gut tells me Chaldea’s adventures will only get stranger and stranger.”

Artoria made another cut as she continued the discussion.

“I have wondered for some time why you have not run a cooking class. You seem well-suited for the task.”

Trying a scoop of the potato, Emiya replied.

“First, I couldn’t be bothered. Too much work. Secondly, I really wouldn’t be very good at it.”

Having devoured another chunk of steak, Artoria washed it down with a swig of wine.

“What makes you say that?”

Emiya shrugged.

“I’m intelligent enough to explain all my steps and why I do them. But at best, that would result in people being able to mimic my recipes.”

Artoria furrowed her brow, speaking once the spoonful of baked potato had cleared her windpipe.

“Is that not what a cooking class is?”

Emiya shook his head.

“No. What Beni-Enma seeks is to train people to be able to cook for themselves and others unaided. To try and mold her students into competent chefs in their own rights.”

“Ah.”

“I can help a person master a recipe. She can help a person master cooking itself. Or, she’s trying to, at least. She’s at her wit’s end with Osakabehime.”

“I see now.”

They nodded silently, each trying to enjoy their dinner while it was still hot. The flame wavered gently, shifting the light and shadows ever so slightly. The only noise was the clinking of utensils on dishware as they ate. After some time, Emiya looked up at Artoria and broke the silence.

“So. How was your day?”

Artoria met his gaze.

“Nothing extraordinary. Fitness class, lunch, farming, then back here for some light reading.”

“What’d you farm?”

“Octuplet Crystals.”

“Any luck?”

Artoria shrugged.

“We procured a few, but Master seemed disappointed with the quantity.”

“Is what it is, I suppose. Reading for Book Club, or for yourself?”

“Myself. The Once and Future King, by T.H. White.”

Emiya cocked an eyebrow at her, but spoke with a level tone.

“Bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

Artoria shook her head.

“It is fascinating! Almost akin to reading a, what was the term again? Fanfic? About myself.”

“You think that’s interesting? Honestly, if someone wrote stories about me against my will for their own entertainment, I’d track them down and beat their ass. My life story isn’t something to be messed with for shits and giggles.”

Artoria chuckled.

“That does sound exactly like you. I will admit, the second book of the series is a bit distracting with its portrayal of the Orkney family.”

Emiya looked up for a moment, considering that statement.

“You reading the books individually, or the big compilation?”

“The compilation.”

Emiya took a swig of his wine and pointed the bottle to Artoria, offering to refill her glass before his own. She nodded, accepting the gesture and reciprocating. They clinked glasses over the candle and drank.

“You’re reading the rewrite of the second book, Queen of Air and Darkness. You could try The Witch in the Wood, which was the original second book of the series.”

Artoria’s eyes lit up.

“I will have to request Lady Murasaki peruse her collection.”

“She the new librarian I’ve heard so much about?”

“Indeed! You are familiar?”

“Well, if we’re speaking of Murasaki Shikibu, then of course I am. She was a contemporary of Lady Raikou and her retainers, as well as the author of Genji Monogatari, considered by historians to be one of the first novels ever written.”

Artoria nodded, visibly impressed.

“And here I thought your encyclopedic knowledge only extended to bladed weaponry.”

Emiya dabbed a bit of juice from his chin before replying..

“I might only have a high school education, but I did pay attention in history class. I’m curious, does she have a printing press down there? I’ve been wondering where all these books everyone suddenly has keep coming from.”

Artoria shook her head.

“No, it is one of her Noble Phantasms. She has recreated physical copies of Chaldea’s digital text files.”

“That’s a lot of books. How big is our basement?”

Artoria shrugged and held her hands up. They ate quietly for a little while. After a bit more wine, Artoria cleared her throat.

“Shirou?”

“Hmm?”

“Why do you hate steak sauce?”

Emiya looked up from his plate, mildly confused.

“I don’t hate steak sauce. Who told you I do?”

“No one has said anything, but I have noticed you refuse to serve steaks with it.”

Emiya shook his head gently.

“That’s because I take my job seriously.”

“Excuse me?”

Emiya sighed softly.

“I have nothing against steak sauce. It has plenty of uses in the kitchen. Hell, sometimes when I make those cheesesteaks you love so much, I throw some sauce over the meat as I cook it.”

“Then why not have it accompany steaks?”

“Because, for a cut of cow meat to be high enough quality to be called a “steak”, that makes it a premium item. Any chef who knows what they’re doing and takes the craft seriously knows that a properly-made steak can stand on its own once it’s served. A little au jus, if it’s prime rib, sure. But if a diner asks for steak sauce? They’ve just told you that your steak is shit, or that they have no taste.”

“I must admit a certain begrudging respect for your obstinance on the matter.”

“Yeah, well. If I didn’t take cooking so seriously, I doubt I’d be able to make half the dishes you love so much.”

“You know, your food is not the only reason I have stuck around.”

“I’m aware. Gotta hedge my bets though.”

“Oh? Surely the Hunter of the Red Plains is not worried about me “trading up”? I certainly have no shortage of potential suitors here. In fact, it seems as though my options grow with each passing day.”

Emiya grinned and leaned forward over the table. It was a warm smile, the kind given to a lover. He placed his elbow along the edge and turned his hand inward, resting his chin atop his fist. The orange glow of the candle flickered, reflecting off the gray of his eyes and casting shadows that danced along the walls. He spoke slowly but surely, a reassuring tone in his voice.

“If you think you can do better, by all means. I wouldn’t dare dream of standing in the way of your happiness. Follow whatever path fills your heart.”

Artoria looked down and away, her feeble attempt at making him jealous having backfired on account of his confidence. Emiya smirked upon seeing just how deeply she blushed.

“That is enough. You can stop flexing at the dinner table now. I know you only wear that bright red cloak around me because of how tight the sleeves are.”

Emiya leaned back in his seat, contented with himself.

“Seems you lucked out, entering an arranged marriage. If that’s how you flirt, you never would’ve stood a chance otherwise.”

Artoria narrowed her eyes at him.

“Shut up you.”

Emiya spread his arms and placed his hands behind his head, dutifully saying nothing. After a moment of sitting with a stupid grin on his face, Emiya leaned forward, noticing Artoria had cleared her plate.

“All done?”

She nodded. Emiya stood up and took care of cleaning. First, he clapped his hands, the lighting returning to its usual intensity. Next, he licked his fingertips and extinguished the candle, then walked it, the glasses, and the bottle over to the desk. Once that was done, he projected a large washcloth and wiped the plates and utensils dry. He wrung towel out over the toilet and flushed it, small scraps of food and traces of fluid vanishing in the swirl. Then, with one big flourish, he waved his hand, and everything dematerialized. Forks, knives, spoons, candelabra, table, chairs, napkins, and tablecloth. The only traces of their dinner that remained were the fullness of their bellies and the lingering scents wafting in the air.

“And that’s why I don’t spring for furniture. No cleaning. Nothing to return to the kitchen. Nothing to launder. Quick, easy, painless.”

Artoria gave a polite golf clap.

“I still do not understand why you have to wring the washcloth over the toilet.”

“Because, the leftover food matter isn’t one of my projections. If I dismiss the washcloth, whatever it collected with be left behind. I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t feel like cleaning up steak juice splatter off the floor.”

“Very well, your point has been made. Are you ready for tonight’s film?”

“I am. What’ve you got?”

“It is a “sports film”. I have not seen it, but I am told it is a rousing tale of a man’s fall from grace and the resultant personal and professional redemption. The story of how the hero went from having nothing to everything to nothing once more, and his struggle to overcome insidious betrayals and rediscover the power within himself.”

Approximately ninety minutes later

As they sat on their bed, Artoria and Emiya watched a climactic scene unfold in the film. Shown on the television screen in their room, a mustachioed man with an American Southern accent drove a racecar at furious speed, holding a tense radio conversation with a member of his team.

“Well you tell Mr. Dennit. That Ricky Bobby is my best friend! And it’s Shake ‘n Bake time!”

“Look Cal, I don’t like the way you’re talkin’ out there.”

“Damn the torpedoes! Hahahahahaha!”

Later

The film had concluded and the pair were still sitting on their bed, digesting its contents. Emiya’s arm was wrapped around Artoria, and she was snuggled into his chest.

“That was. Not at all what I expected.”

“No, it was not.”

“So. What did you think?”

Artoria inhaled sharply through her nostrils, taking a beat to contemplate her answer.

“I would win.”

Emiya looked down at her.

“Win what?”

“The race.”

“The Talladega 500?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Do you doubt me?”

“When the hell have you ever driven a car?”

“Several times. As a Round Table Knight, I possess the Riding skill. As you well know, that transfers to any vehicle of any era.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“How dare you! If you do not believe me, feel free to ask El-Melloi about the occasion when I pursued him and Iskandar on a motorcycle.”

Emiya was taken aback. Stunned almost to the point of speechlessness. Almost.

“Don’t think I won’t. And by the way, even if you did win, which I’m not saying you could, using a Servant skill to do so would be cheating. And aren’t you and your buddies all about honor and fair play?”

“That would merely be levelling the playing field, as I do not possess the training and experience those drivers have. Further, I can even channel a mana burst into the vehicles I utilize.”

“Okay, now I know you’re making things up.”

Artoria slapped his chest.

“I am not! On my honor as the King of Knights, mine words are truth.”

“Listen, Artoria, you don’t have to make up fantastical stories to impress me. I already think you’re perfect just as you are.”

Artoria stared deeply into Emiya’s eyes. She leaned in close, her face so close to his she could feel his breath. Then, she stuck her finger in his face.

“Do not think your honeyed words will excuse your condescension. I find your lack of faith disturbing.”

Emiya chuckled and rolled his eyes. He gently wrapped his hand around Artoria’s fingers, brought her hand up to his face, and kissed it.

“Let’s agree to disagree. Seriously though, what did you think of the movie?”

“I thought it was crass, but humorous nonetheless. And yourself?”

“Yeah, I was expecting something serious by the way you described it, but it turned out to be pretty funny.”

“I was surprised to hear you laugh so heartily.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well, your sense of humor tends to be more appreciative of. Hmm. What is it called? Schadenfreude?”

“Wait wait wait. You know about schadenfreude, but not beards? Unreal. And I can laugh at stuff that isn’t just other peoples’ suffering. I just happen to find it very amusing, that’s all.”

“As a being who has visited multiple eras of history, I was surprised at how much of the humor managed to resonate.”

“Yeah, physical comedy has a certain timelessness to it. You’d probably appreciate Buster Keaton. Any jokes that particularly stuck out for you?”

Artoria tilted her head and pondered for a moment.

“When Richard Bobby’s father was instructing him, and emptied the water buckets on him. Especially the last bucket.”

“Ha. “Well, I filled three.” That was good. I liked when he stuck the knife in his leg at the hospital. That moment of dead silence when they stared at each other before he freaked out really sold it.”

“See? More schadenfreude.”

“I never said I don’t like it. Just that I like things in addition to it. I liked when the creepy one was polling for gift ideas for his elderly grandmother, and the other man said “A coffin.” Heh.”

“Shirou, that was horrible!”

“It was funny! Half of the reason that joke landed was the delivery of the punchline. The swift nonchalance of the guy, as if that was the most obvious answer in the world? Hilarious.”

“Agree to disagree. I think that was too callous.”

“Fine, fine. You know, I have to give it credit for being a comedy that had actual character arcs instead of just being a joke machine. Ricky learned to stop taking his life for granted and to truly cherish those close to him, Cal realized that even though he’d been riding Ricky’s coattails his whole life, they were still best friends and stealing his life was wrong, and Reese finally showed up for something important to Ricky.”

“Reese sold those tickets Richard left for him.”

“Yes. But. He also clung to the fence to watch the race. Everything he said or did throughout the movie pointed to him being a worthless scoundrel. If he sat down with the family and watched like a decent person, that would’ve been too much character growth, and it wouldn’t be believable.”

“That is a fair point. Truly, it was a better film than I was led to believe it would be from the opening scenes.”

Emiya grabbed the remote and shut off the screen.

“So, are you doing anything on Valentine’s Day?”

Artoria shook her head.

“I have not been courted by anyone as of yet.”

Emiya nodded.

“Good. I’ve made some plans.”

“And you will be able to keep them?”

Emiya shrugged.

“Long as Semiramis keeps her end of the bargain and mass produces chocolate like she promised, I’ll be home in time for dinner that day.”

“Are you not worried that you have jinxed yourself just now?”

“I don’t believe in that superstitious nonsense. That being said, if you’re concerned about me getting stuck at work that day, how about we celebrate a little early?”

And before Artoria could reply, Emiya flipped her onto her back.

“S-Shirou!”

Even later

The lights had been turned off, and there was no telling how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? The happy couple had no idea. In these private moments, the only thing on their minds were each other.

Emiya saw sitting upright on their bed. Artoria was sitting in his lap, facing him. Beads of sweat rolled down their bodies, pants and moans echoed off the steel walls of their tiny room. Their bedding was drenched. The room stank of sweat and sex. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, her arms over his shoulders. She rocked her hips back and forth, grinding on his cock. One of his hands gripped her hair, tilting her head back and exposing her neck. The other clenched her ass cheek, fingers digging deep enough to leave an impression. His mouth was on her collarbone as he tenderly bit into her flesh.

They had had plenty of fun this evening, but Emiya knew he was approaching his limit. Letting go of her neck, he quickly shifted his hands, grabbed Artoria’s hips, and held her in place as he gave one final thrust up into her. With a low, guttural moan, he erupted inside her. Artoria reached up and pulled his head down for a kiss before lifting herself off of him and flopping backwards onto the mattress. He took one last look at her, delighted at the sight of him spilling out of her pussy, and flopped onto his back as well.

After regaining her breath, Artoria clambered over and lay atop Emiya, nestling under his arm. He turned his head and spoke sweetly to her.

“Enjoy yourself?”

Artoria hummed.

“I always do.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“Can we leave cleanup for the morning? I am quite exhausted.”

Emiya thought for a brief moment. He was pretty spent himself, and decided this was a good idea.

“Long as you grab me the pillow first.”

Artoria complied, fluffing it for him. He placed it beneath his head and projected a sheet to cover them both. In all the excitement, he’d lost track of the bedsheet they’d started with. He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

“Good night.”

Artoria closed her eyes, ready to call it a day.

“Good night. I love you.”

Emiya sighed contentedly.

“Love you too.”

Chapter Text

It was an ordinary day in Novum Chaldea. Artoria was sitting at the counter in the cafeteria, not a care in the world. She was happily chowing down on a freshly-made strawberry parfait and enjoying the peace and quiet. It was a simple day in a string of many like it. A respite from her tragic destiny. Unfortunately for her, today was the day her running from that tragedy would come to an end. She pulled the spoon from her mouth and stuck it back into the dessert, nothing else on her mind in this moment. Before she could have her next spoonful, the chef decided to check in on his diner.

“Well? Is it to your liking?”

Artoria looked up at Emiya, the mysterious Archer in red. She couldn’t quite explain it, but she felt a strange kinship to him. He certainly was an odd one, an Archer with a predilection for creating and throwing swords. Or was it his preternatural cooking skills? Every other member of the kitchen crew had some kind reasonable justification for their work, even the strange cat Berserker. Him, though? He just. Knew how to cook. He also evaded all inquiries into himself and his story.

But that was fine. She too was someone who bucked expectations and jealously guarded her secrets.

Artoria looked at him before she answered. With a glance, she knew there was a genuine curiosity in his query. Not just of his high professional standards for his craft, but also a desire to make sure those he fed were satisfied. Not that he’d ever admit as much. In her relatively brief time with Chaldea, she’d consumed media from many cultures and eras of human history. She believed that Emiya could accurately be described as a “tsundere”, the type who would use rude or cold behavior to deny harboring feelings of affection.

“It’s wonderful! I don’t know why you’re so worried about this. It’s not like anybody has sent back anything you’ve made.”

Emiya shrugged, content with the answer.

“We’ve been experimenting with a few recipe changes back in the kitchen and I wanted to do my due diligence. Make sure the final product is good. I’m seeking feedback. Do we serve it too cold? Should we have more solid fruit in a serving, or less? Is a strictly strawberry parfait good enough on its own merits, or should we have strawberry mixed in with other flavors? Is the consistency too thick, or not thick enough? Et cetera, et cetera, so on and so forth.”

Artoria smiled awkwardly and shrugged.

“In that case, I’m really sorry! I just couldn’t imagine actually saying anything negative, even if it’s. Um. What do you call it?”

“Constructive criticism.”

“That’s it! I just can’t imagine getting free food and being able to say it was anything other than incredible, especially when it’s honestly incredible.”

Emiya sighed wearily and visibly deflated, waving his hand dismissively.

“All you non-evil Artorias are the same. “The food’s so good, I can’t imagine it being better!” Ugh. This is why I use Mordred as my taste-tester.”

Artoria raised an eyebrow.

“Because she’s mean and willing to insult you?”

Emiya shook his head.

“No. Well, kinda. It’s because she speaks her mind. She can say “This is good, but undercooked,” or “there’s not enough Worcestershire sauce in this” without being a bitch about it. Yeah, she’s an asshole, but I’ve known her long enough to know the difference between her throwing out insults to maintain her reputation and when she thinks something is actually garbage.”

Artoria nodded in agreement. His assessment of the would-be usurper to the throne of Briton was accurate.

“How is she, by the way?”

Emiya shrugged and upturned his palms.

“Haven’t seen too much of her in the last week or two. She’s been busy hanging out with Caenis and her siblings.”

“Well that’s great! I’m glad she has friends.”

Emiya nodded.

“As are we all. There’s plenty to unpack in that unlikely “broship”, but it seems to be good for everybody, except Martha, so I’m fine letting it slide.”

Artoria shrugged and dove back into her parfait. It was sweet. It was creamy. It was just precisely the correct thickness. And the strawberry was cut into small enough pieces that the chunks fit perfectly with the delicious mix. As she pulled the spoon from her mouth, her head began ringing. An intense, sharp pain emanating from the center of her brain. Dead center, a few centimeters behind her eyes. The spoon clattered on the counter. Both hands were on her head, clutching the blue cap. More concerned than his demeanor let on, the chef addressed her.

“You alright? I told you if you ate too fast you’d risk getting brain freeze.”

Artoria shook her head vigorously, took a few deep breaths, and calmed herself. After some time, the pain ebbed away. She knew how pain could distort an individual’s perception of the passage of time. Maybe it had been hours. Maybe just a few seconds. When she looked up, Emiya was still there. Her green eyes quickly darted around the room. Judging by the clock, she surmised that the time had been short. She clutched her chest and inhaled deeply before answering.

“I feel a great disturbance, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened.”

Emiya rolled his eyes and slumped his shoulders.

“Alright, settle down Old Ben. I’m sure Alderaan is fine. And clean up that mess you just made. Just because I have an apron doesn’t mean this is a maid café.”

Artoria Pendragon was roaming the halls, not a care in the world. She ate as she walked, munching on an anpan. Emiya, having departed in the early morning for a double shift in the kitchen, left a few for her in their room. A sweet roll filled with red bean paste, it was a delectable treat. She had just awoken from a post-training nap, and was on her way to the library when she found her pleasant afternoon stroll plagued by a specter most foul. Its voice cut through the air.

“Father.”

Artoria stopped dead in her tracks. This storm cloud on her sunny day was leaning against a bulkhead, arms crossed. Her red leather jacket creaked as she shifted. One biker boot was on the ground, the other planted on the wall behind her.

“Mordred.”

Artoria had just passed Mordred. This left them facing opposite directions, each looking away from the other. The working relationship between the two of them was better than it had ever been. Mordred was allowed at Round Table group functions and Artoria no longer admonished her for calling her “Father”.

And their personal relationship had achieved a state of equilibrium as well. Rather, it was the best they could ever hope for it to be. Artoria’s feelings typically ranged between cold indifference toward her unwillingly-created bastard spawn to strictly professional pride in the capabilities of one of her knights. Mordred no longer felt an unyielding rage and burning desire to destroy everything her king loved out of aforementioned king’s cold rejection of her.

There was no risk of spontaneous violence erupting between the two, just as there was no risk of spontaneous father-son games of catch. The most succinct description of the state of affairs between the two would be to say: there was no love lost between them. And ultimately, that meant it was a rather anomalous occurrence indeed for Mordred to flag Artoria down and initiate a conversation.

“I met a new coworker a little while ago. There’s likely a few more running around the joint.”

“For you to seek me out, I presume this is someone with whom I am acquainted.”

“Yes. And also no.”

Artoria inhaled sharply through her nostrils, held that breath, then slowly exhaled through her mouth.

“Speak plain. I am in no mood for riddles.”

Artoria heard the click of a lighter, and the faint curl of paper as it burned. She observed Kiritsugu in the past and El-Melloi in the present well enough to recognize the sound of a cigarette being lit. She harrumphed as quietly as she could.

“This must be serious indeed. I can imagine scant few figures in human history who could possibly rattle you thus.”

Mordred exhaled. It was long, dramatic, and filled the space around her with smoke. Artoria hid her sweet bun under her blouse to shield it.

“Oh yeah? Laugh while you can. I just met the King of the British Lostbelt. Queen Morgan le Fay.”

“Things are going to change here, and soon.”

The joviality faded from Artoria’s tone. Her face grew stern. Emiya raised an eyebrow. For someone so fond of his own theatrics, he had precious little patience for others’.

“Ominous.”

“Serious. Master has returned, and I fear my secrets will no longer remain thus.”

“Shit. Now you sound like some lowlife soothsayer. Like some, ah, back alley tarot reader.”

A brief crack in the serious façade. Artoria tilted her head, curiosity overtaking her.

“You live in a world of magic. You are aware that prophecy can be told with the proper tools, yes?”

“And I also live in a world filled with predatory assholes, looking to make a quick buck off naïve fools. An appropriate dose of skepticism is good for the health.”

Artoria nodded.

“A fair point. It seems all Parallel Worlds have those would further themselves at the expense of others.”

Emiya was perplexed. The way this normally goofy, competitive, easily excitable Caster version of Artoria was acting was strange, but not unfamiliar. He narrowed his eyes and contemplated the shift.

“You’re acting like that Final Ascension version of yourself. The one with the floating spears and comically-oversized staff.”

This elicited an immediate response, the grim demeanor fading briefly fading once more. She barked, her twin tails flopping behind her.

“Hey! My staff is exactly the size it’s supposed to be!”

Emiya raised his palms in mock surrender, chuckling as he did.

“Fine, fine. I’ll save the “overcompensation” jokes for when you’re in a better mood.”

Artoria glared at him for a moment before relenting. They stared awkwardly at each other for some time before Emiya finally broke the silence.

“Since you’re talking like it’s the end of the world, let me ask this while I can. Who the hell are you?”

Artoria shrugged.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Emiya rolled his eyes.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, not so fun when it happens to you, is it?”

“No. No it’s not.”

Artoria laughed for a bit before looking back at him.

“Why do I vex you so?”

“Because you’re an unsolved mystery.”

“Oh yeah? Lemme guess, it’s because you’re the only person around here allowed to have secrets?”

“That’s certainly my preference, yes.”

Artoria waved him off and returned to her parfait. Emiya sighed and crossed his arms.

“Seriously though. How long have you been here?”

Artoria shrugged.

“Sometimes it feels like a year, sometimes like a few weeks.”

“And after all that time, we know nothing about you. All the other doppelgängers have explanations. Artoria and her swimsuit Spirit Origin. The dark Alter and her Rider Spirit Origins. The Lancer, her swimsuit variant, and her Alter. Mysterious Heroine X, her older self, and their Alters. Saber Lily, the kid Artoria. But you? You are anomalous. And whether that’s good or bad is yet to be determined.”

Artoria nodded, knowingly. She remembered now, why this stranger was so interesting to her. His unexplained connection to a dear from friend from another lifetime.

“Hmm. I will spoil the reveal for you if you do the same for me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Muramasa Senji. You’re weird about him. What is your real relation to him?”

Emiya shook his head.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Artoria looked at him.

“That’s not wrong. And yet, that’s not the whole truth.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Artoria took a good, long look at Emiya while she contemplated her response.

“I know you often remind yourself that Muramasa is not someone else.”

Emiya narrowed his eyes.

“What is this? You a telepath, now? Some kind of Newtype?”

She shook her head and waved her hand.

“Nothing so. Crunchy. I can’t read minds.”

“Really? You seem to know a lot of shit you shouldn’t.”

“I have an…innate ability to perceive truths. To divine information hidden by others.”

Emiya scoffed.

“If you put “The Hanged Man” card upside-down before me, I’m leaving.”

Artoria shook her head.

“I can see truths.”

“And I thought I had the market cornered on annoying, vague answers. What the hell does that even mean?”

A bemused sigh escaped Artoria.

“I cannot read thoughts. But I know when I am being lied to. And I know the intent behind the words spoken to me. What truths and feelings lie in the hearts of those I speak to.”

Emiya sighed. Too bothersome to keep tugging this thread.

“Fine. Keep your secrets. I’m sure I’ll figure it out soon enough anyway.”

Artoria finished her dessert and stood up to leave.

“Thank you. The parfait was indeed magnificent, no notes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must leave. I sense that Master has summoned some old. Enemies? Friends? Hmm. Acquaintances! That's it. Some old faces that I would much rather not see so soon.”

“See you around. Thanks for. Answering none of my questions and being irritatingly confusing and evasive.”

Artoria suddenly got deathly serious again.

“But before I leave.”

“Oh shit, here we go.”

“You will be haunted by three spirits. Expect them today, when the bell tolls two.”

“So, I’ll take them all at once, and have it over, Artoria?”

And with that, she turned around and silently departed. Emiya called after her.

“Thanks for the prophecy, ghost of Jacob Marley! What the hell was all that about?”

“Did you say Morgan le Fay?”

“I did.”

“From the Lostbelt? But they left this morning! How could they possibly be back and summoning already?”

“Didn’t stick around to ask. My guess? Serious magical time dilation on the inside.”

“Something we have seen plenty of around here. What does she know of us?”

“Hard to tell. Mentioned something about the real Morgan Rayshifting memories to her. Shit didn’t make any sense.”

“That is hardly of any use.”

“Whaddya want from me? I’m a frontline soldier, not a fuckin’ intel operative. You want actionable intelligence on the enemy? Have Master summon James Bond.”

“007 is a fictional character.”

“You sure about that? We all humor that windbag detective and his mustache-twirling psycho, but there’s no proof either of them were actually real.”

Artoria grunted.

“What’s the matter? Angry that the worst person in the world made a decent point?”

“If there is one, return to it.”

“Fine. I’ll tell ya this much: she knew the name “Gawain”, but had no idea what he looked like. Or that he was her kid. Not that the real Morgan ever gave a shit about any of her kids.”

“Hmm. Is she strong?”

Another smoky huff.

“Yeah. Fresh out the box, me and the gorilla couldn’t hit her. Then she busted out some bullshit magic on top of it and froze us in place.”

“Do you believe you could defeat her?”

“Course I do.”

“Foolish question. You think you could defeat anyone.”

Mordred scoffed derisively.

“Break my balls some more why dontcha.”

“Could I defeat her?”

“There’s the king I remember. Always ready to defend his throne.”

“I know it will be difficult, but be serious for a moment. You were a great warrior, and I value your tactical appraisal.”

Puff of smoke. It was disgusting, at least to Artoria’s nose. Chaldea had plenty of smokers, who enjoyed a wide variation in their vice of choice. None were particularly fragrant or pleasing to her, but Mordred’s choice in cigarettes was especially nasty.

“Honestly? Depends on who lands a blow first. Seems like she’s on our side though. Or, on Master’s side, at least. But if she’s anything like that duplicitous bitch sister of yours, could just be the start some evil long con.”

Artoria stood silently for a moment, contemplating the unexpected intelligence briefing.

“This has been a fruitful meeting.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was a pause. After a beat, Artoria addressed her sister’s kid.

“The commissary is plentiful with its tobacco. Why do you insist on smoking such an odious blend?”

Echoing rubber footfalls on the hard floor were her only response.

Later

Emiya was absentmindedly wiping down a glass, ruminating on his earlier conversation when a familiar voice cut through the air.

“And here’s the cafeteria!”

Emiya’s eyes darted to the entryway. It was Mash in her usual casual attire, the oversized hoodie over her uniform. She was followed by three unfamiliar faces, a bizarre menagerie. A tall, powerfully-built, blonde female knight. A ghastly, crimson nightmare with a wicked aura. And finally, a doll-like girl with blue armor that gave faint “fighter jet” vibes.

Three new Servants. Three new Heroic Spirits. His eyes went wide at the fulfillment of the prophecy.

“Holy shit, it’s just like the old gypsy woman said.”

The Archer scanned the wall for the clock. It read “13:48”. Two o’clock. Almost. He shrugged.

“Eh, close enough.”

The quartet approached the counter, and Mash began with the introductions.

“Good afternoon, Emiyan! I’ve brought some new coworkers for you to meet! These are Faerie Knights- “

The tall blonde interjected.

“Or Tam Lin, whichever you prefer.”

“Right! Gawain, aka Barghest. Tristan, aka Baobhan Sith. And Lancelot, aka Mélusine.”

Mash pointed to each new Servant as she introduced them. Emiya’s head went up, down, and way down to make eye contact with each of them. The names sounded vaguely familiar, each of them coming from different old European myths.

“Lemme get this straight. Master has summoned a demon hound, a fairy, and a. Uh. French water nymph?”

Barghest nodded. Baobhan Sith scowled. Mélusine cocked her head.

“What is “French”?”

“Guess we’ve just totally discarded the “Welcome Aboard” orientation video.”

“And besides. I am no nymph. I am a dragon.”

Emiya sized them up suspiciously.

“Right. Well, it’s nice to meet you all. I’m Emiya. Archer-class Servant and one of the head chefs. The cafeteria is always open but meal hours are posted outside by the door. I’m guessing that since you’re back so soon and already summoning, things didn’t go so well and you have to try again?”

Mash shook her head.

“Nope! All taken care of!”

This caught Emiya off-guard, the latest surprise in a day full of them.

“Come again?”

“Lostbelt destroyed, cosmos denied, superweapon attained, the whole nine yards!”

“You were gone eight hours, what do you mean you destroyed the British Lostbelt?! We haven’t even started dinner yet.”

“Time dilation.”

“That’s an unsatisfying answer. So, why are our new friends named after Round Table knights? And what the hell happened while you were gone? You can’t just casually stroll back in here, say you destroyed a Lostbelt, and act like it’s yesterday’s news. This is a huge deal, Mash.”

“Oh yeah! Senpai probably hasn’t uploaded the mission reports yet. So, their world diverged fourteen-thousand years ago, when six lazy faeries refused to get off their butts and make Excalibur, causing Sefar to destroy the surface of the planet. It was a world entirely populated by faeries, and these three served the queen, Morgan le Fay. Now, when the Crypter landed, he summoned the Morgan le Fay of PHH. She Rayshifted her knowledge back in time to the Morgan of the Lostbelt, who then used that knowledge to alter history and become queen. She named her arguably most powerful soldiers after the Knights of the Round Table, altering their Saint Graphs and granting them incredible power- “

Barghest spoke up.

“Arguably?”

Mash turned to her.

“You three are all extremely powerful, of course. But let’s not forget about Woodwose.”

Baobhan Sith cackled wickedly.

“The shriveled geezer?! If that fool’s brains matched his brawn, he wouldn’t have been such a joke to get rid of. Though, trying to domesticate himself was just as much to blame as his age, I suppose.”

Barghest responded with a cold, casual cruelty in her voice.

“This coming from the one who so quickly and wholly fell under the thrall of that disgusting Beryl Gut? You have no right to mention brains ever again.”

Emiya pinched his brow with one hand and slowly held up the other. Mélusine’s blissful ignorance of France was his first clue, but this made it explicitly clear to him that this trio was from the Lostbelt. That was quite strange. With the exception of the Lostbelt Kings and few others, Chaldea had only managed to summon the PHH versions of the various Heroic Sprits they’d met within the theoretical worlds destined for Pruning. This Lostbelt must have had more surprises in store than the others. Emiya addressed Mash.

“I’m sorry. I know I asked, but never mind. This sounds like wheels within wheels, and I’m already getting a headache. I’ll just read the reports when they get filed. I get the impression that a full recap of your journey is going to take a very long time.”

“Yeah, it’s best if you split it in three parts and read it over the course of two months. For the others it was a few weeks. For me, it was literal millennia.”

Emiya stared at her.

“Everyone I talk to today just leaves me with more questions than answers.”

Mash shrugged. Emiya grew serious for a moment.

“Tell me one thing. Did you guys manage to properly deal with the Crypter this time?”

Mash’s demeanor shifted as well. She nodded, grimly.

“We did. No chance of him coming back to bother us.”

Emiya nodded approvingly. He was not a fan of them taking the still-comatose Kadoc Zemlupus prisoner. Especially since he’d been handed over by that fucking priest. He still believed it was a trap of some kind. Further, the Crypters were traitors to humanity, and he believed traitors should be given no quarter. Yu Mei-ren was included in this, but she did technically die to become a Heroic Spirit, so he considered the matter with her resolved.

“How did he die?”

“The Crypter?”

Emiya nodded.

“Not well.”

Emiya grinned, and extended his fist out to Mash. She reluctantly bumped it. While she didn’t like Beryl, she wasn’t the type to gleefully celebrate a person’s death. Still, it was good to see a familiar face and she didn’t want to leave him hanging. Emiya looked at the newly-summoned Servants.

“Okay, so. You three are powerful knights from the Lostbelt. That it? No further introductions, no tragic backstories, not even your classes? Easy day. Welcome to the team. See you around.”

They looked at each other, and Baobhan Sith piped up.

“No, that won’t do at all. The idea that some mere chef is so nonplussed about us pisses me off.”

Emiya sighed wearily.

“Fuck me, here we go.”

Barghest cleared her throat.

“I hail from the Fang Clan, and am told I am a “Saber”, whatever that means. The concept of Heroic Spirits and classes was not something we had back in our home. Regardless, please address me as Barghest, and thank you for welcoming us into your home.”

Emiya nodded. Then he eyeballed Baobhan Sith, the sneering little she-devil. There was something unsettling about her. As though she were a calamity waiting to be unleashed.

“I am Baobhan Sith, chosen daughter of Queen Morgan. Devilish, bloodsucking faerie, here to drain these pathetic weakling humans dry.”

Emiya scoffed.

“Yeah? Let’s see how much blood you get from all ten remaining humans. Feel free to come back here when you run out of victims and need something else to eat.”

Baobhan Sith glared up at him.

“You’re awfully mouthy for a cook.”

Emiya refused to back down. He knew in his bones she would be more trouble than she’s worth.

“By the way, make sure you add your name to the chore wheel. We like to have everyone pull their own weight around here.”

“Who in the hell do you think you are?!”

Emiya smirked. He’d hit paydirt alright.

“I’m sure mommy made sure all your needs were met and your whims catered to. Over here? We expect Servants to earn their keep. Or did you think your meager “charms” could make up for being a nasty little parasite?”

Baobhan Sith bared her teeth. Mash sighed.

“I am a princess! Mash! Who does this upstart servant think he is?! Does all the help speak out of turn like him? I’ll turn you to mincemeat you worthless loser!”

In all his years, both alive and dead, Emiya’s native language was Japanese. Throughout his dealings with the world of magic, the word “Servant”, when used to describe a Heroic Spirit, was never translated, being its own proper noun. That meant that in this moment, through the translation magic that allowed communication between beings from Parallel and Theoretical Worlds, he knew Baobhan Sith was indeed using the word “servant” to refer to him as though he were some common hired hand. The kind of person royalty like her considered to be lesser beings and discarded like trash. She was definitely going to be a problem if this wasn’t nipped in the bud.

“Go on and try it.”

Baobhan Sith scoffed.

“You know what? You aren’t nearly as intimidating as you seem to think you are. If you were any kind of threat, you wouldn’t be working in the kitchen.”

At this, Barghest shot Baobhan Sith the dirtiest of looks. The crimson witch didn’t notice. Emiya did, however, and made a mental note of it before replying.

“If you’re so strong, go ahead and take the first shot. But you better make it a good one, because if I’m still standing afterwards? You’re gonna regret it.”

Baobhan Sith glared at him. After what might have been a full minute of tense standoff, she broke into haughty laughter.

“Please. Like I need to demonstrate my strength to a burger flipper. You say you’re a chef, yes? Why don’t you do something useful, and instead of running your mouth, whip us up some pastries? Chop chop. Mongrel.”

Emiya nodded grimly. Sharp inhale through the nose, powerful exhale through the mouth. That was the last strike. With a flash of light, his bow was in his hand. Wispy blue magical energy swirled around him sending his apron and cloak fluttering. In an instant, Caladbolg was elongated, nocked, and aimed at Baobhan Sith’s face. Barghest and Mélusine each took a step back, both of them sensing the magical energy and deadly intent of this readied blow.

“I don’t give a shit who you were when you were alive, you obnoxious pestilence. Call me “the help” again and what's left of you will fit in a coffee mug.”

Mash put her hands up.

“Emiya! Baobhan Sith! Both of you, stop it!”

Emiya just continued to look at Baobhan Sith with the dispassionate, analytical stare of a predator tracking game through the brush. He answered Mash without looking at her.

“Mash, I’ve been with Chaldea somewhere between three and six years. I will not be insulted in my place of work by some bratty little shit who clearly wasn’t hit enough by her parents when she was growing up. This fuckin’ nimrod says one more word and I’ll shoot her on general principle.”

Baobhan Sith’s lips curled with genuine malice. Hatred blazed in her eyes. She knew she wasn’t as powerful here as she had been in Faerie Britain. And that whatever trick this scumbag was preparing had a lot of mana in it. But she wasn’t going to back down either. Mostly out of genuine curiosity and slightly out of trying to defuse the situation, Barghest raised an eyebrow.

“Do you not know how long you’ve been here?”

Emiya answered without taking his eyes off his target.

“Time dilation.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah, real unsatisfying when someone handwaves a serious question by saying ‘Eh, magic”, isn’t it.”

Barghest nodded in the affirmative.

“Yes, actually.”

At this point, Mash had stepped between the business end of Caladbolg and Baobhan Sith’s face. To say she was pleading would be to minimize the fierce determination on her face. The command presence in her voice.

“Emiya. I’ve had a crazy few years. Put the bow away. Please.”

Emiya pondered, sighed, then relented.

“Hmph. Some princess you are. Two knights from your own kingdom, from your fucked up version of the Round Table, are standing right there and neither lifted a finger to help.”

Baobhan Sith scoffed at this attempt to get the last word.

“They both know I could handle you myself.”

Barghest growled quietly. Mélusine turned her head and spoke sternly to Baobhan Sith.

“No, we both think you could use an attitude adjustment. You ought not underestimate your foes. You were defeated quite handily by that commoner at the auction house, were you not?”

Baobhan hissed at the mention of that absolutely rigged shitshow.

“And it turned out that she was the Child of Prophecy! Of course she whipped out some nasty tricks and won!”

Barghest laughed.

“Naturally, because cheating is only allowed when you do it.”

Emiya blinked.

“Mash, it feels like I’ve walked into the epilogue of someone else’s incredibly long and tragic life story. Is there any chance we can call this part of the tour concluded and all move on with our respective days?”

Mash nodded vigorously.

“I think that would be for the best.”

Mélusine, who had mostly been happy to quietly let Baobhan Sith dig her own grave, had a remark of her own. She curtsied. Best Emiya could tell, it was genuine, but still a clear attempt to make up for Baobhan Sith’s lack of decorum.

“And I’m Mélusine. Lancer. Britain itself, the last dragon, Albion. Rest assured, surprisingly capable Archer, the rest of us from Faerie Britain know how to comport ourselves in an honorable fashion.”

Emiya sighed internally at the addition of another blue Lancer to the team, but made sure not to betray his feelings on his face.

“Clearly. Welcome aboard. You know, I guess I just assumed that because you were knights together you were friends. But based on all this, it actually seems like the three of you kind of hate each other.”

Mélusine gasped.

“That’s not true! I like Barghest!”

Barghest looked away, awkwardly averting her colleague’s gaze. Mélusine noticed immediately and frowned. Mash took this opportunity and began ushering them away.

“Okay! It was great to see you again, Emiya-senpai! That concludes this portion of the tour! Come on, everybody! Next up is the simulator!”

Even later still

Artoria was walking down the hallway, reflecting on the final days of Faerie Britain. She’d had a nice respite, being here so long. No one knew her name or destiny or life. Only what she told them. But now the Chaldeans had returned to Chaldea, and she would no longer be able to deny the terrible things she’d lived through. Still, it had been a hell of a run. Even with the nonstop farming and training, she’d had more fun the past year than she’d had her entire life.

And hey. At least she got all her toes back when she manifested in this wonderfully strange place.

As she turned a corner, she spotted her Master. It had only been a few hours since they’d been together, but she knew so much more time had passed for him. The moment he saw her, his face dropped. It was as if he’d aged ten years since he left that morning. Not distinguishable from wrinkles or grey hairs, but by the weight on his soul.

Fujimaru approached her. A walk, then a run, then a sprint. He collided into her, nearly taking her off her feet. He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing so tight she thought he’d never let go. She patted him lightly on the back and addressed him with a reassuring tone in her voice.

“Rough day at the office, Master?”

His grip tightened. His chin was on her shoulder, and soon she felt something warm and wet hit her cloak. He spoke falteringly, trying to contain himself.

“I know, Artoria. I know everything.”

The Child of Prophecy didn’t even need to use her Fairy Eyes to confirm. She simply raised her arms and held him in return.

“It’s okay, Ritsuka. Welcome home.”

Chapter Text

It is Tuesday the 17th, some unspecified hour between dusk and dawn. Perhaps it is closer to one than the other, but that cannot be discerned. A man walks into a bar, hoping to track down a particular person. Wordlessly the bartender, a bespectacled and mustachioed silver fox who constantly exudes an aura of menace, stops wiping down the wine goblet in his hands, meets the man’s gaze and points to the far corner with his thumb. The look on the bartender’s face is one of exasperation and consternation.

The man scans the room, quickly identifying his quarry. He nods at the bartender and proceeds forwards to his target. The bartender curtly returns his nod and resumes cleaning the glass in his hands. Behind him is a wall, packed to the ceiling of various types of alcohol. It is safe to say that the bar can provide any drink its patrons desire.

The bar is quiet, for the most part. A selection of seasonal holiday music plays over unseen speakers. The volume is low enough that patrons can have conversations, but high enough that patrons cannot overhear others’ conversations. Not that the volume truly matters, as there are no conversations to be had. The current total occupancy of the establishment is three: the bartender, the man, and his quarry. As the man walks through the bar, he notices the jukebox.

The current song, for those interested, is "All I Want for Christmas Is You". But not the overplayed original by American pop diva Mariah Carey from the year 1994. No, this was the cover performed by American emo band My Chemical Romance. Often erroneously attributed to the Christmas compilation album Gift Wrapped, released in 2009 by Warner Bros. Records, it actually made its debut on Kevin & Bean's Christmastime in the 909 in 2004.

Back to the jukebox. It is a multi-colored jukebox, obviously constructed to resemble those popularized in American diners in the 1950s. The jukebox is rectangular with a rounded top, oriented to be vertical. There are two rows of buttons. One is of Latin alphabet letters A through L. Beneath it is a row of Arabic numerals 0 through 9. The buttons are decorative and not operational, as the machine has a touch screen panel for song selection.

Of course, the entire machine is not operational, as there is a hole beneath the rows of decorative buttons. The hole is roughly elliptic, and also oriented vertically. The man eyes it, and quickly deduces based on its distance from the ground, size, and shape that it is a boot hole. The hole is not perfectly smooth, but instead has created jagged cracks in the plastic exterior of the jukebox.

The man sighs. He knows this means the situation is worse than he hoped, but exactly what he expected. He approaches his quarry and quickly sizes them up.

His quarry is a woman, sitting alone. She has messy blonde hair done up in a ponytail. She is short and slender. The blonde woman does not possess any forms of identification that would indicate a concrete number for her age, but she appears to be in her adolescence. Not quite an adult, but not quite a child either. A lit cigarette rests between the index and middle fingers of her right hand. Also in that hand is a rocks glass, partially filled with a dark amber-brown liquid. The man notices a half-empty bottle of low-end whiskey and a ring of water on the table. But he notices the glass has no ice, so he surmises she has been here for quite some time.

The blonde woman wears a red leather jacket and white tube top that only covers her small breasts. Her neckline, clavicles, and midriff are exposed. She also wears jean shorts that just barely cover her ass cheeks, as well as black biker boots. Her left hand is wrapped with gauze. Dark red stains that will almost certainly turn brown soon are present on the wrappings over her palm.

The woman is clearly not having a pleasant evening. She is hunched over her drink, all upper body weight supported on her elbows. Her mouth is closed, yet a sound still emanates from it. It is strange, like a mixture of scraping, scratching, and popping. The man assumes she is grinding her teeth. The smoke trails from her cigarette and is instantly pulled upwards. The low, quiet hum of a fan makes the man guess that the bar has ventilation designed to remove smoke before the particles can settle in and the smells become permanent. The woman’s face is scrunched inward. Her brow is furrowed and her nose is wrinkled in anger. She will snarl at the next stimulus she detects.

The man approaches and slides into the opposite side of the booth the woman is sitting at. His movements are smooth but slow and deliberate. He notices now that next to the woman is a small box. He eyes it. It is a pack of cigarettes, and next to it is a cheap, solid red-colored disposable lighter. The top of the pack is dark orange, and the body is tan. Partially overlapping and uniquely-colored versions of the yin-yang symbol are on the pack. Two Mandarin Chinese characters that read “Dragon Smoke” are on the top of the box. The man has no native ability to understand any dialect of Chinese, but the magic that has summoned him to this place fills in the gaps for him.

The woman looks up. She snarls at this interloper. She recognizes the man. He is tall, broad-shouldered, tan-skinned. He has a full head of medium-length, slicked back white hair and pale grey eyes. His attire is strange. A skintight black vest that conforms to his muscles. A “cloak”, if it can be called that, that is simply two red sleeves connected by a clasp behind his neck. The sleeves are also skintight. The two of them know each other. They have known each other for some time, but she has very recently realized that he knows her far better than she knows him. The majority of their interactions have been positive before this moment. This one is not. She hisses at him.

“Fuck do you want.”

The man replies calmly. He is expecting pushback. The woman and her temper are well-known to him, as are the particular set of circumstances that have led to this meeting.

“Hello, Mordred. You wanna talk about what happened today?”

Earlier that day…

A bone-chilling silence had befallen the room. It was one of the smaller conference rooms in Novum Chaldea’s base of operations, the island home of the Wandering Sea. Four figures were in the room. Two were seated at a table, facing each other. The other two were leaning against a bulkhead.

It was a standoff. The two seated figures were Knights of the Round Table, their eyes locked. There was an air of animosity about them. To an uninformed observer, this might seem strange. The two of them could very easily be mistaken for members of the same family. Identical twin sisters, perhaps. Though it was rather easy to tell them apart. Even with identical facial features, their hair, body language, and attire were remarkably different.

This was a struggle for power. Whichever of the knights spoke first would be the loser.

Meanwhile at the wall, the shorter, younger figure looked up and spoke softly to his companion.

“Why are we here, again?”

“Well, Master, considering that the length of our mission is now “indefinite”, I figured it would be in everyone’s best interests that these two sit down and discuss their issues. Clear the air, reach an understanding, form an equitable working relationship, et cetera.”

Fujimaru shook his head at Emiya.

“Yeah yeah yeah. I know all that already. I booked the room and approved the meeting. I mean, why are you and I here? I feel like these two should have some privacy for this.”

Emiya nodded.

“Ah, that’s what you mean.”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Well, I’m here because. Hmm. I guess you can say I’ve got skin in the game for both sides.”

“Not gonna explain any more than that?”

“Do I ever?”

Fujimaru sighed.

“You’re lucky you’re such a good chef, you know that?”

Emiya chuckled.

“So I’ve been told. As for you? You’re what I like to call an “insurance policy”. If you see swords about to launch beams, that’s your cue to use a Command Spell or two and make everybody settle down.”

Fujimaru slumped against the wall.

“Seriously, Emiya? That’s why I’m here?”

Emiya shrugged. There was a casual nonchalance to him that almost seemed flippant considering the conversation everyone had assembled for.

“Funny. I assumed a Master of your caliber would want to do everything in his power to ensure his Servants could peacefully coexist. Burying your head in the sand like a coward hardly seems like you.”

Fujimaru shook his head and grumbled.

“You can be real dick sometimes, you know that?”

“I’ve been called worse.”

Fujimaru rolled his eyes and remained posted on the wall as Artoria and Mordred continued the faceoff. Neither wanted to break the silence. To these two wizened old warriors, being the first to openly show vulnerability and emotion was a sign of weakness. As would being the first to crack under the pressure of this awkward silence. Emiya rolled his eyes, wanting to speed this potential powder keg of a father-son chat along. He projected a 500-yen coin in his hand and gently tossed it underhand between them. It clattered in the center of the table, startling both of them and redirecting their attention to Emiya.

“The fuck are we supposed to do with this?”

“You flip it.”

Artoria snatched it just before Mordred could get it for herself. She’d seen movies since her summoning. She knew what to do. She placed it on her thumbnail, flicked her thumb upwards, and they both watched as it spun in the air. The two followed it with their whole heads, staring down at it as it clattered on the table once more. In unison, they whipped their heads toward Emiya.

“Now what, Shirou?”

Fed up with the vaudeville shtick unveiling before him, Emiya cupped his hands over his mouth and groaned. Once he was satisfied, he marched over to the table and grabbed the coin. He presented one side to Artoria. Embossed on it was an image of a flower that was unfamiliar to her.

“Obverse. The paulownia.”

He then presented the other side to Mordred.

“Reverse. The number 500.”

He stood between them and extended his hand over the table.

“If it lands on the pretty leaves, Artoria goes first. If it lands on the number, Mordred goes first.”

Emiya flipped it and backed away, lest he be accused of impropriety.

It spun rapidly in the air, clattering onto the table and showing the obverse.

Artoria grinned. Mordred scowled.

“This shit’s rigged!”

Emiya answered as he returned to the wall to resume his silent vigil.

“Settle down and wait your turn.”

Fujimaru raised an eyebrow at Emiya.

“A coin flip? Really?”

“Yeah, because watching fifty consecutive rounds of janken would’ve been an absolute joy to sit through. I want this to end with as little vaudeville shit as possible.”

“Should we be here? This feels grossly invasive.”

“You’re the Master. You should know what’s going on between your Servants.”

“I still don’t like it.”

Emiya shrugged and held his palm out flat. With the faintest wisp of mana, two small objects appeared. Bright orange cylinders. Fujimaru picked one up with his fingertips and squeezed gently. It was soft and smooth and deformed quite easily, then quickly expanded back to its original size and shape. They were ear plugs. One at a time, Fujimaru rolled them up and delicately crammed them into his ear holes, giving Emiya a silent thumbs up when he was ready.

Emiya faced Artoria and Mordred and nodded slightly. The commotion settled, Artoria took a deep breath and readied herself to speak.

“I have had a great deal of time to consider my words. I will strive to be concise. I do not hate you. I- ”

Mordred snorted loudly at this. Artoria glared, unamused. Emiya calmly interjected.

“We all agreed you’d each get the chance to say your piece. If you can’t make yourself listen, at least wait to talk.”

Mordred slumped her shoulders and leaned back in her chair. A heavy sigh was her reply. After a moment, Artoria continued.

“I do not hate you, Mordred, in spite of everything that you did. Whether or not you believe my words is beyond my control.”

Artoria paused briefly, steeling herself for what was to follow.

“But I cannot ever bring myself to love you. I know this hurts you to hear, but it is the truth. And the cruelest part is, it is not your fault. I realized from the moment you revealed your face and parentage that I could not love you. Not in the manner you desired.”

Artoria took a breath, and Mordred took the pause to interject once more.

“Why not, Father?”

The word “father” is not typically considered an insult, but the venom with which Mordred spat it made it rather clear she intended it to be. Emiya went from leaning back against the wall to standing straight up, but Artoria held out her palm to him. He nodded and remained where he was. She continued.

“Because I knew your mother far better than you ever did. Once I knew the truth of your parentage, I knew that you were part of some scheme of hers to take my throne and kill me. And even more than that, I knew that your very creation was both violation and insult.”

Artoria sighed.

“However you may have known her. Morgan le Fay. Morgana. Morgause. Vivian. It does not matter. She was my sister. And yet, she created an offspring that was borne of both myself and her. I knew immediately that you told no lies when you claimed I was your father. But therein lies the trouble. For that to be true, it meant that at some point, Morgan stole some of my essence. She took part of my person to create you.”

Another quick pause.

“I do not know for certain when this occurred. It is unlikely she recovered my blood from the battlefield, given Avalon’s protection of my body. I believe the most likely opportunity was when Merlin attempted to aid in my creation of an heir with Guinevere.”

Mordred’s face scrunched in confusion. Despite trying to be an impartial arbiter, Emiya couldn’t stop himself from raising an eyebrow. Fujimaru’s eyes darted between each of the three Servants, his ear plugs doing their job successfully.

“Yes. Merlin, of course, knew the secret of my gender from the beginning, and helped me conceal it from the world. When I broached the subject regarding my lineage and marriage, he decided to “help”, in the way that most made sense to him. He worked his magecraft and temporarily granted me a functioning set of male genitalia.”

Artoria paused once more. Mordred leaned forward and opened her mouth, but Artoria carried on before she could speak.

“Of course, as you know, my union with the Queen produced no heirs. My memory of the night in question is virtually nonexistent. I was never given the opportunity to confirm my suspicions, but I believe Morgan worked some of her own magecraft that night, and used the. Materials, she acquired, to create you. You are a homunculus of singular quality and design. To be as strong as you are and bear such a striking likeness to myself, a very potent. Ahem. Sample. Of me would have been necessary.”

Mordred leaned back, one hand on her head. Her stomach lurched. She had been expecting this talk to be unpleasant. To hear painful truths. But this latest reveal was far beyond anything she could have imagined. She rapidly shook her head back and forth to clear up the intrusive thoughts. Emiya too bore a look of utter bewilderment on his face. Fujimaru, wholly unaware of what had just transpired, kept alternating his attention between the three of them. Before Artoria could continue, Mordred held out her palm and cut in.

“Okay, no. Wait just a goddamned minute. I know we agreed to let each other speak, but what the fuck? What the fuck was that?”

“Which part did you have trouble with?”

“You- Which part- THE PART WHERE MERLIN GAVE YOU A DICK!”

Artoria took a deep breath. She wasn’t thrilled to be discussing this, but had decided that total honesty was the only way forward.

“Everything I have said is truth. As a half-incubus, he often does not see problems and solutions in the same manner we do.”

Mordred’s palms went to her temples.

“Alright. Shit. Holy fuck. I need a minute. Can I step outside for a smoke? I gotta go. Fuckin’. Think about all this shit.”

Emiya and Artoria exchanged glances and nodded. Mordred got up and exited the room, putting a cigarette in her mouth and pulling out a lighter as she did. Fujimaru took out one ear plug and looked around.

“Are we done? I heard Mordred shout something about “a dick” and then she just left?”

Artoria turned to him and answered calmly.

“Mordred has departed for a “smoke break”. Everything is fine, Master.”

“Suuuuure. Hey, uh. Hmm. Guys? I can’t tell. Is this going really well or really terrible?”

Emiya turned his attention to their young Master and shrugged as he spoke.

“Too early to call, I’m afraid.”

Fujimaru nodded hesitantly and replaced the ear plug. The three of them waited patiently for the Knight of Rebellion to make her grand re-entrance. After a startingly short respite, the door slid open and she entered, reeking of pungent smoke. Emiya crinkled his nose. Fujimaru pinched his. Artoria sighed. Emiya couldn’t help himself from taking a potshot.

“That was quick. Did you suck it down in one breath?”

Mordred’s response was instantaneous, and cutting.

“Cram it up your ass. This is the weirdest fucking conversation I’ve ever had in my life and I don’t need your shit right now.”

Emiya sighed. Mordred took her seat, took a breath, motioned for Artoria to continue, and steeled herself for whatever horrible revelations lay in wait.

“As for the rest of it, well. I told you when we lived that you would not inherit my throne. That I would never acknowledge you as my heir. As my son. With the benefit of hindsight, I realize now that I owed you explanations for my decisions. It was not of petty hatred towards you, a pawn in my sister’s schemes, or even towards my sister, whom I still loved, in spite of her singular aim of my destruction.”

Artoria took a quick pause to breathe, and had a sip of water.

“I could not recognize you as my son or show you the paternal affection you so craved because your mere existence was proof of the most serious violation of my person. Nor could I recognize you as my heir, because my claim to the throne was under constant challenge. A heretofore unknown bastard child sired outside my childless marriage would have damaged my already perilous political position.”

A quick breath, no more than a second.

“And I could not allow you to have my throne and become king because, frankly, you were ill-suited for the position. Your personality and actions did not conform to my ideals of what a king should be. I thought letting you be king would bring further war or ruination to our people. And honestly? Watching you in court? On the battlefield? It did not seem like being a peaceful ruler was truly something you even desired.”

Father and son looked at each other. Artoria had not yet conceded her time, hoping to answer any direct questions Mordred had before turning it over to her. She did have a few.

“If you were never going to give me the throne, why put me in charge when you left for Rome? Why not Gawain? Why not Kay? Hell, why did you even keep me around? If you knew I was threat to your throne and life, why not just fuckin’ kill me when I revealed myself? You still had that cheat code scabbard of yours. I wouldn’t’ve made it easy, but you coulda done it.”

Artoria frowned, and nodded grimly.

“I did not kill you because you were powerful. Because you were a loyal knight and general. Because I did not think it fair to punish you. Not for your mother’s scheming, nor for your mere existence. And I chose you to steward Camelot in my absence because, well. I meant it as an olive branch. A peace offering. I thought perhaps, that if I allowed you to reign briefly in my absence, it would sate your lust for my throne. Or that you would come to realize you did not truly wish to be king.”

“Guess it didn’t exactly turn out like you’d hoped, did it.”

Artoria solemnly shook her head.

“No. No it did not.”

“Why did you do it, Father? Why do any of it? The people hated and feared you. Did it suck for those who had to pick up and move? Sure. Maybe. Who gives a fuck? But they all forgot how you ended decades of warlords ravaging the land. How they wouldn’t even be alive to farm their pig shit if it wasn’t for you. I didn’t raise an army through blackmail or threats or magic. Every last worthless piece of shit who waved my banner joined of their own free will. After everything you sacrificed, those assholes still weren’t satisfied. Why even bother?”

Artoria sighed.

“Because the Age of Gods had ended, and our Age of Faeries was soon to perish as well. I saw a vision before I drew Caliburn. A vision of a happy, smiling people. I knew that the Age of Man was on the horizon, and both Britain and the Britons would cease when it arrived. But I truly believed that if I gave everything I had, I could ensure the transition was peaceful for our people. I have since learned that I was mistaken. That the fall of Camelot is an event The World has deemed immutable, lest a Singularity or Parallel World in need of pruning arise. I have come to accept that there was never anything I could do to make things better.”

A pall fell over the room. Mordred ground her teeth, stewing in her juices as she processed what she’d learned. Artoria sat patiently, hands on the table, fingers interlocked. She did not relish this conversation, and was just as apprehensive about what Mordred had to say. After some time, Mordred finally began to speak, wringing her hands as she did.

“Fuck me. This is why I wanted to go first. Had a feeling you’d blow all my shit if you did.”

Mordred took a breath, steeled herself, and continued.

“Here goes. I idolized you, you know that? Worshipped the ground you walked on. I knew from day one that I wasn’t human. That I was something better. And still, I knew I couldn’t compare to you. You were brilliant. Regal. Confident. Everyone else was an insect, and you were a god. The first time I saw you? I was hiding in some shitty alley as your procession marched on. You were radiant, and I was awestruck. It was some time before Mother told me of our relation. That was the happiest moment of my life.”

Mordred slowly clenched her hands into fists, and proceeded to clench and unclench them in rhythm. She seemed to be unaware of this as she resumed speaking.

“Mother told me about her plan. She wanted me to destroy everything you built. But I told her to get fucked. Just being in your presence was enough. If we’re being honest? You’re right. I didn’t want to be king. That purpose you were burdened with? Trying to improve the lives of your subjects? I didn’t give a shit about any of that. But I saw the cracks forming. I saw how heavy the nation weighed on your shoulders. You didn’t have any sons to pass the throne to. I knew that meant you’d be king until you were old and grey. That there would be another war of succession. I just thought that if you knew who I was. If you knew you had a successor? I dunno. Maybe that would be one less thing for you to worry about.”

Mordred started to scratch her arm under her jacket sleeve. Her face twitched a bit before she carried on.

“All this emotional vulnerability shit is making my skin crawl. Don’t worry, Father. I ain’t got much else to say. I really had no desire to play my part in Mother’s schemes. Hell, when you rejected me? I decided to strike back purely for my own sake. Not because she wanted me to, but because I wanted to hurt you. And I knew your kingdom was the only thing you really loved. Matter of fact, you keeping me in your court? Deigning to allow me to steward your kingdom? I thought you were being cruel. Keeping me around while my martial prowess was of use, but denying me a father-son bond. Letting me taste the throne, knowing full well you’d come back and rip it away from me.”

For the first time since they’d gathered, Artoria looked genuinely sad.

“Mordred. That was never my intent.”

“Yeah, I know, since you explained just now. I wish you’d explained it back then.”

“I cast aside all emotions and selfish desires to be king. To be the ideal king. One who sought only to serve his people. In the time since Camlann, I have learned how inhumane that made me seem. You are correct. There are a great many things I could have communicated. And perhaps if I had, fewer innocent lives would have been lost. But allow me this question. If I had sat you down and explained it all? Would you have listened?”

Mordred stared at Artoria. First with the same baseline level of anger she always had. Then with a sadness no one had ever seen from her.

“I really don’t know. Probably not. But hindsight’s 20/20, and we’ll never get the chance to know, will we?”

Artoria shook her head solemnly.

“No.”

There was an awkward silence, as they mulled over what had been said. Eventually, Mordred shuffled a bit in her seat and continued.

“Don’t have much more to say. Oh! I’m the one who told Agravain about Lancelot fucking your wife.”

Artoria looked genuinely surprised.

“That was your doing?”

“Yup. Figured he’d make a big spectacle out of it. And I knew it would spiral out of control. Lead to some other opportunity I could exploit. And I knew it would get that purple-haired fuck out of the kingdom. I hate to say it, but him and Gawain really were the strongest at the table. After you, of course. I knew I wouldn’t have a chance at toppling you if they were both around and all buddy-buddy. Didn’t know things would shake out exactly how they did. Damn shame, too. Gareth didn’t deserve none of that. Always chasing after Lancelot like a dumb, lovestruck puppy.”

Artoria’s eyes lit with anger.

“That is all you have to say on the matter? “Damn shame”? Appalling.”

Mordred leaned forward and pointed at her.

“Hey! I just wanted to sow chaos. And see Lancelot and the Queen publicly shamed for betraying you. I didn’t drag Lancelot’s rage-crazy ass to the party! And I sure as shit didn’t steal Gareth’s armor and force her to attend the execution unarmed! She made that dumbass choice all by herself! Matter of fact, get off your high horse. If you respected her enough as a knight to add her to the Round Table, then you damn well better respect her enough to make her own dumbass, idiot choices no matter how stupid they were.”

Artoria growled, then quickly launched into a deep breathing exercise Emiya had taught her. They’d all promised to be civil at this meeting, and she was doing her damnedest to abide. She’d come to accept the results of the choices she’d made, and was content that her heart had always been in the right place. Still, whether intended or not, no one could push her buttons quite like Mordred. After she calmed herself, she rejoined the conversation.

“Is there anything else you would like to share with me?”

Mordred thought on it briefly.

“We’ve covered pretty much everything. Well. I guess there’s one last thing. I don’t really know how much of a difference this will make but. I didn’t actually kill you.”

“Excuse you?”

“Yeah. I died pretty soon after you gored me with that fuckin’ spear of yours. Like, almost immediately. It’s no wonder you never lost any fights, with all those bullshit holy weapons you had. Shit, you musta been just, tripping over magical artifacts in your bedroom, huh?”

“Mordred.”

“Right, right. So, I died. Trying, just once, to touch your face. And then everything went black. I always take credit for the kill since I’m me. And cuz I did most of the work anyways. But, you know. Since we’re being so honest here. You got me.”

Artoria leaned back and reflected on her fight with Mordred.

“Your eyes were lifeless when you dealt that final blow. In fact, that strike only connected because I had dropped my guard, absolutely certain that you had perished.”

“If I had ta guess? Mother probably left some kinda latent curse to activate if the conditions were right. Or maybe she piloted my carcass from afar once I was done with it.”

Artoria stroked her chin.

“That sounds…”

“Exactly like the kinda nasty shit your sister would pull?”

Artoria nodded.

“Indeed.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread that part around. It would seriously hurt my rep if people found out I didn’t actually kill you. It’d be a whole thing of “he went to all that trouble and couldn’t even get the job done?”. No thanks.”

Artoria raised an eyebrow.

“Is that truly what you are concerned about?”

Mordred shrugged.

“Among other things.”

Artoria glared at her. Mordred relented.

“Fine! I guess, I would rather die all over again than give that fucking bitch the satisfaction of knowing she killed you. I didn’t raise an army and all the other shit that went with it so Morgan fuckin’ le Fay could take the credit. I did it for me.”

“If it is of any consolation, I believe you managed to ruin her plans in the end.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. She had boundless ambition and a true lust for the throne. She felt slighted that I was able to claim Caliburn and Uther’s kingdom. She didn’t want the nation I built destroyed. She wanted to sit on the throne as its Queen. Something your act of rebellion denied her.”

“Wow. Look. At. Me. With my last act, I gave her the biggest middle finger of all. Makes sense. I didn’t leave much of a kingdom behind for her to claim.”

Artoria narrowed her eyes.

“I am well aware.”

They looked at each other. Neither knew quite what to say next. After a beat, Mordred broke the silence.

“So. What now?”

“Mordred.”

“Father?”

“I cannot give you what you want.”

Saber of Red threw her hands up in exasperation.

“You haven’t even tried! Hell, you don’t even know what it is I want.”

“Of course I do. You crave love and attention. You want us to try and be a happy family.”

“I mean, if you’re offering, sure. Why not give it a shot? Let bygones be bygones or whatever.”

“Mordred. I have already told you I cannot bring myself to hate you. But I cannot bring myself to love you, either. Too much has transpired between us. You cost me dearly, and though I bear you no grudge or ill will, I do not have any desire to be anything more than your coworker.”

“You’re shitting me, right? Didn’t you admit earlier that you couldn’t love me, even before all the shit I did?”

“That is correct. It was true back then, and it is still true now. I will apologize for disappointing you. And that what I had meant as peace offerings were taken as insults. That was never my intent, but I can tell you are sincere when you describe how they made you feel. All I can offer you is a peaceful coexistence.”

Mordred rolled her eyes.

“Fan-fuckin’-tastic. Just what every kid wants to hear: “It’s not your fault you’re a bastard, but you are and I still can’t love you”. Awesome. Glad I carved time out of my schedule for this.”

Emiya, who had been silently watching for some time, spoke. There was a calm, even tone to his voice. It was obvious he didn’t want to make this any worse.

“Mordred.”

Mordred sighed, and slumped her shoulders.

“Fine. Fine. Father. I’m sorry for what I did. Sorry I raised an army, destroyed your kingdom, killed your favorite nephew- “

“Gawain was not my favorite.”

Mordred scoffed.

“Yeah, okay. Sure. Whatever you say, Father.”

Emiya interjected again, just a touch more sternly this time.

“Mordred.”

Mordred sighed. She clearly wanted this to end as quickly as possible.

“And I’m sorry I killed you, Father.”

They stared at each other, neither sure of what to say next.

“So. What’s next for us?”

“As I stated. Peaceful coexistence. No more passive-aggressive remarks or thinly-veiled insults. Just two people who work alongside each other. Two Servants, contracted to the same Master.”

“That’s all, huh?”

Artoria sighed, and reflected for a moment.

“How is this? I will no longer visibly wince or correct you when you refer to me as Father. I will not go out of my way to avoid you.”

“That’s not that much.”

“Have you any idea how truly distressing it is? To look upon the face of the person who brought ruination to everything you loved, only to see a belligerent, unkempt version of yourself staring back at you with barely-concealed hatred in their eyes?”

Mordred fired off her retort without a moment's hesitation.

“Every time I look in the mirror.”

Her reply caught Emiya and Artoria off-guard. Artoria leaned back for a moment to process. They all sat in dead silence. So long did the silence last that eventually Fujimaru removed an ear plug.

“I noticed everybody’s lips stopped moving. Are we done? Everybody good? Things all copacetic?”

Emiya shook off his stupor.

“Almost. How about this. You each say one nice thing about the other, and we go our separate ways, huh?”

Artoria raised a skeptical eyebrow. Mordred scoffed.

“You some kinda fuckin’ life coach or something now?”

Artoria took a deep breath. She had come this far. Might as well finish strong.

“Mordred.”

“Hmm?”

“For what it may be worth, I underestimated you. As did your mother. You did not have the capacity to be king, but you were far better at politicking than I ever gave you credit for. And you were far more destructive than your mother ever could have predicted.”

Mordred inhaled sharply through her nose and contemplated briefly before answering.

“Father. Even if you don’t believe me, it really is nice to see you be happy. Alright. We done with this touchy-feely shit?”

Mordred fidgeted in her seat, her social stamina nearly depleted. Fujimaru’s eyes darted around at the three Servants. Emiya spoke.

“I’m satisfied if everyone else is.”

Artoria nodded.

“Yes. I believe this was a fruitful meeting.”

Mordred quickly got up and made for the door.

“Glad you’re all in agreement. Don’t expect me to ever get this emotionally vulnerable again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna drink ‘til I blackout, then drink ‘til I pass out.”

And with that, she left. Fujimaru looked a bit concerned.

“Should we be worried?”

Emiya shook his head.

“Don’t be. I’ll go check on her in a bit. Artoria. What will you do?”

Artoria got up as well.

“Master. Could you accompany me to the simulator?”

Fujimaru nodded tentatively, leaving the conference room just behind the King of Knights.

“Sure thing.”

And so it was. Two old warriors, once the bitterest of foes, now the most professional of colleagues. And well. A good compromise leaves everyone angry.

Present

“Figured you could use somebody to talk to, that’s all.”

“Fuck off. Do I look I wanna be bothered?”

Emiya shook his head gently.

“No. Which makes it the best time to do so.”

Mordred finished her glass, scowling as she did. She set the glass down and took a drag. Emiya glanced at the bottle. It was a fifth of Jameson Irish whiskey. Standard, cheapest-variety-available, Jameson.

“How many is that?”

“Three.”

“I meant bottles.”

“So did I.”

Emiya rubbed his nose.

“You been drinking the same thing all night?”

Mordred scoffed.

“So what if I have? You gonna lecture me on alc- Fuck!”

Mordred stopped as the cigarette between her fingers burnt to the filter. She had been holding it just past the filter, and got burned as a result of her negligence. She whipped her hand up and down, sending the butt onto the table. She crushed it with a hammer fist before lighting a new one. Emiya projected a simple metal ashtray with three thin divots for cigarettes and placed it between them. Mordred clumsily clawed the smashed filter and dumped it in.

“-ohol abuse? If I wanted someone with a stick up their ass about morality and Jesus’s love to preach at me, I’d call a saint. We got too many of those holier than thou pieces of shit running around here if you ask me.”

Emiya quickly tapped something on his phone as Mordred spoke, not breaking eye contact.

“No. I was just going to say that regular Jameson is shit. If you’re going to sit here and drink away your troubles all night, you might as well drink something that isn’t garbage. Jameson Black Barrel is good. Good enough to sip neat.”

“Christ alive, now you sound like that annoying-ass bartender. And what the fuck makes you think I wanna enjoy drinking myself to sleep.”

Emiya nodded. Mordred snarled and refilled her glass.

“My mistake. What happened to your hand?”

"Burned it. You saw. What're you, drunk?"

Emiya sighed.

"Your other hand."

"Huh? Oh yeah. Heh. Crushed a glass in it. Hurt like a bitch. Turns out the bartender has a first aid kit. Ain't that something?"

Emiya sat for a moment. He tapped each finger of his right hand on the table, starting with the pinky and ending with the index. He did this thrice before getting up and walking towards the entrance.

“I’ll be right back.”

Mordred called after him without looking away from her drink.

“Be a lot cooler if you didn’t!”

Against her wishes, Emiya returned promptly, a glass in hand. It was a tall glass, filled with one large block of ice and a pale yellow liquid. The Archer slid back into his seat and took a sip. Mordred noticed the cocktail was carbonated from the numerous tiny bubbles in the glass and crackling on the surface.

“So you came back and brought a drink? So much for drinking alone.”

“You wanna drink alone, do it in your room, not the bar. Besides, it’s a free country, ain’t it?”

Mordred smirked.

“Heh. Fine. But don’t bitch and moan if I decide to beat your ass.”

“Don’t flatter yourself kid. I could take you.”

“You for real right now? Fuck you, man.”

Emiya nodded. Mordred drank, then took a drag.

“Not saying it would be easy, but I could.”

“Ha! Keep dreaming.”

Emiya shrugged and took a sip of his drink.

“The hell is that, anyway?”

“Suntory highball. They’re very popular in Japan.”

“And for the people at the table who- hic -don’t know drink recipes off the tops of their heads?”

“It’s pretty much just a scotch and soda.”

“Why the hell would- hic. Why would- hic. Why- “

“Because not everybody who drinks is trying to black out. Try holding your breath.”

“To black out?”

“To get rid of your hiccups.”

Mordred eyed him suspiciously before shrugging and pinching her nose closed.

“Believe it or not, this drink has permeated Japanese culture so thoroughly you can buy it canned at convenience stores.”

Mordred looked back, cheeks beginning to redden, mild disbelief in her eyes.

“I’m not a mixologist. All I can really say is, it’s crisp and refreshing. For a place that’s hot and humid a lot of the year, like Japan, it’s a good combo.”

Mordred looked at him, flexed the muscles in her neck, then released her nose and sucked in as much wind as she could. She blinked, waiting for the hiccups to return. Once she was satisfied that they’d been stymied, she continued.

“So. Isn’t this the part where you ask how I’m doing?”

Emiya shook his head.

“No. I’m not stupid. I know the answer is “not great”.”

“Ugh. You gonna make me talk about my feelings or whatever?”

“Only if you want to. Or I could just have a few more drinks and keep making small talk.”

Mordred finished her drink and poured another in silence. Emiya, despite hating small talk, made another go at it.

“Why do you smoke that brand specifically? It’s foul.”

Mordred shrugged, taking a particularly long drag.

“Came to me in a dream.”

“Seriously?”

“Kinda. Just feels right. Like this Spiritron Dress.”

“Wait, I thought those were just clothes. That’s a Spiritron Dress?”

“Yup.”

“When am I gonna get a spare costume?”

“Sucks to suck, don’t it?”

“Guess so. Your cigs are still atrocious.”

“Hey, all I know is, they’re called “Dragon Smoke”, they taste like ass, but smoking them feels good. Oh! And it’s Taiwanese.”

“How can you be certain? Doesn’t Taiwan write in Mandarin, like China?”

“I just know it, alright? Not everything is a “capital M” Mystery.”

“Sure, sure.”

Another lull in the conversation. Emiya had some more of his drink. Mordred did the same. He decided to prod a bit more.

“So the Hegemon-King of Western Chu is a fucking six-armed, cyborg centaur. Dunno how much you know about Chinese history, but that’s absolutely insane.”

Mordred slammed her glass on the table, the amber liquid hopping up and falling back into the glass.

“Man, that fucking sucked dude! Can you believe that shit?”

“I mean, he can get a little spacey because of the “seeing time nonlinearly” thing, but Xiang Yu's a surprisingly alright guy.”

“I’m not talking about your man crush, you fucking smartass. I mean my talk with Father!”

“Okay, I know you’re feeling pretty fucked up right now, but settle down with the casual homophobia.”

“Could you focus?!”

“Fine, fine. Yeah, I wasn’t exactly sure how that all would shake out. Sorry it went the way that it did.”

Mordred slumped forward, her forehead on the table.

“Christ, she couldn’t even pretend to like me?! “I love you, son!” “I’m proud of you, son!” “Let’s go kill your mom, son!” Is any of that so hard to say?”

“It would’ve been lies, and that would’ve pissed you off worse.”

“Fuck you.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No. Fuck you still, though.”

Emiya sighed and had another sip of his drink.

“I hope Master is faring better than I am.”

Elsewhere

“EEEEEX! CALIBURRRRRR!”

In the virtually-recreated lush hills of France, a brilliant golden deluge of energy burst forth from the holy sword, atomizing a wave of miniature dragons. Behind this display, Fujimaru was resting on a nearby rock, yawning.

“Artoria? Can we pack it in for night sometime soon?”

The Once and Future King wiped the sweat from her brow and looked back at him.

“Just a little while longer, Master. Working to the point of exhaustion and pushing past that point is good training.”

Fujimaru moaned.

“C’moooon. I’m out of Command Seals and you’ve been bushwhacking wyverns for six hours. I wanna go to bed!”

Artoria sighed, dematerialized her sword, and walked over to Fujimaru.

“Apologies. I harbor a great deal of emotion towards Mordred, and I promised to keep that discussion civil.”

“Hey, uh. Are you alright? I know your relationship with her is. Complicated.”

“That is putting it mildly.”

“You know I’m always willing to lend an ear if you wanna talk about it.”

“It is just…It is as I told her. I cannot hate her, because her creation, while a crime against me, was not of her volition. And for as much as she claims credit for her misdeeds, I cannot help but wonder how much subconscious influence my sister exerted upon her.”

“But she’s still the one who killed your favorite nephew and destroyed your kingdom.”

“Why do people keep insisting that Gawain was my favorite?! I loved the four of them equally!”

“I mean, he was the guy got the sister sword to Excalibur, stood in for you at court, was the odds-on favorite to succeed you, and helped you kill Vortigern. That’s enough evidence to make any outside observer think he was your favorite.”

“I refute that baseless accusation.”

“Hey, I’m just saying. Lancelot killed the other three, and you still forgave him, right? That’s the kind of thing that might make people, not necessarily me, mind you. But other people, assume you valued the three of them less highly.”

“Please, Master. Do not remind me of how my words and deeds made me seem inhuman to the world.”

“Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to kick you while you’re down. What were we talking about?”

“I was recounting for you that despite her egregious crimes, I cannot hate Mordred.”

“Right right right. Still. I can’t help but feel a little bad for her.”

“For her? Why?”

“Well, under all that bluster and unyielding rage is a broken child. Someone who was told from the start by one parent that she existed solely to kill her other parent. She’s not some Saturday morning cartoon villain. Not a one-dimensional evil who ties damsels in distress to train tracks or puts on a rubber mask and chases a group of meddling kids and their dog. She’s somebody who just once wanted to hear her dad say: “I love you and I’m proud of you, son. Let’s go play a game of catch in the yard”. She made her choices, yeah. I’m not excusing her behavior. But it’s still sad.”

Artoria frowned. A few moments of silence passed while she deliberated over her response.

“I am aware. All the more reason why I have not struck her down in all our time here together.”

“And we’re all very grateful for it. Honestly, when you first showed up and reacted the way you did to me telling you I’d already summoned Mordred? I was scared I’d have to pick between one of you.”

“Master. I would never put you in that position. I knew from the moment of my arrival the stakes of your mission.”

“Thanks for that. Now, seriously. Can I go to my room? I’m soooo tired.”

“As you wish. Perhaps you should rest while you can. Christmas is next week, which surely means another micro-Singularity.”

“I really just once want the holidays off. Maybe I’ll get lucky and be Santa this year.”

“You know you could always request a Saint Nicholas costume be tailored.”

“It’s not the same! I need to be chosen to carry the Christmas spirit! If I have to ask for it, it means it’s not my turn.”

Artoria chuckled.

“At least you keep your spirits high.”

Back at the bar

“It’s just so fucking weird. I can’t believe it.”

“Which part?”

“How fucking soft she is, man! She dresses in girly clothes, goes to book club, does all kinds of cutesy shit with you. It’s just crazy. Makes me realize how little I actually knew her. I mean, none of us really knew her, but still.”

The holiday playlist continued. Adam Sandler's "The Chanukah Song", the 2002 version performed live on American sketch comedy series Saturday Night Live featuring Rob Schneider and the Drei-Dels, ended. "Dirt Sledding" by The Killers, the final installment in a trilogy of songs about evading the wrath of a murderous Santa Claus, followed it. Emiya sipped his drink and asked Mordred a question.

“Does it make you admire her any less?”

“Not a damn bit. She’s almost as strong as I remember from life.”

“Almost?”

“Yeah, I mean. She used to strut around with the holy sword and that fucking dumbass stupidass spear. And she’d just switch between them when she needed to. That and Avalon. She’s real strong here, but definitely not at her peak.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yup.”

Another puff of acrid smoke, sucked up into the air vent.

“You know she had to discard her humanity to be king, right? Because she thought the kingdom needed a fair, impartial ruler? What’s wrong with her enjoying the little things in life?”

“Nothing. Don’t put words in my mouth. Just I was surprised is all.”

“Okay. You wanna know what I thought was the weirdest part?”

“Merlin dick?”

Emiya slapped the table.

“Yes! What the fuck was that about?!”

“Just when I thought I couldn’t hate that shady fucking piece of shit any more than I already did.”

“It’s one thing to assume Merlin is to blame. Personally, I always default to blaming Merlin whenever I hear about something that went wrong in Camelot. But this?”

Mordred nodded and finished her drink in one gulp.

“To find out how I was conceived? Gross. Puke-worthy, even. I mean, I never questioned it when I was alive. I always assumed Father was a man, just like everybody else did. And when I got here and learned Father was a woman? I mean. I never really asked because I never wanted to know.”

“You wanna go huck your empties at him?”

“Fuckin’ right I do. Maybe after another bottle.”

Emiya's eyes snapped shut and he pinched his brow. He shook his head and groaned.

“God. That’s an image I’m gonna have to try real hard to suppress.”

“What? Mother jerkin’ off Father? Disgusting, right?”

Emiya waved his hands in front of him.

“Stop it. No wonder you’ve been chugging swill all night long.”

Mordred shrugged.

“Hey man. I don’t do the touchy-feely shit too good, but uh. Thanks. And sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“You know. Calling you my “stepmom” that one-time.”

“Oh, have you finally gotten over the internalized misogyny?”

“Dude, fuck you. I’m tryna have a moment and you’re a nut hair away from blowing it with that psychobabble bullshit.”

“My mistake. Go on.”

Mordred farted. It was silent, and she hoped the stench of her cigarette would cover it. It did not, but Emiya pretended not to notice.

“What was…Right. No. Sorry, since everybody knows moms are all just colossal bitches.”

“Mordred.”

“Hmm?”

“You know that’s not true, right?”

“What?”

“In a lot of cultures, mothers are the primary caregivers while fathers go out and work. Where I grew up, moms show their love by actually parenting kids, and dads show their love by working 60-80 hours a week to keep the family housed, clothed, and fed.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah. Not all moms are evil. Yours just so happened to be the High Queen of Evil and Shitty Parenting.”

“Huh. Well, if we had a therapist that wasn’t secretly evil, maybe I’d go see them. For now? I’m gonna keep drinking.”

“Now that you mention her, I can’t really place it, but my gut tells me never to be alone in the same room as Sessyoin.”

“That broad is as crazy as her rack is comically huge.”

“What we were talking about?”

“I was begrudgingly thanking you for being my friend.”

“You actually said out loud that we’re friends! I should mark this on my calendar.”

“Fuck off you snarky dickbag. See if I ever say anything nice to you again.”

“Sorry, sorry. I just couldn’t resist.”

“Tell you what. You can make it up to me by tellin’ me more about how actual families are like.”

Emiya shook his head.

“I don’t wanna talk about it. My family is complicated.”

“You shitting me right now? Here I am, spilling my guts all night- “

“Come on now- “

“Don’t interrupt! I ain’t done yet! And nobody knows who the fuck you, your creepy patchwork Alter, or your son with the hood are! I’ll kick your fuckin’ ass if you don’t gimme something you shady bitch!”

Emiya held up his hands in surrender.

“Fine. Fine. First off, EMIYA (Assassin) isn’t my son. And for your actual question…”

Emiya took a deep breath, contemplating just how personal he wanted to get.

“Like I said, it’s complicated. When I was a boy, I lived a modest life with my parents. Nothing luxurious, but we were comfortable and we loved each other. One night, there was a great fire. The blaze engulfed everything. Mom and dad didn’t make it, but they got me out of the house as it burned down. Of course, outside wasn’t much better. The inferno was massive, and I saw hell all around me. I wandered the streets looking for help, seeing nothing but bodies. Eventually I collapsed, certain I was going to die. A man pulled me out of the rubble, saving me. I never forgot the look on his face. It looked like he was the one who’d been saved. He visited me in the hospital as I recovered, adopted me, and became my new father.”

That piqued Mordred's interest quite a bit. She leaned back and gestured towards him with her glass.

“Shit. I mean, that sucks, but it sounds pretty simple to me.”

“I’m not done. We lived together happily, and he taught me a little bit about magecraft. He died a few years later, having slowly withered away the whole time I knew him. I was alone, for the most part. But I’d inherited his dream. A foolish ideal of being a hero of justice. Of stopping the desperate from crying and saving the people in front of me. The kind of delusion that children cling to, then abandon as adults when they realize it’s impossible.”

Emiya stared pensively into his glass and took another sip before continuing.

“Years passed. I was a barely-functioning bundle of suicidal ideations disguised as self-sacrificing heroism. PTSD, survivor’s guilt, zero self-worth. You woulda thought that kid was a total fucking loser. Anyway, I wound up involved in a Holy Grail War. Something dear ol’ dad neglected to teach me about during magecraft training. Summoned a Servant by mistake, nearly died a few times, fell in love with that Servant. We won. Kind of. Turns out, the Grail was corrupted, and had to be destroyed. Oh! Almost forgot the best part.”

Emiya’s eyes had lit up, and he quickly finished his cocktail.

“So, turns out, the reason my dad was on the scene so quickly during the fire, which killed a thousand people by the way, was because he started the damn thing!”

Mordred was taken aback. Emiya's story was sad in a fairly predictable way. But this new wrinkle had her hooked.

“The fuck?”

“Yeah. I found out that the tragedy that altered my destiny wasn’t a gas leak. It was the previous Holy Grail War, which my dad participated in. The Grail was corrupt back then too, so he made the choice to smash it, lest Angra Mainyu and his flood of endless curses be unleashed upon the world.”

“Would it really have been that bad?”

“Knowing what I know now, after time immemorial as a Counter Guardian? Yeah. It’s not the fastest means of total global genocide, but it would’ve got the job done. So anyway, I’m left with conflicted ideas of my dad. The kind, goofy, idealistic idiot who saved my life, and the ruthless killer who caused the fire that killed my parents and put my life in danger in the first place. Wait here. I’m getting a refill.”

Emiya got up, returning nearly as quickly as he’d departed. He slid back into the booth and got back into his story.

“So, like I said. Complicated.”

“Wait, what was that bit about being a ruthless killer?”

“Oh yeah. So, the local Holy Church priest, who was supposed to be an impartial arbiter of the event, turned out to be one of the opposing Masters. He was also a Master in the previous war and decided to become my father’s nemesis for some reason. He told me some things. On top of that, my Servant was also my father’s Servant in the previous war, and she filled me in on some things too.”

“Wow. You’re right about one thing. Your life was complicated. Mine was tragic but simple, like something by the English playwright. Yours was more like a Greek tragedy. Whole lotta fucked up shit going on.”

“Yeah, it’s best appreciated if you see it three times, each from a different viewpoint. Lotta details get lost when you just look at it one way.”

Mordred took a drag and scratched her head.

“I bet. Sounds like a serious investment of my time though."

"Worth it."

Mordred shrugged and downed her drink. She wasn't totally convinced of the merits of seeing the same story three times unless each version was wildly divergent from the others. Maybe if it was made into a film series. She poured herself another and addressed Emiya.

"Do you still love your dad?”

Emiya nodded, a twinge of sadness in his eyes.

“I do. Really fucked me up finding out the truth. But he took me in, gave me a purpose in life, and I know the bond we had was genuine.”

“And how the hell did you get the same Servant?”

“The catalyst he used to summon her had some magical healing properties. He fused me with it when he found me, and when I stepped on a summoning circle he’d made in the shed, that catalyst pulled forth the same Heroic Spirit.”

“Figured it wasn’t a coincidence.”

“Few things in life are. Now come on, enough about me. I only showed up to check in on you.”

Mordred blew a raspberry and finished her drink.

“I’ll be fine. Our talk went worse than I’d hoped, but better than I’d expected. Still gonna drink myself to sleep though. Maybe cry a little. But if you tell anybody that I’ll chop your balls off.”

“Understood. Mordred Pendragon is too badass to be sad.”

“Oh yeah. Thanks for that, too.”

“What, using your name?”

“Yeah. I mean, nobody ever acknowledges me like that. It’s nice to hear.”

“Well, sure. Even if you’re a bastard, Morgan was also Uther’s kid, right? So you’d be a Pendragon either way.”

Mordred shook her head.

“Pendragon ain’t a name. In Olde Welsh, it was “Pen Draig”, meaning “chief dragon”. It was a title. Kinda like, uh. Generalissimo, or commander-in-chief.”

Emiya leaned back. Few things surprised him anymore, but that did it.

“Holy shit. All these years and I had no idea. I know way more than I should about random history, and that is a genuine surprise. Not taking it back though.”

Mordred smirked.

“Good. I’d kill you if ya did.”

“Duly noted.”

“Emiya.”

“Yeah?”

“Did your Servant love you back?”

Emiya chuckled.

“Oh yeah. I sold my immortal soul to Alaya, removing any chance I had of reaching the afterlife, because the love of my life returned my affections.”

“That seriously fuckin’ blows.”

“You’re telling me."

Emiya paused to finish his drink and repaid Mordred's question with one of his own.

"Since we’re talking about love lives, I’ve got a question. What’s going on with you and Master?”

"Oh, that? Sometimes we fuck. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Really? I thought you were on Team Mash.”

“I am, but that’s an endgame ship.”

“Excuse me?”

“Listen, one day, all this is gonna end. Chaldea will save the world again, and we’ll all go back in the box. And you know who’ll be left? Mash.”

“That simple, huh?”

“Hey, man. If she mustered up some courage and made a move and made it official? I would respect that. But if she’s gonna be all “notice me senpai!” in the corner all the time, I’m not gonna let that stop me from getting laid.”

“And you aren’t the least bit worried that her seeing the affection Master gets from some of the Servants might dissuade her from taking that chance?”

“What am I, a fuckin’ relationship therapist? I’ve never told her not to shoot her shot. Her life is hers to take the reins of.”

Emiya sighed, chuckled, and gently shook his head. Mordred was Mordred, after all. He projected a simple pair of black sunglasses and presented them to his friend.

“Fuck is this for? It’s nighttime, idiot.”

“For you to wear. Just in case you wanna feel your feelings without letting people see.”

Mordred tossed her head back and cackled.

“Yeah right! You think an emotional talk with Father made me a fuckin' pussy?”

Emiya stood silently, and said nothing as Mordred swiped the shades from his hand and stuffed them into an inside pocket of her jacket.

“So how ‘bout we finish up here and go harass Merlin?”

“Sounds like a plan. I can picture it now: him whining “What did I do to deserve this?! I mean, what specifically?!” while we prank his ass.”

“Best part is, there’s always something he got away with.”

“Exactly! Plenty to choose from.”

"An eternity imprisoned in Avalon sounds shitty at first, but he keeps playing hooky with those astral projections of his."

"Yeah. You'd think after fifteen-hundred years he'd learn some kinda fuckin' lesson."

And so the unlikely pair got up and left, ready to go ruin a wizard’s REM cycle.

Chapter Text

“New Hire”

It was an average weekday afternoon for Novum Chaldea. Many Servants had managed to quickly settle into the roles they used to play back in garrison, and Emiya was no exception. One thing that wasn’t quick was the old guard acquainting themselves with the new Servants Fujimaru contracted during his adventures in the first three Lostbelts. Each new Heroic Spirit was a singular individual with a life and story all their own, each worthy of a proper introduction and their day in the sun. Emiya had just finished cleaning up after the lunch rush when Fujimaru walked in with one such Servant.

“Hey Emiya! Got a new-ish Servant I’d love for you to meet!”

Emiya nodded and wiped some sweat from his brow. Fujimaru was accompanied by a pretty young woman. Her facial structure, facial features, and skin tone led Emiya to assume she was of East Asian descent, most likely Japanese. The woman stood a bit shorter than Fujimaru and had chin-length, wavy dark purple hair. She donned a yukata, elegant and festively-colored in purple and pink. She had large flower ornaments in her hair and a bright yellow bow on her back.

“New-ish?”

Fujimaru nodded. The stranger smiled exuberantly, nodded, and waved.

“Yeah! I first met her. Uh. Well it’s a little hard to explain, but I met her after we fled old Chaldea and before we got here.”

“Well, it sure is nice to meetcha, good sir! And ain’t you just a tall drink of water.”

The stranger eyed Emiya, and he grinned and bowed slightly.

“Thank you kindly. Flattery is always appreciated in my cafeteria. I’m Emiya.”

Before the stranger could answer, Fujimaru lit up and he turned to her.

“Oh! Don’t say anything! Emiya is Japanese too, and I wanna see if he can guess who you are!”

The stranger shrugged.

“Considerin’ my particular situation, it’d be mighty impressive if he did.”

Emiya looked at the young woman, the wheels beginning to spin in his head.

“So are we doing a twenty questions thing right now? Can I get a hint?”

Fujimaru pointed at Emiya excitedly.

“That’s a great idea! No hints, but I already told you she’s Japanese and I won’t count that against your twenty.”

“Alright, alright. You’re on, Master. Lemme see.”

Emiya eyed the figure suspiciously and rubbed his hands together as he contemplated. Ten should be more than enough. Hell, he once ID’d Medea based on her magecraft and use of Dragon Fang soldiers. Surely this wouldn’t be too difficult. Just some yes or no questions.

“Are you from mythology?”

“No.”

“History?”

“You callin’ me old? Personally, I don’t think it was too long ago.”

Fujimaru leaned over to her.

“You have to say yes or no. And to us, “from history” means you were a person who was actually alive.”

The stranger had a quizzical look on her face.

“Are there fellas here that weren’t?”

Emiya interjected.

“We have some conceptual beings, fictional characters from literature, and beings from mythology for whom there’s no archaeologic proof of their existence.”

“Wow! Y’all got a lot goin’ on here. Tell ya what. I am a real life person.”

Emiya stroked his chin.

“That puts me at two so far. Hmm. Genderbend?”

The stranger looked offended at the question.

“No! And what is that!”

Fujimaru chimed in.

“It means history recorded the name of the Spirit Origin you’re registered under as the opposite gender of what you are.”

The stranger looked over her shoulder at a strange, black orb with eyes, then back to Emiya.

“The Spirit Origin I’m registered as? That’s a bit complicated.”

Emiya looked at Fujimaru. He scratched his head.

“Let’s say, for all intents and purposes, that the answer is yes.”

“Hmm. Historical Japanese man. Were you a soldier?”

“Nope!”

“Okay. Were you a politician?”

“Ha, as if! Ienari was a swell fella, to me at least, but I’d never waste my days working for the government.”

“Alright, alright. Master should have explained the rules better, because you just gave away a lot of information.”

“I mean, no? Ah hell, how much could you get from one sentence?”

“Ienari was the given name of the eleventh Tokugawa shogun, who died in 1841. “Swell fella”. That implies familiarity without contempt, as if you’d met him and had neutral to warm feelings for him. That gives a time window and an insight to your personality and experiences. “Waste your days”. That means you weren’t a civil servant at any echelon. Maybe even a disdain for normal bureaucracy. Hmm.”

The stranger leaned over to Fujimaru.

“Holy shit, this guy’s good.”

“Emiya knows a lot about a lot of things. The trouble is getting him to explain how he knows shit. You get used to it.”

Emiya deliberated a bit before speaking again.

“Let’s see. Famous historical man who wasn’t a soldier or politician but met a Tokugawa shogun. Did you experience the Meiji Restoration?”

“What is that?”

“So that’s a no, and a further-narrowed time timeline. Hmm. “Soldier” can be a politically-charged term, but you don’t strike me as a samurai, masterless or otherwise. Hmm. What kind of people get recorded in history? Ah. Were you an artist?”

“Yeah!”

Emiya stroked his chin again.

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Was your preferred medium music?”

“Negative.”

“Was it prose?”

“Was it what?”

Emiya sighed.

“The written word. Were you a writer? Novels, short stories, poems, et cetera. And that still only counts as one question since she didn’t understand it.”

Fujimaru nodded in agreement. Tough, but fair.

“Ah! Well why didn’t you just say so?”

“Answer the question, please.”

“No, I was not a writer.”

“Alright. Nine questions in. Died before the Meiji Restoration. An artist, but not a musician or writer. Painter?”

“Yeah!”

“That narrows it down, but not by enough. Somebody who’d been around the court but never part of it. Damn. Master, I think you’ve won.”

The woman looked confused.

“I thought y’all said this game was called “twenty questions”? I’m not the smartest person to grace the earth, but I assumed the big guy had ten questions left.”

Fujimaru chuckled.

“Mister Smartypants here has a way of ruining the game if you give him twenty. Never seen him lose with that many. So for him, we’ve capped it at ten.”

Emiya nodded.

“Stops games from running too long and presents me with a challenge. You’ve captured my attention, though. Hmm. Shot in the dark. Utagawa Kuniyoshi?”

The woman took a half step back and placed her hand on her chest, clutching non-existent pearls.

“You wound me, sir! To guess, even haphazardly, that I might be a member of the Utagawa school? Master, send me back to the Throne. I’ve never been so insulted in my entire afterlife!”

The purple-haired stranger’s tone told Emiya she was hamming it up, but that was still the biggest clue of all. His blood ran cold. His face dropped. There was one likeliest culprit. But Fujimaru must have been truly desperate or deranged to summon that person.

“Master.”

“Yeah huh?”

There was an iciness in the tone of the long-tenured Servant as he made his query.

“Who did you summon?”

Too excited to pick up on it, Fujimaru took a step to the side, pointed a set of jazz hands at his companion, and introduced her.

“This, my fine friend, is the legendary Hokusai!”

Emiya’s face grew stern. It was a mixture of disbelief and disappointment.

“Katsushika Hokusai?”

“The very same. Kinda. Ta-da!”

Hokusai took a deep bow and grinned.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance!”

Emiya looked at Fujimaru. He shook his head, grimaced, then stared daggers at him.

“You. Sick son of a bitch.”

Fujimaru sighed and slumped his shoulders.

“Oh my god this is Okita Souji all over again.”

“I can’t believe you would do this. There are children here!”

“Whoa whoa whoa, what’s the matter with you? I thought you’d love to meet her! She’s a famous Japanese painter! What’s with the third-degree, man?”

“Yeah! I am a goddamned icon! Show a little respect! Don’t you know who I am!”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are! Hokusai, whose art influenced Van Gogh and Monet. Hokusai, known for the woodblock series Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji.”

Fujimaru interjected.

“Yeah, so what’s the problem!”

Emiya continued.

“Hokusai, the artist behind Octopi and the Shell Diver. You summoned the literal CREATOR OF TENTACLE PORN!”

Silence.

Fujimaru’s face plummeted, a thousand-yard stare instantly forming. He had indeed forgotten about that work, and would have to be very careful when introducing Hokusai to the child Servants. The title of the painting in question, romanized to Tako to Ama, could be literally translated as “Octopi and the Shell Diver”. It was localized in English under a few titles, and did indeed depict a naked woman wrapped in the explicitly sexual embrace of two octopi.

“Aw shit.”

Hokusai, who had initially been incensed, was now intrigued and spoke to the orb over her shoulder.

“Are you tellin’ me that lil ol’ piece inspired an entire genre? You hear that, Toto-sama? Looks like we made it!”

Fujimaru tried to deflect, shaking his head and waving his hands in front of him.

“You know, a lot of art historians around the world call it The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife.”

But Emiya was not having it.

“Fuck that! I’m Japanese and I speak Japanese! I’m not gonna refer to Japanese art by a localized title!”

Fujimaru held his hands firm.

“Okay, okay, settle down! It’s fine! Hokusai made a lot of art! Way more than just one really famous shunga!”

Emiya shook his head.

“You know, Master, there’s nothing wrong with having a few fetishes, but you really ought to keep them to the privacy of your own room. Have you no shame?”

“I said it’s fine! Knock it off!”

Emiya glared over at Hokusai. He finally realized what the floating black orb was.

“Look at her! She even has a tiny octopus with her! Disgusting. Absolutely inappropriate.”

At this remark, the octopus glared and squirted a jet of black ink at Emiya. He ducked, narrowly avoiding it.

“You wanna pick a fight, cephalopod? Keep that up and I’ll pop you!”

Hokusai stomped her foot and pointed angrily at Emiya.

“How dare you! That octopus is my father!”

And that made everyone go dead silent again. Wordlessly, Emiya just turned his head and looked disapprovingly as Fujimaru. He sighed, lowered his head, and pinched his brow. Head still pointed at the ground, Fujimaru pleaded with the Foreigner.

“Please, Oui, stop. You’re just making it worse.”

“So, you sayin’ I shouldn’t tell the big fella about my other tentacle daddy?”

Fujimaru buried his face in his hands.

“Holy shit you’re doing this on purpose aren’t you.”

Emiya turned back to her.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Yeah, it’s all pretty confusin’ ain’t it? I’m actually Katsushika Oui, daughter of the famous mononym user himself, Hokusai. I- “

“Wait, Oui is just Japanese for “daughter”.”

“Yup.”

Emiya raised a finger, about to ask what her actual name was, but decided not to derail the conversation further.

“Never mind, I’ll circle back to it. Please continue.”

“The floatin’ mollusk is my father, Hokusai. I just call him Toto-sama. He don’t talk too much. The two of us have uh. Shit. Master, whadja call it?”

“Joint custody.”

“That’s the ticket! We share this body. I’m usually in charge, but pops can take over when appropes.”

Emiya sighed. A bit of the energy had been taken out of the conversation. A parent and child sharing a Servant Spirit Origin surely wouldn’t be the strangest thing he’d see in the Wandering Sea.

“Anything else I should- wait. What was that shit about a “tentacle daddy”?”

“Oh yeah! Hahaha. We’re a Foreigner-class Servant, and our patron is the dead god who waits dreaming in his home in R’lyeh.”

Emiya looked at Fujimaru, who’d turned his head and was avoiding eye contact. Emiya was hip. He was well-read. He knew that verbiage could only refer to one being: the great granddaddy of all the Great Old Ones: Cthulhu himself. He’d suspected that Abigail Williams was just being an imaginative child that everyone else was indulging. But another Foreigner linked to another Lovecraftian mythos deity? No way that was coincidence. This was too much to take in just after lunch, and he decided he’d reached his limit for social interactions at that time. He reached under the counter, grabbed a bottle of cooking sake, and left. Fujimaru called after him.

“Emiya? Hey, come on man, where are you going?!”

Hokusai joined in.

“Yeah! Ain’t you momma ever teach ya that walkin’ away mid-conversation is rude?!”

As he passed, they heard him grumble about summoning Great Old Ones, the risks of fucking around with non-Euclidean eldritch horrors, and not getting paid enough.

“Messin’ With Merlin”

BEEP BEEP BEEP

“Huh? Wuzzat?”

Woken from a restful slumber, an old and groggy wizard lifted the sleep mask off one eye and peeked at his door console.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

“Lights, on.”

At his verbal command, the light fixtures in his room came to life.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

Merlin rubbed his eyes with his palms and stared at the console. He sprung up, slid his feet into the pair of slippers under his bed and shuffled quickly to the door.

“Fire alarm again? For the love of…”

The Mage of Flowers pressed a button on the wall and his door slid open. He looked left, right, then straight down for the source of the commotion, finding it rather quickly.

A brown, paper bag on fire. The rancid stench of burning feces wafted up into the air from it.

Merlin growled and waved his hand. With the smallest expenditure of pink magical energy, the bag was extinguished and spectral flowers floated around. He stepped into the hallway and started angrily shaking his fist, brimming with “old man kicking children off his lawn” energy. His next action was to start yelling at the hallway.

“This wasn’t funny the first time and it’s not funny the third time you damned hooligans!”

Merlin looked to his left, but saw no one. He turned to his right and still saw no one.

“And where did you even get dogshit to light on fire anyway? There’s no dogs here in the Wandering Sea!”

Merlin put his hands on hips and actually began to seriously contemplate his most recent rhetorical question.

“Unless. Did they get Fou to poop in a bag for them? That seems like the kind of thing he’d do. But. Wait. Fou doesn’t poop. Or does he?”

PANG

TING TING

Merlin’s head whipped to his right, his full attention in the direction of the noise.

“Huh! Whatwasthat?”

As his whole body turned, two more sounds followed in rapid succession.

CLUNK

FWUMP

And just as suddenly as this whole saga had started, it had ended. Merlin was facedown, dropped like a sack of potatoes, an empty glass bottle on the ground near his head.

Soon, two figures approached from opposite ends of the hallway, meeting in the middle of the hallway, staring down at Merlin’s body. After a beat, one of them kicked the wizard in the ribs. No response. The other started whisper-yelling.

“What the fuck was that?!”

Emiya’s arms were outstretched in disbelief at his accomplice. This had not gone how he’d envisioned. Mordred, never one to react with grace, had her finger pointed at Emiya’s face.

“What?! I did exactly like we talked about!”

Emiya bent over and grabbed the bottle, which didn’t break on contact with Merlin’s skull. Even more suspiciously, it didn’t break when it hit the floor. It was a whiskey bottle, a heavy rectangular prism with a long, rounded neck. The black label read “Jack Daniels”.

“First off, you should’ve known this wouldn't just shatter. Feel how heavy this is! And I thought I told you to stop drinking bottom-shelf shit!”

Mordred’s hands turned inward, pointing outstretched fingers at herself.

“Me?! This is all your fault! If we’d just thrown the empties I had the other day instead of this scheme to get him in the hallway, none of this would’ve happened!”

Emiya snarled and stuck his finger in Mordred’s face. She snarled back, and after a brief standoff, they turned their attention to the wizard.

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“There’s no way. If he was, he’d get all gold and glowy and disappear.”

“Yeah, but, he isn’t really a Servant, right?”

“Sure. So what?”

“So, what if we messed up his connection to Avalon or whatever?”

“With a bottle? Get serious.”

They looked down, and Mordred kicked his ribs. This time, he shot straight up.

BOOM

KSSH

Above Merlin’s head swirled an ominous black cloud, complete with bolts of lightning. The hallway was painted black. Black as night. Black as coal. The Wizard’s eyes were pure white and glowing, and his voice mystically deep and booming.

“WHO DARES DISTURB MY SLUMBER!”

Emiya quickly looked over at Mordred.

“I have an idea.”

“Whatever it is, make it quick dude!”

Emiya nodded.

"You'll have to follow my lead and give it your all."

"Quit yapping and do it already!"

“It’s an old family secret technique.”

Emiya sharply inhaled, and without uttering another syllable, sprinted down the hallway, arms pumping vigorously in rhythm with his legs. He was already thirty feet away when he shouted back to his accomplice.

“NIGERUNDAYO! MOOOOORDRED!”

Mordred’s hands clapped to her head before she took off after him.

“THIS IS YOUR PLAN?! ARE YOU SHITTING ME?!”

Merlin chased them, hovering menacingly in the air and hurling fireballs, lightning bolts, and all other manner of sorcery and magecraft.

“Sibling Arrivalry”

The young knight sat on the edge of her bed, reading an orientation packet for newly summoned Servants. There had been a few summonings this day, and her Master had scheduled a large group onboarding for the evening. Until then, she was waiting in a temporary barracks room. Many Servants had roommates, and she was told she’d have an opportunity to check the roster and see if there was anybody in particular she wanted to bunk with. As she skimmed the section on world history since her death, there was a knock on her door.

Gareth, the youngest and last knight to join the Round Table, quickly rose to answer.

“Coming!”

The door slid open and Gareth surveyed her surroundings. What she saw shocked her, a bolt of lightning up her spine as the young knight quickly identified the two faces that stood before her.

A tall, confident and brash blonde man. A short, beautiful young blonde man.

It was Gawain and King Arthur! The young knight nearly squealed with excitement, barely containing herself. But something wasn’t right. Why was Arthur dressed in such a way? It was too.

Casual? No.

Irreverent? Maybe.

It didn’t make sense. She would just have to ask directly for an explanation. But first.

“Big Brother!”

The tiny knight lunged forth and wrapped her arms around Gawain’s waist. He quickly and gladly returned the hug, holding his beloved youngest sister in his massive arms. The Knight of the Sun kept Gareth held until she started wriggling and squirming, obviously trying to speak to the other party. Gawain relented. It had been years for him, but just hours for her. He knew she’d have questions that required answers.

Gareth looked at Arthur and sank to one knee, a closed fist over her left breast, head dropped in a classic knight pose.

The King’s appearance made literally no sense at all to Gareth. He wore a red, leather half-jacket and tight jean booty shorts. His flowing blonde locks in a sloppy high ponytail. A scowl that seemed uncharacteristically mean for the King of the Britons.

But that face? Unmistakable.

“What the hell is this?”

Voice was a little off, though.

“My liege, forgive me! If Sir Lancelot was able to slay me and Gaheris, he must have absconded with the Queen. Though I may have disagreed with her fate, it was your last order to me that I guard the proceedings. I beg your mercy and amnesty!”

Gareth was not expecting the response. A hearty laugh and boast from her brother.

“Ha! Told you so!”

Gareth looked up. Arthur fired off a comeback at Gawain.

“Oh, shut up. Stupid gorilla.”

Her king, the King of Knights, was acting quite strangely indeed.

“Also. And once more I beg pardon for my impertinence, but. Ahhh. Why are you dressed like a girl?”

The king began growling. He was far more expressive in this strange place than he had ever been in life. Lot grumpier too. The King threw his hands up.

“I’m not Arthur, dumbass!”

Gareth looked surprised and almost offended. She’d expected her king to call her a failure, not an idiot. Gawain chuckled again.

“I told you to show up in your armor! Come now, sister. Change Ascensions. This’ll all go much quicker if you do.”

The king(?) sighed, grumbled, pinched his brow, and changed appearance in a flash of magical energy. Suddenly, he was standing before her in full plate armor. Silver, with cloth and accents of deep crimson. Gareth recognized it immediately. That answered one question, and raised several others.

“S-sir Mordred! Apologies, I didn’t recognize you without your armor!”

Mordred had been a silent and unreadable pillar of the Round Table. Mysterious. Unknowable. Looming, like a dark specter. Also, uh.

What the hell?

“Don’t worry about it kid. Welcome to the team!”

Gawain chuckled once more, his boisterous laughter echoing off the steel bulkheads.

“It is still baffling that you waltz around in those clothes! Hardly attire befitting combat.”

Mordred growled again, quickly dropping the grin he’d picked up after his big reveal.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, it’s a Spiritron Dress! I am every goddamned bit protected in my jacket as I am in my armor! And you don’t have any room to talk!”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Your Third Ascension is just you with your friggin’ breastplate off! That’s the most important part of your armor, dumbass! You know, that part that protects all your stupid, squishy organs!”

Gawain tilted his head from side to side and mumbled something in response. Mordred was not letting him off the hook.

“What was that?”

Gawain cleared his throat and spoke quietly.

“It’s much more freeing for my Sunday strolls.”

The young knight couldn’t contain herself any longer, even being in the presence of two far more senior knights.

“Wait wait wait wait wait! Brother! Why did you call Sir Mordred “sister”? And why does she look like a scraggly and grumpy King Arthur?! And. Ahhh. Why are you dressed like a girl?”

Mordred’s face contorted in anger. Gareth swore she saw the faintest crackle of crimson lightning in her(?) eyes.

“Hey! I only let that shit slide the first time because you’re new here! Stop calling me a girl, got it! I don’t give two shits that you’re technically older than I am, I’m still your senior at the Round Table! You understand?”

Gareth tilted her head to the side and looked like a confused puppy. She stared blankly and blinked twice.

“There is nothing about this I understand.”

Gawain looked at her.

“What is it exactly you do not comprehend?”

“Uh, core concept? For starters, why did you call Sir Mordred sister?”

Mordred sighed and rolled her(?) eyes.

“Because we’re siblings and Gawain is being a jerk.”

Gawain chortled.

“Sorry for being a bit rowdy! Not my fault they had bottomless mimosas at brunch this morning!”

Mordred growled.

“They weren’t bottomless you great big jackass, you just kept grabbing bottles and drinking when no one was looking!”

Gareth stamped her foot and threw her hands up.

“HEY! As great as it is to see you, Sir Gawain, and profoundly bizarre to see you, Sir Mordred, if somebody doesn’t explain what’s happening, I’m going to lose my mind! Why are you two so chummy?! Why did Gawain call you sister?! AND WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE THE KING?!”

Mordred and Gawain turned to look at each other, sighed and slumped their shoulders in unison, and made their way into the room. Mordred handed Gareth a baggie and Gawain placed a number of partially-filled champagne bottles on a nearby table. Gareth looked down at the baggie in confusion.

“What’s this?”

“Pastries. Sit down. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“I’m…not hungry?”

She heard Gawain from the other side of the room.

“Well, you’ll certainly need a drink by the time we’re done, and I’m too committed a big brother to let you drink on an empty stomach.”

Gareth looked cautiously into the bag.

“Ooo! Scones! Wait, how do I know what a “scone” is?”

Mordred cleared his(?) throat and gestured for Gareth to take a seat. He’d(?) returned to his(?) casual attire while Gareth’s back had been turned. Once seated, Mordred took a pull from a flask and spoke, far calmer and more somber than before.

“Gareth. Are familiar with the term “homunculus”?”

“Chaldea Murder Mystery”

It was a dark and stormy night in Novum Chaldea. The ambient sounds of distant thunder and the battering of rain against the shutters had created an air of tension. In a lounge outfitted to resemble a Victorian mansion parlor was a ghastly scene: splattered gore on a wall. Chunks of flesh and still-wet blood in a gruesome display of power. And a young boy wrapped in a heavy blanket, shuddering and catatonic in a large chair.

Assembled were the likeliest suspects of this most heinous act of murder: Achilles, Asclepius, Orion, and Van Gogh. And before them all, hunched over and inspecting the crime scene and Paris was the greatest detective at Chaldea’s disposal:

Mash Kyrielight!

Wearing a deerstalker cap and Inverness cape, Mash quickly spun on her heels addressed the assembled Heroic Spirits.

“I’m certain you must be asking yourselves why I’ve brought you all here together this evening.”

Achilles stuck a hand in the air and asked a question without a moment’s hesitation.

“Actually, I’m wondering if Barry Manilow knows that you raid his wardrobe.”

He snickered and looked around, quickly realizing no one had joined in his laughter. Mash sighed.

“You seriously reached with that one, Achilles. If you’re gonna quote something verbatim, make sure the quote actually fits, instead of just being “close enough”.”

Achilles crossed his arms and grumbled under his breath,

“Don’t even know why I’m here. Didn’t even do anything. Frigging waste of my Saturday night.”

“Anyway! I’ve gathered you all because there has been a terrible crime committed here tonight. Apollo, Greek god of the sun and companion to Paris, has been slain, rendering poor, sweet, young Paris catatonic! And I have reason to believe that one of the four of you have done the deed. Using my powers of deduction, honed through study of the great detective Sherlock Holmes and some direct tutelage, I will reveal which of you is the perpetrator. The game is afoot!”

Asclepius spoke.

“Is all this truly necessary?”

Mash fired back instantly.

“Of course it is! Unsanctioned violence amongst Servants is antithetical to good order and discipline, and can negatively affect morale! We have to make every effort to peacefully coexist here!”

Asclepius shook his head.

“Apologies. It seems I was unclear with my objection. As a Heroic Spirit, Apollo will reconstitute and surely be able to identify his murderer. In fact, since Paris’s part of their Spirit Origin seems unaffected, I wager it would take a shorter interval than usual.”

“Perhaps! Perhaps not! We can never discount that maybe the assailant struck Apollo down from behind! Or that they hid their identity! Now, I shall begin by stating the motives each of you had for murdering Apollo!”

The four of them looked at each other. It seemed there would be no easy way out of this one. Mash started with Achilles.

“During the final battle of the Trojan War, you were felled only because Apollo guided Paris’s arrow to your one weak spot!”

Achilles shook his head.

“Yes, that happened. No, I don’t even care all that much. Frankly, Paris is pretty frigging pathetic in that cutesy, grade schooler form. Not even worth taking my spear up against him. I could kill him without any effort and that’s not the least bit satisfying.”

Mash held up a magnifying glass and stared at him.

“Or maybe you’ve kept your rage at such an ignominious defeat bubbling just under the surface, waiting for the perfect moment to strike!”

Achilles sighed.

“Is the magnifying glass necessary? I’m literally three feet away. If you couldn’t already pick up my microexpressions, making my face bigger won’t help. I’ve got an alibi, if it means I can leave.”

“Not so fast! We’ll get to alibis later! Our next suspect is Orion!”

The Archer shook his head vigorously.

“Why would I do it?!”

Mash bent at the waist and got nose-to-nose with him.

“Because Apollo disapproved of your relationship with his sister Artemis, and tricked her into killing you, stealing your chance at true love! And. Y'know. Killing you. You hated his guts and leapt at the chance to turn him to pink mist! Admit it!”

Orion began shaking his arms side-to-side every bit as fervently as his head.

“You got it all wrong! I mean, yeah, fuck Apollo- “

“FUCK APOLLO!”

Mash stood straight up and looked at the other Servants, who’d just chanted in unison, as if part of some bizarre call-and-response. Orion continued.

“But I’m not hung up on what happened! Seriously, think about it! I’m with Artemis all the time here! If there’s any version of Orion that would hold a grudge, it’s that 250cm wall of muscle!”

“He’s actually only 230cm.”

“I’m a teddy bear! Everybody is huge to me! Are you seriously splitting hairs over that?!”

Orion was correct. His other, the massive mountain of a beefcake and one-time Grand Archer was certainly a more likely suspect. He had means, motive, and lacked the constant, watchful eye of Artemis who, despite her grief at Orion’s death, still considered Apollo family. Mash softly muttered her reply.

“I actually meant to get him here for this. I must’ve mixed up your emails. I texted him a few minutes ago and he’s on his way here right now. Can you just play along for a few minutes, please? This is really important to me.”

“Seriously, Mash?”

She gave him a wide, pleading smile. He relented with a weary sigh. Mash snapped to attention and carried on with her interrogations.

“Moving on!”

And she backed away from Orion and turned to Asclepius.

“For our next suspect- “

But the detective was cut off by a shrill cry.

“I confess! It was ME! I just can’t hide my guilt anymore! I did it! I turned Apollo to pink mist!”

Mash whipped her head around and locked eyes with the confessed murderer: Van Gogh. With a great fury many in Chaldea had never seen her exhibit, Mash reached up, grabbed her deerstalker cap by the brim, and flung it to the ground.

WHAP

“DAMMIT! Seriously?! I had an entire monologue prepared and everything! I had a carefully planned dénouement, an in-depth study of everybody’s motives, witness statements, video recordings to establish timelines and prove or disprove alibis. I did so much work for this!”

Van Gogh, who’d been fidgety and flighty the entire time, had started spiraling even worse at Mash’s outburst. Her typically high anxiety was not assuaged by the high energy of the room. Not one bit. She’d actually began sweating and chewing on her arm like a coyote with its leg in a trap.

“M-mash? W-would it help if I told you why I did it?”

“Of course not! You hate Apollo because he abandoned you for another lover, and ignored you after you killed her! You were scorned, abandoned, and in the end, didn’t even get your lover back!”

Achilles leaned over and whispered to Orion.

“Oh shit, is Van Gogh actually Clytie?”

The little bear leaned back to him.

“Yeah, dude. It was a whole thing. It’s come up a few times since she got summoned.”

“Huh. Ain’t that something?”

As Mash continued her tirade, Super Orion silently entered the parlor, witnessed the unfolding scene, and without breaking his stride turned right back around and left the way he came.

“Do you have any idea how hard it was to find a Sherlock Holmes costume that fit right at this time of day?! I even set the speakers in this room to “murder mystery ambiance” to set the mood! And you couldn’t even wait for me to get to you before spilling your guts?! So much build up and you just cut my legs, right out from under me! I ask for so little around here!”

Van Gogh was squirming in her seat. Mash was nose-to-nose with her now, a manic look in her eyes. She was uncomfortable with both the direct attention and the intensity of the attention.

“Would it help if I said sorry?”

Mash sighed and slumped in the chair next to Paris.

“Forget it. Forget the whole thing. Saint Martha?”

A disembodied voice belonging to another party in the room that nobody had noticed, answered.

“Yeah?”

“Just take her away. Punish her however you deem appropriate.”

Mash propped her head up with her arm, her right fist in her cheek. Martha, sister of Lazarus, vanquisher of the French Tarasque, and disciplinarian within the halls of old and new Chaldea, walked over, firmly placed a hand on Van Gogh’s shoulder, and led her out. As they passed the doorway, Martha looked back over her shoulder at Mash.

“Miss Kyrielight?”

She looked up and answered wearily.

“Saint Martha?”

“Don’t give up. You’ll get ‘em next time.”

Mash nodded and offered a weak smile.

“Thanks, Martha.”

And with the half-baked detective story aborted, Achilles and Orion got up and made their way for the door.

“We can still make happy hour.”

“Nice! Hey Mash, you wanna come with? A beer or two might cheer you up?”

Mash shook her head.

“No thanks, guys. Go have fun. I gotta stick around for when Apollo reconstitutes and Paris wakes up.”

They shrugged and bade her farewell. Mash noticed Asclepius was still in the room with her.

“Mash.”

“Hmm?”

“If you don’t want to drink, that’s your business. As a physician, I’ll certainly never recommend anybody partake. That said, you shouldn’t wallow here. Go on. Go have a late dinner or watch a film. Hell, you could just go to bed. Sleep’s a resource I don’t think you get enough of.”

Mash raised an eyebrow.

“What about you, Asclepius?”

“Nightingale and Paracelsus are covering for me in the sickbay.”

“Not what I meant. You were summoned because you have just as much reason to hate Apollo as anybody else I called.”

The Greek god of medicine gave a slight grin. Mash wasn’t wrong. Apollo believed, based on the words of a fucking bird, that his mother had cheated on him and so, burnt her to death. It was only because of his guilt after the fact that he rescued Asclepius from her womb and gave him to Chiron to raise. An act which saved his infant life and in no way brought back his mother. But such was life for mortals. Started and ended on gods' literal whims.

“It’s fine. I promise. I hate Apollo just as much as I hate the rest of those meddlesome so-called gods. No more, no less.”

“You promise?”

Asclepius raised his right hand.

“First, do no harm.”

Mash sighed and stood up.

“An early bedtime sounds pretty nice, actually. Good night, Asclepius.”

“Good night, Mash.”

Mash walked out, and as she reached the doorway, she called back, turning her head towards Asclepius, but not far enough to make eye contact.

“Of course, if anything does happen to Apollo after this moment, you’d be suspect number one.”

Asclepius nodded with a warm smile.

“There’s the next great detective. Good night.”

Mash nodded and walked off, eager to get out of the cloak and crawl into bed.

Chapter Text

DING DING

It was a…day, in Novum Chaldea. The simulated sun was shining high in the sky, and two Servants were settling a dispute the only way some of them knew how:

Fisticuffs.

In one corner was Quetzalcoatl, currently in her Christmas Ruler Spirit Origin. The very revealing red, orange, and green samba-inspired outfit.

And in the other was the Greek goddess of justice, Astraea. She wore an outfit Fujimaru had never seen before. Blue, gold, and black, it far more closely resembled a professional athlete’s uniform than her standard attire. Specifically, it seemed like something befitting a boxer or professional wrestler. Calf-length boots, laced all the way up. Unusually long knee pads that nearly reached her boots at the bottom, and hit mid-thigh up top. And her top had full-length sleeves, but exposed shoulders, boob window, and under boob.

Astraea’s midriff was also exposed. Now, Fujimaru had seen the suplexes she dished out. He knew from watching her fight just how strong she was. In fact, she seemed to be the only Greek Servant that actually incorporated Greco-Roman wrestling into their combat. Though, to be fair, modern-day Greco-Roman wrestling was quite different from historic Greek wrestling, or πάλη.

Regardless, despite knowing academically how strong she was, Fujimaru was still astonished to see how fit she looked. Strong, but not excessively beefy. Sinewy and compact, more like a real-life combat athlete than a bodybuilder or powerlifter. Very fit. Very tone. Great muscle definition that nearly rivaled Quetz’s.

The bell rang, and the two fierce competitors dashed for each other and locked horns in the center of the ring. It was an interesting matchup to witness. Astraea’s fighting was based on holds and throws, whereas Quetz relied on strikes and aerial maneuvers, befitting her lucha libre inspiration.

They grappled, arms locked up top. Sinking like a stone, Astraea bent at the waist and knees, dropping her level. She kicked her right leg back, bodyweight on her left foot and right knee. Head on the outside of Quetz’s hip, Astraea wrapped her arms around her legs, thrust laterally with her left foot, and sprang away, taking her opponent off her feet. Astraea sank lower, bringing Quetz into the mat.

But this was exactly what the mad Aztec was waiting for. Unlike the firm mats used in real wrestling, this ring had some bounce, like the mats in boxing or pro wrestling. Once her shoulder hit the mat, Quetz kept rolling, swinging her feet up high and breaking out of Astraea’s hold. With a gleeful, borderline deranged trilling of her tongue, Quetz dashed for the ropes, turned her back to them at the last second, and jumped. She bounced off, the ropes propelling her back towards Astraea.

Right arm outstretched with a slight bend at the elbow Quetz swung on Astraea, knocking her flat with a lariat. As the Greek goddess lay dazed on the mat, the Aztec wasted no time capitalizing on the situation. She ran for the nearest turnbuckle, leapt atop it, and dove headfirst. She threw her arms out wide in a picture perfect Swanton bomb, completing the somersault at the last possible moment.

But this was exactly the moment Astraea was waiting for.

Having only been playing opossum, her eyes snapped open and she rolled out of the way, rising to her feet as Quetz hit the mat, her body bearing the entire impact. Astraea bent at the waist and knees, coiling like a lioness about to pounce.

Quetz moaned and groggily rolled over. Shakily she rose, legs unsteady. As she shook her head, hoping to clear to fog, Astraea’s boot connected with her midsection. Before she could react, Astraea had spun around, jumped up with her legs at a perfect 90-degree angle to her torso, grabbed Quetz’s head tight to her shoulder, and plummeted to the mat.

The impact surged up through Quetz’s neck and she flew backwards, landing in a crumpled heap across the ring, bells softly jingling.

Truly a Stunner that Stone Cold Steve Austin himself would be proud of.

Astraea got low. Left leg forward, head up, hands open, ready to lock up and go for a hold. Quetz shot up, clapped her cheeks twice, loosed a furious war cry, and dashed to her opponent.

Astraea was caught momentarily off-guard by her opponent’s ferocity. Quetz swung with reckless abandon. Wild right haymaker to the face. Swift left uppercut to the stomach. Right side kick, shin just below the ribs. Left jab to the mouth. With each blow, the dueling goddesses rippled.

It wasn’t nearly as bad as the jiggle physics in a mid-00s fighting game, but it was readily apparent to the audience that their apparel did not conform to the standards set by legitimate athletic wear.

Quetz’s barrage gave Astraea all the time she needed to recover. As the Feathered Serpent went in with a right cross, lady justice herself bladed her body, her opponent’s fist whiffing harmlessly just before her nose. Like lightning, Astraea sank a rear standing chokehold and used Quetz’s momentum to take her to the mat. She was locked in tight, arms flexing, a vise on Quetz’s throat. Astraea’s back was on the mat, no space between her body and Quetz’s, her breasts sandwiched against her enemy’s shoulder blades.

Quetzalcoatl struggled valiantly, wriggling and throwing back elbow strikes with all her fury.

But Astraea’s grip was immaculate, and she couldn’t stop herself from taunting her opponent.

“Ohoho! Why don’t you just surrender, you overgrown garter snake?”

Almost as if to mock her insult, Quetz wriggled even harder, managing to roll over onto her stomach.

“You must truly be blind, Lady Justice, if you can’t see that the Feathered Serpent NEVER SURRENDERS!”

Quetz burst forth, rising to her feet.

But Astraea was not to be outdone. Though the chokehold was broken, she was still on Quetz. She wrapped her arms around her waist, stood straight up, and leaned backwards, slamming Quetz to the mat with a German suplex.

Before Quetz could even begin to recover, Astraea continued her assault. Never releasing her hold, she alligator-rolled Quetz onto her stomach, shot up and hit her with another German suplex.

Of course, what shocked the audience the most was when Astraea hit Quetz with a third suplex. The entire stadium shook, and it seemed as though Quetzalcoatl had been defeated. Momentarily winded, Astraea finally loosed her grip on Quetz, crawled away, and used the ropes to pull herself up. Her opponent lay faceup on the mat, limbs splayed like a corpse dropped off a skyscraper. It would take a miracle for her to get back into the fight.

But what is a miracle other than an act of god?

While Astraea was still tired, Quetz launched a counter-offensive of her own. With a supernatural speed, she curled her body, rolling her knees tight into her shoulders. She rocked back, lifting her body up until her shoulder blades became her only point of contact with the mat. She kicked her legs forward, feet together, propelling herself into a standing position. She advanced on Astraea, ready to end this bout.

Astraea marched angrily to meet her foe, who was all too prepared for this moment. Quetz bent over at the waist fired off a superkick. Her heel collided with Astraea’s chin, a loud clacking noise echoing through the arena as she fell. The sweat beads flew off her body and she landed with a thud. With that beautifully sung piece of Sweet Chin Music, it seemed like the match was all but over.

But then again, the Greek goddess of justice was no slouch either. She groggily pulled herself up, spat the blood out of her mouth, wiped her chin with the back of her hand, and raised her fists.

“That all you got?”

Quetz sighed, cracked her neck, and took an aggressive stance of her own.

“Not by a longshot, puta.”

Astraea nodded. She cracked a wicked grin.

“I’m going to turn you into a fucking belt.”

They each took a step, only to halt upon hearing a cry from the audience.

“ENOUGH!”

Astraea and Quetzalcoatl turned their heads in unison, staring down at the source of the disturbance:

Their Master, Fujimaru Ritsuka, seated and tied to a turnbuckle.

Poor guy was about as captive as an audience can get. He looked down at his hand, hoping that he had some Command Seals he could use to turn the tide. Unfortunately, all he saw were three faded smudges. He looked back up at the blonde deities.

On any other occasion, he would have greedily drank the sight in. There they were. Tall. Statuesque. Panting. Sweat dripping down their bodies. And for some reason, the air was cold enough that steam rose off their bodies, gently rising and blowing away in the breeze.

But this was bad. No way could he let the two of them beat each other to death, no matter how sexy they looked doing it.

“Can’t we settle this like adults? What are we even doing here? And why am I tied up?!”

Quetz and Astraea turned to each other, stared but for a moment, then made their way over to Fujimaru. They got close enough to touch, leaned over, and Quetz’s hand shot out, gripping his face.

“No sé, Master. Why are we doing all this?”

Astraea snaked her head around and whispered directly into Fujimaru’s ear.

“If memory serves, it’s because our beloved Master lacked the will to choose between the two of us. So naturally we had to take matters into our own hands.”

Fujimaru wriggled futilely against his bonds.

“You two maniacs could’ve had an arm-wrestling contest or ping-pong match or any number of a hundred less psychotic options! And why did you drag me here to watch?!”

“¡Jajajaja! Do not act like you did not enjoy the show.”

Quetz flashed her all fangs grin and Fujimaru sweated profusely. His eyes darted from side-to-side.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh really? Then what’s this all about?”

All his attention on Quetz, who still held his face, Fujimaru failed to notice Astraea sliding the toe of her boot into his crotch. The sweat intensified as he sucked his teeth in discomfort.

“That could be anybody’s crotch bulge!”

Quetz frowned and shook her head.

“Tsk tsk, Master. It is unbecoming to lie to a pair of goddesses.”

“And don’t act like that hurt. I’ve barely. Even. Touched you.”

There was a huskiness in Astraea’s voice that elicited a groan from Fujimaru. Just the faintest twitch beneath his right eye. He muttered something inaudible. But these two weren’t going to just let it slide.

“Speak up, Master! Since you’ve put an end to our bout, you have our undivided attention. What’s troubling you?”

Fujimaru sighed. No way out but through. He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, tossed his head back, and explained his situation.

“My junk is squished up against the seam of my pants and it’s starting to hurt.”

The goddesses stood up, eyed each other, and, in unison, laughed uproariously. They were doubled over and nearly in tears by the time they caught their breath enough to reply. Being extremely cruel for a goddess whose domain was justice, Astraea addressed Fujimaru with a mocking tone.

“And what exactly do you expect us to do about it, oh Master?”

Fujimaru kicked his legs in frustration.

“Untie me so I can adjust myself! Or better yet, untie me so I can leave!”

Quetz stuck her finger in the bottom of his throat, and slowly dragged it upwards until his mouth was shut once more.

“You are in absolutamente no position to make demands.”

Astraea chimed in. For the first time today, it seemed these bitter rivals were on the same page.

“In fact, I find it quite sacrilegious that you would broach such a base topic to us. Frankly, I think you’ve been quite lacking in your worship of two goddesses.”

Fujimaru sighed.

“Not you guys, too. I get enough of that shit from the Gorgon sisters.”

Quetz replied after a moment of deliberation.

“Hmm, I think I know exactly what we should do.”

Astraea raised an eyebrow.

“Bring Master to his knees and force him to pray to us? Have him construct an altar and make a few sacrifices?”

Quetz shook her head.

“No, no. Tengo una idea mejor.”

And with that, she turned around. First, she discarded her headdress and wings. Next, she did something that shocked Fujimaru. She slowly bent over at the waist, giving him a full view of her incredible backside. Thick, muscular legs. Smooth skin, bereft of any mortal imperfections such as blemishes, stretch marks, or scars. And a truly magnificent ass. Big and round, but still perfectly proportional to her thighs. This was an ass shaped by a higher power, not something injected with fillers or lifted by an unlicensed “doctor” in Brazil.

Even more shocking, Quetz hooked her thumbs into her high-waisted, bright red thong, and delicately slid it down her legs, over the Christmas wrapping and tinsel, letting it drop to the mat with the faintest little thud. She lifted her feet out of them, picked up her thong, and shoved it into one of Fujimaru’s front pockets. Her hand lightly patted the stowed garment, and she bent over to whisper in his ear.

“Don’t lose those, Master. I’m going to want them back when we’re done.”

Fujimaru shuddered. His voice faltered as she drew away.

“When we’re done what?”

Astraea looked at them both. When she spoke, her voice was rife with skepticism.

“Quite right. Done what, precisely?”

In response, Quetz shook her arms jubilantly, the myriad of tiny bells on her shaking in concert.

“A contest! Since Master does not want to see me make you time travel, we will settle this a different way. You and I will use everything at our disposal to make him come to his senses and pick the best goddess for him. ¿Lo entiendes?”

“Everything except the time travel bit.”

“Oh, that? I was saying I would beat you into a coma. You know? So that when you woke up- “

“From my perspective, I’d have arrived in the future. Clever.”

“It was funnier before you made me explain it.”

“Hmph. Shame you don’t have what it takes to back it up.”

“So I guess that means nobody is untying me anytime soon, huh?”

Quetz backing her ass up into his face was her only reply. She widened her stance, bringing herself lower and lower until Fujimaru’s mouth aligned with her asshole. She reached back and gripped his head, forcing him forward into her. Before he could even begin to formulate a response, Quetz grabbed her cheeks, spread them wide to give him access, and let them clap together around his face.

“Dig in, Master. I know it’s your favorite dish.”

Fujimaru, until that very moment, had never truly been able to fathom the ramifications of a Servant with A-Rank Strength doing a Kegel. But deep down he knew this: if she walked forward while his face was clenched between her mighty cheeks, she damn well might be able to pull his off with her. A single thought ran through his head.

I never thought I’d die like this. But I always really hoped.

Quetz’s breathing drew faster as Fujimaru’s tongue sloppily got to work. First were the up and down strokes, as if her anus was an ice cream cone. A salty ice cream though, given how much work she’d put into her brief tussle. Then he moved on to circling around the rim. A few clockwise runs followed by some counter-clockwise. And once his jaw was warmed up, he really got into it, shoving his tongue as far deep as it would go. Her eyes lit up as he hungrily ate away.

“¡Sí, sí! Just like that!”

Meanwhile, Astraea was standing with her arms crossed, not particularly impressed by the display. She loudly harumphed.

“Seems as though Master isn’t getting anything out of this arrangement.”

But as Quetz pulled down an eyelid and stuck her tongue out, Astraea was stricken with inspiration. She quickly dropped to her stomach and slid over to Fujimaru. Her hands clapped his thighs, and she brought her face so close he could feel her breath on his crotch. Her breasts were squished against the mat, making them look much bigger than their already impressive splendor. And her legs were crossed at the ankles and bent at the knees, like something out of an old pinup calendar.

Not that Fujimaru could see any of that, what with his face still full of Aztec ass. He could still hear her, though.

“Of course, since the big one didn’t make any rules about us waiting turns…”

Astraea dug her fingers into Fujimaru’s thighs and kissed his bulge through his trousers. She spoke seductively to her restrained Master as she fondled his package. While Quetz was trying to curry favor by giving Fujimaru access to the buffet, she had a different approach in mind.

“This is what you want, isn’t it? A little…release?”

Astraea giggled when she heard Fujimaru mumbled some response and ran her hand across his junk again. His whole body shuddered at her touch. Quetz was less than pleased with this development.

“Hey, you! Don’t distract him!”

Quetz then reached back and gripped Fujimaru’s head again.

“And you. Don’t talk with your mouth full!”

But Astraea continued to press her advance. She withdrew her hands back to Fujimaru’s thighs, and purred into crotch.

“Hmmmm. So sad. Your zipper is just about to burst, isn’t it Master?”

Quetz backed up just a bit at that.

“Do not listen to this seductress! She is just using her feminine wiles to distract you!”

Astraea cackled madly.

“You should stop appealing to Master’s sense of reason. We both know which head he’s thinking with right now.”

Before Quetz could reply, Astraea grabbed Fujimaru’s zipper with her teeth, and pulled it as far down as it would go. His cock sprang forward, finally free of its prison. Fujimaru was so tightly restricted that the button on the front of his boxers popped off and flew into the great blue yonder. Astraea chuckled cruelly.

“Such a brave hero. The savior of humanity, valiantly trying not to ruin his pants. You know, I would’ve undone your belt first, but for some bizarre reason it’s on the outside of your jacket, and not around your trousers. Who designed this baffling attire? Someone with a buckle fetish? An otaku who played too much Final Fantasy?”

Fujimaru mumbled something again, still muffled by Quetz’s muff. Astraea, who was speaking rhetorically with no regard for an actual answer, continued. She wrapped her hand around his cock, feeling its warmth through the barrier of his underwear. Her lips gave his tip the slightest kiss as she slowly stroked his member.

“This is what you want, isn’t Master? Not this deranged juggernaut suffocating you with her oversized buttocks.”

Quetz slapped down at Astraea.

“How dare you! My ass is perfect!”

Astraea, foreseeing this reaction, harmlessly swatted her hand away.

“Struck a nerve, have I?”

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, bruja. We both know what Master really wants is to be told what to do! Just jerking him off won’t win his favor!”

But Astraea seemed to have anticipated this line of argument as well. She crammed Fujimaru’s cock back into his pants, tucking it into his right pant leg so it had more room. She zipped him back up and threw Quetz aside. It was a brilliant takedown, a cross-chop of her left leg. One fist outside the ankle, the other inside the knee, she swiftly swung her arms in opposite directions. It was the simplest of levers, but it instantly toppled her competitor.

Quetz fell to the side and Astraea crawled up Fujimaru. She squeezed herself against him, her breasts against his ropes, and she clutched his face.

“A-astraea? Why- “

“Because as loathe as I am to admit it, that dumb jock is correct. You do want to be ordered around. Now if you don’t start putting that mouth of yours to use on me, so help me I will make your balls bluer than my costume!”

Quetz couldn’t help but nod in acknowledgement. Her opponent ran better game than she had initially realized.

“Not bad. Not bad.”

Fujimaru snapped his eyes as tightly shut as he could muttered the ancient incantation he prayed would grant him salvation:

“There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home!”

When he opened his eyes, his scenery had indeed changed. But it wasn’t quite the home he was looking for.

Fujimaru slowly turned his head from left to right, scanning his new environment. It was a large, open-floor room with exquisite décor. Well-lit, a combination of a massive chandelier in the center and a myriad of wall sconces. Simple but elegant pillars lined the walls, but Fujimaru lacked the interior design or structural engineering knowledge to know if they were load-bearing or merely decorative. Between the pillars were walls of pale burgundy. The floors were carpeted in a deep red, and he realized he was seated on a semi-circular couch of red velvet with a small, rectangular table within arm’s reach. Music, sourceless and of indistinguishable origin played softly in the background. A gentle voice roused him from his observation.

“Sir?”

“Huh?”

Fujimaru’s eyes darted to this new figure. He was a tall, slender man dressed impeccably in a simple yet elegant black tuxedo, complete with cummerbund and bowtie. From his skin tone and facial features, Fujimaru assumed he Japanese. His long black hair was tied back tightly in a low ponytail. His body language and tone told him he was a host or maître d’ or host of some kind. He had the practiced patience of someone who had experience waiting on drunks.

Now, Fujimaru had been in a few sticky situations in his life. He knew the best thing to do in an unfamiliar environment was to act natural. Act like he belonged.

“I’m so sorry, could you say that last bit again? It’s my first time in one of…you know. This kinda place. I’m kinda distracted.”

The host nodded and smiled gently.

“Of course, sir. That’s all perfectly natural. I was asking if you were more comfortable giving this establishment a card to set up a tab, or paying in cash throughout the night.”

Oh shit! Money!

Fujimaru went to check his pockets and was confronted by several inconvenient truths.

First: he was still in ropes, his arms bound to his sides.

Second: he was broke.

In his right pocket was nothing but his still-throbbing erection. In his left was Quetzalcoatl’s Christmas panties.

And as cool as the contents of his left pocket were, he doubted a classy joint like this would accept it as legal tender. Seemed like his goose was cooked.

“Shoot. I left my wallet in my other pants. I’m so sorry I wasted your time, but I don’t think I can pay this evening. I’ll just- “

But the host calmly held up his palm.

“If I might be so bold, sir. I believe you have a viable means of payment with you.”

And this stranger gestured with his eyes to Fujimaru’s hand. He looked, and tensed his body to hide his surprise:

Three fresh Command Seals.

“I- “

He cut himself off. A small voice in the back of his head screamed “act natural, idiot!”.

“I…didn’t know if that would be accepted here.”

The host smiled warmly.

“But of course, sir. All legal tender is valid here. Please, enjoy your stay. I will return with your drink shortly.”

The host bowed and executed a sharp about face briskly walking away. Fujimaru called after him, the back of his hand burning as the Command Seals vanished.

“But I haven’t ordered anything yet.”

The nameless host merely raised his hand and waved it dismissively.

“Don’t worry about it! My staff pride ourselves on knowing exactly what our patrons desire!”

That was the kind of statement that a mundane person would think was cool and mysterious. To someone who’d been in more than a lifetime’s worth of bullshit magical shenanigans, that statement sounded ominous as all hell. If it weren’t for the stranger’s charisma and badass eyepatch, Fujimaru would’ve been way more worried about this situation he found himself in. A voice roused him from his introspection.

“Glorious. I thought he’d never leave!”

“Yes, and now the fun can begin!”

Fujimaru looked left. Then he looked right. Flanked again by Quetz and Astraea. Clearly they’d followed him into this abrupt change of scenery. Still dressed in their ring attire, however. They didn’t exactly fit the vibe of this place, but no one else seemed to notice or care.

“H-hey, ladies. Long time no see. Don’t suppose I’m getting out of this anytime soon, am I?”

Astraea put her finger on Fujimaru’s chin, turning his head to face her.

“That depends on how good of a boy you are, Master.”

Fujimaru blinked. His cock, still rock hard but mercifully adjusted to a more comfortable position, twitched at her remark.

“Why does it feel like you two are mocking me when you call me “Master”?”

Quetz chuckled mockingly.

“Sorry. We just looove teasing you. And we know you love it too.”

Astraea’s hand went back to Fujimaru’s cock, gently stroking it over his pants. She could feel his pulse, even through the fabric. Her hand gained speed, and she was about to pull down his zipper when the maître d’ returned. In his hands was a bucket. In the bucket was ice and a bottle of champagne. Fujimaru stared at the label, but couldn’t make heads or tails of the inscription.

“Ahem. Apologies for the intrusion, but here is your drink. Only the finest for our top patron.”

Fujimaru nodded.

“Thank you! Hey, uh. How can I flag you down for refills? You seem to just pop in and out. I mean, it’s really cool, but- “

“No worries, sir. That bottle is bottomless. Isn’t magic wonderful?”

“Yeah, it sure is.”

“Will you require anything else?”

Fujimaru looked around, and noticed something conspicuously absent.

“Actually, yeah. Do you have any glasses?”

For the first time, the maître d’s smile vanished.

“My sincerest apologies, good sir. But we’ve run out, I’m afraid.”

At that, Astraea looked up at him and answered on her Master’s behalf.

“Think nothing of it. We’ll get along just fine, thank you.”

The man bowed, and wordlessly departed. Fujimaru looked over at the bucket, which had been placed on the table, then back to the host, who had disappeared from view.

“Where did he go?”

Quetz laughed and reached for the bottle.

“Is that really what you’re thinking about right now, Master?”

“I’ve got a short attention span!”

POP

Quetz smiled as she uncorked the bottle, the cork flying through the air across the club. She slowly licked the foam that came forth and ran over her fingers, looking Fujimaru in the eyes the entire time.

“What’s the matter? Thirsty?”

Fujimaru nodded silently as he felt his zipper go down. Quetz tilted the bottle to his mouth, and he opened wide, eagerly awaiting the drink. But just before the liquid left the bottle, Quetz shook her head and pulled it away.

“You know, I have a much better idea.”

Quetz put the bottle back in the bucket to free her hands. She shimmied across the couch and sat in Fujimaru’s lap, straddling him and pushing Astraea aside. Before she could react, Quetz planted her palms on the couch and lifted herself up. She hooked her knees over the edge of the couch and squeezed her thighs together around Fujimaru’s neck, choking him ever so slightly. Then she leaned all the way back, her body parallel to the ground, and grabbed the bottle. Her rippling abs glinted in the light as she did a half sit-up, forming a slope to his mouth.

“Now open wide. It may be bottomless, but I don’t want a single drop of this to go to waste.”

And with that, Quetz slowly poured the champagne down her stomach. The sparkling golden liquid ran freely, a shining river flowing through the peaks and valleys of her indomitable abdominals. It made its way to Fujimaru, who lapped it up greedily. It was sweet and bubbly with just a hint of salt, likely mixed in from the goddess’s sweat. A truly divine libation indeed.

Not to be outdone, Astraea had pulled Fujimaru’s pants down, and was staring at his underwear. She daintily massaged his cockhead with her index finger, focusing on a tiny moist spot.

“Ohohoho! Already leaking precum? You must be so eager. Aren’t you, Master?”

His mouth preoccupied with other things, Fujimaru could only softly hum a response. Astraea, a devilish grin on her face, got on her knees, backed up a bit, and took Fujimaru’s whole cock into her mouth in one go. Bewildered at this aggressive escalation, the young Chaldean Master gagged a bit on the champagne in his mouth. Quetz twisted to get a better view, golden rivulets dripping off her and onto Astraea’s head. She scowled at the sight of Astraea bobbing up and down on Fujimaru.

“¿Qué es esto? Ah, you’re fighting dirty!”

Astraea pulled herself off Fujimaru and cackled.

“Do you wish to cum, Master?”

Fujimaru groaned.

“Nnnnnn, yes. Please can I cum?”

But Astraea shook her head. Again, not that Fujimaru could see, his view still obstructed by the Aztec goddess hanging off his neck.

“As delightful as this is, you accepting you place so quickly, I can’t let you do that. Not yet.”

Fujimaru’s cock twitched again. So much teasing. It was almost as if these two could read his mind and knew exactly what he wanted. And the surprises didn’t end there. He felt Astraea’s hands on his cock. But instead of just jerking him, they slowly, torturously moved down his shaft. And there was something in those hands. Was it rubber? Latex? No, it couldn’t be. Why bother with a condom? His confusion only intensified when he felt something snap into place around the base of his dick. He couldn’t see, but he knew from the sensation it was elastic. Stretchy. It didn’t hurt. Not exactly. But it was tight, and he felt his cock get even harder. He didn’t think he could get any harder than he already had been, but this wonderful goddess just proved him wrong. He moaned, voice strained by all the action.

“A-astraea? What did you do?”

“It’s called a cock ring! Glorious little toy, isn’t it? Keeps the blood trapped in your…member. You get hard, and you stay hard. Wouldn’t want you to just. Erupt. Now would we?”

And just to punctuate her sing-songy mockery, Astraea flicked his cockhead.

“Aaaah. Why are you being so mean to me?”

“Shut up. We all know you love it.”

Before Fujimaru could answer, Quetz grabbed a hunk of his hair and forced him into line of sight with her.

“Don’t let that witch distract you! Focus on what’s really important!”

They heard a chuckle from below.

“Yes, yes. By all means, do go on. Keep waterboarding Master.”

Quetz stopped for a moment to think. Fujimaru saw the exact moment her plan crystallized in her mind, as the fanged grin split her face once more. She twisted her body and put the bottle on the floor. Then with blinding speed, she did a full sit-up and launched herself backward. As she flipped, she planted her other hand on Astraea’s head, her body weight pushing her to the floor.

“Hey!”

As Astraea scrambled to get up, Quetz knocked the bucket to the ground, grabbed Fujimaru by the ropes, and slammed him on the table. He was dazed, staring at the ceiling and seeing stars. As he tried to catch his breath, he felt Quetz sit down on his upper thighs. Without warning, her pussy, drenched from the champagne waterfall and her own excitement, was grinding against his shaft. A desperate groan escaped his lips. He wanted to be inside her pussy, not outside. But Quetz knew it too, and laughed derisively as he flexed ineffectually against his bonds.

“Struggle all you want, Ritsuka. We all know this is exactly what you wanted.”

She was right. His heart was pounding. All his veins were bulging. He wanted nothing more than to cum, but he knew that the longer they dragged this out, the more glorious that orgasm would be when it finally arrived. If his divine captors deigned to let him finish. As he thought about that frightening bad ending, something hit him.

Astraea’s trunks. If they could be called such. They were mostly black and the band rested low, above the hip joint and below the top of her pelvis. A second set of bands were blue, matching the accents of her outfit and rested high above her pelvis, forming a V-shape that drew attention to her sex. In fact, they were so revealing that Fujimaru knew from a glance that she was perfectly clean-shaven.

The trunks landed on his face, and Astraea landed on the other side of his shaft. The Greek goddess’s own impressive ass came to rest on his lap. Fujimaru’s cock was now the world’s luckiest all-beef frank, sandwiched between two divine pussies. Of all the highs he’d experienced in his life, this undoubtedly had to be the apex. He wept silently, knowing he’d peaked and that nothing else he ever accomplished could top this moment.

Astraea and Quetz rocked back and forth, grinding on Fujimaru’s shaft in alternating strokes. Before long, they’d inadvertently reached an identical rhythm, grinding in tandem. Wanting her Master’s rigid cock all for herself, Quetz made a bold move. She grabbed Astraea’s top, pulled her in for a kiss, and while she was distracted, shoved her backwards. She scooted over Fujimaru’s chest.

Not one to miss an opportunity, Astraea sat on his face and kept grinding away.

“Fine by me, bitch.”

Astraea shimmied back and forth, getting herself more comfortably positioned. The tip of Fujimaru’s nose was tickling her asshole, and his tongue was already in her snatch. This pleased the goddess, her Master performing his duties without the need of specific instruction. She reached her hand back and petted the top of his head.

“You’re being a very good boy indeed, Master.”

Astraea began panting as Fujimaru got to work. With her left hand she rubbed her clit, slipping under the hood and working her delicate little nub. With her right, she lifted her top up to free her breasts and fondled her nipple. As she pleasured herself, Quetz upped the ante. She undid the little bow that held the front of her top together, unwrapping a Christmas gift that Fujimaru wasn’t fortunate enough to see.

Astraea, though she’d never admit it, found herself quite jealous in that moment. Nobody with a body that athletic should have breasts that big, but somehow the Feathered Serpent did. From the way they fell once freed from their support and their gentle teardrop shape, they were every bit as real as her own. Astraea cursed silently as Quetz raised her feet onto the table, her heels landing with an authoritative clacking. Up she went in a squat, lowering herself directly onto Fujimaru’s dick.

Like everything else about this experience, it was perfect. Warm. Slick. Snug. In fact, Quetz was so tight that Fujimaru was concerned for the briefest of moments that he wouldn’t fit. But fit he did. Quetz started squatting, slowly at first but quickly gaining speed. Fujimaru could feel her walls clench around his cock. He felt her lips grip him on her upstrokes. Before long, her hands were on his hips, supporting her body as she leaned forward and kept going on him. The clapping sound of her hips in his was music to ears, no matter how much Astraea’s ass muffled them. He groaned with pleasure.

Fujimaru was certain there was so much blood in his cock that it would burst at any moment. And not in the fun way. Quetz had a wonderful way of squeezing his cock tightly. It was as if she was trying to milk him. Before he could focus on trying to achieve release, he felt a tug on his hair. He knew instantly that Astraea wanted him to focus on her. He complied, redoubling his efforts. But he wasn’t as indefatigable as his companions, and his jaw began to ache. He hoped beyond hope that Astraea would cum and get of his face.

Just as he was about to reach his limit, another miracle happened.

Simultaneous orgasms. Astraea and Quetz, not him. And to his immeasurable surprise, they were both squirters. The goddesses wailed in ecstasy and collapsed as they flooded him. Quetz on his junk, Astraea on his face. If he wasn’t being waterboarded earlier, he certainly was now. He sputtered and choked and wriggled with all his might, trying to shake the exhausted Divine Spirits off of him.

In a display of dominance, Astraea palmed Quetz’s face and shoved her off of Fujimaru. Then she grabbed his ropes and lifted him with one arm, tossing him back upright on the couch. She straddled him, using her hand to guide his cock into her pussy. She rolled back and forth, letting her hips do all the work. She grabbed a hunk of Fujimaru’s hair and pulled him into her breasts. She leaned forward, squishing his cheeks with her tits. Astraea pulled back just enough to let him breathe, and he instead went mouth first for her nipple. He sucked on, and she flinched.

“Feeling a bit cheeky, are we?”

But they were both caught off guard by what happened next. Fujimaru and Astraea both instantly remembered that they weren’t alone in this club. Taking advantage of their inattentiveness, Quetz attacked them at their most vulnerable. She slipped Fujimaru a digit and spread Astraea’s anus open with her fingers and jammed her tongue inside. Quetz hooked the finger in Fujimaru, pressing up against his prostate. Astraea sucked her teeth but made no effort to stop this intrusion. Fujimaru realized this was his real peak moment.

And it was a picture perfect moment at that.

Fujimaru tied up with a goddess on his dick and a finger in his ass.

Astraea, riding Fujimaru cowgirl-style as if her life depended on it, with Quetz’s face buried between her cheeks.

And Quetz, fingering and rimming while fucking herself with the previously discarded champagne bottle.

It was only a minute or two before Fujimaru reached his limit. He pulled his face away from Astraea’s tits and pleaded.

“Please, goddess, let me cum. I can’t hold it any longer. Pleeeeease.”

Astraea sighed and relented. She hopped off his dick and knelt down, jerking Fujimaru.

Fujimaru, to his credit, wasn’t kidding around when he said he was at his limit. Three strokes was all it took before he erupted all over Astraea’s cleavage. He rocked his head backwards, groaned until there was no air left in his lungs, and popped his hips forwards off the couch. His vision receded to a tiny pinprick as he had the hardest climax of his life.

It was a few moments before he regained his faculties. He looked down and saw Astraea, absolutely coated in his jizz. She squeezed her tits together with her biceps and looked up coyly at him.

“Well, Master? Surely this means I win, doesn’t it?”

His attempted response was cut off by Quetz, who wasn’t willing to concede defeat just yet. She yanked Astraea’s hair, tilting her head backwards. With unerring speed she licked every last drop of cum off her chest. Frankly, Fujimaru was shocked that all his jizz fit in her mouth. Then Quetz pinched the sides of Astraea’s mouth, forcing it open, and snowballed all their Master’s cum into it. She capped this coup de grâce off by planting a sloppy kiss on her foe’s lips.

“Master, why don’t you just sit back and watch for a while before making your final decision?”

Fujimaru nodded. But out of the corner of his eye the host returned. But he no longer wore his tuxedo. No. Now his hair was shorter. The eyepatch had a snake on it. The only clothing he wore above the waist was a snakeskin jacket that exposed his well-cut abs and bits of ornate tattoos over his pectorals. He screamed, and furiously swung on Fujimaru with a metal baseball bat.

WHAM

“AH!”

Fujimaru shot straight up with a shout, sitting upright in his bed. He clutched his chest, his heart violently attempting to escape his ribcage. A quick, cursory check revealed to him that his sheets were drenched in sweat. He clapped his hands and the lights turned on, confirming the state of his bedding. As he caught his breath, he noticed there was a visitor in his room.

A silent guardian. A watchful protector. A dark knight.

Edmond Dantès, fulfilling his self-appointed role of guarding Fujimaru in his dreams. The human consciousness was particularly susceptible to invasion and assault while sleeping, and the Count of Monte Cristo knew this fact all too well. Matter of fact, that was how the two of them met, back in the day. His presence must have meant Fujimaru’s sleep was quite fitful indeed.

Master and Servant locked eyes. Gone was the usual deranged rage and fire from Chaldea’s first Avenger-class Servant. In fact, it was a look Fujimaru had never seen from him before. He rubbed his eyes and waited until they adjusted to the light to verify. Was that a look of. Disappointment?

“What? Whatever you think you saw, you didn’t. Okay?”

The look persisted.

“Hey, I’m under a lot of pressure here, man.”

Dantès continued to stare without responding.

“I have to save the world. Again! That’s twice now, and I’m not even old enough to rent a car in some countries! Plus, providing mana to all these Servants, yourself included, takes a lot out of me. Of course I feel exhausted a lot of the time.”

Dantès’ expression did not change, but Fujimaru could have sworn the glare was intensifying.

“So what if I sometimes fantasize about just laying back and not having to do any of the work? About just following the orders of two very incredibly powerful and dominant women and letting them handle everything. That’s not a crime!”

Nothing. Not a peep. Not the slightest bit of a budge of movement. Dantès just stood there, a gargoyle on its perch. Fujimaru sighed and got out of bed, moving towards the sink.

“Don’t judge me,” he said dismissively.

Dantès raised an eyebrow.

“How does a man as young as yourself know so much about hostess clubs?”

Fujimaru turned to look at him. No way in hell was he going to explain the Like a Dragon franchise before breakfast.

“Shut up. Get out.”

And with that, Dantès shrugged and tipped his hat before disappearing in a puff of smoke.

Chapter Text

SNIP

SNIP

SNIP

Between each great roiling crisis in Chaldea were moments of respite. On this particularly uneventful Sunday morning, Fujimaru Ritsuka was indulging in one of his hobbies. Sitting at his desk, chair lowered, he labored over a project he’d wanted to assemble for quite some time. Nothing on his docket for the day, he enjoyed the peaceful serenity. His solitude was interrupted by a rap on his door.

On the other side stood the Witch of Colchis, Caster-class Servant Medea. Having just come from breakfast, she was in a good mood and wished to visit her Master. She carried a small baggie with her and had her hood down. Not much point in obscuring her face since nobody concealed their identities at Chaldea. Or since her ex-husband had been summoned.

Fujimaru looked up from his work and at the door.

“Open.”

He stared as the door promptly did nothing.

Fujimaru sighed and clapped his hands twice.

The door remained steadfast in its disobedience of his commands.

“Door: Open.”

The young Master’s shoulders slumped as the door continued to be closed. It was almost as if it was mocking him. He rose from his seat and manually interfaced with the command console, greeting his Servant when it finally slid open.

“Oh, hey Medea! Good morning.”

Medea was taken aback by Fujimaru’s attire and raised a finger, trying to drink it in before commenting. He wore an almost comically-oversized pair of glasses with multiple folding lenses on his face, a wife beater, pajama pants and slippers. To complete his bizarre outfit was an athletic headband on his forehead.

Seeming not to notice her befuddlement, Fujimaru continued.

“Sorry about making you wait. Nemo swore the voice commands on my door were fixed, but it’s busted again. What’s up?”

Medea decided to ease into this strange situation.

“Ahem. It’s ah. Fine, Master. The door, I mean. Are you busy, by chance?”

“Not really. Just doing a little model building. Don’t suppose you’d like to come watch?”

Medea nodded, tentatively.

“As it so happens, I would. I’ve heard about your hobby and would like to compare notes, as it were.”

“Who told you? Dammit.”

Fujimaru turned his head towards the ceiling.

“Kiyohime, are you in my goddamned vents again!”

Medea laughed and shook her head.

“No, Master. Mash mentioned that you’d been planning this for some time and I merely wanted to watch. Don’t worry, Kiyohime was in the cafeteria when I left a few moments ago.”

Fujimaru narrowed his eyes, grabbed a broom, and jabbed the ceiling vent three times. He waited patiently for a noise that never came before setting it down and beckoning Medea to enter.

“Can’t be too careful. Well, come on in and grab a seat! I’ve been dying to get to this one, so you’ll have to forgive me if I stare at it while we talk.”

Medea crossed the threshold and with a wave of her hand, a chair appeared next to Fujimaru’s. She began speaking but stopped on her third step.

“So, Master, I’d like to. Hm.”

She looked back over her shoulder, and noticed she still had a clear view of the hallway. Fujimaru had returned to his seat, but had noticed the distinct absence of door closing noises. He looked past Medea and clapped his hands twice.

Nothing.

Fujimaru rolled his eyes and rose from his seat, grumbling under his breath. As he approached the doorway, the door shut so rapidly the wind blew his hair back.

“I swear to god, Nemo is doing this on purpose just to fuck with me.”

“You should look into getting that fixed, Master.”

“You kidding? It’s been weird so long I’m considering just moving.”

Medea nodded. Maintenance was typically something she considered to be beneath her considerable talents, but she did briefly entertain taking a stab at it with Rule Breaker if time allowed.

“So, finally decided to come check in my kind of model building? Gotta be honest, after all this time I just figured you weren’t interested in my invites.”

Medea scoffed at that remark, walking around him to approach her seat.

“You wound me, Master. I would never be so rude as to ignore a summons from my summoner, especially to witness a pastime as noble as-”

Medea stopped dead in her tracks as she surveyed the scene. A series of colored plastic frames, around an open booklet, a tool kit, stickers, and a box depicting a blue and white robot with red accents, attacking some military vehicles. It was all atop a green mat on his desk.

“Robots. Of course, that’s why I was avoiding this.”

“A-ha! Knew it.”

Medea sighed.

“Fine, Master. You’re right. I’d been avoiding this childish nonsense so long I’d forgotten why I’d done so in the first place.”

Fujimaru made a noise of feigned shock as he took his seat.

“For shame, Medea. I don’t mock anyone’s hobbies. You could at least pretend to extend me the same courtesy.”

Medea rolled her eyes as she sat down beside him.

“Really, Master. I just don’t understand the male fascination with giant robots.”

“What’s not to get? Bright flashing lights and explosions are awesome.”

“Sure.”

Fujimaru shot her a side-eye before picking up one of the frames and something that Medea assumed was a pair of pliers. Of the multiple extra lenses, Fujimaru flipped down the one closest to his face, leaving the others raised out of his field of vision.

“There’re some very mature and thought-provoking themes behind the Gundam franchise if you’ll sit a while and let me sing its praises.”

Medea pursed her lips and plopped her elbow on the desk, resting her cheek in her palm.

“Why don’t you start with the book jacket version?”

Not looking up, Fujimaru used the pliers to cut a blue piece out of the frame. The tip of his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth as he did so, a tic as he tried to focus and maintain a steady hand. From a quick glance at the box, Medea surmised it belonged to the shoulder of this mechanical monstrosity.

“Right, so. Where to begin? Okay, so the Gundam franchise has been around since the seventies, and they’ve gone through a bunch of different “Alternate Universe” stories to keep the franchise fresh and appeal to new audiences.”

“Hm.”

“So, at its core, it’s an introspective work about the horrors of war and how quickly fascism can take hold in society.”

Medea cocked an eyebrow.

“You got that from a story about giant robots pummeling each other?”

Fujimaru set the pliers down and picked up a small file, whittling down the nubs left behind from where the piece had been cut from the frame.

“Oh ho, somebody sounds interested.”

“Incredulous, more like.”

Once it reached a certain point, he returned the file to where he grabbed it and picked up another file next to it, going over the same areas and blowing on them to clear the dust.

“Alright, so in the original Mobile Suit Gundam, the main character is high school student Amuro Ray. In that universe, it’s the future, and a lot of humanity lives in space station colonies. There’s two main factions: the Earth Federation, who Amuro joins, and Zeon. They go to war, and he’s caught up in the middle.”

“Go on.”

“Okay, so a lot happens in the very first episode. Amuro is living aboard one of those colonies with his dad, who’s a scientist working for the Federation. It’s a normal day, and suddenly, the “bad guys” attack.”

“I heard those air quotes.”

“Well, as the series went on, there stopped being a clear black-and-white view of morality for the factions. So the “bad guys”, Zeon, initially were peaceful rebels. The Federation treated people who lived in space as second-class citizens. As undesirables. At first, they just wanted equal rights.”

“They don’t sound all that bad, frankly.”

Fujimaru set the piece down in a colored paper booklet directly in front of him, picking up a different plastic frame and repeating the process with a different piece.

“I’m getting there. So. First episode. Zeon sends in their soldiers, and they start killing all the colonists. Men, women, children, non-combatants. Like, the very first thing they do onscreen is commit a bunch of war crimes.”

“Marginalized groups rarely gain freedom through peaceful means.”

“Fair. So, Amuro is just trying to escape. Everything is being blasted into space, and he uncovers a secret prototype mobile suit, the titular Gundam, which is revealed to be the secret project his dad was working on. He quickly proves to be a prodigy ace and kills the nearby Zeon soldiers. He then escapes with a few of his classmates on a secret prototype spaceship that the Federation was also building in the colony. The rest of the series is about that core group, trying to escape the pursuing Zeon forces and return to Earth, and when they finally do, it turns into them trying to defeat the Zeon military and end the war.”

“Doesn’t sound very grey to me.”

“Yeah? Well, in the first episode, both sides are doing war crimes. Zeon indiscriminately kills civilians, but the Federation was disguising a secret war machine factory within a civilian population center, which effectively turned the colony into a legit military target.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway, Zeon uses a WMD, dropping a colony on Australia, killing millions.”

“I hear nuclear weapons are very effective. Small ones can level cities. Why drop a colony instead?”

“What? Oh. Yeah. That’s more of a Doylist explanation.”

“A what?”

“Yeah, so in the original Sherlock Holmes stories, Holmes’ assistant Doctor John Watson was the narrator, but Arthur Conan Doyle was the author. Basically, a “Watsonian” answer for a story means the answer comes from the story, but a “Doylist” answer means it comes from the author.”

Medea paused the stroke her chin.

“Ah. And what was the answer?”

“It was Japanese media made after WWII. We’re pretty testy about nukes as plot devices, so it’s very rare to see a Japanese story casually include nuclear weapons in it.”

“Oh, that’s where the line is drawn?”

Having several pieces laid on the sheet before him, Fujimaru began assembling them, snapping the pieces into place as directed by the booklet.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hmm? Nothing. Please, continue.”

Fujimaru glanced over his shoulder at her before carrying on.

“Riiight. So anyway. Amuro deals with PTSD. That was very rare at the time, for a hero’s mental health to be featured so prominently. His first couple of kills go fine, but eventually it hits him that the guys in the enemy mobile suits are humans just like him, with their own lives, hopes, and dreams. It screws him up pretty badly, because he doesn’t want to end lives. He even refuses to pilot for a while and gets thrown in the ship’s brig by its captain. Eventually he comes around and resolves to keep fighting, if only for the survival of him and friends.”

“Oh. So it’s not a chest-thumping war story of the other side being scum to be exterminated, just a story of two clashing sides and the humans on both?”

“See? Now you’re getting it. It’s deceptive, because a lot of people think cartoons are just for kids, but it takes a serious look at how war gets started by assholes in suits who can’t settle their differences through peace, but gets fought by naïve patriots or desperate and/or poor people who don’t have any other choice.”

“Well, let’s not be too charitable to humanity. Every conflict has soldiers who genuinely enjoy killing their fellow man.”

Fujimaru sighed.

‘You’re not wrong.”

Fujimaru picked up the piece he had just assembled. It was the left arm of the machine. The arm itself was white, but the shoulder armor was a dark blue. He set it down next to the torso, which had been completed before Medea’s arrival. He returned to his work, and Medea could tell he was setting about making the other arm.

“I assume the manner in which the story was told was effective, for the franchise to have persisted so long? Something better than endless preaching diatribes about love and the power of friendship?”

“What? Oh. Yeah. “Show, don’t tell”. So there’s a scene after they get to Earth. Uh, once they’re on Earth, they have to get to the headquarters of the Federation military. Amuro runs into his mom, who’s working at a little field hospital. Two Zeon soldiers come looking for him, and his mom hides him. They’re about to find and kill him, but he shoots first. Anyway, his mom loses her shit, says he’s not the boy she raised, and that he’s no better than the guy he killed. You know, a guy who was about to shoot up a hospital. He tells her she’s full of shit and ignorant of the reality of war, and she says she’s ashamed that he’s her son.”

Medea took a moment to digest that. Perhaps she had judged the series too harshly. For all the things she didn’t enjoy about the modern era of human history, the willingness to tell stories that depicted both sides of a conflict as being bad in their own ways was refreshing.

“Remarkable. Even when I fled Colchis, my father didn’t take the time to shame me thus.”

Fujimaru paused.

“Do you wanna talk- “

“Absolutely not.”

“You got it.”

There was a silence as Fujimaru got to work on the figure’s right arm.

“Tell me more of this process of yours.”

“You mean it?”

“Be quick about it, or I might change my mind.”

Fujimaru stopped, turned around in his chair to face Medea, and held up a plastic frame and his strange pliers. She noticed the pliers had a flat side to them.

“So, all the pieces come in these frames, called runners. You cut them out of the runners with special scissors, called nippers.”

Medea nodded, to affirm she was listening. Fujimaru grabbed the most recent piece he’d cut and held up a file.

“Once they’re cut out, you have these little nubs. You have to sand them down with these files. If you wanna rub this between your thumb and pointer finger?”

The Witch of Colchis did so, a curious suspicion visible on her face. She quickly realized something she hadn’t been able to see.

“One side is coarser than the other.”

“Exactly! You start with the most coarse, then work your down to the most fine grain. Do it right, and the piece becomes perfectly smooth, as if you’d never cut it in the first place.”

“I’ll admit, there’s more attention to detail in this hobby of yours than I had imagined.”

“Oh, we aren’t even into the cool stuff yet. Sanding the pieces down is necessary to make them all snap together like they’re supposed to. We’re still in construction.”

This fresh enthusiasm was somewhat endearing to Medea.

“What of the rest of those tools you have?”

Fujimaru diverted his eyes to his little toolbox and began picking up items.

“Okay, let’s see. X-Acto knife, for. Well, I’ve seen your models. Don’t think I need to explain this guy.”

Next was a fine-tipped black marker.

“This is for panel lining.”

“Panel lining?”

Fujimaru grabbed the completed arm and pointed to part of it.

“Yeah! So, if you look here, there’s grooves in the plastic. We use these markers to fill in the grooves and outline edges.”

“Why?”

“That’s cosmetic. Just makes it look better than plain swaths of solid color.”

“Ah.”

After putting them down, he grabbed a pink rectangle.

“This rubber eraser is to clean up while panel lining. Sometimes my hand slips, or the marker ink overflows. When that happens, just clean it up with this.”

Medea’s eyes scanned over his workstation. This was obviously something he put serious consideration.

“Makes sense. What of the rest of that? Tape, ballpoint pen, tiny scissors, tweezers with a bent tip, some markers?”

Fujimaru gently swept away the pieces on the page before him, and flipped to the last page of the booklet. He pointed to the images on it. They were black-and-white stills of the model from various angles, with numbers and symbols pointing to parts of the exterior.

“Oooh! Glad you asked. You see how there’s bubbles with numbers, and bubbles with symbols?”

“I do.”

“Alright, so those are for dry rub decals and stickers.”

“Dry rub? Like the barbecue?”

“No. Well. No. So see this?”

Fujimaru delicately held aloft a clear sheet of plastic with strange designs on it. Medea nodded. He pointed to the left shoulder in the front-view picture. A solid black line connected it to a black bubble with the number six in white, which corresponded to text “CELESTIAL BEING GN001”.

“Dry rub decal No. 6 gets applied to the left shoulder. We find decal six on this sheet…”

He paused to point to the corresponding decal.

“Cut it out, tape it to the armor piece it’s supposed to go on, and then- “

“Rub it vigorously?”

“Well, almost. It’s best to be firm, but gentle and deliberate. I use the back of the ballpoint pen, because it’s got good surface area but is smooth. Uh. Hm. Yeah! So, if you feel the back of this decal sheet.”

He flipped it around and held it out to her. She very gingerly touched it with the tip of her finger.

“It’s sticky. Ah. You rub the front side, and that pushes the decal onto the toy.”

“Model, but yes.”

Medea was mildly impressed. This children’s hobby couldn’t hold a candle to the true art that was her statue creation, but it certainly wasn’t the type of thing a mindless idiot could do without fucking it all up.

“I still think painting is better.”

Fujimaru sighed.

“Of course you do.”

“And why the different types of decoration. That little green sheet looks like it has normal stickers on it. And is that another sticker sheet I spy?”

It was. Fujimaru grabbed the sticker sheets and held them up.

“The green is for simple stickers. Yes, they’re easier to place on the model, but these are reserved for stickers that have to wrap around sharp corners or rounded bits, like these swords.”

“Hmm.”

“The trade-off, obviously, is that they’re more likely to come off from age.”

“Obviously.”

“And the foil stickers. Bleugh.”

Medea nodded.

“This is a surprise, dear Master. I don’t think you’ve ever shown such disgust towards anything before.”

“I hate them. They’re supposed to look shiny, but they’re always way too small and hard to place. Even the eyes. Especially the eyes. I use these metallic markers instead. Works way better at replicating the effect.”

“Hmm.”

“These are paint markers, by the way.”

“Oh really?”

Fujimaru nodded and vigorously shook one of them. They both heard something solid rattle around inside.

“So, the whole thing is a reservoir of paint. You shake it before use, and when you apply the marker tip to the plastic- “

“Paint comes out? How novel.”

Fujimaru shrugged.

“Not as precise as a paint brush, sure. But it cuts down on waste and it doesn’t dry out.”

“How?”

Fujimaru just stared blankly at Medea for a moment.

“You ever try putting paint back into the tube after you’ve squeezed it out.”

Medea stared blankly back.

“Yes. I’m an incredibly accomplished magus. It’s quite trivial.”

There was an awkward pause before Fujimaru answered, sounding incensed.

“Yeah, well most of the world aren’t mages. This is a tool for normies like me.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve proven to be a highly capable Master.”

“Master? Yes. Mage? Absolutely not.”

“Hmm.”

Another awkward pause as they continued the stare down.

“I feel I’ve distracted you from your hobby.”

Fujimaru shook his head.

“No, not at all! It’s nice to have company. The closest I’ve gotten was Kintoki.”

Medea sighed. The brash and bold “Golden” retainer of Raikou was not a personality she got along with. She found him obnoxious. He found her uppity and boring.

“How did that go?”

“He loved the various anime. Loves playing with the action figures. Model building bored him to tears.”

“That sounds about right. You know, my aunt is rather fond of this hobby as well.”

“Circe? I should carve out some time and compare notes with her.”

“Word of warning: she treats it like a scientist at the laboratory. Prepares her workshop, blocks out outside interferences. Frankly, I always push the assistant duties off on the younger version of me.”

“So, don’t interrupt her during a build. Got it.”

Medea scanned the display.

“I’m still not convinced about this being art, per se, but I will concede I may have judged it too harshly before now.”

“It’s so much fun! Best part is, you can do whatever you want with them! Some people build little diorama scenes, some get heavy into customization and do like, weathered, battle-damaged effects, there’re custom paint jobs, there’s kitbashes- “

“That’s not real.”

“Yeah, it’s totally a thing! Models of the same scale and same era of release share the same skeleton, or “inner frame”, so some people with take outer armor pieces from multiple kits and put them on one inner frame.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Or don’t! We catalogued the internet on our servers here. There’s plenty of awesome Gunpla content archived on Instagram and Reddit for you to look at.”

“Hmmmm. No.”

“Bah. Have it your way.”

Fujimaru returned to his kit. As Medea observed silently, she noticed his process was to cut and sand all the pieces first, place them on the booklet, and assemble the limb as the last step.

“I have more questions.”

Fujimaru snapped the forearm armor onto the frame, not pausing or looking up.

“What is with this ridiculous manner you’ve dressed yourself?”

“Every bit is functional! Headband? Keeps hair out of my eyes and sweat out of my face. Tank top? It’s form-fitting and sleeveless, which means it doesn’t get caught on anything. Glasses? The multiple lenses are for higher magnification. Helps me be precise when putting on decals or panel lining.”

“And the fuzzy pajama bottoms and slippers?”

There was a brief pause before he replied.

“They’re just really comfy.”

“And you consider that functional?”

“Hey! The most important thing to remember is that this is all for fun. It’s a hobby, not work.

“Hmm.”

“Don’t judge me.”

Fujimaru finished the arm and set about assembling the waist while Medea watched. She reached into the baggie she brought with her and opened a small container of figs. She helped herself to one before placing a few on a small plate and setting it next to a runner.

“Please, help yourself.”

Fujimaru looked up and saw the fruit plate.

“Thank you!”

He popped one in his mouth and wiped his hand off on his pants before diving right back in. Medea frowned and waved her hand, cleaning the spot on his pants.

“Do try to be civilized about it.”

“Thanks Medea.”

After some time, Fujimaru had finished the waist and moved on to the legs. Medea, a bit curious, decided to inquire a bit more.

“So, you’ve made the original story sound rather profound. Are all the entries similar?”

“Uhhh, no. They pretty much all share the anti-war themes, but some of them are better at the execution than others.”

“What of the one you’re working on now? This, “Exia”?”

“Yeah, Gundam 00 is a good series overall. One of the better ones, in my opinion. So, the main characters are a team of Gundam pilots, whose plan is to bring about world peace.”

“With 20-meter-tall war machines? Seems counterintuitive.”

“Okay, okay, alright. So, in that AU, of all Earth’s governments belong to one of three socioeconomic blocs. These guys attack all three of them in a scheme to give them a common enemy and force them into one big unified Earth government.”

“That sounds like the stupidest way to achieve that goal. Double-oh, hmm? I’ll look this up for myself.”

“What? Oh, no, y’know it’s fine. You don’t have to.”

Medea cocked an eyebrow as she pulled out her phone and did some research of her own. A rather disappointed look spawned on her face as she read about the other cast members, including “Tactical Forecaster” Sumeragi Lee Noriega. The “older” mentor of the team. A woman of average height, long, wavy brown hair, and a rather impressive bust. Medea looked up and glared at Fujimaru.

“This is what passes as “profound” in your culture?”

Fujimaru answered as he turned around.

“What? What do you- . Aw shit.”

“This woman was 26 in 00’s first season, but she was the “wizened old caretaker” of the group. 26? Does your culture think the prime of a person’s life ends at age 20?! Shameful.”

“Okay, they aren’t all winners. Happy?”

“And who dresses like that? What self-respecting professional shows that much cleavage in the workplace?!”

Fujimaru began gesticulating wildly, very much on the backfoot.

“I didn’t write it! Yeah, there was some fanservice in 00, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as SEED, the series before it!”

“Deplorable.”

“Gimme a break! I just think the mobile suits from that series are badass!”

“Disgusting.”

“Knock it off. You got a problem, write an angry letter to Sunrise and Bandai Namco.”

“I just might.”

Medea harrumphed while Fujimaru cut more pieces from the runners. Whilst sanding a foot piece, Fujimaru had a question of his own.

“Why do you actually hate mecha anyway? If you found it boring, that’d be one thing. You seem to actually hate robots? What’s the deal?”

Medea sighed. Perhaps it was time to come clean.

“They make me think of the gods of my homeland.”

“The Olympians? Sorry, I don’t see the connection.”

“I’ll be brief. The original Olympians were intelligent machines that came to this planet over fourteen-thousand years ago. Humanity already existed, but they treated these beings as gods and worshipped them. In the year 12000 BCE, Sefar, a different space invader, descended and killed them. But because of magic and collective consciousness and et cetera, they were reincarnated as the disgusting, murderous fornicators who comprised what is now considered to be mythology.”

“You really don’t like them, do you?”

“Why would I feel anything positive towards them? Humans were playthings to them. That love goddess bitch who ruined my life was the whole reason the civilization of Troy was destroyed. She wanted an ego boost from being called the prettiest goddess around, one thing led to another, and suddenly Odysseus is hiding in a wooden horse and burning it all to the ground. Mortals lived and died by their whims. I detest that obnoxious Gilgamesh, but at least ending the Age of Gods was something good he did.”

Fujimaru put down his tools, took off his glasses, and locked eyes with Medea.

“Come to warn me about the next Lostbelt, is that it?”

Medea nodded.

“I know there’s three left, but it seems like the Greek one is next on the radar. You need to exercise the utmost caution, Master.”

“Well, it’s massive. I was already pretty worried about it.”

“These Lostbelts are perversions of human history. I shudder to think about what twist of fate could cause the Counter Force to declare this would-be Parallel World worthy of deletion. There’s a very real chance you may be fighting the gods themselves. They were capricious, cruel, vengeful, and the world is certainly better for their absence.”

Fujimaru nodded and gently laid his palm on Medea’s forearm.

“Medea. I know I’m a bit of a goofball, but I take my job very seriously. Once the preparations are finalized, I’m going. I’ll go, and win, and come back. Not because I want to. Not because genocide is a fun little hobby. But because I have no other choice. The seven billion people who lived here pre-Bleaching can’t bring themselves back.

Medea nodded and smiled warmly.

“As long as you take your duties seriously. Has the brain trust here devised a way to do that yet?”

“You mean, after clearing the Lostbelts?”

Medea nodded.

“Nope!”

Medea deflated a bit.

“One problem at a time, I take it?”

“Hey, I let the smart people do their thing while I do mine.”

“I suppose it’s a sign of maturity that you don’t stick your nose into metaphysical issues you have zero understanding of.”

“Exactly! Now, I’m going to get back to building a 1/100 scale plastic model of a giant robot. Still wanna hang out and watch?”

Medea shrugged.

“Why not? I have some time left before my daily haunting of my ex-husband.”

“I feel like you could channel that energy into something more positive.”

“You have your hobbies, I have mine.”

“Fair enough. Speaking of your hobbies.”

“Yes?”

“Artoria asked me to speak to you.”

Medea perked up.

“Oh? Is she finally ready to participate in my fashion show?”

“The opposite, actually. She said if you send her one more dress she’s going to escalate her complaints above HR.”

“That doesn’t sound like something she’d say.”

“I’m paraphrasing. It was something closer to “cleave her in twain”.”

Medea shook her head.

“That woman certainly knows how to hold a grudge.”

“Should I even ask?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“Alright. I’m very curious, but I’ll leave it at that.”

Fujimaru got back to building and Medea watched quietly. As he gently blew on a piece of thigh armor, Fujimaru had one final remark.

“Thanks for coming, Medea.”

“Of course, Master. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Chapter Text

It was a time of great upheaval in the kingdom. Travelers from far beyond the borders had made their way into the court. Planting their flag, staking their claim. With no home of their own left to be found, they rapidly set about ingratiating themselves to the locals and usurping the existing power structure for their own selfish needs.

One of these interlopers was on a mission in pursuit of this goal. Exercising the utmost stealth, she stalked her prey through the steel jungle. Winding corridors, long hallways, sharp corners. The hunter followed her quarry through it all.

The hunter was tiny, but no less deadly for it. A meager 147cm in height, she wore a beautiful periwinkle dress that ended in a frilly skirt. On her left shoulder was a white corsage and a capelet. Her attire was something of a cross between musketeer and ballerina. She peeked around a corner and eyed her prey.

A tall man, well-built and dressed in white armor. White hair and a kind smile. Beside him was a tiny blonde woman that the hunter had no particularly strong feelings towards. Friends, allies, knights, Lancers. It seemed as though some bonds transcended the mortal coil. As the hunter watched silently, a familiar voice pierced through the silence.

“You know that’s not him, right?”

The hunter spun around, taking a wide swipe at the person interrupting her stalking time. This swipe, of course, was made with one of the massive blades attached to her tiny little arms. The other figure, a taller woman in pink-red dress on platform heels, had already moved to where the strike wouldn’t reach. The hunter narrowed her eyes. She uttered her foe’s name.

“Baobhan Sith.”

The daughter of High Queen Morgan cackled cruelly.

“Hey there, Mélusine. That’s not very nice, you know. Spitting out my name as if you hate the taste.”

Mélusine straightened her posture, returning her arm blade to its resting position.

“What I hate is being snuck up on. Why have you chosen to bother me on this day?”

Fairy Knight Tristan frowned and cocked her head.

“What, can’t a gal just visit a coworker? We’re all that’s left of Fae Britain after all. Maybe I just wanted to see how you’re fitting in with the locals? Catch up? Shoot the shit? Reminisce about the old days?”

Mélusine cocked a suspicious eyebrow.

“You can do that. But I’ve known you long enough to know you aren’t doing that now.”

Baobhan Sith rolled her eyes and shrugged.

“You got me. I’m not here for you. Honestly, I’ve never found you to be very interesting. But the tragic relationships you find yourself in? Now that is some quality entertainment.”

Tam Lin Lancelot scowled at her and turned around. Tam Lin Tristan wasn’t someone she felt particularly concerned about. She peered down the hallway, only to find that Percival and Gareth were no longer in sight. She sighed wearily and turned back around.

“Ugh. This casual cruelty of yours is why you never had any friends.”

Baobhan Sith put on a fake pout.

“Awww. Is the little dragon baring her fangs? Don’t tell me you waited until after you died to stop being boring?”

“Is that what this is? You woke up more bored than usual today?”

Sith upturned her palms and shrugged.

“Maybe a little.”

“You’re only “a little” sorry about lying to us the whole time?”

Castoria shrugged and offered a wry smile to Fujimaru. They were sitting on a picnic blanket. One of those quintessential, red-and-white-checkered picnic blankets. There was even a little wicker basket between them. It was a perfectly peaceful day. Just two friends, enjoying a little snack on a grassy knoll. The wind in the simulator made the grass gently roll. A small white cloud blocked just enough of the sun to provide them shade. A tall oak tree gave them arch support.

“Well, think of it from my perspective: if I gave away too much about myself, that pre-knowledge could have affected your actions in the Lostbelt. And then, yada yada, Butterfly Effect, knowing the future changes the future, Schrödinger’s Parallel World, et cetera and so on and so forth.”

Fujimaru, who had a finely-tuned bullshit detector after all his journeys with his hundreds of Servants, was not particularly accepting of this answer.

“Uh huh. So it had nothing to do with you wanting to goof off and be just a normal Servant for a year?”

Castoria looked up and pursed her lips in thought.

“It can be both.”

Fujimaru took a bite from a large red apple. He chewed, both the fruit and his thoughts. After a moment, something came to mind.

“You slipped up a while back.”

This piqued Castoria’s interest.

“I did? When, pray tell?”

Fujimaru nodded and pointed at her.

“Valentine’s Day. You talked about Gawain and Barghest as if they were the same in your world. Which, as it turns out…”

Castoria nodded.

“Ah, that. Well. Nobody’s perfect.”

“She’s really not all that bad, you know. Great cook. Steadfastly loyal to her duty and her people. Was totally on board for plan “Evacuate The Fae” until that all went to shit.”

Castoria scoffed and turned up her nose.

“A brutish woman and a terror. Morgan only dressed her up as a Tam Lin to suppress the Black Calamity within. A frothing-at-the-mouth savage, masquerading as nobility. A monstrous force of nature pretending to be a hero.”

Fujimaru raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“You saying that because she was mean to you? Or because you’re jealous?”

Castoria whipped her head around to face Fujimaru.

“How dare you! For what possible reason would I be jealous of her?!”

Fujimaru made eye contact with her. Then he slowly diverted his gaze to her chest. Castoria’s face grew red with anger.

“It’s not fucking fair! It’s like every last ounce of fat on her body migrated to her tits! She’s chiseled out of rock, except for her rack! It’s positively unnatural is what it is!”

Fujimaru chuckled softly. There she was. The Castoria he remembered. The high anxiety, perpetually upset Child of Prophecy he escorted across Faerie Britain.

“Sounds like a “yes” to me.”

Mélusine sighed, her voice heavy with resignation.

“Fine. You got me. I was conducting reconnaissance on PHH Percival. Happy?”

“Meh. You try talking to him yet?”

“No. We are aware of each other’s existence after those introductions Master made, but we’ve yet to converse one-on-one.”

“Sure, no sense having any urgency. Not like the world’s already ended. I’m sure he’s nothing at all like your baby brother.”

Mélusine stared into the distance. Chaldea had rules against running in the halls. She wondered if that would extend towards turning into a dragon and flying away from this conversation. Ultimately, she decided to wait until she had further ingratiated herself to Fujimaru before acting up.

“And what of you? Surely stalking on my stalking can’t be that entertaining.”

Baobhan Sith shook her head.

“No, I was on my way to meet with Mother, but once I saw you I thought I’d take a little detour.”

Mélusine leaned against the bulkhead and put her hands together in front of her lap. She would have simply crossed her arms, but the wrist-mounted swords made that rather difficult.

“So, what now? Small talk with you isn’t exactly my idea of a pleasant activity.”

Tam Lin Tristan frowned.

“Ouch. One more of those witty barbs and my feelings might actually get hurt. No, I’m just going to wait here for Mother. She should be coming around the corner any moment now.”

The pair poked their heads out from behind the wall, and stared down the hallway. A few intersections down, there was High Queen Morgan, as if on cue. Sith stuck out her arm and waved. Morgan had the slightest hint of a smile and nodded, her dignified grace never sullied by outbursts of emotion.

Until, of course, a certain figure crossed her path.

Coming on a perpendicular path through the halls was Artoria Pendragon of Proper Human History, the Once and Future King. The King of Knights. Red Dragon of Britain. A person that High Queen Morgan had never met and should, in theory, have had no quarrel with.

In theory.

Morgan’s neutral expression grew stern as she laid eyes on Artoria. She was strolling through the halls, snacking on an onigiri. Morgan called out to Artoria.

“You there!”

Artoria stopped, and slowly turned to face the source of the disturbance. She smiled faintly and addressed her warmly. High Queen Morgan looked and sounded exactly like her own sister. But the tragic history was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she could strike a non-adversarial relationship with her sister’s doppelgänger. Maybe, if she were lucky, a friendship might even be forged.

If only.

“Hail, fair Queen Morgan. I bid thee glad tidings.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed into a death glare.

“How dare you.”

Artoria scrunched her face in confusion.

“Beg pardon?”

“Don’t you dare speak so casually to me, you detestable red dragon. Every breath you stole robbed me of my birthright. Of the kingdom that was so rightfully mine. Strutting around, stuffing your face without a care in the world. Do not address me as if we can simply allow bygones to be bygones and become friends. How stupid of you.”

Artoria sighed heavily, her face showing resigned exasperation instead of offense at this insult.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

“Is that a good “you’ve got to be fucking kidding”, or a bad one?”

Mordred Pendragon sat on a stool with her lunch. On the other side of the counter stood Emiya, closely studying her facial journey to try and discern her opinion of the food. Instead of answering, Mordred took a colossal bite of the fatass burrito in her hands, tearing into her food like a wild beast. Over sounds of snarfing, Emiya nodded.

“I’ll assume you like it, then.”

Her cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, Mordred swallowed the contents of her mouth and nodded at the cook.

“Hell yeah. This shit is awesome! What’d you call it again?”

“Barbacoa. It’s a traditional Mexican style of slow-cooking meat. Usually involves sticking entire animals directly into a pit dug in the ground.”

Mordred pondered that fact for a moment before taking another bite.

“Dunno where the hell you managed to find a hole deep enough ‘round here, but this shit’s awesome for something that came outta the dirt.”

Emiya rolled his eyes.

“We used slow cookers, then pulled the meat. It’s a recreation of the style. We have technology, Mordred.”

“Hey, man. I don’t care how the hotdog gets made, I just want the beef.”

Emiya nodded.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Mordred wiped a bit of running food juice off her chin with the back of her hand and looked up at Emiya.

“Crazy that in all the time we’ve known each other, you haven’t made these before.”

“Yes, I have. We’ve just changed the recipe a bit as of late.”

Mordred shrugged and took another bite.

“Whatever. Ya know…”

Emiya raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I’m curious. Out of all the versions of Father running around this joint, why her? Why that one in particular?”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

Mordred swallowed, the final bit of burrito gone. She begrudgingly wiped her hands on a napkin Emiya shoved in her face.

“Well, there’s the mean one in black. There’s that Foreigner who’s “secretly” that Assassin from that alternate reality but from the future, there’s the Lancer with the huge tits.”

“Hey. You forget who you’re talking to? You spend one day working in the kitchen and then try talking to me about how many versions of your dad are here. I’m the one feeding all those mouths.”

“Chill, ya grumpy ol’ bitch. All I’m saying is, you’re tall, buff, a good cook. Pretty much got your pick of the litter. Every class you could think of. What makes her so special?”

Emiya stroked his chin in thought. He’d never been interested in fucking his way through the Chaldea roster, even though he knew he’d find a certain degree of success. As he pondered, he realized that there’d only ever be the one Artoria for him. But he was a man who kept his secrets to himself.

And even if he wasn’t, he sure as shit wasn’t gonna tell Mordred any more than she needed to know.

“I guess, if I really had to think about it, it’s pretty simple. She’s my favorite version of Artoria Pendragon.”

“I’m your favorite? Bet you say that to all the Artorias.”

“I mean it! Come on, use those special eyes of yours!”

Castoria smiled. She didn’t need her Fae Eyes to know Fujimaru was being honest. She saw it anyway though, since they weren’t something she could simply turn off.

”That’s so sweet of you to say. Funnily enough, that’s actually not my name.”

Fujimaru looked over at Castoria, deeply confused.

“Now, just wait a damn minute. Is this gonna be another deep Fae Britain lore drop? Or are you going to reveal you aren’t really the Castoria I travelled with?”

Artoria chuckled, the partially-consumed sandwich waiting patiently in her hand.

“Well, “Pendragon” isn’t a name. It’s a title, given to the ruler of Britain. Like President. I guess to be more figurative it could mean “chief leader” or “chief of warriors”. I was never a Pendragon. Only Artoria.”

“Huh. Ain’t that something.”

Castoria leaned over and whispered sweetly.

“And one more thing…”

Fujimaru leaned in close, his face nearly touching hers. Castoria reached out, tenderly brushed her fingers against his cheek, and in a motion so rapid it almost went unseen, tugged his ear lobe.

“OW! What the fuck?!”

“Do not call me “Castoria”! My name is Artoria!”

“Sorry! There’s a million Artorias here so I use nicknames so I don’t confuse you all!”

“I don’t care! Put whatever name you want on your rosters, but do not call me that to my face!”

Fujimaru was surprised. He’d never expected Little Miss Pipebomb to have any kind of physical strength. For all his experience as a Master, it had slipped his mind that even E-Rank Strength was technically superhuman.

“Okay, okay! Uncle! Surrender! Safe word! Let go of my ear!”

“Promise not to call me “Castoria” again?!”

“Yes! I’ll give you anything you want, just let go!”

Satisfied, Castoria let him go. He gingerly rubbed his poor, abused lobe. She picked up her sandwich and silently took a bite.

“Thank you very much. I ask for so little around here. A bit of respect should not take such effort.”

“Jeez. You know, you’re a lot stronger than you look.”

Castoria turned to him.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Fujimaru shrugged.

“You got skinny arms and only weigh 42kg.”

Castoria gasped.

“I don’t know who gave you that information, but that is confidential!”

Fujimaru upturned his palms.

“Dunno. Servant-Master privilege. I just know that kinda stuff. Besides, that’s a perfectly healthy weight for your height. I think. I dunno. I’m not a doctor. Of humans or faeries.”

Castoria glared at him.

“Does your ear still hurt? Maybe you’d like some Merlin Magic to make it all better?”

Fujimaru slowly shook his head.

“Nah, I’m good. If I wanted a bomb shoved in my head I’d call Mephistopheles.”

Castoria pouted and crossed her arms.

“Well, if you’re done ruining the mood by insulting me- “

“If anything, you should probably gain a few pounds. You look like you…”

Fujimaru ended his sentence prematurely, trailing off without finishing. Castoria locked eyes with him, sensing his reticence.

“Were you going to say something like “never had a full belly in your life”?”

Fujimaru blinked.

“No.”

Castoria glared harder. Fujimaru put his head down.

“Yes.”

Castoria shook her head and put her hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Ritsuka. You don’t need to wallow in pity over little old me.”

Fujimaru sniffed and rubbed the back of his head.

“Yeah. Right. Obviously. What were we talking about?”

Castoria smiled.

“Just how thankful we are to be in each other’s lives.”

Fujimaru nodded.

“Sure.”

There was an awkward pause as they sat together. It was a rare moment of blissful peace. After a beat, Castoria’s stomach rumbled. She pointed at the basket between them.

“So, what else did you pack in there?”

Fujimaru stuck his arm in, sinking down to his elbow. Castoria looked perplexed.

“Is that a Picnic Basket of Holding?”

Fujimaru nodded.

“Yeah, Sion cooked it up. We had a slow weekend after last Thanksgiving. Aaaaand, here we go!”

Castoria watched as he pulled a 14-inch sub from the depths of the seemingly bottomless receptacle.

“Do you just have one of everything in there?”

“Pretty much. Emiya and Boudica really hooked me up. Feast your eyes on the Philly cheesesteak!”

Castoria looked at it with wonder. Sliced steak, sauteed onions, grilled bell peppers, melted cheese. Every ingredient seemingly in perfect condition despite being in a box. It wasn’t quite what she was in the mood for, however.

“I’m good on entrées for now. I don’t suppose there’s any pies in there?”

Fujimaru looked back in shock.

“How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat yer meat?!”

Castoria sighed.

“Frankly, I think Pink Floyd is overrated. Can’t we- “

Castoria sat there with a tired look on her face as Fujimaru shoved the sandwich into her cheek.

“Nyeh.”

“Stop it.”

Fujimaru jabbed her face with the sandwich a second time.

“No! You need carbs and protein, not empty sugar calories.”

Castoria locked eyes with Fujimaru. After a moment, he began slowly moving the sub back towards her mouth. She could tell, with her Fae Eyes, that he truly wanted only to make sure she had a balanced diet. Unfortunately for him, she wanted dessert. Not amused by his antics, she lunged at him.

“Oh shit!”

Fuijmaru tumbled backwards, the sub flying out of his hand. As Castoria made contact, he reflexively flailed about, desperately clinging for anything that could keep him upright. As luck would have it, this meant his companion. And unluckily for them both, the momentum sent them tumbling. They rolled down the hill, tangled up in each other, eventually coming to rest at the bottom. Fujimaru was on his back, staring up at Castoria. Her twintails dangled from each side of her head. Their faces nearly touched is how close they were. Almost no space left between them. After what could have been an eternity, Castoria broke the silence.

“I just can’t believe this is happening.”

“This entire farce defies belief!”

“Truly? Tell me, little sister. What part is so befuddling that the King of the Britons cannot comprehend it? Doth mine words confuse thee? Or shall I speak more…slowly?”

Artoria scowled. She knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that the cruel woman before her wasn’t Morgan. Not her Morgan, at least. There should have been no reason for her to instigate this engagement. But motive was of little consequence. The gauntlet was thrown, and Artoria was compelled to respond in kind.

“You wish to mock me? Very well. Let us begin with the truth of your identity. You claim to have received all of the Real Morgan’s memories. And you have clearly inherited the Real Morgan’s grudge against me. But yet you cannot remember the names and faces of her children?! What a truly pitiful facsimile you are. Or perhaps not. No one has ever accused Morgan le Fay of being a serviceable parent. It would seem you have more in common with the Real Morgan than merely her scowl and foul attitude.”

Morgan’s face twisted into a sneer. Bad enough to not be considered “real”. “Alternate” or “parallel” were insulting, but acceptable so long as she lingered in Proper Human History. But to be called a fake? A mere copy? A fake, and a shitty parent? Truly no one could draw her ire like Artoria. None except Oberon, perhaps. Whatever ring of hell that pest was hiding in.

“Oh, you want to get personal? Fine. I shall stoop to your level. I have seen that version of you that struts around in black hotpants. Naming a Noble Phantasm only good for destroying things after me?! Go on. Explain. I dare you!”

“Do not blame me for the actions of my Alter!”

“She stems from you! That insult surely must have come from deep in the recesses of your mind!”

“Do not speak as though you truly know either of us, pretender!”

“Oh? Have I struck a nerve? If you are so offended then she must represent your true self. The desire to gorge yourself on disgusting, gluttonous slop. To cause wanton destruction with glee. To dress like a tramp. Making up for lost time, are you? Everyone knows that you are not included on the list of your queen’s many lovers. So sad, little Artoria, to die a loser and a virgin.”

Artoria snarled. God as her witness, she was going to cut this bitch in half. First verbally, then with her sword. And then her child, that strange vampire, for good measure. She didn’t know if they were blood relatives, but she knew better than to leave a line of succession that could come for vengeance.

She looked over Morgan, trying to glean something, anything, that could be used in this verbal combat. She smiled and recomposed herself upon staring at Morgan’s navel.

“Me? Secretly wishing to be a tramp? HA! First remove that trashy brand from over your womb and then speak to me of subconscious sluttery! What is the matter? Did the men of your kingdom pay you so little attention you felt compelled to tattoo yourself to remind them of your femininity?

Morgan trembled with fury. This border skirmish was now a full-blown war. In a flash of blue, her staff was in her hands. Artoria responded in kind, manifesting her armor and sword.

Mélusine and Baobhan Sith witnessed this all unfold with utter, abject horror. What had started as a mere jaunt through the halls was threatening to turn into something deadly. They were besides themselves in shock. If their queen would hate any Artoria, they had assumed it would be the Child of Prophecy from their world, not this stranger that none of them had ever met.

Morgan snarled her response.

“You bitch.”

“Apologize.”

“Fuck you!”

Back in the cafeteria, the situation had deteriorated a bit. Emiya and Mordred were having a stand-off of their own. Emiya was holding a plate high in the air, while Mordred propped herself up on the counter with one hand, swiping ineffectually at the plate with the other.

“Apologize, or I’m not feeding you ever again.”

“Blow me! You aren’t the only cook in this place.”

Emiya nodded. That was a factual statement. So too was his reply.

“I know everybody in this building who can cook. They all like me better than you.”

Mordred’s face dropped. Emiya had won this round. She tossed her head back, groaned, and mumbled something under her breath. Emiya was dissatisfied with this.

“Come again? Being an Archer means I have enhanced vision, not hearing.”

Mordred groaned even louder, much like a child being admonished by. Well, any authority figure, really.

“I’m sorry!”

“For what?”

“For sneezing with my mouth open! There! Happy now?”

Emiya shook his head, but still returned the plate to the counter.

“Not particularly, you disgusting thing. I know I shouldn’t be surprised at your lack of table manners, but it’s still appalling.”

“Oh, blow it out your ass. Just ‘cause you’re banging Father doesn’t mean you get to pretend you’re my parent.”

“Oh yeah? Well if you stop acting like such a little shit, I wouldn’t feel the need to!”

As they glared angrily at each other, there was a brilliant yellow flash of light emanating from the hallway. It caught both their attentions instantly. The particular shade of yellow and accompanying mana burst were unmistakable to those who knew it well. Mordred sighed.

“Big money says Father finally met High Queen Morgan.”

“You think?”

As Mélusine and Baobhan Sith rushed to get between Artoria and Morgan, Sith replied hastily.

“If I’d known things would go south this quickly I would’ve done something earlier!”

The Tam Lin raced forward. They felt no particular loyalty to Artoria Pendragon, but between the two of them, they had enough common sense to not blow holes in the walls of their new home. They were shocked at this turn of events. Even though the Child of Prophecy was foretold to bring about the end of Morgan’s rule, she had been largely dismissive of the upstart mage. To see Morgan react so violently to a virtual stranger nearly defied belief.

The world moved in slow motion. Morgan furiously bringing down her staff while Artoria carved through the air with her sword. Two things happened simultaneously:

First, Mélusine and Baobhan Sith closed the gap, holding Morgan at bay with their weapons.

Second, the brilliant pink petals of Rho Aias blocked Artoria, a stony-faced Emiya behind the mythical Greek shield.

Both kings were incensed at this small rebellion by their subjects.

In a flash, Emiya dismissed his shield and dropped down low. He put his head on the outside of Artoria’s hip, wrapped his arms around her legs, and stood straight up. The kicking and screaming King of Knights was slung over his shoulder. He began calmly but confidently making his exit.

“Unhand me! I will strike this vile cur down where she stands! I will not have mine honor impugned in such a manner!”

Morgan cried out during this unwilling retreat, the arm blades and bow of her knights halting her advance. But as angry as this act of treason should have made Morgan, her not-sister remained at the forefront of her mind.

“I’d like to see you try you failure of a king! Consider yourself lucky your consort came to your rescue!”

Wildly kicking and beating her fists on Emiya’s backside, Artoria suddenly went limp in his grasp. She spoke to him with countenance befitting her royal station.

“Shirou, darling. Could you be so kind as to set me on the ground. I wish only to have a pleasant conversation with Morgan.”

Emiya kept walking, totally unfazed.

“Just wanna talk, huh? Bullshit. Gonna have to get up pretty early to pull one over on me, Your Majesty.”

Her paper-thin excuse at subterfuge exposed, Artoria began yelling once more.

“Fine! First I will deal with you, knave. And then I will finish my business with that would-be usurper to my throne!”

Emiya grunted, noncommittally.

“Go ahead. See if I ever feed you again.”

Artoria gasped.

“You would not dare.”

“Try me. Maybe you shouldn’t try bargaining so soon after nearly blowing up our home.”

Their discussion continued as Emiya marched down the hall. Meanwhile, Mélusine and Baobhan Sith were standing before Morgan, their arms trembling under the strength of their queen. Sith was even sweating from panic, an unusual showing from her. The little dragon spoke first.

“Please reconsider, Your Majesty! It’s fine! She’s not even the Artoria from our world, what’s the harm in letting her leave?!”

Sith hastily joined in.

“She’s right, Mother! And besides, we’ve only been here a few days! Wouldn’t it be better if we built up a little goodwill before taking over! If bad shit started happening now, we’d be the first suspects!”

Mélusine whispered, hoping Morgan’s shouting would conceal her words.

“Seriously?”

Sith hissed back at an equally low volume.

“Shutthefuckupandletmehandlethis!”

Morgan sighed wearily, and relented. She dematerialized her staff so quickly that Mélusine and Baobhan Sith went flying forward.

“Perhaps you are correct. There is no deadline for my vengeance. One day, I will crush her underfoot.”

Later…

The hour was late. Business had long since ceased for the day and a familiar pair were in bed, trying to sleep.

Well, one of them was trying to sleep. The other was angrily stewing in her juices.

“Don’t suppose you’ll be calm enough to lay down anytime soon, Artoria?”

Sitting upright, arms folded, a dour expression on her face, the original Saber Servant simply shook her head. Beside her, Emiya sighed deeply.

“Normally, a big dinner is enough to make you forget your troubles.”

“The unmitigated gall of that woman!”

Emiya grunted dispassionately. He considered it a small victory that she had calmed down enough to speak.

“Frankly, the craziest part is just how much she hates you. She isn’t even the Morgan from our world.”

“Exactly!”

“Which is to say nothing of the fact that you were just a science experiment cooked up by Uther and Merlin. If she should be mad at anybody, it’s them.”

“Yes! Thank you! So you agree that she must be dealt with?”

Emiya pinched his brow.

“Hold on for just a second. You really don’t think escalating this might be a bad idea?”

“Certainly not. The seeds of dissent must be uprooted, lest they bloom into flowers of rebellion.”

Emiya crawled under the covers and closed his eyes.

“Jesus fucking Christ. Telling you right now, this will only end poorly. Let it go. She’s not even your actual sister.”

“That only worsens the severity of her transgression! How can she so brazenly declare war based on memories stolen from someone else!? She must be brought to heel!”

Emiya groaned.

“I’m going to sleep. Why don’t you do the same? Get some sleep. Get breakfast. Then some lunch. Hell, probably dinner too. Do all of that before jumping the gun and jeopardizing our mission.”

Artoria growled.

“No. No time for sleep. I must begin my planning now. In the morning, I shall assemble my war council. The key to winning any war is to strike first, and strike fast.”

“Yeah, or completely ignore me. That’s fine too. Don’t stay up too late.”

Unbeknownst to either of them, far across Novum Chaldea, High Queen Morgan, King of the British Lostbelt, was harboring similar intentions.

Chapter Text

A cold pall permeated the room. Nine individuals sat gathered around a table in dead silence. Occasionally a pair of eyes would shift and make contact with another, but nothing was said. Not a word was spoken. Perhaps it was all a power play by the organizer of the assembly. Perhaps they were waiting on another arrival. Perhaps-

*CRNNNCH*

Simultaneously, eight heads turned towards the one. The person to break the silence. The one to so rudely infringe upon the dignity of this meeting.

“Mordred!”

The Knight of Rebellion upturned her palms, and swallowed the mouthful of partially chewed potato chips in her mouth.

“What?! If you’re gonna keep us here all day, Father, I’m gonna have a snack! Fuck are we waiting for, anyway?”

Artoria Pendragon sighed at this outburst from her unplanned, unwanted progeny. Her scowl softened and she slumped her shoulders in resignation.

“I was expecting one more arrival, but it seems as though they will not be in attendance. Very well. Let us call together this meeting of the Round Table.”

It was as the King of Knights described. As close to a full house as could be gathered in Chaldea. Her most powerful allies. Her most loyal subjects.

Lancelot and Mordred were there too.

All Knights of the Round presently-summoned to Chaldea were seated. Lancelot, Gawain, Tristan, Mordred, Bedivere, Percival, Gareth, and even Merlin. In unison, the Knights slammed their fists twice on the meager conference room table they sat around and shouted.

“Hear hear!”

Just like days of old, they sat quietly as their king began her address. Mordred slowly reached into her bag, only for it to be snatched away by Gawain. The Knight of the Sun stashed the portable food cache into a pocket and looked at his sister-cousin.

“Hey, gimme those back you asshole!”

Gawain sharply rebuked her.

“You can have them back after the meeting. If you’re going to disrespect the King by eating during this counsel, you should’ve picked a quieter snack.”

“Like what?!”

“I’ll have you know, yogurt is quite delicious.”

Mordred rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest.

“Yeah, like I’m gonna eat fucking yogurt.”

“AHEM.”

Mordred and Gawain stifled themselves at the sound of their King clearing her throat. Gawain sat upright, as befitting a chivalrous and honorable knight. Mordred continued to slouch. She had a pretty damned good idea what was going on. After all, she wasn’t invited to these kinds of things for her skills at politicking.

Artoria eyed the crowd and began to speak.

“You have my thanks for assembling on such short notice. As you may have suspected, I have gathered you all to deal with a new menace that walks these halls. An evil most foul.”

There was a dramatic pause. Just as Mordred opened her mouth and lazily raised a finger to hazard a guess, Artoria continued.

“Yes. I have summoned you to discuss Morgan le Fay.”

“-to crush Artoria Pendragon!”

“That’s why we’re here?!”

At the same time in a different conference room, Morgan le Fay, King of the British Lostbelt, was holding a war council of her own for the same reason. While the attendance was a bit lower than that of PHH, the gathered knights were no less fearsome.

Mélusine. Barghest. Baobhan Sith.

To cap off this wrecking crew was the yelling woman, one Mash Kyrielight, utterly beside herself at this turn of events. Morgan cocked an eyebrow.

“Does that bother you, Tam Lin Galahad? Why?”

Mash outstretched her arms.

“Yes! Obviously it bothers me! For starters, I was told we’d just be meeting for tea!”

Morgan nodded dispassionately.

“Apologies. The royal teamaker has fallen a bit behind on her duties!”

Her neutral expression turned just a tad serious as she threw her head over her shoulder and yelled the back half of her sentence. Just as she finished, another voice chimed in.

“Whoopsie! Sorry everybody!”

A tiny, pink Scottish fairy on a floating flywheel, shuttling a large silver tray complete with cups, multiple tea kettles, and assorted baked goods entered the room.

“Got lost on my way back from the kitchen! All these hallways look exactly the same.”

Little Habetrot had a “aw shucks” expression on her face, with the tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth. Eyes closed, hands on her head. A silly little idiot.

One look at her, and Morgan’s expression softened once more.

“I can’t stay mad at you.”

Habetrot nodded, smiling, and set the tray down in the center of the table. The table was so small that everyone was able to reach the tray from their seats without stretching.

Everyone but Mélusine, that is. She sighed as she ineffectually swiped her tiny arms at a kettle before standing up and reaching across to grab it.

“Okay ladies! We’ve got scones, shortbread, finger sandwiches, and three kinds of tea.”

Barghest looked at the tray, then back to Habetrot.

“Much obliged. What blends of tea have you provided for us today?”

Habetrot leaned over and inspected the kettles. Attached to the handle of each was a tiny paper tag. She squinted as she read each one.

“We’ve got English Breakfast, Earl Grey, and Darjeeling. Help yourselves! Plenty of snacks and cups to go around.”

Baobhan Sith scoffed.

“You had to double-check? You couldn’t remember off the top of your head?”

Habetrot shrugged, totally nonplussed.

“Whaddya want from me? I’m a seamstress, not a. Uh. Teamaker. Y’all are lucky I didn’t burn the kitchen down putting this together.”

Mélusine eyed her suspiciously.

“You nearly caused a fire boiling water?”

Habetrot chuckled, her mood unflappable.

“Electric stoves are weird.”

Mash put her head down.

“Okay, gotta remember to never leave you and Ishtar unsupervised in the kitchen together.”

Habetrot lazily waved her hand back and forth.

“It’s fine! Between you and me, Boudica did most of the work.”

Morgan placed her fist over her mouth and cleared her throat.

“Ahem. If everyone is finished picking on Tot- Pardon me. Habetrot. We should begin this session in earnest.”

The modern-day Tam Lin missed it, each assuming their liege had simply misspoke.

Mash, on the other hand, caught it. She shot Morgan a subtle, knowing glance. Her gaze was met and acknowledged with an equally subtle nod, but not verbally answered. The High Queen carried on.

“As some of you are already aware, the detestable Red Dragon Artoria Pendragon of Proper Human History has issued a brazen declaration of war against yours truly. As such, we must respond in kind.”

Mash furrowed her brow and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, I’ve known the PHH Artoria for quite some time. She’s hardly the type to “declare war” on someone she’s just met.”

As Morgan steepled her fingers and leaned towards Mash, Barghest dabbed at her lips with a napkin and interjected. Her compatriots had given her the gist of the confrontation between Morgan and Artoria. Judging from the tone of her voice, she surmised that Mash had been made aware of the developments as well.

“Frankly, my liege, given your hatred of everything PHH, I must admit to some surprise that you have invited two of their Heroes for this council.”

Morgan exhaled through her nostrils and leaned back in her seat. It was a flimsy little plastic thing, the kind one might find in a schoolhouse. It squeaked as she adjusted her weight in it.

“Yes, I believe proper introductions are in order. To Tam Lin Tristan, Gawain, and Lancelot, I present: Tam Lin Galahad. And do show some respect. She predates your respective appointments to my Round Table by quite a bit.”

Mash bowed her head slightly. Baobhan Sith voiced a query.

“I’m sorry, did you say “Tam Lin Galahad”? Because I don’t remember our Table having one of those. In fact, our most gracious part-time tour guide over here perfectly fits the description of one of the Child of Prophecy’s companions.”

A sly grin crept over Morgan’s face.

“Oh, foolish daughter. I ruled over my kingdom for thousands of years. You didn’t really believe that you three were the only knights ever to be in my service, did you?”

Baobhan Sith took a sip from her cup, set it back on the saucer, and snatched a biscuit from the tray.

“Well, no. Of course not, Mother. But I’ve never heard any tales of a “Galahad”. And what’s the pink one’s deal?”

“Let us simply say, I have lived a long and. Eventful. Life. I've had a great many adventures you're unaware of. And she’s Habetrot.”

The wedding gown designer swallowed a scone and waved at Baobhan Sith.

“Hello!”

In a rare moment, Mash found herself on the same page as Morgan’s daughter.

“No, I think Baobhan Sith is onto something here. Habetrot is from PHH, not your Lostbelt. I recognize you made an exception for me because of our travels together- “

“Did I have a stroke?! Did somebody delete memories out of my brain? When did you two have the time to go adventuring together?”

“AHEM.”

Morgan remained facing Mash, but everyone assembled knew she was addressing Baobhan Sith alone. The room went quiet, not unlike a graveyard.

“Are you quite finished interrupting.”

A statement, not a question. Baobhan Sith wriggled a bit in her seat.

“Yes, Mother. Apologies.”

“Good. Do try to behave, daughter.”

Morgan nodded slightly at Mash, the signal to continue.

“What was. Right. Is Habetrot just here to serve tea and hang out?”

Morgan shook her head.

“No. In fact, I explained everything to her before the meeting. She had agreed to aid my campaign.”

“Seriously?”

“Indeed. I must compensate for the lack of manpower by any means necessary.”

Mash turned and addressed Habetrot.

“She told you this was a war planning meeting, and you came anyway?”

Habetrot nodded.

“Yup!”

“Why?!”

The Scottish fairy shrugged.

“She invited me.”

Mash’s face contorted in bewilderment.

“That’s all?! She just gave you an invitation for strategy over tea and you, what. You just accepted it, just like that?”

“Obviously! I’m new here, Mash. How am I supposed to meet people and make friends if I turn down social calls?”

Mash sat with her mouth slightly ajar, her index finger pointed at Habetrot. Before sighing heavily and leaning back in her seat.

“We haven’t even been back an entire week and we’re already on the brink of war.”

“Perhaps we should refrain from going to war with the newest arrivals to Chaldea, Your Majesty?"

The reception to Artoria’s proposal was mixed. Mordred sniffed loudly and shot Tristan a dirty look.

“Give your balls a tug, dopey. You know. Make sure you still got ‘em.”

Tristan scoffed.

“I don’t think you should be commenting on anything. You came in here, munching away on your crisps with an open mouth like some kind of barn animal- “

“Fuck you!”

“And dressed like a hoodlum! Would it have killed you to take this seriously? To show up in something resembling proper battle attire?”

Mordred cackled.

“What, like that clunky old armor? Fuck that noise. Besides, this is “proper battle attire”. These ain’t just clothes, dumbass. It’s a Spiritron Dress.”

Gawain’s full attention was on Mordred after that remark.

“Surely you jest?”

“Nope! Why? You mad, bro?”

Gawain nodded furiously.

“I am quite perturbed, yes! I’ve been here nearly as long as you have and I’ve never received a Spiritron Dress!”

“Sucks to suck.”

Tristan glared at them.

“This is unbelievable! Three at this table have alternate Spirit Origins under different classes- “

Lancelot chimed in.

“To be clear, the unintelligible black knight isn’t me willfully changing my class, it’s a separate entity. He and I have been in the same room at the same time, you know.”

“And others have been bequeathed Spiritron Dresses, while some of us have nothing! I went with Master to the British Lostbelt and gave my life against that colossal brutish tank of a woman! That must count for something! Surely Sir Bedivere will agree that this favoritism cannot stand!”

Bedivere stroked his chin uncomfortably, reflecting on his maître d’ outfit.

“I’ve actually got a Spiritron Dress as well.”

Tristan smacked the table.

“Are you kidding?!”

“ENOUGH!”

An outside observer might have been surprised at the large sound that came from the tiny woman at the head of the table. But not these knights. They all knew full well what Artoria Pendragon was capable of. They looked around awkwardly, almost ashamed of their minor outbursts and distractions.

“I expect that such trivial matters as “not getting a swimsuit” can be handled on your own time! You are all adults! Let us focus on the actual topic of discussion, shall we?”

The Knights of the Round looked at each and nodded. Merlin, all the while, was fiddling on his phone, no doubt perusing ServantGram for thirst traps. After taking a deep breath, Artoria continued.

“While the Morgan of the British Lostbelt is not the one from our history, she has apparently inherited the memories of our Morgan. That means she carries the same unwarranted bile and predilection for our destruction that the real Morgan le Fay had. And she has already conducted unprompted acts of aggression towards our cohort. She must be dealt with post-haste.”

An awkward silence fell over the room. The knights looked at each other wordlessly. Picking up on the silence, Merlin looked up from his phone and quickly scanned the room.

“You know, maybe one last war isn’t such a great idea? I’m sure Lostbelt Morgan was just upset about her world being destroyed. Maybe extend an olive branch and try to restart that relationship?”

Artoria turned her head and stared coldly at her mentor.

“Can I take that to mean you will not be part of the war effort, oh great and powerful Mage of Flowers?”

Merlin smiled awkwardly and rubbed the back of his head.

“Sorry, Artoria. I think maybe we should give peace a chance?”

Artoria nodded grimly.

“Very well. Cath Palug.”

Merlin’s eyes went wide with panic at the mention of his nemesis.

“Sic ‘em.”

“FFFFFOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!”

With a mighty battle cry, the tiny creature burst forth from Artoria’s cape and tackled Merlin in the neck. Despite not weighing very much at all, the speed of white-furred demon knocked the half-incubus off-balance, and the pair rolled on the ground.

“AH! HELP! HIS FANGS ARE IN MY NECK!”

Back at the table, the knights simply carried on. Artoria cleared her throat and continued.

“What say the rest of you?”

Percival raised his hand to speak, only to be cut off by Lancelot.

“Hold fast, gentlemen. We needn’t be afraid. The King only had one of those.”

“Please. I was going to loose the beast on Merlin regardless of his answer.”

Gareth nodded.

“Fair.”

“Back to the matter at hand. The Morgan of the Lostbelt is extremely aggressive and territorial. Her knights are beings of immense power as well. They represent a clear and present danger to our way of life. Will you answer my call, and ride forth into battle with me once more?”

Of all those assembled, Mordred was the only member with any certainty on her face. her answer was instant.

“I’m in.”

Artoria nodded. She knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Mordred could be counted on for combat. Especially combat against Morgan. For all her faults, Mordred had always been a fearsome warrior. One for whom combat was its own reward. Though this particular occasion was a bit outside the norm.

Hell, she’d kill Morgan le Fay for a Klondike Bar.

Amidst some furtive glances, Percival made his intent known.

“It would be an honor to join your cause, my liege. Aside from reasons of personal loyalty, this will be an incredible opportunity to truly test my power here in Chaldea. I’ve not yet had the chance to do so.”

Artoria nodded.

“Thank you, Sir Percival. Your spear will be a great asset in the battle to come. What say the rest of you?”

Tristan, Gawain, and Lancelot wavered. Gareth stared intently at Gawain and Lancelot, as if waiting on the cue from her brother and her idol. Bedivere nodded calmly.

“With whatever meager strength I can provide, I will fight by your side, Your Majesty.”

“You too have my thanks, Sir Bedivere. Your prowess and ability have always been appreciated.”

After another moment of solemn contemplation, the holdout knights began voicing their dissent.

“Respectfully, sire, this new home of ours has a set of laws in place. You know as well as I that we cannot simply wage war in the open.”

“We shall issue them a challenge. A duel to be held in the Simulator. If this pretender is anything like my sister, her pride will not allow her to ignore it.”

“You Majesty, I once grappled with her. Her might is nothing to be trifled with. She was the King of her Lostbelt, after all.”

“Are you suggesting that we are something to be trifled with?”

An awkward pause before Lancelot picked up the ball.

“So- “

“MY EYES! HE’S EATING MY EYES!”

“So after looking at some records here, I learned that Morgan le Fay was also Nimue, the fairy who raised me and bequeathed onto me Arondight. And what’s more, she was also Vivian, the Lady of the Lake, who once tried to seduce me. All things being equal, I’d much rather not ever be in the same room as her on any occasion, even if she is just a Parallel World doppelgänger.”

“Oh? Do you truly wish to open the field of discussion to “awkward interpersonal relationships with Morgan” whilst you sit among her children and her sister?”

Lancelot’s lower eye twitched upon realizing the mistake he just made.

“Well, it’s all ancient history anyway- “

“No. You have raised the topic. Let us discuss it at length. Who wishes to begin this sidebar? Gawain? Perhaps you could regale us with the story of how the Green Knight nearly decapitated you? Or Mordred could recount for us how Morgan created her in a flask and raised her as a weapon to kill me. Or Gareth. You can. Ah. Did Morgan ever inflict any specific cruelties upon you?”

Gareth shook her head.

“Actually, no. I really can’t say I ever had much interaction with Mother.”

“Doth thine ears function, Sir Lancelot? Sir Gareth was abandoned by her own mother, who still somehow found sufficient time to enact all her foul schemes.”

Lancelot sighed.

“Dammit all, we’re going to war again, aren’t we?”

“So, can I count on your aid, Tam Lin Galahad?”

Mash sat silently, a grim expression on her face. She sipped her tea and weighed her options.

“What is it you’re trying to accomplish here, Queen Morgan?”

“To avenge my Parallel World self’s defeat and humiliation at the hands of her Artoria Pendragon by besting that same Artoria in combat.”

“And that’s all?”

“What else is there?”

“You realize you can’t just assault her in the hallway, right? Aside from all the rules of conduct we have, there’s a practical matter at hand.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“This base here, the Wandering Sea? It’s an island. Meaning if you start putting holes in it…”

“It will sink, eliminating the last desperate remnants of humanity and thwarting any hopes of un-Bleaching this Earth.”

“Precisely. And while you certainly have no love for PHH, if you answered the summoning call and agreed to be a Heroic Spirit, surely you don’t want to immediately end it. You must have some reason for sticking around.”

Morgan nodded.

“Destroying Proper Human History is not at the top of my list.”

Mash raised a skeptical eyebrow. Morgan sighed.

“And I have discovered ways of passing the time, yes. But I’ve still quite a bit of information about the original Chaldea in this brain of mine. It was my understanding that there was a “Simulator” on the premises. The kind of technomagical arena that can recreate multiple environments?”

Mash inhaled deeply.

“We did. And as luck would have it, there’s one here as well. The perfect place for sparring.”

“Then it sounds as if systems are already in place to facilitate this showdown.”

Mash held out her palms.

“No, hang on. It’s not that simple. I still don’t understand your beef with PHH Artoria. She’s done literally nothing to you. Shouldn’t you be angry at the Child of Prophecy? Or me and Master?”

Morgan cackled cruelly.

“Please. My motives are not the biggest concern here.”

Mash narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“That’s not an answer, and you know it. But fine, we’ll table that for now. How can you be so sure I’ll fight on your side? I’m a resident and Demi-Servant of PHH. This is my home. You can’t expect I would drop everything I stand for out of. What? Nostalgia? Loyalty to the person you used to be, back when you still had hope in your soul and your world didn’t turn you into a cruel nightmare? A crazy conflict of interest, isn’t it?”

“Let us say I simply have faith you will see reason.”

“And how can you be so certain that Artoria will accept your challenge?”

“It’s her. She’ll accept it.”

“Just like that?”

“Quite so.”

Morgan shrugged. Barghest and Mélusine nervously exchanged glances. Mash was speaking quite calmly, but they’d never seen anyone challenge Morgan that way. At least not without getting killed for it.

But Baobhan Sith had a different approach. She leaned over and began whispering in Mash’s ear.

“So, if I understand everything correctly, you were one of Mother’s first Tam Lin.”

“That’s right.”

“And your powers come from being host of Galahad, a Knight of the Round Table?”

“Hm-mm.”

“The guy who found the Holy Grail, ascended into heaven, yada yada yada.”

“That’s the one.”

“The son of Lancelot, whom he hated more than anything because of his propensity for sticking his dick in every woman that said yes?”

Mash turned to face Baobhan Sith. There was a quiet fury in her eyes that few people in any Parallel World had ever seen.

“If there is a point, you should get to it. Now.”

Baobhan Sith backed up and chuckled.

“Well, I’m just saying. It sure sounds to me like you have two reasons to fight on our side.”

Mash exhaled deeply, never breaking eye contact with Morgan’s daughter.

“You know what? The funny thing is. I know you’re playing me. But- “

Meanwhile, the Knights of the Other Round Table were still of split opinion. Tristan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Your Majesty, perhaps diplomacy can be used to our benefit in this situation?”

Artoria sighed.

“The sight of you lot makes me weep.”

Gawain cleared his throat.

“Your Majesty- “

“Never did I think I would see the day that my strongest knights became such cowards.”

Lancelot frowned.

“Really now, don’t- “

“It would seem Chaldea has turned you from men to mice. Fine. If I cannot reach you through my magnanimity. Through appeals to your sense of honor and chivalric duty. Then you leave me no choice.”

Artoria reached into her cloak once more, alarming the knights.

“Mayhap she does have a second Fou!”

“Or that damnable rabbit!”

But it was not a beast she drew. No. It was two simple items. The first, a pair of reading glasses. The second, a small, pocket-sized notebook.

“Gentlemen, I shall be as clear as I can. You owe me.”

“Beg pardon?”

Artoria donned the glasses and opened the notebook to the first page.

“Sir Tristan.”

“Oh no.”

“You abandoned the court, your brothers-in-arms, your nation, and your King, uttering a portent of the illest omens: “The King does not understand the hearts of men”.”

“Did we all forget me dying against Barghest?! I think I’ve more than redeemed myself!”

“You died? How strange. You look perfectly fine to me.”

“Hey now- “

“Perhaps you have lifted that burden from thine own soul. But it has not balanced the scales and absolved you of your debt to me.”

“Fine! Fine. I’m in. Can’t believe it took you years to cash in that chip, but fine.”

“Excellent.”

Artoria flipped the page.

“Sir Gawain.”

“Oh, did you say we’re to go to war with Morgan le Fay? Sincerest apologies. I must have misheard you at the start of the meeting. Excalibur Galatine will happily march alongside its sister sword once more.”

“Well met.”

Another page flip.

“Sir Lancelot.”

“Now just one moment, Your Majesty! You said you forgave me for my transgressions!”

“And I did. But the question at hand is thus: have you forgiven yourself? And more importantly, has Gareth forgiven you?”

Gareth looked at Lancelot expectantly. It dawned on her that since her summoning, the Knight of the Lake had totally avoided making direct eye contact with her at every opportunity. Even now, all he could muster was to look in her direction. Lancelot sighed wearily and muttered his answer.

“War.”

“As it should be.”

One more turn of the page.

“Mordred.”

Mordred, who’d been grinning ear-to-ear this entire time, suddenly changed moods. Her face twisted into a grimace, a look of both shock and anger.

“What the fuck?! I already said yes! I was the first one to say yes!”

Artoria nodded.

“Indeed.”

Mordred threw her head back and groaned.

“Jesus. Spare me the dirty look then, Father.”

Artoria snapped the book shut.

“All that remains is Sir Gareth. You’ve voiced neither dissent nor approval. What say you?”

Gareth nodded calmly. Perhaps her King had shut the book because she lacked anything to emotionally blackmail her with. Maybe it was the benefit of the doubt, as she’d yet to outright say no. But her answer was a no-brainer. They had been united, once. And this was their chance to unite once more.

“I still believe we are being rather hasty with this business, but I will stand at your side, My Liege.”

Artoria smiled warmly at her.

“Then we have an accord. It fills my heart with joy to lead you all in battle once more. Now that we have settled that matter, I believe it is time we discuss strategy.”

“And that settles it. First order of business tomorrow, we’ll book the Simulator for the fight. After we’ve got the reservation made, we’ll send out the challenge.”

Morgan leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled.

“Yes. It’s all coming together. Once I have crushed the Round Table of Proper Human History, then my true vengeance can begin in earnest.”

Mash shot her a look and sighed.

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

Chapter Text

It was an average day in Novum Chaldea. Six Lostbelts down, one to go. Plus, well. Whatever other measures would be required to unbleach the Earth. In a private barracks room just before when dawn should have been, one member of the Chaldea combined arms team was stirring. She lazily opened her eyes and gently scratched her companion.

“Good morning Fou. Sleep well?”

Mash Kyrielight, Demi-Servant and beloved eggplant kouhai of Chaldea, wiped her eyes and slowly rose in her bed. Beside her pillow was the curled ball of white fluff that, in another lifetime, had been a nascent Beast of Humanity. As Mash gave Chaldea’s unofficial mascot pets and scritches, she checked the alarm clock on her phone.

It was just before six. Apparently, in her anxiousness for the day, she’d jumped her alarm. But this was not the anxiousness of fried nerves and dread. No, this was the anxiousness of excitement. Today was the big day. A fabled clash of kings, millennia in the making. A grudge match the likes of which-

Well, this was still Novum Chaldea. Heroic Spirits from every yada yada, et cetera, et cetera.

So, today’s grudge match, while of the highest caliber of importance to those involved, wasn’t particularly any more or less earth-shattering in comparison to the standard bevy of “vengeance oaths transcending the grave” that plagued this place.

Karna and Arjuna. Boudica and all of Rome. Penthesilea and Achilles. Cú Chulainn and not getting disrespectfully killed to establish stakes in a story. EMIYA and explaining anything about his identity.

The list was endless.

Still, nobody ever invited Mash to participate in these things, usually because she had no stake in the respective outcomes of these conflicts, so she was excited just to be along for the ride.

Mash rolled out of bed and preemptively shut it off. No reason to let it go off, after all. She hurried through her morning routine, bustling with excitement. Brushed her teeth, then her hair, then got dressed, all as quickly as possible before heading out the door.

Before she departed, she took one last look at Fou. He was sleeping soundly, the noises of her morning routine not even making him stir. She peered closely and noticed the tiniest splash of dried dark on his fur, near his lip. Mash cocked her head to get a closer look.

“Is that blood? Were you harassing Merlin again yesterday?”

Even in his slumber, Fou heard the name of his nemesis. Eyes still closed, he growled faintly. Mash decided to leave that problem for another occasion.

After that, a quick stop at the cafeteria for a light breakfast. A bit of tea, a sunny side up egg, some toast, an apple. Calories that rested easy in her stomach. Fighting without the proper fuel was a recipe for disaster, but then again, so was fighting with a stomach that threatened to burst from being overstuffed. Mash finished her food in short order, and proceeded to the Control Room.

Her Majesty, High Queen Morgan, was certainly intelligent enough to handle making a reservation without help. That being said, Mash was more concerned about whoever Morgan would be interacting with. She didn’t think Morgan would just assault Chaldea staffers without provocation, but then again, Morgan’s definition of “provocation” was quite vast. Better to be safe than sorry. She made her way through the halls, a spring in her step. As she crossed the threshold, she witnessed a truly predictable sight:

Artoria Pendragon (Saber) and Morgan engaged in a shouting match while Chaldea Director Goredolf Musik sat at a console, facedown with his hands on his head. Raised voices, reddened faces, cacophonous noise, and chubby sad man with no idea what was happening stuck in the middle of it all. Mash cleared her throat loudly and addressed the assembled crowd. The riotous yelling ceased briefly, though the looks of scorn did not.

“Ahem. Good morning everyone. May I ask what’s going on? Are you alright, Director Musik?”

Having finally been directly spoken to, Goredolf slowly peeled his face off the desk. He looked tired. Dealing with shenanigans wasn’t something he expected when he’d purchased Chaldea all those years (or months?) ago, but there he was. Putting out fires. Occasionally setting them. Maybe if he put himself in harm’s way enough times, he could unburden himself from the guilt and humiliation of having been used as a Trojan Horse for the Foreign God to wipe out the original Chaldea.

But for now, he was just trying to make it to lunch without being impaled by holy weaponry.

“No, Miss Kyrielight, I am NOT alright! I’d barely finished my morning tea when these two burst in, unannounced and simultaneously. Neither one has actually said what it is they want! They just immediately started yelling at each other!”

Mash nodded.

“So, I can only assume- “

Morgan cut her off.

“Yes, Mash. I have come to make the reservation for our noble Table’s clash with her disgusting, paltry Table.”

Mash raised a finger, only for Artoria to interject before she could speak.

“You fiend! I arrived first, and was moments away from doing that very thing! Once again, you have stolen something of mine! Will your thirst for that which is not yours never be sated?!”

Mash cocked her head.

“Huh. You arrived at exactly the same plan of action we did at exactly the same time. Isn’t that something?”

WHAM

Hoping to get everyone the hell out of his Command Room, Musik slammed his head onto the desk and began hammering away at the keyboard. The computer made a loud beep, and he turned around with his arms folded to face his three guests.

“All you wanted was to fight?! There! The simulator is yours for the entire day! Great big open field! Go nuts!”

Artoria nodded.

“That seemed to have taken no effort at all.”

Morgan cocked an eyebrow.

“Who are you, again?”

Musik harrumphed sadly and wearily.

“Goredolf Musik, owner and Director of Chaldea. Mage. Member of the Department of Policies at the Clock Tower. Scion of the Musik family.”

Morgan scoffed derisively.

“Ah, so Chaldea too is ruled by a tyrant. Wonderful.”

Musik looked surprised at this assertation.

“I’m not a tyrant! I’m the only sane person in this madhouse and the only person sober enough to steer the ship!”

Morgan frowned, almost a bit disappointed.

“Oh? A pity. I assumed from your gruff demeanor, utter absence of threat, and portly and self-aggrandizing appearance that you ruled cruelly through fear. Or perhaps mind control.”

Musik frowned, and looked down at his stomach.

“What did the state of my physical appearance have to do with any of that?”

“It’s blindingly obvious that you have never wanted for anything in your life. I assumed you were hoarding food and other comforts, which is why Mash and my Husband look so tired and thin, while you seriously test the structural integrity of the stitching of your clothes.”

Musik raised a finger in anger.

“Now, see here- “

“And look at that ridiculous outfit. Epaulettes? A cloak fastener with tassels across your lapel? Gold piping? An ascot? The only person impressed by your fashion is yourself.”

Musik frowned, the highly detailed and almost personal nature of the insults beginning to truly gnaw at his ego.

“I really like this coat.”

“Unless, of course, Mash and Fujimaru have devised a scheme to make you a larger target that they will deploy as a decoy to escape a life or death situation down the line. A dubious plan, and therefore one I must applaud.”

Musik looked at Mash and Artoria, and muttered to them.

“Well, don’t everyone jump to my defense all at once. Please, make sure you don’t trip over each as you rush to my aid.”

Mash and Artoria shot each other a sideways glance and Mash cleared her throat again.

“You know, Director, maybe a diet wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

Musik looked up at her, sadness in his eyes.

“Et tu, Kyrielight?”

Mash looked at him awkwardly and rubbed the back of her head.

“I mean, you do have a habit of eating food with other people’s names on it.”

“One time! I’ve done that one time since I got here!”

“And got yourself poisoned in the process!”

Artoria cleared her throat and added to the impromptu Friar’s Club Roast of Goredolf Musik.

“Though I did not witness that event, it is my understanding that you so naturally and shamelessly purloined that cake that it could not possibly have been the first time you have stolen another’s food.”

“What? How do you even know about that?! Who has been spreading these lies and slander- “

Mash chimed in.

“Totally accurate truths.”

“-about me?!”

Artoria shrugged.

“There are hundreds of Servants here. Secrets do not stay that way for long.”

Mash cleared her throat

“Please, Director, All we’re saying is, it wouldn’t kill you to be more considerate when you eat.”

Musik sighed and slumped in his chair, utterly defeated by this interaction.

“Please leave, all of you. When I agreed to babysit this terminal for our Technical Advisor, I wasn’t expecting to be so thoroughly humiliated this early in the day.”

Mash looked around, having only just now noticed Da Vinci’s absence. This was curious, as she should have been here instead of Musik.

“Where is Da Vinci anyway?”

“She mentioned something about investigating an emerging Micro-Singularity and took off.”

Mash looked concerned.

“By herself? What if something happens to her?”

Meanwhile, Somewhere and Somewhen Else

“Wait just a damn minute! I’ve just realized something! This discovery could be the key to solving everything!”

Da Vinci was onto something in this moment. Perhaps she’d unraveled the greatest mysteries there were to find.

“What, pray tell, have you uncovered this time?”

“Werewolves should be transformed during the day!”

“Hmm?”

Da Vinci shot straight up, and looked at her companion with a wild look in her eyes.

“Yes! Traditional folklore holds that light from a full moon induces transformations in those afflicted with lycanthropy. HOWEVER! As we know through modern science, “moonlight” is merely sunlight refracting off the surface of the moon and NOT a unique light generated by the moon. Therefore, all moonlight is really sunlight and thus, sunlight should force the werewolf transformation!”

Her companion cleared his throat and gently motioned for her to retreat from his personal space.

“Indeed.”

“So you believe me?!”

Her companion shook his head.

“No, I believe the edibles have most certainly “kicked in” by now.”

It was quite a scene. A beach of clean white sand. The crystal azure ocean stretching on to the horizon and beyond. The sun high in sky with just a bit of cloud cover. And two beach chairs, each one occupied, beneath a large parasol.

Just Da Vinci and Sherlock Holmes, hanging out on the beach. Holmes with his coat off, shoes and socks off, sleeves and pant legs cuffed. Da Vinci in a swimsuit. A small plastic baggie of what appeared to be gummy bears in Da Vinci’s lap. The usual liquid cocaine paraphernalia with Holmes.

Just two overworked geniuses hanging out on the beach, getting high.

Da Vinci replied to Holmes’ brilliant deduction.

“What makes you think that?”

Holmes tightened the rubber hose around his bicep with his mouth and flicked the crook of his elbow while he answered.

“Because this is the third time you’ve posited your theory about lycanthrope transformations.”

Da Vinci looked down at the bag.

“This must be really good shit.”

“Hmm.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well what are your thoughts on my theory Mister Detective?”

Holmes shrugged.

“It’s all moot, anyway. Lycanthropes are Phantasmal Beasts. There is absolutely no reason at all to believe the naturally occurring ones across the world must conform to outdated mythology. Look at Chaldea, for instance. We have a multitude of vampires, and yet none of them seem to have any issue being seen in mirrors or eating garlic. Further, the one with the dragon tail seems to be able to enter any space she wants without invite whenever she damn well pleases.”

Da Vinci stared at him blankly.

“What were we talking about?”

Holmes chuckled.

“Werewolves, my dear.”

“You know, I have a theory about werewolves.”

“I’m most certain you do. Changing topics, aren’t you worried about this Micro Singularity?”

Da Vinci looked a bit deflated that she couldn’t share her paradigm-shifting theory on lycanthrope transformations, but carried on anyway.

"Nope. These things come and go all the time. I just wanted a beach day. Chance to unwind.”

“Clever girl. Thank you for bringing me along.”

“Hey, if anybody in Chaldea knows how to unwind, it’s you. I really needed the break.”

“Oh? Was the British Lostbelt not a pleasurable experience?”

Da Vinci frowned.

“I spent most of the time waiting tables. You ever work customer service? People are so entitled. Never doing that again.”

Holmes nodded. He had an inkling that working for tips wasn’t the worst thing to happen to anybody in Fae Britain, but decided to let that topic rest.

“So? Enjoying yourself?”

Da Vinci nodded.

“Yeah. Really hope I get to tag along the next time we send Fujimaru out to fix a summer singularity. Beaches are great!”

Holmes shrugged.

“Personally, I would leap at the chance to patronize an opium den, if one were ever to show itself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Speaking of what’s in my mind.”

“Hmm?”

Da Vinci slowly turned in her chair to face Holmes. Her demeanor became deadly serious. Her voice lowered to a stage whisper.

“Holmes. What do you know about werewolves?”

Chaldea, Present

Goredolf shrugged.

“She took Holmes with her. The two of them might not be the most “battle-ready” members of the team, but they’re certainly smart enough to return here if things get hairy.”

Mash nodded in agreement.

“They’ll probably be fine. So if everything is all wrapped up here- “

“Wait, Mash.”

Mash turned, looking at Artoria.

“Yes?”

“Though you were not compelled to attend my Round Table assembly, your absence was noticed. Have you considered- “

“HA! The joke’s on you, foolish Artoria! Tam Lin Galahad has already agreed to serve as one of my knights in our clash!”

Artoria sighed. Mash muttered.

“Probably a better way to break that news.”

“So, you’ve decided to eschew your traditional neutrality and pick a side in this affair? My knights and I have no desire to bring harm upon you, Mash. If you cannot be convinced to fight with us, can you be convinced to remain on the sidelines?”

Mash inhaled. She was rather fond of Artoria, as she was of, well. Pretty much everyone. Mash didn’t really have it in her to harbor “hate” in her heart. But there was that nagging, sanctimonious voice in her subconscious. The being she admired and owed her life to. The one with the serious daddy issues. They didn't ever truly communicate, but she could tell when his impulses shone through.

“Will Sir Lancelot be on your side?”

Artoria scoffed with disbelief.

“Of course! He is my strongest and noblest- “

“Yeah, definitely siding with Morgan then. Sorry. It’s nothing personal. Well, not between you and me, at least.”

Artoria sighed. She looked disappointed, but not at all surprised. Morgan grinned cruelly.

“What’s this? Doth thou ponder how much easier thine life would be if thy favorite knight could simply keep his French manhood secured within his pantaloons?”

Artoria scowled and began walking away.

“Were I ever to think anything of the sort, I would never admit so to you! I shall see you on the field of battle and end your tyranny once and for all!”

The Once and Future King’s furious armored bootfalls echoed through the halls. Morgan continued smiling triumphantly, and called back to her.

“Then it is decided! We shall clash at high noon! Ready yourself, little sister!”

Mash looked up at Morgan a bit wearily.

“Glad you’re making every effort to fit in with the other Heroic Spirits.”

“Hush, you. The time to judge me was before you joined my side, not after.”

Mash sighed.

“Fair point.”

They stood there silently for a moment. They stood in silence so long they had started to forget where they were, and what they were to do next. Fortunately, a helpful voice chimed in to guide them on their path.

“Please leave.”

The weak voice of Musik, forehead once again on the desk in front of him, pleaded with them both. It was a strange experience, for this boisterous and self-involved man to be so utterly ignored so frequently. As though he were nothing more than a fly on the wallpaper. Chaldea always seemed to have things more important than himself going on.

Mash and Morgan looked at each other, nodded, and departed as well, leaving the sad director of Chaldea, who now felt quite a bit worse about himself than he did when he awoke this morning, all by his lonesome.

The stage was now set. All that remained, was war.

Chapter Text

Some Time Ago

“You got the touch! You got the poweeeeeeeer! YEAAAAAH!”

As Emiya and Fujimaru walked down the Chaldea halls, Emiya stopped dead in his tracks.

He knew that song.

Fujimaru looked up at him.

“Everything good, Emiya-san?”

But Emiya didn’t respond. He merely followed the sounds, quickly arriving at a common room. Fujimaru trailed him curiously, impressed by the Archer’s ability to quickly shift his entire focus. The room was empty, save a lone occupant watching a film. Emiya cocked his head and addressed her.

“Are you watching The Transformers movie?”

The watcher, a redheaded woman with whom Emiya was intimately familiar, looked over her shoulder as she answered.

“Boogie Nights.”

A look of surprise formed on Emiya’s face as he turned to the television. It was as the watcher said. A scene unfolded of a young Mark Wahlberg in a recording booth, poorly singing a version of the Stan Bush song.

“Huh.”

Fujimaru, who had never seen Boogie Nights, poked his head in.

“The dude is butchering it, but that’s still a pretty good song. Hey Claire.”

Claire Hale, who was loafing in a recliner, had returned her attention to the television and waved at her coworker without looking at him.

“Hey Ritsuka. Wanna watch?”

Fujimaru shrugged and hopped on a nearby couch. He settled in began staring at the film. There was no language barrier, of course, because of magic. That being said, walking into a film partway through is not a situation that lends itself to building a strong comprehension of what’s going on. Sensing this, Claire tilted her head towards the young Master and spoke, eyes still on the screen.

“You seen this before?”

“Nope.”

“You gonna ask me to explain, or just sit there?”

Fujimaru chuckled and scratched the back of his head.

“I didn’t want to be rude and talk over your movie.”

Claire chuckled in kind, and nonchalantly waved her hand in dismissal.

“What, this? If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a hundred times. So, basically, Mark Walhberg is playing a pornstar who uses the stage name “Dirk Diggler”. He’s recently quit porn, and is branching out, trying to get famous as a musician.”

Fujimaru nodded, and thought for a moment.

“He’s terrible.”

Claire laughed.

“He certainly is.”

There was a pause as the scene played out. John C. Reilly’s character, Reed, played an acoustic guitar as Dirk continued to caterwaul. Fujimaru mused that whoever this “Dirk Diggler” character was, music was not a talent he possessed. Claire looked back at Emiya who had turned around and begun to silently leave.

“You don’t wanna watch with us?”

Emiya stopped and looked back at her.

“No, I have to do prep in the kitchen. I only came here because I thought someone was watching the 80s Transformers film. My interest was piqued, briefly.”

Claire shrugged.

“Your loss dude. Have fun working. Hell, now I wanna watch that. Probably put it on right after this. Hey Ritsuka, you wanna watch a robot cartoon?”

Ritsuka’s eyes lit up. While he’d sat down mostly to be polite and try to spend time with a coworker that wasn’t a magically incarnated hero of yore, now he was genuinely excited. Fujimaru loves his mecha.

“Hell yeah! I love Transformers!”

Claire nodded.

“Giant fighting robots are pretty damn cool. You got a favorite one? And don’t say Op- “

“Convoy, obviously.”

This pulled Claire’s entire focus. She grabbed the television remote, paused Boogie Nights, and turned her head to look at Fujimaru.

“Who?”

“Convoy! The brave, wise, fair leader of the Autobots. Transforms into a big truck.”

Claire’s face contorted with shock and disbelief. She scanned Fujimaru, trying to detect any hint of deception. Finding nothing but still unsatisfied, she grilled him.

“Boy, are you talking about Optimus Prime?”

Fujimaru upturned his palms and shrugged.

“I mean, sure. We’ve been calling him that since the live-action American movie came out, but historically, his name was Convoy. And he’ll always be Convoy to me.”

Claire shook her head in disapproval.

“Unbelievable. Tryna gaslight me about the name of fiction’s greatest hero.”

“It’s true! Besides, I don’t even know what “gaslight” means.”

“It’s a type of lie.”

“Yeah, no, obviously. I could tell that much from context.”

“Simmer down there, Mister Big Shot. It’s a very specific type of lie. The point is to manipulate the victim into questioning reality. Make them doubt their own memory and sanity. Case in point, you trying to tell me that until the year of our Lord two-thousand-and-seven, Optimus Prime was called “Convoy”. What a dumbass name and a dumbass lie.”

Fujimaru spread his arms out wide and looked around the room.

“Nobody’s lying to you! Look it up! We’ve got, like, the entire internet archived here! He used to be called “Convoy”!”

Claire shot him a dirty look and grabbed her phone. She muttered to herself as she typed away at an archived version of Google.

“Fuckin’ lying-ass…What the fuck?”

“What’s it say?”

“Top of the Wikipedia page: “also known in Japan as Convoy”. This doesn’t make any sense. Why…”

“I dunno. Difference in localization, I guess.”

Claire stared at her phone for a bit longer before looking back at Fujimaru.

“Hey, wait a damn minute. You called them “Autobots”. Wikipedia says they’re called “Cybertrons” in Japan. So you do know the American names I would obviously be more familiar with!”

Fujimaru shrugged.

“Yeah, okay. That’s mostly true. “Autobot” became more common with the live-action movie. I give that one a pass because I think it’s cool.”

Claire shook her head.

“Unbelievable.”

There was a silence in the air as the movie resumed. A bit more curious about his coworker, Fujimaru decided to ask a question.

“So, are you like, a diehard Transformers fan, or a casual?”

Claire shrugged, inhaled sharply through her nose, and pondered the question for a bit.

“Probably casual, I’d say. I’ve seen Beast Wars, G1, and Armada. But I know there’s a million more shows, games, comics, et cetera. I really enjoyed what I have seen, at least.”

“Armada?”

“Aw shit, here we go again. Early 2000s. The Autobots and Decepticons are both chasing a third faction of Transformers called “Mini-Cons” who are much smaller than them, but unlock super powers when combined with the bigger Transformers.”

Fujimaru snapped his fingers.

“Oh! Legends of the Microns! That was a good one! First Transformers show I ever saw, actually.”

Claire eyeballed him again.

“Legends of- aw, forget it. I’m just gonna choose to believe you aren’t putting me on.”

Boogie Nights continued playing as the duo sat in silence. A few more minutes passed before Claire addressed Fujimaru again.

“So, I take it you know a lot about Transformers?”

“Yeah. I mean, I love pretty much anything mecha, but Transformers especially. Gundam too.”

Claire sniffed and rubbed her nose.

“What’s the cutoff for “mecha”?”

“What do you mean?”

“Right, so “mecha” means robots, right?”

“That’s a little too broad of a definition.”

“Okay, see? That’s what I’m getting at.”

“Ah.”

“Like, Gundam? Human-shaped robots, piloted by humans. Transformers? Human-shaped sentient robots. Is the common thing that the robots are generally humanoid in shape?”

“That’s a very common part, but not a hard-dealbreaker for the genre.”

“Alright, so. Is Iron Man a mecha?”

“Definitely not.”

“Quick on the draw with that one.”

“Yeah. Iron Man has power armor. Size is definitely a factor for whether or not something is “mecha”. There’s no officially agreed upon minimum size, but a Robert Downey, Jr.-sized suit is absolutely not big enough to be mecha.”

“Okay, okay. Now we’re getting somewhere. So big robots. Gotta be bigger than people.”

“Yeah. There’s no upward limit on that size either. Like, in Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann, the mechs get as big as entire galaxies.”

Claire glanced over at Fujimaru.

“That sounds trippy.”

“Yeah, so, within mecha you’ve got the “real robot” and “super robot” sub-genres. “Real robot”, while still sci-fi, have more realistic elements grounded in real-life physics. Like, a common thread in Gundam shows is humans having colonies at Lagrange points, which- “

“Yeah yeah, intersections of the gravity fields between two separate celestial bodies. Didn’t know you knew celestial mechanics.”

“I actually learned that bit from watching so many Gundam shows. It showed up so often I looked it to see if it was a real thing or not.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah.”

“So, I assume “super robot” is like, aliens and shit?”

“Not necessarily aliens. A lot of time it’s more like, I dunno. “Space magic”?”

“Space magic?”

“Well, yeah. You ever watch Star Wars? The Force is classic “space magic”.”

“I’ve always maintained that Star Wars is space-fantasy, not science fiction.”

“See? You get it.”

“Yeah.”

“So, back to Gundam. One sci-fi thing they introduced is the “Minovsky Particle”.”

“Particle. Sounds like physics. Using sci-fi physics to justify plot contrivances?”

“Pretty much. At some point, everybody asks the question, “ICBMs have been around for decades. Why do these shows, set in the future and possessing technology far more advanced than what we have now, have entire militaries fight via giant robots within point-blank range of each other?” The answer? Minovsky Particles.”

“I’ll bite. What exactly are those?”

“Basically, really long range electronic signal jammers. They make strategic range weapons- “

“Like guided munitions?”

“Exactly. Stops them from working. So the solution…”

“Get in a giant robot and punch the other guy to death?”

“Bingo.”

“Okay, so, “real robot”. Still science fiction, but with an attempt to have a smidge of realism?”

“Yeah.”

Claire thought on the intricacies of the greater mecha genre while she sipped from a water bottle. She fiddled with her phone, looking up topics to try and continue this impromptu discussion. A few minutes later, she had another question.

“So, where’s this Newtype stuff come into the equation?”

Fujimaru shifted in his seat and scratched his chin.

“Yeah, Newtypes can make things a little iffy. More so in execution than concept.”

“People born in space are just psychic? Seems like pushing into sci-fantasy.”

“I mean, there’s the X-Men, right? Mutants are just born with fantastic powers? It’s a similar idea.”

“Sure, but doesn’t the main guy in the OG Gundam just, vanish into thin air? He has a Newtype-explosion and just. POOF! Gone forever?”

“I mean, if we’re talking Char’s Counterattack, I have several issues with the story beats and how they were shown onscreen. Being a Newtype started as just, kinda basic ESP. Not full-on mindreading, but having a heightened perception of your surroundings and being able to sense powerful emotions from other Newtypes. It grew from there in ways that kinda pushed the limits of “real robot”.”

“I dunno, man. Seems like this is all your wheelhouse. Maybe frame it with a contrasting example? Gimme something that sets “super robot” apart from “real robot”.”

Fujimaru nodded.

“Okay, so take Gurren Lagann, for instance. The mechs can just change size and shape to merge with each other to become more powerful. The main character, Simon, his mech can read his emotions and just shut down if he isn’t in-sync with it. The mechs get damaged? Cool. If the pilot has a strong enough emotional episode, the suit just repairs itself because space magic. Super robot.”

Fujimaru paused to breath before continuing.

“Gundam, on the other hand? Even if the answers aren’t the most realistic, they look at the story from a critical lens and try to explain stuff. The mobile suits have ranged weaponry? Great. Those weapons have some kind of ammunition source and need periodic reloading. Why are there so many mobile suits in the world? The military developed them because long-range weapons stopped being effective. You get scenes of mechanics doing maintenance and trying to source replacement parts when the mobile suits get damaged.”

Claire nodded. She was indeed “pretty casual” when it came to the giant robot genre. Siblings liked Transformers, so it was played on the family television set in her childhood. She caught Pacific Rim in theaters because she thought Charlie Hunnam was hot.

But Fujimaru? It was obvious that he loved this shit. And Claire realized that no matter how much importance Chaldea placed on supporting his efforts, she never really interacted with him as a coworker and person. This seemed like a good chance to get to know the guy everyone’s hopes were pinned to.

“Which do you prefer?”

“What? Gundam or Transformers?”

“Nah, I mean, super robot or real robot.”

“Oh. Neither. I don’t go in for one sub-genre over the other. Both have really good stories and not so good stories. I like to judge individual shows based on their own merits.”

Claire nodded.

“That’s fair.”

“Yup.”

There was another pause. After another minute or so, Claire had another question for Fujimaru.

“Have you seen the Transformers movie? The 80s cartoon?”

Fujimaru shook his head.

“No, believe it or not. I’ve seen the G1 series, but my parents wouldn’t let me watch the movie when I was a kid. And then, you know. School, sports, other hobbies. Tracking down a copy of the movie wasn’t super high on my priority list as I got older.”

Claire slowly turned her head. She’d seen The Transformers: The Movie. She knew full well just how it stood apart from the television series it came from. This was gonna be a doozy.

Later

“You got the touch! You got the poweeeeeeer! Yeah!”

It was that same familiar song playing again as Emiya returned from the kitchen and made his way towards his quarters. Now that he had time to kill, he figured he might as well pop in. Emiya entered the common room, seeing the same two people he’d left, exactly where he left them.

“You two watching Boogie Nights again?”

Fujimaru replied, eyes glued to the screen.

“No, this time we really are watching the Transformers movie.”

“Huh.”

It was true. As Emiya looked at the screen, he saw a red and orange robot grow in size while being bathed in bright blue light. The figure grabbed his foe, a purple robot, raised him over his head, and threw him out of the room they occupied, out into the void of space. Emiya stood in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest. Claire looked back over her shoulder at him.

“You wanna sit down, dude? Movie’s just about over but we’re gonna talk about it a little and finish these snacks before we go.”

Claire grabbed a large bowl from a nearby table and held it out in Emiya’s direction. He looked at it. Popcorn, the classic movie snack. He shrugged and walked over. He Projected a simple stool and sat on it, positioning himself behind and between the duo. He grabbed a small handful of popcorn and tossed it into his mouth. A serious practitioner of the culinary arts, he refused to commit the crime of putting his fingers in his mouth and double-dipping. Claire rolled her eyes.

“What, the furniture here isn’t good enough for you? Just had to make your own?”

Emiya nodded with a smirk.

“Yeah. Hey, what’s the point of having magecraft if you don’t use it?”

Claire shook her head and grabbed some popcorn for herself. They watched the credits roll and began discussing the film.

“So, Master. What did you think?”

Fujimaru turned to look at Claire and Emiya, his facial expression clearly displaying an eagerness to unpack the film.

“Oh man, where do I even begin? Hmm, let’s see. That movie was crazy!”

Emiya nodded dutifully.

“That’s a good start.”

Claire chimed in.

“We actually watched it twice.”

This surprised Emiya. It made sense considering how long he’d been in the kitchen, but it was still strange.

“Why?”

Fujimaru reached over for the snack bowl as he replied.

“Well, we had a talk about the differences between the English and Japanese language localizations, so we decided to do kind a comparison of the two.”

“Oh yeah?”

Claire answered this time.

“We realized pretty quickly that the wonders of magecraft-based language translation aren’t exactly the same as a full dub in another language.”

Fujimaru swallowed his snack and continued.

“Yeah. Basically, it was like, hmm. How do I describe it? When we watched it in English, it sounded like all that audio was being spoken as Japanese? Like, Peter Cullen cranking out badass Optimus Prime one-liners, but in Japanese.”

Emiya nodded. He’d never considered watching the same piece of media concurrently in two separate languages. He got several new ideas for things to do based off this new information.

“I remember you stubbornly calling him “Convoy” for quite a while. Finally come around to using his real name?”

Fujimaru narrowed his eyes.

“First off, Takara was an equal partner to Hasbro in the creation of G1. Calling him “Convoy” was perfectly valid.”

“You’ve muddied the waters of your argument with repeated use of “Autobot”.”

“Shhhshsh. Secondly: “Optimus Prime” is harder to say.”

Emiya shrugged.

“For children and idiots, maybe.”

“Hey! Zip it.”

Claire cleared her throat and carried on.

“Yeah, so we agreed that the dialogue in English is better.”

Emiya looked mildly surprised.

“You did?”

Fujimaru nodded.

“Yeah. Like, look at Prime versus Megatron. “One shall stand. One shall fall.” Is way more badass than “Either you die, or I die, Megatron”.”

Claire doubled down.

“Or when they’re grappling, and Megatron says “I’ll tear out your optics!”. It was menacing, but also played up to the fact that they were robots. Just saying “eyes” in Japanese got the same intent across, but it wasn’t nearly as epic.”

Fujimaru nodded eagerly.

“I’ll admit it. Peter Cullen is great. No disrespect to Tesshō Genda, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But Cullen was fantastic.”

Emiya nodded in agreement.

“Glad you liked it. With all the arguing your generation likes to do about “sub vs dub”, I’m pleasantly surprised at this attitude.”

Fujimaru looked taken aback.

“Whoa, what do you take me for? Some chronically-online weirdo?”

Emiya shrugged.

“Hey now. You’re a teenager. Teenagers across all of human history aren’t the best at having calm, rational discourse with people.”

Was Emiya projecting about his own teenage years? About the difference between his lengthy internal monologues and the things he actually said aloud?

Perhaps.

But nobody else in the room knew that, and Fujimaru had to concede he had raised a valid point. Emiya quickly changed the subject.

“So. What were everyone’s overall impressions of the movie?”

Claire answered first.

“It was every bit as brutal as I remember. Honestly, half the fun was watching this one react while having no idea what was going on.”

Emiya raised his eyebrow.

“Really, Master? You hadn’t seen the film before?”

“No. My parents didn’t let me when I was a little kid, and now I understand why.”

Approx. eight minutes into the film

A stern, angry-looking grey robot with a cannon on his forearm stands over a heavily wounded foe.

“Such heroic nonsense.”

A single blast of purple energy erupts from the cannon, presumably killing the wounded robot.

Fujimaru shot up in his seat, clearly not expecting this sequence of events.

“Holy shit! That’s why none of them were in the third season?!”

Present

“Yeah, it’ll do that. Fun fact: the movie bombed at the box office. Not to say that upper echelon executives are largely out of touch with reality, but it’s rather incredible that none of them saw that reaction coming. I mean, it was a Saturday morning children’s cartoon. The bad guys would always have their plans foiled and run away, angrily shaking their fists and swearing vengeance. For Megatron to just execute half the main cast right after the opening credits rolled caused huge tonal whiplash for the audience.”

Emiya explained this movie trivia rather dispassionately. Claire replied.

“Even better was: Hasbro wanted to sell more toys, so they introduced the newer characters and decided killing off the old ones was the perfect way to do it, not realizing that the old toys sold so well because the kids actually liked the characters.”

Fujimaru laughed.

“Right? That awkward moment when your toy commercial TV show works too well at convincing kids to get the toys, and they all freak out when you unceremoniously murder those same beloved heroes.”

Claire had some popcorn and replied.

“The rabbit hole goes even deeper. Hasbro made a GI Joe movie at the same time as The Transformers, but because of production issues it got delayed until after Transformers came out. They killed the main guy, Duke, in the original cut, but after seeing how poorly the masses reacted to Transformers, they hastily changed the script and tossed in a line about him being in a “coma” instead.”

Emiya, having had zero interest in the GI Joe franchise, still appreciated this factoid.

“Incredible how much a corpse can look like sleeping person when you need it to.”

Fujimaru snapped his fingers, having remembered another thought.

“Also, the theme song. It’s way better in the English.”

Claire nodded.

“Definitely one of those “iconic” themes, as much as I hate to rely on an overused buzzword.”

Emiya took another handful of popcorn. He posed a new query to the two of them.

“Who’s your favorite Transformer?”

Fujimaru started.

“Optimus Prime, hands down. Best there is, was, and ever will be.”

Emiya nodded. Claire replied next.

“Starscream. He’s a weaselly little shit, but he’s very entertaining. What about you?”

Emiya rubbed the back of his head. He hadn’t seen any Transformers media since he was alive. He remembered what he considered to be the important bits, but not everything. In this instance, the name of his favorite Transformer.

“The dinosaur. Uh, the leader of the Dinobots. Transformed into a T-Rex. That one.”

Fujimaru began to help Emiya out.

“Oh! You mean- “

“Wait! Don’t tell him.”

But sensing a rare opportunity to fuck with Emiya, Claire interjected and raised her hand to silence Fujimaru. He looked confused as she continued.

“Nah nah nah. Mister “Mysterious Know-It-All” likes being vague and cryptic? Let him sit with a mystery for once.”

Emiya glared at Claire.

“I am not amused.”

Claire laughed and blew a raspberry at him. Fujimaru appeared conflicted, wondering if he should side with his Servant or his coworker. As he struggled, Claire doubled down.

“Don’t you do it, Ritsuka. You go to Singularities with them. You see their dreams. You have a magical tether connecting your will to theirs. Don’t you wanna bond with one of your human coworkers for once? Just once? Don’t you wanna share a secret with a currently-living person for a change? Also, don’t forget that I worked here before you did, which makes me your senpai.”

Fujimaru’s eyes darted back and forth between Claire and Emiya. After a little more indecision, he sighed and relented.

“I’m sorry, Emiya-san. You know I’m incredibly susceptible to peer pressure.”

Emiya merely stared at him for a moment before shifting his attention to Claire.

“I blame you.”

Claire pointed her finger at face and adopted a look of surprise.

“Me? He’s a grown-up with free will.”

Fujimaru frowned.

“Hey!”

Emiya shook his head derisively.

“Incredible. Set him up for failure and abandon him immediately. Well done. Setting a great example for your kouhai.”

Claire cocked her head in confusion.

“My what?”

“Kouhai. Your junior. You just called yourself his senpai.”

“Oh, there’s a counterpart word to senpai? Neat. I’ve just heard Mash say “senpai” a lot. Didn’t know “kouhai” was a thing.”

Emiya grunted.

“You are the absolute worst.”

Claire tossed her head back and groaned.

“Fine! Fujimaru! You’re doing a great job. Stick to your guns. Never give up. Never surrender.”

Fujimaru flashed a shaky thumbs up. Claire shrugged and turned back to Emiya.

“Happy now?”

Emiya growled lowly.

“Never.”

Claire just met his gaze.

“Sucks to be you.”

Emiya’s glare tightened at that flippant remark. He would remember that.

Later that evening

“You were a lot more aggressive than usual.”

It was just before midnight. Emiya sat upright in his bed, hair flopped down in front of his face. He was stark naked, sweat drying on his skin, hands together in his lap. He looked up at Claire, who had just stepped out of his shower and getting dressed to leave. Though the sex they had was often very athletic, she had a few more bite marks than usual.

“I didn’t hear you complaining.”

Claire shrugged. Emiya was a good partner and knew how to take direction. She could have asked him to slow down a bit, but she had to admit it had been rather exhilarating.

“You weren’t taking out movie night on me, were you?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Claire rolled her eyes.

“Just me, convincing your Master to turn against you.”

“Why did you do that, anyway?”

Claire shrugged, pulling her pants up as her hair stayed wrapped in her towel.

“What’s it to you? Jealous?”

Emiya scoffed derisively.

“Jealous of what, pray tell?”

“Jealous of me hanging out with another man?”

Emiya remained unfazed by that remark.

“This is strictly sexual. Next guess.”

“Hmm. Jealous of somebody hanging out with your “Master”?”

“Also wrong.”

“Oh yeah? Familiars aren’t magically compelled to be possessive of their summoners?”

Emiya chuckled quietly.

“Fujimaru has managed to summon a few…less than sane Servants- “

“I can think of a few that should be under constant supervision.”

“-but. Overall. While we do have a predisposition to keep him safe, most of us aren’t obsessive stalker types.”

Claire eyeballed Emiya. His use of the qualifier “most” was pulling a majority of the weight of his argument. Even still, she saw no reason not to answer his query.

“You really wanna know why I sat through two-and-a-half movies with Ritsuka?”

“I’m very curious about it, I’ll admit.”

Claire picked the hairs out of her brush and dropped them in a wastebin as she replied.

“Just thought he should get some socialization that was expectation-free.”

“Expectation-free?”

“Yeah, man. All you Servants drain his mana and steal his dreams. Romani and Da Vinci are always reminding him how the “fate of the world is in his hands”. Mash follows him around like a lost puppy. It’s adorable, but it’s a strange dynamic. I thought he deserved a chance to just relax. Shoot the shit a little. Nerd out.”

"How thoughtful of you."

"Yeah, I'm pretty great.

There was a brief pause in the discussion.

“He tell you about Minovsky Particles?”

Claire tapped her nose twice.

“That boy loves his giant robots.”

“Sure does.”

Claire looked at him for a moment before heading to the door. Just before she pressed the button to open it, Emiya addressed her.

“One last thing that’s been bothering me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Who the hell is the T-Rex Dinobot?”

Claire chuckled cruelly, winked, and headed out the door.

“Nice try.”

As she entered the hallway, she heard the muffled sound of a pillow hit the other side of the door.

Chapter Text

“Nah nah nah. In that one, they get the name from the mobile suits being made of “Gundanium Alloy”, an in-universe super metal that’s incredibly durable, lightweight, and can only be made in space.”

“Uh huh.”

It was a lazy morning in Chaldea for certain people. Amongst those who found themselves with precious little to do were Fujimaru Ritsuka, in-progress savior of his world, and Artoria (Caster), retired savior of her world.

Well, in Artoria’s case, it was the thought that counted anyway. When speaking of Fae Britain, the word “saved” could mean a lot of things.

The pair were in bed, Artoria tucked under Fujimaru’s arm. They were in a simple, one-room log cabin. To even the most cursory survey of the scene, it was clear that they had been up for most of the night. Clothes strewn about the tiny cabin they occupied. Sheets crumpled. Hair all messy. She looked up at him, her eyebrow raised. He looked back, nonplussed.

“What?”

Artoria sighed.

“Nothing. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“Well, when I asked what was on your mind, I wasn’t expecting an impromptu lecture on the Gundam franchise, that’s all.”

Fujimaru shrugged.

“Sorry. You coulda stopped me at any time, you know.”

Artoria sighed again and patted Fujimaru on the chest.

“I know, I know. But you were so passionate I just couldn’t bring myself to.”

Fujimaru tenderly rubbed Artoria’s back and kissed her forehead.

“Well, I figured “She’s got those Fae Eyes. No use lying about what’s in my head.” So, yeah. You caught me at a moment when I was thinking about giant robots.”

Artoria pursed her lips in thought before replying.

“I guess I was just expecting pillow talk with you to be more, I dunno. Romantic? Is it like that with the other Servants?”

Fujimaru cocked his head as he mentally replayed several key moments of the last few years. Dalliances with Mordred, Jalter, Serenity, Artoria Pendragon (Ruler), amongst others. Every Valentine’s Day it got harder and harder to survive. His meager, talentless mage body only had so much mana to get depleted. And for some reason, swimsuit-related Spirit Origins just seemed to make Servants abnormally horny. His mental clipshow concluded, Fujimaru shook his head.

“Not really. Most times they don’t stick around long enough for the lovey-dovey stuff. Lot of them get dressed as soon we finish and just leave. Some of them hang out to cuddle but leave while I sleep. Nobody really wants to rock the boat.”

Artoria wrinkled her nose. This was getting at some nagging concerns she’d had. Best to dig while she had the opportunity.

“Rock the boat?”

Fujimaru shrugged.

“Yeah. There’s a tentative, tenuous, “see something, say nothing” policy in effect.”

“And that works for you all?”

“Yeah. Apparently a mage’s bodily fluids, particularly blood and semen, are the most efficient way of transferring mana, so. Y’know. Some of the Heroic Spirits here, will, on occasion, get their fill straight from. Well. The horse’s…”

Fujimaru waved his hand, the classic “well, you know what I’m trying say” gesture.

“Penis?”

Fujimaru chuckled.

“Yes. Straight from the horse’s penis. The most well-known of animal-related idioms.”

Artoria shrugged.

“That’s how the phrase goes in my world.”

Fujimaru cocked his head.

“Is it?”

“Anyway. You didn’t sound very confident with that flimsy “blood and semen” justification for sleeping with various Servants.”

“Well, I’ve never actually received any formal training in magecraft. I’ve been told in passing about it, but I haven’t done my own research on the subject.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. One day I gave a blood sample for what presented itself as a legitimate health organization trying to find rare blood types for donations, and next thing I know? I’m freezing my ass off in Antarctica, sleeping through my new boss’s “Welcome Aboard” speech.”

“Bad public speaker? Boring speech? Gas leak?”

“No, I was just really sleepy. I get sleepy a lot.”

“And yet here you are. The guy who’s saved his world once, and working on number two. A narcoleptic with no aptitude for magecraft. It truly defies belief.”

“I mean, the whole reason it was on my shoulders the first time was that Team A was specifically targeted by Goetia, since they were such a huge threat to his plans. I, on the other hand, was such a nonthreat that I was pretty much ignored until it was too late. Hell, I only survived my first few encounters with him because he thought I was such a joke he didn’t need to take me seriously.”

“And then you killed him.”

“Yup. No matter what the history books will say about me, there’ll at least be a footnote about how I punched a Beast of Humanity right in his face.”

“You know, most people across the endless Parallel Worlds try their damnedest to not get within punching range of Beasts.”

“Not me!”

“Clearly.“

“They don’t scare me. I’ll punch Beasts all day long. Hell, I’d summon a Beast if I could.”

“Don’t you already have three?”

Fujimaru shook his head.

“They don’t count. I’m talking about summoning a Beast in a Beast-container.”

Artoria stopped for a moment to try and internalize this wild new lore drop from Fujimaru.

“Insane. You are actually insane.”

“Probably.”

“So, back to this “see something, say nothing” thing?”

Fujimaru nodded.

“Right. So, mostly so we don’t get pulled into any cheesy, stupid romance novel/telenovela/soap opera shenanigans, we just. Never publicly acknowledge any time I sleep with a Servant.”

“How romantic.”

Fujimaru upturned his palms. Artoria cocked her head.

“So that’s it? No drama? It’s not for Mash’s sake?”

“I dunno what you mean, bringing up Mash. Here’s what I do know: I know that Kiyohime famously trapped her “Anchin” in a metal bell, breathed fire on it, and cooked him to death. I know that Salome was obsessed with John the Baptist and had him beheaded. That Brynhild is compelled to kill Sigurd, and until I summoned the genuine article here, her gaze would sometimes fall on me and Siegfried. So, yes. Where I stuff my sausage remains confidential for everyone’s sakes.”

“Have you stuffed your sausage in many Servants?”

Fujimaru looked upwards and scratched his chin.

“A bunch.”

“Ritsuka!”

“Gimme a second, I’m trying to think of the number!”

“Wow. I had no idea you’re such a manwhore.”

“Don’t slutshame me! It’s a small number!”

“I know you think the number is small.”

“It’s high single digit. Or low double digit.”

“Wow.”

“Hey! I’ve got about three hundred Servants here! The number is pretty small comparatively.”

“Do you not know the exact number of Heroic Spirits you’ve contracted? Or the exact number that you’ve defiled?”

“Watch it, you. The answer’s not so simple. Christmas and Summer variants throw the number off. Karna became a Saber this past Christmas, but I don’t count him as two different people!”

Artoria had her finger in his face, but stopped to consider this.

“That’s a decent point.”

“My Spirit Origin Registry counts him twice, but it’s still just Karna. That’s how it is with a bunch of Servants.”

“Huh. You think I’ll ever get a Spirit Origin change?”

Fujimaru nodded.

“I don’t see why not. Dunno what Class you could change into, but my gut tells me you’ll make a great Santa one day!”

“Really? Christmas?”

“Sure! Everybody loves Christmas! I’m not even Christian and I celebrate it every year anyway. Maybe you could be a Saber after the Sacred Sword Creation stuff you went through in Avalon.”

“That’s your prediction for me? Honestly? Christmas Saber?”

“Yeah. Probably wrong though. With seasonal variants I’d have better luck guessing if I just put a list of Servants on a wall, put a list of Classes next to it, and blindly threw a dart at each list.”

“So. That list of Servants you’ve slept with?”

“Wow, you just refuse to move on, huh? Yeah, it’s a few. It’s a respectable number. I’m not some kind of harem lord. I’m not gonna name them for the sake of their privacy, but it’s not like I’m the protagonist of some shitty doujin hentai.”

“Uh huh.”

“Yes.”

Artoria looked at him, closely scanning his face. She didn’t care too terribly much, but messing with Fujimaru was far too fun.

“Whatever. We’re all just ghosts, anyway. One day this story will end, and everyone will go back to the Throne. Except me.”

“You’re gonna stick around?”

“What? No. This body is just a terminal I project from my Avalon. Much like Merlin, now that I think about it. That’s where I’ll go back to.”

“Speaking of, I wonder what Merlin’s up to. Haven’t seen him in a while.”

Cafeteria

The Chaldea dining hall saw a perfectly typical level of activity for this early lunch period. Another Lostbelt had been eliminated just a few days prior, and the conquering heroes were afforded a respite. For the Servants who hadn’t made the journey, that meant not causing any extraordinary ruckus. Just their normal, quiet, domestic routines.

And for Merlin, this meant getting a bowl of minestrone soup for lunch.

Merlin made pleasant small talk with Boudica as he walked away from the food line, the bowl on his tray next to a glass of water and slice of garlic bread. He made his way to an unoccupied table and sat down, setting his tray down and pulling out the chair in silence. The Mage of Flowers scooted his seat forward, coming so close to his food that his body was flush with the table.

Merlin observed the meal with reverence. Small lines of steam rose from the bowl, gently wisping away. The herbal aroma wafted upwards, hints of garlic and oregano tickling his nose. He eagerly awaited to consume this bountiful harvest. The deep orange-red of the broth. Chunks of tomato, chopped onions and celery, kidney beans, and elbow pasta shells serving as the “meat” of the dish. Toppings of red pepper flakes and parmesan cheese for garnish and flavor.

Truly, a culinary masterpiece.

Merlin lowered his spoon into the bowl, letting it fill with broth. He raised it to his nose and closed his eyes, trying to focus solely on his sense of smell.

PLINK

“Ah!”

There was a tiny splash, and Merlin reflexively bobbed his head back. He could feel a small spattering of soup on his cheek. He wiped it away with his hand and looked curiously at his food.

Perhaps a bubble had burst. Just a small pocket of air, hidden away beneath the vegetables and pasta. Merlin stared at his food for a few seconds before shrugging and carrying on with his meal. He raised the spoon back to his lips and was shocked as another splash of soup flew out of his bowl onto his robe. Merlin huffed and put his spoon into the bowl.

Was he being punked? Had someone in the kitchen worked some minor magecraft to make his soup attack him?

Merlin stared intently at his soup. No blinking. No looking away. Just a man dedicating his full attention to his food.

PLINK

Merlin jumped. There! He saw it! The disturbance in his soup wasn’t coming from inside the soup. Something had dropped down into the soup. Merlin tilted his head back, his gaze slowly turning upward. He saw it. The reason he couldn’t simply enjoy his soup.

“FOU!”

A flash of white and Fou was on Merlin’s face, much like a Xenomorph in the facehugger stage. Merlin flew back out of his chair, rolling on the ground as his former companion attempted to eat through his face to his brain.

“Dammit Fou! I just want to eat my lunch! Not the eyes! Not the eyes!”

The Room

“Knowing him, probably finding ways out of doing work.”

“Probably. Lazy bum. Huh. I wonder if the other Lostbelt Servants will return to the Throne and be summonable by mages in other Earths. It is outside the time axis, after all.”

“Doubtful.”

“Why not?”

“Ritsuka, I think Alaya is cutting you a lot of slack since you’re the last, best hope at unBleaching this Earth. I have to believe that mages in other Parallel Worlds won’t get turned a blind eye the same way you have.”

“Makes sense.”

As they rested in silence, Artoria’s stomach began to rumble. She sat up in the bed, got off, and made her way across the room.

“Well, while you ponder your life choices, I’m gonna get some food. You want anything?”

Fujimaru shimmied back towards the headboard, sitting upright in the bed. He watched as Artoria knelt down over the bottomless picnic basket he’d brought with him. He called to her as she opened it up and fished around inside.

“There should be a breakfast bento in there for me. Also a ham, egg, and cheese bagel for you.”

Artoria stopped and turned her head, looking back over her shoulder at Fujimaru.

“Lunch, dinner, and breakfast? Ritsuka. Were you planning on seducing me this whole time?”

Fujimaru just smiled warmly.

“Plan? No. But I did really hope.”

Artoria rolled her eyes and chuckled.

“Things just seem to work out for you, don’t they?”

“Yup! Living through my second literal apocalypse in as many years, but yeah. Got that EX-Rank Luck, baby.”

Artoria looked at him silently for a moment.

“Do you wanna- “

“Nope! I definitely do not want to talk about it. If I stop for even a moment to process any of this, I know that’ll start an existential crisis I’ll never recover from.”

Silence, once more. Artoria rubbed the back of her head and awkwardly looked around the room, her eyes slowly going back and forth between her hands and the wall. All the while, Fujimaru sat on the bed, the same warm smile and dead shark eye stare. Just when it began to get uncomfortable, Artoria remembered the food. Sandwich in one hand, bento in the other, she looked up at Fujimaru.

“Breakfast in bed?”

“I would love to!”

As Artoria clambered back into the bed, she and Fujimaru noticed a ruckus outside their cabin. The clashing of swords. Yelling. The glow of mana bursts. Fujimaru grunted angrily and swung his legs over the side of the bed, readying himself to depart.

“All I wanted was one weekend uninterrupted. It’s always something here.”

Meanwhile

It was a balmy 23 degrees Celsius. A gentle breeze rolled through the meadow. Fluffy white clouds floated in front of the sun, not providing meaningful shade but lessening the effects of the sun on everyone’s eyes.

The Knights of the Round Table of Proper Human History stood shoulder-to-shoulder, ready, but not eager, for the battle to come. They were all clad in their armor, even Mordred. Befitting the occasion, Artoria was in her final Ascension, complete with crown and glorious cape. Lancelot looked down over his shoulder at Mordred. She growled, feeling his gaze.

“You got something to say, Frenchie?”

Lancelot was not intimidated. It took much to frighten the Knight of the Lake. That being said, he was aware that staring so intently was rude.

“Just surprised to see you in your battle regalia. You were quite insistent that your leather jacket was a Spiritron Dress and therefore suitable for combat.”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah. I can get properly dressed when I feel like it. Or when Father demands it.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“Tis strange, however.”

“Your face?”

“Charming, as always. No, I just don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in armor without your helm.”

“That stuffy thing? Don’t need it.”

“Because there is no point in a Noble Phantasm that conceals your identity when all present know who you are?”

“Nah. When me and Gawain scrapped with the High Queen over there, she grabbed one of the horns and tossed me into a wall. It’s a, uh. I dunno. Safety hazard? An unnecessary hardpoint for an enemy to grab.”

“Ah, so she has great physical strength in addition to her magicks. Wonderful.”

“What, scared?”

“Perish the thought. Just not gleeful at the prospect of more war. Don’t tell me you crave more violence and destruction? Was your lust not sated during life?”

“Don’t wax philosophical at me. Guy living in a great big glass house like yours shouldn’t be throwing stones.”

“Hmph.”

“All things being equal, I don’t really give a shit one way or the other about any of the new hires. But Mother? I’d kill her for a Klondike bar. Even if she is just a doppelgänger from another Earth.”

Lancelot merely nodded. In life, he’d always been curious about the strange mute who’d joined their table. Turns out, engaging her in meaningful conversation was pretty much impossible. It certainly wasn’t very satisfying.

Nearby, two other knights were having a conversation of their own.

“Sir Gareth. What can you tell us about our enemies? I’ve heard you were present when Sirs Gawain and Mordred first clashed with the Lostbelt Morgan.”

Gareth, in her shiniest armor, shook her head at Tristan while adjusting her shield.

“Not much, I’m afraid. Those two have already mentioned everything of note. Their Morgan has powerful magic on her side. Her three Tam Lin are total mysteries, as is the floating pink cat. And we all know Mash quite well.”

“Indeed. It would seem Miss Kyrielight is still using her Ortinax armor.”

“You sound relieved.”

“I am. Her former power set was far more impressive, focusing solely on impenetrable defense. This hybrid, techno-magical, offense-defense skillset she uses now is a considerable downgrade.”

“I wish I’d seen it, then.”

“Just be grateful we don’t have to go against her in that state. Her shield was nigh impregnable.”

“She’s not exactly worthless on the battlefield now, you know.”

“Of course not. I never intended to give that impression. Only to say that her pure defense was more threatening than her current skill set.”

“Doesn’t she have a god-killing gun in that shield?”

“Yes, but it only kills gods, and needs a Command Seal as ammunition. Since Master is nowhere to be seen, I doubt it will be an issue. Unless you’ve been granted Divinity when I wasn’t looking?”

“’Fraid not.”

“Damn. That could’ve given us an edge.”

“All of us united? I have no doubt we’ll be okay.”

“I’m not so sure. They are a motley crew of unknown variables.”

“What’s this I hear? Sir Tristan having doubts?”

“No, no. It’s just. How do I put it? As an Archer, I have incredible sight. With my sight, I can tell that the big blonde one is staring me down. And something about the way she looks at me is deeply unsettling.”

“Mark this down for the history books. I don’t think Sir Tristan has never not enjoyed a lady’s gaze.”

“Gareth.”

“Hmm?”

“She’s staring at me as though I were a piece of meat. Helpless prey. A meal.”

“In a- “

“No, not in a sexy way!”

“It has been far too long since we’ve strode unto the field of battle together, Galahad. Can you recall when last we fought side-by-side?”

Mash nodded, a mournful visage forming on her face. She wasn’t making eye contact with Morgan. Rather, she was surveying the meadow before her. Roughly one hundred meters away stood the Knights of the Round Table from Proper Human History, having their own pre-battle discussion. Morgan’s knights stood on line, waiting for the carnage to begin. Mash, having no difficulties with her recall, answered Morgan’s query.

“Uther’s coronation.”

Morgan’s cruel sneer evaporated. She did not frown, as a regent of her status would never show such piteous emotion on her face. But she did return to a more neutral expression and nodded grimly.

“Hmm. Your memory is impressive.”

“Well, right after we fought our way out, that’s when you started your plotting and put me in the deep freeze.”

“Ah, of course. You lack the thousands of years of intervening memories between then and now. To you, that must be quite recent.”

Mash sighed. Morgan was correct. From her perspective, it hadn’t even been a month since she witnessed that tragedy. The murder of Uther. The conspiracy of the treacherous fae. The death of a dream.

“Do you miss her?”

“Miss who, exactly?”

“Aesc.”

“Ah. Her. Heh. No. Not at all. That poor fool of a girl deserved neither the burden on her shoulders nor the scorn of the faeries, and the faeries did not deserve a savior.”

Mash answered softly. Morgan could tell from her tone that she was saddened, but not surprised.

“Oh.”

“What is this? Compassion for the dearly departed?”

Mash shook her head.

“It’s not easy, watching a person’s heart shatter and their soul die in real time.”

“Such is the way of the world. The way of every world, it would seem. To defile and consume the weak and innocent.”

“Become a victimizer or remain the victim, eh?”

“Indeed.”

Mash stared down the battlefield, soaking in these last few moments of peace. Nothing Morgan had just said was even the least bit surprising, but it was saddening all the same. She wondered if the rest of her own journey would mar her the way Aesc’s had. In this brief respite, she reckoned she had time left for one last question.

“Do you think she found peace, by the end?”

Morgan nodded, the faintest hint of a wisp of smile on the corner of her lips.

“Yes. Yes, I believe so.”

“Good. Good. At least that’s something.”

To the side, the other Tam Lin were quietly side-eyeing each other. To them, High Queen Morgan was a monolith. Implacable. Unknowable. Absolute. And that made the idea of casually catching snippets and references to a history they knew nothing about shocking.

Scandalous, even.

Not that any of the three of them would ever dare ask her to elaborate. That would be far too familiar for their comfort. The mysteries surrounding Morgan were unplumbed depths and would remain so, even to her closest knights. But there were plenty of other things to discuss.

Mélusine, standing beside Barghest, spoke to her ally.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Lancelot.”

“Hmm?”

“What the hell is a penny?”

“Human currency. A tiny coin. The smallest denomination in that system, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh? So my thoughts are worth so little you’d offer the lowest amount of money possible for their purchase?”

“I’m trying local idioms. Attempting to fit in. Lighten up, won’t you? I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

“I remember Faerie Britain quite well. You dealt more than your fair share of insults, regardless of intent.”

“Hmph. You weren’t so easy to get along with either.”

“Grrr.”

“Come on. You aren’t really trying to pick a fight with me when we’re about to fight them, are you?”

Barghest sighed wearily.

“I suppose not. You’re more chipper than I remember.”

Mélusine shrugged.

“The kingdom has fallen and we’re all dead. Why bother putting on airs now?”

“I don’t know if I like you less now, or back then.”

Mélusine frowned.

“Why can’t we just be friends? I always thought we had a whole “strong people who are rivals but respect each other” thing going for us.”

“Lancelot.”

“Gawain.”

“This is most certainly not the time to have this conversation.”

“Fine. What do you think about this fight, then?”

Barghest shrugged.

“I’m trying not to. Certainly, none of us are as powerful as we were in life, but I have no doubt that we will emerge victorious.”

“Still, never thought we’d meet our namesakes like this. I’d hoped we could at least get the chance to speak with them.”

Barghest narrowed her eyes and scanned the opposing soldiers.

“The redhaired one is a bowman of some skill.”

“You recognize him?”

“Vaguely. He accompanied Master when he first arrived in our land. Or, a version of him, at least. I’m still a bit fuzzy on the specifics of Servants and summoning.”

“Any tactical data to share?”

Barghest shook her head.

“Nothing much of note. The one I faced was hardy and wily enough to delay me, allowing Fujimaru and his companions to flee. And valiant enough to die rather than betray his Master. Never did get his name, though.”

“Perhaps you’ll get a chance to ask today.”

“Maybe.”

“AND NOW WE RIDE! FOR HONOR! FOR FREEDOM! FOR CAMELOT!”

The knights behind Artoria gave cheers of varying degrees of intensity. Mordred was the most excited, red lightning already crackling, her thirst for Morgan’s blood barely containable. The PHH KoRT charged forward into the fray.

Across the field, a similar scene unfolded.

“Do as your Queen demands.”

And with that simple order, Morgan and her knights waded into the chaos as well.

The clanking of armor as over a dozen knights sprinted at each other. The throttle of Mélusine as she took flight. And the glowing. So much glowing. Swords and bodies shining as warriors prepared their most powerful mana bursts. Great vengeance and furious anger, carried through the air by the mighty bellows of soldiers. The two sides ran at full-speed, rapidly closing the distance to begin the carnage in earnest.

100 meters.

50 meters.

5 meters.

Artoria raised Excalibur over her head, preparing to swing down upon Morgan and free her head from her neck.

Morgan spun her staff, aiming to skewer Artoria’s chest like a kebab.

2 meters.

The moment of truth had arrived. And just as these sisters from Parallel Worlds were about to strike-

“STOP!”

A brilliant flash of red, and the two monarchs found themselves frozen in their tracks. The effect lasted but an instant, but it was enough to divert their attention. Running perpendicular to them and closing fast was a young man with dark hair.

“What THE FUCK is going on!”

The two Round Tables stopped. Knights on each side locked eyes with their opposite numbers and looked back to Fujimaru, their collective Master. The fury and exasperation on his face was palpable. He was livelier than any could remember seeing him as of late. Hands going back and forth between his hair, the sky, and errant Servants.

“No, please! Go on! I’m begging SOMEBODY to explain this shitshow to me!”

Bedivere cleared his throat and raised his hand.

“Uh, Master- “

“Don’t interrupt me! Don’t you dare interrupt! All I wanted was one DAY of peace! To not be bothered! To just have some time alone with my thoughts! But apparently that was too much to ask for!”

Tristan waved at Fujimaru, trying to get his attention.

“Please Master, we- “

“Do I not deserve a break?! You all get breaks! While I’m fighting for my life in singularities and Lostbelts, you’re all back here, playing video games and watching movies and sleeping until noon! Do you have any idea the pressure I’m under?! “You have to save the world, Fujimaru!” “If you don’t commit another genocide the seven billion people on your Earth will stay dead, Fujimaru!” “I know an oni crammed her hand inside your chest and rearranged your guts, but make sure you file your incident report while it’s still fresh in your mind so you don’t forget any important details, Fujimaru!” But I can’t even get twenty-four uninterrupted hours to myself! Fuck me, I guess!”

At this point, most of the knights began to avert their gazes from Fujimaru.

“Whose idea was this Mickey Mouse bullshit?! Huh!”

Barghest rubbed the back of her head and coughed.

“Master, I really think- “

“Was it you, Gawain? Were you the one who thought having multiple human-shaped Calamities run up against no less than three holy swords was a fun Saturday activity?! I know you’re new here, but there’s only so much damage this simulator can withstand! Are you trying to sink this island?! Was that your reason for answering my summoning?! To sabotage me?! Because I get enough of that shit from Douman! I don’t need it from you!”

Mash, leaning on her shield, looked at Fujimaru’s face, making every effort to look nowhere else.

“Senpai, you- “

“And you, Mash! You of all people should know better! You’ve never gotten involved in shenanigans like this before! What happened? Did you want to fit in with the new kids?! Is that what happened here? Peer pressure?! Wh- ye- what's next?! You gonna start, uh. Uh. Cutting class! Cutting class and smoking under the bleachers?!”

“Master, please settle down.”

Fujimaru did an abrupt about-face to find the source of the disembodied voice he heard.

“And you! Oh. Emiya? What the hell are you doing here?”

It was true. Heroic Spirit EMIYA (Archer) had arrived, a large black duffel bag slung across his shoulder. He wore a neutral expression on his face, and had a steady timbre to his voice.

“Don’t you worry about me, Master. You need to worry about yourself for now.”

Emiya, when the mood struck him, could be a calming presence. He slowly placed a hand on Fujimaru’s shoulder and gently squeezed it.

“What, because I’m making an ass of myself?”

Emiya frowned and shook his head.

“No. It’s a bit more serious than that. Look down.”

Fujimaru narrowed his eyes with suspicion, but acquiesced. And as soon as he had, he wished he hadn’t.

Fujimaru wished he hadn’t looked down, because he realized he’d made a grave error.

Yes. It occurred to the young Master that in his haste to kick the noisy interlopers off his lawn, he’d neglected to put on shoes. Or socks. Or pants.

Or underwear.

Yes, in this moment, it dawned on Fujimaru that he’d just lost his mind while naked from the waist down.

Attempting to save face, he turned back around to address the two Round Tables.

“What? Let’s not act like nobody here has ever seen a Japanese man’s penis before! Me not having pants on doesn’t invalidate anything I said! This is reckless and stupid and dangerous! And whoever was in charge of scheduling the simulator should be fired because I had it reserved first!”

Unfortunately for Fujimaru, the longer he stood there, bits dangling in the breeze, the worse his position became. The longer the Servants stared at him, the more details they noticed. His shirt was inside-out. His hair was a mess. There were bite marks on his thighs. Residue of various dried fluids.

And everyone certainly noticed that while he was turned around to face Emiya, a bright red hand imprint was visible on his right ass cheek.

Fujimaru had been busy getting busy, and everybody knew it.

Most of them didn’t care one way or another what he did with penis, but it severely weakened his argument when he had a massive hickey staring back at them.

Emiya took a step forward and made eye contact with Fujimaru. Deliberately and slowly, he moved his eyes to his left, but said nothing and made no other movements. Mash's eerily calm voice cut the silence.

“Senpai. What were you doing here all night.”

Fujimaru blinked. Had he been meaner to Mash than the others, just now? Every word that came out of his mouth had just been erased from his memory, like a document that crashed before he could hit Save. He gulped, and calmly nodded.

“Well, Mash, thank you for asking. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.”

Mash simply stared back, silent as the grave. Fujimaru inhaled and nodded.

“You see. I- NIGERUNDAYOOOOOOOOO!”

And like the wiliest of Joestars, he launched into a dead sprint towards the exit.

Mash’s lower eye twitched. The people standing closest to her could swear they heard her glasses rattle on her face. The mood ruined and tensions high, everyone slowly turned their attention to the Demi-Servant. She uttered a low growl.

“Get him.”

Desperate for a chance to escape this situation, the Servants gave chase. Heroes of both Proper Human History and the British Lostbelt, united under one banner.

Well, most of them, anyway.

Artoria and Morgan, the only two with a serious stake in this conflict, remained. As did Emiya, whose appearance was a mystery, and Baobhan Sith, who was unwilling to simply leave her Mother in this turbulent time.

As Artoria readied her sword, Emiya interjected.

“Never thought the day would be saved by Master shirtcocking it, but here we are.”

This remark confounded them.

“Shirtcocking?”

“Also known as “Donald Duck-ing”, “Porky Pig-ing”, or “Winnie the Pooh-ing”, named for the multiple anthropomorphic cartoon animals who quite famously walk around wearing shirts while remaining naked from the waist down.”

Morgan scrunched her face in confusion.

“How utterly bizarre. If they’re animals, why not simply have them remain nude? Or, if they walk and talk like humans, why not make them fully clothed?”

“Excellent questions to which I have no answers.”

“Bah. What good are you then?”

“Do not speak to him like that!”

“Oh ho. Struck a nerve, have I?”

Emiya rolled his eyes and produced a digital tablet from his cloak.

“While I don’t have answers about fictional characters and their various states of undress, I do have a solution for this inexplicable blood feud you have.”

“We’re listening.”

Emiya nodded and pressed some buttons. Instantly, their surroundings glowed blue and digital effects morphed the world around them. With a flash, the simple green meadow was gone, replaced by a simple and much smaller arena.

Specifically, it was the inside of an athletic gym, complete with a boxing ring in the center. As Artoria, Morgan, and Baobhan Sith looked around, Emiya reached into the duffel bag and tossed a small item to Sith. She plucked it from the air and looked at it suspiciously.

Small. White. It appeared to be a roll of tape, but the texture didn’t match. It almost felt like it was a fabric of some kind.

“What the hell is this?”

“Hand wraps.”

“Hand wraps?”

“Yes. Your partner spreads out their fingers, and you tightly wrap this around their wrists and between their fingers.”

“Why?”

“Stops them from tearing the skin off their knuckles and dislocating or fracturing all the tiny bones and tendons in the hands.”

Artoria looked at him with skepticism.

“Are you suggesting unarmed combat?”

Emiya nodded.

“Yes. Obviously, this little spat between the two of you won’t go away until we deal with it. And since your respective armies were reluctant to engage in an all-out war and abandoned ship at the first opportunity they could take, this seems to be the simplest way to settle your differences.”

Sith looked at the wrap in her hand.

“What? Mother and her just wail on each other?”

“Yes.”

“Did you really need an entire bag for some hand wraps?”

Emiya rooted around in his bag and tossed another wrap at Sith.

“One wrap per hand per fighter.”

Next came a plastic bottle with a straw at the top.

“Water bottle. Made for squirting, so your fighter can clean the blood out of her mouth. Also because it’s unwise to consume large quantities of water while in a fight.”

Sith raised an eyebrow.

“Bold to assume Mother will even get blood in her mouth.”

And Emiya produced one final pair of items. Two large white boxes with red plus signs on them.

“And two first aid kits, as well as cornerman supplies. Gauze, cotton swabs, ice packs, no swell plates, ice, scissors, tape, stitches, needles. The essentials.”

Baobhan Sith was surprised at his level of preparedness.

“Did you just have all this shit laying around?”

“Believe it or not, there are plenty of people here who enjoy combat sports. All I had to do was put the equipment into a bag. Well, that and procure ice from the kitchen.”

Artoria looked him over.

“And where did you get the control panel for the simulator?”

“I bribed Musik with a muffin.”

“A muffin?”

“It was a large muffin. Blueberry.”

“Ah.”

“By the way, I don’t know exactly what it was you all said to him this morning, but he was very upset. I know asking either of you to apologize would be a waste of breath, but at least try to be nicer to him.”

Baobhan Sith extended her hand towards Morgan, the wrap aloft in her fingers.

Morgan scoffed loudly.

“That’s your master plan? For the two of us to settle our diff- “

CRACK

Artoria struck, like lightning. A thunderous right cross to Morgan’s jaw that reminded Emiya of her true strength. Morgan’s head whipped to the side, blood and spit flying from her mouth. He sighed and pinched his brow.

“Didn’t even wait for the bell. Or the mouthguards.”

Baobhan Sith was beside herself. She couldn’t decide if she should lash out at Artoria, or check on Morgan. Her mother’s fury was the stuff of legend, as was her power. And yet, even with all the legends of her vulgar displays of power, she’d never heard of her mother taking a blow to the face. Much less seen it with her own eyes. She stared in horror and rage as Morgan stood there in silence. Black ichor began dripping from her orifices as she neared a decision.

Morgan, whose head turned with the punch, slowly turned her head back to face Artoria. She moved her jaw around, up and down, side to side. Her cheek bulged as she moved her tongue around inside her mouth. She opened her mouth wide, then slowly shut it. She pursed her lips, and spit a single tooth onto the ground, a glob of blood going with it. With the tip of her tongue she felt the fresh split in her lower lip, another gift from PHH Artoria. She nodded slowly with recognition and a modicum of respect for her enemy. The High Queen of Faerie Britain locked eyes with Artoria, inhaled deeply, and spoke, though not to Artoria.

“Daughter.”

This snapped Baobhan Sith out of her state and she shook her head and answered.

“Yes, Mother?”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed, full of quiet fury and determination.

“Wrap me.”

Round One

“Alright, here’re the rules. Nothing unnecessarily complicated: Strikes, holds, and grappled are authorized. Eye gouges, fish hooks, and other “dirty” fighting techniques are authorized. Entering the ring or interfering with the fight in any way by the cornermen is prohibited. Rounds last five minutes each. There will be as many rounds as needed for a winner to be decided. The digital timer will be on the wall, visible to all parties. The bell will ring to denote the start and end of each round. After the end of each round, both fighters will retreat to their respective corners. During these breaks, the cornermen will be authorized to enter the ring and tend to their respective fighters. Do you have any questions?”

Emiya looked around. Artoria and Morgan were in the ring, both dressed in athletic attire. Sith was outside the ring, standing behind her mother’s corner. He made eye contact with each of them in turn, providing an opportunity for every party to speak any final objections. They all shook their heads, and Emiya silently exited the ring. He took up a position behind Artoria’s corner and pressed a button on the tablet. The bell rang, the timer started, and the two fighters left their corners and advanced on each other.

Artoria opened with a flurry of blows at Morgan’s face.

Morgan blocked them with her forearms and swung a wild right hook.

It was an obvious strike, and one Artoria easily blocked.

It was an obvious strike, because Morgan threw it as a feint. Artoria raised her left arm to block it, and Morgan kicked, connecting her shin with Artoria’s side.

Artoria winced and snatched Morgan’s wrist, yanking her arm in towards her own body and connecting forehead-to-forehead with a thunderous headbutt.

Now, as any experienced fighter knows, forehead-to-forehead is the worst kind of headbutt, for both parties involved.

But while they had fury and strength, Artoria and Morgan did not have extensive training in martial arts. They staggered backwards and took a moment before closing in on each other again.

What followed was a blur of motion. Punches. Kicks. Tosses. It was sloppy. Amateurish.

And yet, it was perfect for two people who fucking HATED each other and craved the opportunity to beat the tar out of each other.

Before long, the round was over and both cornermen were tending to their fighters. Emiya dabbed Artoria’s brow while Baobhan Sith squirted some water into Morgan’s mouth.

Emiya put his hands on Artoria’s face and gently moved it around, inspecting her head.

“No serious wounds yet. You need to be mindful of her legs. She’s using her whole body to fight. And stop with the fucking headbutts. Either go skull plate to nose, or nothing at all.”

Baobhan Sith lifted the spit bucket up to Morgan’s face. She spit into it and opened her mouth wide for her daughter to reinsert her mouthguard. She did so, and rolled out of the ring.

“She’s already slowing down, Mother! Rip her to shreds!”

Emiya clapped Artoria’s shoulder affirmatively and left the ring too.

Round Five

Five rounds in, and neither fighter was showing any sign of slowing down.

To the contrary, the longer the fight dragged on, the more confident the fighters became.

Not better at fighting, just more confident. At present, Morgan had Artoria in a rear chokehold. Baobhan Sith was excitedly cheering her mother on. Emiya was coaching as best he could.

“Tear her head off!”

“Goddammit! Turn your head! Twist your head to the right, get your chin in the crook of her elbow and tilt your face forward. No! Not my right! Your right!”

Rolling around in the struggle, Emiya’s advice finally clicked for Artoria. She repositioned her head as he instructed and freed her airway, but found herself unable to wrench herself free. Morgan’s grip was just too tight.

And then Artoria had a wicked idea.

She spat out her mouth guard, opened her mouth wide, and bit down on Morgan’s arm.

“AH! You cunt!”

Morgan began furiously shaking her, as though she were a rabid dog. Artoria clenched her jaw even stronger, trickles of blood coming out.

In a blind fury, Morgan swung her head forward into the back of Artoria’s head.

This, of course, was a terrible idea. While forehead-to-forehead is the worst kind of headbutt, your forehead to the back of your opponent’s head is a close second.

Temporarily disoriented, Morgan loosed her grasp and clutched her head. Artoria took this opportunity to wriggle out and clamber to her feet.

While Morgan was still on the mat, Artoria hit her with an elbow drop.

“Go for the head! Go for the head!”

Round Twelve

Including the breaks between rounds, Artoria and Morgan had been wailing on each other for over an hour and showed no signs of slowing down. Thunderous blows. Strikes that would have killed a normal human. Dives off the top rope. Poorly-imitated wrestling maneuvers that would have killed both user and target, if they had been human.

Emiya looked up at the clock, then down at his phone. He certainly hadn’t expected they’d be going full-tilt for so long. This was taking much longer than he’d carved time out of his schedule to watch. He’d been here so long it was time to leave for his shift in the kitchen. He wasn’t excited at the prospect of leaving Artoria mid-fight, but they were both working adults and he couldn’t just no-show to his job.

“Artoria? I’m leaving.”

Artoria, who was preparing to leap from the top rope, stopped.

“Now? But I am moments away from victory!”

Morgan cackled loudly in response.

“Ha! Moments away from getting your neck broken is more like it.”

Emiya rolled his eyes, wholly unimpressed by the display.

“My shift in the kitchen is about to start. I have to go. I’ll leave everything here on the ground for you.”

Baobhan Sith, who’d become bored sometime around the eighth round and was mostly playing on her phone, sensed the commotion and looked up.

“Huh? What’s going on? Mother, have you killed her yet?”

Morgan sighed. As excited as she was to settle this grudge, she could tell Baobhan Sith was sticking around solely out of familial loyalty, and not genuine interest. And despite her boasting, she knew this fight was far from over. Morgan looked down at Sith and waved her hand, gently dismissing her.

Sith nodded and got up to leave. If Mother wanted to be alone, then alone she would be. In her half-awake stupor, she had managed to pick up the word “kitchen” and began following Emiya out.

“You. Chef.”

“You. Bloodsucker.”

“What’s on the menu tonight?”

“Dinner.”

“So helpful. Does that amuse you? Being a petty bitch?”

“Yeah. Don’t you have a castle to haunt? Or a pool of virgin blood to bathe in?”

“Not until ten.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“This. We’re not engaging in banter.”

“Hang on. Is this the part of the story where we realize we’re more similar than we thought, and we start sharing our tragic backstories?”

Emiya came to a dead halt and turned to look at Baobhan Sith.

“Talking about my life with you? Hearing about your life? I’d rather fucking kill myself.”

Sith stared up at him for a beat, then cackled.

“Ha! You’ve finally said something that isn’t just stupid bullshit.”

Emiya sighed and turned back, resuming his commute to work. He hastened his pace hoping to leave the fairy princess behind. She followed him, trying to keep up.

“Hey! You still haven’t told me what’s for dinner! What kind of chef doesn’t know his menu? Hey! Stop ignoring me!”

Round ???

The fight tarried on far longer than anyone would have expected. Artoria and Morgan were both clearly the worse for wear.

Morgan’s nose was busted and blood, some dry and some damp, coated her face and front.

Artoria’s left eye was swollen shut. In her blood rage, she had completely forgotten that Emiya included a no-swell plate in his cornerman kit, a tool that would have prevented such a massive bruise from forming.

The rulers of two Britains were panting and staggering in the ring.

Artoria threw an exhausted right haymaker. While she wasn’t able to maintain speed, she still had plenty of strength in it. Her fist connected with Morgan’s cheek, rocking sweat and other fluids off her.

Morgan nailed her with a left uppercut. It was a glancing blow, her fist connecting with Artoria’s chin before sliding off. Regardless of its weakened efficacy, it was enough to make Artoria take two shaky steps backwards.

Artoria dropped her arms and took two haggard breaths. With a furious battle cry she charged, whipping her head forward and landing another forehead-to-forehead blow.

Both fighters sank to the mat. They scooted their way to their respective corners to recuperate. After some time in silence, Artoria called out to Morgan.

“Why? Why me?”

“Why not?”

“That is no answer, and you know it. Why have I drawn your ire? The Child of Prophecy from your Lostbelt is here, and you have made no attempt to direct your attention to her.”

“She’s here too? Interesting.”

“Do you expect me to believe you did not know?”

Morgan tilted her head back and thought on it.

“I suppose it’s possible Fujimaru or Mash mentioned having a Caster-class Artoria on-station in passing. But I was a bit preoccupied. I’ve barely had time to think since I’ve arrived. Two of your knights assailed me as soon as I was summoned, after all.”

“Two knights with every reason to do so.”

“You mean your nephew and daughter?”

“Do not refer to Mordred in such a manner.”

“Why not? Wait, is it because she prefers to tell people she is a man? Hmm. Is Mordred transgender? I have no quarrel with people who simply wish to live life on their own terms. I have many reasons to hate people and that reason is too stupid and petulant, even for me.”

“What? No, that is not to what I referred. And Mordred is not transgender. We have a few transgender Servants and human staff amongst our cohort, but she cannot be counted as one. She simply presented herself as a man in life to hide her identity. And because our society would never have allowed her to hold any station of import as a woman.”

“Just like her father, it sounds like.”

Artoria growled.

“Mordred is a crime against me.”

Morgan nodded solemnly.

“I have been made aware of…certain details…regarding that situation. If you hated her so strongly, you should have simply killed her and been done with it. Clearly, no one gained anything from your keeping her around. So why did you? Too soft to do what was necessary?”

“Hah! During my reign as King, none ever accused me of being “soft”. To the contrary, my willingness to sacrifice for my cause sowed the very seeds of dissent that Mordred and Morgan reaped so thoroughly.”

“Well, take it from me: it’s better to just fully commit to being a tyrant. The masses will never be satisfied with their rulers. Trying to work for their benefit will only allow rebellions to arise. They don’t want a gentle hand to guide and uplift them. They need a gauntlet on their throat to keep them in line.”

“Spare me your advice. There is nothing worth learning from a monster such as yourself.”

“Ha ha ha! My reign lasted thousands of years. Detest my methods as you wish, but never call into question my results.”

“It is my understanding that you cared only for the land itself, and would have been fine if every denizen of your world perished.”

Morgan cackled.

“If you’d seen them the way I did? You wouldn’t be defending them.”

“The innocent should always be protected.”

Morgan snarled.

“There are no innocent fae.”

“Certainly not anymore.”

“Certainly not ever. Thanks to Chaldea and the Child of Prophecy.”

“And yet I am the target of your vitriol. Did you answer the summoning call so you could take your revenge? Perhaps I should kill you before you turn on our Master?”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Artoria tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling.

“What has caused you to act this way? Surely there must be some explanation for your behavior and actions.”

“What is so hard to comprehend? I was made by the Planet to force the faeries to perform their duty and forge the Holy Sword. Naturally, they hated me for it. I spent millennia saving those stupid animals from the calamities that plagued them, only to be hunted by the very “people” I saved, every single time. I grew tired of trying to fulfill my destiny, broke the shackles of fate, and took my life into my own hands.”

“I see a dark mirror of one of the most important people in my life. I see someone who is unquestionably intelligent enough to know what question I am asking, and yet dances around it.”

Morgan rolled her eyes.

“Perhaps you should let someone finish telling their story first. Are you the type who lacks the patience to allow a play to finish before asking questions? “Why did that man do that?” “I don’t know Artoria, we’re only on the Second Act.” Maybe let the story play out a bit.”

“Morgan.”

Morgan rolled her eyes and groaned.

“Ugh. Fine. The Crypter arrived in my world and summoned a Servant of Proper Human History, Morgan le Fay. She promptly took advantage of the situation and Rayshifted her memories into me. So, in addition to the burden of my mission, I also had to contend with these scenes of your world. A world that was deemed “correct”, despite having no shortage of flaws. Where she was denied her birthright in favor of you. I ignored them, until one particular betrayal by the fae drove me over the edge. I used her gifts and took over. And if I’d only had a little more time, I would have supplanted this failed Earth with my own.”

“So that is the reason? You have my Morgan’s memories, and so you carry on her crusade against me? How stupid.”

“Oh ho, look at little Artoria. Always convinced that she is in the right, to the surprise of no one. Carrying on with the “righteous” fury.”

“YOU ARE NOT HER! Do not speak as though you are my sister! Do not talk down to me as if you know me!”

“Don’t I?! I’d wager I know you better than anyone here, even your knights.”

“I doubt that. You say you have her memories, yet you could not remember her five children. Her creation of the devil that destroyed Camelot. All the good she wrought as Vivian, the Lady of the Lake. There was so much more to my sister that you just seem to lack. It is as if you inherited her rage and naught else.”

Morgan sighed.

“Perhaps that is true. I have thousands of years of my own memories, in addition to hers. Maybe only the strongest of them actually stuck.”

Artoria sighed as well.

“That is so disheartening. Morgan was more than just cruelty and magic. She was also the closest thing I ever had to a mother, and yet here we sit. With the knowledge that her most powerful impulses are her hatred. I did not force Uther and Merlin to plot and create me. I did not force Uther to deny Morgan her birthright.”

“No. No you didn’t. But when you emerged from hiding and chose to take up Uther’s post? Drew the sword from its stone? Who else was left to bear the brunt of it?”

“The angry, forlorn child. She was wronged, and chose to make everyone suffer for it.”

“And you. The usurper messiah, wholly convinced that everything she did was for the greatest good, consequences and proper inheritances be damned.”

Artoria looked at Morgan, resignation on her face.

“When I had heard that you had come from a Lostbelt, I thought that we might reach an understanding. If not as friends, perhaps as colleagues and peers.”

“Come now. You had to know that could never come to pass.”

“The clarity of hindsight. For all your differences, you do bear similarities to my Morgan. Close enough where it matters. Despite my hopes to the contrary.”

“So stupidly optimistic. It is a miracle a child like you ever became king.”

“At least I managed to kill my Vortigern.”

“Hmph. Yes, I suppose you did. I’m sure that’s worth certain considerations.”

Artoria wiped some blood from her lip and looked at Morgan.

“So what happens now? Surely you know we cannot carry on as thus.”

“No, I guess not. Certainly not after all our knights took the very first chance they saw to scurry away like cockroaches.”

“One might conclude none of them wished to be dragged into our conflict.”

“Ha! I am not the kind of ruler who gives a shit what my subordinates wish for.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Why did you put up with their insubordination for so long? They failed you. Defied you. One of them fucked your wife and another killed you. The best of them were useless. The worst of them actively hastened your end.”

“Would I be correct in assuming you think I should have killed them all?”

“Obviously.”

Artoria rolled her eyes.

“Because no man is an island. Because my success came from the strength of our unity. Because killing your strongest soldiers only weakens your own army. Feel free to speak up if any of this doctrine sounds familiar to you.”

“Hmph. Culling the weak was never a problem for me.”

“Why would it be? Some people were not so fortunate as to receive the black primordial ooze of our homeland. Some of us had to make do with magic weapons and charisma.”

“Excuses.”

“Please. Were it not for the intervention of my Morgan, do you truly believe you would have risen to the heights you did?”

“Heh. Impudent bug. It has been quite some time since anyone has had the spine to speak to me like an equal.”

“No? Truly? Ruling through fear and power left you with nothing but sycophants for company? I am beside myself with shock.”

Morgan glared at Artoria intently. After a moment she relented and chuckled.

“You are nothing if not amusing.”

“It is foolish to ask, but do you think we can coexist in this place? Clearly friendship is beyond the realm of possibility, but I would think trading barbs and coming to blows are impulsive acts and quite beneath us.”

Morgan nodded.

“These halls are quite large. Avoiding each other should be no herculean task.”

“Then we have an accord?”

“Yes. But first, let us finish this fight. I cannot bear the thought of you walking away from this thinking it ended with a draw.”

“A draw? Heavens no. Clearly I was winning. And I thought it was implicit that we would settle this before we go our separate ways.”

Morgan sneered as she reached up behind her, pulling on the turnbuckle to stand up. Artoria flopped forward, planting her palms on the mat as she slowly rose to her feet. Artoria turned her head to side and spit, blood and saliva hitting the floor. Artoria put her fists up, shifting to a fighting stance, as did Morgan.

“Ready?”

“Bring it on, bitch.”

Later

It seemed that peace had returned to the land, at least for the time being. After dinner, Emiya made his way back to the simulator and collected Artoria. Both she and Morgan were on the mat, no indication of a winner to be found. Emiya considered simply grabbing his own baggage and leaving, but decided to grab Morgan as well, taking both to the infirmary. When asked by Nightingale for an explanation, he merely shrugged and claimed to know nothing.

After the trip to the infirmary, Artoria got cleaned up, and the pair returned to their room. Emiya did not press her for details, but could tell that regardless of the outcome, she had reached some semblance of satisfaction.

Late in the night, deep in what Servants experienced in lieu of REM sleep, Emiya began to twitch in bed. His face contorted and twisted, and just as abruptly as this disturbance started it stopped.

Suddenly, Emiya’s eyes snapped open and he shot straight up in their bed. He shouted, as though he’d just made a grand discovery.

"GRIMLOCK!”

“AH!”

Naturally, the shouting and movement shook Artoria from her slumber, and she jumped out and fell onto the floor with a thud.

Chapter Text

“Shirou?”

“You’re never going to stop calling me that, are you?”

“Why would I? It is your name, after all.”

A heavy sigh was Emiya’s response.

Today was a perfectly normal afternoon in Novum Chaldea. On this particular occasion, Emiya and Artoria’s schedules had aligned, and they were eating lunch together in their room. Artoria had a bento box before her, packed with rice, salmon, half a hardboiled egg, broccoli, and a cherry tomato. Emiya’s meal consisted of a Reuben: corned beef, Swiss cheese, sauerkraut, and Thousand Island dressing piled high on rye bread, with an apple on the side.

There was a crunch as Emiya took a bite into his sandwich. Artoria waited politely as he finished his mouthful of food before asking him a question she’d wanted to ask for quite some time. Emiya noticed the uncharacteristic lack of food entering Artoria’s mouth and quickly swallowed his own food.

“Is something the matter? Food alright?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. The food is fine. I had a question, and hoped you might be able to provide meaningful input. That we might have a dialogue.”

Emiya put the half of sandwich in his hands down on the plate and wiped his hands with a napkin. He took a quick sip of water from a glass and leaned forward, indicating through his posture that Artoria had his full attention.

“I get the feeling this won’t be something simple like “What’s for dinner?”, will it?”

Artoria set her chopsticks down over her bento box and shook her head.

“It will not.”

Emiya put his hands together, fingers interlaced.

“Well then? Out with it. Mind reading is not one of my many talents.”

Artoria nodded and took a deep breath.

“Have you considered the two of us engaging in more…adult relationship-type activities?”

Emiya looked perplexed by this notion of hers.

“We live together and regularly have sex. That’s just about the most “adult” thing a couple can do.”

Artoria coughed.

“Shirou!”

Emiya upturned his palms.

“Come on, it’s just us in here. Two adults. Two adults who live together. Seriously, what are you trying to get at? I wasn’t trying to be cute when I said I can’t read your mind.”

Artoria took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and sat with her hands together for a moment to collect herself before answering.

“I have given this matter some thought. After seeing some of the other Servant unions, such as Caesar and Cleopatra, Sigurd and Brynhild, Amakusa and Semiramis- “

“That last couple is very surprising, by the way. It’s not like they were alive during the same time period. When would they have had the opportunity to meet?”

“Oh! I have not said anything about them to anyone else, so as to not be rude, but I agree. They make for a very unlikely pairing.”

“They seem fairly happy with each other, at any rate.”

“Agreed. Anyway.”

“Yes?”

“I wish to gauge your interest in performing more, “couple-related” activities.”

Emiya shrugged.

“Artoria, you know we aren’t exactly the “cutesy in public” type.”

Past

The clock on the wall displayed a time of 20:47. It was evening, and Artoria and Emiya were in bed, settling in for the night. They both sat upright in silence. Emiya was holding his tablet, engrossed in a new recipe he’d found. As he tapped the device to scroll to the next page, he let out a wide yawn.

Having watched quite a bit of film, television, and other Servants in her down time, this gave the King of Knights a delightfully devilish idea. As silently and deliberately as she could muster, she extended her index finger towards Emiya’s mouth. Careful to avoid the edges of his peripheral vision, Artoria stuck her finger in as his yawn reached its apex, poking the inside of his cheek.

This, of course, was a mistake.

Purely on instinct, upon feeling an uninvited foreign body in his mouth, Emiya bit down.

Hard.

Before either fully realized what was happening, Emiya tasted blood in his mouth and Artoria felt a searing pain in her digit. Neither was fully certain in that moment if Emiya has managed to bite clean through and sever the appendage.

Artoria shrieked and struck Emiya in the face. What followed that moment was a Three Stooges-esque comedy of errors slapstick bit that ended with Emiya taking his pillow and sleeping in the kitchen.

He told the overnight prep crew that he was posting up as additional security in the pantry against raids by Jaguar Man, and while they shared suspicious glances, everyone politely declined to interrogate him further.

Present

“Sanson was very curious as to why my finger needed to be reattached.”

“And I’m still curious as to why the fuck you thought sticking your finger in my mouth was anything resembling a good idea.”

“I thought you might think it was cute and playful!”

“Mid-yawn is one of the most vulnerable times for the human body! I am constantly on the alert for attack. Don’t do that again.”

Artoria’s gaze tightened.

“Oh ho. It would seem defenseless orifices are far less entertaining when they are your orifices.”

“We both know you love that thing I do with my tongue.”

Artoria scowled, sighed, and pinched her brow. After a moment of silence, she resumed their conversation.

“Moving on.”

“By all means.”

Artoria took another deep breath and pressed on.

“Have you ever considered having children?”

“No.”

The speed and decisiveness in Emiya’s answer took Artoria by surprise. Nonplussed by the inquiry, Emiya grabbed his sandwich and took another bite. As he chewed his food, Artoria chewed her response.

“You have never thought about having children?”

“What’s there to think about? When I was alive, it was the furthest thing from my mind. After I died, it became an impossibility. Why waste my afterlife pondering scenarios that can’t happen?”

This brought a pall on the room, and after a few more bites of Reuben, Emiya wiped his hands once more and made eye contact with Artoria.

“What’s the matter? C’mon, talk to me. Why are you suddenly hung up on this kids business?”

Artoria shifted in her seat and shrugged awkwardly.

“I…do not know why, exactly. Only that, well. We have been granted so many opportunities in this place. Sometimes I contemplate the ordinary life I discarded and how it might have unfolded.”

Emiya sighed and nodded.

“I won’t tell you not to imagine it, but there’s virtually nothing either of us can do about it. We’re both Servants. It’s not like I can get you pregnant.”

“Adoption is an avenue many have pursued.”

Emiya scoffed reflexively, then cleared his throat. It was an act born of instinct and not meant to offend, but he knew better than to let it linger. Best to push forward.

“Who exactly would we adopt? Meuniere? Cerejeira? The world is Bleached and there are no more children to be found, Artoria.”

“There are numerous children present, many of whom are unattended.”

Emiya put his hands up, as if to gesture her to stop.

“Wait just a damn minute. I know they’re all tiny and young-looking, but they’re Servants. Every single one of them is a Heroic Spirit. They aren’t juvenile humans to be reared. They’re sentient weapons, recreations of figures from human history and myth. And if any of them are “unattended”, it means Mister “Jesuit missionary and babysitter extraordinaire” isn’t doing his damned job.”

“We both know it is only a matter of time until Master summons another child Servant.”

“And what, we just scoop the next one up? Hang out in the rafters of the Summoning Chamber and snatch the next tiny Ghost Liner that jumps out of Mash’s shield? Seems like we’re skipping a lot of steps in the adoption process.”

“Obviously not the next one! That was never my suggestion. That would be lunacy. But perhaps you and I could begin a dialogue and reach some kind of agreement for the future.”

Emiya leaned back and crossed his arms.

“We aren’t a conventional couple. And neither of us has ever shown any strong parental instincts. I vote no.”

“Why? Because you have no interest? Or because you think you would fare poorly at the effort?”

“Yes.”

Artoria cocked her head and blinked.

“Yes to- “

“Both!”

“Hmph. I believe you are selling the both of us short.”

“Oh, you really think so?”

“Yes.”

“Rich, coming from you.”

“And just what are you implying?”

“Nothing much. Just reminding you that amidst this entirely unprompted discussion of having children, you already have one of those, and you aren’t exactly winning any “Father of the Year” awards for your efforts.”

Artoria folded her arms and looked away.

“I certainly have no idea to what you refer.”

“Mordred. You know. Your kid? That Mordred? About 154cm. Looks exactly like you but angry, and with a snaggletooth? Always screaming your name and breaking shit? Stop me if any of this rings a bell.”

The Cafeteria

“AHHHH-CHOO!”

Mordred sniffed, set her burger down on the plate, and wiped her face with a napkin. It was a large burger, with all the works. Two thick patties, a red onion ring, lettuce, tomato, cheese, ketchup, and bacon. She scrunched her nose and looked up.

“You know, I hear in some cultures, sneezing means somebody’s talkin’ about ya. Who do you think is singing my praises today?”

Mordred stared at her companion. It was Jekyll, and he was not amused. He stared back at her with dead eyes as a glob of partially-chewed burger clung to his forehead.

“Uh, sorry about that. You, uh. You gonna have that?”

Jekyll did not respond as Mordred awkwardly rubbed the back of her head. She slowly extended her hand to pick the food off Jekyll’s face, and just as she reached it-

SMACK

Jekyll’s hand shot up, slapped Mordred’s hand away, and cleaned his face off with a napkin of his own. Mordred withdrew her hand and tenderly rubbed it, acting as if she’d been hurt.

“Jesus, dude. Coulda just said no.”

Jekyll glared at her.

“And you could’ve dropped your burger and covered your mouth before you sneezed. I swear you’re no better than a wild animal.”

Mordred smirked.

“Accept no substitutes.”

The Room

“Do not bring Mordred into this. We have discussed to death why the two of us forming a familial bond is impossible. I will not discuss it further.”

Emiya sighed and slumped his shoulders.

“Fine, whatever. Let’s just assume that you could be a decent parent, if the mood struck you. That still leaves me. I have no interest and no aptitude for parenting.”

“How can you say that?”

“With my mouth.”

“Feeling particularly quippy today, aren’t we?”

Emiya shrugged.

“Fine, fine. Truth is, I find children to be unruly. They’re noisy, irritating, and think they’re the center of the universe. If you take the time to properly raise them, it’s just a never-ending chore.”

Artoria scoffed.

“I am beside myself. You have shown time and again how good you are with children.”

Emiya shook his head.

“I disagree. I don’t make any effort to adjust my behavior for their benefit. I simply execute the duties of my job as expected. I’m just a “nice guy” to begin with. Nothing special.”

Artoria cocked an eyebrow.

“What of our interactions with the Einzberns? You seem to take quite naturally to their ad hoc family.”

Emiya shrugged.

“I’m more of the “cool and aloof extended family member” than anything of substance. Like the older cousin you only see on holidays.”

“I believe the bond you’ve formed with them goes deeper than that.”

“Again, I disagree.”

Artoria sighed with exasperation.

“Very well. Was it not you who helped Master teach the young Jalter Lily the meaning of Christmas and being a Santa?”

“That was a mysterious and handsome Archer named “Santam”, whom I’ve never met. I hear he’s awesome, however.”

Artoria pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, a facial expression mirroring her exasperated disbelief. Nonplussed, Emiya continued speaking.

“And Santam merely followed Master’s orders, nothing more. Also, I’d like to point out how extremely strange it was that we had two Christmases that year.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. The first time your Alter became a Rider Santa, and the second time was with Jeanne d’Arc Alter Santa Lily, right around the time Master left for the Seventh Singularity. Well, I guess you weren’t around for the first one, now that I think about it.”

“Not calling her “Jalter Lily” as everyone else does?”

“Absolutely not. It’s demeaning. And she isn’t even an actual child! She’s just Jeanne Alter, de-aged by a potion she got from Gilgamesh!”

“But she behaves as a child would and is often in the company of Jack and Nursery Rhyme. Also, are you certain about her origins? I swear I saw her and Jeanne Alter together the other day. If she were just a magically transformed Jeanne Alter, than should it not be impossible for them to interact?”

Emiya shrugged.

“Yes, I’m certain. As to how both of them are around at the same time, I think Master summoned her as a separate entity at some point after that Christmas ended.”

“Years have passed, and this place never ceases to bewilder me.”

“None of what happens here should be possible. Even changing Spirit Origins into a class different than the one you were summoned as should be impossible. Just like summoning Alters. Or Extra-classes.”

“I do not believe those examples are impossible, just unlikely.”

“Not at the rate Master does it. I mean, seven Avengers? And as if that’s not enough, one of them is from the Servant Universe.”

Artoria shook her head.

“We are straying further and further from my intended discussion. So, setting all that strangeness aside, at least for the moment?”

Emiya sighed and nodded.

“Setting it aside, I still have no interest.”

“From what I hear, you are quite adept at dealing with children, especially the more “unruly” ones, as you have described them.”

Past

Emiya stood behind the counter, looking out over the cafeteria. It was just after the morning breakfast rush. The kitchen staff had not quite turned over to lunch prep yet, but by this hour it was only stragglers who would come for breakfast. On this particular day, a straggler did appear. And it was a straggler with whom Emiya was unfamiliar.

This new visitor was a young girl. From her long, straight, blonde hair, fair skin, and blue eyes, Emiya guessed she was European. Or at least European in ethnicity, if not nationality. Her clothing, an oversized black dress with several black and orange bows vaguely reminded him of the clothing worn by early colonizers of the North American continent. While his early observations had narrowed down the possibilities of this young girl’s identity quite a bit, Emiya decided it was best to simply allow this newcomer to introduce herself. Less brainwork for him, and besides. Most of his coworkers were friendly enough to introduce themselves anyway.

The girl clambered up onto a stool, clutching a teddy bear to her chest. She bowed her head ever so slightly and politely smiled up at Emiya.

“Good morning! I’m Abigail Williams! Master says this is the best place to find pancakes?”

Emiya bowed slightly and returned the smile. The name didn’t ring any particular bells, but it did lend credence to his working theory of her origins.

“Nice to meet you, Abigail. My name is Emiya. And Master is correct. By default, this is the “best” place to find pancakes.”

Abby cocked her head just a bit at the remark.

“By default? What does that mean?”

Emiya chuckled softly.

“Just a little joke. This is cafeteria, and behind us is the kitchen. This is the “best” place to find food of any kind because this is the only place where food gets made.”

Abby smiled and nodded, chuckling politely.

“I get it now.”

Emiya nodded.

“So, anything else besides pancakes? We have plenty of toppings and sides as well.”

Abby nodded fervently. She already had her preferred extras in mind.

“Butter, and bacon, and mashed potatoes and gravy, please!”

“Sure thing. Coming right up.”

Emiya turned around to get her food. There was always a bountiful supply of pancakes and bacon at breakfast, but mashed potatoes at this time of day was another story. Through the power of Chaldea kitchen magic he could whip some up, but that would take a few minutes. No matter, he mused to himself. The child seemed reasonable enough, and a thick stack of pancakes ought to placate her in the meantime. As he put plates together in the kitchen, he shouted back over his shoulder.

“Abigail? How do you like your bacon?”

“Crispy, please!”

“Got it!”

Emiya piled a stack of pancakes onto one plate and the bacon on another, smaller plate. Five thick pancakes, with a healthy dollop of butter on top. The butter was partially melted, forming a small puddle around its center. Six strips of bacon accompanied it. Dark red and shriveled, the hallmarks of skillet-fried bacon, crisp guaranteed. Emiya returned to the counter, a plate in each hand. He set them down gently before Abigail, who was eagerly awaiting her meal. Her smile drooped just the tiniest bit.

“No potatoes?”

Emiya shook his head.

“If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes, I can prepare some. Do you think you can get started with this while you wait?”

Satisfied that there was an answer to her potato problem, Abigail’s smile returned.

“Okay! Thank you Mister Emiya.”

Emiya nodded and reached under the counter, producing a set of silverware for the girl.

“Sure thing. Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Milk? Orange juice?”

Abigail tilted her head thought briefly on it.

“Juice, please.”

Emiya walked away to get her drink. He called out to the newcomer as he did.

“Certainly. So, what’s your Class, Abigail?”

“My…oh! Master says I’m a Foreigner!”

Emiya returned, setting the glass down with a puzzled look on his face.

“Foreigner, huh? I have to admit, I’ve never heard of that before. Can you tell me about it?”

“According to Master and Miss Da Vinci, I’m the first one!”

“Really? Congratulations, then.”

Abigail nodded then bowed her head, closed her eyes, and put her hands together. She leaned forward, uttered a prayer, then smiled and cut into her pancake. She took a bite, let it sit in her mouth for a second, then chewed voraciously and swallowed.

“Thank you! They said I “wield power drawn from outside human boundaries”. I didn’t really get it, but it sounds kinda scary.”

Emiya stroked his chin.

“Huh. That’s very interesting. I’ll have to ask them about it when I get the chance. But first, I’ll get on those potatoes.”

“Thank you!”

It was a relatively simple process, making the potatoes. Wash, peel, quarter, then boil them. After boiling, drain and mash, mixing in milk, butter, salt, and pepper. Boiling and mashing would take the longest time of all the steps, but a bit of magecraft sped up the kill chain considerably. Good thing, too. With nearly two hundred Servants on deck, any means of rapidly getting dishes onto plates was a godsend.

Two potatoes should be plenty for a single person, Emiya reasoned, and swiftly tossed them in a pot to boil. As he did, he swore he heard the faint sounds of schlorping tentacles in the cafeteria. Brushing that out of his mind, he set a short timer and returned to his guest. To his immense surprise, he found Abigail sitting patiently, two utterly spotless plates before her.

“Did you finish all that food by yourself?”

Abigail nodded.

“Yes, and I loved every bite! Thank you so much, Mister Emiya.”

Emiya was confounded. How did she pack it away so quickly? He shook his head and set aside his questions for the time being. His professional duties superseded his curiosity.

“Are you still hungry? I’m working on the mashed potatoes as we speak.”

Abigail nodded.

“Yes, please.”

“Alright. More pancakes? If you finished off the stack that quickly, you must be famished.”

Abigail pondered it for a moment, her face scrunching as she thought.

“Well, asking you to cancel food I’ve ordered would be rude, so I won’t do that. But having too much food would be gluttonous and indulgent. Sin must be avoided.”

Emiya folded his arms in front of his chest and stood calmly. There were plenty of devoutly religious Servants in Chaldea. Some staff, too. Best to tread lightly.

“For what it’s worth, you shouldn’t think of things like food consumption by human standards. You’re a Servant now, and require a steady stream of mana to effectively function. Food is one way of mitigating that cost.”

Abigail’s frown persisted.

“Hmmmm.”

“If you aren’t convinced yet, consider this: if you aren’t eating enough, you’ll wind up draining the deficiency in your mana reserves from Master, and that could put his life at risk. You wouldn’t want to do that, would you?”

Abigail shook her head.

“No. Master was very kind to take me in. I certainly wouldn’t want to cause him any trouble.”

Emiya nodded.

“It’s only gluttony if you eat in excess of what you need. As for indulgent? Well. I guess I could hold the gravy and seasonings on your potatoes. Just some things to think about.”

Abigail’s eyes lit up, a mix of recognition and fear. She pointed a finger at the chef.

“Wait! “And another portent appeared in heaven; behold, a great red dragon, with-“ “

“I’m not the devil, Abigail.”

Emiya was not at all religious. He knew, academically, from certain saintly coworkers, that the Abrahamic god did indeed exist in some form, just the same as the gods of every other pantheon in various capacities throughout history. He didn’t begrudge worship, he just never personally got anything from faith. Still, even to a guy as secular as he was, that verse from the Book of Revelation was unmistakable. He also was no stranger to being accused of being some manner of devil.

Abigail withdrew her finger, but maintained a suspicious glare at Emiya.

“That sounds like exactly what the devil would say.”

Emiya shook his head.

“No, it was my understanding that Lucifer was quite proud of himself and more than willing to claim his victories. Take his temptation of Christ in the desert, for example. I doubt he wore a nametag, but he certainly didn’t deny his identity when Christ addressed him as such. Also, summoning a fallen angel as a Servant is surely impossible.”

At that moment, a certain Mesopotamian goddess of beauty (and war) walked past with a breakfast burrito.

“Yeah, even more impossible than summoning literal gods.”

Emiya glowered and shouted as she passed.

“If you break another microwave so help me, no god of any faith will be able to save you from my wrath!”

Abigail stared at him with curiosity as he composed himself.

“Hmmm. From scripture, Satan was always depicted as a being who tempts people into turning their back on the Lord. Openly threatening someone with violence doesn’t quite suit him.”

Emiya shrugged.

“Satisfied?”

Abigail thought for another moment, then nodded.

“I guess the odds of the Father of Lies being summoned as a Hero to help Master protect the world would be unlikely.”

“Glad that's settled. Now, as for that second helping of pancakes?”

Abigail took a deep breath.

“Okay. But only for Master’s sake. No butter this time.”

“Attagirl.”

Emiya returned to the kitchen again. As soon as his back was turned, he felt a chill crawl up his spine. His Mind’s Eye, that preternatural danger sense honed through decades of combat experience, flared. He spun around on his heels and saw:

Nothing.

Just Abby, sitting patiently at the counter, head slowly rolling from side-to-side as she hummed to herself. Emiya looked for a moment before turning back around and getting the pancakes. He gingerly set the plate down and scanned the cafeteria, not detecting any obvious signs of danger.

“Hmm. Abigail?’

“Yes?”

“Did you see anything strange just now?”

Abigail shook her head. There was a hungry look in her eyes, but Emiya figured it was just for the food he’d delivered.

“No, sir.”

“Huh. Must’ve been my imagination.”

Abigail shrugged and took up her utensils, greedily eying her food. As she made the first cut, Emiya’s timer went off. Not wanting to disappoint a customer, he hastily made his way to the potatoes. Just like before, the instant he turned around, he felt like the reality around him was in danger. He peered over shoulder and once more, saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Maybe it was just his nerves. It was December 2017, after all. Finis Chaldea had resolved the four Pseudo-Singularities and with his luck, that meant they’d be shut down and he’d go back to the Throne. Emiya shook his head. Perhaps it was simply his reticence to end his vacation in this world that had him so jumpy today.

Emiya drained the potatoes and began mashing them, occasionally stirring in the butter, milk, and seasonings. The dish was ready in short order, a sprinkle of chive on top for garnish. As he returned to the cafeteria, the feeling of impending doom returned as well. He set the bowl of mashed potatoes on the counter and looked around. The cafeteria was deserted. Everyone was gone.

Everyone, except him.

And Abigail Williams.

Abby looked up at Emiya and down at the bowl, then frowned.

“First you try to lead me astray with food, and then you don’t even deliver on my gravy?”

Emiya stared down at Abigail. Gone was his jovial morning mood. He looked at her the way he should have looked at her from the very beginning: as a threat. He scanned her as if he was sizing her up for a child-sized coffin. Fully transitioning to combat mode, his twin shortswords were in his hands as Abigail’s skin turned grey and a purple cloud of smoke grew beneath her. Massive tentacles began to rise from the ground behind Abby as Emiya raised his arm, launching his first strike.

“HAHAHAHAHA!”

Before Emiya could cut off this little Threat to Humanity’s head, and before the false witness of the Salem Witch Trials and vessel of Yog-Sothoth could strangle the red chef, a new challenger appeared.

A man in dark green cloak with fire in his eyes materialized in a flash of brimstone, catching Emiya’s sword with one hand and clasping Abby’s shoulder with the other.

“Come now, best to settle those tempers, don’t you think?”

Emiya snarled in response.

“Hello, Count.”

Emiya stared at Edmond Dantès, his gaze switching back and forth between Chaldea’s original Avenger and its first Foreigner. As Abby shook her head and the tentacles vanished, Emiya unsummoned his swords. Emiya straightened himself out and stood with a cold look on his face, obviously awaiting some explanation. Dantès’ sudden intervention was too well-timed to merely be coincidence. The Count of Monte Cristo chuckled as he released his grip on Abby.

“I happened to be in the neighborhood to pick up some coffee for my favorite authors. Imagine my surprise when I stumble upon this scene.”

Emiya, unamused with theatrics that weren’t his own, continued to scowl.

“Imagine my surprise at whatever the hell it was that just happened. I’d kill for an explanation.”

The Count merely cracked his signature evil grin and chuckled.

“Of course. But first! An apology. Miss Williams. Do you have anything to say to my favorite gourmet chef?”

“Don’t think empty flattery will distract me, Count.”

“Ha! You wound me, good sir. Come now, Miss Williams. This man gave you two plates of your beloved flapjacks and crispy bacon, just how you like it! Don’t you think you overreacted just a bit? It’s only gravy, after all.”

Emiya’s gaze shifted to Abigail. She was looking at the counter, face flooded with shame. Watering eyes, red cheeks. She nearly looked like she might cry. Her voice cracked as she spoke.

“I’m sorry, Mister Emiya. That was terrible of me. I’m a bad girl. I asked for too much and abused your hospitality.”

Emiya looked at her, seemingly content with this display of contrition.

“Just make sure you don’t do it again, alright?”

Abigail looked up at him and nodded. Before they could say anything, the Count clapped his hands.

“Well then, a happy resolution! Come now, Miss Williams. I have some coffee to deliver and you and I have some important training to do. Emiya, please accept our apologies for the young miss getting...oh, what was the word Master used? “Hangry”?”

Abigail nodded and grabbed his cloak, clutching it as tightly as she clutched her bear. Emiya called out as they turned around to depart.

“Not so fast, Sinbad. Care to take a second and explain what just happened?”

The Count sighed, and turned to face Emiya. The smile was gone, but the fire in his eyes remained.

“This young girl is my ward. My assistant and student in my ongoing efforts to protect Master’s mind from psychic assaults. I will take full responsibility for any further incidents. Good day.”

And with a tip of his hat, the Count and Abigail vanished in a puff of smoke.

Emiya rolled his eyes and grabbed a fresh spoon. As he ate the abandoned potatoes, he thought deeply on what the fuck just transpired.

Present

“Honestly, until Master introduced me to Hokusai, I thought all that “Cthulhu Mythos” schtick was simply the product of a child’s overactive imagination. That we were all humoring Miss Williams. But now there’s her, Hokusai, and Yang Guifei. Frankly, I’m concerned that all the Foreigner-class Servants are just potential catastrophes.”

“The version of myself with the robotic armor seems fine.”

“Bah. I call shenanigans on anything from the Servant Universe.”

“At any rate, I think that story demonstrates your proficiency at handling children.”

“I nearly cut Abby’s head off?”

“Yes, but only when she posed a threat to you. Also, if your summation of the events is fully accurate- “

“If?”

“Ah, of course. Because Heroic Spirit EMIYA has never told a lie.”

“Heh.”

“Besides, you showed a rather admirable tolerance of another person’s faith, and you went out of your way to ensure excellent service for a child.”

“I do all those things as part of my job anyway. And for the record, it’s a bit shocking how willing you are to gloss over the fact I was inches away from decapitating a child.”

“By certain considerations, your willingness to accomplish your mission by any means is quite respectable. It shows your dedication to duty and reliability.”

Emiya pinched his brow.

“Let’s go to another reason I think trying to claim a child is a bad idea.”

Past

It was an average day in Finis Chaldea. Emiya was behind the counter, watching with mild amusement as Gilgamesh (Archer) berated Ishtar (Rider) for her role in that summer’s “Definitely Not Steel Ball Run” micro-Singularity. As he looked on, the child version of Gilgamesh sat at the counter, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He pulled his hood up over his head and silently looked through the menu. After a beat, he discreetly flagged down Emiya.

“Excuse me. Are we bound by the items on the menu?”

Emiya looked over and shook his head.

“Not entirely. We can make substitutions, within reason.”

Kid Gil stroked his chin in contemplation.

“Can you define “within reason”, please?”

Emiya nodded.

“Sure. As long as we have the ingredients prepared or readily accessible, we can use them. For example, we don’t have any cod prepared today. If you wanted cod for lunch, we’d have to send someone to the farm in the subbasement to fetch it. And since that’s a lengthy process, it means cod is out of the question for lunch today.”

“Ah. But what if a patron wanted nothing else in the world more than they wanted cod?”

“We would politely tell them we don’t have any at the moment, and offer a comparable substitute for this meal or offer to prepare a cod dish for the next meal block.”

Kid Gil nodded, thankful for having his query answered so promptly and thoroughly. Emiya turned his head to watch a bit more of the shouting match but returned his focus to Gil after a few moments of his silence.

“You don’t want cod, do you? I haven’t stoked a desire for that particular fish by saying it so many times, have I?”

Kid Gil chuckled.

“No, no. I’ve never been much of a fan of fish. I mean, it’s fine, but. You know. I wouldn’t go out of my way to eat it.”

“Good. Because even though that was just an example, we actually don’t have any.”

Kid Gil tilted his head back, his red eyes flashing a glint of light as he did.

“I was hoping I could try the lunch burrito, but with mutton instead of beef.”

Emiya narrowed his gaze and stared for a moment. After a beat, he sharply inhaled.

“Vocabulary is very important in my business. We have meat from younger lamb available, if that’s acceptable. In some cultures, “mutton” specifically means meat from older sheep. In other places, it can even mean “goat meat”. Is lamb meat acceptable to you?”

Kid Gil shuffled in his seat, rolled his shoulders, blinked, and steepled his fingers. After a moment of quiet thought, he looked up.

“Yes. The meat of juvenile sheep will suffice.”

Emiya nodded. Gil’s verbiage was strange, but he could tell that came from the deliberation of someone who knew they were speaking through a translator and wanted to ensure they were fully understood.

“Coming right up. Any other alterations to your lunch?”

Kid Gil looked at the menu once more and shook his head.

“No, sir. Just the mutton. Everything else is fine as is.”

Emiya nodded and began assembling the young king’s meal. First, an empty plate. Next, a tortilla heated in a press. Then, he went from station to station, layering the ingredients atop one another in the center of the tortilla. Chopped mutton, brown rice, black beans, green chili salsa, sliced peppers, and a healthy sprinkle of shredded cheese. Finally, he pulled the bottom of the tortilla over the ingredients, folded the edges inward, and tightly rolled it all together. He set the plate down in front of Gil, who smiled warmly.

“Thank you so much! Hey, why did you heat the wrap first?”

“Makes it more pliable. Easier to wrap, easier to stuff.”

“Oh! That’s very clever.”

Kid Gil nodded in appreciation of the minor feat of ingenuity and lifted the burrito to his face. It looked almost comically large in the young boy’s hands. He gave a quick, cursory sniff of the food before looking up at Emiya.

“Pretty big serving.”

“Yeah, well. Even child Servants are still Servants. No sense putting in a kids’ menu.”

“Fair enough.”

Emiya continued his vigil as Kid Gil happily munched away on his burrito. Gil’s legs swung back and forth between the legs of the stool, paying the outside world no mind as he ate. Before long, adult Gilgamesh grew bored of mocking Ishtar and departed. Emiya tracked him with his eyes, not blinking until he was finally gone. Kid Gil addressed him as he wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Emiya looked back at Kid Gil, slightly surprised that he’d finished his lunch so quickly.

“Hmm? Well look at that. Adult-sized burrito, and you’ve already finished the entire thing.”

“I’ll admit, you were right about the portions. You thinking about the big me?”

Emiya shrugged nonchalantly.

“Hard not to when he makes such a spectacle of himself.”

Kid Gil shook his head sadly, finally doffing his hood.

“It’s embarrassing, watching him act like that. Knowing that when I grow up, I grow up into him. That obnoxious narcissist. A jerk who thinks he’s the center of the universe.”

Emiya raised a curious eyebrow.

“Color me surprised. Never thought I’d hear you speak ill of him.”

“Because I’m such a sweet young boy, and hearing me insult anybody is surprising?”

Emiya chuckled.

“No, because I always assumed Gilgamesh’s biggest fan was himself.”

Kid Gil shrugged and smiled wryly.

“What can I say? There’s a certain wisdom and introspection that comes with age.”

Emiya wrinkled his nose as he thought.

“It’s fascinating.”

“What part?”

“Well, he’s a Servant. Meaning he’s long since died, turned to legend, et cetera. Considering how he talks about and to certain of our coworkers, he’s at least aware of the later parts of his life. And yet…”

“And yet?”

“Well, memories and experiences are what shape us. He’s aware of his failure to achieve immortality, as well as the death of Enkidu. Those experiences turned him into the slightly less irritating king of legend.”

“The benevolent ruler of Uruk who actually cared for his people, and not the petulant demigod that took what he wanted, when he wanted, consequences and gods be damned.”

“I’d say more “well-intentioned overlord” than “benevolent ruler”.”

“That’s fair.”

“But otherwise, that’s spot-on. So, even though he knows all those things about his fate, he still acts like a- “

“Like a what?”

Emiya smirked.

“Sorry. Raikou will never let me hear the end of it if I swear in front of a child.”

“Have you told her your thoughts about child Servants being indistinguishable from adult Servants?”

“Would you believe that I have, and that she didn’t care in the slightest?”

Kid Gil pursed his lips in consideration for a moment before gently nodding.

“That sounds like her. She’s always so nice to us. Almost makes you forget just how powerful she is.”

“You can say that again. As for my thoughts on big you? Well, you’re a smart kid. I’m sure you can tell what I’m thinking.”

Kid Gil smiled.

“Yeah. He’s kind of the worst. Even when he’s helping he’s just so insufferable about it.”

“Amongst other negative qualities.”

“Yup.”

Emiya stood there for a moment, letting the conversation dry up. Still, he had a job to do and had to do his due diligence.

“So, you liked your food?”

“I did! Portable meals that are their own container, no dishware needed? I wish we had it back in my lifetime.”

“Glad you enjoyed it. Hey, one last question.”

“Sure.”

“I know you arrived here as a child.”

“That’s not a question.”

“I’m getting there. When Jeanne Alter became Santa last year- “

“You mean Jalter Lily?”

“Stop it. I heard she was shrunk down by a youth potion she got from you.”

“Still not a question.”

Emiya leaned in, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Are you actually a child? Or are you an adult who’s been magically reverted to a child-like form?”

Kid Gil just smiled and shrugged, hopping off the stool and scampering away without answering the question. Emiya nodded with a stern look on his face.

“I knew it. Little punk is up to something.”

Present

“Wait, is the child Gilgamesh not actually Gilgamesh as a young boy?”

“All indicators point to him being an adult Gilgamesh who took a youth potion. Deceptive little shit. If he wasn’t so amiable, I’d be furious.”

“Strange. Well, he acts nothing like either of his adult forms, so I see no reason to bear him any ill tidings.”

“Either he’s shirking his responsibilities or he’s using the cutesy shit as a disguise while he works some nefarious scheme. Whatever the case may be, we can’t trust him.”

Artoria sighed wearily.

“You have made your point. Appearances are deceptive, a child’s body does not equate to a child’s mind, so on and so forth.”

Emiya leaned back in his seat.

“You’re glossing over those points, but they’re very important.”

Artoria leaned forward, fingers steepled.

“While you are airing your grievances, are there any more charming cafeteria anecdotes you feel compelled to share?”

Emiya nodded.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Past

“Good morning, Mister Emiya!”

It was not an average day in Chaldea. Not for Emiya, at the very least. He stood behind the counter at his normal spot, but was hunched. He was squinting, and rubbed his temples at Jack’s greeting.

“Please, Jack. Not so loud. I had a rough night.”

Jack frowned, out of concern for his wellbeing. She replied in a much softer tone.

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

Emiya faintly shook his head.

“It’s nothing you can help me with, but thanks for asking.”

Jack tilted her head.

“Okay. If you say so.”

Emiya slowly blinked, eyes adjusting to the light.

“Hey, where’s Jeanne Alter Lily and Nursery?”

Jack shook her head.

“Busy. Lily wanted us all to study. Nursery distracted her so we could escape.”

Emiya nodded slowly.

“Did she now? Sounds like Nursery is a true friend. That’s rare to find these days. Make sure you treasure that friendship.”

Jack smiled, forgetting to keep her voice down.

“We know! Nursery is the bestest!”

Emiya winced.

“Listen, Jack. I’m feeling a little ill. I don’t suppose I could convince you to go somewhere else and play?”

Jack sat quietly in thought for a moment.

“Well, we aren’t really hungry, but we don’t have anybody to play with.”

Emiya shook his head and held up his hands. With a glow of blue mana, there was a knife in his hand.

“You don’t need anybody else to have fun by yourself. Not with this.”

Jack looked up at him, confused. Her tone matched her expression as she drew her own knife.

“But, we already have a knife.”

Emiya nodded, and produced another.

“Yes, but now you have three knives! And you know what that means?”

Jack shook her head. Emiya answered his own question.

“Juggling!”

“Juggling?”

“Yeah, watch this.”

Emiya quickly scooped up his two knives, and slowly tossed them up into the air, just a few inches, alternating hands to catch and rethrow each knife. After a few tosses, Jack’s eyes lit up.

“Juggling looks amazing!”

Emiya nodded gingerly, handing Jack the knives he made.

“Go have fun!”

Jack nodded-

Present

“THAT WAS YOU?!”

“Hmm?”

“You are the culprit behind the “Great Knife Juggling Massacre”?!”

Emiya wrinkled his nose and looked away.

“I wasn’t aware we’d given a name to it.”

“It was a catastrophe!”

“Surely the blame should rest entirely on Jack’s shoulders.”

“Are you daft? That was reckless and negligent! Jack- “

“Is NOT a child! Jack, Chaldea’s precious little angel, in case you forgot, is JACK! THE RIPPER! Humanity’s most infamous serial killer! The “Whitechapel Murderer”! “Saucy Jack”! Scourge of East End London’s working girl population and professional humiliator of Scotland Yard! If anybody would know how to use a knife, it’s her!”

Artoria slammed her hand on the table.

“Three Servants died! Fujimaru needed a dozen stitches!”

Emiya maintained a nonchalant look on his face.

“And all I’m saying is, if there was anyone in Chaldea who would have an accident with cutlery, Jack the Ripper would be my very last suspect.”

Artoria solemnly shook her head and leaned back in her seat.

“What on Earth possessed you to do such a thing in the first place?”

“I was hungover, and she was loud and excitable. Really, there was no other way. Clearly, all the proof you need to know that I shouldn’t be near children.”

Artoria frowned and sighed, the exasperation evident in her tone.

“Shirou. I wasn’t expecting to convince you in a single conversation that we should have children. I hoped only to begin a dialogue on the matter with you. I had no idea that your feelings were so strong.”

Emiya sighed, a bit tired from his recounting of the tales, and not at all pleased with himself for upsetting Artoria.

“I have no interest in having kids. Given the situation we find ourselves in, I also see no point in it. I didn’t go through all that storytelling with the intent to make you feel bad for bringing it up.”

Artoria waved her hand.

“It is fine. I…launched into the topic rather abruptly. It was not something we have talked about before today. It would have served me well to temper my expectations.”

Emiya folded his arms over his chest, but wore a concerned look on his face.

“What brought all this on, anyway? Talking with Boudica or William Tell? You watch some tearjerker movie about parenthood?”

Artoria shook her head.

“No, nothing so simple and sudden. Sometimes, in quiet moments, I wonder about us, and what we are, and what we could be. Our existence here is not infinite, but it has lasted too long to be considered ephemeral.”

Emiya nodded, uncrossed his arms, and leaned forward.

“Hey. I can’t promise you that I might reconsider the futility of trying to make a family. I can’t promise that I’ll suddenly stop thinking it’s a pipedream and a waste of time. But I can promise that I’ll never lie to you about my feelings on anything. And I can promise that if there was anybody in any lifetime I would have enjoyed parenting with, it would have been you.”

“Thank you. For what it is worth, I believe in you. Even more than you do, it would seem. I promise I will not badger you with this subject in the hopes of wearing you down and forcing your compliance. But I do honestly think you are far more suited to the task than you think you are.”

Artoria nodded and slowly extended her arm over the table. Emiya met it in the middle with his own. They interlocked fingers and sat there for some time, each trying to internalize and make sense of the conversation they’d just had.