Fate/Mythologie

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living and deceased or actual events are completely intentional.

*****

A man once asked me what I wanted to become

A man once asked me who I wanted to become

Myself, I confessed

Someone else, I declared

He frowned

He smiled

As atonement,

As gratitude,

I will not let anyone bring disgrace to his final moments.

Please, somehow let his final moments be passed on.

With that, shall we begin?

"My job is to fight vampires, not to oversee magi squabbles."

"Eyes that see into the world… You might be what they call the egg of a Magician, then."

"We're fighting together because we want the same thing. Wasn't overcoming death your dearest wish, Berserker?"

"Slight, aside…"

DO NOT FORGET. THAT BAND WAS NOT BUILT IN A DAY. YOU CANNOT DENY IT. YOU CANNOT STEP ON IT. YOUR GLORY WAS BORN FROM THIS SIN.

"Oh, Magnituning? It's a race held in Japan."

"I think you should have tried harder to understand how your stepmother felt."

"Master Alcatraz, it hasn't been that long, has it?"

"If you're scared, just come to me. I'll make sure you live forever."

"How does it feel, to meet a bona fide monster?"

"Imagine a doll that repeats 'I love you' even if it's cast aside, forgotten, worn it down until it's unrecognizable while expecting nothing in return. That heartbreakingly pure sincerity, how... how do you begin to make amends?"

"It's strange, isn't it - the more we break, the more human we become. The more we burn, the more beautiful we become. Is that love?"

"It's okay to be a victim. But you're not a victim, are you, dearie?"

"Don't worry, one day, you'll surely hatch."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"I don't think... I like myself."

The mythology of the forsaken has been compiled.

The mad fire within the Holy Grail has been set alight.

Fate/Mythologie

"This... isn't a fate you should thank me for."

*****

Table of Contents

~~Mystery (神秘, Shinpi, translated sometimes as "Divine Mystery")~~ Mystère/...if merely foam
Thorn Memo 1

18/ Just Peachy
19/ Ecce Homo (I)
20/ Night, Stay Kight (I)
21/ Skrubtudsen
22/Night, Stay Knight (II)
23/ PenUmbra
24/Mirabilis Deus in Sanctis Suis
25/Terror ExeMPLAR
26/ Farmer's (Too Nice For a Jacket)
27/Farmer's (That Dress')
28/ Camilla
29/ Winter's Detritus
30/ Grace Note (II)

31/ Teleport in the Air
32/ Overture
33/ Beneath the Cherry Blossom Tree
34/ Winter Factory - magni
35/ Nine Notched Pelt
36/ Fore Sake
37/ Demythologization of the Leitmotif
38/ Umbra
39/ Double-Glazed
40/ Krista (XVII)

TBC

Servant Profiles
Participant Report
Afterword
PDF

*****

Sell me on Fate/Mythologie's premise.
A Holy Church organized Grail War set in suburban Central California. The death of a legendary bishop throws the bureaucratic apparatus in charge of mediating a Grail War into disarray. A schism in the Church's Grail War organizational committee forms leading to two Church factions proclaiming they are the rightful overseer while magi do battle with their Servants to make their wishes come true. Mythologie attempts to reframe the Strange Fake experience in a contemporary US West Coast setting with a heavy focus on Holy Church machinations.
How is this not just another Grail War?
On the surface it is. Seven Masters summon Heroic Spirits in the form of Servants to fight for a cup. Each Master assumes they are the sole person who truly understands the Nasuverse and everyone else doesn't know what they're talking about.
I haven't read or watched X. Will that impede my enjoyment?
Possibly. Mythologie can be read as a stand-alone work. All vital worldbuilding in the story is explained. However, there are references and counterpoints that a working knowledge of the Nasuverse will help you notice.
Is Emiya Shirou featured in the story?
Yes. As a minor character.
Where in the Nasuverse timeline does this story fall?
Mythologie is a "sequel" to Strange Fake. Because Strange Fake has not finished as I'm writing this, it doesn't have too major an impact but the nature of what happened in Snowfield is a looming shadow over the characters and story. That being said, being set in the Strange Fake timeline means there are both Dead Apostle Ancestors and Servants. Furthermore, Mythologie references and follows the Fuyuki Fifth Grail War from Fate/School Life which is a modified Heaven's Feel route. In terms of a specific time period. It is set post-2016, pre-COVID.
What is your update schedule?
Irregular. I like to complete something before posting. As a compromise, I'll be offering monthly progress reports.
It's spelled mythology or is this French?
You can decide whether to spell it as mythology after reading.

Fate/Mythologie will be split into four volumes and told primarily from two first-person perspectives. After each volume is finished, a pdf will be complied and made available for download and sharing. The pdf will be a "definitive" version with some cosmetic editing and include character profiles. The same profiles will be linked in the story.
I will be trying to upload Mythologie to as many platforms as possible; however, due to the limitations of the websites, some formatting will be left in BB code. The most authentic experience be either the pdf or the Beast Lair version.
Currently, the volumes are outlined as such:
Volume 1: Day 1 - 3
Volume 2: Day 4 - 7
Volume 3: Day 8 - 10
Volume 4: Day 11 - 13

"Made me rethink the last 10 years of Fate fanfiction in a single night."

—Alza

"It was an amazing story. I'm glad I could find something this good on this site.

—GlassesLion

"I feel lightly disgusted mentioning Worm even in the same conversation with this fic, but gotta shape your message for the crowd, right?"

—BlueHelix

"Been a wild ride thus far, and will stand by until the story's end"

—SleepMode

I dearly like this story. Reading the update on my way to and from work these past few weeks has been a delight. I hope to see it continue!

—Patsykake

"... he has a very good grasp on the mechanics and tone, making for very faithful and lore-compliant stories that are still pretty well-written."

— all fictions

"...it is much much better than 99% of Nasuverse fanfictions and is written by a good author. The researches are intensive and lores are on point, with little to no mechanics problems and cleverly inserted references as well as an engaging story line."

—mkhang

"... this is infused with a je ne sais quoi of distinct atmosphere and bite, which made me feel something, so thank you for writing this."

— dharmagic

"... This is the best thing going in Type-Moon fanfiction right now."

— Imperial

"An interesting Grail War. Mystery, action, suspense... very well intertwined. OCs are good, as is the usage of canon characters. And I admit to a large weakness as to obscure references, which are nicely scattered around."

— Who?

"I must say this though. This fic feels so authentic to the TM spirit, that if showed me just the chapters and nothing else, I would have been convinced this WAS a new TM LN or something."

— SirGauoftheSquareTable

"It's rare to come across a fanfic that I can really say captures the original's spirit so thoroughly"

— RoydGolden

"reads like twilight or something."

— Sesetubers

"8/10 made me pick up twilight"

— Leftovers

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

I will kill. I will let live. I will harm and heal.

None will escape me. None will escape my sight.

Be crushed.

I welcome those who have grown old and those who have lost.

Devote yourself to me, learn from me, obey me.

Rest.

Do not forget song, do not forget prayer, do not forget me.

I am light and will relieve you of all your burdens.

Do not pretend.

Retribution for forgiveness, betrayal for trust, despair for hope, darkness for light, dark death for the living.

Relief is in my hands. I will add oil to your sins and leave a mark.

Eternal life is given through death.

Ask for forgiveness here. I, the incarnation, will swear.

- Kyrie Eleison

*****

0/ Unscriptural

My first memory was of the other kids in the ward telling me that it was pretty gay that a Catholic priest regularly visited me. I only understood what they meant a few years later. To clarify, the priest would entertain my ten-year-old self with stories about his students or his travels. He was an elderly bishop who happened to be in town and heard about my parent's accident. In fact, the first time I heard about 'the accident' was from his lips.

Car accident. Drowning. You almost drowned too.

The accident removed all ten years of my memory, so I was more relieved than sad when I heard the news.

"So that's why I see bubbles when I'm asleep."

He couldn't look me in the eye.

The next day, he came back without the youthful glow that was uncharacteristic for a man that bore his burdens, yet was characteristic of his nature. All his travels seemed less fantastic, more mundane; all the people he had met seemed less magical, more pedestrian.

"Chris," he said. "I don't want to lie to you. Your parents didn't die in an accident, they were killed by a monster. I'm part of an organization that is supposed to protect people. I'm sorry. We couldn't save them."

I think at that point I started crying. Incredulous words from an incredulous person, I know. I wasn't mourning the parents I never knew or my own uncertain future. These were frustrated tears mourning the me who should have been mourning his parents.

He stayed with me until I had cried my eyes dry before excusing himself. Later that night the other kids all gave me their desserts. I remember one older kid patted me on the back and told me she would put in a good word for me with her father. He was a lawyer.

It must have been a week before the bishop visited me again. I think it was beyond my ten-year old self to have considered it was due to the legal prowess of that girl's father, but that's what I want to believe I thought happened when he came through the door. The moment he sat down, I told him that I was onboard. He tried his best to smile at that. From how he told stories, he seemed more like a person who smiled with his eyes.

"I thought you would say that. That's why I wanted to give you as much time as possible to reject it. Becoming a member of the Church isn't your only option."

I knew that all too well. The kids in the ward would often either talk about what their parents did or what they wanted to do when they left the hospital: police officer, dressmaker, pilot, secret agent, hairdresser, unicorn, a wizard by the age of thirty, dog trainer, fairy princess. Me? I couldn't help wondering about the boy who died with his parents in that lake, the boy who owed me nothing, but whom I owed my current life. If I could be anything, anyone that I wanted to, then I think I would like to be him so that boy wasn't forgotten.

I didn't say that out loud. I don't think that my ten-year-old self could articulate something that raw but contradictory. I probably said I wanted to make my parents proud or wanted vengeance against the monster. Whatever I said didn't satisfy the bishop who apologized and said that he couldn't take care of me. That role would fall to one of his students.

Her name was Cherry. At first, I heard it as Cherie, but no, it was definitely Cherry. She blossomed into a smile and told me that she always wanted a little brother. Like that, I had procured a new family member.

"What about that old man in the corner? I've seen him walking around the hospital." I pointed to the right corner of the sterile, artificial room the bishop and I usually had our conversations in.

The bishop looked at Cherry for a moment and back at the frocked old man.

"That's Karabo. He'll be your foster father."

At the mention of his name, the old man waved.

"Since this is going to my last time visiting you, Chris. There's something that I want to tell you. Do you two mind giving us some time alone?"

After shooing my new foster family outside, he helped himself to a plastic chair made for kids pretending to have tea on a comically tiny and misshapen table.

"I'm often shocked when I brush my teeth, Chris. I feel twenty-two but that's not what that cheeky mirror tells me. In all my adventures, all the places I've traveled, all the people I've met, all the sins I can't atone for, I've learned one thing. It's something that took me until my dotage to realize and that's why I hope you'll humor me in listening." He tried to lean back on the chair, "In this life, I hope you chose for yourself, you'll meet a lot of strange people. In our line of work, you'll see things and obtain powers that you didn't know were possible. Mor – nay, most importantly, you'll experience enough pain, sadness, happiness, and weakness to understand that you are nothing more than a mere human being. There are a lot of people in our world who are claimed to be holy or even saintly. Most of the time that's some form of clericalism. All of us, no matter who we are, are merely idiotic, pathetic, weak human beings."

"What about the monsters?"

He laughed, "I did call them that. This might be a heretical opinion but they're not monsters. As long as anyone has lived a semblance of a life, there is no way you can call them a monster. They're only called monsters because we refuse to try."

With those un-priestly words, he got up, shook my hand, and gave me a hug. I still remember the smell of sandalwood.

"Bishop Dilo… I… thank you."

He shook his head and smiled. The gesture refused to light up his face.

"This... isn't a fate that you should thank me for."

With those ominous words, he left. The next day I was discharged and my new mismatched foster family took me to my new home. Ten years late, but that was the day Chris Frampton was born.

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

1/ Day by Day

"You can get up, class is over."

Harsh, artificial light still illuminates the classroom even as the clock in the corner duly ticks towards five past noon. The glare makes me want to rub my eyes, but that would be rude to the only other person present. He rummages through his briefcase and takes out two round Tupperware containers.

"Gotta run, so let's make this quick." Mr. Stevenson's lips may be puckered but his eyes aren't furrowed. He should rush out before the line for the teacher's microwave becomes as long as the cafeteria chicken finger line. "Got a good reason for sleeping in class?"

"Yesterday's Mass went pretty late," I manage to say without yawning.

Mr. Stevenson nods as if he expected something that wholesome from a wholesome kid like me.

"Well, it's only your second time so I'll let it slip. Just don't set a bad example for the other kids, okay? You're a good kid, so I'm counting on you for that."

He grabs a snack-sized packet of Let's out of his bag in reply to my short smile.

"Want 'em?"

Before I can answer they land on my pencil tin — official merchandise of an ironic webcomic that's already 'so last year' — with an initial crackle before a softer crunch. Original flavor. Probably the last packet from a Costco case.

"Cutting this month," he explains without being asked before rushing out the door to microwave what must be his meal prep.

Ruminating on the chips, I make my way through the school corridors. It's hard not to feel the oppressive spirit of the institution when it's scrawled onto butcher paper emblazoning the walls. Some of the people I come across say hi, but everyone's in too much of a subdued rush to get to the cafeteria to stop for a conversation. Chicken fingers today. It's the panko, some of the kids will tell you. But a bag of Panko is two dollars at Albertsons. Nah brah, they get the same chicken as McDonald's; it's like eating a huge McNugget. No matter who you talk to, they will always stretch out the 'huge.'

I stop at my locker, drop my bag, fiddle with the combination, fail once, make a face at my locker, and try again before retrieving two thermoses'.

"Reckon Mr. Stevenson is a Costco dad?"

From the speckled, pale linoleum floor, Kayla opens her mouth to answer, closes it, and then opens it once more to assert, "Dude, I've seen him and his wife at Whole Foods. And anyway he's too young to have kids, yeah." She animatedly shakes her head.

"Doesn't stop him from being a Costco dad."

"I'm pretty sure you have to be a dad before you can be a Costco dad." Her head bobs up and down in a series of half-nods.

"Yesterday's leftovers." I hand Kayla a thermos from the bag. "Weird how warm they are."

"Chicken fingers beat leftovers any day, but like this looks so good." She unscrews the thermos, takes out her phone and snaps a few pictures to be posted later before digging in. "Cherry's always so cool."

"You don't even like seafood."

"I like whatever Cherry cooks and err — yeah, sushi."

"Half-priced California rolls aren't really sushi." I stab my plastic fork into a piece of cod. It's not quite fit to eat just yet without wasabi. I tear at the slit of a takeout wasabi packet with my teeth and squeeze out a pea-sized dollop onto the fish before putting it in my mouth. Usually, 'Wasabi Chris' has a tube on hand but I was in a rush this morning so I only have the packets I keep at the bottom of my bag.

"Half-priced California rolls aren't really sushi because they're best sushi," Kayla fills her mouth with shrimp. "You're so lucky to have someone who cooks food like this for you every day."

Genuine food. Genuine conversation. Fake relationship. Perhaps the only way that it can stand being this fake due to the underlying sincerity.

She hands me the empty thermos when she's finished eating, "Thanks for lunch."

"You know, Cherry actually thinks that we're dating."

A slight frown pushes her features back when she responds, "Sorry, so does my dad," with a lowered voice.

You moved from New York to this town slightly less in the middle of nowhere than Bakersfield. Your superlative was 'most quiet' in middle school but you've become slightly high-school attractive since then. You hate the spotlight, yet are still rather thrilled with the attention that comes with being the 'new girl.' Rightly nervous about fitting in at this school, you feign poise, trying to convince others that you're pretty 'lit' but still 'chill af' before you're labeled as the quiet kid all over again. So, you do something that the New York you would never do. The most obvious thing to convince your dad and everyone else at school that you fit is to imitate every movie and song targeted towards teenage girls. You get a boyfriend. But you don't believe you have the confidence or the special something that the popular girls have to transpose film into reality so you settle for convincing a non-threatening boy to be your pretend boyfriend. That's me. Why?

"Everyone likes you 'cause like… I mean, you're easy to talk to."

"Really?"

"And you seem like you're good at pretending. Umm, like you would be good as a good actor, you know… sorry."

Those were the words you mumbled to me when you exhausted all the fear-tinged courage were able to pull out. Because, you realized if you didn't do something this radical you would fall back into that middle school you no matter how far away you were from where you grew up. Theater-kid jab aside, you don't have to force yourself to apologize then smile when you say something like that. We don't know each other too well, but I probably like you, anyway. After all, why else would I agree?

Like that, my fake RomCom consisting of lunchtime each day, the farmer's market every Thursday night, and a pretend date a few times a month burgeoned. Does any more need to be?

"So yeah, you doing anything after school today?"

"Cherry wants me to pick up a pie. The old man's birthday."

"Oh… cool." She smiles and looks down before looking slightly back up. "You're the only person I know who calls his dad, old man."

He is an old man.

*****

The town did try to shut the cafe down. What was wrong with Kreuzberg, they exclaimed. Why name a new one after a Nazi think-tank? Like that, the new coffee shop became the talk of the town for about a week. There were even town hall meetings about it. Cherry and Father Kelsey attended a few. Something about the Mission making sure everyone kept a level head. In the end, the smooth-talking interim manager who was also the head chef made the argument that the franchise had spread as far as Japan and even had a store in Romania without causing little more than a peep. Apparently, the name was thought up by the German owner and this cafe happened to either be his inheritance or the inheritance he would leave behind. Hearing this, the folks at Beda's and the other German establishments threw some of their weight around. One of our own, you understand. Eventually, the town just threw up their arms. The cafe market was already too saturated, the housewives proclaimed to each other before Pilates, Ahnenerbe would be gone in less than a year.

It's been open for over three years. They've all moved onto Hot Yoga.

"Picking up a large blueberry pie for Cherry," I tell one of the waitresses who everyone calls 'Green.'

She glances underneath the lacquered counter, "Let me check with the kitchen."

I smile in place of an answer.

"Sorry, is ten minutes okay? Do you want something while you wait?" She says after returning, slightly flustered.

After telling her it's no problem, I'm left with her abandoned flip phone while she attends to two chatting short-haired blond women. In less than a minute the store cats swamp me. This store has quite a few cats. Maybe the manager has a habit of picking up strays? If NorCal and SoCal have their premier cat cafes then the Central Coast has got to keep up, doesn't it?

"Meow, Meow," That's from the little girl who creeps up the stool next to mine.

The cats all hiss at her before scattering. "You know — they don't like you, Curie."

She shakes her head. Her black hair almost seems blue and green in the dimmed light.

"They like me when you're not here. They're funny, especially the one who smokes."

"Wow, that's interesting." My wavering voice tries its best to hold the disbelief in my stomach. Time to quickly change the subject, "Did that no-good Detective leave you on your own again?"

"Toilet."

Speak of the toilet. The Detective struts towards us in his monochrome trench coat and expensive skinny jeans.

"Oh, it's you, kid. Your pretend girlfriend dump you yet?"

Try as he might to get people to call him Detective, he's still just a PI. A PI with a little girl as an assistant, both of whom I've only ever seen in this cafe. Questionable, I know. But, we're regulars so we have little choice but to afford the other a modicum of respect. He might give off the impression of a side dish Cherry makes when cucumbers are on sale, but still, he's still a person, like me.

"She's doing pretty well. Thanks for asking. You two on a case?"

He looks at me with a half-scowl. I must remind him of some kid that he couldn't stand with and without. "Better watch out, kid. Word in the cafe is something bad's going down in that town of yours."

I nod, "That's why we got this blueberry pie."

"Blueberry pie!" Curie's eyes sparkle. "Detective, pie! Pie!"

"Shut it, girl. We have food at home. Hey, waitress!" He calls out to the fluttering twin-tails that were just about to slip into the kitchen. "Nitro cold brew and don't skimp on the Ceylon cinnamon." He looks back at me. "Advice — regular to regular. Couldn't care less about you, but don't let that woman who takes care of you get caught in this mess."

A clear ring interrupts him.

"Order twenty-seven, blueberry pie," A voice with the charisma of a fake priest, the timbre of a zoology professor, and the composure of a Buddhist monk calls out.

I pay with the bill Cherry gave me this morning before taking the paper bag.

"Thanks for the advice, Detective. This pie smells delightful, so I better get home while it's hot."

He shakes his head and dismisses me with a few waves.

"Hey, Chris." The little girl looks at me, "Don't die, okay? The cats and the Detective will be sad."

I don't know what to say.

"If you're scared, just come to me." She smiles and it must be a trick of the light because it almost looks like she has chelicerae, "I'll make sure you live forever."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind." I wave goodbye to the pouting little girl and leave the cafe with delicious blueberry pie in tow.

*****

Winters in Tolosa are rather mild since we're only twenty minutes from the beach, an hour in severe summer traffic. It can get a little misty around the Seven Sisters in the early morning, but afternoons are always hot. That afternoon heat dissipates a few hours after sunset, so families and small crowds strolling and window shopping around this time aren't an uncommon sight. I say that because halfway home, I shivered. I shivered even if there was no wind, the sun was still peeking over the horizon, and I was wearing my school sweatshirt. Then again, none of those things are much protection against a tidal wave of magical energy crashing into your body.

"Servants have the worst timing." I scold the blueberry pie.

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

2/ Day bye Day

There wasn't time to go back to the Mission and change into my Ash Lock. The best I could prepare was a simple suggestion on my Mission Prep sweatshirt which stopped anybody questioning why a student was jumping rooftop to rooftop at breakneck speed while on his phone. There's nothing to it, just one foot after the other. Keep calm and carry on civilian because everyone else is minding their own business so you should —

"Ah," I stretch my arm out to grab the ledge of a roof.

I totally missed the landing. Too close. What did Cherry say? When you're using a suggestion, you need to pay attention. Make sure you don't lose yourself in the equivalent exchange. Come on, get a grip. Pull yourself up and keep going. Not too far now.

My excuse for that lapse: Cherry wasn't answering her phone and I can't trouble an old man on his deathbed. As for the city rangers, getting government employees involved in a potential combat situation would only make matters worse. I'll be on my own, but that's what all the training was for. Just before entering the trail take a deep breath and calm down. Instead, I choke on my own saliva.

Magical energy saturates the mountain trail, but there was no sign of anyone else. It looked as though a firestorm had roared through the area. All the brown grass and foliage that covered the trail is nowhere to be seen and the smoke from the cluster of blackened trees hangs low in the air.

Strong fire, but it hadn't spread. One of the Masters was prudent enough to section this area off with a bounded field so the battle wouldn't set the entire mountain ablaze. More interestingly, the number of trees on this trail had exponentially increased since the last time we surveyed this volcanic plug. Tolosa county might be out of the drought, but there hasn't been enough rain to support a burgeoning minor forest this side of the Grade.

Mountain trails in Tolosa are usually covered in shrubs that won't protect you from the sun. You can usually see everyone hiking that day from the base of the mountain. These trees that have appeared overnight must be some mystery. My hand strokes the trunk of the nearest tree to confirm my suspicions. Instead of scraping against well-worn bark, the trunk bubbles, sucking in my hand.

THE BAND WAS NOT BUILT IN A DAY.

dO nOt fOrgEt

Crying women fill the beach. Too exhausted, too cold, too sore. So burn those ships. Burn our captors-turned-husbands' hollow ships. We may never see our homes again but you already ensured there would be no home to return to. Trapped as we are, at the very least, we will make sure you are no less trapped than we. Helpless loneliness in a foreign land should be your only reward, o' bronze-armored heroes. On this altar of flames, let us make and take our marital vow; let only unhappiness sprout from this wedding bed.

THE GREED WAS BUILT ON USURPATION

Do NoT FoRGeT

YOU CAN (NOT) PRUNE THIS BRANCH. SEVEN TREES A FOREST DOES NOT MAKE IF ONE IS ROTTEN. YOURS MAY BE AN EMPIRE BUT MINE IS OUR SIN BEFORE IT WAS OURS.

With a yelp I snatch my hand back from the inside of the bubbling tree. I don't know what I just saw but my head won't stop throbbing no matter how much I rub it. I'm far from an expert but these trees might be made of something that shouldn't exist on this plane. The other Servant was right to burn them down; too bad they weren't able to burn them to dust.

So, this is the aftermath of a battle between mysteries. I don't have any combat experience, but I've been training for this since I was ten. I won't let myself be shocked. All that I'm meant to do is help with two weeks' worth of damage control — make sure nothing gets out of hand.

When I read the previous reports on the Holy Grail War, I was able to write off the scale of damage, saying that it wouldn't be that bad in Tolosa because we're better prepared. When confronted with this wanton destruction, I can't help but wonder if the Mission is just a scapegoat for when the entire city burns. I shake my head. Alright, we discussed the protocols every fortnight for the last year in those shady town meetings. I'll be fine. This city will be fine.

Home button, contracts, search bar, c-i-t-y-space-r-a-n-g-e-r, home phone, because I never save numbers on my phone as anything other than home. The city rangers should already be on high alert since we sent them a picture of the spirit board when the sixth Servant was summoned.

The phone starts making the call; I wonder who's on duty tonight. If it's one of the interns from the local college, I'm going to have to hang up and ring the emergency number. Someone's not going to be happy about being dragged away from their TV during primetime. Eh, wasn't Mr. Kars saying how awesome it was getting Hulu with his family's Spotify Premium plan last week? Okay, I feel less bad now.

The first ring finishes. Usually, there's no problem with reception in this area, so the call should go through after the second one. But, that second ring never comes since I have to tap cancel. The hairs on my arms are on their ends again and this time I might actually be sick from the amount of magical energy no… pure divinity that's permeating the air.

Throw all the hotpot from lunch up and wipe your mouth already, there's a good boy. Now, take a deep breath, and extend those threads of consciousness. What you're looking for isn't the incandescent, burning star in the middle of the school that's obvious to anyone, but any smaller embers that might be wandering nearby.

Okay, I was a little worried that some regulars who had a bit too much to drink at Central Coast might come this way or some of the tourists eating at Splash would waddle down towards the creek beside the high school after a clam chowder bread bowl. There doesn't even seem to be anyone lighting up before having a beer or three in the public-school parking lot. In any case I better get going; I can feel the beginnings of a bounded field.

*****

I bet the Fishing Cats have never played a team that could tear up the turf like this. The Astroturf is repeatedly ruptured, the soil underneath sprays from the football field onto the track, and the goal posts are transformed into giant tuning forks. The shocks from each clash resonates with anything made of metal creating an eerie hum that lingers over the battle. Even the bleachers I'm hiding myself under are rattling like they're in danger of collapsing.

I made it inside the bounded field before it was fully established, so the conjuror shouldn't know there's an extra person inside. Bounded fields aren't really my specialty even if they should be. From what I can gather, this field is only meant to obscure the battle and repel anyone who might be interested in coming into the stadium. As for the caster, only one Master is visible from this angle. The other could be obscuring themselves with the bounded field. It goes without saying, there's a clear advantage to being able to observe your enemy from an unseen position.

As for the reason why the Masters haven't noticed my presence yet, well, it's right in the middle of the field — two men larger than life itself. It might be more apt to call them forces of nature. One statuesque man, naked except for a warrior's skirt rushes into the fray like lightning. His fist that surpasses Godspeed repeatedly aims for the other's vital areas. But if the first is like lightning, then the other man, encased in steel, is like a tornado. With an ornate great shield in hand, he redirects each blow before using his entire body to slam into the warrior. This is a battle between Servants, supernatural combat beyond the comprehension of humans.

The only thing on my mind right now are those Marvel superhero movies I watched with some other kids in middle-school. Impressed by what I saw, I tried to incorporate some of those acrobatics into my regular training. The old man bopped me on the head and asked where I got such idiotic ideas from. Luckily, some of the movies had been uploaded to the streaming platform the Mission subscribes to for 'Movies at the Mission.' When he watched the battle scenes he softly yawned and told me this wasn't how people in our line of work wanted to move or fight. In these movies, he said, the flow of the battle is always centered around the protagonists. Directors do their best to portray the protagonist's drama through combat while trying to entertain the audience. In the battlefield, even though everyone may have roles, everyone will fight as if they are the protagonist. Real fights like the one unfolding before my eyes are a jumbled mess of apprehension and ego, not a well-choreographed blade dance.

After what seems like the tenth exchange of blows but possibly the seventieth, the Servants break apart from one another. The warrior relaxes his grotesque muscles and looks at his Master with a slight frown. A normal person would crumble under that gaze. In fact, just looking at the scene sends my heart into a panic. Instead, his Master meets the gaze with her clear red eyes. They remind me of the prologue of Snow White, where Snow White's mother sees her blood on the snow. That pale hair and pale skin looks so unearthly at first glance, but the more you look at her — the more you look at her the more you realize how inhumanly natural she looks. Strange. We were told the Einzbern were no more, so there's no way an Einzbern homunculus was going to be present in this iteration, yet here she is.

"I was mistaken to insult you." Deliberate or not, the giant Servant calls everyone to attention. "Your blows have cleared my mind. But wispy clouds are much more visible hanging from a clear sky. Faithfully, you are a proper hero. So why? Two-on-one, especially when the singular is a lady is never honorable."

The armored Servant removes his helmet. He must be so proud of that beard that somehow accentuates his jawline, "I would have never dreamed to hear a pagan monstrosity talk of honor." His face may be worn from countless battlefields but there's an unquenchable vigor in his eyes. "But that lady you spoke of and sought to aid is far from harmless. Surely, your esteemed self must have encountered those of the fairer sex who were more serpent than angel in your illustrious adventures?"

Eyes distant, the almost-naked warrior rubs his chin, "Slight, aside…."

The sound of a grenade going off fills the field a second before the strange ringing of metal grinding against metal. In less than an instant the armored Servant was sent flying into the opposing bleachers. No one saw the warrior move. Truly, with that body he may as well be an ancient marble statue. But that dust cloud rising from the bleachers says otherwise. Taking advantage of the lapse in attention his words created, the warrior must have closed the gap in less than a second to send the knight flying before any sort of defense could be raised.

"Yes. Slight, aside," The warrior turns on his heel to face the damage he caused as something materializes in his hand. "You're quite right. That lady was quite far from harmless. But, you, you may as well be a continent away from harmless."

He raises and pulls back the monstrous, black thing in his hand in one motion. I blink. A barrage of projectiles fills the night between the warrior and the bleachers. Each one of those projectiles was shot with enough force to bring down a small house. All of them rain down upon the already devastated grandstand, clearing the previous cloud of destruction and giving birth to a new, much larger one. The tremors from the attack even shatter the portion of the bounded field behind the grandstand.

One of the three knight classes — knight of the bow, Archer.

The class make up for their low base attributes with seasoned tactical reasoning and extremely powerful trump cards. Intuitively, one would expect that the Archer class would indeed be made of soldiers who use bows; however, contrary to common belief, the qualifying conditions is merely the possession of a projectile Noble Phantasm or special abilities related to projectiles. With their class skills, Magic Resistance and Independent Action, they are highly regarded as scouts or rangers. Think Legolas or Jennifer Lawrence. This Archer is more like mobile heavy artillery than an elf or a girl from a movie I've never seen.

It takes a few seemingly minute-length seconds for the cloud to dissipate. For even the greatest Servant, a barrage of A-rank attacks is more than certain death. Yet, there is no body among the rubble, only a shield broken beyond repair.

"Haaa —!" A hearty shout accompanies a wide swing at Archer's blind spot. The brilliant cloth on the knight's armor is charred; the armor itself is bent and fragmented in multiple places. There's even a deep gash above the knight's eye, but he does not, cannot, care about that now. Because, in the place of that beaten shield, those two arms are carrying the weight of an enormous war hammer swung with all of the knight's strength.

"Archer!" His Master's bell-like cry lets all of us know how serious the attack is.

Archer's surprised expression tightens with his leg muscles. Pivoting, Archer meets the attack with his bare first.

Hammer meets fist.

There's a saying about an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force. This is more like two unstoppable forces. The raw magical energy of their clash electrifies the entire stadium and the aftershock shatters all of the stadium lights. Some of the benches are crushed or ripped off the bleachers.

The two in the eye of this maelstrom haven't moved an inch.

"Your name is almost too easy to discern if you bring that out." The knight's voice is raspy. He draws his war hammer back and puts some distance between himself and the warrior.

In reply, the giant silently flexes his hand. His fist is undamaged. But, I was wrong in my previous description. He didn't retaliate with a bare fist; it was wrapped.

"Bring out your trump card. It won't help, but at least you'll perish into the night knowing you gave your best."

The knight chuckles. The tone is anything but lighthearted. "If I were to use my trump card, it would bring shame to your name, for you would be known as nothing more than a great hero who couldn't even last the first night."

Murderous intent so intense I almost lose consciousness flavors the magical energy radiating from the two. It's so excessive that it saturates the entire bounded field, oppressing everyone in this location. The only ones allowed to breathe in this space are undoubtedly the two in the center. That was why no one expected the little pebble that was thrown between the two Servants glaring at each other. A tiny, tiny pebble, insignificant as the ripples it would make if dropped into an ocean. Yet, the fact would always remain that the stone was indeed cast and the ripples drawn. Most of all, weak as those ripples may be, they were just strong enough to move someone's fate.

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

3/ Door to Paradise

~Interlude~

Lenny would never name her snakes.

When she lived in America, she saw a movie about a wizard who could talk to snakes. After the movie, her co-workers asked her whether or not she was going to name her snakes. That annoyed her to no end. Mind your own mystery, especially if you have enough time to worry about mine. That being said, her co-workers weren't the type to casually see movies with other co-workers. They were magi for god's sake; they were too busy recreating the perfect ritual to reach the next level of their chosen mystery. The team-building's mandatory, their boss told them. After a good, clean job, they were expected to do something together to 'celebrate our success' and 'build morale.' In this age of the open-floor plan offices and WeWorks, even the mafia took tips from Silicon Valley. Lenny, on the other hand, never knew that workplace social interactions could actually be cordial. This realization made working for a mafia much more complicated than her time at the Abbey.

'Willy Wonka,' as the Americans liked to call him, just had to kick the bucket in the Far East. With an ongoing power struggle to determine the next director, the Abbey had a small fortune in artifacts and talent poached. Poached might be exaggerating; Lenny went pretty willingly. The Scladio family offered everything a magus could want, including a very reasonable dental plan. Alas, after a few years of hard but productive work and free elective dental procedures later, 'Barbarossa' was assassinated, and a member of the family went rogue in the Holy Grail War Lenny helped contain. The fallout destroyed the Scladio family. Lenny, like any displaced worker, had to find a new job. Unwilling to sell any of her research to raise funds, she was one iOS software update away from applying for a side-hustle when she remembered the old magus adage, 'All roads lead to the Clock Tower.' With a heavy heart, teeth that had seen their final free cleaning for the next few years, and a bag filled with toads she re-applied as a researcher at the Department of Minerology( Kishua) . After a lackluster interview, she was re-accepted and given the funds as well as laboratory space to continue her research. Like any proper, self-respecting magus, that's what she did, keep her head down and continue cutting open her toads.

There was just one little itch in her mind. It had been there ever since that American shortlisted her as a Master candidate. Ever since she saw those satellite pictures of a battle that changed the landscape of a desert. Ever since she got in her car and didn't stop driving away from Snowfield the moment the plague broke. Every time she cut into a new toad the itch would nudge her mind. Every time she extracted another toad brain, the itch would tap her on the shoulder. Every time she saw that girl and that boy walking through the corridors of the Clock Tower, it roared at her, scratch me, scratch me!

'Kay, quick scratch.

I think I could do a better job. I think I could win a Holy Grail War.

How would she win?

Krast "Lenny" Wegner: Master of Assassin.

She liked that. She liked the sound of that very much. Looking at the records of previous Holy Grail Wars, it would seem that Saber was thought of as the most excellent class. But Lenny knew from experience as well as intuition that the best class was actually Assassin.

She even penned a memo to herself that read:

The Case For Assassin by Krast Lenny Wegner –

It goes without saying that it is impossible to survive an ambush conducted via Presence Concealment unless a Servant is kept nearby at all times. However, ensuring that one's Servant stays in visual contact for security presents another problem when one faces off against another Servant. The risk of becoming a part of the battle itself becomes higher than ever, and even Heroic Spirits would be placed at a crushing disadvantage if required to fight while covering for another. Even if one's Servant was not directly killed in the initial encounter, if caught in a situation where their movements became bound, only defeat would remain in the end. Yet it is also foolish to keep one's Servant at a distance. One can never discount the possibility of Assassin intervening and killing one of the Servants while they were entangled in battle. . . .

By Lenny's calculations, it was possible to win a Holy Grail War with an Assassin in just three days. In fact, she was feeding some snakes when she hypothesized that if Holy Grail War derivatives had taken the magecraft world by storm, it would herald in a 'Golden Age of Assassin,' as she coined it.

Lenny was a rational magus from a traditional magus family, but her time in the mafia had exposed her to a different world. A world where her might could be right, and others were wrong in their weakness. A world where the best theories weren't the ones you came up in your lab but were tested on the field without fear of reprisal. Most importantly, working for the Scladio family had given her key information about the possibility of proving her Assassin hypothesis. With all that in mind —

Mary of July: "Assassin? Are you trying to hire an assassin? I'm sorry to tell you Miss Wegner that whatever the rumors may be, my family does not retain the services of assassins. If you were hoping to avail yourself with those types of services, wouldn't it be better to hire a freelancer?"

Poppins of July: "You're worried about assassins? Aren't they a given in the Clock Tower? Wait. Oi! You couldn't mean the Assassin class? Why would you be interested in…. Answer me honestly, there's another one happening, isn't there? Even after that girl closed the gate and that debacle in America. Hey! Stop running away! Ahhh, geez, stop or I'll shoot!"

Idiotic Genius: "Assassins sure can be scary. That nice girl was real nice when we got to know her wasn't she? I guess Assassins aren't really that scary, after all. You might be in watch form right now, but you also have an Assassin form don't you Jac — I mean, Berserker. Berserker? Hey, Berserker, why don't you talk anymore?"

Big Ben London Star: "Don't care. If you want to go die, try to do it without bothering me, please. If you want advice, my advice is 'give up.' This Holy Grail War has nothing to with the Clock Tower. The higher ups will send someone to save face. Annoying them would be more productive than interrupting me when I'm grading. Leave the door open for that snake lady on your way out, Miss Wegner. And hey. Hey! Don't talk to my students about this, especially Flat, got it?"

Regardless of what those third rates said, even the strongest Servant (Assassin) was worthless without a working relationship. To obtain the best Servant with the best possible compatibility, Lenny stayed far away from using a catalyst during the summoning. While this meant her selection of Servants would only be one of nineteen Heroic Spirits, she was certain she would draw the best card.

*****

Salazar slithered up a mahogany table leg and hissed at Lenny. She smiled and took another sip of her Green Apple Cosmopolitan Martini, a drink she discovered in America that quickly transitioned from a guilty pleasure to her favorite drink. The bounded field around the school had just been completed. It would soundproof the area, repel anyone without mystic abilities, and obscure the magical energy sensing abilities of anyone inside. She had woven that last effect into the bounded field as discreetly as possible.

In truth, Lenny was shocked to find the fighting starting quite literally in her backyard. Had a spy found her location? That was impossible. She had been so careful, and Assassin had ensured her that they were untraceable. No one other than Lord Byron, the Clock Tower representative, would even know she was interested in this Grail War. After sending her failed snakes as familiars and Assassin for reconnaissance, it turned out to be an opening fight unconnected to herself. A fortuitous coincidence to test Assassin's potency. Shame there was only one Master present. She would have liked to use one Master as an example and ally with the other, only to betray him later.

Either way, Assassin was positioned to claim the life of that homunculus in one attack. All Lenny needed was for Archer to forget about his Master for a moment. Considering the breakneck pace of the battle, she won't have to wait long. Good riddance. Now her nightmares of a bull shaped cloud chasing after her would cease. With this stroke of dirked genius, she would be able to put all that in the past and move into a brighter future for herself as a magus as well as a person. Riding on the momentum of her good mood, she took another sip of her drink.

"Alexa, play 'Toxic.'" The song choice feels fitting as she slipped into a trance to share Assassin's senses.

Poison Damsel( Visha Kanya)

That was the identity of the Assassin Lenny summoned. One of the nineteen Hassan-i-Sabbah, the poisonous flower who had changed her body until it was a poisoned blade that could divide countries with a single kiss. Lenny related. Gaining the girl's trust had been so easy. All she wanted was to be touched, to have someone who could caress her poisonous skin and still warm the bed the next day.

"Are the stones still functional, Assassin?" Lenny asked through their telepathic channel.

"Yes, Master. Would you mind," Assassin paused for a second, "petting my head when I get home?"

"Don't worry Assassin, I'll do much more than that if you succeed tonight."

Lenny felt Assassin's heart soaring through their line. There probably weren't any awards for best compatibility between Master and Servant. If there were, Lenny knew she'd win.

Attached to Assassin's belt was a series of stones. Extracted from the head of a toad king, these 'toadstones' were known as aphrodisiacs or potent antidotes in ages past. Science had another name for them, bufonite. According to archeologists, they were merely the teeth of Leopdotes, a type of extinct fish. But no scientist had ever magically created a snake with ears so that a toad king could develop, ride the snake, and absorb a multitude of its warty subjects before being euthanized so a magical stone could be extracted from its brain, have they now?

Toads have poison glands. To avoid poisoning themselves, they, obviously, must possess the antidote. That antidote was the toadstone in their head that continuously extracted the poison, growing in size as the toad grew older or as it secreted higher amounts of poison. This was Lenny's brand of magecraft.

The Wegner family were poison collectors. They didn't just collect your garden variety of animal venom and poisonous plants. They also dealt in magical and mythical varieties: Gu, Parysatis' poison, Cantarella, a bit of hydra poison, Aqua Tofana, and their most prized possession was a drop of eitr. The toadstones, if correctly cultivated, were the perfect containers for all these poisons as well as Assassin's. Not only had Lenny easily established a rapport with her Servant, but she had stockpiled a small treasury of potent Noble Phantasm-grade Mystic Codes.

The force of an attack broke through the bounded field Lenny erected. The aftershocks felt like a low scale earthquake that barely rocked the chair, but her body instinctively reeled in her mind.

"Master!" She could feel Assassin's worry through their line.

"I'm fine," The pain from having control of her bounded field taken away from her was something she experienced every day in the mafia no thanks to a certain. . . . "Stay focused Assassin, it's almost time to strike."

At that very moment, a tendril of electricity ran up her magic circuits. She telepathically called out to Assassin for confirmation, "Another Master and Servant? No, they're alone. Another Servant?"

"No, Master, just a girl. I can't feel any magical energy from her. She's a civilian."

The words rang through Lenny's mind. It was someone unrelated to this war, someone unfortunate enough to have so little common sense they would disobey the bounded field's suggestion. Perhaps she should have put up an illusion as well? There was no time to wonder how this could have been prevented. What a shame. If Lenny left her alone, the other two Servants would just dispose of the loose end. However, if Lenny made a gamble, she could easily turn this loose end into a secure knot of camaraderie and sportsmanship.

"Assassin, prepare to kill the girl."

"Master?"

"After you kill the girl, show the other two Servants you mean them no harm. You were just cleaning up. They'll be suspicious of you but convince them you were just watching. It'll be worth it if we can ally with one, especially that Archer." Lenny looked down at three strokes on the back of her left hand, a feathered snake erupting from two toad lips. "I'll use a Command Spell if things get bad."

There were two ways to use a Command Spell. The first was to force your Servant into following an unwelcome command, like suicide. The second was to supplement your Servant's abilities, such as ensuring they escape from a battle. By having maximized her relationship with the Servant, Lenny was certain she would never need to force Assassin to do anything. Secondly, Masters kept one stroke to protect themselves from their Servants. Lenny was confident that unlike other Masters in this war she would not need that final stroke for protection. In essence, she had an extra Command Spell.

"Understood, in position to strike."

Lenny smiled and proceeded to sip her room temperature drink.

"Atta — "

She didn't finish the word because her voice was drowned out by what seemed to be the wall of her workshop exploding. Lenny reflexively turned her head towards the sound to find a hole in the wall the size of an orange.

Impossible, that's impossible. There were layers upon layers of illusions and magecraft shields around this house. There is no way that someone could find, let alone attack this workshop without Lenny noticing. Determined, Lenny pushed herself out of her chair. She immediately fell to the ground. At least, the top half of her did. It may have been impossible but somehow, someone had broken through every layer of defense in this workshop and then Lenny's own personal defenses with a single attack.

The light quickly faded from Lenny's eyes. With this level of damage to her body even her magic crest couldn't keep her alive. The familiars that were still alive desperately slithered into her cavity, attempting to use their bodies to replace her obliterated or missing organs. They wouldn't make it in time. So this was what it meant to fight in the Holy Grail War.

How… intoxicating.

*****

"A successful operation, Doctor?" A questioning tone.

"It needs to be a little more sterile to call it an operation," came a tart but exasperated reply.

The doctor pulled out a small booklet from her camo-vest and flips to the last page. At first glance it looked like a class registry to help a teacher memorize student faces. If you looked at each one of those faces, instead of youthful students, there was an assortment of crossed out, bored faces.

"The last Scladio family officer at large, 'The Poison Princess,'" Lenny's face was unceremoniously crossed out. "We would have never been able to touch her if she stayed under the protection of the Clock Tower. I guess these wars are good for something." Although there is no way this could be called a 'war,' the doctor added underneath her breath.

The Servant absentmindedly swung her legs from the edge of the rooftop as the doctor put down her firearm next to a briefcase. Magically, the gun begins disassembling itself, shedding off layers of attachments that made it possible for precise long-range sniping like coats and sweaters. Soon, all that remained was a thermal scope and a handgun that fit itself in the holster on the doctor's belt.

"And yourself? Are you enjoying the emptiness of a satisfied revenge?"

The doctor didn't look at her Servant. "Wegner was not the reason why I joined this battle."

The Servant raised an eyebrow at the empty black sky before offering a deep nod.

"We're fighting because we want the same thing," A doctor's self-deprecating smile after delivering bad news to a patient filled her face. "Wasn't overcoming death your dearest wish, Berserker?"

"A battleground is not a place where death is overcome, Doctor," Berserker turns from where she sat and narrows her eyes at the doctor's arm. "We must treat that when we—"

A pillar of light pierced the black of the sky, stopping her sentence short. The doctor, in fact, anyone participating in this magical war would instantly know what that light heralded. A miracle, a Boundary Recording Band( Ghost Liner) was anchored onto this plane.

"Another one? But Rider was the seventh!" The doctor bit her gloved thumb, a habit from childhood she got from her sister. She turned to her own Servant for an explanation, but the ledge was already empty.

"Come back, Berserker!" Panicked, she sent a telepathic message.

The only reply the doctor received is pure killing intent and, "It reeks."

~Interlude Out~

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

4/ Seventeen's Edge

I woke up this morning to my best friend giving my brother a handjob. The worst part was the look on their faces when I stumbled into the room while experiencing my first hangover. Before the terror and guilt of being found out, they had these ridiculous smiles on their faces. Not the polite smile you give to a convenience store cashier in an attempt to let them know you're not that shitty customer who demands a refund for a blue Slurpee you already finished drinking because it wasn't raspberry flavored and everyone knows that blue is universally raspberry, but actual smiles. The kind that dyes your face when you delusionally believe that somehow in this messed up, nauseating world you might actually be happy. Fuck those smiles.

And then you have the nerve to take me to The Habit after school to tell me that it was a mistake, a horrible drunk mistake that will never happen again. Hello, of course it was a mistake, but that doesn't unscrew my brother. You're my best friend for god's sake. You of all people should know just how much I hate him.

Then you tell me that I'm the one being unreasonable. I'm your best friend, I should be happy for you? Don't you get it, Krista? I'm upset because I'm your best friend. You're better than that narcissistic momma's boy. You just don't see it right now because he's the first high school boy who's ever been interested in you.

You storm off. I finish my fries and order another bougie McChicken. It tastes like fried cardboard. Stare at me all you want, even you, probably homeless man next to the drink dispenser. I'm the girl who made her best friend run out of a comically Californian college town McDonalds substitute in tears. That's right, lap it all up; who needs fucking Netflix when you got a front row seat to my life? I don't want to see Krista again. I especially don't want to see my brother. My mom's out of town with a dentist. What's the point of going back home?

This downtown's so small that wandering around is impossible. There's always foot traffic no matter where you go and eventually, you'll end up window shopping at the same store you were at two weeks ago. Which is why that night, I ended up at San Luis de Tolosa High School. Depressing, but it's nowhere as depressing as this morning's events.

There's some noise and light coming from the football field. It isn't too strange, though. Might be a Monday but kids like to get drunk in the parking lot and throw their bottles into the stadium so the groundskeeper has something to do in the morning. He collects any unique bottle caps, displaying them on a wooden bottle cap map of the state he proudly hangs in his office. He said he might upgrade to a map of the entire country in a year.

— Alcohol paraphernalia in our local high school? That man should be fired at once.

— Mom, come on, he's chill. He stays late and helps us bring in the equipment after practice.

— When you put it that way, men do need hobbies to keep them busy.

Of course, anyone's irreproachable if they have the approval of her dearest, perfect, eldest son.

Stop thinking about him. There should be some kids here to take your mind off him and Krista and this morning and those smiles. At least, I've heard this is a place where kids my age hang out. I've never actually been invited to anything like that, but whatever. It's stupid, they're stupid.

Whatcha' doing here?

Nothing, just walking by.

Hey. I've seen you around school, you're a junior aren't you?

So what?

Senior, senior, sophomore. Want a beer?

Sure.

I'm XXXX. The one in the cap is XXXX and the one on top of the car is XXXX.

Hi, I'm Nadine.

Breathe in. Exhale. Run that scenario again through your mind. You can do this. They're just high school kids, like you. Like you. They will like you.

— Nadine, I know it's difficult for you, but isn't it about time you got more friends?

Isn't that what your mom tells you every time you start a new grade in this stupid town?

— Krista's an angel, but look how popular your brother is.

Oh mom, if you just knew how popular my brother was with your angelic Krista.

There's no one in the parking lot. In the three minutes it took for me to cross the road and enter the parking lot, all the lights have disappeared and there's no longer any noise. The kids must have probably left the school. Yeah, I should leave school as well. I don't even know why I was here in the first place. I've been wandering around town all afternoon and just ended up here. Didn't the news say it was getting more dangerous in our county? Something about deaths at the men's colony. There's no reason to be at school this late, anyway. I mean, who goes to school in the middle of the night? I should go home, take a shower, and hit the hay. Mom's probably back now. I'll just turn around and start making my way home.

Ho. . . me.

Seriously though, how the fuck am I supposed to call that cold, excessive, hostile, empty house a home?

A perfect brother who stole the only good thing in my life.

A melodramatic mother whose idea of fun is a glass of wine and The Notebook.

And worst of all XXXXX. So, I enter the football field. The stadium lights are too bright. Strange, they weren't on when I entered. The turf is ripped and half of the bleachers are destroyed. But those are just details compared to the two blurs smashing into one another in the middle of the field.

It doesn't matter if it defies all logic.

It doesn't matter if it's magical.

It doesn't matter if I'm going to die here.

Because, well, have you ever felt like you weren't really you? Instead, you're looking down at yourself saying terrible things, awkwardly trying not to fail but everything that you do is so unbelievably cringe that you can't help but hate what you see? And the scary thing. . . the thing I used to be so scared of was that this would never change. This feeling would never go away. I'm slightly relieved because now I know that it won't. A knife is going to pierce my throat in the next second. So why is my last thought is

'That'll show them.'

No flashbacks, no scrolling film of everything that's happened to me up to this point, just 'that'll show them.' That'll show the despondent writer who plotted my life. This must have been the moment she realized this life( movie) would never have an audience — would never go viral. I don't blame you for giving up on a defective character.

That knife abruptly stops as my legs give way and I fall to the ground. I barely noticed it, but it seems the fall badly bruised the back of my hand. As for the assailant, even if she was wearing a bone-white skull mask, I could tell she didn't see me. She was just looking at me because she happened to be facing my direction. All the strength in her body was already gone.

A strong gust of wind sends my untied hair into a knotted frenzy. The skull masked woman falls, blood leaking into the grass from three fist-sized holes. The blood sears the grass, instantly turning it grey. I scream.

I woke up this morning to my best friend giving my brother a handjob. Before the day ended, she had chosen him over me, her best friend since first grade. Dad, why am I the one who is always forsaken? God, are You even up there?

"I wish…." Hot, like that time Krista and I took turns trying to catch the fire from one of my mother's scented relaxation candles. But that wasn't painful like this. An unnatural breeze starts to blow as the corpse fades into flecks of blue. "I just wish I was someone who didn't have to make a stupid wish."

Wishing is stupid. You wish for something because you're either too dumb, ugly, or awkward to make it happen with your own two hands. That's why, on this football field, in front of all these weirdos and my attempted murderer, I make a wish.

The breeze turns into a gale and traps those flecks of blue light in its eye. No one else in the field moves. The gale reaches fever-pitch and an incandescent light brighter than the ones installed in this football field blinds me for a moment.

The heart in my chest skips a beat and then clamps down on itself. All the blood that was circulating through my arteries and veins drives to a halt, sending my body into shock. It's a memory I've tried my hardest to repress using every year I lived as an additional weight. But, it's happening to me, so it can't be that memory. Something tells me that I can't forget this feeling. This feeling is where I began. So engrave it into your soul. Even though everything in this body may have stopped, there's a molten flame that runs through my imaginary veins, flowing into that light which rapidly fades along with the burning sensation on the back of my hand.

The light fades as quickly as the wind, revealing a figure standing over my sprawled body. No one moves, nobody can breathe. In this moment, yesterday, this morning, this afternoon, no longer matters. There is nothing else in the world except for this figure and myself. With the moon overhead but the stars refusing to shine through the light pollution, some would call this scene sacred. Some would carve this very scene into their souls so they'll never forget it even if they fall into hell. I reject that sentiment.

"You don't look like much of a fighter, dearie." The woman's raspy voice is caked with scorn.

Polluted cerulean eyes, blond hair like straw that even the livestock won't eat, and to top it all off is a ridiculous apron attempting to hide a slightly plump build that yearns for an athletic girlhood. That apron isn't the type you see a fry cook wearing but the full ensemble of a cook from an absurdly genteel British period drama. This anachronism stands, bathed in both moon and stadium light. This moment is not special. Like any memory, it's nothing more than a pebble that will erode in the river of time until even the dregs no longer appear in my dreams. My view of the myself( world) has not changed.

"I've always wanted to see California. Had some relatives go west during the gold rush, but this ain't the place for idle chatter with all these hostile gentlemen about." She looks warily at the figure in full armor and then the half-naked bodybuilder.

"Come on, girl," she snaps. "Seal the contract already. Yer the one who summoned me or not?"

My mind is in shambles, but it's still screaming at me to get out of here. To make matters worse something falls from the sky. Its landing rips apart the already sparse turf. She looks like a celebrity from an overproduced Korean music video. A pure, serene face contrasting a blood-red uniform.

Without any emotion she raises a white gloved fist and charges. Her target, the woman in front of me seems to be nothing more than a sassy cook. The lady is goddamn military. The winner should have been obvious if not for the giant hammer which blocks the fist before it can connect with the cook's face.

"Oh, so you were thinking the same thing as well." The half-naked giant proclaims as he aims his bow at the military lady.

The knight was standing at the forty-yard line with the giant. The next moment, he was right in front of us. I vaguely remember the world record for sprinting is something like twenty miles per hour. That's about thirty feet a second. If that's the case, that man casually broke the world record strapped in a tin can.

"Lady, would you please consider backing down? This girl is obviously unaware of her station. My Master wishes for me to take her to the overseer of the War."

"A plague should not be given the chance to spread." The military lady puts more strength into her fist, blowing away the hammer.

"Cheh — And what might cause a genteel Lady such as yourself to fall to the level of a Berserker?"

The moment the knight is thrown off balance, the giant peppers the 'Berserker' with silver lights. Since they're coming from a bow, they must be arrows with gunpowder or a grenade is attached to the head. I've pretended to do archery at every summer camp my mother forced me to attend. An arrow shot out of a bow does not explode on impact.

Dust fills the air. What's even more incredible is that the lady brushes away the entire dust cloud in one motion. She's only lightly wounded, the type of wounded you get when you fall off a bike for the first time.

The giant dares her to continue her attack with a single stare. Instead the lady mumbles something, "Diagnosis. You diagnose the patient."

Incredibly specific words. Could it be that this 'Berserker' lady be a doctor?

"You ask the patient about her symptoms or you run tests."

I look around, but there's no one else talking back.

"There are times when the patient does not even know she is sick." There's no one around, but I can't shake the feeling that she's trying to appeal to someone. Could she be trying to convince herself out loud? No wonder they're calling her 'Berserker.'

The lady then focuses her attention onto the cook in front of me, attempting to look through and then into her. Everyone freezes, except for the knight who corrects his stance.

"She reeks of disease, but there are no observable abnormalities."

With everyone so intently observing the army lady, I steal a peek. Just glancing at the giant makes me want to vomit everything that didn't go to my back fat. He's so overwhelming that it's hard to breathe. But then again, no matter the social situation, it's always hard to breathe.

"There is not enough information to make a diagnosis."

As for the girl behind that giant. No one looks like that so she must be a professional cosplayer? Fake silver hair, red contact lenses, a dress that has too many parts to be functional or even possible beyond the catwalk. Most of all, her delicate face doesn't even look human. My mom was going on about how these days South Korean was even better than Hollywood at plastic surgery.

"We observe the patient."

Berserker tightens her fist and looks away from the cook.

"But, preemptive treatment may sometimes be beneficial depending on the family or health history of the patient."

The cook in front of me hasn't let her guard down. Honestly though, compared to everyone else on the field, it looks like she would be more useful chasing a talking rat from the kitchen than fighting.

"But most of the time, preemptive treatments can be extremely detrimental to the patient, insofar as even causing disease. Creating a problem for the patient even when there was no health concern to begin with."

Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. I turn my head because I thought I might have heard something from underneath the bleachers, but it's too dark, I don't see a thing.

"My apologies, Doctor. My apologies for the trouble I've caused here." She curtsies wholeheartedly. It's the type of curtsey you're taught to do when you're a little girl and about to go to an important fundraiser. "You as well, m'am," she glares at the cook.

"No harm, no foul. Mistakes are to be expected from one of your kind," the cook spits out the last word like venom.

With that, the Berserker lady abruptly disappears into the night. No one tries to stop her. The giant is the first to break the silence. "Knight, you intended to take the girl and her Servant to the overseer's, correct?"

The knight nods.

"A later date then," the giant smiles at me. "Good luck, child, you'll need it," and also disappears. The woman that was by his side looks at me for a moment and promptly exits. That just leaves the cook, the knight, and myself.

"What just happened?"

The knight turns around to face me. Even with only a few of the stadium lights still intact, his profile is clear. There's still boyish charisma in his eyes, even if he's past his prime. It's disgusting. I'm imagining what my brother would look like in thirty years or so years. A popular kid, a born leader, probably throws a tantrum because his mother won't buy him creatine.

"Apologies for not being able to explain. That is the overseer's job." He nods at the cook and then looks at me. "Have you ever ridden a horse before?"

"The college gives rides during open house...?"

He makes a face and then puts his fingers to his lips. A pure note rings into the night as an armored horse canters onto the destroyed football field from empty space.

"Don't worry madam, I'll protect her as if she were my own."

The cook folds her arms. "Sweet words won't charm me, sir. You know quite well as I who would win if we came to blows," and disappears. Even though I can't see her, I can sort of feel that she is still beside me.

"Okay then girl, up you get." He grabs me as delicately as he can, but it's still rough enough that I wince. Before long, we're both seated on the horse, trotting away from the school.

I woke up this morning to my best friend giving my brother a handjob. Before the day was over someone died in front of me. Once again, I wasn't able to do anything about it.

Call it destiny, call it fate, whatever it may be, this world hates Nadine Craig's guts.

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

5/ Dilo (I)

For the entire duration of the battle, I was cowering in a corner of the bleachers hoping that I wouldn't be found. My hand was firmly in my school hoodie pocket, gripping a cross-shaped hilt. Even when the Rider started talking about visiting the overseer, I couldn't introduce myself. There was no way that I was just going to walk out into that fray and announce that I was the overseer for the war. Especially after failing to help that girl.

My fist lightly taps one of the metal supports in frustration. I'm the overseer, I'm supposed to make sure no one from this town gets hurt, yet — I know, a Servant attacked her. There is nothing I can do against a Servant. I know, that Servant was instantly defeated. But I... I could have done something. I should have done something. If I did do something then at least I could proudly say, all the evenings spent on the mountain behind the Mission weren't wasted. That boy didn't drown for nothing. . . .

Oh well, self-pity isn't going to get me anywhere. There's better reception here, so I'll call the city rangers and let them know about the mess on the football field and the mountain trail.

Strange, there's no answer. I'll call again.

After the third tone, someone finally picks up, "Hello?"

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Kars, it's Chris from the Mission?"

"Shit, Chris, you know what time it is?"

"Sorry about that, but there's been a battle. I'd like to request clean up. Plan Delta at Tolosa High and Plan Foxtrot at Cerro Huerta. I can drop you a pin for Huerta."

"Appreciate the info, but Chris, ummm, your mom hasn't told you yet?"

"Told me what?" She's not my mother — a common mistake.

"We're off the war. All of us. Orders from above."

"Wait, that can't be right. We were all at the meeting last week. Everything was ready and —"

"Chris, sorry but according to the higher-ups, it's not our problem anymore. We're all in support roles."

"Who's higher up than the mayor? Did they get a senator or something?"

"It's late, Chris. Talk to your mom; get some sleep. Thanks for being out there even if you didn't have to. You're a good kid." Mr. Kars hangs up.

What did he mean by that? I'm the overseer, right?

Oh, I need to make my way back to the Mission as fast as possible. I just remembered that the Rider said he was taking that new Master to see the overseer. It should be okay though; Cherry will know what to do until I get back. Right, now on which rooftop did I leave the pie?

*****

Cherry gave me a hug when I arrived back at the Mission. She almost crushed the pie. I asked her if anyone had come looking for me, but she shook her head, motioning me to come into the kitchen.

Turns out Father Kelsey was waiting for us. He wanted to say something, but Cherry insisted we have a slice of pie first. I would have liked to change first, but I dropped my bag onto the kitchen floor and prepared myself for a slice of hard-earned, cold, blueberry pie. To clarify, no, it wasn't the old man's birthday, Cherry wanted to get the pie to celebrate our final night before the War began. Tragic.

"How's the old man?" I ask Cherry, after saying grace.

"Don't worry. . . he's the same as always," she replies with a moderate accent. I don't believe her when she says she had a good high school English teacher.

Father Kelsey plunks two forkfuls of pie into his mouth and then coughs in his fist.

"You okay, Father?" I pass him a napkin.

He shakes his head, "Gucchi, but we really got to get on topic."

"I was surprised they started fighting so soon. When I got there the football field was torn up. Worst of all, when I called the emergency Parks and Rec number Mr. Kars said we weren't in charge of moderating the war anymore. What's up with that?"

Father Kelsey looks at Cherry with his big, dark brown doe eyes. Fork in hand, Cherry grabs her elbow for a second and then places her fork onto her plate.

"Chris. . . Bishop Dilo passed away yesterday."

Dilo, the priest visited me in the hospital when my parents died.

Dilo, the —

— no matter who we are, we are merely. . . .

I see, so after all these years he's gone as well.

"This came in the mail this morning." Cherry hands me a letter with my name on it. "Open it when you're ready. You were special to him," she says softly.

"Bishop Dilo was a great man. He worked his whole life for the Church, helping people. I only met him once, but I'm very sorry for your loss." Father Kelsey offers some paltry words.

"I didn't want to tell you until you came back from school. . ." With her brows creased, Cherry tries to lighten the mood with a crooked smile, "I didn't think they would start fighting this early."

"It's my fault that I didn't take the clairvoyant book or the spirit board with me to school. I won't make that mistake again."

Father Kelsey looks at Cherry again.

"Yes, Father, is there something you want to tell me?" I ask.

His eyes widen as the slight curl of his lip darkens his face. "Sorry lil' dude, I wanted to tell you this in person." He bites his dry, top lip. "The Church rang this morning. They told us we were no longer mediating this Holy Grail War."

No wonder Rider and that new Master haven't arrived yet.

"That doesn't make sense, Father. I… We've all been preparing for this war ever since before this Mission took me in. The city has been collaborating with the Mission for years. Who's going to replace us? Why would the Church take us off this project on such short notice?"

"Because Bishop Dilo passed away yesterday." His voice is pent and low.

So that's why the up and coming, handsome pastor of the Tolosa Mission is so worked up. His relationship with the Church is much more personal than Cherry's or mine, to the point where he has convinced himself that he has unwavering faith in the institution we serve. And right now, he's experiencing the worst of its nepotism and bureaucracy.

"Factional infighting," comes Cherry's distasteful, curt reply. "Dilo was more than popular. . . he was a legend. I had no idea until I started working for the Mission." She nods at Father Kelsey and continues, "But he was too famous. His celebrity kept certain projects alive and alliances from dissolving. The moment he passed, those who disagreed with him made a grab for power."

The Church abhors a vacuum.

"This Mission is one of the first casualties. He fought so hard for us as well." Father Kelsey's face is all scrunched up.

He did, did he?

"The new overseer and his team arrived this morning. The city and our Mission will be 'duly compensated' for all our trouble. Moving forward, sorry dude, you're no longer the overseer for the Holy Grail War. . . ."

I want to say "It can't be helped," or "That's a load off my chest" and smile but I can't. I'm not sure how I feel about old man Dilo. We only knew each other for a few weeks, but during that time he told me some entertaining stories I can't remember, that a vampire killed my parents, and I will never be anything more than a human. For all that's worth, I can't help but remember the sad, guilty look he gave me as I said goodbye. As for my being replaced as overseer, it's a role that I had no attachment to. It was just a job that I was given, something to do, like kitchen duty or squeegeeing the stained-glass windows. I'll probably be doing a lot more of that stuff for the next two weeks now. Yup, that really freed up my schedule. I haven't dropped by to see the boys in —

"Who's replacing me?" I don't know why I asked that.

Cherry looks at me mid-bite. She takes her time to swallow the last piece of pie on her plate, no doubt wondering if she should answer at all.

"Assembly of the Eighth Sacrament, Sancraid Phahn."

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

6/ TEMPorary LiAR

"Are you sure this is the right place?" I ask. "California Pizza Kitchen is closed."

The knight looks at me. "Pizza — that's Italian, correct?"

"Sure. There's an actual Italian restaurant if you keep going down the road."

"Little lady, I helped establish Italy. I don't find myself too willing to walk all the way down this road to sample whether it was worth the effort." Although it wasn't a country back then, he added.

"Good for you, dude but everything's closed. It's like midnight."

"Good fortune our destination is not that establishment then." He slides off the saddle and picks me up from the horse which abruptly disappears into the night.

"Parking's free this time of night."

"You'll cut your suitors with that sharp tongue, little lady."

I could feel the cook silently agreeing with him.

We cross the street from the California Pizza Kitchen with all its lights switched off to the Seventh-Day Adventist church next to the local Masonic Lodge. I've never been to this church, but then again my family isn't religious. Not a problem though, like everyone else in this country we have relatives we only see once a year who are more than religious enough to make up for us.

Without knocking, the knight opens the door and ushers me in. Behind the pews are four stained glass windows each with an icon: an ear of wheat, a flower I can't make out, a dove, and a bible. There are a few more on the sides but the glare from the ceiling light is too strong.

"No good faffin' about in a house of God." The cook appears out of nowhere and motions for me to sit down. She looks really at home in the front row of a church. I, on the other hand, can't help but feel unnerved by the knight sitting behind us.

The door next to the organ opens and out comes a tall priest in his pajamas, a solid black shirt that has a neckline that plunges below his chest, satin pants that yearn for a seventies revival, and a pair of faux alligator skin slippers.

"Apologies, I happened to be dealing with the cleanup. You've had quite the night haven't you, Nadine?" He smiled for a second as if he just remembered something hilarious, "May I call you, Nadine?"

"Call me what you want but tell me how you know my name first."

He points to the knight. "That's my Servant."

I don't know what that means, but I do wish the lights were dimmer. His platinum blonde bowl cut is reflecting the glare right into my eyes.

"You must be so confused right now. I'm so very sorry, Nadine. Let me start from the beginning." He walks up to us and gestures at the seat beside my Servant. She looks at him warily, but I nod. I haven't met many priests, but I can already tell he isn't suited for the job. When you think of a priest you think of an old wrinkly, white dude who can only mumble; a creepy middle-aged dude you wouldn't let near kids — bald spot optional; or a hot, young dude who includes a bible verse in all his Facebook gym posts. Yeah, he still mains Facebook. This motherfucker looks like he's more of a Walmart greeter or a funeral director than a priest.

"Have you ever heard of the Holy Grail?"

"Monty Python?"

"Yes, that cup. I am the steward of the Holy Grail that has manifested in this town."

"You're telling me that you're one of those cable tv miracle hunters and there's a miracle in this town? Shouldn't you be going to the Mission for that?"

"Girl, you shouldn't talk to a priest like that. Who knows what horrors will befall us?" The cook snaps at me as she crosses herself.

"It's quite alright, madam," he reassures her. "No, Nadine, I'm not part of the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. I belong to a different part of the Church who devote themselves to the Eighth Sacrament. We retrieve holy objects and return them to their rightful places. Like the Indiana Jones' of the Church." He laughs at his own joke. How unpleasant. "Some in the Church may conflate us with those barbaric Executors, but I assure you, we're more like archeologists."

The knight behind us is whispering something under his breath as he prays. I glance at the cook beside me for a moment, before turning my full attention back to the priest. "They're here because of the grail too, aren't they?"

"Yes, they've been summoned to do battle to obtain it."

I nod, "So it's not the 'real' grail, then."

The priest seems taken aback, "What makes you think that?"

"Isn't the Holy Grail actually supposed to be Jesus's descendants? My mom was really into Tom Hanks for a few months."

I look around, the knight opens one eye, the cook looks at me with a blank expression on her face. Shit. Kill me now. Please. Why are you so dumb, Nadine. I'll just stop talking.

Amazingly, the priest happens to be nodding approvingly, "Hoh, it's indeed true that there have been people in the past who have been called, 'Holy Grail.' But, the Holy Grail in this town does not refer to the bloodline of our Lord. Instead, it is based on the 726th Grail the Church has examined. Its peculiarity is calling upon Heroic Spirits. The people who call upon those heroes are known as Masters. They are branded with stigmata known as Command Spells which gives you three absolute commands over your Servant."

So that tin can's a hero, is he? Not hard to believe. But her? Did this cook win a Nobel Peace Prize or something?

"There are Masters who summon these heroes, Servants. These Servants fight for the Holy Grail and the Church also wants the Holy Grail. I get why you sacrament guys would want it back, but why do these heroes fight for it?"

"Because it can grant any wish, dearie," the cook mutters.

I look at the priest. He nods with his eyes closed.

My eyes feel hot, really hot. Hotter than the cramped family sedan that summer night. Hotter than the fries in my mouth. Hotter than Tom Jones on the radio. Hotter than the sharp, heart-stopping pain in my dad's chest. Hotter than the burn of the seatbelt on my chest as the car hit that tree. Colder than my breath as I ran not for help but because I just. . . .

"My dad. Can it bring back my dad?" I finally manage to say it.

There's something warm on my back. Unlike Krista's hand, it's big and rough to the point of ew. But, I don't hate this feeling.

"Probably not," the priest says softly. "The complete resurrection of the dead is beyond even Magic. It's common knowledge these days that the Holy Grail is merely a magical energy furnace that collects the souls of Heroic Spirits to tear a hole in the World. This hole does not directly connect to the root of all existence, contrary to popular belief. The winner must make their way through the entirety of the outside of the World if they wish to arrive at the root. However, they are not alone in this quest, for outside the world contains vast deposits of untapped magical energy( mana) . Enough to grant a wish as long as one understands the process necessary to accomplish it."

"'Understand the process necessary to accomplish it?' What good is something that can grant any wish, if it needs —" I close my eyes and swallow the hotness. "Never mind, forget it," and push away the cook's hand.

"This is where you have to make your choice, Nadine. Other than you and myself, there are five other pairs of Masters and Servants. They all want the Holy Grail and they're willing to kill for it."

I already know that. The woman who died in front of me was seriously about to drive that dagger into my chest. There was no need for him to say that. Giving those words life just forces me to confront that reality at this very moment, right in front of him. There are going to be twelve other people, including this priest, who will be trying to kill me like that woman. How am I supposed to react to that?

"If you're willing to kill for this Grail, why am I still alive?"

His eyes darken, "The Masters of the Holy Grail War are magi. They don't follow the rules and morals that society has laid down. To minimize damage and to make sure things do not get too out of hand, the Church acts as a mediator for this battle, handling information manipulation and protecting Masters who have surrendered. We're neutral."

"It's difficult to be neutral when you have a dog in the race," I mutter while looking at the knight. "No offense, dude."

The knight scoffs.

"The intended overseer for this war was from a specific faction in the Church. Their leader recently died. A member went rogue and summoned a Servant. I'm an emergency appointee sent by the cardinal in charge of this Holy Grail War as damage control and to exterminate the rogue element. Other than completing those two objectives, I am a neutral party in this war."

"So the Servant that the knight was fighting. . . ."

"Self-defense. He was merely an interloper. We seek nothing more than to be rid of the Servant that was illegitimately summoned. However, as I am sure you are aware, to defeat a Servant, one must use a Servant."

"You said that Masters aren't normal people. Why was I chosen as a Master then?"

The priest looks at me and sighs, "You're an anomaly among anomalies. The Grail chooses seven magi of a certain stature to summon seven Servants. I believe each of the Masters must have magic circuits, be of sufficient stature to summon a Servant, and have heretical tendencies. Of course, built into the system is a strong preference for those who created the Grail. If seven that fit such criteria cannot be found, then it takes those who meet most of those criteria. It seems you Nadine, have the potential to become a magus. It's a rare mutation, but not so rare that it is unheard of."

"Seven Servants? I saw a Servant die right before my eyes. There are only six Servants left."

"No, even if that Servant and her Master perished, there are seven Masters and seven Servants left. That's why you're an anomaly. Command Spells that return to the Grail on a Master's death are redistributed if there are more Servants than Masters. Someone killed Assassin's Master and there were six Masters and seven Servants remaining. You, according to the Grail, were the most qualified person to replace that Master and was subsequently given the rights afforded to a Master, a Command Spell, instead of the preliminary 'mark of the chosen.' Immediately after the Command Spell was branded, the Servant was dealt a fatal wound and began to disappear. I'm a member of the Church, not a magus so I don't know the specifics, but my guess is that the body of the true Servant was used as a supply of magical energy and catalyst to summon the fake."

"Me," the cook interrupts.

There's a lot of words in there that I don't understand, and it sounds ridiculous. I get it though. I think I get it. If the Servant that tried to kill me is a one then the cook is a zero. One plus zero equals one. Like always, my luck is beyond terrible. My family moved to a town where there's a magical Hunger Games. To make matters worse, I wasn't even chosen properly. I was literally a benchwarmer. Fuck this. Fuck this Walmart greeter of a priest. Fuck the Holy Grail. Fuck Krista.

"The redistribution of Command Spells. The use of a Servant corpse as a catalyst for a forced summoning. Both these loopholes have occurred in previous Holy Grail Wars, but not simultaneously. That is why you're an anomaly among anomalies. So, Nadine, what are you going to do?"

Fuck me dead.

I clasp my hands and look down. Even if this is a church, there's no point in asking for anything. I've learned that much in my seventeen years on this earth. I'm scared. I'm up against monsters fighting to the death with just a cook as a partner. The choice is obviously to give up. Give up, go home, and go back to the life that I was living before.

A laugh escapes all the way from my stomach.

That's rich, what life? That life ended the moment I opened my brother's door this morning. There's nothing waiting for me back there, just awkward appeals for me to be reasonable, think about someone else for once, and to be happy for her. I can't be those things because I haven't been those things for such a long, long time that I've forgotten how to be those things.

I'm scared. I miss my dad. I want everything to be okay with Krista. I don't want to fight. I want to give up. I…

The priest's eyes sparkle at my wrung hands. Probably just the light, but for an instant, he looked at me like I was some kind of small animal he was about to devour.

"I'm impressed, Nadine," he says slowly and deliberately. "You're someone who has never been initiated to our side of the world, yet you've come to understand almost everything I've said with such acuity. I doubt there are many people your age who could deal with this situation with such calm and reason. It's almost like you have eyes that see into the world."

"See into the world?"

"It's a rare ability even among magi. Have you ever felt like you can easily understand concepts that others can't grasp?

I don't know where he's going but. . . all the time. I even correct teachers.

"Do you regularly anticipate others actions?"

Like preempting my mother every time she says something.

"Have you ever felt different from everyone else, like everyone else is missing something that only you can see?"

Something that only I can see?

I'm not special. I've known from a young age that there's always someone better than you and therefore by extension me. People, they get so self-important and uptight about that. Sam, no one cares how 'bomb' those tacos are exclamation mark ecksdee. Everyone in this town has been to goddamn Taqueria Santa Cruz. The difference between the mouth-breathers who get four hundred likes for that post and those who get ten is confidence. Doesn't matter if you pull it out of your ass, the sheeple won't know the difference. No one is special. You just try convincing everyone else that you're special until you've convinced yourself. It's so dumb. People are so dumb. 'Eyes that see into the world,' sure, whatever. Whatever.

I look the priest right in the eye. "I'll do it. Just make sure you give me a participation trophy at the end. You know, to let me know that I'm a snowflake. That's the joke, right, about this generation?"

The priest smiles, "Do you mind me asking why you made that decision?"

"The Servants are here because they want to be right? That means she has a wish she wants to be granted."

They both nod.

"It'd be pretty shitty of me to call on her and then just ditch her."

The priest claps his hands in delight. "Quite awe-inspiring. I've never heard anyone give that sort of reason as to why they'd join a magical battle royale before."

Nonchalantly, he gets up and walks to the podium.

"So, what's your wish?" I ask the cook.

"To get my good name back," she says abruptly, warily eyeing the priest.

To clear her name…. Wait, I've haven't even asked her name yet.

"Is that an order, dearie?" Her terse answer.

The priest coughs as he retrieves something from behind the podium. "You may be unaware Nadine of what your request truly entails. I'm sure you've heard of the legend of Achilles and his heel. To know a Servant's name is to know their weakness. It's unwise to reveal your Servant's name."

"What should I call you then?"

The priest interrupts, "Usually the Servant is called by their class. In your case, it would be —"

"Call me Mary." The cook, or rather Mary, speaks over the mansplaining priest. "My Nanna in heaven would cry if she heard folks calling me that vile name instead of the one I was christened with."

Mary, Mary.

Quite contrary.

Like a piercing note from the church organ, the name seeps into the air of the church, persisting until it soaks into our grey matter. Even the priest stops whatever he is doing behind the podium and absentmindedly repeats the two syllables, branding it onto his tongue. It's a common name for a common Servant of a common girl. I only know two historical Marys and one of them is hanging out with her kid on an altar behind the priest.

"Milord," Rider's arms are spread across the back of the pew like he owns the entire church. "The little lady has given her answer. I think we can let them go now."

The priest bows in his direction. "I'm sure your parents worried about you; I'll drive you home."

Ignore the plural.

"You mind if I ask you something, first?"

"You may ask, but I won't necessarily answer. You are officially a Master and I am a neutral party in this affair," he says offhandedly as he retrieves a priestly jacket to cover his pajama shirt.

"The other people like me, Masters. What are they like?"

An incredibly toothy smile, "The other five Masters… Due to the nature of this war, I don't have information about most of them. One of them is a representative of the government. When the Grail was established seventy years ago, one condition for the use of this land was a guaranteed slot for one of their own. Another is Lord Byron Valueleta Iselma, a disgraced noble from the Magecraft Association." He lists them off one by one. "The Dilo faction summoned an illegitimate Servant, but you shouldn't worry about them — I will take care of them. And finally, there's the Einzbern homunculus who participated in the battle in the school grounds."

Disregarding everything I didn't understand, there are only four mentions. He must not be aware of one of the Masters.

"If you don't have any other questions, we should get going." Without waiting for a reply he starts walking outside of the church.

I look over my shoulder to find Mary but she's already disappeared. Only the knight is left sitting in the church.

"You should probably follow the Father," he urges me to hurry up.

"You're called Rider, right?"

He plays with his facial hair. "My class, little lady, not my name."

"Well yeah, Rider, thanks for helping me tonight. Appreciate it, dude."

"You put too much stock in the regard of others. It might do your countenance well to smile."

"Don't need advice from a third-place renaissance faire costume, thank you very much."

Rider whistles in reply. Go ride yourself.

*****

The priest drives a Ford Escape. I asked him whether he had any kids. He told me that he was a priest. I asked him whether the Church was paying him enough. He said that he was not going to have college kids throwing up in the backseat of his car. I asked him why it was a Ford. He said that he didn't trust Asian cars. Sure, they were cheap, worked hard, and you looked respectable driving them. But you had to realize the gears are shifty, the headlights are often or not too slanted, and more than anything the interior stinks. Couldn't trust them, Asian cars.

I didn't reply.

By car, you can get anywhere in Tolosa from downtown in fifteen minutes. After riding in complete silence for the remaining eleven, we ended up at my front door.

"Thanks for the ride. You can go now."

"What sort of priest would I be if I let your parents worry about where you had been?" He crosses his arms. "I don't think your parents trust your word either."

"Parent, I wanted to resurrect my dad, remember." I ring the doorbell.

"Ahhh," he shakes his index finger knowingly like he innocently forgot to pick something up at the grocery store. "You did mention that before didn't yo-"

He's cut short by my mother wrenching open the door and yelling at me before she cuts herself short as she realized that there's another person with me.

"Father Sancraid Phahn pleased to meet you." He takes off his hat and offers his hand. Who on earth wears a hat after midnight? "I'm the acting priest at the Tolosa Seventh-Day Adventist Church."

Less shocked than if I came home with an officer, "Church? What was she doing at a church? What were you doing at a church!"

"I caught her rummaging through our clothing donations. She didn't seem like she meant much harm so I told her if she helped with some of my work, I would let her have anything that she wanted." He produces a pair of galaxy leggings, a denim jacket with a fluffy collar, and slightly frilly purple one piece out of what seems to be thin air. It's scary how good of a liar he is. More than that, the clothes he chose are exactly what I would pick out of a church donation pile (thrift shops are so 2012). I almost want to believe that I was out for a night of donating bin diving.

"What did you help him with?" She wants to believe it too. Stealing from a church, that's definitely something my useless, delinquent Nadine would do.

I shrug, "Usual church stuff. Polish the candlesticks, make meals to deliver to the unfortunate, and some filing."

"Until past midnight?!" She's incredulous.

"Sorry, Ms. Craig. After she had finished her work, a mug of hot chocolate seemed in order. It seemed Nadine wanted to confide in me. Being a teenager is tough especially for one who lost a father. I'm sure you're a great parent. It's just that at this age teenagers, especially girls, need someone they can talk to. And what can I say, I make a great hot chocolate." That smile is so fake that it's going to stink up the house for days.

My mum looks at me. I uncomfortably smile, the kind I do when I want her to think that she's got the better of me.

"Well thank you for bringing her home Father —" She falters, unable to recall his name. I don't blame her, I don't either.

"Not at all, Ms. Craig. Your daughter is quite rough around the edges, but there's a pure soul underneath. You've done a good job raising her."

My mom opens and closes her mouth a number of times before, "Thank you for getting her back safely."

"I wouldn't be a very good shepherd if I left one of my flock out alone at this hour. May the Lord be with both of you."

Effortlessly, the priest overseeing the Holy Grail War lied to my mother then got into his Ford Escape and drove away into the night. The moment he's out of earshot my mother asks, "Did he do anything funny to you?"

"Mom!"

She looks taken aback and becomes defensive. "I had to ask. You can never know with priests these days. You'd know if you ever paid attention to the news."

"Mom," Why is she always like this? "Whatever, I'm going to bed."

"Nadine. Is everything okay? I heard from your brother about Krista. That must be difficult for you."

Oh, she went there, didn't she? Well if you're going to go there.

"Yeah, it's difficult, but my perfect brother has been stealing things from me since I was born, so I'm used to it," I snap. "Especially when my own mother takes his side no matter what."

"Nadine," she beings to get stern.

"Hope that means you figured out why I turned to a priest before my own mother." I storm up the stairs to my room. My mother's repeatedly calling my name, so I slam the door. That should shut her up. I hope the bang wakes my brother up. He always gets hissy the next morning when he doesn't get eight hours. I hope he never gets eight hours.

"That wasn't very nice, dearie."

"You're not my mother, you're my Servant."

I throw myself into the bed still fully clothed.

"I'm the Servant who'll beat you senseless till you quit talking to me like that, girl. You don't know the first thing about being a victim."

The menace is palpable, gnawing at my ankles, trying to dig into my knees, but the pressure isn't overwhelming. It's like feeling the familiar buzz of your phone in your back pocket, but you're unsure if it's a DM or just a school email.

"Whatever, you're dead. You're already haunting me, so what's the worst thing that you can do?" How very me to ignore the message anyway. After all, the only person who would DM me is fucking my brother now.

That shuts her up. That shuts me up. But, sleep won't come with a disgusted ghost in an apron sitting on your chair, surrounded by a sprawl of impulse Ebay purchases your former best friend told you would go great with the Christmas gift that she bought you.

"Yer a right bitch, you know that?"

I tug my solid blue comforter over my hoodie and jeans. I don't feel any more comfortable. God, it's only Monday, too. I saw a ghost die today and I'm still the same old sad, bad Nadine. Can't we just flash forward to the next fight or whatever?

"Yer a right bitch alright, but I wouldn't have anyone less for a Master. 'Cos you see, girl...."

My hair, face, and pillow are wet. She must have poured a glass of water over me. How petty. I open my eyes. I see nothing but my pillow. I close my eyes and block everything out.

"At least react will ya?"

I close my eyes and block everything else out.

Day 1 – End

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

7/ AntUmbra

"So, a Cuban?"

"Wasabi mayo instead of mustard, please."

"Do you want anything else with that?"

"No, that'll be all Hibiki, thanks," I smile.

I turn to the window opposite of the waitress. In the place of a sheet of glass is white as far as the world will allow. Nothing but a blank canvas of bleached sand. Nothing moves, nothing dies, everything just empties itself into the sand.

"What about some prune juice, freshly squeezed?"

I don't think you should be selling prune juice in a German cafe. A cafe only getting by because of its regulars isn't winning any points by shaking up its menu. And do something about the decor as well. It's as dim as that bar where the toilets don't have doors, the one with that really pretentious name, The Library, that's it. Twenty-one isn't an age, I was told, it's a state of mind. Okay, but how are we going to get in? My brother knows the bouncer, I was told, it'll be a cinch. That's not going to — well, let's give it a go. That's the spirit! Nothing ventured, nothing gained right, Chris?

"Hey, Hibiki, do scriptures dream of lamb?"

"No way, I dream about Chika."

"Doesn't that mean you're broken? I feel like a scripture should be dreaming about lamb."

"A scripture doesn't know that it's incoherent. All it can do is read and praise itself. In fact, it makes perfect sense to itself. The words mean the words mean the words. It doesn't need to mean anything else to anyone else, you know. It's only when that script tries to explain itself to a human that it realizes it's incoherent."

"Incoherent? Don't you mean broken?"

"Incoherent because when something can be read five hundred different ways by five hundred different people, what's a scripture to do?"

"Stop dreaming of lamb and dream of Chika instead?"

"Bing-bong," she makes a bingo sound effect.

From the corner of my eye, I see a thin shadow brushing the glass fixed into the front door.

"Scratch the Cuban. Dilo's waiting for me outside."

The door opens itself and I start walking up. The mountain underneath my feet is too supple to be one I've climbed before. All of the Sisters are usually dry and compacted. Walking on sunshine, the always good-natured guide will tell you, locals never hike after a rainy day. Too loose, too muddy. Rather than sunshine, it's like I'm climbing up a mountain of flesh.

The most touristy thing to do in this town is to climb three of the Sisters and then get a tri-tip sandwich at the local inn for lunch. It's touristy because it's doable and considered an accomplishment you can post on the internet. No matter your age, you'll post a picture on Facebook because no one does it alone and every group has at least one person who brought a selfie-stick. Tag yourself, the post will say.

Hiking is the lifeblood of this town; it's what people do on the weekends. Always going up, always aiming higher; I wonder what's on the other side? Eventually the mysterious becomes nothing more than a weekend habit. People hike in this town because it's something to do. People hike in this town because there's nothing else to do. To do. To do. To do. Desperately seeking something to do. Aimlessly wanting something to do. The natural conclusion? People hike in this town because it's what people in this town do.

How mechanically beautiful.

But people shouldn't be this way, the mountain matter-of-factly blubbers. People should want more than this; people should feel more than this. You, of all, shouldn't accept this for, 'lo and behold the flame this despondent mediocrity kindled.

A hole opens up and I transition into a disembodied form as I fall. The fire in the center bubbles up like a tidal wave of roe you get in the supermarket that's advertised as caviar. A velvet coat that doesn't pop no matter how many layers are pressed together dress me, giving me a form. I gasp, hoping for something to fill my lungs. But it doesn't make sense to try to breathe. I don't have lungs. The moment I stop trying, something comes from the heart of the mountain. Nothing more than a smidge of darkness, electrified by the atmosphere and the grudges that call this place home.

It doesn't look at me.

I don't look at it.

"You're disgusting."

The fiery bubbles surge, whipping themselves into a whirlpool that emanates nothing but… nothing but…

"Sorry." In two syllables, I fail to reject it.

And one by one the bubbles begin to pop.

*****

By the time I flush the toilet, I have to admit the new overseer is doing a good job. Follow up is important. When Cherry told me that the Mission was no longer in charge of mediating the Holy Grail War, I was worried about whether these new operatives, with such limited time, could deal with the intricacies of managing information within this town. So rather than running the daily quests on the mobile game I play, messaging Kayla about where we should eat lunch today, or watching that recommended Youtube video which was clearly clickbait, I read the local headlines.

Apparently, someone broke into the Tolosa High football field yesterday and did a few doughnuts. A portion of the Cerro Huerta trail was being sectioned off due to a new city Natural Resources department report detailing possible high-risk fire hazards in Open Spaces in light of the Governor's proclamation of the 'new normal.' There was also an investigative piece about a spike of inmate deaths in the men's colony close by. These are pretty good stories. I was certain they'd go for the tried and true 'gas leak' cover story that was part of Protocol #650.

I put my electric toothbrush back into its charger and try to floss my back teeth. Wait, I forgot to wipe the toothbrush clean with a square of toilet paper. Enough hard water scum leads to a brown crust. The Oral-B toothbrush manual always recommends drying it after brushing. As for flossing, I can never truly get my back teeth but that doesn't mean I shouldn't try. Wet my hands, two pumps of hand soap, twenty seconds of scrubbing remembering to pay special attention to the inside of the nails, and then twenty seconds in hot water, dry on my towel. I don't remember what I was dreaming about this morning, but it can't have been too important — just like the letter on my desk that I haven't opened.

*****

Cherry is peculiar about fixing breakfast. It might be part of some ritual that she can't let go of, but she won't let anyone else make breakfast. There's nothing to complain about taste-wise, though some kids at school thought it was hilarious that the first time I had frosted flakes were from a ziplock bag during P.E.

I spoon my fried egg (sunny side up) onto my toast and start eating. The school is just down the road from the Mission. I can usually make it with five minutes or so to spare.

"You're late, as usual," Father Kelsey on the other hand, walks in with nothing but a tank top and boxer briefs.

He yawns, stretches, and then looks in the pan. There's an egg left in the skillet for him.

"You're right on time, as usual," he replies.

You want to bells rung on time, right?

He absentmindedly poses in front of the toaster while waiting for it to pop. How many followers could I get if I started a 'hot priest around the house' account? Unfiltered pictures of a half-naked, muscular, handsome, young, Filipino priest absentmindedly smoldering into the distance while bathed in the early morning sun might start raking in enough ad revenue for a new phone. Church technology might be the best in the world, but its social media presence definitely needs work.

"What about Cherry?" he breaks my train of thought.

"Early, as usual."

He nods and the toaster goes off. As usual. Just like every other day for the past few years. Sure, things have changed a little, but even with this Holy Grail War going on, I can't help but feel unaffected

"There's a piece of pie left." Father Kelsey says after he gets the milk from the fridge.

"That's for the old man. I'll go up to his room after I'm finished."

Everyone does their own dishes in this household. We tried doing it how Cherry wanted us to do it — a weekly rotation. Spectacular failure. There are probably fifteen pages dedicated to that incident in her diary.

"Father, have you heard anything from the Holy See?"

"Nah, not yet." He catches himself mid-automatic answer. He twists his mouth, his gaze gripping onto my face. "Dude,"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Just enjoy yourself, 'kay."

I get up to retrieve the piece of pie.

*****

"Pie for breakfast? You're spoiling this old man," The pie's cold, yet the moment I enter the room, the old man somehow already knows.

Karabo Frampton, a retired Executor, 'officially' my foster father, as well as my teacher. From reading Church battlefield reports and witness testimonies, you couldn't believe he was a sickly, gentle old man. That disconnect between who he was and who he is now is the reason why I call him old man. Karabo is someone else.

"Blueberry from Ahnenerbe." I hand his dark, wizened hands the fork and the plate.

"Did you happen to see somebody ordering curry?" He croaks.

I shake my head. Seriously, old man, celebrities like that don't go to small German cafes on the Central Coast.

"Shame," he replies before saying grace and taking a bite. I sit back and let him enjoy one of the only things he still can. His health started deteriorating a year or two after we settled into the Mission. No one other than the old man himself knew what was wrong. Doctors were useless so they never came. There was no medication that could help him, either. So, he just sits here — a panther that lost his fangs, waiting to stop functioning.

"Is there something you want to ask?" He turns to face me with his bottom lip purple from the filing.

I wipe his mouth with a paper towel. The old man's blind. Lost… or rather sold his eyes.

"Cherry already told you, didn't she? I'm no longer the overseer."

The crumbs on the plate I take from him look like mountains of crusty froth. There isn't much space on the bedside table so I end up putting it on top of a faded leatherbound book.

"That's my bible, Chris."

I end up putting the plate on the ground.

"You're no longer the overseer. How do you feel about that?"

I'm happy. This is what happy feels like. Overseeing the Holy Grail War was your job. But since you got sick, it fell into my hands. In terms of a resume builder though, it would definitely be something more noteworthy than building a mission in Georgia, exterminating an outbreak of Dead on an island in south-east Asia, or investigating a head-hunting magus in London. On the other hand, this is the town that adopted me. It's selfish but somehow, I feel like I should deserve to be the one making sure nothing bad happens here. At least that's what I think he would have wanted.

"Eh," I grunt.

"Do you want to use your words, boy?" There's half a growl in that croak.

"You've fought a Servant before."

"You know the story. I didn't do it alone and I almost died."

Pandemonium on the Rail Zeppelin. A usurping heartless posturing as a crafted tree. Beheading incident beyond the past and future within the magical, locked room <imaginary number space>. Reverse grail within a snow brushed forest, apostolating death. Mystic Eyes of ~~Death Perception~~ Umbral Foam( Transience) — two jewels that affirm the past. Two forsaken retainers of the king, one who died as fake, the other ordered to live. Heterochromia, the body halts. The brain sizzles; the sternum erupts. Lo' gaze upon the Wheel of the Demonic Heaven. Remain steadfast, for within that spear is a prayer made of Thirteen Decisions that unseals the light at the end of the world.

— All of us, no matter who we are, are merely. . . foam.

I shake some thoughts out of my head. "Yeah, sorry. I used to love hearing that story, didn't I?"

"And I loved telling it," he gently smiles. "We both know you're not afraid of having to intervene in a battle of Servants."

When he says that, I can't help but find my hand in a fist. That's not right. Yesterday, underneath the bleachers, I was too scared to do anything. He might be my old man, but he doesn't know everything about me. I think this just goes to prove it.

"My job is to fight vampires, not to oversee magi squabbles," I say through gritted teeth. "I'm a lot of things, but I'm not the type to follow blindly."

"You're not a lot of things. But I thought you were at least that type of person."

"The pie was good wasn't it?"

"We're talking about overseeing the Grail War."

I look down.

"What should I do?"

"Why are you asking a dying old man?"

"Dilo. . . passed away."

"He was a good man, Bishop Dilo."

"Everyone keeps saying that. Was he really?"

"No, probably not all the time. But I believe I taught you to respect the dead."

"Sorry."

"Don't say sorry unless you mean it."

I stop talking and just raise my hand to catch the fork the old man throws at my eye with my index finger and thumb. For a dying old man, he can still throw a fork harder and faster than almost any baseball pitcher alive. Left alone, it would have dug deep enough to sever all the nerves in my eye and then pierce my brain.

"Go and have fun at school, Chris. You'll figure out what you need to do."

Having lost once again to the old man, there's nothing left for me to do but head back to the kitchen with a heavy heart and an empty plate.

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

8/ Day Buy Day

"Whatcha doing outside Rite-Aid, big guy?"

"My Master presented me with a labor," he says, holding up a packet of Eneloop batteries. "It seems my reputation in this era is as esteemed as the Grail would have me believe. What of you, child? Are not children of this era herded into safe learning spaces during the day? Did your tutor assign you a practical?"

*****

Let me explain. After suffering my mother agonizing about how she had to drive me to school now that Krista and I were no longer talking not to mention I didn't even ask her how her weekend was (Horrible, can you believe he was trying to have an affair?) while my sleep-deprived body was aching, I decided that school wasn't the right place for me. Mary hasn't seen the town yet; what sort of 'Master' would I be if I had her come to school with me instead of escorting her through a twenty-first-century city?

"Don't tell anyone that you're from New York. All you'll get is 'West coast, best coast.'"

Merely an hour after rush hour and the bus is already empty. We sit right behind the disabled seating.

"Tolosa's a real bike and car town, so the bus system's a bit confusing." I point to the yellowing map stuck to the wall of the driver's compartment. "It's a lot simpler on Google Maps. Basically, Tolosa's a triangle."

"You sure know a lot about the local transportation system for a girl who still has her mother drive her to school," Mary sounds suspicious.

Any girl who's ever planned to run away from this dead-end town can tell you this much.

"After you ride the bus once, it just kind of clicks." Yes, I'm talking to the empty seat beside me. No, I'm not crazy Ms. Bus Driver, please stop pretending to ignore me while also sneaking glances at me in the mirror. Mary explained that she had two 'modes,' a corporeal form and an incorporeal ghost form. Even as a ghost she is still able to verbally communicate with me.

The first thing I asked was whether all ghosts were like her. No, apparently Servants are special. Can anyone become a ghost, then? As long as something remembers you, you can't stop being a ghost, dearie. That doesn't answer the question, Mary. Does it matter if it answers the question if it answers the one you were too ascared to ask?

Whatever, this is our stop. We get off.

"We're at the northern tip of town, the college campus. This is the first of two major bus stops in town." I point to the cement step pyramid across the road. "That's the college library and further down this road are some food trucks in front of the main buildings. Atop the hill behind us is student housing."

"Are all these wee ladies studying at this institution?" A materialized Mary lowers her eyes at the giggle (coined and minted) of young, blond girls in tank tops and denim shorts walking to the campus market.

"Huh? Yeah, what about them?"

"At first I was mighty impressed, but they look more like strumpets than scholars."

"That's a Californian winter for you. May as well be a New York summer."

"That's no excuse Nadine, no excuse, at all."

Whatever grandma, this is our stop. We get off.

"This is the south-western tip. If you're here, you're either shopping or a rich old dude telling your wife you got a business meeting and playing golf instead."

The sun bears down on the grotesque paved parking lot behind us. Everything and anything you need in one location, from brownie brittle that'll cost your 'whole paycheck' (hahahaha, so hilarious, I haven't heard that one from every single person over thirty) to a new squeaky bone for the emotional support puppy your mom won't get you because 'I'm the one who's going to end up looking after it and I don't have the time for that,' from sustainable artisanal craft IPAs you find your brother always eyeing to chartreuse fencing your mom claims is the devil, and hell if you want fresh cream cheese wontons and orange chicken in the middle of a sleepover because your mom still calls it a sleepover when Krista stays the night. . . sorry we close at ten. Everything in this town closes at ten.

"I didn't know California was this hilly." Mary squints as she uses her hand as a visor. "Nothing like where I grew up…."

"Don't know what that Sister's called, but kids from school always talk about hanging out there after getting hot dogs from Costco." It's time to give her the 'talk', "There's only one thing this town's known for: the hiking culture. There's a series of seven volcanic plugs around this town. They're known as the Seven Sisters."

It's the same speech every local gives to any visitor. If you live in this town, you'll have heard it so many times that no matter the location, no matter the person, no matter the situation, you'll be able to recite it perfectly. It's the only thing in this town worth reciting.

Mary's crossing herself? I'll ask her if she's religious. Well, if you really were no more religious than anyone else while alive, I don't think you would be crossing yourself at the mention of a few volcanic plugs. Don't call them hills, the people who live here are really particular about that. Volcanic plugs, that's what they're called. Well, you're Scottish, aren't you? You call me dearie, a lot. Your accent sounds like the ones from that time-traveling period drama my mom forced me to watch with her. Wearing kilts, playing bagpipes, and eating haggis; I know those are just stereotypes though. Are there really any differences between Scots and the Irish? Wooden spoon up my —? We should stop by the Mission then if you're Catholic. Either way, let's find a place to eat. What? Servants don't need to eat? Whatever, I'm hangry so we're going to skip this stop.

"The south-eastern tip is the only airport between Monterey and Santa Barbara. Mostly, people use it to get to SFO or LAX when they can't be bothered to drive. Other than that, there's the gym my mom goes to that's pretty much a cult."

We get off at Taco Bell instead.

"If you're not going to eat, at least have some of my drink."

Mary looks at the neon liquid.

"Baja Blast. Krista prefers the spiked lemonade."

Mary takes a sip without touching the cup with her hands, shudders, and then takes another sip. "How colorful. This a twenty-first-century beverage. Makes for a cracker of a drink."

"Artificial colors, flavors, preservatives. Probably filled with a lot of ingredients that you can't pronounce. There are a lot of people going Paleo these days. Umm, that's like eating the food cave people ate."

"Oh dear, how could any poor soul deliberately eat the diet of savages by choice when these foods of the future are created with the power of science to offer the best nutrition and taste possible?" Mary nods to herself approvingly. She seems really passionate about this topic.

"America is one of the fattest countries now because of that 'science.'"

"Better than the days when your tea was tubercular beef and a slice of bread cut with sawdust."

"You cooked a lot, Mary?"

"I was a cook, dead-on too."

"You should cook for me. Whatever it is, must be better than whatever my mom microwaves."

Not an exaggeration to say my sense of taste left with my dad.

"Maybe after the war is finished, dearie." She looks at her hands in her lap. "These hands shouldn't cook anything, at least not right now."

"You said you wanted the Grail to clear your name. Is that so you can cook again?"

"God willing, I hope to never do that again," she says, taking another sip of my drink. She didn't even notice my frown.

"Do you know who framed you?"

"They called me hideous names too," she doesn't hear me.

Let's see, Neigh-dine, literally AIDs, clit sucker, Darien's fuck-up of a sister, Krista's weird friend. We really should compare lists some time, Mary.

She finishes with, "Newspapers can be so cruel."

At least you got the views.

There aren't many people at Taco Bell after the lunch rush on Tuesdays. The cashier looked slightly worried at the sight of a middle-aged lady in an apron but he's seen people in weirder outfits trying to buy tacos while full-on baked. That's part of the job description for a college town Taco Bell.

"What about you Nadine. Your father. . ." she leaves my dad hanging.

"Heart attack. We were getting burgers too. Last night at the church that was. . ." I shrug. "It's been tough without him. But you heard what the priest said, even the Holy Grail can't resurrect someone. Anyway, I've watched enough movies to know how terrible that idea is."

She begs me to continue.

"Like they end up a zombie, lose all their memories, or what's actually resurrected is a demon and that starts haunting the house. It's the same thing when people wish to change the past. I would really like my dad to come back but. . . he's not coming back. I know that."

"How admirably pragmatic of you, dearie. Then do you have a different wish?"

"Dreams are nice, Mary but last night a half-naked bodybuilder killed a skull mask-wearing ninja? who was trying to kill me. A crazy military lady attacked us and she was stopped by a knight with a Thor hammer. You're a cook. What are we going to do, cook them a nice meal?"

Oh, I forgot about the not-cooking thing.

"You should have thought about that before you agreed to be my Master, dearie. Especially when you don't have a wish." She looks at me intensely, "There are far more innocent and productive hobbies than watching ghosts faffin' about."

I finish my tacos.

"What I'm trying to say, Nadine, thank you for being my Master."

I finish my drink.

Why am I still hungry?

*****

I got a chicken pita for six-fifty at the deli across from the bowl cut priest's church. I stayed far away from California Pizza Kitchen because I did not want to run into a certain knight. Anyway, the deli's right next to the park behind the old folk's home. Krista and I used to come here whenever we were close by. I like old people. By that age, people have realized they're too old to put on a facade, so the only option left to them is to genuinely enjoy what they're doing, no matter how boring it might be. There is nothing to worry about because there isn't any time to worry, leaving everyone with a blissful expression glazed onto their faces. I really like old people. When I met Krista in first grade, she was wearing an oversized, patched up, flannel winter jacket just like the old man sitting a few seats away.

We make eye contact for a moment and I can't help but. . . Oh, after straining my eyes a bit, I realized that's Laurent. We've talked a few times. If I recall, his daughter is working as an investment banker somewhere on the East Coast and when his wife passed away, he decided it was time to actually make some friends. I was about to go over and say 'hi,' but Mary's back from checking the retirement home facilities. That was quick. I check my phone, wow, twenty minutes have already passed? When I asked her how they looked, she just shrugged and said a word or two that I didn't understand. That's the Irish for you.

*****

As the day wore itself into the afternoon, we found ourselves outside Rite-Aid. Mary asked me where to find some peach ice-cream. I'm not made of money and Rite-Aid's just a few streets away from the school. There's always foot traffic here, whether it's from shoppers or people just leaving their cars here because no one checks the parking. It's the last place you would expect to find the half-naked bodybuilder from last night, sitting back against the brick wall with a portable DVD player in hand.

His massive head deftly flicks up as we approach. Can he sense our presence?

Oh god, I need to get out of here.

I don't think I can breathe anymore. I'm opening my mouth and I feel there's something cold in my throat, but nothing's reaching my lungs. My brain is using every single molecule of oxygen to scream at me, run away. If I continue to face whatever is in front of me, everything will break. Will break?

Brain, isn't that pretty laughable? Just take it all in. That's right, you stupid bitch, take it all in and reject it.

"Getting ice-cream," I point to the store's doors as I stiffly enter before making a beeline for the ice-cream counter. I don't know what Mary expected when she asked for peach ice-cream — there's peach flavored ice-cream. Whatever, good enough, foods of science or whatever she said right?

I order three cups of peach-flavored ice-cream from a Thrifty cashier who somehow doesn't realize there's a giant outside the store. When I come back out, Mary has already materialized, so I offer her a cup and a spoon. She looks cautiously at the extra ice cream.

"You're a Servant too, right, big guy? An ancient hero who's never had Rite-Aid ice-cream?" I offer him the paper cup, "Now we're even for last night."

By the time I finished the short story, we've already finished our ice-cream.

"Taking the time to escort your Servant around the city. That's admirable, child. I like you." He says with ice-cream covering his dark lips. The plastic spoon snapped between his fingers, so he took the scoop as a shot. "We haven't been formally introduced, Assa —" He stops mid-sentence.

Mary's on the verge of erupting. Her face is so scrunched up that it's hard to tell where one feature ends and the next one begins. It's probably time for me to step in and help this bodybuilder in a muscle tank with cutoffs the size of his oversize boardshorts.

"Her name's Mary."

That inhuman, chiseled face slackens before slightly furrowing to becoming more intense. "You have quite the mettle to refuse being hailed as your class, Mary."

People have names. They want to be called those names. But Servants are ghosts of celebrities. With just a name and a location, you can pretty much find any person on Facebook. With famous people, Wikipedia will give you major details of their lives, including how they died. But… I think I understand why Mary doesn't give a shit about all that. From the way she carries herself and gets fussy over the most insignificant things, I think, for her, her good name might be worth more than this second life. Stupid as that might sound, I don't think it's something I should make light of to her face. Instead, I ask what a class is.

The giant begins explaining the birds and bees: the differences between Heroic Spirits and Servants as well as where they come from. Mary interjects at times, but I think that this giant comically dressed like a tool of a frat boy heading to the gym knows more than she does about this topic. For whatever reason, he seems like he's so steeped in the magical that he believes whatever bullshit he's spouting. They exchange combinations of words that don't belong next to each other like boundary recording band, saint graphs, and ring of deterrence. There's no point taking out my phone. I'm not sure any of these terms would show up in a Google search.

"So then to become a Heroic Spirit not only do you need to be a celebrity but you need to have done something impossible. But like, it's pretty much impossible to do anything that is impossible these days because of how shitty we are. If err someone from modern times was to be a Servant they would like be someone who contracted with a deterrent — a counter force? You seriously saying Mother Teresa wouldn't like qualify?"

"Verily," the giant adamantly nods.

"Isn't there that strange man in the strange suit who recently arrived on the Throne?" Mary interjects.

"An exception that only proves the rule."

"You're saying, I could have summoned Neil Armstrong?"

"Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Caster, Assassin, Berserker. No repeats." The giant lists them off with his salami-sized fingers. "Those seven are the basic lineup for a Holy Grail War."

"Extra classes exist, though," Mary interjects.

"Those names sound terrible." My retorts never miss a beat. "Who came up with them?"

Both Servants shrug, but the big guy tries to offer an answer as well. "We are conferred scarce information about the classes themselves, but Heroic Spirits are not meant to be summoned as Servants. Simultaneously, with the blessing of the Grail and as Heroic Spirits already exist, the emanation, a Servant, is a more convenient construction than a familiar on the level of a Servant. These vessels known as classes can't be something a magus arbitrarily named. They must have their foundation in some undisclosed natural law."

If the knight who summoned a horse out of thin air was called Rider and the military lady who attacked us out of nowhere was called Berserker, then this giant here who pulled out a bow must be Archer.

"You call these Servants emanations of the Heroic Spirit. Why not just summon the Heroic Spirit if that's the case?"

Mary takes this one. "Heroic Spirits aren't just people. We're records, a long strip of film known as an entire life. At times, there are certain legends which attach onto that film warping it, lengthening it, or even gilding it."

I think I understand this part. It's like if I revived my dad, I would choose the him the day before he died. That version of my dad would still have a very high risk of a heart attack. Would he even survive the month? I could also revive him from his grunge band days. That version of my dad wouldn't even know I exist and perpetually have a joint in his mouth. They're both my dad, just different versions of him. So, summoning the Heroic Spirit would mean summoning every single version of a person at every single point in their life. If that's the case, then Archer just means sometime during this bodybuilder's life he used a bow. This Servant, this version of him, is a snapshot of that period of his life.

"This Armstrong would only manifest as a Rider. This war already has a Rider, thus he wouldn't be eligible." Archer finishes.

"I'm surprised you both know Neil Armstrong. Didn't he die before your time? Mary's like what, from whenever Downton Abbey's set and big guy, you a caveman?"

Archer chuckles, "That would amuse Father. We're summoned as Servants. Our undertakings on this plane are documented and sent back to the main body in the Throne of Heroes. I know every single thing that I have done in the entire history of mankind. In spite of that, being summoned with such knowledge causes a paradox. The Grail and the World itself limits our knowledge to that of when we were alive and the information the Grail bestows upon us to function in the present. Needless to say, in the event of being summoned an area devoid of the World's influence, one should be able to recall previous summonings to some extent."

"You keep calling this place you're coming from the 'Throne.' So, it's just a throne high up in the sky and all you do is sit there, absorbing information about what the Servant did, like a sponge?"

"A misnomer binding the physical and metaphysical. The Throne is a catalog cosmos outside of the World. It is close to what is known as the beginning and end of all existence but not actually within that nexus. The terminology alludes to the common expression, 'the seat of X.'"

It's an awkward expression, but I think it means 'on the level of.' In this case, the Throne of Heroes is not necessarily a literal throne, it's just the place heroes go because they are heroes. In that respect, it's the 'seat of a hero.' I wonder if there is a 'seat of puppies.' But there were two words he said —

"The afterlife for you guys is just being a disembodied sponge that soaks up endless amounts of information about yourself? Now you're summoned to fight each other? That's depressing."

This is more or less the doctrine of a cult, like Scientology. I've watched a lot of daytime television. Psychics get people to believe they can talk to deceased family members because they have prior information and the people want to believe. In front of me are actual dead people, sure, but that doesn't mean they're right about everything. All they have is their own subjective experience which we generalize to categorize all life. No one is completely right, especially when it's about what happens after death, even if you're dead.

"He only says that because he doesn't get invited to the cooking classes," Mary offers a snide remark that makes no sense.

"That demonic proprietress prioritizes female Japanese monsters for her sixty-day culinary course. There's one hero who never graduates. There are hardly any seats left."

I want to ask how a disembodied information sponge in a 'catalog cosmos' can cook, but honestly, whatever. They should hear themselves, barrages of earnest jargon coming from their mouths, hypotheticals with seemingly no relation to each other being supplied. I think that the worst part of this makeshift ice-cream social has been the number of things that these so-called heroes believe themselves to know and yet merely gloss over. But then again, the only reason why any of this would not be insane is if this was truly how the world worked. Or would its validity make this world the more insane?

The people we learn about in history class are taken after they have died and entered in this gigantic database of 'heroes.' Doesn't that piss you off? Who are you to determine whether a life is worth memorializing? Then again, aren't these barbs aimed at 'you,' just aimed right back at 'us?' Who decides the narrative( people) we deem worthy of carving into our cultural consciousness and are taught to later generations. Who gets to go viral?

This throne they're talking about is just some concrete, yet cosmic realization of a principle so ingrained in our lives that people are willing to do so much and some do so little for. We constantly tell each other and ourselves that we can create meaning for ourselves, something that makes this life worth living, that's enough. Be satisfied. If that's enough then why do we incessantly tweet about it? Get over yourself, already. Everything coming out of the Servants' mouths is insane. But I can't help but wonder whether it's the concepts themselves that are insane or because each phrase mirrors something I need to reject so much that I can't help shielding my eyes.

*****

The two Servants keep chatting until I'm so bored I can't help asking Archer what he was watching on that little screen.

"A reinterpretation of my labors," he turns the LCD towards me and there's a cartoon woman with an almost two-dimensional waist wringing her hair dry in front of an orange muscular man with armor that protects less than it reveals. A few years ago, Krista wouldn't stop talking about a Tumblr breakdown of the different eras of Disney. We ended up watching all the movies from what the fandom pretentiously dubbed the 'Renaissance.' Can't forget Hercules.

"No offense, big guy, but you're more Elephant man than Disney heartthrob."

"Girl," There's a slight wary menace in Mary's tone. She knows better than I do that we could be nothing more than blood spatters on the wall if this alleged demigod honestly took offense.

"This era severely lacks worship. Elephants were among the most distinguished Divine Beasts. If necromantically processed correctly, elephants are more potent than most magical beasts. Underestimated creatures, elephants." He boyishly winks after saying another jumble of words. There's nothing more revolting than gleefully referencing a squad joke to someone outside of your social circle. Aren't elephants Indian, anyway?

"At the end of the movie, you became a god again, right? Aren't you pretty much the strongest Servant in this war then?"

He offers us a quizzical smile. I want to throw up. My mom's a senior partner at a big interior design firm. Mostly, it's helping Tolosa's rich and famous decorate their supposedly lavish homes for special events. Sometimes, she'll take on an intern from the college during summer break. In her mind, she's more than just a mentor. The way she slavishly tries to groom them for this profession makes me want to throw up the same way. Intentions that are too noble, too self-righteously heroic. No matter what we ask, he will even compromise his own wellbeing to give us the best possible information. That's not because he's a nice guy who went from zero to hero by going the distance as the movie says. It's because, like my mother to her intern, Archer cannot conceive of Mary and myself as threats. To Archer, we may as well be his kids.

That's why he takes my hand without hesitation and motions for Mary to take the other. I blink three times before I'm convinced this is actually some sort of augmented reality display.

"Focus on the flow of our magical energy. The Holy Grail supplies Masters with clairvoyance that grants them the ability to compare Servants. What do you see, child?"

It looks like one of my brother's video game menus, just with fewer numbers. There's Strength, Constitution, Agility, Magical Energy, Luck, and 'Noble Phantasm' and next to each of these statuses for Archer is a butterfly. Constitution and Luck have a butterfly that is just emerging out of its chrysalis. At the same time, the butterflies that make up his strength and constitution are blue whereas the other butterflies are just orange. Mary, on the other hand, doesn't have a single butterfly.

"Servants are not limited to mere statistics; we are given skills based on techniques developed or legendary characteristics. Each class inherently grants one or two skills. For my class, they are Independent Action and Magic Resistance."

There are big fat butterflies on these two as well. Makes me not want to read the descriptions. Archer and Mary's class skills might be visible, but I'm unable to make out some of these 'Personal' skills, so I ask about those.

"Personal Skills are specific to each Servant, you'll only be able to read them after they have been performed," Mary answers this time.

For Archer, I can see Bravery, Divinity, and Eye of the Mind (False), all with butterflies of course. There seems to be one more but it's blank. As for Mary, I can only see the skill Powerless Shell, and for some reason, there isn't even a caterpillar egg next to it. It would seem that the skills which are characteristic of the Servant like Divinity are automatically unlocked upon seeing the Servant, but skills like Eye of the Mind would only unlock after seeing Archer in battle. I want to laugh. How perverse can this system get? Not only does it give out arbitrary ranks for vague metrics, but it rewards you for spectating ghosts fighting to the death.

I let go of both of their hands. This is getting tiresome. I can go through it all on my own later; I don't need someone to spoon-feed me a video game rulebook.

"Shall we discuss Noble Phantasms?" Archer asks.

"No thanks, Herc. I've got to get to school to umm... hand in my observations."

He crumples the disposable ice-cream cup in his fist and shoots it into the trash, while still facing me,

"I am unsure why they chose that name for the movie. I may not have been born with this name but the one I lived by was Herakles."

"Hera...kles. Oh, you're named after your mom, that's cute."

"For you, child, Archer's fine."

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

9/ Forsake

I know, five guys hanging out in a basement half-filled with a bench press that doubles as a squat rack, an incline leg press, and a cable machine you can also use for seated rowing exercises or lat pulldowns sound like squad goals, but instead of working out we're all seated on the second-hand couches watching a show set in the Midwest about what it was like to be young and white in the seventies for probably the third time.

"When I watched this show as a kid, I had no idea why they sat in the circle," Jaime takes a hit from a spiral, glass pipe that smells like any of the local breweries that let people under twenty-one in because they happen to double as a restaurant.

After wiping the mouthpiece with his t-shirt, he passes it to his left, but Mike gestures that he doesn't want any. He offers the pipe to me instead, "Chris? You gonna take a hit?"

I shake my head, "Remember last time?" Last time being a month ago.

"You should get that checked out." Hasan takes the pipe. "Imagine the news, Catholic Prep School kid can't get high. Took months of peer pressure too."

These are who you could call my 'boys.' We took English last year and were put in a group together. They've hung out with each other ever since. Because of how close I live to the school as well as my 'strict' upbringing, I'm here a lot less. Since I'm no longer the overseer of the Holy Grail War, there's no better way to spend my afternoon other than deepening the bonds I might have been neglecting in favor of a certain pretend girlfriend. I might say that but all that ever happens in Mike's basement is five teenage boys tepidly working-out, playing GTA V, or attempting to intoxicate ourselves. For the record, none of us are over twenty-one, but Mike's family is 'cartel rich' according to Ian. If drinking when you're eighteen is good enough for Mexico, it's good enough for California. California was annexed from Mexico, remember?

"So, how's Kayla, Chris?" Hasan asks after taking two hits without coughing. Got to give him credit, he's upped his tolerance in the last month I haven't been in this basement.

"Nothing much. Her dad's pretty happy about me. Seems like a pretty chill guy."

"Look at Chris changing the subject like that. Trying to play it cool with that resting bitch face, that's cute. You're smitten, aren't you?"

"Sure." I don't even know what I'm admitting to. Hasan's the type of guy who likes to be right. He wants you to know that he's seen through whatever facade you've tried to put on for the world. All indications of denial are met with teasing skepticism, so it's easier to grit your teeth and just agree.

"What about you Mikey. How's Delilah?"

"Curfew. Parents are worried about that colony stuff. The ones they're calling vampire attacks."

My stomach starts to eat itself at that word.

"Freaky shit happens at the men's colony all the time. No one's going to escape." Jaime has a scowl on his face, "Dude, if they're really worried about vampires — should probably just eat some garlic. That shit's good for you."

Ian looks away from his laptop, "Or fill up on some holy water at Chris's place. Even the dish water's holy, right."

I stifle a laugh that tries to force itself from my mouth when I notice that no one else is laughing.

"Must be pretty nice living in the Mission. The receptionist is pretty cute," Jaime remarks.

"You're so shallow brah; she's got a great personality as well." Ian cups his chest, "A great set of personalities, if you know what I mean."

Jaime half-mockingly raises an eyebrow while making an 'o' with his mouth.

"Fucking Ian. Dude, that's why you're still single." Mike says to Ian while looking over at me for a retort. "First, you're saying racist shit like my family's rolling in cartel money and now you're stalking Chris' guardian. What else are you going to report to Kim Jong Un?"

The peanut gallery pesters me into defending Cherry's honor. "She could probably whoop all us with a skillet if she wanted to. I'm not the one you have to look out for, anyway. Her boyfriend's built and a lawyer. He'd beat your ass and then take it to court."

"Cherry has a boyfriend?" Hasan sounds interested.

"He comes to visit for a week or two every four months or so. Last time he fixed up my bike. The one that got wrecked downtown."

"If it wasn't for someone's chicken legs we would have cleared that ditch." Jaime lowers his gaze at Mike.

"Calves every day and still. . . chicken legs, eh, eeehhhyyyyy." Hasan shakes his head.

Mike doesn't say a word; his glower tells the entire story.

"He fixed my bike and wanted to call it Number Five. If anything, this bike would be a Mark II, but he insisted that even if this bike looked like a Number Four, someone back home would be jealous, so that's why it was Number Five."

"Dude, you sure you're not second-hand high?"

I brush Ian off with a quick retort about how even a vampire would get high if it sucked his blood right now. Everyone politely laughs.

*****

I was the last to leave Mike's basement. It's pretty late into the afternoon and I know I shouldn't keep Cherry waiting for dinner, but I can't get the old man's words out of my head. He weaves steel into that gentle voice of his, creating this web that you can't get out of, especially if you struggle. Even without any magical energy, his opinions are amazingly similar to suggestion. I think that's why I asked Mike if I could come over today. I believed that it might be possible to dissolve that web in the acidity of company and high school normality. Turned out as ineffective as the weed and alcohol.

"Thanks for the beers, Mike."

"Anytime, man. I know you got that church stuff, but we miss you."

I grabbed the handle to the door.

"Hey, Chris," he was scratching his head when I turned back around. "Just wanted to ask. . . are you feeling okay?"

I smiled, "I'm fine, thanks for worrying."

I don't think that was convincing though because, honestly, if I was fine, I would have gone home instead of this destroyed jeweler's shop behind the public high school. The building's a few blocks behind where the battle and summoning took place. This hadn't been on the front page of the local news. After all, this incident was documented as a simple gas leak. No one was hurt and since the small explosion happened in the kitchen, none of the merchandise in the storefront or storage was damaged. Strange, the bounded field around the stadium should have prevented any damage to surrounding buildings.

Reported gas leaks that occur in a city hosting a Holy Grail War are never gas leaks. We use gas leaks as an excuse because it's a minor but scalable incident offering the perfect cover to isolate and then quarantine the area. Because gas leaks are potentially explosive, any structural damage, like the case with this hole in the wall beyond all the Do Not Cross tape can be easily explained away. Furthermore, the public won't question multiple gas leaks that occur around the same time due to the perceived interconnectedness of the system.

One of the golden rules of magecraft is that a magical phenomenon should not be hidden with a second magical phenomenon as it makes mystical interference all the more obvious. The appropriate way to hide something magical is to recontextualize the phenomenon as something natural, in this case, a gas leak. Much like if you're going to hypnotize someone into forgetting they saw you; you want to slip some pills in their pocket to complete the image.

There's no real need to enter the building to understand what happened here, but protocol dictates that one should. I open the front door and switch on the lights. It's a cozy store. There are a few shelves for cheap bangles and pendants. Must be a favorite for Tolosa High students. These shelves only serve as an appetizer for the display cases — everything you would find at Macy's and a few exotic pieces the owners made. I wonder which pieces have nature spirits attached to them, but that's not why I came here.

After making my way past the register, I unlock the door which leads to the workshop. Father Phahn's team have broken all the enchantments. There's still intense magical energy practically dripping from every corner of the room even though most of it should have already leaked out of the orange-sized hole in the wall. It goes without saying: this was Assassin's Master's workshop.

The reason why Assassin stopped mid-attack must have been because, ironically, her Master was assassinated and the supply of magical energy abruptly stopped. Even in the unlikely scenario that Assassin had Independent Action as a Personal Skill, the unexpected severing of a contract would have some kind of feedback.

The more interesting question concerns the hole in the wall. Anyone with magecraft experience could detect the broken wards outside. That is normal; in any magecraft battle involving territory, wards are going to break. The issue is that those wards are actually strong, much stronger than anything I could produce. I'm sure even if I were to request an RPG from the Church and for some reason not be denied because I have no idea how to operate an RPG and this is just meant to be simple mediation work, I still might not be able to get through all the defensive layers. For that reason, as well as the intense magical energy surrounding that hole, the only thing that could have been able to penetrate all these defenses, as well as any defenses the Master had on them, would be a long-range Noble Phantasm. With that deduction, I take one of the only intact chairs and have myself a good sit.

I know that I shouldn't be here; this isn't my job anymore. As Executors, we're taught not to linger too much on the previous mission. God loves and forgives us. We must look to the next heresy that is an affront to Him.

Call it egotism, call it how I was raised, but I can't seem to let this overseer position go. I lost everything during the accident. I don't remember anything except for the bubbles escaping from all the people I, allegedly, loved. I understand that I can't go back and continue walking my former path, but becoming a member of the Church, dedicated to protecting people against the monsters that killed my parents felt close to a future that boy who drowned with my family hoped for. Ever since I was picked up from that hospital by an old man and lady too kind for their own good, I have been groomed to mediate this Holy Grail War. In a word, this job is what I 'should' be doing.

My hand goes to my brow trying to ward off the golden sunset seeping through the hole in the wall. It's rather disheartening to be in a room where a Master died such a violent death and have absolutely no talent in spiritual evocation. I'm sure if I was able to hold a seance to summon the leftover thoughts of the Master that the land still retained, a woman with a slick tail of black hair and raven-like features would appear. She would tell me her name as well as the circumstances of her death to which I would soundlessly nod and tell her that I was sorry for her having passed.

The dead have no need for knowledge of the living, they're too busy being dead, so she wouldn't ask me about the current state of her Servant. Instead, she would fuss about all the toadstones she had created and treasury of poisons that made up this workshop. I would just smile, not letting her know that the room she died in was bare. Eventually, the leftover thought would disappear into effervescent magical energy and once again I would be left alone in this room. I know that this can't happen because I don't know how to hold a seance, but what I felt as she was fading must be real.

That woman was a magus. Cherry said that one of the first rules about being a magus is that it's okay to kill other magi. Yet, no matter what this woman did, no matter what powers she might have had, no matter what she chose to participate in, this woman must have had fears, dreams, and appetites like any other person. I would be able to tell what those were if I knew any sort of spiritual evocation, but that's beside the point. No matter what they were, no matter what she was, at yesterday's end, she popped( died) as an idiotic, pathetic, weak, human being, just like me — just like everyone else.

The old man said that I was the type of blindly obey orders. On the other hand, I want to believe that I have the ability to discriminate between things that I should and shouldn't do. Relinquishing this overseer position to a more qualified authority who should generally share the same values that I do as we are both members of the same overarching organization with the same goals is something that I should do. Even if I don't, the city no longer recognizes my position, my own family has given up on attempting to regulate this Holy Grail War, and most importantly none of the Masters acknowledge my being overseer any longer.

Dilo is dead, all he left for me is a letter, and now everything is worse.

The reason why I can't let go of this overseer position doesn't have anything to do with Dilo, the Church, or this city, though. I want to believe it's as human as this Master who warmed this chair. Ever since I arrived at the Mission, I have always been Chris Frampton — the only thing that I have ever been proud to be. They say that you develop a sixth sense for the most important things in your life — a terrible premonition attracts a terrible reality or something like that. The feeling is an uneasiness that dresses the pit of your stomach, anxiously calling out to every single fiber in the structure. The moment I let go of this overseer position is when I will lose a part of Chris Frampton, the person I have been building ever since I woke up in that hospital room.

I. . . I like me. I really like this me, no matter how idiotic, pathetic, or weak I may be. So, in the location where the first casualty of the Holy Grail War that forsook me took place, I vow to stay on this path, to oversee this 'magi squabble' even if no one asks it of me or wants me. This is nothing more than a selfish wish. It has nothing to do with public safety, the safety of the participants, or even my own safety. I just want to hold onto who I am for two more weeks so I can remain the person that boy wanted to become. Right, on that, I'll make my pled —

"Oh, fancy seeing you here. You're Chris, right? The former overseer." That voice belongs in one of the empty terrariums littered around the workshop.

I look up to see a tall platinum blonde in a priest's frock. I must have been so deep in thought that I didn't feel his presence as he entered — the alternative is too frightening to ponder.

"Father Phahn, I'm jubilant to finally meet a member of the Eighth Sacrament. Thank you for your service; you truly do important work for the Church."

"You're too kind." He gestures to an open chair, "Do you mind if I sit?" He sits down without waiting for my answer.

"I'm sure you're aware that this is a restricted area for citizens, but out of professional courtesy, I'll let it slide this time. No harm done. It's always encouraging to have curious and enthusiastic young members of the clergy." The smile on his face is viscous honey, slowly dripping into all his features.

"Pardon me, Father. Having prepared for this position for so long, I couldn't stop myself from examining first-hand what type of damage these heretics wrought to my beloved city." I smile.

"Completely understandable considering the amount of damage that occurred in Snowfield." He crosses one leg over the other. "And you've spent most of your life in this city?"

"Ever since my parents died and the Church took me in."

"This may sound strict, but I believe the best place for your efforts right now is to tend to your flock instead of. . . this." He gestures at the hole in the wall and the rest of the empty room. "I acknowledge the deterrents we put up wouldn't hinder an Executor-candidate and that it is only by coincidence that I found you here, but I must remind you, Chris, that you no longer have any official capacity in regards to this Holy Grail War."

He says that, but I won't accept it. I've already made my choice in this destroyed workshop, under the golden Tolosa sunset. It'll take more than some paltry backhanded compliments and a verbal reprimand to stop me from seeing this to the end.

"As a fellow member of the Church, I feel as though you should know that in our preliminary survey of this town, we've determined the presence of an enemy of the Church having arrived in this county." He lowers his head and clasps his hands. "I'm sure you've heard the rumors, Chris. They're true. There's a vampire in Tolosa."

Who cares about overseeing a squabble between magi; I've got a vampire to hunt.

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

10/ Have a Good Time

Sure, you hear stories about such and such hooking up at a party, but how fucked up do you have to be from the pregame to make out with someone on your classmate's lawn? Unless you're a couple — then you guys just have no self-respect. Couples are the worst at parties. You're just here flaunting the piece of meat on your arm.

"Wouldn't it be great if you guys ended up like that tonight. Much more romantic than a morning handjob." I accompany that witticism with an equally ingenious obscene gesture.

And what's even more ridiculous for these two is that they both think the other is the piece of meat.

"Please rise above yourself for one night, Nadine," my brother's riposte almost sounded exasperated. Stop faking it.

"Please suck a handful of dicks."

Krista just smiles uncomfortably as we step onto the porch.

*****

Context is important. My mom didn't drive me home after Mary and I said goodbye to Archer. Krista was waiting for me at school. She had the 'I want to cry because something is happening not to me but everyone around me and there's nothing I can do to make it better and I'm so lost but slightly happy at the same time, look on her face — the very same one she wore when her parents finally got divorced.

"Nadine, there's a party tonight. I want to go with you. . . and him."

I raised an eyebrow.

"I told him that I wouldn't go unless you agreed to go."

"While watching high school kids get wasted and trying to dance to 'music', would make my night. I think I'd prefer to go home and kill myself after finishing the stack of homework we got today."

"Nadine, don't say things like that. And you weren't even at school today."

"Exactly why I gotta study. A good GPA may have never got anyone into college, but a terrible one has barred many a student from getting into the school of their dreams. We get like what, a quiz every two days on the material from the previous lesson? I've got to hit the books, qurlfriend. Not my fault that the Californian school system is a cycle of cram and forget."

"Dream school? You're always talking about how dreams and wishes are dumb."

Low hanging fruit.

"Come on, no matter what happens, we're friends, right? We've been friends since your family moved here. We've never been to a party before. This is a new experience and I want to have that experience with you. If you actually care so much about getting into a reach school, you'd know the best schools always have the wildest parties. Think of this as practice."

"No one wants us there, Krista."

"Your brother wants me there and I want you there. That's enough, right?"

"He's a douche, get over him already."

Again, she makes the same expression which accents her dimples that are seemingly drilled into her face. I look around and can't find that perfect, Forever 21 catalog model face anywhere.

"Where is that mama's boy anyway?"

"He's going to the gym. We should probably get something to eat first and meet him at your place."

Hittin' the gym, and in a few years hittin' his wife. IMO.

*****

The moment I step through the threshold into the party…. Actually, the atmosphere already tore open the front door. The entire playlist consists of EDM tracks that a true aficionado would lecture you on how EDM is an umbrella term and each specific song belongs to a subgenre with a long history and influences from pioneers people 'just didn't get.' I don't know anything about EDM, that's just what I heard from a guy in a tank top on the porch who's alternating between a Rolling Rock and his post-workout protein shake. I know it's a post-workout shake because I can smell the testosterone from here. Either way, Rolling Rock gives my brother a fist bump as we enter the din. Football teammates, of course.

Have you ever watched one of those ridiculous teen movies that became a sensation in the late nineties and early two-thousands? They always have a party scene that serves as a vehicle to introduce minor characters or moves the plot by splitting the main characters so we can delve into the relationships that make up the subplots. Yeah, that's all wrong. No one can talk or hear each other in this din. We're pretty close to Frat Row so no one's going to complain about the noise but it's still crazy that a high schooler can throw a rager like this. Those are the rich kids of the not-so desperate housewives of Tolosa for you. I'm sure the host goes to Mission Prep.

After a fistful of bombastic hi-fives, bro hugs, and fist bumps, my brother leads us to the drinks table. There are two thirty-rack of lite beer, a fifth of plastic vodka from Trader Joe's, a handle of Captain Morgan's, and a glass flask of Fireball that people vehemently refuse to do shots of then do them anyway before complaining about how bad it was. Then they woo.

I would want to say this is a pretty typical spread, but I haven't been to enough parties to know. Even though the music is 'lit af" no one's dancing, they're just standing around in little groups like sardines in separate cans, nodding and laughing at jokes that no one can hear. Even so, the sardines look like they're having fun or are so intoxicated they can't tell the difference.

I see my brother pat Krista on the shoulder and motioning her to follow, "There. . . people. . . meet!"

She nods vigorously and takes his hand. That leaves good ol' Nadine amidst the liquor and lack of food.

"Wow. . . great. . . to officially meet. . . ." Krista's hugging some girl from math class. "That top is so cute!"

My stomach turns. It does so many flips that I push my way into the hallway only to find a line of visibly uncomfortable high schoolers supporting themselves on the wall. Fuck. Ignoring them, I rush to the second floor and start opening all the doors. Three people are passed out in one room, two guys making out in another, and in the last one, a girl sobs uncontrollably while drunkenly pouring her heart out to her Snapchat story. Yuck. But this entire night has been an awkward yuck. Eventually, I find the main bedroom and enter the adjoining suite.

If you're rich and live in Tolosa, your main bedroom is always going to have a bathroom suite. It's pretty much a status symbol. The new houses being built up in Paso with all that wine money — all have suites. Words of wisdom that could only come from my mom.

Reflected in the mirror is an awkward, ugly, pathetic girl who could do with losing some weight and growing a few inches, "God, Nadine, just don't be so weird! God, why are you so awkward. Just have a good time like everyone else here. Just relax and have a good time."

"Dearie, are you okay?" Mary materializes on the toilet. "I didn't expect this social gathering to be so rambunctious."

"Now you're talking to a ghost in a bathroom at a house party," I tell the reflection. "You are truly pathetic."

Mary instantly dematerializes as I open the bathroom door and head down the stairs and through the swarm of people. When I end up back at the drinks table, Krista appears and grabs my wrist.

"Hey! I think I'm going to play beer pong!" She then proceeds to woo.

Before waiting for an answer, she heads over with her new friend and laughs with her as if they're old friends, leaving me to take off my jacket and stand slightly behind a small circle of people, nervously laughing at a joke that I can't hear because of the music before realizing they feel awkward that I'm standing here. I walk away, not feeling dejected, yet. I do this twice; the first time because we live in a culture that emphasizes putting ourselves out there to be challenged, and the second time because we've been conditioned to be afraid of failing. There's no third time.

So here I stand, looking at all the perfect WASP-y, photoshopped, family pictures wondering who slips an extra Xanax into their clean bulk mass gainer or pre-cleanse spirulina superfood berry smoothie since even the drunk guys holding up the walls and the faded girls in fetal position on the ground (two snaps of the bong) don't want anything to do with me. My presence seems to be making this party less fun for everyone, so I step outside to find even the couple making out on the lawn no longer there.

There's a little circle of people passing around a joint at one end of the porch, but if I were to join them, seeking inclusion under the guise of pursuing a high then, wow, you would truly be desperate for human attention wouldn't you, Nadine? Instead, I sit next to the hedge with my ghost.

"Parties suck. Did I ever tell you how my mother kept trying to throw me a party for my tenth birthday because my brother got one every year? She even told me that I would have more friends if I let her throw me a bomb birthday party. She actually said 'bomb.'"

"'Bomb,' that's like 'cracker' ain't it? Like a cracker of a birthday party."

"But like, Mary, how could anyone want to throw this sort of party? Drinking flavored fermented wheat tea, throwing a ping-pong ball into a cup, inhaling burning skunk grass. Why can't people just have genuine conversations while enjoying a movie or playing a board game?"

Mary's features are very deep-set. They give her this intensity that you wouldn't expect from a cook which multiplies the emotion behind every single expression. The reason why I'm bringing this up is because her entire face has slackened into crestfallen disappointment tingled with slight bewilderment before it tightens under the porch lamp a quarter covered in flies.

"You're a buck eedjit, dearie. I don't know what you're looking at, but this craic is quite brilliant." There's a wisp of a smile on her face, "Aye, your brother isn't the man you want him to be. You might not be noticing but he's been keeping an eye on your friend's drink the entire night. When anyone too steamboated attempts to get close, he always puts his arm over that person's shoulder asking if they're okay. He's had more than one drink spilled on him because of it. Wise up, girl, you could do much worse for a brother."

Excuse me, I've had enough of this. I'll even walk home by myself if it means getting away from this hot mess.

*****

There are a few streets in Tolosa that are safe to walk at night. Santa Rosa bisects the top half of the town, eventually becoming part of Highway 1. Oh, Highway 1, when pop love songs mention driving a sports car down the coast of California, they're talking about Highway 1. All I have to do is cross three roads of suburbia upon this hill and I'll be on Santa Rosa. There's a ghost beside me if I get into any trouble too, so here goes something.

There isn't much that I do with my phone other than post pictures to my private Insta only Krista has access to, use Facebook for group projects, and call my mom. The number of functions on this thing is excessive, but I'm always thankful there's GPS navigation. Sure, Google and Apple are tracking your every move and selling that data to tampon companies, but there's a big difference between getting home and not. Tonight, I've walked five minutes in a direction but it hasn't registered on the GPS. Full bars plus LTE coverage too. There's an episode of 'The Office,' where Steve Carell's character drives into a lake because he insisted on following the GPS. Technology's a lot more trustworthy these —

"Nadine," Mary materializes. There's an edge to her voice, "Stay behind me."

The moment she finishes her warning, all the streetlights switch off.

Crash.

Why aren't people coming out of their houses? Couldn't they hear that crash? The sound was like a car macerating a streetlight at full speed. Please, no, that can't happen again, so I'll use my phone as a flashlight.

"Huh?"

Light is cast on whatever's in front of me. Only disbelieving shock keeps dinner and the alcohol in my stomach. Mary, where are you? Where did you go?

"Mary!" I take a step forward. This is bad. This is really bad because death is creeping up my neck. Instinctively, I take that step back so I can start running in the opposite direction but my body just collapses from the panic. My knees crumple and my body goes limp, but it doesn't collapse onto the tar street. A clammy claw grabs my face and now my feet are no longer touching the ground. No matter what happens, I won't let go of my phone, because I've finally found Mary.

She's splayed right next to a fallen streetlight. God, there's so much blood pooling from her. This is bad. This is really bad. This is so bad that I almost couldn't feel the pain coming from my hand.

"Curious and curiouser," I can see it through the gaps of its fingers, "A Master allowing her thaumaturgical energy (魔力, maryoku, lit. "supernatural power;" previously transliterated as "magical energy/mana;" incorrectly translated as "prana") leak (漏れている, morete-iru, lit. "leak-ing") extant, sauntering around without a bound (隠された, kakusareta, lit. "hidden" ) Command Spell (令呪, reijuu)? Ergo, she seeks engagement. But accompanying a Servant unto granted such a mediocre Saint Graph (霊基, reiki, lit. "Spiritual Foundation") must be a potently rotted [Saint Graph] core (核, kaku, lit. "nucleus")."

Even if it's still dark, I can see its eyes. They're as red as the blood coming from the cuts on Mary's face as she tries to mouth my name.

"Ahh –"

I try to scream, but nothing comes out. My brain shuts down from attempting to go into overdrive but fails over and over again. I can't move. Nothing in this body can move. Those eyes don't just observe, but also thrust molten butterscotch into me, attempting to smother my nerves so the claw around my head may more easily drink.

"She summoned a Servant, yet the manner of switching on her Thaumaturgical Circuits (魔術回路, majutsu kairo) is unknown to her? My, what a truly lackluster (欠けている, kakete-iru, lit. "to be deficient/insufficient") lineup." It opens its mouth revealing cheap, Target Dracula fangs. I don't think they're plastic.

I can't accept this. In the next moment, Count Chocula here is going to suck my blood. This is disgusting. This is gross. I don't want to be another vampire movie cliche. There's no one here to help you, Nadine. Turns out the cook was really just a cook. You're going to die because you left a party. Why did you leave the party? Because you couldn't stand your best friend leaving you for more interesting people. And why wouldn't she? Look at yourself. Didn't Krista say as much? You don't even have a dream. There's nothing that you want to do; all that you have inside of you is this painful emptiness that stops your heart.

And I can't forget that. I can't forget that because it's where I began as a person.

That stopped heart starts leaking hot tears that spread throughout my body, melting my butterscotch shackles. It hurts, it really hurts. I want to say that, but this feeling is beyond pain. It's a tear that humans should not be able to grasp and therefore will inevitably rip apart one's existence. As the deluge of tears reaches my fingertips, I begin to struggle, trying to get its hand off my face. It doesn't budge. I may have gotten ahold of my body, but he's too strong. It won't even take a second for those hackneyed fangs to dig into my neck.

I don't stop struggling; I don't close my eyes; I don't stop screaming. I'm weak. I'm really weak - that's why I'm going to die. I'm not afraid of dying. I'm NOT afraid of dying. It's just too pathetic to die like this. . . .

Some abstract, supernatural flow halts. Much like a small rock that's thrown at a window, the stone pierces through but the resulting force shatters the entire window.

A gloved hand digs into the wrist of the arm holding me.

"You weren't expected. . . Berserker."

"Let go of the girl." In her other hand is a gigantic revolver with multiple barrels pointed at the vampire's face.

"Heroic Spirit (英霊, eirei) or not, my power (能力, nouryoku, lit "abilities") engaged make subsequently evading fired bullets (弾丸, dangan) nothing so much as extant."

She tightens her grip on his wrist. "Let go of the girl," she repeats one final time.

This is a Servant's true power. Berserker's undertow, her chaotically, insane killing intent, threatens to engulf the vampire. Even if that thing is undead, it has no other option but to let me go if it wants to live a little while longer. With that, the grip on my face relaxes and my feet touch the ground once more.

Without looking at me, Berserker says one word, "Run."

I want to say something to Berserker, but there are too many questions running through my head — like why is there a bed on the street. I just put my phone inside my blue jacket pocket and run towards the road. I don't need to confirm that Mary is with me. We've been together long enough that I know how to distinguish between her ghost form and her physical one.

My lungs are burning but the chill of the cold air keeps me from taking my jacket off. Once again, I almost died, but instead of being attacked by a skull-masked ninja, it was a vampire. There's no way I can put up with two more weeks of this shit. It was a mistake; it was definitely a mistake to participate in this battle royale. Another terrible decision from Neigh-dine. Tomorrow morning, I'm going straight back to the bowl-cut priest to hand over Mary.

Oh right, Mary's hurt. How are you supposed to patch up an injured ghost? It's not like we can just pop up at the ER. Whatever, Nadine, one failure at a time. I just need to cross this intersection and then I'll be on Santa Rosa. Then it's just a ten-minute walk home. This is definitely something even you can't screw up, you stupid bitch.

The screeching of brakes rings through the night with the scent of burnt rubber wafting behind it.

Oh. . . I forgot this intersection had a blind corner.

Like a deer in the headlights —

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

11/ This Will Was Surely Made of Steel

~Interlude~

As the Master and her Servant became distant, swallowed into the night, the vampire dared look Berserker in the eye.

Bang.

With a fluid motion, Berserker jerked on her opponent's wrist with supernatural strength, pulling him into the multiple barrels of her pepperbox while firing. The force of the attack coupled with the spray of bullets sent him flying into a nearby brick fence, smothering the area with a cloud of pulverized brick.

Particulate matter less than ten microns is a Group 1 carcinogen. Remember to disperse all dust clouds, Berserker.

Something stained her left glove red. It must have been the blood seemingly holding together the vampire's right arm. She was holding his forearm so tightly that when the force of the attack blew him away, the arm alone stayed with Berserker. Berserker dropped the arm onto the ground and began to walk away. With the bounded field gone, it wasn't safe to fight on this street any longer. Too narrow, too enclosed, any more suspicious sounds could disrupt the sleep of children. Bed rest was important — a tenet that Berserker lived by while alive. She was not about to put the circadian rhythms of parents and their children at risk on a school night to further tussle with a vampire.

"Is that per the extent of a fragment of the Rationality of Man (人理, jinri) manifest unto an iterated corpus? Disappointing! How disappointing, Counter Force (抑止力)!"

His arm and face might have still been reforming, but he managed to close the distance between the combatants in one bound. His left hand metamorphosized into a claw sharp enough to tear through Berserker's body with one strike. The bullet-like claw shot from the barrel, his arm, at a speed of 2,500 inches per second and capable of producing more than 3,000 pounds per inch of kinetic energy.

But material numbers like those didn't matter to a Servant.

With surgeon-like precision, Berserker intercepted the claw with a chop, cleanly fracturing the radius and ulna. That would disrupt any strike and send the human attacker reeling in pain, but the claw still managed to gash her torso. The dark red blood stained the white trimmings of her crimson uniform, but Berserker, true to her name, did not recognize the wound. It could be disinfected later. In reply, she fired a round at point-blank, aimed right at the center of the vampire's forehead.

True to his previous words, he detected Berserker's intention, predicted her target, and craned his neck far enough to the side so the bullet only grazed his layered blond hair. What he didn't notice during his performance was that Berserker had detached one of the bags from around her waist, and swung it with all her might at the soft tissue around his kidney area.

Anatomy Knowledge: A

Berserker's most trusted ability. Through the exaggerated training she supposedly obtained while alive, an encyclopedic knowledge of human anatomy had been forced on Berserker. From simply glancing at the patient( opponent) , she could instantly grasp a person's physical medical history. Furthermore, through each attack, she opened up old wounds, fractured bones to disable movement, and targeted vulnerable organs to cause internal bleeding — creating holes in the absolute armor known as one's body, leaving one's greatest asset an increasing liability.

The beings humans have deemed heroes were unsurprisingly, mostly human. While Servants possess an Ether body, in the world of magecraft, taking a specific form required one to take a portion of its limitations( functions) . For instance, with each breath Servants cycled magical energy through their body much in the same way humans do oxygen. It was no exaggeration to call Berserker, who's fighting style targeted the weakness of a human body with pinpoint accuracy, a Servant-Killer, yet. . . .

The impact pushed him off balance but didn't knock the air out of his lungs as intended. If she had succeeded, Berserker's next attack would sweep him off his feet, allowing her to stake his heart with an arm. But the moment she initiated the maneuver, her leg was caught by impossible darkness — the vampire's cape hardened through some sort of mystery. Hard enough to block a Servant's all-out attack, still supple enough to wrap itself around her leg, and strong enough to act as a fulcrum, the caped darkness hurled her into the ground again and again and again. Each impact cracked the road she was slammed into; her ears ringing with the failure to subdue her supernatural opponent.

"A-a minor injury," a pain-filled gasp was finally discharged.

On this night, her opponent was not human No matter how they might look, vampires are pure creatures of mystery — as foreign to humans as oni. No sane person could expect that techniques used to destroy a human body would offer the same effect against a vampire.

Yet, she continued to shatter his kneecaps, believing he would kneel.

Yet, she continued to crush his spine, believing his lower body would seize up, paralyzed.

Yet, she continued to box his ears, believing rupturing his eardrums would destroy his sense of balance.

That was the disadvantage of the Berserker class — the inability to adapt to the current situation and readjust worldview( combat tactics) . Normally, a high rank in Mad Enhancement would force the Berserker to function similar to an automaton — a tool rather than a partner. However, this Berserker went beyond even that. Not only was she incapable of readjusting her tactics, but she also would not heed her Master's pleas.

A machine with a steel heart would not, could not, deviate from the way humanity claimed she lived her life. In exchange for that uncompromising, indomitable approach to any problem that would only lead one to self-destruction. . .

The cape pulled Berserker into the vampire's arms as he bared his fangs.

Berserker was faster — she pulled back, forcing the vampire to overreach, losing his balance.

Berserker was better equipped — using her teeth, she tore the pin off the grenade that manifested in her empty hand.

Berserker was stronger — in one motion, she drove the grenade into the vampire's chest, piercing flesh and bone before rolling backward while firing several rounds from her pepperbox.

Thank you, Mr. Vampire, for re-establishing the bounded field while you were splayed on the ground, covered in Group 1 carcinogen and missing an arm. Now, the neighborhood children will get their recommended ten hours of sleep even if an Anti-Tank grenade detonates.

The resulting explosion shook everything within the bounded field, leaving a crater right in the middle of the street. The spray of tar and gravel from the explosion coat the stylish stone fences or batter the wooden ones with shrapnel. In an instant, the solidly middle-class street was replaced with a landscape the inhabitants have ever only seen in carefully curated war movies.

Even if vampires could dodge supersonic point-based attacks, their reaction time and speed weren't nearly enough to escape a point-blank explosion that could destroy a tank. Yes, Berserker was faster, better equipped, and stronger.

"A weaponized domain of Mystery equipped with an armament (武装, busou) of the Man of Modernity is an affront (侮辱, bujyoku, lit. 'insult')."

But the vampire's high-speed regeneration made all three of her advantages completely meaningless. Within seconds, he was able to completely regenerate, black cape and all. "Of course, her Alignment (属性, zokusei, lit. 'attribute') is… Man (人). How audacious of me to hope for a better showing."

Perhaps that was Berserker's greatest weakness.

She did not help establish a texture( nation) .

She was not a hero of legend who fought monsters to civilize the world.

She has not touched the depths of the arcane in her research.

Her story began and ends like the many often proudly told in this country where she now fights. A brilliant soul unsatisfied with her lot in life, craving something more — she found purpose in war.

Her deeds( story) was popularized. She didn't mind.

Her legacy( story) was warped. She couldn't mind.

Most recently, her lifestyle( story) was disparaged. She doesn't mind.

A genteel daughter of privilege once despaired that she could be nothing more in life than a socialite's trophy. In rebellion forged in spirituality, she confronted the poverty of the human spirit with administrative rigidity and sweet-smelling statistics. The woman's noble posture became immortalized and in apotheosis, the sanity( humanity) stripped away. Servant Berserker is nothing more than steel conviction, encased in Humanity's perverted expectations and mania.

She had never physically hurt anyone/Her Strength parameter was set to B+.

She had never been wounded/Her Constitution parameter was set to A+.

She had never dodged a bullet/Her Agility parameter was set to B+.

She had never touched a mystery/Her Magical Energy parameter was set to D+.

She… had never thought of herself as lucky/Her Luck parameter was set to A+.

Florence Nightingale had never fought. She had never fired a gun, never thrown a grenade, never smothered someone with a pillow. In fact, she was confined to her room for a large portion of her life. The gulf between expectations( The Lady of the Lamp) and reality( Florence Nightingale) was simply too large. It's obvious from the way she fights. With no technique or combat experience, she relies solely on her nursing training, conferred stat modifiers, and expendable body to overwhelm the opponent before they grow accustomed to her amateurish movements. The cracks in the armor of the Nurse of Steel are too evident — she is held together with nothing more than that steel will. The foundation of that will?

February 7th, 1837, God called her to service — to save lives. She fought the undefeatable specter who loomed above the soldier's beds in Scutari — the same one who loomed above her own bed throughout her youth calling for her in its honeyed tones, promising a comfortable, complete, oblivion. She spent her entire life fighting against an all-encompassing inevitability and even now did not waver, did not cease. She did not see the vampire in front of her, never, only the Thanatos( enemy) she once wished would hold her with its Romantic throes.

Berserker retreated as the vampire lunged. His actions tonight had been erratic as if trying to break an age-old habit. First, he tried to pierce her chest as if clawing for something and then he reverted to the orthodox bloodsucking. Unbeknownst to Berserker, the only bloodsuckers that were capable of safely draining the energy from a Servant are True Ancestors or Elementals — this vampire was neither.

She kicked up the bed she used to break the bounded field, converting it into a makeshift shield against the barrage of attacks. His claws sliced through the entire bed like a hot knife through butter. In a matter of seconds, the frame was a pile of kindling and the mattress nothing more than tattered rags.

The vampire smiled to himself because he knew that Berserker was no longer behind the bed. That poor attempt of distraction was to mislead him into believing she would comically use the bed as a battering ram. Instead, she counted on the vampire losing himself in the ecstasy of performing a series of elegant attacks — fit for an aristocrat such as himself.

No matter, the vampire thought to himself. No matter, for this is merely an appetizer. A test for the seekers of the Holy Grail unrelated to himself.

It didn't matter if this Ghost Liner used that ridiculous bed to block his line of sight to take to the sky.

It didn't matter if she flipped in mid-air, her heel, the blade of an ax kick about to penetrate his skull.

It didn't matter if he lost the left side of his body while doing his best to dodge.

For he will regenerate and jump right back into the fray.

Berserker was unable to land a decisive blow. Of course, this didn't mean the vampire approached the level of a Servant. Berserker was leagues above this vampire in terms of inherent combat ability and it crushed him to his core and filled him with violent envy that painted the world crimson to say. . . her spiritual rank was higher than his. . . for now. But, their compatibility was terrible, she did not have a conceptual Anti-Unit Noble Phantasm that could deal with his regeneration, neither did she have an Anti-Army or Anti-Fortress Noble Phantasm strong enough to atomize his entire body in one attack.

Then, the result of each exchange was obvious. How many have already taken place? Five? Ten? It was merely a pattern of allowing oneself to be overwhelmed, succumbing to the force, and regenerating. For the vampire, this was par for the course. By reading her increasingly obvious movements, he was able to take the least amount of damage to conserve enough energy for twenty, no, thirty more exchanges while chipping away at that body.

Each riposte Berserker unflinchingly received shaved off a fraction of her magical energy, increasing the expenditure necessary for the next action. Her healing abilities were substantial enough that it would take mere minutes to address the wounds, but it was the very nature of this class which allowed a Victorian lady to sprint onto the battlefield that prevented her from addressing the damage while she faced a patient who required treatment.

"Yet, each blow and equivalent quantity of fury materialized, incognizant of the preceding exchange's (輪廻の攻撃, renei no kogeki, lit 'samsara/endless cycle of attacks' ) futility Ergo, forward she forges a repetition of mistakes recurrently incessant — led to broadcast nothing but self-destruction (自己崩壊, jiko hakai, lit 'self-collapse') extant."

This wasn't meaningful anymore.

Was this truly the extent of the capabilities of the Greater History of Man (汎人類史, han-jinruishi; 汎 is as 'spanning / wider / greater,' but usage as a noun prefix is per transliteration of the English "pan-") that subjectively colonized the Solar System with their Law (理, kotowari, lit. 'principles / rationalities') known as Science?

How. . . small (小さい, chii-sai).

The vampire's eyes flashed crimson and Berserker could feel her body halt without her permission. Using that interval, he rushed in to sever her head. One might call a Servant's body a magic circuit in and of itself which made directly corroding it with foreign magical energy difficult. The fact that the vampire's Mystic Eyes were able to hold Berserker even for an instant was a testament to their power which did not even reach a Noble Color.

"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH-!"

He had not expected Berserker to forgo all defense to focus the entirety of her magical energy into her throat before letting loose a shout that could hardly pass for the heavenly trumpets of angels.

This was the heartfelt cry of the Angel of Crimea.

No combatants rallied behind this war cry.

No soldiers wept because it signaled reinforcements.

No enemies despaired upon hearing it on the battlefield.

This was the self-righteous spirit that dotted every 'i' and crossed every 't' in sanitation reports to the Ministry of War. The unyielding spirit that wrote volumes upon volumes of musings on what nursing is and what it is not. The conscientious spirit that analyzed datum after datum, furiously planting, watering, and then pruning graph after graph as if some kind of saint.

Severe, industrious, pious — the truth of her being was contained within that cry.

Cladding herself in that indomitable will, she used everything she could muster to tear apart the binding of the Mystic Eyes before driving her fist into the vampire's face so that of course he was sent flying to the edge of the bounded field. That attack contained no calculation, no intent, no technique — but it was built with the same tenacity the Lady used to assault each day.

"I see…. Vampirism is a bloodborne disease. Symptoms involve the hardening of clothes, bloodshot eyes, and the inability to be cured through death. I've never treated vampirism before so this will be a useful experience. Reminder to add section 'How to deal with undying patients' to the 'Petty Management' section of 'Notes on Nursing.'"

The most peculiar thing tonight hadn't been the battle between a legendary nurse and a vampire, but the fact that neither of them offered a word to the other. Every spoken word had been directed towards oneself; cautioning oneself, praising oneself, explaining to oneself. Almost as if neither of these two mysteries directly acknowledged the other's existence. But that will end now Berserker convinced herself to play her trump card.

To begin with, a Victorian daughter of privilege who rejected pastoral luxury to pursue a call to service from God should know nothing of frivolities such as vampires. If she maintained her sanity, she may have recalled the stories her suitor, the Baron, had shared with her that underlaid the second greatest treasure in his collection: the original 23rd of July, 1816, visitor's page for the Hôtel de Londres in Chamonix. What did come to mind were snatches of stories from her more trusted nurses, scaring trainees into abiding their curfew while breaking their own to go to the local pub. But even those memories had been painted over with a coat of rusted steel paint.

Magical energy began to radiate from Berserker. Invisible spirals of spiritual pressure tested the tensile strength of the bounded field which creaked and cracked under the quantity and volume. A miracle was about to be unleashed upon the world.

"I shall abstain from whatever is deleterious and mischievous..."

She spun the words of a pledge created after her time, using her way of life( call to service) as its basis. This was the moment that Nightingale became the ideal all future nurses aspired to live up to. In Berserker's mind, this was the only treatment left that could cure this wretched soul of his vampirism.

"I shall do all in my power to proliferate good health for all!"

The shadow in white( angel in white) began to form behind Berserker. The great sword this phantasm carried will purge everything in the area, purifying all toxins and diseases no matter their origin or how far they've tainted the soul.

Although he had regenerated most of his body, the vampire was laying on the other side of the road. Too far away, he couldn't stop Berserker's invocation no matter how many openings might be on display. What a shame he didn't land closer.

" I Will Abstain From Whatever( Nightingale) –"

"Ahh-" A dribble of blood leaked from her mouth instead of the remainder of the name.

Berserker looked down. As if mocking her earlier attack, the vampire's arm that she tore off at the beginning of the battle was lodged in her chest.

"This arm's been on the ground. Must disinfect the. . . "

The hand tightened its grip on her heart and. . . .

*****

The Doctor opened the door of her Prius and fell out onto the sidewalk. It had taken all her strength to maintain consciousness behind the wheel. She had lost all color in her face, her pulse was racing, and her breathing was erratic, that is to say, she was going into shock. If a good Samaritan were to come across her at this moment and reached out to the woman writhing on the ground, they would have quickly snatched their hand away. This woman was feverish. . . no, it might be more accurate to say that her nerves themselves were burning up — the cost of using magecraft beyond one's ability.

Using the last of her strength, she broke the seal on the syringe in her hand. What she held in her hands was blasphemy to any magus — red liquid that was visibly filled to the brim with magical energy encased in a disposable syringe one might find the pharmacist at CVS or Rite-Aid using to deliver vaccinations. For the Doctor it was a matter of practice. The traditional, thin octahedral glass vials with metal oxide stoppers were difficult to both sterilize and attach a needle onto.

Groaning, she pulled up her shirt and slipped the needle-tip into a septum slightly above the right side of her pelvis. The liquid rushed through the cannula and pooled into the cecum before the Doctor magically forced her large intestine's powerful muscles to push it into the ascending colon. The spasming started to dissipate and color returned to her face. Most importantly, her magic circuits began to cool down, their burden taken by something else. Although she was not taking additional damage, her skin was slightly charred, the left side of her body was numb, and her brain, overheated and overtaxed, waved in and out of consciousness. Yet, through the force of her will, she was able to stand.

The cost of summoning a Berserker. The Berserker class was usually used to boost the basic abilities of weak Heroic Spirits to give them power they never had during their lives. If that was the criteria for the model Berserker, the Berserker the Doctor summoned may be the cream of the crop. However, the class skill Mad Enhancement rendered the Servant nothing more than a mad warrior that butchered everything in its path without regard for its Master's health. Supremely ironic, considering the identity of the Heroic Spirit the Doctor summoned.

No, it wasn't Berserker's fault. . . at least this time. The cause was right in front of her, a mundane street lit up by an upright streetlight. It might be by design that the street was so narrow since everyone on this block had a driveway. A street that no one wanted to walk through at night. A street that everyone feels safe enough walking through if they must. So safe, that upon seeing this street, they might decide to cross a different street on a whim. Because you see, it's safe.

But in their world, a whim is never truly a whim.

The Doctor's magic circuits might be weak, but she could feel the bounded field that had been erected. The same bounded field that cut off her ability to communicate telepathically with Berserker but was not strong enough to sever the flow of magical energy from Master to Servant. Whether that was intentional, the Doctor didn't know. She was sitting in her office sharing Berserker's view of the events through their Master-Servant link when her Servant stopped responding and started draining substantial quantities of magical energy. She believed that she could hold out, find Berserker before too much magical energy was drained. After all, her supply of syringes was limited and no more could be made — her penalty for joining the Holy Grail War. With Berserker's presence having disappeared, the only thing the Doctor could do was to track her magical energy to the road where it stopped — the location of the battle.

"Argh —" the cry escaped the Doctor's throat.

Hot. The imaginary friction of her rotating circuits sent her internal temperature skyrocketing. Berserker was draining such large quantities of magical energy, even the mystery inside her body having consumed the supplement couldn't handle the magical energy demanded.

Noble Phantasm.

Berserker must have been driven into a corner so dire that she needed to use her trump card. Her Noble Phantasm maybe one of the lower ranks, but the amount of magical energy necessary for the activation for an Anti-Army Noble Phantasm that could affect up to one hundred people, minus the support from the Grail, is more than the Doctor's already drained body could handle.

With her body crying for release and sweat staining her forehead from the effort to make the smallest movements, she managed to unholster the revolver and aimed its barrel directly in front of her. She didn't have enough magical energy to include any attachments, so the shot would ring throughout the neighborhood and tear the residents from their slumber. Panicked, they'll take to their blue screens to call law enforcement. The Doctor just hoped Berserker had enough sense to carry her to their safe house before the police arrived. She struggled to smile, preparing enough magical energy to take the shot.

"Ahh —" she coughed.

A sharp phantom pain stabbed her chest. This wasn't a hallucination due to the excessive depletion of Od from one's body. The magus was the one who created the telepathic channel between magus and familiar. The most advanced function is sharing each other's senses. The sensation she experienced was from the second line( path) the Grail draws when it ties the fate of the Master to the Servant, delivering each party a better sense of each other's status. While a first-class bounded field can easily shut off a telepathic link, cutting this secondary path is the equivalent of an external force cutting off a Servant's magical energy supply. That path told her something had to be done, or Berserker's life would be in danger. Easier said than done. The Doctor was injured, exhausted, and most importantly, off-balance.

She stumbled.

She tightened her grip on the weapon in defiance of her failing body.

How many times had she been in a similar situation, on dunes, on an outcropping, on the open sea?

How many times did the faces of those who left her behind appear, telling her that ignorance was her sin?

How many times did she vow that this was not the path she chose based on her sins, but that she would carry them on this path?

Even if your parents abandon you, I won't. I'll never give up on you.

Good people die senselessly. Innocent children die meaninglessly.

This was something the Doctor and Berserker agreed on.

— I don't like that.

Her body, drained until it yelled for a black oblivion, managed to muster enough magical energy to fill the revolver — she squeezed the trigger.

Everything shattered and her world went white.

*****

The Doctor woke up in an unfamiliar room with familiar decor. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the cold fluorescent light only to be greeted with the faded murals on the cream-colored wall. Nonsense caricatures of dinosaurs with thermometers in their mouth and too-friendly clowns that had cartoonish inflammations around a thumb or a joint were painted in warm colors. To her left was a child-sized bed.

"Berserker. . . water. . ." she managed to croak.

She turned to the side to find her Servant at the sink, filling a glass, examining the turbidity, and then offering it to her Master. The Doctor managed to sit up and thank Berserker before taking a sip. The water coated her dry mouth and ran down her throat. By the time she took a larger gulp, she began to feel the ache of her damaged body — bearable, you've been through worse, you've seen worse, you've healed worse.

"Berserker, where are we?"

Berserker took the glass away from her Master and proceeded to push her head onto the pillow.

"A suburban side street is the furthest away from an operable location as one may find. This medicine cabinet may be missing essentials, but at the least, a first aid kit is present."

A school? The Doctor recalled an elementary school in the vicinity. They must be in the school nurse's office. The Doctor didn't want to know how Berserker broke into the school without setting off any alarms. She was just thankful they weren't in a jail cell or worse.

A famous line of her Servant's that survived the century is that 'Nursing is the act of utilizing the environment of the patient to assist in her recovery.' That is to say, the barriers of healing must be removed if the patient is to make a speedy recovery. On first impression, Berserker seems pushy, brash, and unintelligible, but the core of her nursing and her Spiritual Foundation( Saint Graph) is that Nightingale does not heal, she creates an environment that is the optimal place so a patient can heal — that was the essence( core) of the Noble Phantasm the Nurse of Steel was about to unleash.

"What happened in that bounded field, Berserker?"

The Doctor had asked Berserker to find and then tail the seventh Master, a local girl. No matter what Berserker's relationship with Assassin might lead to, Assassin's Master was a child forced to fight in the Grail War. As a licensed, somewhat practicing pediatrician, the Doctor could not let her continue, no matter the child's wish.

The Doctor had Berserker guard the local high school's entrance this morning. The girl never arrived. They tried again after school and picked up her scent — the girl was actively leaking magical energy. The only danger was Assassin sensing Berserker, but considering Assassin was weighed down with the Personal Skill Powerless Shell, the Doctor hazarded her magical energy sensing ability was less than competent.

From there, Berserker and the Doctor sought an opportunity to release the girl from her contract. Assassin, the weakest Servant in the war, was both a target and disposable. After getting the two alone, Berserker would defeat Assassin, and the girl would be taken under the protection of the government agency that the Doctor was affiliated with. Her first choice was to drop the girl off with the overseer, but her handlers had given her conflicting information about the Church. After parsing through the information with a critical eye, it sounded as though the Holy Church was going through an internal power struggle with repercussions that affected even this Holy Grail War.

Berserker was about to engage the pair when Nadine became caught up in a bounded field. Foolish girl — if your Servant is already in spirit form, cut off the magical energy supply. . . is what the Doctor wanted to shout in a pillow, but that would be hypocritical. She, herself, was nothing more than a third-rate spellcaster at best, someone, almost worth less than an initiate in the world of magecraft.

On the Doctor's orders, Berserker immediately materialized a bed, the same one the Doctor was laying on and proceeded to break into the bounded field to confront Caster. In their mind, only Caster could make such a complex bounded field. What they found was a vampire attempting to drink the girl's blood.

"Vampirism. . . is a terrifying disease of the mind. It renders a delirious patient unable to consider the very person in front of them. Reminder to calculate the possible societal cost of a provincial epidemic of vampirism. Use the same set of assumptions to create a forecast on the strain to public health resources in urban centers," Berserker muttered, unable to recognize the person in front of her.

The Doctor took this opportunity to seat herself back up, but Berserker pushed her back down while still muttering to herself and nodding deeply at intervals.

A vampire taking part in the Holy Grail War was not unheard of. The first report she had read about the topic, the one closest to her heart, detailed a vampire who made the art-museum-shaped-hospital she worked in into his lair — taking her patient hostage. She pushed those memories back into her heart. The Doctor didn't know too much about Dead Apostles, but a Servant shouldn't have too much trouble against them unless it was a Dead Apostle Ancestor. Unless like the vampire who terrorized her hometown. . . .

"Berserker, was the vampire a Master? Did a Servant materialize? "

Berserker stopped muttering to herself and turned to face her Master. For the first time this night, she looked the Doctor directly in her stern, heavy eyes.

"There was no Servant."

Berserker's measured tone was one used for reporting something mildly unacceptable to a superior officer. The Doctor immediately understood that Berserker thought of this Dead Apostle as a threatening patient. The Doctor couldn't make sense of it in her head. What sort of Dead Apostle could fight equally with a Servant, without any help?

"What happened after I fainted?"

"It retreated."

Of course. The Doctor's revolver is a one-of-a-kind limited action Mystic Code. Fired bullets were capable of draining the magical energy from bounded fields among other things. The more complex the bounded field one holds together, the greater the rebound to one's magic circuits from having it broken. Furthermore, Dead Apostles pride themselves in being the greatest erectors of bounded fields — some are capable of even fooling nature to create otherworlds. To have its bounded field broken twice? In a single night? They say a Dead Apostle's grudge is as persistent as the curse from signing a Self-Geis Scroll. The Doctor doesn't know what a Self-Geis scroll is but if it's half as bad as her Comcast contract, then —

But that wasn't the issue at hand.

"The longer that girl remains a Master, the greater the danger she'll be in. Tonight shouldn't have happened. Berserker."

"Doctor?"

"Tomorrow, we kill Assassin."

"Affirmative, I'll set an appointment."

In an elementary school nurse's office with bloodied bandages lining the floor, the pair who both pledged to 'first, do no harm' a century apart planned to draw the first meaningful blood in this conflict. All to save a single ten( seventeen) year old girl.

~Interlude Out~

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

12/ Rested Laurels

A kindly old man I've talked to at the park a few times is in the driver's seat. Wispy white hair brushing against his forehead comes out from underneath his beanie. The rest of him is swaddled within two layers of jackets. Winters in Tolosa aren't cold enough to seriously consider layering. He hasn't turned on the car heater, either.

"I've never told you this before champ, but I'm a magician," he says with both hands diligently on the wheel, waiting for the arrow to turn green.

With my mind still reeling from a vampire attack of all things, his words don't evoke much emotion.

"You mean you're a mag-us. . . may-gus. . . ." What was that funny-sounding word that the bowl-cut priest used again, "Whatever, a mage?"

We pull into the UPS parking lot and he puts the car into park.

"Donut and a warm beverage?"

The parking lot outside the UPS is usually packed this time of night. No one's here to purchase stamps this close to midnight; the famous local donut store next door is open twenty-four hours a day. The decor is visibly more artisan( hipster) than a roadside diner-style cafe to the point they host struggling musicians who are on the verge of 'making it.'

"Don't worry about her, champ. They're tough, they are, Ghost Liners. She might be silent right now, but she should be healing with your magical energy."

I thank him and take the paper cup filled with warm apple cider from his wrinkled hands. The apple cider at Tolosa's Donut Company is just Costco apple juice mixed with mulled spices with a three-dollar price tag, but it never fails to warm me up to the point I sincerely confess that it was worth three measly dollars.

"But, are you okay, Nadine?"

Laurent almost ran me over. I was running away from the vampire and forgot to look around the corner before I crossed the street. Luckily, Laurent said, he had a garage on Tank Farm check his brakes last month.

"Who. . . are you, really?"

"Not bad, always been meaning to try this out." He takes a sip of his Thai iced tea before starting to answer my question. "Retirement's all about taking it easy, but there's been some strange leyline activity the past couple of days. Decided to start redrawing some maps when the signal went haywire." He shrugs. "If there's someone in Tolosa who can make a bounded field like that, I want to know."

He went on to explain that when his daughter inherited the family business, he felt like it was time to move to the 'Best Coast' instead of Florida. I'm not sure his story made sense. From what the bowl-cut priest had told me yesterday, these mages seemed like they should be stricter than this nice old man. None of this applies to me anymore.

"Thanks for the cider, but I'm going to go to the church and forfeit tomorrow. That was insane; I almost died. I don't want to be involved in something like this anymore, you know."

Laurent's eyes grow slightly concerned, "I think that's a wise decision, Nadine. This event isn't worth risking your life, especially for someone so young."

What does he know about this?

"I can see that you have a few questions, though. I'll be happy to answer them."

Mary's leaving tomorrow. I have nothing to do with that world, so there's no point in asking. . . My hands go onto the wooden table that seems like it was bought in a garage sale. There are six donut holes left, so I take two. They don't go with the cider at all. But donut holes. Whatever, I'll bite.

"You seem to know about the Holy Grail War. Are you a Master?"

He rolls up his sleeves and shows the front and back of his arms. There's nothing but irregular hairs, saggy skin, and brown blotches.

"Now look at your own, champ."

Don't patronize me, dude. I know that on the back of my left hand is a Command Spell — a fat rod with squiggles coming from the edges. Each squiggle has a thin circle in the middle. The gaping maw of a black sun or a portal to a better world.

"Command Spells react to other Command Spells," he explains. "Did you feel anything from your Command Spell when I picked you up?"

Mid-head shake, I want to ask him whether all mages know this much about the Holy Grail War. Whether the Holy Grail War is a big deal in their world, like the Olympics. But no one watches the Olympics anymore. Disappointing reference. Instead, I ask the obvious.

"That person who attacked me. . . Do vampires really exist?"

"A vampire in the Holy Grail War?" He sounds slightly apprehensive. "Well, that wouldn't be the first time."

He goes on to explain that supernatural creatures do exist in the world living in pristine locales or within the cracks of society. It goes without saying that you can only see these beings at night time. For that reason, I've decided to name this world I've stepped into the 'Moonlit World.' Poetic license, kill me. Either way, Laurent focuses on vampires, how they're created, the various stages of their evolution, and finally what they consume and why. It all sounds rather reasonable, up to the last part.

"Mature red blood cells don't have DNA. We learned that in AP Bio."

He tilts his head.

I type in the question on my phone and show him the result.

"Well, it says right here that the DNA from blood comes from white blood cells. Vampires still obtain genetic information from blood, just not from the red blood cells," he points to a line in the Wikipedia article.

"Still, it's ridiculous to think that having sex with someone would lower the purity of one's blood and cells. If anything, KFC would deteriorate the quality of one's blood more than sex. This sex thing sounds like a gross, fictitious misapplication of the perceived dangers of HIV when it was an unmanageable disease. . . Do vampires get AIDS?"

"I wouldn't think so. Vampires have been around much longer than the AIDS virus as we know today. Either way, HIV attacks the immune system, vampire bodies are already dead. More importantly, vampires often use animal carcasses to restore their bodies. If viral cross-species transmission was a problem among bloodsuckers, I don't think there would be one attacking you."

It sounds right, but just because something sounds right since an important person tells you that it is or it corresponds to one's priors doesn't necessarily mean it's right. I'm not sure why having sex with someone would reduce the 'purity' of your genetic information, but there's way too much wiggle room here about a topic I was just introduced to argue back.

To use an example, Laurent had told me that the older the vampire, the more blood( energy) that's necessary to maintain its existence. Forgot my phone when I went to the toilet a few weeks ago; only reading material was a copy of my brother's Men Health, so I flipped through it, kill me. There was one article about the idea of how as the body ages it becomes less efficient at processing protein due to a steady decrease in mucus, digestive enzymes, and stomach acid. I believe the title was 'Steady Gains Even Into Your Golden Years,' — god my brother is such a douchebag. Anyway, the idea that vampires require more energy as they grow older seems to adhere to this principle you read in a magazine for guys who can't get it up, so you believe it.

People. . . people see the connection when they want to see connections and are incredulous when other people can't follow the same connections. Those assuring synapses( connections) between the mosaic of neurons( facts) make your world all the more understandable — all the more purposeful. How stupid. Since you're the one doing the connecting, you believe that it has to be real, because you're the one who put it all together. If you could put it together then it should be obvious to everyone else. But what you don't realize is that there are billions of facts, billions of people, therefore an infinite amount of possible connections. How impertinent you must be to believe another person could possibly trace the same connection you've made. How dare you believe the connection you've made is the right one?

"When the vampire grabbed me, its eyes were red and I couldn't move. But then my heart stopped and I could move again. What was that about?"

Laurent takes a napkin to wipe the condensation from his hand. It seems there was only ice chips left in the cup.

"That's two questions." He folds his used napkin into two instead of crumpling it into a ball. "Vampires hypnotizing people is a pretty common thing in movies, no?"

"Like in the original Dracula movie, victims would be enthralled and he could talk to them telepathically."

"I was thinking more Hotel Transylvania, but whatever floats your boat, champ. Strong vampires have Mystic Eyes. You've heard that Medusa's gaze could turn people to stone? Well, legends with mystical eyes that are common throughout the world."

"Do those have anything to do with the 'the eyes that see into the world?'"

"'Eyes that see into the world?' That's an uncommon phrase even among magi, I wouldn't expect a high schooler to have heard that term. Where did you hear it?"

"The overseer for this war told me that I might have them."

"From a man of the cloth? Even more peculiar. You could say it means he has great expectations for you. The first and greatest magecraft was the ability to see. Witch doctors and wise women in the distant past were useless if they couldn't preempt tragedy, be it natural or man-made. In a sense, the greatest power in this world is knowledge, the ability to grasp the true nature of phenomena. Saying someone has 'eyes that see into the world' is a more specific way of telling them they have the senses required to grasp the subtleties of the world. It isn't a magical sixth sense, but a unique gift. One might even call those with such a gift a 'Magician's Egg.'"

"Like one of those trick eggs you can buy at a magic store that has a hole for a scarf?"

He looks at me for a moment. "You can buy those? Don't need to answer." He takes a sip from his drink before remembering there's only ice left. "Rather than an egg that a magician owns, a Magician's Egg refers to someone primed to become a magician. As in that person will hatch into a magician."

"What's the difference between a magician and a mage? Is there even a difference?"

"There are only five magics left in the world and four magicians. Each magic makes something impossible in the modern era happen. I can go on if you want."

"And you're one of these magicians?"

"Sorry, champ. I was being facetious. In this field, a lot of time it's easier to advertise yourself as a magician."

I finish my apple cider and gaze off slightly to the distance. This donut shop is open twenty-four hours so there are quite a few people here. I recognize some of them from the party. I guess people are filing in trying to sober up with doughnuts. The typical aftermath of a Tolosa party. . . I presume. . . .

"If I'm a Magician's Egg, then I could become one of these four people?"

"If it were truly that simple, there would be more than four magicians. But talent can appear in the most unexpected places. Then again what's more unexpected than a magician appearing in Tolosa?"

"So, it's whatever. What about the second part of my question."

"Right, let's pivot to that. People who can use magecraft have a magic circuit. Or rather, it's the other way around, unless you have a magic circuit you can't use magecraft."

"The overseer said that a magic circuit was the potential to be a mage, and therefore a Master."

"It's usually something that's built through one's pedigree, but there are cases where people without the lineage will be born with a magic circuit. However, you won't notice you have one until it opens. Yours probably opened the moment you summoned your Servant. Once the circuit is established the next step is to build a mental switch. Like a light switch that turns the circuit on and off."

My heart stopped and it felt as though molten rods pierced my entire body. That pain was beyond the release from any sort of self-mutilation that the middle-school girls who act like they're always sad will drone on about in the bathroom for attention. This is the child of two incompatible systems, a refrigerator that can simultaneously cool yet also cooks the food inside of it. The more of the feeling that is produced, the more the contradiction yearns to correct itself by wiping out what it means to be a person, leaving the body as nothing more than a machine that produces that feeling.

"You can imagine magical energy as a type of energy-rich liquid that's gushing through these fantastical pipes known as magic circuits."

"Like gas. So then magecraft would be igniting the gas."

"But unlike petrol, you can douse someone else's magical energy with your magical energy. The vampire's Mystic Eyes placed a spell, a magical construct created with that energy, within your body. By turning on your magic circuit, you were able to wash it away, allowing you to move."

"If I were to learn magecraft, then I would be able to protect myself against vampires?"

He shakes his head. "It takes longer than two weeks to learn enough about magecraft to use it against another person. Magecraft is something built through generations. In your case, it would be better to leave the fighting to your Servant."

Like running a family farm. No matter the amount of resources one can bring in, a bougie hipster from a gentrified neighborhood in the Bay Area who decides it's time to go natural for reals unlike those posers who just shop at 'Whole Paycheck' to keep up appearances will never be able to run a farm better than a farmer whose family has worked the land for generations. No matter how talented or forward-thinking this hypothetical hipster might be, she starts at zero. Are you going to take on the full cost of the equipment, how do you know what you bought is the right equipment, when are you going to plant certain crops, what crops do well in this soil in these conditions, do you even know the condition of the soil, are you going to diversify your farm, what co-op or organization should you join, what's the best way to claim the maximum amount of government benefits. The only way to compete would be to hire experienced farmers which just highlight the importance of experience and pedigree. I don't come from a farming family, but this is what the country kids who do FFA talk about during lunch, so I can imagine learning magecraft is somewhat similar in principle.

A soft buzz, a pause, and then another buzz, a text message. I pick up my face-down phone from the table and it turns out to be an Instagram notification about Krista. She took a selfie you could find on any high-school girl's newly public account. Off-Tinder-Cinder-Krista, sucking in her stomach, right in the middle with her Prince Charming in a crowd of drunk teenagers who have all have already liked the picture, with the sophisticated, cosmopolitan caption of — Donut emoji, clock emoji, heart emoji, #first party #newfriends #litaf #blessed.

My eyes are hot. For god's sake you stupid bitch, calm down already. You don't want to break down in front of an old man. I quickly comment, 'already here,' before I can type something that I'll really regret and press send.

"Your friends coming to pick you up, champ?"

I nod, forcing the faucet to leak inside.

"I should be on my way then. Wouldn't want you losing your cred because your friends saw you hanging out with an uncool geezer."

You're. . . actually pretty cool. I want to say that but I can't find my voice.

"Before I go, I thought I would ask you, Nadine. Who do you want to be?"

"I —"

I don't think anyone really knows who they want to be. Instead, we chase the hollow ideal of being special. No one is special, yet at the same time we try so hard to make someone else feel special so they will meet our expectations and tell us we're special. . . . We cling onto that feeling of specialness in someone else's eyes because it's undeniable 'proof" that we live in a #blessed world rather than a shithole.

Two days ago, I thought that Krista was truly special to me and vice-versa, but that can't be true. All the threads in that self-gorging social web localized in that suburban party are self-serving, superficial, momentary relationships — transactions that merely give and take without a speck of understanding. It's the need to be part of a group to be acknowledged and the price paid is to acknowledge others. Gross. Disgusting. There's nothing genuine in that. But… if those connections are so superficial, so easy to make, what's wrong with me? If these eyes see into the world, why have I never even made a slipshod connection with another person other than Krista? So then, if it's something that everyone can do, but I can't. . . aren't I the problem?

'Who do I want to be?'

I don't know. I don't think the question matters. If everyone else can ███, then anyone else will do.

"I think I'm going to stay with this Grail thing," I tell Laurent.

Laurent scribbles something down on the last remaining dry napkin and hands it to me.

"My number," he smiles faintly. "Good luck, champ. You're going to need it," and leaves.

"What happened tonight is going to happen again, are you okay with that?" Mary's weak voice comes from the space in the seat beside me. She must have just woke up.

"Does life honestly have that much value when we live in this world?"

"That doesn't answer the question."

"Does it matter if it answers the question when I answered the question you truly wanted to ask?"

In return, I'll reject the world that rejected me. Instead, I'll turn to a new world that found me. Terrifying as it is, at least it hasn't rejected me, only shown me what was possible. I've been told that I have magic circuits, eyes that can see into the world, and am about to hatch into a magician.

I will reject everything to become someone I accept.

Someone beyond Nadine Craig. Someone not Nadine Craig.

Tonight, I resolve to be this to the end.

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

13/ Grace Note (I)

A vampire lurks in Tolosa.

After dinner, I snuck out of the Mission and started patrolling downtown. Eventually, I made my way to the men's colony, but there were no signs of the Dead. On my way back, I made a detour into the college. If the vampire did come from the men's colony, Pitch Canyon Village would be an obvious stop. Behind the student dorms is one of the Seven Sisters and the foci of the leylines in Northern Tolosa. Not to mention there's a nook in the mountain where undergraduate architecture projects go to die that can be used as a lair. All dowsing with Black Keys could find was the same type of tree as yesterday.

This time instead of greed built on usurpation, it was envy built on exile that I should not forget. I vomited. Once again, my magically fortified mental defenses were shred like paper. These trees must be cursed, yet the magical energy radiating from those trees was almost noble.

I clamber through the window back into my room around ten and head straight for the bathroom. Controlling bodily functions is the first step in Executor training. The classic example we're taught is that basic Japanese mountain ascetics training requires a person to go without sleep, food, or water for three days and nights. For us, it's about using magical energy (even if the Church doesn't like to admit that) to forcibly switch certain functions on and off while reinforcing the parts that might be under strain. With that in mind, Sunao-sensei says on arrival to a safe house, you must make sure the location is not compromised and then go to the bathroom — one expense that the Church does not skimp on.

After washing my hands for twenty seconds, I start my homework. The homework assigned on Monday is always due on Wednesday, so it was time to go over Math notes and then do the assigned problems. Dilo's letter can wait until tomorrow. It's probably nothing more than empty words wishing me the best of luck for the next two weeks. Overseeing the Holy Grail War might be important, but a vampire killed my family. If learning this town's protocols and systems have been to better oversee the Grail War, then all the physical training in the mountain behind the Mission has been to fight the supernatural threat known as a Dead Apostle. Cliche as it might be, I chose to become part of the Church because of my thirst for vengeance.

All the math problems are solved in thirty minutes. The next thirty were spent reviewing Monday's lesson and previewing tomorrow's topic. That makes the school recommended hour. Got to stifle this yawn with a mouthful of water because I still must start my physics homework. The problems are mostly plug-and-chug so the homework is going to take less than thirty minutes which gives me more time to preview tomorrow's lesson. Okay, my notebook is starting to look like bubble wrap so just forty more minutes and you can go to sleep, Chris. For now, let's start characterizing these wavefunctions.

*****

I imagined that I would see that scene again, the one that manifested when I touched that tree. That walled city was drenched in the fire and blood of self-inflicted sabotage. In one corner of the canvas of savagery and rape, on top of an overturned vegetable cart was a great spearman, breaker of horses, roaring at the crying man underneath him to leave, to run away, to save himself. That even if he was the enemy, to kill him was to kill a nation. He did not deserve to become mere a bloodstain on this hell.

What I'm seeing is nothing like the image that made me vomit half-digested salmon cooked in mushroom-infused butter. This is not my memory. This is not even my memory of a memory. This is the recent memory of a girl that I have never met about a train I've never ridden. This memory must have bubbled to the interface of a half-consciousness when it beheld the light that shines at the end of the world. This is not my memory so I cannot interrupt. This is not my memory so I have no idea about the thoughts of the two in front of me. After all, people are slaves to what they can see.

So please enjoy the translated exchange between the ashen girl and the crafted? boy.

******

"Well, if we are limiting the possibilities to something functionally human then there are two kinds of foresight and hindsight: predictive and determinative. Prediction is as the name suggests. We're capable of it, too. Imagine putting a ball on a slope. We know the ball is going to roll down, right? Prediction is an extension of this basic principle. Humans who can predict the future require an absurd amount of memory and computational power to bring this phenomenon to bear. Being conscious of these processes would likely damage one's personality so prediction is done unconsciously."

"Ummm... in other words, it's just like how we generally use our imaginations?"

"In theory, but, the amount of memory and calculations done unconsciously greatly surpass what is possible for a person. After all, we're optimized products of evolution. Despite magi being those who direct themselves towards the past, our bodies are those of modern humans. No matter how consistent the logic may be as long, the amount of memory and computational power that's required surpasses what's possible for humans, this ability can't be anything but abnormal.

For example, we are only taking in an approximate 'impression' of this locale: three names and our appearances, a luxurious private room, the bed and table periodically moving with the train. This gives us a rough sketch of where we are and what is happening. For someone who can predict the future, they take the minute color of the light, the intonation of each sound in a voice, the movement of a pupil every tenth of a second, on top of all that shifts in body odor as well as the density of the fog outside the window. The human and environment intermingle to compute a single world. Doing all that unconsciously, it might even burn the brain."

"Memory... and calculation… But, isn't that more the brain than the eyes?"

"It depends. From a magical perspective, the eyeball acts like a type of magic circuit. This is what memorizes and calculates. Moreover, determination is even more abnormal. It requires the same memory and computational power, but whereas prediction is a passive and defensive ability, determination is proactive. You can almost think of it as an assault."

"Proactive?"

"Ehhh — proactive in that it's an abnormal ability that influences the future. In short..."

"What is that?"

"A schematic of time. It's easy to understand the future is expanding in multiple ways. Like I said before, predictive foresight stores the data of the past to the present and calculates the most probable future. On the other hand, determinative foresight seeks to choose a possible future. By choosing a route, you restrict the choices for other people.

Because of the difference, in theory, the accuracy of determinative foresight greatly surpasses that of predictive. According to the aforementioned systems, you predict nothing but the future of the place where you are located. In contrast, the future is fixed once it's determined. The effect of limiting the future is that decisive."

"I get it… somehow. Is it the same with hindsight?"

"Yes. But, unlike foresight, with hindsight, there is barely a difference between prediction and determination. Even the user themselves shouldn't really be able to make the distinction."

"Really?"

"Let's draw it out, shall we? If the future is something that infinitely expands, the past would be like a mountain of sand.

Grain by grain it falls from the future to the present, until finally making a mountain like this figure. It's quite easy to understand, like entropy in a three-dimensional space, the time has a direction.

Whether I synthesize a result to predict the past or I use my own actions as a starting point to determine the past, the process does not change. Using my own actions as a starting point though will make the measurements narrower, increasing the accuracy.

However, there is some modern magecraft and quantum theory that suggests that we cannot actually see the past, that even the past is actually unsettled. What we think of as the past is nothing more than memories or records. . . Sorry, I haven't finished the class."

With that admission, the scene crashes into the shore, spraying cold jets of ocean foam.

Day 2 – End

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

14/ Maestro

"So, that's everything your Professor asked me to go over today. She told me to spend the last ten minutes on my research and wanted to let you know whatever's on my slides will be on the midterm since, apparently, there are a few of you who like to leave lecture early. So okay, as you can see here my research is on leitmotifs. Does anyone know what a leitmotif is?"

The crickets couldn't be here today. They were too busy singing in summer so they starved to death.

"No one, really? How many music majors in this class? Seriously, no one? So, then I've got to assume you're all engineering and computer science taking this as a GE for the GPA boost? Anyone? You with the snap-back on backwards, engineering or comp science? Mechanical? Well, good luck with that at this school, sir. You ever play Pokemon? Yeah? What's the music that plays every time you enter a battle? What, you only played Pokemon GO when it was popular? Okay, but Pokemon GO has music; there's probably an OST you can buy on iTunes, Apple Music, or whatever it's called now. No one plays Pokemon GO with the music on? Fine, fine, fair enough. Does anyone here like Star Wars? Yeah, quite a lot of you. Expected as much from a bunch of engineers and brogrammers. Name one song from Star Wars, just one song, any song. Oh, you don't remember the name but you can hum it. Okay, I won't embarrass you by making you hum it in front of the class but does it go something like duh duh duh DUN DA DUN, DUN DA DUN. . . Who comes to mind when you think of that? Darth Vader, Anakin Skywalker, right? Come on, what do you mean, spoilers? Well, that's a leitmotif. A leitmotif, or leading motive, is a complete musical thought that relates to a person, situation, or thing. Whenever you hear that music, you immediately associate it with Darth Vader. By the way, that track is called the Imperial March if you already didn't know. The most famous leitmotif in film is probably the theme for the shark in Jaws. Right, the moment I said that it started playing in your head. That's the associative power of a leitmotif. A lot of people say the leitmotif was created by Richard Wagner. Brilliant composer; terrible person. However, musical ideas have been associated with character, setting, and objects much earlier than Wagner. Wagner was the one who popularized it and took it to the next level, especially in his Ring Cycle. Anyone here seen the Director's Cut for all of the Lord of the Rings movies? Yeah, this is longer than that. You know when you think of opera you think of a large lady with a helmet with wings? You can thank Wagner for that. And it's not 'Wag-ner,' it's a long 'wa' sound. I'm German. I was born in a little village next to the Rhine if you couldn't tell from my accent. Then again, people always tell me that my accent's mostly gone. Anyway, I'm more of a leitmotif Indiana Jones on good days and a leitmotif librarian on bad ones. There are some who call them musical calling cards or even a musical fingerprint. Part of my research is to collect and catalog these fingerprints, but it's more focused on identifying what makes a certain musical idea a leitmotif. Some of these are, of course, simple to identify, especially in video games like the Legend of Zelda secret chime or the Final Fantasy battle theme. Some tracks are entirely made of multiple motifs. What I try to do is determine why the motif was placed there, how does that add significance to the scene or work, and how is that musical idea held in the minds of the audience. That's the psychological side of it. There's also the musical theory, the construction of the motif and how/why it evokes a certain scene or idea that permanently stains the consciousness. Looking at the leitmotif from both these approaches, we can hope to understand why some succeed and others fail. This is very important for movie composers, considering the leitmotif is such a popular technique. Film scores are almost wholly Wagnerian these days. A little assignment for those interested — Marvel movie marathon, but instead of watching, you should all listen to those Marvel movies, you'll be surprised at what you pick up. Well, there's five minutes left, so I'm going to let you go early. Ummm, Mich — I mean Dr. Strum wanted me to remind you to do the reading quiz for next week. The pages for that reading should be on your syllabus. Thanks, everyone. Oh yeah, and you, girl in the back row with a blue jacket, come see me after class okay?"

*****

"We should get out of here."

Fuck. Everyone else sitting in this row is waiting for me to leave. You would think that once you get into college you would upgrade to bigger desks, but what the hell are these weak plastic chairs with foldable tables.

"What do you mean we should get out of here, dearie. He just asked to talk to you."

How does a guest lecturer know I'm not actually taking this class?

"God, I knew this was a terrible idea."

Now the impatient eyes from everyone in this half of the row bore into me, judging me for talking to myself. If they knew the truth, they'd probably judge me harder.

"Catch yerself, girl. If he is actually suspicious there's no point running; he'll just alert the peelers around campus to be on the lookout for a girl fitting your description. He hasn't even told you what he wants yet. Hear the man out, will you?"

From our two days together, I can tell you that Mary says everything with an adamant tone. Then, what is she recalling if there's this layer of emotion smothering that tone? Whatever, you do you, Mary. I have to at least get out of my seat. Up you get, Nadine.

Urgh, my jacket gets caught in the folded table as I try to get out. Someone coughs. Every neuron in my brain screams at me not to turn my head, but I do it anyway. It must be some stupid conditioning humans have that whenever someone fake-coughs to judge the fuck out of you, well you hand them your attention on a platter.

"Sorry about that," I smile while fiddling furiously with my jacket. "Though, I have no idea why you're all in so much of a hurry to eat lunch alone."

With my heart racing from adrenaline and shame, I storm out of the lecture hall.

*****

"Girl, you need to get your arse back there, right now."

I stop at one of the outdoor tables outside the campus market and bury my face in my arms. Wow, that was stupid. Wow, you're really stupid, Nadine.

"Girl, if you're not going back, I suggest we get out of here as soon as possible."

"Just… just let me think, okay, Mary?"

She no longer says a word, but I can feel the same annoyed silent aura my mom has whenever I'm around. It's just worse because it's not something that I think is there, I can actually feel it from our Master-Servant line, or whatever it's called.

After what happened yesterday, there was no way that I wanted to go to school. For one, I don't fit in with high-schoolers and I almost had my neck torn out by a fucking vampire. I was going to march up to that priest today and tell him that this was too much for me, but I can't do that to Mary — I'm all that she's got.

Mary was pretty excited about the college yesterday. After what happened last night, I thought I'd do her a favor. God, was that really yesterday morning? Feels like two weeks ago. I want Mary to have a good time. I'm a good Master. This is not just because I don't want to go to school.

We ended up stumbling into a lecture hall a quarter of the way into a class that introduced music theory. Half the class was on their laptops and of the half that didn't have laptops, a quarter were on their phones. The girl below me was shopping for handbags and there were three guys around her watching basketball highlights. I see, so this is how people discover themselves. Usually, I would take a photo and share it with Krista on my private Instagram, but she has better friends now and all I've got is a ghost.

"How do you mean?" She sounded breathless. "It's truly amazing that even in this hall of learning, you're still connected with the outside world. Knowledge is not only something shared peer-to-peer, but those very ideas can be easily challenged and discussed with others in similar institutes. With such lines of informative communication in place, it is impossible to be isolated, to feel alone. There's always someone to reach out to. How wonderful."

Is it honestly better to be so caught up in an imaginary world that your head's up your ass than to live in the moment, grounded in our shared objective reality? Hey, I might sound like an old person, but that's what's cool about old people — they appreciate the time they have left and the people around them.

"Girl, stop moping about and get up," Mary sounds worried and I turn to face her, even though I know I won't be able to see her.

Instead, the dude who was lecturing stands over me. His sweater sleeves have been pretentiously rolled up so they rest slightly higher than the middle of his forearm, giving off the Californian business casual look that every one of mom's young male clients want to exude. One hand is on his hip so that he's bent in a way that makes him look slightly concerned about me in a completely non-threatening manner.

"Ummm, hi. You kind of ran off after the lecture." He takes his hand off his hip and scratches his nose. "You're a Master, aren't you?"

The air around us pressurizes as if something that no one can see and only we can feel is gathering. That must be what old man Laurent calls magical energy, which would mean. . .

"Don't," I call out to Mary. There are too many people here. Having a woman in 19th-century cook's clothes pop out of the air would just lead to chaos. The pressure disperses.

"Thanks for that. I just want to have a chat, no strings attached. Do you two want to come to my office? We shouldn't be talking about this stuff out here."

*****

"Here, have a seat." He motioned to a black plastic chair behind his desk. "Visiting scholar, I just moved in last week, so there isn't much furniture. You guys want some kettle corn? Just popped it this morning."

If he was my mom's client, she would say something vomit-inducingly encouraging like, "It might be intimidating, starting with an empty room, but you have to remember you can fill an empty room with whatever you want. What's better than that?" Other than what seems to be a standard-issue desktop computer, there's a popcorn tin next to the computer, an office trash can behind his chair, a stack of papers, and a tissue box in the right corner of the desk.

I open my mouth to say something before he interrupts me with an apology as his hand goes to the left side of the desk.

Oh, I didn't notice that when I was looking around the office. It's an ornate box, the size of two laptop charger blocks stacked on top of each other; the brushed brass corners are slightly faded and the wood is rather worn. Honestly, I have no idea how I missed that when I came in. It's almost like my eyes themselves couldn't help avoiding that region of the table. As if my eyes kept telling my brain, 'that's just a table' over and over again.

"There we go. No one should be able to hear our conversation anymore," he says after lifting the lid. In the middle of the box is a small figurine carved from bone. My mother bought me a music box for my birthday once that had a secret compartment where you could hide some make-up or polaroids. The centerpiece was a dainty ballerina eternally pirouetting, lost in the music being played. This music box has a conductor, mechanically waving his little baton along with the piece of classical music that starts to leak out, saturating the room. "You're more than welcome to materialize. . . Mary, was it?"

Mary pops into existence with a meat cleaver angled towards the man's face. I've never seen a knife that sharp in a Cooking Channel infomercial. The edge reflects all of the artificial light in this room. It's a clear threat. I would have been taken aback if I hadn't already felt Mary's seething murderous intent the moment he said her name. There should only be three people other than myself who know Mary by name. That priest, Rider, and Archer. Logically, the most obvious answer would be that he was Archer's Master, but we've already seen Archer's Master, a girl who didn't look human, at the stadium.

"Who are you?" Mary barks.

The blade on the knife is so sharp that simply touching his neck would draw blood. Look away Nadine, but you can't. This is the life you've chosen. The initiation to become someone who isn't you. If threatening people in their own offices in a college I don't even attend is the price then. . . But Mary's not going to hurt him. . . right? There's no way that's going to happen since —

His soft blue eyes twinkle telling us he's the one in control of the situation as he kindly smiles.

"I'm sort of like an attendant. Less of an attendant and more of a piano tuner, maybe? But honestly, I just wanted to thank you on behalf of milady." He leans back into his chair and raises both his hands in surrender.

"Mary, I don't think he's lying."

"You don't know the first thing about being lied to, dearie," she says without looking at me. "It'd be a shame if they had to close this institute because of us," and sits down in the chair next to mine.

"Sorry about that." I apologize in her stead.

He seems nonplussed about having a meat cleaver thrust into his face. I guess these are the sort of people I'll be dealing from now on.

"No problem! I totally get it. Mary's your Servant. My familiars would do the same."

Now that's all cleared up, "So, who are you?"

"Don't mean to be rude, but I did part of my postdoc in Japan. They have this fun tradition there, where you introduce yourself before asking someone for their name."

We both glare at him. "I'm Nadine and this is Mary, my Servant."

"Wow, great to meet you guys. Everyone calls me Rich. Thanks for helping out Archer yesterday. He's a bit tough to handle, even for milady."

He takes a familiar packet of unopened batteries from his desk drawer and then pulls out a laser pointer from his pocket before beginning to replace the batteries before our eyes.

"Is your head cut? You had a Servant buy batteries for that?"

"Oh no ma'am, he volunteered. I'm sure you've already noticed, but he's very heroic, incredibly so. That's what makes him such a difficult hero to control. Without giving him controlled labors to overcome; well, I'm sure there would be more than a little collateral damage. That's why we're so thankful for the both of you. He seems to have taken a shine to you, Nadine."

It's kind of gross that all can you think of is 'how swell,' with this guy. It doesn't help that he looks like a prince from a school play.

"Ummm yeah, it was nothing. Archer seemed like a nice person. We had some ice-cream together. Sorry about barging into your lecture like that."

His eyes narrow for a second, "You don't know you're leaking magical energy?"

"Magical energy. . . that's what we make with our magic circuits." Based on what he did with the box. "You're a mage?"

Without taking his eyes off me Rich reluctantly flicks his right hand to the ceiling, drawing an upbeat. "Don't call us. . . that," he hisses through gritted teeth. I'm not sure why but his entire demeanor changes. It almost feels as if Mary's cleaver is pressed against both our throats.

Mary breaks the razor-edged silence, "She has already been told about her magic circuit as well as the mysteries that populate this world. If you want to harm her in any way. . ." she leaves the threat hanging over the desk.

His eyes take in Mary's entire being, rejecting what she just said as if there's something fundamentally wrong with her. It doesn't matter to him that she is a Servant. If she dares trespass on sacred ground then she must be punished. Mary meets his gaze; after all, what sort of hero would she be if she couldn't at least do that?

"I see — so you're that famous cook. No wonder you're ignorant about our side of the world." He runs his hand through his hair. "Although that term has become popular in the recent time, the correct term is 'magus.' It's said that our ancestors were kings, but more importantly, before the Magecraft King, the only people who could use magecraft were priests and those related to the gods. Using any word other than magus — which has its roots in the ancient Medes, a people that claimed descent from the Witch of Treachery as a way to describe their priest social class — is disrespectful to the very foundations of this way of life."

"But isn't the root of ma — I mean, that word, may. . . may-gus?"

"That word would have been fine in the sixteenth century, but these days it's filled with connotations relating to the fantasy genre. We are nothing like the so-called magic users in the fantasy genre. We delve into mystère to seek the truth of the world; not to throw fireballs and shards of ice at each other." The moment he raises his hand again, his twinkling smile returns to his face.

"Sorry, I get really passionate about that stuff. It's the family business; after all, I'm sure you both understand."

We both nod without thinking.

"Like I was saying before, Nadine — you're leaking magical energy. Anyone with active magic circuits leaks magical energy. The easiest way to stop that is to switch off your magic circuit. However, the moment the magic circuit is switched off, magical energy is no longer being supplied to the Servant."

"And the Servant goes into its ghost-mode." He looks visibly in pain when I say that, but I continue since there's something weird about his explanation. "I've only ever switched on my magic circuits twice, when I summoned Mary and when I was attacked last night."

"False," his right hand goes up once again. "Your circuits are on, even as we speak. They just aren't rotating as fast as they would in those situations. That teacher of yours should be able to teach you how to switch them off — until then you're a walking target for any participant in this Grail War."

"Rich, can vampires track magical energy?"

"Vampires? Do you mean the self-proclaimed transcendental kind that rejects the Anthropic Principle or the bloodsucking Phantasmal Species that we lump together as vampires? Well, as long as the Dead Apostle knows magecraft, they will be able to track magical energy. I'm not an expert on Dead Apostles. You should ask someone from the Church if you want to know more. That's interesting though, you were attacked last night by a Dead Apostle, weren't you? That explains that first-class bounded field. In the last Grail War a Dead Apostle was recorded as a Master, but could this simply be an uninvited guest trying to stave off boredom?"

It's the way he looks at you after that hand goes up. He's interested solely because this Dead Apostle attacked me. It's so different from how Laurent let me know that everything was going to be okay, explained what was happening best he could, and bought me some food. The 'swell' guy who offers you kettle corn when you walk into his office evaporated like he was nothing more than the most temperate mirage.

"He wasn't a Master or if he was a Master, he attacked us without his Servant." Mary keeps the fact that Berserker came out of nowhere to help us and we ended up running away to herself. Is it out of pride or simply because we can't trust this man? I still don't understand why Berserker helped us after she attacked Mary in the stadium unless the vampire was a greater threat. "Is that everything you wanted to talk about?"

The hand drops on the downbeat, "Milady would like to offer a non-aggression pact with you, Nadine. I think that might be advantageous for both of us."

"You saw how weak we were and wanted to get rid of us immediately, but Archer refused didn't he? It would besmirch his honor as a hero to slaughter us. This is the next best thing to satisfy him but at the same time ensure we don't antagonize your camp." I play my trump.

"Guys," he sounds genuinely shocked. "It would be pretty disrespectful if I, a mere tuner, were to make an offer to ally with you. My role is to facilitate a potential relationship. It's up to milady to make a judgment of your worth. But more importantly, striking an alliance would put you in much more danger. Milady and Archer have confirmed the status of all Servants except for Caster. Not to be rude, but Mary, you're the weakest Servant by quite a large margin. Status isn't a defining factor in a magical battle royale, but it does affect how each team approaches the conflict."

Behind the pleasantries, he's trying to tell us that we're the most worthless duo in this war. No one wants to ally with a liability. The only person who would even consider that is the type of hero only told in storybooks. The kind that believes that going to the store to buy batteries can be considered a labor to help the neediest. The kind that will even reveal his identity if it meant helping someone he 'liked.' That kind of broken hero that is no longer necessary would take us in with gusto. But for the other teams, we become bait to catch the biggest fish in the Holy Grail War. Considering his personality, Archer would revel in the opportunity to resume some damsels in distress. So, this is a compromise. We don't protect one another but still share information.

"No matter how insulting this might be, it's a good deal, dearie. We should take it."

My brows furrow. "Rich, you know a lot about this Moonlit World stuff don't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"The Moonlit World. It's a snappy name because Servants, vampires, magecraft, magus-es, they only appear at night, a world that's only alive under the moonlight, the Moonlit World."

His hand is still on the table but he can't contain himself. "That's the most fucking retarded thing I've ever heard! It's called the Magecraft World or the World of Magecraft. What retard comes up with shit like Moonlit World?" The pure venom that rolls from those words sends my mind reeling.

What pissed this guy off his rocker? When kids at school would say things in the same passionate tone, Krista and I would just laugh about it behind their backs. There are definitely more important things in the world that deserve your attention, so just chill the fuck out. Why are you getting so mad about influencers, Youtubers, and homoerotic pairings in Japanese comics that aren't even meant for teenage girls? But Krista left, so I'm left wondering that maybe the stuff I laughed at, maybe all the stuff you all care about isn't stupid. Maybe I'm the one who's stupid. While you all cared about all these causes, I just didn't understand you because I have never truly felt passionate about anything before.

"Yeah, sorry about that but have you heard of the qualities that make someone a Magician's Egg? The eyes that see into the world, errr. . . senses that perceive the subtleties of the world."

"Eyes that? You mean clairvoyance? But a Magician's Egg? Oof, that's a term I haven't heard in years. The last Magician's Egg popped up in Japan around forty years ago. Now, she's a Grand who also earned a Sealing Designation, but her sister inherited the magic. There's a rumor that when she was born many prominent magi came to visit her, but not a single magician. Hindsight, amirite?" He looks at me, "Why are you interested in Aozaki Touko?"

"Thank you for the offer Rich, but Mary and I have to refuse."

Mary's expectations must have been blown away with that single sentence. Rich, on the other hand, keeps the calmly mirthful face he wears as long as he's not correcting people about magecraft.

"Good for you guys! I know resolve when I see it. Thanks for stopping by you two." He closes the lid on the music box. The atmosphere lightens considerably as the music fades back into the box. "Let me see you out."

Mary dematerializes as Rich opens the door and escorts me to the end of the corridor towards the stairs. I look back at him and he flashes a Facebook perfect smile. After smiling sarcastically in reply, I start walking down the stairs. There's someone coming up, so keep to the right Nadine. She passes me rather quickly, so I'm unable to get a glimpse of her. But there's one thing that I do remember; she was pure white, almost like a snow fairy, but her chest was covered in navy blue. Was she a nun? There's no other way I can explain that headdress. It doesn't take long to reach the bottom of the stairs. Even though I can no longer see Rich I can still make out his voice.

"Sella, so lovely to see you! What has milady asked of me this time?"

*****

"How was school today?" My mom cheerily asks me the moment I get into the car.

"So, the school finally called to tell you I haven't been coming?"

She glances at me in annoyance before taking the car off park. We drive in total silence until we hit the busiest intersection in town.

"Mom, I don't want to go to school for a few days," I preempt her. My mom's not the best driver; she gets pretty nervous in any situation when it's more than four cars around her. Usually, she affords the passenger a sentence or two so she can keep concentrating on the road. However, when traffic grinds to a halt as it always does at this intersection, that's when she launches into her mom-ologue. I'll take the initiative so she won't be able to frame this fight we're about to have.

"As long as you help Father Phahn with his work, I don't mind covering for you for these two weeks."

"Wait, what?" What happened to the shouting, tears, ultimatums, and all-out emotional nuclear warfare? What is this weak-ass diplomacy shit involving the shadiest priest I've ever met? "Mom, what is going on?"

I'm actually worried.

"Well, I was having a nice mid-morning hot chocolate with Father Phahn. He really can make an almost magical hot chocolate."

"Mom, why was he at your work?"

She turns away from the road and looks at me in the eye, "Nadine, I'm telling a story here; please don't interrupt."

"Mom, the light's green."

"No, it's clearly not."

Who is this fifth-dimensional chess grandmaster and what did she do with my mom? She's always had a weakness for her children. We're her blindspot because she loves my brother and doesn't know what to do about me. This allows her to throw herself into her career knowing my brother will never do anything to embarrass her, but also to drown herself into her career so she doesn't have to deal with this failure. I love my mom, I think, but she's too obvious when it comes to us. So why can't I get a read on her today?

"Like I was saying, I was having a magical hot chocolate with Father Phahn, when the school called about your unexplained absences. Understandably, I was upset and disappointed, but Father Phahn calmed me down. You're a teenager; what you're going through is normal. We just never had to deal with it with your brother but everyone's different. Your dad's gone. This is a hard time for you, I get it."

My face is in my hands, "Mom —"

"Okay, okay, I'm getting there. Stop rushing me like you're one of these drivers," she says, gingerly pumping the brakes.

"Did you know there was an English nobleman in town? He bought the ranch on the north side of town. Don't blame him, it's a prime time to invest in Californian agriculture. Anyway, Lord Byron, as he likes to be called, is hosting a small church charity function tonight. Father Phahn asked if you would like to attend to talk about your experience as a student in Tolosa. At first, I was skeptical because that sharp tongue of yours might give the poor posh fellow a heart attack, but Father Phahn assured me you were the perfect person for the job."

"It's a great opportunity," I robotically mutter.

"I'm glad we agree."

"I've got no choice in this do I?"

"None what-so-ever."

We're silent for another few minutes. Neither of us are listening to the radio, so I switch it off.

"What's in it for you, mom?"

"Can't a mother want to see her daughter succeed?"

"What's in it for you? Why did that shady priest come to see you this morning."

"He's right about you, that priest. You're a sharp girl, rough around the edges but you're smart. You have a lot to offer." She leans into the driver's seat. "It seems one of Lord Bryon's daughters isn't too happy with their current interior designer. He found my firm on the internet and turns out my reputation precedes me. If this goes well, this would be more than just a big customer. Career opportunities like this only come once in a lifetime."

"That's why you're prostituting your only daughter. Give them my brother. You've seen him at his football games. He's good at being bottom."

"Nadine!"

"What? A British nobleman just decides to come to Tolosa of all places. I've gone through your Netflix history — all those artsy European films you watch. This is totally a weird sex party."

"Nadine, Father Phahn is a priest."

"Yeah, mom, he's a priest. Check the news."

She pulls into the driveway, parks, and switches the car off.

"Nadine, do you honestly think that he's a bad person or is this just about antagonizing me?"

I — I. Jeez, mom don't look at me like that. Like you actually care enough about my opinion. He looks like a cross between a page boy and a lizard, but he was nice enough to help me out the night Mary was first summoned. Right. I didn't have an ally and even if he didn't extend his hand to me, he was still there to explain things and tell me what I needed to hear.

"He's alright, that priest."

"Good, I'm glad we both agree for once."

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

15/ The Strongest Ally

After school snack: rice cracker, smoked salmon, and a dollop of wasabi on top. I got as far as the pantry when Cherry ambushed me. She wasn't there to scold me about eating before dinner, instead, she confronted me about leaving the Mission at night. That is to say, Cherry and I fought. Father Kelsey made himself scarce. He didn't know what to do; this was the first time we've ever fought.

Fair enough, my replacement had an entire team from the Holy See specializing in memory modification and clean-up. This Holy Grail War just wasn't my responsibility anymore. There was no reason why I should be patrolling the city at night, especially with seven Ghost Liners fighting.

She went limp when I told her about the vampire. Her right arm crossed her body as she grabbed her left elbow and her nails dug. I'm sure it hurt, but you couldn't see anything on her face other than a practiced expression of disdainful guilt. She softly asked if I had read the contents of Dilo's letter. I told her that with the vampire in town and the Holy Grail War, I didn't have the time. That's kind of how we left it. This stomach squelching awkward place that neither of us has lived in before. I don't think that Cherry's wrong, but this isn't something that a member of the Church can ignore; I have a vampire to hunt.

The lord living on the top of the hill, the college, oppressively looms over this side of town. If we're talking landmarks, there's an elementary school and a Methodist church. Other than that, it's just rows of houses. Each row of houses peaks over the ones before it, like a staircase leading to the freeway leaving town. It's easy to tell which of the houses belong to the students from the homemade beer pong tables or lawn chairs in the front yard. This is not the best place for a Dead Apostle to find a victim. On foot, it would take about five minutes to run to any main roads or into the school itself. But, the slope of the hill and the abundance of tall trees in the area create zones where the street lights simply cannot reach at night so —

A Dead Apostle who expands its territory in the middle of a city is an anomaly. The deaths are too obvious. Remember, when the Dead drain the blood from a victim, more than half goes to the parent vampire while the other half maintains the Dead. Aggressive territorial expansion in a densely populated area like a city comes with equally rapid notoriety. Its irresponsible growth following the same curve as microbes, insects, or humans, but the carrying capacity for Dead Apostles is the moment someone calls the Church.

Any Dead Apostle attempting to take control of a city must at least be Class Five and doing so in a country without a large Church presence. No Class Five Dead Apostle is stupid enough to do that. A Dead Apostle who wishes to create its own country in the heart of Europe slowly takes the land and inhabitants on the outskirts of that city, in isolated communities or even farms. When the force reaches critical mass, the newly undead populace is used to raid utilities, communication, and transport in one fell swoop, creating an isolated world to lord over. I remember reading a report about the unnumbered Ancestor using this method in a French village about half a century ago. Either way, that seems to be the traditional method for a Dead Apostle to stave off boredom. There's one more uncommon but surprisingly effective method for conquering a city — making oneself indispensable to the local economy. Considering this method relies on a Dead Apostle stooping to the level of humans, it is rarely employed. The Dead Apostle in this city has been outright attacking people, so I think we can rule that out. A territorially inclined Dead Apostle needs a base of operations to hide when the sun comes up. Usually, this is the spiritual geometric focus of the surrounding major leylines, the point where all the life in the area is collected. In the context of the Holy Grail War, they are the locations where the Grail can descend.

As I was traveling from Pitch Hill to Cerro Huerta I felt the remnants of a powerful bounded field. I took the same path as the handful of college students walking home until I passed what used to be the main axis of the bounded field — a fallen street light. The strange thing about street lights in this area of town is that they're tied to the power poles. Most of the people living on this street must have been without power for the day.

Checking their phones, workers with fluorescent vests idly surround the orange cones. The power's back. We can get the streetlight up tomorrow. No one cares about a single streetlight anyway. All that's left is to wait for a truck to take this fallen pole away.

I'd like to get a closer look at the carnage but some of the workers might be Father Phahn's agents. I don't think he'd like me intruding on his operations two days in a row, so I'll just be on my way to check the other leyline focus.

It's easy to get lost in this part of town. You always know your general direction, don't get me wrong — the college is to the north and the plaza is across Santa Rosa to the west. Yet the streets themselves are labyrinthine. Some roads lead to nowhere and others are nested within themselves. That's why when coming out from the freeway you're always making a beeline for Grand Ave, the main road. Don't let the siren song of the side roads seduce you; otherwise, you'll be like me, on Google Maps trying to figure out exactly where I am and what's the safest rooftop to climb. If I keep going up the hill, there's an elementary school I can hop on and make my way south —

Ow, I bump into a power pole. Wait, I don't think a power pole has a skirt. . . I haven't looked up yet, but my magic circuits paralyze themselves because I know that aura. That all-consuming oppressive divinity that declares you are truly nothing compared to the being in front of you — the information that makes up the corpus can never even come close to the light contained within that Saint Graph. There is nothing that I can do other than to yield my entire being. Even if the divinity in front of me were to ask for my life, I could do nothing but agree with a broken smile on my face and tears of joy in my eyes.

"Hail, child. Perchance I could trouble you for some directions?"

I press the power button on my phone and slip it into my pocket.

"Of course, sir."

"Was there perhaps a reason why you stopped at the previous intersection?" He asks.

Servants are given any language the Grail deems it necessary for them to know so they can smoothly communicate with their Master and other Servants. How that language manifests seems to depend on the personality of the Heroic Spirit. As for foreign Masters. . . Well, if you don't know how to transmit your intent with magecraft you're not ready to be a Master.

"Excuse me, sir. I'm working for the Church. I'm currently hunting a vampire." I don't think I could lie to him even if I wanted to. Every time I look at him, my mind just screams for me to run away but at the same time to submit to his every whim. As a child of the Lord, I can't help but feel disappointed in my lack of faith. Father Kelsey tells me that's the reason why my baptismal sacrament is so mediocre.

"Considering the quality of the mana in the modern world, I wouldn't believe that Lamia's children( Lamyros) still endangered humanity."

"No sir, I'm not looking for a member of those phantasmal bloodsucking species. This vampire is a singularity that rejects humanity."

"Is that so, child? Then our aims are parallel."

"Sir, you're hunting the Dead Apostle as well?"

"My Master recently alerted me that this Lamyros you speak of attacked a girl I have a particular fondness for and her Servant."

Why would a Dead Apostle attack a Master? Masters have Servants. If that Dead Apostle was indeed a Master, it doesn't make sense that it would attack another Master without its Servant. That's right, that theory doesn't make sense because the Dead Apostle isn't a Master.

"If this involves another Master and Servant, why are you investigating, sir?"

His horrible smile blots out the sun, "Hunting a monster that endangers the feeble. . . Even I am a victim to lapses of nostalgia. What say you child, shall we hunt?"

******

I take him around the border of town because if we went through downtown, he would halt traffic and in three minutes his picture would be all over the Tolosa subreddit. Although the Church has several algorithms to detect social media posts with a hint of supernatural and flag it as offensive content that needs to be discredited along with the person posting it by the small country of fake accounts we run using a prototype cloud computing cluster named after a dragon-slaying king, we can't get rid of photos that are directly saved and sent to friends. We might be able to stop the proliferation of the information, but not the capture. The polaroid revival was a dark few years for the Church in America.

Anyone could tell this giant is a hero. Proper Heroic Spirits all have a radiance built from humanity's hopes and dreams. Of the few Servants that I've seen, this giant shines the brightest. He is as incandescent as a sun, but at the same time, he does not hold a single fixed point in the ether. The breadth of his aura encompasses the sky itself, rendering his existence constantly all-consuming and all-bearing at the same time. I don't know what his legend is, but he's probably one of the most famous heroes in history. Yet, the impulse that overrides all my senses keeps shouting, 'he's a monster. He's nothing more or less than a mon—

— no matter who—

Shut up Dilo, you're gone now. Push it down, Chris. Bury it like they buried his corpse.

"Are you unwell, child? 'Tis difficult for me to gauge how tired others might be."

I shake my head, "No sir, you were talking about yesterday's labor?"

He launches into a tale about the dangers he braved traveling across the town — incognito one might add — to purchase a pack of batteries from Rite-Aid. His voice booms across the field, every upbeat louder than its echo. He centers his story around the townsfolk he tried to help even if his Master told him to mind his own business. I'm sure he ended up causing more destruction and chaos than he intended without even realizing the trouble he caused. Poor Father Phahn probably had to run Protocol #1157 — what to do when a Servant decides to go public — a SOP ratified due to the fall-out a certain King of England promising to fix an opera house he destroyed. Archer seems to be having so much fun that I can't help but think maybe this hero is. . . lonely? I'm not sure because I don't think I've been lonely before. For what I can tell, loneliness comes from a single moment( grain) , 'no one can relate to me.' These grains propagate and accumulate until they're a flood of anxiety and insecurity. Loneliness, the isolated island where you try your best to reach out but you feel all the attempts to grasp your hand are dismissive at best. People around you might be kind but they don't have your well-being at heart. No one's ever had your well-being in their heart. I don't think I've ever felt that before. No matter how much people have dismissed me for putting wasabi on everything I eat, I get where they're coming from. Yeah, I like wasabi. People laugh, so I laugh. This is just how we interact with each other.

All of us shut no matter who up we are Dilo.

"As I was saying, child, I feel invigorated at the prospect of crossing armaments with other noble heroes."

I shake my head to dismiss my thoughts before responding, "Really, sir?"

"Truthfully, this is a fine tournament to sample talent across all of history. Berserker is a rare flower that blooms only on the battlefield. The force behind her blows is not due to years of experience but a misplaced conviction." He starts listing the Servants that he's met one by one. "Lancer is an odd fellow. Feral as he may fight, his stature is no less inferior than mine. He seems familiar. Perhaps I've met his progenitors. But at the same time, he reminds me of the Amazons. Could he be one of their descendants? There's Saber too, the queen who kindles her divinity. What a time I could pass, exchanging blows with that demonic sword of hers and then in matters of the flesh. And of course, there's Rider. Cheeky Rider, I still owe him for that slight."

I nod without meaning to, "Is that your wish for the Grail? To win."

"My divine wife is a cupbearer. I have little use for more cups. A chance at a second life would bring me much joy, but this world has no affection for me. This world has never truly wanted me."

I open my mouth and then close it before anything foolish comes out.

"But if I can be true to myself, true to that mad warrior who died protecting a girl-child. If I can realize her wish, then I shall once again overcome anyone and anything."

I don't know who he's referring to but I understand the vow we use to plug the gap in our hearts all too well. We will selfishly sacrifice tomorrow to protect the past that has already slipped through our memories. If you take something and allow the waves of time to erode it until everything is gone — something beyond 'one' will remain. The proof that a precious feeling existed becomes evident due to its non-existence.

"Child, what do you think about the world that you live in?" He asks me wistfully.

"I think it's beautiful. I'm glad to be alive." I say without hesitation.

He looks at me from the side of his eye.

"You don't strike me as a naive fool, child. You are advanced enough in years to have been considered an adult in my era. During my era, the struggle was the strong preying on the weak. Compulsive abstractions like love and hate existed but were beholden to the former. It was not a perfect world, but I always felt as though that principle allowed people to live with clarity. Their role and place in this world were ordained — evil was merely the monsters that made their nests in the untamable nature on the edge of the city state. Heroes were people who cleared those evils. To make the world safer meant to make the world more human. And thus, we reached this era where the world is truly human. The aggressor is no longer nature, the victim is no longer humanity. Each person has simultaneously become an aggressor and a victim while claiming disparity and that they are the ones unduly burdened. Do you not find that excess unsightly?"

"I'm not sure what the world you lived in was like, sir, so I don't think I have the qualifications to make a judgment of which world is better. In this country at least, we have an ur-myth about 'pulling yourself up by your bootstraps.' Anyone can better themselves and their position in life if they put in the work. I may be old enough to be considered an adult in your era, sir, but I'm not old enough to be legally an adult here. Maybe that's why I don't really know whether it's correct or not. Right now, there are a lot of people who are questioning this founding principle; there are a lot of people doing their best to defend it as well. But it goes further than that, there are people who market it as a commodity, denounce it but teach it to their children, hate themselves because they can't live up to it, worship it and condemn others because of it, are relieved by it because it means they can start anew, deceive others with it while excusing themselves, protest it yet yearn for the opportunity to make it a reality. The narrative has woven itself so tightly into the social fabric that those who revile this delusion feel their hearts empathetically leap when an aspiring entrepreneur aligns his story with this narrative on reality television; those who attest to this commandment furiously seek public aid while blaming the country and its lacking safety net when met with hard times. Every day, the people of this country interact with this and other narratives, forming snap opinions of their peers while urging others to take their own story with the nuance they deserve. I know there's a lot of things that are wrong with this country, this world. But I can't help but think all the ugliness( desire) is beautiful in its own way. Most people would rebuke me: how dirty your privileged self is, making trophies of people's misunderstood perspectives, calling that tapestry of misery something to be admired when there are so many people are suffering in it every day. To be understood, to be given attention, protect who we think we are is the modern struggle to live. I don't think there's anything wrong in being proud of that. Humans are no longer protecting our lives, we're fighting to protect our existences( identities) , sir."

"My captain claimed most men were fools and therefore would often speak of his utopia: a land where citizens would be offered an education befitting that of a hero, where they could obtain suitable compensation for following his rule, and live in a land where everyone could be safe and understood. He was a braggart, but he never put on airs. He only fought when someone denounced, criticized, or laughed at that ideal — never to preserve his own life. To him, the utopia he was destined to create was his identity. To attack it was to attack his very way of life. This era may be close to how his 'utopia' would progress when faced with reality. Notwithstanding, he was a petty man. If he was summoned in this era, I am certain he would be disgusted in the excessive amount of fools living in this era, unbeknownst that each fool follows the same contradictory way of life as he did. So, child, are you saying you will forgive his den of humanity?"

"I'm not sure, sir. If I see someone crying, I'll call out to make sure they're okay. If I see an action that harms others, I'll denounce it. But that's only on the individual level. It becomes a lot easier to agree with or judge things when they're faceless entities — when we're faceless entities. I'm just a person too. Maybe I'm a romantic for wanting to believe the actions of the people behind those entities are beautiful. That someone out there should accept their desires( them) ."

He doesn't say anything for a couple of seconds.

"Would you be interested in an engagement? I know a girl. You should make children with her."

"Sorry, sir. I'm currently spoken for."

"Shame, child. I like you. I hope one day you find someone who doesn't."

What a horrible thing to say to someone.

*****

The backtrail to Islay Hill is wide and empty. Trees are small, sparse, and sad while the yellow-black clay is well-worn from first-time hikers 'giving it a go' before moving on to harder climbs. Islay Hill is the youngest Sister and the others judge her for that.

Hikers like the overlooking view the Sisters offer so much that some students put up a swing on a Pitch Canyon vista. Whenever people say what they like about hiking in Tolosa they always reply, "It's a spiritual experience, it gives us perspective." Only that perspective is of something beyond the box known as human. In essence, people come to Tolosa to escape themselves on top of the mountains before intoxicating themselves in the breweries. Islay Hill, covered in tall straw-colored grass thirsty for spring rains is the gateway to that distant world so ingrained in this city's culture. If one were to begin a ritual to stray away from the human — this would be the natural starting point.

Archer and I don't say a word to each other as we climb. We can already see what's at the top. The word "islay" is Salinan Native American for wild cherry, an evergreen shrub known for its holly-like leaves and an edible showy fruit that was traditionally fermented into an alcoholic beverage. Roughly ten years ago, the mountain was severed from its natural creek. Trees no longer grow on this hill. That's why, at first glance, the members of the local Sierra Club and the Parks and Rec Department would be overjoyed to learn that trees had come back to Islay Hill. I'm not sure those are wild cherry trees though.

In the center of the grove is another one of those trees that seethes noble magical energy. Each pulse that threatens to send my circuits aflame is paralyzed by Archer's own divine aura. The other two trees I've come across were burned with magical fire. The arsonist hasn't found this one yet. But, even the ferocity and mystery of those flames weren't enough to turn the trees into cinder.

"It's supplying the leyline with magical energy, not drawing from it. Almost like a pump, priming something."

"Discerning the machinations of magi is not my strong suit. I fail to see what this has to do with the Lamyros at large, however dangerous."

The Holy Grail gives Masters special clairvoyance to discern the status and abilities of their Servants. Non-Masters can access this clairvoyance with a certain Mystic Code. The book is not difficult to make in an area under the influence of a Holy Grail. The pages may be blank, but it holds a fragment of the Grail's magical energy that helps attune oneself to the Servant's magical energy. With enough exposure, the clairvoyance is converted or perhaps a better word would be 'downloaded' to one's consciousness, allowing the overseer to read the status of Servants. I believe the inventor was a former head of the Tohsaka family.

One of Archer's personal skills, Eyes of the Mind (False), predicts danger. It's an inborn sixth-sense indispensable for an Archer who traditionally specializes as a scout and survivalist. When Archer says that something is dangerous, not heeding his words is an objective folly.

"Sir, you shouldn't touch tha —"

He knows that it is dangerous. He knows that it will hurt him. It's not curiosity that will kill the cat, it's blind heroism. If that tree is dangerous to him of all people, then it's dangerous to me, it's dangerous to everyone that comes hiking and wants to take a photo with this fantastical tree that sprouted overnight.

This is dangerous so I shall get rid of it.

Servant Archer listens to his Eye of the Mind (False) not so he can avoid danger, but so he can put his arm around what no one wants to.

Instantly, tendrils come out from the tree securing his hand. He struggles for a second with herculean strength but his eyes go blank.

"Sir!"

Even though I know I can't do anything, I reach out to one of the tendrils. Once again, my hand slips into the tree as the bark bubbles.

THE BAND WAS NOT BUILT IN A DAY.

dO nOt fOrgEt

On calm nights, the halcyon lady wraps her child in her falcon wings as she croons the same verse until even the waves tire of her magecraft( voice) .

— Hush my dear, you may have been born afar but you shall grow big and strong. Do you see all the overweight piggies on this island? They were your father's once. He left us, my dear, he left us because I wasn't home enough for him. A witch can never be a man's Only because she is a daughter of the moon symbolizing disease, madness, and magecraft. So. . . my dear, just like that cunning man, you too will leave this island. Find your father, dear heart, make yourself known to him. And in that fleeting moment where the dream of reconciliation may solidify into fact, please, dear one, tear at the scar your father drew and leave me as he did. For you must remind him of the world( family) that could have been if he stayed. So, hush my dear, do not fear these crashing waves. Do not fear the storms that rage in these open oceans, for you shall grow big and strong.

THE GLUTTONY WAS BUILT ON ABDUCTION

Do NoT FoRGeT

YOU CAN (NOT) PRUNE THIS BRANCH. SEVEN TREES A FOREST DOES NOT MAKE IF ONE IS ROTTEN. YOURS MAY BE AN EMPIRE BUT MINE IS OUR SIN BEFORE IT WAS OURS.

Another vision sends me reeling, but I can't worry about that right now. I clamber off my backside and instinctively take out a cross-shaped hilt from the inner pocket of my jacket. But Chris, if an attack with the spiritual rank of a Servant was unable to harm the tree, there's nothing you can do with a mere Key of Providence.

"Sir, are you –!"

The liquid gold returns to his eyes. In one nonchalant movement, he tears off his left arm that was covered in tendrils and throws it on the ground. The moment the ether body hits the ground, it starts to dematerialize as blue particles fading into the night sky. Conversely, Archer's open shoulder profusely bleeds, filling the grove with an iron scent. The severed flesh, the torn muscle fibers, and the lymph leaking from ligaments belong in a biology textbook.

"Sorry, sir, I. . . I don't know any healing spells."

The majority of healing magecraft stimulate the injured body to regenerate while more indirect forms include growing compatible tissue that can be transplanted. My magecraft teacher was not born with the attributes necessary to heal others — she could only take things away. Even if I understand the theory, applying it is impossible.

"I was the one who acted; you are not responsible for my actions. And this?" His deltoids heave as he lifts the bleeding stump. "This is nothing more than a flesh wound, not worthy of expending a stock( life) . Although, if that branch had held on for longer, that tree may have forcibly taken that life. Child. . . what did you see?"

"A beach," I do my best to suppress rising nausea. "There was a woman on a beach."

"I shot down her father once." What sort of hero, let alone person, can sheepishly smile mere moments after ripping off his own arm? "He scolded my brashness but thought me bold so he lent me his golden cup. I've heard they're complete opposites but they feel similar."

"Instead of the vampire, there's another tree. Why are there these trees in all the locations a Dead Apostle might make his lair? It's like —"

"Your reasoning is sensible," Archer interrupts me. "This can be nothing else but the work of an enemy Servant. The Lamyros in question is undoubtedly his Master."

"That's out of the question, Archer. There's no way this Dead Apostle is a Master. If he had a Servant why didn't the Servant attack your friend?"

Something smolders within, setting alight the bounds that tied 'sir' to any words that came out of my mouth.

"Child, speculation may be the first step to assumption, but the evidence does not deny this possibility. I am unsure why the Lamyros would feed without its Servant, for twisted creatures summon similarly twisted Servants, but if a Master and her Servant were to appear before it, the creature would have no problem ascertaining their ability before attacking. Assassin is possibly the weakest Servant in this war. My very own Master may be more than a match for her. Furthermore, you said so yourself, child of the Church, all the places you have investigated so far as possible lairs for the Lamyros have only led you to these artifacts."

"No, that doesn't necessarily mean the Dead Apostle is a Master." That can't mean the Dead Apostle is a Master. "This is just all conjecture based on a few trees on fallen leylines. Is there any unassailable evidence that this Dead Apostle is a Master? Because if not, the question still stands. If we are to solve the question of whether or not the Dead Apostle is a Master, we need to find that Dead Apostle first and confirm a Command Spell. What you currently have is an interpretation."

Archer takes my entire being in his eyes. They might be inquisitive, but his divine aura crashes against whatever buffer I've managed to establish. The sky itself rages against the tiny ember in my chest. The storm clouds roll in as the thunder booms, lightning strikes, and a torrential Mediterranean downpour whips this shell of a body until it's scattered into the sky itself, but even so, that ember still burns.

"Child," he has a worried expression on his face. "You don't want this Lamyros to be a Master, do you?"

I —

Um, no, I —

Hmm, it's just that I —

Hah. . . I don't want this Dead Apostle to be a Master?

Of course I want this Dead Apostle to be a Master. If it was a Master that would mean Father Phahn would be left to deal with it, and I could go back home. There are quizzes on Friday that I have to study for, four of them in fact. But that Dead Apostle isn't a Master. It can't be a Master. This is something I know in my gut, so why is my gut telling me that there's a good chance it might be a Master?

"Until there is clear evidence, which there isn't, there is absolutely no reason to think a Dead Apostle is involved with these trees and therefore there is no reason to believe the Dead Apostle is a Master."

He doesn't argue further even if I can see that he still doesn't believe me.

We all have our own viewpoints; it's not up to me to try to change his. I can't think of this wounded demi-god in front of me as either a mere familiar, nothing more than a corpse, leftover thought, and magic circuits. Neither does he bring up the impression of a page torn from a misplaced history book rotting on a bookshelf in a refurbished library where people are more interested in the free Wi-Fi. Even so, we try to understand and when we can't all we can do is accept. Let that uncomfortable silent distance become the note on which our conversation vapidly ends.

"It would seem I must away, child. My Master tells me there is a gathering tonight for all the participants of the Grail War." He chuckles, his voice feigning exasperation over his stump, "How am I going to explain this?"

I shake my head in reply. "It wasn't your fault, sir."

"Best of luck, child. Don't lose hope, there's definitely someone out there, even for you." As he dematerializes, he raises his stump in salute without turning back towards me. "Find me if you are ever hunting children of Lamia once again. Your company was pleasant."

After I can no longer sense his presence, I slowly take the front trail back down the hill, away from the stars and back towards the sickly, orange light pollution.

*****

Thirty minutes later, I make my way back into the center of town. Two streams of people are on the verge of converging at the traffic light. On my side, there's a couple with arms linked, a father holding his child's hand, two elderly women, and a gaggle of college students with boba. We all busy ourselves, fiddling with the contents of a purse, checking an inbox with zero unread emails, or asking our friend about the flavor of their drink even if we were there when they ordered it, so we don't have to pay attention to the cardboard sign the homeless person sitting on the corner of the street is holding.

I turn up the volume of my Bluetooth earbuds.

The walk light turns green.

Every one of 'us' steps off the sidewalk.

I'm making my way through downtown, walking fast, so faces pass. Concentrating on being homebound, I stare blankly ahead and make a way through the small Wednesday crowd. I need to find that Dead Apostle. I miss —

I pause the song.

Archer said that all the Masters were invited to something tonight. A situation involving three or more Servants is both rare and severe enough that the city goes from a yellow 'high,' to a red 'extreme.' The fire chief specifically insisted that we use the state fire danger ratings to characterize potential high-risk combat situations. I was partial to adding a 'Triple Red' danger rating, but that's bureaucracy for you. That aside, a gathering of Masters doesn't have anything to do with me, and honestly, I'm sure most of the Masters won't even show up. After all, it is much too easy for a Servant to deploy an Anti-Fortress Noble Phantasm and destroy the venue along with everyone inside. . . .

I think I know who the organizer might be. I haven't heard from him in about a week. The last time we spoke, I was still the official overseer and he had just confirmed that his Caster had been summoned. Due to Caster's Territory Creation, this function might be too obvious a trap. At the same time, it's the perfect opportunity for participants to test Caster's defenses or use the event as a distraction to pierce them. It'll be a flip of the coin whether all the Masters or none of the Masters attend. I think the stature and celebrity of this magus might load that coin.

Okay, I'm not sure who you're trying to prove this to Chris, but I'm convinced. The first technique those SAT prep books preach is process of elimination, right? Then, let's eliminate the wrongest answer to the question 'who is this Dead Apostle?'

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

16/ Stay In My Arms

"Feels like prom night."

"What's prom?"

"I was going to prom with Krista, but she's going with my stupid brother now. Prom's stupid." I look over at Mary on the other side of the back seat dressed in her cook's apron. "Sorry, we didn't have time to get you anything."

"I would have liked a dress like yours, dearie — with less leg showing of course. But you are the one who was invited."

This Nordstrom Rack red-spotted, spaghetti-strapped, one piece was the only thing in my closet that mom thought was appropriate for a charity function. Then she made me put this denim jacket over it because she remembered it was a church charity function. "All these clothes, Nadine. All these clothes and nothing nice for an occasion like this. What do you even do with the money I give you to buy nice clothes? Do you need me to start buying your clothes again?"

"Don't kid yourself, Mary." I look out the tinted window. The rows of streetlights become more and more sparse. We must be reaching the border of the suburb, about to sink into the dark maw of the Open Space. "If that priest's going to be there, this is about the Holy Grail War. Servants are more important than Masters, you do all the fighting."

"The Servant may fight, but it's the Master who calls upon the Servant. We are tied to our Masters through this fate( line) . In fact, you could say the Servant is a reflection of the Master unless a very specific catalyst is used. But that choice only highlights the Master's influence."

I think the question we're both getting at is 'What sort of person is Nadine Craig to have summoned Mary?' Most of the time Mary can't stop talking, but it's always about her impressions of our modern world and how terrific it is compared to when she lived. I don't have the heart to break it to her and half-hope she'll get it on her own. This world isn't beautiful, it's awkward and cringy like the feathery masks they put on at fancy charity functions like the one we're going to attend. I really don't see how Mary and I are similar. She doesn't talk about herself. I know her name, but I'm not sure who she might be. Most importantly, for someone who is supposedly a Heroic Spirit, she doesn't seem much of a hero — unlike Archer or Rider. She gets easily flustered when things don't go her way and takes offense to almost everything and everyone who disagrees with her. If you were to ask me what her good parts are, I would say that she listens and isn't afraid to say when she doesn't know something. There are too many people today who are scared of being wrong; they might not act like they know everything, but sure act like they can't make a mistake. Whenever they do make a mistake, it's a 'just kidding'. No, you weren't 'kidding', you were wrong. Own that mistake, please. I think it has to do with this generation's obsession with constructing the perfect identity for themselves, which is why 'having bought your Insta followers' passes for an insult now? Doubting someone's authenticity when your own intentions are suspect as fuck is wow, I don't know how to describe it. I believe the correct vernacular is 'Yikes.'

The limousine stops as the divider descends, revealing the driver. He tells us that this is where he was told to drop us off and then shows us on the map on his phone. We quickly thank him, then exit onto a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. At least the moon's pretty big tonight so I'll be able to see my attacker. Fun. Last night was a vampire, are we going Frankenstein's Monster or Mummy Remake tonight?

As the limousine pulls away, we start to hear the constant clicking of horse hooves and the squeaking of a carriage out of a Disney movie. With one hand holding his lantern at eye level, the driver tips his top hat in deference to us like it's St. Patrick's Day.

"Miss Nadine Craig and her Servant. I've been asked to escort you to the house," before motioning to the open door.

I look at Mary who looks at me. Without much of a choice, we enter the unlit carriage and the doors close behind. I take out my phone and turn on the flashlight, but the moment we start moving, little tetrahedral bulbs fixed to the carriage start to glow. Each offers as much light as a candle. I can't imagine they're battery-powered, so could this be the magecraft Laurent and Rich were talking about? Moreover, as the horses climb up this dirt road, the carriage itself does not sway. In fact, if we're talking comfort, this carriage beats the limo.

"Do you know much about this area?" Mary asks.

I shake my head. I don't think anyone around my age pays any attention to the local news. . . wait —

I snap my fingers, "That's right, there was a big commotion over this area a few years… the Ferrari Open Space I think they called it. It's an access point for Cardinal's Peak, the tallest of the Sisters, so when developers wanted to buy a piece of the land, some people blew their tops."

"It's larger than any of my employers' summer houses." She looks outside the window at the dancing lights decorating a rustic mansion. No, it might be large enough to call a gaudy, rustic castle. "Those 'developers' must have been Caster's Master."

*****

Two doormen greet us after we get off the carriage and Mary thanks the driver. Instead of following the path, the carriage and driver melt in the darkness. After confirming our identities, one of the doormen rushes into the building to find our host while the other begs our pardon before collecting something behind us. Neither of them seemed human. When I whisper this to Mary, she simply shrugs. Right, I had forgotten, Mary isn't exactly human either. This is normal. Nadine, you've got to think like you're normal.

"Nadine, thrilled to see you again." The voice belongs to the tall, platinum blond priest with a bowl cut who might end up as my mother's boyfriend. Do all priests take a vow of chastity? Whatever. Today he's wearing full vestments with a rose-patterned stole trimmed with gold. He looks almost dignified, but it's so excessive that he's a joke.

"Thanks for having us." We cross the threshold.

"And of course, dear Mary. Good to see you again." To which Mary curtsies.

Looking around the lobby, anyone with taste could instantly tell how much of a mockery it would be to call this a fairytale palace. I understand why they were looking for a new interior designer. When we moved to this town there was a wave of gentrification happening in Paso Robles up north as the Central Coast aimed to topple Napa as the wine capital of California. For the next few years, my mom's firm advertised themselves as pioneering the 'California Style.' She could never stop gushing about it during dinner. Her clients would always rave about that modern Spanish colonial style — it was like having a piece of the Romantic Mediterranean right in America. She would even force me to go to the Mission with her for inspiration. Luckily, Krista would always come along because her parents needed any excuse, they could to get her out of the house while they were ironing out their divorce settlement.

The interior designer must have done her best to imitate a Mediterranean castle, possibly taking inspiration from Hearst Castle. That was another place my mom kept taking Krista and me. Never my brother, he was too important for that. Either way, converting this old farmhouse into a Mediterranean fairytale castle was a feat that would make any interior design question just how much they were getting paid. This one was too nervous or OCD about her work. This place is too cold. My mother is a melodramatic, flighty girl-child who fills her loneliness with disposable high spirits, accessories, and 'nice' men. That unbearable, stubborn warmth that smothers every word is evident in all her work no matter how much she tells her clients she's just a house whisperer and 'This is just what the house wants to be.'

This. . . this high-ceiling hall filled with 'solemn' light, this 'lush' carpet that your ankles sink into is nothing more than a gilded veneer for what this place has always been, an old farmhouse. Too cold, too precise, the imperfections become too obvious — like an illusion that shatters at midnight.

Then, this man must be the king of this fake Mediterranean Castle.

"This, Nadine, is Byron Valueleta Iselma, the current head of the Iselma family. Lord Byron, may I have the pleasure of introducing Nadine Craig, Master of...." he looks over at Mary. "Nadine Craig and her Servant," he finishes.

So, this is Lord Byron. I've never met anyone from a noble family before, but if this vermillion suit with an almost too conservative posture doesn't say fancy, the cane seals the deal.

"Thank you for inviting us to your home, sir. It's the grandest home I've ever seen." Mary almost squeals with excitement as she curtsies.

I try to curtsey as well. "Thank you for inviting us to your lovely home," I manage to spit out despite myself.

"Ho, little lady, fortuitous that you still live." It turns out Lord Byron's conversation partner was the bowl cut priest's Servant, Rider. "I seem to recall a similar situation when our troop left a squire in enemy territory during an annual raid. At the season's curtain call and we marched home, we found him, chief of a small village."

What do I do in this situation? Am I supposed to just say 'hello' to you? Okay, but what if I say it too formally? Are you going to be offended? Fuck that, I'll say it how I want. Yeah, no one's going to remember this two weeks from now. I'll just —

"Hey —!" I familiarly tap his pauldron with my fist. I don't know what I did. God, you're stupid. You could have done anything else.

Mary smiles in my place, "Thank you, Sir Rider. Good to see you as well."

He bows to both of us and inclines his head at his Master.

"Milord, what's the casualty count, tonight?" He boyishly winks at the priest. That was a joke? It was terrible.

The bowl-cut priest turns his head as his eyes sweep the room. It goes without saying our eyes all follow his as he counts out everyone in attendance. Examining the band playing some marching? music are Rich easily pulling off the classic black-tie look escorting his mistress, that silver-haired beauty who belongs in an overhyped show everyone talks about. If they're here. . . Why is Archer wearing nothing but board shorts and a lei? I thought I was underdressed.

Archer takes a step forward and I want to let go of everything I didn't eat for dinner in my stomach. Why is he missing an arm of all of a sudden while acting like it's no big deal?

I manage to wrench my eyes from that divine trainwreck. All alone in a corner, staring intently at a wall is Berserker. She let her hair down tonight. I should ask what shampoo and conditioner she uses. You can't get that shine with Youtube-recommended beauty products. Otherwise, she looks like a mafia boss with that suit and skirt combination, not to mention the leather jacket fashionably but unethically trimmed with fur. I don't see her Master.

"It would seem we are missing the Saber and Lancer camps. Berserker's Master sends her regards, she wasn't able to make it tonight. Berserker let me know that her Master had 'patients' to see."

"Absent two knight classes," Lord Byron narrows his eyes. "Did you even expect them to heed your invitation, Father?"

"The Church hasn't been able to confirm Lancer's Master. As for Saber's Master, I have my own suspicions," he smiles. "With one of Fuyuki's founding families and five Ghost Liners present, no one in high magus society would dream of disparaging this party."

"This is everyone." The finality in Lord Byron's words dismisses the priests.

"Indeed, it would be a shame to waste more of the night. If you can all excuse me, I need a few minutes to prepare." Phahn bows once again and heads into the next room leaving Lord Byron to stare at Mary and me. Okay, Nadine, don't be awkward, say something mage — no, remember what Rich said, magus-ey.

"So, ummm, Lord Byron. Where's your Servant?"

He looks into my eyes for a moment before blinking twice in disbelief. His expression keeps darkening as his eyes move from my flats to the crown of my head — like I'm nothing more than a piece of rotten meat.

"Not even a Spellcaster."

"No, I just learned about my magic circuits when I summoned Mary." I offer the biggest smile that I can as I dramatically gesture at Mary who waves. That's how you get people to like you, right?

He looks over at Mary for just a second and then back towards me. "Get out before you die."

"What?"

"Lord Byron?" Rider's voice breaks my confusion. "Shall we not be too harsh with the little lady?"

"I've met a magus who survived a Holy Grail War… I have also fought against one who did not. The difference in the quality of those two men was night and day, even if they were both repulsive people. You are nothing but a little girl. You do not have the talent, discipline, or the composure to survive, much less win. This is war, and you are nothing but a spoiled brat who has never lost anything in your life."

"Hmmmm, that was great advice right there. I especially loved when you —"

"Girl!" Mary growls at me, but I raise a hand to stop her.

"I really loved it when you talked about loss? You're a mega-rich member of British royalty, right? You have tea and crumpets with the Queen and play polo with Prince Harry or whatever. What have you ever lost in your goddamn life? Because the only thing you've ever lost that I can see with my spoiled brat eyes is the color of your hair. Yeah, I don't know what dye or magecraft you're using, but that brown isn't natural." I turn and storm off to sulk as Mary profusely apologizes.

You've managed to fuck it all up yet again, Nadine. You finally found a place where you could be someone else for once, but of course, there are dicks everywhere. God, now you're stuck next to the crazy lady who tried to kill Mary. The moment she starts talking about cats, run.

"Hi," I tap her on the shoulder.

Wow, didn't expect her to turn around and give me her full attention like that.

"Just wanted to thank you for saving us from the vampire, last night."

"Doctor's orders. Do you donate blood?" She changes the subject quickly.

"Ummm, no. I'm too young. I think you have to be eighteen to donate blood, so yeah that's something I'm looking forward to doing next year, you know. Along with voting and not drinking. Yay."

"False. In this state, the age of consent to give blood is seventeen. I see, there was no personal reason to have saved you."

Okay after the debacle with Lord Byron let's try a different approach, "Thank you anyway. By the way, where is your Master? They couldn't make it tonight?"

"Doctor is currently seeing to an important operation."

"Wow, operation? Is she like a doctor or something? That's really cool. I really admire professional women." I scratch the corner of my eye.

"Instead of wishing to see more doctors made by women joining what there are, I wish to see as few doctors, either male or female, as possible. Mark you, the women have made no improvement, they have only tried to be 'men' and they have only succeeded in being third-rate men."

"I'm going to go get some food, would you like me to bring you some?"

She pulls out a food thermometer from her suit and motions me to follow. When we reach the trays, she forcibly stabs the thermometer into whatever dish, snapping even crackers, narrating why each one is not fit to eat.

"Ahhh, child, I didn't see you come in. Come join us, come join us." Archer waves to me from across the room as I leave Berserker.

Archer and his Master are a fair distance away from Rich who is next to the mechanical band. From a distance, the band looks human. Each figure plays with the ease you might see at live music night downtown. But as you approach, you can see the wooden and metal joints that make up these mannequins. It's almost like Lord Byron raided Men's Warehouse.

Rich regards each doll with a scornful but also appreciative expression. "When was this silk soaked in the moonlight? January. . . no June. And the bone in this gear. . . Nue? Now, where did they find a plume of siren feathers and how much did it cost?"

It might be just a trick of the light or honestly magic, but those dolls playing the song seem like they're sweating.

"Okay we get it, American Patrol's a piece of cake, but can you improvise over Coltrane changes?" The dolls start playing a new jazzy upbeat song with an incredible tempo but start to sputter after the first ten seconds. The band becomes out of sync, music lags, and some of the dolls completely stop. They're unable to work out what the next most suitable note might be.

"Stop! Stop this at once! Who requested Giant Steps?!" The band grinds to an almost relieved halt the moment they hear their master's disapproval.

Rich boyishly scratches his head and goes over to Lord Byron, Rider, and Mary to apologize.

"That man is more trouble than he's worth," Archer mutters under his breath. "Child, I would like to introduce Fillia von Einzbern."

The woman in the pure white dress, hemmed in gold, offers me her hand. Naturally, I go to shake it. Her skin is cold and her hand is limp. Handshakes are awkward, but I didn't know they could be this awkward.

"Ummm, wow, you're so pretty. I love that dress! Y-You could totally be on Game of Thrones, hahaha." She looks at me with blank eyes. Kill me. "Yeah, sorry about rejecting the alliance Rich offered me this morning. I don't think I'm ready for that sort of commitment." Geez, Nadine why do you sound like a fuckboy trying to get out of a third date with someone you met on Tinder?

"Non-aggression pact. It was not a proposal for an alliance. The criteria you must meet for that to occur is to prove yourself worthy, Nadine Craig."

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

"You must forgive her, child. The Einzbern family consists of beings known as homunculi. Due to their extreme specificity — there are often issues with mental capacity or operating time. To supply enough magical energy to a Heroic Spirit such as myself, certain less functional aspects were disposed of."

I nod as Archer finishes and smiles at his Master. She smiles back, but you can instantly tell that not everything is there. Her red eyes take in the information around her which her brain then processes to deliver an answer. But there's something missing that isn't an emotion — I think I could only describe it as a soul. But that's stupid since the way people react to certain things is so idiotic, so fake. It's a performance that's built upon social and cultural cues. We praise things when we don't actually like the thing. We change our opinion based on how aligned the speaker is to our identity and drop our uncertainty into a vat of unwarranted faith to make ourselves feel secure about fiercely defending that point, repeating the same arguments ad nauseam.

With both this world and the digital world as our stage, we attempt to synchronize our social performances as much as possible, delivering nothing more than ingenuine expressions repeated over and over in the hope of receiving genuine emotion. We don't realize our audience are also actors on the stage delivering nothing more than ingenuine lines according to the script. Give up already, guys. That's the most co-dependent relationship I've heard of. In comparison, my generation is probably worse off than Filia or the mechanical band.

"You're really beautiful," something catches in my throat. I don't know if it's from realizing how pure the things that aren't people really are or it's because I've once again realized what I lost with Krista.

As Rich comes back, Lord Byron starts hitting his glass with a spoon. I guess I'll ask Archer about his arm later.

"Thank you all, Masters and Servants who have gathered on such short notice. I hope the food and music did not displease." His deep baritone voice booms even without a microphone. Useful stuff, magecraft. "I need not mention we are enemies in this enterprise; yet at the same time, we are allies ensuring this grand ritual runs its course, proving that the Root can be reached in this era without the need to develop a Sixth.

However, dear Masters, dear Heroic Spirits, there is a large shadow hanging over this Holy Grail War. The current Church overseer, a position that existed since the Second World War to arbitrate the Grail War is a Master. How can we trust him to moderate this war? That is why I organized this small gathering. For this one night, instead of doing battle amongst ourselves, let us hear from the man himself. But before that, as a show of good faith, let me present to you, my own Servant and my daughter, Servant Caster and Estella Valueleta Iselma."

The door opens and two women walk in as the band starts playing a different song. From the pure pressure, magical energy, radiating from the first, she must be the Servant. Every fiber in my body tells me there's only one word to describe her, but I can't describe her in one word at all. My vision goes wild at the sight of her.

MGI: Orange egg.

LCK: Blue butterfly.

. . .

Item Creation: Blue egg.

. . .

Golden Rule (Body): Chrysalis.

The Servant screen goes crazy trying its best to identify each aspect of her and then categorize it accordingly, developing her profile. I want to say she's beautiful, I really want to just let that be the descriptor that my mind settles on, but I can't help but think that her existence is ugly, that the dress and her porcelain skin is made with nothing more than the demonic wish of 'things should be like this.' Her existence is a pure rejection of my self; it does not heighten me in any way. I do not feel beautiful looking upon her. . . all that's left is the bitter taste of ash in my mouth. No matter how beautiful the veiled woman at the Servant's side may be, she cannot be more ⬛ than the Servant. The Servant mirrors the ⬛ of the lady and magically transforms it into the mundane with every glance, every step.

"'Stay in my arms,' really?" murmurs Rich, his gaze never leaving the horn section of the mechanical band. "What is that old bastard playing at, making it so obvious."

As the women take their place next to Lord Byron, Mary slides in behind me.

"Did you see that Servant? So glamorous, like a fairy princess in the stories my Nana would tell me when I was a wee girl. Anyway, I've smoothed over everything with Lord Byron. He's an incredible man. Are you having fun?"

"Ummm. . ." Saying I've been to two parties in two nights sounds like a humblebrag. Last night was a pale imitation that could never stand up to the ragers you see in teen movies or CW shows. How Tolosa. On the other hand, we have this party where the noblemen act ignobly and the most powerful dress like we're going to the beach.

I'm an outsider. Like always, Nadine doesn't fit. But if you'll allow this outsider a word, at least the people in this party know who they are and what they want. Lord Byron may have told me that I was going to die while knowing fuck all about my life, but he said that right to my face. He didn't ignore me then awkwardly huddle closer to his friends, tightening the circle in a passive-aggressive attempt to exclude. He didn't mutter some token words about getting a beer with a guilty expression on his face because he wouldn't come back. I can't help but think that maybe these magi who are trying to kill each other are more genuine than the people I'm supposed to call my peers.

"Yeah. . ." For the first time in my life, I feel included. Like I'm part of something bigger than myself and that my abilities mean I can make a valuable contribution to this ritual. "I think I really am enjoying myself." It's thanks to that bowl-cut priest and Laurent. . . especially Laurent. Society gives old people too much shit. I should message him.

"It seems like Caster's about to talk." Mary sees Berserker out of the corner of her eye. "What's that doing here?" she spits out venomously to no one in particular.

"O' heroes hailing across the seas of time, I welcome you to this humble ballroom that my dear Master and his daughter, my dearest friend helped establish for us this evening. Truly, what a remarkable event they've put together. They deserve all the credit for tonight. And you too, my dear Masters and Servants, give yourselves a round of applause for having the courage to come out from your workshops and stand with us tonight." She sounds like your typical local event organizer. Ever so gracious in thanking everyone involved no matter the contribution, and always making the focus of her words 'you,' and how 'you all did this,' 'you all made this happen.' These words don't divert attention from herself but aim to reflect gratitude to come back to her with more grace, with more appreciation. She should host the annual marathon at Madonna. "Now, I have the pleasure of presenting the overseer of this Holy Grail War, Father Sancraid Phahn of the Assembly of the Eighth Sacrament."

We all clap as she steps down from the staircase turned stage.

"She'll be a fine prize," I hear Archer murmuring to Rich next to him. I want to shoot them both a look, but the bowl cut priest has already started to speak.

"Thank you, Lord Byron for hosting this event this evening. I believe about twenty years ago, in a different Grail War in the far-east, a former overseer invited Masters to attend a meeting similar to this — only familiars showed up." Everyone politely smiles. Rich audibly chuckles. "You are all brave souls, Masters and Servants alike. I do not doubt everyone in this ballroom has the resolve to fight to make their dearest wishes come true. But let it be known, from past experience, even the most illustrious, even the most well prepared may fall depending on the judgment of the Holy Grail. Yet the potency of this Grail cannot be denied. All seven classes have been represented and as further proof of our legitimacy even one of the founding families of the Holy Grail War has graced us with her presence.

This is not the far-east backwater known as Fuyuki. This is not the counterfeit, heretical battlefield Snowfield. This is Tolosa, a Holy Land named after the boy bishop who selflessly refused his claim to the throne to meet the Lord's call to service.

What we seek in Tolosa is not a Grail of the Magi. This Grail is my Holy Mother, the Holy Church's, sin, and allowing seven Masters to congregate is her atonement. The Tolosa Grail is a mistake." He takes a deep breath as he launches in exposition. "After the Third Grail War in the Far-East, Master of Assassin, Dioland left a puppet that contained enough information pertaining to the war and the make-up of the 726th Grail for it to be replicated, at least in form. The family and their allies sought the aid of the American government. Their success resulted in a plan to lay the foundations for the Snowfield Grail. I'm sure you all know the strength of the Church in this country: 'Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof. . .' Magecraft, which requires the establishment of magical foundations sometimes based on religions and also incorporates certain religious concepts to broaden concepts, is no exception to the law of the land. Therefore, the Church has found much success in its lobbying of the government to deny the mixing of magecraft and statecraft."

The magi present gaze on with grim faces. Lord Byron's mustache twitches at the end of each sentence. Both of Rich's hands are in tight fists. Why is the priest antagonizing them like that? He's handing them the sore points of their own history in this land. Just who is he trying to inform? It has to be me. He knows that I'm a Magician's Egg that I can see through all his bullshit and posturing to get the actual message, he's trying to send. If that's the case why all this needless ceremony? Dude, just come out and say it.

"With the government as an intermediary, the magi who wished to organize a Grail War and a Cardinal, representing the Church's interest, brokered a deal. The magi formed a secret agency within the government and this Cardinal was given all the information collected by the Dioland family to prove the Snowfield Grail was not a holy relic. The Tolosa Grail is what that Cardinal and his supporters built with that information and a core embezzled from the Church's treasury. After the debacle that was Snowfield, a single bishop who had also handled the clean-up of the final Fuyuki Grail War investigated the origins of the Snowfield Grail. He uncovered the Tolosa Grail as well as those who had invested their lives in the venture. The Church's first instinct was to dismantle this Grail as quickly as possible, but the Tolosa Grail was almost ready to summon Servants. It would only need a few years and dismantling a magical furnace with enough magical energy to grant any wish. . . You are all magi, I'm sure you understand the risks. After much dialogue, the answer that my superiors came to was containment. We would let the Grail War run its course under the direction of an overseer. As a sign of good faith, a seat was offered to a member of the Clock Tower to respect our cooperation from the Third Fuyuki Grail War onward. The American government was also given a seat as they hold this land. The other Masters were chosen by the Grail. As this Grail was born from the Church, we believed it would mirror our values. You are those Masters. The Church has faith your wishes shall illuminate the world.

Shortly before the start of the war, the bishop who uncovered the Tolosa Holy Grail conspiracy passed away. The team that he had left at the Tolosa Mission to oversee this Grail War, whether it be out of ambition, loss, or spite… obtained Command Spells and summoned a Servant. On behalf of the Church, I am sorry. I apologize that we did not select a better overseer. We have failed you. As a Servant can only defeat a Servant, I was given the honor and burden of Command Spells by the Grail so that Rider and I could defeat that rogue Master and Servant. I harbor no ambition for the Grail, I only want to ensure your Grail War proceeds in the manner that it should. Even with a Servant, I am a neutral party. We will neither harm nor aid any of you — all who seek shelter at my church will find it." He ends his speech with an angelic smile.

I can almost hear the heavenly trumpets blessing the priest with the righteous fury to make war on those who have committed sacrilege against his faith. . . .

Too much free champagne, I need to pee.

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

17/ Fated Night

My eyes finish adjusting to the darkness. The old man said good night vision is one of the most important skills in an Executor's arsenal since most battles in the magecraft world are fought at night in rural areas far away from civilization. Like magi, those of us who have circuits can reinforce our eyes but that would give you away faster than just using your phone as a flashlight.

Time to make your way up to the old farmhouse, Chris.

The Ferrini Ranch Open Space. This parcel of land was donated to the county in the mid-nineties to extend Cardinal Peak's nature reserve. The old Ferrini farmhouse became somewhat of a tourist attraction, but more than anything it's a status symbol for the privileged of Tolosa who live in Ferrini Heights. Many of their sons and daughters attend my school.

The farmhouse is built on a leyline adjacent to the fallen leyline at Cardinal Peak. The point they connect is to the east of the farmhouse grounds and must serve as the main axis for any bounded field that can stretch the entire estate. At the same time, containing that point means creating a plug, stagnating the leyline, dismantling any field created to protect it. Therefore, that point can't be protected with magecraft.

I know because I met with Lord Byron's representatives, then helped them survey the area to acquire a temporary co-ownership and file the paperwork necessary to restore and renovate the farmhouse, including an easement to allow for public use when he wasn't using the estate.

That was a hard sell. The Mission argued that public access was in his best interest as a magus. A continuous flow of tourists, especially families coming to the open space for a tour of the house before a picnic offers mental constituents that can be captured and then absorbed through the leyline to strengthen the land — much like how the Tower of London functions, just happier.

I approach the main axis, slip through the bounded field, cross the plain, and start climbing up the mansion.

Lord Byron's Iselma is a branch family of the Lord of the Department of Creation( Value) . Other than the public information, the Church questioned spellcasters who were part of an assault unit for a formerly up and coming middle-eastern faux aristocratic family and a spy from the Department of Curses( Jigmarie) who owed the Church a favor over an incident in the Bay Area involving the Marble Trading Company to obtain most of his profile. In any case, most of Islema magecraft seems to be based on linking astrology with human engineering. In fact, it's well known that Lord Byron's played host to a sealing designated magus specializing in that area. If I can't take down an automaton there's no way I could fight against a Dead Apostle. Let's keep climbing up this mansion. Luckily for me, most of the traps have been deactivated, most likely because they would all go off with that amount of magical energy swirling inside.

Lord Byron offset those inner defenses by bolstering the ones surrounding the estate. There's no way a Servant who didn't attend this meeting could get into position to use an Anti-Fortress Noble Phantasm to mow down the entire estate without being detected.

I swing onto a second-floor balcony and reinforce my hearing. Any traces of rudimentary magecraft should be hidden due to the Servants inside. I can't hear the entire conversation, but I can make out snatches of Father Phahn explaining the history of the Tolosa Holy Grail to these Masters — why is that necessary?

". . . Just before the start of the war, the bishop who brought the Tolosa Holy Grail to light passed away. . ."

Why is he telling them about Dilo's death?

". . . The team that he had left at the Tolosa Mission to oversee this Grail War, whether it be out of ambition, loss, or spite. . . obtained Command Spells and summoned a Servant. . ."

I — what? No. What? I —

Someone from the Mission summoning a Servant is ridiculous. What is he going on about? It's our job to protect this city against the Holy Grail War. No team member would actively go against that objective. Everyone in our little team has been vetted by Father Kelsey and sometimes even Cherry. I can't think of a person who would —

". . . I was given the honor and burden of these Command Spells by the Grail. . ."

Something breaks.

The overseer of the Holy Grail War that replaced me is a Master himself. More than that, he just announced his status in front of almost every single Master fighting the war. Sorry, I'm not sure I can process this right now. Not because what he said was too outlandish or that it was a betrayal of everything the Church stands for, but because I stepped back in shock onto a toy. A kid probably forgot about it when their family was visiting. That shouldn't be an issue because I'm on the balcony and everyone inside is occupied with listening to a pontificating priest.

But. . . what if it turned out that I'm not the only one outside the mansion? What if the moment my foot ground the toy into the stone balcony something moved a few balconies away — a few balconies too far to sense my presence but close enough one couldn't dismiss what just happened as an innocuous sound. No, if the person on the other balcony is a magus then there's no possibility they would dismiss something like that. The darkened figure turns towards me and I'm able to get a good glimpse of her face.

Teach me, Sunao-sensei Chapter Four: Heyo, you Executor-in-training bugs who aren't even fit for the Asura's Pit yet. It's everyone's favorite holy idol, Sunao. Yosh, let's get this straight right here, right now. Faces. . . are hecka important if you wanna be a good Executor. Heretics come in all sizes and shapes, so you got to remember all of them as well as the ones they might change into. After today's exercises, you're going to be able to instantly recall the face of any cute girl you might come across. If you take longer than that bam, too late she's already gone, you're alone forever — got it?

It doesn't matter if the only light is from the inside the mansion, there should be more than enough to apply Sunao-sensei's four rules like you had to do for everyone at school for the suggested extra credit. First, her fair hair frames a high forehead with the beginning of a few wrinkles — mid to late thirties. Second, from the shape of her face and sharp features, she seems as WASPy as everyone else in this town. Next is from her demeanor. . . that doesn't matter if she just started burning magical energy through her eyes. Okay, come on, the absence of an emotional reaction is always a sign of combat experience. Does that really matter when she's reaching for a revolver?

I can hear the audio that plays when you get a failing grade on the online Sunao-sensei course. But I have enough information — a freelancer who uses a gun.

You've trained for this Chris, so come on already. Doesn't Cherry always tell you magecraft is about finding the core and then swapping it as quickly as possible?

So, what's important? What's important right this instant?

If either of us were to let our circuits catch alight, the Servants or Masters inside the mansion would immediately sense us. That's something both of us want to avoid. I'm not sure about her magical capabilities, but neither of us is going to be able to use our circuits to functionally stop our subjective time to perform any complex calculations. I can see it in her reinforced eyes that she knows this as well. These few seconds before we commit to actions will be the only thinking time we're allowed. The second important thing is the sound of gunfire will draw attention to both of us, meaning, she can't attack me right now. Her best option is to predict my attack and immediately counter or escape. So, I'll —

The beginnings of a thin black blade materializes from the cross-shaped hilt I draw from my robe. In the next moment, I'll use the ledge of this balcony to propel myself across the gap and use the momentum to subdue my opponent. The magical energy required to materialize a single Black Key is only slightly more than what it takes to reinforce one's hearing. I hope Lord Byron's Caster doesn't have specialized magical energy detection abilities. Right, this is the best option available to me. There's no going back. My body fully commits, springing into action but —

My opponent finishes turning around as a silencer materializes onto the barrel of the revolver. I. . . grit my teeth. Combat robes are made with kevlar and lined with protective sigils so they can easily defend against a rain of bullets from a submachine gun. Those are only for experienced Executors heading into a demonic battlefield to extinguish damned souls. As someone whose combat training consisted of mostly using an Ash Lock because he was less than proficient with Black Keys these robes are equipped with the minimum number of sigils. No matter, I'll sacrifice the use of my off arm instead of taking a bullet to the face and subdue her before she's able to fire again. But that tattoo on her shooting hand is a Command Spell. The moment the shot misses my forehead, she'll call for her Servant. I can't worry about that now; I've already committed to the attack. More than that, I'm no longer the overseer so there's no issue with attacking a Master. As a member of the Church, there's nothing wrong about killing a heretic.

She narrows her eyes. Go on, pull the trigger already. If you don't. . . .

Her eyes widen as her grip on the weapon slackens.

"What?" But I can feel it as well. Behind me is a burst of magical energy making whatever was utilized to materialize my Black Key and her silencer paltry in comparison.

A silver slash.

Using all my strength, I twist my body in mid-air. Sparks fly as the saber clashes against my Black Key, lighting up my attacker's face. Its painted features are partly scratched off — you can see the wood fibers splintering off, almost as if a certain someone had stepped on it.

Oh. . . I was wrong when I said there were no defenses other than the bounded field. There must be toys like this one scattered at key points, acting as sentries. Either my stepping on it or the magical energy from materializing my Black Key must have set it off.

The arm holding the Black Key trembles. The wooden doll is stronger than a regular human. It wouldn't be too much of a problem if I could use both my hands, but my off arm was already in position to take that Master's bullet. Neither would it be too much of a problem if both my feet were firmly planted on the ground because I could divert the attack and retreat.

My mid-air defense may have saved my back from a nasty gash, but I lose the exchange as well as all momentum. That is to say, I'm thrown away from the mansion towards the ground.

The moment I'm thrown away I hear a silenced gunshot. By attacking one of the sentries she triggered the alarm or perhaps the alarm was already triggered the moment the wooden doll's magical formula was activated and she only fired to protect herself.

Large volumes of chaotically expelled magical energy break my fall. It's an incredibly amateurish, inefficient technique but there wasn't enough time to reinforce anything. It's okay if I've only taken this much damage, I'll just activate the curse of self-healing. Right now, I've got to start running because wooden soldiers have started to swarm the foot of the mansion.

Something filled with magical energy leaps off the second-floor balcony. That must be the other Master. Why hasn't she used her Command Spell to summon her Servant yet? No matter how strong she is or how powerful of a Mystic Code that revolver might be she won't last against a small platoon of mechanical dolls.

I'm no expert in any type of creation, but even I can feel that some of the dolls have been refurbished with pre-17th-century parts. Those I won't be able to stand up against them with just Black Keys. Even with the Ash Lock, it'll be a struggle against more than four. That's the Iselma family for you.

We both start sprinting across the field down the hill towards the gap in the bounded field. After we slip through the gap, we can retreat into the shrubbery.

Automatons generally come in three categories: 1) those that are directly controlled by the magus; Lord Byron was inside the mansion, entertaining his guests when the automaton attacked me. 2) Those that have an internal energy source; automatons of this nature are costly. It would take more than a fortune to equip fodder with magecraft engines. 3) Those that are being supplied magical energy from an external source, like a leyline. The land, number, and actions mean the third type is the most likely. If they're tied to the bounded field and siphoning the magical energy from the leyline, their efficiency should rapidly decrease the moment I get out of Lord Bryon's territory.

Proper Executors are capable of maintaining a pace of about thirty miles per hour in bad terrain without the use of magecraft. Not only are we under bad terrain, the slope of the hill means any step could lead to me losing my balance — so almost a minute. Reinforcing myself would increase my speed, but I have a hunch these wooden soldiers are tracking magical energy.

I take a glimpse behind. . . that's strange. That Master is running about three fourths my speed. She's definitely reinforcing herself, but what a weak flow of magical energy. There's a constant tug of war between Master and Servant for magical energy. Could it be that manifesting her Servant is taking up so much magical energy she barely has enough to reinforce herself? In that case, why doesn't she call her Servant? I see, it's because even at her speed she's still faster than the wooden soldiers.

The wooden soldiers continue their steady march. The fact that they prioritize their balance over speed is a testament of their maker. These dolls work as a collective rather than individually, intimidating their opponents with sheer numbers. Outnumbered, the target's only option is to flee.

In a cock-assured rush, the prey eventually loses their balance and are swept under the advancing line. If they do escape the line of wooden soldiers, they would be met with a bounded field supported by this land. Without knowing about the gap or without a Servant to brute force through the bounded field, one has almost no chance of escaping. It's almost like instead of trying to keep people out, Lord Byron is trying to keep something from escaping.

Ceremonial trumpets and the thundering of wooden hooves shake that thought from my brain. The sea of advancing wooden soldiers parts, allowing lacquered horses to break into a mad gallop. Each horse is hitched to a carriage with a single driver. No, the carriage is part of the horse. To make matters worse, the carriages instantaneously magically modify themselves into war chariots carrying two more wooden soldiers armed with muskets. The line of wooden soldiers is the signaling beacon, and the cavalry are the shock troops. There's no time to ask myself if this is really art and proceed to attempt to break down the mystery. Legs, don't fail me now. You know this mountain better than anyone else.

"Damn!"

The ground in front of me explodes. A spray of hard mountainous soil that hasn't tasted rain for almost a year cuts half of my view.

Don't turn around, Chris. Keep running, you'll make it. There's no point in zigzagging. The dolls started firing musket balls, sure. But lead balls don't make that kind of impact — no, they're more like enchanted lead bubbles. The moment they pop, they spread their magical payload with the force of a grenade. These musket balls aren't enough to kill heretics, but they'll slow them down so they face a calvary stampede. It only looks like they're firing haphazardly, but they're just trying to scare you into making a mistake or goad you into fighting back. You're no match for them. . . for now. That could change the moment you ignite the magical energy into your body. But I know, the moment you reinforce anything is when you die. These are dolls — they can't see, but they can sense magical energy. That's why you have to keep running, as is. You can't die here.

But what about that Master? With our head start she might make it — fifty-fifty, no… forty-sixty. I don't want to know if the forty is a success or failure, because can't you change any probability of her surviving to zero with the Black Key in my hand?

Executors are professional heretic hunters. She's a Master attempting to wage war in this town.

I don't think there is anything wrong with killing her before she's able to hurt anyone. Protecting the sanctity of the Grail War isn't my business anymore, so eliminating as many heretics as possible has become something I should do.

You won't throw that Black Key though because you realize it's not that she won't summon her Servant, she can't. The fact that she's out here means that her Servant is inside that mansion, mingling with everyone else. The moment she summons her Servant with her Command Spell is the moment they realize this Master didn't attend their meeting because she was too busy breaking through the defenses. It isn't too difficult to figure out what her aim was. That's right, the reason I didn't choose the balcony where she laid in wait was because there was a gap in the curtains where you could actually see the going-ons below and therefore anyone who looked up could see you as well. That was her perch. She was using her Servant as a distraction to create an opportunity to kill one or more Masters.

Geez, tonight has been a complete failure. Not only have I been unable to find any information about the Dead Apostle, but I've also unwittingly become entrenched in this Holy Grail War once again.

But it's not your fault, is it? A little voice whispers in my ear. This is just the way that the world works. Interlopers like yourself earnestly search for meaning and end up destroying lives. No one's truly at fault if both parties are sincere. Equally honest flames, we burn, aiming to merely shed light but before we know it the entire world is razed until we are both no more than effervescent cinders. How could one not disagree,

object,

reject?

Truthfully, Chris —

— All of us, no matter who we are, are merely ~~foam~~ idiotic, pathetic, weak human beings.

So. . . you. . . just. . . can't, okay? That isn't something Chris Frampton would do. His grudge should be against the Dead Apostles that killed his family. Even if the Church teaches that heresy must be expunged, he should be confused about his position because the woman who helped raise him is a magus herself.

Okay?

I dash through the gap in the bounded field and continue a few meters to the edge of the small forest between the Ferrini Open Space and Cardinal's Peak Reserve. The Master manages to clamber through that gap a few seconds after me. I had expected to already be among the trees when she slipped through the gap. It's not that she became faster. There's a trail of smoke behind her that sends magical energy detection abilities, mine included, into disarray. She's a freelancer who uses alchemy then.

Behind her, one of the carriages reaches the edge of the bounded field and abruptly stops as if all its strings had been cut.

She raises her revolver as she gets up, but I take the initiative and throw the Black Key in my hand, leaving myself without a weapon. Like an arrow, the black blade draws a slight arc, but the Master's reactions are too quick. Or rather, she had already predicted that I was aiming for the hand holding the weapon.

Right, I made it too obvious that I was considering throwing my Black Keys at you when I freaked out on the hill there. I'm too easy to read because I don't have much combat experience. I know that. That's why the moment I threw the blade, I scrambled into the forest before you could fire and hid behind a thick tree trunk.

She slowly approaches me with her revolver drawn, ready to shoot the moment I make a move. In that case, it's time to play my trump card.

"I'm not part of this Holy Grail War!" I shout from my hiding place. "I'm an Executor-in-training tasked with exterminating a Dead Apostle in this town. This has been a terrible misunderstanding!"

Silence for a moment and then, "If that's true, why were you at a meeting for Masters?"

Someone told me that one of the Masters might be a Dead Apostle. Say it, say it, just answer her already.

"Well? Can you answer that?"

Oh. . . I. . . can't say those words.

My heart bubbles. These aren't bubbles you see at the bottom of the pot when boiling water. This is skimmed beer foam or ephemeral sea foam that continuously piles onto itself until the imaginary friction magically ignites to produce a sooty flame — the switch magi use to convert themselves into machines that produce magical energy. The heat that fills this vessel drives my senses beyond infinity, instantly sending my circuits into overheat.

"You —!" Her finger is on the trigger, but she'll be a second too slow —

" I announce!( Set) " I vault from cover to intercept her.

With that single-action incantation my magical energy sears a magic formula in the broadest foundation in the world. The only mystery allowed for members of the Church is the Baptismal Sacrament, but within the foundation known as The Teachings of the Lord are spells that can be engraved into the hilt of a Key of Providence to create additional effects like burning, petrification, or desiccation. Since this is evidently magecraft, it's looked down upon by the members of the Church and rarely used — except for this spell.

Like black lightning running through the night, the Black Key picks itself from the ground and once again aims for the hand holding the gun. Too late, she'll be too late. The expression on her face tells the entire story. Even if she twists her entire body to dodge the surprise attack, she'll lose her footing allowing me enough of an opening to subdue her. Her only other option is to. . . wait, really?

Her sharp eyes narrow even further. She's going to take the attack.

She concentrates her magical energy into her hands and then increases its density — the classic counter spell for dealing with point-based magical attacks. The magical energy of both spells will clash and the effect evaporates. But, while the Black Key's blade might be formed with magical energy, it's still semi-solid. A technique like that isn't going to —

I see. . . That's insane.

She doesn't care if the Black Key pierces her hand because all she needs is a single shot. Then this is just a replay of the events of the balcony. I'll just sacrifice this left arm so —

It's a split second that decides life and death, but a split second was too long for the being that just materialized.

It lands, sending rippling licks of magical energy throwing both the other Master and me off-balance before our skirmish can conclude. She raises her gun. I pull out another Black Key hilt from my robe, but the instant we look at the monster, the blood is drained from both our faces.

His pressure isn't as overwhelming as Archer's where it seems like you're constantly trying to hold up the sky in his presence. This is human calamity incarnate — a divinity born from glorious despair, the blood of one's opponents, and righteous conflict. Servant —

"— Lancer. . ." the Master next to me finishes my thought.

In the face of this spirit, basically on the level of an elemental, we can't remember what our misunderstanding was. Instead —

Lancer flexes his almost golden muscles that ripple as he poses. He looks at me for a moment and then lowers his eyes so they meet the Master's Command Spell.

My shaking legs are on the verge of collapsing. If I wasn't regulating my body, my heart and bladder would have both exploded. Worst of all, my stomach starts eating itself over and over again. Run. I need to get away right now. This isn't what I signed up for. This isn't a Dead Apostle. This is more like a hurricane that made landfall during a junior high sporting event.

Right, if I run away. . . if I run away, Lancer isn't going to come after me. He just wants that Master. I'm no longer part of the Holy Grail War so there's no reason to stay here any longer. There is nothing that I can do.

The image of a girl crying on a football field flashes through my mind. No, not that.

"You're not a lot of things. But, I thought you were at least that type of person."

What type of person is Chris Frampton? What reason does he have for holding his old man's Black Keys? What did that boy who died want to become? Didn't you say. . . didn't you vow to at least be true to that boy you owed everything to?

Words I mumbled to a priest who sat by my bedside a lifetime ago bubble back to mind. That priest might no longer be here, but those words and the feelings that should have been contained in those distant bubbles will always be there as long as I affirm my past.

I know what Chris Frampton would do.

I know what I have to do.

"By the order of this Command Spell —!"

In the next moment, that Master's chest will be pierced before she's able to activate her Command Spell. With a second swing, the leaves of all the shrubs in a five-meter radius are going to be stained with my splattered brains. This 'fight' which will last less than a second, solely depends on whether or not I'm able to buy her enough time to complete her second( count) .

A spear so large its leaf blade is enough to impale the torso of an entire cow is thrust with ferocious technique that threads the needle between raw power and conditioned finesse. The motion is so fast the spear is little more than a blur to reinforced eyes. There is no other description for the wielder other than a god of war.

But even a divine attack isn't difficult to block if you already know where it is going to strike. All I've got to do is make sure my circuits which are rotating at top speed don't burn out in the next second. It doesn't matter if the magical energy is from my own life force or the air's because all that matters right now is making sure these two Black Keys don't break during the exchange.

"Hm —" Lancer lets a surprised grunt at my resistance.

The edge of the spear seemingly swallows the two black blades that I swung with all my strength. The alien sound of Black Keys reinforced so they're almost as hard as a gemstone grinding against and then yielding to the edge of a Servant's spear half-heartedly thrust rings into the trees. No matter how much supernatural strength I put into these Black Keys, they can't stop that attack. This a Servant we're fighting against. So delay it. Delay it for as long as —

— The keys snap.

I'm sent flying only to be stopped by the lower trunk of a stray tree. The impact permeates throughout my body. The real damage is my arms ripping and tearing in multiple places as if they had been cut a thousand times — the equivalent exchange for reinforcing a part of your body with more magical energy than it can handle. I can't feel them; are they broken? That doesn't matter right now because. . .

"Come, Berserke —"

That was the amount of time I was able to buy — not enough.

The bough will pierce her heart before she's able to get that last syllable out.

This entire night's struggle has been for nothing.

I. . .

As quickly as the spear was thrust, a tongue of fire repelled the leaf blade. That tongue, held aloft, is a red, thin double-edged blade with a smaller blade jutting out from the bottom of the golden hilt. It's swung so quickly that I can only follow the trail of embers. No matter how fast the flame might be, the bough manages to catch and then match each blow. But the embers from each arc of the blade linger longer, their sooty red is now a warm orange. I can even feel the heat from here. I'm not sure if it'll take ten or a hundred more blows but eventually, the fire will overwhelm the bough.

The Servants break apart.

"That boy. . . is under my protection."

The feral god of war takes in the opposing Servant and then my crumpled figure before grunting to himself and retreating into the forest. The Servant in front of me makes no attempt to pursue.

I look at the Master who keeps her eye on the Servant. When she was using the Command Spell, she distinctly was trying to say Berserker. That swordplay is not that of a Berserker.

The trough of this hill is completely silent, almost as if the clamor of just a few minutes ago never existed. It's obvious. There does not need to be a wind to draw open the curtain of clouds to let the moonlight filter in. That figure is bright enough to serve as her own moon, reflecting all the distant lights from the suburbs below.

She turns to face me and time stops.

Those fervent yet troubled eyes are the centerpiece of a bouquet of features so delicate they look as though a cosmic clockmaker took the time to painstakingly craft each one before binding Its creation in divine steel( mythril) .

She bites her lower lip.

I bite my tongue for the words can't, won't come out.

This scene, it only lasts for a second, but it is as sharp as her demonic sword so it pierces my wavering consciousness and cuts through all the years I've been alive.

This is special. You must remember this.

Even if you fall down to hell.

Even if you lose Chris Frampton.

Engrave this one scene onto your soul so that neither foam may drag it out to sea nor flame may incinerate it beyond recognition.

Why?

Because it's the first time you have ever thought a machine looked beautiful.

*****

Presage Seaweed

~Interlude~

The doorbell rang as Cherry entered the cafe. The dimmed light that made reading slightly a chore, the empty plates left on one or two tables, and the coffee aroma that hung like a persistent smog were all so similar to one from her hometown one could say it was the same cafe. Cherry ignored the unwelcome pangs of slight homesickness and made her way to the bar. She wasn't sure if he would be here tonight — he could be out at an Italian restaurant, flirting.

The last time they saw each other face to face was. . . a year ago? She went back home to check if everything was okay with the house. But Cherry writes, she writes to him every month. She was old fashioned that way, magi usually are. So what she won't tolerate is meeting in this box( café) . It's a cheat — a singularity that shouldn't exist in this world or any other world. Say that as she might, she loved their pies.

Ooops, remember, you're on a diet. It was your cheat day on Monday. You're going Keto this year. Last year was Paleo. Cherry's tried them all. She hadn't lost any weight long-term, but she's reached enlightenment. A scale was a woman's arch-nemesis. Like a prayer( curse) she scrawls a number in her diary every night. There was a self-mutilating sacredness to it that you couldn't find with a health app.

A waitress came to ask her if she wanted anything. Cherry fidgeted awkwardly for a second wondering if she could convince herself on getting an advance on next week's cheat day but stay strong! You can do this! In your teens, you made the mistake of assuming you could diet before summer to fit into your swimsuit. Naive. Too naive, girl. Every Instagram model you follow regularly posts that the foundation of a swimsuit body requires you to start during winter. Winter is when all the calories pile up. You can't fall for that trap — not this year.

Cherry sighed after the waitress left.

"Heyo Annherbe-deluxe, Cherry."

A little girl clambered onto the seat next to her.

"Who taught you that, Curie?"

She pointed to a lonely flip phone completely left behind by the times next to the register, "He said it's the normal greeting here."

Cherry gently smiled. Even if it makes no sense to her, that didn't mean she should let it show on her face. "I'm really happy to see you again, Curie. You've grown quite a bit."

The little girl jumped into Cherry's arms. She was cold like crystal, not to mention you could be eaten at any moment and not realize it. No, that's wrong, Cherry told herself. There's warmth there, there has to be. We've spent so much time together there had to be something beyond —

"I missed you too, Cherry. The Detective has as well. He reads all your letters you know and stays up thinking about what to write back. He's not good at admitting it though." Curie nodded knowingly.

"How is he?"

Curie opened her mouth but before she could get any words out, she was interrupted.

"Well, well, well it seems like someone hasn't lost any weight at all."

That's his way of saying 'I'm glad you look healthy.'

"You look well too, Nii-san." She slipped in her native tongue.

He instinctively stroked the tiny scar on the back of his head as he took a seat next to Curie. "Scram, girl. Go play with the cats or annoy the waitresses."

Curie poked her tongue out in reply and ran off.

"I'm glad that you two are still getting along so well."

"You call that getting along? That brat's more trouble than she's worth. Should have left her in South America when I had the chance."

Some part inside of her knows that she can't forgive her brother for all the things he's done. But even if they weren't related by blood, he was still her brother and she wishes for his happiness, so when he says things like that they help unwind the wires in her head.

"What about the kid you're looking after? The one with the long, fancy name."

"Chris? He's. . . he's a good kid."

"That's just a polite way of saying he's messed up but doesn't show it."

She ignored that, "He comes here often. Have you talked to him?"

"Yeah. He's a good kid." The Detective called the waitress and ordered a nitro cold brew, this time, less cinnamon. "Why are you here, Sakura? If you're after news about Rider and Emiya, you can call them yourself."

"I'm really proud of you, Nii-san." That stopped him cold in his tracks. "When you dropped out of university, saying it was too easy and everyone was an idiot I was really worried about your future. We all were. But ever since you came back from South America with Curie and started your own private investigation firm you've. . . you've been doing better."

"Haah? Don't be impertinent. I don't need your validation, failure. Don't get me wrong, I love that you decided to let the Matou family die, but a failure is still a failure."

Cherry smiled. "If you would let me finish Nii-san. I recently heard there was another up-and-coming private investigator duo from Mifune. A man about your age with only one working eye, and a twenty-year-old beauty rumored to have ties with the Yakuza?"

The Detective snorted at that dismissively, "You sure love your gossip magazines, Sakura. Fumbling idiots. Could give any Manzai duo a run for their money."

"Oh, I heard they were rated as one of the top agencies in Japan?"

"Did you take the time to check who is rated the top in the country, idiot."

"The top-rated private investigator office in the country, wow, you've come so far! So that means you'll be able to find some information about someone for me?"

"What? I don't have the time to do something like that."

"Nii-san, I'm horrified. The top private detective Japan won't even help his own little sister?"

Matou Shinji looked at his sister in disbelief.

Matou Sakura steadied her determined gaze, offering a forceful half-smile and a wrinkled brow, as if trying to make her brother eat an apple slice.

"Okay, who am I looking for," he mumbled before turning away. Like so many before him, he crumbled under that determined gaze.

Cherry took out a folded printout from her purse. Church profiles were usually small novellas, but this was a single page. At the top left corner was a photo of a strawberry blond woman with a high forehead and sharp features.

"Amelia Levitt, a pediatrician who worked at Snowfield Central Hospital, patients include. . . Snowfield? Isn't that the town where that fake Holy Grail War that basically destroyed the area took place?"

"Oh, it seems like Senpai has been telling you things that he shouldn't."

The Detective looked Cherry straight in the eye. "This woman. . . she's a Master, isn't she? And you, Sakura, you're a Master too, aren't you?"

"What? I. . ."

"Don't lie to me. Who would use concealer on their hand to hide a Command Spell? I might not have magic circuits but don't treat me like I'm a fucking idiot!"

"Yes Nii-san, I'm the Master of Saber."

The Detective closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "This isn't about Amelia Levitt, is it? Even you aren't dumb enough to ask me to investigate an American. This about this kid isn't it?"

He pointed to the only name that sounds Japanese on the profile.

Tsubaki Kuruoka.

"They should learn to write names properly. What's this. . ." he looked closer at the page. "Well she'd be a teenager now. What this kid got to do with your shitshow."

"The Kuruoka family are a family of magi who helped establish the Snowfield Grail. . ."

The Detective interrupted, "She was a Master, then. What happened to her?"

"That's what I'd like you to find out." Cherry folded her arms on the table.

"She is. . . was American, you're in America. I'm in Japan. What do you think I can do?"

"The Kuruoka family did more than just help establish the Snowfield Grail system, Nii-san. They also took part of the Holy Grail system and magecraft that utilized insects."

He immediately broke out in a cold sweat. She knew what she was asking of him. He was told he was the true heir to the family; that was why he was given access to all the grimoires in the forbidden library to peruse at his pleasure. He was given the privilege to learn his family's secrets because he would pass them down. That privilege was his pride, his assurance that he was better than the masses that sat in the same classroom as he did. Later, it would turn into his greatest shame. And now?

That young boy who made himself a makeshift robe and wand almost drowned in the mystery he lusted for — a wig saved his life.

That aimless, bitter young man who couldn't stand his family's ruin set forth to retrieve a grimoire his sister sold in an attempt to rid the demonic fog clouding his heart and was almost consumed by the mystery he wished to be initiated into — a crystal trinket saved his life.

So, the question isn't 'and now,' it must be 'so now?'

"Alright, whatever, I'll check my notes and my contacts for information about this Kuruoka. You. . ." He folded the sheet of paper and placed it in his breast pocket. "If you get yourself killed that's your own problem. Also, it's also up to you to tell everyone else you're part of this magical shitshow again. I'm not your messenger boy."

"One more thing Nii-san."

"Something else?" he asked grumpily. "You really have no respect for your brother."

"Are you still in touch with Sajyou Ayaka?"

He shivered at the name then protectively stroked his luscious seaweed locks, reassuring himself this was his natural hair. Yet, no matter how smooth, bouncy, or real his wavy hair might be, he can still feel her malicious razor gliding over his naked scalp.

"No, why? I think she went to Romania or somewhere else in Europe after she graduated."

"I got my hands on some security footage of Snowfield. She, or at least someone who looks like her, was present. Do you happen to know anyone who might have her contact information?"

"I think she used to hang out with that trio of track team girls. That means I have to deal with that idiot Makidera, again. Fine, fine. Anything else?"

"No, that's everything. Thank you, Nii-san. Please take care of Curie and yourself."

Sakura's full smile was almost too perfect.

Shinji knew the shadow lurking behind that smile. It was underneath him when he tried to rape her.

He couldn't make up for that day. He couldn't forget that day.

The waitress finally arrived with his iced coffee in a mason jar. Shinji grabbed the handle the moment it was set down but put the drink back down the moment he met his sister's eyes. There was something he forgot to say.

"Hey, Sakura."

"Nii-san?"

"Don't get yourself killed."

~Interlude Out~

Day 3 – End

Fate/Mythologie Volume 1: Palingenesis/805 – End

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

Afterword

Thank you for reading the first volume of Fate/Mythologie. I'd like to further thank Raff for proof-reading everything and offering ideas as well.

"To the next ten years…"

What did those words promise? What did those words actually bring?

Fate/Mythologie came about in an attempt to fill an empty niche. The romance fiction of Kinoko Nasu has exploded almost a decade ago into multiple spin-offs, the most popular of which is Fate/Grand Order. Yet, at least in the English speaking community, fanfiction consists of the same plots with the same ideas and the same characters. That is to say, in the decade so much has happened, yet so little of it has been used. A lot of this is due to the language barrier which is very understandable. But a lot of it has to do with finding satisfaction in the familiar. I hope you found something thrilling into stepping into Tolosa, a world beyond Chaldea, Fuyuki, and medieval Camelot.

This story is set after Fate/Strange Fake which takes place in a "world where anything can happen" that includes both the Dead Apostle Ancestors and the Heroic Spirit summoning system. The Strange Fake world is all but confirmed to be from Himuro no Tenchi: Fate/School Life which follows a modified version of Heaven's Feel, which the author calls HF 1.5. At the time of writing this, Strange Fake is on volume 5. I'm not sure if there are going to be any major discrepancies with the events of later volumes, but considering this is fanfiction, I'm sure those can be brushed aside rather easily.

At the writing of this afterword, Chapter 4 of Mythologie hasn't been released yet, but the second POV character Nadine is pretty much taken from the movie The Edge of Seventeen with some modifications. After watching that movie, I felt as her essence or at least the writer/director's message behind her as a character was something that I needed to use for this project. At the same time, I wanted to address things that I don't think that movie went in-depth enough due to the limitations of the medium. I hope you look forward to her relationship with Mary and their future development.

In regards to that as well as the setting and world view of Mythologie, I have always turned to the commentary from the first volume of Fire Girl -

The relative importance and gravity among novels is generally divided into three segments.

The story made for the story's sake.

The story made for one's own sake.

The story made for the reader's sake.

How this balance is dealt with depends on the story's theme.

Without a doubt, Mythologie is the most selfish thing that I've written to date. The setting, the cast, and the themes have all been egoistically chosen and molded. I believe all fanfiction writing attempts to do so. But the most important thing to me is portraying how each character justifies themselves in relation to this setting - their subjective truth that no one can deny no matter what's written in the glossary of a materials book. That is the story I want to create for the reader's sake. Once again, thank you very much for reading this work of mine. I hope you were able to enjoy it.

06-23-2019

Stir · Feb 6, 2021

I've compiled the entire volume into a pdf which you can download in case you don't like reading on a forum.

Who? · Feb 17, 2021

An interesting Grail War.

Mystery, action, suspense... very well intertwined.

OCs are good, as is the usage of canon characters. And I admit to a large weakness as to obscure references, which are nicely scattered around.

Stir · Feb 18, 2021

Thursday, February 5th

Sera Miller 9:00 am
Hey @TeamTolosa,
Attached is the memo mentioned in last night's meeting. Let's crush it before the next milestone!

02.06_Operations_Update 1.1.pdf

7 replies——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Shawn Young 9:15 am
Catering tonight?

Ranbir Singh 9:17
Thank you for the share Sera

Sera Miller 9:19 am
Yes Shawn, please read the memo in full.

Daniela Hernandez 9:25 am
Not sure if seeing this correctly, Sera, but February 4th, Night is missing entries?

Shawn Young 9:27 am
Daniela Sera Yes.

Sera Miller 9:30 am
TeamTolosa, my bad. Re-uploaded as 1.1.

Daniela Hernandez 9:31 am
Sera thank you for the re-upload.

*****

MEMORANDUM

DATE: February 6th
TO: All Operatives Supervising HGW-726-TOLO
FROM: Sera Miller, Internal Operations Liaison and Head Intelligence Analyst
SUBJECT: Operations Update 1.0

In accordance with Thorn's current "hands-off" policy in the HGW-726-TOLO, operatives are currently on standby and awaiting confirmation from Veritas. Thorn currently lacks the jurisdiction to surveil the area; however, Veritas has flagged the following persons as 'of interest.' Assignments are as follows:

Daniela Hernandez and Zoe Clark:
Dilo — Celebrated bishop of the Catholic Church who exposed the Tolosa Holy Grail Ritual to the Church. The Vatican has released a statement claiming he died February 1st of natural causes. Considering the bishop initiated negotiations between the Holy Church and Thorn and ensured Thorn's official involvement in the ritual in exchange for the Church's legitimacy in claiming the Tolosa Holy Grail and the rights to perform the ritual in the United States, this timely death is suspicious.

Matou Sakura, Master of Saber — Magus. Former Master of HGW-726-FUYU-5. Pupil of Bishop Dilo and consultant to help the Holy Church oversee the HGW-726-TOLO. Unclear why she summoned a Servant. Internal Holy Church Schism? Her Saber Class Servant is an armored warrior woman with a fiery gold sword. Lives up to the name most excellent Class.

Chris Frampton — Executor-in-training. Orphaned at ten years of age, Frampton was adopted into the Holy Church by Bishop Dilo. Unknown why a high school student would be involved in overseeing a Holy Grail War.

Joseph Kelsey — Pastor. Leads the Tolosa Mission congregation. Has ties to the Holy Church. Previously knew Bishop Dilo and was active in Aylesbury.

Sancraid Phahn, Overseer and Master of Rider — Current overseer for HGW-726-TOLO. Mediator for the Assembly of the Eighth Sacrament. Specializes in relic acquisitions from private collectors. Claims to have summoned a Servant in response to Sakura Matou summoning Saber. Surprisingly little information was found about him. Rider is an armored knight, perhaps from the Middle Ages?

Ranbir Singh:
Fillia von Einzbern, Master of Archer — Homunculus. Former Holy Grail Vessel of HGW-726-SNOW. Known to be deceased. Unsure how she is still operational. Travels with her Tuner by the name of 'Rich,' a well known music theory scholar. Her Archer Servant is a hulking giant who is likely the strongest Servant in the war.

Byron Valualeta Iselma, Master of Caster — Magus. Disgraced nobleman from the Iselma Family. Real life inspiration for a character in the apocryphal 'Dangerous Beauty: Vanishing at the Towers of the Twin Faces' which is part of the 'Velvet Canon' webnovels. Affiliated with the Clock Tower Faculty of Creation. A stereotypical magus by all accounts. Brought his daughter, Estella Valualeta Iselma, also known as the Princess of Silver. Byron has ties with the Grand who killed Thorn's former consultant 'Francesca' multiple times, Touko Aozaki. His Caster Servant has not shown her abilities. Veritas believes she is related to the Iselma goal of creating the ultimate beauty.

Shawn Young:
Dead Apostle? — A vampire Veritas's Servant encountered. There are rumors that a vampire had been residing in the Men's Colony north of Tolosa.

Nadine Craig, Master of Assassin — Local high school student who stumbled into a Servant battle. Veritas is adamant about separating her from her Servant. Craig's Assassin calls herself Mary and is clothed in the style of a domestic servant. Veritas's Berserker, Florence Nightingale finds this False Assassin dangerous.

Master of Lancer — Unknown. Veritas notes her almost fatal encounter with Lancer and that he has been active planting trees around leyline foci that qualify as Holy Grail summoning locations. Those who touch these trees have visions from the Classical period.

File Complete
Krast Lenny Wegner, Master of Assassin — Magus. Former Scaldio Family officer. Neutralized by Veritas. Servant neutralized by Archer.

With Veritas and information from local support teams, this is a summary of our best reproduction of the timeline for the first three days HGW-726-TOLO.

February 2nd:
Night —

Overseer duty of HGW-726-TOLO officially shifts from Chris Frampton to Sancraid Phahn.
Conflagration on Cerro Huerta. Considering the location and fire present, likely due to Saber and Lancer fighting. This is the first known fight of HGW-726-TOLO.
A bounded field is erected over Tolosa High School. Archer and Rider are found fighting within it.
Veritas neutralizes Krast Lenny Wegner. Archer defeats Wegner's Assassin.
Nadine Craig summons 'False' Assassin with the corpse of 'True' Assassin.
The Servants all disperse and Rider takes Craig to Phahn's church.

February 3rd:
Day —

Rumors of 'vampire' attacks on the Men's Colony appear on r/TOLO and other social media.
Craig, Assassin, and Archer found outside Rite-Aid on Johnson Ave, next to the Tolosa Creek.
Frampton and Phahn seen near Wegner's destroyed safehouse.

Night —

Frampton spotted in multiple locations throughout the evening including near the Men's Colony.
Veritas attempts to neutralize Assassin and extract Craig. Berserker encounters the Dead Apostle and forces it to flee.
More trees appear on leyline foci and are burned.

February 4th:
Day —

Caster and the Princess of Silver are seen picking up party decorations.
Craig is seen on Tolosa Polytechnic campus. Meeting Rich?

Night —

The Iselma gather the Masters and Servants. According to Veritas, the only Masters who do not attend are Matou and Lancer's Master. Matou is seen in downtown Tolosa.
Phahn announces dual status as Master and overseer and proceeds to denounce 'a rogue Master from Dilo's faction,' Matou.
Veritas is ambushed by Frampton outside the Iselma mansion before she is able to neutralize any Masters. They are chased by the Iselma security automata and encounter Lancer who severely wounds Frampton.
Saber materializes and fends off Lancer.

Our priority is gathering detailed up-to-date information to better inform Veritas's on-the-ground response and the organization's policy on the Holy Church moving forward. However, the gaps in the timeline will eventually need to be filled if HGW-726-TOLO is to be safely administered.

Extra hours are to be expected. As per Thorn policy, sick leave is canceled for the duration of HGW-726-TOLO except for medical or personal emergencies. In exchange, all working hours for information analysts will be considered overtime and catering provided for dinner alone. Our intern, Sam, has agreed to handle the catering so please let him know your dietary restrictions and preferences.

Thank you for your hard work.

Stir · Feb 18, 2021

18/Just Peachy

43 - Peach Cream Ice (Crème de Péches)

She was born in a country that plunged headfirst into a long depression while still feeling the hunger pangs of one of the largest famines in history.

— Cut 12 peaches in halves, crack the stones and take out the kernels.

The men drank, the women wept, and the children got sick. Each of them dreamed of sailing to a New World for a chance at a better life.

In this age of egalitarian scarcity, a girl was born.

She was like any other girl. Another hungry mouth to feed, another dirty body to clothe, another useless girl who needed a groom. Her parents never wanted her, but they were Catholic, you see. They didn't call it being pro-life back then. They were just. . . poor, like most people in the 'old country.' So they gave the girl to her grandmother.

— Put them to cook with half a pint of water and 4 ounces of sugar.

The girl loved the Nana who raised her.

The girl loved the people she'd meet going into town.

The girl loved the shopkeepers who would give her a little extra, knowing she only had her Nana.

The girl loved her hometown. . . so she was painfully aware.

— When tender mix a little liquid saffron or apricot yellow (p. 63) with the fruit and a few drops of vanilla, Pass through the tammy cloth or hair sieve.

In the fields.

In the houses.

And for those especially unlucky, in the cribs.

— Put the pint of cream in a pan over the fire and let it come to the boil, and then pour it onto the sugar yolks (a quarter of a pound of castor sugar, and 8 yolks of eggs) in a basin and mix well.

In her era, disease was an inevitable postscript to daily life. .

No one knew exactly where it came from.

"To filth!" the men would shout over the first round.

"The miasma!" the men would sometimes cry after the eighth.

"Water. . . please. . ." the men would groan the morning after.

— Return it to the pan and keep it stirred over the fire till it thickens and clings well to the spoon, but do not let it boil.

But there was one iron-clad rule they all lived by — the strong did not get sick.

The girl was strong.

— Pass it through a tammy, or hair sieve, or strainer.

Only the strong survived the voyage from the old country to the New World.

Penniless potential immigrants huddled in the bowels of an overcrowded ship. With haunted eyes, they watched each other fall to weakness( sickness) and expire only to be dumped into the cold black sea.

— Add this purée to 1.5 pints of custard. Let it cool.

Even in this hell, everything was the same.

Surrounded by disease. Surrounded by filth. Surrounded by death. As always, the girl was alone.

— Take Patent Freezer and lift the pan from the tub. Put pounded ice in the tub with a depth of about 1 to 1.5 inch, according to the quantity of cream, etc, to be frozen, and throw the pounded ice half its weight of freeze or rough salt and mix it with the pounded ice. Replace pan on the pivot in the tub.

She had no doubt that she would survive the two-week voyage.

She was strong, you see.

Born into poverty and abandoned by her parents at fourteen years of age, she held no romantic illusions about the world. All she wanted was the opportunity to be given just compensation for her work.

— Pour your cream, etc, into the pan through the little door in the lit and turn the hand.

What she didn't understand was that everyone else on that ship was just as strong as she was.

What she didn't understand was that everyone else on that ship wanted exactly the same thing as she did.

What she didn't understand was —

— Observe, there is no need to pack ice and salt around the pan, but merely to put it on the bottom of the tube under the pan.

Even in the New World, the poor got sick. That's just what happened to the poor.

The newborn down the street.

The couple in their building.

The elderly man down the hall.

And by the Grace of God, they would either recover or be taken to the next world.

It was a mundane, everyday occurrence that almost began to mean nothing to the girl as she became a woman, for disease did not touch the wealthy middle-class whom she cooked for.

— After turning the handle for 2 or 3 minutes, examine the progress of the freezing by looking through the door in the link.

"It's Sunday, Mary. I've been good all week. You're going to make it aren't you — peach ice-cream?"

"Ya disturbing my work, dearie. Mr. Warren's going to be ragin' if he finds you in here."

"Please let me stay and learn, Mary. I want to be one of those 'new women' Mummy always talks about and make my own living like you do!"

— When partly frozen, half a pint of whipped cream slightly sweetened may be added to each pint of custard.

Disease was a natural disaster, like a hurricane or a flood. Blood paid for due to the inadequacies in governmental response, public health systems, or cultural practices. Mary's world was covered in disease. If the visitor was truly a Doctor as he claims, he should know that, so —

"Madam. . . Ummm. . . what I would like to say is. . ." he cleared his throat to regurgitate some more courage. "Please be so kind as to submit your fluids for examination."

Why ask Mary? She had never been sick.

— When the cream is sufficiently frozen, hold the pan with one hand and unscrew the handle and lift off the crossbar and lid.

An older Mary sits on a chair looking over a large river as the sun sets. Wrapped in a crocheted blanket, her dirty, paunchy face and glazed eyes reflect the waning sunlight. There's none of the fire that she brings to each expression or gesture, just a sad acceptance that she will never reach that distant sprawling metropolis making its first attempts at conquering the skyline.

This must be where she left her pride( soul) .

She left a country of disease in a boat filled with disease, only to arrive in a port city plagued with the same diseases, and somehow made something of herself.

Mary was strong. She didn't get sick.

I think. . . that was her pride.

That's why her employers trusted her to cook the decadent dishes the nouveau riche used as cultural currency in their attempts to become accepted into the upper echelons of late 19th century New York society.

So, I can't help but wonder how. . . how did this proud and fussy Irish immigrant who made peach ice cream that was to die for become trapped on this island for sick people?

— Serve cold and enjoy.

No, it doesn't matter.

*****

I don't usually shower in the morning, but I got home so late that I went to sleep without taking off my makeup. Big mistake. I don't need my skin looking blotchier than it already does, so I roll out of bed, putting the finishing crumples on last night's dress.

Mary warned me, but I was too tired to listen. Now she's reminding me she warned me as I wipe my mouth and check the shirt I'm wearing out today for any splatter. After rinsing my mouth, I brush my teeth. Luckily, the buzz of the electric toothbrush drowns out most of her scolding. She's so persistent, continuing behind the door as I'm using the toilet.

"Dude, can I have some privacy?"

My nagging ghost replies, "Privacy's for those capable of changing clothes before going to bed."

Ever since the party last night with the Masters and their Servants, Mary's been all sorts of pompous and really trying to hide her. . . Not accent; what's the word she uses for it. . . Brogue. That's it. Anyway, I guess rubbing shoulders with the cultured reminded her of her past. The same past I partly saw last night.

I sigh as I flush.

Life must have been pretty shitty back then, but I'm glad to see that Mary was able to live her American Dream. Even if she got sick towards the end, at least the government looked after her. According to most media outlets, the American Dream is deader than a doornail, replaced with disenchanted active shooters. Good to know the system worked once upon a time. But then again, wasn't Mary framed for murder?

I try to imagine how that went down as I dig through my packed bathroom drawer for that half-empty bottle of witch-hazel cleanser and those cotton pads from the 99c store next to the Gross Out. Okay, make-up is all gone, so pause the video while I get that square of aloe face cleansing soap. Face all wet, now sud up, cheeks first, around the nose, and finally forehead. All cleansed so it's time to pull out the big guns. Moroccan red clay facial scrub. Today's exfoliation day. Once a week. You don't want to exfoliate too much because it takes too much off. Scrub hard, scrub deep, and maybe one day these blackheads will all be gone. Press play again, skip, skip, skip. Don't act like you aren't sponsored. Can't believe this video wasn't demonetized. Let's finish this up with some Vitamin E oil. Hmmm, I don't really want my face drying out so maybe some moisturizer too — time to switch to that moisturizer video Krista favorited for me. I do like how this girl dabs her face. Two on the chin, three on each cheek, one between the eyebrows, one on the middle of the forehead and two at the temples. Now rub in. And no, I don't think I will like and subscribe. Why?

I look at the mirror.

Are all girls hopeless romantics for following a daily ritual of cleansers, masks, and creams or have we just been conditioned to believe these things make us more beautiful? But this is how we relate to each other, right? This is how we socially stratify ourselves, right? There has to be some sort of secret to this slavish devotion if this girl on my phone has a million people who thought her advice on morning skin routines was worth their attention because she happens to look better than they do.

I touch my cheek to make sure there's no residue.

What's the difference between this video and when Caster and the Silver Princess walked down the staircase? They're both just as unattainable for us mere mortals. I think most women know that, yet we still continue our daily regiment through rain, hail, sleet, or snow because we can see the goal. Not in ourselves, that's laughable, but in someone else. If you see the ideal, no matter how filtered or photoshopped it might be, you can reach it. So, day by day we plod, different combinations of products, different order of products, different 'natural' ingredients in the products. Yet always products, until that's all we become to each other.

The beginning was a tube of acne cream Krista said her "dope-ass" cousin recommended because I wouldn't go out of the house without a beanie to hide the giant zits on my forehead. As parents gave in and bought us phones, utilitarianism transformed to mockingly mimicking girls who would upload videos about what products they would die on a hill for in their poorly lit bathrooms. High school was when parody turned into foundation, cleansers, moisturizers filling all empty spaces in my vanity.

Because we felt like stealing all the free samples from unopened magazines in a CVS.

Because your favorite Youtuber made a video recommending it.

Because your mum took you shopping to try to prove to herself she could still be a good mother after her divorce.

And through you, I…

Honestly, a mystery, the things that you can get used to doing.

I open the bathroom door to find my ghost companion sitting on my bed with my iPad.

"Sure took your time in the privy."

"Is that my grandma's? Did you raid the attic last night?" She's wearing a deep blue flowing dress. My maternal grandparents died when I was young, but mom goes into the attic and looks through clothes with a wistful expression on her face, sometimes tears, when she's had a particularly bad date. Based on the pool of guys you can meet in your mid-forties, that blue dress has been taken out more than its fair share.

"Servants don't need to sleep. And your grandmother had good taste, though I'm a little averse to wearing the dress of a woman who has already passed."

"Why? You're a 'woman who has already passed.' And like if you were so averse, why pick through my attic in the first place? Not that I care." I start rummaging through my own clothes to find a clean shirt and catch a glimpse of the iPad screen. "Servants know how to use tablets?"

"The Grail tells us what computers are, but no, we don't know how to use them. But come on dearie, if you can read and write it's not that hard to operate a digital typewriter." Also, your key combination is much too obvious, anyone could unlock your machine, she adds.

Impressed with yourself, much?

"It's not worth anything, just something my mum says she got me because I got good grades." She landed a big client that day too. Talk about an egotrip. You're such a smart girl Nadine. You could be a scientist or lawyer; your father would be so proud of you. How about a reward for all your hard work? "Anyway, why are you watching Anthony Bourdain?"

Enraptured by a man with bushy eyebrows and curly white hair gracing the screen, she ignores me. Behind him is a red glowing neon sign of some bohemian New York eatery.

"You know he died. Suicide, I think."

"Bless his heart," she mumbles without taking her eyes off the screen. "Everything a cook should be, this one was."

It makes sense that the first thing Mary, a famous cook, would be watching on Netflix are other famous cooks, but just how much did she end up binging last night if she's already on the last episode?

"Ummm, My mom's still downstairs. I'll head down and let you know when she's gone."

"Grand," she says without looking up.

*****

Tentatively, I take a bite out of my Eggo. Slightly burnt, but edible. Slather on enough Nutella and it's fine. What are Eggos but a vehicle for spread?

In a slightly too professional grey pants suit coupled with a black blouse that lets everyone know she's desperate( fun) enough to flirt back even if her pants suit is too professional my mom comes into the kitchen jangling her car keys.

"You're up early." She sounds surprised.

"Life of an indentured servant. You were the one who signed off on that Great Compromise."

"In such a good mood, how rare." She takes out a giant Odwalla superfood juice and pours herself a glass of what looks like algae mixed with mud. "How was last night? Quick, I've got to go soon."

That reminds me. . .

"Hey mom, do we have any magic in our family?"

"Magic? I think your father used to do a bit in his college days back when David Copperfield was cool. Oh, but he didn't like being called a magician, he was an 'illusionist', or when half the seats at an open mic were filled, a 'prestidigitator'. It was cute."

She finishes her juice, fills the glass with tap water and leaves it in the empty sink.

"No mom, like witches and wizards, the Harry Potter stuff. Wasn't one of your grandmothers from Salem?"

"No, no, I don't think so. . . I've got to go. We can talk more about this. . . oh! That's right! Remember cousin Becky? Uncle Noah and Aunt Emma who helped us when we first moved here? God, I haven't called since last Thanksgiving. Anyway, remember Becky? The one who chewed her split-ends and had that cute crush on your brother. Well, get this, she's a witch now. Saw it on Facebook. She got into it after being accepted into Berkeley. Smart kid, not very bright."

"No mom, Wiccans don't count." And most of my cousins had crushes on my brother.

"Then, I guess we don't have magic in the family. Why are you asking?" She's rummaging through her purse probably looking for the car keys that are right in front of me.

"Everyone at that party was like an aristocrat. They talked a lot about their ancestors. The host, Lord Byron, seemed to be from one of those old families mentioned in occult books? Apparently, he was related to the Valueta family and there was like a Waynez family mentioned."

"Well Nadine, that's just the Brits for you. But, Waynez. . . Waynez. . . now, where have I heard that name again. . . Oh, there are my keys. Nadine, why didn't you tell me they were just. . .? Well, now I'm really going to be late if I don't—" Struck by a bolt of divine inspiration, her eyes widen as she slams her hands onto the granite kitchen top. "You don't mean the Waynez Department Store in London, do you?" she practically shrieks.

I gaze into the abyss of her ardent eyes and find it very difficult to see myself anymore, so I shrug.

"Nadine—" she starts, before being cut off by the buzz of her phone. "Oh shi— We'll talk more about this when I get home, okay? Cute henna, are those supposed to be peacock feathers?"

Crap, I really need to figure out how to hide my Command Spell.

That's my mom for you: didn't even ask me what I was going to do today. I spent a sparse five minutes planning a lie too. What a waste.

When the car finishes pulling out of the driveway, I shout upstairs, "Hey, Mary, want breakfast!?"

She tromps down the stairs and eyes the juice container that my mom left on the counter with vehement disapproval.

"It doesn't actually taste like what you'd think. They make it for people like my mom so that they think they're getting enough servings of fruit and vegetables when it's mostly sugar."

"Wasn't complaining about the slop, dearie. For a home this large, this kitchen is awful cold."

"The thermostat is on the wall behind you."

"Not like that. There's a universal law that every kitchen is a sinking ship where the cook continuously bails out the seawater with a bucket and her own two hands. No matter how fastidiously a cook may clean and scrub, imperfections build over time. This place is too clean, not because someone did a good job cleaning, but because it hasn't been used." She drags her index finger across an induction plate and inspects the residue. "Your mother has never taught you to cook?"

"I think she taught me how to make scrambled eggs once." I get indignant. "Look, if you don't like the food we have, you can cook."

"Dearie, you couldn't afford my rate."

That takes me back to my dream where soft candlelight illuminated a multitude of dishes cooling on top of a luxurious tablecloth enveloping a hardwood table carved from a single tree, can you believe it, lovelies? Dinner was never just a family occasion. There were always guests around the table marveling at the newest delight from the Orient or Paris their cook had concocted.

"I dreamt about you last night. That's a magecraft thing, right?"

She seizes up. "Yes dearie, it's normal for Masters and Servants to see each other's pasts. It has to do with how the path is set up during the contracting I believe."

I finish my Eggo. After what happened in the bathroom this morning, it's good to see her squirm a little. "Oh, it happens to every Master. That's a bit disappointing. My past is pretty boring, sorry about that."

"Nadine. . ." You know it's serious when Mary says your name, "What did you see?"

"Peach ice-cream. I saw you making peach ice-cream." Geez, you don't have to make that face.

"Aye." There's a wisp of pride in that ghostly smile. "Then you saw me on one of my good days."

Best leave it at peach ice-cream, but after seeing how she immigrated to this country, there's something that I need to confirm.

"You're a Heroic Spirit, Mary, but you didn't do anything magical in your life like err. . . defeating Hades, right."

She crosses her arms, "Proper Heroic Spirits like Archer and Rider are heroes people revere for doing something. In my case, bad things, unjust things, were done to me and that's why people still know me today. I'm just a cook, dearie. I can't help you with magecraft."

The bowl-cut priest said. . . it seems that I have eyes that see into the world.

Laurent said. . . if my eyes do see into the world, then I could be a Magician's Egg.

"Where does that leave us?"

"We've been contracted for three days now. Don't take this the wrong way dearie, but you're not suited for war."

Sick burn.

"So why stay with me?" I ask, pushing the hope that tries to escape my throat as far down my stomach as possible.

"If there's one thing I learned during my life, it's that there's safety among the weak."

It was dumb to think that maybe we were starting to be friends.

*****

Beneath the trio of hung kayaks that have never touched water, I pump air into a half-flat bike tire. Ten pumps. Press my thumb against it. Slight give; good enough. There isn't too much dust on the frame and nothing squeaks so my brother's bike is probably still ride-able. Tolosa's big on bikes even if it really shouldn't be. Too hilly. Sure, it's fun going down, but you have to get off your bike and walk it up.

"We'll be riding to the church?" Mary looks at me apprehensively after adjusting the seat on my bike. For the last two days, Mary has always been in her ghost form, following me around when we're in public. All of a sudden, she puts on my grandmother's dress and wants to bike around town, see the sights. Something definitely must have happened last night.

"I'll stop by in the afternoon to see how Father Phahn is doing." My mum and the bowl-cut priest have some sort of agreement. If I work at the church for the next two weeks, she'll cover for my absences at school. She didn't know that the priest she signed up as my mentor was a Master and the overseer for this fucked up ritual. "I texted Laurent last night. He responded this morning. We're going to meet at Ahnenerbe, a cafe downtown."

"German." Mary smiles wryly as we wheel our bicycles outside the garage and proceed to get on. "Freddy would have words."

Not going to bite. Girls who can insert a boyfriend into any conversation are the worst.

"Yeah, there was a big fight over it a few years back. Had protestors and everything, No one thought that cafe was going to make it more than two months."

"Because of the name?"

"People were pissed on both sides. It was ridiculous. Then the election happened and. . . " I shrug. "There are still college students who avoid it because they don't want to be associated and some kids that go in to take pictures that they think will get them Reddit clout."

"So why is your friend asking us to meet him there?"

"Laurent said he was going to bring someone from the church. Might be German?"

Mary looks back and shakes her head in disapproval before starting to pedal.

What?

*****

The GPS said fifteen minutes but we take more like half an hour to reach downtown. No problem, I planned for this, thinking Mary would be unaccustomed to riding a modern bike down a modern street. Turns out it was me having to stop multiple times to make sure we made the right turn, and when we didn't, well we'd have to turn back. It's been a while since I've biked Tolosa. When Krista got her license and her dad got her a car so he could 'win' the divorce, we ditched the bikes.

We're close to downtown now; I can see it on Google Maps. The streets become more labyrinthine the closer you get. How many times have we stopped, already? Mary hasn't complained yet. Worse. She's looking through me, gazing down the street. Her eyes are distant, almost forlorn for a shore that she'll never reach. I'm nothing but an inconvenience.

"It's that way." I point in the opposite direction.

She makes a small grunt and follows me down the street.

Is it more difficult for Servants who come from the distant past or those from modern times to acclimate? On one hand you have extreme culture shock; but after they get past the initial shock, they can treat their manifestation as a vacation to a theme park they'll forget about in two weeks. On the other hand, you have Mary who finds familiarity in the skeleton of a modern street, but that same street reminds her that her present is now a dead past.

"It's so different, yet everything's the same," blithely comes out of her mouth as we pass the neatly packed stores. She doesn't care to elaborate.

"A small Californian city can't really compare to Manhattan."

"Aye."

When we took the bus around Tolosa two days ago, we passed by downtown but didn't stop. So as we make our way down the street to the cafe we're supposed to meet Laurent, I point out a souvenir store, try to explain how ROSS is a franchise, or why there are so many restaurants advertising themselves as breweries.

"If you want to see the town at its rowdiest, there's the Farmer's Market tonight."

"Farmers in such a modern town?"

"Ummmm," I'm originally from Portland so explaining how the Central Coast works to other people isn't my strong point. "California's known for agriculture. Something to do with a Mediterranean climate meaning they can grow more than cash crops. There might not be much agriculture in the town, but there's quite a lot around it. Honestly though the Farmer's market isn't really for farmers. Just an excuse for restaurants to set up booths."

"Oriental restaurants, Mediterranean eateries, and coffeehouses abound. New York at the turn of the 20th century was cosmopolitan, but I didn't expect such diverse cuisine so far west."

I don't have the heart to tell her it's all the same. That this town subsumes each foundation, stripping authenticity down to a frame and serving it to customers. There's pride, there has to be, if they're willing to sell a product they believe in. But that's all it is, a product; the vision behind it has undeniably become Tolosa. Except for the fast food. Perhaps those companies were already so homogenized that locality had no observable effect. I don't know, but I can't help but think Mary is a bit naive when it comes to food.

We pass the burger place/coffee shop/brewery that specializes in sours preparing for the oncoming lunch rush. The only people on the streets are moms finished with morning Spin class or college students who thought it was a better use of their time to go downtown than attend lecture. We park the bikes at the nearest racks we can find. Totally forgot to bring an extra lock, a single U-lock around the front wheel and spokes should be fine. As long as the bikes are on the racks no one should touch them. It's Tolosa, after all. Mary doesn't make a comment about the bikes, but asks me what I hope to get out of lunch with Laurent and his friend.

"Because I don't think we can win."

Because after last night I just want to talk to Laurent.

"I thought that was a given, dearie." She seems disappointed it took me so long to realize. "Was that after Father Phahn made his speech? You left for quite a bit of time."

On our way down the street to Ahnenerbe I tell her about how Byron made me realize even if I was a better mage than him, we still wouldn't have a chance.

Stir · Feb 18, 2021

19/ Ecce Homo (I)

After splashing water on my hands and half-drying them on a hand towel that might have belonged to the gardener, the buzz from the champagne starts wearing off and that bowl-cut priest's speech about Holy Grail rituals, destiny, and the Church starts soaking itself into my brain.

I'm out of my depth, aren't I?

The mages and Servants all ate up his words like the lobster tail baked in garlic butter that came out soon afterwards. But me, I'm just. . . I have these eyes though. So turn the doorknob and open the door. God, Nadine, you're not going to let yourself be stuck in a bathroom in yet another party. That's just too pathetic. Even for you.

The bathroom opens up to the garden. Turning that doorknob took most of the courage I have, so I stand in place, staring at the Iselma family's well-lit garden.

"Master, multiple sentry units have activated. Good heavens, why didn't the outer bounded field detect a soul?"

Peeking out from a large spherical hedge, I see an older man's outline sitting at a fountain's edge in the middle of the garden looking down at the hill this mansion was built on. Lord Byron. The twinkling voice belonged to his Servant.

My breath catches the back of my throat as she glides into view. Her pale blond hair is tied up in a delicate bun that leaves her forehead and neck bare. The moon daren't reflect off those porcelain surfaces, preferring to hide in the clouds so it need not confront the █ that puts nature to shame this night. A jeweled choker encircles her throat, drawing my eyes to her almost bare shoulders from which billows a light blue ball gown that the shrouded stars themselves have found fitting to stitch themselves within. Compared to that, I may as well be wearing an unironic garbage bag dress.

"Leave it, Caster. If the system can't handle it, Estella will," he raises an empty glass.

"That aside Master, the host should attend to his guests."

"These guests are a girl, a snake of a priest, and a street performer escorting a half brain dead homunculus he managed to scrape together from busking. Bah! They're all trash."

"No need to harry them as if they were vermin, Master. Common vermin can be delightfully magical. A common servant girl can become a Lady for a night if she wishes with all her heart. The Grail impresses upon us the magic of wishes, allowing the less fortunate to overcome adversity through persistence. Everyone in that hall has heard and answered that call. You are no different, so you shan't insult them in my presence."

"Hah, no." In a single word, all the glittering magic in the air that promised a tomorrow that sparkled with kindness evaporated. "Pretending trash isn't trash is shameful, Caster."

He looks over at the woman his words should have cut. There is neither shame nor hurt on her face — only serenity that would reflect the stars in the night sky if they were not covered in clouds. That makes Byron uncomfortable. Serves him right.

He wants to confront you, see if you're worthy of his time and even then you'll only earn grudging acceptance. I didn't make that cut, that's why I'm behind this hedge. I'm not scared of him. I'm scared of destroying him with these eyes because he's a short-sighted idiot.

Caster was spared indignation because she's his object; the Servant he summoned. To Byron, she's both his representative and tool. His ego holds him hostage. Calling her trash is an acknowledgment that the summoner is also trash. He can never insult her as he does with everyone else. The most he can do is deny her worldview, caging a bird that should have soared, spreading its truly sickening blessings to anything under its wings.

"No Master, no one's shameful. Not even yourself." She says simply with an understanding smile on her face.

What?

Byron's eyes widen and relax for a moment as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest. He catches himself though, pushing the weight back down with the entire force of his disagreeable personality. As his eyes narrow, all signs of any vulnerability are gone and what's left is a tinge of fear because he can once again see the mirror in front of him in the shape of the most █ woman, so bright she could burn anyone's moral retinas.

She goes beyond the territory of female protagonists in Japanese comics who are chased by every fictional man who should by no rights be attracted to her. She is a competent, complete Madonna who knows her own intrinsic worth so she has no problem accommodating your ridiculous views. Every woman wants her confidence and ease. Every man wants her respect and attention. She affirms them both with a cute laugh to boot. Fuck me dead, they exist. I thought the closest we got was an Instagram filter.

"Y-You," Byron stutters before recomposing himself in a way no man could after being hit by that mental attack. For the first time, he sees something in her that terrifies him and disappoints him at the same time, forcing these words from his mouth, "What about you, girl? Did you ever consider how your father felt?" he says, head down, defeated.

Caster doesn't respond. Her perfect brows, two shades more complex than any eyebrow pencil, crease for a mere second. The movement doesn't dare wrinkle that marble skin. Instead, the inner curve of her cheek gives way to well-deep dimples one could lose their sanity within.

"See, you can care if you try, Master." She offers him her hand.

Byron doesn't take it, or rather he can't find the will to do so, "Let me enjoy the night air a little longer, Caster."

She softly nods and almost floats past the hedge I'm hiding behind, back to the party impossibly alone. When she disappears through the door, Byron calls out, "No amount of handwashing could get the stench of leaking magical energy off, you amateur."

Walk away.

"Come here." He motions me to sit as he's pouring himself a drink.

I've always been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

My dad had a heart attack when I was in the car.

Krista gave my brother a handjob in the first room I walked into.

I summoned Mary in the school football field that had been transformed into a makeshift colosseum.

Leaving my first party early led me straight into a vampire.

I see. I have eyes that allow me to discern the subtleties of nature. All these shitty things happened because I was there. You, 'Lord' Byron, are just a symptom. You say you don't suffer fools, but as Masters we have nothing to suffer but each other. So I'll sit. I'll sit in front of this water clock impaled with pipes and listen to you because you're a mage who said I, the ones with these eyes, the one called a Magician's Egg, was nothing. So, show me. Show me the difference between us.

"That. . . was all drivel." His breath smells like sour wood. . . whiskey.

"Yeah. You got issues, dude."

"Dude, hah. That's the first time I've been called. . . ." He half-drunkenly turns and looks me straight in the eye. "Do you know how easy it would be for me to tease out that memory and tear it apart — no. . . for me to enter," he taps his temple, "and steal every unoriginal thought you've ever had?"

"Yes. But a vampire tried and didn't get far."

He snorts under his breath, shakes his head and puts his drink down. "A vampire tried. . . " he gingerly fingers his cane. "I won't question why you're fighting; it's too trite of a question and most answers are equally so, my own is no different."

"Mary; she's not a bad person."

"Did you really call your Servant a person? Amateur, amateur mistake."

"I don't know, you seemed to have a pretty good time talking to her this evening."

"An artist's curiosity, nothing more."

"Artist, not a magus?"

"I've been feeling more like a — It's all nonsense anyway, amateur, forget I spoke."

We sit silently for a few moments before I ask, "You said that I was hopeless. Trash. Why?"

"Terrible circuits. Calling yourself a magus requires possessing a minimal amount of magical energy. You don't even reach that threshold, amateur. Resisting a vampire's mystic eyes. . . pshhh, no doubt took all the Od you had. You'd be hard-pressed to utilize any nature-interference magecraft even if you had that upstart El-Melloi II's ability."

"And what's that?"

"A useless, hateful talent. He's the closest anyone's ever come to understanding my system with a mere glance. What else in this world could be more hateful than that?"

"He has eyes that see into the world?"

"Bah, see into the world? All that sniveling man can see are his own students reaching heights he'll never touch. He's useless. No, it's all useless."

"What's useless?"

His eyes sharpen the moment the question leaves my mouth. "You really don't know, do you? You really don't know and willingly joined this Holy Grail War."

I. . . I am a Master, the Command Spell on the back of my hand confirms my status. You are a half-drunk boomer who doesn't realize he's having a mid-life crisis. Trophy Servant, sports-carriage, getting a little too into acquiring land in the Central Coast. I like you because you're willing to tell it like it is, but I don't respect you.

"Have you heard about the Tower of Babel?" He shakes his head. "No, forget I asked, with this country's education system I'm astounded whatever comes from your mouth is even intelligible."

"Kids my age are dumb, yeah, but don't lump us together. Babel. That's a Bible thing. Back in the day everyone could communicate so they tried to build a tower to reach God. God was not okay with this for some reason and destroyed the tower. So it couldn't happen again, He created different languages."

"The first mistake is the most elementary, amateur. The story of Babel was not Man attempting to reach God but to call It down. An allegory for the end of the Age of Gods, but not the story of magecraft. For that, consider the world a library. Each book in this library contains five hundred pages and each page averages about eighty words written in, say, English. For an average magus, it takes approximately a year to read a page. Finishing a book would take five hundred years. Now imagine if no two books in the library were the same and the location of each book was random."

Dumb thought exercise. Reminds me of monkeys, typewriters, and infinite time. I'm guessing the answer is that there would be a lot of books, but not infinite. There would be a book with the letter A for all five hundred pages and Z for all five hundred pages and everything in between. It would contain all information that could fit on five hundred pages, be it recipes for peach ice-cream, the ending of the last Game of Thrones book, or just 'suck a dick' written over and over again for five hundred pages. But it takes five hundred years to read through one book and all the books are different. There's nothing telling you what you're reading is meaningful or just gibberish. No, that's the point, there's no longer a difference between the two.

Geez, what a worthless —

"What a worthless library." Byron takes another sip. "But it holds the answer to any question, to all the questions. You know it's all there, all you have to do is look, and if you can't do it, you hand your notes to your heir and ask them to reach for the Truth you sought. Because if everything is in the library, the Truth must be there too. So that's what people start doing, organized searches, declaring some sections closer to the Truth than others, disputing what the Truth actually is, searching the books for a guide to a guide of the Truth. But what about the illiterate, what are they supposed to do with these books? They realize they could tear out pages and mold them into commodities: paper mâché clothes, cosmetics, maybe even ferment the pages and distill whisky."

The quantity of books begins decreasing faster and faster, but that shouldn't matter because the amount of books is near infinite so even if a book is destroyed, its copy that is one letter different should exist somewhere.

"As the centuries pass the library becomes a world of paper mâché with those few readers left scurrying around with whatever books were still available hidden under their clothes, reading, hoping to one day find the Truth."

What they don't understand is it's all the same. . . .

"What they don't understand is it's all the same, just books."

Nice story for a middle-aged man, sobering up, but there are too many holes. For one, how are the illiterate people supposed to make things if they don't know what those things are in the first place because they can't read the books. Secondly, there are just so many books that even if you made paper mâché cities, there would still be an astronomical number of books left. Finally,

"What does this have to do with being a magus?"

"Listen closely, amateur. These mysteries that we try to reproduce are all just paper. That's why it's all bullshit."

"Why are you telling me this if I'm just an amateur?"

"Next time we meet, we'll be enemies. I want you to know why you lost."

I don't have a response to that, so we listen to the unseasonal cicadas in the garden trees chirp and the water clock striking midnight until Caster comes back, still robed in all her glory to tell Lord Byron he's needed.

*****

Dressed in tailored suits, a small army of wooden waiters mechanically circle the ballroom, periodically stopping at each pair of conversation partners to offer a 'light bite' as my mom would say. At the insistence of a partygoer, the silver platter is extended forward while the wooden robot lowers its head to imitate respect with a hint of reverence. It's a scene directly out of a storybook, that's why it's so goddamn mundane. Krista's mom used to take us to see Disney movies, The Princess and the Frog, Tangled, even Brave — you know, the ones they're planning on milking live-action movies from in the next decade because they can't find any more folklore to desecrate. She took us to see these movies because that's what little girls want to see, romance, happy endings, magic — mostly magic. We'd laugh at the girls who would go out each Halloween in a princess costume, as if wearing a flimsy Target costume marked up twenty percent would bring enough magic to self-actualize whether through a Prince Charming or these days, rejecting all the suitors to go out dancing because you just want to dance.

We had a great time laughing at those girls — Krista with a pair of cat ears and me, telling everyone that Halloween is fueled by capitalism preying on the misguided need for escapist wish-fulfillment until my mom shut me up by putting her witch's hat on my head and telling me to have a good time trick-or-treating because she was late to a Halloween party for divorcees where she was sure to meet a stepfather for her kids dressed as a cowboy, banana, or doctor.

For all Byron's talk about the world as a library, an almost infinite number of books, and the struggle to find the truth; magic is already thickly threaded throughout the world. All you need to do is go to Buzzfeed to find out what Disney Princess you are. For a moment, you feel so strongly that particular fictional character might truly represent you that you press Tweet. It's only after you needlessly shared absolutely nothing of substance with the world that you realize it was a shitty personality test some underpaid freelancer hurriedly made before going to their side hustle. If that's not enough for you, take the four-hour drive to Anaheim and wait another hour to go on one of those rides. Sure, they're carefully curated, artificial experiences but is that really any different from being served bacon-wrapped shrimp by one of these dolls?

There's nothing magical about magic in the modern world; it's been clearly defined, applied, and reproduced. Nothing more than a marketing tool in our paper mâché world.

So why do you care about it so much, Rich?

The geometry of the staircase interrupts the flow of magical energy from the speaker.

The thread used for the golden embroidery on the Silver Princess's sash should have been soaked in a dye made from sundried flowers from either nine to noon or three to sunset.

What's the fucking use of a magical mirror if it can't see?

In short, according to Rich, this entire event failed as a ritual to debut the Silver Princess and subsume the guests with Caster's presence.

"Lord Byron," Rich says quite pointedly, "is nothing more than a hack. Rumors really are just rumors. That man touching「」? Unimaginable."

"Touching what?"

"「」. Keep up, Nadine. The final destination for all magi, the Spiral of Origin where the Truth lies. A proper magus would participate in a Holy Grail War, Church-made or not, if it helped them come one step closer to「」."

That's what Byron meant in the garden about the underlying idea behind the library. Mages are idiots who pursue this pie-in-the-sky grand theory of everything they don't even have a name for.

"So, then why is Lord Byron participating in this Grail War if he's already touched. . . ." I try to make the same pause Rich does, but mine simply sputters out instead of dripping fervent gravitas.

I don't need that mystical gravitas everyone else in this room has. I don't need the ability to make wooden dolls serve hor d'oeuvres. These eyes see all the contradictions that litter this hypocritical ocean and drag them into the depths of a reality, magecraft alone can't perceive.

See, Rich's eying me with slight misgivings before continuing, "That's why he's a hack. Whatever path he established must have become obstructed, or perhaps something he didn't account for destroyed the path. He's nothing more than a has-been trying to walk back his own mistakes with someone else's Grail."

"Totally. There's no way Caster can win against Archer. She might be really lucky, but all her other statistics are caterpillars at best."

Genuine conversation is like a mountain stream. People think of it as crystal clear and deep enough that you can see the riverbed at the bottom. It's sparkling, refreshing, and constantly flows. But that's some idealized form of conversation exhausted writer rooms come up with before sliding in laugh tracks to make it seem more natural than it actually is. Nothing but a stock photo of a mountain stream.

If you've ever been forced by your best friend to hike so she could get a selfie with you on top of the hill at sunrise because it was the last week of middle school, then you'll know streams are wet, cold, and cloudy. They might flow, but there's always debris and detritus around. They're butt-ugly, but in that moment, you can't help but be engaged. For a moment there's nothing artificial. . . almost like people are no longer thinking about what they want to say or waiting so they can give their take.

"Of course you wouldn't see parameters as ranks." He dismisses that momentary thought and purses his lips. "Yes, she can't beat Archer in her current state."

Hearing his name, the one-armed mass of muscle in boardshorts pretending to be interested in whatever hygienic wisdom Berserker might be doling out turns and gives me a friendly wave.

"I didn't know people that pretty existed." I turn towards Caster, who's now laughing pleasantly with Mary. I wonder what a fairytale princess and an Irish cook have in common. "And this was before plastic surgery."

"'To look upon beauty is to become beautiful,'" Rich distastefully spits. "That maxim is the core of the Iselma magecraft. They chased 「」 through the ultimate beauty, embodying their magecraft as the 'Gold and Silver Princesses,' symbolizing the sun and the moon, respectively. The Gold Princess of this era died, but it seems Lord Byron summoned a greater monster."

He lost one, a daughter. He does get it. . . a bit. But 'everything's bullshit?' Seriously excusing himself with that man-pain.

Still, the sun and the moon, pretty obvious then isn't it? It's like. . . umm what's the word for it again? How they were able to make Velcro. . . Ah, biomimicry, that's it. If you make two people, one with the principles of the sun and the second with the principles of the moon — the moon is going to reflect the radiance of the sun and that's why it shines. As looking upon beauty makes one become beautiful, gazing upon the sun makes the moon more beautiful and gazing upon the moon makes the sun more beautiful in turn. It's a simple feedback loop like how increasing CO2 emissions melt the ice-caps, decreasing the amount of sunlight reflected, further increasing the temperature which further melts the ice-caps, further decreasing the amount of sunlight reflected. That would mean the Silver Princess is reflecting Caster now.

"What could be greater than the sun?"

"They're playing it right now. Do you have Shazam?" His tone shifts into a higher key on the upbeat.

"What?"

"The app that tells you what song's playing."

The old-timey, upbeat brass makes the Spanish-inspired mansion more similar to a smoke-filled twentieth-century nightclub where the hardboiled detective swears he isn't looking for trouble.

"Oh yeah, no one uses Shazam anymore."

Rich raises an eyebrow, and mutters 'is that so,' before good-naturedly chuckling to himself about how quickly times change. His laugh is more of a guffaw than a musical piece, but the moment he hits that downbeat, his expression goes completely cold.

"The light of the planet."

"What?"

"Something greater than the sun — the light of the planet."

I'm about to ask him to elaborate so my eyes can trace the hidden connections to drag the impenetrable magical world into the understandable mundane, as connections can't exist without facts, irrefutable scraps of data that pave the mystical path these eyes lay, but the gnashing of armor scratching ballroom distracts the both of us from walking down that road.

"You're in better spirits, little lady. When you arrived, you looked like one of my generals reporting that he lost his first campaign."

This lofty Servant is the bowl-cut priest's Rider. He helped Mary and me the night she was summoned.

He cuts an intimidating figure, sure, but I can't help but feel he belongs in a renaissance faire up until his helmet comes off. Then I vomit a little inside. I can't stand that effortless handsome magazine ad type of fake. Here is a man who doesn't try, yet everything falls into his orbit. And you could be this man if you buy the right protein powder. Not just a man. The Man.

I hate that type of perfect because it stole my best friend.

Chill, alright? Rider isn't your brother and he actually went out of his way to help you. You're a Master now, so act like you're a Master, okay?

"Ha, no, yeah, just hangry. Your Master's speech was really great, explained everything really clearly."

"I didn't expect Milord to speak. He should have asked me to give him pointers. I've given speeches that soared, inspired even wounded men to continue fighting." He turns to Fillia who has been standing with us this entire time and not uttered a single word. "And you milady, I was unable to greet you properly during our last meeting. Your Servant's combat prowess are quite grand, indeed." Rider takes and then kisses her hand. "And you, sir?"

"Oh, don't mind me. I'm just her humble Tuner. No need to bother with me at all." He offers a shy smile and waves his hand dismissively.

"I may not know much about magi and their customs, but to be the Tuner for one of the Founding Families must be an honored position. During my time, there was great honor found as an officer of the King."

"I'll definitely keep that in mind, sir!" He reaches out to shake Rider's hand. Rider obliges with gusto. Gag.

"What of you, little lady? How have the past two days been for you?"

"Yesterday, I was attacked by a vampire."

Why am I describing my near-death experience like I'm recounting what I did for the weekend to a disinterested classmate who happened to sit next to me because she was late for class.

"About tha—" Rich starts, but Fillia gently touches his arm. "Yes milady, of course." He retreats a few steps.

"I hope the Church is not entirely focused on 'rogue Servants' but is also following up on that worrying incident." The box known as Fillia opens and plays. There's a hint of steel in her voice that wasn't present at the beginning of the night. "A Dead Apostle Master expands your duties, Rider. I am sure your Master does not want a replay of Snowfield."

"It may please you to hear Milord has sought outside help to deal with this. . . infestation. A specialist from the Church should be tracking the vampire this very instant."

Laurent said that if I wanted to know more about vampires, just like in horror movies, the Church deals with them. What's the connection between mages and the Church?

"Speaking of Father Phahn, where is he?" The signature bowl-cut is nowhere to be seen. He seems like the type who secretly loves being the center of attention. Byron's gone too.

The doors slam open and in strides Byron with the bowl-cut priest in tow with serious expressions on their faces. The two well-dressed men abruptly stop in the center of the room, their very presence stopping all of the mechanical waiters in their tracks.

"Fath—" The Silver Princess starts but closes her mouth as Caster lays a hand on her shoulder.

I can feel something benign flowing through the air and then sucked into the cane Byron taps on the marble floor. As the sharp sound rings through the motionless ballroom, a translucent bubble expands from where he struck the floor. It doesn't take three seconds to become as large as a projector screen. Within the reflection I can see the bottom of a grassy hill.

"If linking the senses of the bounded field to a bubble is meant to impress—" Rich stops muttering under his breath as he squints at the image. "That's a Servant."

The woman standing at the bottom of the hill glows a sooty red from the embers flaking off her silhouette.

"Sa. . . ber. . ." Rider mouths, trying to keep emotion from leaking out.

"Saber!" Archer exclaims as if excited at the prospect of meeting an old friend.

Saber, Saber, the whispered name makes its way through the ballroom, first in hushed tones, then in reassuring strokes, before Father Phahn finally claps his hands.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Servant of the rogue Master has penetrated Lord Byron's bounded field. We currently do not know what her intention is, but as the overseer of this war I will now have Rider engage her in combat. Are there any objections?"

Phahn's eyes glow like the vampire's when he held my head. They dare anyone to challenge his right to hunt. Archer's aura is oppressive, but the priest's bloodthirst is as sharp fangs that puncture your cranium, dig into the brain, and drag you into his gullet. I think I need to pee again. But don't worry Nadine, the bowl-cut priest's a good person. He helped Mary and you when no one else did. This is just what it means to be a Master. See?

Surprisingly, the first person to clear her throat then respond is the Silver Princess, "Saber has trespassed on Iselma land." Her voice is clear like a crystal bell that will forever ring in your head until you can't help but tear it off. "We will endeavor to support you as much as —"

"Thank you for your graciousness but that shall not —" Phahn says without looking at her.

"Shall be accepted." Byron looks Phahn directly in the eye. "Anything less would be an affront to the Iselma name."

"As you please then, Lord Byron." Phahn backs off.

I wouldn't.

There's a thin line between accepting someone's relative authority and actually trusting them. Phahn spun this elaborate tale about the origins of the Holy Grail War and why he is participating. It's too neat and tidy for these mages who live in fictional libraries overthinking about the contents of a book for five hundred years or whatever. But guys, sometimes the world gives you a brother who is perfection in a bottle, a mom from daytime television, and a dead dad. Beat that.

"My Master( Doctor) requests that I help sanitize the area." With her back straight, Berserker announces her intent. "Courtesy deems it necessary for us to repay Iselma kindness and to beg pardon. I eagerly enlist myself for this operation. Furthermore, as gratitude, please expect a hygiene and health report in the mail." The crazy lady has enough presence of mind to make her appeal to Byron instead of the bowl-cut priest.

Byron looks at Phahn, "Any objections?"

Phahn can't question Berserker's intentions if he wants to catch up to Saber. All he can do is shake his head.

"Good." Byron claps.

"You've been too kind tonight, Lord Byron." Rider walks towards the center of the room with armor clinking against the marble. "Let me repay you with a battle for the ages. Milord?" As he gets closer I hear another set of gnashing, but heavier. Horseshoes scratch the marble as an armored black stallion materializes from thin air. Like what guys think they look like when asking a girl to dance, Rider holds out his hand inviting the bowl-cut priest to ride with him.

"Indeed," but Phahn turns to Byron. "Shall there be a servant to escort me to the support you promised?"

Byron snaps his fingers. One of the mechanical waiters steps forward, bows to Phahn, and motions him to follow.

"Dear Lady?" Unperturbed, Rider asks Berserker, as he materializes a horse right behind him.

She turns up her nose in disgust before muttering some words about bacterial load as both parties walk out of the ballroom.

As they leave, the mechanical waiters return to pushing refreshments and the automatic band begins to play a more war-like track. After curtseying to her new friends, Mary finally comes over. Her red cheeks betray how much fun she had without me.

"Marvelous, just so marvelous. Nadine, did you have a grand time?" Her accent is completely gone, replaced with a facsimile upper-class upbeat chatter.

*****

"I can't believe that you just grumbled at me."

That reminds me, "Hey Mary, what were you and Caster talking about, last night?"

"I like her," she mumbles.

"Hm?" Let's pretend I didn't hear her.

She looks at me instead of the crowd streaming down the street alongside us, "I like her."

"I'm sure she gets that a lot."

Princess Perfection. You know what would be terrible? If she turned out to be a kickass martial artist as well. God save us all.

"That's not a good thing, you know, dearie. When you're an unmarried cook looking for work in New York, it's really quite easy to make your employers like you because they really just want the same thing. A project to turn into an 'honest woman' through their employment. They want to feel good about themselves. When a household's mistress's first question is about cooking, well, dearie, you've either found yourself someone desperate or someone worth cooking for."

Trick question, Mary. "But Caster didn't say either?"

"Aye, she didn't. There I was standing in my work clothes and she has the nerve to come up and compliment me. She knows, that one: which stains you can get off, which ones you hide because you can't. She asked to see my knife since she could tell I was a cook from my forearms and held it exactly the way you would if you were about to gut a fish. She doesn't come at you as a lady, that one, but a friend who truly understands you." She frowns for a moment, "You don't suppose she has some special Servant skill do you, dearie?"

I run through the display in my mind and shake my head.

"I have this skill that makes my presence less than that of a Servant's." Right, Mary's Powerless Shell. Shell implies there's something inside though. "Caster's a proper Heroic Spirit, no doubt about it, but you can't feel any animosity or even competition. Almost like she's. . . ." Mary trails off.

Like she's █.

"I like her. . . But I don't like that I like her." Because she shows you how pitifully human you really are. "Still, everything was truly magical last night, wasn't it? Makes me a little sad, you know."

So transparent, Mary. Sad because all the dreams you had when you were a little girl turned out to be true, and you never got to live them. Instead, you were framed for a murder you claim you didn't commit.

"Still, you're right," she says immediately after a sigh. "After seeing that fight, I don't know how we're supposed to compete."

Oh, the fight.

Fate/Mythologie

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