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."

Fate/Mythologie

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