[X] Constructivism. Make the active choice to entrust Ruler with the monitoring system.
I'm sure all of our friends and superiors will be understanding of Mademoiselle giving free access to their super-costly (in literal human resources) custom Reality Marble-maker to Ruler and an aristocratic German magus.
[X] Constructivism. Make the active choice to entrust Ruler with the monitoring system.
I am really wondering what Ruler's goals here are, even if he claims not to have any, or at least not to have a wish.
Perhaps he simply wishes to see Europe burn, and the existence of this grail war automatically grants him that wish? Or perhaps he is somewhat more benevolent?
[X] Constructivism. Make the active choice to entrust Ruler with the monitoring system.
The role of Ruler is a neutral arbiter. A neutral arbiter *CANNOT FUNCTION* unless they are entrusted to actually arbitrate.
EDIT: Also, we're the only people at the moment who know how the engine functions, even conceding this to him we're operating with an advantage because we're aware that he has this capability, and how to thwart it with presence concealment, and if we wind up with a Bluebeard situation on our hands, having Ruler know EXACTLY where the problem-causing servant is will be a literal lifesaver
Lock it down. You people are just begging to find out that the person in front of you is actually Assassin, who killed Ruler and stole his identity two days ago after cutting a deal with the vampire moon rabbits from Jupiter or something.
I knew it. Now we know that the presumed Assassin really was Assassin as presumed, and...nothing else. Smh.
And the Phantom Engine reminds me of Pale Rider's Doomsday Come NP, except, ya know, used purposefully.
And yeah, I'm gonna go with: [X] Offensive realism. Lie and build the means of attack, at the risk of prompting escalation in return.
There is of course the trollish reason that I just want to see how the riskier gamble will go and the fireworks if...when it backfires, but one poster reminded me of how the Cult and Mads herself to a degree are not squeaky clean saints. The mention that the Engine was used during the Terror really drives this home. Taking a very reckless advantage like that, on the belief that they know better and what decisions to make than a complete unknown like Rule, feels in-character for the Cult to me.
[X] Constructivism. Make the active choice to entrust Ruler with the monitoring system.
Our fundamental goal is a Europe united, each nation able to trust and rely on all the others. Lets not choose distrust and sabotage as our first option.
[X] Constructivism. Make the active choice to entrust Ruler with the monitoring system.
Because it's easier to convince him to let us in later 'because someone has gone off the reservation' if we didn't try to hoodwink him in the first place.
Okay, so, what we have here is a powerful and novel but untested and ambitious oversight/management system for a Grail War. Which means there is an approximately 200% chance that by the end of the story, something to do with it is going to go seriously fucky. When that happens, I think it would be funniest if literally nobody had the authorization to fix it.
[X] Defensive realism. Prioritize fundamental safety over building positive relationships.
Okay, so, what we have here is a powerful and novel but untested and ambitious oversight/management system for a Grail War. Which means there is an approximately 200% chance that by the end of the story, something to do with it is going to go seriously fucky. When that happens, I think it would be funniest if literally nobody had the authorization to fix it.
[X] Defensive realism. Prioritize fundamental safety over building positive relationships.
[X] Constructivism. Make the active choice to entrust Ruler with the monitoring system.
As funny as it would be for nobody to be able to fix the inevitable fuckup, making Ruler have to do all the work while we sit back and backseat mage seems even funnier.
[X] Defensive realism. Prioritize fundamental safety over building positive relationships.
His little demand is absolutely ridiculous. The entire reason he's here is because the previous "neutral" monitors turned out to be murderous, backstabbing liars, all concealed under a cloak of moral superiority. He's not owed the benefit of the doubt here, at all, and he doesn't have any right to cop an attitude about having his pride injured either. Besides, it's not like he arrived in France expecting to have the use of a device like that, he should be fine without it. He does his job, we do ours, and we all walk away like professionals.
I'm really not a fan of the backdoor option. We have enough on our plates without a ticking time bomb waiting to go off at the worst possible moment. A double-edged sword is one edge too many, we aren't that desperate.
[X] Constructivism. Make the active choice to entrust Ruler with the monitoring system.
[X] Offensive realism. Lie and build the means of attack, at the risk of prompting escalation in return.
Both have the potential for fun drama, the other one is just too boring.
It's such a hard thing, to trust. To take a deliberate step into uncertainty, and willingly not raise your guard. What do you even know about Ruler? Nothing, except for the role he claims, and his words about impartiality which might as well be wind for all that you can believe them. That, and your budding suspicions about his identity, which you aren't yet willing to commit to.
There are of course rational arguments as to why you should agree to his side. If he is hostile, his access to Command Seals will make him a tremendous threat regardless of what measures you can take to mitigate it. The rules you've laid out for the War are meant to protect the city and its population, which is also your duty as a Sword of the Cult. And you have the most to gain from denying everyone else the ability to break the rules. These are good arguments, but they falter into the face of this simple risk:
What if Ruler is lying and is out to gain the Grail for himself?
That's where trust comes in. If he is saying the truth about his purpose, it is in your rational interest to give him access to the Engine's monitoring network. If he isn't, none of these arguments matter and you're handing an enemy a free advantage.
You don't - cannot - actually trust him. There are simply not enough facts for you to make a rational calculus as to whether or not he's being truthful with you. As a Sword of Reason, rational decision-making should be your lodestone in every move. The correct decision is to defect.
Except defecting is what caused this war in the first place. Deciding that other actors are inscrutable, presumed hostile, and that a guaranteed minimal personal benefit is better than a possible maximal collective benefit is why the Magi of Europe decided to prosecute this war.
So.
Master, Saber says in a tone of warning, which you ignore.
"I agree," you say.
Shocked silence follows. There you stand, feeling naked and stupid, as everyone stares at you.
"I…" Ruler says, and his expression softens, an odd wistfulness coming over his face, "I did not expect this."
"Yeah," you say sharply, "I know. You made a hardball request to confirm what you expected, that the Cult does not respect your authority as overseer except to the extent that it is forced to by your powers and that you had to assume us to be as hostile as any other Servant. And, indeed, everyone is going to yell at me when I tell them what I did, even my own subordinates. Too bad. I'm deciding to agree to your terms. Suck it up."
Now he looks completely taken aback, while, in the background, Lola doubles over in muffled laughter. Only Saber looks stone-faced - she doesn't approve of this choice, and you'll have to deal with that later. But not now.
"God, Maddie, I didn't know I could miss your… blunt charm," Lola says, still giggling. "You're really one of a kind."
"Well, a deal's a deal," Ruler says, shaking his head. "I appreciate your cooperation, and in return, I shall activate your 'Phantom Engine for you. Please stand aside."
As he speaks, he removes his pinstripe red jacket, leaving him in his black vest and white shirt, making him look less like Santa in a suit and more like a statelier version of… Could Karl Marx be summoned as a Servant, you wonder? He was German.
"Wait," you say, "I need to be at the computer for this."
You cross the ritual circle, over to the massive deck under the even more massive screen which, you suspect, was inspired by someone's childhood memory of watching Batman. You flick a few switches, turning the machine to life, dials you don't even know the purpose of rising. The screen flickers and lights up, depicting a massive amount of data you have no context for. Luckily, you don't need to understand how the machine works to use it; the entire system is based on magic similar to your Voice, and by projecting your splinter-mind into the computer you can operate it entirely on instinct, pushing keys without knowing their purpose and achieving the desired effect.
Ruler stands in the middle of the circle as the glyphs and lines begin to intensify their glow and blue-white arcs begin to emerge, lightning-like, stretching up into the air. Lola makes the wise decision to put a few more meters of clearance between her and the circle. All around the cave, the noise of the machinery grows, humming now joined by rumbling, high-pitched whining, and the roar of fans.
Wind is picking up now, even here underground, swirling around Ruler as white light begins to emerge from him. His hands are joined forward, clasped over… a sword? A cane? A scepter? You can't make it out through the growing light.
"On my authority as Ruler of this Holy Grail War," the Servant begins to speak, his deep voice booming without strain, "let the Grail be tipped! As it once slaked Christ's thirst at His last supper, let it now water the furrows of this spell, that it might ensure the sanctity of these rules of war!"
The white light turns to heatless flame, rising in a pillar - and then you feel something opening, a parting of veils, the fabric of the world splitting at the seams for a second; a fragment of a circle of light shining in the air, a faint trail of light running down from it - and then it's gone, the wind and flames billowing as they are swallowed into the circle, and there is a flash.
You can see… a faint outline around you… an entire city, unfolding before your eyes… dots of light shining here, there…
And then that too is gone. Calm settles on the room, disturbed only by the noise of the machinery and the intensified glow of the circle, still crackling faintly.
Ruler lets out the sigh of a man at the end of hard labor, but does not look tired.
"Wow," Lola says. "I feel like I learned more watching this happen than in the entire two-week seminar on divination magic I attended last year."
"It is done," Ruler says. "You'll forgive me if I wait until I am alone to make use of the device."
"That's what I was expecting, you say, and you input a few commands into the computer, before saying: "It's done. The computer has tagged you as its sole allowed user, and won't react to anyone else."
"And you didn't," he says raising an eyebrow, "leave any backdoor to access the device without my notice?"
"Damn," you say deadpan, "wish I had thought of that."
Sneaking a backdoor and giving Ruler access to earn his trust would have been the 'optimal' move strategically, but with access to the network he would inevitably have found your meddling. You would have had to lock him out and use the backdoor, which would have ruined the purpose of this offered hand.
You've made a very bold decision, Saber chimes in silently. I hope we won't have to both face its consequences. Remember that you do not take risks for me alone.
Weren't you the one who lectured me about needing to actually trust people other than myself? I have to start somewhere.
A pause. Then, an almost-imperceptible nod of acknowledgement.
I just wish you didn't start with a potential enemy.
"So," Lola says, "will I be going home alone, Ruler?"
"No…" the man says, thoughtful. "This place is inconveniently located, come to think of it. It could take hours to get from somewhere else in Paris to here."
"There are remote-access nodes throughout the city," you say, "you'll find them in the network. This is the only place where you have access to the full functionality of the Engine, though."
Ruler nods. "I can remedy this."
And then he pulls his sleeve, and holds out his hand. The signet ring - the one you noticed before, whose mark you could not read - shines gold, a radiance that increases, washing over the room - then he closes his hand into a fist, and that radiance coalesces into a sigil of light, glowing in the center of the room; a diamond whose corners extend into a cross whose branches each terminate into a letter. It feels like more than a sigil - like a brand.
Article:
Signum Manus: Seal of the Wandering King
The Noble Phantasm of a monarch who had no one palace or court, but who spent his life touring his dominion, visiting each of his vassals in turn to grant them gifts and survey their loyalty. The symbol of a conquering ruler, who valiantly strode out again and again to expand his kingdom in all directions. With this seal, Ruler may designate a place as a part of his Kingdom; thereafter, he may always instantly teleport to that location. Furthermore, missives stamped with this sigil will unerringly find their target, that the King may best administer his kingdom while away.
And then it is gone, scattering into motes of light.
You stare at Ruler, your mind processing the knowledge that has just been imparted in your mind - and in Saber's, as well. The Gaul steps forward, her expression hard to read.
"You're…" she starts, and Ruler smiles and raises a hand.
"To save me embarrassment, let us pretend as if my name remained a secret. Consider it a return of the trust you've shown me."
"Very well," you say. You already suspected this, but - you do feel a little awestruck, to be honest. You turn to Saber, and she nods.
"If we're done here," she says, "let's be out. I tire of this oppressive underground."
"Let's," you echo.
***
You emerge out of a maintenance door into the subway levels, stretching into the coolness of the conditioned air. You hadn't realized it, but the humming machinery of the Engine kept the air uncomfortably warm. It's quieter too, with few people going through this area of the tunnels.
"So," Lola says, "what now?"
"We should probably go back to the Swords," you say with a glance at Saber.
"Aw, how about we grab a coffee first?" Lola suggests. "This has been a lot."
"I am afraid," Ruler says regretfully, "that I must attend to my own work. I must send a missive to all other Masters in the War, ensuring that they are made aware of my position, of the rules in place, and of how to reach me should they need my counsel."
Saber says nothing, closing her eyes and sighing.
Keeping this cool affect is taxing. I yearn to boast and sing. Do we have to do this much longer?
It comes to you unbidden, an intrusive thought - someone needs to go back to Swords and Saber wants out of the constant interplay of trust and secrecy, Ruler needs to leave, Lola wants a coffee. Send both Servants on their way and offer to have this coffee with her.
You let that thought pass through you, and go away. Sometimes when something is taken out of life's attic it leaves torn cobwebs in the shape of its outline. The cobwebs are not the thing. Best to let it go.
"Sorry, Lola," you say. "Saber and I will be on our way back. But we will stay in touch, yes?"
"Of course we will," Lola says, and with a wink, "you have my number."
Yeah, and the increased formality and delay in answering is why you stick to emails instead of texts.
"It's not like we're splitting up now anyway," you say, starting to walk, hands in your suit's pockets, "we parked next to each other."
The others follow after, Saber and Ruler chatting together about how it feels to be an embodied Servant (apparently they don't get hungry, but eating food is still pleasurable and gives them small amounts of mana, so both tend to actually have more appetite than their Masters). Lola is at your side, checking her phone and cursing against the lack of reception down there under dozens of meters of rock.
You smile, wistfully. Remembering days like this - you, Lola, Richard, some German friend or relative of Lola's. The world was more comfortable then. Before there was even a suggestion of the Holy Grail War, of being every moment of your life waiting for the dagger at your back. Lola and you a microcosm of the Union, France and Germany, united, two ancient foes now friends, lamenting their mutual losses together, walking into the future together. It was never entirely true, was it? But if you leaned into the ideals of the Cult, it could feel that way.
Was that why you were so fearful yet eager to meet with her? How much did you dread finding out that the two allies were once again deadly foes, that there could be no alliance, that the friendship was ended and the naked blade drawn once again at last?
But no. These feelings are biased by a rosy vision of the past. When you were young, walking carefree through the city, you weren't actually carefree. You were First Dagger, then Second Sword. Honing yourself every day to the finest edge, that you may cut the enemies of Reason. The vigilance, the anticipation. They were always there.
The truth is, when you walk quietly through the station's underground corridors next to Lola, nodding and chuckling as she recounts to you some hilarious anecdote of a wind power project accidentally upturning a century's work of a minor Bavarian family who then had to be prevented from blowing up the Landtag, it feels so much like yesterday. Only you aren't a couple anymore, and over looms you the shadow of…
…the war…
You freeze in your tracks and, with honed habits from past teamwork, Lola immediately falls quiet and turns to hypervigilance. You cast your Voice out, mapping the surrounding corridors, and…
The last passerby you saw was a couple minutes ago. You're alone. You've been alone for a couple minutes, as you walked in the wrong direction.
Saber is there already, looking at you, waiting for your assessment.
"We're several hundred meters from where we should actually be," you say. "I don't actually know where. This is a physical place inside the station network, but…"
"We've been lured away?" Lola asks. "But…" she looks around nervously, nictitating membranes briefly flicking over her eyes, one of the telltale signs she's going into a combat stance.
Ruler steps closer to her, and lays a heavy, reassuring hand on her shoulder - even though she's not his Master, he clearly takes his promise to help her when it does not infringe on his duty seriously. The four of you come together as two pairs, split by a couple meters, watching your surroundings warily.
"If a Master wished to attack us in the middle of the day," Saber says, cautiously looking around, "they would not yet know about the Phantom Engine, but they would know the consequences of attacking us openly in a crowd. They would try to lead us into an empty place."
The surroundings are simple. You are in a straight, wide corridor, white-tiled, with movie and theater posters hanging on the walls. This tunnel is bisected by another, wider one, which is sharply inclined; to your left it leads up, into another tunnel, with four lanes of escalator stairs running down the slope. To your left, the same escalators, going down into the belly of Les Halles-Châtelet.
This place was built for large passenger intake. It should be packed full.
The diffuse sensory field of your Voice of Reason feels uncomfortable to you, like it's buzzing with faint static.
"Magical particles in the air," you say. "Illusion magic."
Meant to drag you in here, and to keep everyone else away.
Then it comes.
Laughter like a cavalry charge across a frozen lake, rushing across the tunnels and shaking the lamps from their ceilings. Loud and high-pitched, deliberate in a way only achievable by those refined enough that their laughter itself is a weapon.
"Ooooooh-hohohoho!"
Silvery fire erupts from Saber's body, flames consigning her suit to some forbidden dimension, fire reshaping itself into armor, a rippling coat of silvery mail, oval shield on her arm, spear in hand, facing in the direction of the laughter, hunched over ready to pounce, and-
Fifteen meters away on every end of the cross in whose center you're at, a neon ceiling lamp goes out with a loud clang. A pool of darkness at the edges of your field of vision.
Ten yards away the same, louder. The darkness edges forward.
Five yards away, rattling your teeth. The tunnels have gone completely dark; you are an island of light in a sea of night.
The last lamp over your heads goes out, deafening.
Darkness.
"Don't move," you say, "I have the Voice out, I can still sense if anyone-"
Spotlight. Blinding bright, shining down in a perfect circle from far higher than the ceiling could allow, terminating in a clean circle surrounded by absolute darkness.
"Maddie?" Lola says nervously. "I can't see into this darkness."
And the feeling of static disrupting your extended awareness is intensifying.
"Master," Saber says, "nobody else would know yet that Ruler is a neutral party not to be attacked, would they?"
"That's crazy," you say, "who would ambush a full duo team of Masters and Servants-"
Drumrolls, directionless, rumbling around you.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" says a loud, booming voice, smooth and unaccented. "Please, take a seat!"
Clang.
Another beam of light, ahead of you, only it stops higher - a man is standing on what you're pretty sure are the handrails of the escalator stairs.
He is no ordinary man. He can't be older than twenty, but with a roguish, confident look and a wry smile. He's handsome, with sharp features accentuating the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. His artfully disheveled hair is covered with a tricorn hat, folded sharp and pointing forward, with a long feather jutting out of it. Red seems his color - it's the color of his vest, embroidered with gold and sequins, over a puffy-sleeved white shirt, with a white cravat flaring at his neck.The color of his trousers, but not of his long black gloves or his black riding boots.
He has a gold-buckled black leather belt at his waist, worn at an angle as if with managed carelessness. And attached to this belt, a rapier with a maze-like hilt sheathed in a crimson, gold-adorned scabbard.
He slowly bows to you, hand over his chest.
"This is the moment you've all been waiting for," he says, and his voice is like dripping honeydew.
"Should I..?" Saber whispers, hand on her spear.
"No," you answer, a hand on her biceps. "We don't know what might happen in the darkness between these two spotlights."
Behind you, Ruler frowns, looking somewhat uneasy at the man ahead; he pulls closer to Lola.
"The moment," the man says, and he straightens up and his voice echoes, it booms, "to welcome to the stage the main character of this play!"
Bam. Another spotlight flashes, wider, brighter, higher than all the others at the top of the stairs - but only for a fraction of a second, only enough for you to glimpse a languid motion of a slender gloved hand.
"The fearsome flower of English aristocracy!"
Bam. A beautiful sandal whose lacing races up the length of a creamy leg.
"The gallant genius who entered the Clock Tower at the age of thirteen!"
Bam. A wide forehead, adorned with a silver tiara set with a sapphire.
"The blistering beauty over whose affections five lords have fallen in duels of honor!"
Bam. Two thin, pink lips, curved into a hungry smile.
"The sterling star of the Department of Summoning, without whom half the division would crumble!"
Bam. A neckpiece like a cascade of silver chains and gems over her bosom, and within each stone, a shadow stirring.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the man says, wirring his hands dramatically as drums come back, rolling higher and higher as he raises his arms to the sky, "I give you the future victor of this War…"
And then the beam shines one last time and there she is in all her glory, slender build buried in layers of improbable blue gowns, gloved fingers stretching out, auburn hair falling in heavy English curls over her back and chest, her hairdo alone likely accounting for a third of her weight, and she bows to you in the most exaggerated curtsey you've ever seen, pulling up the sides of her dress, and she straightens she parts her perfect lips, silvery eyes shining, and says in the most sophisticated, most arrogant voice you've ever heard, as if her own name were a gift to the world for whom all should be thankful:
"Yeah," you say, though you can't pinpoint exactly why. It's like you missed a heartbeat.
The underground is back to normal; there was no transition that you could observe, but the lightshow is gone, you're looking at the man in the hat standing at the bottom of the escalator, on its rail (which is currently stopped, or its movement would make it very awkward; did he do that just for the effect?), and above, at the top of the stairs, Sophia Archleonore looking down on you arrogantly.
And then that mask of contempt faltering briefly as she looks to your left.
"Oh, hi there, Dolores," Sophia says, her tone polite, her voice with only the slightest edge of the poshest English accent.
"Couldn't be better," Sophia says with a smile - then her eyes go back and forth between you and Lola.
"Wait, are you two still dating? Is this a team-up scenario?"
You say nothing. You're hunched forward, hands open in your dagger-summoning stance, and Saber has her shield forward protecting you as she studies the grinning, feather-hatted man, and the rapier at his waist.
"We broke up," Lola says with a shrug. "I'm a neutral party. Ruler here is overseeing the War, I'm here as moral support."
"Wait, Ruler?" Sophia glances at the white-bearded ma and frowns. "I thought the Church was overseeing the war."
"So did they," you break in, voice flat. "Turns out they've been naughty boys and girls and need to say sorry to daddy."
"Must you?" Lola says, rising an eyebrow.
"Well, that's an upset," Sophia says, then pauses, furrowing her brow. "No, wait, now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense. Of course Germany would be the arbiter of the war, the one who watches all the others kill themselves and reaping the rewards." She turns to you, and grins. "Didn't we tell you this is how your little 'international cooperation' project would go? The EU is just the continuation of Germany by other means."
You stare at her for a heartbeat.
"Fuck you. Saber!"
The Gaul's right arm moves with tremendous strength, like a tree bending in the storm, muscles bulging as she brings back her spear - and then hurls it like a lightning bolt, a condensation ring flaring around the point of the throw.
It soars through the air like less of a spear and more of a single, silvery line.
The fancy man kicks off his perch, his rapier flying out of its sheath, and the two weapons collide in a flash of light; the spear whirls away in the air. Saber opens her hand and the weapon flies back into her hand, and the man turns his leap into a pirouette, and lands lightly next to Sophia, the two back-to-back, arms folded, glaring at you.
"How unspeakably rude," she says.
"A tremendous breach of duelling etiquette," he answers.
"As expected from ruffians," she scoffs.
"Revolutionary rabble, the lot of them," he sneers.
"Didn't even let me deliver my challenge speech," she pouts.
"And it was such a great speech too," he sighs.
"Saber?" you ask, and she shakes her head.
"I have nothing," she says. "Just noise. I'm not even sure that's a Servant."
"Well then, nothing to do but cut to the chase," Sophia says with a shrug, flicking a long lock of hair over her shoulder - and then pointing her finger at you. "Mademoiselle of the Cult of Reason, dog of the revolution. I challenge you and your Servant! Fight, and die with what little honor the likes of you have. Or run, and be hunted like a dog."
Well, would you look at this.
She's already getting on your nerves.
Chose an approach:
[ ] Patay. As the flower of French chivalry inspired by Joan of Arc used speed, maneuverability and strength to lay waste to English archers, strike with overwhelming speed and power. Take the fight to the mall area above, where you can deploy your full force and agility. Tricks and illusions require time to set up, and are uniquely vulnerable to brute force properly applied.
[ ] Fontenoy. As an army bolstered by the direct presence of its King and Crown Prince withstood English assaults time and again until the enemy overreached and exposed its forces, rely on Saber's resilience. Withdraw into the tunnels, where her spear and shield work best, and avoid falling into a trap by studying the enemy's moves.
[ ] Toulon. As a young Napoleon first earned fame by utilizing artillery to seize the enemy's own fortifications and compel surrender, take the enemy's most valuable yet vulnerable asset. Have Saber engage the Red Man in direct combat as a ruse, drawing him away from Sophia, that you might then launch a surprise assault and capture her, forcing her to surrender.
