The Gentleman and The Good Doctor [/fin]

[Miliardo Red]

"Checklist..."

Miliardo muttered to himself as he worked through everything in his head. This was the point of no return; his last chance to back out and go back to his workshop in west Germany, pretend this was nothing more than a nice vacation, and avoid what will undoubtedly be a dangerous and long ordeal. Not out of cowardice, but because he always felt it was necessary to make his decision clear before taking the final plunge into life-altering situations. One needed to account for all the facts.

He had space. This lovely rental home was booked for months, and Miliardo had made alterations to the basement level to make it a perfect workshop; it was soundproof and the low windows were opaque. The ground level was an elegantly-furnished home, and had the basic workings necessary to keep it secure from unwanted visitors.

He had money and supplies. Money was no problem at all; "Miliardo Red" was a solid name for clocks and clockwork mechanics, music-boxes and the like, able to charge quite a bit for each work. He had quite a stock of cash for rainy-day events such as this. And equipment was equally simple: One room on the ground floor he had placed a glass grinder and a simple workdesk with tools for his his craft, though he didn't expect much need to use them.

Still mentally taking stock, Miliardo unlocked the basement door and went down in. It was a single large room with a concrete floor. He had spent a good week carving a proper circle into that damned floor into for the Servant summoning ritual, leaving deep grooves on the ground. Candles left the space dimly lit, casting dancing shadows over the few objects in the blank room.

"Checklist..."

He had his daggers, and the means to make more. He had his face. He had 5 of his best clockwork avians-turned-familiars, all ready to take to the sky on wings of polished brass feathers. He had every advantage he could carry with him down the autobahn. He was as prepared as he could hope to be. He would not back down now. His decision made, Miliardo stepped forward and knelt before the circle in the stone, taking note that the grooves had all filled with a deep, rich red liquid; the circle had filled completely.

Thinking for a moment, Miliardo decided he didn't want to risk damaging his mask. He hated the idea of parting with it for even a moment, but he didn't want to stretch the ritual too far by invoking it while wearing his 1000 Faces; it wasn't likely, but he had not come to this point by ignoring his sense of caution. For the first time in a long while, Miliardo removed his Mystic Code and placed it on a small table nearby. Then he knelt before the circle and began his ritual.

"Ye First, o' silver, 'o iron, Ye stone of the foundation, O Archduke of the Contract."

Miliardo felt the power building and burning through him, the comforting feeling of a ritual well-started. It raced through him, through the deeply-carved summoning circle and it's red liquid, and through what was hanging over it.

Miliardo recognized that what he needed was to summon a servant that would trounce the others. That was the part that worried him, if only a little. You cannot pick your servant. If he had found some artifact with clear link to some ancient hero, he might be able to force the issue, but as it was he relied on the forces that called forth ancient heroes to pick a champion. But he while he didn't have an artifact, he had another idea on how to improve his odds.

"Shut! Shut!"

He looked above the carved circle. Hanging above it, bound and gagged, was an upside-down unconscious woman, with a deep stab wound in her back, just over the kidneys. The woman was a prostitute he had picked up earlier in the day, and had kept drugged into compliance. She was very nearly dead at this point; the carved circle in the floor had been filled with her red blood. Her sacrifice would hopefully provide an advantage in summoning a suitable servant. It couldn't hurt, could it?

"Shut! Shut!"

The woman moaned and some force snuffed out the candles. Miliardo felt the power growing, but something felt off.

"SHUT!"

The room was dark, and Miliardo felt grabbed by the ritual. The feeling that something was going badly was worse, that the dying woman had been an ill-advised addition to the ritual. But he couldn't stop; even if he wanted to, the ritual had almost taken a life of it's own.

"Five perfections for each repetition, now let the filled sigils be annihilated in my stead! SET."

At that moment, the circle burst into unholy flame, the air smelling of burning blood. The fire leapt into the air, and the woman burned as well. She seemed quite alive again, wrestling with the bonds and hardness she was hanging from and trying desperately to escape. Some ineffable thing from the circle, the blood, the burning woman, torn a hole in Miliardo's mind and dove in.

"Let thy body rest under my dominion, let my fate rest in thy blade!"

The thing in his mind burned, burned like the flaming circle in front of him, like the dying woman above. Lunatic shadows spasmed around the room, and something from the darkness seemed grasp him and force out the rest.

"If thou submittest to the call of the Holy Grail and if thou wilt obey this mind, this reason, then thou shalt respond!"

Despite the words and the power burning through him like lightning, despite him wanting what the grail could give, some deep fear in his mind didn't want a response anymore.

"I make my oath here! I am that person who is to become the virtue of all Heavens! I am that person who is covered with all the evil of Hades!"

His voice was deep and breathy, and he was having trouble breathing at this point. The words rasped out, like something knew he was a liar but demanded he say them anyhow. He half pulled himself to his feet, was half-yanked into standing, he could not be sure which.

"Thou seven heavens, clad in a trinity of words,"

His body moved into the burning circle, the fire leaping up and flowing over him, into him...

"Come past thy restraining rings, and be thou the hands that protect the balance!"

At that moment, with the power at it's bursting point, everything snapped into place. Miliardo felt nothing, the power spent, the dark feeling gone... or at least abated somewhat. Suddenly it was over; the flames were gone, and Miliardo merely stood in a circle of concrete covered in burns with a bloody, singed corpse hanging from his ceiling in a terrifyingly dark room; apparently the woman had died without him noticing. But otherwise it was as if nothing at all had happened.

And there was no champion in sight.

After that ordeal, he thought he would be relieved, but he felt more disappointed. The ritual seemed to have done nothing, and now he had a damned corpse to clean up.

"Dammit all."

Sighing, Miliardo stepped a bit unsteadily out of the circle and reached for his mask...

[The Ripper]

Throughout the endless cyclical stretches of history the soul of mankind has been measured at it's brightest points. Men and women, shining examples of valor and heroism, who rose upon their own deeds and the love and adoration of all around them into a sort of god like immortality. Heroes granted godhood, not only by strength of arms, but because of the belief that humanity placed in them. That belief vaunted them into the realms of something more than human, raised them to defend their fellow man from the pressing onslaught of oblivion.

But the human soul is not always bright. And it's exemplars were not always loved. For even as love and devotion can boost a soul into the ranks of Heroic Spirits, so can darker emotions pull a being from the opposite side of the spectrum into that same lofty circle. Terror. Hatred. A nation locked in the grip of sick dread gives the source of that dread its own kind of immortality. Such a being draws it's power, not from the masses believing in it, but from the masses trying not to.

And in a contest of wills on a scale such as the Grail War such a dark being can tread paths shunned by those that cling to the light.

In a dimly lit basement beneath an ancient city a dark ritual pulled to a close. Of it's participants only one still drew breath. The other had given her last, desperate struggle as part of it's completion. She had died in agony and fear. Every last bit of who she was and what she could ever hope to be extinguished in an instant. Every kiss and tender word she would share with a lover. Every child she would bless the world with. Every smile, every glance, stopped in it's prime by the selfish desires of an unholy obsession. And from her horror, her hatred, her pain, a thing was called into existence.

It shimmered in the air like an oily stain over a scum filled pond. Difficult to look at straight on, an aura only glimpsed out of the corner of the eye, distracting the mind and tugging at the corners of sanity. It shrank but as it did so it solidified, taking form as it coalesced in the air. Dark it was, like a pearly drop of night hanging by a ray of moonlight in the lightless depths of that basement. Soundlessly it dropped. Odd that it did not splash when it touched the floor. But from the spot where it fell a new thing arose. A Figure swathed in darkness rose from the shadow as if phasing upwards through the floor. The candles seemed to dim. Their light grew, not dark, but drab. As if they were not being suppressed but rather having the very spark of life pulled from them. One by one they winked out until only a single one remained. Its guttering pinpoint threw wild shadows leaping around the room like some primal dance, savages on the verge of devouring their kill.

The Figure stood in darkness silhouetted against a backdrop of frail light. It seemed impossibly tall and thin. No pinpricks of light shone to show where eyes might be, a face, a soul. It was a solid patch of black, distinguishable only from it's surroundings by being darker than the natural darkness caused by complete absence of light.

Wordlessly it stepped forwards. No footfall or swish of cloth betrayed it's movement. Silent as death. Then, still shrouded in darkness, it spoke.

"My...Master." From such a being one would expect a dry rattle, a voice like coffins being slid over a stone floor. The fact that the voice carried all the tones of the well bred English gentry only seemed somehow more perverse.

[Miliardo Red]

There was a THING standing in the darkness.

Miliardo was transfixed. He stared, terrified, unable to comprehend what he was looking at. Darker than dark. Blackness beyond pitch. Vaguely human, but far too tall and far too thin for any human, and built of darkness so deep that even an unlit basement could not match it. And Miliardo watched it, impossibly, step forward. No sound. Quiet as a family tomb.

"My... Master"

The voice caused Miliardo's mind to snap back into a semblance of control. He would not stand here frozen like a lizard caught in a hunting bird's shadow. He visibly pulled himself back together, pulling his 1000 Faces back over his head and instantly snapping on his classic "Miliardo" face. He pulled himself to his proper height and stood like a man who was not, in fact, staring at a shadow monster and worried that it was going to kill him where he stood.

But part of him was still recoiling from the figure, and it demanded to know what impossibility it was looking at. Miliardo calmly picked up one of the candles and lit it again, hoping to push away some of the darkness that seemed like it was going to eat the room and everything in it. And he desperately hoped his fear did not show.

"Yes. I am your Master now. And who am I privileged to have summoned this fine evening?" His question was calm and smooth, and he sure he had kept all the tremor out of his voice. The last thing he needed was to look like a frightened mouse in front of this... whatever the thing was.

Grasping the candle holder, Miliardo held it in front of him, trying to get a better look at the dark shadow-thing that had spoken to him. Was it a servant? Some hero? Or had his "additions" to the ceremony gotten the attention of something worse? His mind raced, trying to remember some myth that involved a thin black shadow man, and hopefully not one that consumed whoever was foolish enough to call it.

[The Ripper]

As Miliardo stepped forwards so did the Thing in the darkness. As it entered the candle light it's shape resolved its self into a figure recognizable as human, somehow diminished by the exposure to the light. When terror is quantified it loses some of its potency. Still, the Figure struck an odd chord in the mind. Something off about it. Nothing you could put your finger on, but some pervading undercurrent of wrongness.

The ratio of arm length to body height giving it an vaguely spider-like appearance. The reach of slender fingers encased in white gloves, too long to be comfortable to look at. The face could be called handsome, even stately. But something about it...perhaps the nose was just a bit too long. The chin a bit too elfin. The eyes a bit too serpentine when revealed behind flashing spectacles. The vision put the viewer's teeth on edge. Made them want to squint or blink or look away.

It ignored Miliardo for a heartbeat, instead raising it's fingers to brush them lightly over the face of the corpse dangling like a broken toy over the summoning circle, it's face twisted into a rictus of charred flesh and agony. It stood there for another moment and some insidious rapture flashed across it's features. And then it's mask was back in place, the otherworldly face the picture of good mannered amusement. A grin split it's face revealing perfectly straight white teeth that somehow gave the impression of a yellowed snarl of snag toothed fangs.

"My Master." The figure spoke, it's cultured tones adding to the pervasive sense that something was very wrong with the order of things. And not some vague depiction of wrongness either, nothing abstract or poetic. The Thing was evil. Waves of fear and revulsion seemed to radiate from the walls, from the corpse, and especially from the Figure itself. It paced around the room leisurely, peering about as if it's gaze were unhampered by the darkness. And then, as if cut off by a switch, the paroxysmal wave of terror ceased.

It stepped forwards and swept off it's wide brimmed hat with a courteous bow.

"Most pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Dr. Jacob Heller. But given the circumstances I suppose you would know me best as Assassin." He said. He straightened and replaced his hat, resuming his pacing about the room.

"You have summoned me to fight, and fight I shall. I will be your blade in the dark. I will be the wind that obliterates your enemies. I will heap terror and misery and despair on them until they beg for the privilege of groveling at your feet before you grant them death's escape from their suffering. All this and more shall I be, my word to Death's hand, my mouth to the Devil's ears. This is the nature of our Contract, bound here in blood, until all the world lies in ruins before you." As he spoke his words resonated around the small chamber.

The were not mocking. They were...blase. The words were solemn, fateful. But the tone...The doctor recited them as if discussing the price of lettuce at a greengrocers. All the while strolling about the room examining the furniture.

At last he turned back to Miliardo, stepping back into his lonely island of light.

"My Master." He repeated, bowing once again, his face unreadable. His oath was given. His attitude held no hint of rebellion or mocking or question. But one thing was clear. This was a man with whom it would be easy to forget who was the Master and who the Servant.

[Miliardo Red]

Seeing what the dark figure actually looked like did help. A little. More than a little. Putting a face to the figure helped cool the ancient, primal lizard-y instinct to hide under a rock. He wasn't looking at a monster, he was looking at a man.. or at the very least he was looking at something that looked very much like a man. Too tall, too thin, too everything, but still mannish. The hackles of Miliardo's hair could sit down, the cold sweat on his skin could stop. His mind could stop running on automatic and really think. Maybe not completely clearly, but not simply reacting to the fact that he was trapped in a dark basement with....

No, not a line of thought to entertain. He had to keep focused.

The... man seemed to be interested in everything, and particularly the cooling body hanging from the basement ceiling. A little too interested, looking to Miliardo like it was examining a piece of art that managed to tug at the heartstrings. And then when it turned to him again, Miliardo had to keep himself from leaping out of his skin.

"My Master". Even the way it spoke struck Miliardo as wrong. Everything about it seemed perfectly aligned to make it inhuman; even it's human qualities seemed specifically designed to emphasize his inhuman-ness, that separation, and somehow made humans seem darker just by association. Everything about it...

Ceased.

Like someone flipped a switch, the pressure was gone entirely. Miliardo wasn't fighting to keep himself focused on something other than an overwhelming fear. He could actually think about the rest of the room, the fact that he had a body to deal with, the probably messy cleanup for the ruined floor. The shadows cast by his candle weren't bogey-men dancing before their master, they were just shadows in a dark basement that smelled like some burnt flesh.

And the figure, who was now not a dark thing Miliardo could only think of as IT but just a strange-looking man, removed his hat and introduced himself properly.

"Most pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Dr. Jacob Heller. But given the circumstances I suppose you would know me best as Assassin." Courteous, but it struck Miliardo as the same kind of courtesy you give to the man that bags your groceries. He ignored his mild sense of pique and responded as best he could.

"And I am..." He didn't quite pause, but with a practiced mind he picked from all the names he used and decided that, if this was his Servant, he should give the man his most common name. "... Miliardo Red. If you are my assassin, I trust we have an accord."

"You have summoned me to fight, and fight I shall. I will be your blade in the dark. I will be the wind that obliterates your enemies. I will heap terror and misery and despair on them until they beg for the privilege of groveling at your feet before you grant them death's escape from their suffering. All this and more shall I be, my word to Death's hand, my mouth to the Devil's ears. This is the nature of our Contract, bound here in blood, until all the world lies in ruins before you."

Solemn. Final. Deeply reassuring, a capable Servant who clearly pledged itself to the cause, to rend Miliardo's enemies and scatter them into the four corners of the world. And yet that tone, the unmistakable feeling that the good Doctor was somehow talking down to him.

Miliardo continued to ignore the feeling that he was being slighted. This was his Servant, his strong right arm in the war, and he could not afford to look for reasons to be annoyed with the Doctor.

And the memory of that dark, terrible fear was still so fresh...

Miliardo stopped himself. Not the proper line of thinking. Whatever that fear was which had held him frozen, he had to keep him mind that it was pointed at his enemies. Not at him.

Moreover, this needed to go somewhere productive. Despite the introduction, Miliardo could not recognize him. "Doctor Heller. A fine name, but not one I recognize. I was under the impression that Servants such as yourself were famed heroes and spirits that had become legends in their own time, remembered for ages. I do not doubt that you must have done something memorable, but I can't for the life of me recall what it would have been."

"And," Miliardo waved at the room, taking in the view of the bloody corpse and the mess of a summoning circle, "perhaps we can discuss this upstairs. This room is a mess. It embarrasses me as a host to have such a guest as a learned Doctor in a dank pit like this, at least longer than necessary." No need to mention that the Doctor seemed far more comfortable in the darkness than Miliardo did.

Miliardo bowed slightly to the Doctor, and lightly waved toward the exit of the basement. Now that he was dealing with a man, not a frightening, living shadow, he knew how to act. As a proper gentleman. "We can discuss your personal tale, and how we will proceed, over upstairs and over tea. After you?"

[The Ripper]

With a last look around the blood spattered and scorched subterranean chamber the Doctor followed Miliardo up the stairs. When he was asked about his origins the Doctor was more than happy to oblige, speaking in a light and conversational tone as they ascended.

"Oh, I was never famous during my lifetime. Not personally at least. I did publish a rather well received paper titled Being a Discourse On the Effects of Adrenaline and Endorphins Released When Performing Emergency Surgeries Without Anesthetic On Marsupials. It as quite controversial in it's day. Many of my colleagues agreed that, while quite informational, it raised some rather startling ethical questions concerning my methods of gathering data from the, ah, animal subjects.

I myself have never been a seeker for notoriety or fame, I simply wished to spread my gifts to the greatest benefit of my fellow man. Medicine was all well and good but mankind needed something more, some thing that I provided. And that is why I stand before you today, Master."

When the pair of them ascended into the relative brightness of the setting sun the Doctor took a moment to peer about the room. With the falling rays of the setting sun reflecting off of them his large round spectacles became impenetrable mirrors, hiding his eyes and giving him a faceless and sinister look. No matter which way he turned his head they seemed the same, reflecting the glinting light in just the perfect way so as to mask his features. His eye sockets became twin pools of orange, the friendly twist of his mouth a jack-o-lantern's grin.

Far from shriveling away as one would expect from such a being in the blinding rays of sunlight the Doctor seemed perfectly at home in the well appointed chamber. He moved comfortably through the space and seemed to sully it by his very presence. It called into question the very concepts of Home and Comfort if such a man as this could be equally at ease here as some bloodstained basement. It did not diminish his menace, he transferred some of his menace onto it.

"You see I gained fame under a number of different and invariably crass monikers I was allotted by the public. I traveled a lot in those days, never staying in one place for very long. I felt it my duty to spread my good works as far and as wide as I could. Perhaps my...ah, thank you." He said, accepting a teacup from Miliardo. He seated himself in a high backed chair, one over long leg idly crossed over the other, his old style duster coat draped over the seat. He adjusted his cravat and began liberally spooning sugar into his cup.

"So nice to be in civilized company. As I was saying...Perhaps my best well known activities were in London. I was something of a local celebrity there. At the time my most common name was The Whitechapel Killer although that has been largely replaced by the farm more romantic Jack the Ripper. A bit over dramatic for my tastes." He said, truly nonchalant, taking a tentative sip from his teacup.

[Miliardo Red]

Miliardo listened to the Doctor describe his thesis and some of the reactions, heading up the stairs and into the living area. While not a doctor, he felt he understood some of what he meant by the "ethical concerns", particularly when the title noted a complete lack of anesthesia.

"Ah yes, some men don't understand that to study a body in stressful circumstances, you have to PLACE it in stressful circumstances. I'm not a physician, but it seems reasonably likely to me that if you drug a creature into submission, your studies would only directly prove how a body acts while it's drugged."

His thoughts went momentarily back the body in the basement, and a mild grin crossed his face. "A creature drugged into compliance would certainly be more tractable than a creature that is not, and I'm sure one can certainly learn quite a bit from it, but if you want to study a stress reaction then you can hardly do so unless the creature is properly stressed."

Stepping into the ground floor, the dying sun left the room lit comfortably. The basement door opened directly into the living area. "There are always costs involved if you want to LEARN."

It was furnished lightly but elegantly, with a dark red carpet and doors into the two back bedrooms and kitchen. Around an antique table sat few high-backed chair of carved wood, with leather cushions for comfort. Along the walls were shelves stacked with various books, mostly regarding various mythologies, though one row was lined with books about clocks and older mechanical devices.

On the wall between the shelves, there was a small table with a large, brass key in it, with a glass covering keeping anyone from simply picking it up and playing with it. Over the table and the key was a large brass mask, with angry eyes and large grin. If one didn't know any better, they could swear the mask was guarding the key.

The room was obviously as much for aesthetics as for comfort, but the Doctor seemed to drain all of it away just by being there. As Miliardo vanished momentarily into the kitchen, he wondered how the Doctor managed to stay so thoroughly unsettling without any effort.

Returning with iced apple tea, Miliardo handed a cup and saucer to the Doctor as he continued to tell about himself. Various epithets and ugly names attributed to him, particularly regarding events in London...

"Jack the Ripper? You were The Ripper?" Miliardo felt everything falling into place. His Servant was not a legendary hero. He was the first serial killer of the modern age, a man that redefined fear for an entire era. It was not about monsters to defend against, not Grendels to be fought in mead-halls, not about Dragons to slay in their nests of golden baubles. Men had become the greatest of monsters, and Jack the Ripper embodied that notion.

Miliardo's face cracked into a vast smile, and he laughed aloud. "No wonder I didn't recognize your name, Doctor. It's a shame nobody remembers your achievements as belonging to anyone but 'Jack the Ripper.' Your personal legend is something of a horror story in our time. But that can be an advantage for us."

Miliardo sat back in his own chair, and sipped his tea calmly. Yes, he was beginning to get a feeling for this Servant's abilities, the way a Master should. A murder from the darkness, able to hide and move in any shadow. Not a direct fighter, of course, but what kind of Assassin would fight openly? Moreover, having some idea of who and what he dealt with gave him a handle on the fear he still felt around "The Ripper". The Doctor was a nightmare given form, of course that made sense; Jack the Ripper stole decency from crime and made men cower in their homes, afraid of their neighbors and kin.

"I agree 'The Ripper' is an overly dramatic name, and also far too recognizable. Men still know the tales about 'Jack the Ripper', even if they never knew who it was. Your real name is not associated with the legend. We'll be fighting he heroes of famous stories; their names will reveal everything about them, including their weaknesses." Miliardo waved at the shelves of stories and mythology texts. "There is our advantage. You are not 'Assassin'. You are not 'Jack the Ripper', or even 'The Whitechapel Killer'. You are simply the good Doctor Heller. And nobody will know anything about you, unless you see fit to tell them yourself."

Miliardo's sense for his Servant's abilities told him this much would be completely true. In darkness, the Doctor was as impossible to find. In the light, he could no more hide than any man, but he would still not seem like a Servant to anyone. He could accompany Miliardo down an open street at noon and nobody would know him from any other stranger, save the unnatural fear that seemed to hang over him.

His servant was not a strong one. But that was fine with Miliardo. What buffoon would want to strike openly, even if he had strength on his side? Miliardo always preferred the subtle route. And the good Doctor could be subtlety incarnate, a knife in the dark.

"My good Doctor, the subtle knife of my arm. I see our partnership turning out very well." Another sip of the iced tea, Miliardo taking a moment to enjoy the flavor. "You had said that you wanted to provide mankind something more. I take it you have some wish for the grail, something along those lines? If you'll excuse my prying, I'd like to know what it is you seek in this war."

[The Ripper]

"You are simply the good Doctor Heller. And nobody will know anything about you, unless you see fit to tell them yourself." Miliardo said.

"Indeed. In a venture where secrecy is key to victory each layer of deception is as good as a layer of armor. Because I was man of hidden identity even in my own time you start with a distinct advantage over Servants whos identities are the stuff of myth.

Although I feel it fair to warn you, Master Red. I was subjected to strange energies when I passed through from the other side. Something is affecting the way the Grail summons servants. I do not believe myself to be the only Assassin in this conflict and, if I am duplicated, it stands to reason that the roles of my fellow spirits will be duplicated as well. Mere process of elimination will be a much less useful tool now that you face more enemies than the traditional seven." The Doctor punctuated his words with another unconcerned sip from his teacup. He paused to stir it again, the only sound in the room the soft tinkling of china.

"My good Doctor, the subtle knife of my arm."

"I have often found an inch of finesse to be worth a mile of brutish force. In a contest such as this it is not he who is strongest but he who is most cunning that will remain when others are long in their graves."

"You had said that you wanted to provide mankind something more. I take it you have some wish for the grail, something along those lines? If you'll excuse my prying, I'd like to know what it is you seek in this war." Miliardo asked. The Doctor looked quizzically at him for a moment, almost seeming not to comprehend the question. After an instant he made a facial expression that on anyone else would be a pleasant smile.

"The Grail? Oh, no no no. I have no designs on the Grail. I'm sure I could accomplish my aims by using it but I have no interest in wishes. You need not fear for your prize. No, the Grail strikes me as too...impersonal. You may think it foolish but I'm a bit of a romantic." He said in a tone that said he was neither a fool nor a romantic.

"I'd prefer to do good works one by one, person by person, touching a life at a time. One could use grandiose wishes to reshape the world. But what would be the point?"

The sinking sun fading behind the city sent light skittering across the skyline. Bloody reds refracted through glass windows and scattered over the tips of grass to set the entire city ablaze. The light looked like it was desperately trying to cling to day, dreading falling in the deep morass of night. The Doctor looked pensively out over the scenery, his fingers crossed in his lap quite properly. Despite being a man who evidently enjoyed hearing himself talk he did not ask Miliardo about his own goals. Either he did not care or such concerns did not figure into his machinations. As the last rays played over the brim of his wide gentleman's hat he stood. His long coat fell to swirl around his ankles like a dark current.

"If an in inch of subtlety is the key to victory, how so then a minute of haste? Come, Master, let us hunt. We will seek out your enemies. Or, if none are to be found, then at least I can begin harvesting Mana from the fine citizenry of this city." His words were calm. Measured. But at the talk of the harvest the Doctors long fingers twitched unsettlingly.

[Miliardo Red]

This information was deeply disturbing. Disturbing enough that Miliardo took another sip of tea to give him time to think.

Miliardo had almost expected an overabundance of masters; some of the details uncovered suggested that he may have to deal with many magi in this war, who would be more than happy to kill proper Masters and make their own contracts with a Servant. But the idea of more than 7 Servants was... less expected. The Grail War always had 7 Servants. It was part of the basic outline of the ritual. Much of the ritual was beyond even him, secrets of the Einzbern masters, but adding more Servants did not sound like the sort of change that could be done easily and with controlled effects; far different than adding a dying woman to a ritual.

This required a change of battle plans, but also held opportunities. The more Master/Servant pairs, the more likely there was to be stragglers and outliers, separated and alone. Vulnerable. Ripe. A subtle fighter did not have to mean a timid fighter, after all.

As Miliardo mulled over this, the Doctor dropped another disturbing bit of information.

"I have no designs on the Grail." As the Doctor explained his philosophy for 'touching one life at a time,' Miliardo quickly realized what his Servant wanted out of their new role. Jack the Ripper was reborn, and he intended to take up his good work once more. The War was a probably just a hobby to tinker with and a means to stay in the World; the good Doctor probably saw the upcoming battle in a similar light that Miliardo saw his clockwork, as useful and enjoyable distraction from the real work. In his case, mass-murder.

As the sunset bathed the room in red, dying light, Miliardo looked again at his new companion. He could swear he saw all the fires of Hell reflected in those glasses. Or perhaps it wasn't a reflection, but a glimpse into the Doctor's soul.

Another sip was necessary to calm the nerves.

The Doctor's words came calm, like a man discussing his next stratagem."If an in inch of subtlety is the key to victory, how so then a minute of haste? Come, Master, let us hunt. We will seek out your enemies. Or, if none are to be found, then at least I can begin harvesting Mana from the fine citizenry of this city." But Miliardo could feel danger in them. What would happen if he refused? He was a Master; everything he knew said his Servant couldn't harm him, or do much more than sulk if he refused. But Miliardo had trouble believing it.

Miliardo took stock of the situation. He did not mind killing for Mana. Most magi would not care, as long as it never reached the point where temporal authorities began to notice. If the War was not in danger of discovery, the only drawback was earning the ire of more ethically chained Masters. But would Doctor Heller limit himself? He was never caught, but he certainly gained attention...

And what would the Doctor do if Miliardo refused?

A final sip of the tea, and it was gone. He could not delay any further. With a measure, calm movement, Miliardo stood and made his decision.

"Yes, let us go and seek our foes. If we find none, we can use a sacrifice of mana; the ritual certainly hasn't done me any good, after all. However, if it comes to that, you must find a way to secret them back to our basement." The next statement surprised even himself. "It's soundproof and you can do your good work in peace from there, so long as we do not get caught."

That settled that. His lot was thoroughly thrown in with the murderer. He supposed his choice had been made from the from the very moment that woman had been killed, but somehow this seemed very, very final.