Disillusionment Stage 2[/fin]

[Amaranta Bastillo]

Carry-on from this and The Gentleman and the Good Doctor


Emma had no idea how long the trip was; it had all merged into one terrifying blur. One too-long terrifying blur of going at over two-hundred kilometers, clutching desperately at anything to keep her from falling off. It was a miracle, but they hadn't hit anyone. She supposed she should've been thankful for that, but the thought of the sheer number of traffic infringements that her plate must've racked up terrified her.

She all but keeled over off the end of the Vespa, when they finally slowed to a stop. Her head hit the pavement with a rather disturbing thwack, but she didn't pay it all that much attention. All she wanted to do was just fall asleep and wake up to realize it was all a terrible, terrible dream.

She rubbed her wrist, still sore from where it was gripped.

Wait. Huh? He wasn't even paying attention to her anymore; he was looking at the sky.

Emma didn't need any more encouragement than that. In an instant, she was up, and sprinting as far away from the creepy-stalker-kidnapper-thing as possible. He was dressed in layers of metal, after all, it wasn't like he'd be able to catch u-

A hand on her shoulder jerked her to a sudden stop, even as she was about to take another step. She didn't even need to turn around to know who it was; that sinking feeling in the pit stomach was enough. She found herself being whirled around, and then almost forced to her knees as he kneeled again.

“Having proved my skills with that magnificent ride, by the way your steed is well bred and quite powerful."

What. Was this guy thick? Touched in the head, perhaps?

"Will you now accept me as Servant? Are you my Master?”

Yep. Definitely something lacking up there, but it didn't change the fact that he was in the middle of kidnapping her.

"You're one stubborn, stupid bastard, aren't you? You hijack my house," she began in a low, trembling voice, " Kidnap me with my own Vespa that you somehow managed to hotwire, cut a hole in my garage destroy my fence, violate almost every regulation in the book, almost kill us along with dozens of other people, and that's why you want me to answer?!"

It wasn't just her voice that was shaking. It was her whole body. The roaring headache didn't help. Evidently she was even more fatigued than she thought.

"So no, even if you kidnap me; YOU'RE NOT MY BLOODY SERVANT, AND I'M NOT YOUR MASTER!"

Was it wrong that she really wanted to strangle someone?

[Miliardo Red]

Miliardo had spent the first several minutes of this walk wondering how the good Doctor expected them to find any masters, then resigned himself to the fact that it was likely the Doctor simply wanted to kill something and "a minute of haste" had just been an acceptable excuse for it.

Of course, then Miliardo was nearly run over by a Vesper. Going at 200 kmph. The wrong way. On a sidewalk.

And in case that was too subtle, one of the riders was clearly wearing some sort of sword.

Miliardo dove out of the way, and barely avoided being the first dead Master, killed by a runaway scooter. But regardless of the slight damage to his ego, he recognized a golden opportunity when he saw it.

"Doctor, we need to follow that vehicle."

=====

Following a terrifyingly fast scooter should have been harder, but it left something of a trail. Skid marks, minor car accidents, frightened pedestrians. Most people were desperately heading in the other direction, away from the rocketscooter, but the trail kept strong, and Miliardo made up time by avoiding clear loops his quarry had taken. They did not seem to have a destination in mind, as if they were riding around frightening people just for the Hell of it.

And there, in an alley, Miliardo found the riders. They did not seem to be happy with each other.

"So no, even if you kidnap me; YOU'RE NOT MY BLOODY SERVANT, AND I'M NOT YOUR MASTER!"

A servant. And a master, who had apparently not accepted the contract. Too good to be true; what kind of foolish master would summon a servant then refuse to accept them? Like walking into a battlefield without a weapon! Miliardo's mind worked on overdrive, his natural caution trying to find how this was an ambush. But it came up dry. No normal master would leave a trail of unnatural, motor-scooter-powered destruction. It might work as bait, but you'd need to know who you were baiting; this was the first day of the war, nobody knew each other! And the danger of revealing things to the public with such a display...

No, the most likely answer seemed to be the simplest. She was an idiot master who didn't know what she was getting into, and this would be an excellent opportunity to eliminate the first of many. Perfect.

Miliardo laid out his orders. "Doctor, the man may be a Servant. You keep him occupied, I'll take care of our young lady."

The scene seemed simple; if she was really a fool and was yelling about a kidnapping, what did she want? A savior, of course. Miliardo could provide; a woman seeking escape would not necessarily care how it was delivered, as long as it was delivered at all.

Miliardo activated 1000 Faces, changing his face to something more suitable for 'savior'. He now looked like a woman, tall and with a sturdy frame, with short brown hair and an athletic build. Jeans and a shirt, basic outdoor wear. He now looked like the sort of woman that probably took self-defense courses and ran marathons as a hobby. Which was true, Miliardo had scanned a marathon runner for this particular face.

He charged in, shouting. "You there, crazy! Let her go!" He didn't dare try to break the Servant's grip himself, but grabbed the woman's hands and tried to drag her down the alley and away from the Servant.

"Come with me, I'll help you get away from him!" He gestured further up the alley into the next street. If she would follow him, the Doctor could keep the man occupied while he found a 'hiding place' to finish the woman in.

[The Ripper]

The pair of dark figures marched through the city. The Doctor lead while the Illusionist trailed a few steps behind. Neither spoke. Rather than pouncing on and dismembering the first hapless civilian they crossed they seemed to ignore people, moving through them like sharks cutting through schools of minnows. The Doctor was drinking in the sights and sounds of the city, letting the feel of it soak into his consciousness. Like London, like Prague, like Moscow, each city beat with its own pulse like a bloated, tumorous body.

A city, like a body, is a complex system comprised of smaller interlocking systems that all function in tandem to produce life as we know it. But when so many systems must operate concurrently they do so at less than peak efficiency. Human error, miss communications, overlapping bureaucracies, all these competing forces send fractures through the perfectly working structure. And in these cracks enterprising individuals have room to operate. If one understands a system well enough it's rules can be bent. Broken. And manipulating the system is the key to wreaking havoc on an unaware community with absolute impunity.

The Doctor's own knowledge of humanity as a mass animal and his expertise in evading the law in his previous life combined with the infodump provided by the Grail to bring him up into the current century. Where a casual observer saw a police car cruising down a side street the Doctor saw patrol routes, dispatching logistics, and extrapolated response times. Where someone saw a surveillance camera the Doctor saw sabotage able wires and blind spots. Clue on clue heaped itself into his mind, quickly bringing his main asset back online. His ability to operate within a city with complete secrecy.



When Bedwyr and Emma barreled past on their madcap ride the Doctor turned to follow them with his eyes. Sidestepping easily, his presence as a Servant Concealed, he seemed oddly unconcerned when Miliardo was forced to wildly leap out of the way to keep from being pancaked onto the sidewalk. Odd considering his entire ontological inertia was derived from Miliardo's continued survival.

"How curious." He noted, giving Miliardo a deep and deferential nod at his order to pursue them. "But of course, Master Red."

As they swiftly followed the pair the Doctor fell behind, pausing at the mouth of the alley. He watched with one arched eyebrow as Miliardo shifted forms, an intrigued smile quirking his odd features.

"Curious indeed."

As Miliardo shifted his appearance Jack took a step backwards, fading into the shadows. But when he reached the wall of the alley he didn't stop, stepping back into the wall its self. Or through it. But no, he wasn't stepping into the wall. He was stepping into the shadow. His form grew dark, the enveloping fabric of his long duster transformed from a covering against the elements and into an obscuring veil of blackness. Beginning with the brim of his hat he began to disappear backwards, sinking into the shadow like a man being enveloped in tar. When at last only his face remained sticking through the wall he flashed Miliardo a grin, his face pulled back in a caricature of malicious glee before disappearing entirely.

A wave of terror settled over the alleyway like a sudden blast of icy wind. The streetlamps began to flicker, the shadows seemed to jerk and leap, insects crawled from under cans to add the chitinous sounds skittering to the atmosphere. A rational girl may question a strange rescuer, especially in light of the current circumstances. But a girl addled by panic? Much more likely to grasp the first friendly hand that happened along.

And behind Bedwyr, in his very own shadow, a mound like a bubble of darkness began to rise. Jack loomed over his back savoring the feeling. From the folds of his cloak he slowly drew the gleaming length of a long butcher's knife. Thick, and long enough by half to pierce the heart. He gloated over the unwitting Rider. Jack's Sneak Attack was no more powerful than any other mundane knife. But it would slip past armor, slink through blocks, and sink unerringly into flesh. It took less than a pound of force to pierce the skin. And with a cackle tinged with madness Jack rammed the blade home into Bedwyr's back.

Still laughing like a madman he danced backwards, leaving the blade sticking out of Bedwyr's flesh at a sickening angle. He stood half in the shadows, another blade appearing as if by magic in his hands. He twirled it idly through his fingers. Did Bedwyr release his hold on Emma and turn to face him? Or did he stand like a man at a mark while Jack slashed at him?

"Ho ho, he he, wot fun, eh boyo?" He laughed. His carefully cultivated upper class accent fell away in the heat of the moment leaving in it's wake a bestial gutter snarl. The words of an animal.

"Got a bit 'o' a scratch there, eh ole' southpaw? Tha body 'o' yourn' surely seen better days, eh? So ya gots ta ask yerself." Jack taunted, blade held low, ready to pounce or slink back into the shadows with the speed that only a Servant could muster.

"Ya gots ta ask yerself." He shifted the knife from right hand to left and back again almost too fast for the eye to follow, spinning in dizying patterns and sending flashing light glinting through the alleyway. Jack's words were feverish, his expression rapturous, his eyes wide with insanity.

"Is your body ready?"

[Bedwyr]

His Master delivered a blistering remonstrance, personally insulting him, and at one point insulting even his riding skills. He had not hit anyone, and wouldn’t unless needed. Yet she complained about how he had led his mount. She, apparently, did not enjoy the ride, which was difficult to believe.

And on top of it she had denied being his Master, again.

He was about to respond to her, this time he did not know if he could control the anger in his voice, when a… thing wreathed in bent light, travelling through particles of… something suspended in the air that made the shape seem as if it were shrouded in bright fog, that was the best way he could put it, grabbed his Master’s hand. The voice came out of it distorted, but audible. He could not even place a gender to it, as it almost had a shredded quality.

“Come with me, I'll help you get away from him!” The form pulled on his Master. And she tried to go with the creature of fog? Could she not see?

It was then he felt the familiar bite of cold steel in his body, piercing his surcoat and armour like water. Instantly his trained body responded, rolling forward and unsheathing his own blade as he did, turning to face the one who had struck him. The knife was still in his shoulder, he dare not move his hand to grab at it.

If I take the time to do that…

His wound bled angrily, and he heard the small splashes as an occasional drop of blood hit the ground. I let go!? Sure enough, his hand now held the hilt of his swiftly reforming sword rather than his Master’s shoulder. The clouded one was almost dragging her away.

And in front of him stood the thing that had stabbed him, laughing like a madman. It was like the other, except this time it seemed to have shadows wrapped around it. His eyes could barely keep track of it as the lights around him flickered. Another knife, probably the double of the one in his shoulder, rested in the shadow's hand, the only thing he could actually "see" persay. The rest of it was more of a blur, hidden but definately there.

The shadow seemed to be the very form of the word “nightmare”.

Bedwyr's own blade had melted and reformed into a short sword, far more suitable to foot combat than his longsword had been, especially in restricted areas like this.

Should I go after Master, or face this Servant? By turning his back he would allow the shade another strike, and another knife would sink in his back. If he did not go after his master, however, he would probably never be able to make a contract and fade from this world, since she seemed incapable of defending herself, at least to him.

“Is your body ready?” The shade finished, finally done with his barely understandable taunting. This… thing annoyed him. He would not take the effort to respond. A feeling other than annoyance crept up his spine as well, but he ignored it. An emotion like that would make him unable to render a decision on what to do.

A lot of Bedwyr’s seriousness faded when the thing made a completely useless set of gestures with its knife, spinning it about its hands like an acrobat. While it showed familiarity with the weapon, a trained warrior would not make such movements with bare steel facing him. Had Bedwyr been mounted, the shadow would have paid dearly for such a flourish.

The demonstration solved his problem. He could probably take more strikes from the man, but his Master may not be able to fight off her abductor. But how long can I hold?

There was no time for thought. He planted and his foot as he turned to give chase, cracking a cobblestone underneath his foot with the pressure as he prepared to turn.

Chivalry dictated that he should not flee, but parts of the code itself overrode others. He had given up on chivalry anyways, forming his own code that was remarkably similar to it. He held no one to it but himself, and it dictated saving a liege’s life as the highest value. And she would be his liege, for a short while, until he once again served her.

Every muscle in his body exploded into motion at once, launching him down the alleyway at the fastest speed he could go without riding. It probably wouldn’t be enough to get away from the one behind him, but he had to try.

She would not die while under his protection. He would not let her die! He would serve, whether she liked it or not.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

The desire to strangle someone passed when she saw an expression not dissimilar to anger on his face as he opened his mouth. Something in that expression of his made him seem that much more imposing; that much more terrifying. She could almost feel the thick blanket of dread settle around them. It wasn’t like the frenzied terror of the Vespa ride that might’ve even been tinged with just the slightest bit of exhilaration. It was trepidation, anxiety, cold fear slowly creeping into her heart.

The man in front of her just about seemed like the most terrifying person alive, and her first reaction was the very base instinct to run away. As far as possible, as fast as possible. The flickering streetlights did nothing to help.

“You there, crazy! Let her go!”

A voice, a confident, female voice, rang out from behind her, and once again, she found a firm hand gripping her wrist. Before she could react, she once again found herself being dragged away, having to twist her body to avoid falling over backwards, the knight’s hand no longer on her shoulder. She could only see the back of her saviour, but she seemed like a trustworthy sort; sturdily built, modestly dressed, the sort of person that wouldn’t look too out of place jogging at this time of day. Besides, she offered her an outlet to escape from her would-be abductor, and Emma was panicked enough to accept anything at that point.

She didn’t even question how convenient it was just to have somebody pop up in a dark alley precisely at that point in time. Some niggling remnant of rational thought in the back of her mind was screaming at her that something was dreadfully wrong; that the rescue seemed far too contrived, that lights didn’t normally flicker on and off like in a bad horror flick, but the irrational fear which assaulted her senses, and the overwhelming desire to just escape overrode any possible misgivings.

The woman who looked like a runner was slower than her initial expectations, and she was able to keep up without much trouble, even despite her inexplicable fatigue. She rounded the corner, small puffs of mist forming in the air in front of her from her heavy breathing. She didn’t look back, sprinting up the street after her rescuer. It took her a while longer to realize that they had escaped into yet another alley. With a dead end.

He brain wasn’t working properly, it hadn’t been working properly all day, but she still had the presence of mind to realize that wasn’t quite how rescues went. In fact, she was surprised she hadn’t realized they were sprinting into blind alley until the wall was right up in her face. That was all anyone really needed to clue them into the fact that something was up. Emma was ready to slam her head into a desk for her stupidity.

Was this lady a cohort of his? Some sort of partner in crime? How on earth did she get led so easily? Realization dawned on her too late. To make things worse, there was literally nothing on her that she could call for help with. Still fighting down a wave of panic, she fished around in her pockets for something that could be useful. Her fingers closed around a cool, round metal object.

A Swiss army knife. Fat lot of good that’ll probably do her, but she flipped it out all the same. It looked like a laughably puny defense.

“You’re not really here to help, are you?” she said slowly, taking pains to keep her voice level, backing away slowly.

[Miliardo Red]

Miliardo kept running, and the girl seemed to keep pace pretty well. Behind him, he felt the Doctor's enveloping, terrifying presence. This just made him happy to be running away; he was not curious about how "Jack the Ripper" did his dark work. The fear kept Miliardo running, and he imagined his young woman ran for largely the same reasons.

Miliardo ran to the end of the terror-filled alley, round a corner, and into the next alley on the left; nothing fancy, just enough to keep this young lady away from the immediate vicinity of her Servant (And away from the Doctor's immediate presence, for his own sake). And out of the public eye while he finished the job. A very neat night, one master already dead and the war off to an excellent start.

Except she suddenly pulled away, stepping back. Her voice was low and level, but Miliardo could feel the tension behind it. And, more importantly, she had a knife. A laughable, short utility knife, but a knife nonetheless. And she posed the question at the heart of the matter.

“You’re not really here to help, are you?”

Miliardo felt something flow out, a sort of tension from his mind. His acting had apparently been too thick, or possibly the Doctor's aura of terror had made her paranoid enough to doubt him. Either way, the illusion game was largely up, and he had no need to continue it.

He grinned at her, and used 1000 Faces to transform back into his most often used face, the face of Miliardo Red, right in front of her.



"No, my dearest lady, no I am not". His grin grew wider, and he gestured to the knife. "Not thinking of violence against our 'rescuer', are we?"

As if in response to a challenge, Miliardo drew one of his own, glass knives; this one was not invisible, and it gleamed in what little light there was. Silly as glass seemed, it was impeccably sharp; well suited for a single, killing stroke. "That would be a poor idea, I assure you. I believe I have far more experience with knives than such a lovely young woman would."

As if to prove his point, Miliardo gestured widely, flipping the knife between his fingers in fluid, circular arcs, over and between fingers, sometimes over the back of his own hand. Finally, he brought it up in a mock salute, before flipping it again. "Your bravery in such a situation is admirable, but I simply cannot allow another Master to run around. I noticed you hadn't accepted your Servant bodyguard. Fortuitous to me, it would be hard to kill you if you had accepted his protection. Their powers are uncanny, you know. But they are a necessary part of the Grail War, whether you realized it or not."

Still wearing the pleasant smile, he brought the knife out of it's flipping motions and held it at ready. "If you will be so kind as to remain quiet and hold still, I will make this quick and painless. If not, I may be forced to call MY Servant, and he will not be so generous."

[The Ripper]

Jack stood at the ready, hunched in a combat crouch and working flourishes with his miss matched knife when Bedwyr turned and fled down the alleyway in pursuit of his Master. Jack let loose with a high pitched giggle. He tittered, the sound bouncing off the walls like shards of glass being poured down a garbage chute.

And yet even behind layers of insanity Jack was a surgeon and a scientist at heart. A medical professional. When Bedwyr turned his back Jack got a good look at the wound, his devious mind analyzing and calculating. He knew how long the knife was. He could see the angle at which it was protruding from Bedwyr's back. And he knew the intricacies of human anatomy. For anyone but a Servant a punctured lung would have stopped them cold, not to mention the trauma to the latissimus dorsi rendering them incapable of using that arm at all. As it was the Rider was hardly even slowed. Sure, a collapsed lung would kill anyone given enough time. And it would immobilize any mere human while it did it. But a Servant could do a lot of damage in the time it took for his blood to de-oxygenate and his brain to die. Damage that Jack had to prevent.

Bedwyr was fast. His legs were fueled by a speed only reachable by Servants and he had half an alleyways head start on Jack. But Jack had no intention of giving chase in conventional manner.

"Runnin, eh boyo?" He catcalled. Even as he spoke he began to disappear. As if a trap door had been pulled he fell out of sight, sinking down into the shadows that enveloped him. Bedwyr turning his back had a second, more devastating effect. It afforded Jack the chance to launch another of his unerring Sneak Attacks.

Like the fin of a shark cutting through water on its path to devour it's prey Jack rose from Bedwyr's shadow once again. He would look odd to any observer, the top half of his body protruding from the ground and skimming along behind the fleeing warrior. He waited two heartbeats, counting the rhythm of Bedwyr's steps, then struck. He lashed out once more, this time visciously severing Bedwyr's right achilles tendon.

He immediately dropped back out of sight, ducking back below the ground. He stepped out of the shadowy wall of the alleyway several yards short of the turn Miliardo and Emma had taken. He nonchalantly placed himself between Bedwyr and the opening, leaning up against the wall and ready to fall through its shadow should Bedwyr try and close on him.

"M'affraid runnin won't do you any good, my dear fellow." He continued to taunt the dauntless knight, unheedful whether or not his goading was actually having any effect. His face had lost the bestiality of a moment before. His features were collected. His accent shifted back and forth between street rat and cultured gentleman.

[Bedwyr]

He heard a sickening tearing sound before he felt the pain in his leg. At the instant he felt the pain he stumbled and backhanded blindly with his blade, of course it hit nothing. Normally he wouldn’t waste a motion like that, but it seemed like he was not in a normal frame of mind. Something cold gripped his soul; it had been a long time since he felt like that, a very long time.

The thing was in his way as he rose. How does he move so quickly? At least he was not wielding anything along the lines of a noble phantasm, but his own were barely useful without anything to ride. And with injuries…

He would not resign to death, would not resign his Master to death. And yet the thing stood in his way, and he was now slightly crippled. He could ignore pain, but with an injury that made one’s leg drag…

Despite the cold gripping soul he mentally ran through the situation with something resembling calm. No noble phantasms yet, nothing to ride, he moves faster than me, I’m injured, he is in perfect health. This certainly sounds negative.

Nothing to ride. That one stuck out from the list as if it were glaring at him, or perhaps assualting his brain.

Nothing to ride. It echoed through his mind again. He was useless, worse than useless without something to ride.

Anything capable of its own motion, or motion under power would be useful. But there was nothing but bins of trash, and if he searched those he would be dead far too fast.

He might be able to beat the servant in a normal fight, but this was far from normal. He had to get past this thing, this shade. Bedwyr momentarily considered simply removing part of the building from his way with his blade, but it would take too long.

He felt pain from the wound in his shoulder. Two wounds, would he receive another? Probably, but it no longer mattered. He would hold to his code, and he had had worse. His bad arm twinged when he thought of how he had lost it.

"M'affraid runnin won't do you any good, my dear fellow." He ignored the shade, although he was starting to get bothered by it. He had to concentrate. It was difficult, but, after seemed like what was an eternity, but may have been less than a second, he wasn't really sure, a useful thought occurred to him.

Why am I playing by these rules, again? His mind echoed with his option, another choice, one that, hopefully, the Servant would not see coming. He did not need the street! He slammed his sword into its sheath, it slid in almost as a liquid form to match the space occupied by the sheath.

This was going to hurt.

He yanked the knife from his back, feeling the blood rush from his body and spill onto the ground, and hurled it at the shade in his way. He had never been good at throwing weapons, but this one looked like it was at least going in the correct direction.

With that he slammed his good right hand into the wall beside him and hurled himself to the rooftops. A second of surprise, that was all he had. He could make good use of it. The sheer height he lifted himself to allowed him to see part of the bright... fog, but not his Master, in a nearby alley.

It was slightly brighter on the roof of the two story building he had leapt to. The streetlights were almost visible, but the moon shone with radiance at the very least. That seemed to slightly calm down his rapidly beating heart. Just a little.

Is she already dead? The worrisome thought rippled through his mind as he landed on the roof, rolling after painfully landing on his bad leg. However he had no time to assuage his fears, or accept the pain, as he had a second at best from when the hopefully startled servant began to move. With that he ran as fast as he could across the rooftops. He managed to get above the fog person almost instantly; all he had to do now was jump down.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

Emma’s fears were confirmed when the woman’s face twisted into a violent grin, even as she drew back. How did she let herself be led like this? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Her heart was thundering in her chest even as she held the knife up, the pitiful blade hovering between her and her ‘saviour’ looking just about like the least threatening thing ever. Despite her efforts, she couldn’t keep her arms from trembling, but god knew she was trying, her eyes trained firmly on the woman.

And then the form before her melted, turning, if only for a split second, into something that resembled silly putty. Except it was a woman’s face, and people were not made out of putty. Right before her eyes, the woman transformed into a haunting albino male, his crimson eyes regarding her with malicious glee. In front of her stood a completely different person than the woman who was supposed to rescue her, and his mouth only grew wider at her confusion.

Impossible. What just happened should’ve been impossible; another impossibility to add to the long list of absurdities that had happened. Was happening. He was speaking, but her mind was barely registering his words. Everything that had happened was too unreal to be anything but a dream, but even she had to admit at the moment it was anything but. She was on the verge of blind panic. The blade he produced looked sharp enough to kill; was sharp enough to kill.

Was he going to kill her? Was she going to die?

“Your bravery in such a situation is admirable, but I simply cannot allow another Master to run around.”

However, the man seemed intent on gloating over his success, doing parlour tricks with his knife, prolonging the confrontation. He was after something. What was he after? She didn’t waste time thinking about that. There had to be something she could do; something to get her out of this situation.

“I noticed you hadn’t accepted your servant bodyguard.”

She wasn’t about to turn her back on somebody with a knife, much less running straight into what could possibly be another trap. Wait. Servant?

“Fortuitous to me, it would be hard to kill you if you had accepted his protection.”

Her mind was racing, only half-hearing what he was saying. Even if the card-carrying villain routine had gotten old long ago, she wasn’t about to waste away the extra time he was giving her.

“Their powers are uncanny, you know. But they are a necessary part of the Grail War, whether you realized it or not.”

The realization hit her like a wrecking-ball. Her grandfather, the circle, the master-servant routine. She couldn’t believe her stupidity, how she wasn’t able to put two and two together for so long. The face-melting had confirmed it. Her grandfather wasn’t lying to her. Things that didn’t make sense did once she started adding magic to the equation. Unwittingly or not, the man in front of her had just provided her the means for her own survival. Either that, or her sanity had become just as far gone as her grandfather’s, but beggars couldn’t really be choosers, now, could they?

“If you will be so kind as to remain quiet and hold still, I will make this quick and painless. If not, I will be forced to call MY Servant, and he will not be so generous.”

Masters and servants. She tried to remember what the one-handed knight had told her. Servant, Rider. Summoned to fight for the Holy Grail. She was hardly paying attention to the albino man anymore.

“In that case,” if this worked, she supposed she’d have to be grateful for the guy, “Servant, Rider!,” she all but screamed, “Yes, I, Amaranta Bastillo, am your Master!”

If that didn't work, at least she wouldn't have to die from embarrassment.

[Miliardo Red]

In that dark alley, Miliardo stepped forward, trying to get around the most obvious line of attack her knife was pointed in. He knew that even the most harmless-looking knife could be rammed home into something vital. His entire experience with glass knives was testament to that fact; brittle, fragile weapons that could be rammed into someone's heart and twisted, shattering the weapon inside their body. The glass shards would require surgery to remove, and any motion in the meantime would cause terrible cutting inside the body, aggravating the wound and making it worse. No, he would not underestimate a utility knife, even if he had the urge to laugh at it.

Of course the girl wouldn't remain quiet or still, no matter what he asked her to do. Nobody was really going to remain quiet while you killed them. But whatever noises she made would be short lived, if he could get around her defense and jam a knife into her throat. It's impossible to scream when you can't breath.

So it wasn't unexpected for her to scream. When she started shouting, he prepared to leap, but WHAT she was shouting caught his attention.“Servant, Rider!,” she yelled, “Yes, I, Amaranta Bastillo, am your Master!”

This caught Miliardo as the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard.

"Oh, oh my," he choked out around rolling laughter, "you... you think that will help now?" He couldn't help it, he threw back his head and laughed out loud, coming out in great peals that echoed around the alleyway.

"Oh, my dear young lady, it is a little late for that, don't you think? Your Rider is a little preoccupied. The good Doctor will have seen to that." Miliardo couldn't help it, he was tearing up from the laughter. Did she actually think her servant would come to save her NOW?

"No, no, that's not going to work at this point. Your Servant will not simply drop out of the sky because you accept him. Now, I'm quite serious this time," he whipped his knife back around, readying it for a straight lunge at her chest. "Kindly hold still and I'll kill you quickly."

[The Ripper]

The Doctor watched curiously as Bedwyr reached up across his wounded back to pull the blade there free. He quirked an eyebrow, unmoving. When the Rider hurled the slim sliver of metal at him his options narrowed. He had either to give up his positioning or take the blow. He hissed in displeasure and sunk backwards through the wall as the blade thudded into the bricks where his had had been seconds previously. He emerged once again on the other side of the alleyway several meters down and readied himself for a charge but instead watched Bedwyr's impressive feat as he hoisted himself up onto the rooftops.

Rather than giving chase Jack watched the direction that Rider's flight took. He reached one hand through the shadow near where he was standing, the appendage appearing disembodied on the opposite wall. He reached through the shadows, pulled the knife from the stonework, and tucked it back into his cloak.

Then he bent forwards and stuck his head and shoulders through.

His top half appeared behind Miliardo protruding from the wall like the head of a prize buck.

"Master, I believe you are about to have some company. While I am loth to deny you your enjoyment perhaps you should stop toying with the poor dear and..." The Doctor paused. His eyebrows drew down for an instant before shooting up in surprise. Rider had taken to the rooftops and if he hadn't arrived yet...

The Assassin made an annoyed sound and with a bounding stride stepped all the way through the shadow. He seized Miliardo by the scruff of his collar and bodily dragged him behind himself, backpedaling a quick step down the alleyway. In a few strides he had placed enough distance between them and Emma that Bedwyr would be unable to defend her and attack them in the same leap. The Doctor was forcing the choice to attack or defend. And if there is one thing about truly honorable men, they are predictable in their nobility.

[Bedwyr]

Just as he reached the tip of the roof and prepared to jump, his Master’s voice rang out through the alley and up to his ears “Servant, Rider!Yes, I, Amaranta Bastillo, am your Master!”

He jerked back slightly as he felt a sudden tightness in his chest as her prana began to flow into him. Already he felt better, although not the best he could be. It would be enough.

He heard the bright figure laugh as he moved back towards the ledge. Bedwyr could have laughed at that himself, the man had no idea what was coming. However by the time he had returned to the ledge from stumbling backwards at the sudden acceptance of the contract, his bad leg twinging as he placed weight on it, the shade had beat him back. He was approaching the light based figure, but Bedwyr could take no risks.

So he leapt through the air, pushing off with his good leg. The two had separated from Emma as he travelled through the air, his surcoat whipping in the wind behind him, and he could have almost snarled, now he would be able to assault them and defend Emma at the same time. He whipped his blade out of its sheath, it formed once again to a smallsword before he even hit the ground.

His surcoat and hair blew back from the pressure of landing as he slammed into the ground in front of Emma, once again somehow on his damaged leg, sending blood spurting onto the ground underneath him. He collapsed to a knee and his fist crunched the paving stones beneath it as it landed on the ground, holding the hilt of Spatharius. He tried to make it look as if he had done it on purpose. His Master’s voice said something in shock, but the echo of his landing drowned out her voice.

Bedwyr’s head raised dangerously, his eyes narrowing at the two figures now in front of him and his declared Master. Her name was… Amaranta? Yes that was it. A suitable name, if a little long and aged for the time he had been summoned into.

“And I, Rider am your faithful Servant!” His voice had finality to it, one that almost sounded like the sealing of a contract. He had not put that there, but he could hear it in his own voice.

He would protect her, even if it was getting difficult to breathe, even if he could barely walk. He stood, barely. If she hadn’t accepted the contract just then, would I have been able to stand at all?

Were the two of them fleeing, or just putting distance between them to ambush them once again. He was not sure, but he could avoid them, hopefully, now.

He put all the disgust, hatred, and dangerousness; he could muster into his voice “Run, you craven fools! You now face a Servant with his full strength!” He took a careful combat stance, his blade levelled and ready. His eyes tightened, ready for combat. It was sheer bravado, and almost a lie, but that was all he could really offer right now. He would be able to fight if he could limit his movement, or the time spent doing so, but otherwise… His wounds spilled more blood onto the ground, and the one in his shoulder had made the surcoat begin to stick to his armour. He focused much effort in completely ignoring the freely flowing blood.

Next time he had to chase his master down he was bringing a mount.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

In the brief period of silence that followed her acknowledgement, Emma almost thought that whatever she did worked. That is, until he began to laugh at her, not even trying to conceal his mirth. Even as colour rose to her cheeks, her heart sank. She could see the avenues of escape closing one by one, not able to tear her eyes away from that wicked blade of the glass knife.

“Your Servant will not simply drop out of the sky because you accept him,” he told her, voice still laced with unconcealed amusement,” Now I am quite serious this time. Kindly hold still and I’ll kill you quickly.”

He flipped his knife around. Even Emma could see where the point was trained. He really meant to kill her for some silly superstitious crap. She opened her mouth to say something. To buy herself some more time. To make a witty retort. Anything.

Then somebody’s head materialized out of the wall.

She gave a small squeak of surprise, almost leaping back as she recoiled.

“Master, I do believe you are about to have some company,” it said smoothly.

Was this the Doctor that he was talking about? Did this make the Doctor a Servant? Did Servants get to materialize out of walls? Emma missed logic. She really did.

“While I am loth to deny you your enjoyment, perhaps you should stop toying with the poor dear, and…”

He stopped halfway, eyebrows shooting up, forcibly dragging the white-haired man backwards. Before she could even react, Rider dropped out of the sky.

When the flurry of hair and fabric had settled, Emma forced herself to stifle a sharp gasp. He was a mess, hitting the pavement with a sickening crunch that made Emma wince. The white surcoat was stained with bright crimson, fresh blood still dripping from a deep wound in his back, dark red liquid already pooling on the ground where he had landed. The glossy sheen in his hair was replaced with matted red and blotchy browns.

“…Seriously…?” she offered in a wobbly voice.

The reality of her situation managed to hit her in full force like a blast of chill wind. That man who had pointed a blade at her wasn’t joking about murdering her. You need to go to a hospital, she was saying, but she was drowned out by the powerful voice of the man in front of her.

“And I, Rider, am your faithful Servant!”

In that one line, she heard some sort of contract being sealed, a pact being formed. She felt almost like she could intrinsically trust the knight standing between her and the shadow. Except at the moment he looked like he was bleeding to death. And then she saw the deep cracks in the pavement that weren’t there before. The sword in his hand. The steadfastness in his stance. He was her Servant. She had no idea what that meant. The events that were unfolding were beyond her comprehension.

“Run, you craven fools!” the knight bellowed into the murky gloom, “You now face a Servant with his full strength!”

Right. Having a stab wound in his back and a destroyed Achilles tendon was full strength. Even she could see the stiffness in his movements that weren’t there before, but somehow, it just didn’t seem like it was her place to interrupt. Somehow, she still wanted to believe that it had nothing to do with her. Her arm that had been holding up the knife dropped.

“You’re not serious,” she muttered to herself in a low voice, shaking her head, the bloody back of her Servant taking up the entirety her vision,“ You’re not serious.”

Of course, she knew it was, she just didn't want to admit it.

[Miliardo Red]

Things had rapidly gotten out of hand. The good Doctor's head had appeared out of the wall to chastise him for taking his time. Then he had stepped through into the alley and bodily dragged Miliardo away from the young lady.

He managed to gasp out "Doctor, WHAT do you think you're do..." just before he found out why he'd been pulled out of the way; the Rider did exactly what Miliardo said he couldn't. He dropped out of the sky, announced his presence, and issued a challenge.

"Run, you craven fools! You now face a Servant with his full strength!" An open declaration of war, though he also seemed to be bleeding badly. 'Full strength' was not quite a believable descriptor.

Miliardo took a moment to straighten himself up, while his mind worked furiously. This was not his sort of fight. He had an Assassin, a Servant class for subversive action and killing masters, not for open combat. This Servant was apparently a Rider. Riders typically had some sort of high-powered Noble Phantasm, often representing whatever mount they rode in life. Wisdom said that an assassin shouldn't fight in open combat at all, and hurling them against an opponent cavalryman in a straight fight seemed a bad idea, even if the opponent was injured. Ultimately, servant-on-servant was out of the question.

If the knight attacked HIM, the good Doctor would likely beeline for his mistress and tear her kidneys out. The knight's presence was all that protected her. Of course, a glass knife would not stop a servant; Miliardo would die along with the opposed master, and nobody would fine. The same thing happened if the Doctor made the first move toward the girl; the attack would be fatal, but the lack of defense would get him killed.

This was tactically an unsuitable situation. The only reasonable course was to retreat, regroup, and strike from another angle. After all... now he knew the woman's name.

Miliardo smiled softly, and his weapon practically vanished up his sleeve, no longer poised for any sort of killing. "Bravo, Sir Rider. I had not expected your timely intervention. And, my good knight, I accept your offer."

The knight, in his fit of bravado, had demanded they retreat. Miliardo could accept his offer, and if he valued his honor, or at least was smart enough to see the danger of the situation, perhaps the knight would not pursue.

"You ask that we retreat, and in honor of you and your Mistress Bastillo..." Miliardo emphasized the name, making it clear to them that he would not forget it, "... the Doctor and I will cease hostilities for the moment. Go home. Tend your wounds. Comfort your lady. Take away her fears." Miliardo smirked at that last comment, and turned to leave. If the knight had no honor, now would be the moment the attack came.

He issued his order as he walked toward the end of the alley. "Come Doctor, perhaps we can find OTHER prey this evening. Something more suited to your tastes, maybe?"

[The Ripper]

When Bedwyr crashed down into the spot where Miliardo had been standing an instant before the Doctor's cheery expression returned immediately. He watched Rider and Emma exchange words and scoffed loudly when Bedwyr turned to hurl his challenge into their faces. If nothing else you had to admire his bravado. Circumstance left him no mount. His injuries left him no sword arm and no mobility. And on top of all his other disadvantages he had, not only himself to protect, but the tender flesh of his Master as well. And yet despite that, through the Doctor's fear aura and his own wounds, he stood like a man and bandied challenges like he had a chance of winning. Like he had a chance of escaping with his life.

A small smile quirked the corners of the Doctor's mouth. Not a sneer or a smirk, a private smile of secret enjoyment. He produced another knife from his sleeve with a flick of his wrist and readied himself for a shadow jump.

Then Miliardo spoke.

The Doctor once again raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Perhaps he did not know how close they were to victory. Perhaps he had some past connection with Emma and did not wish to see her harmed. Whatever the case the Doctor was being ordered to walk away from a victorious situation. He did not protest or retort.

Whatever his Master's reasons for retreat Bedwyr was just too much fun to kill outright. And the Doctor was hardly in the Grail War for something as ephemeral as 'victory' or 'survival'.

Drawing himself up to his full disconcerting height the Doctor made a deep and elegant bow in Emma and Bedwyr's direction.

"Indeed. Rest up, sir knight. I look forward to our next meeting." He said pleasantly, his cultured upper class accent once more in place. When Miliardo turned to leave the Doctor backed away as well. The Magus was trusting Bedwyr's nobility to protect his back as he sauntered away. But if there was one thing the Doctor knew about people it was that nobility and righteousness were simply a farce and a self delusion applied for the plaudits of others and discarded as soon as they became inconvenient.

When they rounded the corner of the alleyway the Doctor turned once again to walk at Miliardo's elbow. He said nothing. But after they had walked a goodly distance he once again took the lead. They meandered through the city, taking random turns, learning its layout. Eventually one of their turns coincided with a young woman walking home from a dead end job late at night. Their next turn coincided as well. The were following her.

They followed her all the way home.

[Bedwyr]

"Bravo, Sir Rider. I had not expected your timely intervention. And, my good knight, I accept your offer." The being made of bright fog spoke once again, but even with the shredded quality of its voice he could tell that the being may not wholly have believed his act.

And yet still he stood, ready for the inevitable. He would not believe the beings, until they were far gone.

"Come Doctor, perhaps we can find OTHER prey this evening. Something more suited to your tastes, maybe?" That touched at his core, but he could do nothing, would do nothing. Sometimes sacrifices had to be made, to prevent worse tragedies, even if it seemed like a horrible thing. He would not attack them now unless ordered. They would find other prey this day, but if he and Amaranta died here, they would be free to find prey for many more days.

He had learned this during his own life, she had seen it, and despite his own arguments at the beginning he saw the purpose of what she had done, and agreed. If a village had to be sacrificed, especially if it was likely to be destroyed anyways, to save others, or even just the people within it there should be no reluctance. As he watched them walk away, he sentenced someone, or multiple someones to death.

The hand holding his sword clenched, from a mixture of pain and anger. He almost wanted his Master to order him to strike them down where they stood, but that would be disastrous at best. If he was ordered, he would attack an opponent who was fleeing. He may not like it, but he could make an exception this time.

"Indeed. Rest up, sir knight. I look forward to our next meeting."

The shade bowed, now understandable, his accent impeccable and his words smooth. So he hid his true self under a blanket of class? A few knights Bedwyr had met in his life had been like that, hiding their savageness and enjoyment for slaughter under the front of a chivalrous knight, protector of the realm. The shade didn’t believe his bravado either, it was apparent in his earlier motions when Bedwyr had landed on the ground. Why had he even bothered with the bravado again?

His own Master probably didn’t believe him either, but then again she could clearly see his wounds, wounds even he did not want to see. He felt them, that was more than enough. He felt every drop of blood, the coating of his hair, and the weight of his blood covered surcoat.

They left and still he stood. He would not relax until he was sure they were gone. Then he would take to the rooftops again so they would not be ambushed by such cowards further down the road.

Well he would at least do that if he could stand. Even for a Servant, he had lost a frightening amount of blood and it was coming back to bite him all at once.

He fell to his knees under the pressure, once the lighting went back to normal, stopped flickering, and the presence that had gripped his heart was gone. There was almost no way he could make this look like it had been his will to do. He would try though.

“Go to my bad arm and hold on.” His teeth grit through the pain, his lungs heaved. He needed rest, urgently. “We will go to the rooftops, after all they may be laying in wait, Master Amaranta, and then return to your living place on your steed.”

He wondered if he could still use his hand to lift himself to the roof again. He could not afford to give up both hands. He sheathed his weapon from his knees, the sheathe itself restringing mostly on the ground rather than being held up by his waist. He wasn’t going to push himself up off the ground until he needed to, wasn’t sure right now if he could.

Each moment the wounds became less painful, but was that because his body was shutting down or because his master’s prana was beginning to heal him?

[Amaranta Bastillo]

The way the white-haired man said her name brought a chill up her spine, even if had put that glass knife away. Mistress Bastillo, he had called her, as his mouth curled in a smirk. He wasn’t going to let it go. He made sure that she knew that he wasn’t going to let it go, and to top it off, he now knew her full name. Even as they turned their back, melting into the shadows, she couldn’t shake the feeling that those two were not finished with their business in the least.

But the person bleeding to death in front of her was a more immediate concern. She was right about the guy bluffing; even if he was doggedly keeping up some semblance of a stance long after they had left her field of vision. She supposed she should say something, do something, but hadn’t the slightest clue as to what. Her limbs felt heavy, head woozy. She didn’t know who this person was. She had no idea why he was here. She had even less idea what just occurred. All she did know was that she had probably managed to make herself look like an idiot.

The silence loomed over them like a fog, even after the uncanny cold atmosphere had dissipated.

“You-“

The man collapsed to his knees with a crash, making Emma jump. Her pulse was still racing, but not for the same reasons as before. What was she meant to do? Despite all that had happened, she still didn’t have the slightest idea of who that guy was, except for the fact he was meant to be her servant. That he was supposed to protect her, although from what and for what reason?

“Go to my bad arm and hold on,” his strained voice made her start,” We will go to the rooftops, after all, they may be laying in waist, Master Amaranta, and then return to your living place on your steed.”

It was the first time that she was actually paying attention to what he was saying, and it sounded just as ridiculous as she remembered. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Going to the rooftops? Putting the usual concerns aside for the time being, how the hell was he going to do that, and in his condition? She couldn’t even see his face, and she already knew what it probably looked like. Blood was still congealing underneath him, trickling into the cracks in the ground, slowly seeping outwards.

“Yeah. Right,” she ignored the proffered arm, stepping into the pool of crimson so that she was in front of him, “Sure. Why don’t you hop around on the rooftops with me on your arm?”

She eyed him critically; the culmination of everything single ridiculous and unbelievable event that had happened that evening, bleeding in a heap on the floor. The Vespa wasn’t parked too far away from where they were, they could probably walk there, if he wasn’t in such terrible condition. Sure, the other two might’ve been waiting to ambush, but she seriously doubted it; it was only a short distance, and if they really wanted to, they could’ve set up an ambush at the scooter.

And to think he was actually seriously telling her to just cling onto his bad arm while he went up to the rooftops.

“It’s not like,” she moved to help him up, heedless of the blood, “you’re half-dead or anything here. Oh, yeah, I’m just going to let you prance around on roofs, bleeding on everything as you go.”

God this guy was heavy.

“I suppose I owe you one, though,” she shrugged, stubbornly refusing to just let him do all the work, “What, with you being a big damn hero and all.”

She tried not to think too hard on who gave him those injuries. If the words of the man who pointed that knife at her were anything to go by, that was probably her fault too. She was not going to get guilt-tripped by a guy who took her out on a 200km/hr joyride on a Vespa.

“I doubt we’d be able to take you to a hospital, though,” she spoke, more to herself to keep herself awake than to him, “considering your weird-ass cosplay and all,” not to mention the terrible driving,”but I’m sure I could scrounge up some things at my place.”

Did she just offer to play medic to the guy who practically kidnapped her? She just did, didn’t she? If she had an extra hand to facepalm, she would’ve done so.

[Bedwyr]

His Master stepped into the small pool of blood. His blood. And offered him sarcasm along with her hand “It’s not like you’re half-dead or anything here. Oh, yeah, I’m just going to let you prance around on roofs, bleeding on everything as you go.”

He wanted to reject her aid, stand on his own, but his body accepted her help without input from his mind. His blood dripped on her clothes. He was recovering, before his blood would have soaked her clothing like it did his surcoat. Yet still, it would, eventually.

He stood, albeit with her aid. Perhaps resting for the night would cure him of his wounds. They did not seem to be magically prevented from healing, but one could never truly know until it happened.

“I suppose I owe you one, though. What, with you being a big damn hero and all” He tried to struggle out a reply, something along the lines of just doing his duty, but all that came from his mouth was blood. He covered it with a cough, well covered it the best he could as blood leaked out of his mouth.

Yet that seemed like a good sign to him. At least the blood was leaving his lungs, even if it had to come out that way.

Amaranta mentioned a hospital and cosplay, his mind not recognizing the second one, and the pool of information did not see fit to provide him with an answer. Perhaps it was some form of language corruption? Then she offered to cure his wounds at her house, which seemed to him what he had suggested earlier, but saw no need to mention it, and spurn her kindness.

When they began to walk, slowly, his arm draped over her shoulder he felt grating pain in his shoulder as his damaged armour sliced into his open wound. He had no reason to reform it, but he should at least dismiss it. His armour… faded, revealing a cotton, bloodstained, grey-white tunic underneath. He felt the cold air through his surcoat and the hole in the tunic as it brushed against his wound. After a moment he let his greaves melt away into the air as well, and underneath was a matching set of loose leggings, except heavier, and cut away along his injured leg. Much better, and his master would have to deal with less weight. His surcoat remained about his shoulders, however.

His armour was only for non-noble phantasm weapons, which his enemy seemed to have since his blades passed through it as easily as it had the tunic underneath. Yet he did not feel the presence of one when the man had struck, nor had he noticed the presence of the servant itself. Assassin had techniques like that, his mind told him, but it did not help with why his armour had not turned aside the seemingly normal knives.

He would not trust himself to speak at the moment, as he walked with aid to the steed they had come here on. His eyes drifted to every corner, every shadow, expecting there to be an ambush. The way she helped him walk limited his sword arm. If they strike… He tried to position himself to be a living shield if need be for his Master, but every time he attempted to change his position, to move on his own, she glared at him.

Thankfully they made it to the yellow steed without issue. No strikes from the darkness bit his body, or hers.

She was covered in his blood now, and he would have offered her his surcoat, but it was just as bad. It would keep her warm, but he could feel in his heart she would refuse the bloodstained thing.

He carefully considered his own situation at attempting to ride the thing. His right leg was more or less useless at the moment, and with his good hand limited controlling the beast with his hands was out of the question. He would have done it if he was alone, but he had a passenger to worry about.

“You ride it.” He said with a final glance at the steed. While his injuries were threatening, so was crashing the mount, or losing control of it. It would not perform as well under her, but it would do its job, and perhaps she wouldn’t scream as much this time.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

As Emma had hoped, the walk back to the Vespa was uneventful, even if the condition on the one draped over her shoulders turning an otherwise brief trip into a laborious slog. It didn’t help that the guy whom she now knew as Rider tried to reposition himself every so often. Emma really didn’t know if she should’ve been grateful for the fact that there was nobody around. What a sight they probably made too, blood-soaked and half dead.

She shivered in the cool night air.

“You ride it.”

He had managed to detach himself from her shoulders, leaning heavily on the Vespa. Somewhere along the way, he seemed to have lost his armour. Emma had no idea how he managed it, nor where it went, but she really didn’t want to think about it anymore. She chalked it up to the terrible migraine she was getting.

“That was kinda the plan.”

Like hell she was going to let that guy drive again, much less in his current condition.

She clambered onto the scooter, motioning for him to get on behind her. She supposed she should’ve been thankful that the engine was still running, the low hum of machinery alerting her to the fact. She didn’t have the keys, courtesy of a certain Rider who managed to hotwire her vehicle by force, so they would’ve been pretty screwed if the engine turned out to be dead. Or something.

Despite not being overly familiar with the area they had been ambushed in, she knew enough that the most straightforward way back to the manor would’ve probably been teeming with people. She couldn’t speak for anyone else, but she was pretty sure that they looked pretty darn suspicious. Especially the long-haired guy at the back.

Of course, that meant she’d have to traverse the winding alleys. On a scooter. With a critically-wounded passenger. And even then, it wasn’t guaranteed that people wouldn’t see them.

“Apologies in advance for the bumpy ride,” she said, and then added in a mutter, “of course, nothing nearly as terrifying as what you subjected me to earlier.”

The engine rumbled to life as she put her foot down on the accelerator. This was going to be a long night.

[Bedwyr]

His blood sprinkled an interesting trail behind him. It was flowing out much slower now, but that was mainly because he had, while Amaranta was riding, pulled off his surcoat and fashioned it about his chest, tying it back tightly with the chain choker. Two half-moons dangled from it this night, he would probably use the crosses the next day, as thanks for survival.

He went back to leaning against her. She was decent at riding this beast, if not as fast as him she had experience, and her movements were decent. Then again, she directed the thing with her hands. That was almost a sin to him; he would modify it in the morning. As that thought entered his mind a thousand pictures flashed through his brain from the pool that was detached from his mind, and yet had some control over it. He learned how he would do it in less than a second; it would be as simple as changing a saddle, if it would take slightly longer. He supposed it more similar to constructing one, without the waiting for days for the leather to cure and form to the shape of the wooden core.

His mind flashed back to the present, the cold air blowing his matted hair back. His mind caught the idea of dematerializing, but at the moment it would probably scare his Master, even if it would decrease the wear on her. Besides, he hated doing that, especially when he would miss a chance to ride… or in this case ride with someone because of it.

His eyes went to the stars. He had ridden many times through the night, changing mounts to more fresh ones when necessary. He had always enjoyed the night’s cold chill, and had always wondered at the stars. They were different now, different places, but his mind told him that was because he was in a different location than the one he had once rode in.

The pool of information worried him. It was him, but not him at the same time, something alien sitting in his mind, directing his actions, showing him the path. Again he shoved aside the worry; this was a matter for another time. He had information, his Master currently did not.

“Master Amaranta, I have been wondering about how little you know of this war. You may stop me if you know of what I speak, but I have a feeling you do not.” He paused taking a sharp breath inwards. At least he could talk now without coughing blood, even if it bothered his lung. He could ignore that pain for what was necessary.

“This is the war for the Holy Grail, granter of wishes. Seven Master-Servant pairs,” His mind burst into pain for some reason when he said the number seven, “Fight for the chance to get it. Only one pair makes it to the end. Either the Master or the Servant has to die in this pair, as one without the other cannot truly fight for the Grail.”

“Each Servant corresponds to a ‘class’ a specific set of skills set by the Grail,” His real mind was learning this from the outside source, even as he spoke. He truly only ‘knew’ moments before his Master. “I correspond to the class of Rider, and I believe that is the only class I correspond to, despite wielding a blade. Each class is one of Assassin, Saber, Rider, Berserker, Lancer, Caster, and Archer. These should be self-evident as to what they are.”

“We fight using our legends, our Noble Phantasms.” He looked at the ornate sheath of Spatharius. It was covered in his blood, and the gems did not even reflect the stars above. He should have cleaned it when he was done combat, what kind of knight was he? “This sword of mine, that shifts shape, is the least and yet most necessary of my Phantasms, Spatharius”

Something else occurred in his mind. Could she see his abilities yet? He would have to ask her when they returned to her home. It was not something to first experience while riding, as it could easily be distracting, at least his mind said it could be.

He paused. What else did she need to know? She had admitted Mastership, so he supposed providing her with his true name would be helpful. “Each servant is a legendary hero, their names one of their greatest secrets.” He continued, this time bringing his head very close to her ear and whispering into it, just in case someone, somehow, was observing them“I am Bedwyr Bedrydant, you may know me better as Bedivere.”

That was his greatest secret. And now she knew, but he would have it no other way. She would have to know her own Servant’s strengths and weaknesses before she directed him in combat, created plans for combat. He could help with that, but his point here now was to win the Grail, to fight in direct combat against others summoned like him. And his Master’s bravery, she struck out at every opportunity to stop her captor, which had been him. She fled when she knew a losing battle and saw opportunity, again him. She would not accept death, not go willingly into the dark embrace even when all hope was lost, as evident when she brought out her own small knife against a man with what appeared to be much more skill, as well as a more deadly weapon. She helped an injured man, and offered him aid, himself again this time.

Yes, he was proud to serve her. He was proud to have such a Master, she amazed him, even if she knew little about what she had fallen into. She could be a replacement for his loyalty towards her for the duration of this war.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

Emma listened silently as the man behind her tried to give her an explanation for that night’s events, hearing only the low drone of the engine beneath them and his voice. Traversing the lesser-known streets and roads weren’t nearly as bumpy as she anticipated, even if, on occasion they were a little narrow.

He had called her ‘Master Amaranta’. If that didn’t make conversation awkward, she didn’t know what did, but was too tired to interrupt him to comment on it. Now she knew why insomnia and driving didn’t go together; she was practically falling asleep at the wheel even despite the chill night and wind in her face.

A completely random thought occurred to her. She didn’t have a helmet. And then she almost missed the next turn, sharply jerking the handles to the right. At least the guy in the back didn’t seem to be complaining about her driving.

“This is the war for the Holy Grail, granter of wishes. Seven Master-Servant pairs.”

She assumed the two of them also made a pair, and the… ‘people’ they had met earlier made another one. Five more, then. She didn’t like the way this was going already.

“Fight for the chance to get it. Only one pair makes it through to the end.”

What was this, some sort of insane free-for-all?

“Either the Master or the Servant as to die in this pair, as without the other one cannot truly fight for the Grail.”

She didn’t particularly want to fight for this ‘Grail’ to begin with, much less die for the silly thing, even if she had a feeling the same didn’t hold true for her ‘Servant’. She liked living too much to die for something she didn’t even know existed.

“Each servant corresponds to a ‘class’ a specific set of skills set by the Grail.”

And now he was talking in RPG terms. What was this, some game? Somewhere in the universe, God was probably laughing at her. Assassin. Saber. Rider. Lancer. Caster. Archer. If not for the events earlier, she would’ve laughed in his face for trying to sell her some cliché RPG, but she couldn’t very well deny the events she had seen with her own eyes.

So this guy was Rider. What about the two from before? One of them appeared through a brick wall, and another changed his appearance right before her eyes.

Rider continued to talk; about ‘Noble Phantasms’, their ‘legends’, about his sword, Spatharius. Most of it went completely over her head, save for the fact that he was saying things which should’ve sounded absurd in any other circumstance with such a serious tone. And she was listening.

“Each servant is a legendary hero, their names one of their greatest secrets.”

He paused, almost as if in thought. When he opened his mouth to speak again, she started, almost crashed the vehicle when she heard his voice in a low whisper right next to her ear.

“I am Bedwyr Bedrydant. You may better know me as Bedivere.”

Bedivere. A figure from Arthurian lore. A knight of the round table. Even despite everything, she could hardly believe him.

“Bedwyr Bedrydant,” she muttered his name as they drove, “Bedivere.”

She let them sit on that for a while in silence. She supposed she couldn’t very well call him by his name if it was supposed to be a great secret.

“I suppose I’ll just call you Rider, then,” she said with a yawn, manoeuvring her vehicle out onto one of the side roads that led to her manor, suddenly grateful that she lived so far away from anyone else, “And you can call me Emma. Nobody uses my full name anyway.”

She made a mental note to herself to get the garage and fence repaired as her scooter spluttered to a stop, having been driven through the hole that Bedwyr made earlier than day. It probably wasn’t very late, but Emma felt dead-tired.

“You okay?”

He’d managed to bleed all over her and her Vespa, so he’d better be okay, even if in retrospect he probably shouldn’t have talked so much, despite already firmly establishing himself as superhuman when he supercharged a Vespa and leapt from a roof. She sighed.

“Can you walk? Yes? No? Ugh. Come on.”

She only half-supported him to the couch, setting him down on it first, and then sitting on the table with a groan, thinking about what she was supposed to do now. She doubted that band-aids were going to do much good for him, and she had no experiencing in patching up wounds at all, and now he was staining the couch red too. Perhaps the hospital wasn’t such a bad idea after all, until she remembered all this ‘grail war’ nonsense.

Her own clothes were soaked already, but she supposed tending to him came first, even if she had no idea what the first thing to do was. With a hasty ‘I’ll be back soon’, she furiously rummaged through the entirety of the first floor for a first-aid kid, which she swore they owned, instead only coming up with a roll of bandages, a few cotton balls, and some swabs. She also grabbed bottle vinegar to use as disinfectant, since that’s what people seemed to do.

He was in pretty much the same condition she left him a few moments ago when she returned with the supplies, dumping them out onto the table next to her tote bag, and then having no idea what to do after that. Bind the wound to stop the blood flow, right? Except one, the only knowledge she had of how she was supposed to go about doing that came from books & movies, and two, she would need to ask him to undress in order to do that.

“Um,” she muttered, pursing her lips, “ Erm. Yeaah…”

She yawned again, eyelid heavy. It was going to be a very, very long night.