Secret Santa Contest (2017) Entries
Herein lies all the submitted fics. Voting will begin in a day or two. Each fic will have the prompt at the end, in a spoiler tag. Both the prompts and fics will remaind anonymous, for now.
Look upon the Wall of Shame, ye Mighty, and despair:
Overmaster: (0/1)
Christemo: (0/1)
Sesto: (0/1)
Polly: (0/1)
Table of Contents:
Horny Pole Dancer Seeks Big Black Stripper's Veiny Throbbing Spear (18+)
It was a rather nice day, she supposed. There was the sun, shining ever so brightly in a cloudless sky, cheerily bringing warmth and light and life to the myriad creatures that roamed and grazed and hunted on these great plains. It had stubbornly chased her throughout the day, and in the end she had yielded, lying back against an aged oak tree as it took her without mercy. Above her, the tree’s branches rattled, shaking off deep green leaves and sending them tumbling haphazardly toward the grass-coated ground. That would be the breeze, she thought. It was a gentle and unobtrusive thing, only there to cool you down and bring you relief if the heat was too much for you - the caring caresses to the sun’s heavy thrusts. There it was, lightly tugging at strands of hair and the few loose frills of fabric on her like a puppy begging for a meal. She patted down its efforts and sent it on its way. She glanced forward, lazily panning her gaze across familiar scenery; there was the orchard of apples that shone like freshly spilled blood and crunched like broken bone, their sweet fragrance recognizable in the air even from her great distance, and there was the brook that provided the orchard with sustenance, its surface sparkling with the occasional flash of that fop’s favored fish. Presumably, it babbled. And over there was a slight buzzing, inaudible save to those with her superior senses. It was a bee. The insect was an ungainly one, with its puffy striped body wobbling through the air on fragile wings. It fluttered briefly before sinking into a field of flowers - asphodels, how fitting - and then buzzed onward, carrying its canary cargo on black bristles as it dutifully traced a path in the sky for its fellows before returning to its hive. How upstanding the bee was, faithfully performing its tasks to its queen and brethren without a hint of hesitation. Alas, she thought, its efforts were for naught. A bear ravaged the hive, thick and sturdy claws tearing at its fragile membranes. With each slash, sticky fluid leaked out as the bear penetrated deeply, greedily licking at the results of its exertions. The bee flew forward, joining its buzzing brethren as they pressed against the bear futilely, meeting only thick fur in their quest to puncture tender meat. Perhaps fatigued from eating out the hive, the bear came up for air - and in that slight moment, the bee zipped upward toward the bear’s vulnerable snout and plunged itself into it up to the hilt. Howling in pain at the sudden penetration, the bear swiped madly at its face, leaving the stinger embedded deep in its defenseless tissue. The bee died. How lucky it was, she thought, to have died in battle against a superior opponent. At some point a cloud had passed overhead, but it had gone, and the sun resumed its pounding. How interesting; the bear had looked toward her. What sort of challenge would it bring after slaking its desire upon the helpless hive? She met its gaze, and it fled. Sighing at its impotence, she returned to her stupor. Buzzards soared overhead, lazily wheeling in wide circles as they searched for fresh prey. It wasn’t fresh meat that they desired, she thought, correcting herself. They merely sought out the last fading remnants of life to snuff out for their own sustenance. How very familiar. At the sound of approaching chatter, she crossed cold arms and looked down to see two children - humanity’s final Master and his loyal Servant.
“So you’ve finished then, youth?”
Ritsuka started, a practiced hand ruffling unkempt hair into further chaos as he composed himself. “Yeah, I came up with our formation. Everyone else’s back at camp, so I figured I’d let you know.”
“That is, if you weren’t too busy, Scathach,” interjected Matthew. “By any chance, umm... Were you thinking about Cu Chulainn, who you trained? Since we’ll be fighting him, it might be a bit difficult for you to, well...” She yelped as Scathach patted her on the head.
“You’re a kind girl, aren’t you? But you don’t have to worry.” She brushed past Ritsuka as she walked toward camp, and he jumped at the sudden warmth. “He may have lost himself as the lapdog of that flighty fool, but as his teacher, I’ll bring him to heel.”
Ritsuka watched her stalk away, crimson mane waving in the air like a lion’s tail. His suit was far too tight all of a sudden, had the internal temperature regulation system failed? Da Vinci had said nothing barring the heat values of a holy sword or -273.15°C would disable it, but it didn’t seem to be working at all given how all of the sweat on his body was crawling at random like an agitated swarm of Argentinian army ants, assuming there even were army ants in Argentina, that was where that story he’d had to read for that one class was set, right, no, it was in Brazil, not that he’d been to either place, and not that it really mattered currently since he was busy melting into incoherent gravy inside a monochrome tureen and ah, I’m being touched. There’s something cool on my hand.
“Master? Ritsuka? Are you alright?” He blinked, and moved his head down to see Matthew holding his hand, her palm on its exposed back. “Ah, um, yeah. Sorry for worrying you. Let’s head back to camp.” They walked after Scathach, now little more than a silhouette on the horizon. The trademark - and trademarked - spires of Edison’s prefabricated Neo White House™ rose into sight as they crested the final hill before their destination, and a refurbished robot in patriotic colors rolled up to greet them.
“Greetings, interloper. What is the password?”
“DC is the best, Tesla is a pest.”
The robot’s LEDs flashed green. “Correct. Access to the Edison Defense Force for the United States of America is approved.” It rolled around them, sensors beeping and servos whirring. “Identities confirmed as Ritsuka Fujimaru and Matthew Kyrielight. Please proceed.” The duo walked into the castle, shoes clacking on the polished stone floors.
“I’m surprised at how naturally you can say that, Ritsuka. Even Robin Hood still winces after saying each code phrase.”
Ritsuka sighed. “After saying ‘For twelve years, you have been asking: Who is Thomas Edison?’ and so on, nothing can possibly faze me as a code phrase now. Though I really wish Nightingale had forced him to change it before I had to say the whole thing. She nearly pulled my tongue out when I bit it...”
“I’m sure she meant well.” Matthew turned to smile at him. “Besides, it’s like you say, right? Let bygones be bygones, and look at the future.”
“It feels like you know me better than I do. You always remember the little things I say.”
“But of course, Ritsuka! You’re my Master and my Senior, so I always make sure to watch you and pay attention to everything you’re doing, and even in my dreams you’re... that is, um...” The two stopped walking, faces emulating human history.
“A-Anyways, the meeting room’s around the corner so let’s go there quickly, I’m sure everyone else is waiting.” Ritsuka strode toward the room, any stiffness in his gait most definitely caused by his battlesuit not being broken in yet. “Right!” Matthew followed him, any stiffness in her gait most definitely caused by rust in her armor. They entered the meeting room, once Edison’s billiards hall before being repurposed into what he insistently referred to as the Situation Room. The center of the room held a massive table displaying a holographic map of the United States. Various units moved across it real time, causing the lines of the various fronts to slowly shift back and forth. Every so often green and red arrows would draw across the map as Edison adjusted predicted troop patterns before he erased them and started again, his lion’s head set in a grimace. At the sound of the door opening, he looked up. “Excellent! Our Vice-President has returned! Come, sit, and tell us your decision!” Ritsuka approached the table as the various other Servants made their greetings. “Thanks, Edison. I thought it over, and I’ve decided that for the northern group we should sen- wait, Nightingale what are you doing?” He squirmed as the Berserker lifted his arm and squatted to peer at his side.
“You have a contusion on the external oblique muscle. It requires treatment.”
“It’s a little bit sore I guess, but it’s not that- wait, hang on, you’re going to rip my suit! Just let me-” Ritsuka fumbled with his chest buckle as his battlesuit strained from Nightingale’s grasp; with an audible click, it opened, and the suddenly loose fabric slid off him to expose a vibrant bruise on his side. He winced as she applied a poultice and strapped it on. “I have told you before to be more careful with your health, Master of Chaldea.”
“I try; really, I swear. But I just tend to pick up nicks and scratches without even trying. Anyways, weren’t you the one who said that it was only natural to incur injuries while saving others?”
“Perhaps. However, I have a medical license,” Nightingale tightened the last bandage and continued, “and you do not.” She stood and patted Ritsuka’s shoulder before returning to her seat. “Therefore, you remain my patient, and as such must prioritize your own health. Now, what is the operation plan?”
He cleared his throat, gaze panning across the various Servants in the room. Some sat in the chairs at the table, while others, like Scathach, leaned against the wall. As he spoke, Scathach rested her gaze on Edison’s display table. Without Edison’s ministrations, the table merely displayed the battlefield as it was. Green and red dots swarmed across the country, crashing into each other along the vivid blue of the Mississippi; a grand improvement from the prior frontline of the Black Plains. Their defeat of Caladbolg’s holder and the Fenian Lancers hadn’t been in vain. Still, such victories wouldn’t end this war. And ultimately, they didn’t make much difference to those in the thick of battle; the Celts birthed from plundered seed had naught but muscle in their skulls, while the robots mass-produced in Chicago moved solely on orders transmitted through the whirring of gears. They were born to die, so they had no need of thought. A shame, one might think. Incorrectly. They achieve their purpose, singlemindedly and admirably, and even die in battle at the climax of their life. A tool’s greatest shame is rusting away before it breaks.
“Any complaints?”
Karna stood, sliding off his perch in a window’s alcove. “I have none, Master of Chaldea. To have the opportunity to settle my score with that man... Once again, I am truly blessed.” He strode toward the door, and the other Servants trailed in his wake. Scathach snapped a hand out, grasping Rama’s arm.
“Stay, King of Kosara. I require your attentions.”
“I already have Sita, so I’ll have to decline!”
Scathach frowned. “How unfortunate. I’d thought that the men of Indian legend were sturdy, strong, and never failed to rise to the occasion, but it seems I was mistaken. As I feared, I can’t leave the youth to a flaccid man like you.”
“Change of plans, Master!” yelled Rama, his face as red as his flowing hair. He pulled himself free from Scathach’s clutches and grabbed Ritsuka’s shoulders. “Allow me to uphold my wife’s faith in my strength!”
“Alright then. You wanted to warm up before we left anyways, right Scathach?” She blinked. “You know me well, youth.”
“Well, observing Servants is one of a Master’s duties. I’d be remiss if I didn’t even do that, you know?” As Nightingale pulled a protesting Rama away, he walked toward the door. “Will the nearby hills work, Scathach?” One of Rama’s gauntlets clattered onto the table as Nightingale wrapped bandages around his arm. “Yes, that will suffice. And you, Rama?”
“I’ll be right with you, so - that’s too many bandages, I won’t be able to hold Brahmastra at this rate! This is unnecessary, I can heal it in a few moments; look, it’s healed already!”
As Rama struggled, Scathach walked into the hills. Long strands of grass snapped and swung aside as she strode, and Ritsuka followed in her wake until she stopped atop the largest of the hills - the one that blocked Edison’s ego from sight before, Ritsuka noted. Scathach stood, looking out into the distance, wine-purple tresses rippling in the wind as the stalks of grass bowed and broke. The sun was setting, desperately clinging to the earth with rays of light as it was inexorably tugged below the horizon; within the golden glow of wheat stood a lone blotch of dusk, alien yet thoroughly commanding, asserting its presence through its mere existence. He was right next to her, thought Ritsuka, and yet he’d never felt farther away. It had been a while, hadn’t it? He’d expected Rama to tear himself free from his doctor’s ministrations by now; at this rate he’d miss the battle. After all, the sun had already set this fa-. Ritsuka rubbed his eyes. Once dull from impending shadow, the wheat had grown bright, shining like the treasures of a capricious king; the wind, once chill, was hot, near uncomfortably so, to the point where sweat began to trickle down his face. Ritsuka turned around.
Behind him was a second sun. Fire rippled in the wind, brightening the evening into day through its dance. Its red was the crimson of fresh blood, the wet hue of ochre, the passionate shine of poppies, and the brilliant blaze of mankind’s primordial declaration of life. It shone off blindingly white cloth and steel, and fabric rose and rippled, carried by the heat that stirred the air and announced the presence of a great power. The King of Kosara, the Seventh Avatar of the Preserver, Rama, had arrived. The Queen of the Land of Shadows turned from her contemplation to meet his gaze, blood-red spear in hand. Brahmastra fell into golden gauntlets, its vermillion blade alight with the sun’s glow. Was it the rustle of fabric on steel and bone, the tightening of a grip that signalled the beginning of the clash? Was it the scrape of heel against earth, the assumption of a stance as decades of experience was brought to the fore? Was it the cessation of the wind as even the earth held its anticipation? Was it the meeting of crimson and ruby without a single saccade? No, it was nothing so trivial. From the moment they had each grasped weapons for the first time, they were destined to fight.
Rama erupted forward, a shining comet snuffing out the oncoming dusk. He swung his blade, and Scathach stepped forward to answer him in kind, her spear slicing through the air to crash into his sword with a heavy clang - that didn’t come, as he’d ridden the force of her return to spin around her, perfectly poised to ram into her defenseless flank. He thrusted forward to see the butt of Scathach’s spear lunging for his eye and ducked into a crouch, warding off her weapon with his own; he wouldn’t be able to stab her at this angle, but with his pommel he could shatter her ribs - and his skull rattled as Scathach drove her knee into his jaw. Clods of earth exploded to the side as Rama kicked at the ground, flinging himself aside as Scathach’s elbow howled past his exposed neck. He raked furrows into the earth with a hand, his other already holding his blade to receive her next attack as he looked up to see Scathach’s steel heel slam Brahmastra into the ground as her spear shot toward his skull. The crimson shaft shot forward - and pierced empty air as Rama vaulted off the ground, pivoting on his sword hand to kick Scathach’s unarmored chest. She flew back with a clang, and Rama clicked his tongue as he landed and ripped his sword from the earth to see Scathach land on the other side of the hilltop, a spear in each hand. Grass seeds floated in the air, glowing like embers in the sun’s dying light.
“Is that all you can bring to bear?”
“I’m surprised a gloomy woman like you can tell such a joke!”
Scathach’s eyes narrowed. Evidently, the good king required a more elaborate reception the next time he called upon he- She crossed her spears as a blast of fire rammed into them, sending her sliding back. Fire? Rama was not of solar divinity, so he should not have possessed the mana burst that Karna did - and yet his sword was ablaze all the same, crashing against her at all sides as she swung and twirled spears to block the constant blows. The impacts rattled through her, sending her legs quivering as she moaned. Ahh, that was it. Scathach pounced through the makeshift firewheel, twin spears clashing against Rama’s blazing sword. It wasn’t magical energy creating the flames; merely the friction between his sword and the dust in the air. He shoved against her with a roar, sending her skidding through the scorched earth, and she strained against him, pulling dark fabric and corded muscles taut. She stood against him, legs shaking as they slowly slid through the earth and breath coming in pants as their weapons locked, sparks flying from the tension - and then the flames on Rama’s sword flickered and died, and he pulled back for another swing. Scathach sighed. Rama wove through her slashes and stepped forward to thrust at her chest, and then jumped back as a barrage of spears impaled the earth in front of him, blasting dirt and grass into the air that Scathach blew aside as she pursued him. With each step he attempted to find purchase, to repair his stance, and with each step he was denied as Scathach fired more shafts, blasting his footing to pieces the moment his feet touched the ground. Rama’s hand tightened around his shaft. The next spear flew toward him, set to destroy the earth anew - and Rama plunged his sword into the earth, vaulting off it to land atop the spear and run along its length before leaping to the next; it was no bridge of arrows, but it would have to suffice. Scathach ran toward him as he leaped through the air like a salmon spawning up a river of its own skewers, his blade more a thunderstorm than a tool of parrying. Her summoned spears were remnants of the great sea beast Coinchenn, mighty enough that no spear could pierce its hide and no mace could crush its skull; ultimately, only its own kin could reap its life. And yet, each of Rama’s swings shattered them like twigs. With a final leap he slammed his sword down, pressing against Scathach as she brought her weapons to bear to block. Divine blade clashed with demonic spears once more, yet Scathach remained impassive even as Rama glared into her eyes, seeing only his own reflection and several lines- He glanced to the sides - spears were flying at him from all directions - and slid Brahmastra to the side as he forced his body into a spin, whirling into a tornado of sparks that sent vermillion shrapnel flying like buckshot, and cursed. Three booms resounded.
The first came from Scathach. The moment Rama had relented on his attack, she slid a leg back, coiling every muscle in her body like lightning forced into springs, and then thrusted forward, from heeled boots and ankles through trained calves and experienced thighs to her perfectly sculpted ass, sending force rippling through chiseled obliques and abdominals up to sturdy shoulders and lithe arms that shot her spear with such power that sound itself howled like a deflowered virgin. The second came from their weapons, as Rama hastily brought Brahmastra to bear to meet Scathach’s thrust. The third came from Rama puncturing the sound barrier, and continued as he crashed through hill after hill, the land and air breaking countless times before his fall.
Scathach strode down the remains of the hill, fingers drumming along the ribbed shaft rubbing against her. “He’ll suffice.” She passed Ritsuka, crouched with Matthew behind her shield. “For you.” As she melted into the dusk, Ritsuka yelled. “Where are you going?” Scathach smiled, and licked her lips. “To hunt a man.”
The sun had set entirely, abandoning the land and its inhabitants to the darkness of night. It was an oily, inky night, not meant to refresh or relieve, but to consume, and without the moon’s glow to police the earth, there was nothing to stop any depravities from the denizens of the dark. A chill wind blew as Scathach raced over plains, eyes wide and nostrils flared. Just where was he? A bicorn stood in her path and she barreled through it, sundering its prized horn into ivory dust. Was he ravaging an army as he had so long ago, she wondered, spear tearing through the ebony mane and torso of a Soul Eater, sending half-digested tallow congealed from scorched spirits flying into her wake. Or perhaps, and she gripped her spear hard enough to shatter a full-grown oak, he was lapping away at his owner’s lap? A troop of Celts flung themselves at her like suicidal meat into a grinder, and dyed the grass red. Where was he? Plains, forests, mountains ricocheted across her view. Where was he? The grass burned underneath her. Where was he? The midnight offered no answer. Scathach slid to a stop, ripping into the violated earth, her nose twitching. There it was; thick and deep, like a leg ripped from a giant and slammed into the earth of a battlefield until it was sodden with mud and blood. With another boom she was off. It was darker, heavier, filthier than she was used to, but that was fine, after all - she reached a mighty river; she could tell by the flow, visible and audible even through the night’s thick curtain, yet it was pinched and restrained by stones in its bed, yoked to allow the passage of inferior beings - he was here.
A towering man stood before her. Blood, fresh and caked, his own and his conquests’, dyed his pale skin mud-brown. His garb, once as blue as the fords he made his battlefields, was an oily, filthy black, and his armor, once simplistic to the point of foolhardy skimpiness was a gaudy affair of tarry pitch and garish carmine. And yet she could still see the corded muscles tensed underneath his trappings and feel the lust roiling under the curses snaking along him as if he was pressing against her, skin against skin and blade against blade. He may have been wearing an absurdly ill-fitting collar, but without a doubt, this was the only man who could satisfy her - Cu Chulainn.
“What’s a tamed puppy like you doing out here? There’s no moon to yap at, whelp.”
“Heard a bitch was tearing up my kingdom. Came to put her down.”
A heated breath shuddered out. “Sending a lapdog to put down a bitch? That’s in poor taste, isn’t it?” She could see his spear throbbing, feel it like the pounding beat that pulsed through her body, sending her shivering against garb that was far too tight. His gaze struck her as she walked forward, curves swaying, and she smiled. “What if the good little puppy ends up lying with her instead?” He crouched, talons rending the riverbank as he grabbed his spear with both hands. “Doesn’t matter. Bitch ain’t getting up after.” And with that, Scathach flung herself at him, spear outstretched to take his heart. He batted it aside, sparks and then blood flying as her weapon snaked up his gauntlet to lunge into his forearm, and thrusted at her, his rod primed to plunge into her. She lunged into the thrust, her cheek slicing open as she leapt at his chest, her other spear at the ready - and lurched to a stop as her right arm tugged on the rest of her body. Cu Chulainn had tensed his bicep to lock the spear impaling it in place, and her instinctive grip on the shaft had stopped her as well, and in the moment that she’d looked up to confirm it, he had caught her second spear with the spikes on his knee and his weapon was tearing through the air on a collision course with her skull, so Scathach rose, kneeing him in the gut as his spear slammed into her side, sending her flying into the river. Impromptu rain pelted Scathach as she watched Cu Chulainn rip the spear from his forearm with his teeth and bite it in half, but it didn’t matter. She was already wet. Mud squelched as she pounced at him, summoned spears flying at him like a swarm of hornets. They carved notches into flesh and bone that he ignored as he plunged at Scathach, shoving her back as she danced around him, twirling around spears as his stabs nipped at her arms, her thighs, her neck, her breasts; she spun around a blow that bounced off a rib, ripping away muscle and fat in a gout of warmth and thrusted at his neck only for his tail to slam into her torso, sending her crashing into a cypress tree and sliding into the water. Scathach stood, body shaking as her muscles knitted and skin stuck shut, and ogled Cu Chulainn as his wounds did the same. “You need to do better than that!” Her breath steamed, sliding off her tongue and dropping into the air. “What’s with the scratches? You playing with your food, boy?” He stared at her, watching each breath tug at fraying and sodden cloth. “The hell you complaining for? Dressed like that, you’re asking for it.” He ran forward, and she leaped to meet him as he tore at her anew. Her spears twirled and flew as she came at him, flying into trees and blasting craters in the swamp bed as he denied her token rebuffs, his thick, veiny spear plunging into her again and again, dragging out deep moans along with blood and meat; she strained against her shredded bodysuit, breasts heaving with each pant as pert peaks pushed past purple patches. Another blow slid against her taut ass, sending lust spraying onto sodden thighs that thrummed against each other as Scathach threw herself at him again, each peck of his a bloom of heat and a precursor to the fire that was boiling within her that had first been lit when he’d first spilled her blood, all those years ago. His next thrust caught her nipple, scratching the erect nub before ripping it off, and Scathach gasped as she saw white, the ravaged swamp and even the clairvoyance she’d gained through her conquering of the Land of Shadows fading away, before clinging to Cu Chulainn’s thick spear and mounting it, sliding up its throbbing length, feeling each vein rub against her flesh and each spike piercing her, scratching at an itch that refused to abate as he spilled her blood once more. She reached out to him, ruby eyes moist and crimson lips lush and wet with desire - and he headbutted her, sending her flying off of him with a groan pregnant with the twins of lust and disappointment. He was playing hard to get, so she needed to make him move faster, hit harder, thrust deeper. She slid spears through the air, tracing runes with their tips to invoke ice, and acceleration, and death - and flew back as Cu Chulainn howled a bestial roar, sending motes of light spiralling up from the ruined swamp; no, those weren’t lights, they were fairies, and the spirits shattered the runes in blasts of power, rattling Scathach from coccyx to skull and dragging blood from her stomach to her teeth to splatter on the scorched ground. “What’s with the protection?” he spat. “We’re doing this raw.” Scathach grinned, her lips tearing from her face to reveal her teeth, and grabbed her spears. Cu Chulainn gripped his own, and it pulsed under his touch as blood-red energy howled along its length. She panted, steaming breaths the mere vestiges of the burning blood, magical energy, and raw desire that roiled within her core, forming a white-hot sun that sent her body throbbing at each breath and heartbeat until she could take it no more and flung herself at him and his erect shaft, each vein pulsing with barely restrained lust that ached to be released, and with a final shake of his hands it was, firing at her with the heat of life and the force of death. His thrust shot onto her as a torrent of heat and unbridled energy, snaking and forging through the fragile hymen of causality between it and bringing her to a climax, and she embraced it, pushing against him with everything she had, meeting him thrust for thrust and blow for blow, dancing in the eruption even as her hips threatened to give away from the intensity of his assault until with a final surge it was over and she stood panting, sending breasts long since exposed by his attentions heaving in the torrid air even as drenched legs wobbled on curled toes. Scathach gazed at Cu Chulainn. “Come more for me, boy! That can’t be all that you’ve got; I’m not satisfied yet!” He grimaced. “Always complaining. Why’s a slut like you picky about how she gets it?” He waved an arm at the ruined swamp, its water evaporated and its trees aflame from the intensity of their tryst. “You already got hot to trot to get here.”
“That collar of yours choking off your brain, boy?” Scathach frowned. “You think I’m a blushing maiden who wants to be taken in her sleep?” She gripped a shaft in each hand and glared at him. “Come! You can’t be flaccid already!”
She pounced once more - and Cu Chulainn retreated, clawed feet digging into the earth as he leaped back. “Can’t help it; missus called. Got a job to do, after all.” He continued his retreat, the barest shift of his muscles sending summoned spears flying aside as his inborn protection yielded its boons. She was yapping something, but it didn’t really matter; the last thing he wanted was to hear some chick’s sob story after he’d finished with her, so he slammed his tail into the desiccated earth, blasting up a shroud of dust, and turned to leave in earnest - and then lurched back as something sucked at every fiber of his being. He looked back to see a massive gate of runes surrounding a desolate land of inky night, and a lone clump of sunset at its center.
“Tch. Always closing your legs when a guy wants to pull out.”
Scathach strode toward Cu Chulainn, firing spears at the ground beneath him to deny him footing as he struggled against her embrace. She wasn’t letting him go. She wasn’t done with him yet. She hadn’t reached her climax! As her grasp ripped him from the ground she launched forward, flying to lock bodies once again - and gasped. Gone was the thick, veiny spear that had brought her so much pleasure, and in its place was a massive black beast that throbbed with power; his shaft was repressed, yet he was hornier than ever. Yes, this would work! Scathach brought forth two spears, her body tensing anew as she locked space and then gasping as he ripped through it like he would a virgin, but this was fine, her other spear was already charged and ready and his massive claws were outstretched and ready to plunge into her to the hilt, splitting her from head to hips as she aimed for his heart and their simultaneous climax!
“???”
There was pain. Four blades slammed into her, tracing bloody streaks across the air’s canvas. Liver, spleen, duodenum, small intestines, large intestines, ninth through twelfth pairs of ribs, stomach, lumbar vertebrae: destroyed. But. But!
“You... YOU!!!!”
He’d forcibly adjusted his trajectory by grabbing a tree with his tail - and changed a certain climax into a halfhearted spurt. Freed from her grasp, Cu Chulainn walked into the sunrise. As Scathach flew into the Land of Shadows, cold and alone, just one thing came to mind.
Once again, he’d failed to satisfy her.
The Answer Found/At The Heart of the World (Incomplete)
"Why did you fight?"
"Because I didn't want to die, of course"
"Why didn't you want to die?"
"Because I want to live, of course"
"...Then, why did you want to live?"
That's obvious. It's because------
At the farthest limit of my memory.
Only that answer was different from before.
- Gun God, Notes.
Comet 1983 VII IRAS-Araki-Alcock was first detected on April 25 in 1983 by IRAS as a fast moving object. On May 3.6 UT, G. Araki identified this object as a new comet, and G.E.D. Alcock found it on May 3.9 UT independently. Total visual magnitude of this comet was about 9 on April 25, and Araki reported it as 6.5 on May 3.6 UT. The comet brightened rapidly due to its straightforward approach to the Earth, and reached the minimum distance of 0.0313 AU on May 11.5 UT. In recent years, such a close approach is an event of rare occurrence.
- Watanabe, J.-I., The rotation of Comet 1983 VII IRAS-Araki-Alcock
Begin transmission.
Retrieving archived memory from CE 3927.
The last records of the Gaian Terminal’s observation
Of the departure of our Gods.
The Answer Found
At The Heart of the World
0.
The sky on this planet is covered with scars.
Red like blood. Look closely and you can see them, where gashes had been torn into the heavens, where his blade had once clashed and tore apart that redness like skin and flesh. See there the true sky above revealed like an open wound, a crimson moon peeking through against the faintest trace of blue. It stares down, an eye in the heavens. Lights shimmer, an iris. A comet passes, like it blinks.
It’s here I wake up. Just a fragment of I, but just enough. Lying here, among snow and stardust. Conscious or unconscious for how long.
Few places remain on this planet, wrapped up in clouds and darkness, where one could see such a thing. This was one of them. A crumbling monolith cleft in two, its halves jut out from the earth, a gravestone weathered by wind and time and a millennium-past death. Like its descent had torn a hole through the cloud barriers like a blade through cloth, a gap in the pierced cumuliform layer exposing the sky that lies above, it rests in this crater, among fissures and glassed sands and broken earth. The corpse of the Cross.
It had died long before my homecoming, but I know of it all the same.
I, too, once died here.
Crumbling towers line the edge of the crater, bare pinpricks glowing faint on the horizon, the ruins of cities that once been my kingdom that lay crumbling from millennia of neglect. The War had long ended, but its scars on the earth remained. The children of Man who had once fought to protect it had long since left this dead earth. Left for the stars.
So I had thought, anyway. So you can understand my confusion as of now. It was what had always been expected of them, but I must have been wrong. Something else lives on this surface just yet.
I raise myself up from the crumbling pillars that once had been the Cross, now forming a plateau of sorts, making my way to its edge. Light filters down in pinks and golds and reds, casting a glow on the earth like a haze of heat. Something up in the sky illuminates the clouds, a river of shining lights like an aurora, blinking and flickering and flowing, as lights like distant stars ascend to join them, or descend to break away. I reach the precipice, overlooking an earth marked by strange ridges like veins. Standing here, kilometers above the ground, I see it. What remained of those who had stayed.
Fire and steel. There, far above in a distant city, two figures clash, one black, one white, the surface of their humanoid bodies metallic and crystalline, shearing sparks and steel each off the other with crashing blades. Grain suffuses the air. The earth trembles at each strike. Arcs of lightning, waves of heat, they draw scars across the sky as the earth crumbles and breaks apart like dissolving bone, taken into the blades at their hands.
A curious sight. It piques my interest; it draws my body towards them. I lean over the edge, weight little-by-little pulling at my body, until I descend into free-fall into the heart of the crater.
Wind bites into my body.
Cold seeps into my core.
And I fall.
As the dust settles from my landing, I notice the ground is littered with the corpses of angels.
I.
A doll-like body. Pristine white to the point of colorlessness, it nearly glows. It lies, eyes closed, hands folded across its breast, as if settled a serene sleep. It’s missing a wing and half its head.
Innumerable bodies lay scattered across the earth among fallen leaves and trees of stone, what once had been a forest. They lie, motionless and almost pristine— save for their various stages of disfigurement. Crumpled wings, broken bodies, scattered limbs; their interiors lie exposed to the elements, revealing nothing at all. Bodies devoid of true organs or internal structure. Crystalline figures like shattered statues. Weathering away, more like stone than rot. Thin layers of snow have gathered on their surfaces.
The ridges that had looked like veins up on the plateau had been the roots of an enormous tree, kilometers in size, its trunk split down the middle from the impact of the Cross, folded out like a pair of wings. Fragments of what had been its body, shattered and broken, jut out of the ground like blades planted in the earth, monuments to a long-past battle. They cast long shadows, towering above the forest.
A forest of stone and ice. No wind. No life. No sound.
Nothing stirred. Nothing at all.
The sun sets, and rises, and sets again. I make my way through the trees, silent as the forest itself, leaving no footsteps. As if a phantom in the land of the dead. Fragments of angels, though unmoving, watch me with glassy stares. Who is this stranger, who disturbs our grave of a thousand years?
On the second sunrise, I begin to hear sounds in the distance in the direction of the city. Louder, and louder. Thunderclaps like a distant storm. Eruptions and shockwaves. Tremors into the distance, vibrations visible in the air. The forest begins to thin as the path begins to incline, and the bodies and fragments of trees show signs of warping as if they had once suddenly melted and cooled. The snow at my feet becomes ice.
On the third sunset, I reach the edge, at the ruins of a former city.
Abandoned skyscrapers, monoliths of steel and concrete lined up in rows, some toppled over onto their sides, that seems to continue without end, extending beyond the horizon. What little else would have been left in a living city had long since rusted and rotted and weathered away. Nothing remained but decaying foundations, the fossilized skeletons of a lost civilization. Tombstones that reach the sky.
Waves of heat emanate from the heart of the city; through the rows of towers I see fire and lightning. Even after three days and three nights, they still fight.
They clash. Blade against blade, bone against bone, they each strike against the other with swords of ether, each swing sending up a shockwave, a gale, blotting out the sky in dust and smoke and sparks. The earth melts. Towers crumble. The ground at their feet glows red-hot with heat. There, in the eye of the storm, two figures lie locked into combat. Destroying everything about themselves but each other, neither can get the upper hand, a stalemate.
The figure in white whips up a firestorm with each swing, leveling skyscrapers, sending molten stone flying like rain. The figure in black rips apart skyscrapers with arcs of lightning, electromagnetic force sending beams of steel shrieking through the air like missiles. They gouge out scars into the earth through fire and steel.
Again and again, they clash. The air screams, rent apart with each swing of their blades. They dash across the sides of the buildings, sending each other smashing through the towers. Their skins of steel hold, scratched and battered and glowing from the heat, but still unbroken.
Until they break.
It happens in an instant. A bare moment of weakness, of lowered guard. The figure in black pierces the figure in white, its blade penetrating straight through its center. They freeze in the air, as if to contemplate each other, something silver dripping from its body and evaporating as it falls.
And then it falls, burning up like a comet.
Among smoke and dust and storms of flame, I see an angel.
The sun had risen and victor had left by the time I reach the crater, the site of their battle, a deep hole in the surface, molten rock starting to blacken and cool into glass, gorges carved into the earth still faintly glowing from the heat. Inside, labyrinthine webs of steel now lie exposed to the elements, the remains of an underground city. It was built around a river, as water rush into the gorges and flood into the hole in the earth. Blood red waterfalls trail into steam and mist. Broken beams and rubble form a pathway, a spiral downward into the darkness below.
I head down. I know not why I do so. I wander this earth aimlessly, without purpose, driven only by curiosity of this planet I’ve awakened to, and something that gnaws at me, and sense of hollowness, that something is missing.
I’m searching for something. Something here that once was mine.
Like webs, beams interlocking and protruding from each other like stalactites, with each step deeper into the city the light of the sun disappears, obscured by a mess of tangled concrete and steel. There is no logic to the labyrinthine architecture, as if it had all been built by random— stairs that loop into themselves, lifts that do not move, buildings with no floors or ceilings, halls and tunnels that lead to nowhere. I descend further, an endlessly repeating spiral staircase, the light of a surface just a bare pinprick, a single beam that shines down through its center as if an axis.
The underground structure expands, from a single shaft punched in the earth into a massive cavern, the remains of the city hanging as if the ceiling was the earth, and the abyss below was the sky. Echoing below from the darkness, I hear the distant footsteps of something massive, the groaning of mechanical joints, sending tremors in the earth.
I stand among ruins, among broken machinery and rusted steel, under a roof that stretches up to the cavern ceiling. A single ray of light shines down from the surface, illuminating a pile of rubble.
An angel sits there playing a guitar.
II.
The guitar is blue, its paint faded from wear and time, a stray wire dangling off the side. With it, it plays a song. I know neither its name or its tune, but it hums along with the melody. Neither overly fast nor overly slow, neither happy nor sad, it plays, eyes closed, metallic twangs and faint buzzing, plucking along at the strings with the notes it sings. Occasionally, it fumbles a chord and pauses in its humming, and tries again. Sometimes it gets it right. Sometimes it gives up, and sighs. And picks up where it left off.
A simple song.
It’s not particularly pleasant to listen to.
Well. That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?
It frowns as it says this, fingers pausing mid-strum, as it looks at me with a tilted head.
It doesn’t look like the angels from the forest. Whereas those had looked as if they were made of stone or crystal, this one looks more like flesh and blood, the form of a woman. Red haired, fair skinned. She has only a single wing.
A strange sight. A splash of color in a colorless land. She watches me with a tilted head.
Good morning, stranger.
I simply watch her in turn, scrutinizing her form. She seems unperturbed by such a thing.
You’re not a face I recognize around here.
Should I be?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’d thought I already knew of everyone left alive in this world. I’ve had a bit to get to know them, after all, but I suppose there’s always something left to surprise me. Unusual— that’s what it is. Unusual that I’d run into someone like you here.
Unusual like an angel who plays guitar?
She laughs. As if I could call it playing. I’ve had a thousand years to learn how, but I must say, I’m still quite shoddy. A overly dramatic sigh, a shrug of her shoulders. She half-heartedly plucks at another string. So why persist, on this fruitless endeavour? This futility? This struggle? She laughs. Well. Shoddy as my guitar skills may be, she seems to appreciate it all the same.
She?
The angel nods to her right, to a figure sitting in the shadows.
It sits there, hidden, tucked away under a small enclave in the rubble. Sleeping. Pale golden hair. A white dress, and the body of a child. A figure like that of a doll.
The angel hops down from her spot, and gently nudges the doll’s shoulder. It stirs, eyes blearily opening, revealing blood-red eyes. The doll yawns and rubs its eyes. She takes its hand as she approaches. Go on. Say hi.
The doll only stares at me from behind the angel’s legs.
The angel laughs. She’s a bit shy around strangers.
I only stare. The doll stares back at me.
A sense of unease. Anticipation. Irritation. Something swims in the depths of my memories. Like a reflection in water, quicksilver in hand; it slips through my grasp, between the fingers, dissolving into nothingness.
I remember nothing.
I ask. What are you doing, down here?
She laughs. I could ask the same of you. Well, Perun and Týr had finally had their fight, and I’m sure anyone on this half of the planet could see it. But, seen them once, seen them all. I’d come down here for some peace and quiet. Too noisy. Can’t even hear my own thoughts, or my guitar. She laughs again. Ah, am I getting old? Complaining about youngsters making a ruckus outside, ruining my beauty sleep? I won’t stand for it. They’re just as old as I am!
But yes. I thought I’d get away from the War, for little while.
The War?
Do you not know of it?
I know of nothing.
Oh?
I’ve had a long time to sleep.
Strange. She frowns, and stares at me for a while. Curiosity, suspicion. She drums her fingers across the base of her guitar. Everything within this star system must have been touched by Edem’s call. Even you, stranger.
I say nothing.
She seems to think over this for a while, and then laughs. Well, maybe you’re just a deep sleeper, and forgot about it within your dream. It has been a thousand years, after all. A shrug, at that, and she seems to think no more of it. The War is what it is. A continuation of the wars that came before, and every other war that ever was, after Edem felled the final TYPE one thousand years ago. The culmination of the efforts of our species. Waged not against armies or nations or horrors beyond the stars, but by Knights against fellow Knights.
‘I saved the world; thus it is mine.’
Thus was his declaration. Thus the world was reborn in his vision— a world of endless War.
A dramatic pause. And then she laughs. Well, that’s the dramatic way to put it. But in the end, his world was one where the War came not to us, but us to the War.
She ends it there, opting to instead fiddle with the pegs of her guitar. She frowns. Hey. Got any clue on how to tune a guitar?
I don’t, it turns out, but don’t respond.
Thus it is mine, Edem had said. A world that belonged to him. And what belongs to him belongs not to me.
Something stirs within me. Something like disgust.
The angel frowns. A slight tilt of the head.
I’m guessing that’s a no, then?
III.
Eventually, she decides to leave, having waited out the entirety of the battle on the surface. She takes the doll by the hand and invites me to follow.
And so we walk. She says she doesn’t feel like flying, as the passages and corridors are too cramped, and it’s just too awkward flying with a single wing. A pain in the ass, she says. The doll and I do not speak, while she chatters along in spite of our silence, her spirit seemingly lifted at finally having encountered another in this labyrinth of a city. She admits, that while she’d come in here because the noise and the racket had gotten on her nerves, she’d also forgotten the way out. Not that it matters, she says. She’ll take her time. Not like we can starve, anyway.
The corridor opens up into a vast open space, its ceiling stretching kilometers to the surface, with no floor in sight, its space empty and the cross-sections of the architecture exposed as if the city had abruptly stopped here, and large chunk of the city had simply been spirited away. A single strip connects the two sections across the gap, a bridge into the abyss.
Apparently unfazed, she walks along the bridge. As do I. And as we cross the gap surrounded by nothing but blackness and the steel beneath my feet I see something lurking within that abyss, some mammoth being walking along below us, metallic creaks and distant rumbling and the groans of something like a slumbering beast.
A Builder, she explains. You can watch it, if you like. I don’t think it’ll take much notice of you.
I peer over the edge. It looks like a crab, walking along the ocean floor on six spider-like legs, the size of skyscrapers, in slow-motion as if submerged underwater. It has a single limb that protrudes from its top, something like an eye swiveling about its base as claws at buildings and the cavern walls not yet hollowed, something within it glowing in the distance of molten metal, weaving steel beams and city structures like a spider weaves a web. There is no logic to its construction. Towers upon towers, in every direction, a chaotic web of steel and concrete. It simply builds, endlessly.
Once upon a time, our cities were destroyed faster than our human hands could rebuild them. Repurposed from our war machines, in the war against TYPES and their spawn, these colossi were created, autonomous machines that ate up the dead Earth and weaved it into cityscape. But the War ended, and these machines were no longer of any use to us. Vestigial. Extraneous. So I guess we just swept them underground, like sweeping your dirty laundry under the bed and calling it housekeeping. She laughs.
You didn’t shut them down?
We had long lost the method. Or the interest. Well, I was never an engineer. It’s quite silly, honestly. Like we just lost the keys to our house, or something. Ah, she says, a finger to her mouth, that doesn’t bode well for us, doesn’t it? Eventually, they’ll eat up the rest of the dead Earth, until nothing but the City remains, won’t they? It’s something we’ll have to deal with down the line. However many millennia it may take. Another laugh. I suppose foresight isn’t our strong suit. But who cares for the future, anyway?
Do you not?
Should I?
Humans once looked to the future. Lived for it.
We did. But I suppose all that passion has gone to waste. Maybe it’s that we’ve expended all our drive. Or maybe it’s that we’ve changed. Beyond appearance, the adaptations to Land of Steel, the Hundred Species that came out of the whole mess. Those have come and gone. Only one species matters now.
She plops down onto the edge of the bridge, legs swinging lazily over the abyss. The doll peers over her shoulder. She picks up a pebble from the rubble and tosses it, as it disappears into the blackness.
Those who answered Edem’s call. The Warrists.
Something inhuman?
Nay. The most human of all. It is only they who have any hope for the future, but it’s not the future of humanity. It’s of theirs. She throws another pebble down. An ordinary human has no more fear nor hope of death. When Edem felled the final TYPE that day, nothing remained to challenge him. The ultimate one that remained of this solar system. His vision of the world shadowed the light of the sun, until all the solar system became of his domain. And this was the world he created. He robbed us of our death.
A world of the undying. Eternal life, unchanging. A world there was always a tomorrow, whether you wanted it or not.
I ask her. And what does he want?
To return it to us. When we reach the same answer he did.
For in this world, she says, a wistful expression, True death is only for the Warrists.
I watch the Builder in the distance, watching it weave its web. The doll hides behind the angel’s back, like she’s afraid of the thing. And I, too, as I stare into the colossi lurking just beyond the darkness, feel a sense of unease. A sense of disgust and revulsion and a desire to see the thing a reduced to scrap and rubble. Hatred, one could call it. A strong emotion. An unfamiliar feeling.
It sees me.
The angel’s eyes go wide, as a beam of molten metal is sent screaming through the air hurtling towards us.
The explosion lights up the entire cavern, like another sun, a blinding white-hot light that illuminates the abyss as the bridge disintegrates into vapor and plasma, as a hole is pierced through the ceiling and the surface begins to cave in. We fall, the angel slowing her descent through her wings, maneuvering herself through burning rubble and molten metal. The wind answers my call and wraps me in a gale, breaking my fall into a float. A look down below, the underground city now light as day, and I see the doll falling into a blood-red sea.
I speed my descent. A reflexive decision. No thought or deliberation. Above me, Grain crystallizes about the angel’s body into enormous metallic wings, armor forming over her skin, the bones in her palm twisting into something like a cannon, as she sends beams of pure ether right back. Each site of impact subsequent explosion sends distant mushroom clouds rising from the floor of the abyss, vaporizing the blood sea, illuminating the cavern even further, light refracting through the vaporized water. My wind sends the doll up flying back into my arms, as I catch it and fly back up, as the angel maneuvers herself through the streams of screaming molten metal the Builder sends up at us. She yells over the noise, and I somehow hear her.
Well, shit. They’ve never attacked us like this before!
Arcs of molten metal and pure ether surge forth, each streaming by the other or clashing like novas, carving up the cavern and cleaving through buildings and blasting through the surface, as the city about us crumbles into dust and flame. The angel fires back, her batteries breaking and piercing its body, yet each blast looks to be but a bare pinprick in the far distance.
It refuses to fall. For each blast it takes, shearing and melting and vaporizing its armor, it takes up more of the earth, the surrounding cavern and constructed buildings, reforming itself anew. Something is keeping it alive. The angel recognizes this, and focuses fire, barrages intensifying tenfold, a hundredfold, a thousandfold, but the sheer distance it takes for her blasts to reach their target give it just the time it needs to build itself anew. She clucks her tongue. Have I gotten rusty? Even former Number Three never gave me this trouble.
The city begins to collapse into itself, as we weave through falling debris and broken buildings, the light of the surface blotted out by the rubble and dust. A skyscraper falls, swatting us out of the sky, crashing into one of her wings, as she blasts and reduces it to cinders in retaliation. And, doll in arms, we fall.
At this rate, we might die for real, won’t we?
She laughs. No despair or sorrow or ironic mirth, but real, genuine amusement.
And something about it makes me sick.
Blood laces through my arm.
Grain seeps into my palm.
I fall. Deliberately. Faster, now, I fall toward the colossus, friction of the air beginning to burn my body. At some point I must have let go of the doll, entrusted it to the wind at my command, as in my hand I hold a blade of bone, my arm warped and twisted, a grotesque form.
There lies the axis. The intersection of our trajectories. I fly alongside the ether beams the angel fires, residual heat causing my skin to blacken and char, past melting concrete and crumbling cities and at the very moment of impact, through flame and blinding light and craters of liquid metal sent crashing like ocean waves, I see its core and I cut—
IV.
It’s warm. Hot, even.
I wake up under a tree in a field of ashes, the angel sitting on a stump, idly playing her guitar. The sun beats down, somehow intense even through the haze of the blood cloud barrier, casting a dull red glow on a gray, desolate wasteland. The earth is dry and cracked, and littered with the shapes of fallen trees, though they look like they’re made of stone, and the wreckage of machinery that stand like monoliths. The sunlight stings my eyes. Irritating.
Good morning, stranger.
I feel something touching my arm, and look down. The doll sleeps beside me, her head rested against my shoulder. The angel laughs.
Looks like she likes you. Almost didn’t want to wake you up. You looked like sisters.
I frown, and move to get up. My limbs barely move, as if I’d lost control of them. They only twitch in response, vaguely responsive. Like circuitry that’d gone faulty.
I wouldn’t, if I were you. You took a nasty fall. I actually had to carry you all the way up here, and with only one wing, too! She laughs. I must say, though, I was surprised to see that you were a Knight, too.
‘A Knight’, she says.
I don’t understand. She frowns as I say this, looking at my arm.
I follow her gaze. It looks like a hunk of chiseled rock painted over with soot, as something like crystal protrudes out from underneath, breaking blackened skin in several places. As I look at it, the crystal slowly begins to retreat into itself, forming the shape of an arm, pale skin forming back over its surface.
And then it’s gone. Just a normal arm. I notice now, that I can move again.
I raise myself, stretching my legs. Its headrest gone, the doll slumps over and falls on her face, and only frowns at me as it wakes up. It looks at me with something akin to disappointment.
Where are we?
Outside. Nearest city’s not too far from here.
A city like this one?
Sort of. A little. Not really. The city I’m talking about actually has people living in it. Maybe a day or three of walking to get there.
And so we walk. She chatters on we do so, like she’d been doing in the city, somehow continuing her train of thought from before as if nothing had happened. I walk a bit behind her carrying the doll on my back, initially with difficulty, but eventually regaining in my strength, as I feel my body repair itself with each step.
We walk through ruins, among machines of war long dead or dormant, casting strange shadows on the landscape. The earth at our feet is mottled and blotchy, like shattered mosaic glass, with craters and gorges pooled up and lined with crystallized obsidian and silica. As we walk, I hear things like cries, low warbles and clicks that echo throughout the haze. Strange metallic creatures shift and scuttle as we pass, making crystalline nests in the barrels of cannons long rusted from disuse, or among steel webs on the frames of the tanks and colossi. They watch us as we pass, and I watch them, too, some with single glass-like eyes, or spider-like bodies, or humanoid or caninoid forms, and I realize that they, too, are machines, yet they litter and inhabit the landscape like beasts.
She ignores all of it as if it were nothing, and instead rambles on about her escapade to the abandoned city, of how noisy all the Warrists and their battles all are, of how you could probably hear their racket all the way from the moon or Mars, of how she hadn’t expected to find another Knight down in the ruins, of how happy she is that the doll had made a new friend.
But really now. You didn’t know you were a Knight? She clicks her tongue. You really don’t remember anything, do you?
A thousand years is a long time to sleep, after all.
She just laughs, again. What a world to wake up to. You remember anything from before then?
I shake my head. We reach a cliff, revealing the cracked flatlands we’d been walking along to be the surface of a plateau. Colossi like the Builders litter the landscape, each the size of a city, their unmoving bodies stretching to far beyond the horizon. The angel begins to descend the cliff, taking careful steps along a winding path that leads to its bottom.
Can we not just fly?
She frowns. Eh. I mean, we could. But it’s kind of a pain in the ass. Fly too low, and you have to dodge through all these ruins, or crash into a pillar. I only have one wing, you know! Can’t fly as well as I used to. Fly too high, and… I dunno. It’s just kinda chilly all the way up there in the sky.
We’re walking all this way because you don’t like the cold?
Huh? Are you worried or something? Oh, come on, don’t worry your pretty little head over it. Even if it’s slower, that’s no problem. We can take as long as we like. We have all the time in the world. She takes out a bar of something greyish and begins to munch on it.
At the bottom of the basin, more machines litter the landscape, living among the corpses of the Builders. Strange crystalline trees and flowers cover the bodies of colossi, like an overgrown city. They, too, watch us.
These machines…
Hm?
I don’t remember these.
You don’t remember anything though, right?
These in particular. I don’t recall ever even seeing things like these.
Hmm. I suppose. I guess you might have some faint recollection before the War’s end, for whatever reason you got put to sleep. Yeah, as you said, they’re machines. But we lost control of these too.
Like the Builders?
That’s right. Well, I make it sound as if they rebelled, but we had just made these, or at least things like these, a long time ago. Machinery for menial tasks, and all that. And eventually, in Edem’s new world, we no longer had any need for them. But they didn’t just disappear. They fell into disuse, scattered across the landscape, and we forgot about them, until one day they came back. They’re all just a pale shadow of what we had before, barely capable of the functions they were built for, but they’ve changed. And they continue to change, and grow, and spread. Like… wild animals.
She laughs. Well, not that I’d know what those are like. But I’ve read the records about the Old World, back when Gaia was still alive and kicking. Apparently, before we had just a hundred descendant species of humans, we had millions of species of others. They covered the entire surface of the planet, in every nook and cranny. The waters, the lands, the sky. And they lived outside the cities we built for ourselves, or sometimes inside them, aside us, or sometimes those cities crushed their homes and drove them out. Other things, not human, that we shared this earth with.
Well, they’ve all died by the time I came around, so I guess this is all just in theory.
Yes. I’d say they’re a lot like animals.
She looks shocked. You know what animals are like?
I remember them, yes.
Her face nearly lights up, in excitement or wonder or surprise or some amalgamation of the three. Hey, she says, jogging to my side and pulling my arm. She points to something perching on a beam. What’s that one like?
I suppose that resembles a bird.
And that one?
A dog, perhaps.
And what about that?
A… I frown, furrowing my brow. She points to a strange looking creature, now. Kind of like a crab, I suppose. Crossed with a… clam. And a tree.
It’s at this point I notice her staring, with a strange expression. I’m sorry, she says, laughing again. It was silly of me to ask. I just realized I don’t really know what any of those things are.
We walk along, watched on all sides by the strange machines. None approach us. They seem timid, almost scared of our presence.
They’re not hostile?
No. You saw Perun and Týr’s fight, did you not? Even if we may be the last beings left on this planet capable of dying, these machines know they cannot match us. It’d be like an ordinary human facing a god. See that one? she asks, pointing to the bird-like machine. Those things used to deliver supply packages, during the War. And that one? Simple attack drones to hunt down the seeds of Yggdrasil when they’d started to become a pest problem. And that… she frowns. Okay, I don’t know what that one was supposed to be.
And the Builders?
Well, that was kind of embarrassing of me. Usually they don’t pose much of a problem for us, but I didn’t want to bring the whole surface crashing down on our heads. She sighs. In my top form, I could’ve just blown the dumb thing up, no problem. Wouldn’t even have been able to touch me, if it weren’t for the buildings everywhere. Come to think of it, she says, finger on her lip, I’m not sure why it attacked you in the first place.
They fear us.
Do they? Who knows what a machine thinks. Maybe they do; maybe they can’t. I don’t know. But the doll seems to like you well enough.
She falls silent at this, looking at the doll. It had fallen asleep.
The sun sets by the time we reach the center of the basin, disappearing behind the plateau, the reds and pinks of the setting sky giving way to an inky black. Above us, a river of lights flows, blues and greens and whites all twinkling and blinking, as if forming an orbit about the earth. Some descend from the sky like falling stars.
I don’t remember those, either.
A laugh. You wouldn’t have, if you don’t remember anything after Edem’s call. Come on now, let’s get you a better view of the thing. She hops up onto a Builder’s severed leg, climbing up its body as the machines scuttle out of the way like animals taking flight.
The Builder itself resembles an enormous factory, and she walks along assembly lines, balances off derelict catwalks creaking with each step, climbs up the chimneys of blast furnaces— Don’t worry about it, I don’t think these are still active.
As we ascend its body I see more and more machines that hide as we approach, watching us just beyond where we can see, huddled together, unblinking, unmoving. They wait in the shadows, in abandoned shipping containers and holes in the walls, like dens, and the angel pays them no mind.
We reach the top of one of the Builder’s bodies, a large flat like a hangar with a caved-in roof, exposed to the heavens, the rusted remains of flight units lying scattered across the flats. The wind here is cold, stinging our skins, and the doll shifts on my back, mumbling or groaning something in slight discomfort, an expression almost as if grimacing. It blearily opens its eyes, and holds on tighter. Its body is cold.
Outside, a lone crane stands, towering above the landscape, its ropes swinging in the wind. The angel begins to climb up the mast, the beams creaking and swaying under the biting winds, and we make it to the very top. She balances on one of the beams on the arm, her own arms spread out like an acrobat walking across a tightrope, tiptoeing across to the very edge. I can’t hear it over the howling winds, but she throws her head back and laughs.
Nice view, yeah?
I stand up too, nearly losing my balance, and follow just behind her.
And in the sky, a thousand, a million lights shine, each rushing past the other, all a blur, all the more vivid beyond the tears in the sky, likes stars shooting into space or falling from the heavens, their shine reflected across the steel-gray surface, refracting among cracks and fissure and irregular formations of rusted and decaying colossi the size of cities, where faint pinpricks glow in the distance, the eyes of the machine in the dark, scattered across the wastes. Even among a colorless landscape, it paints it vivid, blues and red and pinks.
Nice view.
She grins. I know, right? You know, you’re probably the first in maybe a few centuries to care for this sorta thing— well, not like you’re dripping enthusiasm or anything. Most people’ve gotten bored. Won’t even blink at it all. Seen it every day, every night, until it’s become just another mundane thing. Same with the blood-cloud skies, or the crimson seas or the steel-gray earth. Like they’d forgotten what our old Earth was like.
Once upon a time, our sky was blue, and stars shined in the night. I’ve never seen it myself, but I know that world once existed. But you know what? I’ll never get tired of this view.
Peeking from beyond the blood-red clouds, there lies a crimson moon.
V.
By the next afternoon, we had left the basin, and arrived at the city.
Towers that stretch to the sky. A mammoth structure of steel and glass and light and stone. A living human city. How had they changed, these thousands of years?
They eat. They drink. They sleep. They wake. They love, they hate, they lust, they scorn, they get anxious, annoyed, excited, exasperated with work, bored over small-talk, riled up over petty, insignificant things that will disappear before the next day begins. They, in many ways, had not changed. Despite it all. Despite that they live, and die, and live again, in an endless cycle. A world where death had been robbed of its meaning.
I’d been living in this city for the past month, in that angel’s apartment.
This body of mine carries similar memories. Living in a human city, wandering about parks and commercial districts, for some reason or another, chasing after a human for motivations only that body could have understood. A vestigial thing that lends this experience some sort of familiarity. I live here, aimlessly, without purpose or meaning, as the angel sits on the bed trying and failing to teach the doll how to play guitar. The blind leading the blind, so it goes.
Why had I returned to this world?
To reclaim what belongs to me. So I tell myself. Yet here I am, lazing on the floor, listening to two amateurs work out one end of a guitar from the other.
I exit the apartment, heading out to the city. The angel waves back as I walk out the door.
Neither the sky nor the earth can be seen from here. The city is built in tiers, streets and transit lines criss-crossing the other, above and below, a chaotic, jumbled web of steel, interspersed with billboards and flashing screens, neon lights and constant sound, a city of unending, sleepless night. I disappear into the crowd.
Humans may have stayed the same in some ways, but in others, they quite clearly changed. Their appearances, for one. A side-effect of their mechanisms developed to adapt with a hostile world. I had watched as it happened, as they changed themselves, though it’s another thing to see it up close. Figures with wings, or claws, or exoskeletons, or inhumanly metallic or crystalline bodies, mechanical parts integrated into their frames, all strange and alien but remarkably human, how they hold themselves, or how they move or speak or act— I don’t know. Some element of humanity remaining in their appearance I couldn’t pin down. Even the ones that resemble little more than amorphous blobs of gas. Funnily enough, of everything that lives in this city, my appearance must look the most human of them all.
Despite it all, something else too had changed.
They live forever now. Every man and woman in this crowd, every other I pass, I see, I hear, has been alive for a thousand years, maybe more. Since the end of the War. Everything they could possibly hope to do, every sight left to see, every activity, every interest, every experience— everything they could experience, they have done so already. Given how long Man had been chasing immortality, I’m almost curious as to how they attained it. And given that they now attained such a thing, I’m more curious if they understand, now, what it means to be immortal.
I remember the angel’s words. That this immortality was not their choice. That they could answer Edem’s call, and return to a life in fear of death. An absurd proposal. The humanity I remembered would never have taken such a choice.
And yet…
I look up to a flashing screen on a building up above, two figures clashing over an abandoned city, one black, one white. The last thing humanity lived for.
The continuation of the War.
It had never been very clear to me before why humans existed, or decided to exist, or decided thus to continue their existence. I never thought about it too hard, other than the times I found them immensely irritating. They, too, seemed to struggle with such a question, and had sought an answer in anything they could get their hands on. Love. Fear. God. The perpetuation of their blood. The accumulation of wealth. The extermination of their enemies. The search for the Truth of the world.
War, on the other hand, had long been a side-effect of such a struggle. The hated means to the end. For Man once warred to protect their own existence, against others that would threaten it, against Gods or other men.
In War they found their answer— or, an answer.
The means became the end. The only end. War, once a desperate struggle, has been reduced to a game, a game in which every remaining human has a stake. Prospectors, investors, armorers, all in part spectator in part participant to the spectacle that is the War. Monitoring market values, signing contracts, war has become a commercialized thing.
Nominally they were contractors, hired out to builders or businesses scattered about this stellar system, on-world or off-world to protect their interests, securing and competing for mining sites, for Grain or metals or whatever other resources they could hack off this dead rock. Businesses compete, interests conflict— just like the Old World. And agents of violence were needed to secure those interests.
Knight against Knight. The only mortal things left in this world. What they lost in mortality, they gained in power.
A Warrist’s market value is determined by their victories. As some emerged victorious over others, time and time again, they became ranked in terms of their market value. This ranking itself became the game. All eyes on the Warrists, as they fought and fought again, to rise to the top. And they soon began to invest in weaponry and armor and the engineering of each Warrist, to create the ultimate victor of this game— for what end?
To be the Number One.
Overall, I’d say, humans remained very much the same.
I watch the fight projected on the screen, watch clashing steel bodies amid storms of fire and lightning. A replay of the fight from before, though I had only seen the tail end of it from afar. Now, a closer view. Their bodies resemble armored machines, like the flight units we found abandoned in the basin, soaring through a blood-red sky, firing upon each other with linear cannons, vaporizing and glassing the landscape, striking up storms with each swing of their blades. As I had remembered them. I listen to the commentary of other bystanders, watching the fight projected on the screen.
—So what’s this make, now. Perun’s taken down Rank Twelve? Rose maybe ten, twenty spots in market values. Speculators going ballistic. You see that shit, where he starts just fucking chucking the skyscrapers at him—
—How many Deathless does this make in the top twenty, now—
—Over half, at this point. Told you they’re good. Statistics don’t lie. In the game of War, Deathless reign supreme—
—You’d think that Warrists who’ve died before would be better at this sort of thing. More experienced. The Deathless fear death. It makes them irrational—
—That’s the point, yeah? Irrationality, doing the unexpected. It’s ‘cause of that shit they win. Hell, even the number one, Belus, is a Deathless like him, yeah?
And the other humans had been watching. Speculating on the odds, moving about the flow of money and sponsorships, buying and bidding for future contracts, playing about the future market of war. For the sake of the stakes in these battles— the death and ultimate end of their enemy— such became the ultimate meaning around which human existence revolved.
I enter a lift, taking me down the city, a view that overlooks a steel-grey landscape, jumbled steel and cracked stone. And I wander. I still don’t know why. The answer to me seems as distant as the sun hidden beyond the sea of clouds, even moreso than before.
But I need to know— what had happened to this world, after its death?
Beneath the city, I arrive at an empty facility. Rows upon rows of computer systems circularly arranged in rings, gently humming and blinking in the dark, like pillars that stretch to an invisible ceiling. A facility for archival purposes. It’s immaculately clean and well-kept, though without a single presence, human or machine, throughout the entire thing.
Within the center of the circle is a lone terminal, a podium mounted with a screen. It activates on my approach.
A youthful voice greets me, coming from the terminal. Good afternoon, stranger.
I bring up a catalogue of its archives, and skim most of it. Seventeen million and a half sequenced genomes, preserved from Old World species before their extinction. Activity logs of Builder-class machines, and timeline maps of the transformed and then-destroyed territories. Analyses of material salvaged from the alien lifeforms of the TYPEs. Records of research projects, regarding the terraforming and space exploration, whose progress seems to have steadily waned until coming to a standstill approximately eight hundred years ago. Of these, only one appears of any interest to me.
Gaian Terminal Restoration Project.
I read into its history. This facility was once a research facility dedicated to the study of the Old Earth, and its preservation and restoration. Interest and funds waned over time, as such a prospect came to seem further and further out of reach, until it disbanded completely. This grave of a data center still stands today, repurposed partially for archival purposes, but mostly to support the city’s network.
In other words, nothing I really understand.
Are you in need of any assistance?
The terminal speaks at me. An image like that of an eye projects from the screen.
And you are?
I am Adam. The overseer artificial intelligence that maintains this facility. It is not often we get any visitors.
I frown. So you’re a machine?
In a sense. In that a machine is a body, but what I am is a mind. Though, I suppose, such a difference is not much of an important one in this context.
I nod absently, and continue to pull up files. Words I don’t understand too well pop out at me. Planetary Terminal. Lunar Migration. Weltseele. I frown.
Tell me about this project.
Begin playback.
Before the descent of the Aristoteles, humans had further advanced their capacity for space exploration, in part of a program to develop weaponry in their conflict against the A-RAYs. As they experienced steadily increasing losses in said conflict, the Moon had been considered as a possible refuge for the Liner subspecies should they lose, and methods were researched to make such a habitat inhabitable. In Common Year 2798 it had been discovered that the Moon, too, possessed a weltseele— the soul of a world— similar in nature to Gaia, which had begun to deteriorate 823 years prior Common Year 1975, until its true death 621 years prior Common Year 2177.
The weltseele discovered on the Moon, however, was incomplete in its nature and dormant, and became the object of human study, which developed into the Lunar Terminal Development Project. In Common Year 2809, the project eventually replicated said soul, and contained it within a silicon vessel. Through interfacing with this machine, they discovered they could manipulate the lunar surface: creating seas and water, or encasing the atmosphere in ice, or shaping the landscape to their will.
Now provided a means to survive on the lunar surface, the committee behind the Project began to enact a plan to migrate the rest of the unaltered humans to the surface of the Moon in order to escape annihilation. However, before the migration could be completed, the Aristoteles descended to Earth, and all contact with off-world sites had been lost. Thus the Project had been disbanded.
In Common Year 3012, all Aristoteles threatening the Gaian atmosphere had been eliminated, the remaining one hundred subspecies were merged into one, and space exploration resumed. A lunar colony was no longer needed, as the human subspecies were no longer in conflict and under threat of extinction. Priorities were focused on research effort, and the scientific community developed a hypothesis: that the Aristoteles that invaded the Gaian atmosphere were intimately linked to other hypothetical worldsouls, and that the dormant soul found on the moon could be used to reverse engineer such an Aristoteles.
Such a hypothesis had been contested, however, as no corresponding Aristoteles had been discovered for the only two observed weltseelen. While there were fears that the hypothetical last surviving Aristoteles— the TYPE-MOON— would one day reveal itself as the others had done, such a day never came.
Regardless, the proposal of such a link spurred an effort to further develop their Planetary Terminals, reverse engineering from the data and alien material gathered from the Aristoteles’ corpses, and utilizing the data gathered during the development of the Lunar Terminal for the creation of a similar replacement for the Gaian weltseele. This became the Gaian Terminal Restoration Project.
End playback.
It falls silent, and I stare at it, expecting it to say more, as the image lazily rotates floating above the screen. The humans have a word for this sort of feeling. Impatience, they call it. It says nothing, apparently content with its silence.
And?
Does this user have another query?
What happened to the project?
A long silence.
Would you like to see?
VI.
Beyond the server room, there lies a lift, a large open platform carried by a belt, set in a vast tunnel that leads deep underground, into a space that opens up like a large cavern like a manufacturing facility— storage towers like pillars stretching to the heavens, intricate webs of pipelines and transport lines, dried-up pools and fluid tanks, all rusting and wasting away from age and neglect. Compared to the server rooms up above, this structure seems a lot less maintained, strewn with rubble, abandoned for perhaps hundreds of years.
I walk along the catwalk that runs between the towers, that hangs above vast empty pools stretching on beyond what I can see, the overseer intelligence illuminating the way light by light, guiding me to our destination.
At the end of the room, it leads to a corridor, a claustrophobic and dark and winding thing, progressingly greater states of disrepair. It opens up into a vast room stretching on so far that the other walls cannot be seen, cast in a faint bluish glow from what light filters in far above, plain and featureless save for one thing.
The floor is strewn with broken dolls.
Pale golden hair. Deep red eyes. Bodies like that of a child. They lie, crumpled and discarded and scattered across the room, some missing limbs, or halves of their body, upper or lower, internal wiring lying exposed and rusting away. And in the room’s center, bodies and spare things like arms or heads are gathered, forming a pile around a pillar, a stasis tank with its glass face smashed in and its piping broken, spare cables left hanging, strewn across the floor.
And on the very top of that pile sits a figure, the form of a young man, short colorless hair and piercing red eyes and nude body covered in strange marks, sitting with a knee propped up resting his arm on it, holding what looks to be an apple in his hand. On his chest and all across his arm, through broken skin, circuitry and steel sinews lie exposed.
And it smiles.
Hello, Stranger.
Jeanne Can’t Make Any Friends!
Side A
Chaldea.
An organization, a place, a purpose: to save the future. Here, great heroes and villains from the past are summoned as Servants, powerful magical beings with the sole purpose of serving a master. Their master is a young man named Gudao, who travels in time to fix the past, and change the future.
This place housed such great heroes as Arthur Pendragon, The King of Knights, Herakles, the hero of the great twelve labors, Hassan-I-Sabbah, the leader of the assassins, and Jeanne d’Arc, the maid of Orleans.
Jeanne, in this place, was filled with the same zeal and clarity of purpose as she was in history. To save the world, save humanity and change the future, she was determined to aid Gudao in his quest. And yet, Jeanne had a troubled look on her face as she braided her hair.
She was plagued with troubles. First of all, despite the look of joy on her master’s face when she’d been summoned, she barely ever got to talk to the youth or his companion, the eager shielder. They’d shared an adventure in France but had only had passing talk since, ranging from a hello in the halls to instructions in battle. While this was a minor trouble at worst, it was doubled when her second trouble came to mind.
Chaldea, a gathering of heroes… Charisma was supposed to be a word oft used to describe heroes, and yet…
Chaldea was filled with standoffish people. The Hassans were professional, curt, and devoid of needless chatter. Herakles, the most famous hero, could not speak due to his class. The King of Knights was oddly blackened, and had no friendly words to share. Leonidas, proud leader of the Spartans, kept his peace on most matters not related to training or battle. The list went on until you found those too insane to comprehend, or so degenerate and twisted you’d rather not comprehend them, like Kiyohime or Blackbeard. There was no camaraderie, no charismatic servants, no boisterous self-styled idols, or cheerful queens or well-mannered knights.
Chaldea had not been so lucky as to summon friendliness.
Finishing her braid, Jeanne left her room to find the last of her problems walking towards her.
Clad in red, black and darkened silver, wearing a frayed fur-trimmed cape and carrying a tied flagpole, was the spitting image of Jeanne herself. The only two differences were her eyes, changed to an eerie gold, and her hair, turned more ashen than Jeanne’s pleasant blonde.
Jeanne d’Arc was her name. Not the Jeanne who had just finished braiding her hair, but a completely different one, borne of the maddened psyche of the man standing behind her, clad in robes and wearing the expression of a madman.
They had crossed paths before, during the events of the France Singularity, where Jeanne confronted herself and Gilles, learning of the fate of the knight that once stood at her side.
“You’ve been called for a mission,” the Jeanne in black said, immediately turning away and leaving, not spending a second more in the saint’s presence. Gilles however, stayed a bit longer, taking a good long look at Jeanne, before speaking.
“You look, oh… to look at you is a blessing by itself, Jeanne.” He raised his head as if in prayer and closed his eyes. “You look as radiant as the day I first saw you.”
Jeanne smiled nervously, guiltily, uncomfortably. To see her knight fallen so far, yet obsess over her so much.
“Thank you, Gilles. Your kind words are, as always, wasted on myself,” she said, forcing her words to come out as naturally as possible.
Gilles had a strange bodily convulsion and a little moan of joy, and seemed about to say more until the other Jeanne spoke up.
“Enough, Gilles! We must go,” she said, barely turning her head to do so, refusing to observe the saint directly.
“Of course! Of course, I come. May your mission be successful, my dearest Jeanne,” he said, before hurrying off after the darker of Jeannes.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, seeing him leave. She immediately headed to the gathering hall.
The gathering hall was a name given to the airlock-like room in front of the rayshift room. No one knows when people started calling it as such, only that it was fitting. When Jeanne arrived, most of her common allies had shown themselves as well.
Herakles, standing near to three meters tall, wielding a massive axe. Cu Chulainn, a strange, blackened monstrosity that once was Ireland’s child of light. Carmilla, a dominatrix-looking woman renowned for the murder of young maidens.
Truly, no one approachable.
“You’re here.” A third person was in the hall, holding a clipboard and standing where the master stood until a week ago. The King of Knights, Arturia Pendragon, wearing a black dress, her sword propped up on the wall behind her, the corrupt Excalibur. “Slow.”
“I apologize,” Jeanne responded. The dark king grunted in response, and Jeanne approached the group, standing close enough to hear the King of Knight’s instruction. An awkward moment passed, with no sound other than the breathing of Herakles, until Jeanne noticed the lack of a fifth member. “Is someone still coming?”
“Yes.” Arturia didn’t look at her, instead looking down at her clipboard, or at the small electronic machine rested on it, or turning her eyes at the door.
Dissatisfied by the short answer, Jeanne asked another question.
“Is the master absent from duty today as well?”
“Yes.”
“Why has the master been absent?”
Arturia didn’t answer her, and Jeanne forced another question to die in her throat. She knew that the king would not respond to any question she did not feel was necessary to answer. She did hear the faint sound of a giggle, and turned to look at Carmilla, who had a smile on her face.
They stared at each other for a second, until the door opened once again, introducing a new person to the room. One Jeanne had never met before.
“Oh, I must apologize for my lateness. This place is so new, its people so fresh, I was enraptured and lost myself.” The short woman took slow, quiet steps towards the group. She was wearing an open, eastern dress, and under she wore a strange set of undergarments. She was wearing a strange set of sandals, and on one leg was a cutely tied bow.
Most curiously, on her head, parting her dark hair were two horns, sharing the light color of her skin.
“Your lateness is unbecoming.” Arturia’s warning was present in her tone, filled with rigidity. “We will start right away.”
“Now, now, that seems inappropriate. When a new face enters a room, it should be introduced, should it not? I haven’t been in this place for more than a week.” The lady kept her slow pace, walking in circles around everybody, giving them a deep look, a thorough analysis. “And these faces are new to me, as well. I would love an introduction.”
She gave Jeanne a little friendly wink, as Arturia’s face twitched angrily.
“You are Shuten Douji. From the left, your comrades are Jeanne D’arc, Herakles, Carmilla and Cu Chulainn. Your mission is the collection of materials for strengthening purposes.” Arturia put her clipboard and device in one hand, and picked up her sword, leaning it over her shoulder. “You know where the rayshift is, and its coordinates are set. Begone.”
“Begone I shall, then. Thank you for the introduction.” The petite woman walked off, followed by the rest. Jeanne however, stood on the spot, stunned by the apparent friendliness the woman displayed.
Perhaps, a friend?
= = = = = = = = = = =
It was the next day, and Jeanne and not only steeled her resolve to talk to Shuten, she had come up with a convenient excuse to talk to her. Jeanne was lacking training against opponents who fought from the shadows, and Shuten Douji, as an assassin, was well positioned to help rectify this situation. A perfect plan.
However, Shuten was hard to find as she preferred to wander, and did not keep to her room. Jeanne was therefore left aimless. After an hour of walking Chaldea’s halls, dropping by places such as the mess hall and the gymnasium to no avail, Jeanne bumped into someone who might be of help.
One of the few magi left who worked in Chaldea after the Fuyuki incident, keeping the place running smoothly, was walking down the hall. Jeanne called out to him, a common looking man in uniform.
“Excuse me, sir?” The man turned immediately, startled and visibly a little afraid, until he saw who was speaking to him.
“Ah, oh, hello there. Jeanne D’Arc, isn’t it?” He had an awkward smile on his face, despite looking a little more relaxed than he originally was.
“Yes, I’m honored you remember me. May I ask for your help?” Jeanne tried to keep her back straight, words slow and clear and smile present, to keep him calm.
“So long as I can, yes. What do you need?” He adjusted his glasses.
“I’m looking for Shuten Douji, an assassin class servant,” She started, and immediately the man looked a little worried. Amongst these hardboiled servants, it must have happened more than once that they were looking for a fight when they sought another servant. “Ah, please don’t be worried. I was looking for an assassin class servant to help me better understand how to face an enemy from the shadows. I hold no animosity towards her.”
“Ah yes, well… uh,” He started, before looking slightly beyond Jeanne. Jeanne looked behind her, and saw the remnant of a black cape pass the corner. “Ah, sorry. I’m too easily distracted. I haven’t seen her, but if I do, I’ll absolutely let her know. Is there, uh, somewhere you can be found?”
“Yes, I spend most of my time in my room, praying for success to our mission, or tending to my studies,” she said, her mastery of writing far from complete. “Ah, my room number is B seventy-two.”
“Alright, I see. I will let the other staff know too, so they can let her know.” He adjusted his glasses again, visibly more comfortable.
“Thank you very much, for this and your efforts in Chaldea’s continued functionality. We would be lost without the staff.” She bowed her head in respect to the man, who seemed slightly flustered in result.
“Ah, well, you know, we do what we can, because we have to, otherwise humanity’s done and all, ha ha…” He arranged his hair, now uncomfortable again but for different reasons.
“Indeed. Thank you again, and farewell,” she said, raising her head and turning away, returning to her room, the prospect of friendship blaring in her mind.
Later that day, as she was deep in prayer, her thoughts nothing but communion with the lord, her door was knocked upon. She slowly opened her eyes and went to open it. Her earlier excitement, died down and replaced with religious sentiment, was reawakened by the sounds. Eagerly she opened the door, but instead of the horned woman was a Hassan, an arm wrapped in black cloth, his body hunched over.
“Greetings, saint of Orleans.” He bowed his head respectfully.
“Yes, to you as well, honored Old Man of the Mountain…” She said, slightly confused, but remembering her manners.
“If I may cut the pleasantries short, I have heard that you required to speak to an assassin to learn to better yourself. Is this the case?”
“Ah,” Jeanne stumbled, before catching herself. “Yes, that is the case. My experience fighting those who use the shadows is verily lacking, as I never truly had to do so in life. Therefore, I was hoping for some guidance, to better aid the master.”
“Hm.” The white mask seemed to judge her quietly. “It’d be remiss of me to allow one of the lord magus’s servants to remain unlearned in the ways of fending off shadows. For our Master’s sake, I will gladly aid you.”
“I thank you,” Jeanne said, rather surprised. Surely one of Chaldea’s staff had told him about her, despite the fact she said she was seeking Shuten Douji, and not another. Still, the saint’s so-called excuse for calling out the oni was not a false one, her experience truly lacking, therefore she could not disregard Hassan.
“Then, let us get to it immediately. One of the simulation rooms will likely be deserted at this time.” The man turned away and walked out of the open door, steps filled with professional purpose. Jeanne followed suit.
= = = = = = = = = = =
The simulation was long, but very in-depth. Hassan brought her through all the basics, through more advanced methods of fighting from the shadows, and conversely how to deal with an opponent who assaulted from the shadows, specifically with the idea that she’d be protecting another, the master.
After an amount of time unknown to Jeanne herself, they left the simulation room.
“Thank you greatly for this lesson, master Hassan,” she said, looking slightly worse for wear. Her cloak was riddled with holes, and hair stuck out of place all across her braid. Hassan meanwhile, looked the same as he did going in.
“It does not bear mentioning. For we who share a purpose as simple protecting the lord magus, bettering each other is a matter of course.”
Jeanne was slightly surprised by his words.
“I’d thought your purpose was the salvation of this world, or the annihilation of the enemy, not the protection of our master,” Jeanne admitted. “Pardon my bluntness, if you would.”
“No, communication is a necessary tool. To speak your mind is nothing to apologize for, so long as it is required.” The man brought his hand to his chin. “To save this world, or annihilate my enemy… do you think such a thing is possible, by the hands of this assassin alone?”
Jeanne said nothing, unsure of how to respond.
“The answer is simple. It is not. I have just spent hours showing you how I avoid directly facing enemies, as it would be my utter undoing. Yet the lord magus faces his enemies directly, followed by his army. His army that, may I say, we are part of. Yet unlike an army where if the general is slain, another rises, no general will rise to take control of this army. Therefore, my greatest way of slaying our enemy, of saving this world, of achieving our purpose, is to protect our master. It is well suited for me, who can be there to protect the lord magus without the enemy acknowledging my presence, as greater heroes rampage through the frontline.”
“I see…I certainly understand your logic. Yet you just taught me all about protecting the master from the shadows, during this lesson. Are your actions implying you and Mash may one day be inadequate for the task?”
The man said nothing for a while.
“No, I do not believe we will ever fully be inadequate. We must also consider, me and the young shielder are not the only protectors of the lord magus. And yet, for all the servants that protect him, some of us may fall. Some of us may never be able to protect the lord magus again. Therefore, it is important to make sure others can fulfill the tasks needed of them.”
His words were serious, professional, and solemn. Just as Jeanne had come to expect of him and the two other Hassan who called Chaldea home, the one of a hundred faces and the founder of their order. And yet, this time, his words were a little more foreboding.
“I understand. I will hold this lesson to heart, heavy as it is. Thank you for your guidance.”
“I am simply doing what is expected of me.” Jeanne nodded at his words and turned away, until his voice caught her attention one last time. “May I ask, why now, of all times, to seek the knowledge of an assassin?”
“Ah, I was on a mission seeking materials with this new assassin, Shuten Douji. Seeing her fight reminded me of my inadequacies in fending off an assassin’s way of fighting. I sought to ask her to teach me, but it seemed you were told before she was,” Jeanne admitted.
“Perhaps for the best,” Hassan muttered. “It is just a feeling, but I would not place trust in that being. There is something about her that is a little too familiar.”
As he said so, the cloth covering his other arm shifted, as if something underneath had just come to life.
“I will take your words into consideration, master Hassan,” Jeanne said, putting a hand to her chest in salute before moving off.
“That is all I can ask you to do, and I do hope it comes to nothing.” Hassan himself gave a short nod to Jeanne, and seeing her turn away, walked off on his own path.
= = = = = = = = = = =
The next day, Jeanne’s door was once again knocked while she prayed. With no real expectations, she opened the door, to see a small horned woman.
“Fine greetings to you, lady Jeanne D’Arc.” The oni gave a deep bow.
“Ah, welcome, Miss Shuten. Please, just call me Jeanne.” Jeanne smiled to the friendly salutations.
“Just Jeanne it shall be, then. May I intrude? I’ve been travelling this entire domain in the last week, and my legs demand I seat myself, lest they give out.”
“Of course, please come in.” Jeanne stepped away from the doorway to let her into the room.
“Oh… As expected of a saint, this place is completely lacking in worldly possessions.” Shuten walked around the completely undecorated room, until she eventually settled on the bed, her dress sprawling around her.
“It is simply the way I’ve settled myself. I need nothing, so long as I may pray to the lord.” Jeanne walked forward a bit, earning a stare from Shuten. She then remembered something she’d heard about Japan’s culture. “Ah, yes, should I make you some tea?”
“Oh? Would you truly have possession of tea leaves, in such an empty place?” Shuten smiled, bringing a hand to her face, a finger to her mouth.
“I must admit, I do not. I would have to go find some first.”
“No, that is quite fine. I do not thirst for tea at the moment.” Shuten lay herself completely down on the bed, her legs dangling off the edge.
“I see. Then, I suppose the reason you are here is that you heard from the staff…?” Jeanne lost her smile and her face took a more serious look.
“Oh, indeed!” Shuten contorted, bringing her legs up on the bed and lying on her stomach, looking up at Jeanne, laying her jaw on her hand. Her kimono barely followed, leaving most of her back exposed. “I heard you were searching quite thoroughly for me, yet I was nowhere to be found. May I ask why?”
“Yes, my apologies. The truth is…” Jeanne told her the reason she was looking for her, omitting the part where she’d singled her out for her friendly demeanor.
“Hm, I see…” Shuten hummed thoughtfully, her smile gone for a mix between a pensive frown and a pout. “Hm…. Hmmmmmm…”
Jeanne squirmed on the spot, unsure how to take this overly long humming.
“Dearest Jeanne, would you be interested in eating lunch with me?” Shuten finally asked, a smile returned to her face.
“…Yes?” Jeanne answered, unsure of how the conversation went there.
“Ah, I must sound like a fool. You see, I am currently lacking a good friend of mine, my dear Ibaraki… and well, no one in this place seems overly charitable. But I feel like I could have an enjoyable time, were I to spend it with you.” As she said all this, one hand upheld her head, while the other seemed to draw on the bedsheets. “And nothing makes for better friendships than eating a meal?”
“Ah, yes, of course, I’d be glad to accompany you for a meal!” Jeanne said, overly eager, a smile from ear to ear.
“Wonderful!” Shuten immediately climbed off the bed, and rearranged her kimono slightly, that it at least fell on her shoulders. “There is no time like the present is a saying, is it not? We should waste no time discarding our appetites.”
“Right now?” Jeanne asked, before immediately realizing she was not busy. “Of course, yes! I’ll lead the way to the mess hall!”
So, Jeanne, with a new friend in tow, headed to the mess hall. Tamamo Cat was making food, incomprehensible as always, and a feast already waited for them.
“I must admit, I did not have high expectations of this place. Chaldea…” Shuten said, between bites. “It is definitely interesting, and yet, such a hostile environment. And the master is nowhere to be seen.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t worry. The master is usually much more present. He must have fallen ill recently.” Jeanne made excuses, while wishing to know the reasons herself.
“Hm… Well, when I first saw our master, he did seem quite tired. Fatigue and worries, perhaps.” Shuten shrugged, and took a sip out of what looked like a little bowl. “Would you like a glass of wine, dear?”
“Ah,” Jeanne smiled reservedly. “No more than a glass, please.”
Shuten looked at her a second too long, before pouring her a glass from her massive gourd.
“Here it is, although,” Shuten started, giving the bowl to Jeanne. “You seem to restrict yourself an awfully overlarge amount.”
Jeanne accepted the glass, a doubtful look on her face. “You think so? I simply believe in stopping myself from excess. I try not to drink too much, as to not lose myself.”
“Not just the drinking, dear. During the mission, your way of fighting… seemed like it wasn’t truly meant for you.” Shuten produced another bowl out of somewhere, pouring herself some of her gourd. “Battle is a great bloody dance, where all let loose. Of course, a commander must keep a clear head, and soldiers cannot fight their allies. Yet now we are soldiers, and you fight too carefully, stopping yourself from truly joining the fray, keeping an eye not just on all of us, but on yourself.
“You fight a battle like a commander, and it makes you feel stiff, darling.”
Jeanne listened in between bites of assorted odd-looking things Tamamo Cat had made, as more servants came into the mess hall.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it. But I suppose where others enjoy battle, or bask in it, I do try to keep in mind that battle is a means to an end, one that benefits us all.”
“Now, please hold a moment, I’m not suggesting you need to enjoy battle. I’m suggesting you immerse yourself in it. Your mind is elsewhere, thinking of the battle as a whole, thinking of our master, or our purpose, or whatever it is goes through your darling head. While this is a quality on a commander, on a soldier it is a weakness.”
Jeanne set down her spoon and wiped her mouth clean.
“Perhaps, but the way I fight is something I believe I hold choice in. I choose to try and see everything I can, rather than just being a mindless soldier. When I was a commander, having thoughtless subordinates would have been a curse rather than a boon. So, I will keep fighting in a way I would approve of, were I the commander.”
“Wonderfully said. Then I shall keep basking in the battles forward on, and you may think for the both of us. May I ask that of you?” Shuten raised her glass.
Jeanne raised her own, half empty, and they gently bumped.
“Of course, Shuten.”
They both took a sip, and the meal ended. They went their different ways, Jeanne back to her room, Shuten to wherever Shuten went to. Jeanne’s trip, however, was not without obstacle.
“I’m surprised,” Jeanne said, blocking the hallway from the saintly version of herself. “You hold odd company.”
“Is there a problem,” Jeanne said, looking herself straight in the eyes longer than she ever had, ever since coming here. “With the people I choose to befriend?”
“Ha!” The dark Jeanne walked forward, going head to head with the Saint. “You befriend quite a wretched being.”
Jeanne didn’t reply, and eventually, a tongue clicked in distaste. Having enough of the entire interaction, Jeanne walk past the other, leaving herself behind.
= = = = = = = = = = =
“Saint.”
The towering Hassan-I-Sabbah, known otherwise as King Hassan, spoke to Jeanne in the gathering hall, before a mission.
“May I help you, lord Hassan?” She answered, keeping her worry inward.
“Your dedication to the contractor is impressive. May your loyalty to our master last until your head is undone.”
Jeanne flinched at the choice of words, but understood the basic sentiment underneath.
“Of course it will,” she answered, her voice a little too hard.
King Hassan observed her with empty eye sockets for a moment too long.
“Very well.” He turned away, as Arturia started to tell them their assignment, and as Jeanne’s belief that only Shuten was capable of any kind of amiable behavior was strengthened.
Later that day, they ate together again, and once again Jeanne refused a second glass of wine.
And once again, Shuten asked about the master, and Jeanne still could give no answer.
= = = = = = = = = = =
“The master can’t see you now.”
Arturia was standing in the hallway, near the master’s room, denying Jeanne any passage.
“I understand, as you’ve said it before. But many of the servants are asking questions, and no answers are coming. Please, at least tell me what’s become of the master.”
Jeanne was worried, as she’d overheard some of the other servants talk about their master earlier in the morning, and along with her own questions, Shuten’s inquisitiveness and the ominous attitudes the Hassans held, she felt the need to finally ask.
“You do not need to know any more than you do.” Arturia persisted, simply holding her ground. Jeanne however, did not take the statement very well.
As a servant, they were all connected to their master. They all received energy from him, so any servant could answer that the master was alive. But, other than that, no one knew anything else.
“I believe we do need to know more than we do. While we are tools of our master, we deserve to know the state of the one wielding us.” Jeanne’s voice raised in volume as she said this.
Artoria, however, said nothing.
“Do not treat me as if I am not here!” Jeanne put a hand to her chest.
“Perhaps you should take it as a hint and not be here.” The dark king’s eyes narrowed as her hands gripped her sword tighter.
The conflict would have escalated, but a door behind Artoria opened. The first to react was Artoria herself, rushing to the door, not making it in time before someone collapsed onto the hallway.
The master, Gudao, was not a very good color, patches of reddening skin visible across his chest, as he was only wearing pants. On uncovered skin, one could see fresh scars. On his face, his eyes blackened, his cheeks sunken in and his nose settling from a break.
“Ah, Artoria, I was looking for you,” He said as she came up, followed by Jeanne. “The dailies for today, I had a list. I thought I could walk, my bad on that. Haha, ha…”
He was smiling, putting up a good front. He turned his head slightly, and saw Jeanne.
“Oh, hey there. Sorry you have to see me like this, I told Artoria not to show me to anyone. Don’t be worried, I’m just a little sick. We’ll be right back to saving the world in no time.” He lifted a clenched fist to show her his spirit was fine.
Meanwhile, she only felt terrible. Her master was in such a state, and she didn’t know anything about it, she could do nothing about it and she didn’t do anything to stop it from happening.
“Master, let’s get you back in your room.”
The King of Knights lifted him in her arms and brought him back to his room, settling him on the bed. The room was kept surprisingly clean, Jeanne noticed as Artoria tucked him in. On a table close to the wall was a tray with a half-eaten burger on it, and a clipboard at its side.
“Who knows about this?” Jeanne’s question wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular.
“The servants who were out with him at the time. Me, the Hassan of the cursed arm, King Hassan, the other Jeanne and Mash. And I’d rather keep it that way.”
“Ah, if I’m worrying everyone, you can tell them. I already feel a lot-” Gudao started, ended by a coughing fit.
“Master, shut up.” Artoria walked over to a cabinet, grabbed a glass and went to fill it at a small sink in the corner of the room.
“What’s happening?” Jeanne asked, remembering the real question.
“He’s wounded, and then he got sick.” Artoria propped her master up and gave him the glass of water. “Mash is hurt too. Some noble phantasm is affecting her healing, it’s slow. Her being weakened is probably why master could even get sick.”
“She is healing though, right? Mash…” Gudao started, looking concerned.
“Yes, and stop talking. Her healing is going fine, she could wake any minute.” The king, obviously concerned despite her steely face, went to go rinse the cup. “Well, maid of Orleans, are you satisfied?”
“I… Yes, I am. I apologize for being so brusque about the affair.” Jeanne bowed her head in apology.
“Ah, no, It’s fine. I understand that you’d get frustrated wondering where I went.” Gudao kept on smiling as if he were healthy. “Geez, Artoria, I told you that you should tell them.”
“Enough. Give me the list for the team composition of the dailies, and go back to sleep.”
Jeanne walked out of the room, a deep, uncomfortable feeling inside of her. She walked away, her eyes glued to the floor, her mind in turmoil, until finally she saw a dark pair of boots, tickled by a cape.
“What’s this, kicked out by that overprotective woman, were you?”
A darkened Jeanne looked down at Jeanne, a smirk on her face. Superiority was drawn all over her, a fantasy deciding she was greater than the history she was imagined from.
Jeanne did not need to deal with her right now. She looked away, and started walking past her, until a hand grasped her arm. She looked up once again to see a displeased grimace.
“What the hell is this?” The golden-eyed woman said, not even pretending to hide her distaste.
“What?” Jeanne said, her voice sounding unlike herself. “I want nothing to do with you. So, I’m leaving.”
“Like shit you are. What’s wrong with that damn look on your face?”
“It has nothing to do with you.” Jeanne said, weakly trying to shake her arm free.
“Of course it does, you-“ The dark Jeanne started, before being interrupted.
“No, it has nothing to do with you! We aren’t the same person!” Jeanne looked up to see herself in the eyes, a confused look on her dark self. “I want nothing to do with you. You are not me, you are just a shade that imitates my shape, that twists it into a vengeful fantasy for the sake of one of my knights, one of my dear friends gone horribly, horribly mad. And I can’t help him, I can’t help that you exist, but can I at least ask you to stop bringing me grief?”
Her voice has almost turned into a whisper at the end. A dark gauntlet released its grip on her arm, its owner stone-faced, giving no answer. The dark silhouette moved first, past Jeanne, towards the master’s room.
Jeanne, meanwhile, resumed her slow walk away, to her own room.
= = = = = = = = = = =
“Oh dear, oh my, you look worse for wear,” Shuten said, as Jeanne opened her door. She was sprawled on the bed naturally, as if it was her own. “What’s happened, dearest?”
“Did I lose faith, I wonder?” Words left Jeanne’s mouth, directionless. She walked to the bed, sitting down next to it. “Not in the lord, I can still feel him, feel that this cause, this purpose is just, and given to me by him. But, have I lost faith in my fellow man?”
“Oh dear, dearest Jeanne D’Arc, please tell me of your woes, perhaps I may give guidance to you, who looks so lost. Perhaps I may give you warmth, when you look so cold. Perhaps I could give you company, a partner on this bed, when you look so alone. But first, drink some warm wine, and tell me your sorrows.”
Jeanne, missing the innuendo, hummed in approval. Coming from out of sight, Shuten had her bowl-like glass ready, filled with liquid. She handed it to her, from over her shoulder. Jean grasped it, and immediately Shuten’s head was over a shoulder, her arms reaching down around Jeanne.
“I was worried for the master. I can say that much, for certain. And yet, I… did I not trust that the King of Knights would tell us, were our master in a life-threatening situation?” She took a large gulp of the wine.
“Ah, perhaps it’s what we spoke of. You think too much like a commander, that you must be aware of everything.” Shuten whispered into her ear. Jeanne barely heard it. Her eyes closed as the wine burned a way down her throat. When they opened, her glass was as full as it was before.
“And yet, was I afraid to know? Both the Hassans, they alluded to it, that the master was always in danger, that perhaps his shield would die. Mash… Mash is hurt, and if she is hurt, then she could have died. Both were present, both would know that the possibility existed. And yet, when they said such foreboding words, I shied away instead of confronting them. Did I not have faith in them? In their words, their meaning? Did I simply think, ah, the assassins are being dark again?”
Jeanne took another big gulp, emptying the glass, yet when she looked again, it was full.
“You worry too much, about everyone, about what they’re doing. You are hesitating. You choose to keep yourself aware, but now, your awareness, your alertness is harming you. Just close your eyes, your ears, and free yourself from this situation. There is no doubt here.”
“Perhaps…” Jeanne drank again. “Or perhaps, I have failed, I wasn’t aware enough, I wasn’t alert enough…” She drank again. “Or perhaps… I had failed beforehand, that others only thought to see me as a possible shield after Mash was hurt.” Jeanne drank again. “Perhaps I was never truly a consideration until now, while she… she was always out saving the world, fulfilling her purpose, our purpose.
“I wonder, do I hate her? Do I say these words from spite?”
Jeanne drank again.
“Do not mind it at all. Just forget it all, let it all pass.” Shuten’s face seemed closed and closer.
“Ah, maybe I… uh…” Jeanne grasped her head. Something was wrong. “Wait, no, I shouldn’t.”
She tried to get up, but no strength came to her legs. Her arm, that she thought was grasping her head, was numb, with no feeling.
“Oh dear, this wine truly is strong. A little too strong for a servant based on a human.” Shuten let go of Jeanne, instead getting off the bed and walking in front of her, lowering herself to look Jeanne in the eyes, both looking listless. “Alley oop.”
Shuten lifted Jeanne as a knight would a princess, and put her up on the bed.
“No…” Jeanne mumbled weakly, but her body wouldn’t answer.
“Now now, the wine could keep an oni like myself drunk. I’m honestly surprised you’re even aware at all. But now, dearest Jeanne…” Shuten ran a finger across Jeanne’s body, before resting on her breast. “Let me help you. You’re confused, lost, and now I’ll help you just, let it all go.”
Jeanne made another sound that sounded like denial.
“Come now, dearest. Allow me to be your company, your warmth. Allow your sorrows to seep away, as I send them to the sky.” Shuten gently caressed her breasts, as the girl climbed on top of Jeanne, straddling the weakened servant. She loomed downwards, threatened to give Jeanne a kiss, but instead took a long lick on her nape, pulling at her breasts as she did so.
Jeanne flinched, trying to mount any resistance, but it came in vain. Shuten noticed, smirking down at the saint.
“Resisting this hard… will only happen once. By the end of tonight, you won’t be reserved any more.” Shuten moved back, spreading Jeanne’s legs, exposing her crotch. “You won’t be frightened of letting loose anymore.” She pulled aside her underwear. “You won’t-“
She didn’t have time to continue. In an instant, the room had gotten hot. The door started glowing red, and Shuten rose immediately.
The door melted inwards, black smoke fuming off of it, causing the silhouette of the person responsible to look like a wraith, dark flames writhing around their hands and feet, glowing in her eyes, a fire filled with an intense desire to burn away life.
“Oh dear,” Shuten said, almost uncaringly, right before she was engulfed in flame. She’d covered part of herself with her kimono, but her leg was set aflame regardless. She immediately tried suffocating the flame with the cloth she wore as she reached for her gourd, but the assailant would have none of it.
As Jeanne’s awareness started to fade, the last thing she saw was a dark, burning gauntlet smashing Shuten’s face into the wall.
= = = = = = = = = = =
Jeanne slowly came awake, in an unfamiliar room. The room itself was unspectacular, looking exactly like her own, except for a plush of a dragon sitting down the bed.
“Awake, are you?”
The voice was filled with contempt, and it was easily recognizable.
“You... helped me.” Jeanne could barely speak, but she turned her neck to face the person talking to her.
“Don’t flatter yourself. That shitty master would be upset if a servant got hurt.” The dark Jeanne leaned against the wall.
“I said such horrible things to you. I ignored you and Hassan when you tried to warn me. I…”
“By the Lord himself in heaven, who cares?!”
Jeanne was stunned for a moment.
“You made a mistake, after you made your own decision about who you’d befriend. Congratulations, you made a bad acquaintance and got bit for it. Don’t you have more important shit to care about?” Jeanne got closer, leaned in to look her brighter self in the eye. “If you spend all day looking behind you, you’ll never look in front of you. So, shut up, brighten up, and look ahead. Mash woke up, that damn brat’s getting better, and we have more singularities to fix. So be ready to save the world by tomorrow or everyone else will save it while you’re in bed.”
Jeanne straightened up, looking down at her.
“Artoria doesn’t care about what happened yesterday, that brat doesn’t, and that damn bitch Shuten doesn’t either. Why should you?”
With that, she left the room, leaving Jeanne alone, smiling.
“Of course, of course…” Jeanne said, almost happily, a tear falling down her face. “Of all people, of course she’d set me straight.
End of Side A
Side B
The master’s been in bed for about a week. Mash is almost fully recovered, but that kid won’t wake up yet.
Which left Jeanne in an uncomfortable position. She hasn’t had anything to vent her anger on in a while, with the kid asleep and Gilles being no fun to beat up on.
To top it all off, every time the bitch Artoria needs the saintly Jeanne, she sends the angrier one.
So of course, Jeanne was caught grinding her teeth angrily across Chaldea again today.
“I’m looking for Shuten douji, an assassin class servant.”
Angrily taking a walk, a set of words pulled her away. She looked, and of course, the saintly Jeanne was bothering a chaldea aid with something or other about training against assassins. The aid noticed her, and Jeanne started to turn her head, prompting the dark Jeanne to go around the corner.
She kept her ear out, listening to the rest of her conversation, almost puking when Jeanne starts heaping praise on some random nobody who was probably sent here because nobody in his family loves him.
What a pain.
Still, Shuten Douji. The name ran through her head, along with words she’d associate with her.
Hedonistic. Sadistic. Whore. Slut. Bitch. Short. Weird horns. Slutty. Sluuuutty. Eats humans.
“Yeah, no, that’s a bad idea.” Jeanne walked off to the simulation hall, where she knew two of the Hassan were training. She burst in mid-simulation, introducing herself to the forest-like environment the room had become.
“Come out, Hassan, before I burn this entire forest to the ground!” Jeanne bellowed, hoping he wouldn’t appear, so she could let loose some steam.
Of course, someone with a stick up their ass wouldn’t ignore a “comrade”. She grimaced as soon as he appeared, accompanied by twelve of the hundred face.
“Jeanne. Is there something we were needed for?” One of the hundred faces spoke up, with the body of a man.
“Yeah, actually. That dumb other Jeanne is looking for an assassin class servant to help her.” Jeanne crossed her arms impatiently.
“Oh? Do you know what for?” The cursed arm spoke up.
“Training or something, why should I know the specifics? Just go give her a hand, would you?” Jeanne rolled her eyes.
“That is no way to ask for a favor,” all twelve of the hundred faces all said at the same time, their voices betraying the passive expression their masks always wore.
“No, that is quite alright,” the cursed arm spoke up, before Jeanne could retaliate. “If a comrade requires assistance, I shall answer. Thank you for informing me, Jeanne.”
Without waiting for an answer, the cursed arm left the room, the simulation ending. Jeanne herself didn’t want to stick around to deal with the hundred faces, so left immediately and wordlessly.
As she returned to her room, she groaned to herself.
“Maybe that’ll keep that dumbass out of trouble.”
= = = = = = = = = = =
Of course, that wouldn’t be enough to keep that dumbass out of trouble.
Such a thought, along with other obscenities, crossed Jeanne’s mind as she saw them eating together.
“Hm, what is it, my dearest Jeanne?” Gilles said, at her side.
“Tell me, Gilles de Rais, my trusted companion,” Jeanne said, immediately regretting it, as he made an odd humming sound. “Am I a fool?”
“Why, no, of course not! There is not a single Jeanne in the entire world I’d be blind enough to call a fool!” Gilles said, reaching his hand up to the sky. “Not a single one! Not at all, no!”
“Then please explain what I’m doing over there.” Jeanne pointed at a table filled with all sorts of disgusting-looking “food”, the kind Tamamo Cat makes that looks ridiculous but ends up delicious for no real reason.
“Hm, yes… it seems to be that you’re eating a meal with Shuten Douji.” He put a hand to his chin. “Truly a saint, giving such a killer the opportunity to dine with them.”
“Truly, truly… a saint, a saintly fool! An idiot! Being burned alive must have burnt away her brain!” Jeanne said, punching the wall hard enough to leave cracks.
“Oh, Jeanne, no, please, do not be upset!” Gille said, holding back her arm from destroying the wall further. “I know your values are different to hers, but you are a true saint, an angel in my eyes as well!”
“That’s not my point!” Jeanne barked, calmed despite herself. “Enough, Gilles. Poison that man-eater’s next meal. Give her a serious bout of diarrhea, despite her monstrous physiology.”
“Oh, wonderful, a challenge… perhaps, if I were to insert a parasite in her food…” Gilles arched his fingers together, deep in thought.
“Meanwhile, I’ll confront myself and tell her to leave that wretch alone.” Jeanne said, angry but filled with purpose.
Gilles went off, and Jeanne stayed, waiting for the two to separate.
She waited and waited, until Jeanne came face to face with herself. There was a moment of awkward silence.
“I’m surprised. You hold odd company.” Jeanne said, deciding to break the ice.
“Is there a problem with the people I choose to befriend?” Jeanne said, holding her ground, looking herself dead in the eye.
“Ha!” Jeanne took a few ominous steps forward, to respond to her own defiant attitude. “You befriend quite a wretched being.”
The saintly Jeanne looked at her, head to head. Someone’s tongue clicked in distaste. Finally, the saint just walked past her.
Meanwhile, the darker Jeanne stood there, feeling somewhat cheated. She was prepared to tell her all about Shuten’s killing, raping and man-eating sprees as soon as the other Jeanne went “kyaa, what could you ever mean”, but instead she just walked off.
Jeanne wobbled over to the wall, resting her head on it with a sigh.
“Maybe I am an idiot…”
Gilles decided this was the best time to return.
“Ah, sweet Jeanne, I’ve created a powerful parasite that will undoubtedly survive that beast’s intestinal track, and cause it to have horrible, unpleasant bouts of diarrhea!”
“Ah…” Jeanne said, her head still on the wall. “I don’t think that’ll be enough. Think you can like, make a parasite that’ll grow inside of her and start raping her out of her ass, or something?”
“Hm… you certainly know how to raise the bar. But then, a challenge is what I live for!” Gilles started cackling evilly, and Jeanne merely sighed again. “I will create the ultimate piece of art that will satisfy your desires, Jeanne!”
“It’s not for me, fool…” She said, finally pushing herself off the wall.
= = = = = = = = = = =
“No.”
“Yeah, eat shit, take Shuten off the team. Send the grandpa instead or something.”
Artoria and Jeanne were having a standoff outside the master’s room. Both were barely a notch above whispering, as to not disturb their master.
“We need an assassin with the ability to affect many people at once. The time efficiency will greatly-“
“I don’t care. Shuten is a bad idea, and I don’t want her with teams that have that stupid saint on them.”
Artoria’s eyes narrowed slowly, before relaxing.
“I’m surprised you’re so protective of her,” she said, with a smug smile, losing it almost immediately when Jeanne didn’t react.
“I’m asking you a favor here, for real. Please, do this for me.” Jeanne looked directly at the King of Knights, uncharacteristic sincerity in her voice.
A silence hung in the air for a few moments, until finally Artoria sighed, closing her eyes.
“Fine. Only this once.” Artoria made to move away, before approaching once again in hushed tones. “And no avoiding it when I call in this favor. Not this time.”
“Fine.” Jeanne had a sigh of her own. “And thank you.”
Jeanne walked off, satisfied she’d made distance between the two. She returned to her room, dissolving the magic that her cape was made out of to sit on her bed. She looked at the dragon on the end of the bed. It looked fine from afar, but once she grabbed it and took it close, she could see all the mistakes made in the stitching. A shoddy creation from beginning to end.
A year after she was summoned, her master had made it for her. He’d asked if there was anything she wanted, and she told him to get Fafnir if anything, but instead he handmade the plush.
An unskilled fool. A fool through and through, without any doubt.
“But right now, I need you to wake up, you fool. Looking after your servants isn’t my job.”
She tossed the plush aside, restless. She got up off her bed again, and prepared to set out, another walk to calm the nerves. Instead, a sound came from her door, a knock. She opened it up, to see Gilles.
“Oh, did you already finish the parasite?” She said, not terribly surprised. Gilles could work miracles when he was well motivated.
“Oh, well, yes, although it will take a couple days before being ready. The real reason I bother you, sweet Jeanne, is well…” He wrung his hands in dread, and Jeanne could feel herself disappointed already.
“No, don’t even tell me. She’s having dinner with Shuten again.” Jeanne’s face was resting in both of her palms. “No, of course she is. Of course! Why wouldn’t she be.”
Jeanne left her room, materializing her cape as she did. Gilles stayed behind, either afraid of her wroth or unwilling to see what she’d do next.
Jeanne went to the dining hall, and was unsurprised by who she met along the way.
“Odds were I’d run into you again soon.” Jeanne’s face was already a portrait of dislike.
“Now, this seems an undeserved welcome. I’ve yet to cause you grief, have I not?” Shuten said, smiling at Jeanne radiantly.
“Yet being the keyword.” Jeanne approached, looming over the oni. “Let me be clear: piss off. The next time I see you eating dinner with Jeanne in the mess hall, I’ll burn your gourd into ash.”
“Now, why would you do that, and grieve poor Jeanne? I have no ill intentions of my own, and we are quite comfortable in our new friendship.” Shuten shrugged slowly, almost comically.
“That’s funny, because I do have ill intentions. Specifically, I’m thinking about how well cooked I can make an oni before serving it to Herakles.” A black fire started dancing at her feet, making her cape come alive, shaking furiously, trying to stop itself from being lit.
“Scary, scary… but I assure you, I have no misdeeds in mind. Anything I do with that sweetheart, Jeanne, is something I would only do to, do with someone I truly consider a friend.”
And with that, Shuten hopped away, fearlessly.
Jeanne stayed on the spot, alone and fuming, until Herakles walked by. Looking down at her, and past her, the colossus walked up to Jeanne and put a gigantic hand on her head.
Jeanne put a tiny hand on his, and asked the gentle giant a simple question.
“If he were to mess with Jeanne, you’d help me rip her apart, right?” She asked, trusting the titan not only for his inability to speak, but for the time they’d fought together.
Herakles, without even an instant of thought, howled a war cry that explained his feelings on the matter in a second.
= = = = = = = = = = =
The next day, Jeanne was on another walk. She was tired of everything. She simultaneously hoped that nothing would happen at all across chaldea, and yet at the same time something would happen to distract her from Jeanne and Shuten and her master and Mash and everything, really.
It was an annoying feeling, she intelligently decided.
As she thought of synonyms for annoying, Jeanne walked towards her, looking at the floor. She simultaneously got annoyed and smiled.
“What’s this, kicked out by that overprotective woman, were you?” Jeanne said, almost cheerfully.
Meanwhile, the saint reacted by looking up at her, looking incredibly tired. Something about her look annoyed Jeanne beyond belief. She waited for her to say something, but instead, she looked back down, and started walking past her.
As she walked by, Jeanne threw out a dark gauntlet and grabbed her arm.
“What the hell is this?” The golden-eyed woman said, worried about what had happened to her, thoughts of Shuten’s smile going across her mind.
“What?” The holy woman said, her voice sounding tired and raspy. “I want nothing to do with you. So, I’m leaving.”
“Like shit you are. What’s wrong with that damn look on your face?” Jeanne said, intent on getting to the bottom of this.
“It has nothing to do with you.”
“Of course it does, you-“ She couldn’t even finish her sentence before she was cut off.
“No, it has nothing to do with you! We aren’t the same person!” The holy woman, looking shaken and damaged, looked up directly at Jeanne.
“I want nothing to do with you.” Jeanne’s fist clenched.
“You are not me, you are just a shade that imitates my shape, that twists it into a revenge fantasy for the sake of one of my knights, one of my dear friends gone horribly, horribly mad.” Jeanne’s teeth started grinding, her breathing getting heavy.
“And I can’t help him, I can’t help that you exist, but can I at least ask you to stop bringing me grief?” Finally, everything piled up, more and more, rage building up inside of Jeanne until…
Until nothing. Jeanne saw the look on her face, on the face of who she was, and couldn’t bring herself to lash out. She just wanted all of this to be over.
She didn’t even spare herself another look. Her hand let go, and she started walking away. Before she’d even noticed, she was running.
She ran past her master’s room, causing Artoria to look startled for just a moment.
She ran past everything else until she got to a room in the medical ward. She opened the door, revealing a girl with pale purple hair in bed, covered in bandages.
“E-excuse me?” One of the chaldea aids was there, in a doctor’s garb. She walked directly to him.
“She’s mostly healed, right?” She asked, and the aid blubbered for a moment. “I asked you a question!”
“Y-yes! The noble phantasm that harmed her didn’t seem like it could completely halt her healing, just make it more difficult. She’s mostly healed, s-she could wake up any second!”
Jeanne looked away from the aid, to the girl in bed, sleeping like she didn’t even care.
She clicked her tongue.
She walked straight to the bed, climbed on and in one fell swoop, straddled the girl. She grabbed her by the medical robes and started shaking.
“Wake up, you dumb brat! You have to wake up, so that idiot can get back to running this place and I can stop worrying my ass off about everything going on around here!”
“M-ma’am,” the aid said, trying to soothe her somehow.
“Come on, wake up! I need you awake yesterday, I need you awake last week, I need you awake all the damn time! I’m not a babysitter, I don’t want to be a babysitter! That’s your job! That’s his job! So get up, so he can get up, and I can go back to my job of telling you how awful you all are!”
She stopped shaking, slightly out of breath, and looked down at the shielder. No response for one second, two seconds, three seconds…
“Ma’am, I really need you to not shake the patients…” the aid attempted, once again.
“Shut it. She’s a servant, a little shake in a state like this isn’t going to do anything.” Jeanne looked down, and finally…
Finally, Mash stirred.
“I’m a demi servant…” She mumbled, before looking up and seeing Jeanne. “H-hello.”
Jeanne hugged the eggplant-color-schemed demi-servant tightly.
“Thank the Lord you’re awake, thank the Lord you’re alive,” Jeanne whispered in her ear, before letting go and jumping off the bed. “And I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
Jeanne left without giving her time to respond, back to a full sprint. As she passed the master’s room to see Artoria leaving, she yelled something at her.
“Mash is awake! Tell him!”
She didn’t stop to see what the King of Knights did. She just kept running to someone she had to talk to. Running all the way to room B seventy-two.
She almost knocked on the door, until she heard the sound coming from within.
“Resisting this hard… will only happen once. By the end of tonight, you won’t be reserved any more,” a muffled voice said from within.
Instantly, Jeanne acted. Her fury rose to peaks she didn’t even know existed, and she brought a terrible, dark flame to her hands, letting it loose on the door. She didn’t even check whether it was locked or not, she just melted right through it, her dark flame spreading from her hands, enveloping her body.
Then she saw, Jeanne helpless, her eyes listless and her mouth unable to form words. And on top of her, the source, the reason.
Shuten Douji.
Were she less angry, she’d have shouted the name.
“Oh dear,” Shuten said, as Jeanne waved an arm, engulfing her in flame. She covered her upper body, but her leg was covered in a flame of spite, hatred and murder. Immediately, her expression changed ever so slightly, as she tried to suffocate the flame with her kimono.
“Futile.” Jeanne dashed towards the oni, whose other hand was withdrawing her weapon. Too slow, as Jeanne had already put a hand on the monster’s face, pushing her skull straight into the wall, flame burning at it, searing the skin.
Shuten’s arm swung her sword anyway, causing Jeanne to let go. Softly, despite the fact her face was on fire, the oni started giggling. Displaying reckless abandon, the oni dashed at Jeanne, and Jeanne drew her own sword to parry her.
“You and her are the same, you should enjoy this a little more,” Shuten whispered.
“Trust me, I will enjoy this.” Jeanne waved her free arm, causing flame to spout from underneath Shuten, making her howl in both pain and pleasure. Her flagpole then materialized in that arm, and she speared Shuten with it, hurtling her outside of the room, into the hall.
Despite being on fire, Shuten could still be heard, no longer giggling but outright laughing.
“Come, come! What is next, I wonder? All your hate, the anger you put into every flame… blow that load into me. Or,” Shuten’s gourd appeared beside her. “If you can’t satisfy me, I’ll lay waste to that sweet Jeanne we both hold so dearly… to truly see the extent of your rage.”
“Tu parles trop, sale pute.”Jeanne pulled her sword up, her face set in stone, as the fire that engulfed her died down, becoming a vortex at her feet. “Ceci est le hurlement d’haine qui a été poli dans mon âme!”
Shuten quieted down at the sudden use of French, before once again smiling and uttering the same words as before.
“Oh dear.”
“Le Grondement De Ma Haine!”
The room exploded in fire, reaching into the hall and concentrating its raw essence on Shuten herself, followed by a dark shadow, a line, a pike perhaps, a stake, piercing the outline of the oni. One stake, two stakes, three, four and five, until a finally one came from straight below, impaling the human-shaped shadow directly into the ceiling with a screech.
“Oni are tough, and I was holding back. I’m sure you’ll live, but let me be perfectly clear: I will kill you if you ever as pretend to get near Jeanne again.”
No answer came through the sound of the roaring fire and Shuten’s pained scream. Jeanne turned around, and walked to the bed where the saint lay unconscious. She and the bed she lay on were the only parts of the entire wing not consumed with flame.
He tossed her over her shoulder and walked off through the fire, to return to her room.
Along the way, various members of Chaldea staff, along with some servants, stopped to stare at the blackened saint. She ignored them.
Jeanne kept walking on, and on, and on until she reached her destination. Gilles, as if on cue, was there to meet her.
“I heard the commotion, and I was oh, so worried, that you would slay your opponent and earn the ire of our master, and yet, once again, ah! Mercy like the touch of god himself! A never-ending charity! The saintly light that flows from you, despite the dark fires… sublime!”
“Enough, Gilles. She’s been poisoned, I need you to take a look at her. Maybe make a concoction or something.” Jeanne walked past him, into her room, and set the saint on the bed. Her face was flush, but her limbs pale and lacking any kind of response.
“Hmmm, yes… I will need to examine you closely to see what I can do. May I?” Gilles asked Jeanne, for permission to view Jeanne’s body.
“Do what you have to, Gilles. I trust you with my body.” Jeanne sighed. “For now, I have to go explain myself.”
“Oh? Oh, yes, I see. I’ll prove to be worthy of your trust, I assure you. Please do your own business, as well.” With that, Gilles loomed over Jeanne and opened his book, as the other left the room to face Artoria.
“Well?”
“Well what,” Jeanne grumbled. “Shuten needed to be taught to behave. She’ll live, I think.”
“You’ve made a mess of the B wing. Where will Jeanne live, I wonder?” Artoria put a hand on her hip, her eyes opening slightly wider, accusing Jeanne.
“Well, I have a room. She can have it.” Jeanne started taping her foot.
“And where will you live, I wonder? Hm?” Her accusatory tone got even worse. “The empty rooms are for future servants, which, you aren’t. Every servant has a room, unless it’s burnt to the ground.”
“Well, uh, since you’ve taken up some kind of role as a secretary servant, I know that you have a room closer to the master, with a couch.” Jeanne looked up somewhere, not meeting the king’s eyes.
“Planning on mooching, are you? Should we start referring to you as Bum Jeanne to tell you apart?”
“How about you take that attitude and stick it up your ass? I had to resolve a situation while the master was out, and I did. If you have complaints, I have a list of complaints about the stupid servants around here I’d like to share, too.”
Artoria sighed, and Jeanne chuckled.
“You can stay in my room during repairs. But you will help keep the place clean. And you will clean up from this past week where I was barely in there.” Her eye seemed to sparkle as she said the second half.
“Ugh, deal.”
“And that’s two you owe me,” the black king showed a smug smile, before her expression became more serious. “Jeanne, why do you care so much about her? If I were to appear in Chaldea, a version of me that wasn’t blackened… I probably wouldn’t care for her at all.”
Jeanne looked at her, then looked up, then scratched her head, made a grimace, scratched her head with both hands, made a loud noise and finally sighed.
“I was created by Gilles to be a continuation of the story. I was a piece of fiction he forced to life using a grail. To me, that Jeanne in there, is like… it isn’t an alternate version of me. I’m not just her who’s been altered. In Gilles’s mind, in my mind, the person in there is the person I used to be, before becoming what I am. I’m not her! No, I’m not her anymore or maybe I never truly was, and I’m just going to look forward, to the rest of my existence, but… just because you look forward, doesn’t mean what’s behind you stops existing. So, she’s me, in a really weird, really annoying way.
“And if I let myself get violated and raped by every passerby, I’d feel like an utter tool. So, I take care of her to take care of myself. And that’s the reason I’ve decided to tell people.”
Artoria looked at her, her eyes narrowing, until finally she sighed.
“So long as you can sleep at night.”
With that, she walked off. Jeanne shrugged and headed back into her room, to watch over Jeanne until she awoke.
= = = = = = = = = = =
A few days later, an incident occurred.
Shuten Douji, still recovering from her burns, could be heard loudly throughout Chaldea, moaning pleasurably.
“Say, Gilles…” Jeanne said to him, as a small army of servants converged on the bathroom where Shuten had gone minutes ago. “Did you end up putting that weird rape tentacle parasite in her food?”
“Well, of course! You never told me not to!” He said with a chuckle.
“Heh,” Jeanne smirked, reasoning that if it were Shuten, she’d probably be enjoying herself. “Serves her right.”
Once again, Chaldea is peaceful.