Alright... well, these were happening a whole ago, but I decided to bring this back out of interest. They're fun enough, and I finally got my music working properly again so I can actually participate! Hopefully this doesn't get too long...
So, let it begin! I have no idea whether these will turn out comedic or dramatic, so here goes nothing.
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1. Don't Stop Me Now, Queen
"Can you keep up with me?"
Archer stepped onto the platform, his cape fluttering in a wind that just so happened to bluster its way in through the door. Shirou, eyes narrowed, nodded. He couldn't let his feelings go unspoken.
Beside him, a square shape of steel appeared - literally; with just a white glow it appeared, a gleaming white rival to the black and red of Archer's battered machine. At the front of it was a computer of sorts, with a display screen all lit up, even without a working electrical connection. It only had one railing, behind it, and on the face of the steel plate were four directional arrows, forged perfectly, hardly faded at all. It was a projection inherently superior to Archer's, but could the boy maintain it for long enough to match his rival?
"It's not, 'can you keep up with me?'" Shirou took a breath, and made his first step onto the platform. The air became tense and thick, and the gazes of the two men never parted.
Archer selected the difficulty, the machine producing a clear, electronic beep. A melody began, and Shirou knew that the man in red had chosen the hardest mode for this competition. A smug grin showed on his face, and his poise was unerring and smooth. How could someone like Shirou match a trained, oiled machine like that? Wait, no! Now he was just thinking of Archer with his shirt off, bathing in olive oil from the kitchen, his fingers tracing circles around-
No! He steeled his mind and felt the fire burning inside him. The first beats of the song began to play: a preview of destruction.
"Can you," he breathed, glancing only once at his machine's display, "keep up with me?"
Archer sensed the boy's discomfort. Their combat was to begin, and this rookie was hardly able to get his mind into the real grit of fighting. How pathetic. Regardless, it would begin. The first arrows appeared on both of their screens, and Archer's feet, by pure instinct born from experience, slammed against the correct buttons. A perfect start.
Right then, Shirou's body was burning. He moved at a speed he could never think of before; every move Archer made, he copied and made his own, staying one movement ahead of the old warrior. He felt the cool rush of adrenaline pump through his veins as if it was all he had, and his mind worked on overdrive. There was nothing else for him, now; he had his ideals, and they were on the line more than Shirou's own life. They would have to do this. It was the only path.
His whole life was, Unlimited Dance Works.
-- --
2. My Way, Frank Sinatra
The iced tea went down cool and smooth, just like a rest after a long day of work. Of course, here, there was no work to be done. There was never any real trouble, and everyone could just relax and drink pina coladas or whatever people liked to brink when they were relaxing on deserted beach islands in the Caribbean.
"May I get you another, master EMIYA?" A cute blonde girl, decked out in a full maid outfit, bowed at the resting man's side. He leaned back a little more in his chair, enjoying the view from under his own personal palm tree.
"Aaaaahh..." he said with a yawn, his voice teetering a bit. He flashed a grin at the girl, who looked more than a little flustered.
Patting her on the head, he asked, "Can you get me, eh, just another one of these?" He raised his empty glass, the last chunks of ice rattling at the bottom. Normally he'd be stuck with eating the ice and bearing the cold, but this wasn't one of those days. Nope, the Counter Force Headquarters-slash-Paradise was a better place than that, and Archer liked it. Oh, yes, he liked it a lot.
The girl's inquisitive blue eyes peeked out from under her bangs. "Is that all? Can I get you some cake? Pie? Graham crackers, or a fresh-cooked sirloin cut, maybe? Anything for you, master EMIYA!" She smiled, a bright, beaming smile like the sun that was high in the midday sky. The air brushed through Archer's hair, and he was feeling groovy.
True, he'd had to die to get here, but as they said... "I did it my way." And what a way it was! Going out with a bang like that, he could hardly stay cynical! Maybe now he truly knew what all of Kotomine's heaven crap was all about, eh?
"Ah, nothing, don't worry. Just a tall glass for me today, Alaya." The girl puttered off loyally, smiling happily all the way. Archer didn't know where the hell she was going or where these drinks came from, but in fact he really, really didn't care.
The girl was back in a moment, holding the newly filled glass on a white china plate, a wide-brimmed summer hat now on her head.
With a sigh, Archer casually slipped the drink from the plate presented to him, and drank it down. He was enjoying his hard-earned afterlife, and he suddenly no longer regretted having made a contract to ensure his business was done. So long as he could to lounge around a hottie on this desert island for eternity, well... let's just say eternity wouldn't be too bad.
This time, though, the iced tea felt bitter. Warm, even. Archer turned his head, eyebrow cocked, and looked at a now giggling Alaya. The smile she wore was now more fierce and cruel, and when Archer turned to his glass it was now overflowing with thick blood and bile, spilling onto his lap and pouring onto the ground; whatever it touched turned to a hellish reflection of what once was there, and so Archer found himself not in casual beach shorts but tattered red armour, and the beach wasn't a beach but a battlefield somewhere in Africa; the chair was a crumbling building he supported himself against, nursing a bullet wound to the gut.
"Ah, haha, EMIYA!" Alaya, now just a fading vision in front of Archer's weary eyes, stood and mocked her slave. "You think that you could get out of this so easily? Think again, fool!"
Why had he done this? Why had it ended like this? Why did he continue to accept this?
Of course... long ago, so long ago, he stood tall for his ideals, and worked towards what he believed in. He did it his way. Now, look where he'd gone... and how he'd fallen.
-- --
3. Another Girl, The Beatles
Rin couldn't believe this. What was she seeing? Why was her man, right in front of her, with someone... no, not just "someone!"
"A...Ayako?" Rin Tohsaka's fist trembled right beside her leg, threatening to dig her fingers right into her fleshy palm. Just moments before, she'd walked into the classroom, expecting to find a teacher cleaning up, ready to speak with any students as necessary.
Instead, the scene she walked in was, simply, this: her boyfriend, Shirou, currently with her old friend Ayako bent over one of the desk, oh-so-conveniently with Ayako's face, mid-moan, facing the classroom door. It couldn't have been more scandalous if they'd been in a changing room or storage locker or whatever those hentai movies always showed with high school kids. Rin, to be frank, was absolutely pissed. That much could be told from the curl of her eyebrows and the crease of her lips; she didn't let her emotions hide, especially not now.
"Ahhh, Shirou, yes... d-don't stop..." Ayako's breathing was heavy, and even with Rin right in front of her she was oblivious, thinking that her new lover was calling her name.
"You, you...!" Rin stepped forward, her shoes clacking hard against the polished floors. Then, just as she was about to break her palm against the smooth, sweat-stained skin of her old friend's cheek, she turned her attention to the person she believed to be the real culprit.
She stared right at Shirou. "I thought you loved me! You said as much just last night!" She grabbed hold of his shoulders, pushing him up against the window. If she'd been any more rough with him, she'd have smashed the glass right through. Her now ex-lover gulped, his face turning a bright red, and not just from his recent exertions.
"I do love you, Rin!" He looked at her with pleading eyes, trying to pull the old, 'I didn't mean to, honest!' excuse. "I, I just..."
"You what?" Rin swore, she was so very close to beating this man senseless. What had she done to deserve this kind of treatment? "What, did she just come in here and fall on your cock?"
Shirou blushed ever more, trying to escape from Rin's grip. His manhood, slicked with all the fluids of sex, brushed against Rin's thigh, and she immediately let go of her inhibitions and slapped him, not even hesitating. Based on her breathing, that must've felt good, to release all that.
"Look, Ayako was just here, and she confessed, and I didn't want to make her sad, so..."
Rin just sneered. "So you just bent her over and started having sex with her? God, Shirou, I know you're the type who finds it hard to turn someone down, but even you wouldn't do this." She placed a hand on her forehead, trying to calm herself down so she could think rationally. "How many times, then, Shirou? How long has this been going on?"
From behind her, she could hear a low grunt, and Ayako braced herself against her friend, her body completely bare, covered in sweat and smelling too much like what Rin remembered from her own nights with Shirou. There couldn't be any doubt as to what happened here.
"This..." Ayako sighed, shaking her head, "This is the third time. I talked to him a few weeks ago, we connected, and... well, then this started."
"Didn't you know he was dating me? I think we made that obvious!" Rin's grip on Shirou loosened, only a bit, and she turned her head around to get a good look at the disheveled Ayako. She made sure to brush the girl off, keeping a good distance away from her.
Ayako shrugged. "That's true, but... Shirou said something, he said that he didn't like how you were always 'sour' and too 'harsh' for his liking. Ever since he joined up in Archery again I've been around him a lot, and we both found we liked each other a lot."
"It's true, Rin." Shirou had a sad smile on his face. Rin couldn't believe it. "I talked to Ayako about the problems I've been having with you - I didn't want to just confront you about it all! We, ah... we started dating three weeks ago."
"Dating?" Upon hearing that one word, Rin decided she'd had enough. "Dating, is it? Then I'm done here." Her shoes could be heard, sharp against the classroom floor, as she just turned and left. "I'm done with you, too, Shirou. Don't you ever even look at me."
He reached out to stop her, but she shrugged him off without a single word.
Ayako frowned and held her lover close, letting him relax in her arms.
-- --
4. Horse With No Name, America
The desert seemed to stretch on for a millenia, the whole length of the world poured into just one mound of sand. From the perspective of a bird flying above, a person was no bigger than a minute grain of sand; even the mighty King of Conquerors knew that, for all of his personal charisma and power, he was merely a man.
He passed dead, dried rivers and each time he crossed a dune or rocky bluff another loomed ahead. The sky, knowing no night at all, scorched his skin a thick red from the heat of its sun, and yet the king pressed on. If he passed a man, wouldn't they tell him to stop, to end this foolishness?
No; the king could never agree to that. Why would he stop, when he could feel the beating of the waves of Okeanus on the world's shores in tune with the beating of his own, mighty heart? No matter how long the journey would last, there was always his dream, burned not into his mind but his soul, impossible to forget no matter how long he struggled or failed. He was the King of Conquerors, and though he walked through the desert in broken sandals and with sweat streaking his brow, he was not alone.
A cloud of dust passed, but it wasn't brought up by the wind or by cruel actions of fate trying to bring down this man.
That cloud of thick, desert dust was the army of the king, his companions for time unending. They strived to stand beside their king, the one man they pledged to serve and follow for the rest of their lives and beyond. Even if death were to take them all, they would continue to follow their king, knowing his ideal just as he did; Okeanus has filled their hearts just as it had his.
And, the last of the mighty, eternal companions, a horse trotted up beside the king, giving him a heavy, muscled shoulder to lean on.
He smiled at the creature, staring into its knowing eyes. Even this horse shared the dream, etched on its very soul. Kicking up a leg and raising himself, he got up on the beast's back, letting out one breath.
"Are you ready, Bucephalus?" The horse neighed, shaking her mane in acknowledgement. The king patted his beloved horse's neck, and rode forth, following the desert to its very end, no matter where it was.
No matter how long he struggled, he knew he would never be alone.
-- --
4. Captain Jack, Billy Joel
Shirou never imagined he'd be living like this, perpetually ducking past the poverty line, lost somewhere in the urban world with nothing to his name but some money on his dresser in his ratty apartment. He wondered if it was good enough. He'd moved, lost a lot of friends, but told himself that he'd done this for a reason.
It was winter again, but he didn't mind going out for a bit. He put some old clothes on, grabbing them from the hamper in his closet. Maybe he'd go down to the laundromat and wash some things for once. He shrugged, and decided it wasn't worth it. There was nothing wrong with just walking around town like this. No one would care, and Shirou himself didn't care too much, either. Scratching the loose hairs on his chin, he stepped out the door of his apartment.
The parking lot was empty, but a few people in ragged, dull-coloured coats walked around, resisting the cold that came to the town every year. Shirou shivered, holding his arms, but he buried his mouth in his faded scarf, keeping a little warmer than the others.
He looked at those people, staring into their cold eyes, wondering what they lived for. He wondered what he lived for, himself.
About five years ago things fell through; he'd done well in school, but not well enough to get into a good college or anything. He'd attended a decent place for a year or so, but the funds stopped coming, and all the odd jobs in the world couldn't have changed that. He tried to keep up; he tried to do his best, but he guessed fate had something else held for him. He'd gathered up the money he could and moved, hoping for better prospects. That was a while ago, and now he was like this: getting by, day to day, working to keep himself afloat.
Sometimes he wondered about his old friends, and the people he knew from high school. He hadn't made many other friends since then, so all he had to go back on were those memories. He smiled faintly; every so often he'd find himself on the couch with a box of tissues, bringing out an old yearbook photo of this one girl, who always wore the shortest skirts, her hair brown and her eyes a cool blue...
He took a breath, long, deep and cold, and the harsh ice of the winter air shocked him a bit as it ran down his throat. The smells of the city were all around, and for now he just decided to stand on the street corner, watching people pass by.
A car passed, and he crossed the street. His eyes flicked up from the asphalt below him to check a little nook in between two nearby buildings. Speaking of friends, there was one just around that corner. His body felt a short rush, and he checked his pocket.
Good. He had just enough for today.
Rounding that corner, slipping into the shade provided by a taller, closed-down shop, he found his friend sitting there against a dumpster. He flashed a toothy grin up at Shirou, and hooked his fingers in his big, green backpack. His hair was slicked with street grease, and he stood to his feet, stumbling as he rose. His pack fell down on the cover of the dumpster, and he unzipped it, slow enough to be tantalizing. Shirou laughed, wondering what brought him to this. It wasn't a bitter laugh; it was one of resignation, knowing this was all the comfort he had.
Their hands met, and they had their short exchange. Where a few bills had been in Shirou's hand, there was now a small pouch, baggy and wrinkled, with a strong aroma. This was what he'd been looking for. He waved to his friend and took off, slipping the pouch into his shirt pocket.
Just as he was crossing the street, he noticed an older woman, weak enough to need a walker, trudging out over the crosswalk. Some driver apparently didn't see her hunched over there, and didn't step on his brakes until it was too late. An old memory flashed in Shirou's mind, and he dropped his lighter and ran forward, grabbing the woman by her waist, her hands weak, letting go of her walker. She couldn't do much for herself. Shirou knew that.
The pickup truck rushed by, going around the corner of the street, passing harmlessly by the old woman who leaned against Shirou's body.
"Oh, my, thank you, young man!" She squinted behind her glasses, a smile coming to her face. Shirou grabbed her fallen walker and handed it to her. She departed, wearing that same smile, and Shirou wondered if it was good enough.
His breath passed his lips, a cool white puff like smoke. "Yeah, it's good enough."
-- --
5. Crownless, Nightwish
In the middle of the fair grounds stands a single sword, in a single stone, under a single tree.
It has been there for a long time now, but even in the middle of the day there is no one to claim it, no audience to stand around and hope for someone to finally pull that old slice of iron from its rest. Legends say that it belonged to an ancient king of Britain, but all that most people know is that whosoever takes it from that stone will be destined to become king of all Britain.
As the current king, the lord of the Pendragon family, is aged and has yet to sire an heir to his throne, the hopes of the people rest in that sword. Their dreams for the ideal king all lie in that chivalric blade, and only the most honourable, just and worthy of people may come to own it.
With the wars against the Saxons, yet more people gathered about the stone searching for a capable king to bring peace to their land once and for all. However, no such man appeared, and eventually even the most desperate gave up, seeing no point in waiting for a sword to choose their leader. They had lost that idealism, and even now were packing their livelihoods away to escape the Saxons.
In the empty fairgrounds sits an ordinary girl, with lush blonde hair that hardly belies her nature as a simple peasant girl, barely fifteen years of age. She has a fair face, beautiful and pale as winter's first snow. The sun shines down on her brow, and she wipes away the beads of sweat with her arm, letting out a satisfied breath. The day is waning and she should get back to her family, but the sword entrances her.
She asks herself: will anyone take it? If so, who, and do they deserve?
Her innocent mind is full of questions, but she is tired, and instead of examining the stone and sword she sighs and leans against a tree, watching from afar like a hazy, fading dream.
Then, a sandy-haired youth appears from down the road, sprinting off from his father who wheels a cart along the dusty dirt path. He calls after his son, but to no avail. The boy already is under the tree, staring down at the sword before him.
It's a beautiful thing, with a perfect, razor-sharp edge, a hilt studded with jewels and inlaid with gold so perfect that it couldn't have been refined by mortal hands; the hilt has signs of being made of rare ivory, clearly showing the cost of its remarkable craftsmanship and the extent its maker went to in the creation of such a weapon. No one knows how old it is or where it originally comes from, but perhaps that mystery adds to its beauty and its awe.
The boy, just like the girl under the tree farther away, is transfixed by the sword. He firmly shuts his gaping mouth, his eyebrows furrowing; he's going to try his hand at this sword. He slides back the sleeves of his shirt, revealing young but well-worked muscles, like those of a blacksmith's apprentice. His lips narrow into a frown, and he gets right up to the sword with all seriousness in mind. He will give this all he's got, and nothing in the world will stop him. He knows the legend, and he thinks beyond any doubt that he's the one destined to hold this sword. Of course, he's certainly a capable and smart boy, but not the sort one would expect to step up to such a grand and ancient artifact and expect to fulfill the requirements of its legend.
The girl, letting the soft bough of the tree shade her, leans forward. Is this boy really going to try something like that? She's unsure of whether or not he could do it.
He doesn't even notice her, though, and grips the hilt of the sword with both hands. His knuckles turn a pale white, his little muscles bulging from the effort, his eyes full of youthful determination.
Yet, no matter how hard he tries, he can never pull that sword from its stone. He must have been trying for a full hour, but at last he departs, soaked with sweat, his father giving him a disappointed look. The boy hangs his head in sorrow, deeply sorry that he failed to become the destined king of Britain, and his father ruffles his soft hair.
"Maybe we can work on our own sword at the shop, eh, boy?" the older man smiles, and light returns to the son's eyes. They pass the girl under her tree, not noticing her at all.
The spectacle over, she lets her body stay loose. Yet another rare try at this sword in the stone, and yet another sad failure. Can anyone take it up and become king? Some doubt is beginning to creep into even this girl's thoughts; she frowns, and her eyelids droop, her breathing getting slower as the day winds on and she finds exhaustion settling in.
There's a rustle from behind her, and an older man in a pale robe, a wizened but somewhat sad smile upon his wrinkled face, walks into her view. Her eyes go wide and she glances all around, but the man doesn't seem harmful.
He raises an arm, and points to the single tree, the single stone, and the single sword. No one has claimed it yet, and it's unlikely that ayone will; all the men of the kingdom, and even some women, had tried to do so and failed.
The old man turns to the girl, bowing his head in deference, like a subject to his once and future ruler.
"See, Arturia? This is what becomes of your dream. Can you accept it?"
-- --
6. A Hard Day's Night - The Beatles
"Shirou!" The voice was a girl's, but beyond that the master of this house had no idea what was going on or who had called for him. He sighed, tired of having so many things to keep track of.
"Shirou, come on, please!" The voice sounded more desperate, sylabbles dragged on for longer than seemed natural.
"No, Shirou, over here!" Shirou scratched his head. Either Saber had MPD and was struggling with a new outburst of her as-of-yet unrevealed illness, or there was someone else in the house. At this point, Shirou honestly didn't care and couldn't tell the difference between one squealing schoolgirl and another, flimsy Japanese houses be damned.
He'd been working all day, at school and with Neko-san! Did he really deserve to be bossed around by some girls? Of course not!
'No, Saber, I am not interested in kendo!' he thought. 'No, Fuji-nee, there are leftovers in the fridge and you can eat them or so help me God I'll have Shinji come over and cook!'
The voices, rising like moans, became louder and more frequent. A headache throbbed in Shirou's head. Why? Why, why, why, why? This was too much for him, and he was just about to take a left to the guest room where the noises were apparently coming from when he tossed that idea away like loose trash and just headed off to his own room. He flicked on a light, and lo and behold, there was hardly any floor space left.
Saber.
Sakura.
Rin.
Ilya.
Bazett.
Caren.
Medea.
Taiga.
Kaede.
Issei.
Rider.
Ayako.
Wait... Issei? No, no! Shirou shook his head, yet at the same time, he had to admit: this was quite tempting. It had been a hard day, but... he was interested in a little work, this late at night.
He loosened his nonexistant tie, and the belt around his jeans fell to the floor with a clatter that attracted the various women and one man that lay there, like fish flakes scattered into an aquarium. Shirou could only hope there would be no dolphins or mollusks.
Sighing, he began the night's work, letting his eyes drift closed, the women slithering around him like so many tentacles in a hentai video. It was a good night, he thought, but it would be a right bit tiring, no doubt.
And then they had sex. The end.
-- --
7. Carry On Wayward Son, Kansas
"Old man." Even after all those years, he still called his father that. Perhaps now it was his way of differentiating himself from the man whose dream he'd shouldered, just as he had shed his own name out of disillusionment. Whether this was a dream reflecting reality or something completely different, he had to face the facts: there he was, standing in front of his old man, Kiritsugu Emiya, a failure and nothing better.
The air between them, a few feet at most, was tense, heavy with anticipation; it was a silence that couldn't be broken, since both people had far too much to say, and the words dammed up their thoughts, kept them hidden, deep inside.
"It's been a long time, son." Kiritsugu tried his best smile, but it was empty. It was the same smile he'd given to all those he promised to protect, a gaze that implied happiness but was really just a facade for a weary man, aged beyond his years by the ruthlessness of the world.
"Maybe it has, maybe it hasn't. I can't tell anymore, honestly." Archer scoffed, shaking his head. His father looked like a vagrant pulled off of a street corner; his scars were on the inside, while Archer's were displayed all over his body, and in his white hair and his pale, grey eyes. Kiritsugu knew those eyes: they had the stare of someone who had been through too much, who had seen suffering and yet could do nothing about it. There was a determination in his son's eyes that shocked him, seeing a mirror of himself not in body but in mind.
"So." Archer stole furtive glances at his father's empty eyes, not feeling that he deserved to look at the man on an equal level. "This is how your dream ended, isn't it? You said you grew out of it, and I said that I would carry on your dream for you."
Kirutsugu nodded, slowly and vacantly, trying to keep his focus. Never before had he felt empathy as raw and deep as this. "It doesn't have to end, son. There will always be people to save, and you never have to consider yourself a fake. You're walking in my footsteps, but you can hold on; I know you can."
"I tried to save them!" Archer gripped his father's shoulders and pulled him close, finally staring into his eyes, tears beginning to fall from his own. "I tried to save Ilya, I tried to save your daughter! But... but she died, and nothing I could do brought her back from that! I tried to save Saber, and Sakura, and everyone, but there were always others! There were always others, always people dying. I could save a friend, but then one hundred would die; then, after saving that friend, I would face a choice between two I value equally, or three, until every choice I made only left more blood on my hands! How could you live with that? How did you go on for years, knowing that you couldn't save everyone?"
Accepting his role as a father for perhaps the first time in his life, he embraced his son, holding him and cherishing his existance. "There will always be someone to save, and that's what matters. I saved you from the fire, and I feel that at that moment I could be redeemed. Though hundreds had died, there was one whose life could continue."
"But what about the others?" Archer couldn't come to grips with this, seeing his father so distantly serene, yet filled with the same determination that he himself knew, long ago. "Killing people isn't something a person can live for; how can you call any sacrificial choice an ideal? Choices add up, and though their consequences are rarely ever obvious, they all seem meant to strike right at my heart. No matter what happens, people die! How can you save everyone if some have to die, no matter what you do? I can't live by a flawed ideal, and neither could you!"
"When I rescued you from the fire, really... there were two people whose lives were saved that day." Kiritsugu smiled, feeling every ounce of Archer's pain so vividly that it almost made him break down again, just like that one day in the fire. "There is always someone you can save, my son, and that person is you. I can hardly protect you now, but always remember: as long as one person's life is changed for the better, then everything is worth it. There can be no idealism in impersonal sacrifice; that will only lead to disappointment as those around you fail to see the humanity in your actions. Instead, save the few, and learn to love yourself."
Archer felt a shiver run through his body, and his vision blurred from the tears. "Old man..."
"Goodbye, son. I'm proud of you." With that the dream came to an end, and the void it left was filled by reality.
-- --
8. Ordinary Day, Great Big Sea
Arcueid yawned, her alarm clock making her rise groggily from her wide bed. Today wasn't any different from any other, and she vaguely recalled it being a weekday or something; that meant Shiki would be at school. He'd told her not to bug him too much while he was busy, so to be nice she opted to go do her own thing at times like these.
She tossed a black plush cat off of her stomach (a present, meant as a sort of apology from Shiki for stealing her familiar), she sat on the edge of her bed, stretched, and stepped over to the kitchen of her apartment.
On her fridge, a small paper was attached with a magnet, showing instructions on cooking basic dinner, lunch and breakfast dishes. Arcueid only glanced at it for a second and opened up her refrigerator, taking out a big gallon-jug of milk; after putting that roughly down on the little round table she had, she flung open her cupboards and brought out a bowl, spoon and the jumbo-box of Rice Krispies that Shiki had also bought her, knowing well just how she was in the morning.
She lazily pulled out her chair and sat at the table, pouring the milk in her green bowl, then the cereal, humming as a few drips of the milk poured over the bowl's edge. She tilted her head, bringing a few errant locks of hair behind her ear and leaning over; she could hear the crackling of the cereal, and after a moment or two of that, she got bored again. Even after a week of trial and error, she still couldn't figure out the language of the little cereal people, and it strained her to figure out why this was. Though, she didn't let bother her for long: she slid her spoon into the bowl and took a big chunk of cereal out to eat.
She sat there, almost serene, and wondered what she would do today, leaving a bit of a spill on the wood of the table when she was done her breakfast.
Shrugging, she put the dishes in the sink and walked up to the door, checking the keys chained beside it, noting that Shiki still had his own set. Humming a little tune, she stepped out of her apartment, and felt the rush of morning air cross her body.
Drat, she thought, and returned inside to put on some clothes.
-- --
9. Back in the U.S.S.R., The Beatles
Everyone need s a vacation every once in a while: people go to Hawaii to escape the winter, Switzerland to escape the summer, and Disneyland whenever the kids start fretting too much. Some college students might blow their money backpacking Europe, and a midlife crisis could make a regular housewife take up some spicy Spanish lover on an impulse trip overseas.
So, where might a walking pile of worms packed into a decrepit human body go?
Zouken, of course, was the sort who wanted to connect with his roots, and he felt that some parts of the world were moving too fast for him to handle; Japan with its super trains and new fangled computers and underwear vending machines was sometimes too much, and he wanted to go somewhere more... rustic, and down-to-earth.
One spot interested him the most: old Russia, his family's old home. There wouldn't be another Grail War for almost a decade, and what better place to go in a hot summer than the land of the chill and cold? Zouken shuddered with happiness at the thought. Packing up his carry-on luggage, he closed his eyes and imagined what he'd find back in his classic, old school Russia.
He wondered what the Tsars were doing, and if they were still hanging around having sex with horse sand all that wild debauchery that Zouken moured the loss of. Maybe there would be some serfs to laugh at, and he had to wonder if he'd still be taxed if he tried to grow out a beard. Sadly, his frail old body wasn't keen on growing him new hair, but maybe the venerable land of Russia would prove suitable for his magecraft and his facial hair! For once in a century, he felt a little rush of excitement pass through his old bones.
Oh, happy day! He managed to work through the airport customs, getting some help from his grandsons - they were always so helpful, those boys - and his wormy higness finally landed in Moscow; the sight of the Kremlin from far above made him chuckle, and he made sure to remind himself buy some vodka while he was in the area. Snow covered the ground, and it was just like the postcards he'd kept from years ago. He wondered why this place was now called "USSR" on the official listings, but he didn't mind it too much, guessing that this was some modern designation, probably a corruption by English or whatever usually happened.
Upon exiting the airport into the bustle of the city, though, he didn't find the fine music of balalaikas, nor did he see old imperial guardsmen wandering the streets, keeping order. Instead, he saw these strange red flags with crossed hammers and sickles; Zouken wondered, where is the imperial eagle? He grumbled, stomping his feet, but continued on, his cane helping him along. Things change, he had to remember, and perhaps some things had happened even in Russia.
He spent most of the day looking for any of the old Russian monuments, and after a while he sighed and walked up to one man patrolling the roads, who shouldered a gun and wore a thick, brown cap on his head. His attire reminded Zouken of old Rus, and he nodded.
"Hello, young man? Can you point me to where I can find the Tsars, now? I wonder what happened to them..." Zouken shuffled his feet in the snow, waiting for an answer as the guard stared at him, incredulous.
"предательство!" shouted the man, and then out came a dozen of his fellows from corners of buildings, their beards bristling, guns in their hands.
In a moment Zouken was dogpiled, and he realized that maybe more had changed in Russia than he was quite comfortable with.
-- --
10. Everybody Wants to Rule the World, Tears For Fears
Cool beats played, and the King of Conquerors made his way across the room. The place was dark, but neon lights showed the way like stars in a dark sky. It was a late night in NYC, and people of all sorts were prowling about.
The King ordered a drink, nodding at the bartender. He was given a clear glass filled with an amber liquid, and he downed it all at once. He didn't mind the taste. It was foreign, but he liked it. It was exactly like him to want to taste everythign the modern world had to offer.
He looked at the bartender from over his black sungalsses, muscles bulging as he leaned over the counter. "Hey, you, boy. Want to join my army?"
"Uh, what?" The man scratched his head, thinkign this guy was drunk already. "Look, if you want me to sign up with your gang, then no, I ain't into that."
The King frowned, and nodded a little, understanding. "Are you sure?" He raised an eyebrow. He guessed he'd have to work for this.
A magnificent aura surrounded him, like nothing else the bartender and the patrons of the establishment had ever seen, felt, heard or tasted before. It at once affected all the senses, and the rhythm of the place seemed to bend around the King, following his rules. That was the charisma of a true ruler, and he smiled a toothy grin.
The bartender gave an exaggerated nod, actually saluting, then hopping over the bar. He was the first to follow the true King; in a few minutes, out the door a while line was going, made up of people in all sorts of states of disarray, marching as best they could behind the red-haired King of Conquerors. They followed like a great big conga line, except more organized for their drunkenness. The charisma of the King was at once sobering and intoxicating, the people getting addicted just to being under the rule of their King. They knew that he was destined to conquer, and they were his comrades and soldiers.
"To Okeanus!!" he shouted, drawing his sword from nowhere. The people shouted as well, finding their own appropriate war cries, and then they rushed forward in a mass, maybe a hundred at most all following their King. They knew what they had to do, and they fought like soldiers to pass through midnight Manhattan, pushing over cars and hijacking busses to use like ancient mounts to expediate their charge.
No one could stand before them; in fact, many joined the rush, forming an army behind the one, true King.
Then, at last, they reached the harbour, and the King of Conquerors scratched his head, dipping one toe in the water of the Atlantic Ocean. He turned hesitantly towards his brothers(and sisters)-in-arms, and shrugged.
"Well, I have to say, ah... that was easy."
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It's getting late, now, so I'll finish the last six or so tomorrow. Hopefully these four are good until then! Seems I got a good mix of emotion and humour out of this so far.
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Originally Posted by Etcetera
