Author's Notes: Just a quick drabble that emerged from the Fanfic Ideas Thread.
This is very, VERY AU -- a world where magecraft, the Root, Servants, and all the rest of the Nasuverse stuff doesn't exist.
The real world, if you will.
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Cultists' Ball
The “moderator” had already started talking by the time Kiritsugu Emiya arrived. It was more of the same: batshit Moon-worship that Kiritsugu still couldn’t make head or tail of. The moderator looked like a young stockbroker: black suit, slicked-back hair, and fancy watch. Probably had special business cards.
Kiritsugu walked down the aisle. The pews gave off a dull sheen that reminded him of black beetles. The room was small. It felt like body heat, and smelled like sweat. The floorboards were old, and inscribed with pentagrams, hexagrams, and some sort of hieroglyphs.
He noticed one glyph in particular: a five-pronged blob that looked like a fork with eyes. It matched the admission ticket they’d given him. The one with gilt lettering: KIRITSUGU EMIYA – YOU STAND AMONG THE CHOSEN.
Kiritsugu sat down.
His wife sat beside him. The shadows only accented Irisviel’s sharp European features and white-blond hair. She was pale. Even in this light, you noticed it. An albino. She was the most beautiful woman Kiritsugu had ever seen.
Iri smiled at him. It was a soft smile. The same smile she always wore. For the thousandth time, Kiritsugu imagined Irisviel gracing him with that smile when she cut her own throat.
And she would. Irisviel had told her husband that she’d do it. That she was “born to die.” Many, many times. Iri had babbled for hours about how she was supposedly some sort of homunculus. Or a vessel for eternity. Or something. More batshit Moon-worship that she’d been spoon-fed.
He’d kill them. He’d kill every last one of them.
Because he was a Hero of Justice.
And because they had his daughter.
The Einzberns would die. The Tohsakas, the Matous, and all of their lunatic supporters would die. As for their backers…? Well, whoever ran this so-called “Clock Tower” would die as well.
Kiritsugu felt a twinge in his chest. He gasped. Tried to cover it up. He couldn’t stop a bitter smile from crossing his lips. Yeah. A hitman with a heart condition. Life’s little jokes.
He sucked on another cigarette. The smoke filled his lungs. Soothed.
Kiritsugu looked at the other “Masters”. He still wasn’t sure why they called them that. Something about each competitor absorbing the spirit of an ancient hero during the War. Like possession, he supposed. Acht had claimed that it would make them better sacrifices.
That’s all that six of them would ever amount to: sacrifices.
The seventh? Oh, he’d be the “winner”. The aliens – or goddesses, or whatever the fuck they were – would supposedly come out of Irisviel’s body like a bunch of genies and give the winner his “heart’s desire”. Acht’s eyes had glazed over when he’d explained the whole thing to Kiritsugu a few years back. Little flecks of spittle had dribbled down the old man's mouth.
But Irisviel would have to die first. She’d lie on altar and slice through her own neck like an animal.
If Kiritsugu let her. And he wouldn’t.
But—yes. The other “Masters”. He recognized Tohsaka. The man was a schmoozer. His family had lived in Fuyuki for generations; half the town’s important people owed him favors. Kiritsugu shrugged to himself. He’d killed that sort before. Dime a dozen.
Tohsaka’s “apprentice”, on the other hand…
Kiritsugu frowned as he remembered his notes. Kirei Kotomine: age thirty-four. His jacket’s standing collar reminded Kiritsugu of a gakuran. It was black, and matched the man’s rather empty-looking eyes.
Priest’s son, apparently. Abandoned a potential career in the priesthood as a young man to join the military. Served in the 1st Airborne Brigade. Served in the Special Forces Group. He’d ultimately drifted away from military life as well, and into a succession of “new religious movements”. Tohsaka was his most recent guru.
Dr. Archibald sat across the aisle. Kayneth Archibald wasn’t much older than Kirei, but Kiritsugu hadn’t been able locate a single photograph where the man wasn’t wearing tweed. He’d purchased an entire mansion on the outskirts of Fuyuki. A fortress. For the scion of an Old Money family, Kayneth had displayed a surprising talent for slipping landmines through customs.
The two newcomers worried Kiritsugu a bit. Mostly because he didn’t know who they were.
The boy had long brown hair, and looked like he’d escaped a college campus. Caucasian. He wore a green sweater and an expression of poorly-disguised terror.
The other man had dyed his hair red. Despite that, he was handsome enough. His movements somehow managed to be theatrical and delicate at the same time. He smiled a lot.
And then there was Kariya Matou. A reporter in a track suit. Oh, he’d bear watching. Information would be important in this sort of “competition”, and this man gathered it for a living.
Kiritsugu had heard rumors about an adoption deal between the Tohsaka and the Matou. A daughter. Some sort of “reserve vessel,” supposedly. He wondered how that little tidbit tied in with Kariya’s participation. If at all.
Irisviel squeezed his hand. He looked up, and realized that the “moderator” had finished ranting. Iri’s hand felt so warm...
…And it would stay that way. One way or another, the Emiya family would survive this nightmare.
Somehow.
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Originally Posted by RadiantBeam
