This a direct translation?Mystic Eyes of Death Perception Umbral Foam - two jewels that affirm the past
How exactly does it work?
This a direct translation?Mystic Eyes of Death Perception Umbral Foam - two jewels that affirm the past
How exactly does it work?
I honestly wonder how crunchyroll is going to translate 泡影の魔眼 in the coming weeks.
Take this as a preview of things to come.
Originally Posted by FSF 5, Chapter 14: Gold and Lions I
Though abandoned, forgotten, and scorned as out-of-date dolls, they continue to carry out their mission, unchanged from the time they were designed.
Machines do not lose their worth when a newer model appears.
Their worth (life) ends when humans can no longer bear that purity.
How would it be translated here?
Mystic Eyes of Umbral Foam
Though abandoned, forgotten, and scorned as out-of-date dolls, they continue to carry out their mission, unchanged from the time they were designed.
Machines do not lose their worth when a newer model appears.
Their worth (life) ends when humans can no longer bear that purity.
It's sad, but I just realized, upon rereading the "someone did donuts at the football field" bit, that Phain probably was having fun there.
Also, that fork throw Chris caught was pretty good.
Last edited by warellis; July 23rd, 2019 at 03:19 AM.
8/ Day Buy Day
“Whatcha doing outside Rite-Aid, big guy?”
“My Master presented me with a labor,” he says, holding up a packet of Eneloop batteries. “It seems my reputation in this era is as esteemed as the Grail would have me believe. What of you, child? Are not children of this era herded into safe learning spaces during the day? Did your tutor assign you a practical?”
*****
Let me explain. After suffering my mother agonizing about how she had to drive me to school now that Krista and I were no longer talking not to mention I didn’t even ask her how her weekend was (Horrible, can you believe he was trying to have an affair?) while my sleep-deprived body was aching, I decided that school wasn’t the right place for me. Mary hasn’t seen the town yet; what sort of ‘Master’ would I be if I had her come to school with me instead of escorting her through a twenty-first-century city?
“Don’t tell anyone that you’re from New York. All you’ll get is ‘West coast, best coast.’”
Merely an hour after rush hour and the bus is already empty. We sit right behind the disabled seating.
“Tolosa’s a real bike and car town, so the bus system’s a bit confusing.” I point to the yellowing map stuck to the wall of the driver’s compartment. “It’s a lot simpler on Google Maps. Basically, Tolosa’s a triangle.”
“You sure know a lot about the local transportation system for a girl who still has her mother drive her to school,” Mary sounds suspicious.
Any girl who’s ever planned to run away from this dead-end town can tell you this much.
“After you ride the bus once, it just kind of clicks.” Yes, I’m talking to the empty seat beside me. No, I’m not crazy Ms. Bus Driver, please stop pretending to ignore me while also sneaking glances at me in the mirror. Mary explained that she had two ‘modes,’ a corporeal form and an incorporeal ghost form. Even as a ghost she is still able to verbally communicate with me.
The first thing I asked was whether all ghosts were like her. No, apparently Servants are special. Can anyone become a ghost, then? As long as something remembers you, you can’t stop being a ghost, dearie. That doesn’t answer the question, Mary. Does it matter if it answers the question if it answers the one you were too ascared to ask?
Whatever, this is our stop. We get off.
“We’re at the northern tip of town, the college campus. This is the first of two major bus stops in town.” I point to the cement step pyramid across the road. “That’s the college library and further down this road are some food trucks in front of the main buildings. Atop the hill behind us is student housing.”
“Are all these wee ladies studying at this institution?” A materialized Mary lowers her eyes at the giggle (coined and minted) of young, blond girls in tank tops and denim shorts walking to the campus market.
“Huh? Yeah, what about them?”
“At first I was mighty impressed, but they look more like strumpets than scholars.”
“That’s a Californian winter for you. May as well be a New York summer.”
“That’s no excuse Nadine, no excuse, at all.”
Whatever grandma, this is our stop. We get off.
“This is the south-western tip. If you’re here, you’re either shopping or a rich old dude telling your wife you got a business meeting and playing golf instead.”
The sun bears down on the grotesque paved parking lot behind us. Everything and anything you need in one location, from brownie brittle that’ll cost your ‘whole paycheck’ (hahahaha, so hilarious, I haven’t heard that one from every single person over thirty) to a new squeaky bone for the emotional support puppy your mom won’t get you because ‘I’m the one who's going to end up looking after it and I don’t have the time for that,’ from sustainable artisanal craft IPAs you find your brother always eyeing to chartreuse fencing your mom claims is the devil, and hell if you want fresh cream cheese wontons and orange chicken in the middle of a sleepover because your mom still calls it a sleepover when Krista stays the night. . . sorry we close at ten. Everything in this town closes at ten.
“I didn’t know California was this hilly.” Mary squints as she uses her hand as a visor. “Nothing like where I grew up….”
“Don’t know what that Sister’s called, but kids from school always talk about hanging out there after getting hot dogs from Costco.” It’s time to give her the ‘talk’, “There’s only one thing this town’s known for: the hiking culture. There’s a series of seven volcanic plugs around this town. They’re known as the Seven Sisters.”
It’s the same speech every local gives to any visitor. If you live in this town, you’ll have heard it so many times that no matter the location, no matter the person, no matter the situation, you’ll be able to recite it perfectly. It’s the only thing in this town worth reciting.
Mary’s crossing herself? I’ll ask her if she’s religious. Well, if you really were no more religious than anyone else while alive, I don’t think you would be crossing yourself at the mention of a few volcanic plugs. Don’t call them hills, the people who live here are really particular about that. Volcanic plugs, that’s what they’re called. Well, you’re Scottish, aren’t you? You call me dearie, a lot. Your accent sounds like the ones from that time-traveling period drama my mom forced me to watch with her. Wearing kilts, playing bagpipes, and eating haggis; I know those are just stereotypes though. Are there really any differences between Scots and the Irish? Wooden spoon up my —? We should stop by the Mission then if you’re Catholic. Either way, let's find a place to eat. What? Servants don’t need to eat? Whatever, I’m hangry so we’re going to skip this stop.
“The south-eastern tip is the only airport between Monterey and Santa Barbara. Mostly, people use it to get to SFO or LAX when they can’t be bothered to drive. Other than that, there’s the gym my mom goes to that’s pretty much a cult.”
We get off at Taco Bell instead.
“If you’re not going to eat, at least have some of my drink.”
Mary looks at the neon liquid.
“Baja Blast. Krista prefers the spiked lemonade.”
Mary takes a sip without touching the cup with her hands, shudders, and then takes another sip. “How colorful. This a twenty-first-century beverage. Makes for a cracker of a drink.”
“Artificial colors, flavors, preservatives. Probably filled with a lot of ingredients that you can’t pronounce. There are a lot of people going Paleo these days. Umm, that’s like eating the food cave people ate.”
“Oh dear, how could any poor soul deliberately eat the diet of savages by choice when these foods of the future are created with the power of science to offer the best nutrition and taste possible?” Mary nods to herself approvingly. She seems really passionate about this topic.
“America is one of the fattest countries now because of that ‘science.’”
“Better than the days when your tea was tubercular beef and a slice of bread cut with sawdust.”
“You cooked a lot, Mary?”
“I was a cook, dead-on too.”
“You should cook for me. Whatever it is, must be better than whatever my mom microwaves.”
Not an exaggeration to say my sense of taste left with my dad.
“Maybe after the war is finished, dearie.” She looks at her hands in her lap. “These hands shouldn’t cook anything, at least not right now.”
“You said you wanted the Grail to clear your name. Is that so you can cook again?”
“God willing, I hope to never do that again,” she says, taking another sip of my drink. She didn’t even notice my frown.
“Do you know who framed you?”
“They called me hideous names too,” she doesn’t hear me.
Let’s see, Neigh-dine, literally AIDs, clit sucker, Darien’s fuck-up of a sister, Krista’s weird friend. We really should compare lists some time, Mary.
She finishes with, “Newspapers can be so cruel.”
At least you got the views.
There aren’t many people at Taco Bell after the lunch rush on Tuesdays. The cashier looked slightly worried at the sight of a middle-aged lady in an apron but he’s seen people in weirder outfits trying to buy tacos while full-on baked. That’s part of the job description for a college town Taco Bell.
“What about you Nadine. Your father. . .” she leaves my dad hanging.
“Heart attack. We were getting burgers too. Last night at the church that was. . .” I shrug. “It’s been tough without him. But you heard what the priest said, even the Holy Grail can’t resurrect someone. Anyway, I’ve watched enough movies to know how terrible that idea is.”
She begs me to continue.
“Like they end up a zombie, lose all their memories, or what’s actually resurrected is a demon and that starts haunting the house. It’s the same thing when people wish to change the past. I would really like my dad to come back but. . . he’s not coming back. I know that.”
“How admirably pragmatic of you, dearie. Then do you have a different wish?”
“Dreams are nice, Mary but last night a half-naked bodybuilder killed a skull mask-wearing ninja? who was trying to kill me. A crazy military lady attacked us and she was stopped by a knight with a Thor hammer. You’re a cook. What are we going to do, cook them a nice meal?”
Oh, I forgot about the not-cooking thing.
“You should have thought about that before you agreed to be my Master, dearie. Especially when you don’t have a wish.” She looks at me intensely, “There are far more innocent and productive hobbies than watching ghosts faffin’ about.”
I finish my tacos.
“What I’m trying to say, Nadine, thank you for being my Master.”
I finish my drink.
Why am I still hungry?
*****
I got a chicken pita for six-fifty at the deli across from the bowl cut priest’s church. I stayed far away from California Pizza Kitchen because I did not want to run into a certain knight. Anyway, the deli’s right next to the park behind the old folk’s home. Krista and I used to come here whenever we were close by. I like old people. By that age, people have realized they’re too old to put on a facade, so the only option left to them is to genuinely enjoy what they’re doing, no matter how boring it might be. There is nothing to worry about because there isn’t any time to worry, leaving everyone with a blissful expression glazed onto their faces. I really like old people. When I met Krista in first grade, she was wearing an oversized, patched up, flannel winter jacket just like the old man sitting a few seats away.
We make eye contact for a moment and I can’t help but. . . Oh, after straining my eyes a bit, I realized that’s Laurent. We’ve talked a few times. If I recall, his daughter is working as an investment banker somewhere on the East Coast and when his wife passed away, he decided it was time to actually make some friends. I was about to go over and say ‘hi,’ but Mary’s back from checking the retirement home facilities. That was quick. I check my phone, wow, twenty minutes have already passed? When I asked her how they looked, she just shrugged and said a word or two that I didn’t understand. That’s the Irish for you.
*****
As the day wore itself into the afternoon, we found ourselves outside Rite-Aid. Mary asked me where to find some peach ice-cream. I’m not made of money and Rite-Aid’s just a few streets away from the school. There’s always foot traffic here, whether it’s from shoppers or people just leaving their cars here because no one checks the parking. It’s the last place you would expect to find the half-naked bodybuilder from last night, sitting back against the brick wall with a portable DVD player in hand.
His massive head deftly flicks up as we approach. Can he sense our presence?
Oh god, I need to get out of here.
I don’t think I can breathe anymore. I’m opening my mouth and I feel there’s something cold in my throat, but nothing’s reaching my lungs. My brain is using every single molecule of oxygen to scream at me, run away. If I continue to face whatever is in front of me, everything will break. Will break?
Brain, isn’t that pretty laughable? Just take it all in. That’s right, you stupid bitch, take it all in and reject it.
“Getting ice-cream,” I point to the store’s doors as I stiffly enter before making a beeline for the ice-cream counter. I don’t know what Mary expected when she asked for peach ice-cream — there’s peach flavored ice-cream. Whatever, good enough, foods of science or whatever she said right?
I order three cups of peach-flavored ice-cream from a Thrifty cashier who somehow doesn’t realize there’s a giant outside the store. When I come back out, Mary has already materialized, so I offer her a cup and a spoon. She looks cautiously at the extra ice cream.
“You’re a Servant too, right, big guy? An ancient hero who’s never had Rite-Aid ice-cream?” I offer him the paper cup, “Now we’re even for last night.”
By the time I finished the short story, we’ve already finished our ice-cream.
“Taking the time to escort your Servant around the city. That’s admirable, child. I like you.” He says with ice-cream covering his dark lips. The plastic spoon snapped between his fingers, so he took the scoop as a shot. “We haven’t been formally introduced, Assa —” He stops mid-sentence.
Mary’s on the verge of erupting. Her face is so scrunched up that it’s hard to tell where one feature ends and the next one begins. It’s probably time for me to step in and help this bodybuilder in a muscle tank with cutoffs the size of his oversize boardshorts.
“Her name’s Mary.”
That inhuman, chiseled face slackens before slightly furrowing to becoming more intense. “You have quite the mettle to refuse being hailed as your class, Mary.”
People have names. They want to be called those names. But Servants are ghosts of celebrities. With just a name and a location, you can pretty much find any person on Facebook. With famous people, Wikipedia will give you major details of their lives, including how they died. But… I think I understand why Mary doesn’t give a shit about all that. From the way she carries herself and gets fussy over the most insignificant things, I think, for her, her good name might be worth more than this second life. Stupid as that might sound, I don’t think it’s something I should make light of to her face. Instead, I ask what a class is.
The giant begins explaining the birds and bees: the differences between Heroic Spirits and Servants as well as where they come from. Mary interjects at times, but I think that this giant comically dressed like a tool of a frat boy heading to the gym knows more than she does about this topic. For whatever reason, he seems like he’s so steeped in the magical that he believes whatever bullshit he’s spouting. They exchange combinations of words that don’t belong next to each other like boundary recording band, saint graphs, and ring of deterrence. There’s no point taking out my phone. I’m not sure any of these terms would show up in a Google search.
“So then to become a Heroic Spirit not only do you need to be a celebrity but you need to have done something impossible. But like, it’s pretty much impossible to do anything that is impossible these days because of how shitty we are. If err someone from modern times was to be a Servant they would like be someone who contracted with a deterrent — a counter force? You seriously saying Mother Teresa wouldn’t like qualify?”
“Verily,” the giant adamantly nods.
“Isn’t there that strange man in the strange suit who recently arrived on the Throne?” Mary interjects.
“An exception that only proves the rule.”
“You’re saying, I could have summoned Neil Armstrong?”
“Saber, Archer, Lancer, Rider, Caster, Assassin, Berserker. No repeats.” The giant lists them off with his salami-sized fingers. “Those seven are the basic lineup for a Holy Grail War.”
“Extra classes exist, though,” Mary interjects.
“Those names sound terrible.” My retorts never miss a beat. “Who came up with them?”
Both Servants shrug, but the big guy tries to offer an answer as well. “We are conferred scarce information about the classes themselves, but Heroic Spirits are not meant to be summoned as Servants. Simultaneously, with the blessing of the Grail and as Heroic Spirits already exist, the emanation, a Servant, is a more convenient construction than a familiar on the level of a Servant. These vessels known as classes can’t be something a magus arbitrarily named. They must have their foundation in some undisclosed natural law.”
If the knight who summoned a horse out of thin air was called Rider and the military lady who attacked us out of nowhere was called Berserker, then this giant here who pulled out a bow must be Archer.
“You call these Servants emanations of the Heroic Spirit. Why not just summon the Heroic Spirit if that’s the case?”
Mary takes this one. “Heroic Spirits aren’t just people. We’re records, a long strip of film known as an entire life. At times, there are certain legends which attach onto that film warping it, lengthening it, or even gilding it.”
I think I understand this part. It’s like if I revived my dad, I would choose the him the day before he died. That version of my dad would still have a very high risk of a heart attack. Would he even survive the month? I could also revive him from his grunge band days. That version of my dad wouldn’t even know I exist and perpetually have a joint in his mouth. They’re both my dad, just different versions of him. So, summoning the Heroic Spirit would mean summoning every single version of a person at every single point in their life. If that’s the case, then Archer just means sometime during this bodybuilder’s life he used a bow. This Servant, this version of him, is a snapshot of that period of his life.
“This Armstrong would only manifest as a Rider. This war already has a Rider, thus he wouldn’t be eligible.” Archer finishes.
“I’m surprised you both know Neil Armstrong. Didn’t he die before your time? Mary’s like what, from whenever Downton Abbey’s set and big guy, you a caveman?”
Archer chuckles, “That would amuse Father. We’re summoned as Servants. Our undertakings on this plane are documented and sent back to the main body in the Throne of Heroes. I know every single thing that I have done in the entire history of mankind. In spite of that, being summoned with such knowledge causes a paradox. The Grail and the World itself limits our knowledge to that of when we were alive and the information the Grail bestows upon us to function in the present. Needless to say, in the event of being summoned an area devoid of the World’s influence, one should be able to recall previous summonings to some extent.”
“You keep calling this place you’re coming from the ‘Throne.’ So, it’s just a throne high up in the sky and all you do is sit there, absorbing information about what the Servant did, like a sponge?”
“A misnomer binding the physical and metaphysical. The Throne is a catalog cosmos outside of the World. It is close to what is known as the beginning and end of all existence but not actually within that nexus. The terminology alludes to the common expression, ‘the seat of X.’”
It’s an awkward expression, but I think it means ‘on the level of.’ In this case, the Throne of Heroes is not necessarily a literal throne, it’s just the place heroes go because they are heroes. In that respect, it’s the ‘seat of a hero.’ I wonder if there is a ‘seat of puppies.’ But there were two words he said —
“The afterlife for you guys is just being a disembodied sponge that soaks up endless amounts of information about yourself? Now you’re summoned to fight each other? That’s depressing.”
This is more or less the doctrine of a cult, like Scientology. I’ve watched a lot of daytime television. Psychics get people to believe they can talk to deceased family members because they have prior information and the people want to believe. In front of me are actual dead people, sure, but that doesn’t mean they’re right about everything. All they have is their own subjective experience which we generalize to categorize all life. No one is completely right, especially when it's about what happens after death, even if you’re dead.
“He only says that because he doesn’t get invited to the cooking classes,” Mary offers a snide remark that makes no sense.
“That demonic proprietress prioritizes female Japanese monsters for her sixty-day culinary course. There’s one hero who never graduates. There are hardly any seats left.”
I want to ask how a disembodied information sponge in a ‘catalog cosmos’ can cook, but honestly, whatever. They should hear themselves, barrages of earnest jargon coming from their mouths, hypotheticals with seemingly no relation to each other being supplied. I think that the worst part of this makeshift ice-cream social has been the number of things that these so-called heroes believe themselves to know and yet merely gloss over. But then again, the only reason why any of this would not be insane is if this was truly how the world worked. Or would its validity make this world the more insane?
The people we learn about in history class are taken after they have died and entered in this gigantic database of ‘heroes.’ Doesn’t that piss you off? Who are you to determine whether a life is worth memorializing? Then again, aren’t these barbs aimed at ‘you,’ just aimed right back at ‘us?’ Who decides thewe deem worthy of carving into our cultural consciousness and are taught to later generations. Who gets to go viral?peoplenarrative
This throne they’re talking about is just some concrete, yet cosmic realization of a principle so ingrained in our lives that people are willing to do so much and some do so little for. We constantly tell each other and ourselves that we can create meaning for ourselves, something that makes this life worth living, that’s enough. Be satisfied. If that’s enough then why do we incessantly tweet about it? Get over yourself, already. Everything coming out of the Servants’ mouths is insane. But I can’t help but wonder whether it’s the concepts themselves that are insane or because each phrase mirrors something I need to reject so much that I can’t help shielding my eyes.
*****
The two Servants keep chatting until I’m so bored I can’t help asking Archer what he was watching on that little screen.
“A reinterpretation of my labors,” he turns the LCD towards me and there’s a cartoon woman with an almost two-dimensional waist wringing her hair dry in front of an orange muscular man with armor that protects less than it reveals. A few years ago, Krista wouldn’t stop talking about a Tumblr breakdown of the different eras of Disney. We ended up watching all the movies from what the fandom pretentiously dubbed the ‘Renaissance.’ Can’t forget Hercules.
“No offense, big guy, but you’re more Elephant man than Disney heartthrob.”
“Girl,” There’s a slight wary menace in Mary’s tone. She knows better than I do that we could be nothing more than blood spatters on the wall if this alleged demigod honestly took offense.
“This era severely lacks worship. Elephants were among the most distinguished Divine Beasts. If necromantically processed correctly, elephants are more potent than most magical beasts. Underestimated creatures, elephants.” He boyishly winks after saying another jumble of words. There’s nothing more revolting than gleefully referencing a squad joke to someone outside of your social circle. Aren’t elephants Indian, anyway?
“At the end of the movie, you became a god again, right? Aren’t you pretty much the strongest Servant in this war then?”
He offers us a quizzical smile. I want to throw up. My mom’s a senior partner at a big interior design firm. Mostly, it’s helping Tolosa’s rich and famous decorate their supposedly lavish homes for special events. Sometimes, she’ll take on an intern from the college during summer break. In her mind, she’s more than just a mentor. The way she slavishly tries to groom them for this profession makes me want to throw up the same way. Intentions that are too noble, too self-righteously heroic. No matter what we ask, he will even compromise his own wellbeing to give us the best possible information. That’s not because he’s a nice guy who went from zero to hero by going the distance as the movie says. It’s because, like my mother to her intern, Archer cannot conceive of Mary and myself as threats. To Archer, we may as well be his kids.
That’s why he takes my hand without hesitation and motions for Mary to take the other. I blink three times before I’m convinced this is actually some sort of augmented reality display.
“Focus on the flow of our magical energy. The Holy Grail supplies Masters with clairvoyance that grants them the ability to compare Servants. What do you see, child?”
It looks like one of my brother’s video game menus, just with fewer numbers. There’s Strength, Constitution, Agility, Magical Energy, Luck, and ‘Noble Phantasm’ and next to each of these statuses for Archer is a butterfly. Constitution and Luck have a butterfly that is just emerging out of its chrysalis. At the same time, the butterflies that make up his strength and constitution are blue whereas the other butterflies are just orange. Mary, on the other hand, doesn’t have a single butterfly.
“Servants are not limited to mere statistics; we are given skills based on techniques developed or legendary characteristics. Each class inherently grants one or two skills. For my class, they are Independent Action and Magic Resistance.”
There are big fat butterflies on these two as well. Makes me not want to read the descriptions. Archer and Mary’s class skills might be visible, but I’m unable to make out some of these ‘Personal’ skills, so I ask about those.
“Personal Skills are specific to each Servant, you’ll only be able to read them after they have been performed,” Mary answers this time.
For Archer, I can see Bravery, Divinity, and Eye of the Mind (False), all with butterflies of course. There seems to be one more but it’s blank. As for Mary, I can only see the skill Powerless Shell, and for some reason, there isn’t even a caterpillar egg next to it. It would seem that the skills which are characteristic of the Servant like Divinity are automatically unlocked upon seeing the Servant, but skills like Eye of the Mind would only unlock after seeing Archer in battle. I want to laugh. How perverse can this system get? Not only does it give out arbitrary ranks for vague metrics, but it rewards you for spectating ghosts fighting to the death.
I let go of both of their hands. This is getting tiresome. I can go through it all on my own later; I don’t need someone to spoon-feed me a video game rulebook.
“Shall we discuss Noble Phantasms?” Archer asks.
“No thanks, Herc. I’ve got to get to school to umm... hand in my observations.”
He crumples the disposable ice-cream cup in his fist and shoots it into the trash, while still facing me,
“I am unsure why they chose that name for the movie. I may not have been born with this name but the one I lived by was Herakles.”
“Hera...kles. Oh, you’re named after your mom, that’s cute.”
“For you, child, Archer’s fine.”
Last edited by You; February 6th, 2021 at 04:33 AM.
Though abandoned, forgotten, and scorned as out-of-date dolls, they continue to carry out their mission, unchanged from the time they were designed.
Machines do not lose their worth when a newer model appears.
Their worth (life) ends when humans can no longer bear that purity.
I like this Heracles better than Alcides. Mlre friendly and less edgy.
What does the orange color for some of the butterflies mean?It looks like one of my brother’s video game menus, just with fewer numbers. There’s Strength, Constitution, Agility, Magical Energy, Luck, and “Noble Phantasm” and next to each of these statues for Archer is a butterfly. Constitution and luck have a butterfly that is just emerging out of its chrysalis. At the same time, the butterflies that make up his strength and constitution are blue whereas the other butterflies are just orange. Mary, on the other hand, doesn’t have a single butterfly.
Also kind of interesting he doesn't know Hercules was the Roman term for his name.
I'm assuming he can't remember his time as Illya's Servant?
Last edited by warellis; July 26th, 2019 at 05:29 AM.
Orange is A and blue is A+.
What significance is there about orange butterflies vs blue butterflies in real life then?
He does know that Hercules is the Roman version. He finds it outlandish that they would use the Roman version of his name when he's Greek.
Though abandoned, forgotten, and scorned as out-of-date dolls, they continue to carry out their mission, unchanged from the time they were designed.
Machines do not lose their worth when a newer model appears.
Their worth (life) ends when humans can no longer bear that purity.
good questions,
we'll see
Though abandoned, forgotten, and scorned as out-of-date dolls, they continue to carry out their mission, unchanged from the time they were designed.
Machines do not lose their worth when a newer model appears.
Their worth (life) ends when humans can no longer bear that purity.
Herk taking on the EMIYA/Iskandar role this time around is fitting, and comfy to read. Makes me wonder how far his good graces will extend if Nadine decides to act on her inferiority complex.
Herk's good 'tude coupled with your propensity for character writing, narration, and briskness sorta inside-jokey approach to infodumping made this a delight to read--thanks.
Also, thinking on it, butterflies seem to be a quite fitting motif/mental representation for Nadine, considering.
Last edited by ItsaRandomUsername; July 31st, 2019 at 01:17 AM.
My Fanfics. Read 'em. Or not.McJon01: We all know that the real reason Archer would lose to Rider is because the events of his own Holy Grail War left him with a particular weakness toward "older sister" types.
9/ Forsake
I know, five guys hanging out in a basement half-filled with a bench press that doubles as a squat rack, an incline leg press, and a cable machine you can also use for seated rowing exercises or lat pulldowns sound like squad goals, but instead of working out we’re all seated on the second-hand couches watching a show set in the Midwest about what it was like to be young and white in the seventies for probably the third time.
“When I watched this show as a kid, I had no idea why they sat in the circle,” Jaime takes a hit from a spiral, glass pipe that smells like any of the local breweries that let people under twenty-one in because they happen to double as a restaurant.
After wiping the mouthpiece with his t-shirt, he passes it to his left, but Mike gestures that he doesn’t want any. He offers the pipe to me instead, “Chris? You gonna take a hit?”
I shake my head, “Remember last time?” Last time being a month ago.
“You should get that checked out.” Hasan takes the pipe. “Imagine the news, Catholic Prep School kid can’t get high. Took months of peer pressure too.”
These are who you could call my ‘boys.’ We took English last year and were put in a group together. They’ve hung out with each other ever since. Because of how close I live to the school as well as my ‘strict’ upbringing, I’m here a lot less. Since I’m no longer the overseer of the Holy Grail War, there’s no better way to spend my afternoon other than deepening the bonds I might have been neglecting in favor of a certain pretend girlfriend. I might say that but all that ever happens in Mike’s basement is five teenage boys tepidly working-out, playing GTA V, or attempting to intoxicate ourselves. For the record, none of us are over twenty-one, but Mike’s family is ‘cartel rich’ according to Ian. If drinking when you’re eighteen is good enough for Mexico, it’s good enough for California. California was annexed from Mexico, remember?
“So, how’s Kayla, Chris?” Hasan asks after taking two hits without coughing. Got to give him credit, he’s upped his tolerance in the last month I haven’t been in this basement.
“Nothing much. Her dad’s pretty happy about me. Seems like a pretty chill guy.”
“Look at Chris changing the subject like that. Trying to play it cool with that resting bitch face, that’s cute. You’re smitten, aren’t you?”
“Sure.” I don’t even know what I’m admitting to. Hasan’s the type of guy who likes to be right. He wants you to know that he’s seen through whatever facade you’ve tried to put on for the world. All indications of denial are met with teasing skepticism, so it’s easier to grit your teeth and just agree.
“What about you Mikey. How’s Delilah?”
“Curfew. Parents are worried about that colony stuff. The ones they’re calling vampire attacks.”
My stomach starts to eat itself at that word.
“Freaky shit happens at the men’s colony all the time. No one’s going to escape.” Jaime has a scowl on his face, “Dude, if they’re really worried about vampires — should probably just eat some garlic. That shit’s good for you.”
Ian looks away from his laptop, “Or fill up on some holy water at Chris’s place. Even the dish water’s holy, right.”
I stifle a laugh that tries to force itself from my mouth when I notice that no one else is laughing.
“Must be pretty nice living in the Mission. The receptionist is pretty cute,” Jaime remarks.
“You’re so shallow brah; she’s got a great personality as well.” Ian cups his chest, “A great set of personalities, if you know what I mean.”
Jaime half-mockingly raises an eyebrow while making an ‘o’ with his mouth.
“Fucking Ian. Dude, that’s why you’re still single.” Mike says to Ian while looking over at me for a retort. “First, you’re saying racist shit like my family’s rolling in cartel money and now you’re stalking Chris’ guardian. What else are you going to report to Kim Jong Un?”
The peanut gallery pesters me into defending Cherry’s honor. “She could probably whoop all us with a skillet if she wanted to. I’m not the one you have to look out for, anyway. Her boyfriend’s built and a lawyer. He’d beat your ass and then take it to court.”
“Cherry has a boyfriend?” Hasan sounds interested.
“He comes to visit for a week or two every four months or so. Last time he fixed up my bike. The one that got wrecked downtown.”
“If it wasn’t for someone’s chicken legs we would have cleared that ditch.” Jaime lowers his gaze at Mike.
“Calves every day and still. . . chicken legs, eh, eeehhhyyyyy.” Hasan shakes his head.
Mike doesn’t say a word; his glower tells the entire story.
“He fixed my bike and wanted to call it Number Five. If anything, this bike would be a Mark II, but he insisted that even if this bike looked like a Number Four, someone back home would be jealous, so that’s why it was Number Five.”
“Dude, you sure you’re not second-hand high?”
I brush Ian off with a quick retort about how even a vampire would get high if it sucked his blood right now. Everyone politely laughs.
*****
I was the last to leave Mike’s basement. It’s pretty late into the afternoon and I know I shouldn't keep Cherry waiting for dinner, but I can’t get the old man’s words out of my head. He weaves steel into that gentle voice of his, creating this web that you can’t get out of, especially if you struggle. Even without any magical energy, his opinions are amazingly similar to suggestion. I think that’s why I asked Mike if I could come over today. I believed that it might be possible to dissolve that web in the acidity of company and high school normality. Turned out as ineffective as the weed and alcohol.
“Thanks for the beers, Mike.”
“Anytime, man. I know you got that church stuff, but we miss you.”
I grabbed the handle to the door.
“Hey, Chris,” he was scratching his head when I turned back around. “Just wanted to ask. . . are you feeling okay?”
I smiled, “I’m fine, thanks for worrying.”
I don’t think that was convincing though because, honestly, if I was fine, I would have gone home instead of this destroyed jeweler’s shop behind the public high school. The building’s a few blocks behind where the battle and summoning took place. This hadn’t been on the front page of the local news. After all, this incident was documented as a simple gas leak. No one was hurt and since the small explosion happened in the kitchen, none of the merchandise in the storefront or storage was damaged. Strange, the bounded field around the stadium should have prevented any damage to surrounding buildings.
Reported gas leaks that occur in a city hosting a Holy Grail War are never gas leaks. We use gas leaks as an excuse because it’s a minor but scalable incident offering the perfect cover to isolate and then quarantine the area. Because gas leaks are potentially explosive, any structural damage, like the case with this hole in the wall beyond all the Do Not Cross tape can be easily explained away. Furthermore, the public won’t question multiple gas leaks that occur around the same time due to the perceived interconnectedness of the system.
One of the golden rules of magecraft is that a magical phenomenon should not be hidden with a second magical phenomenon as it makes mystical interference all the more obvious. The appropriate way to hide something magical is to recontextualize the phenomenon as something natural, in this case, a gas leak. Much like if you’re going to hypnotize someone into forgetting they saw you; you want to slip some pills in their pocket to complete the image.
There’s no real need to enter the building to understand what happened here, but protocol dictates that one should. I open the front door and switch on the lights. It’s a cozy store. There are a few shelves for cheap bangles and pendants. Must be a favorite for Tolosa High students. These shelves only serve as an appetizer for the display cases — everything you would find at Macy's and a few exotic pieces the owners made. I wonder which pieces have nature spirits attached to them, but that’s not why I came here.
After making my way past the register, I unlock the door which leads to the workshop. Father Phahn’s team have broken all the enchantments. There’s still intense magical energy practically dripping from every corner of the room even though most of it should have already leaked out of the orange-sized hole in the wall. It goes without saying: this was Assassin’s Master’s workshop.
The reason why Assassin stopped mid-attack must have been because, ironically, her Master was assassinated and the supply of magical energy abruptly stopped. Even in the unlikely scenario that Assassin had Independent Action as a Personal Skill, the unexpected severing of a contract would have some kind of feedback.
The more interesting question concerns the hole in the wall. Anyone with magecraft experience could detect the broken wards outside. That is normal; in any magecraft battle involving territory, wards are going to break. The issue is that those wards are actually strong, much stronger than anything I could produce. I’m sure even if I were to request an RPG from the Church and for some reason not be denied because I have no idea how to operate an RPG and this is just meant to be simple mediation work, I still might not be able to get through all the defensive layers. For that reason, as well as the intense magical energy surrounding that hole, the only thing that could have been able to penetrate all these defenses, as well as any defenses the Master had on them, would be a long-range Noble Phantasm. With that deduction, I take one of the only intact chairs and have myself a good sit.
I know that I shouldn’t be here; this isn’t my job anymore. As Executors, we’re taught not to linger too much on the previous mission. God loves and forgives us. We must look to the next heresy that is an affront to Him.
Call it egotism, call it how I was raised, but I can’t seem to let this overseer position go. I lost everything during the accident. I don’t remember anything except for the bubbles escaping from all the people I, allegedly, loved. I understand that I can’t go back and continue walking my former path, but becoming a member of the Church, dedicated to protecting people against the monsters that killed my parents felt close to a future that boy who drowned with my family hoped for. Ever since I was picked up from that hospital by an old man and lady too kind for their own good, I have been groomed to mediate this Holy Grail War. In a word, this job is what I ‘should’ be doing.
My hand goes to my brow trying to ward off the golden sunset seeping through the hole in the wall. It’s rather disheartening to be in a room where a Master died such a violent death and have absolutely no talent in spiritual evocation. I’m sure if I was able to hold a seance to summon the leftover thoughts of the Master that the land still retained, a woman with a slick tail of black hair and raven-like features would appear. She would tell me her name as well as the circumstances of her death to which I would soundlessly nod and tell her that I was sorry for her having passed.
The dead have no need for knowledge of the living, they’re too busy being dead, so she wouldn’t ask me about the current state of her Servant. Instead, she would fuss about all the toadstones she had created and treasury of poisons that made up this workshop. I would just smile, not letting her know that the room she died in was bare. Eventually, the leftover thought would disappear into effervescent magical energy and once again I would be left alone in this room. I know that this can’t happen because I don’t know how to hold a seance, but what I felt as she was fading must be real.
That woman was a magus. Cherry said that one of the first rules about being a magus is that it’s okay to kill other magi. Yet, no matter what this woman did, no matter what powers she might have had, no matter what she chose to participate in, this woman must have had fears, dreams, and appetites like any other person. I would be able to tell what those were if I knew any sort of spiritual evocation, but that’s beside the point. No matter what they were, no matter what she was, at yesterday’s end, sheas an idiotic, pathetic, weak, human being, just like me — just like everyone else.diedpopped
The old man said that I was the type of blindly obey orders. On the other hand, I want to believe that I have the ability to discriminate between things that I should and shouldn’t do. Relinquishing this overseer position to a more qualified authority who should generally share the same values that I do as we are both members of the same overarching organization with the same goals is something that I should do. Even if I don’t, the city no longer recognizes my position, my own family has given up on attempting to regulate this Holy Grail War, and most importantly none of the Masters acknowledge my being overseer any longer.
Dilo is dead, all he left for me is a letter, and now everything is worse.
The reason why I can’t let go of this overseer position doesn’t have anything to do with Dilo, the Church, or this city, though. I want to believe it’s as human as this Master who warmed this chair. Ever since I arrived at the Mission, I have always been Chris Frampton — the only thing that I have ever been proud to be. They say that you develop a sixth sense for the most important things in your life — a terrible premonition attracts a terrible reality or something like that. The feeling is an uneasiness that dresses the pit of your stomach, anxiously calling out to every single fiber in the structure. The moment I let go of this overseer position is when I will lose a part of Chris Frampton, the person I have been building ever since I woke up in that hospital room.
I. . . I like me. I really like this me, no matter how idiotic, pathetic, or weak I may be. So, in the location where the first casualty of the Holy Grail War that forsook me took place, I vow to stay on this path, to oversee this ‘magi squabble’ even if no one asks it of me or wants me. This is nothing more than a selfish wish. It has nothing to do with public safety, the safety of the participants, or even my own safety. I just want to hold onto who I am for two more weeks so I can remain the person that boy wanted to become. Right, on that, I’ll make my pled —
“Oh, fancy seeing you here. You’re Chris, right? The former overseer.” That voice belongs in one of the empty terrariums littered around the workshop.
I look up to see a tall platinum blonde in a priest’s frock. I must have been so deep in thought that I didn’t feel his presence as he entered — the alternative is too frightening to ponder.
“Father Phahn, I’m jubilant to finally meet a member of the Eighth Sacrament. Thank you for your service; you truly do important work for the Church.”
“You’re too kind.” He gestures to an open chair, “Do you mind if I sit?” He sits down without waiting for my answer.
“I’m sure you’re aware that this is a restricted area for citizens, but out of professional courtesy, I’ll let it slide this time. No harm done. It’s always encouraging to have curious and enthusiastic young members of the clergy.” The smile on his face is viscous honey, slowly dripping into all his features.
“Pardon me, Father. Having prepared for this position for so long, I couldn’t stop myself from examining first-hand what type of damage these heretics wrought to my beloved city.” I smile.
“Completely understandable considering the amount of damage that occurred in Snowfield.” He crosses one leg over the other. “And you’ve spent most of your life in this city?”
“Ever since my parents died and the Church took me in.”
“This may sound strict, but I believe the best place for your efforts right now is to tend to your flock instead of. . . this.” He gestures at the hole in the wall and the rest of the empty room. “I acknowledge the deterrents we put up wouldn’t hinder an Executor-candidate and that it is only by coincidence that I found you here, but I must remind you, Chris, that you no longer have any official capacity in regards to this Holy Grail War.”
He says that, but I won’t accept it. I’ve already made my choice in this destroyed workshop, under the golden Tolosa sunset. It’ll take more than some paltry backhanded compliments and a verbal reprimand to stop me from seeing this to the end.
“As a fellow member of the Church, I feel as though you should know that in our preliminary survey of this town, we’ve determined the presence of an enemy of the Church having arrived in this county.” He lowers his head and clasps his hands. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors, Chris. They’re true. There’s a vampire in Tolosa.”
Who cares about overseeing a squabble between magi; I’ve got a vampire to hunt.
Last edited by You; February 6th, 2021 at 04:35 AM.
Though abandoned, forgotten, and scorned as out-of-date dolls, they continue to carry out their mission, unchanged from the time they were designed.
Machines do not lose their worth when a newer model appears.
Their worth (life) ends when humans can no longer bear that purity.
Welp, so much for that protagonist pledge.
Also I feel dumb for not noting that word choice back in chapter 0.
Last edited by Rafflesiac; August 2nd, 2019 at 10:22 AM.
Wow, Chris switched quickly despite that narrative speech. So much for that Overseer position pathos I guess.
oiThe peanut gallery pesters me into defending Cherry’s honor. “She could probably whoop all us with a skillet if she wanted to. I’m not the one you have to look out for, anyway. Her boyfriend’s built and a lawyer. He’d beat your ass and then take it to court. ”
“Cherry has a boyfriend?” Hasan sounds interested.
“He comes to visit for a week or two every four months or so. Last time he fixed up my bike. The one that got wrecked downtown.”
Reference to The Wonder Years?but instead of working out we’re all seated on the second-hand couches watching a show set in the Midwest about what it was like to be young and white in the seventies for probably the third time.
That 70's Show.
Tbh I've never seen the Wonder Years.
Last edited by You; August 2nd, 2019 at 05:24 AM.
Though abandoned, forgotten, and scorned as out-of-date dolls, they continue to carry out their mission, unchanged from the time they were designed.
Machines do not lose their worth when a newer model appears.
Their worth (life) ends when humans can no longer bear that purity.
I was about to ask if this was some kinda nexusy hybrid world that mixes and matches Fate-elements with Tsuki-elements, but the mention of Snowfield probably answers that question.
"Probably."
Regardless, vampstuff awaits, so cheers to that.
Also, the line "everything is worse" really reminded me of a similar--and similarly poignant--line from Bojack Horseman, although I wouldn't know if that's meant to be a reference or not.
My Fanfics. Read 'em. Or not.McJon01: We all know that the real reason Archer would lose to Rider is because the events of his own Holy Grail War left him with a particular weakness toward "older sister" types.
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