The Manhattan Project II

[Fancy Face the First]

Stabbed through the heart! And you're to blame!

Baby you give love, a bad name.

That said, good update.

Also, never trust a Magyar. That Hungarian is up to something.

[Five_X]

The next chapter will be mostly talky and stuff, but it's definitely going to be ready for this weekend; it won't be too long, and hopefully I can make this dynamic work - it's going to be rough, changing between two vastly different atmospheres in daytime/nighttime, and there's a lot character-wise that needs to be accomplished, but I think I can get it done. I might need to expand my notes, though, since at the moment they're chapter-by-chapter, instead of before when I wrote notes a few chapters ahead.

It's starting to take a lot of organization to get a single chapter out. :S

[Leftovers]

We Trotsky now?

[Fancy Face the First]

Five, what have you become.

[Five_X]

Five, what have you become.

No worries, it's over now.

UNLIKE MPII

[Fancy Face the First]

No worries, it's over now.

UNLIKE MPII

Thank god.

[EXiku]

So~

After gathering the material for that thing you requested, I chose to beta, since I have limited time and that was the best use I could think for it.

[Five_X]

As promised, another week has come, and so has another update! I'm feeling more confident in myself now that I've got this second chapter in a row done, and hopefully it's a really good one. I said it'd be short, though, and it's not exactly that - 7000 words or so, not too bad, but seriously I could not stop writing some parts, and I didn't want to cut anything out. I kinda cringed when I saw that the Eleanor/James part was nearly 4k alone. >.>

Anyhow, I hope you all get some enjoyment out of this chapter, and I promise I'll have another done next week all the same!

------------------------------

CHAPTER LXXXIII

In the first hours of the morning, when the sun had just risen, James couldn't help but be thankful for this.



Feeling soft sheets and a firm mattress, a soothing pillow under his head, and the gentle breeze blowing through the window, making the light yellow curtains flutter. More than any day of this war, he thanked the fact that he was back home, or at least as close to home as he could get. He felt like he was alone, with no people or issues to bother him, and that was what he was most thankful for, in the end. He was alone with his thoughts, and for the first time in far too long, he could breathe easily, and he let out a calm sigh, as if to clear out all the stress and emotion that had clouded up inside him over the past month.


For this city, though, only a few days had passed in his absence, and that made it perfect: he had nothing to catch up on, and these three days would be like the weekend after an exam, a vacation away from the war. It felt so far away, and that's how James wanted it.


A pang of bitter realization ran through his mind, though, when he heard familiar, thumping steps in the hall outside. His happiness dropped like it was a rock trying to drift on the clouds above, and he found himself suddenly, painfully tired. He pulled a pillow over his head, denying the rest of the world, and denying his Servant most of all. Nonetheless, he could hear her footsteps, feeling the vibration of them even in the comfort of his bedroom.


No matter how much he tried, though, he couldn't get back to sleep. He'd rested too long, and tiredness was replaced by a headache. This shouldn't be happening, James thought; he didn't deserve a life like this.


Deserve it or not, it was happening: dragging him back, kicking and screaming as he was in his mind, to reality.


"Not today, not now..." he muttered, and he set his head down, staring out the window at the low skyline of Georgetown. What he noticed just after, though, was that one curious stone; he'd placed it on the nightstand before he slept, and now it was sitting there, waiting, and he just shook his head and snatched it back onto the bed. For a while he cradled it in his hands, staring at it, and then he tightened his grip and closed his eyes. Magical energy flowed through his body with ease, reacting with the small crystal. He didn't know what hour it was, but it couldn't hurt to drop Eleanor a line.


"Hey, you there, Eleanor? Sorry if it's a little early for you, but..." James sighed, concentrating further on his connection with the girl.


A pulse in his mind alerted him again, and he paid closer attention. "Good morning, James!" He could practically see the girl's cheerful smile, the way she tended to look at him. He wondered if anything else made her that happy. "I hope you slept well, and Saber as well. After those events in the reality marble, I can hardly forget... my body feels quite sore, and I wish I could rest just maybe an hour longer. But, talking to you is nice as well!" Her smile was enough on its own to distract James from the dull reality that surrounded him.


"Eh... sleep was okay, I guess? At least, it was great until I realized I still have to go out and do things. I can't get off scot-free so long as I'm still alive, it seems; it's like a perpetual Monday, right before an early day of work... and I just want to clock in late." Though he wasn't tired, his own words made him yawn, as if Eleanor could hear him.


"You need no more rest then, James? Well, then I'm fine with talking to you; I promise I will not feel guilty for keeping you away from anything important! Now, have you eaten yet?" She continued to press him with questions about his well-being, and James just laughed.


"Come on, Ely, don't worry so much. I'll eat when I'm hungry, and right now, well... honestly I'd rather not go outside my room right now, since I can hear Saber pacing out there, ready to pounce on me as soon as she can. She knows we're out of sandwiches, and I neglected to buy any, since of course we were your guests for a few days before... everything else happened." He didn't want to make much reference to the war, but he couldn't help it. It defined his life at the moment, and nothing he could do could save him from it. In the end, only death or victory would clear the Holy Grail War from his mind.


There was a long pause, with an almost audible silence. "J-James, did you say... 'Ely,' was it? Is this a... a name? I do not understand, James, please explain this to me!"


He shook his head, laughing both over their mental connection and in reality, laying in his bed. "You know, Eleanor... Ely... it's a nickname, and it fits you. Sure, you might be some noble girl raised to be polite and obedient, but still. I think that... you're kind of cute. So, I call you Ely. Is that a problem? Or, maybe it bothers you just enough that I can keep saying it and tease you to death?"


"Teasing me to death would not be acceptable, James!" said Eleanor, indignant. He could tell that a deep blush was crossing her face, and the mental image of her that he had was strong enough that he could imagine them conversing, not just in their minds, but right beside each other, enjoying each others company. "Please, if you are to tease me at all - and I would recommend you keep this to a minimal level - please do not tease me to the point where death would be a plausible result. That would be dangerous."


"But can I call you Ely?" James pressed, returning the bright smile that Eleanor likely wasn't wearing anymore.


"Ely..." She sounded out the name, getting a feel for it, and half-smiled; James imagined her cocking her head curiously. "I think I can accept this, though I do not understand why you would call me by anything but my actual name. My parents and the servants in our house always called me 'Eleanor' and 'milady,' respectively... they had no reason for nicknames."


James scoffed. "Well, then, I've established a nickname for you. Maybe you'll grow to like it eventually; honestly, I've never had many nicknames myself. Back when I hung out with my high school friends, I was the only 'James' in the gang. So they called me James, and nothing else, since 'Hawthorne' is a little bit of a mouthful in comparison, and sounds... too noble, maybe."


There was a silence, with James hearing nothing but his breathing. Being apart from Eleanor made him unsure of whether he'd said something wrong or if she was just thinking - body language is key in any conversation.


"Hey..." he began, forming his thoughts as he spoke. "How about we meet up for breakfast? I haven't seen you in a while, and it's not like we have a war to worry about, at least not for the moment. How about we have some fun while we can?"


Eleanor lightly smiled, and checked the grandfather clock in her bedroom; it let out a deep chime as she examined it, and her smile turned to a slight frown. "Well, we can't have breakfast exactly right now: morning has past, and it is eleven now. Lunch, then?"


"Brunch," said James, smiling wryly, and he let out a sigh. He pictured Eleanor smiling, just before she told him 'yes' over their tenuous, intangible connection. Part of him felt guilty for spending so much time on leisure when he was, at best, enjoying a truce in the middle of a violent war. Saber would never approve. However, she was his Servant, and the most she could do would be to stay home and sulk... if she'd let him go out of the house alone. It almost felt dangerous just dealing with her, and James wished he could just jump out the window and escape. In fact, that was seeming like a very good idea at the moment, and he peeked over the edge of his bed, trying to get a good look at how far down the street was. He saw the top of a semi-truck trailer only at the bottom of the windowsill, small and distant, and decided that the stairs would be a much safer alternative.


Wresting himself out of the blankets and pillows he'd arranged to protect himself from the outside world, James roughly dressed himself and straightened out his clothes, his hand spending a tentative moment on the brass doorknob.


He almost trembled, feeling Saber's footsteps stop all of a sudden. He wasn't sure if that was a coincidence, or if she knew what was going on. She was too clever for her own good, that much James knew – around her he couldn't get away with anything.


Breathing deeply, letting in some of that cool morning air, James turned the knob and opened his bedroom door, ready to face the day.


“Saber, I'll be heading out in a bit. Hold down the fort for me, alright?” He didn't even give her a chance to react before he started speaking; he saw her turn around slowly, right in the corner of his eye, and she gave him a suspicious look. Not paying attention to even that, he made a quick right turn to the bathroom, keeping himself in lock step the whole way.


“Oh? Do you mind telling me what plans you have in mind?” Saber waited a moment for an answer, and frowned. “Or, perhaps you will tell me nothing. Well enough.”


Hands on her hips, she narrowed her eyes, watching him walk down the hall as her words bounced off of him like pebbles against steel. Her fist clenched a little as a shot of annoyance cut through her, but she took a breath and accepted it, remembering that her Master could be unpredictable and that he liked to be independent as he was. She drew a hand through her loose blonde hair, sighing as she heard James brushing his teeth, the faucet running on full as if to drown out anything she could say through the thin bathroom door.


After a long several minutes, James stepped out of the door, feeling calm and refreshed – and there Saber was, standing in the middle of the hall, legs spread to make herself wider, wide enough that James couldn't easily pass her by.


“Tell me where you are going, Master. The morning is getting late even now-” she pointed to the bright sunshine pouring through the windows of the living room, “-and anything you have in mind had best not involve a day trip. Even though we are involved in some unwanted armistice at this time, other Masters and their Servants in tow must either not know or, most likely, not care. If you linger even into the earliest hours of the evening, what are the chances that you could be abducted as before?”


James shrugged, hands casually in the pockets of his jeans. “Come on, Saber. I'm just going out for lunch – breakfast, I mean, with Eleanor, and I'll be back in an hour or two, depending on how long the walk to Arlington is. Maybe I'll even run into Nigel on the way, and then I'll be extra safe.”


“Eleanor is, by the very nature of this war, our enemy. Do not fraternize with her so often and so closely, as the more you care about the people here, the more difficult it will be to kill them in the end. She should know the same, and she very well could kill you when our mutual truce is over.” Saber wore a cold glare, her skin seeming more pale in the sunlight than it usually was, and her body seemed tense, the way it was during a battle. Though she was wearing an everyday nightgown, James knew that in a moment she could be in her armour, and at the moment she gave off an air of hostility and even authority. Moments like that always slammed home the realization that Saber was no ordinary woman – she often seemed normal, but she was a hero, and James made sure he remembered that.


“I trust her more than that, Saber; I won't have to kill her. I honestly don't think she has much of a stake in this war, and if it comes to that, I could persuade her to give up; her resolve to win this war can't be as strong as mine, considering she's pretty much forced into this.” James shrugged and started moving past his Servant, but with a firm hand on his shoulder, she stopped him in his tracks.


She stared deep into his eyes, making sure he listened to every word she spoke. “Do not be so naive, James! I want to see the end of this war alongside you, but your words and actions show me that you care not about victory. If you truly had a drive to succeed, you would follow my advice and protect yourself, and you would pay more attention to strategy.” Saber looked away for a moment, gritting her teeth and breathing deeply. “I... certainly know the consequences of too much trust, and I can only recommend that you keep Eleanor – and Nigel, Ardem and everyone else – at arm's length, no matter how friendly they seem.”


Holding her Master in a more friendly, respectful way than before, she nodded. “Betrayal can come to you when you least expect it, and often those you consider friends can become enemies as soon as fortunes change and they have more to gain by siding against you than beside you. Trust no one, and treat this war more seriously. I understand, Master that sometimes... as before, I may not seem this way, but I do wish for you to win, as your victory means mine as well – of course, I pride myself as having never truly lost a battle, and I will ensure that this case is no different.”


James crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, getting Saber's hand off of his shoulder. “Who's to say I can trust you, then? Who knows; if you had the chance, you might switch and join another Master, someone who might serve you better. If you're so dissatisfied with me, and we argue so often, then what's keeping you by my side? You could kill me in a heartbeat, and then ally yourself with Francois or Nigel, both of whom I know for a fact would accept you for your strength alone.”


For a few seconds, there was silence between them as Saber shifted her eyes, left to right, thinking of an answer.


“However dubious it may be, I have an obligation to serve you, and no one else. I trust no one, but you are foolish enough to at least be a reliable crutch for my goals, and I cannot guarantee that I would find a Master quickly after disposing of you. I can say that, perhaps... being with you is more advantageous than being without you, and nothing more.”


James almost started laughing, and finally stepped past his Servant. “Look, I understand that you're worried about me, but I'm just going to see Eleanor. I'll try to keep myself safe – I didn't get into this war just because I'm pretty, you know – but let me do this, at least once. Every other time I go out, you'll be there beside me. Alright?”


Saber almost sneered, hearing James' terms and knowing he wouldn't give a single inch in negotiations.


“Fine,” she finally stated, eyeing her Master closely. “I will not guard you for this one outing, and will leave you to your whims, idiotic as they may be. However...” Her lips curled into a smile, tongue playing across them, “please do bring me some food, will you? Really, I am nearly starving, and even with a lax appetite like mine, I still desire nourishment from time to time. Could you pick up some sandwiches while you are out? Or, if you so desire, bring me something more healthy and filling just this once, so I feel less like a pet animal waiting at home for its not-so-dutiful master.”


“Alright, alright, I'll get you a burger or something.” James sighed, shaking his head, and left the apartment, taking the keys with him. He glanced over his shoulder once, just as he was leaving, and he saw Saber sulking on the sofa, watching the curtains and the way they gently blew in the late morning's breeze.

-- --

Despite the sun, the air was cool and the wind made James wish he'd brought a jacket along. Shivering just a little, he leaned beside the restaurant's door, along one street in Arlington. He wasn't sure how Eleanor was going to get here – he imagined she had some kind of carriage or limousine or rickshaw for easy transport – but he was willing to wait, and from time to time checked his watch, letting out a puff of cigarette smoke as he did so.


Glancing up both the left and right halves of the sidewalk, eventually he saw amongst the dwindling tides of people a set of familiar blue eyes, framed by soft and dark red hair.


“Hey, Ely, over here!” James said with a smile, gesturing for Eleanor to come his way.


She quickly noticed him and returned his smile with an even brighter one, stepping politely past some pedestrians to get right beside James. He flicked what was left of his cigarette onto the sidewalk and crushed it under his shoe, and let Eleanor take the lead into the restaurant.


“I think it may be ah, too late for breakfast, James, and brunch, but maybe...”


As she entered the local place – more or less a diner or cafe, not so much a true restaurant – she looked about with no small amount of wonder, seeing the lights and watching the people, seeing a pair of old men sitting at a table in a corner, both reading different newspapers; at another table, for four, there was a small family of just that many: a young man and his wife and their rambunctious children doodling on the very same newspapers that the old men were carefully poring over. Eleanor breathed deeply, first smelling a hint of cigarette smoke from outside, and then the aroma of baked goods and toasted, warm bread and cooking meat reached her, and she was almost taken aback by the wonderful scents of the diner. As soon as she saw an open seat she set herself down, smiling at James and tapping lightly on the greyish table.


James made himself comfortable in the cushioned red seat, rolling his shoulders and glancing over at the waitresses diligently moving from one table to the next, their high heels clicking rhythmically on the linoleum floors.


“Good afternoon! So, what can I get for you two today?” A cheerful young woman came up to Eleanor and James, a clipboard clutched against her chest.


Eleanor was somewhat taken aback, her eyes going just slightly wide as she wondered what to say. James caught her reaction before she could say or do anything, and took over for her. “Good afternoon to you, too,” he said with a nod, hastily glancing to his watch – it was 12:05; after noon, alright. “For the lady, she'll be having the ham and cheese brunch omelet with a side of toast; for me, I'll be getting some Boston roast beef with chicken soup on the side.”


The waitress jotted down the order and, in just a moment, was off to serve the next set of guests, parting James and Eleanor with two full glasses of water, two cubes of ice in each glass.


“Wow...” Eleanor said in a half-whisper. “Have you been here before, James? You seem very used to asking for food at this restaurant!”


James shrugged, not seeing this as anything special, though he understood how unused to these things Eleanor must have been. “This place was built when I was four or so, and my parents used to take me here as a kid. It's a nice little diner with good service, so I guess I just ended up coming back on my own when I got older. I visit plenty of other places, but personally I think this is one of the best in the area. Restaurants in Arlington just seem a lot nicer than in D.C.; maybe it's the atmosphere.”


Speaking of atmosphere, Eleanor was still taking it in, and took a while to respond to James, her mouth turning into a shocked 'O' as she looked at all the different photographs on the wall, and the chefs cooking in the open-air kitchen, just a couple of metres away beside the two.


“All my meals were cooked by the servants at our home, for my whole life. The whole family – that is, myself, my mother and my father – were present for breakfast, lunch and dinner, with tea served to me in my room. My parents usually would test me on my studies during our family meals, making sure that I remembered all that I had learned, and understood it. I think this is the first time that I have eaten at a... restaurant, as you called it. It sort of reminds me of the peacefulness I felt when I had tea by myself, but this – oh, this is much more exciting!” She couldn't help but smile, her eyes shut as if to draw more attention to her broad grin, but James could only frown.


“That's not good, Ely.” He paused, seeing her blush a little when he called her by her nickname, and then shook his head. “Kids like me went to restaurants and diners, had food with their friends and by themselves; we had nicknames for most of us, and we stayed up late fooling around in the streets and the parks and by the river. You can't just be complacent about the life you've had so far, Ely. You deserve better!” His fist slammed down onto the table, shocking the poor girl, but his eyes, full of remorse, showed her that she wasn't the reason for his anger.


Her smile dissipated, gradually replaced with an attempt at a frown, her small brow furrowing and wrinkles showing in her white dress as she crossed her arms. “How can I feel angry about my life, James, when I have known nothing else? Moctezuma said to me once, 'a man who refrains from eating maize will never understand the happiness of those who eat it every day. Similarly, a man who drinks cocoa every day will not see why others see it as a special treat.' You say that your life was the most appropriate for a young person, but how would I know that? I have never eaten maize – have never experienced what you call 'happiness' in life. I was happy when I got to read adventure stories and the old legendary tales, or had them read to me. Your definition of happiness, James, seems to be different from mine entirely.”


“It's more different than that, Ely; it's not just about happiness.” James leaned in closer, looking into her deep, dark blue eyes. No matter what, he couldn't help but care for this girl, feeling a growing hint of pity in his heart for her. “You lived your life constrained, and you should be freed from that. It's oppressive, and... you deserve better. I think you may have been happy with the few freedoms you were given, but they weren't enough, and you should never have to go back to that.”


There was a period of contemplative silence; both avoided speaking, believing that the other would have something to say in response.


“Then...” James began, breathing in deeply and steadying himself, “what if you have to go back? Will you be able to, now that you've experienced all the different sensations and wonders of life outside your prison? Would you still be able to be happy if you could never walk in a park again, or eat in a restaurant, or be independent?”


Eleanor swallowed, glancing away and vaguely seeing the food being brought to their table and smelling its fresh, morning aroma. She didn't mention it now, not while James was still speaking.


“Well, I... I want to be happy...”


Her fingers dug into her arm, and she let her eyes be shaded by her hair, not letting James see her expression. “The air is different here, and so are the people. On my first day in this city I saw more people on one busy street than I've ever seen in my whole life. The mansion, now it feels so... so... sterile, as if my family saw everything else as unclean. But that life is what I am consigned to, no matter what I do, and I can never escape it. I have to accept it, or else I will never be able to live normally again; I have to shut out this part of the world, and remember that all that matters exists in the mansion back home. No one person can 'save' me from there, and the happier I become while living in this city, in this war... then the worse I will fare when it is over and I return.”


Again there was quiet, and James desperately fought with himself to find something to say, needing to console her somehow or convince her that what she was saying wasn't so; but, in the end, she knew herself best, and by denying the only life that she knew, James was in a way only hurting her and acting beyond his bounds. He had no real right to criticize her life, as monstrous and enslaved as he believed it to be. In the end, he was arguing against an idea, not against real facts.


“Let's... let's just eat, Ely, please.” James picked up his spoon and dug it into his soup, splashing a little out of the bowl and onto his plate, and he sighed.


Eleanor silently complied, staring at her food and examining it for a while, and then taking small bites out of it, cut gently and precisely from the omelet. Though they were together, in truth they were whole worlds apart, and neither knew how to reconcile that difference. It hurt James, bringing up memories of the past that kept digging themselves up when he spent time with this girl.

-- --

“Francois!” As soon as he opened the doors to the mansion, he could hear his sister's voice, her words almost coming out silent as a mix of shock and excitement.


Before Francois could make any further steps into his house his sister's arms were wrapped around him, and he let out a small laugh as he returned the embrace, patting her back and smiling, overwhelmed by her cheer. The last few days had been hard for him, but being welcomed back with such gusto reminded him of why he was in this war, and what really mattered to him. So many days in the desert had disconnected him from reality, but now he was back to familiarity.


“Hey, sis, I missed you. How have you been? It's been... a week, I think?” Francois pulled back from her, stepping forward and letting her guide him to the living room and the sofa. “It's been too long, anyhow.”


Holding his arm, Amelie nodded, her other hand stroking through her very light brown hair. She mussed Francois', then, and laughed, just enjoying his company. She made sure to sit him gently down on the living room's main couch, right across from the fireplace, and then she dashed off to the kitchen without even a word.


Francois lounged back, his whole body stiff; he finally realized the physical toll of the past month, and was glad that in the real world, only a day or two had passed.


He couldn't let himself be too comfortable, though, and while he let his muscles sort themselves out, he kept his shoes on and kept his back straight, looking over at the dining hall for any signs of his sister. He didn't bother looking in the other direction, to the front door where presumably Napoleon was still waiting or walking in.


In the end, he didn't even need to look. Francois could feel the man walking behind him, his presence making the whole room seem unclean and unwelcome. He was smiling once, when he thought of his sister and her sheer happiness at seeing her brother again, but that smile was gone in a moment as he felt Napoleon leaning just slightly against the back of the couch. Francois thanked the gods of old Gaul that the imperial bastard didn't speak up, and he let the tense silence between them linger. Napoleon knew that Francois realized he was there, and was equally glad that the young man didn't say a single word.


Breaking the harsh atmosphere, Amelie ran out with a cup of coffee, dark and steaming, and placed it on a saucer on the low table in front of Francois' feet. Her face had brightened up when she saw Napoleon, and she gave him a wave after she placed her brother's coffee on the table.


“Hello, Napoleon! Are you feeling well? I imagine you must have gone through a lot while you two were gone!” She smiled just as she had when greeting her brother, and wondered what kind of coffee the famed emperor would want.


Francois didn't even want to take a single sip of the drink. The sofa, once feeling so refreshing and comforting to his aching body, might as well have been made of stone then, and a strange feeling of disgust prickled up his back, a cold that wasn't at all relieved by his coat. It ran deeper than that, right into his bones, and he felt more sore than ever. He gave his sister one last half-hearted smile and, smelling the richness of her coffee, took it with him as he roughly stood up and walked away. He made sure his shoes tapped loudly on the hardwood floor as he left, and soon was gone into a hallway, outside the view of his sister and his Servant.


“To his bedroom, huh...” Amelie said softly, the corners of her lips creasing downward as she looked at the saucer where her brother's coffee had sat.


Napoleon placed his hands on his hips, breathing one deep breath, and frowned. “Your brother and I have had some... differences, of a sort, come between us. I am still bound to serve him, but will do so with less happiness than before; he is not the sort of man that I wished I had been associating myself with, and that... is a pity.”


Amelie gestured silently for him to follow, and she brought him alone to the kitchen, where she had another mug of coffee already prepared.


“You two were close before, Napoleon... my brother is a good person, and you should not hold his actions or words strictly against him!” Amelie sat down after Napoleon, right across from him in the long, ornate dining hall. Despite how fanciful it was, nonetheless it was rather plain, not the most or least decorated home Amelie had known, but it was good enough for her.


The emperor shook his head quickly, taking one gentle sip of his coffee, and then setting it back down. The drink was hardly enough to warm him up after the events of the past days. “He may be a good man to you, Amelie, but there is something fundamentally wrong about him. He is naive in a way, and assumes that he knows much when he truly knows little. I have no doubt that he is learned, but his learning comes from books, not the wounds of life. I pity him for that, and wish he could be a better person, but... it just so happens that the differences between us only cause the gulf in our relations to grow, and the more we try to reconcile, the more foolish he becomes, such an indignant boy...”


Amelie crossed her arms on the table, leaning just a bit forward and thinking to herself for a time. “If you two are so different, then how did you two get along in the first place? Wouldn't these differences have come up before?”


“No, Amelie, not these sorts of differences.” Napoleon sighed, and took a deeper drink, as if he was trying to drown himself in alcohol. The coffee felt cold even as it warmed him, and he drank it down only because it was brewed diligently by Amelie, the one bright spot amongst these maladies. “He used to have a hint of nobility to him, and he made me believe that France still produced good and caring youths. In truth, he is blind and does not know enough of the world to be considered a complete and knowledgeable man. I thought that I could enjoy this life while it lasted; being in this house of yours, with your kindness, is a life I never could have imagined in my time. I was saddled with responsibility I brought upon myself, and I never had time to enjoy the life I had. When I was summoned here, I had the vague hope that I could fight yet live more freely than in life, but... that is not the case. In life, love, and war, things can never be simple for me. How worthless it all is, in the end.”


Sighing along with him, Amelie placed her hand on his shoulder, and brought it gently down his arm, their fingers eventually touching. She gave him a small smile, and Napoleon tried to return it, but the churning emotion within him could hardly be remedied so easily.

-- --

In the middle of the National Mall, there it was: the foremost sight in all of Washington, D.C., the great obelisk built one hundred years before, and still standing. Never had even the Egyptians erected a monument so massive, and it stood as proof of a grand and true civilization, one that would remain forever notable in the annals of history. Yet, as any monument in this place, it was but a copy, not so much an original creation; just as the memorials there venerated the old Greeks and Romans, so too was the Washington Monument but a recollection of Egyptian strength and ingenuity, and in that light, the grandeur of the place at least partly faded away.


“For every one of these, there's a hundred-odd temples and statues and structures from the old world, from your time, that have crumbled to dust. I imagine that, hundreds of years from now, these won't be standing so tall anymore either. The bigger they are, after all...” Nigel sighed, and turned from the Washington Monument to his friend, who was admiring the various memorials and the overall wonder of the place, comparing it as well to the old world.


Hannibal nodded, placing a hand on the lawn beside the pavement they walked on. “Grand was Kart-Hadast, my city, and now she stands no more. She had walls the like of which the world had never seen since the golden age of Babylon, and her harbour was vast, her temples matched by none, not even the Greeks. Yet all that was wiped away.” He, too, sighed, thinking of the world as it was in his era. “Don't think that we didn't have ruins in my time, though. There was old Babylon, its gardens dead and its painted stones chipped and coated with dust from centuries of wear. Babylon was a city whose glory I could only recall by reading stories and listening to the tales of the oldest men, and my civilization seemed like such an upstart in comparison. I imagine you have to feel the same.”


“Bah; my civilization is seven hundred years older than the 'civilization' of these goddamn Americans, I can tell you that. England isn't looking to die any time soon.” He scoffed, and then his thoughts drifted to other things.


“Not as old as Spain, though... Enrico can do a hell of a lot more bragging than I can, that's for sure. There's a man who knows what he's fighting for, and here I am, torn between my family, my country, and so many other obligations. Am I fighting for myself, or am I fighting because others tell me to? God damn it.”


Hannibal stood beside him, staying solemn as he looked up the hundreds of feet to the very top of the Washington Monument. “Still thinking on that, are you? Violence doesn't seem to have solved much, since both you and him are alive and well – at least relatively.” He glanced down at the bandages Nigel wore on both his hands, and the still-red scars on his face and neck. It would be a long, long time before those healed, and they ensured that Nigel would never forget the way Enrico shifted the whole course of his life just by existing.


“I'll win this war, whatever it takes,” said Nigel gruffly, stuffing a hand in the pocket of his waistcoat. “Enrico is a poor, sad bastard. I hope I never see him again – he deserves to be killed by someone other than me, someone better than me. Can't help but imagine fate will keep fussing with my bloody life, though, and ensure we end up fighting one last time. Things are never clean like I want them to; it all goes to hell in the end.”


“Rivals... personally, I never hated Scipio, once I sat down and spoke with him for a while.” Hannibal scratched his beard, breathing in the cool afternoon air, his mind wandering back to old times. Nigel, as Hannibal could see from the corner of his eye, was paying close attention, as he always was when the topic of Hannibal's life and history came up. “We met in Babylon – funny that we were just talking about that – in the modern city, not in the old ruins. Picture it as modern day Rome, with the new buildings and people coexisting in a sense with the ancient temples and ruins, clearly out of place in comparison to the Persian and Hellenic architecture and cultures. I was in the court of the Seleucid king who reigned there, and Scipio, hero that he was to the Romans, was naturally the ambassador of Rome. There he was, on a foreign visit, finding his old enemy; how strange we must have seemed!”


Hannibal cleared his throat, seeming to smile at the memory of times gone by. “I was shocked to see him at first, but I soon came to realize that we were one and the same, in the end: we were relics of a bygone age, artifacts kept around just for historical value, like the very ruins of old Babylon itself. We were veterans of the great war between Rome and Carthage, figureheads of the conflict in fact, and us meeting was surrounded with hushed whispers within the court all around. Even the king himself, detached from the goings-on, kept his eye on us. They became suspicious when Scipio and I met in a room and, after hours, hadn't come out. I could tell that there were listeners on the outside, trying to overhear what we were saying, and when they couldn't hear anything loud or violent, crept the door open. They had knives belted to their tunics, expecting to find the Roman or the Carthaginian dead and bloody, but there we were: conversing, smiling, and debating, wondering who out of ourselves, Alexander and Pyrrhus was the greatest general. I told him that Alexander and Pyrrhus were the greatest and second greatest, respectively.”


“And then, the eagerness I saw on his face as he asked who was ranked third...” Letting out a deep and honest laugh, Hannibal grabbed Nigel's shoulder, as the man was shaking his head in utter disbelief, eyebrow raised.


“I told him that I, of course, was the third greatest – but that if I had won at Zama, I would be the greatest of them all. I gave him a wry smile as I said that, and at first he looked flustered; then he burst out in laughter. It was then that the guards rushed in, wondering what the commotion was, only to find Scipio red-faced from laughter.” Hannibal gave one last smile as he finished recounting the old tale, and Nigel thanked him for the old but valuable piece of history. Minor as it was, he found learning anything new about Hannibal to be fascinating. Were he to write a history thesis about it, though, no one would believe him – citations, after all, are king.


Fond as the memories were, Nigel just sighed, comparing Hannibal's recollections to his own memories of Enrico. “I've never known the man like that, and I doubt I ever will. Only one of us will survive this conflict, and... I fear we will die enemies, in the end.”


Hannibal turned to his friend, looking at him with a slight frown, a hint of sorrow showing through. “What you have to ask yourself is this, then, Nigel: do you regret being his enemy?”


Nigel felt weak, and just looked at the great obelisk before him as well as the Capitol Building in the distance. His arms slack, he took in a deep and silent breath, thinking of what to say, thinking through his whole history with the Spaniard, thinking of all that had come between them; he thought of the consequences of their fighting, and yet his thoughts could only come to conflict in the end.

“I don't know, Hannibal. I might never know.”

--------------------------------

There we go, another glorious chapter in this novel.

Now, one thing I might add - and don't get scared off here, because I need you people and please don't go or I will be sad - but MPII, the main story, has surpassed 400,000 total words. That's not including Johana's story. I'm sorry for writing so much. ;__;

Comment and stuff as usual, and keep reading! I'll do my best to ensure that this story is the best it can be, and I'm definitely proud of this latest chapter.

[Lycodrake]

Having just read Drifters, the commentary on Hannibal and Scipio gave me an image that is quite hilarious. XD
James and Eleanor's interaction here was definitely a bit more solemn than I expected, but then you have a very good handle for transitioning between emotions and tones.
Poor Napoleon; it was certainly misfortune to be confronted with Amelie like that, at least from what I can tell. I'm not sure if I read the turmoil correctly, though. XP

Nice work, as always, Five! ^^

[Leftovers]

Ely2kyun. The chance meeting of the two old generals and enemies was a very nice image too.

Another thing is the relationship between the three "protagonists" and their Servants, since Francois and Napoleon are finally experiencing the same problems in their relationship as those that James, Nigel and their Servants faced and ultimately resolved. If Team France can't even achieve a tenuous balance like Saber and James did, never mind forging a relationship of mutual respect, self-improvement and support as Nigel and Hannibal have, then their future in the Manhattan Project seems uncertain indeed.

[Five_X]

Hello and welcome to another update of MPII! It's a little late and I don't really have time now for an author's note, but unfortunately my beta couldn't really get to the chapter on time. It's out now, though, so read on!

------------------------------

CHAPTER LXXXIV

Ilse roughly turned the brass knob and pushed the door open with her foot, swiftly slipping past and locking the door behind her, not letting anyone get a sight of her equipment. At the very least, she was lucky that in her uniform, she looked more eccentric than dangerous – to ordinary people, that is.


“Ilse is back at home base,” she announced, knowing that Filippo would be there, sulking and doing nothing, as she expected of him.


When there was no response, she ducked into his bedroom, and only saw a small envelope on the nightstand, lit up only by the lamp there; this made her wonder, and she picked up the envelope, reading what had been jotted down on it, frowning a little but at the same time sighing in relief. Filippo was never easy to deal with, and with him somewhere else – anywhere else, really – she had less to worry about, or so she had hoped.


“Mi dispiace, Ilse – I went to purchase us some grocieries, and I might be late. Gilgamesh, the Servant, is out in the town and I can't find him easily, so you might be alone. Again, I'm sorry!”


She shook her head, and flicked the paper onto the bedsheets.


Ilse felt a prickle of unease, thinking of Filippo overstaying his time outside, and she checked through the bedroom window, where the curtains were swung wide, giving a clear view of the city's famous skyline. She could see the Mall in the distance, and wondered about using this window as a reconnaissance position, searching up and down the streets and roads for any Masters and Servants – someone had to stay home, but she wouldn't let that be her.


Growling as she stepped up to the window, Ilse closed the curtains and tied them shut, deepening the shadowy darkness in the room.


Her eyes locked on the nearby closet, and inside that, past Filippo's discarded clothes, was her old leather suitcase, brown and worn at the edges. It was older than her by at least a decade, but it didn't even creak or tear when it was being opened; there was just the quick snap of the lock, and Ilse lifted the top, checking inside.


Magazines, motor oil, grenades, packets of powder, alternate barrels, receivers and a city map: she listed in her head the varied contents of the suitcase, having committed them all to memory, and working through what she needed with the precision of a machine.


Keeping her rifle tight on its strap, hanging by her side and out of concealment, Ilse fitted fully-loaded rifle magazines into her uniform's pouches, even slipping a grenade into a shaped holster on her belt. She was in every way a warrior, and what passed for a life was summed up in total by this suitcase and its contents. She carried her livelihood in it, and that was that; she didn't feel remorse about it, nor did she wish for any other way, a way out. Anything else was unnecessary, and had been gradually discarded over the years to make room for more violence, and more retribution.


There was a while of silence in the room, completely unbroken, and Ilse was left to her thoughts. She closed her eyes, letting her hair hang down, and reminded herself of her cause.


Tying her hair back into a loose ponytail, she gathered herself once more and, as a final note, snapped her suitcase shut and let it stay in the closet, having taken what she needed from it.


As promptly as she'd entered the room, she left; she snatched a light, pale coat off of a coat rack by the door and draped it over herself, doing up just the few middle buttons for concealment. To some she may have looked elegant and beautiful, seeming nothing like the killer that lay beneath that coat. Yet, her expression was cold, and in just a small few movements she could let the coat drop, revealing her rifle and its ammunition, and the curved knife that hung low in its sheath, attached firmly to her belt. Ilse couldn't remember how many days she'd experienced that were exactly like this, with her in the exact same dress, with the exact same expression, and carrying the same weapons for the same purpose, her reason for living always clear as a summer day.


Her boots thudded lightly on the long carpet in the hall, and she turned about, heading for the stairs down. The elevator would be too risky, and she kept close to the walls, staying out of sight.


“Ilse?” She stopped cold.


There she was: the unmistakable figure of Johana in her long black dress, hand pressed to the doorway to keep herself standing. Her eyes looked forward almost blankly, but when they fell upon Ilse they became somehow brighter, more filled with purpose. She took a step forward, and then another, and another, her pale feet unshod, partly dragging across the soft carpet.


Ilse gripped the middle of her coat tightly, ensuring it didn't come apart and reveal her weapons while she was distracted in this one moment.


“You should be in bed, Johana. Last I saw you, you could barely move; for your own sake, just stay here a while until you're feeling better. If you went out now you'd only end up dying somehow, and that would just be pointless.” Ilse frowned, trying to look away from Johana, but found herself unable to, as if she was locked into gazing at her, across the hall. There was a strange expression that Johana had then, shown only in her eyes, that Ilse herself had never seen before, a look that piqued her curiosity and spoke to the parts of her mind that still couldn't deny wonderment in favour of cold reality and pragmatism.


Johana had a hand lightly on her hip; when she was but a few feet from Ilse she stopped, her footsteps suddenly hesitant, and she let her other hand stroke her own neck, feeling the cold skin as it prickled and turned numb in spots, as if it wasn't even attached to her body.


“Feeling better?” Johana's words were almost raspy, and she swallowed, then allowed herself to take a breath. “In years past, I've found myself feeling like a corpse floating away on water, disconnected from everything, even the bite of the frozen air. Compared to that, this stiffness and bile is nothing at all... if this kind of hindrance ever stopped me in the past, I would be dead already.”


Unconsciously, Ilse had pressed her back to the wall, trying to make herself as unnoticeable as possible. “You're not in the right mind for fighting, Johana, and trying to make yourself go on will only hurt you more, I'd say. Just sleep, and let me be alone.”


“Ilse, I need to be-”


“I'll fight for you, damn it!” Ilse's backhanded compassion was drowned by a scowl as she spoke, and she patted her rifle underneath her coat. “You don't know who I am, Johana. If you're so insistent, I'll kill enough for the both of us, and then some. God knows I've done my share of that in my life so far, and I've got room for more.” She clenched her hand into a fist; it always felt so empty when she wasn't gripping a gun, and she could never shake that need.


Johana quickly glanced away, sliding a lock of hair behind her ear as it fell in front of her face, and she breathed raggedly, thinking of anything to say. No words came to her.


She looked up, and for once that night, took a confident step forward, rejuvenated for just one small action, the one thing that would make her feel comfortable. Blood rushed through her veins as if she was about to kill this girl, and her heart pounded more heavily with each step further that she took. Her hand, tight and balled into a fist, pressed to her chest just below her collarbone, feeling the metal of her necklace, just as cold as her pallid skin. Despite an inexplicable lightness in her head, she kept walking, until she was just in front of Ilse, their gazes locked together; Ilse's eyes were wide, and for a moment or two Johana admired the dark brown pattern in them, seeming to swirl and get darker nearer to the pupil.


“I will sleep, then, if it makes you feel more comfortable, Ilse. However...” She pursed her lips, and took in one sharp breath as her heart thudded one more time, tightening in her chest. “I want to be near you, to know that you're safe. If I must stay here and remain in bed, then please, for me to avoid the dreams... I shall give something to you, and I want you to cherish it.”


Sensing the woman's intent, Ilse recalled, briefly but intensely, the very similar sensation of when their lips had been pressed together, and yet she couldn't bring herself to move, as if she'd been stuck in place by an outside force – or her own hidden will, intangible and unknowable.


However, Johana brought both hands to the steely necklace that she always wore, and with a swift jerk, tore it off and had it dangling between her fingers.


Wordlessly she offered it to Ilse, who was similarly speechless, and barely even reacting.


With practised hands Johana brought the necklace around Ilse's neck, and fastened the clasp tight, locking it in place. She let go, tentatively, and it lay there on her chest, overtop the white coat. Ilse brought one hand up to feel the necklace, shaped like a hexagon with spokes within; it was cold as a block of ice, almost making Ilse's hand recoil upon touching it. For a while she ran it through her fingers, stroking the delicate chain, most of all unsure of how to continue on from this strange moment, or how to say anything more at all. She glanced back up at Johana, and then that curiosity, that feeling she thought she'd killed long ago, rose yet again.


Johana was smiling, with the kind of sincerity seen only in children, or the supposed look of a person who had died in peace approaching bliss. Ilse was thrown off, seeing the woman wear such an expression; she thought it wouldn't suit her, that it would feel somehow off, much like the way Johana seemed most of the time – irreconcilably different. However, the smile was natural upon her lips, like something that had been there all along, but Ilse only noticed now.


With a long sigh, Johana broke the silence. “I... feel more comfortable, now, Ilse. If you think that it's best, I will stay asleep for now, or at least get what rest I can manage; in my stead, this necklace will protect you with what charms it has, descended from a time long past. Just... please, return alive. Of all the people in the world, Ilse, you alone should never have to experience death.” Johana's smile never faded even as the subject of her speech became grim, and then she turned away.


She walked back to her room as if nothing ever happened in those long few minutes, and Ilse stood there for a moment more, the click of the door closing not even registering in her mind.


Keeping one hand pressed to the necklace, its cool feel so reminiscent of Johana, she left the hotel with mixed thoughts, unable to reconcile them all. Why was this woman so interested in her? Why did she give so freely of herself to someone she didn't truly know? What about Ilse made her able to be happy, even if for a short span of time? Those questions swirled about in her mind, and with what willpower she had left, she dismissed them, and focused on the goal that had brought her to this city and into this bloody, confusing war.


-- --


“You have no connection to her, Master, and no reason to care for her,” Lancer chastised when Johana was safely back in her bedroom, body sprawled atop the sheets of her bed, the blanket barely covering her legs.


“She really is different, Lancer, and I think you might never understand.” Johana mused mostly to herself when she spoke, keeping Lancer in the conversation only by necessity. He was just an object in the room with her, his eyes always watching to make sure her safety was never compromised. “I told you before, that she and I are the same, I can feel it. Somehow, her very existence brings me some kind of contentedness, or happiness, or something I can hardly describe with all the experiences I have had in my life. When I am near her, my eyes dilate, my mind focuses, and my blood turns hot, the same shifts I note in my body as I am seconds before feeling blood on my hands and arms from a fresh corpse, a death caused by my own hands and my own power. However, I don't want her to die. If she died, I feel that, somehow, I would... lose something, like a part of me being cut away to disappear forever. I have had fingers broken and ripped from my very hands, but that is nothing like the sensation I get when I imagine Ilse disappearing from this world. Her flesh seems to be worth more than mine, as though our existences are inherently connected in some way, living in concert.”


Lancer nodded, listening to his Master through all her rambling, no matter how much of it he understood. “I saw your smile, just as you turned about to come back from the hall. That smile...” He seemed to grimace for a while as he spoke, sitting in his chair by Johana's bedside. “I was a champion for a woman who needed a knight to serve and protect her, and when I arose to defeat those who threatened her, the shock and dismay on her face faded into a smile much as the one you wore.”


Johana sat up in her bed, tilting her head slightly towards Lancer, her eyes narrowed, barely able to stay open. “Why did this woman need a champion, and from where did you arrive?”


“That needs no mentioning; all you should understand is that I protected a woman with my very existence, and perhaps her feelings towards me in her moment of need were similar to how you view Ilse.” Lancer frowned as he spoke that name.


Pressing a hand to her collarbone where she once could find her old necklace, Johana 's lips curled downward, and she sounded a quiet scoff. “All this mystery suits you, Lancer. If I can find anything to truly hate, it is the unknown and those things that are hidden to me. I feel that, in time, perhaps Ilse will see my feelings, and perhaps too I will know what she feels of me in turn. All these things I don't know only serve to frustrate me, Lancer; life and death alike should be simpler than this.”


“Nothing is simple, Master.” Lancer sighed, and laid a soft hand on Johana's leg, looking her in the eyes. “For your own safety, do not come to depend on Ilse too much. It will hinder you, and it will hinder her as much, if not more. I made the mistake of being too good a champion, too obedient, and so I shall serve you with caution, and question your actions for your own betterment. Your well-being is paramount to me, Master, so do not recklessly throw yourself in with the lot that Ilse has drawn, for too often that ends in tragedy. The Servant that resides with her, if you remember, is now a target in this war, and she could be endangered by that. It may even be valuable to kill that same Servant.”


Johana scowled, her brow wrinkling as she pressed Lancer's hand back onto the bed, off of her leg. “Don't even come near to suggesting that, Lancer. That Servant can be a boon to Ilse, if she is truly in need, and we should do nothing. I need to preserve her, to make sure she stays alive through this war. Maybe, if she is victorious, then we can ensure that both of our wishes, directly or indirectly, are made true. My family can be wiped away, and Ilse can make her country strong once more.”


Shaking his head as he listened intently, Lancer kept his hands to himself, his arms folded together; his spear was leaning against the side of his chair. “Hope is far from wise here, Master. Why do you let idealism shine through her, and disregard it at any other time? You have to sort through your confusion, and find what is best for you. If you search through your thoughts, perhaps you might find that your wishes are harder to achieve than they seem to be in your current state of mind. For the cynic you make yourself out to be, you seem confident that events will play out in your favour.”


“They always have so far, haven't they?” Johana shrugged, her expression almost blank. “No matter what happens, I turn it to my favour. Even death would make a good ending, just to escape from this all. What others call suffering, be it mental or physical, has defined my life – what does it matter to me, then, if I live or die? Every year I still live is another year too long, as perhaps I should have died in that isolated cabin all those years ago, or consigned myself to my fate. The true tragedy of my life is that I made it all normal, all the pain and cold, smearing myself with it, even revelling in it. Part of me is still frozen in time from when I was young, forever staring into the fire in that cabin. I always have to wonder, then: did I change that day, or was I like this all my life? What made me commit to all the things I've done over the course of my life, instead of burying myself in an early grave? Ilse has a purpose for existing, and yet I have forgotten my own – or I never had one to begin with. Therefore, is it me who deserves to die, or should Ilse be killed, her very existence a testament to the pointlessness of purpose? In the very end, it doesn't matter at all: if I die, it will be because I have overstayed my time alive, and I will be right; if Ilse dies, then it will be because even she has little purpose in life, and inevitably I will be right as well.”


“I accept my purpose as being to defend your life, Master.” Lancer's response was stern and standard, hardly addressing all of what Johana said, quite intentionally. “Do not over-think yourself; that is exactly the kind of 'hope' that I was mentioning. Make goals for yourself, Johana, and live by them, regardless of whether or not you have a purpose. People in this era, and even in my era, rarely lived for a purpose other than to help themselves survive from day to day. Most people merely want to get by, feed themselves, and make themselves happy.”


Johana gave him a half-frown, seeming to be almost an attempt at a smile, and she set herself back down in the bed, letting her head rest in the softness of the pillows there.


“People... are strange, Lancer.”


He nodded, and watched her for the rest of the night as she rested, finally silent.

-- --

A red-haired woman in a green parka, and beside her, a man with greying hair covered partly by an ushanka. Ilse recognized them, and the woman's figure fit perfectly in the ironsights of her rifle, her body just slightly wider at this distance than the metal front sight.


Staying out of any patches of light, she buried herself in the trees and brush in the National Mall; small night-sights attached to the regular ironsights helped her see properly, and when she had a bead on both the Masters, then she waited. Every minute or so the pair passed underneath another street lamp; walking perpendicular to Ilse's position, they weren't getting too far away, and she had the advantage of time, making sure she bided her time until she felt that she had the perfect shot. She knew she'd only get one, and yet this wasn't the first time she'd faced such restrictions. One shot fired, and one enemy killed; if she was lucky, especially lucky, she might get the chance to strike down the second Master in the immediate confusion.


At her back was the pool behind the Jefferson Memorial, its water murky at this time of year. It made a good defensive position, though, since Ilse knew it would reduce the chance of her being flanked unawares.


She steadied her breath, making sure to count each second in her head as she felt the light breeze blowing against her. Each variable was taken into account, and Ilse did the calculations just in her mind, working them out to find how to ensure that her shot would land. Nothing about the shot could be perfectly predicted, but more so than good intuition, a strong understanding of mathematics was key – simple target-shooting this certainly was not.


As her finger squeezed gradually tighter on the trigger, Ilse heard a splash in the water behind her, and a rustle in the underbrush.


She pivoted about, still in a kneeling position, and just barely made out the shape of a person in the darkness, coming right out of the water. Her rifle immediately went to her side and was kept slung on her back, out of the way, and as soon as it left her hands Ilse had replaced it with her old revolver, a black, single-action piece of steel, perfect for close-quarters.


However, the sound of gunfire amidst such a calm night, would immediately draw any and all attention to her, ruining any semblance of an ambush she'd carefully prepared.


So, as the dark figure made its way forward, ready to intercept, Ilse tossed her revolver into her off hand, and in her main hand slid her kukri out of its worn sheath, readying it for combat. The sharp, curved edge soon met a long staff, held in both of the figure's hands.


In the midst of their fight, Ilse couldn't get the best picture of this attacker, but when they left the bushes to get into more open ground, the lights of the city revealed the important details: this seemed to be a young man, clad in a light red robe, its hems edged in a shimmering orange; when he moved about, it almost seemed like the edges of his clothes were lit aflame. Other than the distinctive robe, the man seemed almost notoriously ordinary, as if he was hand-picked to blend into any crowd given more standard sets of clothing.


Ilse cut at the staff, but though it was decorated with a natural, dull brown finish, it was as tough as steel, completely unyielding in the face of any assault.


The only hint of luck that Ilse had, then, was that the staff didn't ring out like steel when it was struck; she avoided its length, though, not wanting to dull her knife without real necessity. She couldn't waste her resources on one target when there were many more valuable Masters out in the city, and as a result, she was on the defensive.


She struck forward with her knife, a strike that was easily parried by the robed warrior; he tried to swing up one end of his staff to fling the kukri from her hands, but his attempt was in vain, as Ilse shifted her focus and strength from her main hand to the bulk of her body, and she used her superior physical strength to body check the man, shoving him backward, but not enough so to get him off of his feet. It kept him busy for long enough, though, that Ilse could holster her revolver, giving her one free hand to fight with.


Nodding, she gestured towards the man. “Let's dance.”


Slowly, she was trying to circle him and get his back to the pool, but he saw through that tactic and rushed her again when he fully regained his balance. He struck her knife hand out of the way, bringing the other end of his false-wood staff forward, aiming to strike Ilse with its blunt end right in her chest, smashing her ribcage.


Ilse felt a rush of air against her face as the man came close, too close, but she was ready for his assault. She gripped the haft of his weapon as it was stabbed right at her, and she grimaced as she bent it in his very grip.


The staff was turned against the robed man, and Ilse's knife came around to his shoulder; he noticed it out of the corner of his eye and shook Ilse's grip off of his own weapon to get out of the range of hers, using all the strength he had. He seemed to almost be panting, but he stifled that and stared intently at his foe, coming out of the engagement with just a long tear along the arm of his robe, exposing some of his lightly toned muscle to the air.


Now, he was the one putting up a defensive fight.


He struck from the side this time, swinging half of his staff at waist-level, leaving the other half to deflect any oncoming blows.


Ilse, though, had something else in mind. She could have taken the blow, which would have made her double over from the sheer force, or she could have dodged backwards, allowing her attacker to put her on the defence again, bringing her advance back to where she began, extending the length of this fight.


Instead of anything else, anything easier, Ilse waited until the final moment, when the man just began to swing the staff for a levelling blow.


When it started to move, just barely brushing the air, Ilse dropped to the ground, nearly falling on her stomach; she felt a heavy push of air above her, strong as a gust on the open sea. Just as soon as she'd ducked, Ilse brought herself back up, and grabbed half of the weapon before it swung out of the way. Focusing her strength in her off arm, Ilse reeled the man in close, and when he was well within striking distance, she swung up her knee – straight into his stomach. It ended with him lurching forward, his own attack turned directly against him.


To end the threat he posed, Ilse gripped the man's forearm, her kukri sheathed. His staff was still under her control, and with his main arm in her grasp, there was little he could do to counterattack.


Twisting her arm and folding it just the wrong direction for the man's own, Ilse soon heard the satisfying snap of his forearm and the complete dislocation of his elbow. The limb hung there, useless and weak, and the man started to go pale from shock. Ilse was afforded a good amount of time, and with that time she looked behind herself, to where the two Masters were walking, heading in the direction of the Capitol Building.


She couldn't find even a trace of them, no matter how closely she looked.


Turning back to her foe, she let out a low, panting growl, her attempt at a concealed assassination ruined even if she had won this fight. This man was no Master, himself – he had no command seals on his hand – and whether he was a magus or a civilian, it didn't matter to Ilse.


A single blow knocked the man on his back, and Ilse held a hand to his throat.


Her revolver slipped from its holster, her hand feeling steady and comfortable with the smooth grip in her palm and the weight of the trigger under her index finger.


With deafening, careless finality, Ilse fired off one shot into the man's forehead, silencing his agonized moans, and making his whole body cease its struggling. Blood poured from his wound, trickling down the side of his face and out the back, pooling in the grass and matting it down with a thick redness, a disgusting show of his immediate and obvious death. Such was the fate of most who decided to get on the wrong side of Ilse's gun.


Standing back up, Ilse breathed the fresh night air, smelling sweat and a hint of blood in it even as it was washed away by the cool breeze that swept from the other side of the Potomac.


She casually cracked her knuckles, ready to turn about, and then heard a sound from behind – this time, a voice, soft and feminine.


From the man's pale, lifeless lips came the voice of a woman speaking Russian. Ilse noted her accent as distinctly Hungarian, but unfortunately had no face to set to this voice. The words themselves, though, told her far more than what she could have discovered on her own; the question, then, was whether or not that divulging of information was intentional, or not.


“Young girl, I saw you there. My disciple – the vessel I'm currently speaking through – saw you, and through that I saw you myself. You were stalking me, trying to end my life. A natural motivation, considering the war we fight, but of course it's something I have to oppose. Consider yourself a personal enemy of mine, now, and hope that your death will not come too soon. Goodbye, girl, and promise that you'll give me not a hint of mercy.”


The corpse went silent once again, and all that was left was the sound of the wind, whistling through Washington, D.C.


Ilse nodded, understanding who was speaking: the red-haired woman in the green beret. She had long since escaped, but Ilse could at least gather some information so far.


This woman, whatever her name may have been, seemed to have several allies, though it was unknown if any of them were Masters. Most likely they were at least magi, and thus were a danger, especially if more than one or two made an attack at once. Then, there was the question of this woman's unknown Servant. She more than likely had one, and the existence of this Servant was certainly the most notable wildcard Ilse had stacked against her.


Though she couldn't approve of the odds tonight, she knew that having an enemy would draw this woman to her as they hunted for each other. If she was lucky, this could make the war all the easier.


If she wasn't, then she was walking a thin, tenuous line between life and death.

-- --

“More than one thousand years past, what struck you as incredible in the world?” The man was incessant, his questioning never seeming to cease.


The Servant scoffed in return. “I killed a dragon, and bedded an ex-Valkyrie. Then, I died.” He gave his Master a harsh look, and then turned his eyes back to the bridge that lay ahead of them, watching for figures in the dark. “I have and had no mind for politics, so I paid no attention to that. My father parleyed with gods; maybe he would be more interesting to you.”


Beside that Servant, ancient Sigurd, his Master crossed his arms over his coat. Clicking his tongue, he nudged the golden cross that hung around his neck, and he thought of more questions.


“I've lived for centuries, myself, and I think it would be just... sad, if a hero has less knowledge of the world than I. Is there nothing of interest that occurred in your time, nothing to shake the foundations of the world and history as we know it?”


“A vampire is a more curious being than a hero. Heroes are isolated, living out their legends without much attention paid to the events around them, unless those events define their existence.” Sigurd kept a hand on the hilt of his sword, and sensed something ahead. He stayed cautious, but didn't let his senses rule him. If anything were to threaten him, he'd surely know well before it could ever have a chance to kill him. His armour covered his whole body with well-forged iron, and he was hardly liberal with protection, especially not around the weak scar on his back.


Roderick shook his head, and imagined he was more or less talking to himself, with his Servant notoriously unwilling to tell him anything truly interesting. “Dragons are something I never had a chance to see in my time. I saw the monarchs of Europe live out the ends of their dwindling dynasties, and saw empires rise and fall and replace each other. Only now, my Servant, do I have the chance to affect worldly change for myself.” He breathed in, as if to taste the air, enjoying the sensation of power he finally could experience as the war crept closer to its end. “Even if I am defeated and struck from the war, then I get to see the world take another sharp turn. No matter what happens in this little contest of ours, Servant, the shape of the world will twist to one person's will, and thus I will always be the winner so long as I witness that change.”


“If that's what you wish for, then I'll help you fight for it. Just don't hope that I care as much as you might, Master.” Sigurd gave a heaving shrug of his shoulders, and drew his greatsword. The tip pointed straight ahead, right at the other end of the bridge.


Roderick could see, as well: in the darkness, lit up by a street lamp, there was a set of figures, numbering three.


Sigurd, confident as ever, stepped forward, with Roderick close behind, making his own presence visible. Though he himself could be seen, and it was clear he was a Master, few could know that he was a vampire, with power far more than that of a human being, even a magus.


“A ragged old man is my opponent?” Sigurd let his sword's edge fall and scrape against the asphalt of the bridge when he saw the Servant that was to fight him. “Unless he is hiding the spirit of Odin within that beard and robe, I can only wish that a better warrior would be picked for me. I know not who you are, but this battle is unsalvageable. Save your effort; submit yourself, or I'll force you to surrender without even a drop of blood spilled.


The old man spoke in return, his voice not a yell but nonetheless booming and clear from across the long bridge into Washington, D.C. “What have ye to fight with, other than words and an old lump of sharpened iron? I care not of which legends ye speaketh, as if ye claim that time is too rare to be squandered tonight, I shall grant ye that wish. However, I do not submit to ye. What combat suffices for ye, or shall that decision be my own?”


He held his staff weakly, staring forward with aged eyes at the great hero of Germany, a tiring foe with a foolish tongue.


“Take not one step further. Your body is bound, you d, and without movement it is as ripe as a cadaver.” The force of Sigurd's voice alone was enough to strike Moses like a physical blow, but he frowned and breathed deeply.


However forceful those words were, though, Moses took one step forward, and another. His staff was a cane to help him continue on, and Sigurd was taken aback, his eyes narrowing at the strength of this man to resist the power of his voice, enchanted with the power of the original tongue, before the corruption and dilution of language from its original purity. It had struck down the witch Scathach, but against an old man it had no effect whatsoever.


“Speak your petty speech, warrior,” said Moses in a gruff, low voice, and he tapped the blunt edge of his staff on the road. “Perhaps some others will find enthralling, but not I.”


His staff traced a line in the asphalt, carving it in and painting it at once, a distinct white line appearing on the bridge in front of Moses.


From below, the river surged up and, with its sheer strength, cracked through the whole of the bridge, breaking through steel, cement and asphalt. The half of the structure that Roderick and Sigurd once comfortably stood on, claiming it as their half of the battlefield, was soon fully separate from the side Moses stood upon. He gazed over the edge, his feet just an inch from the foamy spray of icy river water, and with a nod of his head and a shake of his staff, the far side of the bridge crumpled forward. There was a heavy rumble, then a full shock and slip like a shallow earthquake.


Roderick suddenly found his footing to be precarious at best, and he was forced to leap back a few metres to stay on solid ground; Sigurd did similar, and planted his sword deep into the road.


“See, you Master?” Alexei was there on the side of Moses, far behind him on the road, and he laughed, directing his show of spite at Roderick, who cursed the situation he was put into, before returning to his usual calm.


Alexei clenched a fist, gesturing with his other hand at the collapsed half of the once strong, sturdy bridge. “This Servant has the strength to resist the assaults of your own, and push you back to where you belong. You clearly don't seem to know me, Master, so know at least that you fight not against a single man, but against the driving, relentless force of communism, and the liberation of workers everywhere! Do you fight against liberty, foreign Master?”


“Only if it interests me.” Roderick gave a half-hearted shrug, turning about on his heel, his hands in the deep pockets of his dirtied, torn coat. “Your ideology, at least, has led to some events of note that interest me – I at least can give you that praise, communist. I only wonder if your young ideals can survive through the same turmoils as those that preceded it, though. For what it's worth, though... I have to wish you luck.”


Frowning, and unable to speak anymore to that Master as he dissipated into the shadows, Alexei wondered about his words. A strange man, that was, but he seemed intelligent. That was a blessing and a curse, to be facing men of intellect. Still, this Master was no ideological opponent, and Alexei felt a pang of dissatisfaction creep through his mind.


He felt the amber tip of his short cane, and twirled it in his hand, turning to his accomplice, the red-haired woman he'd been allied with from the start.


“Katalin, your Servant did well. Now, if there aren't going to be more interruptions tonight, I suggest we leave this place. That Servant, Gilgamesh, he won't be killing himself, now will he?” Alexei scoffed lightly, and led the way, continuing along the edge of the Potomac to find a new bridge. This one would be repaired in the morning, but for now it was defunct – for at least some tactical value until dawn at last broke.


With every day and night that these stalemates continued, the tension in the war escalated, marching on towards its inevitable breaking point.

-------------------------

Moses 2 stronk

Thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I've been feeling fairly enthusiastic about MPII lately, so you might be able to expect even more chapters from me from here on out - if you're lucky.

Anyhow, this is the part that really needs some background from Invocations to really make sense, so if you haven't read that, get on it, ye larks!

Next chapter will feature more Katalin and Alexei, the dubious duo, in their incredible adventures of not getting along well together and arguing all day! Also you'll get to see a bit more Dietrich, if you've been missing him at all. It's still night-time, so that means nighttime characters get the spotlight. Or maybe not, since that would reveal where they are, and that wouldn't be good at all. Spotlights are not good for sneaking.

On a different note, I've got something to share with you all. During my trip to England, visiting EXiku, we went up to Leeds and visited the Royal Armouries Museum there, a fantastic place that I really have to recommend for any history buffs.

Now, I managed to pick up a certain something from their gift shop, as well...

don't mind the crappy quality ;_;

Yes: none other than the legendary, venerable, Crocea Mors. The sword of Caesar, made of real steel and forged in Toledo, Spain. Quite a nice catch, and due to the connection with MPII I just had to buy it! It's really nice, and well-proportioned, too. Caesar would be proud, or maybe she'd scoff and say that hers is better; after all, hers shoots fire and stuff, and mine can't do that, unfortunately. It's pretty cool nonetheless, though! Definitely something I'd share with my MPII readers.

Look forward to next week's update, and share your thoughts on this one!

[Lycodrake]

Sigurd too haughty for his own good.
Also, definitely an awesome find in the Crocea Mors replica, too!

[Five_X]

I wouldn't say Sigurd is /haughty/... more or less he just doesn't care all that much and his Master is annoying him and he'd rather be somewhere else. He's definitely not the most dedicated Servant, unless he's in a situation where he can go hero mode and be awesome. Beating up old people is just too boring for him to stress about; he wants more dragons.

edit: damnit why do I always take the lucky number posts, FUUUUUU-

[Fancy Face the First]

So basically;

Sigurd's line of thought: "It's too dark here. My master won't shut up. I wish I was at home fighting dragons."

[EXiku]

So basically;

Sigurd's line of thought: "It's too dark here. My master won't shut up. I wish I was at home fighting dragons."

'Bang an ex-Valkyrie or few, maybe see about an actual one...and die happily. Maybe not that last part. Eh, no, I think I can die quite happily and peacefully. Nah. You know what - we'll just see how it goes, yeah. That's good.'

[Leftovers]

She looked up, and for once that night, took a confident step forward, rejuvenated for just one small action, the one thing that would make her feel comfortable. Blood rushed through her veins as if she was about to kill this girl, and her heart pounded more heavily with each step further that she took. Her hand, tight and balled into a fist, pressed to her chest just below her collarbone, feeling the metal of her necklace, just as cold as her pallid skin. Despite an inexplicable lightness in her head, she kept walking, until she was just in front of Ilse, their gazes locked together;

doki doki~

yet she couldn't bring herself to move, as if she'd been stuck in place by an outside force – or her own hidden will, intangible and unknowable.

doki doki~

I told you before, that she and I are the same, I can feel it. Somehow, her very existence brings me some kind of contentedness, or happiness, or something I can hardly describe with all the experiences I have had in my life. When I am near her, my eyes dilate, my mind focuses, and my blood turns hot, the same shifts I note in my body as I am seconds before feeling blood on my hands and arms from a fresh corpse, a death caused by my own hands and my own power. However, I don't want her to die. If she died, I feel that, somehow, I would... lose something, like a part of me being cut away to disappear forever. I have had fingers broken and ripped from my very hands, but that is nothing like the sensation I get when I imagine Ilse disappearing from this world. Her flesh seems to be worth more than mine, as though our existences are inherently connected in some way, living in concert.

Love, as described by a homicidal sociopath.

Can you tell I like this development?

“For your own safety, do not come to depend on Ilse too much. It will hinder you, and it will hinder her as much, if not more. I made the mistake of being too good a champion, too obedient, and so I shall serve you with caution, and question your actions for your own betterment. Your well-being is paramount to me, Master, so do not recklessly throw yourself in with the lot that Ilse has drawn, for too often that ends in tragedy.

A life of knighthood makes a cynic out of you, eh Lancer? I guess he's well suited for Johana after all.

Nodding, she gestured towards the man. “Let's dance.”

When it started to move, just barely brushing the air, Ilse dropped to the ground, nearly falling on her stomach; she felt a heavy push of air above her, strong as a gust on the open sea. Just as soon as she'd ducked, Ilse brought herself back up, and grabbed half of the weapon before it swung out of the way. Focusing her strength in her off arm, Ilse reeled the man in close, and when he was well within striking distance, she swung up her knee – straight into his stomach. It ended with him lurching forward, his own attack turned directly against him.

Holy shit Ilse is kuruuuu~ At the current rate Fivers is having her kick ass, she'll be fighting* Servants in a few chapters.

“Even if I am defeated and struck from the war, then I get to see the world take another sharp turn. No matter what happens in this little contest of ours, Servant, the shape of the world will twist to one person's will, and thus I will always be the winner so long as I witness that change.”

The chance to partake in the shaping of history, that's a motivation alright. It just seems like a very "human" desire, not exactly expected from a centuries-old vampire. RODERICK FONTAINE IS A TRUE PIONEER

“Speak your petty speech, warrior,” said Moses in a gruff, low voice, and he tapped the blunt edge of his staff on the road. “Perhaps some others will find enthralling, but not I.”

I knew it. He who has heard the voice of God cannot be affected by the original human tongue.

Your body is bound, you d

Also, typo.

That Servant, Gilgamesh, he won't be killing himself, now will he?

The anticipation, it almost hurts.


...ohei, bladed weapon replicas, my fetish.


*Fine, defensively.

[Five_X]

Yesss, a longpost, I missed those! Gah, I feel so nostalgic.

And hey, Ilse can't fight Servants, not even she can do that! She's pretty terrible as a magus, you know, and as you can see, fights rather plainly for one.

I think the only Masters who could fight Servants in any capacity would be Johana, Francois, and (of course) Roderick. Francois' ability to fight would be dubious, though - it'd be more like Rin and how she manages to sneak in some good hits from the sidelines, except I guess Francois has much better defensive capabilities. Especially against zombies, it seems.

[Sunny]

Finally having a chance to catch up. ^^; Boo finals, yay MPII!


I admit, seeing Scathach dispatched so summarily bothered me a bit initially - this is the lady who was so good at everything she canonically started becoming conceptually awesome - but then, it wasn't very long until that same ability meets its match, and really, if it takes Moses to deal with it, then it isn't that surprising Scathach couldn't overcome it. I wonder how many others could actually deal with Caster Sigurd, really... I can only think of a small number of other characters who might be able to.

Glad to see a lot more emphasis on Ilse too! She's really interesting, so it was surprising when she got written off for such a long time, but it really feels like you're making up for lost time now ever since the generals arc finished. Lots of interesting things and expanded characters are sweeping in to fill the gap. It's curious since usually, a character is more or less done / demoted once they lose their Servant. That definitely isn't happening here.

Overall, very interesting developments since the generals arc ended. Sorry for being too busy to comment during it!

[Five_X]

Another chapter! Huah! I hope you're liking the new characters (though Johana isn't technically new), and Ilse seems well-received, at least! And yes, poor Scathach got cut out of the story in quite a cruel instant; it's the luck of the Irish, though.

The reason why I hope you're liking these new characters is because, well, they've got a major role in this arc, and some of them will be important right to the end of the story. I'd say that this chapter, in general, focuses more on the "lesser" characters, the ones with less screentime so far, and that's always good for their development. Katalin and Alexei, especially, make an interesting duo. Also, once you're done reading the chapter, I've got a nice bonus at the bottom, that I decided to post up for fun.

All that aside, I hope this chapter is nice! Some interesting things are about to happen~

--------------------------------

CHAPTER LXXXV

“Impressive showing from your Servant, Katalin,” said Alexei with a puff of his chest, smiling broadly under his beard.


Katalin shot him a decisively harsh glare, her lip turning up in a cold sneer. “I preferred your Servant's role in that battle, actually.” She tossed some loose locks of hair behind her shoulders, barely pretending to be honest. “Hiding in the shadows as ever; a perfect mismanagement of useful resources. We could have won and struck down an opponent of ours, but that would be just too simple, wouldn't it, Alexei? Better to let them run away, instead of finishing them off.”


“Mismanagement, eh?” Alexei scoffed, one hand on his hip, and the other gripping his sceptre, holding it more closely when Katalin started talking. “There was mismanagement, then, in the revolution seven years ago, mismanagement when some pack of fools opted to revolt against impossible odds, demanding unreasonable terms and sparking unrest during peacetime.”


“Is freedom unreasonable?” It was clear to all that Katalin was gritting her teeth, her fingers clenching into a fist, trying to grip something just as Alexei gripped his sceptre, the symbol of his strength. Katalin's hands were empty, just as her power was empty in comparison to Alexei; he had the upper hand, and he was the leader here, and whatever he said marked the path they would take in this war, no matter how Katalin objected. For the sake of this relationship she was an ally, but just as in the greater political world, she was merely a vassal.


Looking at her grimly, Alexei shook his head. “Unreasonable? It can be. Would you rather have violent freedom, torn between the two worlds of the east and west, or protected stability? That unrest seven years ago, it was an example of what could harm the Soviet Union, and it had to be stopped. If there had been any concessions made, Katalin, then Soviet prestige would fall in the world's judging eyes, and your nation would be a window into the Soviet Union, a hole under the fence, you could say, where dissent could escape, spread, and distribute itself from there. The only choice was to take control of the situation.”


“I entered the war to undo that! I want stability, but Hungary, my people, must be free! We would be allied with the Soviet Union, as a free and cooperative state; is that an unreasonable demand? Even the Politburo almost granted that freedom, before they rescinded that promise only to crush the Magyars under a thick, Russian heel. You call yourselves Soviets, and build that identity, but nothing has changed since the days of the Tsars. The 'Soviet' identity is Russian, and any attempts to make it a united Slavic dream are foolish and failed. The Soviet Union is a Russian system for the Russian people; for those purposes, Magyars and the other Slavs may as well be an entirely different species.”


She crossed her arms indignantly, staring Alexei in the eyes, unblinking, not giving him an inch. Any show of hesitation would throw the argument in his favour, and on her pride Katalin could never allow that to happen.


Alexei just laughed at her, with his deep, Russian laugh, a puff of white passing his lips with every breath he let out, and every syllable of the cruel words he spoke. “You call yourself a Magyar, Katalin, but can you really say you're the image of your people? I fought with your father fifty years ago, on that cold October day, the air hot with revolution. Few men were as fervent as him, and when I myself had doubts, I would look to his example. And your mother? Her hair was as the red flag we bear, and her skin a certain kind of pale, as I remember. If she truly was a Hungarian, then she was barely one; no other man or woman of Hungary, amongst those I've met, has had hair like that. When you say you fight for 'your people,' Katalin, who are the people you give your love and support? You're a bastard of race, Katalin, and you've no right at all to claim any ethnic history as your own.”


“I am a Magyar, and I am proud!” She spoke that standing so firm that her feet were nearly grinding into the asphalt, and yet Alexei only gave her a frown, almost hinting at some kind of sadness, and he shook his head once more. “I love my country, and will fight for the history of my people. For years Hungary has been spat on by the rest of the world, and if this continues, we will suffer as much as Poland did in the last century, and we will join the people of the Ukraine in being on the knife's edge of extinction. Does that thought appeal to you, Alexei? Is it what Stalin would have you believe, along with Russian dominance and the denial of the west?”


The grip Alexei had on his sceptre was tighter than ever before, and a certain fire showed in his eyes, almost setting the determined Katalin aback when she saw him like that; she was too used to the old Alexei, a man who had seen and experienced too much, and had been worn down. This Alexei seemed half his true age, barely resembling the old, passionless bastion of a man that had stood before Katalin mere moments before.


“Do not say that name!” Alexei nearly screamed at her, bringing his face up to hers, his ragged breaths like an animal's. “I held no allegiance to that serpent, that betrayer, and you should damn well know that the near-thirty years we had him as our 'king,' I could never have felt worse. I opposed the Treaty of Trianon after the Great War, Katalin, and I pressed strongly for the integration of the western Slavs, but now? Now the Soviet Union is on a course it cannot stop, and never will we see another Lenin, Marx, or even a Trotsky. We may be led into the future by another Jughashvili, but never another Ulyanov. Criticize the Soviet Union, yes, but do you criticize a wolf for hunting sheep, or a scorpion for stinging with its venomous tail? No, you do not, so Katalin: you can have your nationalism, but never place the blame for our situation on any single man or event or ideology, unless that man is a murderous Georgian bastard and his ideology is a slur against Marx himself. Until the end, we are allies, you and I. I want harmony, not discord, so let's play our music together, rather than competing apart – that would only lead to our mutual desctruction.”


In the stroke of a few sentences his anger was calmed, and he was half-speaking to himself. Those feelings he perhaps needed just to speak, to put them to words and tear them from his mind, at least for a time.


Nonetheless, Katalin was standing there shocked, her Servant waiting ahead with all the patience in the world, listening to the conversation behind him with feigned ignorance.


Katalin composed herself, stroking her hair and ensuring her beret, complete with its gilded, gaudy Soviet star, was set right on her head. Taking in a breath, she looked up at Alexei, holding his coat gently, giving him a pensive stare, her lips pursed in confusion. She glanced away for a moment, and then turned back, her gaze more serious, and hard to contrast his softened, finally emotional eyes.


“What about the end of the war? When the end comes, and no others are left, only one of us will get a wish granted. Will it come time for one of us to be laid low, and the other to rise up?”


For the last time, Alexei shook his head. “I'll... think of something, I will, Katalin. As it is, though, I'll ally with you, and we'll see what the future might bring to us. With Rurik dead from the beginning, and Minassian an avowed Armenian nationalist... a barely loyal Hungarian is all I can ask for. You may not support the Soviet Union as it is today, Katalin, but trust me: it can be better, and it was better, or Russia was. We can bring back the old glory of our nations, and we can manage that together, with no blood shed between us.”


Katalin, as if to contrast her ally yet again, nodded, and stepped back from him, getting closer to the shore of the river, knowing that the sun would rise soon.


“You're an idealist, Alexei, and you believe too passionately. Yet, I can hardly blame you; you are a product of your time, and myself? A product of mine.” She let those words settle in the air, hanging there for a while until they were whisked away by the bustling wind, settling down in the early morning air, the ice-cold nearly freezing everything in place. No, she thought, as she let out a breath, watching the white cloud of condensation pass away into the darkness. When there was so much loss, all she was left able to do was save what little she had left.


“One of my disciples is dead,” Katalin mentioned, her words stilted, the subject brought up out of nowhere. It was a good distraction. “Not my most bright student, and a fairly pathetic magus. He was obedient, though, and he helps me prove one thing: someone is watching us, and stalking us. We have an enemy.”


Sighing, Alexei let out a dry cough and began walking again, heading towards the Key bridge, between D.C. and Arlington. “I always have enemies, Katalin; no matter how much the times have changed, that remains the same.”

-- --

A rifle was leaned, barrel pointing up, against a kitchen counter, and on the counter were a handful of magazines scattered about.


In the room, lit only by a couple of bare, hanging lightbulbs, a fan rattled on the ceiling, but for all its repetitive noise, there was no interruption in the conversation below it; the two men, sitting around the kitchen table, spoke openly but quietly, nodding every once in a while, forming a ploy for the first time in a week. It was a good thought exercise, of course, but also a serious course of action in bringing a decisive end to this war, before it started to tear out of control.


“Too much is going on, I think.” El Cid sighed, one elbow up on the cheap wooden table, the other hanging at his side, lightly touching the pommel of one of his swords.


“Too much, yes. That means chaos, and chaos means we have an opening. Instead of striking when things are clear, we have to strike when everyone else is focused on their own business, tangled in other affairs. That way they won't expect us, or won't be able to prepare, at least. We need to focus, and decide what resources we can use, and how far we can stretch our current strength without putting ourselves in danger.” Enrico scribbled some notes on a torn page, humming as he jotted them down. “Now, can you name the primary focus of the last couple of nights, Rodrigo?”


The knight nodded, grabbing the hilt of Tizona. “Gilgamesh, that Servant in gold. If we kill him, then you will get another command seal, which could amount to a free boost in my power. If you choose to use it that way, of course.”


“That's the focus lately, of course: everyone's focus.” Enrico gave his Servant a slight, chastising glare, and the knight just smiled.


“So we focus somewhere else, do we? I understand, yes.” El Cid stretched, the links of his chainmail flowing together quietly as he pulled an arm back, straining himself for a minute, and then sighing pleasantly, having loosened up his still muscles. He hadn't fought enough lately, he knew that for sure. “While the other Masters launch potentially fatal assaults on Gilgamesh, we strike those who try to fight him, or have their focus elsewhere, their eyes turned away from us. I'm guessing with this, but I imagine you would want to hold back on killing others to an extent? That way, they can work together, in a disorganized sort of way, and weaken Gilgamesh. Then, if we want, we can kill him and take the command seal as an ill-gotten but useful reward.”


Enrico shrugged, crossing his arms on the table, and looking over for a moment at his rifle. “I was thinking of something like that, yes. But, instead of killing Gilgamesh ourselves, we'll just have some other Master and Servant attempt that, hopefully ending in the deaths of everyone involved. With that opposition gone, instead of claiming the reward, we would try something more direct, and less dangerous to us currently.”


“And what would that be?” El Cid raised an eyebrow, constantly wondering about his Master's ever-dubious proposals.


“Simply enough, we have to kill the mediator of the war.”


El Cid immediately gave him a blank stare, having never thought of that in the whole length of the war. He shook his head, planting his hands on the table, and almost even laughed.


“Enrico, I think that might be completely mad, for one. Second, it could destabilize the war, and third, it... it's just not knightly conduct!” He stood up from his chair, his other hand once more ready on his sword, the slightest hint of the blade's medieval steel shining at the edge of the sheath, the sharpness of its edge nearly visible even in this light.


Hitching a thumb towards his rifle, an old German model, Enrico himself showed no signs of worry on his face. “Destabilize the war? Certainly, it could do that. More likely, though, it would force the war to be much, much... quieter. Without a mediator to fix anything that goes wrong in the city, the various Masters will have to adjust their plans, and get used to avoiding any damage done to the local environment. Magi or not, they all realize that they're in the capital of one of the world's prime superpowers, and anything that happens here will be looked on with suspicion from both the magical and non-magical community. In the worst case, going too far could cause a real war to break out.”


“I understand, but I'm still unsure of this.” El Cid lowered his head, still giving Enrico a doubting, nearly worried look. “Other Masters will have to fight smarter, and they'll be harder for us to battle effectively. If they adopt tactics and ideas similar to our own-”


“Then we can deal with them even more easily.” Shrugging, Enrico retained control of the conversation, and El Cid couldn't deny that he was impressed by the man's confidence. He'd learned, quite rightly and quite quickly, that when Enrico was confident, something was going right for them. “I know this feels dangerous; I have my own anxieties, but I can't let them get in the way of this. We have to kill the priest, George Foreman, and his very death will soon become known to the war as a whole. He seems like the kind of man who sits by the side of important events and watches them, but I know better. He's manipulating events, ever so carefully, and of all the people in this war, we must watch him the most. For the entire preparatory period of this war, before either of us were in the country, he's had time to weave his plots, and we have precious few days to catch up. If we catch him off-guard with the one thing he won't expect, we can kill him, and we can let the war take its course from there. Regardless of what happens, unless the worst comes to pass, the ensuing chaos will allow us to take control of the situation and drastically reduce the competition.”


There were several minutes of silence between the two men; El Cid was, simply enough, set aback by the scope of this plan, trying to conceive of all the potential outcomes of it. In the end, he couldn't know what would result from this, and he could only trust Enrico's judgement.


Enrico sat up from his chair and stepped over to his rifle, gripping it by its fore and hoisting it into the air, inspecting it. “We kill the mediator, and then we kill those who can't keep up. In the end, those who survive will be those who naturally would have succeeded and reached the end of the war without our intervention; because of that, we have little to worry when it comes to other Masters learning to fight intelligently or pragmatically in any way. Those who already do, will. Those who currently do not, will die.”


He gave his ultimatum, and El Cid had nothing left to say, certainly not in argument.


“That... sounds like something we can accomplish, Enrico. We deny the enemy any resources – in this case, the command seal – and get rid of one source of competition. No true knight would think up a plan like this, but I understand the necessity in this case. In times of war, even good knights have to dirty their hands with misdeeds, as war makes villains of us all.”


“True words, Rodrigo. Too true.” Enrico shook his head, and shoved his hands in his pockets. He'd already slung his rifle over his shoulder, barely standing out from his silhouette, and he held the few magazines in a pouch hanging from his belt, strapped tight and close to his body. He was prepared as he could be, and without a single word more he headed for the door of his 'headquarters,' with El Cid following close behind, orange cape trailing against his boots.

-- --

George knew exactly who was walking into his chapel that night when he heard the sound of clacking boots on the floor, thudding on the stone and wood with a marked cadence, perfectly in step and orderly.


“Welcome, Dietrich. It feels like years since I last saw you; is the war going well?” He turned to his guest with a broad, warm smile, placing his hands on his podium at the head of the room.


Dietrich gave him a short, curt shake of his head. “As you no doubt know as mediator, I have no Servant. The likelihood of my victory is extraordinarily low, though I do appreciate the 'truce' you negotiated as a sort of punishment for those select Masters. I trust you have everything under control, or are we going to repeat the last war?”


Laughing, George gave a slow shrug of his broad shoulders. “I can't tell, Dietrich, but I'll assure you that the Third Holy Grail War was an accident in every sense of the word and in everything that happened there. We're wiser men now, and you've got the grey hairs to prove it, as well.”


In response to that honest reassurance, Dietrich scoffed, his eyes narrowing, and he stood right at attention in front of the chapel's altar, looking his old acquaintance in the eye. “There has to be something that bothers you, if you mediate this war in truth. Not everything is going to plan, and I believe that the chance this war may take a dangerous turn grows with each day. There are too many Masters, for one, and a single war can hardly accommodate them. Your ruse with that one Servant, the Archer you summoned and sent to join the conference of generals, put even more strain on an already breaking system. Can you still say that you have no worries?”


George sighed, looking away and holding the podium more tightly. “No... I suppose I can't, can I? If this war drags on for too long, then even I can hardly tell what mistakes could be made, or how far the boundaries of neutrality can be stretched. The grail itself could become unstable, given enough time – time that we don't have enough of, but have been using as if it were limitless nonetheless.”


“You try to combat this, then, by having the remaining Masters fight that one Servant you selected, then? That at least is a good distraction, though the focus on one Servant could lengthen the war, if the Masters stop fighting amongst each other.” Dietrich nodded, and his lips creased into a frown. “How did you choose that Servant, by the way? Was it simply due to his power, or did his Master break fundamental rules of the war?”


“I was tipped off, you could say, by a strange woman who stopped in here a few days ago.” George recalled the memory, and the presence of the girl, off-putting as she was. Something about her was different, and in a way that he couldn't accept. “I was sceptical at first, naturally, but when I investigated into this Servant, I found that he wasn't a part of this war, not directly; this Servant, an Archer, was brought directly from the realm where the spirits of old heroes reside, and selected as a Servant within the confines of the war. However, his spirit isn't contained as the others are, so instead of having an at least partially physical form, he is a spirit, and the drain he could have on the war is immense. I have no idea what the other consequences of his existence here could be, but he's a problem, and must be dealt with. I reacted to that, and regardless of whether or not this debacle lengthens the war too much, it will be better than letting the Servant roam around, possibly making the ultimate deadline of the war even closer than it should be.”


Dietrich's frown turned more sour; this war was more complicated than it had to be, and from his own experience he knew that never meant well. “That Servant is not the only strange phenomenon here, then. I've noticed others: there is some spiritual presence in or around the Potomac river, likely not a Servant unless it's a rogue; also, there's a vampire, a fully developed dead apostle, in fact, acting as a Master. He must have killed to get his way in the war, and he's notoriously difficult to hunt down. Even if I had my Panzer, that creature would be a challenge, and most of the Masters here would, upon encountering him, have a low chance of victory. His Servant has impressive durability, being seemingly immune to many attacks, and the strength of a vampire needs no explanation.”


“That... worries me less, honestly.” George's sigh turned into a half-chuckle as he thought of the Masters, seeing even a vampire as a drop in the proverbial bucket. “Neutrality can be retained when dealing with him. Just treat him as any Master, and even if he gets far, there are formidable Masters we've gathered in this city. The joint entry of Alexei Skobelev and Katalin Maleter together could pose a threat to the vampire; Nigel Lancaster, though now indisposed due to the terms of the truce, is a master enforcer within the London Mage's Association; Francois Demarais doesn't even need to be spoken for. The vampire has opposition, and I think that he'll be dead sooner than you may think. Have some faith, Dietrich.” He smiled, almost facetiously, at the German before him.


Dietrich had begun pacing in the aisle of the chapel, and then stopped, giving one last glance to George before he left.


“I mean no offence, but perhaps telling an atheist Nazi to 'have some faith' isn't the best way to encourage or reassure him.”


“There's no logic in faith, only in facts. You told me that, once, back in the war. Maybe I should have listened to you more carefully? Well, it can't be changed, not now. Goodbye, Dietrich, and I wish you the best. Please, stay in the city for a while, just to see how this ends. You've been looking forward to this for twenty years now, and knowing you, there's still something left that you can try, just to get your goals met.”


“My chances of getting anything out of this war are rather slim, I have to say.” Dietrich frowned again, and shot a quick nod at George, who was still standing alone at his podium; then, Dietrich made a clean about turn, his boots once again clicking on the solid, polished floor, bringing him to the heavy, wooden set of doors to leave the chapel. “A man like me breaks a thousand international laws just by crossing the street, you know.”


With that he left, and then there was pure, hanging silence in the chapel; not even the fire that burned in a wood stove to keep the place warm made a noise loud enough to be heard from where George was standing.


After a long space of silence, George breathed in deeply, smelling the old scent of light smoke and pine, and roughly shut a bible he'd left on his podium.


The morning would be here soon, and it would be nice, for once, to see the sunrise. There was too much bloodshed and not enough beauty in this war, and George always did admire the neutrality of nature, how it adapted to whatever was around it, and both succumbed to and survived the advances of humanity. No matter how many wars were fought on the surface of this fragile earth, the grass and the trees would always sprout up anew; the flowers would always show their colour and beauty each spring, and the sun would always rise and set, dyeing the sky with its shades of pink, orange and purple, a sight George found more entrancing than any other.


Humanity may tear itself apart, he thought, but the sun and the stars would always be free, forever neutral in the sky.


A sudden, disrupting snap echoed through the misty morning air, and the cobblestones were soon shaded with a slick, glistening red.


George raised a trembling hand to his temple, his body barely able to react, and he saw in his fading vision a touch of red on his fingers. He breathed in – a short, sharp breath – and barely smelled the cool breeze as it wafted up the hill with just the slightest warmth, the first of the year. George smiled, feeling the wind and seeing the peek of the sun over the horizon, its rays passing through the clouds, parting them with a shade of light crimson.


His body collapsed of its own volition, slipping into the pool of red beside him, and he slumped against the chapel's wooden door, managing to catch one last glimpse of the shining sun before he closed his eyes for the last time.

-----------------------------

Katalin and Alexei get some much needed filling-out (though Katalin herself is pretty filled out, if you know what I mean), and... what's this? Yes, George got shot, right after some juicy dialogue with Dietrich. For such an unemotional person, Dietrich certainly can use sarcasm, or at least tries to.

Now, for the bonus: mini character (Master) profiles! Just some basic information on all the characters, for fun.

Spoiler:

Alexei Skobelev
Country: Russia/USSR
Age: 63 (born January 2nd, 1900)
Height: 6'6''
Weight: 226 lbs.
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Brown/Grey
Favourite Colour: Red
Best Kept Secret: Alexei despises borscht.
Character Song: "The Times, They Are A-Changin'", by Bob Dylan
Icon Animal: Siberian Tiger

Francois Demarais
Country: France
Age: 19 (born May 20th, 1943)
Height: 5'7''
Weight: 152 lbs.
Eyes: Green
Hair: Blonde
Favourite Colour: Green
Best Kept Secret: Prefers being in the Clock Tower to being home.
Character Song: "Bridge Over Troubled Water", by Simon and Garfunkel.
Icon Animal: Red fox

Katalin Maleter
Country: Hungary/USSR
Age: 34 (born April 15th, 1929)
Height: 5'10''
Weight: 136 lbs.
Eyes: Hazel
Hair: Red
Favourite Colour: Brown
Best Kept Secret: Dislikes all sorts of animals.
Character Song: "We Shall Overcome", as performed by Joan Baez.
Icon Animal: Brown bear

James Hawthorne
Country: USA
Age: 22 (born January 13th, 1941)
Height: 6'4''
Weight: 211 lbs.
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Brown
Favourite Colour: Blue
Best Kept Secret: Great-great-great-grandmother was a Confederate spy.
Character Song: "America", by Simon and Garfunkel.
Icon Animal: Golden retriever

Ilse (Elisabeth) Friedmann/Sadik
Country: West Germany
Age: 23 (born August 3rd, 1939)
Height: 5'5''
Weight: 142 lbs.
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Black
Favourite Colour: White
Best Kept Secret: Can't stand hot weather at all.
Character Song: "Gimme Shelter", by The Rolling Stones.
Icon Animal: Gray wolf

Eleanor Rosemary Richardson
Country: France
Age: 16 (born January 24th, 1947)
Height: 5'0''
Weight: 99 lbs.
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Red
Favourite Colour: Light blue
Best Kept Secret: Enjoys fast food perhaps a little too much.
Character Song: "Blackbird", by The Beatles
Icon Animal: House cat

Enrico de Seville
Country: Spain
Age: 28 (born September 1st, 1934)
Height: 6'2''
Weight: 168 lbs.
Eyes: Green
Hair: Dark Brown
Favourite Colour: Orange
Best Kept Secret: Would really like to visit a wintry place like Scandinavia.
Character Song: "The Boxer", by Simon and Garfunkel.
Icon Animal: Iberian wolf

Nigel Lancaster
Country: The United Kingdom
Age: 39 (born July 4th, 1929)
Height: 6'1''
Weight: 189 lbs.
Eyes: Green
Hair: Light brown
Favourite Colour: Tan
Best Kept Secret: Is deeply afraid of becoming a curmudgeonly old man.
Character Song: "Blowin' in the Wind", by Bob Dylan.
Icon Animal:Indian elephant

Johana Zloduh
Country: Czechoslovakia/USSR
Age: 29 (born December 7th, 1933)
Height: 5'6''
Weight: 125 lbs.
Eyes: Green
Hair: Grey
Favourite Colour: Black
Best Kept Secret: Once had a terrible run-in with Santa Claus.
Character Song: "People Are Strange", by The Doors.
Icon Animal: Greater noctule bat

Dietrich Adler
Country: East Germany/USSR
Age: 52 (born March 12th, 1911)
Height: 6'5''
Weight: 167 lbs.
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Dark Brown/Grey
Favourite Colour: None
Best Kept Secret: Once tried to drive an old Panzer IV tank down a civilian road in East Germany.
Character Song: "Sympathy For the Devil", by The Rolling Stones.
Icon Animal: Eastern Imperial Eagle

Jacqueline Maes (...?)
Country: Belgium
Age: 25 (born September 7th, 1937)
Height: 5'8''
Weight: 136 lbs.
Eyes: Amber
Hair: Light Brown
Favourite Colour: Red
Best Kept Secret: Likes alcohol too much for her own good. Wait... that's not a secret.
Character Song: "Revolution", by The Beatles.
Icon Animal: Eurasian Lynx

Until next week!

[Fancy Face the First]

George!

Nooooooooo!