It happens.
I'm extremely sorry to hear that, and I hope that you recover quickly and completely.On top of that, I got COVID, which should have never happened where I live.
. . . In hopes of bringing a smile to your face (if not a few chuckles), have a peek at that "revamped-yet-familiar" idea I mentioned, while I work on getting the reworked MobuSeka idea ready to post tomorrow . . .
Tokyo, Japan
Showa 20 (1945)
The capital was on fire, and it wasn’t my fault.
Though I would, admittedly, almost certainly be blamed for it. One of the primary instigators was, on paper, at least, my subordinate; that remained the case regardless of my actual authority (or more accurately, the lack thereof) over her.
I still found it somewhat baffling that someone who could be so committed to their goals, and the reasonable attainment of them, could be such a battle maniac—but then, I suppose I should have expected no less, given her infamous reputation. Then again, if I’d expected her to entirely adhere to that reputation, she would have been a man . . .
Truly, this was an insane world.
The continual explosions were an almost tangible testament to that fact, and I wasn’t so jaded to them that I failed to keep awareness of my surroundings. Sudden death could (and in my experience, frequently had) come from anywhere, so it behooved anyone with a desire to keep themselves both alive and intact to remain alert. And while I might be effectively useless in the larger conflict, as the anchor-point for our literal biggest gun, I was a tempting (and comparatively vulnerable) target.
Naturally, I was Reinforcing myself as far as was physically possible—my senses as well as my physique. It was, admittedly, unlikely that I’d survive a direct hit; but with everything tuned up as high as I could get it, the chances of my reacting in time to turn a direct hit into a glancing blow were as good as anyone’s.
. . . Not as good as they’d be if I actually wasn’t in the middle of a warzone, mind you—seriously, whose idea was this again? I have a Servant with the Independent Action skill, after all. That being the one specifically designed to allow a Servant to operate at full capacity while being far, far away from the presence of their terribly vulnerable Master (me). Why are you squandering this incredible resource by putting me right in the middle of the explosions?
I would have liked to complain to upper management, but that sort of thing got you shot for treason, even before the politics came into play.
I took some solace in the fact that the Servants seemed to be focussed on each other, at least for the moment. And the fact that I had a nice, thick wall of heavily-armed and highly-trained soldiers between me and possible attack—
A sudden explosion off to my left forces me to repeat and revise that thought; I had a nice, thick wall of heavily armed and highly-trained soldiers between me and possible attacks. Now, I have a large gap filled with the detritus of what were once unexploded human bodies.
A blur of motion at the periphery of my vision causes my head to turn in that direction—just in time to see a human form slam to the ground, apparently having launched another soldier away. It takes a second to register that only the fact I’ve Reinforced my eyes allows me to track his movements, and in that time, he’s sent another one sprawling.
I raise my gun but can’t get a clear shot—and I know that if I hit the infantryman, the rest of them will turn on me. The man in charge of this operation is a warmonger and a patriot of the highest order, and there’s no question as to what he’ll do if given the smallest excuse. He’s made it laughably clear that he considers both my Servant and I as expendable, and I find the sheer waste encapsulated by his attitude almost as appalling as its inherent threat to my personal safety.
Almost.
Fortunately, I have a ready-made excuse in the fact that the last surviving infantryman has managed to aim his rifle in time—
And at literal point-blank range, he misses.
I am momentarily struck speechless by the sheer incompetence, but a maddened cackling from the skies quickly fills the silence, and I relax, certain that my point is about to be made for me. After all, whatever her feelings regarding personal combat, Archer has made no secret of her disdain for the fallen standards of the Japanese military; such sloppy, unprofessional work will no doubt draw her ire—
“AHAHAHAHA! Impressive—I could only wish my Master was as adept on a battlefield!”
Hey! I might be enlisted in the army, woman, but I’m a magus—what do you expect from me?
“Still, the standards of the nation truly have fallen far indeed, if a single foreigner can be so deadly . . .”
Precisely. In this, we are in full accord; so far, this entire military exercise has proven to be an even more exorbitant waste of resources than war usually is—but more to the point, there is a significant threat to my health and well-being in the immediate vicinity. So, if you would please direct a small artillery strike or its rough equivalent in that general direction, I will make a tactical withdrawal—
“What do you say, Saber? I’ve enjoyed our battle thus far, and I could always use such a skilled blade in my army—and given his show of prowess, I would be willing to offer a place to your Master, as well. Perhaps he can turn out better soldiers than the one who claims to be mine apparently can . . .”
Now that’s an outright lie, Archer—not to mention an insult to my professionalism! I didn’t choose these idiots; they were just handed to me! And I wasn’t allowed to put them through training; I assure you that if I had, you wouldn’t be having this conversation.
Now that said, I approve highly of your headhunting (in the non-literal sense) attempt—talent should always be scouted and encouraged to join your side. Or at least to think well of you if you’re not in a position to take them on at the present time.
“Ah, well—it can’t be helped!”
With that ambiguous statement, there’s a sudden drain of prana on my circuits, accompanied by a sound like rattling bones; or more accurately, thousands of gun safeties clicking off—
That MANIAC—!!
I dive for a storm drain at full speed, wiggling my way through it; it’s not much cover, but it’s the best I can find. Finding a pipe opening, I redirect my Reinforcement outwards, toughening the material as much as I dare even as I curl into a ball and wait to die—all the while, cursing the author of my terrible fate.
DAMN YOU, BEING X . . .!