[FF] Grail Works, Ltd.: Fate/Anarchy (Type-Moon/Scion crossover)

[RanmaBushiko]

Uh, I think you have the interlude copied into that post twice, unless there's some subtle variation in the middle I skipped over the second time.

Well, that's still about as good an outcome as you can hope for. Hooray for planning! I'm not terribly surprised the Great Enemy is approximately Ymir, though there might still be some twist there. I do hope Fenris managed to get out of there.

Blegh. Insomnia sucks some nights.

And yeah, it updated, and decided to keep the original text instead of editing it like it was supposed to.

As for the outcome? Yup. As for the Great Enemy, it's effectively as big, and strong as YMIR would realistically be, because if you look at the statistics for the golem made by Caster of Black can REACH that sort of size, if given enough time. Terrifying, huh?

Yeah, Fenris got out, though you'll see more when I write the next interlude. Glad you enjoyed the interlude though!


Oh, right. Before I forget? Your joke about power armor gave me ideas for how to give Mordred access to knacks and the like, mostly.

[Kieran]

For those who may not actually look at the thread it's posted in - in lieu of a chapter this week, I did a snippet involving the prototype Shielder (yes, she's apparently a real thing; and seems to be Fate's equivalent of Sacchin, karma-wise).

Xamusel's opinion I know, but I'm curious as to everyone else's.

[RanmaBushiko]

So, on a different note, I've finally managed to write up some data for the Mecha Fafnir line. It's taken this long, since the original design was written up, in a single email, in November, 2017. Hunting it down was not easy.

On the plus side, my next chapter is written, just waiting on Kieran to finish his own before I post it. So I'm working on the chapter after that, the next interlude, and I've gotten Kiara's epilogue for the story written up for the endings.

And we've worked out some stuff for some interesting twists in the near future, too! Mwahaha.

Mecha Fafnir MK3




Mecha Fafnir MK1 was designed for moving through the caverns surrounding Svartelfheim and the heavier pressures involved within. This lead to the design also excelling for battles in high altitudes, as well as in crowded cities, though Erik nearly never used it for such. Since Erik wanted to use the Wolf Wing to pilot this, he designed it rather similarly to the Egg Wyvern in Sonic 2006. (Best boss fight of the game, I say. Even if it made me want to break my controller in half and rage quit to get that far!)




With a whopping 610 hp (which was GOOD for the time it was built in!), it tangled with Surtr well.

Image
http://info.sonicretro.org/index.php...pg&redirect=no


Mecha Fafnir MK2, on the other hand, was built for handling longer combat engagements. The vast amount of fuel, as well as ammunition stores for the tail explosives, not even going into the variety and alternate ways to launch them, meant that this war machine was able to be in the air longer than any other design he'd built to that date. Fast and agile, it was effectively a mobile weapon of carnage, and was used to great effect when most pantheons realized he was heading for Mars and tried to outright stop him.




The fact that he made it to Mars irregardless shows how durable this war machine truly was, in Scion's setting. And him flying it to distract the Gods wishing for revenge on him, from his launching the Wolfen, and Wolf Home from the South Pole, was nothing short of genius. (He had good reasons for flying this thing over the original, in other words.) Especially with 750 hp. To be fair, that was low, but he was a bit rushed for time.




Mecha Fafnir MK3, on the other hand, is a beast of an entirely new form. Pushing the size maximum to it's limits for a mech, and sacrificing the sheer number of units he did, he's managed to make an entirely new class size of war machine, with an absurdly massive cost in metal, and supplies to build as a result.


Image
https://dragon-inc.tumblr.com/image/180579259295


Where Metal Gear Rex MK3 has been a massive increase in minaturization, Mecha Fafnir MK3 is a massive beast in it's own right. 150 cubic yards of Steel, weighing in at a whopping ... let me do the math real quick.

7.9 grams per cubic centimeter, multiplied by 1000000 gives 7900 kilograms, or 17416.52 pounds.

Multiplied by 150?




Mecha Fafnir MK3 weighs in at a whopping 2,612,478 pounds, because each Mecha Fafnir Production Line unit, as well as Metal Gear Rex Production Line unit, takes an entire cubic meter of steel to make. Each.




But where would all this metal go? It's not particularly more Durable, is it? To that, I say, Armor.




Mecha Fafnir MK3 is unique in that it's stupidly, massively big. Armored to hell and back. A titanic dragon made of steel, born of Erik's wrath and hatred for Jack the Ripper.

At the same time, it's stupidly, massively big, and thus, an easy target to hit.




At a whopping 100 meters in length, this is going to be dubbed the Kaiju class, because Tamamo would murder Erik if he didn't name a mechanical dragon of this size after something Japanese.




1176 health points is a much bigger number than the other two had.
Health: 1176. Armor: 40. Speed: 120 MPH. Control: -10
+25 to strength rolls, compared to the oversized and normal mecha having +15.
Weapons:

Mechanical Jaw with Hidden Teeth:

10 bashing/lethal damage, depending on if the teeth are used or not. 3 speed.

Mechanical Tail:

10 lethal. 3 speed.
2 6-barreled flamethrowers, Twin Linked, Jaw Mounted
12 x 4 flame damage. 3 speed.
For all the dragon-breath style fire Erik might ever need. Fuel for days because this was built using 150 Mecha Fafnir Production Line units that had full flamethrower fuel. (Which, sad to say, gums up the fuel lines when attempting to use it on the engines. Flamethrower fuel is bad to use in engines. Especially with all the stuff Erik's added to give it an extra kick.

1 Stupidly Big Laser, Jaw Mounted

15 Aggravated Damage. 6 speed.

For when the flamethrowers aren't enough.

Rockets

450 500 lb equivalents. Speed 12. With some launchers built into the tail, and others mounted on hard points on the wings. Lots of extra ammo. Lots and lots.

12 Flamethrowers, belly mounted.
4 flame damage. 3 speed.

Because Erik is a paranoid man.




Unique Traits:
AI Mind: This war machine is sentient, and cannot be controlled by other people without Erik's express permission. Helps control weapons that Erik isn't controlling at the moment, as well.
Overloaded: This war machine also has so much bulk, that it can only fly for 45 minutes before running out of fuel.

Afterburners: This war machine can hit Mach 1. Barely.

Fake Cockpit: This has a fake cockpit on the front of the head, with television screens mounted in such a way that it looks like Erik is facing out.

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and TYPE-MOON, along with whomever they’ve happened to license them to, such as Geneon, Funimation, A-1 Pictures and Netflix.

This is a not-for-profit, just-for-fun project.








En route to the East Carpathian Mountains
Approximately 40 kilometres east of Trifas
July 4, 2004








“We . . . We’re not going to make it, are we?”

Though it was phrased as a question, Roche’s dejected tone made it clear that he meant it as a statement of fact. This was proven by his adding, “No matter what happens, we’re dead—or as good as.”

Gordes frowned, uncertain how to answer the boy. It was true that their present circumstances were grim, and the prospect of victory increasingly unlikely. And they had always known what the price of failure would be, even should any of them manage to survive the Grail War; the Clock Tower was not an organisation known for its benevolence—and yet . . .

And yet, freshly arrived after speaking with his heir, his paternal side not yet resettled behind the mask of a magus, Gordes could not quite bring himself to speak dishearteningly to the boy.

“It is . . . Not likely,” he admitted, nevertheless (for neither could he bring himself to lie outright), before continuing, “However, if any man is capable of achieving victory, I believe it to be Lord Darnic. So do we all, do we not—else why would we have followed in his crusade?”

“But—” Roche began, before Gordes interrupted him.

“Yes, the odds are against us, and yes, we have suffered losses, but the situation is not totally beyond salvaging—as Lord Darnic stated, we are allies against Assassin of Red and her Master, for now, and our most formidable enemy amongst the Red Faction is bound by geas to surrender the Grail to Lord Darnic. No, nothing forces him to allow us to keep it, but so long as enough Servants have been slain in the fighting, Lord Darnic might yet manage to hold them off long enough to claim victory.”

As much to himself as to the boy, the magus proclaimed, “And I’m certain he has a strategy, or is capable of capitalising on presented opportunities, that will allow our enemies to take the brunt of any losses from here on—”

“LORD GORDES!” cried a homunculus—Toole, he recognised belatedly—bursting into the room.

“Yes, what is it?” he snapped irritably, as angered by the lack of decorum in the interruption as by the interruption itself.

“We’ve—” Her voice broke, and she tried again. “We’ve received a distress call from the homunculi in the castle—they’re dying.”

“Another attack?” he pressed. “So soon? And from whom—which side?”

“It’s. . . It’s Lord Darnic, sir,” she said in a trembling voice. “He’s—he’s killing them all . . .”








Trifas, Romania








In the world of Exalted, artefacts of power were forged of five magical materials; each possessing unique properties, and especially puissant in the hands of a specific type of Exalt.

As previously noted, moonsilver, with its protean nature, belonged to the Lunar Exalted. The (relatively) common Terrestrial Exalted, created by Gaia, used jade—which was further separated into five colours, depending on the element of Dragon-Blooded Exalt they were intended for. Golden orichalcum, as befitted the Chosen of the Unconquered Sun, was allotted to the Solar Exalted. Starmetal was the province of the Sidereals—the Fate-weaving Exalts who bore the power of the Five Maidens (otherwise known as Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn).

And soulsteel, forged by literally rendering souls into alloyed material, was the province of the Abyssal Exalted; the Deathknights, the Solars whose Exaltations had been corrupted by the spirits of the Primordials they’d once slain to wreak oblivion on their creations.

Attuning to an artefact not intended for one’s specific nature was possible for an Exalt, though extremely dangerous—and yet this one, arguably the utter antithesis of his own nature and his Exaltation’s very purpose—had aligned itself with him easily, even eagerly . . . And the psychological implications of that might’ve disturbed him, if he hadn’t known very well why that was the case.

Hel was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a warm or affectionate goddess (she disdained such things with a passion, in fact), but she was a prideful one. She was more than simply a deity, she was the queen of her own realm; a realm whose inhabitants numbered far more than Valhalla could boast—because for all the violence of Viking culture, age, disease and accident killed countless more than “honourable battle.”

And therefore, if she were to present a gift, and one meant to reward a valued retainer for long and faithful servitude? It was going to be flawless; her honour would demand no less. And it would remind all who gazed upon it of the majesty and terrible power of the Queen of the Dishonoured Dead.

And this whip, Frid admitted to himself, does that in spades . . .

As an armlet, he’d thought it resembled a coil of thorny vines; fully extended, he realised his mistake. The segmented, serrated weapon was a stylised reproduction of a human spine, with barbed edges protruding wickedly from the “bones.” Ice-cold to the touch and dead-black in colour, it seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it, yet he still swore he could see tortured skull impressions underneath its surface . . . Or perhaps it was his imagination, brought on by the agonising screams the weapon made as it moved, slicing through the air with deadly precision; and meat and bone with equal ease.

And with every drop of blood it spilled—living or undead—the whip drank in fresh Essence, removing what animated his enemies and restoring his own mystical batteries, even as he expended their stores in battle.

Relentless Lunar Fury, Wasp’s Sting Blur . . . First Excellency: Strength, Dexterity, Stamina . . .

It was almost overkill. While the Dead were certainly a threat to an ordinary human, they did generally behave like movie-stereotype zombies: slow and stupid. As a Lunar Exalt, he could increase his own physical abilities on par with Reinforcement magic, and the whip’s properties alone let the weapon tear through them like so many paper dolls. With the added effect that it gave him what amounted to unlimited prana in combat . . .?

If there hadn’t been so damned many of them, he’d have almost been enjoying this.

How the hell did Darnic get to so many people this fast? Sure, Apocrypha showed Darnicula tearing through people like hell on wheels, but unless he started the second we left, there shouldn’t be this many—and the sun should’ve stopped him from doing that . . .

Whatever the reason, there was no time to contemplate it; between the oncoming swarm and the nature of the Charm he’d invoked, his concentration was almost completely focussed on the fight. That musing was merely a tiny whisper in the back of his mind, and only noticeable because he’d already spent a matter of decades listening to a pithy voice in the back of his mind—specifically, his own sense of cynicism. Once he’d reached the inside of the shop, though, and seen Olga Marie (and Mash, relatively) unharmed, the Fury Charm’s berserker effect faded, its immediate objective accomplished.

“Either of you hurt?” he asked quickly, trying to keep one eye and ear out for incoming Dead even as he passively scanned the pair for injuries.

“I’m fine,” Mash—no, Shielder—replied, and Olga, though trembling, shook her head.

He nodded back. “We need better cover than this; you or I could clear a path, but not even you could cover all sides long enough to keep them from surrounding—” He stopped. “Hang on.”

XX, he called, can you reach those forces stationed by the lake? We need cover fire in order to extract Olga Marie—and I don’t think even you can manage sustained wide-angle attacks.

“If I had my ship . . .” the Foreigner muttered petulantly at the implied slight to her abilities, before replying sharply, “Message sent—good thinking, Master.”

It was interesting, he thought, that the electronic reverb of her microphone carried through the telepathic communications, as well—and then he dismissed the thought as unimportant.

What’s the situation out there, XX?

“I’m seeing more undead than usual,” his Servant replied, “and feeling really grateful that Avalon is holy armour . . .

“At least some of the Dead appear to be trying to pursue the flight path of the Hanging Gardens,” she continued, “but most of them appear to be more interested in a feeding frenzy . . . And Millennia Fortress has changed its appearance to something . . . Weird.”

That she said that, with no apparent understanding of the irony, spoke volumes.

“It’s still a castle,” XX assured him, “but it’s got floating towers that are barely connected, and other odd features—I’m not sure what they’re for . . .”

Our most immediate priority is getting Olga Marie out of here, he instructed, disregarding her unspoken question. Second, eliminate all Dead Apostles you find; based on the numbers, I’m very much afraid that there aren’t any people left to save—but we’ll try . . .

And once we’re reasonably certain of having accomplished that, you and I are headed up to that castle—I want a few words with its probable Master . . .

“Mostly words like, ‘Oh God, please make it stop . . .?’” XX said with uncharacteristically black humour.

A joke I’ve made before, I take it . . .?

“You weren’t really joking, Master,” XX replied. “. . . And looking at this—for once? I’m inclined not to argue with you about it.”

Again, that said volumes about her thoughts on the situation; if she knew him as well as she thought she did, had any idea of how angry (and how correspondingly dangerous) he could get, and still said that . . .

Even an Arturia Pendragon had limits to her tolerance, he supposed.

Fair enough, he acknowledged.

Let’s get to work.








Millennia Fortress
Several hours earlier








Even within the context of a Holy Grail War, Command Spells were a miracle.

Given the nature of Heroic Spirits as individuals—being figures of legend and infamy, and nearly all of them more inclined to give orders than take them, assuming they paid attention to the concept at all—the ability to force compliance was remarkable. When those same individuals were elevated to existences that were equivalent to natural disasters, human-shaped or not, that ability became “incredible”—and when that ability could perform feats focussed independently of their target, such as warping space, or the translocation of a human soul . . .

Yes, “miracle” seemed the only apt description for it.

Still, even they had limits; Servants with certain qualities could resist them, requiring the use of more than one for a single task, and the more complex the command, the less energy could be used to enforce it, as its focus was spread out by merely attempting to accomplish it in the first place. Short, simple commands, therefore, worked best; otherwise, the limit was merely in the Master’s imagination.

Even so, under normal circumstances, Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia would never have accomplished his goals. Had he simply forced his Servant to utilise “Legend of Dracula,” engraved his soul and desires upon him, and turned the resulting monster loose . . .

Well, the Command Spells were certainly capable of that. But his actual orders were far different, seeking to alter the very nature of the Noble Phantasm itself; in essence, the effort was akin to using the Command Spells to attempt to summon another Servant entirely—and one that was utterly alien to the concepts of the universe, at that . . .

Under normal circumstances, it would have been impossible.

But this time and place had several sources which had been gradually raising the ambient prana concentration to levels more akin with that of the Age of the Gods; moreover, it already had more than one alien interloper, whose mere presence warped the definition of what was possible. And even in what was considered a “normal” Grail War, it had proven possible for someone—even a nameless wraith—to grant substance and reality to an otherwise fictional existence . . .

It was Darnic’s crowning moment of brilliance, really; and also, his final mistake. Because while Vlad Tepes III could be reasonable, under the circumstances, and even the legend he so hated imbued him with cunning and a certain charisma, the Count Dracula that he’d worked so diligently to emulate in this case was a far different creature. Not least of those differences being the fact that he had waged an unceasing war against God and humanity for more than a thousand years, and was well-accustomed to possessing human hosts, both willing and otherwise . . .

It took time for Vlad to fall; even struggling against the Legend of Dracula, the transformation would take seconds, just barely long enough for Darnic to utter the words of his second and final orders. Against the Dracula of Castlevania, however, an utterly alien warping of his legend, he had a bit more leeway as the planet resisted the incursion of yet another intruder into its domain (not that he was aware of that). As such, he had time to hear Darnic’s final commands and understand them—to fully comprehend the depths to which his Master intended, and had always intended, to betray him.

Vlad Tepes was nothing if not prideful . . . Or vengeful. His rage towards his so-called Master in that moment was the sort that had earned him his sobriquet, and ultimately spawned the tale he so despised—

And in accordance with that same tale, an echo of his fate across countless incarnations, and an equal number of worlds, in that moment, he was lost.








“It never ceases to amaze me . . . Despite all the horrors I commit, all the terror the legends inspire, inevitably, some human thinks it in their best interests to seek my power—and who am I to deny such . . . Ardent desires . . . ?”

Count Dracula smiled, even as what remained of Darnic Prestone Yggdmillennia’s consciousness screamed within the depths of his own soul, a helpless prisoner to the vampire’s will; with only enough volition to realise he was subordinated, while Dracula had access to all his knowledge, skills and abilities.

The magus had promised to be “a whisper in the back of the mind,” after all—and so in his magnanimity, Dracula had granted his wish . . .

The Count considered what he’d learned from both the mortal and the spirit whose essences he’d consumed. While he would normally avoid a Holy Grail War, this one seemed far more amenable to his tastes; and even if he failed to acquire it, he need only kill seven Servants to access this “Root”—which would doubtlessly allow him to regain his full strength, if it truly was the source of all things, and summon his beloved Castlevania, rather than this hollow façade. . .

Much like himself, the vampire lord admitted grudgingly. He existed, and had some measure of his true power—but that power was inimical to the powers of this place, and his access was thus restricted. Even as it seemed poised to slide into stagnation and entropy, Order held far more sway in this reality than the Chaos powers he commanded.

But from this “Root,” he could alter the very nature of this place and himself if any truth clung to the beliefs of his foolish summoner; and he could see no tactical flaws in the plan that had been devised, so he may as well carry it out . . .

A mere thought transformed him into a swarm of bats, spreading out to assault all those gathered. Oftentimes, he might choose to play with his prey, spread out the process . . . But in this case, he required minions quickly, and had power enough to inflict vampirism as an almost immediate condition. Likewise, he could raise the fallen homunculi as skeletons, easily—and after that, sending out his newborns to spread things across the hunting ground was a mere matter of willing it so.

While that process was ongoing, the Count took it upon himself to seek out the Yggdmillennia’s alchemical laboratories; or whatever such facilities might be available, at least, with the loss of the homunculus manufactories. Even leaving aside the value such a place had in conjuring forces and defences—much-needed ones, with the flimsy nature of this castle—it was the logical place to begin shoring up his most glaring weaknesses.

After all, his goals would be far easier to accomplish once the Ebony and (more importantly) Crimson Stones had been recreated . . .

. . . Sadly, the process would take some time—possibly, more than the duration of the War would allow. Still, their absences represented vulnerabilities he would not tolerate for one second longer than could possibly be arranged, and so Dracula continued working on the process—

The ancient vampire lord stilled abruptly, save for the twitching of one pointed ear. Vanishing in a cloud of mist, he reappeared upon the balcony of the castle keep, staring down at the village below.

Yes. There it was again—a screaming sound beyond any cry ever uttered by mere flesh and blood; as though the very air itself was in pain. It was the agonised keening of the damned, and under normal circumstances, Count Dracula would have savoured it, as a human might the sweetest of songs.

But there was a sound underneath the screaming, nearly hidden from any ear but his—a rhythmic snap that beat in accompaniment to it, like the heart pumping the blood those agonies were drawing forth—

It, too, was a familiar sound to him. One which had potentially many sources, but only ever one that would cause it to appear in any proximity to himself—which it always did, sooner or later . . .

The vampire lord’s face twisted into a rictus of hatred, lips peeled back to expose razor-sharp fangs, eyes blazing with furious scarlet light as his hair whipped in the wind generating by his rising power and rage; a storm’s gale to accompany the thunderous snarl that rumbled up from his throat.

“Belmont.”










Writer's Notes: This took far too long - my apologies. Stupid writer's block - stupid distractions . . . *Grumbles*

Anyways, hope you enjoy this partial payoff of things built over the last few chapters!

[Xamusel]

...is Kurai a Belmont?

[Kieran]

No, but after a thousand-plus years and a dozen or so deaths, it's an instinctive association - "sound of whip = Belmont or derivative descendant incoming."

[Xamusel]

Okay, I understand now, Kieran.

[Arbitrarity]

I'm not sure I'd say writer's block, you had lots of other plot bunnies at the same time, and I enjoyed them :3

Actual Dracula is... troubling, though we knew something like it was coming for a while. Not just because it has shades of Strahd, which might make the Powers take interest, but he's also absurdly powerful, even if he's somewhat sealed off here. Shirou is still in the game, but Jeanne isn't (though Astrea might be arriving, she doesn't have the same sort of conceptual advantages Jeanne probably would). They aren't likely to be able to deal with Dracula proper quite as easily as Shirou deleted Darnicula. That said, Godafrid is a potent champion for the job.

[Kieran]

I'm not sure I'd say writer's block, you had lots of other plot bunnies at the same time,

That, too; and the writer's block helped in spurring me to work on them.

and I enjoyed them :3

Always good to hear. And so did I, which is why I will probably be returning to them for a bit, now (also to give RB time to post, and us to hash out what happens next . . .).

Actual Dracula is... troubling, though we knew something like it was coming for a while. Not just because it has shades of Strahd, which might make the Powers take interest,

. . . Which was something I actually hadn't considered - thank you for the thought. (Though Godafrid probably wouldn't. )

but he's also absurdly powerful, even if he's somewhat sealed off here.

And I spent two or three days' worth of conversations trying to talk RB down about that. ("No - I respect the tradition, but there's no reason for Death to appear here! Or if there is, there's no way for him to conceivably exist . . . !")

Shirou is still in the game, but Jeanne isn't (though Astrea might be arriving, she doesn't have the same sort of conceptual advantages Jeanne probably would). They aren't likely to be able to deal with Dracula proper quite as easily as Shirou deleted Darnicula.

To a degree, that's true. That said, Astraea's Noble Phantasm is classified as "Anti-Evil" . . .

That said, Godafrid is a potent champion for the job.

This is also true - even leaving aside the nature of Exalts, the holy silver in his skin is a potent offensive defence (as his battle with the Dead has shown). Granted, his current Charms loadout is skewed towards anti-spirit combat - which would make him a terror against astralised Servants - but the potential is still there.



. . . As an aside, RB and I have been discussing possible additions to the Works' roster (still trying to settle on a permanent partner for myself), and I came up with a thought you might find as amusing as I did: The easiest possible way for Caren Ortensia to get into the Works?

Knock.

[Kieran]

. . . And either I'm not as funny as I hoped I might be, or no one here is a Caren fan. Pity.

Caren: Yes, a pity that you won't have an excuse to lust after my nubile, underage body. *(clasps hands in prayer)* Forgive him, O Lord - he's merely a frustrated old virgin grown desperate -

. . . Annd that's enough out of you - besides, even if that was the case, I'd have thought that you'd secretly enjoy it, what with being a closet exhibitionist with daddy issues.



Next chapter should be ready in the next day or so, folks.

[Arbitrarity]

I was trapped in the hell of imagining things literally, and was attempting to figure out how Caren found the door to knock on. While I did read most of Hollow Ataraxia and Carnival Phantasm, and thus have a decent handle on her personality, I didn't directly associate her... tendencies with how she would gain entry.

[Kieran]

I was trapped in the hell of imagining things literally, and was attempting to figure out how Caren found the door to knock on. While I did read most of Hollow Ataraxia and Carnival Phantasm, and thus have a decent handle on her personality, I didn't directly associate her... tendencies with how she would gain entry.

That's the joke - it is literal. Since Hollow Ataraxia has her transferring to Fuyuki, and the Emiya and Tohsaka households both have access to the Works' base (or maybe it's the other way around . . .), all she technically has to do is visit. (Which, as the Church representative and replacement for Rin's former guardian, she probably would do.)

. . . Admittedly, her personality is hardly ideal for the Works (quite the opposite, in fact)^* - but her actual entry into the setting is one of the easiest to arrange.


^*And were I to actually make a serious effort at it, I'd probably treat it as a defence mechanism against her abandonment issues - though I'm not sure how people would take that characterisation . . .

[Kieran]

Sighișoara, Romania
July 1, 2004








The last etchings made, Frid made a cut, and bleeding into his empty summoning circle, beginning to chant as he did so . . .

Ironically, Frid had a catalyst; he’d picked it up during a layover on his journey from the Orkneys. His pre-awakening reasoning, apparently, had been that it might be useful to the Yggdmillennia, given the scarcity of such things, after the widescale distribution of the Heaven’s Feel ritual; and if not, it would be an interesting, if macabre, souvenir. Post-awakening, he’d still intended to hand it over—even if the Servant it would almost certainly summon was no better than Jack the Ripper, the newcomer was (probably) more reliable . . .

And then Fiore had made her request before he could even mention it, and rendered the catalyst useless. For one thing, the Assassin slot was probably already filled (unless Zelretch had intervened to take out the unholy love-child of EMIYA and Kotomine Kirei), and for another, that one wasn’t at all compatible with him.

Some of the other versions, maybe—but I’m not sure any of them would be strong enough to survive this . . . Which means I’m stuck relying on the compatibility system.

Even as he began the incantation, Frid wondered—what sort of Servant was compatible with a Master who intended to betray his comrades in spirit, if not in fact, from the beginning? He had no particular interest in the Grail, himself, and no reason to care whether the Association or the Yggdmillennia wound up with it in the end; at least, not insofar as it was kept out of the hands of Kotomine Shirou or “Count Darnicula . . .”

Shirou—the real Shirou, to his mind—would’ve approved of that, he thought.

His only concern in this affair beyond that was regarding Fiore’s wellbeing, and to a slightly lesser extent, Caules’; only “slightly,” because he did like the kid, and Fiore’s was, obviously, invested in it.

So who will it be? Normally, I’d expect Hans, but under these circumstances? Medea was the betrayed, not the betrayer . . . Lancelot, maybe—or, since Mordred is a thing here, maybe her? It’d be nice to try and get her past her gender hang-up . . .

“. . . From the binding circle,” he finished in a thundering tone, “thou, Guardian of the Scales!”

Blazing light filled his vision, but his Mystic Eyes “saw” through the blindness, which revealed—

Oh, you have got to be kidding . . .

Fashion-wise, she looked like a Catholic schoolgirl, in the same kind of habit-like frock Ciel was known to wear while on the hunt. Appearance-wise, on the other hand, she looked like a softer version of Akiha; with a more rounded, childish face, wider eyes and wilder hair. Despite the superficial resemblance, however, she was undeniably not the Tohno heiress, as evidenced by her figure—and specifically, the way certain portions of it flounced as she hopped in place excitably.

“YES! I did it!” she crowed, raising a fist to the sky. She lifted her head up as well, shouting to the heavens, “Take that, Master—I told you that if Shiki-san and Fujino-chan could become Servants, I would, too . . .!”

Frid cleared his throat, eliciting a sudden “Eep!” from the schoolgirl, along with a rising blush that would’ve done credit to Fiore’s usual expression of mortification.

“Ah . . . A – ha,” she laughed awkwardly, fidgeting with her hands (and apparently, fighting the urge to bury her face in them). “. . . Sorry about that, Master—you are my Master, right? I’m kind of new to this . . . Oh, right!”

She coughed, and then said with forced formality, “In response to your summons, Servant Berserker—Berserker?! That makes me sound like an ogre . . .!” A childish pout appeared on her face. “I don’t like that at all.”

After a beat of silence, she smiled brightly. “Tell you what, Master: I’m Kokuto Azaka, and you can just call me ‘Azaka-chan,’ OK . . .?”

Berserker

Characteristics

Gender: Female
Height: 158 cm
Weight: A secret
True Name: Kokuto Azaka
Source: Kara no Kyokai
Region: Japan
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Hidden Attribute: Human



Parameters


Strength: B
Endurance: C
Agility: D
Mana: E
Luck: A
Noble Phantasm: EX



Class Skills
Mad Enhancement: E+*

*Normally doesn’t receive the effects of Mad Enhancement. In exchange, she keeps her normal ability to think.
However, regarding matters related to her brother, any control will be lost.



Personal Skills


Chinese Martial Arts: D
Mana Burst (Flame): A
Single-Mindedness: C

*Without the activation of her Noble Phantasm, Mana Burst drops by one Rank.



Noble Phantasm


Mystic Code: Salamander Gloves (The Fist of Ever-Burning Love/Everything is On Fire)


Type: Anti-Unit
Rank: C+ — EX
Range: 1 – 3
Maximum Number of Targets: 1 – 4

Description: Concentrating her emotions, and channelling it into the Mystic Code given to her by her Master, Berserker unleashes the full power of her Origin, “Ignition,” causing all targets within her sight to suffer the impact of her fiery punch. The more she cares about destroying her target—whether out of anger towards it, or protecting what she loves from it—the more damage it will suffer; with sufficient passion, it may even be possible to equal the power of the Mystic Eyes of Distortion or Death Perception . . .?

. . . Maybe. If you ask Berserker, that’s what she’s aiming to do, anyway—but it’s just possible that she’s deluding herself . . .










Writer's Notes: Just a tide-over until the chapter's ready (hopefully, later tonight) - and because I felt like the other main heroine needed some love . . .

[Xamusel]

...well. Certainly hilarious when I read the omake.

[Kieran]

I just thought it was a shame she's been left out . . .

[Xamusel]

Indeed... well, I hope you get to do something with that sooner or later. I'd read it, too.

[Kieran]

. . . Something to keep in mind, then.

[Xamusel]

Yeah, it is.

Now, best get back to the writing... ugh. Stupid idiocy on my end.

[RanmaBushiko]

Chapter 58: Jack's Inferno





The Wolfen

On the Upper Hull





Erik smirks at Jack the Ripper as they face off, glimpses of his face showing through the new metal head.




Deeper within, his smirk widens as he adjusts himself, trusting that the monitors showing him outside the head would portray him perfectly to Jack.



Jack glares hard through her one remaining eye, even as she launches herself desperately out of the sunlight; and more specifically, the harmful radiation slowly cooking her skin off.



Fingers move, and rockets launch at Jack, leaving her wide-eyed and unable to dodge, the explosions alone sending her flying back into the sunlight, rapidly flying away from the hull.



Desperately, Jack rotates, and then flings scalpels, doing her best to force herself back onto the Wolfen so she can leave the sunlight. But, to her dawning horror, she can't slow herself down fast enough. She has barely any idea how to navigate in this environment. And with more and more cracks forming on her re-breather, she narrows her eyes, desperation overriding common sense, as she forms a small platform out of scalpels, flinging herself forwards using them. Moment after moment, she desperately moves, forming platforms and using them to launch herself, irregardless of the damage they'll do to her as well.




The glowing head of Mecha Fafnir MK3 greets her, teeth opening and showing not only Erik within, but a giant barrel. A beam of light—a laser, as big as her knives—waits for her within, trying to carve her in half. Even as she manages—barely—to dodge, she flinches at the sight of it.



Between the sunlight and the explosions, she's doing far worse than before, after all. Jack smiles at the laser fading out; and almost immediately following that, blanches, as she’s forced to frantically try and throw scalpels at the incoming barrage of rockets. One catches her in the stomach, sending her rocketing backwards as it pushes her on and on, before exploding far off from the Wolfen, sending her flying further into space.




A glare from her one good eye is the best she can manage as retaliation as she flinches, her straining bond with her mother weakening and nearly vanishing completely, before Jack forms a platform of scalpels and sending her back towards the Wolfen, as she desperately aims to get to the front of the ship.



And a torrent of railguns and lasers answer her, trying to carve into her as she pushes towards the Wolfen, and the huge hole in the front she's just seen.






International Space Station





Gennady Padalka rubs his forehead tiredly, and then blinks. “Michael? Where are you at? We need to get this stuff done today, you know.”




“Hey, Gennady? Did we get a television hooked up to one of the windows as a prank, by the last group?” Michael Fincke replies, staring at the window.




“A television?” Gennady repeats, puzzled. “I wouldn't think so, why?”

Michael's voice is tense. “Get over here. Screw confidentiality; screw our nation's past relations. Look at this.”




Gennady pulls himself over, looks out the window, and goes still at the sight of a massive ship out of a sci-fi film shooting at something. He stares.




“Oh, what the hell is this...?”



“I'm not just seeing things, then? This is real?” Michael replies, tensely.




“Yes, yes it is,” Gennady replies quietly.




“Is that thing Russian? Some sort of super secret project?” Michael asks.




“No. It is not from my country.” Gennady admits. “We'd have ruled over the world if we had something like that...”




“Nor is it American. Wait... Is that a person they're shooting at?!” Michael yelps in sudden horror. “Oh, fuck. I think it is. Gennady, let's get to a telescope! I think we need to see this!”



Michael pauses for a moment, his eyes narrowed. “And laser glasses, if we have them.”



“Yes, we should have them... Is it some sort of super-soldier program, perhaps, that we're seeing?” Gennady quietly asks to himself.



The two cosmonauts rush to get the aforementioned equipment, quietly. When they return, they can see things a little more clearly.




“Yes, it's... That's a little girl.” Michael states the obvious. “That's a little girl in space, there. And she's fighting a mechanical dragon.”




“This is obviously impossible, yet this is happening anyways,” Gennady admits, quietly. “So—super soldier program, fighting mechanical dragons? Are we staring at an alien invasion?”




“I mean, if you want to listen to those conspiracy theorists, there were supposedly a lot of sightings by those that managed to get to the Moon, Gennady.” Michael replies, watching carefully. “And she's out there without a space suit, and only some sort of re-breather for air. The hard radiation should have killed her already, but she's only burning while in sunlight.”




“I think our countries should unite against whatever can make something like that, and ensure it isn't made again, right?” Gennady admits.




Michael simply nods.




“And I have some packages of good Russian vodka, if you'd like to try some.” Gennady continues. “Not sure if Mission Control for either of our countries will believe in this.”




Michael and Gennady look at each other, before racing to get a video camera to record the fighting.






The Wolfen

Main Cannon





Jack pulls herself into the massive hole in the front of the massive ship, after checking another hole lower, mostly sealed shut.




Her eye is narrowed as she pulls herself in deeper, checking for air. She's careful, wary, as she forms a wall of scalpels to keep from getting injured from outside—any more than she has been, anyway.




Then she focuses, filling it with her fog, and gasps for air, shaking, as the huge tube slowly fills with her fog.




“Mommy? I found an opening in the front—it's a really long tube.” She sends to her mother, warily looking around, even as a bright light turns on towards the back.




Then she pauses, narrowing her eyes as she focuses on the light. “And there's a bright light at the back, too. Suggestions?”



“Be careful, dear. That sounds an awful lot like he let you in it...” Her mother's voice returns to her.




Jack nods. “I'm able to form air in here with my fog, though. So I've gotten some breaths in!” She smiles weakly as she focuses, checking on her two remaining bodies—



And then freezes at hearing a ship-wide announcement.



“Main cannon ready?!” Erik's voice echoes through the ship, even as Jack slowly turns around, looking outside. He's to one side of the hole, waving and grinning at her.



“Mommy, quick—what's a ‘cannon?!’” Jack sends, to her mother, as she grows more wary.



“You're in a gun barrel, dear! GET OUT, NOW!” To her mother's words, and Jack's credit, she flings herself back outwards—but it's not quite fast enough. She hears, both within the barrel, and through the bodies she's possessing, the words “FIRE!”




The pain is horrifying, as several fingers of one hand, and her remaining good leg, disappear instantly, caught in the wake of the cannon firing.



Jack the Ripper desperately clings to one leg with her arms. Desperately, she does her best to ignore the missing fingers as she both tries to not scream in agony, and not to pass out from the pain, as she slowly drifts away from the Wolfen.




Another missile slams into her from Mecha Fafnir MK3, sending her flight into high speed, as Erik's smirk grows within.






International Space Station






Michael and Gennady stare, quietly, for a long moment. They just started to film through the telescopes. And, to their horror, they watched the girl lose a limb, only to not bleed.




“Alien super-soldier, maybe? Or alien-made?” Michael asks hesitantly.



“She's not bleeding. She lost a leg, and she's not bleeding! What the hell am I even looking at?!” Gennady mutters.



“And whatever that thing just shot, it wasn't a laser, either! Kinda...It looked like...Plasma. Like in neon signs...” Michael mutters back. “Holy shit, that’s a plasma cannon, I think! What the hell?!”

Gennady quietly hands over a packet full of vodka, while pulling out one for himself, as well; in unison, they take a drink.



“Good stuff. Thank you.” Michael says, quietly, eyes riveted to the action before them.



Gennady only nods as they watch carefully, trying to see things more clearly despite the distance they're at.






The Wolfen

Cloning Research Lab 1






Kairi Sisigou frowns, slightly, watching as Scáthach draws up an immaculate contract. Then he almost grins softly, at a realization of what's going on, before whistling. “You're going pretty fast with that contract. I suppose this is the difference between modern day magecraft, and magecraft of your era, ma'am?”




Scáthach nods at him, calmly, all the while as Jack's eyebrows rise.



“How is this going fast?!” Jack complains quietly.




Kairi glances over at her, frowning softly, before settling back. “By the simple fact that these contracts normally take days to write, by modern standards, not minutes...” His retort leaves Jack blinking.





“That's kind of impressive, I suppose!” Jack smiles, before her smile slowly dims.



Kairi sighs, looking back at Touko, one hand raised and ready to use a Command Spell at any time, before back to Jack again. “So... Why all this, anyways? What's the reason for all this, really?”




For a moment, Jack the Ripper studies him carefully. “It's the only way to let Mommy have me be her daughter for real.”



Kairi simply points at the device in the room that his daughter's clone had burst out of, possessed by Jack the Ripper. “You see that device? That device was made by the guy who you've been fighting. It would let that happen without a wish, just like it's been working to give my daughter a new body that you've possessed.”




Jack stills, the clone she's possessing turning back to look at it with wide-eyed horror. “You mean... I could have been her daughter, and I broke the only machine that would let it happen?!”



“Indeed. The more ironic bit is, if you'd have asked, we would have been able to help make you a new body... But we're too tired to build one, with how much fighting we've done now.” Touko speaks up, leaving Jack paler than before, and looking at them both in no slight horror.




Scáthach simply frowns, and folds her arms. “Contract's done, as much as I hate to say it.”



Jack slowly looks at her, in the clone body, and then moves over to sign quietly. Unlike before, where she was calm and confident, though, now she's hesitant; obviously thinking over her actions and plans more.



Then she looks up, her eyes narrowed, as she moves over her spare body to sign. For one single moment, Jack studies Kairi through his daughter's eyes, as her gaze slightly softens.



Then they harden, as the Geas contract is signed, and Touko Aozaki raises her arm.



“By the power of this Command Spell, you shall take no action to attack Assassin of Black with your spear or Noble Phantasm, Lancer.” Touko's words echo through the room.




Jack's eyes widen, watching in glee, as Touko moves to remove her Command Spells…And gets a spear through the heart for her trouble.



Silence reigns in the room, as Scáthach brutally carves Gae Bolg through Touko Aozaki's corpse, first in half, then removing the arm with Command Spells, before sending the arm to Jack.




For one moment, Jack simply stares at the arm in mute shock, before shaking it off. “You know... I would have liked being on a team with you, I think.”



“It's a little too late for that, isn't it?” Scáthach shoots back, folding her arms and simply watching.



Jack nods, her hair half obscuring her eyes. “Fair. Now to transfer this to Mommy, and then we're done.”



“Thank you for not hurting my daughter, or killing me. It's been a rough trial to get her stabilized after she's been dead for so long...” Kairi trails off.



Jack stares at Kairi, wide-eyed, before smiling slightly, as the Command Spell fades from Touko's arm. “You know... I think that if you were my Father, I wouldn't have minded so much.”




Kairi and Scáthach blinks, even as Kairi's eyebrows rise. Jack shakes her head softly. “I was made from all the Orphans that died, not knowing their parents. Not one single murderer alone, but...”



Then Jack flinches, visibly trying to not bite through her lower lip as she clenches her leg in pain. Moments later, she fails, even as Kairi's eyes widen further at the sight of Jack's leg, and fingers seeming to fall out of her control.




“What...?” Kairi whispers. “The damage, perhaps?”



She nods, flinching quietly, then blinks at him reaching towards her, looking like he wants to help. For one moment, she stares at him, longing mixed with terror.



Then she flinches backwards, flashes of memories in life slamming into her; fathers abandoning her—mothers abandoning her…



“I didn't get a father as good as you are—she doesn't deserve one, either!” With those words, Jack moves, catching the knife left in mid-air and moving to slit her throat as the other Jack moves to do the same.



Then, the last thing Jack sees is Scáthach's smirk as the contract glows white with runes, before the wraiths in both bodies die.




A suitcase slams open, moments later, and Touko Aozaki calmly pulls herself out, third Command Spell glowing softly on her arm. “Well, it looks like the modifications we worked on work perfectly. What did I miss?”





The Wolfen

Aft Section






Erik watches, calmly, as Jack the Ripper floats further and further away, hands clinging to her leg. His eyes narrow, at the sight of glowing golden prana drifting away from her, as she desperately fights to not disappear, her lungs shaking and eyesight barely seeing anything from nearly no air, radiation from the sunlight, and the sheer amount of damage she's taken.




Then, as bonds with her last remaining wraiths snap, she jerks back and screams long and hard into the rebreather.



For several moments, all she can do is scream in pain and agony, as she slowly tries to focus with her one good eye remaining on the situation; desperately working past the pain to focus before her.



She's too far from the bridge, she realizes faintly, to make it. There's no air there. And if she tries for the cannon again, she'll just die inside it. The other one doesn't seem like it can seal air-tight—or if it can, then she can't find a way into it to do so, with whatever was covering it.



There's only one single place with air left, and that's the cockpit her foe is in. But she can barely think through the pain, the torment. With such little air left...



One last scream, as she desperately tries to focus, erupts from her lips.



POP



Then she stares in horror, at the re-breather's front detonating, letting all that air escape from her mouth.



Desperately, she tries to inhale, forcing air back in. But instead, more air leaves her mouth and lungs as she tries that.



“Oh God... Mommy, I'm out of air. The re-breather just broke.” She sends, desperately to her mother, as she struggles to focus. Her one good eye slips shut, and then snaps open as she desperately tries to live.



“You got me this Command Spell, didn't you dear? Good job, my daughter. Now is the time to use it, isn't it? BY THE POWER OF THIS COMMAND SPELL! MY DAUGHTER! GET TO AIR AND BREATHE!” Her mother's voice returns to her, followed by a wave of power that floods her, and forces her to continue moving forwards.



https://youtu.be/j0KnBHHOJ0k?t=80 (You Are My King ~ Fate Zero, 1:20)



Scalpels form, snapping together behind her remaining leg as she rolls in place, arms and leg moving to rest upon it. Then Jack desperately flings herself forwards, the Command Spell giving her the force she needs for one last, desperate push.



Rockets fire, flamethrowers burn, as Erik instantly recognizes what she's doing and pulls away rapidly, doing his best to outmaneuver and finish off the suddenly-mobile Jack the Ripper. But even as he does so, he spots that with her sudden burst of strength, she's regained her prior mobility. Instinctively forming and throwing scalpels to dodge and balance herself out as she moves, she's much closer to her original speed at the beginning of the fight—a speed that Erik has problems countering, as he continues trying to outgun her and shoot her down.



Rapidly, Jack forces her body to go faster, straining herself utterly to her limits as she pushes forwards. Whether to go towards the Wolfen's main bridge, or to catch Erik's war machine and force herself into its head, she doesn't care—but she pushes forwards towards both, anyways.




Rockets slam around her, as Jack does her best to evade, but the flamethrowers do more damage—even in the void of space—burning more of her clothes away, and savaging her right arm worse as she desperately continues flinging herself forwards towards the fleeing Mecha Fafnir MK3, and the bridge before her.



Then her eyes widen as the last window starts slowly covering with a sheet of metal. Desperately, she looks down, rolling onto the hull of the Wolfen as she does so and using all three remaining limbs to constantly pull herself forwards, calculating the speed it would take to reach it.



Moments later, she flinches, realizing that even with the Command Spell, she simply isn't fast enough. So she turns, launching herself at Erik's cockpit instead. Her eye widens in glee, as she can see reflected sunlight shining off the cockpit, Erik's face illuminated with controls within.



A grin comes to her face, as Jack can see what she'll do once she's back to the ground, having taken over his flying metal dragon and used it to fly to her mother. Even as light glows in the mouth, and a lower section underneath opens up, she bares her teeth with glee.



Then she desperately dodges left, as a laser beam covering nearly a third of the head fires at her from below. Having been hidden by the bulk of the head’s structure, it nearly wings her, and a knife sheath vaporizes in a flash as it grazes her clothes.



Rage flickers in her eye as Jack hurls herself forwards faster—desperately dodging the repeatedly-firing laser as she pushes herself at the cockpit. Rage and desperation drive her as one hand clings to her throat, the Command Spell slowly wearing down from the massive burst she felt at first.



With one last leap of desperation, she catapults herself at the cockpit, and slams into its face, before desperately using her knives to try and pry the mouth open.



Slowly, desperately, with all the power she has, Jack forces the mouth open, dives the rest of the way in, and then takes a deep breath. Her bad arm sticks out, keeping the jaw pried open, as she reaches for the metal shell like thing on Erik's face, to grab it and pull it onto her own.



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wn8IJSTmWCc (Inferno ~ The Crow)



Then, she stares at the television depicting Erik, deeper in, waving at her, as she breathes nothing but vacuum instead of air within the cockpit. For a moment, she just blinks, before poking the screen; her oxygen-starved brain desperately trying to figure out what she's looking at. Some kind of glass barrier…?



Then her eye widens at the abrupt realization that it's a picture instead, and she glares in rage as it suddenly changes—moments later it shows text to her, instead.



“’Did you have fun thinking that I'd put the cockpit in the same location three different times? You must think me an idiot,’” Jack reads, eye widening in horror as she realizes that he tricked her. Desperation hits, as she turns to force herself out, right before the open jaws grow matching sets of serrated teeth, and bite through the injured arm still hanging half within the mouth.



Her eye widens in pain, as she stares numbly at her missing arm, and the jaws having grown teeth. Then her eye widens even further, as through the gaps between the teeth, she can see the Earth—and it's coming closer...



Desperately, she turns to glare at the screen again, and it shows Erik waving at her, smirking. Below his face, more text reads,“It's time to ensure you die once and for all. And what better way than to ensure you burn, hmm?”



With those words, Mecha Fafnir MK3 puts word to action, as the Earth starts growing closer much faster.



Desperately, Jack forms scalpels in the cockpit with the bulk of her remaining prana, spending it liberally to get some form of air within so she can breathe. But, alas, the moment she tries to form air within the head, it fades away.



Jack flinches, paling at the realization that she's just about out of prana; then, with her remaining arm, she desperately starts carving at the teeth holding her in with the knives she has left. Her one remaining hope is to use the poison to cut a way out before she can burn, even as the Command Spell's power continues to leave her.



And, as her desperation grows worse and worse, Erik's grin widens, showing teeth.



The heat is barely noticeable, at first, as she continues to try to cut her way out. Her teeth clench, as her body grows frantic to get a way out. One tooth is gone before she really starts to feel it—but her air-starved mind refuses to comprehend it, her desperation pushing her harder to push through.



“Dear?! Are you alright? I can see a comet coming down near where you feel like you're at!” Her mother's voice hits her, but she mostly ignores it, continually trying to carve a way to freedom—to air.



“No—air...!” she tries to send back to her mommy desperately, before grabbing another knife with her teeth and starting to stab with her mouth, as well.



“Dear, are you alright?! Please, where are you—talk to me, dear!”



Jack flinches, as she continues. Her tongue is getting hot. Everything is getting hot. She's not sure why.



“Heat… Everywhere. Stuck in metal dragon mouth—lost arm, lost leg. lost foot… Mommy, it hurts.”



Another tooth is gone before her, and she can see the rest starting to look red, like pretty triangles from a church she remembers vaguely seeing from when she was young.



For a moment, her air-starved brain blinks in confusion as she stops, trying to remember where she remembered that from.



“Hot metal teeth... like colored glass panes in churches!” She sends to her mother, then pauses, before going wide eyed at the realization that she can hear, if barely.



Slowly, she breathes in, relishing the idea of winning... And breathes in only fire as the flames of re-entry burn the air, burn her throat, and leave her desperately trying to not scream as the they—mixed within a thin sheath of yet-unconsumed oxygen—sear their way down her throat.



Her one remaining eye bulges wide in pain, before she forces herself against the teeth once more, the minimal fresh air just enough for her to realize her predicament.



But she has no way to stop it; no way to stop the pain coming for her, as she knocks more teeth loose and Mecha Fafnir MK3 slams into lower orbit, afterburners pushing it to the edge of the sound barrier.



More and more, she desperately strains, in utter agony. The air itself is burning away at her, destroying more and more of her one remaining arm as she uses it and her damaged leg to try and block the mouth as well as she can. One long attempt to survive the burning air and pain.



Eventually, miraculously, the air stops burning around her. Slowly, through a half-charred throat, she gasps a breath in. It's full of smoke, the screen having melted from the fires of re-entry—but she has air...



And one damaged leg left, her arm having melted from the heat.



Then, Mecha Fafnir MK3's wings snap wide open, and flap, stopping the machine. Jack's eye widens in horror, as her body is slammed through the gaps in the mouth where she'd knocked out teeth before, and Hydra Venom grazes her skin as she falls towards the lake below.



Her good eye catches her mother rushing towards her—whose own eyes are wide in horror as she looks at her daughter falling through the air—as well as a procession of mecha moving out towards the city in the distance, as well.



Then her body slams into the water, and she knows nothing else.



Not of her mother, screaming as she uses her final Command Spell. Nor of Erik, looking for her only to shrug it off, and search for other things.






The Wolfen

Cloning Research Lab 1







Mordred slams open the door, eyes wide as she looks inside, then blinks. “You're alright?! What happened in here?”



Then she pauses, blinking as she looks over the room carefully, eyes wide at the sight of Touko Aozaki stretching, while another Touko Aozaki's corpse lies in the room, dead. Her former master is sitting beside his daughter, holding her in his arms, while Scáthach silently cleans blood off her spear.



Kairi and Touko almost flinch from the sudden urge to bow to Mordred, then blink in confusion at both her, and the other’s almost flinching in unison with them.



“Well, we tricked her wraiths into dispelling themselves,” Kairi explains. After a moment's pause, he adds, “Your new deal with Erik is going well, I take it? Considering I seem to have the urge to bow to you now...”



“Well, that's a long story, I suppose...” Mordred sighs. “Scylla? They're all safe down here, though the lab seems to be a wreck. Additionally, Miss Aozaki seems to be down one body double.”




“Roger that, new fellow minion!” The Scylla states, almost cheerfully.



“MINION?!” Mordred almost screeches. “I'll show you MINION WITH CLARENT LATER!”



As Mordred shouts at the Scylla over the communications network, Kairi and Touko glance at each other with looks of interest and confusion—the confusion only growing at the realization that Clarent now glows with a pale white light…





International Space Station






Gennady and Michael sit, mutely studying each other and the cameras they recorded on. They alternate looks between the two points of interest, before one of them finally breaks the silence.




“I'll admit—if I hadn't gotten that on film? I never would have guessed that that could happen,” Gennady admits, his voice having only a trace of a drunken slur, and a Russian accent now. “Even if we both admit we saw it, I still can barely believe it.”
“Yeah,” his companion responded. “They talk about UFOs on occasion, but it's always jokes, not... whatever this was. I don't know what to say. And Mission Control apparently saw none of it—we've got the only evidence.”



For a moment, Michael pauses, contemplating that thought. Eventually, he asks, his voice slightly slurred as well. “You think the computers are sabotaged or something?”
“Likely,” Gennady admits, folding his arms. “That means our tapes are the only evidence of the most awesome—and terrifying—thing I've ever seen. We'll have to make it mandatory watching for anyone that goes up here.”



“I think that's a good idea—and to celebrate this plan, I've got some good whiskey shots I smuggled in instead of juice packages!” Michael admits, with a grin. “Time to repay you for the vodka, I think!”



The rest of the day, the only thing Mission Control can hear is drunken singing from them both.






Trifas, Romania





Erik's eyes narrow, as Mecha Fafnir slides to a halt, the re-entry fires having charred Mecha Fafnir MK3's hull black. For a moment, his eyes glance over the front of the machine's mouth, and the fact that Jack the Ripper had slipped out and fallen, before the city catches his eyes.



Slowly, his gaze covers the war-torn streets of the city, eyes picking out the massive damage done to it all, and the ever-increasing hordes of—zombies, there was no other word for them—roaming the streets. Then, he breathes out slowly, trying to calm himself. And when that doesn't work, he triggers the speaker system for the new flying war machine he's in.



“Darnic. What the HELL are you doing?!” Erik's voice echoes through the city, full of deep, dark rage. “Furthermore, why the hell are you targeting my allies while pulling this shit?!”






Author's Notes:



You'd be surprised to find how hard it was to find information on who was the ISS astronauts during this period of time. The answer was “several pages before I found it, buried in Wikipedia”.



Furthermore, I could have given Gennady Padalka a stereotypical Russian accent, but considering I don't know much about him, and he likely trained to not have much of an accent, it would have been an insult to the man in real life.



This is probably the most brutal chapter I've written to date. Especially in regards for poor Jack the Ripper. Alas, poor Jack. We knew you well.

[Xamusel]

Okay, man, that... that... that was AWESOME!! XD