The Manhattan Project II

[shikyo21]

Wow First time Eleanor does not think badly of his own servant in the end, can't wait to see next chapter and see how this goes.

Will Moctezuma kill her out of anger for preventing him dealing with Alexander or grateful that she decides to save him from the crumbling city?

As for Eleanor, is this when she stops from being an ass of a white supremacist?

I really want to see them getting along after this. It'll build more character for Eleanor to understand that she needs to grow out from such thinking.

[Five_X]

I'll tell you now, Eleanor is one of the main characters of an upcoming arc! It's the one after GD, after a mini-arc, where Ilse is technically the main character... sort of like how for GD, the main character is arguably either Saber or Alexander, take your pick.

Also! I stole the 3000th post, totally by accident, but since the OP isn't always counted as a "post" in some regards, I'll count sir shikyo's post as being the 3000th! Congratulations! Is there anything you want me to write for you, simply because you had the luck of posting at the right time?

[Bloble]

okay so because five is a bully I'm posting here

The chapter was cool. Francois is a monster, but Alex and Moctezuma completely stole the show.

Hell yeah.

[Five_X]

Thank you, kind Bloble. *bows*

[Mattias]

Wait. Saber and Alex are the main characters of GD? Is the theme 'pompous rulers who get destroyed time and again by their own hubris'?

[Five_X]

Perhaps it is! :3

But really, the theme is still anti-war. Even though the action scenes are great, as heroic as everyone may be, they don't really gain anything in the end, do they?

[Highwayman]

Lots of Eleanor and Moctezuma content to talk about this time.

The ever-growing influence of Eleanor’s family certainly makes sense in light their involvement in slavery. Nasuverse magi don’t think much of Kant’s imperative to see people as more than means to an end, so I’m not entirely shocked that her ancestors went this far.

In other words, Eleanor as she was couldn't understand Moctezuma – she couldn't understand the king who, when his kingdom was crumbling…

I’m not sure you needed to make this point explicit, since Monty’s thoughts in the following paragraphs make this point clear. With Monty and Eleanor, it is sometimes the case that res ipsa loquitur.

I’ll contradict that last sentence by admitting that Eleanor shocked me with her daring rescue of Moctezuma. I assume that her main motivation was to avoid losing her Servant, but perhaps Moctezuma’s monologue made an impression on her. Whether she feels some amount of pity for him and his relentless defense of a ruined city, I can’t say. We definitely know that she fears him, for unfounded reasons (racism, natch) and founded ones (the sacrifice of Ptolemy).

Focusing on Seleukos and Ptolemy (as opposed to nameless members of Alexander’s army) increased the tension in the Iberian fight. Their close cooperation exemplified the brotherhood and loyalty that Alexander’s men were known for. Plus, Seleukos’ death scene would have been right at home in 300; exciting stuff.

But that was nothing compared to Eleanor’s zombie familiars—no more cute golden elephants, nossir! From a tactical perspective, using zombies to guard a structurally unstable tunnel is a perfect counter against Napoleon’s skillset. Of course, Napoleon and his shattered Rosetta Stone would have fared even worse against Alexander.

As the king of the Aztecs, chosen of the gods, I declare that none shall claim Tenochtitlan for their own, even unto my own death! Cowardice will never overcome my honour, never again!

Failure knights are the best, aren’t they? I’ll channel Gil for a moment and say that the most fascinating Servants are those who try (and fail) to atone for the heaviest mistakes. Every fight that Monty or Arturia engages in has added emotional significance because they shoulder such a heavy weight of responsibility. The flashback to Moctezuma’s death was every bit as impactful as Arturia’s memories of Camlann.

He hadn't been struck such a blow before, and his vision faded in and out over the next minute, barely able to consider Moctezuma standing up, carrying himself to the wounded King of Conquerors.

I was a bit surprised that a Servant would be that bothered by that sort of injury. Hannibal and Monty seemed much more resilient than Alexander during this update.

Also, was Monty's use of the Quetzalcoatl NP a tactically sound decision? If his objective was to harm Alexander himself, then it was a failure; if he was trying to kill off the Ionian Hetairoi, then he paid a steep price in terms of friendly fire casualties.

All in all, though, I was pleasantly surprised to see the generals unleash non-army NPs.

[Caster]

I finally caught up. Think Five knows what was going on, and only just now spent some time to read through it all. Yay Moctezuma, was nice seeing him pull out his big trump card. Honestly, no doubt I'd have more to say, but it's rather late and I feel quite tired. But it was quite a lot of fun to catch up, and I look forward to seeing this continue.

[Five_X]

I’m not sure you needed to make this point explicit, since Monty’s thoughts in the following paragraphs make this point clear. With Monty and Eleanor, it is sometimes the case that res ipsa loquitur.

Ah, yeah, I'll probably fix that up later. >.>

Failure knights are the best, aren’t they? I’ll channel Gil for a moment and say that the most fascinating Servants are those who try (and fail) to atone for the heaviest mistakes. Every fight that Monty or Arturia engages in has added emotional significance because they shoulder such a heavy weight of responsibility. The flashback to Moctezuma’s death was every bit as impactful as Arturia’s memories of Camlann.

Ooh, heavy praise! I guess maybe you could consider Moctezuma sort of like Arturia in that sort of way. He definitely wants to change the past, but I'd say he's more haunted by the specifics - Arturia feels guilty about the destruction of her kingdom; Moctezuma remembers specific events where he now realizes he did wrong.

Failure is, in essence, thinking that the wrong decision is the correct one. Moctezuma felt that his people would be better off leaving for somewhere else, and he gave in to the Spanish. Now he's realizing that being so diplomatic and conciliatory didn't get him anything in the end, and so he just wants to be as aggressive as he can, thinking he can make up for what he did wrong. He at least has one foot ahead of Arturia in that matter, I guess, since Tenochtitlan is the real deal, fixed to his own legend.

I was a bit surprised that a Servant would be that bothered by that sort of injury. Hannibal and Monty seemed much more resilient than Alexander during this update.

Eh, it's more of the straw that broke the camel's back, in that case. He was stuck with a bunch of spears during his charge, he had half of his body burnt by an ancient Aztec laser beam, he got shot up and then burned a second time, all across his body, and then Moctezuma beat him up and he had a sword thrown at high-speed right into his body.

In comparison, Hannibal could barely walk after his injuries, and Moctezuma pretty much passed out. They're all about on the same level, in regards to endurance.

Also, was Monty's use of the Quetzalcoatl NP a tactically sound decision? If his objective was to harm Alexander himself, then it was a failure; if he was trying to kill off the Ionian Hetairoi, then he paid a steep price in terms of friendly fire casualties.

I doubt Monty really cared about tactics at that point. He just wanted to make one last impression on the generals (he's still big about that even in this chapter, and this time it actually works!), and he also managed to destroy most of Alexander's army. You really have to wonder if Moctezuma actually cares about his people, or if he just wants to preserve his control over the city. After all, the people don't really like him, and he has no reason to like them, either.

Maybe he himself doesn't really know what he wants, but he's certainly running high on emotions.

I finally caught up. Think Five knows what was going on, and only just now spent some time to read through it all. Yay Moctezuma, was nice seeing him pull out his big trump card. Honestly, no doubt I'd have more to say, but it's rather late and I feel quite tired. But it was quite a lot of fun to catch up, and I look forward to seeing this continue.

Aha, it's great to have you back, Caster! And don't you worry; Lancer will be back soon enough (probably Wednesday or Thursday) and Johana as well, of course.

And speaking of updates... well, I'm trying to finish this last omake, and I'm definitely kinda regretting that I set myself up to do these three silly things. It was... not the most sound decision, but as long as they're interesting, I'll write them!

[Five_X]

Now it's time for a super late night update before I grab a snack and sleeeeeeep! This one includes not only the main chapter, but also an omake! And, of course... something special, just for you great readers.

Now, I won't have a lengthy dialogue here or anything. I just hope you enjoy the following chapter, and the omake, too!

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CHAPTER LXVIII

Day 21


For his triumph, Alexander returned in the early hours of the morning to his home, to Babylon.


He walked along the river, the burning city of Tenochtitlan at his back like the sun setting in the sky, just as the sun rose over Babylon. The shadows of the walls were long and cast over the huge river and the floodplains around it, and Alexander raised his still-burned arm, holding it over his eyes to block the sun's glare. The morning, compared to the night in Tenochtitlan, was cold and dry like a winter's day, cool winds sweeping up across the water.


For the first time in what felt to him like years, Alexander was calm. The anger in his heart subsided, and he felt at peace with himself.


The feeling of victory had faded; it had lingered for a time after the conquest of the Aztecs, but now he felt like he truly was a king, going home to look over his responsibilities, understanding the administration of his burgeoning kingdom. It felt just like his life, far in the past, and he breathed a gentle sigh, letting the wind from across the river lap at his skin. He wouldn't admit it, but a certain tiredness had overcome him, and he tried to disguise it as a temporary weariness, like the fatigue that sets in after a hearty meal. His legs barely held the strength to let him continue on, but he did in the name of his own glory. He would have to take up his throne, after all, and he would have to have some sort of procession. The myriad celebrations he thought of filled his mind, and at last he stared up confidently, breathing the cool, fresh air deeply as he gazed upon the glory that was his capital.


Before him was the great city of Babylon, and it was burning.


Alexander stopped his march at once, and he stared into the light ahead, seeing the flames compete for luminescence with the rising sun. He didn't know how to react.


With no other way to respond to this, he fell to his knees, seeing his own city being levelled before his eyes, turned into a bare depiction of its former grandeur – much like the state of Tenochtitlan after it had been razed just hours earlier.


His hand clutched the sand beneath him, and he tried to express the rage that rose up inside him. But more than that rage, he felt sorrow.


He had accomplished so much, only for it to end like this.


“Ten thousand men were here. Half as many as I would have preferred, but it was a grand feast nonetheless!” Alexander heard a deep, mocking laugh from somewhere nearby. He turned his head about frantically, trying to find the voice, when he caught a glimpse of a man behind him, his arms crossed and his lips upturned into an arrogant grin.


“You...” Alexander could barely speak, and he could barely even act at all. “You... did this? You, so useless... a general in name only.”


“Oh, am I? You say this as the loser, the one whose failures brought him here. Do you think I would let your pride go unpunished, King of Conquerors? Did you think me so aloof, like a simplistic fool trying to beat his way through battles with no fame to speak of? I am disappointed in you, great king. I was promised by your very presence that you would pose a threat to my continued existence, but you have shown no such challenge. My goal before this even occurred was to kill a particular one of you generals, but seeing your pride as I did? You deserved to be shown the folly of your actions. Only then can you learn than none of you are superior to Oda Nobunaga.”


A red glint showed in Nobunaga's eyes, and more than ever he seemed alive, active, and in control. He was nothing like the casual menace from before; his words were mocking at their heart, but he barbed them with the sort of truths that could not be ignored or denied.


“Fortune, it... it favours the bold. I was bold, and do... you think I have nothing to reinforce that claim?” Alexander's breaths became heavy, and he stared ahead without any clear object in his focus. He just stared ahead, unaware of all that happened n the 'outside' world.


Nobunaga shook his head, smiling lightly. “Fortune favours the fortunate – myself. Reality, as beautiful and harsh a creature it is, favours the clever, and you, king, have been far from clever, from what I can observe of your pointless meanderings. You absorbed yourself in your own petty goals, without sparing a thought to the reactions of others, or of the immediate consequences of your actions. Is that selfishness, or ignorance? I can hardly determine which, but you can imagine at this point that you and I both hardly care.”


With a flash of icy steel, the blade of Nobunaga's sword was pressed to the Alexander's neck, holding him upright. If the king fell forward, his throat would be cut, and his life would bleed out with it. Even the simplest mistake could mean death, but in his state of mind he hardly thought of that.


“Let...me...go...” breathed Alexander, unable to summon the rage he had felt at Tenochtitlan. Anger flowed in his veins, but it was nowhere to be found now.


With a short laugh, Nobunaga pressed an armoured knee to Alexander's back. “Impotent rage, as expected. People certainly are less impressive when they are in a situation in which there is nothing at all that they can do. Even a great brute or a renowned genius, when out of their element, becomes an incompetent and dull old fool. I had hoped you would fare better, but you had to go and work on that impertinent little rage of yours, thinking it the most important thing in the world. Impressive is the word I'd use... for what happened in that city, but not your actions. You were merely the first swordsman to draw, so to speak. The odds were against you, so rather than trying to cheat with fate, you stacked the odds back in your favour through simple force. The pragmatism there is nice, but it lacks finesse and the certain grace that comes with a real victory. Defeating your enemy, from a technical standpoint, means nothing; you have to not only defeat them, but also prove the very goals they work towards to be false. If you defeat your foe without truly defeating them, and making them realize their failure, then they will continue to strike out at you until they draw their last breath. The best victory is one that your enemy creates for you, because when you best a person's spirit, then you have crushed them for all they are worth in the world.”


“I'm sure you're interested in the details, though, aren't you? You always seem to be, or at least you were in life.” Nobunaga scoffed, sliding one hand through Alexander's sweat-soaked, blood-matted hair. “Well, to put it in simple terms, Alexander, you put too much emphasis on one front of your campaign, without considering the others. Merely because I avoided drawing your ire, you seemed to not care about me, and because Moctezuma was your target of the hour, you drained all of your resources to bring him down. The true Alexander would never have focused on one element of a war just like that. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, ha! You even avoid your Master, it seems, letting him do what he wishes. I think maybe that he could inspire you to at least some intelligence, or work over plans with you. Hannibal and his Master do the exact same, and they hold power over you as a result. The last time I saw your Master was... oh, he certainly wasn't in Babylon, no. He was on a dune in the desert, scouting territory. I hardly cared enough to kill him, of course. He's still alive and well, and we spoke for a few minutes. He has some disdain for your impractical strategies, you know, but out of deference he doesn't speak of that to you, so that you can retain your confidence, maybe.”


The Japanese general let his blade dig in just a little deeper, sliding along Alexander's flesh.


The sword stayed tight to Alexander's throat, cutting just barely into his skin when he gulped. “Just, you... kill me now. Take your victory, parade my body around for the others to see.” He found himself unable to care anymore. The bite of steel on his flesh was barely an inconvenience, a fact of life that he accepted without complaint.


Though Alexander couldn't see it, Nobunaga frowned. “Is that truly your wish?”


“...take your best guess.”


Nobunaga shrugged, a scoff escaping from his lips as he held the sword in both hands, the force behind it forcing Alexander more upright than he was. It still tore at his skin, but his empty eyes showed no signs of emotion or response. His anger was buried deep inside him, and he couldn't bring it to the fore, and he resigned himself to this.


In one fluid moment, the edge of the sword sliced along Alexander's neck, a small spurt of blood spattering out as soon as the cut had been made.


Alexander closed his eyes, but nothing happened. He still could feel the wind on his skin, and the smell of the muddy river beside him. He felt the sand, rough in his hands, and when he breathed he felt a blank, lifeless shock.


The sword had cut in just a quarter inch at most, letting out only a few trails of red down Alexander's pale neck. Nobunaga sighed, kicking Alexander to the dirt, keeping his foot on his back.


“I have no interest in killing a man who wants to be killed. Spare those who do not beg for mercy, for they are the only ones brave – or foolish – enough to face death head-on. Those who wish for their lives to continue? They die, because they are an example of the imbeciles who realize their own failures, and how wrong they were in opposing their foe.” Nobunaga's arms were still crossed, and yet Alexander was no longer impressed by the man's visage; he stared into the sand, seeing his own, pathetic shadow on the ground.


“Perhaps someday I will kill you, King of Conquerors, but my interest in you faded long ago. I enjoyed slaughtering your whole city, but you were barely involved in that at all. It is a testament, then, to how ill-prepared you really are.” Nobunaga sheathed his sword, and before Alexander could reach out to him, the demon king had walked, shimmering, into the desert sands.


Alexander got himself up on his feet, not bothering to wipe off the dirt and grime.


As he stared deeply into the back of the retreating general, he knew the depths of his own folly. He hung his head, and swore that he would not be humiliated like this again. He needed no city to be a king, and so he turned to the lake, imagining it as a vast and powerful mountain, where he would be secluded and always safe from those who would attack his honour. He fought for the glory of his name, forgetting all other motivations. No longer did he need emotions; he was Alexander the Great, a man with no match in all the history of the world.


He was Alexander the Great, and he was proud.

-- --

Day 24


Francois held his hand above his eyes, shading them so that he could see the structure far ahead in greater detail. It confused and intrigued him all at once, but its nature was clear regardless.


He was staring at a mountain of sandy-coloured rock, where Tenochtitlan once stood. It rose hundreds of metres up to its fortified peak, where there could barely be seen the outlines of a castle or city within. The lake below had been effectively upturned, the water evaporating and disappearing and the earth itself twisting into a different form, a testament to the force of will that Alexander possessed when he let his power be known.


“Napoleon, you know how poorly that siege went.” Francois had his hands on his hips, now shaking his head at his Servant. “We just can't afford to do something like that, especially not when we'd be fighting Alexander directly. There would be no sneaking, and no mass mob of warriors to keep everyone else distracted. We nearly got ourselves killed the time before, and I'm not taking that risk again, alright?”


With a deep sigh, Napoleon conceded, hanging his head, his hat in his hand. “I accept your will, Master. I understand that what I chose to do on the night we attacked Moctezuma was... not the most thought-out of plans, so from now on I will try to organize my strategies with you, to consider your thoughts on what we should do. You are quite right that a siege would not work on a mountain, so we must find another way, no?”


Francois nodded sharply, and began tracing a circle in the sand, speaking as he moved about. “Exactly, and I have another way. Do you remember the anomaly that Saber and Alexander were talking about? I overheard some of their conversation back in Babylon.”


“Mm, yes, there was something about that, I remember. I paid little attention to the actual issue, though. Did I have any reason to be involved with that arrogant king's problems?” Napoleon tapped his foot on the sand, wiping some dust off of his once-again pristine uniform.


As he continued to draw his symbol, Francois spoke, half paying attention to his Servant and half looking down to the ground to ensure his circle was perfect in size and shape. “As I learned, Alexander had detected 'tears' of some kind appearing in the reality marble we're residing in currently. Theoretically, if one of those tears grew large enough, or if there were many of them, the reality marble would be subsumed back into the world. After all, a reality marble like this is just a projection of the user's mind and soul upon the world. Fundamentally, without still retaining a connection to the world, a reality marble cannot exist. Because of that, it should be possible for a reality marble to have flaws, if the case arises where prana is insufficient to maintain the reality marble, or if an outside force – somehow; I don't know – were to act upon the reality marble. I think the latter is what happened, in this case, to create the anomalies.”


Napoleon slowly nodded, growing to understand what Francois was trying to get at. “And somehow you can... manipulate those flaws, the anomalies? How so?”


“In theory, it should be like taking a small hole in a water-laden bucket, and then making it bigger. In this case, I'll need an outside force to work on, which should be possible if...” Francois muttered, checking the circle he'd drawn using his fingers, cutting the tip of his thumb and letting the blood drip down every few inches along the traced lines. “Honestly, I've never done this before, but I believe it should be possible to make a connection to the outside world – perhaps through an object of some kind, in this case.”


Wondering on that point, Napoleon began to frown. “The problem, Master, is that we have no access to the outside world, as you say, and we have nothing to access. Everything we could retrieve exists on our persons, and if we have to make a connection between the reality marble and the world itself, then we would need something that exists with us here that can be attached to the outside. That last part is what I believe we can't do, Master.”


Francois chuckled, dripping the last of his blood on the circle, standing in its centre. The circle itself was easily ten metres in diameter, perfectly shaped and glowing with a greenish hue. “That's incorrect, Napoleon. After all, don't you remember that we're in a Grail War? There's something we're both connected to right now that exists as part of the outside world: the Grail itself, where it may be. And, of course, since we have a magical contract made through that Grail, I have command seals meant for my use, in order to control you. However, the command seals act in a more complex fashion than just controlling Servants; I must first activate the command seal with my will, and like an order going up the chain of command, the command seal's stored prana will be routed to the Grail itself, which will then use that prana to control your spirit, an attachment of the Grail, directly. Through that, we have a connection to the outside world. The command could be anything, though I'm not sure if a command to transport you to an outside location would work. I'll think of something helpful to us.”


“Master, that plan...” Napoleon took in a deep breath, his frown immediately becoming a broad smile again. “Exquisite, I must say! Genius! Give me the order, Master, and I will go through with this as best I can!”


Pride welled up in Francois' chest, making him stand tall in the midst of his carved symbol. “Well, Napoleon. If you're ready?” He raised his arm, showing the two remaining command seals marked on the back of his hand.


Napoleon nodded, more than willing to go through with this. A certain excitement showed in his eyes, and Francois quickly noted that.


“Servant Archer, I hereby order you with the power of the command seal to preserve my life whenever I am in danger, to ensure our success!”


There was a flash of red from the command seal, a show of light bursting from Francois' hand, and that light tore into the ritual's circle, causing candle-like flames to rise up at each spot where Francois' blood had spilled. The red became green, and the second mark on Francois' wrist faded away, leaving only one. He didn't mourn the loss; it was necessary, and if he didn't do this, it could lead to his own defeat. However, he had been fortunate enough to imagine a suitable order, and it was a smart fail-safe, Napoleon had to admit.


The green glow disappeared, and the whole area was silent and lit only by the sun above.


Then, with a blackness spreading from above the circle, a gate of sorts opened, wrenching apart the tiniest hole that had been split in the reality marble. It could only become slightly larger than a person without destabilizing the reality marble, but in order to simply maintain it the circle had to be several times greater in size and complexity. A necessary requirement, like the sacrifice of the command seal just earlier.


The rim of the bluish-black, starry gate was green like the flashing light that had encompassed the area, and Francois stared at his handiwork and smiled. He even impressed himself, this once.


“Now, with this, we can end this foolish campaign in a single strike.” Francois crossed his arms as he stepped into the portal, not bothering to address Napoleon more directly. “We should be quick; we need to travel far, and time outside the reality marble passes much more slowly than within.”


He was gone in a moment, and before the gate closed, Napoleon made sure to follow him.


“Master, I hope that this works as well as we both expect. Your plan, it... would cause a disturbance amongst the others. You are a smart man, certainly, but you do not understand the mind of a general, not in the least. A war decided in one preemptive strike, that is not what we aspire to.”

-- --

“...and, like so, we should be able to decide this with one preemptive strike. A barrage will do well, don't you think?” Napoleon pressed a hand into his coat, staring out at the battlefield before him. It was smaller than what he had become used to, but as the general in charge of the Republican forces, he was granted free rein to do whatever he wished in order to end the Royalist insurrection.


His lieutenant beside him shrugged, pointing out the arrangement of the cannons aimed down the urban street. “They outnumber us, sir. If we make a tactical withdrawal, and allow them to claim this position in the belief that-”


“I will not order a withdrawal.” Napoleon's voice was as cold as the autumn air, and for a moment there was complete silence over the battlefield-to-be. “Murat, you remember the damned massacre at Tuileries by our own, disorganized forces, and you know that could happen again. You will have your men trap and cut down the Royalists in melee; I am an artillery officer at heart, and I must make the first attack on this rabble. My word is law for every man fighting for the Republic.”


A chill wind blew through Honore Street, right along the church of Saint-Roch that the Royalist supporters stood to overrun. The Revolution was in its last days, and for too long had the mobs of angered Parisians determined the outcome of a whole country. Napoleon knew that the will of government must be imposed, and these Royalists stood directly against that.


He stood alongside the artillerymen, raising his hand. He could see the burning torches of the crowd, far outnumbering Napoleon's troops, marching ahead in their disordered ranks, fighting for their lives as much as they fought for their side of the war.


It was still morning, and Napoleon wanted this over before night came again – he'd been preparing since midnight, and only the barest of Royalist attacks had been sent against his defences.


Now, though, he saw the mob, and he smiled, keeping his arm high in the air for all to see.


The whole mob began to converge on the street intersection in front of Saint-Roch, disregarding order to attack with sheer numbers; the whole Royalist army couldn't even fit into the street, with men pouring in each minute. Napoleon waited, and waited, and waited for the crowd to come closer, to fall farther into the trap that they could never have known. It was a perfect situation, and the battle hadn't even begun yet.


Safely several hundred feet away, Napoleon pointed forward, right at the Royalists.


With a thunder that shook the whole city block, twenty of the forty cannons unleashed their canisters of shot on the mob; the iron canisters, not true cannonballs, exploded in the crowd, tearing men apart with searing iron shot mere inches across.


Hearing the first barrage, the second set of cannons, facing towards Saint-Roch, fired just as the Royalists came into view, completely scattering their ranks, cutting them down by hundreds of men with each shot.


It was a massacre, but not the same senseless slaughter that Napoleon had seen at the palace of Tuileries. No, he said to himself, this was different. This was for the good of the Republic, and all who stood for true, proper government.


It wasn't perfect, though: the desperation led men to fight on even when they should have been dead. Napoleon frowned, and he wished this had been cleaner. He made a note that, when retelling this event in the future, to put some gloss one it – maybe he would invent a phrase describing his strategy. It would make a nice legend, a sort of mystery to him, a fantastical power. He was adept at all things military, but even he could make mistakes; it was just a matter of making those mistakes look more elegant than they really were.


Still, he watched on as the infantry led by Murat tore into the remaining ranks of the mob, entrapping them and forcing them to surrender or die.


Most chose the latter, in the name of their beliefs.


Napoleon made a second note to himself, to call this a 'whiff of grapeshot' when asked about his actions. Concise, understated, yet fittingly poetic: very Roman, he thought, and he watched the bloody French Revolution effectively end in one moment presented before his very eyes, all because of that whiff of grapeshot.


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The whole part with Napoleon at the end really shows how his Cult of Personality skill came about, in the earliest stages: instead of fighting a bloody, tough battle for the republic, he knocked out the opposition with a single strike; instead of crossing the Alps on a mule and in heavy winter gear, he made the journey on a stallion, wearing his general's regalia.

Also, Nobunaga shows us what he's been hiding this whole time! Ha, and you people thought Caesarko was the biggest talker of the bunch, huh? Nobunaga's big speech here probably outclasses her efforts, even! She needs to step up her game.

Anyhow, I hope this chapter was enjoyable; I will post the omake in just about ten minutes or so, as well as the bonus material stuff I promised!

[Five_X]

Okay, omake time! I hope it's actually good, and makes you people do the laughs! I don't know if I'm good at comedy or not, but this was an attempt, of sorts, kinda.

Also, super special thing here, finally: another Caesarko picture, by Nashoki! Also includes other Sabers for comparison, too.

Spoiler:

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Manhattan Nights, Part 1

A small bell jingled as the first person to enter the bar opened the door and stepped on through, glancing side to side to check out the area. He let out a half-sigh when he found that there was no one else there, and no employees on duty, either. To be honest, he didn't know why he'd come here, of all places; maybe he'd gotten the hours wrong, or maybe this place was just deserted – not much of a gain, even compared to the bustling, confined places elsewhere in Washington.


Regardless, the man sat himself down, having a seat at one long table; there were five other chairs all neatly tucked up to the wooden table, and the whole place had a real rustic feel to it.


Not that the emptiness didn't add an eerie atmosphere to the room, though.


“Should I just... help myself?” wondered the man, gazing at the kegs behind the bar that, normally, someone should have been tending. He adjusted his glasses and began to stand up, but he heard the jingling bell again and took his seat, curiously looking out to see who'd arrived after him.


A second person entered; she ran a hand through her long, red hair, then placed her hands firmly on her hips, trying to figure out what was going on here. She squinted, staring at a faded wooden sign above the bar counter that read 'Ahnenerbe' in plain script. For a while she wondered at the word, then shrugged and accepted this. One sideways glance made her take note of Nigel, and she perked up upon seeing him already there.


“Ah, Mister Lancaster? I was told by James that he would be arriving here, so I decided to come here early. Is this acceptable?” She curtsied, a polite gesture that made Nigel smile, shaking his head slightly.


He patted the table, gesturing for her to come over. “Don't worry yourself much, Eleanor. I'm sure he'll be here eventually, right? Maybe he'll be impressed by the fact that you showed up before him, or something. I don't really know the lad too well, so take my words with a grain of salt, I guess. Me, I thought there'd be some nice wine here compared to the modern lounges and whatnot, but the whole damned place is empty, save for the both of us.”


Sighing, he lifted himself out of his chair, resolutely going for the kegs by the bar while Eleanor set herself in her own chair at the head of the table; she primly laid her hands on her lap, occasionally tossing her hair over her shoulder, looking backwards at the door as she did so.


Nigel found a few stacks of well-preserved wine bottles in the back of the bartender's area; they were unlabelled, but when he popped off the cork he just needed to check inside to understand the vintage, pouring some into a tall, thin glass as he recited it to himself.


“1812, Chalons, cultivated from a rather late crop, but aged to perfection. I'm surprised it survived so well, being shipped over the Atlantic in... hmm, 1887, I believe.”


For a moment he was about to make a glass for Eleanor, but then he remembered that she was a sixteen year old girl, and he cringed. The fatherly instinct in him wouldn't let his conscience go if he made a teenager – especially a naive one like Eleanor – drunker than a pack of sailors on Saint Patrick's Day. So, he quickly slipped her glass under a nearby sink, filling it with what he hoped was perfectly normal, healthy-for-kids tap water. He could only pray that it wasn't some sinister faucet like the one back at Eleanor's mansion; he didn't quite trust this place, not yet, and he took a furtive sip of his deep, red wine before he made it back to the table and Eleanor.


He slid her glass of water over to her, and she nodded as she graciously accepted it. She probably didn't even know what she was missing out on, Nigel thought to himself, and he chuckled as he down some more wine.


Surprisingly, she gulped it down, managing some kind of elegance while the water all trickled down her throat; the whole glass, though it had been filled to the brim, was empty in seconds flat.


Eleanor let out a long breath, closing her eyes and smiling a little.


Then, she placed a hand on her forehead, pouting in slight confusion, her skin feeling oddly hot. That barely seemed to faze her, though, and she stayed attentive.


That, however, didn't last.


She shook her head, yawning, her face a bit red. Her hands were on the table, in front of her as if to steady her body even though she was just sitting down. Nigel was nursing his own drink, and didn't notice the glazed sort of expression she wore, barely aware of what was going on around her.


“Oh, woah...” she mumbled, and then her head clunked down on the wooden table, cradled only barely by her arms.


The sudden thud caught Nigel's attention, and immediately he looked over at her, seeing her unconscious in her seat, her face beet red and the empty glass right beside her face. Immediately he stood to his feet, placing a hand on her back, and then taking her temperature. He only needed to touch her gently on the forehead with his palm to get a precise measurement, and he furrowed his brow, unsure of exactly what had happened. He could only bring himself to remember the one situation he'd been in before, with the tea that turned wrong. If this was something similar, he swore to himself, he would just have to swear off beverages as a whole.


“What kind of world is this, where I can't even trust some bloody water?” He nearly buried his face in his hands, but he had a small hunch when he brought up what she'd been drinking.


He placed a hand on his chin, then stooped down to check the glass she'd been drinking from. Raising it up, he poured the sole remaining drop onto his tongue, letting his taste buds examine the flavour – and there definitely was a flavour, even in one droplet of this so-called water.


A long, irritated sigh escaped his lips, and he put the glass back down on the table as gently as he could. “I guess the girl just can't handle her vodka, can she?”


He avoided disturbing her at all, not knowing if she'd just sleep the drink off, or if he'd have to drive her home or whatever would be needed. He'd never taken care of kids her age, so he was on his own in a sea of confusion, hoping that something, anything, would be able to fix this situation for him. Already it looked bad, with a passed out kid with a suspicious wine glass right beside her, and an older man sitting near. Nigel could only imagine the headlines: 'Communist Plan: Make Canada Drunk,' or 'Old Man and Young Girl Alone in Bar: Not Suspicious AT ALL.'


His prayers, at that moment, were answered: the bell tolled once again, and in walked a tall and thin man, hands folded behind his back, his stance like a soldier at attention.


Unlike Eleanor, who had dawdled at the entrance, almost immediately Dietrich noted the two at the table, frowning at the girl who was still passed out, and at Nigel who tried to avoid implicating himself in anything at all. He held his glass close to his lips, having shuffled aside, farther away from Eleanor than he had been before.


“Good evening to you, Nigel.” Dietrich gave a curt nod, and examined the sign that had fascinated Eleanor earlier. “An interesting place, this is, don't you think? The name of the establishment, to my eyes, seems to be 'Ahnenerbe.' I vaguely remember that division; I effectively worked for them during the last Grail War, as a sort of unofficial agent. They had some curious thoughts about Germanic legend and the Holy Grail, and that first began the intrigue into the Japanese Holy Grail War. Hardly a dull affair, I have to say.”


Nigel grunted in affirmation, half-listening to the old man's story. “You sure have a lot to say, don't you? What brings you here?”


Dietrich narrowed his eyes, surveying the bar, then looking back at Nigel. “Nothing in particular. Some of the other Masters will be arriving shortly; I monitored them as I walked to this place, and given that you and the girl are here, everyone else that's important will follow.”


“Still, this name...” he began by muttering, then hummed lightly in thought. “It ought to be changed. What patriotic, ignorant Americans would ever visit a site named for a research division of Nazi Germany? The Nazi association is all that really matters; Ahnenerbe was an unusual and frankly useless organization, but what they did exactly doesn't matter in the modern viewpoint.”


“Got any naming suggestions, then?” Nigel leaned back in his chair, having finished his wine sooner than he'd expected.


Dietrich calmly shook his head. “Creating names requires a certain... artistic creativity, you could say. I'm not an expert on art or naming conventions, though I could name this establishment after a German line of rifles, or some towns I remember.”


Nigel groaned, still reeling with his guilt over the whole situation with Eleanor. “Some obtuse German name isn't what will attract people to this place. If we've got to change the name, make it something sensible, and something English, naturally. People would want to see something they recognize, won't they? I happen to remember the names of a few old pubs back in England, and the old style of that might attract a more refined crowd, might it not?”


“Ah, yes, of course an Englishman would want an English name.” Dietrich tut-tutted, stepping forward to examine the existing sign more closely. “But this is America, Nigel. People here may be German, or French, or English or African. The racial mixture is far more notable than what we see in Europe, so your arbitrary definitions of what 'people' want to see can't apply here.”


“Look, I don't want to fight about this, but you're being damned-” Nigel placed his hand firmly on the table, and as if on command, the bell above the entrance rang with its short jingle.


A younger man, wearing a leather jacket and in plain jeans, walked into the bar... and promptly stopped in his tracks even before he noticed Nigel, or even Eleanor.


“Oh no, not this shit again.” He smacked his forehead with his palm. “Dietrich, do you have to be everywhere I want to go? I wanted to come here with Eleanor, and make her happy, and now you're here like... like some clingy virus, attaching yourself to everything I try to do. What the hell is your problem, man?”


A thin smile showed on the German man's features. “I could ask the same question of you, James Hawthorne. Except with less slang, and in a more proper dialect of English than your – and here I have to agree with the Englishman – honest butchering of the tongue. Speak more formally with formal people, and you will go far, James.”


“Don't you try to teach me! I'm just going to leave; I'm not going to deal with you anymore!” He gave a disgusted scoff before zipping up his jacket and turning around...


...only to be stopped in his tracks again, this time by something completely different.


“Master! Are you shirking this opportunity to attest your honour? I find it embarrassing to be under the command of someone who walks away from a social situation as soon as it turns unpleasant for him; that shows a lack of resolve, and it was resolve that helped me become one of the most remembered figures in all history!”


She crossed her arms over her breastplate, and then quickly added, “I do not mean to imply that you could be remembered throughout history; even if you win the war you will still be unimportant, but there is no reason not to try to succeed beyond your meagre capabilities!”


Saber wore a smile, but James was unimpressed. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, he mused to himself, and with a slouch he slipped out between Dietrich and his Servant, heading to Nigel, who he'd heard just moments before entering the bar. Maybe Saber's advice was right, but he couldn't think much of it when he saw none other than Eleanor, unconscious and asleep with her head on her hands, thudded against the smooth wooden table. He rushed to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder and trying to rouse her.


“Emil- er, Eleanor! Are you okay? Can you hear me? What's going on?” He shook her a bit more roughly than needed, and Nigel nearly just beat his head on the table at this display.


“She was... poisoned, by the water. I gave her a glass, but it turned out to be bad water. I know, I should've been more careful, but there's nothing we can do. She should wake up soon, and then-”


He soon faced a glare from James, who made sure Eleanor's red-faced head was more comfortably placed on the table. “Poisoned? What the hell? Who did this, and why? Who'd want to poison someone like Em... Eleanor? Tell me!”


Nigel cleared his throat, trying to avoid the gaze of not only James, but also now Dietrich and a very amused Saber.


“Well, you see...” he began, clearing his throat just one more time for good measure, “the water she drank, when it came from the tap, had an unusually high alcohol content, roughly near the level of vodka. It smelled a lot like vodka, too, and the taste was similar as well. Her glass was full of the stuff, and she drank it all at once and conked out. It must have been a strong poison, or a drug of some kind. Maybe a tranquilizer, specially put into the water system to get at Eleanor? Someone must have known that a gentleman such as I would never let her drink alcohol, not even once, and so while I went for the quite delectable red wine, she had cool water.” He wiped just a few drops of sweat off of his brow after saying that little speech.


“Do you think that will work this time, Nigel?” Saber's eyes were narrowed, her piercing gaze directed right at Nigel, making him feel more on-the-spot than he already was, and he found that he could barely contend with her gaze, exuding nobility and a certain ruthless power. She was a Servant, after all, though with her actions it was sometimes difficult to tell that she was a hero at all, much to James' consternation.


The woman laughed grimly, a proud smile very visible on her lips. “You tell us that the 'water' that the girl here was given was water... but then note that its alcohol content and qualitative attributes are all highly similar to vodka. Nigel, you should be more than able to tell the difference between vodka and simple water; you were either in a rush, or had malicious intent. I can certainly not blame you for not knowing that a common kitchen sink would have a store of vodka, but afterwards? You still gave the drink to Eleanor, without experimenting with it yourself. So careless, Nigel! It could have been you chugging down a whole glass of vodka, and then waking up the next morning with a headache that could split the skull of Jupiter himself!”


“Or maybe Eleanor is a real lightweight; isn't that a possibility?” Without quite saying it, Nigel admitted guilt, and Saber's smile grew broader.


“An act of revenge, or ignorance causing harm: both are crimes, and you, Nigel, are guilty. Lay down any weapons you may be bearing on your person, and submit to the full extent of Roman la-” Ominously Saber raised her arm, giving her decree, but all the same, James grabbed her there.


He sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Come on, not this again. Let's get Emily a blanket or something, and then let her sleep there, okay? Whatever Nigel did, he's been humiliated enough; that's a perfectly fine punishment in my eyes. Now, just let this go, and we'll all be happy. I don't even know why the hell you followed me here; I said that I was meeting with Eleanor in the city, didn't I?”


Saber narrowed her eyes, not losing her smile; she slipped out of her Master's grasp, and turned to him. “Why of course, Master. But still... I can hardly trust you to your own safety, not anymore. I must keep watch over you at all times, regardless of the time of day or the situation at hand!”


It was more than obvious that she felt some superiority over him, as usual, and his shoulders visibly slumped.


“Now that the little girl has been revealed to have drunk herself into a stupor, could we please get on with the purpose of this meeting?” Dietrich sat down across from Nigel, keeping a close eye on the man. “The others should arrive within moments, unless they are being slow... which I couldn't rightly doubt, in this case. People these days never seem to be able to handle a schedule.”


Nigel fixed him a glare. “The others? You planned this?”


“More or less, I did. Other... coincidences also applied, of course.” He crossed his arms, sitting unnervingly straight in his chair, as if a stick had been shoved down the back of his fancy shirt. He made a nice contrast to Nigel, who was slouched over the table, wishing he had more wine.


Raising his head, Dietrich glanced at the doorway and nodded. “Ah, here they are.”


The bell rang immediately afterwards, and in stepped a girl somewhat shorter than Saber, with light brown skin and a wary air about her. She relaxed a bit when she saw the table full of people standing and sitting around, though the figure of Eleanor sleeping in a bluish blanket in her chair did seem rather off to her. The mere fact that this bar was empty had made her suspicious; this new evidence was only more fuel for that fire.


“Did you call me here just to drink?” she asked, bemused at the current situation. “If so, then I've got to say that I'm not interested. I barely even know most of you people.”


Hearing that, Nigel scoffed. “Of course you don't, silly girl. People forgot about you for so long that when you had your little interlude during our part of the story, it was so out of place that it had to be removed! And then, replaced with some chatter between Hannibal and I. You're hardly even a main character; you have few fans, and you've got barely any scenes under your belt.”


“Most of those fans, I believe, are interested in your body.” Saber nodded when she heard Nigel's points, even though she'd been arguing against him not long ago. “Many readers complained that you hardly even had a personality. Have you even had an arc centred around your personality?”


“I... I...” Ilse's face flushed, and she stamped her boot on the ground, reverberating through the bar. “At least I'm not just abusing my privilege to screen time! I was very popular, at one point, and there are probably some people who don't even remember some names, but they recall me easily! In the rankings, I should be the second most popular female character in the whole of this narrative, shouldn't I?” Part of her expression was pleading, looking at the others before her.


No pity was offered.


Dietrich cleared his throat, raising his hand to draw some attention to himself. “Actually, given the rapid ascent of Eleanor to popularity, you're probably falling in the rankings lately. How many chapters have you had dedicated to you lately? Not many, as I recall.”


Ilse had her hand son her hips, and she stared angrily at the people sitting at the table. “Oh, this is ridiculous! I've had at least one chapter where I played a major role; you, Dietrich, can't really say the same, can you? Your presence in the story lately is dubious at best. When did you last show up, hm? Wasn't it back when the generals were meeting in Babylon, and you barely even had a speaking role then? Your own Servant doesn't even speak to you at all, so you can never join in on his scenes adequately. You're just riding on your popularity as a Nazi, or something!”


“Ha, hm... tough accusations, there.” Nigel gave her a small smile, raising his empty wine glass in a weak toast of some kind. “But really, you've showed up in a chapter recently? Pretty damned unlikely; I don't remember this at all.”


Indignant, Ilse stepped over to the door as if she was ready to leave. “Are you people not even keeping up with the story? You must be too absorbed in your own arc to care about anything else! I bet the readers have forgotten about Enrico, too, and the other 'main' characters. Of course, you're just denying the fact that I'm a protagonist, too, just like all of you!”


Dietrich quickly raised his voice to correct her. “Actually, statistics show that Enrico is one of the most enduring and popular figures in the story, along with his Servant. He, in English terms... steals the show, you could say. By basic standards, Ilse, you are not a major character in this story.”


“You are the worst German, Dietrich, and by story rules I shouldn't even know you. Am I really less of a character than Eleanor, or Nigel? When do they do anything important?” Ilse folded her arms under her breasts, unintentionally drawing attention to what, as Saber mentioned, probably drew most people to her character in the first place.


“Well, we all know that I'm the protagonist. I'm the first character that gets mentioned, and there's probably more overall screen time dedicated to me than anyone else!” James puffed out his chest a little, his pride showing through his normally casual attitude.


Within moments, though, Saber was laughing, patting her Master on the shoulder in consolation. “Protagonists have to be interesting, Master, and it is very telling when the most interesting thing you have done so far is yell at me. In terms of this story, and even just this arc of the overall narrative, you are an accessory to me, someone of far greater importance, and with a more intriguing personality – if a rather abrasive personality, apparently. Some fools just cannot handle me! Perhaps that is why they identify with you and your pointless little problems, do you think?”


The conversation drifted away from Ilse, who stood alone in front of the doorway as the others bickered amongst each other, yelling over an inert Eleanor who didn't even let out a peep.


Then, in the midst of the arguing, Ilse heard some loud, partly fluent Russian being yelled from outside, and she turned her head just in time to notice a familiar woman in a black dress stepping into the bar. Ilse took a few paces back, watching as Johana seemed fixated on no one else but her, staring at Ilse with those strange, deeply silver eyes of hers.


“Ah, Johana, you...” Ilse seemed to stand stiff, her body tensed at the very sight of Johana, who continued to speak to her in Russian.


Nigel frowned, staring at this little meeting of theirs. “Who the hell is this? Why haven't I seen her before? Ah, now I really fucking wish I'd gone and learned Russian way back when...”


“This... is Johana.” Ilse awkwardly smiled as she introduced her 'friend' who looked over every person in the room in turn, taking not much of an interest in any of them. “We met not too long ago, and... well, she also overheard your – our – conversation.


“Johana, huh? What's she saying, then? Tell me, lass, since you're apparently the only fool here who knows how to speak her damned language.”


At least Nigel was being a rather moderate man himself; no one really noticed James shrinking into one corner of the room as he heard the Black Tongue being spoken in this sacred place. The American in him burned and writhed like a heathen ghost as he listened to Johana speak.


Johana quickly burst out with an indignant statement directed at Nigel, though they couldn't understand one another at all.


“Well, Johana says that she is actually the main character. She has appeared in many chapters, though I'm the only regular character she has met, at least so far.” Ilse shrugged, turning for a moment to see Johana nodding slowly, glad that an arrangement could be made to translate her speech. She didn't have Lancer, and, honestly... as much of an obedient Servant he was, Johana didn't quite trust him to give the full story, or translate her words properly as she wanted them. Ilse would at least be honest, if a little suspicious for the most part.


Everyone at the table except for the completely wasted Eleanor and the stoic Dietrich burst out in laughter at Johana's claim.


“You can't be serious.” James stared blankly, at both Ilse and Johana beside her. “This random communist girl is a major character? For one, I've never even heard of her, and two, the story is ongoing! She hasn't shown up at all, so she doesn't count for anything. She's not a main character in the least, and no, you can't use her to piggyback to fame or popularity or anything.”


Ilse let out a long, half-amused breath as she so deeply realized how wrong James was. “Well, to tell you the truth... Johana has close to fifty thousand words dedicated to her. All of this before the end of the General Dialogue arc.”


The very same people who had been overcome with laughter suddenly went stone-silent, unable to come up with a response. Ilse was serious when she made her claim; it wasn't some random statement that may or may not have been true – the look in her eyes said that it was honest, taken from hard facts. It was those hard facts that the so-called main characters couldn't deal with, and they struggled to find an appropriate reaction.


Ilse couldn't help but smirk, and Johana enjoyed the expressions of those before here.


It was then that Saber spoke up, bringing all eyes on her. “This may be an aside to the current conversation, but if this Johana girl is a main character, and this meeting is for the protagonists of this idiotic series redeemed only by my presence, then why exactly is Dietrich here? His story ended with the as-of-yet unwritten Third Holy Grail War; he is, by all rights, a side character, a supporting actor in the epic piece of stagework that this story has become.”


“Finally,” said James, relieved, “At last someone agrees with me! That took way too long, honestly, and it's really deserved here. Dietrich, get out, you're not even a main character, and you can't contest that. You have fans, but they don't even count here either because you are a side character. Get out of our main character bar, you Nazi bastard. This is one place you aren't going to capture!”


Nigel let out a small grunt of acknowledgement. “Yeah, honestly, you don't belong here, Dietrich. You're a mad Nazi bastard, but you aren't a main character. You wanted to make us meet here, but no, I understand your-”


For the first time in a long while, the bell tolled at the entry door, and a curtain of street light entered the bar, along with a gust of cool, nightly air.


There, standing around without knowing anything at all, were Francois and Enrico.


“Hey, we heard there's a main characters meeting here. Did we miss anything?”

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

Well, there's the second omake! Except the third sometime soon; it's going to be much shorter, but definitely... more exciting, perhaps. Another preview, with a more serious tone. I'll just tease you people 'til the end of time.

Also, assuming I have the space to, I'll write up the next Johana and Lancer chapter Wednesday or Thursday, so look forward to then!

[Mattias]

I think Drunk, Conscious Eleanor would be hilarious. Hilarious and incredibly racist. And I remember Ilse.

Another General is horribly beaten down but not killed. And the French run away from the fight.

If I were Team France, I'd try to bring down the RM and use that to set up a trap for everyone who comes out. A trap made of a shitload of cannons.

[Highwayman]

Thanks for clearing up my questions about Monty and his NP. Now for the omake. I greatly enjoyed the metareferences, and the back-and-forth between Saber and James made me nostalgic for those two already.

The fatherly instinct in him wouldn't let his conscience go if he made a teenager – especially a naive one like Eleanor – drunker than a pack of sailors on Saint Patrick's Day.

Why are you so responsible, Nigel? All the creepy readers on the other side of the 4th wall demand drunk Eleanor! Isn’t that right, everybody? Guys? Hello…?

Oh, woah...” she mumbled

Wish granted. Now we’re getting somewhere.

[James:] Who'd want to poison someone like Em... Eleanor?

Eleanor isn’t your replacement goldfish, James! Although it’s nice to see Emily mentioned after who knows how long. James isn’t the type to bring up his personal life without reason, though, so I suppose her absence was justified.

“Many readers complained that you hardly even had a personality. Have you even had an arc centred around your personality?”

The truth hurts. Hitching herself to the Filippo/Gil bandwagon wasn't the ideal way to win in popularity polls.

“Well, to tell you the truth... Johana has close to fifty thousand words dedicated to her

I wouldn't have it any other way, but damn. Some people might accuse the author of favoritism.

[Five_X]

Maybe the next edition of Manhattan Nights will have Eleanor trying to sober up! Who knows... until I deign to post another part, of course.

"Replacement goldfish" is the exact phrase I use to refer to James' affections towards Eleanor. Jeez, poor guy, can't even get over that and he's stuck in situations that only keep on reminding him all about it.

Ilse's situation is tough. Poor her, too; I'm lucky I managed to salvage her a bit by thinking of the nice thematic idea of having her show up a bunch in Johana's story. She still has a ways to go, though, so I'm going to have to pimp her character in the last few chapters remaining of Johana and Lancer!

And no, there's no favouritism for Johana, I just write a lot and she's easy to write for.

[Highwayman]

And no, there's no favouritism for Johana, I just write a lot and she's easy to write for.

I was mostly joking, but it's good to hear that writing Johana & Lancer updates isn't as taxing for you as it could be.

I'll take a look at the actual chapter when I can. Japanese history class is wrecking my week.

[Caster]

Heh, poor Lancer. He needs a hug. *hugs for Lancer* Interesting omake. As always I do love reading this series, just as of late not quite as much focus so I'm not writing as detailed commentary. Poor Alexander too though *hugs for Alexander*. Nobunaga is surprisingly awesome though, do hope he can hold his own in a one-on-one fight. Only one I recall was him versus... well, Saber at a very poor moment, so I don't know how much weight I can lend his fighting talents.

[Five_X]

Time for a new chapter, and if I stretch my meanings enough I'm totally on time and stuff! Maybe! Sure, I don't have an omake, but omakes are for boring people! You totally don't need those, right? >.>

Anyhow, the omake will be out probably tomorrow, 'cause I'm really tired right now and need to sleep and get through an ordinary workday in order to be able to write again. Sometimes, really I hate my shift, but... eh, it pays. As long as I can fund getaway trips to Turkey with a cute British girl, I am a-ok with working a lot and stuff. Too bad it sorta takes away from writing time, though. :S

Oh, and speaking of Turkey, guess who shows up in this latest chapter of Johana and Lancer's story? You shouldn't even need a hint, you silly people!

I hope you enjoy this update, and I know the omake I'm preparing will tickle your interests. It's quite... unique, you could say. I've gotta be a tease, and yes, it's another preview, but for something a bit more closely related to MPII...

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

Invocation the 15^th

The only light Johana and Lancer had in the darkness was the crackling lightning that wreathed her sword, held tight in her hand and close to her body. It cast her figure with a soft blue light, but not enough to show her fully. To onlookers, it would have just been a mysterious glow travelling along the road, calm and uninterrupted, the faintest smell of fire going with it.


'Calm and uninterrupted,' as it was, described Johana's current mindset as well: her pace was casual, almost languid, lacking any visible caution.


Lancer, though, knew that something was beyond that facade. In fact, her acting so atypically normal was suspect enough. He stared at her every few minutes, making sure that she hadn't gone insane yet again. It was a burden to him, not being able to control her outbursts and her health, but he swore to do what he could, even if that amounted to nothing so very often. As much as she denied it, he was her knight and her protector.


Underneath her placidity was hidden a watchfulness that took into account all that happened along the back road they walked along. She scanned the trees with her peripheral vision, watching the movement of the shadows as they were reflected on the ground by her sword's luminescence.


There was little sound at all that night, until the familiar clash of steel on steel rang out, reaching Johana's ears.


Almost before she even heard the sound, she crouched down and rolled to the side of the road, throwing herself into the shadows of the trees. Lancer followed her with a dash barely perceivable by the human eye, and with his enhanced vision he could see what lay ahead. He couldn't make out any details, but he saw a shining sword beat against a spear, the elegant swordplay fouled by the crude but effective strikes of the spear. Lancer chuckled, thinking of how this spear-fighter reminded him of himself against the man he'd fought not long before.


But that thought came with some pain, and he glanced to the side, to his Master.


Johana had nearly doubled over, her hand seeming to grasp for the ground. Her skin, somehow, seemed more pale than usual, a more sickly pallor that revealed her current state. The proximity of the fight, or something about this setting in particular, made a feeling of wrongness retch its way through her body; she felt bile rising in her throat, forcing her to hold back the urge to vomit on the cold asphalt she stared down at. Her sword had fallen on the ground, the noise of it muffled by the brutal fighting ahead.


It was clear to Lancer that Johana could no longer control herself; she must have been hiding this or constraining it the whole night and even in the daytime, working against the reflexes of her body and her mind.


A few drips of a viscous liquid spattered on the ground before her, and Lancer dutifully helped Johana to her feet, making sure to hold her gently.


For once, she willingly leaned on him, her whole form seeming weightless and heavy as a mountain, all at once. Her thoughts could hardly be diverted to think about anything but suppressing the sick feelings rising in her, threatening to take over, and so as her mind whirled she managed to stay still, with Lancer as her crutch.


She couldn't help but hate the sense of security that gave her.

-- --

Back at the hotel, Lancer had helped – not carried, that he ensured – Johana into bed, not speaking to her. He knew that talking to her or doing anything of that sort wouldn't aid her condition at all, so he covered her in the sheets and blankets, hoping she would be okay. That wasn't enough for her; she refused to be covered, instead laying atop the bed, her body exposed and her clothing stuck to her with sweat.


Lancer cursed himself for being slow, but at least he could feel peace in that his Master's self-centred temper hadn't been lost.


“Nh, ah... Lancer, would you please... get me something to drink? Perhaps some... water, this time.” Her voice was as calm as ever, though, as if nothing had happened. Even if the whole hotel fell down around her, Lancer doubted that she could be brought to care much more than she already did. He had to wonder if he was at last getting used to her. The thought of that, he admitted, was a confusing one, and he hadn't the time to debate whether accepting her nature was the best course of action for him.


“Of course, Master.” was his quick response, and almost immediately after he said that he was out the door of the bedroom, heading through the suite to the corridor outside.


He felt a tingle of suspicion crawl into his mind, and he made his steps lighter, cautious.


Something smelled off about the air: it smelled stagnant, but Lancer could clearly see that at least one window in the living room was open, its curtains flapping lightly with the wind. Still, something wasn't right... his base instincts told him that nothing outside of this suite was to be trusted, not in the least.


His suspicion became deadly; he stabbed his lance straight through the hotel door, but the only sound he heard was that of the wood cracking.


Immediately after that sound, though, came a tug on the steel tip of his spear, pulling the whole thing out of Lancer's hands, straight through the door. He grasped for it and caught it back, holding the very end as tight as he could.


All he gained from that was the sensation of his whole body being dragged forward.


More than dragged, he was almost knocked off his feet as the rest of his spear was pulled through the door, leaving Lancer to hold one leg up, his body becoming an anchor against whatever was outside. That something, whatever it was, was something strong and familiar. Images flashed through his mind, and he felt a twinge of pain as the polearm was twisted in his hands, forcing him to take up a new grip, pulling a bit more of the weapon onto the other side.


Lancer had enough of this situation by that point, and he freely let the spear go, willing it to dissipate and then reappear in his hands once again.


Shortly afterwards, the door was busted down, Lancer being pushed back as the frame of heavy wood splintered before the force of a truly powerful being. His mind started racing, and he just barely managed to react, making what could have been a dismembering cut into something that would just leave a deep scar on his forearm.


At that point, Johana could feel her Servant's flashes of pain, and she tore herself out of bed, groaning at her own pain, but bearing it anyways.


Though at first she hobbled, barely able to walk properly, she braced herself against a wall, stood straight, and continued on as usual, walking upright, turning around a corner. In moments, she faced Lancer, who was locked in combat with the same swordsman that had dogged them what felt like dozens of times before. The very sight of him again made Johana want to vomit, but her mind forced her body to comply in a situation as volatile as this.


With her Servant running the enemy down the hall, Johana stood face-to-face with none other than Alexei Skobelev, standing in his greatcoat in the ruined doorway.


“You're making an awful mess of my temporary home,” Johana said with a sneer. “How can I forgive this? The repairs will be expensive, you know, and I am a poor woman.”


He laughed at what he imagined as an attempt at humour, and held a hand close to his coat, right above his heart. “Do you not know, simple girl? The host of this competition – the wonderful, generous man he is – reconstructs any damage done with the magic he has right at his fingertips. I would be impressed, but my own homeland has far more men of his stature, and ones who work tirelessly for the benefit of all Russia!”


His smile was hearty, as if nothing was wrong. Still, there was something else behind that look of his; Johana could see it in his deep-set eyes.


Even as they stared at each other, though, Johana did not see him flinching as her eyes flashed a brighter silver, and instead of being cowed in fear, Alexei laughed again, letting a few of the splinters of the door form themselves into a wooden vine, coiled like a snake.


“Oh, but I am not the only one with magic here in this town, of course!” He clapped his hands together three times; the sound echoed throughout the suite and the corridor, but there was no response at all, as if no one else resided in the hotel to begin with. “See, I have this whole place surrounded in a bounded field that nullifies sound, preventing any screams or sounds of battle from escaping to reach the ears of others! We can have our battle in peace, and without anything getting in our way, so shall we?”


Johana scoffed; the veil of silence felt like only an advantage to her, and the more pressing fact that her eyes had no effect on the man was hardly a concern. There were many ways she could kill him, and an inability to destroy his will with her mystic eyes was a small price to pay for the opportunity to finish Alexei off. By this point, he'd become too much of a hindrance to her.


“Svůdný Vzduchu.” Like a spark of lightning touching down on the earth, her sword shimmered into existence, perfectly balanced in her grip.


She could hear the scuffle to her right; she guessed that Lancer and the enemy Servant were near the end of the hall near her bedroom, the force of their close-quarters fighting threatening to burst through the wall. That, Johana had to admit, would be problematic; despite her tired, weak mind, she still could understand what was best and worst for her now.


As the ringing of metal filled the air, the tendril of broken timber that Alexei controlled at his side struck forth, cutting through the floor, gathering more splinters to grow itself, and like the claw of some beast it tore at Johana's arm.


It nearly managed to grasp her sword, but she cut the wooden construct in half before it could quite reach her.


The tattered wood split apart, then reformed with heavier pieces of the door that lay on the ground; random pieces of shrapnel rose up and pelted themselves at Johana; she parried most of them, but still some passed through her defence, slipping past her blade to cut into her skin like burrowing, tearing needles. They split in her flesh, and though the pain would be immense for most people, Johana didn't let it bother her.


Still, she could see easily the sense of superiority that Alexei had; he barely had to raise a finger to fight her while she was still exerting herself, though perhaps less than the man imagined.


The truth was, though, she was being pushed back, unable to make a single move against Alexei. Johana knew well enough that he had control of the battlefield, and he seemed willing enough to put their own secrecy at great risk just to resolve this fight. He was a magi with some pride in him; Johana knew his type.


Coursing electricity reduced a swarm of oncoming splinters to mere ash as they approached her, and she searched her own knowledge and experience for a strategy.


A strategy that, in the end, would have been useless anyways: a loud bang tore through the room, and Alexei disappeared in a shimmer of red.


“An illusion... shit, I should have known.” Johana could see the tip of a gun barrel right outside her door. “He was being too obvious; I mistook that just for pride.”


For just a moment, Ilse glanced in the room, giving Johana a quick thumbs up before raising her rifle again, the barrel pointed down the hallway. A frown crossed her lips, and she ran straight into Johana's suite, passing her acquaintance on her way to the living room window. A length of rope could be seen in her off-hand, and she slung her rifle on her back, holding it in place there.


“No time to chat much now, Johana. By my estimates, he should be reaching the entrance of this hotel in roughly two minutes; armed as I am, I can't follow him, and the quickest route is to intercept him right... here.” Her eyes narrowed, and as she was speaking she had tied one end of her rope to a leg of the hefty living room television.


She gave Johana one last wave before descending out the window, rappelling down the side of the hotel. Her seriousness almost took Johana back, and the woman smiled.


“Oh, Ilse... never change, will you?” That was the first time she smiled that night.


Still, the strength she once had drained from her, the rush of battle over. The sound of the Servants had dimmed, finally to nothingness; Lancer was at Johana's side in moments, his body covered in more than a few cuts and bruises from various weapons. He was a fighter used to open terrain, not confined spaces, and he'd paid his price for how hard he'd fought for his Master's survival. Even if she didn't recognize it, he would continue defending her as he did, and he knelt by her side as she slumped against a wall of the hotel suite, the energy in her gone as quickly as it had flowed through her body.


Johana didn't know how long she laid there, helpless and almost numb. Her sword had dissipated, and she felt so pathetic that part of her wanted to just roll over and strangle herself.


After some time, possibly hours, through the window leapt Ilse, still clad in her combat uniform. She wiped some sweat off of her brow and lifted a boot up onto the arm of a couch, quickly tightening the knot of her bootlaces. She then saw Johana, in the corner of the room, and couldn't help but feel a hint of sympathy strike her. Ilse could hardly say that Johana was the most sad looking human being she'd ever seen, but the woman she perceived as being strong and even a little arrogant in that strength was a far from impressive sight, bringing back unfortunate memories to Ilse; she ignored them as best she could, and walked over to Johana.


She was wary around Lancer, who also kept an eye on her, but he let the girl take a few more steps toward Johana; Ilse held out her hand, and Johana almost willingly grasped it.


A new light came to her eyes when she saw Ilse again, and a cool smile showed on her face just as she lost some of her unearthly pallor. Her body seemed almost stiff, going from being weak and limp to upright and nimble in moments.


“You... what, you came to 'rescue' me or something like that?” Johana crossed her arms, her indignation showing mildly even though Lancer was uninvolved with this.


Ilse chuckled lightly, checking the door just in case. “No. I live here, at least for the purposes of this war; I used my family connections to earn a stay here, without question. Normally a receptionist at a luxurious place like this would be suspicious of a girl dressed like a soldier and carrying an unusually hefty bag, but as soon as I gave the image and credentials of a typical noblewoman, I made it in.”


Johana narrowed her eyes, seeing a disconnect between herself and this girl, more than before. “You're a noblewoman? What kind of family do you belong to, then?”


“I would rather not talk about that, I have to say.” Ilse's smile turned cold, and she looked elsewhere for a few seconds. “I'll just note that I don't affiliate myself with them; they aren't worth being around, and I can only thank them for the few gifts they gave me, indirectly.”


Suddenly, Johana's suspicions disappeared, and she stared at Ilse with a new, stranger look, seeming to examine the girl even as they were barely a foot apart.


Ilse began to step away, curious as to Johana's motives, but she wasn't fast enough – Johana wrapped her arms around Ilse's waist, holding her in a soft embrace. Their lips met, with the relative chill of Johana's skin matched by Ilse's warmth. Johana held her close, hands firm on her back, and she began to slip her tongue between the girl's lips for a more passionate touch, experimenting with this new sensation. Her body called out to her, telling her to do this even though she did not quite know; the attraction she felt was too complex to her to sort out immediately.


A pang of disappointment struck her as Ilse pulled away, her dark brown eyes staring into Johana's silver, a glimmer of confusion more than clear in the girl – along with no shortage of new found suspicion.


Johana lightly laughed, her hand sliding back to her side finally as she stepped back to give Ilse some space. “Ilse, I... was wondering, if you wished to work together, effective allies in this war. We could achieve much together, could we not? You remind me so much of myself, it would be perfect for me, and I could offer you the knowledge of my own experiences, could I not?”


Lancer was just as confused as Ilse as he mediated the conversation, making sure nothing went out of hand.


“I wish for no help, and I only need the company of myself.” Ilse didn't even frown at Johana's remark, instead letting no emotion show now fin her tone of voice or in the expression she wore. “I tracked the Russian across half of the city after I left here, only returning when I noticed his Servant with him. Don't think I arrived just to protect you from whatever reared its ugly head here; I won't protect you, and you won't protect me. Deal?”


She was honest and, for the most part, to-the-point. Johana's heart stung from that declaration; she felt the loss in a way she couldn't really comprehend, but she nodded anyhow.


“If that is what you want, then I can accept it. You will make for a wonderful foe someday, and... I wish you good luck.” Johana wondered at the worth of her last statement, but she held herself to it, watching as Ilse left the room, just as cold and quick as she had entered. Despite all that, Johana couldn't help but keep her mind on that girl, and how she had held her so close for just a moment, losing her too soon. Ilse's dark skin against her pale flesh felt like the strangest contract, one she could only be comfortable with.



Almost willingly she went to her bed, barely speaking to Lancer; he followed behind, still worrying as he always did, no matter how much Johana assured him that nothing was wrong.


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

Hoorah, Ilse gets to do stuff again! Hoorah, Russian guy! Hoorah, lesbian kissing! See, I told you there would be something interesting this chapter, and that something is Johana's absolute inability to function in normal society. Sure, she works fine when dealing with a Servant or having occasional conversations with people she's fighting, but as soon as it goes any farther (and especially when she's dealing with Ilse) she just flounders and flails. Poor girl. Well, both of them, really.

Just as an aside, would you people be interested in seeing more Ilse content? I mean, I've stated already she's technically the main character of an upcoming arc, but do you think she'd benefit from more screentime? I know, I can't go much into deeper content like her history and flashbacks and what not, but is there anything Ilse-centric you people are interested in? She definitely got off on the wrong foot, unfortunately, but I guess part of that is because I originally wrote her as a totally different character - her original iteration, which can be seen most clearly in the early stages of the Mall arc, isn't even outright stated to have brown skin, as per my idea of her at the time. She was meant to be kinda like a Rin figure, but then I took a left turn somewhere and... well, she ended up quite the opposite, really.

In the end, I hope tonight's chapter was nice, and I look forward to hearing/reading your thoughts! I promise the GD arc is wrapping up soon! ;__;

[Five_X]

Certainly a... bit of a dearth of comments, compared to usual. Still, I'll let you people sift through that chapter, and I'll leave an omake here for your viewing pleasure:

Spoiler:

Revolution

Jacqueline Maes clutched at the red shawl draped over her shoulders; her black dress was all else that she wore, offering little help against the night's unexpected weather. Goosebumps raised along her arms and legs – a night in mid-July was hardly supposed to feel like this. It wasn't so cold as to make her very breaths visible, but it made her walk more sluggish, and she could hardly stand it compared to the gentle heat of the day.


All the outdoor shops she had passed, and all the banks and museums and franchise stores, were closed and empty, the lights within shut off, not offering any illumination.


For Jacqueline, there was only the light of every other lamppost to guide her along.


Her other hand gripped her hickory staff, a simple walking stick held not to make up for a bad leg but as a defence, just in case. What she knew but muggers would not was that the staff had been enchanted with magic over the course of her life. It almost made her look like some classic fairytale wizard, though she lacked the heavy robes and the pointed hat.


She was making her way south through Georgetown; it would soon be time for her to leave, as even a week of extensive research had led her nowhere closer to her objective. Somewhere along the line all of her questions had answered themselves: she was too late, and poor communication had taken its toll. The war that once raged her was long since ended, coming to a conclusion. Jacqueline cared not for the object of the war, the Holy Grail or an imitation thereof. She sought something more than that; always she was looking forward, trying to find any trace of the war, hoping that she had some chance left. She could hardly understand, though, when she found nothing of it. It was as though it had never happened, though she knew it had taken place.


Jacqueline was put in the precarious position of having many questions, but no way to get a satisfying answer for any of them. Perhaps her expectations for this Manhattan Project overshot the reality of it.


If that was it, then, she couldn't do anything. Maybe she could be at peace; if the effects in the end were hardly as harsh as she'd feared, then maybe... maybe it had ended the way she'd hoped.


Despite all that, she still felt a chill in her very bones, reaching to her core.


It was something more than just the cool of the night; it felt more like autumn tonight, but it wasn't winter. The weather right now was something she expected from earlier in the year, a time when this war here was still raging. Her preconceptions of America had lied to her, maybe, and she knew at least that this place was far removed from her own home of Belgium.


She idly checked her watch; midnight was nearing, soon to mark her having been here a full week, seven days of no discovery at all. Something was suspicious here, but she could connect nothing to the war itself.


Her gaze flicked up for just a moment as she wanted to see the moon; something else caught her eye then, and she stopped walking immediately.


She'd just taken her first steps on the Key Bridge, the link between Georgetown and Arlington. It was a boundary between two states, but it hardly felt like anything more than a normal bridge – save for one figure, sitting atop a lamppost, staring down.


There was something odd about the figure there that Jacqueline couldn't quite notice in the glare of the light. Their hair seemed light like snow, and they carried something, long like the staff Jacqueline held at her side, its light wood tapping on the bridge, a steady and almost calming sound. Of course, that was before Jacqueline halted; now there was no sound save for the whisper of the cool winds, fluttering across the Potomac river below.


With a quick, athletic movement, the figure leapt down from the tall streetlight down to the bridge, standing in full view.


“Jacqueline Maes, it's... good to see you, at long last.” The clear voice of a woman, but with a cruel tone behind it. A thin smile crossed her lips as she finished speaking, her yellow eyes staring straight ahead, an unnerving look that seemed to pierce right into Jacqueline's mind. There was something different about this woman.


The light revealed as much: instead of wearing a dress or a regular girl's skirt, she wore what seemed like a decorated loincloth of cotton or wool, reaching down past her knees and showing much of her legs – and her skin looked nearly as pale as her hair.


What was more unusual than her antiquated, jewelled dress was in fact her skin: her legs, arms, and even her face were almost completely covered in tattoos, markings that Jacqueline could not understand and had never seen before. She didn't doubt that the tattoos extended across the rest of this woman's body, adding to the strange look she seemed to cultivate. The woman even wore a headdress of some kind, ringed with feathers and teeth and coloured like the rest of her with dark reds, greens and bright turquoise. It was like she stepped out of another world, or another time; someone like her didn't belong in this place, not normally.


Standing across from Jacqueline, she seemed a complete opposite, from her clothing to her long spear, as tall as her whole body and tipped with an almost black point with a dress of orange hair and natural elements adorning it.


“Who... who are you; why are you here? Jacqueline took a step back, the chill reaching deeper into her body; she leaned on her staff more than she meant to. “How do you know my name, even? I never dealt with someone like... you.”


The pale woman seemed disappointed. “Hmm... I never did give you a name, did I? That was probably a mistake, but nothing I care too much about. I know you, though, Jacqueline Maes – we have met, in a different time but at this very same place. You were a different person then, but I've waited and waited until this very hour of this very day.”


Jacqueline was at a loss for words. The mysterious woman smiled more broadly at this now. “If we had met, then... th-then I would have known! I never forget a face, even if I don't have a name to associate with it, so... who are you? Or, if this applies, what are you? Some kind of demon, or a freak magus expecting amnesty from the Clock Tower?”


The woman let out a low, grim laugh, and it felt to Jacqueline as though that sound would be the last she would ever hear.


“Midnight is approaching, Jacqueline Maes. Are you ready? Ready to give what you promised? I assure you that it won't be a painful process... but, now that I've confirmed everything, you'll hardly remember it afterwards. At least you get to hear me talkative in these last moments. That's a rare thing – for me, at least. Feel fortunate, will you?”


The woman slipped into a battle stance, her spear at the ready. Still Jacqueline could feel something wrong about her, something beyond human. She just didn't know what.


Jacqueline held her hickory staff in front of herself, gripping it in both hands and preparing herself for the inevitable impact of this woman charging her. She reinforced the walking stick, making sure it was strong enough to withstand even a great spell, and she knew that, if this woman rushed ahead, she could sidestep her attack and strike her unconscious.


That was what she expected – and she got something else entirely.


A greyish-black orb shimmered into existence just above the woman's palm as she held it out to the side, facing up to the starry night sky. The ball seemed ordinary at first, but then the woman wordlessly manipulated it in her hand, even without touching its surface. Two blades, sharp and glinting in the lamppost's light, extended from either side of the ball, and then the woman's stance changed as she languidly reached her arm back to throw.


Jacqueline prepared herself for this. She could strike a projectile out of the air, even if it was tossed at inhuman speeds, and she readied her staff and her body to deflect the dark, stone orb.


The woman mumbled something under her breath and launched her arm forward, the ball travelling at immense speeds forward, faster than the eye could see. Just the sort of inhuman speeds that Jacqueline was expecting.


Steeling herself, Jacqueline reacted in the split-second she had, reaching out with one quick strike of the end of her staff, aimed perfectly. She struck the orb as it flew through the air towards her, its blades spinning as it came nearer. But, the end of her staff was cut off as if it was nothing, and that piece of wood thudded on the ground – along with the whole of Jacqueline's left arm.


It took a few moments for Jacqueline to even notice what had happened. Her eyes went wide when she realized that she couldn't move her arm, still feeling as if something was there. She saw a small spatter of blood on her staff, and then she went pale. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the arm that lay useless on the ground, cut clean from her shoulder as if wasn't even attached in the first place. Jacqueline almost went completely numb, her mind unable to process the loss of her whole arm.


Just as she was coming to that realization, the woman ahead charged, spear aimed straight forward. Jacqueline, at risk once again, acted almost entirely on instinct.


She had to use her last resort, and a stinging pain assaulted her skull as she closed her eyes.


Jacqueline captured the image of the woman about to tear into her heart, placing it firmly in her mind. Her eyes opened in an instant just as the woman approached, the tip of her spear barely beginning to graze against Jacqueline's skin.


Thousands of more images poured into Jacqueline's mind; she couldn't control them, and she began to panic as everything went wrong.


'No!' she thought, trying to make everything right in an instant as she wracked her brain for strategies. 'My eyes, they... I can't do anything. I feel it... searing... tearing me apart, and then – no, no more! No! Not so-'


She had burned the image of the woman cutting her through the heart into her mind, but she was overcome with thousands of other thoughts as she drifted between life and death, unable to determine whether or not she was fully conscious. Everything seemed transient, and wave after wave of horrific ideas poured into her burning mind, threatening to kill her simply by stressing her brain to its breaking point. The only thoughts she was capable of involved those images, copies, fragments of the past, pieces of what had happened here and what could have been. Jacqueline drowned in the sea of information, finally unable to take it anymore; she let herself succumb to it all, her body numb and her mind unable to put colours and details to the images that assailed her now.


The face of that woman tore at her, a memory not from the past but from the future, something that shouldn't have existed, not at that time – was it really something that had happened that she could remember, or was this a piece of herself she had ignored, unable to comprehend?


Her mystic eyes gave a glimpse into other worlds within her mind, allowing her to replace pieces of the world itself with perfect replications, identical save for the tiniest of details.


Now, though, she saw thousands, even millions of worlds, so many of which she had never witnessed before, but they all dealt with the topic of this city, herself, and events of the past. The face of that woman only appeared once, a torture even as it showed itself, something devolved to a mere idea that Jacqueline couldn't understand. The only thing she could understand was the pain, and the impossible contradiction of the woman she had seen just before what may have been her death.


A sudden cold enveloped her body, and she opened her eyes at last.


It was night again, the slightest lights of the moon and the stars making their way into her apartment, where she was laying suddenly awake on her bed.


Though she couldn't recall those images, something told her that she hadn't actually awoken from a nightmare – she awoke in it.

Try to make sense of that, now! :3

It's just a tease; it's something that I might write after MPII itself is finished. Just a dream right now - but someday, maybe, we will find ourselves waking within that dream just as Jacqueline does, and the original story of MPII will be over.

[Lycodrake]

Wasn't sure what to say on the 15th Invocation, sadly.
...my brain might be a bit fried for MPII given the past week. >.>;

[Mattias]

Certainly a... bit of a dearth of comments, compared to usual. Still, I'll let you people sift through that chapter, and I'll leave an omake here for your viewing pleasure:

Spoiler:

Revolution

Jacqueline Maes clutched at the red shawl draped over her shoulders; her black dress was all else that she wore, offering little help against the night's unexpected weather. Goosebumps raised along her arms and legs – a night in mid-July was hardly supposed to feel like this. It wasn't so cold as to make her very breaths visible, but it made her walk more sluggish, and she could hardly stand it compared to the gentle heat of the day.


All the outdoor shops she had passed, and all the banks and museums and franchise stores, were closed and empty, the lights within shut off, not offering any illumination.


For Jacqueline, there was only the light of every other lamppost to guide her along.


Her other hand gripped her hickory staff, a simple walking stick held not to make up for a bad leg but as a defence, just in case. What she knew but muggers would not was that the staff had been enchanted with magic over the course of her life. It almost made her look like some classic fairytale wizard, though she lacked the heavy robes and the pointed hat.


She was making her way south through Georgetown; it would soon be time for her to leave, as even a week of extensive research had led her nowhere closer to her objective. Somewhere along the line all of her questions had answered themselves: she was too late, and poor communication had taken its toll. The war that once raged her was long since ended, coming to a conclusion. Jacqueline cared not for the object of the war, the Holy Grail or an imitation thereof. She sought something more than that; always she was looking forward, trying to find any trace of the war, hoping that she had some chance left. She could hardly understand, though, when she found nothing of it. It was as though it had never happened, though she knew it had taken place.


Jacqueline was put in the precarious position of having many questions, but no way to get a satisfying answer for any of them. Perhaps her expectations for this Manhattan Project overshot the reality of it.


If that was it, then, she couldn't do anything. Maybe she could be at peace; if the effects in the end were hardly as harsh as she'd feared, then maybe... maybe it had ended the way she'd hoped.


Despite all that, she still felt a chill in her very bones, reaching to her core.


It was something more than just the cool of the night; it felt more like autumn tonight, but it wasn't winter. The weather right now was something she expected from earlier in the year, a time when this war here was still raging. Her preconceptions of America had lied to her, maybe, and she knew at least that this place was far removed from her own home of Belgium.


She idly checked her watch; midnight was nearing, soon to mark her having been here a full week, seven days of no discovery at all. Something was suspicious here, but she could connect nothing to the war itself.


Her gaze flicked up for just a moment as she wanted to see the moon; something else caught her eye then, and she stopped walking immediately.


She'd just taken her first steps on the Key Bridge, the link between Georgetown and Arlington. It was a boundary between two states, but it hardly felt like anything more than a normal bridge – save for one figure, sitting atop a lamppost, staring down.


There was something odd about the figure there that Jacqueline couldn't quite notice in the glare of the light. Their hair seemed light like snow, and they carried something, long like the staff Jacqueline held at her side, its light wood tapping on the bridge, a steady and almost calming sound. Of course, that was before Jacqueline halted; now there was no sound save for the whisper of the cool winds, fluttering across the Potomac river below.


With a quick, athletic movement, the figure leapt down from the tall streetlight down to the bridge, standing in full view.


“Jacqueline Maes, it's... good to see you, at long last.” The clear voice of a woman, but with a cruel tone behind it. A thin smile crossed her lips as she finished speaking, her yellow eyes staring straight ahead, an unnerving look that seemed to pierce right into Jacqueline's mind. There was something different about this woman.


The light revealed as much: instead of wearing a dress or a regular girl's skirt, she wore what seemed like a decorated loincloth of cotton or wool, reaching down past her knees and showing much of her legs – and her skin looked nearly as pale as her hair.


What was more unusual than her antiquated, jewelled dress was in fact her skin: her legs, arms, and even her face were almost completely covered in tattoos, markings that Jacqueline could not understand and had never seen before. She didn't doubt that the tattoos extended across the rest of this woman's body, adding to the strange look she seemed to cultivate. The woman even wore a headdress of some kind, ringed with feathers and teeth and coloured like the rest of her with dark reds, greens and bright turquoise. It was like she stepped out of another world, or another time; someone like her didn't belong in this place, not normally.


Standing across from Jacqueline, she seemed a complete opposite, from her clothing to her long spear, as tall as her whole body and tipped with an almost black point with a dress of orange hair and natural elements adorning it.


“Who... who are you; why are you here? Jacqueline took a step back, the chill reaching deeper into her body; she leaned on her staff more than she meant to. “How do you know my name, even? I never dealt with someone like... you.”


The pale woman seemed disappointed. “Hmm... I never did give you a name, did I? That was probably a mistake, but nothing I care too much about. I know you, though, Jacqueline Maes – we have met, in a different time but at this very same place. You were a different person then, but I've waited and waited until this very hour of this very day.”


Jacqueline was at a loss for words. The mysterious woman smiled more broadly at this now. “If we had met, then... th-then I would have known! I never forget a face, even if I don't have a name to associate with it, so... who are you? Or, if this applies, what are you? Some kind of demon, or a freak magus expecting amnesty from the Clock Tower?”


The woman let out a low, grim laugh, and it felt to Jacqueline as though that sound would be the last she would ever hear.


“Midnight is approaching, Jacqueline Maes. Are you ready? Ready to give what you promised? I assure you that it won't be a painful process... but, now that I've confirmed everything, you'll hardly remember it afterwards. At least you get to hear me talkative in these last moments. That's a rare thing – for me, at least. Feel fortunate, will you?”


The woman slipped into a battle stance, her spear at the ready. Still Jacqueline could feel something wrong about her, something beyond human. She just didn't know what.


Jacqueline held her hickory staff in front of herself, gripping it in both hands and preparing herself for the inevitable impact of this woman charging her. She reinforced the walking stick, making sure it was strong enough to withstand even a great spell, and she knew that, if this woman rushed ahead, she could sidestep her attack and strike her unconscious.


That was what she expected – and she got something else entirely.


A greyish-black orb shimmered into existence just above the woman's palm as she held it out to the side, facing up to the starry night sky. The ball seemed ordinary at first, but then the woman wordlessly manipulated it in her hand, even without touching its surface. Two blades, sharp and glinting in the lamppost's light, extended from either side of the ball, and then the woman's stance changed as she languidly reached her arm back to throw.


Jacqueline prepared herself for this. She could strike a projectile out of the air, even if it was tossed at inhuman speeds, and she readied her staff and her body to deflect the dark, stone orb.


The woman mumbled something under her breath and launched her arm forward, the ball travelling at immense speeds forward, faster than the eye could see. Just the sort of inhuman speeds that Jacqueline was expecting.


Steeling herself, Jacqueline reacted in the split-second she had, reaching out with one quick strike of the end of her staff, aimed perfectly. She struck the orb as it flew through the air towards her, its blades spinning as it came nearer. But, the end of her staff was cut off as if it was nothing, and that piece of wood thudded on the ground – along with the whole of Jacqueline's left arm.


It took a few moments for Jacqueline to even notice what had happened. Her eyes went wide when she realized that she couldn't move her arm, still feeling as if something was there. She saw a small spatter of blood on her staff, and then she went pale. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the arm that lay useless on the ground, cut clean from her shoulder as if wasn't even attached in the first place. Jacqueline almost went completely numb, her mind unable to process the loss of her whole arm.


Just as she was coming to that realization, the woman ahead charged, spear aimed straight forward. Jacqueline, at risk once again, acted almost entirely on instinct.


She had to use her last resort, and a stinging pain assaulted her skull as she closed her eyes.


Jacqueline captured the image of the woman about to tear into her heart, placing it firmly in her mind. Her eyes opened in an instant just as the woman approached, the tip of her spear barely beginning to graze against Jacqueline's skin.


Thousands of more images poured into Jacqueline's mind; she couldn't control them, and she began to panic as everything went wrong.


'No!' she thought, trying to make everything right in an instant as she wracked her brain for strategies. 'My eyes, they... I can't do anything. I feel it... searing... tearing me apart, and then – no, no more! No! Not so-'


She had burned the image of the woman cutting her through the heart into her mind, but she was overcome with thousands of other thoughts as she drifted between life and death, unable to determine whether or not she was fully conscious. Everything seemed transient, and wave after wave of horrific ideas poured into her burning mind, threatening to kill her simply by stressing her brain to its breaking point. The only thoughts she was capable of involved those images, copies, fragments of the past, pieces of what had happened here and what could have been. Jacqueline drowned in the sea of information, finally unable to take it anymore; she let herself succumb to it all, her body numb and her mind unable to put colours and details to the images that assailed her now.


The face of that woman tore at her, a memory not from the past but from the future, something that shouldn't have existed, not at that time – was it really something that had happened that she could remember, or was this a piece of herself she had ignored, unable to comprehend?


Her mystic eyes gave a glimpse into other worlds within her mind, allowing her to replace pieces of the world itself with perfect replications, identical save for the tiniest of details.


Now, though, she saw thousands, even millions of worlds, so many of which she had never witnessed before, but they all dealt with the topic of this city, herself, and events of the past. The face of that woman only appeared once, a torture even as it showed itself, something devolved to a mere idea that Jacqueline couldn't understand. The only thing she could understand was the pain, and the impossible contradiction of the woman she had seen just before what may have been her death.


A sudden cold enveloped her body, and she opened her eyes at last.


It was night again, the slightest lights of the moon and the stars making their way into her apartment, where she was laying suddenly awake on her bed.


Though she couldn't recall those images, something told her that she hadn't actually awoken from a nightmare – she awoke in it.

Try to make sense of that, now! :3

The Belgian daughter of Zelretch?