The Manhattan Project II

[Five_X]

Edited the chapter, because I accidentally mixed up my Steinbeck novels:

The Grapes of Wrath is boring as shit, but Of Mice and Men is fucking awesome.

[Fancy Face the First]

I must apologize for my tardiness, but I have arrived to bolster your ranks and whatnot.

[Five_X]

Hooray! You are just in time, Fancy, for another chapter of MPII!

Enjoy it, because it's full of foreshadowing and hints at future events... and also, in the next chapter I will be giving you all the first real "bite" of the General Dialogue arc!

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

CHAPTER XXXIX

Despite the driving rain that beat down upon him, Francois made his way through the night to the chapel where the mediator resided. His Servant walked wordlessly beside him; even if Napoleon said anything, it would very likely be drowned out by the din of the rain. He wore a heavy winter coat that had already soaked through, giving neither of them protection against the weather. It was harsh, but for Francois, it didn't matter. He was going to accomplish his goals regardless of whatever poured down from the sky to stop him.


The chapel, luckily, was in an area of heavy forest cover, and so the two were granted some respite from the rain, though the sound persisted. It was a small reminder of the true atmosphere of this war, telling Francois that he couldn't let himself be too at peace. As much as he loved spending time with his sister away from the violence, that could never last, and that he knew far too well for his own good. With the war dragging on, trudging towards an eventual close, the levels of death and destruction would only escalate. Francois could only hope that his sister wasn't ever caught up in the crossfire of any battles to come.


He pounded on the thick wood of the chapel door with a clenched fist.


“Enter, potential victor of the Manhattan Project.” The muted voice sounding from within was as thin and raspy as before, completely unmistakable.


With a grimace Francois let himself in, checking around inside the chapel. The lights were all on, scented candles were lit and the atmosphere was almost cheerful, overpowering the grim weather when the door was shut again. Francois let out a calmed sigh, and stepped through the middle of the pews up the aisle to the mediator himself, Father Coleman.


“What do you know about a Master sending out invitations to some sort of meeting?” His words were simple and to the point. George liked that, turning around and smiling at the Master who had come in here. His arms were folded behind his back, and his expression was serene.


He nodded and said, “Yes, young Master, I most certainly do. Master of a Rider, I believe she is, and a wealthy girl. She came here about a week ago, maybe a few days more, sharing a prayer with me. She was quite nice, gregarious, and energetic. In the presence of her Servant, though... he was a tall, swarthy-skinned man, with big arms and a hardened look on his face. When he was around, after our little prayer, she seemed to become strangely haughty. I chuckled to myself and saw her off.”


That explanation didn't convince Francois more than a little. “Then, how do you know that she is the one that sent the invitations? Did she mention to you that idea, judging its plausibility, or... have you got some other way of learning what goes on in this war?” Francois narrowed his eyes, not trusting this priest by instinct.


“Ha, you hit the mark, sir.” George smiled a bright smile that showed great big dimples on his wrinkly cheeks. “As a mediator, I have eyes in this city and in Arlington that let me see and hear what goes on, by the grace of the Lord. After all, I wouldn't be in charge of this war without having some way of seeing all that happens! Why, just the other day, a Servant lost its Master. I was able to see the whole battle, and repair the sections of the city that needed attention. Understand?”


Francois crossed his arms. “So, in case someone gets out of line, you can stop them from causing too much trouble? What kinds of punishments do you hand out, on whatever whims?”


“I only punish those judged to deserve it. Those who cause widespread destruction may be barred from fighting for a time, and those who continue to be problematic and disrupt the flow of the Manhattan Project can be marked as targets for other Masters to hunt down. I can, at will, give the location of any Master and Servant to all those participating in the war. Ultimately, though, I'm a forgiving man, and don't hold grudges.” Throughout his explanation, the priest remained calm and humble, not once raising his basso voice too loudly.


“I see.” Francois' lips curled into a slight sneer at this new information. He knew all too well how power vested in one person could lead to corruption. “So, you think that this girl can be trusted? You at least don't see her as enough of a nuisance to levy any penalty on, at least.”


George thought on that, closing his eyes and humming softly. Opening his eyes he said, “Why, yes, I believe that she is trustworthy. Don't be too cynical about this. There are definitely people in this war who don't work with underhanded tactics or have shady goals. Be more open minded, and you will see yourself to true victory. Being righteous in the eyes of God is a good enough incentive, isn't it?”


“Some people might think that way.” mumbled Francois with a sigh. “I'm not one of them.” He began to turn around to leave.


“But, there's one thing that strikes me-” He faced the priest again as he said this. “If you know so much about the Manhattan Project, then shouldn't you know why there have been a few errors in it so far? You know why I summoned Napoleon?”


George nodded, taking Francois by surprise with that small gesture. “I believe I've found it out. Simply, your Servant Archer, Napoleon, overrode your first summoned Servant due to a superior catalyst. I believe you used nothing at all in your summoning of your original Rider, so the sudden acquisition of a powerful catalyst for another Servant... that, I imagine, would allow one Servant to take the place of another. In a way, your Archer forced himself into the Manhattan Project when he shouldn't even have participated.”


Still trying to think that through, Francois looked over at Napoleon, impressed. “I think I understand that. He mentioned someone that he wanted to meet, so that might be it. If not, then it might also be similar personalities, though I don't think Napoleon and I are much too similar.”


“You may learn otherwise, young Master.” George spoke with a little laugh. “Good luck, and may the Lord smile upon you and those you hold dear. Lead your country to victory.”


Turning around for the final time, Francois left that chapel, letting the door slam shut behind him. It sounded almost quiet, faced with the powerful thunderclaps and drenching sound of the rain. He just had to sigh, and began to trudge back home for tonight. The weather was far too depressing and frustrating for him to willingly go to this girl's meeting at this time of day.

-- --

“One last question, Enrico.” The Spanish knight gestured as to stop his Master. “Why do you make so many plots and tricks? Is a straightforward victory so impossible to achieve?”


Enrico shook his head, closing the door he was about to walk through, delaying exiting his base of operations. “In a regular Grail War, that may work. However, with so many contenders, there's a wild card element to the whole cast of characters we've got here. Remember that nearly everyone who officially entered this tournament is a top-class magus in some way or another. One may be skilled at hunting down magi, and another may be well-versed in the more typical arts of magecraft. All of them, however, will be highly skilled in whichever discipline they've focused themselves on. I'm not like that; I'm average at best and just rely on some tricks to get me through.”


“Ah, so you fight with your mind rather than your body, then? Not the way of a knight, but our clashing means of fighting fit together quite well.” El Cid lifted up and took off his helmet, holding it under his arm.


“Yes, exactly.” It was a good point to note that El Cid was summoned with a catalyst rather than just by chance; Enrico knew who he was going to get. “Except... I did say that I have some tricks, didn't I? Whether it be guerrilla warfare, psychologically damaging my foes, or using my special talents to come up with a sort of weapon or technique or something of that sort.”


El Cid wore a smile. “Is that so? I attest to that being true, given that you fought off Assassin's Master – though, I have to say, you're more like that damned Assassin than any regular magus.”


At that remark, Enrico just shrugged. “That's how I conduct myself. I know that you didn't take Assassin's jeering too well, but he ended up the loser in any case. None of the odds were on his side, and we won. That's all there is to it: winning, regardless of the cost.”


“That's a dangerous outlook, Enrico.” El Cid narrowed his eyes. “People who think like that all too often lose track of what's important to them, and end up just being senseless killers.”


“More often than not, I'm the one being hunted down. I have plenty of enemies, Rodrigo.” He sighed, shaking his head, then thought of something to break off that old, worn down conversation. “Back to the main topic, though, I have something in store for the shield. That's what the whole plot is for. You remember that the shield of Achilles has more powers than just being durable, right?”


El Cid nodded. He was the owner of the shield now, and all of its various strengths and weaknesses were becoming known to him. “And you were aided in that regard by being able to hunt down this other Master with the information in your reports, then? Smart.”


“Yes. If I make a report on every person or thing of note in an area before I enter it, then my chances of survival are much greater. I was able to discover the identities of nearly everyone involved here, and a few of their personalities. I should know who to contact.” He cleared his throat, recalling something at the last moment. “Ah, but I'm not quite 'hunting' in this case, Rodrigo.”


He started off out the front door of his house, letting El Cid exit first into the unnaturally heavy rain and wind that had been rampant in the city for a while already..


“No, I'm merely headhunting.”

-- --

February 19^th, 1963


In the old concrete garage of Nigel's mansion, the air smelled strongly of gasoline and motor oil, the signs of a well-used shop.


Though he hadn't used it often before, Nigel had recently taken to fixing up his bikes and other things in here on off days. The day before he walked in, completely drunk, and spilled over the last Jerry can of fuel he had. Because of that, he and Hannibal were forced to leave earlier in the morning than expected, taking bikes instead of the car that Nigel apparently kept hidden somewhere in the garage. Hannibal couldn't see where, but didn't doubt what his Master had said. There were certainly dark corners in the garage even with the morning light streaming in, but the place felt oddly... small, in a way. As if something was missing somewhere... or hidden.


“Alright, that should be it. Don't treat her too roughly, Hannibal.” Nigel handed off a red bicycle to his Servant, rolling it over and lightly kicking the front tire once to check the pressure. Everything seemed good on that one, so he walked off to get another out of the dozen or so he had lined up in a self-made bike rack in the garage. Somehow, he didn't even have a hangover despite how easily he had gotten drunk off of the wine last night. His sobriety was a mystery of the universe.


Outside the rain had completely stopped nearly as soon as the morning arrived, and the sky opened up to reveal a bright, full sun once more. The clouds entirely dissipated, leaving only some puddles in the wake of the great storm. Most of the water apparently either drained into the Potomac or just dried up, but there was no conclusive evidence as to what exactly had happened. Nigel had been expecting a flood, but fortunately that wasn't the case. He always hated going through thick pools of water while out cycling, especially on muddier days, the especially British ones.


But, it just so happened that there were only a few downed trees and puddles to worry about; nothing that wouldn't be expected from a storm, though perhaps an underwhelming result for what had at least sounded dangerous.


Nigel patted the black leather seat on his own bike. He smiled, remembering fond memories on this bicycle, riding through the streets of his hometown, and on the barely paved roads around England when he was a boy. With a grunt he pulled himself over and onto the seat, getting balance in check with his feet, keeping the tips of his toes on the concrete floor.


“You ready, mate?” he asked, nodding at Hannibal.


The Carthaginian, having shed his armour for a modern suit again so as to not weigh himself down, nodded back at his Master. “We're not doing a rematch of that race, are we?”


Nigel let out an almost bewildered laugh. “God forbid! I have pride, man, and I'm not going to risk losing to you any time soon! I've got a record to keep, you know!” He shook his head and put his feet on the pedals of his bicycle. The garage door was fully open now, giving the two men a view of the local neighbourhood, of a few houses very much similar to Nigel's. This was a rich place, after all, and Nigel only would buy what he felt was the best.


They rode, slowly at first, out of the garage, and the great grey door closed behind them automatically, and locked.


They didn't expect to be back for a while, and Nigel was already getting hungry. All that he had brought with himself was a satchel he carried, slung over his shoulder, with some snacks in it but little else of note. It was enough to last him for most of a day, but in reality he had no actual idea of how long he'd be gone from his house. He sighed, wondering why he even agreed to go along with this invitation. To him, it seemed like more trouble than it could ever be worth.


“What of the others, Nigel?” asked Hannibal, riding right in front of his Master, and referring, of course, to Ardem and James and their respective Servants. “Could one of them have been invited to this as well? Do we even know the entry requirement?”


Nigel just groaned and glanced up ahead. “I don't know a damned thing, unfortunately. There are apparently going to be other people there, but since there are about twenty or so people left in this war – I think – pretty much anyone could be at this. I'm sort of hoping that we meet Masters that we haven't encountered yet, but we've got no control whatsoever over this. A pity.”


“Perhaps that's for the best,” mumbled Hannibal, but Nigel couldn't hear; the Englishman was focused on the thrill of riding his bicycle, and was totally lost in that experience. All they both knew was that, sometime today, they'd find out what exactly was going on with this meeting that they had been so cordially invited to.

-- --

Francois slung a backpack over his casual clothes, and smoothed back his hair with a sigh. He could think of many, many things that could go wrong with this endeavour, but he had been pushed into seeing it at least a little trustworthy by George.


There would be, in the end, probably more harm done by avoiding it than by attending this conference of Masters and their Servants.


“Do not worry for a moment, my Master.” Napoleon, beside him, assured. They were in the lobby of the mansion, getting ready, and the place felt as empty as ever. It wasn't too early in the morning; the sun had risen a few hours ago and Francois was certainly in no rush. He put the necessary tools a magus would need in his backpack, as well as some food in case his host decided to be especially discourteous and crude.


“I'm not worrying, Napoleon. I'm just suspicious.” Francois adjusted one strap of his pack and bit into an apple. “This girl, apparently my age, must be a magus prodigy or ridiculously rich in order to get into this Grail War. Either is dangerous, in my experience, and there aren't reasons to prefer one over the other. Maybe she hopes to buy us out and make us forfeit our positions with money.” He shrugged sardonically, turning to Napoleon.


The Frenchman placed his tricorn hat back upon his head, and smiled. “Master, you have a particularly grand and powerful Servant, and you yourself are one of the great magi of this era. You should be without any worries! So long as we are together in our alliance, there is nothing that could tear us apart. You remember that Servant we fought at the bridge, yes? He was ancient and powerful, but I held him back. Have some respect for you and I, Master.” Napoleon grabbed Francois by the shoulder and shook him, seeming awfully eager.


“Now, there's just one thing missing...” Francois muttered, even cracking a smile as he did so. He turned to the entryway that led to the living room, waiting for one person in particular that he knew couldn't wait to wish the two men goodbye.


He heard faint, quick steps, and then a woman's voice:


“Don't be gone too long, Francois!” said Amelie, hugging him tight and grinning. She actually stood a whole head taller than her brother, and had always looked like an older sister, even though it was him who looked after her.


Francois wrapped his arms around his sister. “Heh, I love you too, sis. Napoleon and I will be back before you know it, I promise. You shouldn't be worrying for a moment, Amelie!”


His Servant narrowed his eyes, scoffing. “Eh, that's exactly what I said to you, Master! I don't deserve this sort of treatment, as the Emperor of France!” He puffed out his chest, hands proudly on his hips. The man, dressed in imperial regalia and no longer wearing his heavy coat, actually looked quite imposing, but Amelie just had to laugh.


“Don't let my little brother get into trouble now, will you?” she asked Napoleon, walking gingerly over to him.


He bowed, quite courteously. “I promise not to, milady.” At that she giggled, and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. Amelie spun about immediately afterwards, taking a summer hat off of the hat rack and putting it on her head.


“Good luck, boys!” she said, bowing in return to the two, taking off her hat as she did so, like a proper gentleman. She didn't bother with a curtsy or anything like that; she wasn't quite so girly, even though she wore a dress.


“We'll be fine, sis.” Francois assured her with a smile and a nod. “We'll be back before Christmas, at least. Make sure to keep the house running smoothly no matter how long we're gone, alright?” He waited for his sister's simple, short affirmation, and turned to leave.


With their goodbyes over with, he and Napoleon left the brightly lit, fancy decor of the mansion lobby for the calm outdoors, the difference being so massive it almost shocked Francois when he actually took note of it. The lawn and gardens of the mansion grounds were well taken care of, yes, but even here, away from most other homes and buildings, it was strangely adapted to the area. The atmosphere had changed just by stepping through a door, and Francois felt himself become suddenly energized and encouraged to continue forward.


Regardless of what faced him, he would bring down obstacles alongside Napoleon, doing anything to help his sister become the person she deserved to be.


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

I hope it was an enjoyable (and not too long!) chapter, everyone!

By the by, on that mention of long chapters, I must make the note that next chapter will be longer than usual, because... it's chapter XL! lololololol

But seriously, there's also lots of dialogue to plough through, and I don't want to skimp on that.

[Spinach]

Enjoy it, because it's full of foreshadowing and hints at future events

Francois could only hope that his sister wasn't ever caught up in the crossfire of any battles to come.

AMELIE ISN'T GONNA SURVIVE THE WAR

Also, Enrico is eventually gonna start gunning for Nigel, isn't he?

[Five_X]

Perhaps not gunning, fufufufu~

Also, Spin, this is a Grail War. Pretty much no one is meant to survive. :P

[Five_X]

I'm surprised Sherrin hasn't commented in this yet.

Where is he!?

[Spinach]

He's too ashamed to show his NOT Caesarko face in here.

Come out, Sherrin! Face us!

[Bloble]

I... my body can't handle all the foreshadowing.

[Five_X]

Next chapter will be long! And will have people reacting to Saber being Caesarko!

Also, it will have a ****!

[Fancy Face the First]

Magnificient.

I really need to get on here more often.

[KAIZA]

Ooh! New chapter...and with foreshadowing?!
Must read nao!!

[Five_X]

Oh my god it's Caesarko with a top hat and a monocle!

[Highwayman]

Sorry for failing to comment on the last update. It’s Caesarko week, though, so remaining silent this time would have been unforgivable.
Or would it be more politic to call her “Saber” from now on?

Francois narrowed his eyes, not trusting this priest by instinct.

Easy, now, Father Coleman isn’t Kotomine. Or is this foreshadowing?

“You shouldn't be worrying for a moment, Amelie!”

No, don’t listen! ALWAYS be worried! Napoleon seems a bit cavalier about strolling into the unknown.
George’s assurances notwithstanding, danger is everywhere. Ask Cu Chulainn.

“That's all there is to it: winning, regardless of the cost.”
…

“More often than not, I'm the one being hunted down. I have plenty of enemies, Rodrigo.”

I love how this chapter has revisited the contrasts between El Cid and his master, this time ending on a more positive note
as El Cid acknowledges the effectiveness of Enrico’s decisions thus far.
It (belatedly) occurs to me that Enrico’s past experiences as an enemy of the Franco regime
might have informed his tactical decisions in the Manhattan Project. I’m betting that he hasn’t had the luxury
of fighting chivalrously; to do that in the face of overwhelming odds would have been suicide. Guerrilla warfare,
psychological tricks, creative strategies—all of those could have been assets when trying to overthrow a fascist government.
I’m just guessing, here: it would be interesting to learn more about Enrico’s history and motivations.

Of course, Mysterious Patriot Enrico is probably badass enough as-is.

[Five_X]

Enrico gets to star in his own arc, right after the General Dialogue arc ends! Of course, that'll be in a long, long time. :P

Now, tell me what you thought of the update before this one!

[Highwayman]

I deliberately avoided commenting on chapter XXXVIII. Not because I didn’t like it, but because I enjoyed it too much.

…a robe and a toga, with a slit on one side that revealed most of one of the woman's long, slender legs…

Go on…

this sort of clothing, with a low, revealing neckline, was certainly not appropriate for wearing in public in this day and age

You know, it’s criminal that MPII will never be merchandised. How many Blu-Rays could Saber’s image help sell? How many posters?
1/8 figures? Mousepads? Coffee mugs?

James breathed a long sigh. “I had a dream about you, when I was in Assassin's dungeon.”

“How long did you last?” Saber pursed her lips, looking at her Master in a different way now.

Whoa, Tsukihime flashbacks here…

But this is MPII, and fortunately, Five keeps it classy. Having Saber discuss Of Mice and Men and other classics was perfectly true to what we know about both Master and Servant.
Even better was hearing Saber’s extremely practical plan to confront her identity crisis. Thinking about herself as “Saber” allows her to avoid the contradictions and self-doubt that would occur otherwise. No, it’s not a perfect solution, but if it helps her perform to the best of her abilities, then James’ concerns can be set aside for now. Perhaps future events will convince Saber that she neither can nor should deny that she is Caesar, but for now, that step isn’t necessary.

On a different note, Nigel and Hannibal’s conversation was glorious. I really should try to work “by the Root!” into everyday speech. The elephant was comedic gold as well.

[Laith]

Wait, wait this fic has El Cid?

There goes my free time for tomorrow.

[Five_X]

^ Indeed! El Cid, the greatest champion of Spain!

You know, it’s criminal that MPII will never be merchandised. How many Blu-Rays could Saber’s image help sell? How many posters?
1/8 figures? Mousepads? Coffee mugs?

The otaku wouldn't like her, though. She's not pure and virginal! :P

Ah, if only MPII could become something big... I can only really hope for fanart; especially since this isn't on FF.net and doesn't involve the canon characters, it more than likely won't ever be something particularly popular, no matter how much work I put into it.

Alas, such is the fate of this type of fanfiction.

On a different note, Nigel and Hannibal’s conversation was glorious. I really should try to work “by the Root!” into everyday speech. The elephant was comedic gold as well.

The elephant was also LITERAL gold!

[Five_X]

Sherrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnfooooooooooo rrrrrrrddddddd!!!!!!

Get in here and comment, rargh!!

Also, today's chapter will be delayed because I went to sleep reeeeeeeeally late last night and only woke up two hours ago.

[Sherrinford]

Uh, I don't have anything in particular to say.

Oh, Nigel and his bicycles... -!!

How old was he again? Because he surely looks young inside.

[Five_X]

He's thirty-nine. Recently, father of two. Pretty cool guy.