Grail Works, Ltd: A Royal Mess (F/SN, P5R, E3E)

[Kieran]

Table of Contents:

This story is a work of fiction.
Similarities between characters or events to persons living or dead in your world are purely coincidental.
Only those who have agreed to the above have the privilege of partaking in this game . . .

Prologue: Luck Runs Out

Chapter 1 - Out of Anarchy . . .

Chapter 2 - . . . And Into Ruin

Chapter 3 - Character Creation (and Destruction)

Chapter 4 - Strange New World

Chapter 5 - Fateful Meetings

Chapter 6 - The Wheel of Fortune Turns

Chapter 7 - Two (Too-)Early Mornings

Chapter 8 - Raging Conflicts

Chapter 9 - (Varying Shades of) Quiet Desperation

Chapter 10 - Love, And Other Forms of Madness

Chapter 11 - Let's Begin the Game

Interlude - Thus Kindly, I Scatter








Side Material


Apocrypha (probably): A different kind of Persona

Apocrypha (probably): Rabbit Remix

Apocrypha (probably): Sing, O Muse, of ice and fire . . .

Apocrypha (probably): A Smashing Success . . .?

Character Sheet: Godafrid Úa Súilleabháin (3rd Edition)

Sorcery Path: Arcana of Human Nature

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and the staff of TYPE-MOON. Persona 5 Royal, the Persona series and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Atlus. Exalted and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of White Wolf/Onyx Path Publishing.

This story contains dialogue and scenes originally found in Persona 5 Royal, not created by me, and should be accredited to its writers.

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


Writer's Note: Certain dialogue sequences in this story are lifted from Persona 5 Royal, but I trust in the intelligence of my readers (and the availability of the game) to recognise them when they see them.

. . .The contract has been sealed.

This world is not as it should be. It is filled with distortion, and "ruin" can no longer be avoided.

Those who oppose fate and desire change . . . From time to time, they were known as "Tricksters."

Trickster, now is the time to rise against the abyss of distortion . . .

Casino of Envy
November 19, 2004







The casino was a glittering monument of steel, glass, and neon; dazzling to the eye, it stood as a shining beacon against the black velvet of the night. That light, taken with the coruscating rainbow of the city at night, was further scattered into glittering fragments on the dark waters which surrounded it, forming a breathtaking counterpoint to the clear, star-filled sky above.

Not that the casino patrons paid much attention to the poetic beauty of their surroundings. No, to them, poetry was manifested in the perfect dealing of a hand of cards, spin of a roulette wheel, or cast of the dice—and “beauty” could be measured in the size, colour and organisation of the chips they piled around themselves. It was a rare sort who could even be bothered to look up and see the beautiful full moon glowing down at them through the skylight directly overhead.

. . . Of course, when that full moon abruptly cast flickers across the casino floor—as something dark and fast darted across, obscuring its light and causing shadows to sweep through the area—everyone noticed. More than a few looked up, even as one man muttered “There’s something here . . .!”

Standing atop one of the chandeliers, silhouetted against the moon, was a slender figure, carrying a briefcase and cloaked in black; almost literally, as evidenced by the long, trailing coat that swept down to his ankles. His face was obscured by a wide, tapering domino mask of black and white, but it did nothing to obscure the confident smirk on his lips—and the only hint of colour on the figure was in the scarlet of his gloves.

The casino’s security agents, comprised of nondescript, grey-suited figures in sunglasses, ignored the stampede in favour of making their way towards the intruder—though against the teeming masses, it was admittedly an uphill struggle.

“He’s here!” called the most intelligent member of the trio over his headset. “All units, move in immediately!”

Taking that as his cue, the masked figure made a sweeping turn before abruptly launching forward off the light stand.

“Nice work,” Nemo’s deep voice commented in the runner’s ear. “Now get moving!”

“This is our only chance!” Crow said by way of agreement.

“Stay calm!” Oracle advised, though her voice betrayed her own anxiety. “You can get away now!”

Queen chimed in with her deeper tones, “We’ll retrieve the briefcase on our end.”

At that moment, buzzing voice broke into the conversation, with flashes of static omitting various words. “Suspects—not confirmed. Hold—positions.”

“Hm?” said Oracle, confused. “What was that?”

“Don’t worry about us,” Nemo interrupted, his voice firm. “Just concentrate on getting clear!”

In truth, the thief had never stopped doing that, even as he followed the along with the chatter. Dashing along the top of the light fixtures hanging from the ceiling (although at this size, calling them “catwalks” wouldn’t be inappropriate) he quickly made his way towards the elevator on the casino’s balcony level—

Just as it opened to reveal a trio of guards, dressed in more traditional uniforms, inside.

Changing plans swiftly, he leaped sideways to another light fixture, then across a series of archways, headed for a staircase landing on the far side of his initial destination. It should, he hoped, buy him enough lead that he could shake the guards coming off the elevator . . . Unfortunately, he was either mistaken, or hadn’t accounted for some, as a pair of guards moved in front of the top of the stairway he was headed for, and another dropped in from behind him—he’d been followed?!

“Take ‘em down, Joker!” Panther yelled encouragingly in his ear—either she was at an angle to observe the fight, or Oracle was being far too enthusiastic in sharing information, rather than paying attention to getting away.

But, well—never let it be said that he was one to disappoint a lady . . .

The thief leaped up, flipped backwards to sail over the rear guard—and seizing the mask it wore. It was an almost negligent effort to tear it free, with his momentum doing most of the work, and turn the motion into ending with a perfect two-point landing, even as he drew his weapon. Because, while free of the mask’s restraints, the guard’s body exploded into red-black plasma as the Shadow’s true nature revealed itself. Now behind him, the other two were undergoing similar metamorphoses. The three masses flowed toward one another, merging and rising—

And when the conglomeration settled into a coherent form, before Joker there now stood a bizarre, giant centaur-like mix of human, scorpion . . . And possibly a tank.

Oracle, as always, was quick to analyse the foe as she announced, “Comparing power levels . . . No threat. Get ‘em, Joker!”

It was barely a thought to summon Arsène after so long, the Persona materialising behind him, responding to his will even as he told the Shadow, “Go down.”

Arsène lashed out, and the resulting strike sent the creature to its (proverbial) knees; Joker followed up with a knife slash of his own, and the Shadow dissolved once more into the red-black plasma, but this time melting away entirely.

“Okay,” Oracle said. “Pull out before their backup gets here.”

Her warning was slightly too late—more Shadows appeared, in “guard” form—and this time, armed with shock batons. He ducked under one, its surface visibly crackling, before leaping back and away.

“Joker, behind you!” Oracle snapped. “Go through that door!”

Following her instructions, Joker navigated his way through a maze of backrooms and corridors, hiding from the agents when either he or she spotted one, and moving on when concealed from their view. By now, the actions were routine—even if the stakes were potentially higher than ever—but while he performed them almost automatically by muscle memory, Joker tried to keep his attention on his surroundings, alert for changes. Oracle’s comment of getting a “weird reading” was concerning . . .

Using his grappling hook to swing up to a catwalk, he began dashing along the straightaway she directed—

“Joker—stop!” she said abruptly, “It’s an enemy—right near you!”

As soon as she’d given the order, he’d put on the brakes—which turned out to be a good thing, as a pair of Shadows burst into existence right where he’d been about to pass through. Close enough, in fact, that he had to backflip to avoid being touched by whatever energy they emitted when they materialised like that. More concerning, though, were the four that followed their arrival, positioned to encircle him and cut off his escape.

“Even you can’t take on this many,” Oracle said worriedly, before suddenly exclaiming, “Huh? Joker! That weird reading from earlier’s closing in on you too!”

Joker grimaced. This didn’t look good . . .

From the other end of the corridor, past the ring of Shadows, a slender figure moved through the darkness with a staccato clopping. Passing into a pool of lamplight, they were revealed as a girl in similar dress to himself: a long black tailcoat and a mask, though the latter covered more of her face. Unlike his own waistcoat and pants combination, she wore a black leotard under her tailcoat, revealing pale, toned legs (as well as the fact that her boots were both thigh-high and had higher heels) and a rapier-style sword belted to her waist.

She drew the latter, pointing it towards him and declaring ominously, “I’ll end this right now . . .”

“Joker, it’s her!” Oracle exclaimed. “She’s the weird reading I’ve been getting!”

“We’ll end this,” said a second girl, emerging from behind the first like her (mundane) shadow.

It was a very understandable first impression, as the girls were nearly identical. They possessed same height, same lithe build, same outfit—the same facial features, even—but there were differences. The newcomer’s hair was brown to the first’s auburn, the accents on her clothes blue and gold to contrast the other’s red and silver . . . And where the first drew a slender rapier, twirling it gracefully before hurling it like a spear, the second merely drew a massive two-handed rifle, pointed it, and pulled the trigger.

For a split-second, Joker froze. Fortunately, as it turned out—because any movement he might’ve made to dodge would have sent him into the path of one of the two attacks (and if anyone ever asked, he’d done it deliberately). Instead, the rapier impaled the closest Shadow upon his right side, while the shot tore through two to his left. And just like that, the enemy numbers were reduced by half, making this a much more equal (if in no way “even,” except through simple math) fight.

The redhead half-turned to the brunette—and her expression, even under the mask, was visibly halfway between a glance and a glare.

“Really, Sis?!”

“I’ve come to appreciate the elegance of simple solutions,” the other girl said loftily.

“What exactly is ‘elegant’ about splattering things across half the room?” the swordswoman demanded.

“They disappear, so there’s no mess to clean up?” the gun-wielder offered impishly.

The redhead shook her head and cartwheeled out of the way of one of the remaining Shadows as it approached, while her sister moved simultaneously in the opposite direction. A synchronised leaping flip brought the pair to stand on either side of Joker, and the redhead kicked her sword free of the impaled Shadow’s body, causing it dissolve—before grabbing it by the hilt and turning to face him.

“You and your friends are terrible influences, Sempai,” she remarked. “On both of us . . . But we wouldn’t be who we are without you—so I’m going to show you. I’m going to show you how far I’ve come from my weak self!”

“Sis, you’ve grown,” the brunette said admiringly—before her expression flashed into a Cheshire grin. “. . .Into a complete Tsundere.”

If the redhead protested, it was lost in the sound of the rifle firing again, tearing through Shadows.

“. . . I genuinely have no clue what just happened, but I take it you’re okay?” Oracle said into his ear, before her tone suddenly sharpened. “Wait—bad news! Enemy backup’s headed your way! You need to book it, right now!”

The sisters traded a look.

“Please go,” the redhead said. “We’ll make it harder for them to track you down—and, um . . .” She blushed visibly even under the mask, fidgeting tensely.

“You still have something you need to do as a phantom thief, right?” the brunette interrupted.

The redhead abruptly went from “tense” to “frozen.”

“. . . Then I won’t stop you,” the brunette announced. “Since I’m not a member of the Phantom Thieves, I’m in no position to interfere.”

Her sister almost stumbled with relief.

“C’mon, Sis,” the brunette said cheerily.

Almost casually, the white-clad girl leaped up to land on an exposed air duct—far enough up that Joker thought he might’ve needed his grappling hook to pull off the same feat. He was doubly impressed when the redhead called, “Hey, wait for me!” before doing exactly the same thing. The moment spent processing that feeling was long enough for the two girls to deliver a parting message.

“Please don’t forget the promise we made, okay?”

“And while you're remembering to do that, give you-know-who our love!”

“SIS . . .!”

And on that scandalised outburst, the two girls leaped out of sight, leaving Joker shaking his head in bemusement.

“Joker, you need to get out of there!” Oracle said urgently. “Go, go, go!”

Brought back to the here and now by her prompting, the leader of the Phantom Thieves resumed his exfiltration.

“The exit’s just up ahead, through that door—go!”

He went, and immediately ran into the second problem. The exit was on the ground floor—which was currently swarming with more “guards” than even he could likely handle. He was on the second-floor landing, and the closest alternative to the front door was a picture window on the opposite side of the room that he’d need to walk along the balustrade to reach.

“Something wrong?” Oracle asked. “The exit should be up ahead.”

“Through there . . .?” he clarified, looking at the window.

“Nnh . . .!” she grunted in frustration, before saying apologetically. “That’s just how it is. After all that commotion, the bottom floor’s—”

“Completely closed off,” Queen finished with a disheartened groan.

Almost immediately afterwards, Panther abruptly asked, “Hey, can you make it?” in a concerned tone—

“Over there!”

Joker turned towards the source of the outburst and spotted three “security people”—these ones dressed like Secret Service agents, rather than guards—approaching him from the far end of the hallway, guns drawn.

“There’s nowhere to run!” the “agent” warned.

I guess we’ll find out together, Panther . . .

Hopping on top of the railing was the easy part. Moving along what amounted to a narrow balance beam at speed was trickier, but he managed it reasonably well. It helped, admittedly, that he was very good at long-distance jumps, too; and that he had more than a little experience, by now, with both high falls and being hurled bodily through plate-glass windows—enough that he felt cocky enough to turn and give them a “See ya” before jumping through . . .

Really, it was harder for him to look surprised as the floodlights highlighted him once he rose from his landing point on the street, and simultaneously revealing the platoon of cops in riot gear surrounding him. Did they honestly think he wouldn’t have spotted them on the way down? The fall had been twenty or thirty feet, after all, and he’d been flipping to burn momentum. Plenty of time to take in a full 360-degree view before he hit the ground, from his perspective.

(Heck, he’d even spotted the lunkheads waiting on the rooftop above and to his right, which meant that the fire escape ladder was a trap, too.)

“Enemies, here—?!” Oracle blurted.

Joker lost track of the conversation at that point, more focussed on the small army of riot-gear-wielding police that had apparently been mobilised to capture a single man—him.

This is going to be ugly . . .








He was right, and things got more than a little fuzzy after that; partly due to the adrenaline and the frenetic pace, partly due to the beatings, and but largely due to the drugs they injected him with—four full syringes’ worth. He had no idea what was in them, but he was pretty sure that that much of anything should have killed him . . .

Fortunately, he had clever friends, with a knack for anticipating and solving problems; in mid-fall after being punched, a false tooth was subtly bitten down on, and a broad-spectrum antidote flowed down his throat. While it wasn’t enough to clear out his system entirely, from that point he was much more aware than he implied.

(And he’d have to be, to get through this . . .)

In any case, by the time Joker was really, fully cognizant (ha!) again, he was drenched, tied to a chair, and being interrogated by a guy who looked and acted like he’d stepped out of an American movie where he was cast as “Bad Cop.” It made acting dazed and drugged easier, because it gave him a reason to ignore the man, at least until he was asked for his name.

“. . . Call me Amamiya—Amamiya Ren.”

The “interrogation” (consisting more of threats than questions) didn’t continue much past that when they were interrupted. The newcomer was a tall, ash-haired (in the sense that it seemed more grey than light brown) woman in a business suit, with brown eyes that look red under the harsh lighting of the interrogation room. The cops didn’t like it, but she had enough authority to force them out—for the moment, at least.

The unmasked leader of the Phantom Thieves let her talk for a while, until she hit an appropriate point for him to respond.

“. . . It seems you’re coherent,” she noted. The questions then began in earnest. “When and where did you find out about that world? How is it even possible to steal another’s heart?

“Now,” she insisted, “tell me your account of everything . . . Start from the beginning.”

The beginning, Joker (because he was still Joker, even if he’d identified himself as Ren, officially) mused.

“The beginning”—it sounded so straightforward, but knowing what he now did, there were any number of times and places that could be pointed to as being the beginning of this mess. The obvious point of origin was his first run-in with Masayoshi Shido; the incident that had led to Ren’s arrest and probation. But there were others that were equally important. For example, the discovery and development of “cognitive psience,” by Wakaba Isshiki; or her subsequent murder at Shido’s direction, so that he could gain clandestine and unrestricted access to her work. The fallout from that had, in many ways, led to all of this—and there were other incidents, even further back, which had led to triumphs and tragedies that had shaped the people and forces involved in what had happened . . .

Still, for simplicity’s sake, he’d start with his own involvement in things—but even as he began laying out the tale for the prosecutor, Ren knew that, so far as the Phantom Thieves were concerned, the “rigged game” they’d found themselves playing had started a month or so earlier . . .










Additional Writer's Notes: And so the game begins . . .


Not much change here from the original snippet, other than a bit of cleanup and a few flourishes in presentation - but did there need to be?

[Arbitrarity]

Oooh, excited to see this being committed to, and to see where some of those concepts go. As I said before, fun, stylish, and polished.

[RanmaBushiko]

Right? I'm curious to see how it plays out, myself.

[Xamusel]

Same here, guys, same here.

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and the staff of TYPE-MOON. Persona 5 Royal, the Persona series and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Atlus. Exalted, Scion and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of White Wolf/Onyx Path Publishing.

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


Writer's Note: Certain dialogue sequences in this story are lifted from Persona 5 Royal, but I trust in the intelligence of my readers (and the availability of the game) to recognise them when they see them.








Outside Trifas, Romania
Another Earth entirely, Fate/Apocrypha Worldline
Three hours after the Great Holy Grail War










“There’s no real point to dragging this out, is there?”

The man who had fought under the name Godafrid Úa Súilleabháin—or “Frid,” for convenience’s sake—sighed as he asked the question, but it really wasn’t one. If the damages done to Trifas, and the world as a whole, were to be fixed, then this had to be done, and dithering about it only increased the odds that it would fail.

What a frigging mess . . .

Granted, it had to be better than what would have happened if the Works hadn’t been here—Rin had said Zelretch had picked this “facet” because it was doomed, after all—and neither Gaia nor the Counter Force had wiped them off the map, but . . .

Hell, he thought, to be fair, the vanilla version of Fate/Apocrypha was just about as big a mess, albeit in somewhat different ways—this iteration just required a more literal version of “deus ex machina” than Sieg represented.

Still, it had been a highly destructive, very confusing time, even for a Holy Grail War—which could be no better-exemplified than by the fact that he was dealing with the Pseudo-Servant Ruler Astraea, who was currently possessing the body of Jeanne d’Arc’s canon host rather than her own . . .

And Frid wondered, exactly, how much of that was his fault.

Sure, that might be a stretch—his presence was either down to the meddling of Zelretch, the pantheon of elven gods known as the Seldarine, or the force of Fate as it was represented in Scion, exploiting Erik’s presence—but it was possible. The more mystically inclined in Grail Works Limited had observed that his metaphysical makeup had odd effects on reality before, coming as he did “from closer to the Root” than their version of Earth was.

And while that sounded like a very self-serving pseudo-explanation for justifying self-insert shenanigans when someone from the “real” world dealt with a “fictional” one like the TYPE-MOON setting, the phenomenon didn’t exactly seem to pan out in his favour the way one might expect. Heck, Erik fit the power-gaming SI mould better than he did . . .!

If nothing else, if it did work like that, Saber would’ve taken being turned into a dragon a LOT better than she did . . . But on the other hand, it was a literal hundred-to-one odds to even get that option, so—


“Not ultimately, no,” Astraea agreed, drawing his attention back to the here and now, with her answer to his non-question—and then, she paused. “And yet, I feel compelled to, for one thing more . . .”

Frid blinked. It was odd, seeing the Ruler-class Pseudo-Servant suddenly off-balance. Partly because he’d seen Luviagelita Edelfelt in similar positions, through various anime, but never as a living, breathing person—but also because Astraea wasn’t possessing Luvia in this instance, but Jeanne d’Arc’s usual host, Laeticia. It made the already off-putting disconnect between her looks and her mannerisms even more pronounced.

Honestly, if not for the blue streaks in her hair, and the outfit, you'd never know she wasn't Jeanne . . .

She did look adorable in her uncertainty, noted a corner of his mind—though he was quick to smother the thought. Astraea would doubtless smite him for the thought (the Olympians were nothing if not prideful), and Laeticia was less than half his age, his appearance notwithstanding (which was still a good six years older than her, if she was Jeanne d’Arc’s age when she'd died).

It was the same problem as dealing with Fiore—if only slightly less awkward because he didn’t have to play the role of fiancé to the French girl.

Another sign of “self-insert syndrome”—I get the fantasy girlfriend, but . . .

“A whim of my host’s, I think,” Astraea said, drawing his full attention back to her once more. “Or perhaps that you remind me of someone, in this act—either way, I feel it deserves recognition.”

Frid blinked, unsure of her meaning, even as her mention of reminders made him wonder if she was referring to Ritsuka Fujimaru (and if so, which one), or some remnant of Luvia's memories of Shirou than she’d retained even when in another host. “Oh?”

The smile that stretched across Laeticia’s face, just then, would have been far more at home on Luvia’s—or a cat, playing with the mouse in its grasp. And the comparison seemed all the more apt with the purring tone her voice took on, as she stepped very deeply into his personal space.

“It is a rare reward indeed,” she murmured, “to be given a maiden’s first kiss. I do hope you treasure it sincerely . . .”

He could not possibly have heard that corr—

The brush of lips was light and chaste, as expected of a pure maiden, whether either mortal or divine. It was warm, sweet, and swiftly over, but still enough to set him reeling . . . And by the time Frid regained his senses, Astraea had manifested her sword, a golden, jewel-encrusted thing that looked far more decorative than functional—yet in her hands, radiated a deadly menace, all the same.

“And so, an end is brought to anarchy,” she proclaimed. “Iam Redit et Virgo: Let Order Be Returned Here!”
 







Even under normal circumstances, Iam Redit et Virgo: Let Order Be Returned Here had its limitations. The dead could not be raised, time could not be reversed, and that was in accordance with the Noble Phantasm’s nature and design—as its very name implied, it existed to restore balance, not to undo what had been done to disrupt it.

These, however, were not “normal circumstances.” To begin with Astraea was hampered by the lack of her usual power sources. Forbidden the use of her full divinity by her Class Container, denied the support of the Greater Holy Grail, and bound to a host that was only passingly compatible and utterly powerless in her own right, she was forced to rely on outside help to activate it, which risked tilting the scales.

She must be above bias—to do less is to destroy her—but the sources she uses nonetheless have their own metrics of what is “just” here, and it is all she can do to direct them, under these circumstances. Worse still was the being she was judging: a common human, by many measures, but by virtue of his origin, elevated to an existence akin to a demiurge.

It was a strange sensation, truly, for a goddess to stand before one who might qualify as her creator—stranger still to be standing in judgement over such a one . . .

It was only the fact that Astraea was the arbiter of mortal justice, and that he was mortal, which gave her any authority over him whatsoever—and even that, she suspected, was limited. She was being allowed to do so, because he desired it, and the conceptual weight behind what he represented meant that same willingness permeated the energies suffusing him, surrounding him, and made them easier to bend to her will. Easier to turn against him, because too many foreign elements were present here, needed to be expunged, eradicated—and she had but one target to choose.

The most important were those of the alien Aesir, and its ancient progenitor. Not simply the various radiations of their weapons, or the aspects of their divinities that had been impressed upon the World—no, far more dangerous were the very Legends which spawned such things. Connected as they were to the weaving and binding of Fate, they were far too dangerous to leave here. This world was, in many ways, already fixed in several facets; to eliminate what little variance remained (and to do so in such a fashion as to make it a self-recurring pattern) would inevitably lead to destruction. Put simply, it had to go . . . And so, with an effort of will, it went, easily and even eagerly—

And it grabbed her on its way.

It was the nature of the thing: Fate bound the Gods and their offspring to roles, recurring themes and actions that echoed throughout the World to build the foundations of the Legend that empowered them—but it required something to bind them to. And any attempt to alter Fatebindings inevitably created one between those whose Fate was being altered, and the one doing it.

That, for a whole host of reasons, couldn’t be allowed; but even as a goddess (and especially as a Roman goddess), Astraea was beholden to the will of Fate. There was nothing she could do to stop it—but the tools to at least try, fortunately, lay close at hand. The “Lunar Exaltation” the mortal bore was, by design, capable of forging Fate to its whims, and the Essence it generated was also something that needed to be purged from this world. Desperation had her throw one divine energy against another—

And watch the latter falter.

Though Essence might in potential be powerful enough to overcome Legend, the fragment of divinity generating it was as yet too limited, not having been refined to the heights of which it was ultimately capable. But Astraea was judging the being wielding it—and to do so fairly, she had needed to see all of who he was, know all of what had happened, and what was possible—and she knew, therefore, that there was another way. Ignoring the fading Essence for a moment, she directed her focus upon the Exaltation itself, willing it into the form it ought to have . . .

For it was not a true Exaltation, but an imitation perfectly crafted in its image. And crafted by the Seldarine, the gods of an elven pantheon; or, in the terms of the Exalted game itself, crafted by the Fair Folk, the inhabitants of the Wyld—and the natural enemies of the Creation the Exalted protected, for both the Fair Folk and the Wyld were Chaos itself.

Quicksilver light blazed as the Exaltation cracked under her ministrations, the immutability of Fate struggling against that which would NOT be constrained—so much more powerful outside the limits of its Exaltation form, as it represented not a fragment of a single deity, but a full pantheon that was far older than the human species itself. . .

And then, all of Astraea’s efforts went to containing the fallout. Puissant as they were, none of these powers were unlimited in reservoir; she simply had to endure until either one emerged victorious—at which point she could turn her full and focused might on the weakened survivor—or they burnt themselves out tearing against one another. The mortal, sadly, was unlikely to survive being at the confluence of such a conflagration; and Astraea was surprised to note that she was sad, and once again, unable to say whether the sentiment was her own or her host’s, nor what inspired it—

And as if woken by her thoughts, the third power in the struggle flared, as a tattoo became chain links in the shape of protruding bone, wrought of eldritch ores alloyed with tortured souls to be both weapon and warning: Hel did not surrender easily that which was hers . . .

In many ways, it was the least of the three. After all, it was not a true Relic, endowed with Hel’s own power for a Scion of hers to wield, but a mere token; a truly mundane, if divinely forged, item. At the same time, the “token” was a recognition, intended for a vassal no longer in her service. but valued for the service rendered; forged by her own hands (a goddess at least the equal of Astraea in standing, for Hel was younger, but grander in her power), and with the materials of her realm.

The symbolism of such things, to say nothing of the eldritch materials, resonated in Legend—a resonance the power of Fate knew, and could manipulate—and with that tipping in the favour of Order, however slight, commonalities were sought (partially with the help of Astraea’s Noble Phantasm, as it sought to weigh everything involved). Important elements were identified, solidified, to try and define the chaos . . .

Magic was first and foremost, though it had little direct influence; it had to be, as it was the foundation of all that had happened, was happening, in regard to the man. The Moon was the primary element otherwise, linked both to the Exaltation form itself and a major deity of the Seldarine who forged it, one of the three aspects of its queen. That said goddess was also the goddess of death (and magic, linking back to the first), and thus a peer of Hel, only strengthened that bond, as did the correlation between its “No Moon” configuration and the Darkness Purview over which Hel had mastery (and the touch of the Dark Powers unwittingly conferred). And from that starting point, the powers branched out, making links through the New Moon Caste of the Lunar Exalted’s various associations . . .

Water—Frid’s own past exploits in Spira, a very aquatic world. Though forgotten by him, it had still occurred—which linked back to Yuna, who represented the Moon once more, further strengthening that connection. Winter—Hel’s mastery of the Frost Purview strengthened this connection, as did his own acknowledged exploits (at whatever remove) as Krampus. Other Purviews under Hel’s aegis, such as Forge and Health, could find no means to bind themselves to him, providing no avenue for Fate to reach for him. Passion tried, but he’d never been one to inspire fear—and nor had he inspired disgust in anyone so much as in himself . . .

A series of unconventional avenues, on the other hand, were found—patterns which already repeated within the fledgling mythos he’d unwittingly begun to forge. Wealth was one; treasures, powers beyond mortal ken—all these things seemed to fall into his reach . . . And were sacrificed just as easily, in pursuit of his goals, including his life . . . And while subtle in some ways, he was even more deeply entwined with the concept of unrequited love, both as a subject of it (Yuna, Rikku, many others . . . Astraea was startled to see herself there, briefly—both of her hosts, as well), and as an object of it (Rikku, Fiore, MHX/A/X)—

That connection rattled something, as time—and with it, the planet—stepped in. Predestination had a hand in what had happened here, and therefore what would and might be done with him. Whatever judgement was passed down, whatever happened, he was not allowed to be killed, for there was a loose end in all of this that he alone could tie . . .

But neither could he be allowed to stay, because the rampage of forces surrounding him threatened to break free, as they struggled against one another, building towards an increasingly volatile climax—

There—a commonality point. When Scions grew too powerful, approached godhood, the World itself expelled them into the “Overworld,” one of the many shadows it cast, similar to but also unlike the Reverse Side; sufficiently powerful Exalts could also open portals to other realms. Moreover, this being had been touched by worlds entirely unknown to hers, including a different facet of the Kaleidoscope—to travel between and beyond them was also an inherent part of his “Legend,” were he ultimately to be bound by such . . .

“BEGONE!” Astraea judged at last, her voice an echo of the Chief God’s thunder.

Throwing the last of her power into the effort—and finding what little strength the World could muster to help aiding her—she hurled him out of her world entirely, before sagging to her knees, exhausted.

It was the only decision she could make, unfair as it might seem. Let him wander through the infinite reaches of eternity, blindly, while the forces he’d invoked and invited had their way with him; whatever ultimately became of him would, with the influence she’d imprinted on the melee, be deserved. And neither he nor they would threaten her home any longer—if she had ultimately failed as a Ruler, then she’d at least succeeded that far as a Goddess . . .

Even if the whole affair left a bad taste in her mouth, regardless.

“I am undecided as to whether or not I would like a chance to re-examine the case without operating under so many restrictions . . .” she murmured—to whom? Herself? The no-doubt-listening compatriots of the one she’d just summarily exiled? Or perhaps to said departed soul himself?

“Undoubtedly,” she added with grim humour, “had that ‘Fatebinding’ had its way, I would have—if it proves to have a lasting hold on him, perhaps I will . . .”








Beyond the boundaries of time and space
Unknown place, unknown time








He tumbled through the emptiness as though on a storm-tossed sea—adrift, anchorless, barely able to stay conscious, far less coherent . . . But that annoying little voice in the back of his head, the snarky commentator who was both the best and the worst of him, kept talking . . .

Breaking, not broken—it’s been damaged, not destroyed . . . The Wyld is dynamism, at its core; chaotic in nature and output, yes, but not malicious . . .

. . . Oh, God, the things I’ve done—

And the things he hadn’t done—Astraea was very thorough, and the consequences of apathy and inaction were no less brutal . . .

Good.

He’d never liked that about himself but seen no way to stop it. With the Works, he’d at least had a chance to believe that he could be better, a chance to do more—hell, to do anything at all. It was just a shame he seemed to be so terrible at it, succeeding in spite of himself, more often than not . . .

But, Astraea’s judgement compelled him to ask, is that really my fault . . .?

After all, he’d been a pawn of greater forces (the Seldarine, the Aesir) from the beginning; either that, or forced to work around their interference, whether well-intentioned, unwitting—or outright malevolent, in the case of Ymir. Things outside his control, well beyond his ability to handle, and seemingly thrown into the situation out of nowhere—with no context for their interference, aside from seemingly being placed there just to make things difficult for him.

I always believed the universe hated me, but throwing actual deities into the mix is way more than a bit RIDICULOUS . . .

Regardless—objectively, the point stood: what might he be able to accomplish if actually left to his own devices? No unexpected reactions with a curse he wasn’t really aware he was under creating Shadow Servants bent on killing him, no sudden divine incursions from ludicrously over-the-top characters created by absent power-gaming friends—just himself, the problem at hand, and whatever resources he could bring to bear.

Could he actually do what the Works existed to do—what Shirou believed in—and save people? Or was he just wasting everyone’s time and efforts, a tired old man (all right, middle-aged, but if you were only as old as you felt, then he was bloody primordial) lost in a fantasy?

God knew, it was hard to tell when you were surrounded by “fictional” characters on a daily basis . . .

Once upon a time, as a youth, he’d read a quote attributed to Lincoln that he’d liked: “If there is a place and work for me, then I am ready.” As he’d gotten older, his attitude had shifted to the point where nowadays, his motto was more accurately described as “Let’s get this over with,” but the sentiment was the same, in many respects—a shift in thinking that braced him for the task ahead.

Once more. He would try once more, to get this right. To do the job, wherever or whenever he might end up; and if it still all went down in flames . . . Then whatever happened to him didn’t matter—but for now, he had to fight.

With an effort such as he had never made in any incarnation of his life thus far, he began to try to push past the agony ravaging his body; to master the riotous magical forces wreaking havoc on his form, on his fate—

And as though simply making the effort locked things into place, it surged back, building towards a crescendo, some ultimate goal or destination that he couldn’t guess, or possibly even imagine—but he fervently hoped that it would be more in the vein of “Third time’s the charm” than “three strikes, you’re out”—

Something chose that precise moment to smack him in the face, somehow, with enough force to send him spiralling wildly—and he suddenly felt like he was drowning, on top of everything else.

As it had once before in his memory, and probably with consequences just as life-changing and reality-altering, the world went white . . .










Additional Writer's Notes: And once again, you've read 98% of this before - there are a few new bits, if you look carefully - but unfortunately for long-time readers, I need to set this up properly, which means a fair bit of retread before we get to the really new stuff. Sorry.

[Arbitrarity]

Primarily reprising the Fate/Anarchy epilogue, with a couple of minor cleanups, though I have to look really closely for most of those. The novel part is at the start, with a bit more self-deprecating commentary than before.

Makes sense to reestablish context for a new story, and definitely sets the mood.

[Kieran]

Primarily reprising the Fate/Anarchy epilogue, with a couple of minor cleanups, though I have to look really closely for most of those.

So I said . . .

The novel part is at the start, with a bit more self-deprecating commentary than before.

Makes sense to reestablish context for a new story, and definitely sets the mood.

Yup. And speaking of both mood and context, before I start digging myself in too deeply, I should probably ask an important question: is there a preferred pairing for Joker/Ren amongst you? The opening implies several potential options (some more strongly than others), but that's all they are. And I admit I have my favourites, but Persona 5 holds the record for the highest number of potential love interests I like, so I'm quite persuadable - moreso than usual, even.

More to the point, I ask because it will inform certain elements of Ren's journey, obviously, and how some of the other characters react to him and events around him. If nothing else, as Frid is playing Morgana's role, it falls to him to teach Ren how to be a proper gentleman (so basically, they're both doomed ), and many of the potential hearts the Trickster might steal require individualised approaches . . .

Or I suppose I could always have Ren go for the harem ending (which is admittedly hilarious), but it seems like something of a copout.

[Xamusel]

I'm a fan of the harem ending, personally, Kieran.

[Arbitrarity]

I was going to say the same, actually. I think there would be a pretty funny contrast between Godafrid's well-meaning advice and maximum playboy Ren.

[RanmaBushiko]

I'm a fan of the harem ending, personally, Kieran.

I was going to say the same, actually. I think there would be a pretty funny contrast between Godafrid's well-meaning advice and maximum playboy Ren.

Oh boy, this is going to be entertaining! Poor, poor Kieran! Having to write harem antics...

Especially after how the campaign has been going for his character. Accidental Tenchi Muyo harem shenanigans for his character and everything! And he never saw it coming...

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and the staff of TYPE-MOON. Persona 5 Royal, the Persona series and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Atlus. Exalted, Scion and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of White Wolf/Onyx Path Publishing.

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


Writer's Note: Certain dialogue sequences in this story are lifted from Persona 5 Royal, but I trust in the intelligence of my readers (and the availability of the game) to recognise them when they see them.








Somewhere Else
Between dreams and reality, mind and matter








The Velvet Room had existed for a very long time, and for not very long at all, depending on one’s perspective. It was a concept as much as (or even more than) a place, situated between dreams and reality, mind and matter. It was a waypoint for those destined to undergo journeys of self-discovery, providing assistance where possible. And in recent years, said assistance had been essential in preserving the existence of humanity, which was perhaps unsurprising. After all, its creator, Philemon, was a great believer in the potential of humanity. And while he was unable to interfere directly in its affairs any longer, his servants still carried out the duties he’d assigned to them—including Igor, who served as the Velvet Room’s proprietor.

But it was more than simply loyalty that drove him; like the guests of the Velvet Room, its residents were also undergoing self-discovery, and for himself, Igor found himself continually surprised and delighted by the guests he welcomed to his domain. He often looked forward to seeing who might pass his threshold next, just to see what they might show him—of humanity, and themselves. Because even as they were frequently similar, of late, they nevertheless remained distinct individuals, and their effects on the world around them—including his own attendants—could be profound, indeed.

With all these things being the case, it was said with considerable truth that nothing occurred within the boundaries of the Velvet Room without a reason; even so, the proprietor nevertheless found himself surprised as the Velvet Room itself came under attack . . .

As stated, the Velvet Room and its denizens had been instrumental in aiding the defeat of several existential threats against humanity, particularly in recent years—but never before had one confronted them about it. After all, their actions were limited to aid; whatever trial or scheme had been in play, even if the extinction of humanity was at stake, they had never intervened directly. The threats to humanity were born, to an extent, of humanity, of their negative desires—and so the Velvet Room could not act against them. Their purpose was to guide them, not dictate to them. Their path was their own to choose, at it must be.

In retrospect, Igor supposed that he should have foreseen this particular confrontation; that stance alone put them fully in opposition to their besieger, never mind their actions . . . But what he had foreseen had been enough. Powerful though the enemy was—powerful enough to overcome she who ruled over power, the poor child—they were yet vulnerable to the Velvet Room’s expected guest: the Trickster.

What form that Trickster might take Igor did not know. He had been looking forward to finding out, in fact, how they might differ from a Messiah, or a Seeker of Truth, and in what ways they might be similar—but the knowledge of their existence had allowed him to cajole the enemy into a wager regarding the latest crisis, much as his master had done with another existential threat, long ago. A wager that would allow humans to once again decide their fate. Igor was, honestly, rather proud of that achievement. It took a great deal to convince the God of Control to surrender such a thing, in even the smallest of ways . . .

And knowing that, he really should have expected the entity to cheat.

The “game” was still going forward, but it was about as rigged as it could get while humanity hadn’t fully surrendered its free will, was still potentially capable of rising in rebellion. The Velvet Room was no longer in his control, and Igor himself was imprisoned, denied the chance to fulfill his and its purpose—and poor Lavenza . . .

Still, Igor believed that the Trickster could yet steal victory from the jaws of defeat—he had seen humanity accomplish too many astonishing things in his existence not to have that faith. But even so, they required guidance—and if he was not capable of doing so himself, then he would have to try to see to it that guidance could yet be provided.

The cell in which Igor was imprisoned weakened him, preventing him from escaping, or summoning aid—but Igor had learned many skills in his tenure as the Velvet Room’s proprietor. As he had once been brought to life by Philemon, so too had he learned to bring life to other creations, such as his assistants. And while he could not shape a new creation to hold such power as they outside of the Velvet Room, his study of Personas over the years had taught him much about how to mould certain forces and concepts to his will.

What the Trickster and humanity would need most, in such a horribly unfair trial—what he himself needed, Igor admitted—was hope. And so, he began the laborious process of gathering it, within himself and as much as he could grasp from within his prison (which was rooted in the Collective Unconscious, thus rendering hope conceptually “within reach,” for all that he was restrained by it) and began to will it into form—

Only to have the gathering light explode and disperse, dropping the form of a human in his midst.








He coughed, spluttering up the water that tried to pour itself into his lungs, coming awake with a full-body spasm.

Oh Luna, my everything hurts . . .

Water kept coming, so he rolled over to retch—and caught a glimpse of gold-flecked blue dissolving into light as it sprayed from his mouth.

What the hell . . .?

Coughing up the last of the water, he breathed frantically, trying to clear his windpipe and get actual air into his lungs. With that accomplished, he closed his eyes and kept breathing, trying to muster the will, and the energy, to actually get up . . .

It took longer than he would’ve liked.

. . . Eventually, Frid realised that he was still alive—he was Frid, wasn’t he? Or was he Kurai, or—?

Hurt too much to want to move, but I still can—

A quick scrub of his face with one palm (well “quick” for someone moving with literally agonising slowness) revealed no glasses or tangibly inhuman features. Granted, he wouldn’t necessarily feel moonsilver tattoos, for example, but pointed ears and such were easy to check for.

His arm dropped to one side, and he closed his eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness. It felt like his insides had been hollowed, the void inside was dragging his mind spiralling down into oblivion . . .

Head rush, a sardonic whisper in the back of his mind murmured. It was the standard response in his family when light-headedness struck; usually as a result of standing up too quickly from a crouch or bending over, causing the edges of his vision to blur, as well.

And given that he was presently horizontal, Frid fuzzily thought that was a bad sign. He hadn’t felt this awful since his last bout with the flu, and this was like he’d slammed into concrete going full tilt on top of that; what the hell had happened . . .?

And if he curled up and kept his eyes closed, would it just go away?

After a while, it seemed to—so Frid sighed, and made an effort to actually get up and see where the hell he’d ended up.

He cracked an eyelid open experimentally, shutting it almost immediately after acquiring a view of his hand.

Skin’s paler than Kurai, and arm’s thicker than mine, so Frid’s at least a decent bet . . . Assuming that wasn’t a hallucination or dream, anyway.

God knew, the whole “Grail Works” thing seemed like the kind of thing his subconscious would come up with, never mind the haziness of his more recent memories.

As Frid struggled upright from his unexpected landing, he found himself greeted by a voice.

“How unexpected . . . I did not anticipate all the hope of humanity to lead to this—and yet, you will perhaps serve my needs just as well. Or at least, you must . . .”

The man’s voice which gave that unexpected answer was nearly falsetto and eerily pitched, in a manner that seem quite deliberate, being equal parts unsettling and gleefully excited. . . And uncharacteristically, according to his memories of it, weak. As Frid bolted upright in surprise, whirling in its direction, he confirmed that the owner of the voice was no less so in appearance—being a pointy-eared hunchback with bloodshot, bulging eyes and a proboscis whose length and sharpness was more appropriate to a mosquito than a man.

If the Grail Works was a dream, then I’m obviously still asleep—and if not, to quote Sean Connery, “Our situation has not improved . . .”

It had been unnerving to see the man as a two-dimensional image; as an actual person, Igor was downright alarming—but as it was the familiar voice, rather than the gravelly tones of the impostor, Frid relaxed. Despite his frightening appearance and unsettling demeanour, Igor was one of the most steadfast allies one could ask for, if you managed to catch his (or perhaps more accurately, his master’s) attention.

“I am afraid,” the hunchback said tiredly, “that I have need of certain tasks accomplished—and neither the time nor the strength to make a second attempt to achieve them myself. And yet, if the work lies undone, the consequences will undoubtedly lead to ruin for you, alongside the rest of the world.

“Therefore, I must ask of you: will you, of your own free will, enter into a contract with me . . .?”

“Of course,” he said immediately, without even thinking—the hunchback might look disturbing as hell, but if Igor was asking for help? He unquestionably deserved it; the man (if such a term wasn’t insulting to him) and his allies had been protecting humanity for at least decades. Whatever Igor needed was the least he could do . . .

And then he realised what exactly what Igor had said—and where and when he had to be, for Igor to be doing what he had—and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

This is Persona 5. He was trying to create Morgana—and I showed up instead, somehow . . .

Possibly something to do with his connection to the Works, he wondered, and their desire to help people? Or to his resolve—the metaphysics of the Persona corner of the Shin Megami Tensei multiverse was big on that . . . Or maybe it was the mass of raw, chaotic potential grafted to his soul—and was that even still there, much less in a usable form . . .?

“. . . I don’t know if I can, however,” he added honestly. “I’m not even sure how I’m still alive—or if, I suppose. I don’t think I have powers anymore, and if I do, they won’t be Persona-based; I’m not sure how effective that will make me.”

He forced himself to meet Igor’s mismatched eyes, and told him, “I’ll do whatever I can for you, I promise—but I’m not sure it’ll amount to much.”

Please, please tell me I haven’t doomed an entire world by bloody accident . . .

The hunchback gave him a searching look, before proffering pen and—was that paper or parchment?

“Even having said that,” Igor asked, “are you still willing to sign . . .?”

He hesitated only so long as it took to take the pen and decide which name to use—he eventually decided upon the same one he’d used thus far.

I can be “Frid” for a while longer . . .

“Excellent,” Igor said—and as he put the contract away, he suddenly seemed reenergised. “And now, young man . . . While my powers are restricted to this cell, and I lack access to the resources of the Velvet Room, I am bound by the terms of our contract to assist you.”

He smiled the sort of smile which made him look like a horror movie villain, even as Frid knew that he was simply and genuinely pleased.

“This allows me considerable latitude—and I have a vast amount of experience in the guiding of potential,” he said, almost serenely. “Let us see what might be made of yours . . .”










Additional Writer's Notes: Still moving slower than I'd like, but I'm getting there . . . Also, had a thought - there is a Phantom Thief that could theoretically be recruited - what do you think?

I'm a fan of the harem ending, personally, Kieran.

I was going to say the same, actually.

Oh Lord . . .

I think there would be a pretty funny contrast between Godafrid's well-meaning advice and maximum playboy Ren.

You're not wrong . . . *Sighs* I suppose I'll try, then.

Oh boy, this is going to be entertaining! Poor, poor Kieran! Having to write harem antics...

Not you, too!

And he never saw it coming...

. . . Was that a deliberate reference?!

[RanmaBushiko]

Oh Lord . . .

*snickers*

You're not wrong . . . *Sighs* I suppose I'll try, then.

Should be interesting, to say the least.

Not you, too!

I'm not going to vote for it. The sheer amount of characterization involved, and Frid being involved instead of the canon partner buddy is... going to be interesting, to say the least. But considering they're normally the votes that matter with such things? They're the voices that matter, more than mine.

. . . Was that a deliberate reference?!

Honestly, no. It was just amusing for me to write at the time, to explain to them things. Reference to what?

[Kieran]

Honestly, no. It was just amusing for me to write at the time, to explain to them things. Reference to what?

What else?

[Arbitrarity]

I'm not going to vote for it. The sheer amount of characterization involved, and Frid being involved instead of the canon partner buddy is... going to be interesting, to say the least. But considering they're normally the votes that matter with such things? They're the voices that matter, more than mine.

Mmm, I feel like I should at least give a bit more thought to the alternatives. Saying "oh, harem" is an easy way to avoid engaging with the actual characters involved. At the same time, I am terminally indecisive. Persona 5 does offer late platonic options in most of its Confidants, so you could also appear to have playboy Joker who pivots at the last second.

By default I'd probably exclude most of the non-central characters (Takemi, Kawakami, etc), though I do like Hifumi. I'd usually lean platonic for Futaba, and to a lesser extent Ann. I'm fond of Makoto, and Haru is kind of eternally forgotten. Jokes about her lack of screen time abound in the community.
You also have Kasumi; it might be interesting to explore exactly how that changes things from canon, though it doesn't necessarily require romance.

Also, had a thought - there is a Phantom Thief that could theoretically be recruited - what do you think?

Interesting. She definitely covers Morgana's knowledge of how to be a Phantom Thief. I'd be worried she might prevent the group from really growing into independence by knowing so much already; there are a couple of different ways you might handle that.

[Kieran]

Mmm, I feel like I should at least give a bit more thought to the alternatives.

Please and thank you.

Saying "oh, harem" is an easy way to avoid engaging with the actual characters involved.

As I said, it feels like a copout (no matter how amusing that scene is. )

At the same time, I am terminally indecisive. Persona 5 does offer late platonic options in most of its Confidants, so you could also appear to have playboy Joker who pivots at the last second.

That's fair.

By default I'd probably exclude most of the non-central characters (Takemi, Kawakami, etc), though I do like Hifumi. I'd usually lean platonic for Futaba, and to a lesser extent Ann. I'm fond of Makoto, and Haru is kind of eternally forgotten. Jokes about her lack of screen time abound in the community.

It seems we have the same tastes, then.

You also have Kasumi; it might be interesting to explore exactly how that changes things from canon, though it doesn't necessarily require romance.

This is true - particularly as, going by in-game dialogue, she does NOT approve of the Phantom Thieves . . .



Let me ask a follow-up question, then (which also applies to anyone else who hasn't weighed in, yet): Is there anyone in the cast that you'd like to see Frid pursue (or vice versa)? After all, Morgana's doomed infatuation with "Lady Ann" isn't going to happen here - but the Persona series (at least, as of 3 onward) does have its traditions with the Magician Arcana . . .

(And yes, as noted back when these were snippets - Makoto's older sister is at least three years too young for him; that would, to an extent, be the joke . . .)

Interesting.

That's certainly one word for it . . .

She definitely covers Morgana's knowledge of how to be a Phantom Thief. I'd be worried she might prevent the group from really growing into independence by knowing so much already; there are a couple of different ways you might handle that.

You aren't wrong, but I honestly thought your objections would be more based the idea of around letting her anywhere near a bunch of beautiful young women . . . Not to mention that her particular origin is reliant on the existence of Fate/Grand Order, of course.

(Honestly, I was considering having her standard incarnation be the Assassin of the Grail Works' War - but Medousa basically fulfills her type, no . . .?)

[Arbitrarity]

Let me ask a follow-up question, then (which also applies to anyone else who hasn't weighed in, yet): Is there anyone in the cast that you'd like to see Frid pursue (or vice versa)? After all, Morgana's doomed infatuation with "Lady Ann" isn't going to happen here - but the Persona series (at least, as of 3 onward) does have its traditions with the Magician Arcana . . .

I think there's a relevant but not-necessarily-romantic niche for supporting characters Ren might end up neglecting. Haru and Futaba are the obvious two there. Romantically, I'm less sure. I suspect he'd be useless for Takemi's experiments. Kawakami would be cursed. As below... I guess Sae is also closer to the same age.

(And yes, as noted back when these were snippets - Makoto's older sister is at least three years too young for him; that would, to an extent, be the joke . . .)

So you're saying there's a chance

You aren't wrong, but I honestly thought your objections would be more based the idea of around letting her anywhere near a bunch of beautiful young women . . . Not to mention that her particular origin is reliant on the existence of Fate/Grand Order, of course.

I lost some of what I was intending to write there to the forum, and pared it down a bit. Obviously, it would be a bit more plot divergence. I also suspect that Mistress C exists because of Persona 5, though I don't know how much background cultural context there was for that sort of thing in Japan. I also really should have considered the Blood Countess's habits, that could be messy.

(Honestly, I was considering having her standard incarnation be the Assassin of the Grail Works' War - but Medousa basically fulfills her type, no . . .?)

Does feel a bit similar with the blood theme, though now I'm imagining some goofy possibilities, like Osakabehime camping out in Ryudou Temple, or Old Man Li and Souichirou sparring.

[Kieran]

I think there's a relevant but not-necessarily-romantic niche for supporting characters Ren might end up neglecting.

Part of my thought process, yes.

Haru and Futaba are the obvious two there.

Presuming I don't go for shipping Haru with Ren, of course, but yes.

Futaba is a _tad_ trickier, given her anxiety issues . . . And, of course, if this _is_ the Works' world, she _may_ end up developing _code-casting._

Romantically, I'm less sure. I suspect he'd be useless for Takemi's experiments.

She wants someone relatively baseline, yes - which is not to say that he can't be useful to her . . .

Kawakami would be cursed.

Probably so. Ohya, likewise.

As below... I guess Sae is also closer to the same age.


So you're saying there's a chance

It's not impossible, no - though Frid as he stands is very much NOT her type, I suspect . . .

I lost some of what I was intending to write there to the forum, and pared it down a bit. Obviously, it would be a bit more plot divergence.

Or a lot, yes.

I also suspect that Mistress C exists because of Persona 5, though I don't know how much background cultural context there was for that sort of thing in Japan.

A - call it 20-odd year tradition? Kamikaze Kaito Jeanne and Saint Tail are as much or more magical girl than "phantom thief," but . . . And then, of course, there's Lupin III.

I also really should have considered the Blood Countess's habits, that could be messy.

Particularly as her profile notes they haven't really changed, unlike her attitude; she's an urban legend of the stranger who picks up pretty girls off the roadside in the dead of night, never to be seen again . . .

Does feel a bit similar with the blood theme, though now I'm imagining some goofy possibilities, like Osakabehime camping out in Ryudou Temple, or Old Man Li and Souichirou sparring.

If it weren't for the fact that her dialogue is SO complicated to transcribe, with her speech patterns the way they are, the former would absolutely have happened.

[Xamusel]

So, Kieran, what's the amount of time you think it will take for you to write the story to its conclusion? I mean, in all seriousness, I'd love to see it reach the bitter end of the story in terms of The Royal ending.

[Kieran]

So, Kieran, what's the amount of time you think it will take for you to write the story to its conclusion?

After the last few projects, I've learned never to put hard numbers on my completion estimates - but I'm guessing it'll be at least a year . . . Heck, with my luck, they'll have released Persona 6 by the time I get it done.

I mean, in all seriousness, I'd love to see it reach the bitter end of the story in terms of The Royal ending.

. . . Are you saying that you want me to write the bad ending? Or to not include Persona 5 Strikers?