א
twenty miles from anyone, set my sights on the setting sun
heaven talks, but not to me, 'cause heaven knows that nothing good comes free
desolation, tragedy, is there nothing good in me?
imagine dragons - release
[THE AUTHOR SPEAKS: I've gone over this chapter to fix a couple of details that I'm embarrassed to say did not jive with the canon Nasuverse, although if I were you I wouldn't expect everything to work quite the same way. See, if I'm breaking the rules on purpose, then I'm all for it, but accidents... A few other things got tweaked, basically just those tiny things that improve a sentence's flow, etc. Anyway, onward!]
The voice of a young man driven to great lengths by rejection rings through a small clearing of grass and foliage.
"Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Five perfections for each repetition. Let the filled sigils be destroyed in my stead!"
Beneath the ground, where dust has long cleared from the tools of magi and a man lost in himself, the voice of a man whose purpose was decided from his very birth shows only dedication and confidence.
"Ye first, O silver, O iron. O stone of the foundation, O Archduke of the contract. Hear me in the name of our great teacher, the Archmagus Schweinorg. Let the descending winds be as a wall. Let the gates in all directions be shut, rising above the crown, and let the three-forked roads to the Kingdom revolve."
Amongst low mountain flora, a voice continues, rising with vindictive hope.
"Set. Let thy body rest under my dominion, let my fate rest in thy blade. If thou would submit to the call of the Holy Grail, if thou wilt obey this mind, this reason, then thou shalt respond."
At the center of a simple room in a great castle where a circle far simpler than many has been drawn, the voice of a slayer of the fallen rebounds from stone walls.
"I make my oath here. I am one who is to become the virtue of all Heaven. I am one who is cloaked in the evils of all of Hell."
In a house of cruelty and madness, a broken man continues his chant, ignoring the trails of blood that run from his remaining eye.
"Yet, thou serves with thine eyes clouded in chaos. Thou, bound in the cage of madness, I am he who commands those chains -"
In the workshop which shines with the light of unfathomable prana and the boundless intent of that man for whom legacy is no less than sacred, a chant comes at last to an end.
"Thou seven Heavens, clad in a trinity of words, pass through the restraining rings, and be thou the hands that protect the balance!"
In many places, the great and the small alike await the arrival of their champions.
If what happens next were not so far beyond the explanation of almost any living thing, the Clock Tower and its rival Church might have spent more effort failing to cloak its mystery than any other event within known memory.
For but a moment, in the very souls of all living things, arise colors beyond imagination, the surge and release of something both less and more than the magic of the very world itself, and a thrill of fear fills the hearts of seven whose dreams stand opposed to all others.
In many places, the words of heroes begin to confirm the allegiance of their summoners.
There's really nothing left to do now but watch the shadow of the figure rising from the circle. In an instant you've received the basic information given to those who dare to grasp at Heaven's gates, and you know that this is it: there's a chance you could win. It's true that the servant taking shape even now is the Rider of this war, but there's no real rule to say only one of 'mighty' knight classes can actually claim victory, and the raw data on your servant's parameters... Maybe they're not the most impressive, but that A-ranked strength is an asset, it could definitely be worse overall, and if there's anyone in the world who wants to believe in the idea that even the weakest natural aptitude can surpass others through skill and effort, well, that's you.
"Hey, are you okay? You're just staring at me, and it's kind of creeping me out. Oh right, I still need an answer to that sort of basic thing... I don't think you even heard me the first time." The one who stands before you scratches at tangled black hair, looking sort of lost. "Right, that Servant stuff. I think I'm supposed to ask something... Oh, right! So, are you my Master, or are you just some guy who's really into... uh... killing chickens, I guess?"
Somehow, you thought your Servant would be bigger. Somehow, you didn't expect your servant to be wearing blue pajamas. Somehow, you thought your Servant would be older than you.
Tangled black hair, a dark complexion, buck-teeth, thick glasses... But more importantly, this kid looks like he shouldn't even have made it through secondary school. If he's any less than two years younger than you, then something's gone really wrong with your eyes. Is this seriously the Servant that bastard 'teacher' was aiming for? Are you just missing something obvious? Who is he, anyway? You can't even begin to guess.
Blue eyes pierce through your confusion, and for an instant it seems as if the sky itself has turned its gaze on you. Suddenly you remember that you haven't actually claimed your Servant yet, and just as suddenly that thought becomes a lot more important than it was five seconds ago.
"Uh, y-yeah! I'm, that is - yes! I am your Master! W-Waver Velvet! I, Waver Velvet, am definitely -"
A hand clamps down on your shoulder, and all you can think of is how it felt to look into those eyes just seconds ago, the feeling that the sky itself could reach down at any second and tear you from the earth, laughing at pointless concepts like gravity while you asphyxiate in the stratus. The terror that floods your body in an instant is enormous, so far out of proportion to your first impressions that part of you almost wants to laugh.
The boy in blue's fingers squeeze down in a way you'd swear was meant to be reassuring as he crouches in front of you. You don't have the slightest idea of when you fell to your knees, but at least you know why. Anyone who could stand before those eyes without blinking would have to be a monster or a god.
You should be doing something, maybe. Establishing rules, finding out this Servant's - no, your Servant's - identity. There are probably all kinds of things to do right now, and you might even be doing them if you could force any part of your body to move.
Your Servant grins.
"Okay! Haha, I kinda thought this would be more complicated." For a second you think he's reaching down to grab your hand, and then a fleeting sense of vertigo knocks you out of your paralysis as some force actually raises you to your feet, your clothes and hair billowing until you're upright, bangs fallen across your eyes. Spluttering as you try to brush your face clear, you manage to forget the situation you're in just long enough to cut loose with indignant words.
"What was that?! You're a Servant and I'm your Master, don't just do things without my permiss -" Now you do find your hand being gripped tightly by another's, as Rider rolls his eyes with a smile lacking in even a trace of malice. He's... shaking your hand? That makes some kind of sense, at least. Right? You're fine with it, at least. Maybe Rider won't be too tough to get along with; you've got a strange feeling that's really important.
"I guess for this war thing, my name's supposed to be Rider, but..." The smile turns back into a grin. The only way you can think to describe this kid is 'the primordial nerd.' "Nice to meet you, Waver. I'm John!" Dumbly, you nod as he lets go of your hand. "Waver Velvet, huh? That's a weird name, but also pretty cool? You're British, right? Wait, does that mean... this is Earth?"
Your Servant's eyes slowly widen, like he's only just now realizing something he should have already been told by both the Throne and the Grail. Something he should have known when he was alive, for that matter.
"Is the planet we're on really Earth?!"
In this moment, confronted by a Servant who's only just figured out what planet he's on, whatever that could even mean, you don't have the energy to keep yourself from stumbling off and thudding down onto a park bench to stare up beyond the clouds, at the ceiling of the world that now seems like it really could go on forever.
The truth is, you have no idea whether to be happy, angry, despondent, or confused. No, that's stupid, it's barely a question. The obvious answer is that you're all four at the same time.
The instant the pulse that shook the world passed through you, you knew that something was seriously, ominously wrong. Your gut feelings will never be more trustworthy than Irisviel, Maiya, or a weapon that you yourself clean and maintain, but the reality is that they've saved your life more times than you can count.
When news reports begin to rush in from countries across the world and it becomes clear that as far as anyone knows, every single human being on the planet - and hell, maybe some others things too - felt that same unknown and truly colossal energy, saw those maddened colors enough to fear for your sanity...
It might not be an exaggeration to say that you're a little bit worried. The stress of this is getting to you, although you'd never let it on; Irisviel doesn't need to see, Maiya surely already knows, and Ilya is too young to really believe that anything could be wrong with her father. But the preparation, tapping contacts for gear enough that you could turn to terrorism in an instant if you wanted to, researching the Grail War... It's hard, harder than it should be. What it really comes down to is that you've gone soft, even if only somewhat, and that can't be accepted.
As much as you despite it, Emiya Kiritsugu will become the Magus Killer once more.
The afternoon of the pulse, Iri came to you in tears, afraid that it was a sign of some sort of defect in her body. You were there for her, in your way, and you were happy to be able to at least put a stop to worries that are probably completely unfounded.
Will that awkwardly caring man cease to exist as you slowly flip switch after switch inside of your mind?
A hand on your arm startles you out of your thoughts, and it occurs to you that getting lost in thought while in the midst of a chant can't be good for ancient and incredibly powerful summoning rituals. It's not like you to lose focus like this. No more time to waste.
"Thou seven Heavens, clad in a trinity of words, pass through the restraining rings, and be thou the hands that protect the balance!"
Neither you or your wife budge an inch at the explosive, twisting river of prana that slowly coalesces into a solid form. The summoning shouldn't be able to fail or distort itself, and for your last operation, you couldn't ask for a better Servant than the King of Knights himself. As ethereal smoke clears, your eyes focus in on... Nothing? It's Iri's tiny gasp that first alerts you to your Servant's presence, probably because most of your field of vision is still a mass of reddish mist.
A red hood, a cloak or cape. Red and red and more shades of red, the brightest forming what seems to be the symbol of a cog or gear on his chest, leaning casually against a stone wall with his hands jammed into pockets you can only barely tell are there at all. He almost looks like he's in a Halloween costume.
But really, if you're being honest with yourself, it's the sunglasses that first catch your attention. You're pretty goddamned sure King Arthur never wore mirrored aviators.
When the basic statistics filter through your head, you see the Servant's "parameters," and apart from that seriously abysmal luck, you should absolutely have a weapon you can work with, here. The Saber class doesn't disappoint. All that's left for the moment is to make sure the pact is fully sealed. At any second this Servant, who really, really does not seem to be any sort of legendary hero at all, who in fact looks like a sixteen year old kid, ought to be volunteering the question. You'd find out yourself, but you're extremely interested in how he'll kick this ritual off.
But he just stands there, entirely expressionless for over a minute before anyone moves in the slightest. Even you don't know what he's feeling or thinking, and reading faces is a professional skill you've made a point to master over the years. Iri's fingers tighten around your arm. She starts to say something, and the instant that sound leaves her mouth, the Servant cuts her off.
"Eeeeehhhhhh," he says, an accent you'd swear was from the southern United States hiding even in this sound. "What's up, Doc?"
Irisviel slowly lets go of your arm. Neither of you has any idea how to respond. This is bad. Chance and confusion can turn careful plans to ash in an instant, and whoever the hell this kid is, he could probably do the same to you in an instant. A short intake of breath. The hint of uncertainty in your voice frustrates the hell out of you.
"Are you my Servant?" You wonder if a Master has ever had to ask that question before. Hell, for all you know, it happens half the time. Records of the previous wars are either beyond even your abilities to locate, or else they don't exist at all. The boy just watches you, or maybe Iri, those shades make it impossible to tell, then shrugs. His voice is a strange Texan monotone with a sliver of sarcasm that you're instantly sure is there to mask much, much, much more sarcasm.
"Man, I don't know. Probably? This Cup Fight thing is some straight up Battle Royale shit, dude. Well you ain't a teenager, so I guess you'd be that one dickbag who got stabbed in the eye with a pencil or some shit, I don't know, it's been a while. Damn, y'all got a castle or somethin'? I would've thought this fancy crap'd be the opposite of a nice house for a guy who's got killer's eyes and smells like an NRA meetin'."
"Are. You. My. Servant?"
He sighs, very deliberately.
"Yeah, yeah, I, Saber or whatever the fuck, am bound to serve as your personal bitch until we get killed or kill everybody else. Now shut up for a sec, I got business with the lady." Saber withdraws a hand from his pocket and points, not to you but to Irisviel, who barely stops herself once again from taking a step back from something powerful and intimidating.
"Yo, hot albino cougar chick. I got a question for you." He pauses and you're sure he's doing it to maximize his dramatic timing. "Are we on an actual planet Earth?"
"Kiritsu -" Iri tries to say, but the sound of her voice vanishes mid-word as you slam the room's heavy wooden door behind you and storm off through the castle and into the woods.
You can't help but sigh as the door slams and your entirely mature and reasonable husband leaves to go sulk in the woods. And it will be the woods, you know exactly how he gets.
Then you process that you were just called a 'hot albino cougar chick' by your husband's Servant and completely fail to avoid an awkward blush while you reprimand yourself internally for paying attention to that instead of the far more unsettling question Saber just asked. You don't miss the fact that he doesn't seem to care in the slightest that his Master simply wandered off without saying a word.
"On... Earth?" It's impossible not to pause before continuing. At least this moment's silence is your own doing and not Saber clearly provoking both of you either just for his own amusement or for reasons you don't understand, although you're fairly sure that it was at least mostly the former. 'Of course we're on Earth,' you don't say. Who knows who this Saber is and what he's been through? "Yes, we are."
In an instant, without an actual sound or movement from him, you feel something drastically change in his attitude. The next thing he says remains in that monotone, but unlike before, you're entirely sure that there is nothing lighthearted or mocking here. That sudden drop... You're a complete stranger to this lethal teenager, have barely heard him speak, and suddenly your fear rises again.
"What year is it." Those four words somehow tell you more about him than a thousand might from a 'normal' person. Your fear isn't really for your life, but for what you might be about to learn.
"Nineteen ninety four." Almost nothing changes. You're not sure that he'd previously moved anything but his lips since he was summoned. Are all Servants so in command of their bodies, or is this boy exceptional? Regardless, his head tilts downwards, almost invisibly. Kiritsugu might be impressed by your progress, or maybe what you see as a tiny motion is a blatant tell to him. Either way, he has helped you learn to read the faces and motions of others, and you consider yourself at least decent at the skill.
But that second tilt of the head somehow changes everything, and your fear begins to melt away. The subtle shift seems to betray a terrible pain and resignation. You consider the fates of more or less every hero in history and wonder what tragedies this Saber has in store.
Said Saber is quiet for what feels like a long time, but is probably less than thirty seconds.
"Well, goddamn if time ain't always givin' me a nice, well-cooked order of confusion with a free side of 'Fuck You,' no, really, Mr. Saber, just accept the charity, you're our number one fuckin' customer." While you can't guess - or rather, don't want to theorize about - what that meant, the bitter sentiment is clear enough. "Wait, wait. Gotta figure out if this Earth's totally batshit. I mean, apart from holdin' fucked up murder tournaments so the one piece of shit that comes out on top of all those corpses gets a goddamned wish granted." You do your best to process this before your thoughts are interrupted. "Okay. Who is the current president of the USA."
Remembering takes a bit of work. It's not as though you've had much use for that knowledge, and after this you sincerely doubt you'll ever need it again. In another life, another world, maybe.
But not this one.
"Bill Clinton," you say, and, flushing slightly more, "I think. He was their president the last time I heard anything about it." Saber looks like he's... well, okay, he looks like he's Saber, but he must be thinking hard about your answer.
"Well, shit, guess I'm about fifteen years early. Now I gotta be all nineties all the time, maybe I should go make some commercials for kids' drinks that turn you into flyin' blobs of mercury. I guess if I think about it this ain't have to be such a bad gig. Just one anonymous death ghost re-deathin' other death ghosts and chillin' in the middle of the most ironic decade possible."
You're briefly quiet, trying to find a less blunt and intrusive way to ask what you want. You give up on that fairly quickly.
"Saber... I suppose it's rude, but... Who are you? What is your true name?"
Even through the sunglasses, you can feel him watching you. You really hope you didn't just earn yourself an instant and pointless death. Time almost seems to slow down, turning every awkward pause into an eternity of anxious thought. And then, in the same monotone that you've now heard and your husband hasn't, one lacking any recognizable emotion at all, he answers.
"My name," he says, "is Saber. I am a sword with a mind that Mr. Blood and Gunsmoke will use to get whatever it is he wants out of the super special totally crazy holy thing. That's it." Another silence. You've already grown to hate this faltering conversation.
"What is your wish, then, Saber, when we obtain the Grail?"
There's no long silence this time.
"Ain't got one," he drawls. "I am one hundred percent stoked with the life that I lived and the world in general. Nice world, nice backstory, everything is just goddamn peachy."
"A hero without any regrets or desires? That doesn't seem very likely."
Apparently you shouldn't have said that.
Saber is now directly in front of you, standing barely a foot and a half away. You never even saw him move. God, you can't even tell if there was some sort of teleportation taking place or if, somehow, he really is simply that fast.
"I," he says very slowly and deliberately, "Am. Not. A. Hero."
And then he's vanished and you stand, shaking in the ritual room, alone with your thoughts (fear? guilt? pity?) and the lonely sensation of scared and baffled tears painting their iridescent trails down the curves of your cheeks.
This is it. A maelstrom of insanity, unbearable frustration. You've already learned that there's nothing you can do to make your fate any less cruel. You are at your breaking point. No, beyond it; you're living in the world that exists after you've lost your mind. Only shreds of your identity remain, the broken, tattered bits of what was once a proud Magus.
You've reached your second hour of loitering in a small, weird Japanese video rental store, waiting for Rider to finish picking out the worst movies you can even imagine. Using your money. Finally, you know what it is to face true despair. It's facing a half-ghost kid with buck teeth who's just grabbed another awful tape off the shelf with a look on his face like he's already in heaven.
"Dude, Last Action Hero just came out last year in this world, I do not even have words for how awesome this is, no, no no this is necessary, I am doing you a huge favor."
"Rider, we're in a war -"
His expression changes completely. Rider looks like he just saw the second coming of Christ while you were looking away in disbelief and vague horror. Your Servant, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, reaches toward yet another imported film, and he looks like he just found the damn Grail right here.
"Waver," he says quietly. "This is a sacred moment. Things like this make me wonder if there really is a god somewhere. I mean, like, a super-god, not a god like me, more like the Jesus and stuff kind." In his hands is another film you've never even heard of. Rider all but shoves it in your face. The words 'Con Air' are all you have time to see before he clutches in to his chest as though his new life depends on it.
"Rider, for the last time, we are in a -"
"This movie," Rider says slowly, "Isn't supposed to exist until 1997." Raising his head to the sky, or more accurately, toward a vaguely dirty ceiling, he stage whispers a weird little prayer. "Whoever is out there... thank you."
Eight movies and honestly a lot more of your funds spent than you think even makes sense, you've managed to talk him into actually going home, although you're really not sure what you'll do with the Mackenzies. Well, making something up that fits nicely with your cover story shouldn't be too difficult. The two of you are just walking - he insists on staying in his physical form, although at least he's replaced the pyjama superhero outfit with blue jeans along with a green jacket over a black t-shirt with some kind of wormy green ghost thing sitting dead center. It's... Well, it's an improvement, at least.
After stopping to get something to drink, again at Rider's insistence, you just... breathe, drink something, try to, hell, you don't know, meditate or something. Something, anything, please god. Rider's ten feet behind you doing his best not to hurl himself at anything even slightly interesting. You sigh in irritation for what must be the thousandth bloody time today, get halfway through a mouthful of pop, and then spit it out, coughing. Something he said that in the store that you didn't catch just sunk in with full force.
"Wait, wait, what do you mean you're a god!?"
The time is finally here. Zouken watches the explosion of prana with idle, sadistic interest. Someday. Someday, somehow, the sick son of a bitch will pay. You watch while struggling to stand upright, fingernails digging into your palms hard enough to break the skin, a futile attempt to distract yourself from the infinitely worse pain of a small worm writhing beneath the flesh of your forehead.
But the ritual really worked. Everything you ever had is gone, even the natural span of your own life, all for your bitter dream of saving Tohsaka Sakura, but it worked, and the mad servant called to this house of malice and shadows is yours, even if it's almost entirely those unbearable things eating you alive that mostly serve as the true source of prana for what can only be the Berserker of this Heaven's Feel.
As the incredible light begins to fade, your Servant's form fades into view. At first all you can see is a solid, bold, orange silhouette. A flowing robe - or is that a dress? - and a head that must be hooded. The ravaged inside of your lip trickles of copper across your tongue as your teeth press ruthlessly down.
A woman, small, or a teenage girl, obscured by this orange that seems to glow on its own. An emblem of the sun. A face obscured by the hood covering nearly all but the mouth. She seems somehow to embody radiance, light... but something tugs at your mind, a gut instinct that reminds you just a bit of the twisting fear that you can never banish around your disgusting father. A sense of darkness that you had hoped, somehow, your Berserker would lack. When she looks at you, despite what little you can really see of her, you shock yourself by flinching, an old and familiar instinct in a strange new context.
"My apologies for the inconvenience, Master," she says, clearly addressing you, a cultured voice, a tone both liquid and precise. Then she actually curtsies, one corner of her mouth turned upward to form a small and somehow frightening smile. "Though our... professional relationship is entirely clear, one ought to at least attempt to respect the customs of a new land and its peculiar cosmos. Therefore, I ask of you: are you my Master?"
You try to take comfort in the fact that even the nightmare of a man across the room from you looks as baffled as you feel. Unfortunately, this is not a situation that leaves any space for confusion.
"Yes," you say, not really sure what tone to use and settling on a sort of firm neutrality. "I, Matou Kariya, am your Master for the duration of this war." Her smile widens and a chill runs down the parts of your spine that can still feel.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Kariya-san. It would appear that the whims of fate have granted me the intriguing alias 'Berserker." There are no words in your head for her quiet laughter. Not a laugh, really, not a chuckle, not a giggle, but something else entirely. "I suppose the title fits, though I must say I find the assignment thoroughly amusing."
"A Berserker should not show such reason," Zouken comments, and your Servant turns to face him. "Indeed, that is a trait that defines the class. Ah, Kariya, to think that even with all of my aid, you have remained true to your nature as a failure of a Magus and managed to pervert this ritual even beyond my own tampering." His smirk transforms another part of you into an abyssal hell of rage and ever-growing despair. You swallow the desire to scream every obscenity imaginable in a single pointless flurry.
"I do not recall I or my Master granting you permission to speak, abomination. Hold your false tongue and you may be fortunate enough to prolong your repulsive existence."
The ensuing silence is unlike any other you can recall in your life. Your 'father' stares, and then starts to laugh, the slow chuckle that signals the death of anything good, that pierces the inescapable and impossible dreams your self-deceiving heart can't throw away, that fills you with the helpless urge to punishrunkillhidechokescreamandBURNITALLANDLAUGHATTHEASHES -
That chuckle wanes as what appear to be two long sewing needles slide from the sleeves of Berserker's robe with a rustle loud enough to have been deliberate, slipping into practiced hands.
"Kariya-san," the orange-clad enigma says once more, "Causality has made our ideal course of action perfectly clear. Do you happen to harbor any sympathy for monsters? Shall my hand be stayed by misplaced mercy?" Even if you knew what to say, you wouldn't know how to wrench the words free. Zouken opens his mouth, but the Servant cuts him off before he can speak, leaving him more off-balance than you've seen him in your life. As she speaks, her right arm and its strange little weapon rise smoothly to point directly at the old man.
"I'll defer to my own judgment, then. If we're to emerge victorious from this Heaven's Feel, loose ends and garden pests ought to be neutralized as early as is reasonably possible, don't you agree? Yes, I think that you must." She's quiet for a few seconds as an abrupt outpouring of your own prana leaves your body in gasping agony, and then her voice rings out with resonant force that strikes you as almost divine, the signal for an action powerful enough that most Magi would happily kill just to see. Not once before now did you truly understand the amount of weight that two brief words might carry.
"Gate Breaker."
The sheer might of the torrent of violet-white that leaves the single needle in Berserker's lazily extended arm actually knocks you off of your feet. You curl into yourself involuntarily, stunned and sightless, riding out smaller pings of pain, more portions of prana transferred...
When the dust has mostly cleared and your working eye's shaken off a momentary blindness, no part of you can believe that what you're seeing is real. Where the cruel and inhuman Magus previously holding your leash stood just twenty seconds ago, there's nothing to see but a wide and fascinating smear of blood and scattered bits of singed and lifeless worm-flesh.
A few more lances of pain move through you as smaller rays of a similar blistering purple disintegrate the few stray worms that remain, Berserker sighing in what seems to be mild irritation as she points her needle to them all until only two conscious beings are left in this room that once housed a devil.
In hardly more than an instant, the inescapable punisher of the Matou, the ancient lord of the Makiri, the bane of most of your humiliating and painful life, the rapist-by-proxy of an innocent girl, is no more.
Only memory remains of the 'immortal' creature that was Matou Zouken.
"Now then," Berserker says as she turns to you, "Kariya-san, or 'Master,' if you prefer, I would like to attend to the issue of the parasites inside you. Such base and vile things are no longer necessary. This 'prana' that tethers my body to your planet will be gathered in a less obscene and agonizing fashion."
As her half-cloaked smirk widens, you wonder when you'll be waking up, because no turn of events as beautiful as this could be anything but a dream.
[THE AUTHOR SPEAKS: I would like to thank the author of Fate/Zero Sense and Fate/Stay Away for writing absolutely fantastic material, inspiring me to write this fic, and inspiring the title structure, which is meant as an homage to those works. You killed my soul, you magnificent bastard, and I dream of someday giving you a serious high-five.]