"The realm of space is the realm of true void. That is to say, the absence of all Texture and human reason. It is the ultimate in blank slates - and for that reason, it is a place susceptible to the slightest influence. An empty canvas painted over with many contradictory colours. For this reason, stoicism is a vital attribute for any lone traveller through the black ocean. Subjective reality must be made objective. The subject must believe wholeheartedly and without a sliver of doubt in the reality they wish to exist in. They must hold no skepticism in their heart, and know that the laws of physics they are accustomed to are 100% accurate.

Else the realities of stranger, less sympathetic entities will take root instead."

Dr. Walter Simms - The Big Empty (2284)

After spending a certain amount of time travelling alone through space, you started to appreciate just how little space you had. Spacefaring vessels were built for utility, not luxury after all - not unless you were some EarthReach higher-up or official, then you got all the space you needed.

The ship really consisted of just two rooms - the pilot's seat, which had cryogenic capabilities built right into it - and the cargo hold, which was all but full of Zenithlight. Needless to say, it wasn't a lot to work with.

Drummond lay sprawled out in the pilot's seat, eyes lazily following the stars as they rushed past. People said space was dark, and Drummond really wished it was. Instead, there were so many stars that you couldn't even close your eyes and get a moment of sleep. Truth be told, he really should have been in his cryosleep - to sit out the flight peacefully - but he didn't exactly trust his cheap autopilot not to charge straight into a sun. Best to wake up every now and then to make the necessary adjustments, rather than leave it in the hands of fate.

There'd been horror stories during his training days at the Academy - his second time, working with EarthIntel - about cocky agents who went right into cryosleep and never woke up. There was no limit to the things that could go wrong, when you really thought about it. In the grand scheme of things, you were a tiny ant in a tin can, flying through the void, inches away from the space that would crush him, freeze him, do any number of terrible, gruesome things to him.

So it was best not to think about it.

It really wasn't that bad. He had entertainment vids stocked up, after all. Oyir's Learning with Film, White Moon Princess Phantasmoon and Walking with Beasts. Those three shows. One episode of three shows. On repeat. Over and over.

Forever.

It really wasn't that bad.

Despite the difficulty, he squeezed his eyes shut - best to get his reality exercises over with, so long as he was awake.

He remembered them well. They'd been drilled into him for years during off-world training, after all. He'd been reprimanded by more stern commanders than he could count for forgetting them, so he'd stopped.

Drummond cleared his mind, stuffing his fatigue and boredom into a tiny box and locking it away for the time being. The most important part was complete focus. Without that, the entire thing was pointless.

You are a human being. "I am a human being," he whispered, voice creaky from disuse. The words, strictly speaking, weren't the most important aspect of the exercise - his mind had been programmed to perform thousands of secondary calculations as part of this process, with the words tying them together into a concrete whole.

A human being is an organism with a head, two arms, two legs and a cardiovascular system. You are one of these organisms. "A human being is an organism with a head, two arms, two legs and a cardiovascular system. I am one of these organisms." Together with these words, he allowed images to flash through his mind - diagrams of the human body's anatomy, primarily. You couldn't afford to be too vague when it came to your reality.

You are capable of independent thought. "I am capable of independent thought."

Gravity exists. The principles of energy and mass exist. These laws of physics are immutable. "Gravity exists. The principles of energy and mass exist. These laws of physics are immutable."

You exist.

A pause.

"I exist."

And with that final affirmation, Drummond opened his eyes. He caught a glimpse of himself in the pilot window - of tired eyes framed by scruffy black hair and an unfortunate beard. He grimaced; he'd have to take care of that before getting things started. He didn't want to make a bad first impression, after all.

One month earlier.

"Zenith?" said Drummond, sat in that same pilot seat, scanning through the information he'd been sent. His ship, the Sparrow, was docked in one of the countless covert auto-stations that drifted in unmapped space - between Sol and the rest of Earth-controlled space. As an agent of EarthIntel, the military's intelligence division, he had clearance to make use of it. He'd been directed to this location when he'd left Europa two days ago.

He hadn't really questioned it at the time - sudden inexplicable orders really weren't strange in his line of work - but the information he'd been beamed was something else. Holy Grail War? Servants? Fighting for an omnipotent wish-granting device?

After the Same Wars - after seeing the fleet of copy Earths drifting forward as battleships - Drummond had thought he couldn't be surprised anymore.

The universe, it seemed, was intent on proving him wrong.

"You're familiar, I trust," said General Barten, on the other end of the vidscreen. The older man had a face that looked like it was carved from stone, and eyes just as cold. This was the first time Drummond had directly spoken to him, and he couldn't really say he was enjoying it. But this was a … unique mission, after all.

"O-Of course, sir." Drummond tapped the vial of Zenithlight - the fuel of the gods, some called it - strapped to his hip. The glowing blue liquid sloshed in its container. "Carrying quite a bit of it myself. But I can't say I've ever been to the place where they make the stuff."

"An Earth boy, through and through," the General nodded approvingly, the hints of foreshadowing of a smile on his face. "All the necessary information is in the file. We've had our strategists outline several places where it'd be best to set up a base. Look through it in your own time. The catalyst was received without incident?"

"Without incident, sir," said Drummond, lifting up the item in question as he spoke. It didn't look like much - a few scraps of black human hair contained in a secure vial, but he'd been told it had cost an exorbitant sum to acquire.

"You'll want to summon the Servant as soon as you enter the Zenith system," said Barten. "For protection purposes."

Drummond frowned. "Will outside influences really be compatible with this ritual? I know it was originally magecraft, but it's just a replication with Zenithlight. Wouldn't incorporating a catalyst count as altering the ritual?"

Zenithlight really was a miracle - it could imitate anything, so long as the user completely understood the thing they wanted to imitate. Bullets for a gun, fuel for a spaceship - even magecraft was just another phenomenon for it to replicate. But it couldn't create anything new. With the extinction of magecraft, the Light could only be used to perform magics that has already been created. The practice had, in a sense, become a dead art.

There would never be a new advancement in the field, no breakthroughs or advances to the Root - the thing Drummond had learnt mages had sought, back during his time training for EarthIntel.

All magecraft was now was another bag of tricks for weasels like him to take advantage of.

"Our researchers say no. A primary function of the ritual is summoning a Heroic Spirit based on a provided catalyst. The catalyst doesn't alter the principles of the ritual itself, so it should be fine. Now - we can waste no time. Win that Grail for Earth, Mr. Drummond. These are uncertain times - and we need to ensure humanity's safety."

"Of course, sir." Drummond leaned forward to end the communication, only to be interrupted by a swift glare from the General.

"And Mr. Drummond - the Grail is to be delivered immediately following the War's conclusion. No wishes are to be made until then, by Master or Servant."

A pause.

"Of course, sir."

The vidscreen clicked off. Drummond clicked a button on the arm of his chair, and the autopilot began taking the Sparrow out of dock. Its pilot, however, sat there in silence.

Take the Grail straight to EarthReach? He could, he could. In fact, he really should.

But did he have to? Hadn't he done enough? He'd fought against the Same for them, watched his comrades die for them, gone through the dark years in EarthIntel for them. Surely they now owed him something. The Grail would repay that debt, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? What, really, could they do to stop him?

There was nothing they could do, should he choose to ignore their demands and make a wish anyway.

And yet, when he thought about actually doing it, a shiver shot up his spine.

Drummond laughed bitterly. He'd entertain these rebellious thoughts, he knew, but he'd never dare act on them. He wasn't the kind of person with the courage to against those above them, no matter what advantages he held.

An Earth boy, through and through.

Through and through.

Damn it.

Drummond rubbed his now-smooth chin, brushing the crumbs off his pilot suit as he cleared the biggest space he possibly could for his new guest. It wasn't much - the Sparrow had been deliberately built small enough to slip through blockades - but he managed to get enough room for the Servant to stand without being right in his face. Apparently, these Servant familiars could become intangible, so space didn't seem like it would be the biggest issue after the summoning was over and done with.

To his side, against the wall of the cargo hold, he'd placed two heavy canisters of Zenithlight. They'd scan the information he provided them, recreate the ritual based on the principles existing within his mind, and serve as substitutes for the magical energy the ceremony required. With the extinction of original magecraft, this was the only means to recreate its wonders.

He placed each of his hands against one of the canisters, and took in a deep breath. As he did, the Zenithlight drained from the containers, and their eerie light transferred instead to his palms.

Drummond thought deeply - unflinchingly - about the principles he wanted the Light to replicate. The summoning ritual for a Heroic Spirit, tied to a Holy Grail War. Images of magic circles and whispered calculations ran through his mind and, as they did so, Drummond could feel the Light burrowing in after them, growing around the thoughts like weeds. A dull pain began to grow inside his skull and - after a moment - it became blinding, his vision turning white.

And then, it was over. The pain vanished so quickly, it was like someone had been holding Drummond's skull in their grip and had suddenly let go.

When he opened his eyes, Drummond saw that the glow had vanished from his palms. Instead, it had transferred to the floor, forming a bright blue summoning circle, veins of Light waving through the air around it.

It was ready. It had really been able to copy such a complicated ritual exactly.

Hesitantly, Drummond stepped forward and placed the catalyst in the middle of the circle. Would it be alright for it to stay in the vial? It should be fine, right? The important part was the hair. Surely it wouldn't think the vial was the catalyst. Would it?

Drummond gingerly went back, emptied the vial of the hairs, and stuffed it back into its pocket. There. Now that should be fine.

Stepping back once again, as healthy a distance from the circle as he could manage, he opened his mouth to speak - then closed it again. Right. There was no need for him to do an incantation. He'd given the Light that information as well.

The Light began to speak, a soft buzzing in an approximation of a male human voice. Drummond shuddered.

And, heedless of his discomfort, the Light began to chant.

The Zenith system, with thirty-one planets in perfect orbital balance around a single blazing blue sun (thirty-two if you counted ZenithCorp's artificial satellite), was one of Humanity's greatest wonders. That sun was also the source of Zenithlight, the miracle substance that could replicate any phonomena with sufficient mass and information. This, of course, meant that everybody wanted it - and the people who could make it naturally became very powerful very fast.

Thus, Zenith was a system that now rivalled Earth when it came to population and importance to the government structure. Only ZenithCorp could make the Light, and so ZenithCorp had the power - power that now rivalled EarthReach.

This place, it could be said, was at the center of everything.

And yet, space was big. A true void, and an empty one.

The Sparrow hung there, on the edge of the system, all alone in the night. The front port, the only way to see what was inside, glowed with a fiery blue light.

And for those few moments, it looked like a shooting star itself.

Drummond blinked, clearing his vision as the Light faded, leaving an acidic scent where it once was. Smoke - or maybe it was just steam - drifted through the cabin. Soon enough, though, the ventilation system began to drain it away, revealing a figure, about a head shorter than him, standing where the summoning circle had been.

The person - the Servant - looked up, eyes flicking around the cabin for a moment before coming to rest on him. They wore eastern-looking armour, maybe Chinese, and had dark hair roughly cut short, as though done with a dagger or rough implement. In one hand, they held a worn and chipped longsword - in the other, a shield of much better quality.

The boy (no, girl? Drummond wasn't quite sure) blinked, as though accepting their situation. Bold green eyes looked into Drummond's cold grey ones. Then, they nodded their head respectfully.

"Servant Saber," they said in a low voice. "Hua Mulan, reporting for duty."