A man with golden hair walked through the dark streets of London.
He carried nothing but an air of providence, as if a withering aura extended far beyond his slim figure. A shopkeeper watched him, flicking the light of her store off until he passed.
The man cocked his head as if he was listening to something, then set off at an increased pace. His fingers balled into fists, revealing a red glyph shining with dull radiance on the back of his hand. He reached the crest of a hill and his breath caught in his throat.
It was a city of three faces.
The first face was one of brick and mortar. Buildings of sweeping windows and sculpted motifs rested in their foundations, carving the city in neat blocks of imposing facades. Wrought iron fences ringed the sparse greenery that grew in the temperate air.
He passed by a neon sign that lit the red snake-slit pupils of his eyes, and saw the second face of the city. It lay over the stone buildings in a tangle of telephone lines and in the wafer-thin screens that lined the streets; it was of technology, of progress.
The third face was hidden in dark alleyways, secret basements, and forgotten magic.
He entered the darkness of a litter-strewn alley and held up a hand, waving away the stench of rotting food and cigarette ashes. The alleyway tapered to a point, then widened into a larger courtyard tucked away by the clashing vistas of apartment buildings. Dim light washed over stone walls covered in a menagerie of aged flyers, emanating from a single light perched over a door of corrugated steel.
A circle of blood-red runes was inscribed on the cracked cement ground.
The corner of the man's mouth tugged upwards. He raised his hand, runes glowing brighter, and spoke words that rang through the air with a musical radiance.
With my voice, I call to the first.
Of iron, hardened in the forge. Of blood, spilt through conduct.
The keystone on which the world rests sits the great contractor.
Let my enemies know the fear of death.
Let the path to the kingdom not be mine, the three-forked road abandoned.
For I reject that, and take the middle way.
Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill.
For each time it is filled, destroy it, and start anew.
Set.
The circle's runes glowed, bathing his face with red light. His upturned lips turned into a grimace.
Let your body rest upon mine. Let my fate create your sword.
If you heed the Grail's call, you will obey my mind, and my reason.
In a space beyond space, where time was meaningless, the mechanisms of a long-dormant spell awoke.
For that cause, I make my oath.
I will strive to be all the good in the world.
I will bear all the evil.
The man's fingers convulsed in a dance of pain. He braced his outstretched arm with his other and ground out the final words through gritted teeth.
Let the blade of red, keeper of the heavens, come forth and slay my enemies in a righteous conquest.
Let the betrayer come forth and keep her oath.
Mists poured from the circle, obscuring the courtyard and rising into the night. He waited, breath held, straining his eyes to see past the haze.
As the mists receded, the outline of a figure slowly faded in.
He smiled.
Mordred's first conscious thought was: wait, I died?
A summoning circle surrounded her, pulsing with energy. It flashed a dull red and she felt the bond that anchored her spirit to the material world solidify.
Thousands of questions screamed in her mind to be answered, but fell silent as she looked around with wide eyes. Towering walls of impossibly straight stone surrounded her. Above lay a sky devoid of stars, replaced by the gradient light of some massive, hidden fire. Mordred wondered if this was heaven.
Then she saw the man standing at the edge of the circle. He was smiling, red eyes boring into her under a noble brow. Dressed in a strange black half-cloak, he stood ramrod straight against the billowing wind of the ritual.
Can he see me? It took her a moment to realize that she had a body.
The circle pulsed again and she felt the heaviness of movement that only came with a physical body. She rolled her neck, marveling at the power and ease of her movement. She was younger; blonde hair still long, hands unscarred, armor polished bright. It was her before the war, not like the diminished shell that she had died as.
Mordred would've preferred her corpse with the spear still stuck in it.
"Your name?"
She looked up, seeing it was the man that had spoken. He was at the edge of the circle now. The faint glow of Command Seals lit the back of his hand.
"Mordred Pendragon. I'm the Saber-class Servant," she said. "You're my Master?"
As she said her name, the man's eyes sharpened and his hands balled into fists.
"Are you?" she said.
He nodded.
"What's yours?"
He was silent.
"I am heir to Camelot. You will answer me."
He shook his head. "Is the ritual complete?"
Mordred's eyebrow quirked up, and she fought down the urge to make him tell her.
It would be so easy. Modern mages have so little power compared to a Servant, and no one is around at… Her train of thought derailed. How do I know what a modern mage is capable of?
Then she felt it. In the back of her mind lay a knot of knowledge that the currents of her thoughts washed around like a stone in a riverbed. She sent a probing thought towards it, keeping a mental image of her surroundings firmly at the fore of her mind. The knot loosened and information flowed from it.
She was in London, and the year was 2032. The towering slabs of stone were buildings; the great fire in the sky was the runoff of the millions of electric lights that lit the city. Knowledge of the modern world seamlessly integrated into her psyche, only alien in their lack of acquisition. She knew how to drive a car, but could not remember how or when she had learned.
"Let's go," the man said. "We have dawdled long enough."
He turned away and started walking.
"Wait," she said.
He looked back, eyes boring into her. He gestured for her to follow.
This one has an ego. He thinks he's better than me. "There are things I want to know first. About the war, and about you."
He swallowed. "There is no time," he said.
"Then when will there be? I want answers now," she said, narrowing her eyes.
"And what if I think you don't deserve them?" he said. "You're my Servant. You're a tool."
Mordred laughed. "That would be unfortunate if you thought that," she said, pouring as much vitriol as she could muster into her voice. "Because then you'd have to use a Command Seal and drag me the whole way, kicking and screaming."
His answer was silence, brow furrowed, and she saw the hints of a vast internal conflict playing behind his impassive face.
The way his eyes keep flicking to the space behind his shoulders… it's almost like he is expecting something to be there. He isn't being followed and there's no familiars on him, so it's most likely some piece of thaumaturgy. She pressed the Grail-knot for more information. Wait, how is he planning on threatening me with magic? Nothing a modern mage can do will come close to hurting a Heroic Spirit. Either he's bluffing or stupid.
She hid a slight smile. "What's it going to be?"
He sighed. "You get three questions."
Mordred pursed her lips. Even at a disadvantage he still refuses to give ground. He's tenacious, I'll give him that.
"Ok, fine. What's your name?" she said.
He was silent. After a long pause, he said, "Arthur. Call me Arthur."
"That's still a common name nowadays? Figures. Ok, Arthur, where are we staying for the war?" she said, letting the tension bleed out of her voice.
Arthur's fists unclenched and he let out a tiny breath. His red eyes still looked at her with a cold indifference.
Go on, play your game. It's not like believed that was your real name for a second.
"We can talk about that later," he said.
"Why can't we talk about it now?"
"Because I haven't planned that far ahead."
Mordred let out a long breath. "Fantastic." She opened her mouth to speak again but froze. "Do you sense that?"
He nodded, and tried to hide an apprehensive gulp.
Clarent materialized on her hip, sheathed, the glyphs of madness etched on it glowing softly in the night. She rested her hand on the pommel of her sword.
The first battle of the Holy Grail War. I can't say I'm not excited, although I don't know if the city can handle seven of us.
"What do I do?" he said.
She drew steel, handling Clarent as easily as a willow branch.
"Run and hide, human."
In choosing a place to fight, Mordred preferred a spot she wouldn't mind dying in.
A small square of cracked cement, surrounded by the withered faces of abandoned buildings. Tufts of grass crowded around a flooded section of the road. Perfect. She planted a boot in the grimy water and turned to the empty road.
One by one the streetlights flickered, moving slowly down the street toward her. Although it was a relatively warm night, her breath misted around her face.
Why even reveal your presence if you're going to waste my time getting here? She decided that the enemy Servant must not be from Camelot. I guess dueling etiquette died with my country.
Mordred quickly checked herself for any damning evidence. Her armor vaguely identified the time period she was from. Clarent was fine, as it appeared as a simple longsword, unless she called its true name and someone was smart enough to attribute it to her legend. That left her face, but the thought of fighting masked churned her stomach. She left her helm unsummoned.
A worn tarp fluttered in the dead air, rips in its fabric stretching like lopsided smiles. She stared back, waiting, tapping a finger on her gauntlet. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
She took a deep breath to calm the weakness of her hands and turned towards the empty street. "You kept me waiting."
The Servant materialized at the other end of the square, blue particles falling into the shape of a man. He was silent, staring at her from under a wide-brimmed hat. Wooden grips of revolvers shined on his hips.
She raised an eyebrow. He appeared to be wearing some type of outdated formal attire. Legendary figures from all ages can be summoned into the war, she reminded herself. But apparently a guy with two guns is good enough.
"You didn't bring your Master?" she said. "That's good. Don't want things to get... messy."
He nodded.
Right into it then. No preamble, no introductions.
His fingers drifted lazily over the worn leather of his holsters. Gunslinger. That's what the Grail-knot called him. Mordred spread her feet wide and assumed the ever-shifting guard of an Arthurian knight. Her armor gleamed in the muted electric light, prisms of dull red shifting on the metal.
Here we go.
He grinned, and his right gun snapped up. The first two bullets came at her head, trailing gunsmoke and fire.
Reflex took over as she pivoted left and stepped forward. Clarent lashed out and caught them from the air, ringing like a bell from the impact.
"Well, shit," he said, his voice a slow drawl. "I was hoping this would be easy."
"You'll be disappointed then. I'm looking for a challenge," she said, cocking her head to the side. "You're the Archer then?"
He tipped his hat. "At your service."
She almost didn't see Archer's other hand flash down to his second gun.
He's fast.
Mordred barely got Clarent between her and the bullets and caught them on the flat of the blade. Her shoulder bucked backwards, bracing Clarent as she deflected them down. The cement under her, soft by comparison, shredded to dust.
She hid a sigh of relief. At least I'm not hopelessly outclassed in speed.
Archer whistled a tune to himself, hands a blur of fingers and steel as he reloaded his guns.
Loose threads of strategy began to weave together in her mind. She knew she had a disadvantage at range, but besides get in close and hit him with my sword, all her other options came at a steep cost.
They circled each other, probing with eyes for precious information. Who you are, or rather, who your enemies thought you were was critical. There was no doubt in her mind that Archer was compiling information about her with his Master through their telepathic link. If only mine was actually useful.
The only thing she knew was that the six-shooting guns Archer carried were not up-to-date with modern firearms. That meant they were part of his legend, and much more dangerous than they appeared.
If range isn't my friend in this fight, then I'll just have to get close and outlast him. She eyed his guns. If they obey the normal laws of ammo consumption, that's twelve rounds. I can block that.
She ran towards him; feet blurring on the cement, sword low. Clarent swung up, seeking flesh, but found only air as Archer rolled to the side. She deflected a shot and struck again. He somehow caught her sword on the handle of his gun. She pushed in close, metal sparking on metal, faces inches away from each other.
He raised an eyebrow, pushing on her sword, and the blade scissored away from his neck.
"Whoa there, missy," he said.
She felt his hot breath on her face, and she noticed a tiny scar that ran across the edge of his mouth. He could use some more. She pushed back.
"Don't get too ahead of yourself." His eyes flicked down.
The second gun.
There was a flash of light under her, then shrieking, gut-wrenching pain bloomed in her left foot. She couldn't inspect the wound, but the bullet had pierced her armored boots and left shards of metal in the soft flesh of her foot.
She grit her teeth and hit him with the pommel of her sword. Flecks of blood landed on her face. He fell to one knee and shot her again, bullet shattering on her left pauldron. Distant warning bells of pain blared in her mind, but she shut them off with practiced ease.
Mordred sidestepped a third shot, wincing as her foot clanked on the stones, and moved to run him through. She found out the hard way that her shoulder was dislocated, and her stab turned into a drunken lunge.
Archer backed up and sank two more shots into her chest. They shattered on her breastplate and she staggered back into the foot-deep water, sword up. That's five. A sixth shot got past her guard and whizzed past her head, taking a few strands of hair with it.
Half done. If I ignore the pain I can keep going for awhile longer. Just six more shots and then I can- She leaped forward, seeing Archer reach down into a leather satchel and pull out a fistful of bullets. She ran at him, metal boots digging into the soft concrete, sword raised. The cylinder of his gun flipped open, dropping hot shells into the muddy water. The water steamed at his feet.
All or nothing.
Mordred reached him on her bad foot, skewing her strike's trajectory to the side and sending it at his shoulder. He stumbled back, eyes wide, firing an underhand shot that went wide. She stepped forward and slashed at his neck.
Something moved in the corner of her eye. She turned to look, just in time to see the gem before it hit her and detonated. A blast of freezing mist exploded out of the crystal, flash-freezing the armor plates of her shoulder together into one solid block of ice. She sank to her knees, holding Clarent for support.
An ice spell contained in a gem? She flexed her arm and the thin layer of ice grated then cracked against metal. It's not strong. Barely enough to hold me, which means that it wasn't another Servant. A modern mage did this.
"Thought you said you didn't bring your Master," she said.
"I lied," he said, finishing reloading. He holstered his guns.
I'm a moron. "Are they gonna keep hiding like a coward?" This is just a damn proxy war after all.
He looked off into the darkened eaves of an abandoned building. "Probably."
She snorted. All or nothing, right?
"I think it's time we talked," he said, walking toward her.
Well, here goes my honor. Mom, forgive me.
"Now I'm willing to cut you a deal and-"
She threw Clarent at him and ran.