Later that day, I found father in the study. He loosely held a glass filled with some kind of liquor. He had cradled the stump that was once a hand to his chest, like a child. His eyes were glazed over, staring at nothing. My memories from before led me to him, he often drank in the study.
I needed to talk to him. There were so many questions I needed answered. So, with the voice of a child, I questioned. I asked him what was going on, I asked him what they did to me, what was in the drink Sakura gave me, why did they do it, would my mind start to degrade, what would happen to me, long-term? In retrospect, I sounded more like a whiny little brat than a reasonable adult.
He kept staring at the wall with haunted eyes. He wasn't seeing me, He wasn't even looking at me. Whatever he was thinking about, it took him a million miles from here.
My soul had travelled down the path of enlightenment before, but my physical brain still had the patience of a child. I grabbed his drink and put it on the table, and with all the righteous fury of an eleven year old, I shouted in his face.
"Say something!"
He looked at me.
Then he slapped me across the face.
Tears sprung to my eyes, more from shock than pain. In all the time Shinji knew the man, he had never struck him. Scolded him, yes, yelled, often, drank too much, near nightly. But he'd never hit me before. Byakuya wasn't a bad father, just a bad man.
He dug the fingers of his remaining hand into my shoulder and looked me in the eye. His eyes were dull and dead, the look of a man with nothing left to give, or to lose.
"F-father," I said.
He shook himself, like a dog coming in from the rain, and his eyes gained a glimmer of life again. He pushed me back, picked up his drink, and went back to staring at nothing.
I looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in this new life. I saw him through my own eyes. Not through a television screen or through the rose-tinted lenses of a loving son.
I looked at him, and I saw a broken man. His once immaculate suit was wrinkled and ruffled. His eyes were bloodshot with dark, heavy bags underneath. His long hair was unbound, fraying, and graying. Wrinkles spread across his face like roads on a map. The man couldn't be older than forty five, but the stitching in him came out. He was a stuffed bear that just couldn't take anymore abuse. He was falling apart at the seams.
On the table was a picture of a younger, happier Byakuya with his arm wrapped around the slender waist of a smiling woman. My mother, I recognized.
There was no use in talking to him, I knew. Byakuya was a dead end. The childhood admiration I felt for the man who was my father died then, a piece of the old Shinji shriveled up in a corner of my soul. I turned and left the study.
It's truly incredible what a human being can adapt to. Poverty, famine, disease. All can be accepted as the new normal given enough time. Living the life of a fictional character had to be one of the more esoteric circumstances a human can adapt to. But far be it from me to question the power of the human spirit.
Sakura helped, of course. Not directly, but she gave me something to focus on. On the nights she spent long hours under Grandfather's care in the basement, I would stay up, waiting for her to come up those creaky old stairs. When I saw her, her eyes would be lifeless, like a porcelain doll's.
I would hold her, sing to her, and tell her silly little stories. I would try my best to let her be a normal little girl, if only for a while. In the confines of my mind, I'd spew hate and vitriol at the people who put her in this situation.
I cursed Zouken, for defiling this sweet, innocent little girl.
I cursed Byakuya, for letting this happen, for not standing up for her, for drinking all his problems away.
I cursed Tokiomi Tohsaka, for giving up his precious daughter to that monster of a man.
In my darker moods, I even cursed Uncle Kariya, for failing, for not being strong enough, for dying…
I never let Sakura know my feelings about them, I only consoled her, tried to put some life back in her eyes.
Eventually, in the small hours of the morning, after humming, and singing, and talking softly for hours and hours, she'd begin to cry. She's start softly, silent at first, afraid I'd leave or hurt her. She's pick up momentum and just sob and sob. She's bury her face in my chest and curse the names of everyone who's ever wronged her. Zouken and Byakuya and Tokiomi and Aoi and Rin. The amount of hatred and despair in her heart was astounding. I'd just hold her, let her pound her tiny fists on my tiny chest, let her sob and cry, let her speak all of her hate, her fears, and her desires.
When she had exhausted all the hate and anger in her heart, she'd pause. And then, every time, she'd start crying again. This time, not in despair or anger, but in repentance. She was sorry. For the things she had said in the storm of her fury. When she finished crying the second time, she was worn out. She would fall asleep like that, her hands balled up in my shirt, eyes red from crying.
It breaks my heart. Letting this go on. But there's nothing I can do. Zouken is ancient, he helped design the Holy Grail system. The man is a monster among monsters. I doubt the Queen of the Clocktower could take him in a straight up fight, if only because the man would never fight fair, he always had a dozen more tricks up his sleeves.
I'd tuck Sakura into bed and turn off the lights. I went back to my own room, hoping to catch a few hours of sleep before sunrise.
Sleeping in that house was almost impossible. The Shinji of before had never noticed, or maybe he just grew up with it, so he didn't consider it bizarre. But I did.
The skittering.
In the walls, under the floors, everywhere. Late at night, all over the house, you could hear the skittering of bugs. I hate bugs. The sight of them sends shiver down my spine. My skin crawls just thinking of them. And I know they're everywhere.
I never leave clothes on the floor. I never leave food unattended. I always pull my blankets up under my feet at night, for myself and for Sakura.
They could drive a man to madness. Maybe that's what happened to Byakuya.
School is a thing I have to do now. It's funny, the last go around I wasn't that great of a student. Now? Even with the much stricter standards of the Japanese school systems, I'm top of the class. Ha. Who said I'd never amount to anything.
I walk Sakura to her elementary school every morning. She is always hesitant to let go of my hand when we get there. I've had to dig through my catalogue of motivational speeches many a time to get her to go. The Kamina ones are her favorite.
I attend the local middle school. It's not a bad place. I just happen to be a grown ass man in the body of an eleven year old. The drama and intricacies of the middle school experience happen to go over my head. This leads me to not exactly being the social butterfly that the canon Shinji was.
I have retained Shinji's bishonen good looks, which has been new. Take the bishi looks, add the social reluctance, with those near perfect grades, and you have a recipe for a middle school disaster. I've, through an incomprehensible turn of events, become a school idol on the level of Rin Tohsaka. All by doing absolutely nothing. Japan's a weird place..
It's sort of a hassle though. People are always looking at me, staring out of the corner of the eye. Girls giggle to themselves as I walk by. I find little notes in my shoe locker, which is a thing, honest. It's a hassle and a half. I've considered a career in streaking to be deemed a regular wierdo instead of a sexy wierdo. I'm sure Sakura would love to be known as the wierdo streaker's brother. Ahh, such is life.
Anyway, the curriculum is much easier the second time around. I fly through tests, math is a joke, and don't get me started on English class.
Japanese though…
Little bit tougher. I'm coping though. Anyway, school is boring. Surprise, surprise.
After school, I meet Sakura at the local park. We normally spend a few hours there, better than being in that creepy-ass haunted house. We play on the swings, the slides, anything.
She's still a taciturn little thing, but I can tell she enjoys it. Call it a big brother's intuition.
We always meet at the swings, she gets out a half hour earlier than me, and those are her favorites. I figured there's no harm in her playing by herself for a while.
Sakura was more annoyed than scared. She was used to pain. Humiliation wasn't anything new. She had been hurt and broken before. Although, never by boys only a few years older than her, that was new.
The three cornered her in the park. Her back was to a tree. They were saying mean things about her, calling her a freak, a wierdo, a doll. They shoved her, kicked sand at her. Sakura didn't do anything, she just stood there, waiting for them to get bored and let her go.
"Hey!" A voice called out. A red blur raced in front of her, arms held out in a wide defensive gesture. Sakura tilted her head. She didn't understand.
"You shouldn't pick on people," the boy said, pointing at them dramatically. The three boys looked at each other in confusion, then sneered and shoved the red haired boy. He didn't fall down or cry out. He scrunched his face up in determination, and held his ground.
The three looked at each other, confused by the freaky kid. Then, one of them punched him in the gut.
Shirou wanted to be a hero. He wanted it very, very badly. So, when he saw three older boys pushing a girl around in the park, he knew exactly what to do. He jumped in front of her, threw his arms out and shouted for them to stop. His Old Man would be disappointed he got in another fight. And his disappointed face was scary. So, no punching, not this time.
Besides, what kind of hero would let a pretty, defenseless girl get beat up? Not Shirou Emiya! Not on his watch!
Sakura was perplexed. Why did the wierdo boy jump in front of her? She wasn't worth it. No matter what Nii-san said, she was just trash, the boy shouldn't let himself be hurt for her. As the boy got pummeled, Sakura stood back, watching and considering.
This...may not have been the young Emiya's best plan. While taking punches so the pretty girl could run away sounded great in theory, in reality, it involved a lot more getting punched.
He was contemplating breaking his father's trust and pummeling those punks like Fuji-nee taught him when he heard a loud war cry, and suddenly, the punching stopped.
Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it! Stupid Sakura! Why would wander off! You know these punks hang out near the trees! Grrrr.
Shit, that's definitely Shirou. Not a lot of gingers in Japan. I feel for ya bud. Wait. What is he doing?
Stupid Shirou! Call an adult, don't just let them punch you, you idiot! God... What was wrong with these kids?
It seems like I have to do everything around here. With a loud bellow, I charged the guy beating Shirou like the red headed stepchild he was. The other two were, cheering him on, and laughing from the sidelines. I focused on the guy with the mean fists. I hit him with all of the force my eleven year old body and a running start could muster. Not a lot, really. But the kid was 13, tops. It was enough.
I tackle him from the side, and we're both on the ground, sending up a cloud of dust from the action. I can hardly see, I just start hitting.
Funny enough, I've never actually been in a fight. I've seen the kung-fu movies, but, surprisingly, real life doesn't work like that.
I blindly throw punches at the kid, I'm on top of him, straddling his stomach. He keeps trying to hit me back. Nope. Not after you tried to beat up my little sister.
I'm so focused on beating the living shit out of this little punk, I don't hear the rush of air as one of the kid's posse tackles me from the side.
Oof. Now I'm on the ground and the kid is on top, he keeps trying to punch me in the face. I do my best to guard the hits, he grabs my arms, trying to force them to the sides.
I, thinking I'm clever, let him. He leans in closer to pin my arms, I grin at him, all blood and teeth.
Head-butt ensues.
Okay, ow. Not bright. But he's off me, rolling on the ground and clutching his forehead.
I grimace, that really hurt. I stand up, looking for the next opponent.
I look around, I see Shirou punching the last kid with a surprising amount of viciousness. I smile, good man.
I feel a tap at my shoulder, naturally, I turn around. Shit. It's that first kid, he looks pissed. Before I can blink, he knocks me on my ass with a brutal right hook.
Oh, hello sky. How are you today?
A hand grabs my shirt and pulls me up. And then, like some violent yo-yo, punches me square in the mouth, slamming me into the ground. Bitch.
Pretty sure my nose is broken. Little bitch. He's leaning over me, grinning and bragging about something. I can't hear him over the blood rushing to my head.
I sweep the leg. Daniel–san would be proud. On the ground, we keep exchanging hits, bam, I punch him in the face, he tags me in the kidney. With savage fervor, we keep wailing on each other, neither of us thinking of anything but making the other guy hurt. I want to teach this little bitch a lesson; don't fuck with Shinji Matou's sister.
Somehow in our fight, we both end up standing, glaring at each other like a pair of silverback gorillas.
As we stand there, staring each other down in the fight's intermission, a red missile impacts him in the chest.
"JUSTICE!" The missile screams with religious passion. Oh, it's just Shirou. What a weird kid.
I look at the ground around us, dirt and spit and blood. Two guys are down on the ground, whimpering. I go to help Shirou finish the fight.
We fight together like two grinding cogs, we step on each other's toes, get in each other's way, and probably help the other guy more than each other. But it works. The kid had to be almost fifteen, and we, two eleven year olds, take him and his crew down.
People talk about the evils of bullying and about how it ruins lives, but they don't talk about just how good it feels to punch some asshole until the both of you are bleeding.
The older kid runs off, dragging his friends behind him.
I look at my ally, one of his eyes is already blackening. His face is caked with dirt, and there's a nasty cut over his eyebrow pouring blood down the left side of his face like a faucet. But that hardly matters, because he's got the widest grin I've ever seen on his face. I have no doubt I look the same.
I extend my hand, "Shinji Matou, nice to meet ya."
Impossibly, his grin widens further, "Shirou Emiya, Hero of Justice!"
He, hand to god, finished by striking a super senshi pose. One hand extended to the sky, one resting on his hip. You can't make this stuff up.
Blink. Pause. Blink.
Huh.
I turn and look at Sakura, her face appears blank, but I can spot the spark of concern in her eyes. For me, or for Shirou's mental health?
I look back at Shirou, he's still in the pose. Ahem, I clear my throat.
He looks ridiculous, all scuffed up and acting like a hero. I look at him, feeling the adrenalin wear down and my body start to ache, all I can do is laugh.
He joins me.
So this is how I met Shirou Emiya?
I can deal with that.
"Nii-san, Grandfather will be upset if he sees you like that."
I frown. She's not wrong. Grandfather, for all of his inhuman insanity, still has the pride of a magus. Seeing his useless grandson wandering around like a 'hooligan' wouldn't score me any points with the old ghoul.
Before I can open my mouth, Shirou pipes up with childish enthusiasm, "You can come to my house! My Old Man's got a first aid kit-with band aids and everything!"
Hmm, I look at Sakura. We've got a few hours until we're expected at home, why not? Shirou and I'll get patched up and Sakura makes a new friend. Plus, I may get to meet the man, the myth, the legend…
The Magus Killer.
Ahem. I hear a cough, Shirou has a sheepish look on his face.
"My-uh. My dad doesn't want me to get in anymore fights, so-he, he won't be happy if I come through the front looking like this," he gestured to his shirt, covered in dirt and blood.
His eyes light up.
"We'll sneak in, like ninjas!"
I don't bother telling Shirou that Kiritsugu would be able to see the bandages on his face, best let him find that out on his own.
I think Sakura just made an exasperated sigh. Huh, callin' that progress.
Every heartbeat burned. Just existing was agony. The curse that crippled his magic was progressing. He could feel it. The shadowy fingers dug deeper at every turn. He did all he could to stop them, to fight off death, if only for another minute. Not for himself. No, not for himself. He had no fear of death.
Part of him just wanted to end it already.
But he couldn't-no. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't take the easy way out, not this time.
This was his cross to bear, and he would bear it with pride. He'd keep on going, long after his mind, body, and soul told him to quit. He couldn't give up, couldn't lay down and die. He had someone who depended on him.
Shirou.
His son.
His only tie to the land of the living. Ilya was gone. He knew Acht. That old bastard wouldn't keep her around.
Kiritsugu had made sure the grail war would never happen. He'd seen into the depths of its darkness. He knew it was the ultimate monkey's paw. So he'd done the only thing he could think to do.
Set the ley lines to blow.
No ley lines, no power. No power, no grail. It was that simple. In forty years, when the grail had gotten a sufficient charge, the bombs would detonate. The ley lines, the ley lines would detonate too. The power held in the grail would have reached a near critical limit by then, the bombs going off would lead to a catastrophic failure in the grail. It would explode.
Taking Fuyuki with it.
Ha. The last act of the Magus Killer, razing Fuyuki, a city of seven hundred thousand.
To save the world.
The mighty and terrible Magus Killer, slaughterer of innocents. Hero of Justice.
Kiritsugu Emiya barked out a bitter laugh at his own reflections. He sat on his patio, smoking. The neighbor girl, Taiga, always said he'd get lung cancer from how he went through those things. He knew better. He wouldn't be dying from lung cancer.
It was almost nighttime. Where was Shirou? He sighed. He really, really hoped Shirou would get bored with asking him to teach magic and find some other new passion, as children do. But the boy showed no sign of stopping. He was persistent, Kiritsugu had to admit that.
But he didn't want his son to walk his path. Only death and destruction would lay ahead.
The madness of a magus, Shirou didn't have it. He could see that. Shirou didn't care for knowledge for knowledge's sake. He didn't want power for power's sake.
No. No, his foolish son wanted to be a hero like his old man.
The world was a dangerous place for a magus, and he didn't want to give the boy-
Crash.
In a moment, the old assassin had leapt from his seat and rushed inside. The noise came from-
CRASH.
He ran through his palatial house, only stopping to pull a knife from the kitchen, he followed his finely-honed senses to the disturbance.
Was Shirou hurt? Was there an intruder? Had someone finally found the Magus Killer?
Kiritsugu didn't know, he felt his heart beating double time, the curse sent burning glass through his limbs. The slightest twitch was unbearable agony. But he was Kiritsugu Emiya, he wasn't about to stop here.
If there was someone from the Clocktower in the house…
He mentally prepared himself for the agony of prying open his magic circuits.
Why hadn't the bounded field gone off?
They must have used Shirou to gain access.
The Magus Killer's face lost all emotion in a flash. He was stone cold. There was no terror in his heart, only the drive of a man who knows he's already dead.
It came from the bathroom.
He mentally mapped out where he kept the nearest gun, slowing down for only a moment, he used the kitchen knife to pry open a loose air vent. Fast as a viper, he pulled a massive revolver from its hiding spot.
Only one gun and a kitchen knife? Oh well, he'd been through worse with less.
He charged down the hall, bathroom in sight. He pulled back the hammer, and held the kitchen knife perpendicular to the gun.
He flexed his rotting circuits. This may be his last job, but by go, he wouldn't let another person he loved die because of him. He was sick of the taste of ashes.
His eyes were steel chips as he kicked down the bathroom door.
Huh.
Well.
That was not what he expected.
Three young children stared at the man with wide, terrified eyes as Kiritsugu stashed the gun and knife in the folds of his kimono.
He cleared his throat.
The children were still staring at him. Shirou was fine, if covered in about twenty band aids. Huh, strange.
"Ah," he said, voice flat, "Sorry about that."
Author's Note:
Wow! I've been super surprised at the responses this story has been getting. Thanks to everyone who's left review, followed, or favorited this story. Much obliged to ya.
I appreciate any feedback, keep those reviews coming! How did you guys like Shirou and Kiritsugu? I figured at this age, Shirou was pretty much a Senshi hero...and Kiritsugu is just one bad motherfucker.
I have big plans for this story...big plans indeed. So don't worry about me abandoning this! Expect updates on a biweekly basis. M'kay? Sound fair?
Any suggestions? Comments? Criticisms? Feel free to leave 'em in the reviews section.
On another note: Blood Blockade Battlefront is airing the season finale after months of waiting! If you've never seen it, do yourself a favor and go on crunchyroll. It's pure gold. The dub is perfection, the animation is beautiful, and the soundtrack is spectacular!
That is all. Have a nice day.
