The Captain's Man
Chapter 1
He was on the edge of something dangerous. There was no doubt about it. His head lulled, rolled, and inched closer to the cool surface below.
If Shirou had been better able to focus, he would have been screaming at himself to stay awake. Falling asleep was too risky; especially with him so close. It could-no, it would- mean his end.
There was a long silence. The lecturing at the front of the room stopped. Footsteps inched closer, and even Tohsaka's frantic jabbing with a pen wasn't enough to bring him back to full consciousness in time to avert ruin.
"Am I boring you, Emiya?" Kuzuki asked. A long finger pushed his glasses back up his face and his mouth turned to a slight frown; an expression that would normally be beyond anything that Kuzuki could muster.
A chill swept over Shirou, returning him to full wakefulness. "No, professor," he said, trying to inject as much contrition as possible into his tone.
It wasn't an effective defense.
"I'm glad you're interested. That means that the extra paper you'll be handing in on Medusa as a psychosexual, rather than monstrous, figure in western mythology won't trouble you then. Four thousand words. Monday."
"Yes, professor," Shirou said, just managing his sigh bottled.
That meant two papers for Kuzuki in as many days. It was his misfortune to fall asleep in a class where the professor wouldn't simply overlook it. Disinterest was one thing, but Kuzki had made it clear from the beginning that he wouldn't tolerate any perceived disrespect.
Class ended shortly thereafter. Shirou was too on edge to fall back asleep, and Tohsaka kept up a continuous barrage of jabs and pokes which he suspected were less to keep him awake and more to punish him for making her look bad.
How his getting in trouble made her look bad he couldn't say, but had no doubt that there was a connection in her mind.
Shirou wiped a small streak of drool off of his textbook before slipping it into his bag. He wanted nothing more than to take a nap, but he couldn't afford to miss practice. Even more than his classes, he couldn't afford to miss a single practice.
"That's the second time this week, and I'm not even in half of your classes," Tohsaka said. Her belongings had already been neatly cleared away into her bag. She was waiting behind his chair, leaning up against the desk behind them.
"It's been a long week," Shirou said, already sure of where the conversation would go-where it always went.
"Self-inflicted, of course. I guess it's impressive, in a twisted sort of way. After all, you put less work into your classes than anyone I know and yet you're still passing. Kudos."
"I'm a waste of space who doesn't deserve to be a student here, I know," Shirou said, shouldering his bag with a low grunt, trying to ignore the way it made his bruise throb. He made for the door and Tohsaka followed.
"It's not a matter of deserving anything. It's a matter of passing your classes so that you don't get kicked out."
"I didn't know you cared," Shirou said.
"I care if Sakura does. That means it's my responsibility to keep your head, and your grades, above water. You're making that difficult by staying out all night doing who knows what."
"I'm helping people."
"Oh? Helping people? How many people have you helped in the last three months by staying out all night? A dozen? Two dozen? Or even just a couple?"
"It's not about numbers. If I can help even one person then it'll be worthwhile," Shirou said.
"Campus security exists for a reason. Police exist for a reason. If the administration wanted teenagers running around with bats then they wouldn't pay good money for security to do the same," Tohsaka said.
Every one of their conversations was a slight variation on the same themes. Tohsaka harped on the pointlessness of his actions, and he struggled to articulate to her his reasons, his need, to do what he did.
Most people would drop the topic after a few tries; Tohsaka hadn't even after a few dozen. Shirou was aware that most people found that side of her annoying, frustrating both to deal with and to work around, but he couldn't help but find it charming. How could he not respect Tohsaka's stubbornness? He'd be a hypocrite otherwise.
Privately, he had resolved that she would never understand. Maybe that was because what he was doing didn't make sense. Sakura didn't understand either, even if she pretended that she did. She was just unwilling to make her disapproval into an argument. He could respect that as well.
Tohsaka looked like she wanted to continue making her disapproval known, but for once she seemed to think better of it. Instead, she said, "Just, slow down a little. It was fine when it was every now and then, but every night is too much. You have limits. You're already making mistakes."
"Are you planning on following me all the way back to my apartment?" Shirou asked.
Tohsaka bristled, as he had known she would.
"Don't be absurd. I'm going to see Sakura, not you. It's simple misfortune that you're on the way," Tohsaka said.
"On the way? I guess you could say that. It's my night to cook. Sakura's probably already waiting for us," Shirou said, enjoying watching her face scrunch up at his teasing.
She strode past him, content to have him follow him her wake. He wouldn't complain. Admiring Tohsaka and enjoying her nagging were two very different things.
The apartment complex Shirou lived during the school year was off campus only in the most technical sense. It started a few yards from where the school campus ended and was owned by a non-profit collective made up of alumni, who leased the apartments to the university, who in turn leased the units to students at reasonable prices.
Upperclassmen generally preferred houses off-campus, so that they could spend time with the people they liked and avoid those they didn't. Underclassmen lived on-campus, packed together in such close quarters in their dorms that they could forget, just for a moment, that they hardly knew anybody.
That left the apartments as a nice alternative for those with little money and even fewer friends.
Sakura shared his appreciation for the apartment complex. She had moved into the unit next to his despite it being her first year. Tohsaka, far from sharing their appreciation, made sure to drop the occasional disparaging remark before leaving for her own, considerably nicer, house.
"If you need help on Kuzuki's paper let me know in advance. I can't just drop everything I'm doing to help you," Tohsaka said, as he opened the door to his apartment.
Shirou could recognize it for the peace offering that it was. He nodded, and Tohasaka seemed placated.
The lights in his apartment were already on. Sakura was sitting at the living room table, work spread out in front of her, while a bad soap opera played softly in the background. She smiled at them when they came in.
"You're back early," Sakura said, more to him than to Tohsaka.
"I forgot to pack a change of clothes today. I'm just going to get dressed and then head back out. I'll make sure to be back in time for dinner," Shirou said, already moving toward his room.
"Forgot, or didn't have time," he could vaguely hear from Tohsaka as his door swung shut.
She wasn't wrong. He hadn't made it back to his room until almost five, and by then he was too tired to do anything but roll out of bed a few hours later for his classes. Packing just a drink and a change of clothes had been well beyond him at that point. Even his alarm could barely get him out of bed. Not for the first time, it had been ringing so incessantly that Sakura had to come in and shut it off.
He pulled on an undershirt and sweatpants, stuffing the more formal garments into his backpack. Most of his equipment was already waiting in his locker. He would have to rush if he wasn't to be late.
Sakura tried to stop him for help with some homework problem before he left, but he had to beg off, promising to help her when he got back. For some reason Tohsaka was glaring at him all the while, but he shrugged that off as usual Tohsaka behavior.
The distinction between the school's residential area and their athletic facilities was sharp; once he passed the quad the usual cracked asphalt path gave way to bright bricks, and the grime and mold that marred the sides of academic and residential buildings was nowhere to be seen.
Like the rest of the school, the athletic facilities were a hodgepodge of old and new according to their success, popularity, and the passing whims of the administration. The pool was up to olympic standards and whenever Shirou passed it in the morning it was being expertly treated by a rotating team of professionals.
The tennis courts were another story. Other clubs passed around hushed warnings about how In the late nineties the tennis team had gone on a losing streak for three seasons until the administration cut their budget so severely that the team effectively had to disband. That led to the courts being used more often for low-key transactions and late night hookups than for tennis.
The gym fell somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. It was still well-maintained, with glossy floors and clean surfaces, but the wood itself was battered and scratched with age, a victim of its jack-of-all-trades utility.
It was fortunate that it took him less than a minute to change in the shabby locker room and make it to the gym. The kendo club captain was not forgiving to latecomers.
The rest of the members had already gathered in a small semi-circle by the time he arrived. The captain was in the center, her presence enough to ensure a hush had fallen over everyone present. Shirou silently took up a position at the outside of the circle.
Her eyes brushed over him, only for a moment, but it was enough to send a strange thrill through him-one that he brushed off as being nothing more than the thrill of learning more about the upcoming tournament. After all, he didn't have time for anything else.
As if his presence was what they had all been waiting for, Pendragon began. "Our first tournament of the year is only two weeks away. All tournaments demand the very best from us, both in terms of skill and dedication, but I'm sure that you're all aware that this tournament is even more important. I will be blunt; our club teeters on the edge of ruin."
"Due to factors outside of our control, our club is shortlisted for disbandment, along with a select few others. If we aren't able to put in a good showing, to demonstrate beyond a doubt why it is that we deserve to continue on, then there will be no kendo club. That is unacceptable. I've watched each of you, and know that you all possess the skill to do this school, and this club, proud, and to ensure that it remains a source of pride for years to come. With that in mind, nothing can be left to chance. I will be doubling the length of our practices, effective immediately. If this is a problem, speak to me afterward. I will personally help you select a less arduous club."
A handful of the upper years chuckled at that, but only those that had nothing to fear from their captain's wrath. The rest of them kept straight faces, like soldiers under examination from a particularly wrathful drill instructor.
"The second half of practice will be a mentorship program. The division between different years and levels will be relaxed to ensure the success of all. You will spare until you can no longer spar, and then practice will end. Pairings for today will be as follows…"
There were about thirty members of the kendo club. Shirou had thought that sounded like a lot when he joined, until Sakura told him that there were closer to a hundred members of the archery club. It wasn't unusual for popular clubs to have well over a hundred members. By comparison, the kendo club was unloved and underfunded, especially by the standards of other sports clubs.
Shirou would be more concerned if he had an attachment to the club itself, rather than what it represented; a chance to hone his skills and test himself against others. Kendo wasn't just another way to spend time with friends, or simply to get some exercise, and he wouldn't disgrace it by acting as if it were.
"Emiya, you'll be with du Lac," Pendragon said. She paused. "Try not to waste his time."
A bit hurtful, but not undeserved. Lancelot du Lac was a monster. Shirou wasn't privy to most of the gossip mongering of his peers, but even he had heard of a series of fencing tournaments that the man had won back in England. It hadn't taken a month for him to adjust his style and rise to the top of the kendo club. Pendragon had trained with him almost exclusively ever since then.
They were the last pair to be announced. Lancelot gave him a friendly nod, which he returned, but Shirou saw some less pleased expressions by the other senior members. Training with their younger clubmates was clearly not a popular decision, though if Pendragon took any notice of their frustration she didn't acknowledge it.
"Now, warm up," she said, one hand commandingly gesturing out to the field. It was, Shirou thought, much like the expression a king would wear as they sent soldiers to their deaths.
Practice was usually divided into warmups, sparring, and then a critique period, where different people watched recordings of spars and offered advice and feedback. Each practice lasted two hours and they met five days a week.
The extra practice that Pendragon had ordered was even less structured than that. They would spar against their partner for two hours, or until they dropped.
The only one exempt from that was Pendragon herself. She kept herself busy by walking around the room and offering feedback and criticism while partners sparred.
As willing as Shirou was to admit that this was an effective way to ensure improvements across the board, he couldn't say for sure that it wouldn't also cause a mutiny. Nobody enjoyed being beaten around by their seniors for two hours and few of the more experienced members wanted to waste two hours helping a junior. Especially not with the skill gap between the years.
If the seniors and juniors had been a golden crop for the kendo club, then the freshmen and sophomores were an utterly barren crop. Shirou liked to think that he might be exempt from that judgement but even a generous onlooker would be forced to admit that his peers were lacking in many respects. Not least of which was dedication.
Though, as Lancelot smacked him down for the third time in as many minutes, Shirou found himself somewhat understanding their lack of motivation.
"You're too earnest," Lancelot said.
Given that they had been practicing almost silently for the last hour, that wasn't how he had expected the silence to be broken.
"I'm...too earnest?"
"Yes. You're taken in by feints, expend too much on basic exchanges, and have almost no ability to adjust on the fly to unexpected responses. You fight like you're trying to read off of a script. This isn't a gentleman's agreement and it's an insult to the other person to fight like it is."
Shirou had preferred it when Lancelot was just beating him around with a sword.
"Room for improvement then?" he asked, aiming for a lighter tone.
"Plenty. It's a good thing you'll be training with us from now on. These sorts of bad habits can stifle a swordsman's progress," Lancelot said, pulling Shirou to his feet almost absently.
"Nobody else ever said anything," Shirou said.
"The underclassmen are talentless, so it's likely they wouldn't notice themselves. The upperclassmen are just self-interested. Arturia could have caught it but you're wasting your time with anyone else you usually spar with," Lancelot said. Even though they were harsh words, he spoke without enmity, like he was just pointing out undeniable truths.
It still grated on Shirou. "They can't get better without help."
"They don't want to get better," Lancelot said. "Half of them thought that learning how to use a sword would be a fun diversion and the other half did kendo in high school and kept going through inertia rather than drive. If you're serious about improving yourself then you're better off ignoring them and focusing on yourself. You'll only pick up bad habits from your peers."
"Maybe if they were given more support then they would be more serious about improving," Shriou said, not sure why he was advocating so fervently in their defense. For the most part, he didn't think much of the others. They were just as Lancelot was describing them.
Still, to hear his teammates talked down to like that put him on edge. Lancelot was without a doubt the superior swordsman, but that didn't give him the right to treat others like dirt.
Unfortunately, his words seemed to set something off in Lancelot as well. "Look at her," he said, grabbing Shirou by the back of his shirt and bunching it up like he was about to throw him across the room. Lancelot turned him in the direction of Pendragon, who was intent on watching another pair duel, jotting down the occasional note.
"How much time do you think Arturia spends on this club? Not just in meetings, or preparing for meets, or trying to keep the administration from shutting the club down, but even in improving her own skills, so that we can put in a passable showing and the club can limp along for another year. Not once has anyone recognized her for that work, but do you hear her complaining about how little support she's been receiving; she, who above anyone else does have the right to complain?"
Hours at practices, and meetings, and outside work. Pendragon probably put as many hours into the club as Shriou did his schoolwork. And nobody ever had a word for her.
"She's incredible," Shirou said.
"She is. And they're not," Lancelot said. "The difference isn't just one of skill, though the skill differential is obvious. It's attitude, and determination, and willingness to struggle. She has all of that, and almost nobody else here does. She thought that you did, or else she wouldn't have made you my partner. I'm starting to think that she was wrong."
"No. She wasn't wrong," Shirou said, feeling a stubborn determination to prove himself rise up. The same stubbornness that used to make his Kiritisugu shake his head and wonder what they were going to do with him. The same stubbornness that made Sakura into a friend, rather than just another lonely stranger.
Lancelot was unmoved by his words. "Then win. And keep winning. Don't hold anything back. If you can do that then maybe you can become something more than just another reason this club should be disbanded."
Shirou's record wasn't bad. At least, he didn't think it was bad. He had more wins than losses and respectable showings in all of their tournaments. In the end, however, it paled before the records of people like Pendragon and Lancelot. Utterly undefeated, whether in a practice match or official tournament. They were monsters, and the only people that they struggled against were each other.
Shirou had never wanted to be counted among that number. Had he given up before he had even started? Had he just assumed that he could never reach those heights?
Kiritsugu would be laughing if he could see him now.
"Please don't hold anything back," Shirou said. He let his shinai rise into a perfect imitation of the standard form.
"For her sake, I won't," Lancelot said.
Lancelot du Lac was a monster. Rumors didn't do him credit. There was no way to stop or even delay him. Each time he was defeated it was with a new and even more ludicrous maneuver than the last.
Where other people had habitual patterns that they fell into, which could be read and used against them, Lancelot had none. He seemed to take prosaic swordsmanship as a personal insult.
It was, Shirou reflected, trying to stymie his bloody nose, less of a lesson and more of a demonstration of his own inadequacy.
Lancelot sat down next to him on the floor and took a sip from his water bottle.
"Why would they ever disband the club when you're in it? You could go for nationals," Shirou said.
"Transfer students can't qualify for the individual stages at nationals," Lancelot said. "And after this year we're going back to England. Initially the club was supposed to be disbanded this year but Arturia managed to put a stop to that. It won't matter once we're gone administration doesn't have any reason to keep a club around if the only winning members are going to vanish."
"I didn't know," Shirou said. It wasn't often he had occasion to lament not spending more time with his club mates.
"She doesn't like to tell other people. It's fine if you know that the club is in trouble, but letting other people know the details, just how close this club is to ruin, is something she wouldn't want. She takes it all on herself."
Shirou looked over at Pendragon. She was talking to another pair who seemed to only be giving her a fraction of their attention. Even in repose her posture was rigid, unyielding, as if she was expecting to be crushed by an unseen weight at any moment.
"I can help," Shirou said. The words surprised even him.
"If you win your matches at the tournament then that's help enough." Lancelot paused, his expression conflicted, as if he was fighting with himself to decide whether or not to say more.
Shirou waited, content to let him decide.
"Except that's not entirely true. The club needs a captain once Arturia is gone. Beyond just our general record, if there isn't a clear candidate, then it'll be shut down. It's a little late, all things considered, but if you start now you might build up enough of a record to become captain next year."
Captain of the kendo club? It wasn't something that he had even considered before. The club was something he went to for his own improvement, not because of friends or any competitive spirit. Becoming the captain would require an enormous amount of effort, and time. Time that couldn't be spent pursuing his own mission.
There was a pregnant silence. To Lancelot, his hesitation must have been obvious. Still, he couldn't bring himself to say no. Now that he had started, he couldn't stop watching her, as she struggled to rally the apathetic and the selfish.
It was admirable. Or, more accurately, she was admirable. Admirable in her striving for this one goal, which even she must have realized would be nearly impossible to achieve.
"Nobody in this club knows who I am," Shirou said.
"They don't," Lancelot said.
"I'm barely above average with the sword."
"Barely."
"The administration will probably try to get rid of the club anyway."
"Undoubtedly."
"But I'll do my best," Shriou said.
"For some reason, I think you will," Lancelot said, and for once he was smiling.
At least, he was smiling until a shinai came down dangerously close to his resting hand.
"Taking a nice long break, are we?" Pendragon asked, with a smile of her own. Strangely, Shirou didn't think it seemed as genuine as Lancelot's.
"Just going over some of my notes with Emiya," Lancelot said.
"Oh? I'd love to hear them," Pendragon said, her smile unwavering.
Lancelot, in desperation, looked to Shirou. A look that Pendragon caught, dissected, and decided to act upon.
"Since du Lac doesn't think that this practice is worth his time, I'll go a few rounds with you myself, Emiya," Pendragon said. Without waiting for a response she grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet.
Shirou was beginning to feel like a wayward puppy with all of the manhandling that he had been subjected to. Pendragon was easily using as much force as Lancelot had. His shirt strained under the force. He prayed for its continued survival.
"Take up your sword," Pendragon said, lifting her own.
Where Lancelot's stance was almost relaxed, like he wasn't even concerned that his opponent would be able to do a thing to him, Pendragon's was like a lion about to take off in pursuit of its prey. Even knowing that it was only for a sparring match, Shirou couldn't help a surge of anxiety that came from being on the other end of her sword.
"Good luck," Lancelot called out, his smile even wider than before.
"Don't hold back," Pendragon said.
Apparently that was his warning that the match was starting, because the next thing he knew she was rushing at him, her shinai nothing more than a blur in the corner of his eye.
"You've improved a great deal since the beginning of the year," Pendragon said.
From his position on the ground, trying once again to suppress his bloody nose, the words sounded like nothing more than empty platitudes.
"I'm sure that Lancelot will have you up to par by the time the tournament comes around. Right?" Pendragon asked, her voice turning frigid when she looked at Lancelot.
"Of course. No doubt. Not at problem at all, don't mind us," Lancelot said, spewing each word out with haste while skidding backward as Pendragon's shinai lazily trailed its way toward his exposed arm.
What did you call someone who could so easily tame a monster? Shirou wondered. She certainly didn't seem the type. Slim, a few inches shorter than him let alone Lancelot, with a frame that seemed more suited for sewing that swordplay. Yet her size belied her strength, and she treated her beauty like nothing more than an impediment.
"Incredible," Shirou said, quietly enough that only he could hear it.
The shinai that had been making its way toward Lancelot was suddenly in front of his face. "Don't get dragged into your opponent's rhythm. You need to be the one to set the pace of the fight. Imposing your will on your opponent is half the battle," Pendragon said.
Shirou nodded. Unlike Lancelot, she at least let him get the occasional blow on her guard, if only so that she could further critique him. If Lancelot was like a whirlwind, then Pendragon was a bolt of lightning. Swift and unyielding, but far more discriminating.
"I'll be expecting a win from you in the tournament," Pendragon said. "Don't waste this time with Lancelot. He's a terrible teacher but if you watch him closely you might be lucky enough to pick something up."
Lancelot didn't look all that inclined to defend his teaching methods so Shirou supposed he should take her words at face value.
Before Pendragon could leave, Shirou said, "Thank you. I won't let the club down."
Her eyes widened slightly, but then she schooled her reaction and nodded. Without another word, Pendragon left. Probably to beat some sense into another slacker.
"You heard the captain. No more slacking. It's time for me to take off the kid gloves," Lancelot said. He was already waiting behind Shirou, holding his shinai like an especially eager child.
"You are trying to teach me something, right?" Shirou asked.
"A true swordsman can learn through rhythm and form alone. Once you no longer have a need for words you'll know you've taken the first step toward becoming a competent martial artist," Lancelot said, bobbing his head with every other word.
Pendragon was right. Lancelot du Lac was a terrible teacher.
Even with his newfound collection of bruises and the extra long practice, Shirou resolved to keep to his schedule. He rushed through his homework, cooked dinner for Sakura and Rin, and gathered his supplies.
Earth-toned clothing, warm enough to last through the night. A hardwood rod, about the length of an English bobby stick. A disposable cell, with campus security and the local hospital as the only two contacts. And last, but perhaps most importantly, a heavily annotated map of campus with a carefully collated list of parties, events, and gatherings scribbled onto a post-it-note on one corner.
Along with his miscellaneous array of flashlights, lighters, and cheap medical gear, Shirou could say that he was ready for the night.
Rin gave him an earful as he left, which was bad, and Sakura didn't say anything, which was even worse.
Still, he wouldn't change his course. If he could help even one person, save just one person, then how could anyone say it wasn't worth it?
His feet carried him almost automatically on his typical Tuesday patrol. It was only thanks to the staggered breaks in the monotony, as he checked in on the places that were most likely to cause trouble, that he didn't fall asleep. Most of the campus was dark, and quiet, and peaceful, as if it was trying to lull him into a sense of contentment that he didn't-couldn't-feel.
He passed a pair of security guards, but they didn't do anything but give polite greetings. They hadn't stopped him since early last year. Not because they accepted him, but as long as he didn't do anything against school rules then they couldn't do anything but treat him as an eccentric. That was fine by him.
On the top of his list for the night was one of the larger houses that was still on campus, rented by a trio of upperclassmen on the soccer team. They won a game earlier and so, as was customary, they were celebrating at the de-facto team house.
Campus security usually gave a wide berth to the large houses on the other edge of campus as they were the most likely to be hosting underage drinking. Breaking those parties up was deemed nothing but a hassle, and likely to win the enmity of the student body. See no evil, hear no evil, he supposed.
Shirou stopped by at regular intervals throughout the night, but there was never anybody outside. Loud music droned on from inside, each song only a minute variation on the previous, but with nothing to justify his lurking Shirou left after only a few minutes each time.
At midnight, someone was waiting for him outside of the school library.
"I imagine that the school wishes that they had a hundred Emiyas. Then they wouldn't have to pay security to watch over things," Issei said. He handed Shirou a lukewarm can of black coffee.
It was bitter, and didn't do much to restore his alertness, but he let the ritual play itself out.
"If the school had adequate security then there wouldn't be a need for an Emiya to do this work in the first place," Shirou said.
The same words, just a different night.
"One night you're going to come here, waiting for a drink, butI'm not going to be here waiting for you," Issei said.
"Impossible. Ryuudou Issei, class valedictorian, not staying at the library until deep in the night? That'll be a sign of something afoot at least," Shirou said.
"Mock it all you want, studying has a purpose," Issei said.
"So does this," Shirou said.
"How many people have you helped?"
"Just one would be enough.."
"Emiya."
"Even if I spend four years doing this, and I go every single night without helping someone, it'll still have been worth it. To me, at least."
Shirou finished his coffee. As bitter as ever. Issei knew he hated it black.
"Your grades."
"Passable."
"Relationships."
"I put in the time."
"You truly are a virtuous masochist."
"Goodnight, Issei."
Shirou returned to his work, and Issei let him go without another word.
At nearly three in the morning, Shirou was ready to call it a night. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open.
Yet another sign of his weakness. Yet another failing.
It had been an uneventful night, with only a gaggle of drunk girls amusing themselves with him and a fretful administrative employee mistaking him for a thug.
Shirou ended his patrol outside of the soccer house. The music had quieted and the lights were dim. Even with the curtains drawn, however, Shirou could still see vague outlines stumbling inside the house. Loud laughter started, echoed, and then faded in the night. Shirou pulled his coat tighter around himself.
The most dangerous part of the night was when the party was over, he knew. A steady trickle of students stumbled and teetered their way back to the dorms, in twos and threes. Nobody that he had to be concerned with.
A few glanced his way, a few sneered, but most of them ignored him. He wasn't an unfamiliar presence, especially to the more libertine partygoers.
It was when he was getting ready to make the trek back to his own dorm that he saw a girl, stumbling heavily, leaving the house with a lanky man in close pursuit.
He held himself back. It wasn't his place to make rash judgements. Too many tense encounters had taught him that much, at least.
The girl didn't seem to notice the man at first. Shirou doubted that she could notice much of anything. He took in her flushed face, swaying steps, and sweaty skin. No doubt she had a coat, somewhere, but had forgotten all about it.
The man came up right behind her. He draped a coat over her shoulder, so long that it came down to her ankles and concealed her whole body.
Shirou recognized him. His whole body tensed.
The man's hand disappeared inside the coat. The girl stopped stumbling and shrugged her shoulders violently, the same sort of protest that a child might use.
It was hardly an impediment to the man, who had swung around in front of the girl to block her path. With one hand still inside the coat, the man used his other to grab the lapel of the coat, pulling her flush against him.
The girl raised a hand to the man's chest, as if to push him away, but she stumbled. She would have fallen, if not for his tight grip. Her coat rustled as the man's hands moved underneath it.
Shirou moved. One hand clenched his rod as he strode forward. The other pulled out his phone and, with practiced hands, dialed the number for campus security. He could hear it ringing, but that was just background noise to the rushing sound in his head.
As he approached he could hear raised voices. The girl was slurring her words so much they were incomprehensible. All Shirou could make out was her pleading, protesting tone.
He was clenching the rod so hard it hurt.
The man's voice was familiar. Too familiar. The tone made him sick. Telling her to calm down, that she had too much to drink, that he was helping, that she just needed to follow him back to her room. The words crawled down Shirou's back and rattled back and forth in his mind.
"Let her go, Shinji," Shirou said.
The man stiffened, then rose to his full height and half-turned, a small smirk on his face. He kept his grip on the girl.
"If I let her go then she'll fall. We don't want that, right, Emiya?"
Just the sound of his voice was enough to make Shirou want to lunge at him. His grip on the rod was so tight he wouldn't have been surprised if it cracked and shattered and broke into tiny pieces even before he could use it on Shinji.
Shinji, who was the only person that could inspire such a bloody desire for violence in him with nothing but his presence.
"I'll help her home. Or security can. I'm fine with either," Shirou said.
"Don't be so unnecessary. She's my date. Doesn't that make it my responsibility to see her home safely?" Shinji said.
"No. I wasn't asking," Shirou said. He let the rod rise from his belt; just enough that Shinji would take note.
The girl gave up on her attempts at escape and she cocked her head from one of them to the other, as if she had a sense that something important was happening in front of her but couldn't quite figure out what.
Shinji twirled her to his side, her hip flush against his, and laughed, not with humor but with cruel and dark mockery. Looking at them was like looking at a sick parody of a loving couple. The girl's head was lolling-she couldn't even hold herself up straight.
"We're not children, Emiya. Nobody here needs a parent. And let's be honest, you'd be a rotten parent with the example you had."
Ignore. Resist. His head was so light, and yet so full.
"She doesn't want to go home with you, Shinji."
"Did you ask her that?" Shinji said, before laughing again, his face flushing with genuine pleasure.
Shirou took a step forward and drew the rod from the loop on his belt. It was only the threat, he told himself. Campus security was coming. Shinji was a coward, so all he needed was the threat.
At some point, however, he had miscalculated. Shinji saw the rod, and the implied threat, but he didn't back down.
Instead, he just lowered his voice. "Going to attack me, Emiya? Not very heroic of you."
"I'm not attacking you. I'm protecting her," Shirou said.
"Protecting her? Great, let's protect her together. Tell you what, if you let me go right now I won't even fuck her. I'll let her off with just sucking my-"
Shirou swung. He didn't hold back.
The rod arced, as if in slow motion, before exploding against Shinji's nose, sending a spray of blood to the side.
Some of it landed on the girl's dress, and she started screaming.
Shirou watched it all dispassionately, as if it was happening far away, and all he had to do was bear witness to the outcome.
Shinji stumbled, then tried to lunge at him, so Shirou sidestepped it and then brought his rod down on Shinji's overextended arm.
Shinji was much slower than Lancelot.
When he brought the rod down on Shinji's arm there was a loud snap. Then it wasn't only the girl screaming, as Shinji joined her in a macabre chorus.
Shirou wanted to be happy at the sight. In his darker moments, he had dreamed of making Shinji scream like that. Instead, he only felt sick.
The girl had stumbled off to some bushes and was alternating between vacating the contents of her stomach and hysterically scrubbing at the blood on her dress.
Shinji just sobbed on the ground, his cries punctuated by the occasional crazed threat.
Campus security showed up less than a minute later. It was, Shirou thought, a very admirable response time.