Prologue
In Chaldea, things were normally hectic, especially with the number of servants across civilizations, eras and mythologies roaming about. Be it minding their own businesses, getting into arguments with their fellow Heroic Spirits or preparing to join their Master on trips to clear singularities, among many other activities, such was a normal day, relatively speaking.
But today was different. Their Master was late to head out for material farming. His tardiness wasn't entirely an anomaly, he overslept every now and then but still managed to leave with them five or ten minutes past their schedule. And the Servants would rather he had a little bit of extra rest now and then, just so he wouldn't burn himself out trying to save humanity for the umpteenth time. But today he was very, very late. By Robin Hood's estimations, it had been 30 minutes already. He looked at his companions for the day.
On one side, Mordred tapped her armoured feet impatiently, her hands' grip on Clarent tightening and relaxing. The archer could imagine, nay, feel the scowl behind her helmet; the Knight of Treachery could just leave and drag their Master out from wherever he was at any moment. Mash had went to locate the Master in place, but she looked like the type who, if they wanted to get something done, would do it herself, or so the saying went.
On the other side, Jack the Ripper was fiddling with one of her knives. The child-like Assassin Servant might have a relatively stoic expression on her face, but her fiddling was becoming more frequent. Never enough to lose her grip on her preferred weapons, but enough for everyone to know she was worried.
He himself was similarly anxious. It wasn't like him to just up and not tell anyone about a change in plans outside of the singularities. The young man had explicitly said he put up a schedule (mainly for himself) so that he wouldn't, and Robin Hood quoted, "be a lazy ass and stay in Dreamland while our existences are at stake."
The sound of footsteps (and shuffling of feet?) came right before Mordred lost all patience for him. "Finally, let's get this done and-"
"Senpai, listen for once," Mash pleaded with the Master.
"For the last time, it's nothing," a deeper, more masculine voice answered with a raspy voice, following with a loud coughing sound. Then they saw their Master, one Mitsuru Miyamoto, stepping into the Rayshift chamber with his lilac-haired friend following closely behind.
The young man seemed to be forcing himself to stand and get himself anywhere. His unkempt hair was even more unruly while his eyes were sunken, as if he hadn't slept a wink and had just gotten out of bed. Additionally, he looked feverish and utterly miserable. A total wreck that's definitely in no shape to actually do anything physically intensive, to put it mildly.
"You're not fooling anyone here," groaned his exasperated partner.
"It's a short trip," Mitsuru tried to assure her, only to hack his lungs out and nearly falling to his knee. Then he threw up on the floor. Silence briefly followed before he gave Mash a very defeated look.