Mean Girls
The halls of Chaldea were a dichotomy. One could go for ten minutes down a pristine hallway, the only sound the echo of their own footsteps, only to turn down another to find that it had been scarred by Lev's bombing, the walls and floors cratered or collapsed. It was in those hallways that the occasional Chaldean employee could be found, directing Scheherazade's summons to either move debris or collect casualties. What few windows there were stood from floor to ceiling, an almost eternal blizzard lashing soundlessly against the clear material and providing no illumination.
The trio found themselves ghosting up to Da Vinci's lab, their mismatched footwear giving their journey an odd beat. Despite his boots, Trent's gait and steps made little to no noise, his strangely quiet steps taking the fore. Scheherazade's gilded hobble heels added a curious clip to her stride, the tiniest of notes following each of her delicate footsteps. It was Medb who bucked that trend, her heeled boots clipping against the ground without a single care, her odd cadence emphasized by how she meandered about, studying the building.
Stepping into the lab was like stumbling upon an anachronistic explosion, handcrafted wooden models, sketches, and paintings clashing against desktop computers, tablets and wall mounted monitors. It smelled like a bakery, for some odd reason, the scent of freshly-baked bread overpowering any other smell that might've tried to take hold.
In the center of the surprisingly large room stood Da Vinci, tapping away at a tablet as Olga sat on a plinth before her, having changed since the last time she and Blackmore had met.
Her replacement body was still quite young, clad in what looked to be a rather expensive, tailor-made dress. The hair atop her head was no longer brown, and instead looked to be a washed out ashen colour, her eyes segmented between amber and turquoise.
The director turned her gaze to the group as they trooped in, bemusement at war with curiosity as she took in the Rider. Looking past Medb as soon as she finished her study, she declared, "Blackmore, I see that you were successful in summoning another Servant. Who is she?"
Before the blond could answer, Medb strode forth, eyes alight with fury and her hands firmly planted on her hips. "I will not be looked over as some common housemaid, impudent child! I am the Queen Medb of Connacht, summoned as a Rider!" Her gaze flitted between the pint-sized director and Da Vinci as she continued, "Madam, it may not be my place to tell you how to raise your child, but she is clearly in need of proper etiquette training."
"Leonardo is not my mother!" Olga sputtered, her face twisting and colouring as she puffed herself up, eyes narrowing as her fingers clawed at the skirt of her dress. "I am Olga Marie Animusphere, the director of the Chaldea Security Organization that your Master works for! You have no right to talk to me that way, Rider!"
Trent should have realized just what would have happened, allowing Olga and Medb to actually meet, but had been too caught up in the Rider's flow. Scheherazade had essentially placed herself out of the line of fire by moving behind her Master, her shoulders slack and stance relaxed, every inch of her very being radiating peace due to Medb's theft of the spotlight.
Opposite them, Da Vinci had started to coo over the idea of Olga being her daughter and began making joking plans for outings, though the smaller woman ignored her.
Rather than seem even the slightest bit cowed, Medb grinned as she loomed over the ashen-haired girl. "That's where you're wrong, little girl! My Master hasn't been formally hired by your group, nor given any sort of contract! At this point, he might as well be someone kind enough to pick up a wastrel by the side of the road and carry them to safety!"
"W-we didn't hire you properly?" Olga asked, her eyes wide and mouth pulled into a rictus as she turned toward Trent.
The Canuck chuckled awkwardly as he shrugged, keenly aware of how Scheherazade had somehow managed to hide herself behind him completely. "No, I was, uh, I was not hired by Chaldea. We were rather preoccupied, with what we discussed in the meeting itself."
The director's hands slowly came up and covered her face, a low keening noise escaping her as her neck craned back.
"What's her problem?" Medb asked, her head craning around to look at her Master, ignoring the way Da Vinci had started patting Olga's shoulder comfortingly, her other arm out as if to offer a hug to the smaller girl.
Trent shrugged, his mouth twisted into a wry smile as he took in the sight, wondering if it might be gauche to ask if the Renaissance Man had a hug for him too. "The Director's had a rough time recently, and well, this is just the next pothole on the road of her life."
"Isn't she being a mite melodramatic?" the pinkette muttered, ignoring the way Scheherazade was peeking over Trent's shoulder, her expression having shifted to one of pain and her shoulders pulling in on themselves at the realization that one of her fellows had earned the ire of their collective boss.
Lifting his hands up, the Canadian waggled one of them as his face pulled into a mask of uncertainty and answered, "She only just got a new body after her last one was blown up, has to deal with the fact that her closest confidant was a traitor, and that her only help in stopping the apocalypse is me."
Medb looked him up and down, her mouth in a firm line of consideration as she tapped one of her feet, a hand coming up to rub her chin appraisingly as she weighed the circumstances in her mind. "That honestly just sounds like a Tuesday in Connacht."
Trent turned his head to look at the Caster still using him as a shield in case of any sort of conflict. After sharing a moment of quiet understanding, the blond turned his gaze back to the Celt and asked, "Different times, and all that, Medb."
The Rider shook her head, her eyes rolling as she let out an exasperated noise. "She acts like it's the end of the world. You didn't see me acting like that when Conchobar and I had our…public falling out." She pointed at the smaller woman, and lifted her nose in the air as she bared her teeth. "She needs to learn to relax."
"I'm sure you can teach her at a later date," the Canadian muttered, his head shaking as his shoulders dropped. "Just give her a while to grow so you don't get accused of anything illegal."
"There are no police right now, laws are a social construct of the not-apocalypse," Medb asserted, her smile growing practically predatory from the way Trent and Scheherazade shrunk back from her.
{~}{~}
By the time they'd managed to get Da Vinci to stop laughing and actually help them sort through the proper paperwork for employing the man, the day had long since dragged its feet towards the late hours of the evening.
Temporarily freed from the confines of the duties thrust upon him by coincidence, Trent was able to escape to the room that the Chaldeans had generously gifted to him. It was a stark white room, the only things inside it being a bed, a wall-mounted screen, a closet, and a desk. A single door led deeper in, to an attached bathroom, that was little more than a cramped cupboard with a toilet, sink, and shower jammed inside.
The only thing that stood against the pristine nature of the room was the Canadian's knapsack, the only proof of his life before he'd been pulled into the nightmare of Fuyuki.
He considered unpacking it, pulling out what meagre possessions were within and adding some individuality to the room, but left the bag sitting on the desk.
Instead, he lumbered into the bathroom, shedding his clothes as he fumbled with the shower-knob to see about getting the hot water flowing. That done, he removed his glasses and stared in muted awe at the sheer amount of grime and ash caking the lenses.
Shaking his head as he made a mental note to clean them later, he stepped into the shower, letting the hot water flow over him, lines quickly streaking their way through the muck that covered him.
Once Trent was actually clean, he just stood under the spray, allowing his skin to prune as clean water spiralled down the drain. He was so utterly tired, the pelting water seeming to hit every ache he'd accrued over his life, and then some.
His head sank as he leaned forward against the wall bearing the showerhead, his mind casting back to the events that he'd just survived.
He'd had to fight for his life, and face down people actively trying to take it. He'd orchestrated the deaths of two others, and gambled with the life of a young lady.
It wasn't the first time that he'd been close to death, but it was the first time that he'd had to deal with people trying to kill him. The thought made his stomach roil, an unspeakable lump inflating in his throat as water pounded on the back of his head.
After a countless number of minutes, Trent reached up and pulled the knob into the off position, letting the sudden rush of cold air sting his flesh. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the shower and toweled off, slowly clambering back into his clothes.
Stepping back into his room proper, the blond let out a sigh, "Finally some- fucking hell!" only to swear as he looked up and caught sight of the people in his room.
Scheherazade was seated near the door, her legs folded beneath her as she waited with her eyes seemingly closed. In a completely opposite state was Medb, lounging on the Canuck's bed with an expression of pure boredom.
Hand over his heart, Trent gave his head a shake as he grumbled, "Alright, what're you two doing in here? I know you have your own rooms. Besides, can't you just leave me be? I don't know about you, but I want to sleep."
The Caster bowed her head in deference to Medb, who mouthed a fake yawn as she kicked her feet behind her. "That's great and all, but we need to talk about your plans. I don't give a hoot as to what that little girl of a director wants, and it's not like I have to follow her orders."
"Survive this whole disaster, restore humanity, see about finding a way home," the blond answered as he pulled out the chair at his desk, offering it to Scheherazade. When she silently refused, he dropped into it, and scratched at the back of his neck. "Beyond that? I'll see what magic I can learn, as well as what forms of combat I can pick up. I'm not really in a position to do much else."
"Are you serious? There's a whole whack of people here and you're not planning on taking any of them to bed? Boring!" the pinkette proclaimed, her mouth falling open as she stared at the Canadian.
Trent snorted, shaking his head as he slumped back in his seat. "There's a few reasons for that, Medb. The first is that casual sex and the workplace rarely work out well. Second, were I to actually pursue a relationship with someone here, I'd actually need to get to know them first, and that takes time. Third, making plans like that is kind of creepy, y'know?"
"Are you kidding me?" the queen sputtered, looking incredulously between her Master and Scheherazade. "It's perfectly normal! You can't say that you didn't see my glorious self and Caster there, and not think about what we'd look like all hot and bothered! Sweat from the throes of passion glistening on our skin, the hurried gasps of ecstasy, the orgasmic finish at the end of it all!"
Sighing, Trent reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he replied, "Well, most people don't have extensive fantasies as soon as they see someone new. And I will admit, you're both stunning, however, I also know that you both have your own standards for partners and trying to force you to do bedtop sports for indoor-types with me in spite of those standards is stupid."
There was a moment of silence.
Then, Medb asked, "Bedtop sports for indoor-types?"
"Did I stutter?" the Canadian replied indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest.
The Rider shook her head as she drew herself up into a cross-legged stoop, carelessly flashing the other two. "No, no, I like it. I'm going to have to remember it." Her expression grew more serious as she looked him up and down, her eyes judging everything they took in. "So, fighting styles? You want me to teach you how to wield a sword?"
"Medb, I know how to je-oh, you actually meant that literally," Trent remarked, blinking at the suddenly stormy expression on the pinkette's face. "My mind was in the gutter because of your earlier talk, so excuse me for that." And he didn't want to admit that he'd briefly forgot that she was a warrior queen trained in such arts. After a moment of thought, he shrugged, "Sure, what's the worst that could happen?"
From her seat on the ground, Scheherazade just shook her head, wondering just why she'd been foolish enough to answer her current Master's summons.
