Author's Note:
Hey there, sorry for being silent the first two chapters around. This chapter will focus on the Grand Order aspect of the story, so there's going to be a huge shift in point of view. The main point of views will likely be Kariya and Ritsuka, just as a heads up for future chapters. I hope you enjoy, and please feel free to tell me anything I should improve on through either reviews or PMs.
Abandoned Factory: Outskirts of Shinto
Shinto as a city was one that embraced the future, evolving past its bulky industrial framework into a highly developed commercial center with lean, sleek high rise buildings. Its evolution had left vestigial structures, remnants of its factory days, dotting its outskirts. One of these, an abandoned factory, a hulking shell of rusting metal - the very image of a past left forgotten, was the proud and fitting host of a scene befitting the legends of the past.
The Saber class servant, Artoria Pendragon, clashed with the Lancer class servant, Diarmuid Ua Duibhne. Golden sword and crimson spear crossed and crossed, sending eruptions of sparks and gales of wind that ravaged the factory courtyard, ripping holes in rusting shipping containers and stripping layers of concrete off the ground.
The battle was the epitome of martial prowess. Every single exchange of blows, so numerous as to number in the hundreds, was calculated with a mix of instincts, battle sense, and millisecond-to-millisecond planning. Though these Servants represented the zenith of humanity, their skill was such that they passed into the realm of the inhuman. Irisviel Von Einzbern bore witness to this miraculous spectacle, still awed by the incredible display of strength despite it not being her first time seeing a battle between Servants.
Right next door to this wondrous piece of the past was a brutal negotiation led with the cold, efficient threats of modern weaponry. Emiya Kiritsugu placed a firm finger on the trigger of his assault rifle, its barrel pointed down at Sola-Ui's face. Kayneth El Melloi trembled as he read the terms of his Geass scroll, his once proud gaze reduced to a frantic, blinking stare.
Kiritsugu looked at Kayneth with steady, almost deadened eyes, like he was performing manual labor. This whole ordeal might as well have been as predictable as manual labor. He was the type of person to plan out his day minute to minute - the pitiable scene unfolding in front of him was just another planned minute out of 1440 in a day.
Today, however, was not a day that would fall in line.
Artoria and Diarmuid both halted, their respective weapons frozen mid swing. They both shot knowing glances at each other, and stepped back.
"Sorry Saber, but it looks like you're wrong," said Diarmuid, a coy smile playing on his lips. "We have an uninvited guest for our duel."
Artoria planted her blade into the ground. "That seems to be the case. Rider has expended too much of his reserves by deploying his noble phantasm. Berserker would not be moving at such a leisurely pace."
Diarmuid sighed. "Then that only leaves Archer."
Artoria nodded, her battle joyed expression now a frown. "That would be so."
A Servant materialized atop a factory roof overlooking both Diarmuid and Artoria. The two focused their attention at the spiritual particles, red and black, that swirled around in a shimmering vortex that eventually shaped into-
"Sir...Tristan?" asked Artoria, her voice trembling.
Tristan bowed, his long red hair flowing from his head like stage curtains.
"My king," he said, straightening himself and jumping down from the roof.
Diarmuid looked at Artoria, then at Tristan, questioning oozing from his furrowed brows.
"There should only be seven servants. Who are you?"
Tristan looked at Diarmuid, or rather, faced him, as his eyes were closed.
"I am, as you said, an Archer class servant."
Diarmuid lowered into his stance, his spear point gleaming at Tristan's face.
"Don't be smart with me. Saber, do you know this man?"
Artoria took a step back, her grip loosening from Excalibur.
"Sir Tristan," she said, shock widening her eyes, "How?"
Tristan ignored her question. "My king, why do you seek the grail?"
Artoria took another step back, her mouth open like someone who had seen the sky turn red.
"I...I wish for-" She stopped, shaking her head and regaining her senses. "No, this is impossible. A trick. Perhaps an illusion - I would not put it above Archer to taunt me in such a way with a treasure in his Noble Phantasm."
Diarmuid thrust his spear, and Tristan had to twist his body to the side, letting the crimson fang brush past his hair, sending strands of red floating in the wind. Tristan stepped back, his closed eyes aimed at Diarmuid.
"I agree," said Diarmuid. "There is no possible way for another Servant to be in this ritual. Gae Dearg dispels such illusions - one strike and I can shatter this farce."
Tristan shook his head in a slow, pained manner, his lips twisted in a frown.
"Ah, to see you ignore reality. Nothing has changed since that time."
An incomprehensible hybrid between bow and harp materialized in Tristan's hands, solidifying from a sparkling cloud of silver energy.
Diarmuid pressed his attack, lunging while thrusting, his spear bursting towards Tristan like a bullet. Tristan took a finger and ran it down the strings of his harp, letting out a rising medley of tones that struck doubt in Artoria's heart.
Diarmuid's heightened battle perception, aptly encompassed in his Eye of the Mind skill, let him foresee the danger. He halted the charge, his feet leaving two smoking trails as he braked, and flipped backwards, leaving a dozen meter distance between himself and Tristan. Sharp thwaps, harsh and cutting, pierced the air, contrasting with the beautiful melodies that had birthed them. Slices of pressurized wind whirled around where Diarmuid had been, cutting apart the concrete ground in a bladed maelstrom.
"So," said Tristan, "Do you still believe that I am some mere illusion, my king? Or has it been that long since I chose to stop playing my music for you?"
Diarmuid noticed the flow of combat ebbing, and stuck the butt end of his spear into the ground, reserving himself to watch how the King of Knights he so respected conducted herself around a subject.
Atoria reclaimed the steps she'd taken back under the spell of surprise. "Sir Tristan, if that is truly you and not some fiendish trick, then I welcome your return with open arms."
Tristan massaged his shut eyes with a frustrated vigor, like he was a teacher who had to answer the same question a dozen times over. Nothing had changed about her, even now she would accept him, even when he had turned his back on her.
Artoria continued, however, taking her sword and pulling it from the ground.
"However, even though it pains me to say this to one of my former knights, if you are here for the grail-" She pointed the blade at Tristan, its golden steel blazing with threat. "Then we are fated to speak with our weapons."
Tristan froze up like he'd been stopped in time, his hand still covering his eyes. His hand lowered just an inch, revealing a single open eye, clear almost like glass, staring with a gaze sharp enough to shear diamond.
"To threaten me with such conviction - could it be?" asked Tristan. "That you are finally wielding your blade for yourself?"
Hope bled into his normally smooth, constant tone of voice.
"I have always fought for myself," responded Artoria, causing Tristan to hold his breath in excited anticipation. "My country, my kindgom - these make up my self as king. And I will always fight for them."
Tristan's eye closed, returning his face into the impassive wall that it usually was. He sighed, releasing his breath like a deflating balloon, and shook his head.
The crack of a gunshot cut off Tristan's response.
Emiya Kiritsugu saw smoke trail off from his rifle's muzzle, heard the familiar clink of a bullet casing hitting concrete, smelled the acrid hint of burned gunpowder, and knew that Sola-Ui was dead, a neat, red rimmed little hole incised on her forehead. Kayneth dropped the Geass scroll, his shock overwhelming him like a monsoon tide crashing on a skiff. Kiritsugu aimed the rifle at Kayneth, narrowing his eyes as he saw Kayneth's head lining up with the rifle's front sight. Kayneth, even through the boulder weights of betrayal and loss weighing on him, understood that he was next, and started speaking, the single command seal on his hand gleaming.
"Lancer, retu-"
Kiritsugu pulled the trigger, silencing Kayneth with a leaden ultimatum. It was Kiritsugu that used his command seal.
"Saber, by order of this command seal, keep Lancer occupied until he dies!"
He watched as one of his seals faded from his hand. His eye twitched. He hadn't wanted to expend such a valuable tool, but he would have to make sacrifices to accommodate these surprises.
When Archer appeared on the battlefield, both Kayneth and Kiritsugu had been surprised. The difference between the two became clear in their reactions: Kayneth had sat gawking at the intrusion while Kiritsugu took his next step in less than a second. He immediately defaulted to his secondary plan of shooting down Kayneth and Sola-Ui. After all, the Geass scroll was simply an extra measure to prevent Lancer from contracting with another master - Kiritsugu could do without it.
Archer's appearance meant that there were simply too many variables to consider, and Kiritsugu had adapted, deciding through hundreds of differing options that eliminating Kayneth at the cost of a command seal was the one most efficient path of action. With Saber keeping Lancer at bay, Lancer was sure to fade away now that he was without a master.
Kiritsugu heard the sounds of spear and sword clashing again, and knew he would be safe. Saber was strong enough to keep Lancer busy for days, and it was doubtful that Lancer even had minutes left. Archer was too high-minded, too conceited to ever lower himself to targeting someone as lowly as a master just for the sake of winning the grail. In the first place, Archer had never even seen this war as a contest.
Kiritsugu took a phone, sleek and black like the rest of his equipment, and punched in a familiar number. He held the phone to his ear, and not two seconds later Maiya's voice answered.
"Maiya," said Kiritsugu. "Archer has made a sudden appearance. Sweep the area and see if his Master is here."
"Understood."
Kiritsugu shut his phone and sighed. Archer's independent action made it likely that he was acting alone. If that golden Archer meant serious business, then Kiritsugu had to act quickly.
Two command seals left. He could afford another one to call a retreat if the situation dropped rock bottom.
"Oh? So you're her master?" asked Tristan as he emerged from behind a column.
Nine tenths of Kiritsugu's battle methodology operated on planning, but his one tenth of instinct was honed enough that his assault rifle was already pointed at Tristan's head before he could even fully process the situation.
Tristan glanced at the rifle. "You know that won't work on me."
Kiritsugu shoved away his confusion at seeing an eighth servant and used all the tools he had available to decipher this mystery. He activated his Master's clairvoyance, watching as Tristan's status flowed into his mind.
Class: Archer
Master: ?
True Name: Tristan
Sex: Male
Height/Weight: 186 cm/78 Kg
Alignment: Lawful Good
STR: B
END: A
AGI: B
MGI: B
LCK: E
NP: A
Class Skills
Magic Resistance: B
Independent Action: B
Personal Skills:
?
?
?
Noble Phantasm:
?
?
So this was the Archer that was mentioned, not the Tohsaka Servant. Regardless, this was still a real servant. Kiritsugu's chances of survival plummeted, but he tried adapting regardless. Using another command seal to pull Saber in would let Lancer follow, ensuring Kiritsugu's death. Any form of offense that Kiritsugu could muster would be less dangerous than an infant's poke to a Servant of this caliber.
He was at this Servant's mercy, but even then he adapted. He was at the mercy of a Lawful Good servant, the chivalrous knight type that would never kill without some justifiable reason, and one with close relations with Saber. He could word his way through.
"Yes, I am your king's Master," said Kiritsugu. He tried reading Tristan's face, but all he saw was an unchanging expression made impossible to decipher through closed eyes.
Tristan leaned against the column. "The way you kill is far, far from the code of the knight."
"I'm aware."
"Then why?" asked Tristan. "Why is she still following you? Is it because the desire for her wish is so great that she is willing to turn a shoulder to her personal creed - that creed that cares all for others with nothing for the self?"
Kiritsugu was silent. He had never spoken with Saber, so he had no answers. Tristan let the silence hang for a bit.
"Oh, I see now," said Tristan. "She just hasn't seen this side of you, has she?"
Kiritsugu couldn't afford to be unresponsive. He nodded.
Tristan talked to himself.
"I cannot turn my back anymore. When I realized how little she understood of others, of emotion, I left. But this time, I shall ensure that she will know how to live for herself, but first-"
He plucked a string from his harp. Kiritsugu dropped his rifle, and he realized that wind, condensed like a blade and yet so fine that it was invisible, had sliced through reinforced weave of his trenchcoat, leaving a deep gash filling in with fresh blood on his forearm.
"That is for disrespecting my king," said Tristan. "Don't worry, tis' but a flesh wound." He turned his back. "Now go, continue with your disgusting ways, and show her the faults in her path."
Tristan dispersed into a shower of velvet and black spiritual particles, assuming spiritual form and returning to Ritsuka, his Master.
Kiritsugu dropped to the ground, pressing a hand on his cut, scrambling to treat the wound. A practical application of basic healing magecraft and some bandaging would do, but it would have to be soon. He was too busy fighting blood loss and calling Maiya to notice a doorway, filled in with a chaotic darkness like a portal, pop up in space, right beside Kayneth's lifeless body. Two long, bony arms with clawed hands, dug into Kayneth's shoulders, dragging him in, like a trapdoor spider pulling in prey into its pit.
The doorway closed, leaving Kiritsugu leaning against a column, eyes closed and breathing ragged as he focused to regulate his pain. He listened to the rhythmic clanks of spear and sword striking, listened until this rhythm grew more and more infrequent, weaker and weaker, until it finally stopped.
Around the same time,
Mion River - Sewer System
In the darkness of the sewers, a single light shone. A knight, covered from head to toe in quicksilver armor, held this light, which radiated from the tip of his sword like a guiding lantern. Behind him trailed a rather diverse cast of people.
A young woman, dressed in knightly black armor, followed right behind. Her rose quartz hair hung down to her chin, veiling one of her eyes in a silvery purple. Despite the intruding hair, she seemed fine, taking accurate steps forward. What stood out most about her was her shield: a colossal cross-shaped barrier, both taller and wider than her body. Despite the shield's bulk, she carried it with a familiar ease, like it was a purse.
"Senpai," the woman said, her voice echoing in the closed chambers of the sewers, "how long until we reach our designated target?"
"Dr. Roman said it was around here, so anytime now," responded Fujimura Ritsuka, looking at a holographic map projecting from a watch-like device on his wrist. He pinched his nose as he followed the light, his human eyes unable to deal with the sewer's darkness. His white uniform was now stained with splotches of questionable color, but his gait, quick and resolute, made it evident that he didn't seem to mind.
Behind them, like a rear guard, followed an onyx skinned behemoth. He needed to stoop to not hit the ceiling; he must have been almost four meters tall. His muscles armored him like a tank, and he would have seemed like a demon were it not for the gold. Gold tattoos patterned his body in intricate weaves, while golden bands, necklaces, rings, and greaves jingled with each of the his giant strides. The treasure trove of jewels painted him regal rather than brutal, wealthy rather than monstrous. And just in case anyone doubted his kingly aura, his eyes shone with gold, and even his teeth were made of it.
The light bearing knight stopped, his armor clinking as his body tensed. The woman behind him took the cue, dashing in front of him and planting her shield on the ground.
"Mashu!?" asked Ritsuka as he took three careful steps back.
A hail of daggers pattered on the shield, deflecting off its smooth surface without so much as leaving scratches, like raindrops on a windshield. Mashu's violet eyes narrowed, her alert pupils darting as they counted.
"Twelve hostiles. They appear to be ghosts."
Ritsuka nodded. "Then Roland can exorcise them."
The silver-clad knight shook his head. "I have exterminated too many witches and necromancers to know that these are no mere ghosts. Shielder, stay here and protect the master."
Ritsuka glanced back at the giant. "What about Darius?"
"Bah!" spat Roland, "I need no infidels in my midst."
Without hearing any objections, Roland blasted forwards, his sword a blazing comet that illuminated the sewers. With this kindled light, Ritsuka could make out the attackers.
"Hassans?" he asked, noticing the shadowy auras wreathing the professional killers. "Shadow servants?"
Mashu nodded. "Yes. They do not seem as powerful, however."
The twelve Hassan arranged themselves around the sewers like a horde of bugs, with some holding on the walls, others hanging from the ceiling. All of them hurled their daggers in concert. Roland twirled his blade, sending a dozen parried daggers spinning in the air, clattering on the ground in defeat.
"Such clumsiness - how inelegant," said Roland, shaking his head. "How unforgivable."
He sped forward, his speed gouging out scars in the stone floor, and slashed, bisecting three Assassins. Before their upper halves hit the floor, he had already skewered another Assassin, its body writhing against his sword hilt.
The remaining Assassins fled, bunching into an undulating mass of running black bodies. Roland saw his chance. Flicking the skewered body off his sword, he chanted:
"O light that banishes the darkness of heresy, enlighten these infidels - Durandal"
Light, bright electric blue and crackling like its namesake, sparkled around the sword. Roland cut the air in front of him in a wide arc, flinging the light at the retreating Assassins.
The light thinned out into a circle, spinning like a buzzsaw as it tore through the remaining Assassins.
Roland tossed his sword in the air and held out his scabbard. The blade dropped in with a satisfying click, and he fastened the weapon to his waist.
"How was my performance, my lord?"
Ritsuka stroked his chin, tilting his head in thought.
"Six out of ten."
Roland sighed, his whole body slumping.
"Ah, to see myself scoring so low against such vermin." He thumped his chest in penance three times, sending out three hollow clangs as his gauntleted fist struck armor.
"I have heard of rating performances before," said Mashu, "but in my readings the judges always had criteria to judge with. What were yours, senpai?"
Ritsuka faced Mashu, but his eyes tracked Roland. "Back in his age, his king was an art maniac, and loved to see everything like a performance. I'm just trying to fill in."
"I see." She nodded to herself. "But what did you judge him on?"
A bit of silence.
Ritsuka was about to give another roundabout answer to cover for the fact that his ratings were based on nothing at all when Roland interrupted.
"Please, my lord, say no more!" said Roland, standing up in alert. "Judging art is supposed to be a subtle ordeal. One shrouded in mystery that makes it all the more beautiful. To lay bare your thoughts would be akin to a sorcerer revealing the details of his craft."
"I don't understand," responded Mashu, "Then how do you actually know how well you performed?"
Roland shook his head again, like he was dealing with a child. "You have not had much exposure to the world, so I do not blame your undeveloped tastes. You see, it is because the judgement is a mystery that it is beautiful. Judgement, like emotions, are complicated, incomprehensible, wild - and yet it is because of their mystery that they are all the more alluring."
Ritsuka nodded, not knowing what he agreed to, but felt that it was right. "Yeah, mystery, you know?"
He hoped the answer would be satisfactory for Mashu.
"Indeed," said Roland. "If the mysterious beauty behind my lord's judgement fades, then I fear he will lose his right to be my lord, my judge. Then it may be that my blade, my harshest critic, will turn to the false judge."
Ritsuka nodded faster now, beads of sweat starting to form on his forehead.
Mashu considered for a moment. "I see. I don't quite understand, but that's probably because I haven't had much exposure to the art world, like Roland said."
Roland started walking again. "It is no problem, my child. You will learn more the more you experience, and for that, you must move forward." He waved everyone on.
Several minutes passed before Roland drew his sword again, a flash of light bursting from his scabbard. He waved a cautioning hand, orchestrating silence among the group. He angled the sword lower, and tapped its pearl encrusted pommel.
The light around the sword, glowing like a ghostly veil, gained substance, expanding into a halo of radiance that lit the entire sewers up as clear as day.
It was like Roland had lit a match in a cockroach infested pantry. Dozens upon dozens of Hassan thronged around a single area, facing away from Roland. They were a wall of black flesh, backs turned to the group, trembling as individual Assassins moved in an out of the circle of bodies in a frenzy, oblivious to the intrusive light.
"How ugly," said Roland. A flux of magical energy whirled around him, circling his sword in wires of light. "Yet ugly stages make brilliant performances shine all the brighter."
"Wait!" Ritsuka looked at the watch on his wrist and tapped it, projecting the holographic map again. "This is where the Grail is. We can't afford to destroy the whole area."
Roland kept his Noble Phantasm primed. "Then how do you suppose we deal with these bugs? It is evident that these shadow servants were summoned, perhaps even to guard the grail. If they are not felled in one blow, they may steal away the grail."
Ritsuka smiled. "Tristan would have been perfect for this job, but Darius is just as good. Darius, don't let any of them escape."
Darius clenched his fists, as massive as basketballs, and channeled his magical energy, letting loose a guttural growl that made even the sewers tremble. A ring of royal purple, shining bright like a neon light, circled the Hassan.
From this ring, as if emerging from another world, an army of undead came. Ring after ring of skeletal warriors, their bony bodies twisted into horrifying figures, surged forward, boxing the Hassan in. Armor and robes blurred into flashes of gold and purple as the skeletons, armed with swords, spears, and even sharpened bones, charged, cinching the ring shut like a triggered loop snare.
Chunks of flesh, whole arms and legs, broken skull masks - all of these scattered in the air as the skeletons, the once proud Athanaton Ten Thousand that defended Persia, fought once more.
Roland twirled his sword in the air again. "Such a barbaric performance, so simple-minded, and so without elegance." He held out his scabbard, and the sword slid in. "But I expected nothing more from an infidel."
Darius growled again, his voice raising almost to a roar. Roland shrugged, but said no more. The ring faded away, and so too did the soldiers, their undead bodies crumbling into dust.
Ritsuka strained his eyes as he looked for anything resembling a golden cup. As the butchered assassins dissipated, what he saw was entirely different.
Where the Assassins had gathered was a living corpse. Ritsuka saw a young man lying on the ground, his face not much older, but his hair white and ancient. At least, he thought the man's face was older - he could somewhat tell based on the wrinkleless skin, but the mangled face was so beaten that it was a mass of swelling contusions and scars resembling a cluster of bubbles, like the type you'd see floating around soapy water.
Ritsuka saw arms and legs bent the wrong way, ribs sticking out of flesh, blood sprinkling from a dozen stab wounds like a human fountain piece. He closed his eyes, taking in deep breaths to battle the nauseating sight, only to find himself inhaling the sickening smell of the sewers.
He exhaled, his body quivering.
Roland performed a metallic clap with his gauntleted hands. "Ah my lord, you are already used to the beauty of violence? Such hasty improvement, and yet nothing I would not expect from my own lord."
Ritsuka nodded, a weak smile playing about his lips. Mashu rested a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. She said nothing, but her silence was more comforting than any words.
Roland placed a palm on his sheathed sword's pommel. The pearl encased in the handle gained a lustrous iridescence, sparkling with a rainbow shine.
"Shall we heal him for some answers?" he asked, green and lively energy threading from the jewel and curling around his fingers.
"That would be unnecessary."
Particles of darkness swirled around a point of space in front of Roland, layering into a grainy outline of black. This outline filled in, revealing Watcher.
Roland clutched his sword handle.
"Hold on there!" said Watcher, holding its hands up. "I am merely trying to save my Master here. As a fellow Servant, you should understand that sentiment, yes?"
Roland kept his hand on the handle, and stood still, poised to strike. "Hiding is the epitome of cowardice. As an artist of the knight's path, I cannot stand it - bare your concealments."
Watcher raised appealing hands towards Roland.
"Oh, if only I could! You see, O glorious knight, my status as a Servant is permanently concealed due to an ability of mine that is simply not within my choice to dispel."
Roland didn't let go of the handle.
"I cannot risk endangering my lord with your cowardly tricks."
Ritsuka defused the tension.
"We're from Chaldea, an organization that's here to... save the world," said Ritsuka, motioning around himself to introduce everyone. "We don't mean any harm." Roland took his hand off his weapon.
Ritsuka continued. "We're here to retrieve a Holy Grail that should be around here. It shouldn't be the same grail that you and your Master are fighting for, so if you could tell us if you saw anything like a grail, that would be really helpful."
"Oh? If you do not mind one so lowly as I asking, how be it that you can sense the presence of a Grail?" asked Watcher.
"Through devices and connections linked to Chaldea," said Ritsuka.
Watcher nodded, shrugging at this boy's naivete, and snapped a finger, startling everyone.
"Ah, forgive me. When I understand something, it is in my habits to associate what I learned with a physical cue." Watcher tapped its head. "Helps with the memory, you see."
Ritsuka nodded hesitantly. Heroic Spirits were full of oddballs, so this one was probably one of them.
Watcher shook its faceless head, the shadowy aura coating it waving like flames under wind with each shake.
"To answer: I am very, very sorry, but I know of no such item lying about. Rather, it somewhat seems preposterous, and I do not mean to slander you or the great inventors of Chaldea, that I, or any other servant, would be unable to sense an artifact of such caliber, no?"
Ritsuka couldn't deny that. He tapped his wrist device again, and watched the holographic map to reconfirm the grail's location. The flagrant red dot that had marked the grail's position was absent not only from the sewers, but from the entirety of the map - the whole of Fuyuki.
"Huh?" said Ritsuka, rubbing his head.
Watcher gathered Kariya in its arms, thin and spindly, like a spider weaving web around captured prey.
"I shall take my leave, then."
Roland stepped forward, unsheathing his blade in a flash of light.
"Stay, heathen!"
But Watcher was gone, warping away in a swirl of distorted space with its Master, like they had never existed at all. Not even the blood stains its Master had left drying on the concrete were there.
"Now what, Senpai?" asked Mashu.
Ritsuka's answer had no hesitation. "We just have to consult Dr. Roman, of course. He and Da Vinci have all the coordinates and directions we need.
With casual confidence supporting his voice, Ritsuka called out to the air. "Dr. Roman, are you there?"
A familiar holographic screen popped up. Yet instead of showing a disheveled, overworked doctor, the screen held only static.