5 November 2016, 2136 hours

Pendragon Knight Police Report, 32nd Avenue, Geoffery of Monmouth Lane

Dispatcher: His Majesty's Knight Police. What is your situation?

Caller 1: Listen to me. Any moment now, they will burst into the room. Do not interrupt me.

Dispatcher: Sir, you're very calm. Is there a-

(Sounds of banging and gunshots in the background)

Dispatcher: Sir, what is your address?

Caller 1: 32nd and Geoffery, but I doubt you'll reach me. Can you please just stay on and listen to my last words?

Dispatcher: Sir, I-

Caller 1: This is extremely important, and I need you to listen to every word I say. Just let me speak.

Dispatcher: Yes, sir.

Caller 1: We are the last remnants of the Magus, the true Magus, not the puppets of Britannia that the Association is. There are those in the top of the Britannian government who are annihilating us to eliminate those who hold domain of the Holy Grail War. Now, just remember this. Britannia cannot exist, does not exist without magecraft. Can you do that for me?

Dispatcher: This tape is recorded, sir. Is this-

(Pause. More banging and gunshots are heard)

Caller1: Yes. Make a copy and hide it. And now, I believe my time is up.

(A loud gunshot)

Dispatcher: Sir? Sir?

Caller 2: (Heavy breathing) What is your badge number, officer?

(The dispatcher ends the call)

Chapter 2: The Fated Knight

10 August 2017 a.t.b., 1922 hours

Shinjuku District, Area 11

It was a quiet day for Shirou Emiya minutes before. The sign with "The Copenhagen Bar" fancifully emblazoned had swung over his head when he opened the door to his part-time job.

He had just left school. As an only child without a guardian, he was responsible for taking care of himself. Most teenagers his age would have complained, but Shirou enjoyed it. The bar he worked at was in a quieter part of town, and occasionally he could watch the remnants of the day leave, enjoying a beautiful sunset that streaked over the buildings, casting tranquil shadows as the night was introduced. His position right outside the bar as he welcomed in patrons was perfectly placed right in the line of sight of the entire twilight, the sun setting between two buildings. The bright light turned the street orange, cheery but mellow. A cloud would sometimes meander into the sky next to the sun, and it would turn a brilliant gold. That really made Shirou's day.

He hoped that, maybe, one day he could share that sunset with a girl. Sure, his life wasn't glamorous. But some girls in school told him that he was "somewhat good looking," "tall," and "buff." And yet he never got a confession. The tradition was, as he knew full well, to ask a girl out. Still, he had hoped that a girl would follow the Japanese tradition. Ah, well. At least, it was nice to dream.

Sometimes, when he daydreamed, he saw himself as a cog in the machine, a whirring, functional, beneficial contributor to society. Of course, he wasn't naive. Sometimes, on a bad day, he would wash the dishes particularly hard, scrubbing and purging and cleansing each dish as if they were the faces of those who mocked him in school, as an Eleven. Yes, the world was harsh. Shirou knew that there was evil in the world, and that, particularly, where he lived was infested with it. Perhaps one day he would be able to fight against even just a portion of all the world's evil. Right now, he couldn't do anything. But it was nice to dream.

He had absolutely no idea about the chaos that was affecting the other side of the district, the Britannian soldiers purging Shinjuku.

Until they started firing.

"Shirou! Run!" The bartender kicked Shirou out of the way before bullets riddled the wall and shattered the glasses that he was washing moments before. The Japanese, redheaded teen just looked at his employer in shock.

Shirou shook his head. "What about you?" He ducked with considerable speed, feeling the flow of air created from a bullet's path.

"How would it look if an Honorary Britannian student-" The bartender paused to lie prone under the desk, and continued: "-was caught in a Japanese bar in Shinjuku?"

It only took Shirou half a second to realize what the bartender was saying and to take his advice. Still, Shirou hesitated. He couldn't just leave the bartender behind.

"We're both leaving. Just stay there." Shirou peered over the counter, which was still being demolished by bullets. He had to focus to smother the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. Already, an undercurrent of absolute terror directed at the situation ran through his mind. Shirou closed his eyes.

First, I need to make this counter bulletproof. I'm not sure how long it'll hold, but … He concentrated, feeling that line in his mind, the energy filling the grains and tones of the object from his power. Never did this before under fire. It's going to take all of my concentration. Trace … on.

The line solidified into a magic circuit, created from Shirou's reserves of prana. That prana from the circuit was promptly spread throughout the counter, boosting its integrity through the reinforcement of the object's molecular bonds. The bonds did not have energy added into them; rather, the counter's very own origin, its own form was reinforced, making it more resistant to change. The sacrifice of Shirou's own od, his integrity as a human being, powered the new resistance of the counter.

The thudding of the bullets into the bar ceased, becoming the pings of ricochets. Shirou sighed in relief.

Now, I need to stop these soldiers. The bar next to the burning table. He grabbed a bottle of vodka off the counter. Trace … on! Shirou looked over and tossed the bottle right at the bar. Several bottles shattered, causing a cascade of spirits to follow the still-reinforced bottle of vodka onto the table.

This is probably going to ruin those reds that I took the trouble of cleaning twice. Shirou's thoughts were interrupted by the new spectacle. The flames roared with the addition of the alcohols, overwhelming the reinforcement of the vodka.

The bottle shattered simultaneously throughout.

The impact of the blast hit Shirou's eardrums, cursing them with ringing. He was physically pushed closer to the ground, even in his crouching position. The heat and the stench of alcohol caused him to retch, a hot, tangy stench that filled his mouth and nose. A shard of glass nicked his cheek, causing a trickle of blood to drip down his face. He retched, as the pungent odor of whiskey slammed into him. Another rack had fell, in a discordant crash of glass.

The Britannian soldiers were forced to cease fire. The flames scorched soldiers in close proximity, and crushed others who were too close to the collapsing bar. Their screams …

Shirou shook his head. "Alright, let's get out of here!" He turned back to his employer, who was lying on the ground. "We have to hurry. I can carry you if-" He stopped when he saw the cavern in the back of the bartender's head. He felt numb. A bloody mess presented itself to his eyes-

Before it registered that his employer was dead, Shirou was already running from The Copenhagen Bar.

Shirou was fit enough to keep running for fifteen blocks, stopping at Tokugawa Avenue. Panting, he stopped to recover. That proved to be a mistake on his part. His mind returned to the bartender, lying on the floor with his-

Don't think about it. You did the best you could.

But what if that caused him to stay behind? What if he was waiting for you to escape first?

You protected him. He would have died if you didn't delay them.

He still died.

Where's the justice in that?

The crack of rifles caused Shirou to crouch instinctively. He peered around the corner of the building, gasping at the sheer mass of soldiers engaged in combat with flashes of light flickering inside a restaurant. Running became Shirou's immediate concern.

Shattered sidewalks, toppled garbage, bloody and soiled corpses all just sped past Shirou as he kept running. He was grateful for his habit of keeping in shape with chores and archery. However, by a combination of bad luck, his decision to turn on Fukinawa, and Lieutenant Jennifer Watson's report about the position of resistance in that vicinity, Shirou ran straight into two squads of soldiers and-

A knightmare? Shirou just stared at the bipedal, skate-equipped frame. What's a knightmare frame doing here?

It was a Glasgow, the infamous weapon that Britannia wielded over Japan's forces seven years ago. The four, tiny eyes stared at him, cold and mechanical. Some thought it was little more than a tank with limbs. How wrong they were. Lighter armor and greater articulation allowed it an unprecedented advantage in urban combat. Stocky and powerful, the servos and motors in its arms whirred as it lifted its gun.

The undercurrent of terror finally broke through the levees he put up in his mind. No. This isn't right. How is this fair? Why is this happening to me?

This is absurd. I died once. The feeling of fire. I was helpless, I was unable to help anyone.

Now, I'm in the exact same place. My enemy now isn't some impersonal, evil force. It's- Then it stopped, as reality kicked in. Reality being the cavernous mouth of the knightmare's armament.

Shirou quickly took the hint when it leveled its gun in his direction.

His terror turned into adrenalin.

The gun roared, heavy caliber shots blazing out in a starburst of flames and electromagnetic sparks. The evening sky was lit up by the muzzle flare, the staccato burst shearing into the already violated silence of dusk.

The bullets chewed up the ground beneath Shirou, one just barely touching him. He felt the burning cut into his leg just after he leapt into the alleyway, which was briefly illuminated by the gunfire. The pain sparked and needled Shirou's nerves, spiking his adrenalin to emergency levels. This gave Shirou the energy to limp through the alley and hide behind a dumpster. Too late, however, did Shirou realize that he just trapped himself in a dead end.

He ran his hands on the ground trying to find some sort of weapon. All he felt was a groove in the ground.

"You've got nowhere to run, Eleven. Why don't you come out?" The sneering, cockney Britannian accent made each word crude and harsh. "C'mon, I promise we won't hurt you."

Shirou shouted over the dumpster. "I'm an Honorary Britannian!" He knew, though, that there was little hope for their belief. He was Japanese, and they were Britannians. Worse, he was an Eleven in an Eleven ghetto. How could he hope to convince them that he wasn't part of the terrorists?

His fears were not unfounded. "Yeah, that's what everyone tells us. Come out and we'll make your death quick, Eleven."

I can't die like this. Where's the justice? I won't allow myself to just die without seeing some sort of justice in this world! "Go shove it!"

Whatever the reply was, the din of automatic fire drowned it out. Shirou curled up into a ball and exacted one last line of defense. He stretched one hand out to touch the dumpster. Trace … on.

A hot rod entered his back once more.

He drew it.

It was more difficult than before, but Shirou was able to call upon his prana again. This time, the energy was drawn from his adrenalin. His prana, his vital energy, was given to the dumpster's being. In particular, its steel origins.

The bullets buried themselves into the wall and ricocheted off of the reinforced dumpster. They just kept pouring from their rifles, the din a cacophony of violence in the fading sky and the diminishing health of the city, until the soldiers had to reload.

That's one damn strong dumpster. Those were the last thoughts of a rookie, who decided to lob a grenade into the enclave. It arced gently through the air.

It landed right next to Shirou.

He just reacted, throwing it back at the Britannians.

Twenty soldiers, an alley two meters wide, a knightmare blocking their escape. Half of a second on the grenade's fuse. It was slaughter.

There wasn't any flames, any explosion of the flashy type that was shown in Britannian propaganda. This was a hive of unadulterated carnage. The grenade transformed into hypersonic fragments, ricocheting back and forth between the narrow walls and the legs of the frame. The grey cloud of steel shards and smoke quickly became a red mist of shredded flesh and gushing blood.

Gunnery Officer Gregory Davids watched his men turn to bloody tatters in an instant. "You bastard!" he screamed, aiming his knightmare's assault rifle at the dumpster. He pulled the trigger, feeling the compensators creating sway as the recoil kicked his frame's arm backwards. All he should have felt was recoil, but he served with most of these men since the Pacific Incident. There was no way in hell that he-

The knightmare stopped firing. Davids stared at his controls, which had just ceased responding to his commands. Nothing worked. "Shit." He was blind, deaf, and crippled inside his frame.

Shirou opened his eyes, peering under his arm that shielded his face. He was cut, bruised, and battered. Still, as far as he could tell, he was alive and unharmed. The large-caliber bullets had almost torn entirely through his reinforced dumpster, but stopped short of harming him. However, he couldn't quite tell if he was still alive.

Blue light had blasted him, a pillar of azure blaze detonated into his vision moments before the last bullet was fired from the knightmare, and somehow, he could tell that he would have died if that bullet struck. The previous light was like a violent rift into the world, a release of energy from a power right before him and rocketing up into the sky. The current light was calming, soft, soothing. It radiated power, controlled and ready. Looking at the ground in front of him, the outline of an intricately lined, sorcerous circle throbbed.

I'm either dead, or … Something blocked that bullet. But what- What in the world did? All Shirou felt right now was an exhaustion in his body. He could have been in heaven, with that calm blue light and a body that was at its limit.

He lowered his arm and looked up still further. The intensifying light drew his eyes towards a figure standing before him. What he saw couldn't be real. The gleaming armor adorning a medieval-styled, cobalt ballroom dress shimmered in the rays. The oversized sheets of metal coated the sides of the skirt, and the bodice and lower sleeves, usually signs of femininity, were enclosed in a breastplate and gauntlets, intricately segmented shells of plate armor.

The figure held her head high, and Shirou suddenly felt a fleeting heaviness of the battle to keep that dignity. But what drew his attentions in was the countenance of the figure. Though her face expressed no emotions, her emerald eyes displayed a sort of stern bemusement in their intense gaze directed at him. Those eyes … They're the only readable part about her.

Then she spoke, though her words contradicted her noble demeanor.

"I am Saber, your servant. I have come in response to your summons." She paused, her eyes boring into his. "I ask of you … Are you my master?"

Shirou just remained stationary, still taking in the past thirty seconds. I can't … Is this really happening? I can't speak. Am I dead? No, that's not it. I still feel alive ... I'm in shock. Shocked and awed by all of this. The Britannians, the knightmare, the overwhelming beauty beaming from this girl standing before me. He found his voice, getting up and meeting her gaze head-on. "Master and … servant? I- I summoned you? Saber?"

Saber gave a cursory glance at Shirou's arm. Looking back at his face, she replied, "Yes. The command seal on your hand is proof that you are my master." The solemn words following matched her deepened stare.

"From this time forth, my sword shall be with you …" Shirou couldn't take his eyes off of Saber's, even as he felt a prickling sensation on his left hand.

"And your fate shall be with me." It was almost as if her eyes were pools of pure verdant, drawing him inside. The back of his left hand flashed with a sharp pain and bled, but Shirou gave no indication of his discomfort.

"Now, our contract is complete." She cocked her head slightly, watching him watch her, even as the pattern of an intricate sword emblazoned itself on his hand. He seems to have no idea about the War. Although … Hm. I will have to make up for what he lacks.

A shriek of metal caused Saber to jump slightly. It seems as if he was under duress before. It is time for me to perform my duty. She spun around to confront the frame behind her, positioning herself into a guarded stance. Her armored legs were solidly planted on the ground, her hands together. "The enemy is moving again. Please stay here, master."

A look of disbelief and anxiety crossed Shirou's expression as he said, "Whoa, just wait!" He ran up and grabbed Saber's shoulder. "What are you going to do?"

The tension in her body was shocking to Shirou, that it could hide beneath such a calm expression. But how? She's so small. Is she- Is she really going to fight that knightmare? I have to be dead. This is impossible. Who is she?

Puzzled, Saber turned back to Shirou and answered, "I am going to take vengeance against the enemy, master. I will lead us to victory." She turned again to face the knightmare. Raising her arms in front of her, she readied herself, grasping the air as if it were actually a weapon. Shirou found himself only holding air as well, as she took a swift step forward. Before her departure, he was able to catch a single, almost melancholy whisper from her.

"Promised victory."

AN: Edit done, moving on to improving action in chapters 3 and 4.