AN: Yep, here's something to whet your appetite while the next chapter makes it way out. All credit to Mr. Sparkles, I did nothing but edit.
By the way, here's come art to look at (and what I've been doing for the past few weeks):
Copy/paste link in browser and eliminate spaces to go to the art.
Knight of Heroes and Demon of the Root http:/ heavyvalor. deviantart. com/ gallery /#/ d4oj62m
The Sword and the Grail: Ascension http:/ heavyvalor. deviantart. com/ gallery/ #/ d4oj0wf
The Sword and the Grail: Expansion http:/ heavyvalor. deviantart. com/ gallery/ #/ d4oj19t
The Sword and the Grail: Obsession http:/ heavyvalor. deviantart. com/ gallery/ #/ d4oj1j4
The Four Cadets http:/ heavyvalor. deviantart. com/ gallery/ #/ d4oj3ph
And without further ado, the pilot of Fate/Zero Eos.
Side Materials: Pilot of Fate/Zero Eos
Prologue: Untold Story
August 2007, 9 Years ago (from the standards of Fate/Stay Night)
Mojave Desert, Nevada Province, Britannia (Area 1), Holy Empire of Britannia
Cadet 1st Class Monica Kruszewski uncomfortably adjusted the collar of her dress uniform as she stared out the bus window. For all its harsh inhospitability, the endless hills and rolling dune of the Mojave Desert had their own kind of rough beauty. Here and there, a few cacti stuck their stubby green middle fingers at the desolation around them. The endless sand seemed to stretch into the horizon, dotted only by a few hardy shrubs.
After a few hours, though, the beauty of nature had long since worn off.
Next to her, Airman Dorothea Ernst's loud snores made clear her interest in Mother Nature. Monica's mentor at the Air Force Academy, Ernst seemed unperturbed by the glaring sunlight. Monica gently pushed Ernst off her shoulder, sighing. Beautiful, confident and a born leader, the dark-skinned idol of the Britannian Imperial Air Force Academy looked quite a bit less respectable when asleep.
Not that she could be blamed for sleeping—At 0300, Monica, Ernst and several of the other air force cadets had been woken up and bundled into a military bus. Painted in Britannian blues, reds, and whites, the bus was a modification of a popular civilian model commonly used by Chinese-Britannian immigrants back in New York.
Then again, Monica conceded, Chinatown buses were not manned by Military Police with guns. Dressed in full combat armor, the MPs had remained tight-lipped to the cadets' questions, for all intents and purposes, robots behind their opaque combat gear.
The fact that the soldiers had left them to their own devices suggested that they were not about to face a summary court martial (it had happened before—with terrorists such as the Sons of Liberty and the Liberation Army of Gran Columbia always looking for a weak point, the Office of Secret Intelligence was constantly on the prowl for dissent). Yet, Monica wondered, why would we be woken up without any forewarning?
Moments later, the bus stopped in front of a heavily fortified gate.
Whatever they were here for, they would find out soon enough.
Air Force Flight Test Center, Detachment 3 - more commonly known as Area 51, this barren airfield was the birthplace of many a conspiracy theory, from a weather controller to an alien research facility.
If they were trying to control the weather, Earl Lloyd Asplund grumbled, they had surely failed.
The Nevada sun was harsh to most people—but for a man of Science who rarely ventured out, it was unforgiving.
The 20-year old Earl crawled on all fours as he scrambled across the Tarmac, too dehydrated to care about the concerned-looking Military Police who called to him.
Almost…there…
The silo door was only a few steps away, the only barrier between Lloyd and the refreshing paradise of Central Air Conditioning.
With a doglike pant, Lloyd dragged himself forwards and reached for the doorknob with sweaty, trembling hands—
—And then the silo door swung open, slamming him in the face. With a soundless cry of pain, he curled into a fetal position. He whimpered. The blasted heat, and now this-!
"Nice weather, isn't it, Earl of Pudding?"
"A cool day for the insane, I'm sure." Reinvigorated by the burst of cold air, Lloyd got up and strode inside without giving a glance to the young Indian woman who had been his assailant. Like Lloyd, Rakshata Chawla wore the half-suit, half military uniform of the Imperial Colchester Institute of Technology. Sponsored directly by the Britannian Military, Colchester was probably the best Engineering School that a prospective student could attend for free. Graduates could expect a 100% employment rate by the Britannian Military, though most simply walked into the waiting arms of the countless Corporate Entities that dominated the Imperial Senate.
"You wouldn't last a day where I came from," Rakshata noted airily. One year Lloyd's junior, Rakshata had jumped head and shoulders over her peers and entered his year—to his chagrin.
"I'm sorry I wasn't born in hell, but I do envy the experience," Lloyd replied with equal magnanimity.
"Stop bickering, you two, and help me out." Professor George Ashford yelled from across the room. It was common knowledge that the two most brilliant students in the CIT Undergraduate Class of 2010 mixed like burning oil and water. The fact that they often worked in the same projects meant that the conflict embodied something of a small war.
Grudgingly discarding his verbal rapier, Lloyd looked up at the giant metal scaffold on which his professor was perched. Surrounded by a cheap metal framework stood what looked like a giant suit of chivalric armor, clad in undecorated sheet metal.
The Glasgow Project.
It had been in development for several years.
And, in a few minutes, it would change the face of modern warfare.
Some of the guests at this outing were intrigued by the location. Some of the more imaginative nobles talked of possibly being the first to greet an Alien Race, or the discovery of some ancient Time Machine, or of Freemasons and Illuminati, the usual bits of half-occultist gossip.
Tohsaka Tokiomi was not remotely interested.
To Tokiomi, the life of the average human was as mysterious as that of any extraterrestrial.
After all, he was a Magus.
He was not particularly interested in the affairs of nonmagus, particularly not in this arms demonstration in this barren desert so far away from his home in Fuyuki.
Yet he was a high-ranking member of the Magus Association, and a representative of his region of Japan. Procedures and formalities had to be obeyed, and as head of the Tohsaka house he had a duty to obey them. And so he adjusted his starched crimson suit and put on a hearty (albeit sweaty) smile as an old man in a priest's frock walked up to him. Risei Kotomine nodded in way of greeting.
"You seem to be adjusting well," Tohsaka remarked. The old priest didn't seem to be breaking a sweat in the weather.
"Beats Iraq," Risei replied. "I see the association didn't let you refuse either."
"Of course. Welcoming fellows," Tokiomi replied with an airy laugh.
Kotomine shook his head. "Welcoming? They can barely wait to get rid of me." In a nation that looked down on the decadent beliefs of old Europe, a Catholic priest was hardly welcome. But as liaison to the Holy Church, Risei Kotomine was the only member of the clergy that the Magus Association considered lowly enough to be condescendingly invited and high-ranked enough to make a difference.
To Tokiomi, on the other hand, Risei was a friend. The Tohsaka, as Magus with links to the Church, had always maintained good ties with the Kotomine, clergy with magical potential. To Tokiomi, Risei Kotomine was a second father. He had married Tokiomi, his father, and his grandfather. At over 75, Risei had met Tokiomi's great-grandfather during that last conflict 60 years ago.
The Holy Grail War.
The one that Tohsaka Tokiomi was now preparing to fight.
"How are negotiations?"
Risei sighed. "A bit difficult. The Curia is fine with it, but the Burial Agency doesn't seem too pleased. From what Kirei told me, they were planning on just going in with Executors and just taking the grail by force."
Tohsaka opened his mouth to reply—just as a blast of sound swept over him. With an inhuman roar, three Britannian Fighter Jets screamed over them at several times the speed of sound. Some of the Magus took a few seconds to recover themselves.
"I suppose we'll talk after this barbaric display," Tohsaka remarked with dignity.
Risei's grizzled face broke into a smile. "Of course. Let's indulge our hosts."
Tohsaka sighed. This was why he disliked going to these shows. Nonmagus did everything so rudely, so brutally, with loud roars and bangs.
And if there was one thing that Tohsaka Tokiomi could consider a crime, it would have to be inelegance.
"Your Highness!" The Imperial Guard saluted in perfect unison, snapping their elaborate rifles to their shoulders as Emperor Charles zi Britannia entered the booth. Jeremiah Gottwald's eyeballs strayed ever so slightly from their straight paths as he ogled at the individuals who had entered. Knight of Four General Reyes of the Army; Secretary of War Lord Grimsley; Admiral Glenn; Air Force General Upson, among others. Put together all the medals on their chest and you would get a small jewelry shop. However, these generals all seemed to clump together a respectful distance from the Emperor and the child next to him. Jeremiah assumed it was one of the Emperor's many children—for all the slander that the EU and the Chinese Federation directed at the Emperor, nobody could accuse him of impotency. Jeremiah couldn't tell if the child was a prince or a princess.
Yet, the Emperor spoke to the child not with the cold detachment he usually held for most of the Princes, nor the doting expression he had on some of his favorites, but with a kind of subtle respect.
It was strange, the way the grown man spoke with the long, blonde-haired child was not the way a parent spoke to a child, but the way a man spoke to his equal.
For a moment, Jeremiah was tempted to try to catch a strain of the conversation—and then mentally shook his head. Curiosity breeds disloyalty. Jeremiah turned his attention back to ignoring the insistent itch on his back leg.
The limousine driver mopped his brow to the tune of his favorite death metal band. It reminded him of the old days on the field, hammering out riffs to recoil. Technically, plugging into his MP3 and plugging out of his comset was against regs, but he wasn't going to tell anyone else that.
Unfortunately, Lord Wells did not like Death Metal. In fact, the only thing he allowed were his classical tracks.
All the more reason to play it twice as loud now.
Even on full AC, the sunlight blazed through the tinted windows. The driver groaned. He did not spend 8 years first in the Imperial Marines and then the Office of Secret Intelligence to cart around some old man. To get in, he had to get through a group of men in old suits and about half the Nevada Imperial Military Police. And now he had to spend a few hours just waiting.
"Hot day, isn't it?"
The driver looked up at the Military Policeman. The man didn't seem too perturbed by the weather. The man proffered a cigarette. Nothing expensive, but the Driver didn't mind.
"Thanks."
The man could be anywhere from twenty to forty, with a light dusting of facial hair and messy dark hair. He smiled wryly. "I can't do it at home. Can't let the wife and kids breathe it."
"I get you," the driver replied heartily. His girlfriend didn't like it either.
"Sorry, but can I check your ID? Regulations."
The driver shrugged. "Sure." He had an OSI clearance, after all.
The Military Police officer gave a casual glance to the ID, and then the Driver. Their eyes met. The MP's eyes seemed opaque, murky. Almost like a vacuum, threatening to suck him in—
Emiya Kiritsugu waved to the limousine driver as he walked off.
"Main cannon, firing!"
With a muffled whump, the turret of the M-33 Clinton fired its ammunition, rumbling through the Heavy Tank.
"You got them," 2nd Lieutenant Andreas Darlton remarked as he looked away from his periscope. The M-33 was truly an improvement over its M-1 Cousin. With heavier armor, a more powerful engine and electronics amplified with Sakuradite, the M-33 outmaneuvered, outgunned and outsped its predecessor. As if to prove Andreas' point, a bright splotch of Yellow burst appeared on the turret of an M-1 tank. The M-1 grudgingly ground to a halt as a referee shut its electronics down.
Darlton was not a man who often showed his emotions, but he was proud of his men. Drawn from the 4th Armored to participate in this exercise, his men, armed with their new Clinton, had decimated most of their enemies—or at least decimated them as much as a tank armed with paint shells could.
"We can do this, men," Darlton spoke calmly into the radio. His radio operator smiled. In their time in the 4th Armored, they knew that from Darlton this amounted to extravagant praise.
"Alright, men. Let's clean this up."
"The Toromo M-33 Clinton is the newest face of modern warfare," General Reyes explained proudly. The old general's illustrious record went back to the Pacific War, when his armored forces had trampled over countless Pacific Islands. To him, the M-33s were like his grandsons, except they didn't get into cheating scandals at colleges.
Emperor Charles zi Britannia said nothing. The Columbian-born Honorary Britannian had loyally served his father, assisting Charles in his countercoup against Charles' uncle after his assassination. By all means, the man had earned both his Knighthood and his Office.
Yet the man was getting old. Though few knew it yet, war was on the horizon, and General Sir Jorge Reyes would not lead them. The man was a by-the-book tank-and-infantry general. But Charles suspected that such conventional warfare would soon be the thing of the past.
Meanwhile, the M-33s had finished their skirmish, and the referees reactivated the paint-scarred casualties.
"Alright, men, let's pull back," Andreas Darlton ordered.
The Tactical Communications Officer didn't respond. He turned around. "Sir, it seems like the referee wants us to take up positions."
Darlton blinked. The exercise was over. "Against the M-1s?"
The radioman seemed just as confused. "No, sir. With the M-1s."
"Startup Procedure, Initiate."
"Energy Filler Connection, Check."
"Disengaging external scaffolding."
"Disengaging Wires."
"Starting Up Yggdrasil Drive."
"Turbine Temperature, stabilizing."
"Are you ready, your highness?" The voice of Bismark Waldstein was as calm and expressionless as always.
As the ground crews stepped away, the vast second-floor silo doors began to open, Nevada sunlight flooded in.
Marianne vi Britannia's serene face broke into a mischievous grin as the dark cockpit lit up.
"Glasgow, sortieing in three."
"Two."
"One."
"Mark."
"General Reyes."
"Yes, your Highness?"
Charles casually stared at the tanks setting up positions on the practice field.
"What was your opinion on the Ganymede project?"
Reyes sniffed. "With all due respect, Your Highness, infantry and armor have always been the driving force on the battlefield. The battlefield has no place for giant marionettes."
Andreas Darlton stared into the periscope of his M-33.
"Silo doors opening…"
"…Paint shell, ready!"
"Firing!" His M-33 fired with a suppressed whump.
And then, with a whine of screaming metal, two … things screeched off the second floor helipad. With the limited visibility of the periscope, Darlton craned his head up—just as the … things landed in between the first rank of M-1s.
Darlton blinked. He could barely believe the periscope—it looked like a giant suit of armor. Colored in dull green, the giant suit of armor seemed frail, and yet nimble.
The M-1s, aware of the danger, turned their paint-splattered turrets towards the metal thing—and hesitated. Even with paint shells, nobody wanted to shoot their allies, with their targets right in their midst. The humanoid armors had no such qualms. Aiming what were essentially oversized assault rifles, they quickly opened fire, leaving new splotches of scarlet paint on the nearest M-1s.
"All units under my command, move back," Darlton quickly ordered. It was a bit cruel to leave the M-1s to their fate, but even the advanced targeting systems of the M-33 could guarantee a hit on those mechanical armor frames without friendly fire at close range.
The M-33's quickly backed away as the two mechas finished off the hapless M-1s.
"All Units, load and prepare to fire."
With a 400-meter stretch of open space between the line of M-33s and the disabled M-1s, Andreas was confident they would be able to take down the two mechs. They weren't exactly small targets, after all.
The last M-1 was manually deactivated as the mechs cleared the unmoving tanks.
The gunner looked up. "Round ready!"
Andreas nodded. "Fire!"
With another muted cough, the M-33 opened fire, sending its paint shell—right into the hulk of a disabled M-1.
One of the radio operators from another M-33 put Darlton's confusion into words.
"… The fuck?"
Seeing the humanoid machines, Darlton had expected them to break out into some giant, mechanical stride.
Instead, they rolled. The mechas slid with an agility that defied even the fast M-33, leaving clouds of torn-up concrete. Zig-zagging past explosions of paint, the first of the Armor Frames weaved between the M-33s, leaving paint marks on the often unmarked new tanks.
Darlton gritted his teeth. If it came up to a formation, the M-33s could bring down a unit of the Mechas. The problem was that these machines ignored formations. Like a tiger among sheep, the armor frames slid between the M-33s. The M-33s could not fire even if they could keep up—their teammates were only a missed shot away.
"Driver, move us back!" Darlton barked frantically. "Gunner, load!"
"Shell, ready!"
Staring into his sights, Darlton cursed frantically as he glanced back into the periscope—right into the barrel of a paint gun.
"Fuck."
And then, with a dull clang, the M-33 powered down.
Darlton slumped down, wiping the seat off his brow.
The gunner slammed his first against the hull. "Fuck! How was that fair? What was that?"
Andreas Darlton sighed as he leaned back in his seat. He wasn't sure what that was—but he was sure he wanted one.
Knight of Four, General of the Army Manuel Reyes stared at his paint-splattered M-33's. The red paint that now scarred their previously spotless hulls looked like blood. His blood.
Charles zi Britannia betrayed no emotion as he looked at the general. "I believe you turn seventy-two this February?"
"Yes, milord."
"Perhaps it is time that you retired to your estate."
"Milord …"
The Emperor eyed the general. "Manuel, you've served Britannia for over fifty years. You've led Britannia's armies for most of it. But war is coming, general. And it has no place for you."
Reyes looked to the other generals—and then realized something.
He was, by at least 20 years, the oldest general among them. None of them had served alongside him during the Pacific War. Some of them hadn't even taken part in the recent Indochina conflict. He was the last of his generation, and he could expect not support from this new generation.
He looked back at his Emperor—and yet, the Emperor's eyes betrayed nothing. At last, Manuel Reyes gave up.
"… I will hand you my resignation shortly."
The other Britannian Generals stood aside as Reyes walked through them, off the spectator's booth.
Somehow, he realized that he would never be there again.
Tohsaka Tokiomi hid his surprise as he watched from the bannisters. Looking around, even some of the magus present seemed a little impressed by the arms display.
"Not quite as ugly as the rest of the things that they come up with." For a magus, to condescend to praising technology was already reasonable praise.
Risei shrugged. "It all comes at the expense of faith." With the advent of the Age of Enlightenment in the 1700's, faith in the church had waned significantly, and it was common knowledge that the Church's exorcists were vastly undermanned.
Tokiomi said nothing. Unlike the Church, whose strength lay in open faith and numbers, the Magus Association's isolation and secrecy had benefited from the age of science and reason, as incongruent as it were with magecraft.
Indeed, the battleground where his great-grandfather fought, the land of Fuyuki his family administered, had transformed in 60 years from a quiet rural hamlet into a bustling city rife with urban development.
"Was it the same in Iraq?"
Risei shook his head. "The Middle East is…too different for either the magus or the church to understand. The only reason they associate with the church is that they consider us a lesser evil than the Association. The monarchs of the Middle Eastern Federation are trying to balance modern technology with an antiquated system of clan politics. I doubt they will succeed."
"A rather sad shadow of a nation, particularly when you bring into consideration the venerable civilization whose ruins their new ugly cities are built on," Tokiomi murmured.
Risei Kotomine smiled. "Fortunately, they haven't gone as far as to destroy their heritage just yet, as these Britannians have done." Few in the church had forgotten Britannia's actions against the Catholics of what had once been the nation of Gran Colombia and now bore the unsightly designation of Area 6.
Still, that was not the information that interested Tokiomi.
"… So you found it then."
"Indeed. The Church is not yet devoid of political power, Tokiomi-san."
Tohsaka Tokiomi smiled, this time with genuine gratitude. "Father Kotomine, you have done the house of Tohsaka a great service. We will be forever be in your debt for this."
"Perhaps you can show that to my son, Kirei."
"Of course." Tohsaka Tokiomi looked up at the sky. The harsh Nevada sun suddenly seemed much milder.
Cadet 1st Class Monica Kruszewski stared at the two giant humanoid robots that had singlehandedly cleared a field of battle tanks. As Air Force Cadets, she and her peers were not very familiar with how tanks worked, but she was pretty sure that something that could destroy a small unit of tanks was something she had never seen.
Next to the air force cadets, a group of other cadets in Navy Airmen Uniforms seemed similarly shocked.
The cadets had been ushered into the first floor of an empty plane silo, where they had watched the battle at ground level.
With a screech, the two knightmare slid past the disabled M-33s, smoothly skirting the barrel of a tank that had been caught in midfire—towards the silo.
One of the Cadets, in Army Uniform, voiced everyone's thoughts.
"Aren't those things coming…a little close?"
"I think they might crash," Dorothea said nonchalantly as she stepped back.
The armored suits charged towards them with a screech, and the cadets began to move back. Monica tensed herself, preparing to leap backwards—for all the goods it would do her.
The suits charged, still at full speed—and then, suddenly, they stuck one of their legs in front of them, and Monica spotted the large wheels attached to their feet as they decelerated. With a skidding sound, the knightmares closed in—
–and then a blast of sandy wind struck her face, forcing her eyes closed—
—and then silence.
Monica opened her eyes—at the thick, metal legs just twelve inches away from the tip of her nose.
With a pneumatic hiss, something at the back of the Glasgow disengaged, and a familiar-looking woman in a white uniform stepped out. With a casual shake of her head, she loosed a few strands of dark hair from her shoulders as she smiled down at the cadets.
"That's—" One of the cadets stammered.
"Knight of Two—"
"—The Emperor's favored consort—"
"—Empress—"
"—The Flash—"
"Marianne will do," Empress Marianne Vi Britannia, Knight of Two, said as she leapt from the shoulder of the knightmare, landing on the silo soundlessly. Behind her, another figure followed—a man with shoulder-length purple hair and an eyepatch—a person no less illustrious.
"—and this is Bismark," Marianne said, immediately cutting off the little bursts of shocked whispers that came out of the group of Cadets. Nobody in the Cadets would have simply referred to the Knight of One, the most powerful of the Emperor's handpicked Knights of Rounds as "Bismark."
"These," she continued as she gestured at the mechas, "are the Glasgow Knightmare Frames. They will be our new weapons in our next war."
Next war? With the Britannian Intervention in Indochina—no, Area 10 just completed, most Britannians were looking forwards to peace. And yet the Empress was speaking of war.
"These Glasgows are going to have to prove to the world that they are a weapon that is to be feared. They must be fearless, agile, confident, strong."
Monica was starting to realize what was going on as Marianne continued. "And they will need pilots who are equally fearless. Equally agile. Equally confident. Equally strong."
And then Monica froze. The Empress was looking straight at her—no, simply at the unit of cadets. Yet, she felt herself wilt under the Empress's gaze.
"You men and women shall be fearless, as the Celts were against the Romans."
The burst of frantic whispering died away.
"You men and women shall be agile, as our archers laid low the Knights of France."
All eyes locked onto the Empress' gaze.
"You men and women shall be confident, as our sailors were against Spain's 'Invincible Armada'."
Monica felt a tremor shake her body.
"You men and women shall be strong, as our marines were on a thousand islands in the Pacific."
Monica could feel her heart beating against her chest.
"You men and women shall be Britannia. Are you men with me?"
And in that moment, Imperial Knightmare Corps Cadet Monica Kruszewski could feel her own tinny voice join in the chorus as she bellowed "Yes, your Highness" at the top of her lungs.
"…Target in sight."
The female voice echoed in Emiya Kiritsugu's headphones.
"I see him."
Emiya Kiritsugu moved like a machine, tracking the man through the scope of his Walther WA2000.
Lord Miles mac Ailella.
Aged 43, born in Dublin, Republic of Ireland.
A magus of the Prague Association the main branch of European Magus known for his ties with Boston's Clock Tower, the "capital" of the Britannian Magus Association. Formerly a strong ally of the Alchemical house of Von Einzburn.
Yet, the man had leaked information on the Grail War to Clock Tower.
He would endanger Kiritsugu's mission to Fuyuki.
And so it would be Kiritsugu's duty to eliminate the man.
"Sir, please stand back."
"Of course, Maire." Lord Miles mac Ailella stood back as his bodyguard, Maire stepped forwards. The half-selkie shook back her perennially wet hair as she stepped forwards.
Miles sighed. He probably shouldn't have hired Maire—selkies were known for their skills of seduction, and Maire seemed to have inherited it from her father.
Then again, the woman would break his arm if he tried.
"Nope, no traces of prana here."
Maire was the ultimate butler—a former Enforcer from the association, before a venture in the Puntland had gotten her a flechette in the knee, her combat skill equaled Miles' skill in politics. No ordinary magus could match a half-spirit.
Maire glanced at the driver suspiciously before sitting in the front seat as Miles sat in the back.
"Some Mendelsohn, please," he requested of the driver, who complied with a touch of reluctance.
Kiritsugu emotionlessly followed the car with his scope. As expected, the magus had only been alert for attacks via magecraft—and while magecraft could do far more damage than the explosive strapped underneath the seat, the magus' bodyguard hadn't checked. To a magus, who could put up a shield that could resist an anti-tank shell in a few seconds, the only real danger was another magus. They would be waiting for a long-winded spell or at least an influx of prana before an explosion, when a bullet would suffice.
Kiritsugu quietly took a drag on his cigarette. The driver would probably die in the explosion—an innocent by any means. But it would come at a fraction of the cost of the lives that Britannia could take with Miles' information.
The female voice of his assistant, Maiya Hisau, echoed in his head. "Detonating in five."
And then, with a gout of flame, the limousine burst into smoke and flames.
Charles zi Britannia closed his eyes as he heard the dull whump of the explosion.
He glanced at the boy with foot-length blonde hair. "Brother, should we have just let him get away with that?"
V.V. shrugged. "I would have sent Rollo if he didn't. He knows too much."
"The Holy Grail War … can it really be our weapon against our gods?"
"This is Japan Airlines Flight 224 from Las Vegas to Hiroshima. It is now 6:43 PM in Las Vegas and 11:43 PM in Hiroshima. Please refrain from using electronic devices while on board."
Tohsaka Tokiomi leaned back as he basked in the reflected sunlight of the clouds.
The First Class seat absorbed him like a sponge. For all its crudeness, commercial airplanes had their amenities.
"Drinks, sir?"
"Tea will be fine."
Tohsaka smiled graciously at the stewardess. He was in a good mood. In a few hours, he would be home with his loving wife and two—no, one, daughter. And he had found what he was looking for.
Carefully, he opened the small metal case in his hands.
The hiss of the gases that preserved its contents came unexpectedly, a slightly unwelcome reminder of the Church's use of technology when it deemed it necessary.
Surrounded by bulletproof glass and nestled on a bed of velvet was an old, crinkly affair—an old snakeskin, preserved beyond its years.
Silly to think such a humble-looking thing would be the catalyst.
With a smile, Tokiomi closed his eyes, condescending to using the airline's noise-cancelling earphones. Hundreds of years of work by the Tohsaka would be completed under him.
After all, with the King of Heroes as his servant, how could he lose?
AN: So, what did you think? Mr. Sparkles is a good friend of mine, and it was the least I could do to give his idea a boost here. Before anything else, I'd like to thank Mr. Sparkles for all of his efforts, without which this fic would have never existed.
Fate/Zero Eos is a parallel to F/SN's Fate/Zero. Mr. Sparkles is willing to write this in full, if there's enough interest in the pilot. It's completely sanctioned/approved by me, and I wish the best for Mr. Sparkles in his endeavors with the prequel to Fate/Nightmare Apatheia. I may put up a poll to see how many people are interested in this. I know I haven't been too pushy about reviews, but now, more than ever, reviews are crucial to the expansion of the F/NA universe. I've given you a taste of what could be. All I ask is for your input on what you think.
To clarify, while F/NA is under construction by yours truly, F/ZE will be written at the same time by Mr. Sparkles.
And now, for responses to reviews.
Fangking2: Rin has summoned Archer. After all, he's way too badass to simply let go, hm?
HopelessRomanticist: I'm glad this story updated too. A note to the Cornelia fans: I like Cornelia. I really do. But … I didn't think Clovis should have been the one to die, this time around. In this version of the CG universe, Clovis is a bit smarter, in that he can recognize when he needs to pull out and let someone more capable to handle the job. In canon, the entire reason why he chose to become Viceroy of Area Eleven was out of respect for Lelouch and Nunnally. He's smart enough to realize that with the Grail War starting up, and an Immortal on the loose, he's out of his league. So he calls Cornelia, and the rest is history. I do apologize if it seemed abrupt, but Cornelia's death is a path I'd like to explore, especially with respect to Euphemia.
Lycosyncer: Thanks, it was difficult to write up such an epic battle. I hope you'll bear with me as the next chapter is being written, since I'll guarantee that there will be plenty of character exposures and development between Shirou, Saber, Lelouch, and C.C.. Concerning the media, Diethard will have a field day. Heh, heh, heh.
reality deviant: Erm. The Power of Kings can only be resisted by Immortals. I'll keep your request in mind, but currently, no Servant, Master, or any being who was or is human can resist the power of Geass, except those who hold the Code.
Aiur: I did PM you, but for the benefit of the audience, I'll say some things:
Rin and Suzaku … I didn't want their relationship to mimic any of the paths that Rin and Shirou had in Fate, UBW, or Heaven's Feel. However, the characterization of Suzaku, as different as it may seem from the original, isn't all too off from Shirou's ideals, and is actually going to be quite close to his canon characterization, just interpreted differently.
I love your critiques. Hey, if anyone wants to join in on productive, constructive, useful critiques, I'll welcome them with open arms as well.
sephiroth12285: Good day, neighbor! I am quite sorry about not releasing anything directly relevant to the previous chapter. It's tough, being in college. I just hope that these tantalizing tidbits were enough to convince you that it's going to be worth the wait.
Angry Santo: Curses, curses, a pox on Reality. Curses, curses indeed!
EVA-Saiyajin: So. Currently, the most problematic review of them all. *glares angrily.
I'm just joshing. I'm sorry that I disappointed you, but I have to say that your disappointment is a little unfounded. Noble Phantasms may be above technology, but only in the categories where technology and said Phantasm's roles cross. It would be a rare Hadron Cannon that could best Excalibur, for example. However, just because a Noble Phantasm is noble and powerful from the spirit's legend does not mean it will instantly trump anything other than another Servant's Noble Phantasm.
The Invisible Air still moves with air currents, and if there is a power (i.e. Gate of Babylon, a nuclear missile, etc.) that has a higher power level than the Invisible Air, it will be forced to give way. MASERs are incredibly "powerful" in that respect. High frequency vibrations (at 10^6 Hz, for example), even with low amplitudes (such as 10^-3 m), will transfer energy on the magnitude of 10^6 J, or megajoules. Now, if Noble Phantasms can beat that sort of physics, then this story would go down the tubes, filled with Gilgamesh running around shouting "Mongrels!" and shooting his Gate of Babylon at everything to block attacks and kill his enemies. I did not want the fight to be one-sided, and indeed, the damage done to the Lancelot will have surprisingly dangerous consequences for Lloyd.
I do apologize if I seemed harsh. I just wanted to clarify how physics and Servants interact.
And I think that's it. I'll try to update the newest chapter next week, but odds are, I'll be updating on a monthly basis until spring break. Thank you, kind readers. Don't forget to review, because this time … *dramatic drumroll* … your reviews now count more than ever. You will decide the Fate of Fate/Zero Eos, and you will decide whether it will Stay, or whether it will vanish into the Night. Read and gaze upon the art provided, with the links relisted below:
Knight of Heroes and Demon of the Root http:/ heavyvalor. deviantart. com/ gallery /#/ d4oj62m
The Sword and the Grail: Ascension http:/ heavyvalor. deviantart. com/ gallery/ #/ d4oj0wf
The Sword and the Grail: Expansion http:/ heavyvalor. deviantart. com/ gallery/ #/ d4oj19t
The Sword and the Grail: Obsession http:/ heavyvalor. deviantart. com/ gallery/ #/ d4oj1j4
The Four Cadets http:/ heavyvalor. deviantart. com/ gallery/ #/ d4oj3ph
Thank you.