Alliance of Convenience

Smiling all the while, Roman brought his cane crashing down between the younger priest's eyes. The heavy wood landed with a crack, staggering the young man before he toppled unconscious to the ground. Candles and melting wax flew across the bizarre drawing on the floor, scattered by the falling body, fetching up against the side of the table.

The sound of metal on metal hit Roman's ears. On instinct, the thief leapt back, just in time for the elder priest's dagger to slice harmlessly through the air. Stepping over his fallen ally, the older man kept coming, slashing wildly at the black-clothed thief. Ducking under the man's swing, Roman flipped his cane end-over-end, catching the rubber bottom. When the priest slashed again, Roman was ready – the handle of his walking stick caught the other man's wrist, wrenching it up and around before slamming the butt up into the heavyset man's nose.

The knife clattered to the floor as the priest stumbled back. Howling in pain, the man clutched his hands over his face, trying to stem the tide streaming from his broken nose. Hooking one leg with the cane, Roman yanked hard, knocking the man off his feet. He fell to the ground with a thud, blood spurting between his fingers.

"Witch!" the corpulent priest managed, his words slurred behind his hands and the busted nose. "I order you t-"

A swift kick to the ribs cut off whatever he'd been about to say. The man jerked back, hands going from his bleeding nose to his busted gut. Flipping him over with his boot, Roman ground the tip of his cane against the man's throat, pressing just hard enough to cut off his air.

"Ah ah ah. No talking," the thief said, wagging his finger at the gasping priest. Keeping the cane pressed down, Roman turned to the dark figure. As he watched, the woman rose to her feet and smoothed the lines of her dress. It was midnight black, with a cloak that served to give the billowing look the thief had noticed. Beneath was a tight silk gown, as deep a black but molded to her form, with a plunging neckline that left little of the woman's charms to the imagination.

"Now," Roman drawled. "I believe someone owes me a cup of debatable divinity?"

The woman spared Roman a look, her uncovered eye gleaming like molten fire in the dimly-lit room.

"Not quite yet," she said, her voice a low purr that promised quick and violent retribution for the men who had imprisoned her. "Not while he still lives."

Roman rolled his eyes, letting up on the cane just enough for the man to breathe. "Fine. Kill him, rip out his heart, grind up an eye of newt – whatever you need to do – and let's get moving."

"Unfortunately for both of us, I can't touch him." The woman moved to stand by Roman's side, staring down at the suffocating father in complete disgust. "Not as long as he has that seal."

Following the woman's gaze, Roman looked down at the gasping man. There, on his right hand, was a set of red-inked lines. Two of them had the look of a day-old ink stamp, faded and dull against the one last vibrant slash mark on his skin.

"Right. I'll call a doctor. Maybe they can get us an appointment tomorrow to have it lasered off."

"Don't get cute," she said, looking at him with the perplexed expression of someone having to explain something perfectly obvious. "You can either slit his throat with the knife he was so kind to bring you, or cut off his hand and let me do the honors."

"... really?"

"Of course. Frankly, I would prefer the second option," she purred. "He and his pet had me down here for weeks."

Roman cocked an eyebrow and looked back at the priest. The rotund father stared back, a mixture of fear, rage, and – of course – blood on his face. Flipping the cane end-over-end, Torchwick caught the rubber-capped bottom, letting the heavy handle whistle as it swung through the air. It had a nice weight to it, which was why he'd bought it in the first place. A good, solid, wooden handle, heavy and hard enough to crack a skull with ease.

There was just a hint of guilt as Roman raised the cane above his head. The last vestige of his Catholic upbringing. One he wouldn't miss.

"No hard feelings," Roman said with a smile.

"Are you sure that was the best idea?"

"What exactly was I supposed to do?" Weiss snapped, glowering over at the red-clad figure lounging against the wall.

Thankfully, Archer had kept her silence during the long trek back to the Schnee mansion. But now that the two were safe behind the wards and defenses surrounding the house, apparently it was time to discuss her tactical decisions.

"Blake and I were both injured after dealing with Assassin. It made better sense to wait to attack until after I'd had time to recover."

Dropping her bag to the floor, the white-haired girl let herself collapse onto the sofa. She winced as she landed, her shoulder still tender after slamming into the ground to avoid Assassin's attack. Her feet ached from traipsing around the city, and a steady throbbing was starting to develop behind her right eye.

Gritting her teeth, Weiss was halfway to digging herself out of the sofa when something flew towards her face. Jerking back, she caught it out of reflex, her heart pounding after one more shock in a day full of them. Looking more closely at the object, she found herself holding a small, laminated cardboard box, store-brand name printed in big block letters above the words 'Pain Relief.' Putting it aside, she glanced up to find a glass of water in Archer's outstretched hand.

Giving the suddenly helpful servant a suspicious glare, Weiss popped the pills from their packaging, knocked back half the glass, and swallowed. Archer took the box of pills and the empty glass and headed back to the kitchen, leaving Weiss to massage her aching temples. When the servant returned, she leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, red eyes staring intently at the young magus.

"What?" Weiss asked, tired and definitely not in the mood for a sulking servant.

"At the moment, we are only aware of two other combatants in the Grail War." Archer growled from behind her mask. "Namely Assassin, whose master seems content to send her out after enemy servants from afar, and a Berserker with the weakest example of Mad Enhancement I've ever seen."

"Your point?"

"As far as I could tell, her abilities don't seem to be anything particularly impressive."

Weiss frowned. The mainstay of the Berserker class, Mad Enhancement, was a component of the summoning spell that sacrificed sanity for strength, giving the servant a boost to all their abilities in exchange for their mind. Some cases were more drastic than others, trying to get as much strength as possible from a weaker servant, but she'd never heard of one being summoned with a rank this low. Most Berserkers were barely capable of conscious thought, much less stringing more than two words together.

More importantly, Assassin was well-known among magi as one of the weakest servants – better for attacking enemy masters than their heroes – and a normal Berserker should be capable of squashing any assassin within minutes. If this Berserker couldn't even stand up to her ...

"Perhaps, but without some knowledge of her Noble Phantasms, or her real identity, it's better to be cautious about confronting her."

"Speaking of identity," Weiss growled, scowling over at the red-and-black clad servant leaning against the wall, "I don't suppose any of your memory has come back?"

Archer shifted her weight under the intensity of Weiss' stare, weight shifting to her other leg as she fiddled with the hilt of her sword.

"Nothing. My best guess is that it's a side effect of my botched summoning."

Weiss grimaced and closed her eyes. Wonderful. Another reprimand.

"But I remember her."

"Who? Berserker?" Weiss asked, brows raising in surprise when Archer nodded. "You must have known her in life, then."

"Do I look like a Viking to you?"

Weiss had to admit, the dark armor and kimono-looking jacket were about as far from her idea of a 'Viking' as it was possible to get. Not to mention the cylinder of rotating blades for Archer's nodachi.

Still, it was the only possibility. Servants were reflections of original heroic legends, created by the Grail ritual for the sake of the Holy Grail War. They weren't the heroes made flesh, just magical constructs capable of immense power. And when a war ended, they faded away. Even if Archer and Berserker had both fought in a previous war, they wouldn't have any memory of it. The Archer from that time would be nothing more than another copy.

Sighing, she ran her hand through her hair, rubbing briefly at a tension headache that started to build behind her eyes. One of the bigger problems with the Grail was that summoned heroic spirits were influenced by the way their legend was remembered. Whether it was a side effect of the popular version of the myth, or an intentional trick to try and hide the identities of the more famous Servants, it made it almost impossible at times to guess the identity of an individual Servant.

"What was your second concern?"

Archer stared at her for a long moment. "You called her 'Blake.'"

"... so?"

"I didn't know you were on a first name basis."

"We go to the same school. I've seen her around. That's all."

"Right," Archer sighed, pushing off the wall as she dematerialized. "And your shock at seeing her was definitely just the reaction of a distant classmate."

The dark-haired woman sagged against the wall as the last breath left the priest's body. Roman cocked an eyebrow as she stumbled, catching herself on the stone with one hand when her knees shook.

"Give me your hand," she growled, silk-covered palm outstretched.

Roman gave the woman a wary look. "Considering what you did to the last guy with a hand you didn't like-"

"Without sufficient mana of my own, or a constant supply, I won't be able to stay in this world for very long." Pushing herself off the wall, she managed to come to her full height, despite the occasional shake. "So, if you want to have any chance of finding the Grail, I suggest you give me your hand."

Roman weighed his options, then grudgingly took the woman's hand. This whole fake-magic and superstition business wasn't really his scene. He'd put up with a few rumors here or there if it bumped up a price, but ... Well, whatever ridiculous ritual she was trying to do, it would be worth it if it got him the Grail. And if she tried anything, he still had the dagger.

"Repeat after me," she said, eyes closed. "Let silver and steel be the essence. Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation."

"Seriously?"

"... if that's too difficult for you, I can always use the short version."

"Just get this over with."

Sighing, the woman flicked some of the hair out of her face, then began to speak.

"Submit to the beckoning of the Holy Grail.

Answer, if you would submit to this will and this truth."

Roman followed along, trying not to laugh of the sheer ridiculousness of the whole thing. Him, holding some witch-woman's hand in a crypt, standing above one unconscious man and one corpse, with a sacrificial dagger in his other hand.

It had been a weird night.

"An oath shall be sworn here.

Let it be decided; your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your sword.

So swear to me!"

Torchwick suppressed a shiver as he finished the last few lines. For a crypt, the place was surprisingly drafty, the air stirring and making the candles flicker wildly. The longer they were down there, the longer she spoke, the more air swept into the tomb from the graveyard outside.

"I accept your oath."

As soon as the words left her mouth, fire lanced across Roman's skin. He yanked his hand away, snarling as he put the point of the dagger between them. Sparing a glance for his hand, Roman watched as red lines etched themselves onto the skin beneath his knuckles, extending up to just past his wrist.

"Neat trick," he growled, once the lines had stopped growing. The searing pain vanished too, leaving only a dull ache in the skin.

"Don't whine – you sound like a child." Sighing, she walked towards the body of the older priest, stopping as her shoes met the blood slowly pooling from his broken skull. "Now, head back upstairs. We've already tarried here too long."

Great, five seconds in and she's giving me orders. She had a point though – the place was a crime scene now, and the faster they got out of there the better. Moving over to the stairwell, Roman looked back over his shoulder.

"You coming?"

The woman's lips twisted in a smile that didn't quite touch her eyes.

"I will be right behind you."

Shrugging, Roman climbed back up the stairs, looking over his shoulder in case this psycho decided he was the next person she wanted dead.

The dagger in the back he was waiting for never came. After a minute, he was back in the cool night air, free of the candle smoke and the stench of cheap incense. Taking a breath, he turned to look at the darkened church, the night sky star-lit behind it.

The sound of heeled shoes on stone echoed up the stairwell. The woman in the black dress was climbing the steps, her long skirt gathered up in one hand and showing off a good deal of leg. The stench of burning flesh followed her, carried by tendrils of smoke rising from the depths of the mausoleum.

In no hurry whatsoever, the woman stepped through the door to the crypt, then closed the double doors behind her.

"Well, at least they won't find the bodies," Roman drawled, knowing the smell of a pending arson conviction.

"No," she said, and Roman swore he heard barely restrained fury in her voice. "No, they will not."

Black skirts whirling, she turned to face him. "Your name," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Torchwick." Not the best alias he had, but it would do. "You?"

"Caster."

Well, fair's fair, he supposed.

"Okay 'Caster,'" he said, not entirely able to keep the ridicule from his voice. "Where's my mystical drinking cup?"

"... do you really doubt the existence of magic, Torchwick?" "

"I'm a little too old to believe in fairy stories about a magic cup." Hell, he'd been old enough to realize the idiocy and self-aggrandizing behind the church when he was five. "But I'm more than happy to let someone who does believe in that nonsense pay me a disturbing amount of money for it."

"Then this should not surprise you in the least."

Not bothering to look away, Caster raised her hand. With a flash, fire lanced from her fingertips towards the old church, arcing and spreading until it slammed into the side of the old building. The dry wood with peeling paint caught instantly, flames crackling as they crawled up onto the shingled roof. Within seconds the whole building was ablaze, half the roof collapsing in as the fires ate through the support beams.

"Come," she said softly, dusting off her hands. "We have quite a lot of work to do."

Writer's Note: Since it's come up a couple of times, the reason that Pyrrha is Rider is that Achilles (who Pyrrha is based on) shows up as a servant in Fate Apocrypha (It's not really a spoiler - the narration tells the reader the servants' identities almost immediately).

As for the rest, Blake is a mix of Shirou (relationship with Adam/Kiritsugu) and Maya (training and combat skill) from Zero. Jaune takes the Shirou traits that Blake doesn't (hopeless idealism, occasional idiotic chivalry) and mixes them with Shinji's place in the story and El-Melloi's pact.