009 - Twisted Mirror, Twisted Reflections
Archer of Black
The interlopers are moving out. He notices them as soon as they leave their safe haven, far before they come into range. Sharp eyes that let him count the number of ants running on a wall on the other side of the city, far beyond the actual reach of his arrows. That's the extent of his [Clairvoyance], both a blessing and a curse for an archer like him.
For days now, he's bore witness to the three Master-Servant pairs coming and going around the burning city, always taking good care of staying clear from his reach. He was watching when they struck down Caster, he was watching when they did… whatever it is they did to Lancer.
At first, Saber had assumed they were the Chaldeans, but their identities… Archer shakes his head, clearing it of unpleasant thoughts. It matters not, in the end, things will play out as they must play, as they have made sure they will. The interlopers were good enough to force Saber into the defensive, simply to ensure they would last long enough to see the final day, but that was all it amounted to.
That day is obviously here, now. The interlopers are making a beeline towards the bridge instead of scurrying around like rats, and there are new faces amongst them. Faces that make Archer's body tense with wariness and anticipation in equal parts. Of course, at this point, new interlopers could mean anything at all. But that shield…
There cannot be any doubt about it. These are the Chaldeans. The Grand Order has started, the time is nigh.
A black bow manifests on his hand, a weapon without any myth or legend associated except for being the bow that 'a certain foolish man favored for archery'. Simple and functional, without any extra bells or whistles. Just a good bow that lends well to reinforcement. Archer's real weapons have always been his arrowsswords, anyway.
Taking a textbook kyudou firing stance, Archer pulls on his bow and keeps it there, his whole body tense as his eyes remain locked into the interlopers. Waiting not for the moment when they'll step into range, but for the moment when his attack will reach them the moment they step into range.
The arrowsswords themselves don't come into existence until the very moment they need to be fired, five relatively weak projectiles designed mostly for reach and payload delivery fly in an arc as an initial, prodding salvo. There's no way this will be enough to deal with them, but how they choose to react will give him a good idea on how to act next.
And indeed, their reaction makes him frown, for they barely break their pace at all. The known interlopers keep on walking on without even acknowledging his attack, while the newcomer with that shield jumps ahead to intercept on her lonesome.
So they're not sending their Servants ahead to try and engage him… That's a shame. Assassin is lurking nearby, ready to strike down the masters at the slightest opportunity, but an opening needs to exist in the first place. Three Servants holding defensive positions leave little room for even a legendary killer to sneak a decapitating strike in.
Before the first volley makes contact, Archer is already preparing his next one. It'll be composed of a main power shot to demand the shielder's attention while various trick arrowsswords try to slip around the shield while she's busy.
Maybe it's because he's busy designing plans and counter plans in his mind, trying to anticipate his opponents' next moves and having various answers prepared for different scenarios. Maybe it's because his eyes refuse to linger on the second newcomer. But he doesn't register the danger until it slams straight into his soul, making his Reality Marble shudder.
A sword that's not a sword, a memory that never was, an imitation without model. A flickering view of an alien world, reflected on a world made of mirrors. A sword that's just a dream, and has never been more than a dream.
Eyes that have seen over a thousand blades try to process what they're seeing. A soul made of fire and steel strains to make sense of the impossible. Little progress is made as a life born of swords struggles to understand a dream made into a sword.
[̸̬̥͛̚R̸̬͘o̶͉͒ͅȗ̷͔ḱ̵̻̈á̷̭ņ̶͌k̶̢̃e̴̯̤͋͊n̴̖̈́̃]̵̖̑Ẁ̵̥ǎ̶͎͖t̷͇̩̃̈́c̶̡̣̾h̵͈̿̔t̸̛͚͌ó̸͝ͅw̵̘͛̓ę̴͔̉͛r̷̛̜ ̴̼̽S̸͕̤̐w̴̡̎̔͜ö̶̯́ṙ̵͍͝d̸͇̃̕ ̴̗̒̒ͅ
And then, golden eyes meet golden eyes and he knows he's run out of time.
"[Hell Realm Sword - 200 Yojana in One Slash]"
There's barely any time to drop the bow and project his favored twinned swords before he finds himself locking blades with the unsettling girl, Kansho and Bakuya held in a cross guard to hold back the strange odachi, the distance between them devoured in a heartbeat.
The moment stretches forever as Archer finally forces himself to properly study his opponent. A young girl of red -painfully familiar red- hair and golden -unsettlingly familiar golden- eyes, looking down at him with a confident grin on her lips. And then, Archer notices something else and hurriedly kicks the girl away.
His opponent rolls with the blow, barely taking any damage, but it's enough to break the lock and give him a moment to examine his blades. The spot where they crossed to meet the dream odachi, right where they should've been at their strongest, there's a small indentation. He arches an eyebrow towards the girl.
"The things this Roukanken blade, forged by youkai, cannot cut…" The girl taunts without losing her smirk. "Are close to none!"
He huffs at the empty boasting, dropping the chipped blades and letting them fade into golden motes before reaching the ground, leaving his hands free to wield a freshly-projected replacement. The smug expression forming on his face immediately disappears when the girl imitates his actions, letting her own blade fade away to project a new one too.
A different one at that, an ominous-looking rapier that makes him think of mausoleums and graveyards and looks right at home in this doomed singularity.
[̸̰̠͊̿̎͜Z̷̡̫̠͆̕o̵͔̳̣̮̻̅̓̀ḷ̷̀̋͛̓f̴̡̥̪͇̄y̸̧̜̙̻̖͒̒̀͆̾]̶̥̞͖͆̌͂́F̶̠̝̾ú̴̹̣̉̚͝n̶̟̝̦̲̏͒̈̀ȩ̷͇̤͚̬̿̊͠ṛ̸̻͔͈̐̀̕a̵̞̿ĺ̵̝̪͈̦̃́̕ͅ ̶͍̏B̴̧͍̥̭̎̂l̵̝͚̰̲͑̌̒̚͜a̶̮̹͚͓͊̆d̴͎̳̤͍̣̆̃̕ẻ̷̡̏̊
Another dream trying to pass off as a sword, the counterfeit of a counterfeit, the fake of a fake. Even as Archer's frown deepens, he can't help but appreciate the irony of it all with that small corner of his mind still capable of such.
"Who are you?"
"I'm you, but better."
It's only the faint echoes he's getting from the disturbing dream-rapier that make him drop his blades again, his long experience with life or death situations making the hair on the back of his neck stand to an end as he hurries to project something different to meet the girl's charge.
"[AscalonThe Sacred Sword by which Force is Slain]"
The imitation of a sword that can defend the wielder from all harm clashes against the dream of a sword that kills without fail and both of them explode in a shower of sparks, fake replicas incapable of enduring the strain of their clashing natures. But that's only the beginning of their duel.
New swords get projected as the two combatants meet each other for real and their duel starts in earnest. Blades are created, swung and discarded at great speed as each of them tries to eke out a solid advantage against the other. Exotic effects are countered by exotic effects, raw power is countered by raw power and the two of them continue their maddened dance of fakes and dreams until Archer can feel a throbbing headache settle at the back of his head.
He should… He shouldn't ignore the interlopers like this, not when they are slowly making their way towards his position while he's distracted. He should disengage from this (infuriating) girl and focus on his actual goals. It would be as simple as breaking off, forcing the (infuriating) girl into a merry chase around the whole city while he takes potshots at their main group.
And yet… he can't bring himself to do that. To step away from this fight, to face this situation in any way other than head on. What's more, there's something in the girl's fighting style, in how she chooses to approach him every time they clash…
"How are you…" He trails off, a hint of frustration in his voice as a flaming sword clashes against a water blade, creating a curtain of steam as the both of them cancel each other out.
"... Predicting your moves? Because they're predictable." The (infuriating) girl finishes the question for him, stepping through the steam cloud with a smug smile on her lips and an fucking lightsaber in each hand. "You are used to fighting doomed battles against those stronger than yourself, aren't you?"
"To bait the better, more skilled opponents with intentional holes in my form." Archer grunts, unsure of why he's speaking out at all but seeing no point in hiding it anyway. "Using my own body as the bait to force them into becoming predictable."
"That's some commitment." She comments idly. "I guess I can see how I could've grown into someone like you. Had things been any different."
"What do you…" Archer finds himself muttering in incredulity. Not because he doesn't know what she means, but because he never expected (his younger self) her to actually acknowledge it without being forced to. Had things been different, indeed. "What happened?"
"Dad happened." She explains nonchalantly, charged ahead once again. "Or rather, Dad didn't happen quick enough."
Archer isn't so incompetent that the shock of these words keep him from repelling the attack, deflecting the lightsabers with his own blades and smashing his forehead against her face to force some space. But they shake him all the same.
"The fire…?"
"By the time Dad found me…" (His younger self) The girl tells him, taking her time poking at a bloody lip before throwing the lightsabers away. "My emptiness had already been painted over."
Archer tenses again, warily noting how a new weapon has failed to come to his younger self's her hands. Something big is coming, he can see it.
"Avalon arrived too late." He easily figures out her meaning. She's talking about his past, after all. "You weren't in the right state for it to rewrite your element anymore."
"Watch and learn." (his younger self) The girl whispers in lieu of an answer. If anything, the confident smirk on her face grows sharper. "I love my Nii-san very much…"
They're not the same words he was half expecting, but Archer knows a magus' trigger when he sees one. Something special is coming next, so he answers in kind.
"Trace on."
A big move always means an opening for a counterattack, if one but knows how to react properly. That's a personal creed that has seen Archer through many battles, oftentimes allowing him to surpass opponents he had no business besting. He only needs to figure out what's coming fast enough to counter in time and he has the advantage there.
Since (his younger self) the girl can't use her magecraft without triggering his own [Unlimited Blade Works], catching him by surprise is virtually imp—
The next move is much faster than anything shown so far, except from that first charge that forced this whole engagement. Just a hint of something red and crystal-like being Projected without even registering on his Reality Marble and, the next thing he knows, (his younger self) she's standing in front of him and there's a gigantic robotic arm hovering over his head, keeping him encased inside some sort of spheric purple field that prevents him from moving an inch.
"[Haste Rune]" The words of (his younger self) the girl don't hit him until after he's been caught. "[Auxiliary Robot Arm Unit]"
His eyes didn't miss any of this, of course, but that doesn't mean he had the means to do anything about it. Servant or not, [Clairvoyance] or not, there's a limit to how quickly he can react. Especially when there was no killing intent behind the move to trigger his survival instincts, especially when… He's been tricked into relying in an unreliable sense and making plans based on faulty assumptions.
He could have reacted in time if this attack had been like all the others. Even the faulty feedback from his Reality Marble would've been enough to discern the intent behind (his younger self) the infuriating girl's actions. But there was no feedback at all, because whatever she just did…
"Those aren't swords!"
"Whoever said I can only use swords?" She hums innocently, rubbing her chin as she takes a step closer, leaving them practically. "Nii-san's dreams became my dreams, they're what colors my world."
Ah… so that's how it is. Her world is not made out of swords. Their divergence started that far ago.
"What are you, girl?" He asks again. Can they truly relate in any way and form, his weary self and this younger one? Is there anything for him to entrust to her? For him to resent her for? For him to warn her about? "What hell are you walking into?"
"Hell? Oh, no. Nothing of that. I tried walking into hell once, Nii-san took exception." His younger self reminisces with a vacant smile. He uses the distraction to test his bindings, but they don't give in the slightest, "About who I am… that's harder to answer, isn't it? I'm a Chaldean, the last Master of Humanity, entrusted with the task of restoring Proper Human History. I am a humble follower of Demon Lord Re'em, content and satisfied with spreading his message through the ages."
Ah… He doesn't even understand half of what she's talking about. As expected, they are too different to be called the same person. Is this how Kiritsugu felt, trying to connect with a new generation?
"But as far as what I am to you is concerned…"
The vacant, reminiscent smile turns back into the confident smirk from before. Lifting both hands in front of herself. One is held at neck height with the palm aimed downwards, the other one is held at navel height with the palm aimed upwards, as if she was holding something. What's a frankly ludicrous amount of prana for a simple living human to handle is thrown into a single Projection without seemingly thought or care.
The magic condenses between her hands, taking the shape of a round jewel the size of her own head. Red and black, reminiscent of an eyeball with a slitted pupil, it tickles the back of Archer's head. Not out of any sense of familiarity, but simply due to the sheer danger that thing represents. That's the same power that once scarred Japan all the way down to its soul. That's the same power that once killed him.
"[I. Am. Atomic]"
He can feel it, the energy contained inside that sphere swirling, stirring and awakening in a chain reaction that turns energy into more energy. The process continues as the eye starts glowing and heating up, until it becomes blindingly white, until the energy cannot be contained into a single object anymore.
So it gets released, in the form of an all-cleansing light.
Archer's last thoughts are of bitter acceptance. About being defeated without a chance to achieve anything beyond playing his role. About being used as a sharpening tool for a younger, brighter and possibly yandere female version of himself.
But, then again… What else is new for Alaya's favorite chew toy?
"I leave the rest to you… Saber."
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