Once, Gods had roamed the earth.
Like the dinosaurs of old, they existed at the apex, manifestations of nature itself, in some cases as machines, ruling the Earth and its civilizations for millennia.
And like dinosaurs, their time eventually came to an end.
Sefar – the White Titan – arrived, razing the earth, making no distinction between plant, animal, man, or God. Only upon the forging and usage of the Holy Sword, Excalibur, was the Titan repelled, was the destruction ceased. Life on Earth – beaten and bruised, but alive – continued, carrying upon their backs time that continued to allow it to be measured, the years bleeding into centuries into millenia.
The White Titan was a harbinger, an albatross that signalled that the time for Gods to honor themselves would soon come to an end. Of what benefit was there to gain from worshipping them when it was clear from Sefar that they could bleed? That they could die? That they were not all-powerful and perhaps just as fallible as you and I?
As a result, their influence and power declined, and several thousands of years later their sway and dominance were so debilitated that a certain pantheon saw the writing on the wall: unless something drastic was done, the Age of Gods would come to an end.
He was born as a result of that last resort.
A perfect body. Peerless intellect. Foresight that allowed one to reach the end of truth. He was the wedge of heaven, a means to connect humanity back to the influence of Gods As a being embodying the two different life forms – the best of both worlds – he would serve as the ultimate neutral party, able to discern their respective failings and possessing the authority and influence to set the course of humanity to the course he judged to be right. A course, the pantheon hoped, that would lead to a recrudescence of the Age of Gods.
…
Obviously that didn't work out.
Yes, he took the role of an observer, but he was born with the conclusion already drawn – the Age of Gods was at an end, and there was no use in delaying the inevitable. Sure, the Gods could grumble and protest, dragging their heels as they left, and some could receive the cue to exit – stage left – several centuries late here and there, but it was time for humanity to take center stage.
Of course, the Gods saw fit to punish him, to bring him back on track, but that lump of mud given harlot's form eventually became his only friend, an equal to spend his days with, wedge and chain working in tandem overseeing the city he ruled over, watching as it grew prosperous under his rule, nights spent under the starry skies together.
And then that whore took it all away.
It was too much to hope that they could just go quietly; Gods would be Gods, after all. The seven years of famine and destruction brought forth by the divine bull wasn't enough, no. Determined to receive satisfaction by any means necessary – especially ironic given that the king had seen fit to deny the very thing from her – she demanded that the Gods punish him, that they make him miserable, that they return his friend back into the dirt they were fashioned from.
In grief, and in fresh fear of death, he'd embarked on a journey, a pilgrimage, returning years later not with what he'd searched for, but with enlightenment and a renewed sense of duty. He'd left a child, and returned a man, and as he watched his subjects live their lives to the fullest, overcoming trials and hardships together, he was assured he'd made the correct choice.
One day, at a certain point into the future, he was certain humanity would leave his garden, towards the stars littering at the ends of the great beyond, and find their conclusion therein.
But until then, the world remained in the Age of Man.
Several thousands of years into the Age of Man, Gilgamesh scowled.
Fate was a curious thing, and it saw fit to bring him back as diminished as he was to take part in the Grand Ritual they called the Holy Grail War. That he was but a part to play in the machinations of mere mongrels irked him, but it was of little matter.
It was as that man beside his master had said, after all. The conclusion was foregone with his arrival.
He would win.
Twilight, transitory as it was, loafed lugubriously into nightfall over Fuyuki. Gone were the skies smattered with stars, and what remained twinkled weakly where they hung, and Gilgamesh could only find it an apt metaphor for what he'd observed since his summoning.
Humanity had lost its way.
Yes, they'd achieved flight, and harnessed electricity, and even set foot onto the lunar plane, but all of this should have been done earlier. Where was the motivation to live life to its fullest he'd cultivated amongst his people? When did they lose that drive, and become content to live life one day at a time, subject to the whims and notions of the fanciful and insatiable?
Archer had expected more at this point.
A short, quizzical tug on the connection between him and his master informed him that he would like to know where he was. Every servant had been summoned, and he knew the battle would begin in earnest any moment now.
He did not answer, content to bring himself deeper into the nearby park.
A little way off, a group of children were playing amongst themselves, kicking a ball about, and his gaze softened.
Gilgamesh would not be unfair. Children were allowed to be children. But as he observed their little game from where he stood, he could not help but feel mournful at the worthless lives they'd inevitably lead. His time had passed, that duty had been passed on to another; where was the figure that would give them guidance, to make the most of their lives?
He stood there, arms crossed, contemplative as he considered it all, when the unmistakable stench of smoke assailed his senses.
Frowning, he turned to where it came from, and scowled at what he saw.
A man lounged on a park bench, one leg lazily draped over the other, observing the game with casual interest as he puffed away at a cigarette. Locks of sandy blond hair cascaded past his shoulders, concealing the device that played what the mongrels deemed music. And just like from when they'd first met a few days ago, when he was first summoned, long-buried feelings of vitriol and resentment bubbled over once more.
As if alerted by his dark thoughts, the man noticed him, giving him a lazy wave. "Oh. Small world, Archer." He grinned an ugly smile. "Come, sit with me."
Archer approached, giving a wholly unimpressed glower at the other man.
When it became clear he had no intention of accepting his invitation, Assassin removed his headset, bemused.
"There's no need to get all worked up." He grinned. "The war has not begun in earnest, and you came all the way here, you might as well take a seat. You heard what our masters said, we're meant to be on the same side, after all."
"I do not condescend to bargain." Archer scoffed. "Though fate has brought us together, you are a fool if you think I would sit alongside you as an equal."
Assassin blinked. "There's no need to read too much into it, you know. It's just a seat."
Archer stubbornly remained where he stood, looking away.
The other man sighed. "Suit yourself, this works just as well anyway. For whatever reason, our contractors believed it best for us not to be with each other any more than necessary. Well," Assassin tilted his head, "more your master than mine, but the man's too cautious. Too boring. We're on the same side, after all. The least we could do is get to know one another before things get too hectic."
"That won't be necessary, your assistance and this conversation both." Gilgamesh snapped. "I have gained enough of a measure of you already."
Assassin tsk'd. "So do I, but there's no reason why we can't air things out, as it were. What vexes you, King of Heroes?"
Archer gave him a disgusted look. "If you have to ask, you are more obtuse than I'd imagined."
Though Assassin bore a mongrel's guise and looked like you and me, Gilgamesh wasn't fooled in the slightest. He knew the truth from the moment they first locked eyes upon his summoning.
A God had once again inserted themselves where they weren't needed.
He tilted his head. "As memory serves me, you're still alive somewhere, for a given definition of the word. Rather brazen of you to invite yourself here."
"I am." Assassin agreed easily. "But this is a war, is it not? Who has a better claim for being here observing it than a God of conflict?" He waved him off. "Don't sweat the small details. I might not be a Hassan, but I am the 'heart' of the mountain. That counts."
"You could have 'observed' this farce from where you were without stooping to all this mummery. Resorting to loopholes, fashioning a human body for you to inhibit… no." His eyes narrowed. "You chose to enter this war as a player. What are you planning?"
The man smirked. "Charitable of you to think this is all part of a plan."
"Don't split hairs." Archer barked. "You may be the worst sort of mongrel out there, but a God like you doesn't do things for no reason. What's your motivation, Assassin?"
For a moment, Assassin looked stumped, taking another slow drag of his cigarette as he considered it.
"What's yours, then?" The man finally replied.
"Hm?"
"What's your reason for being here, King of Heroes?"
"What a question." Archer scoffed, gesturing around them. "This ritual takes place within my garden, for a treasure that's ostensibly mine. It's my right to be here as the owner and arbiter of this world."
Assassin blinked.
Then he cackled, throwing his head back in derisive laughter as Gilgamesh's face grew stormier.
"What an answer!" He clapped his hands. "Then my answer stands: it's my right to be here as a God. Nothing more, nothing less."
"What right? That ship has sailed. The Age of Gods is over. This is the Age of Man, as much of a disappointment it's proven to be. You have no real prerogative to be here, mongrel."
Assassin made a face. "Mongrel this, mongrel that. I'd be more offended if you weren't just throwing the word towards anything – man, God, animal, vegetable – that it loses all meaning. Besides, right's got nothing to do with it. We're in a ritual where the dead fight alongside the living for a so-called grand prize. From a certain perspective, as someone 'alive', I have more right to be here than any of you. So chill. Relax. Don't sweat the small details and watch the game with me."
Unamused, Archer did so, just in time to see a sturdy child make a valiant tackle for the ball that caused the two of them to collapse onto wet grass.
"What could a mongrel like you possibly want out of this farce?"
Assassin blinked. "You mean, what would I wish for? Being honest, that isn't really important to me. Some people say the ends justify the means, but I'm the type of God that lives for the means, you know what I mean? The ends don't come around as often as one might think."
In the distance, the two teams argued, as one player cradled a scraped knee.
"Though for the sake of argument, if you were to put a gun to my head," his eyes twinkled behind the amber lens of his glasses, "I'd make soccer the most popular and loved sport of America."
The King of Heroes blinked, looking almost poleaxed as he regarded the servant sitting down. He opened his mouth to question him further before he paused, thought better of it, and simply looked away, shaking his head.
"What?" Assassin egged him on, face smug. "Not curious, Archer?"
"I've learned early on that arguing and seeking reason with a God is a pointless endeavor." Gilgamesh muttered. "I have better things to do."
Assassin made a wordless noise of assent, before reaching under the bench and retrieving a clear, bell-shaped bottle, removing the cork with a flick before holding the bottle out.
"Drink?"
Archer scoffed. "I didn't agree to sit with you. What makes you think I'd go a step further and break bread with you?"
"So you won't sit next to a God. Fine. Let me rephrase that." He shook the bottle a little. "As fellow participants in this merry dance of blood and carnage, have a drink with me. Come on."
Gilgamesh gave the bottle a cursory glance. Wordlessly, he summoned a chalice from his treasury, holding it out as the man poured him a snifter.
"There we go." Assassin raised the bottle. "Should we toast?"
"To what?" Gilgamesh snarked. "Our health?"
"Well, this is a human body I'm currently inhabiting. Health is important, I'm sure you'd agree."
Archer looked between the bottle of liquor the other man held on one hand and the lit cigarette he held in the other, unamused.
"To war, then." Assassin decided. "Be it cruel yet magnificent, or cruel yet squalid."
The clear liquid stank with the sting of paint thinner, but Archer had made his choice, and gave it the barest of sips before he coughed.
"Repulsive!" He spat, angrily whirling upon the other man. "What is that? It tastes like aged cheese and smoke."
"Mezcal." Assassin supplied easily, taking another swig. "An acquired taste, I'll admit. I would have preferred pulque, but they don't seem to sell it here. This was the next best thing, unless you're willing to go into that vaunted treasury of yours–?"
"Don't even think about it." Archer snarled, swirling the liquid in his chalice. "It seems even with drink, humanity can actively find ways to make things worse."
"As they should." The god grinned. "Just like weapons, everything should evolve, don't you think?"
"Humanity is worthless." Archer shot back. "Only their achievements have any real value. If they start to grow lax with even that, then what hope is there for them?"
Assassin blinked. "Those are some mighty strong words coming from the one who ushered us into this new age."
"But you see my point. Humanity has gone complacent in this incorrigibly ugly world, content to live day-by-day, with no hardships and trials to overcome."
"I don't agree."
Gilgamesh blinked, looking oddly disappointed all of a sudden. "And here I'd hoped on this matter we could come to some sort of accord."
"A human is worthless, on that we agree, though not in the way you seem to posit." Assassin took another sip, before setting the bottle down beside him. "This thing we call 'value' isn't inherent to anyone, King of Heroes. It's only at the end of one's life can one's value be realized. Anything before that is just guesswork and estimates."
Archer looked incredulous. "This coming from you? If you really think we can't judge–"
"Oh no, we can judge all we like. Judgment comes from anyone and anywhere, freely given from those with and without the authority for it." He leaned back. "But as it so happens, I love humanity. Even now. Thousands of years have passed, and humans have found increasingly creative ways to kill and wage war with one another. With a gun, anyone could be a warrior and fight their own battles. How could I not approve of that?"
"You'd think so," Gilgamesh shook his head, "but all of these meaningless conflicts merely stifle what humanity was meant to do, to overcome. These mongrels are meant for bigger things, I've seen it. Humanity will eventually leave my gardens and make their way across the starry skies. But seeing what this modern world has to offer, how could I not be disappointed?"
Assassin sighed.
"Take this from someone who's been here longer than you have, King of Heroes." He began. "Progress isn't something to take for granted. It's something that occurs during history, but it's not a tendency of it, if you get my drift."
He pointed at where the children played. "You see them? To those kids, they're living at the end of history, in a time where 'things have already happened'. There's nothing more to do but work towards utopia. But time has never stopped. Just decades ago, this country engaged in glorious warfare, cruel and squalid as it was. The very ground those kids run across was once on fire, set alight by bombs dropped from the skies."
Assassin gave Archer a conspiratorial smirk. "And it'll happen again soon, mark my words. As long as people live, a decisive victory will not truly exist, after all. Where's the harm for humanity to find the time to rest before the next battle in the meantime?"
Archer considered his words.
"I'm not being unfair. Children can be children. But in Uruk, I knew children their age who had already found themselves, or were in the process of doing so." He recounted, placid all of a sudden. "And what are they doing?"
"They're fighting a battle of their own." Assassin supplied easily. "To them, who've never tasted true hardship, who've never seen hell, the outcome of those games they play are as important to them as life and death. Is it so odd to think I'd want to see it through here as well?"
The King of Heroes said nothing, oddly contemplative as they watched the two teams chatter and move into penalty positions.
"Just as well." Assassin took another sip from the bottle. "It wouldn't do for an arbiter like you to lose faith too quickly. You're too harsh on them, is all I'm saying."
"That's rich." At this, Archer whirled around, incensed. "I will not be lectured on the merits of modern humanity from the very mongrel responsible for wiping them out four times."
"Ah. Right, that." Assassin scratched his head, oddly abashed. "But it's not as if I did it out of any sort of enmity towards them, you know. Where there's conflict, there's almost always damage of a collateral nature. Especially amongst my family."
"That's even worse, that you don't care." Gilgamesh snarled. "And you wonder why we moved on from the Age of Gods, away from all your destructive meddling, and why you being here offends me so."
Assassin tilted his head with a moue. "You say that despite being divine yourself."
"There is no one like me, I am above." Archer snapped. "And yet that whore Ishtar saw fit to send Gugalanna against me over a childish spat, uncaring for the seven years of famine it plunged Uruk into as a result. And when that didn't work, she took my friend away from me. How could I not be glad your time was at its end?"
"Your friend… Ah." At this, Assassin perked up. "The chains of heaven. As I understand it, you have it within that vaunted treasury of yours."
He leaned closer.
"Any chance you're willing to trade for it?
Gilgamesh froze.
"I must have misheard." He ground out, voice carefully tranquil. "I could have sworn I heard you imply–"
"I don't misspeak." Assassin smiled, uncaring for the way Archer had turned white. "The chains of heaven. What's your price?"
To hell with it.
"Of all the unmitigated gall!"
Archer whirled around, enraged, portals coalescing all around him—
Bounce
The two paused, watching as a soccer ball rolled lazily between them.
"Oi! Mister!" A boy called, halfway towards them already. "Can you kick it back, please?"
The two servants gave each other a blank look, oddly stumped.
Finally, Assassin stood up, scooping up the ball as he did so and weighing it in his hands.
With a whoop, he dropped it in front of him and kicked, the ball flying in a lopsided arc away from where the children played.
"There you go, kid. Go wild."
The boy watched as it landed on the unoccupied part of the field, mystified, before running off to rejoin his friends, shaking his head.
"I mean no offense." Assassin eventually said, sitting back down. "It's a fine weapon anyone would want in their arsenal, but I see it possesses greater importance to you than it would anyone else. It's fine." He shrugged. "I'm more interested in guns, anyway."
He flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the grass, and was in the process of having another when Archer spoke.
"Pick that up."
Assassin blinked. "What?"
Blood still hot, Gilgamesh crossed his arms. "I won't have you litter my garden any more than necessary. Pick it up."
Assassin glowered. "I've been more than patient with you, Archer. But presuming to command me, now that's a dangerous line to cross."
Archer stepped closer dangerously. "You seem to mistake me for someone who repeats themselves, you mongr—"
CLICK
Fire.
A flame bloomed between them.
Confused, Assassin retracted the pistol he'd whipped out, watching as the little flame danced above the muzzle.
"Shit." He cursed. "And here I thought I got a good deal out of that claw game. I'll have to find a way to get my hands on the real thing. You got lucky, Archer."
Making a show of it, Assassin reached down, retrieving the spent cigarette and placing it within his jacket pocket, and Archer relaxed.
Assassin turned his attention back towards him. "War makes for strange bedfellows, Archer. For better or for worse, our masters want us to work in tandem for this war." He smiled. "From one arbiter to the other, let's get along."
Gilgamesh scowled, but eventually nodded.
He'd said enough tonight.
Slapping his knees, Assassin stood up, bringing the bottle with him as he went.
"Master's calling. I'm heading back. You should, too."
"You seem very willing to heed his instructions."
"Why wouldn't I?" Assassin grinned. "My master's a warrior, physically and mentally! I will show favor to anyone who fights their battles, even yours, even if sticking solely to defense is too bland for my taste. Besides," he looked contemplative, "my master's been at war with himself for as long as he could remember. If I can provide a different perspective, if he can be at peace with himself as a result of it before he succumbs in battle, then I will have succeeded as his servant of this glorious war. It's as simple as it gets, don't you agree?"
Gilgamesh said nothing. Assassin laughed.
"Rejoice, Archer, you might just get your wish at the end of it all."
Gilgamesh blinked. "My wish?"
Assassin smiled, pointing upwards. "Man's first race towards the stars was borne out of a very particular set of circumstances, after all. What drives man to improve themselves, to gain strength? What inspires them? What motivates man above all?"
The sun had finally set, and a wave of darkness seemed to wash across them all. Long fingers removed his glasses and deposited them into his chest pocket, and brilliant blue eyes met red.
Tezcatlipoca smiled.
"War."
And with that, he turned, returning the headset over his ears as he made his way back towards Tokiomi's manor, the King of Heroes watching him leave in silence.
A scoff escaped him that eventually bloomed into a laugh.
Necoc Yáotl.
The Enemy of Both Sides.
He had worried that this farce they called the Holy Grail War would be a foregone conclusion. But with that deity of conflict around to muddy the waters, the war could hardly be a boring one.
Enough, he reflected, that he might just have to get serious at the end of it all.
I've been deliberating on this little plot bunny for quite a while now.
His coming banner finally motivated me to put this on paper (Please come. I want him at NP5. Eventually.)
I don't know if I'll ever continue this – and if I do, it'd be in a series of vignettes of him and the other participants of the 4th Grail War – but this is as good a place as any to end it. Someone once said Tezcatlipoca is the diametric opposite of Spacebattles competence, and I'm inclined to agree, and I adore him for it.
To anyone rolling for him, I wish you good luck.
Thank you to Tizz and Fallacies for betaing.