020 - Elsewhere, Elsewhen.

The girl ran through the forest, body aching and mind awhirl. Her heartbeat pounded on her eardrum and her throat burned because of her unforgiving pace, but she kept on running. She didn't know why or how, but she wasn't safe. Things shouldn't be like this, but she needed to retreat and regroup.

The same voice she had guided all her life urged her to do so.

It was all so very confusing… She knew where she was, but not why, nor when. She had an idea, but it made no sense to her. Of what she was supposed to know, most seemed to be outdated or plain wrong. Of what she was supposed to be, she was less than half.

An arbiter summoned with nothing to arbitrate, a game called war, replaced by actual war.

She only stopped running once she found herself in the relative safety of an empty clearing, hidden from view and away from civilization. Resting her hands on her knees to try and catch her breath, she couldn't help but frown in confusion once more. That, too, was wrong. She wasn't supposed to grow tired so easily, she was supposed to have inexhaustible energy that mere running should never be capable of depleting.

"Ah. Penniless saint, found." An unexpected voice, aloof and unsympathetic, makes itself heard behind her. "Lucky~"

The girl jolts back into full alertness, turning around as she tightly grips her weapon with both hands. Two pale women of snow-white hair and impossibly red eyes stand at the edge of the clearing, dressed in black and white clothes, frilly and scandalously daring, that make something stir in recognition within the girl's French Soul. Who are they? How did they know about her? Are the enemies? Are they… Servants?

No, they are not Servants, at least. In spite of her diminished state, the girl can still detect Servants by proximity alone. That makes her relax slightly, though there's something that still feels dangerous about them, especially the one big-breasted one who looks half-asleep. Who are they?

Deciding to wait and see how the situation develops for now, she keeps to a tense silence while the two women make their way into the clearing. Her cautious optimism is rewarded when the two strangers stop in front of her, standing at ease and giving no sign of hostility.

"Mademoiselle D'Arc, I presume?" The sterner-looking one, who seems to be in charge, asks before giving her a formal bow. "A pleasure to meet you, our Lord has sent us in hopes of providing assistance with your mission."

It's all lost.

The empire she inherited for her forefathers, the populace she loved with all her heart, her glorious golden house… everything.

Rome stands now as but a broken parody, a shallow husk of what it once was. And it's all that woman's fault. That wicked woman whose soul is filled with a greed that will never be sated, that ruin of empires whose very existence is anathema to hers.

But she isn't done just yet, there's still a chance to retake and rebuild, to rise up in arms against the barbaric invaders and get back what was lost. After all….

The sun will set thrice before the Emperor of Roses gives up.

"Jason, dear~!" A cheerful female voice is heard over the sound of the sea. "I just made some more of that gulfweed and seahorse stew you like so much~!"

"Hi– Hiiiiii!" A blonde man runs around the ship's deck with a panicked expression on his face, childishly trying to hide himself behind a huge, muscular man who was seemingly enjoying the sights in peace. "Save me Herakles! Protect me from her!"

"Come out and have a taste while it's still bubbling~!" The female voice is heard again, considerably closer. "It loses a lot of flavor once it starts eating through the bowl!"

A visible shudder wracks the muscular man's body before he turns around to grab the blonde by both shoulders and gently but firmly pull him away with a grunt. After silently making it clear he doesn't appreciate being used as a human shield, he proceeds to make himself scarce.

"Impossible!" The blonde man collapses to his knees in despair. "Even Herakles is scared of her!?"

"Even Herakles has given up on you." A green-haired woman with cat ears corrects him with a dismissive huff. "Why don't you try being a man for once in your life and face the consequences of your own actions?"

"A–Atalanta?" The man whines piteously. "That's a bit harsh even for you…"

"Shut up! I was there when she tried to read the fate awaiting the two of you!" The woman snaps back with a frown. "She may be too innocent and too blindly in love to give her own divinations credit, but I have your measure now. You're lucky our mission is too important to simply turn you into a pincushion and call it a day!"

With these stern words, the cat woman leaves too, supernatural grace allowing her to reach the bird's nest in just a couple of bounds.

"And everything looked so promising at the start of the journey…" The man bemoans to the skies. "Where did it all go so wrong?"

They woke up with a wide smile on their face, but it only grew wider when they looked out the window and saw the nice weather outside. It promised all sorts of great adventures and they couldn't wait to explore the city!

Jumping down the stairs three steps at a time, they hurriedly made their way to the church's main room, where everyone was already up and waiting for them. The tiny nun who takes care of the church was making tea, her waxy-pale hands busying themselves with the process and a fond expression in her gentle red eyes.

The cool woman they want to be like when they grow up is resting her back against the wall in a shaded corner of the room, being all cool and sultry and mysterious without having to do anything. That's why they want to be like her!

"Sister Barbara-chan! Iona-onee-chan!" They cheerfully announce their presence, skipping the last five steps together to land on the floor with both feet. "The mist is really cool and thick tonight, let's go out and play!"

The woman in front of him was not American. That was the sort of thing he could tell, part of his legend. She was not a native, she was not a colonist. She was just a visitor. But… Watching her shove the barrel of her strange gun inside the mouth of one of the invading warriors, one could be forgiven for assuming otherwise.

"It was fun burning and pillaging defenseless farms, yeah?" The woman growls dangerously, finger twitching against the trigger. "Well, how would you like a taste of Second Amendment, motherfucker?"

Before the warrior has a chance to react in any way, a loud bang echoes under the moonlight and its corpse falls on the ground. There's a hole the size of an apple on the back of its head and gray matter splattered for a good twenty feet behind it.

"Ah…" He trails off, eyeing the mess and wondering once again where his companion came from. He's seen gunslingers in action before and these weapons simply aren't normal. "I think you might've been taking a bit too well to the American spirit, my friend."

"Come on, you've seen the bullshit these bastards get up to." The girl protests with a roll of her eyes. "There's nothing wrong with enjoying things with acceptable targets, amrite?"

What she's seeing makes no sense.

The hooded wanderer should've died. In spite of their strange magic and their ominous blade, they had been on the back foot the entire fight. As it should be. Frustrating as it is to admit, nobody can face the elite knights of the false goddess in single combat and walk out the victor, that's just how the world works.

That's why she lied in ambush, waiting for the perfect chance to strike. Once the knight defeated the hooded wanderer, their guard would inevitably lower. That's when she planned to strike from the shadows and take their head before they even realized she was there. Instead, the wanderer claimed victory in an impossible turnaround.

It happened suddenly and without warning. A tear opening in the fabric of reality without buildup or explanation. A blade of light thrusted through without pause or hesitation. An explosion of power, thick and foreign, enshrouding the wanderer. The tide of the duel immediately shifted.

But there was more to this development than a simple surge of power. The wanderer might've missed it in the heat of combat, but an outside observer like her can afford to pay attention to details that those in the thick of things often miss. The moment of confusion, horror and outrage in the face of the knight, just before they were struck down.

Something's afoot.

That's why she paid close attention when the hooded wanderer stood there in pregnant silence, as if confused about their own victory. That's why she strained her senses and did her best to make out the words when the wanderer spoke under their breath.

Under her breath. Because aloof and mechanical as it sounded, the wanderer's voice was no doubt female. About the content of the words themselves, though…

"Ah… All Praise Demon Lord Re'em?"

Wonderful, a new flavor of heathen. Just what the region needs at the moment.

…

…

…

Surrounded by darkness, deprived of action, I have nothing to do with my time but to reflect on my life choices and their consequences. Being incapable of suffering mental degradation even through immense and constant pain sounds very good on paper, but it's not nearly as cool as one might believe at a first glance.

Sure, the lack of permanent consequences is great, a weight off my mind, really. But I still have to deal with the pain now.

The Sea of Life cannot kill, the very concept is anathema to it. The Black Waters I so cheerfully dove headfirst into what feels like a lifetime ago are only capable of nurturing, growing and mutating. The creatures born from it are another story, of course, but the Mother's Embrace can only alter those going through the dubious honor of being held under the pitch-black waves.

And there's no way to alter my mind.

Not even physically rearranging my brainstuff will mutate my sense of self, since I live under a very real mind over matter sort of paradigm. As long as there's a continuation of awareness, [Invictus] will fiat back the sanctity of my mind. There's even a good chance I'd be capable of asserting myself over my reanimated corpse or a creature built from it, though you'll hopefully excuse me if I'm in no hurry to experiment with that.

But… Yeah.

Just because the most hellish torture in the universe is incapable of breaking me, it doesn't stop it from being the most hellish torture in the universe. Every second I spend submerged in these black waters is a reminder of the price to pay for my hubris. Only, it'll never be enough to actually make me regret my choice, because you simply can't torture me into changing my mind.

Still, I'll be considerably more hesitant to apply similar strategies again in the future, because I am capable of learning from my mistakes, even when negative reinforcement isn't a thing that applies to me anymore. This experience is turning out to be a real study on the limits and exact nature of [Invictus].

The more time I spend here, rendered into absolute inaction, deprived of any stimulus beyond pain… the more sure I am that glossing over the details of this part of the plan was the right move. And I know that sounds silly after the hard lessons on keeping secrets from each other we all learned during the Fuyuki Grail War, but the circumstances aren't anywhere nearly the same.

I'm not keeping quiet because I fear they'll try to stop me. They're smart and pragmatic girls and they know this approach is the best we had available, success is nearly assured and there's few actual risks for myself.

But, since they are smart girls, I have no doubt they'd figure out the sort of position I was putting myself into. The mere knowledge of what I'm going through would put them under considerable pressure and they are not immune to mental degradation. It would at the very least cause them pointless anguish and might even push them into speedrunning the singularities of something similarly silly

Which is dumb and wouldn't work, but feelings are dumb. That's what makes them so wonderful. Heck, I couldn't even blame them, I would do the same in their place. Because they don't see the world as I see it. When there's no long term consequences for one's pain, bearing it is just a chore.

… Granted, it's a very miserable chore.

But it's a needed one. To be tortured, to suffer, to feel pain at the hands of the Allmother. Because that's just half of my strategy. A mind capable of withstanding any torture would achieve nothing on it's own, it can only keep things from getting worse. The other half of my strategy comes from another of my unfair fiat-backed traits.

Even now, the original assault of the Sea of Life has lost some of its edge, of its persistence. The virulence of its attempts wavers in ebbs and flows as the Mother hesitates, confused and puzzled by feedback she's not equipped to handle. Because she doesn't understand her actions as something evil or harmful, the Black Waters are just a natural process, a mere consequence of her very being. It's not something she herself views as an attack or a display of hostility, but it doesn't change the fact that she's torturing me.

And hurting me feels bad.

And so, as dead Tiamat awaits dreaming, she churns and stirs in her sleep. Her alien mind is incapable of seeing the world in the same way that her wayward children do, but that doesn't mean she's stupid. She can feel something wrong, an insignificant pebble against the vastness of her own existence, but one that somehow refuses to be smothered in her affection.

Interaction means influence, means change. The more she rubs against that foreign sore spot she can't quite get rid off, the more influence she exerts to change it, the more she is changed in turn. Slowly but steadily, the dragon goddess of salt water sharpens herself against this minuscule whetstone that stubbornly refuses to get worn down as it should.

It's just a matter of time now… No, it's always been just a matter of time.

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