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The Grail's Dark Knight - (Batman/Fate Zero)
Thread starter The-Honored-One Start date Dec 25, 2023 Tags fate series (nasuverse) fate/grand order (nasuverse) fate/zero (nasuverse) batman (dc comics) crossover
Which Command Seal do you prefer
1
Votes: 0 0.0%
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Votes: 4 14.3%
3
Votes: 21 75.0%
4
Votes: 3 10.7%
Total voters 28 Poll closed Feb 7, 2024.
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Threadmarks Chapter 9: Aftermath I
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The-Honored-One
May 13, 2024
#3,088
Fifty thousand years ago, Earth was a vastly different place, shaped by the forces of nature and inhabited by a diverse array of flora, fauna, and early human ancestors. A landscape of sweeping vistas of untamed wilderness, with vast expanses of untouched forests, sprawling grasslands, rugged mountains, and winding rivers dominating the terrain.
In the dense forests, towering ancient trees stretched towards the sky, their gnarled branches creating a dense canopy overhead. Sunlight filtered through the dense foliage, dappling the forest floor with patches of golden light and casting intricate patterns of shadow and illumination. Mosses and ferns carpeted the forest floor, while colorful flowers dotted the understory, attracting a plethora of insects and small animals.
The grasslands stretched out for miles, a sea of waving grasses swaying gently in the breeze. Herds of prehistoric megafauna roamed across the plains, their massive forms silhouetted against the horizon as they grazed on the abundant vegetation. Giant ground sloths, mammoths, saber-toothed cats were just a few of the magnificent creatures that called the grasslands home, their presence shaping the landscape and ecosystem.
In the shadow of towering mountains, rugged terrain provided a haven for a wide variety of wildlife. Alpine meadows burst into bloom during the brief summer months, attracting herds of deer, mountain goats, and other herbivores. Apex predators such as wolves, bears, and big cats prowled the rocky slopes, their keen senses and predatory instincts finely honed for survival in the harsh mountain environment.
Along the banks of meandering rivers and winding streams, lush riparian habitats provided a vital lifeline for both wildlife and early human communities. Dense thickets of reeds and rushes lined the water's edge, providing shelter for nesting birds and spawning grounds for fish. Beavers constructed intricate dams and lodges, transforming the landscape and creating rich wetland ecosystems teeming with life.
Humanity, a pair of nomadic hunter-gatherers that roamed the land in search of food and shelter, crafting tools and weapons from stone, bone, and wood.
Living was defined by survival against the harsh forces of nature, where every day presented new challenges and dangers.
Waking up in a small, makeshift shelter constructed from branches and animal hides. The morning air is crisp and cool, carrying with it the scent of earth and vegetation.
Gathering food and water, essential for survival. With a simple stone tool in hand scanning the horizon for signs of game or edible plants. Every step is cautious, vigilant against potential predators lurking in the shadows.
Foraging for food, keenly aware of the rhythms of nature be it the changing seasons, the migration patterns of animals, and the cycle of plant growth.
The fire crackles in the center of a camp, its warmth and light providing a sense of comfort and security amidst the wilderness.
In the dimly lit room of an extravagant condo, what was once Vargar, once Enmebaragesi, once Aga, Vandal Savage sat alone, surrounded by artifacts of a bygone era.
As he gazed out the window at the bustling city below before looking at the golden key wrapped in dozens of mystically marked bindings, he couldn't help but reminisce about his past in ancient Sumer.
He remembered the days when the white plague had swept across the land, decimating everything in its path and leaving only devastation in its wake.
Yet, from the ashes of destruction, arose the first inklings of civilization. Aga had witnessed the birth of the city-states, as humans banded together for protection and mutual survival.
Towering walls and mighty ziggurats, had emerged as a beacon of hope amidst the chaos, a testament to humanity's resilience and ingenuity.
He recalled the uselessness of gods and goddesses, whose arrogance had withheld divine intervention until it was too late.
In those days, the gods walked among mortals, their presence felt in every corner of the land. He remembered the petty clashes, the thunderous roar of battle as the forces of heaven and earth collided in a cataclysmic struggle for supremacy. He remembered the blood-soaked fields, the cries of the dying, and the triumph of victory.
And through it all, he endured.
Immortal and unchanging, he had borne witness to the rise and fall of empires, the ebb and flow of civilizations.
He had seen kings crowned and kings cast down, cities built and cities razed to the ground.
But among those many memories he thought of the metropolis of Urukt.
In the Early Dynastic I period, Kish stood at the zenith of its power, extending its influence far beyond its borders to cities like Umma and Zabala.
He ruled with an iron fist.
Only the defiant lord of Uruk stood in his way.
It began with Aga's demand for slave labor from Uruk to irrigate the fields of Kish—a demand that Gilgamesh adamantly refused.
Even when offered equal compensation in treasure, food and even weaponry, he refused.
Another welp of the divine who thought being related to mankind's training wheels gave him the right to be foolish without consequence.
Enraged, he had laid siege to Uruk, his forces clashing against the mighty walls of the city. Amidst the chaos of battle, Aga confronted captured Uruk soldiers, seeking to break their spirit and crush their resistance.
But it was as if Gilgamesh himself struck absolute loyalty into their hearts despite his frivolous nature.
An army that could not be broken and whose will was so strong that one man would find the strength to fight a hundred.
Much less their god king.
Now he found himself in a world far removed from the time of ancient kingdoms , even the ones he once ruled; he was enacting a long held plan to reclaim his lost glory to further his others plans to move mankind ahead of schedule.
With the copy of Gilgamesh's Gate's Key the pompous had discarded millennia ago in hand, numerous sorceries held in kept for such occasions and his catalyst ready for use in the Holy Grail War, everytime it was used in combat, he would be ready to seize the treasures that had eluded him for centuries.
He was not so blinded by greed to take anything unnecessary from the priceless jewels or forgotten trinkets.
No talking hammers of the gods. No mountain cleaving blades.
He just needs …
As he prepared to embark on this perilous quest, he barely noticed the bright flash that appeared in the sky the second he got his moment.
A lone figure stands before a wave of mud, crashing over them.
A lone figure stands before a sea of blood and a sea of bodies.
A lone figure stands before a pillar of gold, bright like the day.
A lone figure stands…
Divination is a poor substitute for knowledge. It offers insubstantial glimpses at what might have been, what might be, and what could be. However, the same could be said of rumours. Snippets of information, jumbled and warped by some mechanism, unreliable on their own.
The study of celestial bodies and their movements to interpret their influence on human affair using birth charts and planetary alignments to make predictions such as career, relationships, and health.
Tarot cards are used to gain insights into a person's life and potential future outcomes. Each card in the deck represents different aspects of life.
Analyzing numbers associated with an individual's name and birthdate to make predictions about their personality traits and future experiences.
Scrying , reading tea leaves, or using pendulums via symbols or patterns observed.
And yes … even dreams, a well known gateway to the subconscious mind that can offer insights into a person's fears, desires, and potential future outcomes. Riff with hidden messages or warnings about future events.
She never cared about predicting the future. If she didn't like it , and saw it, she'd only seal her fate.
The mere act of measuring or observing such a system alters its state.
Observing a future outcome, one may inadvertently influence or even determine that outcome.
If the individual becomes fixated on the vision they have seen and begins to dwell on it, their thoughts and actions may inadvertently contribute to bringing about that outcome. This is because their focus and energy are directed towards a specific future scenario, effectively reinforcing its likelihood of occurring.
Witnessing a future they dislike and giving it attention, the individual may inadvertently set it in motion, thereby making it more likely to occur.
At least that was what she kept telling herself as she packed up more and more of her mystic codes after another exhausting day in show business, mystery hunting, globe trotting and, as of recently, Prelati capturing.
Despite (or maybe because of ) them being kept in mystical quantum uncertainty, they kept popping in and out at random.
Ugh, managing her life is like juggling flaming chainsaws while walking a tightrope blindfolded.
Seriously, being a stage magician by day and an actual magician by night is enough to make anyone's head spin.
Let's start with the stage shows.
Don't get her wrong, she loves performing magic for a live audience.
The thrill of captivating people with illusions and sleight of hand is exhilarating, mixing ordinary stage magic and bona fide magecraft on the level of sorcery.
It's exhausting.
And don't even get her started on the skeptics.
There's always a handful of people who insist that its just smoke and mirrors, a cheap publicity stunt to sell tickets…
Even as she reveals her true powers.
Then there's the hero's work.
Fighting crime and protecting innocents from supernatural threats is a full-time job in itself, and trying to balance it with a stage career is a constant struggle.
Now, there's Prelati.
That conniving witch has been a thorn in her side for far too long, far too quickly.
Still , she had tried to push the vision from her mind, to ignore the gnawing sense of dread that had settled in her chest, but it lingered like a specter, haunting her every waking moment.
But deep down, she knew she was just avoiding the inevitable.
Especially with the Holy Grail.
The Servants, Heroic Spirits brought forth as Familiars, were summoned from myths and legends of old. Along with the centuries of amassed mana that had to leak through even when stored by the gripping strength of entropy, and through a sympathetic connection - hidden, forgotten, and lost mythological sources began to resurface in the modern world.
Another headache.
This is where it led to current pressing matters to attend to as well as Zatanna was currently in pursuit of a banshee that had been wreaking havoc in Metropolis, leaving a trail of death and destruction in its wake.
She couldn't help but wonder if she would ever get the chance to meet the famous "Man of Tomorrow" himself.
Bruce said he lived up to hype.
Then she felt an immense wave of mana and raw energy blip in and out in a second.
Behind closed eyes, the deep breaths and the rhythmic sound of his own breathing slowly stopped shutting out the outside world and brought himself out of retreat from the tranquility of his own mind in his personal white noise.
Just when he felt like he couldn't take it anymore, he started to focus on the soft melody that drifted through the air, like a gentle lullaby soothing.
The Unification Symphony.
Yula Mon-El composed it by the commission of the new Kryptonian government to celebrate the planet's nations uniting into one.
It is one hundred and ninety-two thousand, six hundred and forty-eight Earth years old.
It was very soothing but as he allowed more of his perception to expand, the more it was drowned out.
As the cacophony of the city outside reached its peak, he sighed, opened his eyes and glanced at the clock on the bedside table.
He had always been … sensitive to sound since he was a kid, a trait that had both its perks and its drawbacks. While he appreciated the symphony of everyday life in the bustling city, there were times when the constant noise made it difficult for him to relax and unwind, especially when it came time to sleep.
Even if it wasn't physiologically necessary anymore, it still was psychologically.
He quickly shut off the device, got up to retrieve the Kryptonian crystal and watched as it shifted spectrums.
Naturally, from the spectrum humans can see; access without difficulty, yet avoid detection at the same time as its color becomes slightly different. It didn't make much difference for him, but he had to remember just how few colors he could see at first, growing up.
He then plopped down and began to read more information stored in atoms of the microfilm photonic crystal Jor El- Father had sent with him.
He was still getting used to it as it was more complex than human human tissue; altogether, it stored about … fifty two zettabytes of information on Krypton.
Eighty six point sixty seven billion times the amount of information in the entire Library of Congress.
For the first section.
And it got exponentially bigger the more he read.
All the handheld knowledge that Krypton ever produced.
All the books, the films, the blueprints and historical documents, the artwork, the scientific observations;
The total repository of two hundred thousand years of Kryptonian civilization, as well as the knowledge of four hundred thousand cataloged planets.
For the "basics".
Seeing all this knowledge always reassured him that he wasn't crazy.
Even when he got the truth out on how he was an alien, the sole survivor of a long-dead super-civilization, then people really just thought it a hoax.
He's still not sure whether to be relieved or frustrated at the universal dismissal even as he looked at his family crest.
That they thought him too human to be alien.
As he looked on his family's symbol, all he could was hope he represented it well.
While the sigil looked awfully like an 'S', there were subtle differences in the shape, enough to forever assign him his moniker. It had almost reminded him of a coiled serpent, straining to break free of the diamond around it.
He was glad Ma helped soften the design.
The second he put on his pants, it molded to fit his body, and the second he put on the top it melded into each other to form a bodysuit.
As always, it was both convenient and disturbing as was all things whenever he used Kryptonian technology.
Then after quickly scanning the area around his apartment building, he was off faster than the eye could see but slow enough not to destroy anything.
Another minute passed and in that time he stopped two more muggings and an attempted break in the outer corners of the Metropolis.
He took the time to see if he could help them solve the source of the reason that they attempted such actions.
Most mundane crimes in Metropolis were more subtle and elaborate than they were fifteen years ago nowadays. The few that still happened in public were done by those that thought it was beneath his notice or were that desperate.
Usually those from the Suicide Slums.
He decided that he would make time for how he would see how Jefferson was doing as he darted to the side, coming around a dumpster in an alley, and he "hopped" over at the professional looking "thugs" outside city limits in some other alleys.
He caught one in the chin before he had time to react, then shoved him into another. The second tried to disentangle himself from his buddy, only to get a "soft" kick to the face for his efforts. Out of the side of my eye, he took down the third thug, with a low level blow of breath.
He then sprinted ahead, where four other thugs on both sides were down in half as many seconds as he darted back and forth, taking them out with single hits. A bullet clipped him in the shoulder, bounced off and fell to the ground, crumpled.
In the middle of the scuffle, there was an abandoned car against one of the walls, red with rust, and he hoisted it over his head and decided to use it as a battering ram as he charged into the group that thought they were hidden well enough to power up the likely stolen military grade power armor .
As they finally took notice , it was only for the car to smash into their sides, shattering dozens of its base components as they as a group were forced back.
Pulling back, He smashed the car into them again, crumpling the entire front half of it.
Before he could do it a third time to make sure what was most likely an Intergang product was destroyed, however, someone blasted me.
A ball of exotic blue light struck his side, washing over me like water, and detonated in a flash with dozens of times the force of a missile.
It didn't hurt at all, but it was enough to make him let go of the car to protect his opponent caught in the crossfire.
He turned in the direction, just in time to receive another blast to the chest. This tims the kinetic force actually skidded back slightly, heels digging furrows in the asphalt, then charged.
Whoever they were, tried to fire again, but he beat them to the punch, catching them in a tackle.
They attempted to lash out with a kick to the stomach, trying to force him off, and tried to fire another blast.
This was when the red and blue hero decided to hit harder and shoulder-decked them into the wall, several bricks shaking loose with the impact.
It didn't stop the thug from firing, getting a shot that caught him in the chest with another ball of light, but it only served to make the chest piece of his suit a dull orange, infrared flaring from the surface.
Switching to even more ineffective tactics, they- she as he figured with a deeper scan, head-butted him, and that was enough to give her a conscious.
He stepped in before she could follow up and decked her across the chin with enough force to break her armoured mask.
With her groaning weakly, that was that from which he caught her in cuffs he got from his utility belt, then stood up, dusting his hands off.
It took him a millisecond to process everything and think through the situation clearly.
Whoever these thugs were , they obviously out of towners who who despite vastly underestimating him or vastly overestimating their own capabilities, were prepared and too well equipment for them to waste on random violence.
So some kind of poorly thought out distraction.
In an instant , the entire city was open to him, a vast expanse of sight and sounds that ranged from the microscopic to the gigantic.
A fire in the downtown area that was taken care quickly with a quick pass; a mugging in several blocks away that had the mugger hogtied in a second; countless other emergencies... there was a lot to do but as he did his best he kept looking.
Thankfully, he's learned wouldn't be alone. The Special Crimes Unit was out there, handling more than a few crimes out in the city, and there were independent heroes to consider.
To think, Superman and the Metropolis Police Department used to basically foes, at least for the first years of his career.
It didn't help that the department had strong connections with Lexcorp.
Most likely an unwritten agreement between the two groups is that in return for the MPD not looking too closely at what happens behind the doors of the corporate board rooms, the megacorp provides the latest in equipment.
Result of this was that law enforcement in Metropolis is one of the most well-armed forces on the Planet, with access to equipment far more advanced than the most of America.
Overall, they were actually pretty effective at least fighting out of control metahumans, although Superman is frequently needed to stop some of the bigger names.
Tradeoff is the persistent element of corruption in the force that proved resistant to attempts to stomp out.
Some would look at the fact that the corrupt cops in Metropolis rarely work for criminal organizations however, preferring instead to take bribes and orders from Lexcorp as better.
Evidence against their activities used to somehow end up in their hands, missing persons cases that lead to corporate involvement tend to get dropped, personal crimes committed by high-ranking corporate officials get ignored or overlooked, illegal experiments or creations that escape from corporate labs tend to simply be returned to their owners.
It certainly meant that when he started working in cleaning up the city, this meant Superman and the MPD clashed frequently.
Some tensions between the two remain even after Superman is accepted via what was supposed to be an honorable deputation (much more official nowadays), with cops choosing sides over where they stand.
It warmed his heart to see his beliefs in most where on his side and against Lex now.
He was sure the more cynical would be wondering whether enough cops felt that way to return to the early days of declaring him an outlaw to be a problem, it would remain to be seen.
Maybe he could drop by and help another time; Commissioner Henderson would probably be on-shift, and he'd be friendly enough to work with me.
A scream suddenly interrupted his searching/musings.
Turning, he saw that it was coming from a little boy, no older than six, huddled up against the wall and crying uncontrollably.
A man was nearby on the ground, being savagely beaten by a pair of very familiar assailants. The boy's father, based on the facial similarities, or maybe his uncle.
As he arrived in a matter of moments, landing between the boy and the thugs, the asphalt threatened to crack beneath his feet.
They turned to look at me after a heartbeat's pause, and their eyes widened like saucers as the realization hit them. One of them overcame his shock to pull out an exotic looking rifle gun and…
In mere seconds, they were unconscious and tied to a nearby telephone pole, bound with a bar of metal he ripped from a nearby fence.
Once he was sure they were secured, he turned his attention to the boy and the injured man on the street. The kid was kneeling by the man, still crying, and rushed over to see how he could help.
The boy looked up at me with teary red eyes as he knelt beside him. "Por favor... mi papa..."
"Le ayudaré," he replied.
The man was hurt badly, that much was certain. His brain was untouched, thankfully, and there didn't appear to be any spinal damage; he could carry him safely.
Once he was stable enough, he'd be able to ask him why he was targeted as he took out his first aid kit from his belt.
Despite how it looked his belt actually had pouches and clips to store stuff on advice from an old friend but more streamlined and stylized.
Carefully, he took him into my arms. He grunted in pain when picked him up, but was otherwise silent. Shifting him into a better position, he turned to look at the boy and gave him a gentle smile.
"Espera aquí."
The boy nodded, rubbing his eyes.
"No se preocupe," he said, trying to reassure him. "Yo soy Superman."
With that, he flew.
Gently.
In the very second he got him safe, after letting out a shuddering sigh, he rose to my feet and brushed myself off.
Things like that were to be expected; he needed to focus on the fact that the man's life was saved, that the boy still had a father. He couldn't get to him like always.
He wouldn't.
Clenching my fists, He once again soared into the sky. There was still work that needed to be done.
Right after that incident, it seemed like whoever they were seemed to be keeping their activities quiet, at least for the time being, and he found himself wondering.
It started a couple of weeks ago but it seemed as if the US' criminal underworld had shifted.
Something must have happened to create waves.
As he quickly flew west he decided that he would consult with a certain grumpy detective for his opinion.
As the seconds stretched out and the sonic booms erupted high up in the atmosphere as he zipped around and about, he could feel himself growing faster as he zipped about the city with each passing day.
When Jor-El had said he would only get stronger as he pushed my limits, he didn't expect it to be so fast. He thought it'd be a gradual process, almost in tune with natural development as he got older, not a exponential increase.
The sun was still below the horizon when he finally returned to his apartment. It had been a long early morning, that was for sure.
He would've felt exhausted six months ago, like Dad did after a day at the farms, but he didn't. In fact, he felt even livelier, he was loosening years of tension.
At this rate, Clark could push a planet out of its orbit or outrace a laser.
As he quickly got dressed, compressed his spine, loosened his facial muscles, he signed as he "rushed" off to work.
Meeting rent in Metropolis was a challenge.
The sun was already high up as he strolled past park gates, busy streets and congested lanes, shining brightly. Most people had to avert their eyes from it, or at least wear sunglasses, lest they get irreparable damage from the intensity of its light.
Him?
He could've stared into it all day without a worry, and it was actually quite tempting. If he focused my vision just right, he could see gamma rays and x-rays stream out from the core, or the turbulence of the photosphere as storms bigger than the entire world formed. He could even hear the vibrations in the corona if he wanted, a steady hum too low for the human ear to detect.
It shouldn't have been possible.
There was no medium for the sound to get across; satellites had to convert video of the ripples into audio for people to hear it, and even that was heavily altered. Yet, in defiance of all logic, he could now hear the song of the sun as it was meant to be heard, and it was beautiful most of the time.
Usually…
For some reason there seems to be a hum going on that was different.
Something that he'd keep an eye on.
Still, there were things for now going on as he focused on what he came here for.
Lex Luthor stood at a podium, face blank and his arms folded, and looked out into the crowd of flashes.
Before making an… interesting statement.
"I'm announcing that as of today, I am changing the direction of my company away from military arms and weaponry, and away from anti-invasion measures, Lexcorp is now in the business of solving the world's problems." He said, and stepped back for a moment for the showers of "MR. LUTHOR!" to bombard him.
His media outreach manager walked up to the podium and announced Luthor would be answering some questions.
"What brought about this change?"
"A moment of clarity. I'll let the men and women at Wayne Enterprises, Kord Tech, and my many competitors fill the void."
"Mr. Luthor, What will Lexcorp be focused on now?"
"I haven't decided yet. We'll either cure cancer or AIDS, and see where we go from there. Maybe world hunger." Some laughed at this.
He was about to beat Lois to the punch with his question before his world blanked out from the literal soul retching wail.
Siobhan McDougal was the first-born child of Garrett McDougal, the patriarch of an old Gaelic clan that has occupied an island midway between Scotland and Ireland for a thousand generations.
On that island is Castle Broen, where, centuries ago, first-born McDougals underwent a ritual to prove themselves worthy to lead the clan via the ancient spirits of the dead.
When Siobhan was young, she traveled the world, only returning to Castle Broen after her father's death.
Then an entity called "the Crone" demanded payment of the scions of the Fianna, be it by blood or nurture.
All she knew in the sea of helplessness was that it brought her to Metropolis.
A Banshee.
Prophecy could not be unfulfilled. His ancestors escaped via time and his father escaped via age but those who would bare the name even if that alone, would bare the burden.
In an instant, chaos erupted as panicked screams filled the room. High end security guards rushed forward to intercept whatever- based on the body structure, a she, but either effortlessly swatted them aside with a flick of her wrist or her wail caused them to collapse in on themselves.
Clark's heart actually raced as he watched the scene unfold before him. Something about that scream hurt more than it just being a sonic attack. Something that hurt him internally beyond targeting his organs. He felt like he was being torn apart, as if his very soul was being ripped out of his body and flung about like a rag doll. He felt like he was being hit by a hundred thousand freight train, the force of it leaving him shaking and trembling.
Then he remembered that the people were in danger and shook it off.
He gave silent thanks to Arc for the advice.
He knew he had to act, and he discreetly slipped away among the chaos, ducking away.
Emerging less than a moment later as the Man of Steel, Superman soared back into the fray, his cape billowing behind him as he confronted the Banshee head-on and away from the stranglers and those more interested in a story than their lives. With a burst of super speed, he intercepted her with a bum rush, neutralizing its lethal effects before they could reach any of the bystanders. The Banshee let out an otherworldly shriek collapsing to the ground.
But the Banshee was relentless. Her strength and determination were matched only by her shierks. She lunged at Superman with ferocious intensity, her blows fueled by supernatural power. Superman was taken aback. He had never -
He immediately knew he had to use his superior speed and strength to defeat the Banshee.
His fists were a blur as he unleashed a barrage of superhuman punches against his foe at every angle with the only repeated blow being at the throat. With each strike, he could feel this wailing attacker, this banshee's resistance waning, her powers weakening under the force of his assault. He could feel her strength waning with each blow. He knew he was close...
"Looks like it's time to close the curtains on this performance, Superman," someone quipped, her voice laced with playful banter.
Only for the Banshee to be bound in shimmering rune-shaped tendrils of blue light.
Superman nodded in cautious but optimistic gratitude to the famous stage, well real, magician as evident before his very eyes.
Superman turned to Zatanna, a curious glint in his eyes. "You know," he said, "I've heard rumors about you being the real deal."
He gave a small smile.
"Glad they were true. Any idea who this, I'm guessing magical creature is and how or why she came to Metropolis?"
Extending a hand in greeting, he asked. "What brought you to Metropolis?"
Zatanna chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Oh, you know, just passing through," she replied cryptically. "But enough about me, Superman. He couldn't help but notice the way you handled the Banshee earlier. Quite impressive. He wasn't exaggerating."
Clark raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her comment. "You saw that?" he asked. "I didn't realize I had an audience. And who was "hyped" per say?"
Zatanna chuckled softly, a mischievous twinkle dancing in her eyes. "Oh, I think you might have a few fans in high places, Superman," she teased, her voice dripping with amusement.
"Our mutual friend of a dark and broody nature from Gotham to be more specific."
He held back his surprise before asking a more important question.
"But tell me, do you know why .. the Banshee? Was in Metropolis? Or what magical event might have drawn her here?"
Zatanna frowned, considering her words. "It's connected to something bigger. Something magical."
"Well, if you want answers for why here, I suggest you start by looking into your family tree. You might be surprised by what you find."
Clark's curiosity was piqued. "My family tree?" he echoed, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
Zatanna leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You might come from a long line of... interesting characters, if you aren't sticking to the alien story" she said enigmatically. "And she might have her own reasons for seeking you out."
With a playful wink, Zatanna just ... vanished, leaving Superman to ponder her words as he watched as the Banshee was also taken away.
In Metropolis, the Police Department, particularly the Special Crimes Unit (SCU) and Science Police, have developed specific protocols and strategies to address collateral damage that may occur during their operations.
The Metropolis Police Department (MPD) equips its officers with advanced non-lethal weaponry and specialized gear designed to contain or subdue superpowered individuals without causing extensive collateral damage.
Before engaging in operations that involve potential risks of collateral damage, the MPD conducts thorough risk assessments and develops strategic plans to minimize unintended consequences. Coordination between different units within the department ensures a cohesive approach to handling emergency.
In situations where there is a high risk of collateral damage, such as battles between superpowered beings, the MPD focuses on containing the conflict within designated areas to prevent harm to civilians and property outside those zones with established evacuation protocols for civilians in areas under threat from superhuman conflicts or high-tech incidents.
Which was entirely bypassed by Superman within a matter of minutes according to reports.
Now he had to wait for the blue boy scout's care package.
He could remember what it was like it was yesterday
Superman came down, holding a massive pallet above his head. He set it down gently on the grass, then dusted his hands off before planting them on his hips.
"What is this." Dan Turpin was too tired to phrase it as a question.
"It's 50,000 to help with the damages," He said, cape fluttering in the morning breeze.
The Commissioner looked down at the pallet. Then he looked back up.
"These are pennies."
"50,000 worth of pennies," He corrected.
"And where did you get five million pennies?"
"I had some free time on my hands, so I combed the country at super-speed, grabbing any pennies laying around I could find. I read in a magazine once that Americans lose tens of millions of dollars worth of pennies every year. On sidewalks, under couch cushions in furniture stories, cars abandoned at junkyards, even thrown out vacuum cleaners... pretty easy to find when you have super vision."
They both looked down again with a grimace.
"That cannot be sanitary."
"Don't worry, I cleaned them all, too. They're as good as new." He chuckled. "I even ordered them by year. I actually found some rare collector's items, but I think you'll forgive me for holding on to those for a rainy day."
Henderson wished it was a one off but no matter what the papers said Superman had a mischievous side.
"You're-we're Irish?
Pa waved his hand from side to side with a scrunched up expression of thought at my question.
"Eeeh. Probably from my father's side. He'd tell me how we were related to knights of old from Fianna to Bedivere of Camelot as bedtime stories. Didn't think it was true or relevant…"
While his mum was out with her friends, he came over to smallville to tell his dad about his day and some questions.
Honestly he didn't expect such a quick answer that explained a lot in hindsight.
He quickly moved on and went to visit his pops.
"What do we need?" He asked.
"Oh, just some groceries. Eggs, milk, meat; money's still a bit thin since Christmas, so we might need to budget a bit more."
After glancing down at the tea for a moment , watching the infrared light blooming off it, then looked back up.
"I'll get the food."
"Clark-"
"I don't need to eat, Dad, at least not anymore; I just like to. If money's tight, then it'd be a good idea if I cut down on frivolous stuff like that."
"Do you hear yourself? You're talking about going hungry like it's nothing, kiddo."
"Because it is nothing," He replied. "It's been forever since I last felt hungry, even if by a little. Besides, it'd only be for a bit."
Maybe he should look into the diamond business or salvage work again.
Dad sighed. "If you feel like you need to eat, eat. I'm not happy with this, but I know how stubborn you can be when you think you're right. And only skip every other day, okay? Can't believe I'm saying this."
He smiled. "I'll be fine, Dad. Besides, we can use the money for better stuff later, like finally fixing the sink."
Dad glanced over at the sink in question, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Has been a while…"
As he flew just above the thermosphere he slowly allowed his flyers to disappear.
Well, not quite.
So, it's a bit of a misnomer to say that the energy lines disappeared… because that's actually an outright lie.
Nothing disappeared.
They will never truly disappear. But as long as he changes his perception, as long as he shifts his focus just right… then, it's possible to alter his field of vision enough that he can overlook certain things.
The entire event was barely captured, no telescope had been specifically focusing on that point and by the time they had the event was mostly over.
The only reason he hasn't destroyed the satellites was that he had noticed that they were of Wayne Enterprises.
It took a lot but he decided to trust Bruce
But he would be paying a visit to Gotham to ask what the hell was going on.
But it seems he kept glancing up at the sky too much.
"Something wrong?" He asked, slightly wary.
"Just concerned," the man replied. "It's not healthy to look at the sun for too long, young man. You already need glasses."
"Thanks for the concern," He said. "Hey, you look familiar; I think I've seen you on TV before. Are you Detective Jones?"
Managing a small smile, he replied. "Just Mr. Jones. And who might you be, young man? Most people don't recognize me in public."
"Name's Clark Kent. Reporter for the Daily Planet ," he replied. "Nice meeting you, Mr. Jones."
"Likewise," he said, walking past me.
Clark turned to watch him go, eyes narrowed.
There was something off about him, subtly so.
He seemed pretty normal, but there were countless little things that just clashed with what he usually saw.
Shrugging, he went on my way. He hadn't gotten ten feet, however, before he heard a high-pitched screaming sound behind me, almost painfully loud.
Whirling about, he saw Mr. Jones looking at me, a whistle between his teeth. Nearby dogs began to bark at him, while their owners obviously pulled them past us, and realized he had used a dog whistle to get his attention.
Despite the fact it was eighty degrees out, and being who he was, felt a chill brush over my spine.
"Don't be alarmed," Jones said, pocketing the whistle. "I just want to talk to you about something."
"How did you-" He began, only for him to silence me with a gesture.
"I know a good path that most people don't walk on, where it's safer to talk. It's your choice, Clark."
I looked around, then sighed. "Alright."
Jones smiled. "Good. Walk with me."
He went for where they were keeping the girls first.
They were being kept in a warehouse rather far away from where he was currently residing; they were stuffed into makeshift cells like sardines in a can. Altogether, there were twenty-three of them, most of them around my age. It appeared that they were 'fresh stock', based on how their clothes weren't completely filthy yet. A lone guard was in the warehouse with them, watching TV, while another stood at the door.
The thought of what kind of future could await those girls made his blood boil.
The guard at the door didn't have time to react before he dropped from the skyline and clocked him in the chin with the full force of the momentum he gained.
As he crumpled to the ground, soundlessly as he caught him, and made sure to hogtie him with his belt before he knocked the door down.
The other guard spun in his chair, grabbing for the gun he had on the table, only for it to be ripped out of his hand with enough force to crack some fingers before he knocked him out as well.
There was a cellphone in his pocket, and he made sure to grab it before heading to check on the prisoners.
The girls recoiled away from the bars as he walked forward, a look of terror in their eyes. The reflexive flinch spoke volumes about their treatment.
The place reeked of grime and waste; of course the ABB wouldn't care about their hygiene. Many of them already looked gaunt and malnourished, a sunken look in their eyes.
"P-please," one of the girls said, huddling with the others. "H-h-help us."
"That's why I'm here," he replied, trying to sound soothing. "Don't worry; I'm breaking you out."
Taking a deep breath, he stepped towards the nearest cage.
Knew that there were more efficient and less energy wasting ways.
But he was too angry
The lock nearly tore into his hand as he tore it free, and the gate swung open with a creak. Stepping back, he let the girls slowly come out.
He did not do the same for the other cages but steal broke the locks with his escrima sticks, until all of them were freed from their cells. he tossed the cellphone to the girl who had spoken earlier, then straightened.
"You need to get out of here as fast as you can. There's a secure alleyway out back; I checked for any signs of Black Mask's goons. Call the police, tell them what's going on."
The girl swallowed. "A-about this?"
He nodded. "This is ending tonight; I'm making sure of that. There's going to be a hell of a ruckus in the next few minutes, and I don't want you to get hurt in the thick of it. Now, go!"
Slowly but surely, the girls began to leave through the open door, following my directions.
He watched them for a minute or two, making sure they weren't encountering any trouble, then turned my attention to the other matters at hand. There were plenty of warehouses in this turf, many of them filled with armed thugs. With all the military hardware they had, he didn't want to take any chances.
Cracking my knuckles, he set to work.
He barely noticed the flickering of static with his satellite uplink.
Author's Note: It was a large chapter so this will be either a two or three parter. Needed to show Bruce's actions in affecting the wider world, The DC side and what's going on. The next will focus on Fuyuki and all that entails.
Last edited: May 22, 2024
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Threadmarks Chapter 10: Aftermath II
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Author's Note: I apologize for the late chapter. Allergies were killing me.
So most of the chapters will be shorter than normal until I'm better.
The first rays of dawn filtered through the blinds, casting a warm glow.
She layed in bed for a few more moments, trying to ignore that the day had begun. With a sigh, she rolled over and reached for her electronic alarm clock on the nightstand, checking the time.
It was 5:30 AM.
She took a deep breath, held in the scream and braced herself for the effort it took to get out of bed. Sliding to the edge, she grabbed the handles of her wheelchair, pulling it closer. She transferred herself into the chair.
Once Batgirl, now Oracle, her mornings were a testament to her resilience.
First came her light exercises.
Even though her time on the field was over, she still maintained a modified regimen to keep the rest of her body strong.
She had to thank Bruce for his help on that.
She did some upper body stretches and used resistance bands to work her arms. The exercises helped, both physically and mentally, grounding her for the day ahead.
After her workout, Barbara wheeled herself into the bathroom.She maneuvered her wheelchair for her to brush her teeth and wash her face. It took some effort to reach for her usual cosmetics.
Next was breakfast. She wheeled herself into the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. She reached for the amaretto creamer, adding it to her cup. She made herself a simple meal: eggs, toast, and a side of raspberries. As she ate, she glanced at the window, her mind drifting to the strange occurrences in the small japanese town , Fuyuki.
Bruce had left Gotham to handle a crisis in Japan, and the city was already feeling his absence. Barbara had taken on the mantle of coordination, guiding a fresh from college Dick (and whatever he felt that he had to keep close to the chest) and rookie Tim as they tried to keep crime at bay. The few gangs were getting bolder, sensing an opportunity with Batman gone for however long with the only good thing being almost all the big names being in either Arkham, Blackgate or just gone.
She hated to admit it, but the stress was getting to her.
She missed Bruce's unflinching (borderline inhumane) resolve.
After breakfast, she headed to her work area. The Clocktower was a marvel of modern architecture, retrofitted by Wayne Construction.
It was her fortress, her command center.
She "oversaw" the prototype Wireless Fidelity (she called it, WiFi and no matter what Bruce or Luicus thought she knew it would catch on) transmitters for downtown Gotham, free promotion and testing for Wayne Tech and a perfect cover for her true identity as Oracle.
She passed the computer cubicles on the top floor, where several spare computers hummed softly, providing extra processing power for the Batcomputer.
The hidden switch in a bust of Shakespeare was a comforting presence, as once on, the room hummed to life.
Barbara logged in, her fingers flying over the keyboard.
She had work to do.
Her thoughts kept drifting to the strange happenings in Fuyuki. The term "Servant" stuck out to her, capitalized in every report.
It irked her that someone, something, had outpaced her in her own domain. She'd always prided herself on being the best she could be, and now there was this mysterious entity who seemed to have access to technologies and skills that rivaled her own.
But she wasn't one to be outdone.
(With Bruce's permission … and said Servant's encounter), she'd integrated several advanced technologies into her setup. Optimized hardware, automated security protocols, and prototype Wayne Technologies all enhanced her abilities. She had cutting-edge processors that could handle the most complex algorithms, custom-built encryption software, and state-of-the-art surveillance tools. All these advancements allowed her to gather, analyze, and disseminate information more efficiently than ever before.
However, last night, though, something had caught her off guard.
The Wayne Comm Satellites had shown unusual activity.
She'd spent hours trying to decipher the patterns, only to witness something that defied explanation: a solar-based energy attack launched from one of the satellites.
The power and precision were unlike anything she'd seen before.
"What the hell is Bruce doing?" she muttered under her breath.
Her mind raced with possibilities, none of them comforting.
Was this part of his plan in Fuyuki? What had he found that warranted such extreme measures? And did the mysterious "Servant" play a role in all of this?
She rubbed her temples, feeling the weight of it all.
The city needed her, and she couldn't afford to be distracted.
She sent a quick message to Dick and Tim, updating them on the latest intel.
They were holding their own, but Gotham was always a powder keg, and it could explode at any moment.
Barbara sighed, taking a sip of her coffee. The taste of amaretto creamer was comforting, a small indulgence in the midst of chaos. She opened a new program, one of the latest designs she'd been tinkering on. It was a predictive analysis tool, if successful, capable of forecasting criminal activity with stunning accuracy. She fed it the latest data, watching as it generated heat maps and potential targets.
Always ten steps ahead, always planning for every contingency.
A notification popped up on her screen: a new report from one of her contacts. She opened it, scanning the contents quickly. More strange occurrences, this time closer to home. She hoped that the chaos in Fuyuki wasn't somehow spilling over into Gotham.
As the day progressed, Barbara juggled multiple tasks, her mind constantly shifting between her responsibilities. Secretly coordinating with the GCPD, offering discreet tips and insights, monitoring criminal activity, updating her allies in real-time.
"Hang in there, Bruce," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "We'll hold the fort until you get back."
Raiga Fujimura sat in his private office, a thick cloud of cigar smoke swirling around him.
His office was a curious blend of traditional Japanese aesthetics and modern luxury.
The walls were adorned with ancient scrolls and sumo wrestling memorabilia, interspersed with the latest in entertainment technology such as VHS and multiple PCs.
The old man leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers drumming on the polished wooden desk.
Raiga's mind drifted to the strange happenings that had begun to plague Fuyuki over the past month. The city, usually a bustling hub of activity, had been overshadowed by an undercurrent of unease. Whispers of supernatural bat creatures, bizarre occurrences that defied explanation, had reached his ears.
The most troubling of these events was the supposed terrorist attack at the docks.
It was officially labeled as a dirty bomb smuggled in by some Emiya fellow, but Raiga had his doubts.
The explosion had been unlike anything he'd ever seen, more reminiscent of a localized blast than a crude bomb.
Raiga's eyes narrowed as he took another puff of his cigar, the smoke curling around his weathered face. He was not a superstitious man by nature, but there was something about this incident that made him uneasy.
The Fujimura Group, was built on an "anything-goes attitude." They thrived on flexibility and adaptability, able to shift gears and navigate the murky waters of the underworld with ease. It was this very adaptability that had kept them afloat for so long.
Yet, Raiga felt an instinctive need to tread carefully now.
He glanced at the photograph on his desk, a picture of him and his granddaughter, their faces beaming with pride after watching a match.
Raiga sighed, extinguishing his cigar in a crystal ashtray. "Strange times, indeed," he muttered to himself.
He had always prided himself on his ability to read the tides, to sense when a storm was coming. And right now, every instinct screamed that it was time to batten down the hatches.
He made up his mind.
They would lay low, avoid any unnecessary attention, and wait for the storm to pass. It was a calculated risk, but one he felt was necessary. Better to lose a little now than everything later.
Raiga picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Get the word out," he said to his second-in-command. "We're scaling back operations until further notice. Keep a low profile, avoid any entanglements. Understand?"
The voice on the other end confirmed, and Raiga hung up, feeling a sense of relief. It was the right decision, he was sure of it. Whatever was happening in Fuyuki, it was best left alone.
For now, they would wait and watch.
"Hello, you've reached the Emergency Line-"
"Hello, you've reached the Emergency Line-"
"Hello, you've reached the Emergency Line-"
The Fuyuki Docks used to be a bustling hub of activity by day, with cargo ships unloading their goods and workers scurrying about.
But once, late at night , the docks were eerily silent, shrouded in a thick unnatural mist that clung to the air like a veil.
It was in this quiet, ghostly hour that the incident occurred—a blinding flash of light followed by a deafening roar, the ground shaking violently as if the very earth were tearing itself apart.
Inspector Hiroshi Sato arrived at the scene just after dawn, the first rays of sunlight piercing through the lingering haze. The docks were now a smoldering ruin, the twisted metal of shipping containers scattered like toys thrown by a petulant child. The acrid smell of burnt chemicals and charred metal hung heavy in the air, mingling with the saltiness of the sea.
Sato adjusted his gas mask and surveyed the scene.
As a forensic investigator, he had seen his fair share of gruesome crime scenes, but this—this was something else entirely. The epicenter of the explosion was a massive crater, its edges still glowing faintly with residual heat. The sheer scale of the destruction was staggering, and Sato knew immediately that this was no ordinary explosion.
He approached the crater cautiously, his Geiger counter clicking strangely as it detected low levels of radiation. The readings were off the charts… in the opposite direction confirming his suspicion that this was not a conventional bomb.
Pure Energy in the form of light and heat.
He bent down to examine the soil at the edge of the crater, using a pair of tweezers to collect a sample. The earth was fused into glassy, vitrified fragments—
As he continued his examination, he noticed the distinct pattern of blast damage. The shockwave had radiated outward in a perfect circle, the force of the explosion flattening everything in its path. The level of precision ?
Sato's mind raced with the implications.
A localized thermonuclear explosion launched from a high altitude was a staggering revelation. The technology required to deliver such a strike was far beyond the reach of any known terrorist group.
And yet, the official story being spun by the police was that of a dirty bomb smuggled in by the infamous terrorist, Kiritsugu Emiya.
Sato knew nothing of this Emiya's reputation—a shadowy figure rumored to be involved in numerous high-profile incidents.
But even then, with all his imagined and exaggerated resources and cunning, couldn't possibly have orchestrated something of this magnitude. The pieces didn't fit, and Sato couldn't shake the feeling that there was something much larger at play.
He stood up and walked over to where his team was setting up a makeshift command center. The air was thick with tension, the officers and investigators exchanging worried glances as they went about their tasks. Sato approached Detective Nakamura, who was hunched over a map of the docks, marking the points of interest.
"Nakamura," Sato called out, "have you found anything unusual?"
Nakamura looked up, his face etched with concern. "Everything about this is unusual," he replied. "The lack of radiation levels, the blast pattern—it's like nothing we've ever seen. And the higher-ups are pushing this story about a dirty bomb, but it doesn't add up."
Sato nodded, his thoughts mirroring Nakamura's. "I agree. This was no dirty bomb. The energy signature, the precision—it all points to something much more advanced. But why would they want to frame Emiya?"
Nakamura shrugged, a helpless gesture. "Maybe they're trying to cover up something bigger. Or maybe they just need a scapegoat. Either way, we're being fed a lie, and it's our job to find the truth."
As the day wore on, Sato and his team meticulously combed through the wreckage, collecting samples and documenting their findings. The deeper they delved, the more convinced Sato became that this was an operation of unprecedented scale and sophistication.
As the night fell, the team continued their work under the harsh glare of floodlights.
The next morning, Sato met with the police commissioner to discuss his findings. The commissioner, a stern man with a no-nonsense demeanor, listened in silence as Sato presented his evidence. When Sato finished, the commissioner leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.
"Your findings are compelling, Inspector Sato," the commissioner said finally. "But you must understand the delicate nature of this situation. Publicly acknowledging that this was some attack launched from who knows where could cause widespread panic and undermine national security. We need to control the narrative."
Sato felt a surge of frustration but kept his composure. "I understand the need for caution, Commissioner," he replied. "But the truth will come out eventually. We can't afford to let misinformation spread. We need to be transparent with the public and work together to address the real threat."
The commissioner sighed, a weary sound. "The decision is not mine alone. Higher authorities will need to weigh in on this matter. In the meantime, I expect you to continue your investigation discreetly and report any new findings directly to me."
"...Understood, Commissioner. I'll keep you informed."
Saber was summoned by Kiritsugu Emiya to participate in the Fourth Holy Grail War on behalf of Jubstacheit von Einzbern and the Einzbern family.
Kiritsugu was recruited by Jubstacheit to summon the legendary King Arthur.
While surprised that she is a young woman, it didn't change anything about his plans. He partners Saber with his wife and vessel for the Lesser Grail, Irisviel von Einzbern, to act as Saber's Master in the open while he acts from behind to win with his own methods.
Saber and Irisviel arrived together in Fuyuki by plane from the Einzbern Castle in northern Europe because Saber could not dematerialize due to her … unique status.
Following the challenge of another Servant, they quickly encounter their first opponent that night. Saber engaged Lancer, and despite a mostly even fight, she is left with a wound from Gae Buidhe to her left hand that prevents her from utilizing her full strength and Excalibur.
Their fight was interrupted by the Rider, who declared the utter nonsense of his supremacy of his kingship and an invitation to join his army, but Saber claims her own kingship as a reason to never bow before another lord.
The arrival of Archer, who claimed that his own rule far exceeded their own, was another bit of silliness added to the ridiculousness before it all went to hell.
Artoria Pendragon is the legendary King of Knights, the one that ruled over the battlefields in the age of legends. In life, she commanded the Knights of the Round Table, the greatest knights to ever live and heroes that would later be sung of in legends. If summoned as a Servant, any of them would boast indisputable fame and strength, however, even among them, Artoria stood at the top.
The events of the night played over and over in her mind like a relentless highlight reel. Her hand throbbed where Lancer's cursed spear had struck, a constant reminder of the limitations imposed upon her by that vile weapon. The wound was not fatal, but it was enough to prevent her from wielding Excalibur to its full potential.
It however was weaker than when it was initially inflicted for some reason.
She flexed her fingers gingerly, feeling only a slight twinge of pain that accompanied each movement.
That might be the only good thing about tonight, she had been tested in ways she had not anticipated.
Her Magic Resistance, a gift from her dragon blood, was supposed to make her nearly invincible to modern magecraft.
Yet, Caster's attack had bypassed it entirely, striking with a force and nature that defied her understanding.
She closed her eyes, recalling the moment when the magical veil had enveloped them. The other Servants—Rider, with his grandiose declarations, Archer, with his disdainful arrogance—had all been caught in the blast.
The heat had been unbearable, almost searing through her defenses as she shielded Irisviel with her body. Her … "partner" in this war, had been safe, but only just.
Saber's thoughts drifted to her Master, Kiritsugu Emiya. He seemed to be a man of cold logic and ruthless efficiency, a someone that should have complimented her tactics.
He had seen her true form, a young woman, and it hadn't changed his plans. He had partnered her with his wife, Irisviel, to act as her Master in the open while he worked from the shadows.
She even respected Kiritsugu's intellect and his unwavering resolve, even if she did not always agree with his exact methods.
She was just a bit annoyed that -
It didn't matter, both with her as a Servant and her goals.
Tonight had shown her the true complexity of this war.
The challenge from Lancer had been honorable, a clash of warriors.
No form of trickery that would caution the idea of acceptance and she was very confident in her victory.
But Rider's interruption, followed by Archer's arrogance and then Caster's unfathomable attack, had thrown the night into disarray.
She couldn't shake the feeling that they were all being manipulated, pawns in a game.
Which left the question of strategy and tactics. She needed to reassess her approach. The ritual seemed like she'd face her enemies openly, but this … war was not the case if the enemy could fire such a devastating attack.
It did matter if their were stipulations or limitations as she did not know any of them.
The rules were different, and so too must be her strategies. She would need to use the city's more public areas more effectively, to create a shield of sorts. It went against her morals, but this war required such an approach.
Still, it behooved her to make it highly fortified or.
Monitoring the leylines and searching for bounded fields would also be crucial. The magical infrastructure of Fuyuki was intricate, and by understanding its flow, she could predict and counter the war's enemies' movements.
Always a Caster it seems.
She would need to work closely with Irisviel, whose knowledge of modern magecraft, whatever it may, was indispensable. Even just as a contrast even if the Caster was a mage of an older era than her.
She had faced greater threats before—
Morgana
This war was another trial, one she would face with the same determination that had seen her through countless battles.
They would regroup, reassess, and prepare for the battles to come.
All these thoughts passed through her head as the streets of Fuyuki were beginning to stir with the early morning activity as Saber and Irisviel moved through them. Irisviel, ever the gentle and supportive presence, sensed the weight on Saber's shoulders.
"Saber," Irisviel said softly, using her true name as a gesture of closeness, "I know tonight was difficult, but we will find a way..."
Saber nodded, appreciating the sentiment. "Thank you, Irisviel. Your faith in me is a great source of strength."
They continued in silence for a while, each lost in their thoughts.
As they approached their residence, Saber turned to Irisviel. "We need to be strategic. Monitoring the leylines and understanding the city's magical infrastructure will be crucial. We must anticipate our enemies' moves and counter them effectively."
Irisviel smiled, her eyes filled with confidence. "Of course. I have some ideas on how we can better utilize them."
Saber nodded.
As she and Saber retreated from the Fuyuki Docks, her mind was still grappling with the chaos that had unfolded.
The darkness that had enveloped them, the muffled sounds, and the sudden, blinding flashes of light—all these sensations swirled together in her memory, creating a maelstrom of fear and confusion.
She recalled the terror of being unable to see anything, the oppressive darkness pressing in on her from all sides. Sound had been muffled, as if they were submerged underwater, making it impossible to discern what was happening around them. Irisviel had wished she could cling to Saber.
Then came the flashes of thunder, the blinding gold that seared through the darkness. She remembered the fear that gripped her heart as she saw the golden beam of energy descending from the sky.
While it was not aimed at them directly, the sheer power and intensity of it had been enough to paralyze her with terror. At that moment, she felt utterly helpless.
Saber had acted quickly, using her own body to shield Irisviel from the heat and force of the attack.
But as the danger passed and they retreated to safety, a sense of deep inadequacy settled over her.
Irisviel couldn't help but lament her uselessness.
She was the vessel for the Lesser Grail, the key to her husband's dream of obtaining the Holy Grail to save it.
Yet, in moments like these, she felt more like a burden than an asset. She longed to be able to aid Saber, to fight alongside her and contribute meaningfully to their cause.
But her abilities were limited, and her role was primarily one of support.
As they made their way through the dimly lit streets of Fuyuki, Irisviel's mind raced with thoughts of how she could do better. She was a homunculus, created with a specific purpose in mind, but her interactions with Kiritsugu and her experiences had given her a sense of self and emotions that were rare among her kind. She understood that most mages would treat Servants as mere tools, but she couldn't bring herself to see Saber that way. Saber was her partner, her protector, and Irisviel felt a deep responsibility to support her in any way she could.
As they made their way to the mansion, Irisviel's thoughts continued to churn. She needed to be stronger, more resilient. She couldn't afford to be a liability. The weight of her husband's dream pressed heavily on her shoulders, and she was determined to do everything in her power to see it realized.
When they finally reached the Einzbern Mansion, Irisviel felt a sense of relief wash over her. The mansion was a sanctuary, a place where they could regroup and plan their next steps. But as they entered, she was met with an unexpected sight.
Kiritsugu Emiya, her husband, stood in the foyer, looking more disheveled and disoriented than she had ever seen him. His normally sharp eyes were unfocused, and he muttered to himself in a tone of distress.
"He found me... all this over the decade... gotta prepare..."
Irisviel heart clenched at the sight. She had never seen Kiritsugu so shaken. She approached him cautiously, reaching out to touch his arm.
"Kiritsugu, what's wrong?" she asked gently, her voice laced with concern.
He turned to her, his eyes finally focusing. For a moment, there was a flicker of recognition, but it was quickly replaced by a look of haunted urgency.
"Irisviel, we need to be ready. The enemy... they're stronger than we anticipated. We can't afford any mistakes."
Irisviel nodded, trying to remain calm despite the fear gnawing at her. "We'll be ready, Kiritsugu. We'll face whatever comes together."
She glanced at Saber, who stood nearby, her expression resolute. Together, they would find a way to navigate the dangers of the Holy Grail War. Irisviel knew she had to be strong, not just for herself, but for Kiritsugu, for Saber, and for the future they all fought for.
Last edited: May 30, 2024
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Threadmarks Chapter 11: Aftermath III
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Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, the son of Donn and foster son of Aengus Óg, strode through the broadly lit hallways of the Hyatt Hotel.
He was also known as Diarmuid of the Love Spot, cursed with a magical love spot that bewitched any woman who gazed upon it. Despite this curse, or perhaps because of it, Diarmuid was a man of unwavering honor and chivalry.
He had once been the first spear of the knights of Fianna, and his tragic love affair with Grainne had left a deep scar on his soul.
As he walked, Diarmuid's thoughts drifted back to his past.
He remembered the wedding party where Gráinne had fallen in love with him, placing a geis upon him to run away with her.
Despite his loyalty to Fionn mac Cumhaill, Diarmuid had honored the geis, seeing it as a test of his pride.
He had never blamed Gráinne for her actions, admiring her courage to throw away her title and future for love.
Even in his final moments, betrayed by Fionn's jealousy, Diarmuid had felt no anger towards his lord.
Now, summoned to the Fourth Holy Grail War, Diarmuid saw an opportunity to regain his honor.
His master, Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald, was a man of immense magical talent but lacked the noble qualities Diarmuid valued. Despite this, Diarmuid remained loyal, hoping that through noble battles, he could deliver the Grail to his master.
Diarmuid's mind flashed back to the recent battle. He had made his location known, following Kayneth's orders, and Saber had answered the challenge. Their fight had been intense, with Diarmuid managing to strike her with Gáe Buidhe.
However, Saber had unleashed a powerful blast of mana, nearly striking him down. To his shame, Kayneth had used a command seal to save him, an act Diarmuid saw as an utter failure on his part.
Before the battle could continue, Rider had interrupted, followed by Berserker, Archer, and Assassin watching from the shadows.
Then, a consuming darkness had enveloped them all. It was only Rider's concert of lightning and Archer's blinding golden glow that had pierced through the darkness.
Diarmuid's Mind's Eye had saved him from immediate death as Archer opened rifts in space, unleashing a barrage of Noble Phantasms.
The climax of the battle had been a death beam of pure light, slamming into the docks and dispelling the darkness. Diarmuid had instinctively jumped into the ocean, recognizing the removal of Caster's bounded field and anticipating another attack.
He had remained in spirit form until he reached the Hyatt Hotel, where he explained the events to Kayneth and Sola-Ui.
Kayneth, usually quick to berate, sat in silence, a look of deep contemplation on his face. Sola-Ui, Kayneth's fiancée, tried to console Diarmuid, but he remained distant, his thoughts occupied by the recent events.
Kayneth's thoughts, however, were elsewhere. He had taken a loan from Aozaki Touko, the enigmatic mage known for her vast powers and no-nonsense attitude.
The loan had funded his preparations for the Holy Grail War, and failure would mean severe consequences. But Kayneth, confident in his abilities, woulf never entertained the idea of losing.
As a mage, Kayneth prided himself on his vast knowledge and skills. He had gamed the Holy Grail's summoning system to shift the mana burden to Sola-Ui, freeing himself for other tasks. His expertise spanned alchemy, necromancy, evocation, summoning, and healing.
Yet, despite his talents, the recent battle had shaken him.
Mentally, Kayneth analyzed the situation.
The darkness and light, the precise attacks, all pointed to a Caster.
Constant emphasis on light and dark.
Mirrors upon mirrors with the way light was focused and manipulated.
He could only conclude that the enemy was likely Archimedes, whose abilities were based on his known work with the theoretical "death ray".
This realization brought a mix of dread and determination. Kayneth knew he needed to adjust his strategies, harnessing his full arsenal of magecraft to face this new threat.
Diarmuid remained resolute.
He was a knight, bound by his code of honor, and he would see this war through to the end.
The Holy Grail War was his chance to restore his pride, and he would fight with every ounce of his strength to achieve that goal.
As the night grew darker, Diarmuid and Kayneth prepared for the battles to come. The stakes were high, but both master and servant were ready to face whatever challenges awaited them.
The Fourth Holy Grail War was far from over, and both men knew that the true battles had only just begun.
Gilgamesh walked through the Red Light District of Fuyuki City, his presence an unmistakable blend of grandeur and intimidation. Clad in a dark black suit paired with a blood-red dress shirt and a black vest, he moved with the effortless grace , surveying "his" dominion.
His crimson eyes scanned the surroundings with a mixture of disdain and curiosity, taking in the bustling casinos, dimly lit bars, and gaudy brothels that lined the streets.
He stepped into a casino first, the cacophony of slot machines and the murmur of gamblers creating a backdrop to his musings. The place was a pale imitation of the grand gambling houses of his time, lacking sophistication but replacing it with opulence than that had once been the standard.
Yet, it was not the quality of the establishment that truly held his attention, but rather the state of the people within.
Modern humanity, he thought with a sneer, is a far cry from the resilient and purposeful citizens of Uruk.
The patrons of this casino were listless, driven by a shallow pursuit of fortune rather than any meaningful ambition.
He watched them squander their money and their time, and a deep sense of disappointment welled up within him.
Gilgamesh left the casino after winning every game and made his way to a nearby bar. He took a seat at the counter, ordering the finest wine they had to offer. The drink was decent, but it could not compare to the exquisite vintages he had once enjoyed. As he sipped, his thoughts turned to the clown in a bat themed garment —the human who had managed to make such an impression on the battlefield.
The, heh, Batman, was a curious enigma. Unlike the Heroic Spirits, he was a man of the present, yet he possessed a determination and resourcefulness that set him apart from the rest of modern humanity.
Gilgamesh respected strength and conviction, and "Batman" seemed to have both.
His performance in combat had been ... decent.
More entertaining than any other mongrels at least.
But what truly intrigued Gilgamesh was the Batman's unwavering commitment to his ideals. And how it hadn't been broken yet.
In a world filled with corruption and apathy, here was a man who refused to bend to the whims of fate or the pressures of society.
The air was thick with perfume and the sound of laughter, but Gilgamesh's mind was elsewhere.
A was a reminder that even in an age of complacency and mediocrity, there were still those who could rise above. It was this potential that kept Gilgamesh from dismissing modern humanity entirely, even as he held them in contempt for their many failings.
His thoughts shifted back to his own purpose in this era. The Holy Grail War was a stage upon which he could judge the worth of those who sought its power. The Batman had earned a measure of Gilgamesh's patience, but that was not enough.
Gilgamesh needed to see if this man could truly stand against the evils that humanity had birthed, to see if he could be the exception in a world of mongrels.
As he left the brothel and continued his walk through the district, Gilgamesh contemplated the broader implications he considered the trials that lay ahead. The Batman would be tested, as would the rest of humanity. They would have to prove their worth to him. The Holy Grail War was a crucible, and only those with true strength and conviction would emerge unscathed.
Humanity stood on the brink of a new era, and it was up to them to determine their fate. Gilgamesh, the King of Heroes, would watch, judge, and perhaps even guide them. But in the end, it was their actions, their choices, that would decide the outcome.
As he took a seat in the VIP section and ordered another drink, he allowed himself a moment of reflection. The world had changed in countless ways since his reign, but some things remained constant. The struggle for meaning, the quest for greatness, the desire to leave a lasting legacy—these were the threads that connected the past to the present.
And so, Gilgamesh would continue to walk among them, measuring their worth, challenging their resolve, and perhaps, finding those rare few who could stand shoulder to shoulder with the greatest heroes of legend.
The Holy Grail War was not just a battle for power; it was a crucible for the soul of humanity. And Gilgamesh, the King of Heroes, would see to it that the worthy were recognized and the unworthy cast aside. For in the end, it was not just about survival, but about proving that humanity still had the potential to reach the stars, to stand equal to the gods, and to carve out a destiny worthy of their ancient legacy.
As the night wore on and the city pulsed with life, Gilgamesh sat back, his crimson eyes glinting with anticipation. The future was uncertain, but it was in that uncertainty that he found the greatest thrill.
For in the end, it was the journey, the struggle, and the triumphs that defined the true worth of a king and his people.
That was what the King lived for.
Tokiomi Tohsaka stood in his study, the moonlight filtering through the large windows casting a pale glow over the room. The air was heavy with the scent of old books and polished wood, lending an air of wisdom and refinement to the study. Shadows danced across the walls, giving the room an aura of mystery and intrigue, as if it held secrets waiting to be discovered. The silence was broken only by the soft rustling of papers and the occasional creak of the floorboards.
The events at the docks played over and over in his mind, each detail etched into his memory. After interrupting a duel, and the arrival of more from the provaction of Alexander The Great (or Iskander has he shouted to the skies). He had expected chaos then, a free-for-all brawl among all but the Caster Class Servant.
But what transpired was ... beyond anything he had anticipated.
He watched in awe as the battlefield was enveloped in a barrier of pure darkness. The barrier of pure darkness seemed to swallow the surrounding landscape, erasing all traces of light and color. It emanated an eerie, palpable sense of foreboding, making it difficult for anyone caught within its grasp to see or move. The once bustling battlefield fell into an eerie stillness, as if frozen in time, leaving Tokiomi Tohsaka and the other onlookers in a state of trepidation.
It was an all-consuming void, a darkness so thick it seemed to swallow all light. Tokiomi had felt a pang of fear, a rare emotion for the composed magus. Yet, within that darkness, a single point of light had shone brilliantly: Gilgamesh. His Servant had glowed like the sun, a beacon of arrogance and power amidst the void.
The King of Heroes had not merely survived the onslaught but had thrived in it. Gilgamesh had unleashed waves upon waves of Noble Phantasms with effortless grace, each weapon a testament to his unparalleled might. Tokiomi had been certain that Gilgamesh could overwhelm any single Servant, but to see him handle multiple foes simultaneously was a revelation. The sheer power he wielded, the ease with which he dispatched his enemies, was a spectacle that both awed and terrified Tokiomi.
The death that had descended from the sky would have obliterated any other Servant.
Gilgamesh had blocked it with disdainful ease.
The golden glow of his armor, the opulence of his treasures, and the sheer destructive force at his command were enough to make Tokiomi reevaluate everything he thought he knew about the war and his tools.
The King of Heroes was not just a powerful ally; he was a force of nature, a being capable of possibly nullifying Command Seals, bypassing numerous magical effects, and effortlessly defending against even the most potent attacks.
When Gilgamesh returned to the mansion, it seemed that he was in high spirits, amused by the night's events.
He had even been generous enough to deploy multiple defenses from the Gate of Babylon. Auto Defensors(?), miniature golden (metal or mana unknown) orbs that shot magic lightning at any threat, and magic shields now guarded the mansion. Tokiomi watched as these treasures hovered around, a testament to the king's power and disdain for any would-be attackers.
Tokiomi sighed, his thoughts turning to his family. Aoi, his wife, and his daughters, Rin and Sakura.
His decision to give Sakura to the Matou family was a calculated one, based on the need to preserve her ability and her protection.
Yet, as he pondered the events at the docks, he began to question his choices.
He remembered the day he had made the decision to give Sakura away.
Aoi was shocked. Her eyes were filled with a mixture of sorrow and resignation.
She had not openly opposed him, understanding the weight of their duty as magi.
But Tokiomi could see the pain in her eyes, the unspoken words that lingered between them.
Rin, too young to understand the gravity of the situation, simply watched with wide eyes as her sister was taken away.
Tokiomi's thoughts then drifted to Rin.
She had shown great potential as a magus, inheriting the Tohsaka family's affinity for jewel-based magecraft. He had spent countless hours teaching her, guiding her in the ways of their family.
The events at the docks had been a stark reminder of the brutal reality of the Holy Grail War. The power and chaos, the deadly stakes, had shaken him to his core. He realized that his plans, meticulous and calculated as they were, might not be enough. The presence of Gilgamesh had given him a temporary sense of security, but it had also made him acutely aware of the unpredictable nature of the war.
He thought of Kirei Kotomine, his apprentice, who played a pivotal role in his plans. Kirei, with his unyielding loyalty and formidable skills, was an invaluable asset.
As Tokiomi stood there, he made a decision.
He could not continue on his current path, blind to the complexities and dangers that surrounded him.
He needed to adapt, to change his approach if he were to secure victory and protect his family. He would not rely solely on the power of Gilgamesh cause of his personality or earlier machinations. He would take a more active role, using his own skills and knowledge to influence the outcome.
Tokiomi knew that the road ahead would be fraught with danger and uncertainty. But he was determined to see it through, to reach Akasha and secure the future of the Tohsaka family. As he walked back to his desk, he felt a renewed sense of purpose. The events at the docks had been a wake-up call, but they had also given him a glimpse of the power he could wield. And with that power, he would carve a path to victory, no matter the cost.
The path to Akasha was fraught with peril, but he was prepared to walk it, for the sake of his family and the legacy of the Tohsaka name.
Waver Velvet sat slumped in his chair, his mind reeling from the events that had just transpired. He had always known that the Holy Grail War would be dangerous, but the sheer scale of the battle he had witnessed at the docks had left him paralyzed with fear.
The sight of the Servants, each one a living legend, clashing with such overwhelming power was a stark reminder of his own inadequacies.
He felt like mere boy playing at being a magus.
Ever since he had joined the Clock Tower, Waver had been called many things.
He had heard it all, and each insult had only deepened his insecurities.
He knew he was not from a prestigious family of magi.
The Velvet line was young, only three generations old, and he had none of the inherent talent or resources that others possessed.
His grandmother had learned magecraft from a lover, his mother had practiced it sporadically, and he was the first to truly commit to the path. But even his commitment felt woefully insufficient in the face of the might arrayed against him.
Waver had joined the Fourth Holy Grail War with the intention of proving himself, of showing the world that he was more than just a spoiled, insecure boy.
He had stolen the catalyst meant for Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald, his former mentor and a lord of the Clock Tower, and used it to summon Rider, the mighty King of Conquerors, Iskander.
From the moment he had summoned Rider, Waver's life had been a whirlwind of emotions and challenges.
Rider was unlike anyone Waver had ever met.
He was brash, confident, and exuded a sense of authority that demanded respect.
Waver ... often found himself at odds with Rider, arguing and bickering over strategies and plans.
But despite their frequent clashes, Rider had a way of cutting through Waver's insecurities, of seeing the potential within him that even Waver himself doubted.
Waver's thoughts drifted back to the docks.
The battle was chaos incarnate. Servants clashed with such ferocity, darkness enveloped the battlefield, and then the brilliant light of Archer cutting through it all. The Golden King had unleashed a torrent of Noble Phantasms, a display of power so overwhelming that it had left Waver trembling.
He had realized then just how dangerous the war truly was, how easily he could be crushed underfoot by these legendary figures.
As he sat there, wallowing in his fear and self-doubt, the towering Macedoean Servant took one look at Waver's despondent state and let out a sigh of exasperation. Without a word, he crossed the room and delivered a sharp slap to Waver's face. The sharp slap echoed through the room, leaving Waver stunned and wide-eyed. The slap stung Waver's cheek and reverberated through his entire being.
The force of the blow snapped Waver out of his reverie, and he stared up at Rider with a mix of shock and indignation.
"Enough of this, Waver," Rider said, his voice firm but not unkind. "I will not stand for this pathetic display. You are my Master, and you will not cower like a frightened child."
Waver swallowed hard, his cheeks burning with both the sting of the slap and the shame of his own cowardice. He wanted to argue, to lash out at Rider for humiliating him, but the words died in his throat. Instead, he took a deep breath and nodded, trying to steady himself.
Rider's expression softened slightly, and he placed a hand on Waver's shoulder. "Listen to me, Waver. Despite all indications that mankind is ahead of the curve, if you are any indication, they are afraid of tomorrow. But you have something within you, a spark that few possess. You may doubt yourself, but I do not. You have the potential to be great, to stand tall and face whatever comes your way."
Waver looked up at Rider, seeing sincerity in his eyes.
Rider continued, his voice taking on a more contemplative tone. "When I lived, I conquered vast lands and amassed great power. But even then, I knew that my time was limited, that I could only achieve so much in one lifetime. Now, I have been given another chance, and the fire within me burns even brighter. I will not allow that fire to be extinguished by fear or doubt."
He straightened, his presence filling the room with almost palpable energy. "I will stand in the sun, Waver, and I will face whatever comes my way. Whether enemy or ally, I will know what to do. And you, my Master, will stand with me. We will face this war together, and we will emerge victorious."
Waver felt a surge of determination at Rider's words. He had always doubted himself, always seen his shortcomings. But in this moment, he realized that he was not alone. Rider believed in him, saw the potential within him, and that belief was enough to bolster his own resolve.
He stood up, his legs still a bit shaky, but his eyes now filled with a newfound determination. "You're right, Rider. I... I've been letting my fears control me. But no more. I will do whatever it takes to win this war, to prove myself. Not to others, but to myself."
Rider grinned, a proud and approving look on his face. "That's the spirit, Waver. Remember, true strength comes from within. You have the heart of a conqueror, even if you do not see it yet. Together, we will achieve great things."
The path ahead would be fraught with danger, but Waver was ready to face it. He would rise to the challenge, harness his talents, and prove that he was more than just a brat or a coward. He was Waver Velvet, and with Rider by his side, he would conquer the Holy Grail War and carve his name into history.
Kariya Matou leaned heavily against the cold, damp wall of the alleyway, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel the presence of the Crest Worms inside him, gnawing away at his flesh, and the constant pain was like a relentless tide that threatened to drown him. His limbs, twisted and paralyzed, made every movement an agony. His once-black hair was now white, his complexion sickly and pale. The left side of his face was marred by bulging veins, a testament to the worms writhing beneath his skin. He pulled his hood further down, trying to hide the grotesque transformation that had overtaken him.
It had been a year since he discovered the horrific truth: Tokiomi Tohsaka had given his youngest daughter, Sakura, to the Matou family. The rage that had surged through Kariya upon learning this had been overwhelming.
How could Tokiomi do such a thing?
How could he hand over his innocent daughter to the cruel clutches of Zouken Matou, knowing full well the kind of torment she would endure?
Kariya had severed ties with the Matou family years ago, disgusted by their inhumane practices. But now, for Sakura's sake, he had returned to that hell. He had confronted Zouken, a man more monster than human, and made a desperate bargain: Kariya would enter the Fourth Holy Grail War and win the Grail, and in return, Zouken would release Sakura.
The memory of that agreement played in his mind like a grim echo.
"You will need power," Zouken had said, his voice dripping with malevolent amusement. "You have no training, no true knowledge of magecraft. But there is a way... if you are willing to endure the pain."
Kariya agreed without hesitation.
Anything to save Sakura.
Anything to see Aoi smile again.
The implantation of the Crest Worms had been beyond excruciating.
The worms tore through his body, expanding his magic circuits but consuming him from within. The physical toll of the Crest Worms was evident in Kariya's twisted and paralyzed limbs, his white hair, and sickly complexion. The constant pain and gnawing sensation within him made every movement an agony. The agony was unending, his health deteriorating rapidly, but he endured it all for the sake of his promise.
Even with the worms enhancing his potential, Kariya was woefully unprepared as a magus. Zouken, in his twisted wisdom, had suggested summoning a Berserker-class Servant, leveraging the Mad Enhancement trait to boost the Servant's power. And so, Kariya had called forth his Servant, a dark and twisted knight whose very presence radiated madness and fury.
But their battle were disasters. Twice Kariya had tried to focus his efforts on Tokiomi's Servant, Archer, and twice he had failed. Berserker, consumed by an obsession with Saber, had ignored Kariya's orders.
First, Rider had struck Berserker down from behind, then Archer had delivered a humiliating blow. Each failure had gnawed at Kariya's resolve, each defeat a reminder of his inadequacy.
And then the docks. The battle had been chaos, a maelstrom of power and fury. Kariya's Servant had fought valiantly but had been blindsided by a barrier of pure darkness. Wave upon wave of Noble Phantasms had assaulted them, and it was only by sheer luck and Berserker's resilience that they had survived. The strain on Kariya had been immense, his body wracked with pain as the mana drain took its toll. He could feel his strength ebbing, his vision blurring.
"Not yet," he whispered to himself, the words a mantra of defiance. "Not yet..."
He couldn't give up.
Not now.
Sakura needed him.
Aoi needed him.
He had to keep going, no matter the cost. The world swam before his eyes, the pain threatening to overwhelm him, but he clenched his fists and took a step forward.
With a groan of effort, Kariya pushed himself away from the wall and stumbled forward. He had to keep moving. He had to find a way to win. He wouldn't let Sakura down. He wouldn't let Aoi down.
"Not yet," he repeated, his voice stronger this time. "I won't give up. Not yet."
Then he collapsed.
Last edited: Jul 30, 2024
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Threadmarks Chapter 12: Recuperation
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The-Honored-One
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The air shimmered with an ethereal glow, colors blending and swirling in patterns that defied logic.
He stood in a small, rustic home in Anchiano. The scent of fresh earth and the distant murmur of a stream filled the air. A young bright-eyed child, played in the sunlit yard, laughter ringing like a melody.
Batman felt a pang of wistfulness before he snuffed it out.
The scene shifted abruptly.
He was now in Vinci, inside a grand house filled with scholarly texts and intricate artworks. The same child based on the bone structure and these bizarre scene, now older, was pouring over a book, eyes alight with curiosity. The transition from modest home to an affluent household was stark, yet he could ... sense the excitement and potential this change brought.
The dreamscape morphed again, this time to a bustling workshop in Florence. The air was thick with the scent of paint and the sound of chisels against marble. The same teenager stood amidst the chaos, focused unyieldingly as he worked on a piece of art. He watched as he painted an angel with such skill and grace that even her master, Verrocchio, looked on in awe.
The pride in his work was palpable.
He saw him dissecting animals to study anatomy, sketches filled with meticulous detail.
He witnessed fascination with mechanical devices, the pages of notebooks teeming with innovative ideas.
But there was more than just work as observed interactions with fellow apprentices, the camaraderie and rivalry that pushed them all to excel. He saw the forming connections with influential figures in Florence, charm and intellect opening doors to new opportunities. The vibrant artistic community was a stark contrast to the isolation had felt in the begining his own mission.
The dream began to distort, colors bleeding into each other, sounds merging into an indistinct hum. Batman felt himself being pulled back, the scene slipping away.
Just as he was about to grasp a deeper, the dream shattered, and he was jolted awake.
He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of his room. Caster stood over him, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity.
"Are you alright, Bruce?" Da Vinci's voice was soft, yet it held an edge of worry.
Batman took a deep breath, grounding himself in the present. The memories of the dream lingered, a poignant reminder of the thin line between passion and obsession. He nodded, pushing himself to sit up.
"I'm fine," he said, his voice steady. "Just... a dream."
Da Vinci's eyes sparkled with a knowing glint. "A dream about me, perhaps?"
Batman managed a faint smirk. "Something like that."
As he regained his composure, his mind shifted to the present. He needed to review the events that had led to his current state. There was no time to dwell on dreams, no matter how enlightening they might be. The mission awaited, and he had to be ready.
As the last remnants of 15th century Italy dissolved into the dim, earthy surroundings of the cave base under Ryuudou Temple from his mind Bruce took a deep breath, grounding himself.
His body felt heavy, but he was not unfamiliar with the sensation of being pushed past its limits. As he began to sit up, he became acutely aware of his state of undress.
"Are you alright, Bruce?" Da Vinci's voice was a blend of curiosity and genuine concern. Her eyes scan his form with a mix of clinical detachment rather than personal interest.
He nodded, wincing slightly as he moved being the only sign of the utter agony he felt. "I'll be fine. Just... Adjusting."
The cave base was a blend of ancient stone and advanced technology, a testament to Da Vinci's genius in melding the old with the new. Batman's gaze flickered around, taking in the various medical instruments and alchemical concoctions that lined in holographic screens. He could feel the lingering effects of potent healing techniques, his advanced metabolism already working in overdrive to repair the damage.
"Your body's in remarkable condition," Da Vinci remarked, her tone almost admiring. "But the way you push yourself is... destructive. You heal quickly, but the strain you put yourself under is concerning."
Batman couldn't help but smirk at the irony. "Coming from someone who dissected cadavers as a teenager to understand anatomy better, that's saying something."
Da Vinci's lips curled into a smile. "Curiosity and dedication to one's craft are different from obsession and self-destruction, Bruce. You walk a fine line."
After a long moment holding his reaction to using his name, he nodded, acknowledging the truth in her words. "I've always pushed my limits. It's how I've survived this long."
As he settled back, his mind wandered to the dream he had experienced. The images of Da Vinci's early life, her apprenticeship, and her relentless pursuit of knowledge were vivid in his memory. He marveled at the contrast between her boundless curiosity and his own driven obsession. Both paths led to mastery, but the motivations were worlds apart.
"Dreams have a way of revealing truths we might overlook when we're awake."
... His body, though battered, felt rejuvenated. The healing techniques Da Vinci employed were far more advanced than any conventional medicine he had encountered. His deep meditation helped, but it was her methods that expedited his recovery.
"I've been better," he replied, his voice steady despite the lingering pain. "But I've also been worse."
Batman's gaze shifted to the intricate instruments and concoctions surrounding them. "Your healing methods… they're extraordinary. It usually takes a cocktail of antibiotics, steroids, and quick surgery to fix what I assume are internal injuries like mine."
Da Vinci nodded, her expression thoughtful. "You can credit my curiosity and dedication to the craft for that. I've always been driven by a desire to understand and improve. Your condition, however, is something else entirely. Your body's conditioning is exceptional, but you have subjected yourself to an immense amount of stress."
It was not like he had any options.
Still, it's better not to waste energy.
"You're right," he admitted, a rare concession. "But the mission comes first. There's always another battle, another threat."
Da Vinci finished her work, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Just promise me you'll take care of yourself. Even the greatest heroes need to rest and heal."
He hasn't seen Clark take a break so that's obviously not true.
Batman sat up, his body protesting but ultimately complying. He met Da Vinci's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them.
Bruce…
Bruce Wayne was used to being called many things — but there was one term he had always found both comforting and uniquely endearing when spoken by a single person: "Master Bruce." Alfred's voice, laced with a mix of respect and paternal affection, was the only context in which it felt right. When Alfred called him "Master," it wasn't about subservience; it was a reminder of the bond they shared. Alfred, ever the surrogate father, used the term to signify Bruce's perpetual status as the boy he had helped raise, the child he had cared for through the darkest times.
But here, in this moment with Da Vinci, there was a different feeling altogether. The relief he felt when she called him "Bruce" instead of "Master" was palpable. He didn't like being called Bruce—it felt too intimate, too familiar—but it was infinitely better than being addressed as "Master" by someone other than Alfred.
His thoughts drifting to the recent battle where he had faced the golden Servant Caster had referred to as Archer. The phantom pain of dodging the golden Servant's relentless attacks still lingered in his muscles, a visceral reminder of the encounter. Archer's seemingly endless arsenal was certainly a unique form of combat.
No Servant should have had that many weapons, each with its own unique properties and devastating potential according to what was known.
Obviously, it is wrong.
As Da Vinci continued her work, Batman's analytical mind returned to the confrontation. The surveillance systems he had deployed had captured every detail of the fight, allowing him to study the weapons used by Archer. Each weapon was distinct, yet there was no apparent connection between them.
A sword that looked almost like it was made of stone, full of spikes. Another that appeared beautifully crafted, a work of art in itself. A bizarrely shaped scythe and an ancient Chinese halberd. These were just a few among the hundreds that had appeared on the battlefield. It was inconceivable how one man, even a Servant, could possess such an arsenal.
"There's a lot to analyze," he said, meeting her gaze. "The weapons Archer used, their origins, their effects. It doesn't add up. No king should have that many different weapons."
Da Vinci paused, considering his words. "At least, it's pretty much confirmed that the Servant is of the Archer class, as no other Servant class would fight throwing so many projectiles into their opponents, no matter how strange it is that they are mostly swords."
Bruce nodded, his mind racing. Given the way the golden Servant acted, it was not difficult to imagine that he was a king while alive even if he didn't already outright state it. The mention of the name Tokiomi during the battle was another clue worth investigating. The real problem was imagining that a king could have come across so many different weapons.
It was possible to analyze the weapons the Servant had used during the battle thanks to the surveillance systems he had on the scene. Yet, the information he could find on what he saw only added more mystery to the golden Servant. He thought about the practical, ceremonial, and mystical significance of each. Possible legendary weapons that matched the descriptions.
There was no connection between these weapons. Who knew how many different effects and special abilities those weapons had? And then there was the Servant himself... To be able to resist Caster's spell and the orbital strike in sequence... How could he counter all of it?
At this rate, he would have to spend multiple hours trying to understand what he had seen. There had to be something... Something he could find—
His muscles still remembered the fight, the phantom pain of dodging Archer's relentless attacks lingering as a visceral reminder.
The world he operated in was full of anomalies and exceptions—metahumans with secondary abilities, sorcerers who bent the rules of reality. The golden Servant, Archer, was no different. His arsenal defied logic and thus, demanded deeper scrutiny.
His thoughts drifted to the concept of mythological heroes, leaders, and kings. And then thought of them as people. Remove the fact that they were stories and see the source. These figures bore immense psychological and emotional burdens due to their exceptional status and responsibilities. The expectations of their followers, the challenges of leadership, and the personal transformations they underwent all contributed to their heavy mental load.
He thought of the confirmed identity of Iskander, Alexander the Great. This revelation provided a reference point, but the other Servants remained enigmatic. The golden Archer, the female Knight, each carried the weight of their histories, their legacies shaping their actions and decisions in the present.
"At least we know one thing for certain," he said aloud, his voice breaking the silence. "Iskander's identity is confirmed. But the others… we need more information."
He turned his focus back to the golden Archer. The weapons, the demeanor, the sheer power—all pointed to a king of immense influence and wealth. The surveillance footage replayed again, each frame offering new details to dissect. The stone-like sword could be linked to a legend of a weapon forged from the earth itself, while the beautifully crafted sword might belong to a king who valued artistry as much as war. The bizarre scythe and ancient Chinese halberd suggested connections to other cultures and periods, adding layers to the mystery.
Batman's mind raced through the possibilities.
What kind of king could amass such an arsenal?
Magic - magecraft- certainly makes things anachronistic…
His thoughts were interrupted by Da Vinci's humming, her tone a mix of concern and exasperation.
Her face wore a deadpan expression, despite her usual smile.
"Yes, yes, I know," he muttered softly, leaning back in his chair. The fatigue still washed over him, a reminder of the toll his relentless pursuit took on his body and mind. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself a brief respite.
A micro-nap was due…
As he opened his eyes, he saw Da Vinci watching him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
Kotomine Kirei stood silently in the dimly lit room, his tall figure casting a shadow that seemed to merge with the darkness around him. The simple vestments he wore and the golden cross around his neck were stark contrasts to the inner turmoil that raged within him. His mind, ever a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and thoughts, fixated on the recent events of the Fourth Holy Grail War. The appearance of the man in the bat costume capturing and escaping with an Assassin copy was unexpected, to say the least.
Kirei had always known he was different. From a young age, he had recognized the defect within himself—a void where others found joy and purpose. Despite his accomplishments, he had never felt satisfaction. His father, Risei, saw his perceived devotion and piety, but it was a misunderstanding that brought Kirei only shame. The truth was far more sinister. Kirei found himself drawn to negative emotions, to the pain and suffering of others, and he condemned these monstrous inclinations even as he indulged in them.
For over twenty years, Kirei had tried to correct his nature, to find something that could fill the void within him. He had sought solace in religion, in marriage, even in masochistic self-torture, but nothing had brought him the peace he sought. His wife's death had been the final confirmation that he was beyond redemption. He had planned to end his own life, but instead, he had thrown himself into the orders of the Church, hoping that following orders would numb his inclinations. Yet, even in this, he found no true satisfaction.
His confusion only deepened when the Holy Grail chose him as Master.
He, who lacked purpose, ideals, or aspirations, could not fathom why he had been chosen.
The Grail was an almighty wish machine, and someone like him had no reason to need it.
Still, he followed Tokiomi's instructions, staying in the church as a "defeated Master," even as he expected many things during the Holy Grail War.
But he did not expect Batman.
The man in the ... bat costume had captured an Assassin copy and vanished.
He had heard of Batman from his time as an Executor, of course—Gotham's enigmatic protector in terms of actions if not baffling descriptions.
The Dark Knight's presence in the Holy Grail War was an unexpected variable that Kirei felt compelled to understand.
He began to review Batman's publicly known history, compiling a profile of the various events ,Kirei's intrigue and bafflement grew. Batman's encounters with a rogues' gallery of criminals read like a litany of trials faced by a modern-day shonen manga involving a brooding knight in black armor.
From adversaries with names such as "Doctor Death" and "Hugo Strange" to a Dead Apostle (The elusive Monk at that), they were as varied and dangerous as those faced by any hero of myth for a man of modern day. His burning of Carmine Falcone's secret cash stores and the subsequent bounty placed on his head spoke of a man who waged war on crime with relentless fury.
The list of assassins brought in by Falcone's bounty was even more impressive, as even he had heard of them:
Slade Wilson, Floyd Lawton, Malcolm Merlyn.
Batman had faced them all and emerged victorious.
Kirei's fascination with Batman was not merely academic. He saw in Batman a possible path, someone who might share his own way... possibly the enjoyment of punishing evil.
Kirei wondered what could drive a man to such sadistic joy on the path of goodness. He imagined Batman finding suppressed joy in the pain of the criminals he defeated. . Kirei's emotions were a turbulent mix of admiration and envy as he contemplated Batman's motivations. He also harbored a deep curiosity about the underlying darkness that drove him. The possibility that Batman found a twisted satisfaction in his crusade against evil both fascinated and unsettled him. He imagined Batman savoring the fear in his enemies' eyes, the breaking of their spirits, and the suffering he inflicted upon them.
His contemplation was interrupted by the end of the file with only his own thoughts on the events at the dock.
The images from the now-destroyed Assassin Shade revealed Batman's intervention, another result in the loss of dozens of shades. Kirei realized with a pang of irritation that his resources were dwindling for the first time since he participated, and he only had a few shades left at his disposal.
Yet, even in this setback, Kirei found a perverse thrill.
As he stood in his study, surrounded by the evidence of Batman's crusade, Kirei felt a flicker of something he rarely experienced—anticipation. He looked forward to the day he would meet Batman face to face.
Until then.
Hassan of the Hundred Faces, an existence defined by multiplicity and division, found themselves once in agreement despite their fragmented nature that was reflected in the multitude of physical identities they embodied.
Each of the assassins within this fractured collective possessed their own distinct personality and memories, unable to share their experiences with one another. It was a cruel irony that despite their singular goal of unifying into a perfect, cohesive entity, they were perpetually fragmented, their unity an ever-elusive dream.
Among the countless selves, it was the female Assassin who primarily interacted with Kirei Kotomine.
Her Master, Kirei, had no genuine ambition to win the Holy Grail War, reducing her existence to that of a mere observer—a voyeur trapped in the shadows of true combatants. Kirei's loyalty to Tokiomi Tohsaka further deepened her sense of subjugation, rendering her a servant to a servant, a puppet whose strings were controlled by another's whims.
Her plans for obtaining the Holy Grail, born from desperation, had taken shape long ago. If the war leaned favorably towards Kirei and Tokiomi, she would seize the Grail before either could claim it. Back when they were ignorant of who they were up against both on "their" side and against .
Now, with only a handful of shades remaining, the Assassins' chances seemed bleak. The confrontation at the docks had been a disastrous encounter, leading to the loss of more of their kind. The bat-clad vigilante's brutal efficiency, recognized him as a formidable adversary and the sheer power of both Gilgamesh and the mysterious Caster.
She knew their best chance lay in either Gilgamesh's victory, with the hope that the king might deign to grant her the Grail, or in seizing it from Batman, whose Caster's powerful Noble Phantasms had already wreaked havoc on the battlefield.
But before she could delve further into these grim contemplations, a deafening explosion shattered her thoughts.
The church, their supposed sanctuary, was engulfed in flames. The massive explosion tore through the structure, sending debris and fire into the night sky. The female Assassin, alongside her remaining counterparts, despite the lack of injury,was thrown to the ground by the force of the blast. She scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding as she assessed the devastation.
The once-stalwart edifice now lay in ruins, the air thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning wood and stone. Her mind raced, trying to comprehend the implications of this attack. The church had been a pivotal location, a nexus of their operations and a symbol of Kirei's authority. With it gone, their already tenuous position had become even more precarious.
In the chaos, she caught sight of Kirei, emerging from the wreckage with a look of grim determination. His vestments were singed, and the golden cross around his neck glinted ominously in the firelight. Despite the carnage, his eyes held a cold, unwavering resolve.
Maiya Hisau stood in the shadows. The distant glow of the burning church reflected in her cold, impassive eyes. The RPG launcher she had used to deliver the devastating blow was already disassembled and stored in her black duffel bag. Her all-black attire blended seamlessly into the night as the flames consumed the church. Maiya allowed herself a brief moment of reflection.
In the days leading up to this night, Kiritsugu Emiya had been a man driven by obsession. He had meticulously pieced together fragments of information previously held about Batman. Everyone else had files on hand or valuable information. It was back to square one. From rumors whispered in the darkest corners of Gotham to sightings in crime-ridden areas, Kiritsugu had compiled a timeline of Batman's exploits.
"1981," Kiritsugu had begun, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of tension. "Batman's first encounter with Doctor Death and Hugo Strange. His first battle with the Dead Apostle Monk. Then there's the incident with Carmine Falcone's cash—Batman burned it all. That act alone put a 50 million dollar bounty on his head."
Maiya listened intently, her expression neutral as Kiritsugu continued to recount Batman's battles with some of the most dangerous assassins in the world. Slade Wilson, Floyd Lawton, Nathan Prince—names that sent shivers down the spines of lesser men.
"1982," Kiritsugu had said, his distaste evident. "He brought in Sal Maroni, who then attacked Harvey Dent during his trial. That event triggered a night of murders that changed Gotham's underworld forever. That year marked his first encounters with the Joker, Two-Face, Scarface, the Ventriloquist, and Solomon Grundy."
"1983," Kiritsugu continued, his voice now tinged with a hint of disdain. "Robin's first public appearance. It's... a distasteful. But Batman's methods are effective, even if they are unorthodox."
The briefing was exhaustive, each detail adding to Maiya's understanding of their enigmatic adversary.
Kiritsugu Emiya's debriefing had left Maiya in a reflective mood. The information he had gathered about Batman was impressive, painting a picture of a relentless and enigmatic vigilante.
Artoria Pendragon and Irisviel von Einzbern listened intently as Kiritsugu continued his briefing. The details of Batman's encounters with Gotham's rogues gallery were laid out meticulously, each name and event a testament to the Dark Knight's prowess.
"..," Artoria began, her voice measured but laced with curiosity, "how do you know so much about this Batman? It seems your information is remarkably detailed."
Kiritsugu's expression darkened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. "I avoided personal encounter with him. It was in 1983, during the Wayne Plaza bombing. I saw him in action."
Artoria and Irisviel exchanged glances, both intrigued and apprehensive.
"I was the only able to escape the Batman that night," Kiritsugu continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "cause I struck from the shadows, planted the bombs, and simply left. By the time Batman most likely discovered my role, it was too late to catch me. Nearly a decade ago. "
Kiritsugu met her gaze with a steely resolve. "Based on his methods, Batman avoids civilian casualties at all costs. It's his weakness and our advantage. If we can force him into a position where he has to choose between saving lives and stopping us, we can control the battlefield."
Irisviel's face reflected silent horror at the suggestion, her gentle nature recoiling at the thought of using innocent lives as shields. "Kiritsugu... there must be another way," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Artoria's internal struggle was invisible to even the most certain eyes. As a knight, she abhorred the idea of using civilians as pawns, but cold logic would ensure their victory, even if it meant compromising her principles.
"We will target other enemies while using crowded places as shields. But know this, Kiritsugu—if there is any other way, we must pursue it."
Kiritsugu nodded, acknowledging her point but not relenting. "Our primary focus should be to eliminate the second most dangerous enemy before Batman can disrupt our plans further."
A/N: Update.
Last edited: Aug 3, 2024
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Threadmarks Chapter 13: Quick Action
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The-Honored-One
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Trigger Warning for mentions of all sorts of distressing subjects.
Amidst the shifting kaleidoscope of dreams, colored swathes came together in a maddening whirl of colors that blend into one another.
It was a void, a nothingness, that sat heavy with the weight of all of humanity's sins, transgressions, and taboos that had been committed throughout the years.
Sacrilege
Cannibalism
Incest
Rape
Betrayal
Worship of false idols
Blasphemy
In this primordial age, when the world was young and humanity was just finding its way, the sins that were committed were those of survival, driven by primal instincts and raw desires that dictated human behavior. The void swirled with the blood of the first murders, the echoes of fratricide as Cain struck down Abel, his brother's blood soaking the earth. There was the scent of burnt offerings, the desecration of sacred groves, and the defilement of virgin lands as the earliest tribes pushed boundaries in their hunger for power.
Tyranny
Genocide
Slavery
Regicide
Usury
As time marched on and civilizations rose and fell, the sins became more complex, woven into the very fabric of society.
The taboo of forbidden knowledge, where men sought to play god, to bend the world to their will through dark arts and unspeakable experiments. Alchemy gone wrong, the perversion of nature, creating abominations that walked the earth, cursed to live in the shadows.
In this modern time, where the world is connected by invisible threads, the void is thick with the sins of a society that has forgotten its soul. War crimes, the bombing of civilians, the use of chemical weapons, mass graves filled with the innocent. Terrorism, where fear is the currency and the innocent are the victims in a twisted game of power.
Exploitation is everywhere—human trafficking, the selling of bodies, organs, of children, of dreams. Environmental destruction, where the very earth is torn apart, poisoned, in the name of progress and profit. Genetic manipulation, playing god with life itself, creating beings who are neither human nor animal, who exist in a grey area of pain and confusion.
There is the sin of corporate greed, where the few prosper at the expense of the many, where the earth is consumed, and the air is poisoned for the sake of the bottom line.
Apathy has taken root, where people turn a blind eye to the suffering around them, too caught up in their own lives to care.
At the core of all this—at the heart of the Holy Grail—was the essence of evil. But even as the void was filled with all these sins, transgressions, and taboos, the concept of "pure evil" remained hollow, a whisper in the dark that never fully took shape.
Pure evil, by its very nature, was ungraspable. It could exist in theory, but in practice, it never manifested. For once you added context, once you gave it a name, a face, a cause, it was no longer pure—it was merely evil, a shadow of something that could never be truly defined. Male or female, young or old, rich or poor—once you looked for the source of this evil, it was lost, diluted by the very humanity that sought to define it.
No form, no traits, nothing that could be pinned down.
It was zero, a void, a nothingness that existed.
But ... as empty as it was, it was incredibly simple to add any number without changing it—like the vessel of the fourth Grail.
And in that emptiness, in that void, the true horror lay.
For it was not the presence of evil that was terrifying, but the absence of anything else.
Batman's eyes snapped open, his mind immediately alert despite the fifteen minutes of microsleep he had allowed himself. Every second of rest was calculated, an essential maintenance cycle in a war where every breath could be his last. His hand shot out instinctively, a blur of motion catching Da Vinci's wrist just before her fingers grazed his shoulder.
Da Vinci's smile was as quick as his reflexes. She had been about to gently shake him awake, knowing full well he'd be up and ready the moment she got too close. But instead of pulling back, she smoothly turned the wrist grab into an intimate handhold, her fingers interlacing with his. The unexpected gesture threw him off balance for a fraction of a second—more than enough for her.
His eyes, sharp and calculating, met hers. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, something that was not quite an apology for his subconscious paranoia. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low and even, yet, unconsciously, touched with a trace of genuine concern.
Her mischievous grin widened. "I could ask the same of you, Bruce," she teased, giving his hand a light squeeze before finally letting go. "Even geniuses need a little rest every now and then."
Batman narrowed his eyes slightly, not in anger but in mild exasperation. "Save it, Da Vinci," he muttered, pushing himself off.
Da Vinci's playful demeanor didn't fade as she watched him move towards his newly repaired suit. She leaned back, arms crossed, still amused.
Bruce's mind was already shifting gears, running through the details of their next move. The delay in deciphering the golden archer's identity gnawed at him—a roadblock in an otherwise smooth operation. He had pieced together most of the puzzle, but the Golden Archer remained an enigma.
He began to analyse the newly repaired and he assumed, upgraded suit piece by piece. The fabric slid over his skin but there was something different about it. It felt smoother, more integrated with his movements.
Iskander—the King of Conquerors—had announced this to the world with bravado.
Hassan of the Hundred Faces—the Assassin—was a title Bruce had deduced on his own before Da Vinci confirmed it. The summoning of the "Old Man of the Mountain", while fit the profile perfectly. The fragmented skill set and multiple identities most likely stemmed from lack of information.
Not many had met one of their ilk in the modern day after all
Saber— "Arthur" Pendragon—had been a straightforward case.
Her accent, her armor, and her swordsmanship.
Even without seeing Excalibur, (or was it Caliburn), her mannerisms, and the reverence she commanded left little doubt as to her true identity. The title "King of Knights" or "King of Britain" had sealed the deal.
But the Golden Archer—was a different story.
The man's skin, though initially appearing Caucasian, lacked the conventional flaws pigment alignment. His hair was such a specific shade and texture it might as well have been made of actual gold, not just colored as such, and his eyes—ruby red and feline—suggested an ancestry far removed from humanity. Even the symmetry of his body, mathematically perfect on review, as well of his stance, defied human anatomy.
There was no record detailed enough to describe of such a figure in any known mythology or historical account.
Bruce's mind continued to puzzle over it, but he forced himself to push it aside for now. They had more immediate concerns.
As he secured the final piece of his suit, he turned back to Da Vinci. "Once we get enough Command Seals we need to dismantle the Grail and end this war before it escalates further."
Da Vinci nodded, her playful demeanor fading as the gravity of their situation returned. "Agreed. But the Grail is no simple artifact. We'll need to be precise—cutting off its power at the source without triggering whatever fail-safes might be in place."
Batman nodded, his mind already calculating the variables. " We'll strike at the heart of this conflict and neutralize the threats before they can regroup, using the attention as a lure."
"Still, taking out the prize at the source neatly solves everything," he finally said, his voice laced with a tinge of annoyance.
"A simile of the Holy Artifact that is supposedly imbued with Christ's blood, created from gold—an element symbolizing both good and evil—and then filled with the blood of heroes, driven to murder by their own greed and lust… It's a recipe for disaster. I'm surprised someone didn't summon the Whore of Babylon as a Rider."
Da Vinci's lips quirked into a brief smile at his dry humor, but her eyes remained serious. "My Noble Phantasm can create the perfect counterspell, but even I have limits and thus need time. And the ambush failed. We need a new plan of attack."
He nodded, understanding her concern. "I was hoping the massive attack would have taken care of everything, but I didn't bet on it." His voice lowered, his tone becoming more introspective as he recalled his training in guerrilla warfare during his years of travel and training. "Now we have all eyes on us in this war. Every move we make is being watched, and that's something we can use to our advantage. Most of the Servants might not know about modern strategies, but we do. We use it and can't let the momentum let up. Not when we're dealing with tactical geniuses like King Arthur and Alexander the Great."
Da Vinci leaned in, her curiosity piqued. "What's your plan?"
"There's a river that flows through this city," Bruce began, his mind already piecing together a complex strategy. "We'll plant a false base near it. Maybe multiple, something that can act as both a decoy and a trap. If we're lucky, we can lure them in and blow them up."
Da Vinci raised an eyebrow, her skepticism clear. "And what about Archer? "
"That's why I'm relying on you to find a way to dismantle the Grail," Bruce replied, his gaze steady. "We need to end this at the source. From what I know about the Mage Community, if this situation occurred closer to the ... "Clocktower", it would have been picked up and torn apart before it could get this bad. And yet, they haven't even noticed the potential disaster that's brewing here."
"The Grail is here in Fuyuki, but according to Zatanna, Asia as a whole is considered a backwater region by the nobility at the Clocktower. The factions that vie for dominance there are simply uninterested in whatever is happening in this part of the world."
Batman frowned slightly as the implications sank in. "That might work in our favor. Less interference means more control over the situation. But it also means we're on our own."
He turned his thoughts to the Church of Blood for a moment, considering contacting his former ward, Dick Grayson, to gather more intel. The idea lingered in his mind briefly before he shelved it—
Da Vinci's voice broke his reverie. "Bruce, there's another problem we hadn't considered. The Grail might have a preset wish—a failsafe that activates if it's tampered with."
His mind whirred with possibilities, each one more dangerous than the last. "Destroy the Leylines, then," he suggested. "Would that sever the Grail's power?"
Da Vinci's expression darkened. "Destroying the Leylines would be catastrophic. We're talking about ripping out the lifeblood of the land itself. The resulting energy overflow would trigger a magnitude 10.6 earthquake, at least. And that's just the beginning. The Grail has been absorbing mana for over centuries at minimum. Unleashing that kind of power would be beyond catastrophic—it would be apocalyptic."
Bruce's eyes narrowed, his mind racing to find a solution. "Then we need to find a way to disable the Grail without triggering its destruction. Maybe… if we could create a containment field around it—"
The two of them fell silent, the weight of their predicament pressing down on them. The Holy Grail was more than just a magical artifact—it was a ticking time bomb, if held by anyone with ill intentions, one that could obliterate everything if they weren't careful.
As Bruce continued to lay out contingency plans, Da Vinci's mind raced ahead, working through the complexities of the Grail in a way she hadn't allowed herself to consider before. She listened to his voice, calm and calculated, but her thoughts were elsewhere, entangled in the intricate web of magical theories and possibilities. She could feel the faint pulse of the Greater Grail's power resonating somewhere beneath Fuyuki.
If only there was a way to trick it… she mused, her thoughts spiraling deeper into the arcane.
The idea struck her suddenly, a spark in the darkness. From what her Noble Phantasm analysed , the "Lesser Grail" was the key to manifesting the "Greater Grail", but what if she could substitute it? Create a surrogate that could lure the Greater Grail out and expose it to their control? A magic core—a furnace—could be used as a replacement, a powerful enough construct that could serve as a false beacon. It wouldn't be easy, but with the right application of magecraft, it was possible.
But could she do it in time?
If only we had someone with an elemental affinity for imaginary numbers or hollowness… This would be so much easier.
Imaginary numbers were the concept of nonexistence made manifest, the perfect counter.
A mage with that affinity could create a bridge to imaginary number space, opening pathways into the void where the Grail could be isolated and dismantled at a later date or safley drain it.
If I could combine spatial magecraft with my Noble Phantasm…
By merging it with spatial manipulation, she could distort reality itself, forming a temporary pocket of imaginary number space.
The Command Seals.
The Fuyuki Grail's Command Seals were a direct link to its power. Three of them could be used in tandem to invoke an absolute command, and if she could sync them with her NP and the spatial magecraft, they might have a chance.
As Da Vinci finalized her thoughts on the Grail, Bruce shifted gears, turning his focus back to something more immediate and tactical: the Solar Cannon's secondary function. He asked, his voice cutting through his brainstorming, "Da Vinci, does the secondary function of the Solar Cannon work?" What he really wanted to know, was, "Is it really working?"
Da Vinci paused for a moment, contemplating the question before nodding her head in agreement.
In a thoughtful tone, she replied, "I think that would be the case,".
"The combination of mana and solar energy creates a unique, non-lethal radiation signature. If we track that, we should be able to locate any Servant or Master present when we use it. It's essentially using the principle of time, distance, and shielding to our advantage. The closer they are to the source, the more exposure they receive. And with how long they were exposed to it, they were easy to track."
Bruce considered the implications, his mind quickly mapping out the strategic advantage. "Track their movements post-attack, monitor their current energy signatures, and hit them when they're vulnerable."
Da Vinci nodded, already thinking ahead. "I'll deploy an automata—something small, like a bird, sorry, bats are—equipped with the necessary sensors. It will relay real-time data back to us, allowing for immediate analysis and response."
As she spoke, Bruce's thoughts drifted. He knew the suit's upgrades were necessary, but there was a part of him that couldn't help but feel a gnawing sense of unease. The suit felt different—better, smoother, more resilient—but at what cost?
Bruce couldn't help but reflect, albeit subconsciously. He knew he couldn't retire, not really. His entire life had been a sacrifice, forged by one traumatic event that had left an indelible mark on his soul. The night his parents died had defined his existence, pushing him to train, to fight, to become something beyond human.
He was no stranger to self-destruction, and he knew that every new gadget, every upgrade, only brought him closer to the edge. You don't just dedicate 10-15 years of your life to training and becoming a peak human being if you just plan to retire at the age of 40. There is no way that would work for someone like him, not at all. Throughout his life, he was relentless in his quest for justice, no matter what the cost to himself; he did not have the luxury of peace.
But maybe he could make it easier.
Da Vinci noticed the slight shift in his demeanor, the way his gaze lingered on the suit longer than usual. She could almost see the gears turning in his mind. He was reckless, she realized—brilliant, but reckless. And she had to keep up, anticipating his needs even before he voiced them.
When she had been working on the suit's upgrades, her mind raced with the possibilities in order to actually keep her Master alive.
She had chosen Boron Carbide, a material known for its hardness, comparable to diamonds, yet without the fragility. It had once been used in ballistic plates around the turn of the century before being replaced by more advanced ceramics and graphene sheets according the material science data of the current era.
But Da Vinci had taken it a step further, applying magecraft to induce clasts of trace metals and quartz. These enhancements preserved the structure while amplifying its properties. What if it could be mixed with a projection of metal or boron carbide, and bonded at high enough temperatures?
Clasts—those small fragments—had reminded her of Roman concrete, which contained quicklime. When exposed to water, the quicklime would expand and fill in cracks, essentially allowing the concrete to self-repair.
Could this principle be applied to the suit? A material that became more malleable when exposed to heat and energy, one that could repair itself upon impact? It was an idea that fascinated her.
She had developed self-repairing plates of armor, titanium-dipped tri-weave Kevlar bonded with Boron Carbide, incorporating the properties of Roman concrete without relying on internal mana and at worst take it from the air. Something that showed that could have backfired if she did not change the design for the occasion when her Master pushed himself. The result was something that could withstand supernatural impact while maintaining the hardness of a diamond, yet without the fragility. It was designed to take a beating.
Just like Bruce according to some of his colleagues unknown to her.
And she hadn't stopped there.
Based on her Master's main focus, ballistics were going to be his main enemy.
Little discs, designed to be thrown rather than shot—because Bruce had made his aversion to firearms abundantly clear—would magnetize and attach to weapons, delivering an electrical charge that would incapacitate the wielder.
An idea she had actually ran by him her first go around.
But when Bruce remarked on the potential for the convulsing user to accidentally pull the trigger, she had understood his concern.
He suggested a different idea: something that could destroy the gun internally without harming the user. It was a complex challenge, but one she was eager to solve. After all, that was what she did best—taking complex problems and crafting perfect solutions.
"Bruce," Da Vinci said suddenly, interrupting his thoughts, "The suit upgrades—how does it feel?"
Bruce flexed his hand, feeling the enhanced material shift with him. "Different," he admitted. "Better. Smoother."
Da Vinci smirked. "Good. You'll need it to be. I've made sure it can handle whatever you throw at it."
As Da Vinci's magical systems hummed to life, the intricate network of data streams, mana signatures, and computational power worked in tandem to analyze the battlefield. Every second was precious, every signal a potential threat or opportunity.
Suddenly, one of the screens pinged with urgency, capturing Da Vinci's immediate attention.
"Multiple signals detected," she murmured, her fingers dancing across the holographic interface as she zoomed in on the source. The satellite imaging snapped into focus, revealing a figure silhouetted against the night sky, the familiar shape of an RPG launcher braced on their shoulder.
Before Da Vinci could even react, Batman's instincts took over. He didn't need to think; his body moved on autopilot. In a single fluid motion, he vaulted into the Batmobile, the engine roaring to life as it responded to his unspoken command. He didn't pause to rationalize or strategize.
Someone was in danger. Someone might die. And he couldn't let that happen.
The Batmobile tore through the streets of Fuyuki, a dark blur of speed and power, as Bruce's mind caught up with his reflexes. This was a Grail War participant—an enemy—but the image of the RPG still burned in his mind. There was no time to hesitate, no room for doubt.
Kirei Kotomine watched the RPG sail through the air, his eyes cold and detached, almost as if he were observing from another plane of existence. The world around him seemed to slow, the seconds stretching into an eternity as the rocket-propelled grenade arced toward its target.
KABOOM!
The explosion detonated with a deafening roar, a visceral, violent eruption of force and fire that consumed everything in its path. The shockwave hit like a physical blow, slamming into Kirei with the intensity of a freight train. His vision blurred as the world tilted, disoriented by the sheer magnitude of the blast. For a moment, everything was noise and chaos—an overwhelming cacophony of destruction.
The ground beneath Kirei's feet buckled, the impact sending tremors through the earth as debris rained down around him. Flames licked at the edges of the blast zone, consuming everything in their wake with a ravenous hunger. The heat was intense, oppressive, a wave of blistering air that seared the skin and burned the lungs.
Yet even as the world burned and crumbled around him, Kirei stood firm, his expression unreadable. He had been close—too close—but the blast had been just shy of fatal. The shock and awe of the explosion reverberated through his body, yet he remained unshaken. There was a cold, almost eerie calm in the midst of the chaos, a detachment that allowed him to observe the destruction with a clinical eye.
His ears rang with the lingering echo of the blast, a high-pitched whine that seemed to stretch on forever. Dust and smoke choked the air, obscuring his vision, but Kirei remained unperturbed. He could feel the heat, the pressure, the weight of the destruction, but he was not afraid. Pain was an old companion, and fear had long since lost its grip on him.
For a brief moment, time seemed to stand still. The flames danced in the distance, casting flickering shadows across the ruins of what had once been a church—a sacred place, now reduced to rubble and ash. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning wood and scorched earth, a reminder of the devastation that had just unfolded.
Kirei's mind raced, processing the situation with an efficiency honed by years of training and experience. The attack had been precise, calculated. It was no random act of violence, but a deliberate strike, meant to eliminate.
He could still feel the reverberations of the explosion in his bones, the aftershocks of the blast echoing through his body. But even as the world burned around him, Kirei remained focused, his mind sharp and clear. The enemy had struck with brutal force, but they had not finished the job. And that, he knew, would be their mistake.
The smoke began to clear, the flames slowly dying down, revealing the true extent of the damage. The once-majestic structure was now little more than a smoldering husk, its walls shattered, its roof collapsed. The ground was littered with debris, the remnants of stained glass windows, shattered pews, and charred wood. Yet amid the ruins, Kirei stood tall, untouched by the destruction.
He turned his gaze to the horizon, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated his next move. The enemy had made their play, but the game was far from over. He would not be so easily defeated.
As he took a step forward, his mind began to calculate, to plan, to prepare for the inevitable confrontation that lay ahead.
The tension in the air was palpable, thick as the fog that often rolled in from the se. The night was cold, colder than usual for this time of year, and the chill seemed to seep into their bones as they stood in the dimly lit safehouse on the outskirts of the city.
Kiritsugu Emiya stood at the center of the room, his posture rigid, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring ready to snap.
Across from him stood Irisviel, her face a mask of worry and uncertainty. Her silver hair, normally so radiant, seemed dulled in the harsh light, as if reflecting the gravity of the situation.
Beside Irisviel stood Saber, her armor gleamed dully in the low light, the golden accents catching and reflecting the meager illumination. The weight of her invisible sword, Excalibur, hung heavy at her side. Her gaze was locked onto Kiritsugu, her piercing green eyes narrowed.
The silence between them was deafening, filled with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. It was Irisviel who finally broke it, her voice soft, almost pleading. "Kiritsugu… Is this really the best option?"
Her words hung in the air, a fragile thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, there was another way. She searched his face, desperate for some sign that he was reconsidering.
Kiritsugu didn't respond immediately. He simply looked at her, his expression unchanged, as if weighing her words against what drove him. Finally, he gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Irisviel's heart sank at that small gesture, as if a great weight had been placed upon her chest. She had known, deep down, that this was coming.
Saber's gaze flicked to Irisviel, then back to Kiritsugu.
Kiritsugu didn't flinch, but there was a brief flicker of something—regret, perhaps?—in his eyes before it was quickly extinguished. "It's necessary," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
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Threadmarks Chapter 14: Escalating Responses
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...
You know what?
Instead of an ultra long chapter in one go, I'll split it. I'll take any typos on the chin.
Fuck it, we ball.
The Batmobile roared through the streets of Fuyuki like a living beast unleashed, its low, guttural hum rising as Batman pressed the accelerator. The sleek, matte black machine seemed to glide over the asphalt, taking tight corners at impossible angles, weaving through traffic and late night wandering pedestrians like a predator navigating a forest of obstacles. Streetlights were reflected and deflected off its dark, angular body, flashing briefly before they were left behind in a blur of speed and precision.
The sheer velocity was overwhelming.
Tires screeched as he drifted around a sharp turn, the Batmobile's chassis tilting to the very brink of what should've been possible, yet it maintained complete stability. The G-forces that would have torn a lesser driver apart were no match for the reinforced cockpit.
A red car swerved into his path ahead, the driver panicking, and Bruce's mind raced even faster than the car. He could already see the outcome before it happened—if he braked, the civilian would panic, possibly veering into oncoming traffic.
He didn't.
Instead, the Batmobile lurched into a sharp right, rocketing into a narrow alley that looked barely wide enough for a bicycle. The walls screamed past on either side, missing the Batmobile's paint by mere inches, as it hurtled through the dark passage and shot out onto the next street.
Formula racing in his Bruce Wayne identity had been the perfect cover—a "playboy billionaire" with a penchant for fast cars, always looking for a new thrill. But for Bruce, it had been far more than just a hobby.
It was training.
The breakneck speeds, the hairpin turns, the pressure to maintain control while barreling down a track at over 200 miles per hour—all of it had been preparation for nights like this.
He remembered that first real crash—early in his career, before the Batmobile had reached its current level of sophistication. He'd been practicing extreme maneuvers in a prototype, pushing the limits of what both man and machine could handle. A bad calculation had sent the car spiraling off the track, and he'd snapped his leg on impact.
To explain away the injury, Bruce Wayne had booked a flight to Sweden the next morning and staged a skiing accident, flashing a charming smile at the tabloids as they gobbled up the story.
It was a lesson learned, and one he never forgot.
As he tore through another turn, narrowly avoiding other vehicles, he could feel the vehicle responding not just to his touch, but almost to his thoughts. There was a subtle ease to the way the car moved, the precision of it far exceeding the mechanical limits he'd known in his years as Bruce Wayne, even in Formula Fast Cars.
This felt…different.
"Da Vinci," he muttered, his voice sharp even through the noise of the engine. "This isn't just regular engineering. It's responding too quickly, too intuitively."
Her voice crackled through the comms, light and teasing as always. "You noticed, huh? I based the interface on familiar craft. A little touch of magic, a little touch of tech—."
Bruce's eyes narrowed as he processed her words.
Mental interfacing possibly?
That explained the uncanny responsiveness.
But it also raised a new possibility—one that sent a chill through him, not of fear, but of cold calculation.
His mind is already racing ahead to the implications. "Could it be used as a mental backup??"
There was a brief pause on Da Vinci's end. When she spoke again, her voice was more serious, laced with curiosity and caution. "In theory, yes. But you know the risks, Bruce. Copying the mind isn't the same as preserving the soul. And the chances of something going wrong…"
"I know the risks," he replied, eyes fixed on the road ahead as he dodged a truck with surgical precision. "Just thinking ahead."
As the vehicle cut through the slicked streets, Batman was acutely aware of every detail— He had detected a slight incongruence.
Da Vinci had made it clear that they were in agreement that their goal was to neutralize the Grail War's central threat, yet Batman couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to her plan than she had revealed.
In his mind, Batman weighed the implications his own knowledge of the Command Seals, augmented by Zatanna's enhancements, had led him to one conclusion. The seals were more potent than he had originally anticipated—potentially two to three times more powerful than what Da Vinci had suggested. This revelation meant that he could potentially incarnate a Servant with them, a prospect he hadn't fully explored due to the immediate demands of the situation.
Yet, there was something else unsettling. Da Vinci had hinted at the necessity of using these Command Seals to dismantle the Grail, the possibility of needing additional Command Seals to fully dismantle the Grail suggested the need to prepare for contingencies.
If Da Vinci remains trustworthy and the Grail handled, he could incarnate her with no delays. If not…
He had, to his distaste, a leash.
Da Vinci, meanwhile, was mentally formulating her strategy, her thoughts racing as she manipulated the magical systems interfaced with the Batmobile's technology.
She had been … economical with the truth. The reality was that to shut down the Grail effectively, she would require at least three Command Seals and to incarnate 3 or 2 if she had more time.
The fact that he had agreed did warm her heart a bit.
The Grail was a formidable artifact, one that required more than just brute force to dismantle. Her initial suggestion to Batman had been deliberately understated to test his reaction and to gauge whether he would be able to adapt to the complexities of their mission
The Batmobile turned sharply onto a side street, its tires screeching slightly as it adjusted to the new trajectory.
Ahead, the Batmobile's HUD pinged, displaying the heat signature of the RPG that had launched moments earlier. The missile in his mind mind's eye , already calculating the trajectory, the angle of impact, and the estimated casualties.
The Batmobile shot forward, faster than before, the streets of Fuyuki blurring past in a cacophony of lights and movement.
His thoughts shifted back to the current situation. The RPG attack—too sloppy to be Saber, Lancer, or Archer. No flair, no sense of style, and certainly not enough care. His instincts told him this was Kiritsugu Emiya—trying to bait a reaction, to lure him out into the open, perhaps even take out a dangerous target while drawing attention. The man worked with precision, but this kind of move... it had all the signs of a dangerous trap.
Batman's mind raced, processing the layers of the Grail War and how the Servants might interact with the modern world. It led him to another question, one he'd been turning over in his head for some time. "Da Vinci, what information could the Servants know about modern-day events? Outside of what their Masters feed them?"
He could hear her pause, processing. "That's… complicated. The Grail pulls Servants from the Throne of Heroes, which exists outside of time. It keeps them from paradoxes, so they don't bring knowledge of different timelines or future events into this one. Even if they had encountered someone in a different war, a different timeline, they wouldn't remember it."
Batman was silent for a moment, then let out a breath. "That makes sense. But I still doubt I'd be remembered. Someone like Superman—yes, but me…?" He didn't finish the thought, but the unspoken name of his closest ally lingered in his mind.
Da Vinci chuckled, somewhat surprised. "Batman, even if that were true—if the world forgot, the Grail certainly wouldn't. Your impact is more significant than you think."
He grunted, brushing the thought aside. The situation at hand required focus. "Back to the plan. If a Command Seal was used, could you manage teleportation?"
Da Vinci took a moment, thinking it over. "You mean teleporting someone else to me? With enough time and preparation, I could replicate the effect, but it wouldn't be instantaneous. I couldn't move us around casually."
"That's fine. We just need to plan for it." His voice was calm, steady, already laying the groundwork for contingencies.
Da Vinci continued working, her systems pinging multiple signals, satellite imaging zooming in on various locations. A few anomalies caught her eye—suspicious figures, someone moving in a pattern that suggested they weren't just civilians.
Then, a flash of fire and smoke bloomed in the distance, the explosion unmistakable. Batman didn't hesitate, his instincts kicking in faster than his conscious thought. He slammed the accelerator, the Batmobile surging forward, tires gripping the road with monstrous ferocity as it rocketed toward the source of the blast.
KABOOM.
The shockwave rippled through the streets, and in an instant, his mind was already assessing the damage. The sound was deafening, a low, guttural roar that echoed in the air, shaking buildings, sending waves of energy spiraling outward.
The Grail, that potent and enigmatic artifact, loomed at the center of a rapidly escalating conflict. Da Vinci, her mind racing with the weight of the task at hand, focused intently on her screens, her fingers dancing across the controls as she analyzed the Grail's intricate and malevolent design.
In the shadows of her hidden laboratory, the air hummed with an almost palpable tension. Da Vinci's eyes were locked onto the thaumaturgical framework she had just erected, a complex web of mystical sigils and runes meticulously woven into an ephemeral, digital construct.
Each sigil was meticulously analyzed for its arcane significance, each rune scrutinized for its historical and mystical relevance. The program sifted through centuries of magical theory, its algorithms designed to recognize and exploit any potential vulnerabilities in the Grail's formidable structure.
The walls of the lab were lined with screens displaying arcane symbols and intricate diagrams. The program she constructed was not static; it was a dynamic entity, constantly updated and refined as new data was analyzed. Each iteration brought with it a deeper understanding of the Grail's nature, each interval a step closer to unraveling its mysteries. The program's algorithms were designed to adapt and evolve, incorporating every shred of occult lore and mystical insight that Da Vinci could muster.
As the program continued its ceaseless work, Da Vinci took a moment to reflect on the nature of the Grail itself. It was a vessel of immense and unfathomable power, a nexus of magical energy.
"I see…"
The air inside the dimly lit room was thick with tension as Kiritsugu Emiya and Irisviel von Einzbern prepared.
His voice was steady and clipped as he explained the specifics of their operation. "The RPG is designed with a warhead that can penetrate reinforced structures. The yield is approximately 200 kilojoules, enough to cause significant damage if used correctly."
Irisviel, her brow furrowed in concentration, listened intently as Kiritsugu continued. She held the mental formula of alchemical reinforcement, her eyes glowing faintly. "I need to reinforce this," she said, her voice tinged with both resolve and concern. "But if we do this, we'll be making ourselves enemies of everyone."
Kiritsugu's gaze was unwavering as he met her eyes. "There is no 'us,' Irisviel. Outside of us, everyone else in this war believes you're Saber's Master. Only one person knows my true involvement here, and that's to our advantage."
Maiya Hisau, standing off to the side, was methodically arranging an arsenal of equipment. Her attire was as pristine as ever, and her demeanor remained cold and detached. She checked and rechecked her weapons, ensuring that every piece was in place. Her role in this was crucial: she was to execute the plan, her precision essential to its success.
"We'll be using the RPG to target Kirei," Kiritsugu said, his voice resolute. "With Irisviel's alchemical reinforcement, the impact should be more devastating. But we need to consider that our enemy is Batman. I want this attack to be lethal, but I'm aware that it might not succeed. Batman is a formidable opponent, and while I hope this will be enough to take him down, I doubt it will."
Maiya nodded, her focus never wavering from her task. "Understood.."
As Maiya finished her preparations, Kiritsugu turned back to Irisviel. "Your alchemical reinforcement will make the RPG even more potent. The goal is to cause maximum damage, not just to Kirei, but to possibly injure Batman as well."
Irisviel glanced at the arsenal laid out before them, the weight of their decision pressing heavily on her shoulders. "And if the RPG doesn't manage to take Batman out?"
Kiritsugu's eyes were cold and calculating. "Then Saber gets to him and if not … we adapt. We've made it this far by being flexible and decisive. This is no different. The key is to act swiftly and make our move before anyone has a chance to react."
With a final nod, Kiritsugu turned to Maiya. "Are you ready?"
Maiya's expression remained impassive, but there was a steely resolve in her eyes. "Yes. Everything is set."
The tension in the room was palpable as Kiritsugu and Irisviel prepared for the next phase of their plan. The Grail War had reached a critical juncture, and their actions tonight would determine the course of the conflict.
The roar of the RPG launcher still reverberated in Maiya Hisau's ears as she lowered the smoking weapon from her shoulder. Her breath came in slow, measured gasps, the adrenaline coursing through her veins as she observed the destruction before her. She had fired a series of consecutive shots after much rapid fire reloading and the utter devastation she had wrought was absolute, beyond anything she had anticipated or even intended.
The Church was now a broken husk. The explosive firepower had reduced the proud stone walls to rubble, leaving only burning wreckage in their wake. Flames, unnatural in their vibrancy and hunger, licked the remains of the structure, consuming wood, stone, and steel alike. These were no ordinary fires. No simple explosion could do this much damage. What she had unleashed was a relentless, inextinguishable flame that burned as it was designed to obliterate everything in their path.
Maiya could feel the residual heat emanating from the wreckage, even from where she stood. The air was thick with smoke, acrid and stifling. Shimmering embers danced in the wind, carried away by the currents of destruction. Her fingers, steady and sure from years of training, trembled slightly now as she adjusted her grip on the launcher. The sheer scale of the carnage unsettled her, but it wasn't regret she felt—only a cold, detached sense of completion. It was done.
The RPGs, enhanced by the intricate magecraft of Kiritisugu's wife, had done their job more efficiently than she had thought possible. They weren't merely designed to break through the physical defenses of the Church; they were imbued with mystical properties, engineered to pierce through the protective wards and enchantments layered into the ancient building.
The flames they left behind were more than just chemical reactions—they were fueled by the residual mana from the building's possible spells and ambient mana, burning hotter and more persistently than any ordinary fire.
There was something almost surreal about the sight. Maiya had fought in countless battles, executed assassinations, and delivered death in more ways than she could count.
She wondered how she had never received these tools.
Maiya's gaze hardened as she considered her next move. There was no time for hesitation, no room for doubt and -
The roar that erupted from the fires shattered any thought she had.
The roar that erupted from the fires shattered any thought Maiya had.
It was an unholy sound, a deep and terrible bellow that echoed from the heart of the inferno, as though the flames themselves were screaming in fury. For the first time, something close to doubt flickered in her mind. Her instincts screamed danger, but before she could fully grasp it, the ground beneath her began to rumble violently.
A black, predatory shape launched itself through the haze of smoke and fire, tearing across the battlefield like a demon out of legend. Its tires chewed through the earth, spitting up chunks of debris in its wake, while the sleek armor gleamed darkly in the firelight.
Her muscles twitched as her survival instincts kicked in, forcing her to move. In near-impossible efficiency, her training took over. She grabbed the RPG launcher slung over her shoulder, hands working with mechanical precision.
Reload. Aim. Fire.
The rocket shot from the barrel with a deafening whoosh, cutting through the air like a missile from hell.
A series of flares exploded outward in a dazzling burst of light, intercepting the rocket in midair. The moment of collision sent shockwaves rippling through the battlefield. Maiya's eyes widened in disbelief as her attack exploded prematurely.
The air around her became a violent, pulsing mass of energy and fire, the shockwave hitting her with full force.
She was launched backward, the sheer force of the explosion pushing her off balance. Heat and debris rained down on her, scorching her skin as her vision blurred. Her fingers slipped from the RPG launcher, and she could hear the crackling of flames all around her. As she hit the ground hard, her back slamming into a pile of rubble, pain flashed through her body like a jolt of electricity. Her vision flickered, the world spinning as if caught in a whirlwind of fire and smoke.
Through the haze of chaos, her mind tried to make sense of what was happening, but her body was slow to respond. Her vision blurred, dark spots dancing in her eyes, but just before everything faded, she saw it.
A figure emerging out from the flames on with jet black wings matching the night sky.
His figure seemed larger than life, towering through the inferno, black against orange-red, his cape fully extending behind him, creating a terrifying silhouette that burned into her mind.
The last image burned into her consciousness was his cape fully spread, his eyes hidden in the dark cowl but glowing white both literally and figuratively with an intensity she could feel.
Among the artifacts, the prototype of the Helm of Nabu caught his eye. Its ornate design hinted at the power it held within—power that could reshape destinies and command mystical forces.
Even he had to admit that the plan was audacious.
He had acquired several potent alchemical concoctions, mana crystals, and mystic codes, all of which he now carefully examined.
Using familiar Mud from the Third Holy Grail War, he cultivated it yo shield himself from prying eyes.
This was a strategic necessity with the current Dr. Fate and the return of that golden brat.
But Vandal Savage's ambition was as boundless as his immortality.
The Helm of Nabu, though only a prototype, had potential far beyond its initial design.
Even if it was with something as simple as a voodoo doll.
So close to victory that he cannot help but reminisce to when he once joined Iskander's army in a quest for the legendary Babilu.
The tales of Darius I discovered had sparked his curiosity.
Although the Gate had already been ransacked by the time he arrived … his time with Iskander was not wasted.
The King of Conquerors had imparted to him a profound ambition—a desire to conquer not just the terrestrial but the celestial. Savage marveled at Iskander's vision, realizing that his own immortality was both a gift and a curse. He could not conquer the world within a single lifetime like Iskander dispaired. He had eternity however … and the stars remained an untouched frontier.
And his son …
The memory haunted him.
He intended to first conquer Nabu—not for mere vengeance, but as a form of atonement. He was aware that some mage had recently taken up his former "God"'s mantle.
So be it.
Tokiomi Tohsaka sat at his mahogany desk in the dimly lit study , surrounded by tomes of ancient knowledge, scrolls, and magical sigils etched in glowing ink. The faint hum of mana coursed through the room, creating a soft ambient resonance that he had long grown accustomed to. Yet, despite the wealth of resources at his disposal, his mind was focused on a singular problem: blocking solar-powered magecraft.
Japan, "The Land of the Rising Sun," had always held a deep connection with the Sun. It was embedded in its cultural identity, the source of life and power, both in myth and in magic. For a mage who understood the intricacies of Japan's magical history, the Sun was not merely a celestial body—it was a conduit of immense mystical energy. And in Fuyuki, where ley lines intersected, that power was amplified in ways few understood.
Tokiomi's fingers traced over the worn pages of an ancient manuscript he had obtained from a Kyoto temple. The text described archaic rituals used by early Japanese magi to harness the Sun's power, and more importantly, how those same magi had once attempted to limit that power to control rival factions. It fascinated him—this delicate dance of channeling solar energy, but also the clever countermeasures taken by those who sought to block it.
He was not one to be easily impressed, but as he delved deeper into his research, he couldn't help but feel admiration for the mage who had summoned the Servant that appeared to use this very concept against him in the Holy Grail War.
"The audacity," he muttered to himself, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Whoever this summoner was, they had demonstrated foresight and ingenuity. To weaponize the association between the Sun and Japan itself was a masterstroke. By summoning a Servant whose power was linked to solar energy, they could exploit Japan's deep, natural connection to solar mysticism. And, more subtly, by using this early in the War, they had forced Tokiomi into an intricate chess game, disrupting his strategies before he had even fully mobilized his own forces.
He couldn't deny the brilliance of it.
Tokiomi pulled out a map of Fuyuki and unfurled it on the desk, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the ley lines. The land was rich with mana, but there were subtle patterns—places where the solar energy seemed more potent, as though the very ground resonated with the rising and setting of the Sun. These places had been exploited, their magical potential harnessed in a way that allowed solar-powered magecraft to flow freely, unimpeded by conventional means of counterspelling.
Fuyuki, with its unique geographical location and cultural ties to solar myths, was an ideal place to manifest such magic. And it wasn't just Fuyuki. Throughout Japan, the Sun was revered as a deity—Amaterasu, the goddess of the Sun, was not only a symbol of the imperial family but a wellspring of divine power. The connection between the Sun and Japanese magic was, in a way, inevitable. Solar magecraft had always been stronger here than anywhere else. The mage who had summoned this Servant understood that fact intimately.
Tokiomi stood, pacing slowly across the room, his brow furrowed in thought. "If they are using the Sun as a source, then the key lies in disrupting that flow." He spoke aloud, his voice a low murmur. The summoner had to be tapping into Japan's spiritual relationship with the Sun to power their Servant, enhancing their strength, endurance, or abilities with each dawn. But if Tokiomi could sever that link, or at least diminish it, the Servant's power would wane.
He considered the options available to him. Blocking solar energy wasn't as simple as casting a veil over the sky. Solar-powered magecraft was not just about light; it was about the mana tied to the Sun's position, its cycle, its ancient significance to the land. Any solution would need to address that fundamental connection.
Perhaps a ritual based on lunar cycles? He had read of such things before—how early mages in Asia, fearing the Sun's overwhelming power, had turned to the Moon for balance. Lunar magic was weaker in Japan due to the cultural predominance of solar worship, but it could still act as a counterbalance in theory. If he could create a barrier or enchantment tied to the Moon's energy, it might act as a buffer against the solar influence.
Then there were other, more esoteric approaches—perhaps disrupting the ley lines themselves, forcing the mana to flow in directions less favorable for solar-powered spells. Such a thing would be dangerous, though. Ley lines were delicate, ancient structures. Tampering with them could have unforeseen consequences, but it might be necessary if the Servant proved too reliant on the Sun's power.
Tokiomi returned to his desk, flipping through his notes
He took a deep breath and let his mind wander over the possibilities. He could start with localized effects—a cloud-covering spell to block the Sun's rays temporarily, or even a large-scale ritual to obscure the sky entirely. Though such tactics would be costly in terms of mana, they could buy him time.
But Tokiomi suspected that this opponent had planned for such contingencies. No, something more sophisticated was needed. He would have to dig deeper into the roots of Japan's magical history, perhaps seek out forgotten texts on solar deities and countermeasures. There were still temples that held secrets, places where the old ways persisted in the shadows.
"Fascinating," he muttered, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. The challenge ahead was daunting, but it was also thrilling. Few mages ever pushed him to this level of intellectual engagement. He couldn't help but respect the sheer audacity and brilliance of this early move in the War.
But respect or not, he would crush them.
Tokiomi's fingers drummed against the table as his mind began to formulate a plan. First, he would need to reinforce the spiritual wards around his own territory, ensuring that no solar energy could seep through. Then, he would begin the delicate process of redirecting ley lines, subtly bending the flow of mana to starve the opposing Servant of power.
He had managed to stumble upon a few leads which he thought might lead to something. His studies into Kitsune and their relatives in other nation's mythology were still ongoing. He discovered that while a sun aspect was the default for some of the more famous kitsune (such as the legendary Tamamo-no-Mae, who even now was symbolically bound into her stone), there were scraps here and there of Kitsune with enough shapeshifting prowess turning into a second moon in the sky. Could that be of use?
Hmm.
Beyond that, he had managed to uncover a book of Finnish mythology left behind by his mother, and while his knowledge of her language was not as precise as it should have been (what a disgrace that was, to not honor his mother beyond her magecraft), he might have found something. The Finnish word for moon, "Kuu," was also a title used for one of its deities, and though he found nearly nothing on that subject, it was still a lead he wished to pursue.
There was also the matter of Necromancy. Though he had no personal experience with wraiths himself, as the Second Owner of Fuyuki it fell on his shoulders to manage the territory for any spiritual disruptions. Finding a weak enough ghost to test some against his enemies and gauge their reactions/capabilities should be a simple enough affair. If need be, Kirei should be able to find something as wraiths fell into an Exorcist's skillset, or perhaps he could enquire with Zouken on the matter.
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Threadmarks Chapter 15: Gracious Meetings
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The battlefield stretched out before him, a hellscape of burning debris and molten earth. Flames licked the charred remains of what once resembled a place of sanctity.
The sky above was bruised with thick, rolling clouds of smoke, illuminated by the red-orange glow of the firestorm that had consumed everything in its path. In the center of it all stood Batman, a towering figure clad in black, his presence like a dark sentinel amid the inferno.
Behind him, the Batmobile, a monstrous fusion of tank and race car, roared like a beast of myth. Its armored frame, once sleek and menacing, now bore the scars of battle. Flames danced along its surface, defying nature.
The sight was something out of a nightmare—Batman, surrounded by the fires of hell, his cape billowing in the searing wind, casting long shadows that flickered with the movement of the flames. His silhouette loomed against the backdrop of destruction, like a demon born from the very flames that consumed the battlefield.
For anyone else, this would have been the stuff of legend—Batman, standing over a battlefield wreathed in hellfire, his armored car behind him like some chariot from the underworld.
But for Bruce, this was just another series of complications. He glanced over the burning wreckage with a scowl already piecing together his next move.
Rocket launchers, Bruce thought with no small amount of exasperation.
It was becoming a theme at this point, almost comedic in its frequency. If he had a dollar for every time someone had tried to take him out with an RPG, he'd be wealthier than he already was.
There was something deeply annoying about it, though not for the reasons most would expect.
It wasn't the explosion or the damage that irked him—those he could handle.
The Batmobile, for all its near-indulgent engineering, could withstand far more than any mundane missile could throw at it.
What grated on Bruce's nerves was how predictable it had become.
The moment his enemies realized bullets wouldn't work, they inevitably escalated to heavier ordinance. RPGs, guided missiles, high-impact explosives—they always went for the flashy overkill.
And as soon as he heard that telltale hiss of a rocket being launched, Bruce's reflexes kicked in, a well-honed sequence of reactions that had saved his life more times than he could count.
The Batmobile would take the brunt of the blast, its reinforced armor absorbing most of the damage.
The force of the explosion would throw the vehicle into the air, and by then, Bruce would already be ejecting, his body launched into the sky like a human projectile.
To anyone watching, it might seem theatrical—Batman jumping from the fireball of his exploding vehicle, cape spread wide as he descended like some kind of dark angel or demonic figure.
They might think it was part of the Batman mythos, part of the persona he crafted to strike fear into his enemies.
In truth, it was far more practical than dramatic.
The cape wasn't just for show.
It was designed for moments like these.
When the explosion threw him skyward, Bruce would unfurl his cape, transforming it into a shield and glider all in one.
The Kevlar weave and reinforced micro-fibers could withstand the heat and shrapnel from the blast, protecting him as he soared through the firestorm. And when he needed to land—usually from a significant height—he would angle the cape to slow his descent.
The demon-like silhouette he created when he glided through the air was a side effect.
Still, he couldn't deny the irony.
To his enemies, it probably did look like some infernal creature descending from the flames.
Right now, though, the fire was proving to be more than just a dramatic backdrop.
It was blinding him.
Every sensor in the Bat-suit was struggling to make sense of the battlefield. Heat signatures were useless—there was too much ambient fire, the entire area glowing red-hot in his lenses.
The electromagnetic spectrum wasn't much better; the mana-infused flames were throwing off interference, warping the data his cowl's systems were trying to interpret. The sheer amount of magic in the air was enough to distort even his most advanced tech, making it nearly impossible to track his targets the usual way.
Damn it, Bruce thought, his mind racing. In a situation like this, he had to rely on something else. Something less... conventional.
Activating a different mode in his cowl's systems, Bruce switched to echolocation.
The air was a furnace, distorting everything, including sound. The superheated air made it impossible for the normal echolocation waves to function properly.
Normal sound waves wouldn't penetrate the superheated air between him and Kirei. He had to think differently.
Mana...
The thought clicked in his mind as he adjusted his approach.
The flames weren't just physical; they were infused with mana.
And though mana itself was often unpredictable, he had recently developed systems to track magic-infused energies and environments.
There was something particular about mana—it radiated in distinct patterns, even if those patterns shifted depending on the mage or "Servant" controlling it.
Fire laced with mana behaved differently from ordinary fire, its essence pulsing with faint traces of such energy.
Bruce switched his approach, recalibrating the sensors in his cowl. He needed to scan for those pulsing fluctuations, relying on the mana itself to guide his echolocation.
Instead of relying on standard sound waves that would be swallowed by the heat, he shifted the frequency. The suit sent out a burst of pulses, not just through the air, but through the mana-laced particles themselves. The mana acted as a medium, albeit a strange one. Its volatile nature caused the signal to warp, but he adapted.
The result was eerie.
The image that appeared on his visor was not like the clear outlines he usually relied on. Instead, it was ghostly, otherworldly, and blurred at the edges. Figures and structures flickered in and out of existence, but it was enough.
The pulses of mana that rippled through the fire formed a map, highlighting figures that moved through the battlefield, cloaked in shadows and flame. The environment was alive with shifting currents of power, but Bruce could make out the outlines he needed.
It wasn't as precise as his usual methods, but it would have to do. It wasn't perfect, but it cut through the fire and magical interference in a way that his other sensors couldn't.
Through the flickering outline, he saw movement—quick, deliberate, and purposeful. Batman narrowed his eyes.
His target.
It was Kirei Kotomine.
Kirei Kotomine slowly regained consciousness, his mind swimming in the aftershock of the explosion. The world around him had shifted into something unrecognizable—a hellscape. His senses struggled to align themselves with the dissonant reality before him. The last thing he remembered, before blacking out, was the sudden, overwhelming force of the blast.
A shade of his Assassin Servant had intervened, taking the brunt of the attack, but even that wasn't enough to keep him from being knocked off his feet, his body ragdolled by the blast wave.
He lay there now, flat on his back, the weight of the oppressive heat pressing down on him like a physical entity. The air was thick with ash and the acrid stench of burning metal, a scent that clung to his skin and filled his lungs with every ragged breath. It felt as though he had been thrown into an industrial furnace, his entire body overwhelmed by a heat that seemed to permeate every pore. It wasn't just hot; it was a blast of heat so intense, so all-encompassing, that his skin prickled painfully beneath his clothes, and the edges of his priestly garments had begun to singe.
His muscles ached as he slowly lifted his head, fighting the fog of dizziness clouding his mind. The battlefield was hellish, a wasteland of destruction that stretched as far as his eyes could see, warped and distorted by the raging flames that licked at the ground, swirling in erratic patterns. It was a lake of fire and wreckage, where the only shapes rising out of the molten earth were crumbling remnants of the building, twisted metal beams, and craters punched deep into the earth.
His mind processed the scene with a detached, analytical focus. The explosive force had been immense, concentrated—far beyond anything mundane magecraft could have conjured. What wasn't actively burning was reduced to rubble, and Kirei could feel the residual tremors in the earth beneath him, as though the land itself was groaning under the weight of the violence it had endured.
Kirei's focus narrowed, his eyes drawn to the distant, looming shape of a figure standing amidst the ruins. A silhouette, barely visible through the dancing flames, but unmistakable in its presence. The fires framed the figure, casting long, monstrous shadows that twisted and contorted around it. For a moment, Kirei's breath caught in his throat, his vision doubling as the infernal heat played tricks on his eyes. The figure seemed to grow larger, more menacing, as it approached.
Batman.
The Dark Knight stood in stark contrast to the blazing wasteland, an armored figure that seemed to have stepped out of a nightmare. His cape was fully unfurled, flaring out like the wings of a demon ready to swoop down and claim the souls of the damned. The flames behind him were like a roaring inferno, but they only added to the terrifying image, casting his figure in sharp relief, his shadow flickering like a living entity, stretching across the scorched earth. The hellish glow reflected off his armor, giving it the appearance of something otherworldly—an infernal warden, an agent of divine punishment sent to walk the mortal plane.
For the briefest moment, Kirei's thoughts were clouded by an absurd notion—that Batman was no mere man.
Kirei's mind flashed with ancient scripture, with the stories he had studied about demons—daemons.
In the Bible, daemons were spirits—powerful, but controllable. They were servitors to a higher being, and they acted with terrifying efficiency when given a task, but they could be broken.
Batman exuded that same terrifying presence, but he was no daemon.
As Kirei struggled to rise, he saw Batman's eyes narrow beneath the dark cowl. The flames reflected off the white lenses of his mask, giving him an eerie, ghostly stare. His voice cut through the roaring fire like a blade through flesh.
"Kirei Kotomine," Batman said, his voice deep, cold, and deliberate. There was no anger, no rage—only cold, calculated intent. He took a step forward, his armored boots crushing the charred earth beneath him. "Do you think this will end well for you?"
Kirei gritted his teeth, his muscles protesting as he forced himself to his feet. The heat still pressed down on him like a physical weight, but he straightened, his eyes meeting Batman's. The Dark Knight continued to advance, his voice calm, but laced with something almost sinister.
"Surrender now, after getting those command seals off you, I'll get you to safety otherwise, it is as the good book say" Batman said, quoting with a dry, almost mocking tone. "'For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Christ Jesus our Lord.'"
Kirei's lips twitched into an almost faint smile.
The irony wasn't lost on him. A man dressed as a demon quoting scripture to a priest.
How poetic.
Batman stopped a few paces away, the flames behind him casting long shadows that danced across the wasteland. He stood tall, an implacable force, his cape billowing out behind him like the wings of an avenging angel. His eyes, glowing white in the dark of his cowl, locked onto Kirei with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey.
For a moment, the battlefield was still. The fires continued to burn, but the world felt quiet, as if it had been reduced to just the two of them. Kirei could feel his pulse quicken, the weight of Batman's presence pressing down on him like the hand of God itself.
"What could you want with the cup that your doing this?"
For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?
Kirei's smile widened, but it held no warmth, no mirth. He didn't respond. He didn't need to. Words were useless now. The only thing left was action, and despite the situation, despite the overwhelming presence of the man standing before him, Kirei felt something stir deep within his chest.
A flicker of... amusement.
Waver Velvet sat on the edge of the old, wooden bench as he gazed out into the deepening dusk, his mind swirling with thoughts of everything that had brought him to this point.
The faint hum of magical energy pulsed beneath him, but he felt it as a distant echo. His thoughts, as usual, were elsewhere.
When he had stolen the artifact intended for Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald, his mentor, and summoned a Servant himself, it had been to prove his worth—to show the Mage's Association that he was more than just a fledgling magus from an insignificant bloodline. He wanted to be recognized, to stand as an equal among those born into prestigious magical families with centuries of history.
But now, as the war raged on, Waver began to realize the depth of the struggle he had thrown himself into.
It wasn't just about showing off his magical prowess.
It was chaos, and in the midst of it all, stood Rider—the King of Conquerors, Iskander.
At first glance, Rider had been nothing but an enormous nuisance, towering over Waver with his boundless enthusiasm and complete disregard for the formalities of the Grail War.
He cared nothing for "armchair"strategy as he called it, nothing for the "miscalculated" moves Waver tried to make. Rider, all (not so much so) bluster and brute strength, full of dreams of conquest and a longing to experience the world in ways that left Waver speechless.
The modern world fascinated him, as if it were a playground waiting to be explored.
The Servant was frustratingly unmanageable, taking up more space in both the physical and mental sense than Waver thought possible.
But … there was something else.
Waver couldn't help but admire Rider. The King of Conquerors was everything Waver was not—confident, bold, unrelenting in his pursuit of the impossible. His sheer presence commanded respect, and the way he saw the world made Waver question his own limitations. Rider didn't care about the Grail; his only desire was to live again, to see the stars and conquer new horizons.
Waver had never seen the world that way.
He had spent his life trying to claw his way out of the Velvet family's obscurity, focusing on status and recognition.
He had never dreamed as big as Rider.
Sitting there on the bench, Waver glanced at the enormous figure beside him. Rider, leaning back against the wall, grinned wide as ever, his eyes half-closed as he enjoyed the cooling evening air. His red cloak billowed slightly in the breeze, and the scent of battle still clung faintly to him. Yet, despite his warrior's aura, there was a warmth to Rider that made Waver feel oddly safe—like he was standing next to a mountain that could protect him from any storm.
"You're thinking too much again, boy." Rider's voice was deep and full of mirth, yet there was an edge of wisdom that Waver hadn't quite gotten used to. "The battlefield's no place for hesitation."
"I'm not hesitating!" Waver snapped, glaring at him. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew they weren't entirely true.
He was hesitating.
Rider laughed, a booming sound that seemed to shake the air around them. "Ah, but you are! You're always hesitating, Waver Velvet. Always thinking, always doubting yourself. But that's fine. That's what makes you you." He turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing with amusement. "But don't forget—you're not alone."
Waver felt a lump in his throat.
"You... you don't understand," Waver muttered, staring down at his hands. His knuckles were white from how tightly he was gripping the bench. "I'm not like you. I'm not... strong."
Rider's expression softened. "Strength isn't just about how much power you have, or how many people you can command. It's about knowing what you want and fighting for it. And from where I'm standing, you've got more strength than most. You had the guts to summon me, didn't you?"
Waver couldn't help but scoff. "That wasn't strength. That was desperation."
"Same thing." Rider grinned, his eyes gleaming with an intense light. "Every great king, every conqueror, every man who's ever changed the world started with a desperate dream. The trick is not letting that desperation consume you—it's about turning it into something more. Something worth fighting for."
Waver didn't know how to respond to that. In all his years of study, all his meticulous plans and schemes, he had never thought of his journey in such a way. Rider had a way of simplifying things, of cutting through the noise and seeing the heart of the matter.
"Come on, Master. There's a whole world out there waiting to be conquered."
Waver hesitated for only a second before standing up, his heart pounding in his chest. "Right. Let's go."
"It couldn't have been a Noble Phantasm," Waver muttered, mostly to himself. "Not from a Servant, at least. It didn't have the… presence, the weight of one. Besides, it didn't resonate with anything Rider could feel in the battlefield."
Rider raised an eyebrow but didn't interrupt. He'd learned by now that Waver's mutterings usually led to something clever.
Waver's mind went into overdrive, sorting through possibilities. The beam of light—intense, focused, destructive— If it had been a Noble Phantasm, there would have been clear signs, an aura of divinity, or at least something linking it to a heroic legend. But there was none of that. It was cold, methodical, and far too precise. This wasn't the action of a Servant.
"I think it's magecraft," Waver finally said, his tone growing more confident. "Extremely high-level magecraft, something induced or manipulated by Caster. But it's not a Noble Phantasm. That I'm sure of."
Rider folded his massive arms and nodded thoughtfully. "And how do you know this, Master?"
"Look at the effects," Waver explained. "A Noble Phantasm would leave a specific signature—a lingering presence tied to the legend of the hero. But this… this is different. It doesn't feel like the work of a heroic spirit. There's no myth behind it, no larger-than-life narrative driving the attack. No, it's too cold for that. And there was no Servant signature nearby when it happened."
Rider's eyes glinted with intrigue. "A powerful mage, then, right?"
"Exactly. This beam was likely a product of that—some form of manipulated or redirected power. It wasn't divine intervention, it was calculation."
Rider gave a satisfied nod. "So where do we begin?"
Waver stood silent for a moment, thinking. His eyes darted to the horizon, where the docks shimmered in the distance. The docks... they had been close to the water when the beam struck. There was something to that, something that hadn't fully clicked yet.
He wracked his brain for an answer.
"I think it's related to the ley lines," Waver said, his voice quickening with realization. "If this beam of light was powerful enough to do that kind of damage, it would need a tremendous source of energy to sustain it. And that means ley lines. The docks are close to the water, and it might have been chosen deliberately."
Rider frowned, still clearly following Waver's line of thought. "Why?"
" It's a natural conductor of energy, but only if you know how to harness it properly."
He began pacing now, his mind running through the possibilities. "The caster who did this must have been trying to stay off the radar. Using the docks and the water as a medium would have been the perfect way to mask the origin of the attack…"
He trailed off, the pieces beginning to fall into place in his mind.
"But if they were deliberately hiding," Rider chimed in, "they'd use something unexpected."
Waver nodded vigorously. "Yes! Exactly. The caster was clever. They used the docks because it's the last place we'd look, and they channeled the energy through the water to keep their signature hidden. But it's not perfect—there are still traces, faint ley line activity that's been disrupted."
Waver took a deep breath, his mind still buzzing with possibilities. "We have to find the ley line disruption first. If we can trace it back to its source, we'll find Caster."
Rider grinned, his massive form bristling with excitement. "Then what are we waiting for, Master? Let's conquer this mystery and find our enemy!"
As they set off toward the docks, Waver's thoughts continued to spiral. He knew this was only the beginning of the puzzle. The Caster they were hunting was no ordinary mage, and the stakes were higher than ever. They would need every ounce of cunning, intellect, and raw power to uncover them and their Master.
The serene flow of water contrasted with the urgency of their mission. They were following the ley lines that snaked invisibly beneath the city's surface, tracing them along the natural course of the river. Rider was in his usual buoyant mood, commenting on everything from the ancient architecture to the mundanity of modern cars, while Waver walked beside him, deep in thought, piecing together the clues that led them closer to the Caster.
Rider's booming voice broke the silence as they rounded a bend in the river, the sound of water splashing against the rocks punctuating his words. "Master, these ley lines have brought us on quite the journey. But we need more than just invisible threads of mana to find our quarry. I demand action! Where is our enemy?"
Waver, eyes focused on the ripples in the water, shot him a frustrated look. "Patience, Rider. Ley lines are the key to everything in this city. Whoever that Caster is, they're using the natural flow of magic to mask their location. We need to follow the flow, check every disruption."
Rider sighed dramatically, but before he could respond, a frantic voice rang out over the gentle rush of the river.
"Help! Help! Somebody, please!"
Both Waver and Rider turned to see a young woman standing at the edge of the riverbank, looking out toward the lake. Taiga Fujimura. Her usually cheerful face was twisted in concern, and she pointed toward the water where a small puppy was flailing helplessly, caught in the current.
Without hesitation, Taiga, clad in her casual attire, leaped into the cold water. Her eyes were full of determination, completely focused on rescuing the struggling puppy. The icy shock of the water seemed to faze her little, but she wasn't making much progress against the current.
Waver blinked in surprise. "What is she doing?!"
Rider grinned, stepping forward, clearly entertained by Taiga's bravery. "A hero in her own right, Master! But we can't let her handle this alone!"
With a nod to Rider's enthusiasm, Waver reluctantly followed suit. He wasn't exactly fond of jumping into freezing water, but Rider's imposing form made it clear that there was no backing out. Rider waded into the water like a conquering king, his arms outstretched, plucking both Taiga and the puppy from the current as if they weighed nothing.
Taiga gasped as Rider lifted her easily, cradling her and the puppy in his massive arms. Waver stood at the shore, dripping wet, shivering from the cold. He glared at Rider, who was basking in the moment, and turned his attention to Taiga.
"You—you're okay, right? That was reckless, jumping into the water like that!" Waver stammered, half-annoyed and half-amazed at her daring.
Taiga, her face flushed from both the cold and embarrassment, smiled sheepishly. "I couldn't just leave the puppy out there! Someone had to do something!"
Waver stared at her for a moment, her pure determination striking a chord deep within him. For all his strategic thinking and logical deductions, this woman operated on a different wavelength—a pure impulse driven by kindness and a sense of justice. He couldn't help but find it… endearing.
"Well, you shouldn't have been so reckless," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I guess you did the right thing."
Rider, meanwhile, chuckled heartily. "There's nothing quite like the purity of action, Master! This woman—this Lady Taiga—she's a warrior of the heart!" He set Taiga and the now-safe puppy down gently, and the small dog yapped happily, running in circles around them.
Taiga blinked up at Rider, beaming. "You really think so? I just… well, I believe in helping people. It's what we should all do, right?"
Waver, still flustered from the cold and the sudden turn of events, muttered, "That's cute, I suppose…"
Rider gave him a sly look, as if picking up on his thoughts. "You know, Master, you should learn something from Lady Taiga here. A romantic experience, perhaps?"
Waver's eyes widened, his face turning bright red. "What!? What are you talking about, Rider!? This isn't—there's nothing like that here!"
But before Waver could fully process his embarrassment, Taiga spotted something else in the distance—a man running, clutching something suspiciously. Without a second thought, she bolted after him, shouting, "Hey! Come back here!"
Waver groaned, realizing they were now involved in something else entirely. "Oh, great. What now?"
Rider laughed, his voice booming across the river. "An adventure, Master! Let's follow her!"
The next part of their unexpected detour was a mad chase through the winding streets of Fuyuki. Taiga was in hot pursuit of what turned out to be an underwear thief—something so ridiculous that Waver couldn't quite believe it. Still, Taiga was relentless, and before they knew it, Rider, with Waver in tow, was caught up in the chase, charging after the man like they were on a battlefield.
What none of them expected, however, was to stumble across a secret meeting between members of random Yakuza gangs and a group only known as "Kobra". The two factions had gathered in a dark alleyway, clearly planning something nefarious, with discussions about Kiritsugu Emiya's movements.
Waver's mind raced as they approached the scene. "This… this is bad. Rider, we've got to be careful! This could blow up into a full-scale conflict!"
But before Waver could even begin to devise a strategy, Taiga barreled through the middle of the meeting, completely oblivious to the tension in the air. "Stop right there, you thief!"
The underwear thief, now cornered between Taiga and the combined forces of Rider and Waver, was caught in an absurdly awkward situation. The Yakuza and Kobra agents, utterly perplexed by the intrusion, exchanged confused glances before hastily deciding to abort their meeting.
"Well, that… de-escalated quickly," Waver muttered, watching as the criminal factions scattered, not wanting to be involved in whatever madness had just unfolded. Rider, for his part, stood tall and proud, as though this were a perfectly normal conquest.
In the aftermath, they handed the underwear thief over to the police. Taiga was elated, thinking they had just stopped some grand scheme, while Waver was left rubbing his temples, wondering how they had managed to cause so much chaos in such a short span of time.
Later, after reuniting the puppy with its rightful owner—a sweet elderly lady who thanked them profusely—Waver turned to Taiga, his curiosity piqued by her relentless drive to help others.
"Taiga, do you always do this? I mean, help others like this without a second thought. Don't you have any problems of your own?"
Taiga blinked at him, surprised by the question. "Well… I guess I do. I worry about the usual things—school, my future, and, well, love." She shrugged, smiling softly. "But I think if I can help others, maybe the world will be a little better, you know? I believe in kindness. I think we all have that in us, even if it's buried deep down."
Waver was struck by her sincerity. He wasn't used to people who acted so selflessly, so purely out of a desire to do good. It made him question his own motivations. Was he really doing the right thing in this war? Or was he just trying to prove himself?
Rider, however, was less introspective. He admired Taiga's spirit and her unwavering sense of duty to help others. "You have the heart of a conqueror, Lady Taiga. You treat friendship and kindness with sincerity, and that's something I value greatly. I shall reward you for your actions!"
Taiga blinked in confusion, waving her hands. "No, no! I don't need any reward! I'm just glad I could help."
Despite her protests, Rider seemed determined to find a way to honor her. But Waver, sensing danger in letting that continue, quickly stepped in, using magecraft to hypnotize Taiga gently, to Rider's slight annoyance. "You should head home now, for your safety."
Taiga blinked, the magic taking hold as her expression softened. "Yeah… maybe I should… but you two were so much fun! I hope we meet again!"
With that, she wandered off, leaving Rider and Waver standing on the riverbank.
Waver sighed in relief. "That was… exhausting."
Rider, still grinning, clapped Waver on the back. "It was an adventure, Master! And you know what? I think she'll go on to do great things. Maybe she'll teach, guide those who seek knowledge. She has the spirit for it."
Waver nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, maybe she will. She's… persistent, I'll give her that."
As they watched Taiga disappear into the distance, Waver couldn't help but feel that, despite all the chaos, something had shifted in him. Maybe, just maybe, there was something to be said for Taiga's unshakable belief in kindness. And for a time in a while, Waver smiled—a real, genuine smile.
From behind his dark cowl, Bruce Wayne's mind was processing everything rapidly. He stood there, staring down at Kirei Kotomine, his inner thoughts focused, each thread of his childhood and his understanding of religion coming to the fore.
The dichotomy of his father's Catholicism and his mother's Judaism had shaped his perspective on morality and faith in subtle ways. Both religions had provided Bruce with different frameworks for understanding the world, though he had buried that part of his life deep after the tragedy of their deaths.
Still, the lessons from his youth never left him. His father's faith had taught him about the concepts of sin, justice, and penance, while his mother's Jewish traditions instilled in him the idea of righteousness and mercy. These ideas lived within him, suppressed for years until the day he encountered the supernatural.
His first brush with the unknown, the vampire known as "The Monk," had shattered his strict reliance on logic and reason. The world was darker than he had ever imagined. That night, he had help from a priest—a member of the Order of St. Dumas.
Father Jean Paul Valley Sr. had offered aid, though Batman had always been skeptical of the Order's extreme methods.
Tonight, the memory of that first encounter returned to him with a vengeance. Looking at Kotomine, Bruce recognized the member the Church,. And the church where the Servants' presence had been strongest? Of course Kotomine was involved.
It wasn't coincidence. Batman's mind calculated the probabilities, all leading to one conclusion: Kirei was in on it.
Kirei was always in on it.
As Bruce gazed at the priest, his mind drifted back to his childhood, to those moments before everything had been taken from him. He thought of his parents—of the times they had read him bedtime stories. One of the stories that stood out was one his father had once read to him, a disturbing Russian folk tale in which a group of animals fell into a hole and, one by one, began eating each other to survive.
Bruce remembered the way his father had recoiled from the story given to him by his wife, horrified, while his mother had insisted that it was important for Bruce to hear about the cruelty in the world so that he could learn to dream of a better one.
They had no idea that young Bruce kept asking for that same story night after night—not because he enjoyed it, but because he hoped his father would one day change the ending. He had always wanted to believe that, maybe just once, Thomas Wayne would tell a version where the animals found a way out of the pit without having to resort to violence.
Bruce had never heard that version.
Now, as Batman stood over Kirei, he felt that familiar pull—the conflict between justice and mercy, between giving someone a chance to surrender or beating them into submission. He wasn't a child hoping for a different ending anymore.
He was a man who could create one.
Batman continued, stepping closer, his cape trailing behind him like the wings of a dark angel.
"I'm giving you a chance, Kotomine. Surrender your Command Seals. Give up the war. It's the practical choice."
Author's Note: Had back to back Exams and a company sales. Sorry about the delay.
Last edited: Oct 15, 2024
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Threadmarks Chapter 16: Ultimatum
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The church lay in tatters, its once-proud structure reduced to skeletal beams and broken masonry, sprawled across the scorched ground. Pillars that had once stretched toward heaven were now jagged stumps, clawing desperately at a blood-red sky. Fires crackled amid the ruin, throwing shadows that flickered like phantoms across what remained of the stained-glass windows. Ironically, those fragmented icons of saints and angels seemed to scream in colors against the flames, as though the church itself resisted the hellish blaze eating it alive.
Soot and debris blanketed the shattered pews, now little more than splinters on a cracked floor charred black by fire and brimstone. Small fires blazed around them, their flames licking the ground with a quiet fury, casting long, distorted shadows against the wreckage. The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of burnt wood and stone, mingling with the faint trace of incense left over from a distant memory of sanctity.
Kirei lay sprawled on the hot floor, remnants of his clerical collar charred and crumbling. The searing heat radiating from the ground was merciless, but he barely registered the physical pain. His gaze was fixed on the figure standing over him, cloaked in black, Batman's silhouette was ominous, his cape hanging like dark wings at rest, shielding him from the encroaching flames as if they were beneath his notice.
In the ruined church's oppressive quiet, the contrast was stark. The relentless crackling of flames and the quiet rumbling of the crumbling stone filled the air, yet in the space between them, an unearthly silence stretched between Batman and Kirei—a void of words, yet charged with contemplation and intent. Batman's expression remained unreadable behind the shadow of his cowl, but his stance was as resolute as the flame that would not extinguish.
Batman's silhouette loomed against the burning ruin, smoke curling around him like a shroud. He fixed Kirei with a steady, piercing gaze, words falling with an unyielding weight in the broken silence between them.
"You're out of options, Kotomine. Your Servant is barely a shadow now, weakened and fractured beyond repair. And you—you're lying in the dirt, with nothing left to give but pain." Batman's voice was low, each word a knife meant to cut through any lingering resolve. "But this war, this blood-soaked tradition, doesn't need to go on. It's a cycle of torment, dragging down everyone caught in it, just so a few can chase their ambitions at any cost. That ends here."
Kirei lay motionless, his chest rising and falling as he listened, his dark eyes watching Batman, a blend of curiosity and irony in their depths. Batman's words held no trace of mockery or feigned sympathy. They were direct and unembellished, the mark of a man who had seen his share of horrors but remained unfaltering in his resolve.
"Christianity," Batman continued, his tone softening, almost as if he were addressing someone other than the man lying broken before him, "can be said to be about mankind's struggle against its worst instincts. It's about rising above the animal, the dark urges that drag us down. It's about striving to be better—to be something greater, because we know we're capable of more." He let his words hang in the air, eyes locked with Kirei's.
"You don't have to be the instrument of this."
Kirei's mind worked slowly, filtering through Batman's words as though trying to pierce through the layers of irony and judgment. He had felt empty for so long, moving through the motions of faith, duty, life—all meaningless. This war had seemed like a possible answer, a path to some understanding of why he existed in a world filled with emptiness. He had latched onto it out of desperation, hoping it might reveal something. And yet now, here he lay, surrounded by smoke and ruin, listening to a man dressed as a bat preach the ideals of humanity.
After a pause, Batman added, "The only thing standing between this war and peace right now… is you."
A weighty silence stretched between them as Kirei pondered the words, feeling them gnaw at him. This was supposed to be a path to meaning. Yet even with his Command Seals, he had gained no answers, no revelations. Just more blood spilled, more chaos. It was only the emptiness—the same as before. The truth sank into him, dark and inescapable.
In the stillness, Kirei pushed himself to sit up, his limbs heavy with resignation. His fingers brushed over the Seals etched on his hand, the marks of power that had given him control but offered him nothing of substance. "I have no stake in this war anymore," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I wanted meaning… but it was never here."
Kirei turned his eyes to Batman, then lowered his gaze to the Seals, the faint glow a haunting reminder of the violence they represented. "But it's not so simple to transfer Command Seals," he muttered, trailing off as his mind wandered over the intricacies of the magical bonds.
Batman took a step forward, his shadow stretching over Kirei, and extended his hand. "You don't need to worry about the process." His voice was almost gentle, though the resolve in it was unbreakable. "All you have to do… is shake my hand."
The simplicity of it was almost laughable. Kirei stared at Batman's gloved hand…
Kirei's gaze lingered on Batman's outstretched hand, his mind racing over the implications. Command Seals—these symbols of magical control and influence that had marked him as a Master—now lay poised to change hands.
In a typical situation, transferring Command Seals held a distinct, practical limitation. A mage or Master could only make use of another's Command Seals if they had already spent theirs in full. Batman, however, hadn't appeared desperate, like someone who needed more Command Seals to complete his objective or to regain control over his own Servant. That detail alone raised a red flag in Kirei's mind.
If Batman truly had a Servant, especially one as volatile as a Berserker, the intense control required would have demanded frequent use of the Seals. Berserkers were notorious for their resistance to orders, their mindless rage necessitating near-constant Command Seal reinforcement. Batman's request, though, didn't carry that sense of urgent need for control, and he showed no signs of desperation or the toll one might expect after wrangling a volatile Servant through sheer magical exertion.
Then, he considered the alternative: a Caster. It was plausible that a Master with a Caster could expend Command Seals to amplify the effectiveness of complex spells or create barriers. But that, too, was unlikely. Caster-type Servants, adept in the arts of magecraft, would only require Seals for rare and specific instances, not for frequent reinforcement. Kirei's brow furrowed further as he dismissed this hypothesis.
No, the question ran deeper than simply needing more power or control.
What would a man like Batman need with so many Command Seals? Kirei's mind churned over the possibilities, each more troubling than the last. It was possible Batman had intended to accumulate a significant number of Command Seals to enhance his physical or mental abilities—he'd heard whispers of Masters in previous Grail Wars enhancing their own attributes temporarily to match their Servants in strength. But such enhancements would only be viable in short bursts, offering nothing more than a temporary advantage.
Yet Batman didn't exude any trace of such urgency. Instead, his tone had carried a sense of purpose—something larger, calculated. This man before him was no mere combatant looking for momentary bursts of strength. He was amassing these Seals for a different, more foreboding purpose. And that's when the question, veiled in shadows, slipped into Kirei's mind, a silent dread in its simplicity.
Why did he need so many?
The realization that followed hit Kirei like a pulse of electricity. Batman hadn't incapacitated him or left him unconscious. No, he wanted Kirei's *willing* cooperation. This wasn't about brute control. Batman wanted something far more significant. He wanted Kirei's mind—his free will. He needed him alive, aware, and, above all, complicit. There was no other reason he would take this roundabout route, no other purpose for sparing him, keeping him lucid even now.
In a slow, unsettling understanding, Kirei felt the weight of Batman's true intentions seep into his mind. This stranger, draped in darkness and determination, didn't want to destroy or humiliate him. He wanted to save him.
But what did "saving" even mean to a man like Batman?
The grim battleground that stretched across Fuyuki weighed on Batman's mind like the brooding clouds that rolled in over Gotham's skies. In the depths of his thoughts, a single notion simmered, stark and unyielding: if he couldn't find a way to disarm the Grail safely, he would have to resort to a brutal, final solution. He'd already calculated the damage, visualized the scale of destruction that would come if he had to use his fallback: unleashing a blast of stored solar energy from the satellite array after an extensive/secret evacuation campaign.
The devastation would be vast—enough to demand attention from Clark or the Lantern, maybe even both. And yet, he would do it if necessary. The thought lingered like a specter, bound to him by the weight of his own responsibility.
But that would be the last resort.
Not for the first time, Batman pondered the individuals involved in this Grail War, particularly the Masters. All different ages, temperaments, and motivations, driven to seize the so-called Holy Grail.
He imagined Kayneth El-Melloi as just another inflated aristocrat, all pride and pretension, clinging to a class system that held no value here. Rider's Master was young, perhaps even a college student, far too inexperienced to fully grasp the peril in which he found himself.
Then there was the relationship between the golden Archer and his Master, Tokiomi, as symbiotic as it was steeped in a strange endorsement of arrogance.
Even with his own doubts about their morality, his approach remained unchanged: this was another mission, one that demanded control. His only objective was simple yet uncompromising.
No one dies.
He could feel his father's influence in that objective, see his face as clearly as he saw the city lights of Gotham reflected in the night skies of his youth. Thomas Wayne, a doctor who had sworn to heal even the very worst among them. Batman recalled his father's unwavering hands as he saved Carmine Falcone, Gotham's most ruthless crime boss, after a failed assassination attempt. Bruce had been young then, wondering if maybe he'd have been better off letting Falcone die, questioning if his father would be any lesser for it.
But Thomas had taught him the hardest truth a person could know: vengeance was no substitute for justice. It wasn't his job to let someone live or die based on their misdeeds.
Doctors didn't get to pick their patients any more than a chef would serve bad food to a difficult customer.
That memory melded with another, one from a time when Bruce was even younger, a late winter night close to the holidays. He remembered sneaking down to the living room, eyes alight with wonder, when he found a new book wrapped for him on the floor near the fireplace. His mother, Martha, had read him the story, a disturbing Russian folktale about animals trapped in a pit, each one sacrificing itself so the others could survive. His father hated that story, said it was too bleak for children, especially his child. Thomas had wanted to buy him a new one, a different book with a happier ending. But his mother had faith, a boundless belief that Bruce would see the horror but still hope for a better world beyond it.
They had never known that Bruce kept asking for that same story, again and again, hoping, somehow, that his father would change the ending, letting the animals climb out together, unscathed. He had clung to that hope even as the years rolled by, as Gotham's darkness deepened. If he wanted to see a better world, he knew now, he had to be the one to make it. To bring light, to give a chance.
He looked at the mangled destruction around him, at Kirei still lying on the ruined floor, battered and bruised but not yet beaten, his Command Seals just out of reach.
His voice cut through the silence between them like a blade. "This has to end," Batman said, his voice unwavering. "You know that better than anyone, Kirei."
Kirei looked up at him, bloodied and quiet, but a smirk hovered faintly on his lips, mocking even in his weakened state. "You're… different than the others," he murmured. "You believe the end can be remade."
"No one dies," Batman answered, firm as steel. He wasn't asking for agreement. He was stating fact. "And that means this war doesn't continue. This tradition of blood and torment—it's going to be over if I have anything to say about it."
Kirei's smirk remained, but there was something thoughtful in his eyes, something almost resigned. Batman held out his hand.
"One chance," he said, his voice steady. "No more, no less. Surrender your Command Seals, Kirei, before you lose the choice to do the right thing."
It was a simple offer, spoken without judgment, without condescension.
Within the heart of her workspace, Da Vinci stood at the center of an intricately arranged holographic display, magical symbols rotating around her like the rings of a planetary system. With her gaze fixed on the holograms, her mind raced through a symphony of calculations and projections, each one building toward a clearer understanding of the enigmatic artifact before her: the Holy Grail. Her psychometric rituals, blending old alchemy with her own unique arcane enhancements, allowed her to delve into the history of objects, unraveling them like ribbons from a spool.
Yet this artifact defied simple interpretation. It was layered, not only with mana but with something else—something older, malevolent, and programmed into its very essence. A violent tapestry of power and control.
She adjusted her magical circuits, expanding her reach into the cavernous space beneath the surface of Fuyuki, feeling out the Grail's twisted energy. Her circuits extended like webbing into the depths of the cavern, detecting minute traces of history woven into the very stone around it. What she saw was more than disturbing—it was a sacrifice. The Holy Grail had been crafted from the blood of a perfect homunculus.
A sacrifice of the highest form, pure and untainted, torn apart to fuel the Grail's machinery of war.
Da Vinci frowned, her fingers weaving subtle patterns through the air as she conducted her magic like a symphony, pulling forth more visions of the ritual from ages past.
The world's evils, bound to feed on and perpetuate suffering.
With the level of resources at her disposal, she could create a homunculus programmed for it.
It would take weeks, months even if she was absolutely pedantic in the construction, but a homunculus that could interface with complex energies like the Grail, rather than merely contain or consume, would be an elegant solution.
"Simply appalling," she muttered, brushing a hand across the spectral display as she cross-referenced her findings with known thaumaturgical theories.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a notification that blinked across one of her screens, dragging her attention to satellite imaging. Her breath caught, though her composure remained steely. A massive surge of mana was moving, rapidly heading toward her Master. The reading was unmistakable; it bore a signature of danger far beyond ordinary magecraft, spiking erratically across the magical spectrum.
"Not a moment of peace in this city," she murmured, her tone wry but her hands working swiftly. The holograms around her reoriented to display tactical diagrams as she sent an alert directly to Bruce's comm.
Within seconds, Da Vinci reconfigured her surroundings into an array of barriers and defense spells. She layered protections over the area, drawing mana from reservoirs stored to enhance their potency. Her thoughts flickered back to the Grail but now, her Master needed her.
And that took priority.
Batman and Kirei faced each other, locked in a silent war of intent and unreadable eyes. Between them hung the weight of purpose, a question unasked yet bearing down on both men with raw, silent force. The ruined church around them, seething with smoke and licking flames, framed the scene in violent shadows, transforming it into an ironic theater of fire and brimstone. Walls once bearing symbols of salvation lay shattered, remnants of stained glass strewn across the ground like the broken fragments of an abandoned faith.
Kirei, still sprawled on the blistered stone floor, met Batman's gaze, his hand hovering as if contemplating its own betrayal. For a man whose existence had been dedicated to filling the void within him, purpose was both his enemy and his prize. He wanted the world to teach him how to feel, how to unearth meaning from his hollow soul. His fingers twitched toward Batman's, inches away from the symbol of a possible answer. The Command Seals—his last tether to the Grail War—could end here, in his relinquishment of them.
Yet, as his hand extended further, an unbearable pressure descended upon them both.
An overwhelming, malignant force swept through the air, crashing over them in waves. It was not the shuddering fear of a lurking predator or even the instinctual dread of mortal peril. It was a living malevolence, intent carved into raw mana that flooded the church like an ocean breaking through a dam. Both men faltered, Kirei flinching visibly, while Batman staggered back, almost driven to his knees. The wave of mana crashed into him like the sudden burst of heat from an open furnace door, a blistering force that swept across his skin and shook his body to the core, rattling every thought as if his brain had been struck by a sonic boom.
Kirei's outstretched hand recoiled instinctively, but his eyes never left Batman, whose muscles coiled as he fought against the crushing waves of intent. Just as Batman steadied himself, a blinding, earth-shaking burst erupted before them, splitting the stone floor beneath their feet and sending both men skidding back. Batman braced, one armored arm instinctively reaching to shield Kirei as they hurtled backward, his enhanced armor barely holding up under the assault. The heat and force should have shattered him on impact, yet he stood, albeit battered, with his defenses barely containing the raw energy.
Through the settling dust and crackling flames emerged Saber, her armor gleaming as if forged from the very mana saturating the air. Her stance was that of unrelenting determination, yet something darkened her gaze.
Batman's piercing eyes narrowed, assessing the Servant as her gaze fixated on him.
Saber's arrival on the scene was marked by a single-minded intensity as her armored boots met the scorched stone of the desecrated church. Her focus narrowed to a point, the wreckage around her fading into irrelevance as she took in the two men before her, each one poised in battle-ready alertness. The mana in the air was thick with an unspoken threat, the faint, acrid scent of something ancient burning into her senses as her gaze sharpened on Batman.
For Saber, all calculations simplified the moment she felt that visceral intent. Her instinct as a warrior took over, focusing her thoughts into a singular purpose: assess, calculate, eliminate. There was no room for doubt. She was forged for clarity in conflict, her every muscle primed and honed to turn such brutal focus into immediate, unerring action. Before her stood a man in dark armor, nothing like the conventional mages or warriors she had faced. He exuded no magical aura that might hint at spellcraft, and yet he held a presence both grounded and tactical, not the usual arrogance of a mystic.
Behind him, the figure of Kirei Kotomine shifted, barely noticeable, but Saber saw it all. The faint shimmer of his Command Seals, the barest flicker of doubt crossing his hardened face, and the smoke-scorched ground between the two men that seemed to bear the marks of intense negotiation.
Saber refocused on Batman, steadying her grip on the hilt of her invisible sword. His gaze was direct, analytical; he regarded her with neither fear nor contempt but a tactical awareness that heightened her alertness.
He will die fighting at least.
A/N: Cliffhangers. Gotta love them.
Last edited: Nov 5, 2024
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Threadmarks Chapter 17: The Chase
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The-Honored-One
Nov 27, 2024 Awarded 1
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There were rumors over the past years of mage unparalleled in the art of summoning—a prodigy so adept, so bound to the craft, she was called the "Reincarnation of Solomon."
This Racheal Zallman had become almost mythical, her name passed in hushed tones across covens, magical academies, and even the underbelly of the Mage's Association.
But Zatanna wasn't just chasing power. She was chasing answers.
Her father's journals mentioned someone who fit Racheal's description—a mage with magic crests so powerful and full of arcane knowledge that they were visible without activation, akin to Command Seals.
By the time Zatanna found herself standing outside an old tattoo parlor deep, she was tired, wary, and uneasy.
Pushing open the heavy oak door, Zatanna whispered a simple protective incantation. The spell settled over her like a second skin, tingling faintly. Inside, the air was cold and stale, and every footstep echoed like a gunshot.
She moved cautiously, guided by the faintest hum of magic that seemed to emanate from the manor's heart. Her search led her to a grand library, its shelves sagging under the weight of ancient tomes. In the center of the room stood a figure.
"Zatanna Zatara," the figure said, her voice smooth and sharp like a blade. "You've come a long way to find me."
Racheal stepped into the candlelight, her presence commanding and enigmatic. She was taller than Zatanna had expected, her hour glass frame adorned with a short but flowing black tank top embroidered with golden sigils that glowed faintly with magical energy and plain jeans. But it was her arms , skin that caught Zatanna's breath—a canvas of mystical tattoos, swirling across her body like living art in contrast to her dark skin.
The tattoos were Magic Crests, intricate and pulsating, their lines forming patterns Zatanna recognized from her father's journals. They spiraled around Racheal's arms, crept up her neck, and disappeared beneath her shirt and down her stomach.
"They're beautiful," Zatanna whispered, almost involuntarily. But as she looked closer, her admiration turned to unease. The crests weren't just engravings—they were scars, their edges raw and inflamed, as if they had been burned into her flesh.
Racheal smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. "Beautiful? That's one word for them."
Zatanna frowned. "You didn't inherit these naturally, did you?" In her world, Magic Crests were passed down through bloodlines, their integration a painful but celebrated rite of passage. But this… this was different.
"No," Racheal said, her voice tinged with something unreadable.
She traced a finger along one of the crests on her arm, and Zatanna caught the faintest flicker of sorrow in her dark eyes.
Zatanna felt a pang of empathy. "You suffered for them."
Racheal tilted her head, her smile turning cryptic. "You sound surprised. Did you think power of this magnitude came without a price?"
Zatanna hesitated, her thoughts flickering to her own struggles with magic—the weight of responsibility, the sacrifices her father had made, the scars she bore, invisible though they were. "I understand sacrifice," she said quietly. "But this…" She gestured to the crests. "This is something else."
Racheal stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with something akin to amusement. "You speak of understanding, but you can't fathom what it means to carve your own path—literally." She paused, letting the words sink in. "But that's why you're here, isn't it? You're searching for answers, for something beyond what your lineage has handed you."
"I know you're not here out of idle curiosity. What is it you seek, Zatanna Zatara?"
Zatanna took a steadying breath. "I need to know about summoning. About the seals—your crests. My father's journals mention things… things that sound impossible, even for magic. If anyone can help me understand, it's you."
Racheal studied her for a long moment, the silence stretching thin between them. Then, she turned away, moving to a nearby table cluttered with scrolls and vials. "Summoning," she said softly, almost to herself.
" Let us discuss prices."
In the soft glow of the dressing room's vanity lights, Zatanna Zatara adjusted her signature magician's hat, the polished silk glinting under the bulbs. She glanced at her reflection, exuding confidence in her stage attire: a black tuxedo jacket, white shirt, fishnet stockings, and polished heels. Her reflection smiled back, but she knew it wasn't the full story. Tonight wasn't just any performance—it marked the anniversary of her father's last show before his mysterious disappearance.
As her audience filled the grand theater, Zatanna's nerves simmered beneath the surface. She had performed countless times before royalty, dignitaries, and even the Justice League, yet tonight felt heavier. The weight of legacy bore down on her shoulders.
The intercom buzzed. "Five minutes, Miss Zatara," came the voice of her stage manager, Louis.
She took a deep breath, steadying her trembling hands. "Thank you, Louis."
Behind the curtain, the murmurs of the audience grew louder. Zatanna closed her eyes, summoning the mantra that had carried her through moments of doubt:
"Rehto tsal eht ekil tsuj mrofreP."
Perform just like the last other.
Perform just like the last other.
Perform just like the last other.
Perform just like the last other.
Perform just like the last other.
Zatanna Zatara sat at a small dressing table in the dim light of her hotel room, her reflection staring back at her with weary, dark-rimmed eyes. The noise of a bustling city filtered faintly through the walls, muffled by curtains drawn tight against the early morning light. A half-empty cup of tea sat on the table beside her, long gone cold. She sighed, rubbing her temples as if she could massage away the weight pressing down on her mind.
Clairvoyance is a bitch if she had to deal with all those glimpses of things without context all the time.
She honestly wished she'd kept her curiosity on a leash. She doesn't even know what present she's in
The chaos of the Fourth Holy Grail War had left a deep mark on the world of magecraft, and she had felt its ripple effects even before she'd known the full scope of it.
It didn't take much investigation to figure out why. The summoning of legendary spirits, heroes and villains from across time, was like throwing stones into a pond—except these stones were meteor-sized, and the ripples were tidal waves.
People whispered of hauntings, miracles, and terrors, drawn like moths to the stories. Zatanna's recent world tour, initially planned as a creative way to promote her career while indulging her wanderlust, had quickly turned into a firefighting effort to stabilize her craft and her reputation.
Her fingers toyed with a deck of cards on the table, flipping them over in absentminded patterns. It was ironic; she had set out on this tour as a kind of retreat.
Performing had always been her joy, and her family name carried enough weight to guarantee full houses wherever she went. She relished the spotlight, the thrill of creating wonder and amazement in her audiences.
But as the months passed, she found herself relying less on showmanship and more on true magecraft. When sleight of hand couldn't make an illusion work due to stress and basic human error, she whispered incantations under her breath, coaxing her spells to carry the performance.
It wasn't all bad—she loved magecraft, after all—but the blurring of her professional and mystical lives took a toll.
Crossing continents at breakneck speed, patching magical disturbances with rushed rituals in the name of "special effects," she felt stretched thin.
She leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. "Daddy always made it look so easy," she muttered, a rueful smile tugging at her lips.
Her mind drifted to memories of recent past encounters, seeking moments of clarity in the storm.
She thought of Wonder Woman, whose strength and grace had left her awestruck during their first meeting. Zatanna had always considered herself confident, but standing beside someone so radiant and assured had made her acutely aware of her own.. failings.
She smirked at the thought, shaking her head. "She'd probably roll her eyes if she knew I felt that way."
And then, inevitably, her thoughts turned to Bruce.
She'd been following his involvement in the Holy Grail War from afar, tracking the tremors in the ley lines and piecing together what little information she could gather. At first, she had convinced herself that he could handle it. He was Batman, after all—resourceful, unyielding, and more prepared than anyone else she knew. But as the time passed, worry gnawed at her resolve.
There was something else, too, something she hated admitting even to herself.
Her feelings for him had complicated her decision.
She rose from her chair, pacing the room as her thoughts raced. "He's stubborn enough to do this without me," she muttered. "But that doesn't mean he should have to." The words settled in her chest, solidifying into resolve.
If the Grail War was causing this much havoc, she couldn't afford to sit on the sidelines any longer. The disturbances were only going to worsen, and the idea of letting Bruce face it all without support was unthinkable. He'd given her the benefit of the doubt more times than she could count, and now it was her turn to do the same for him.
Decision made, she moved to her wardrobe, pulling out her traveling cloak and other essentials for spellwork. If she was going to step into a war involving summoned legends, she needed to be prepared.
At her workbench, she began assembling her arsenal.
"And who knows," she muttered,"It might all just be in my head and we can laugh about it."
The air in the ruined church hung heavy with smoke and ash, the charred remnants of pews and shattered stone casting jagged shadows across the desecrated floor. The faint glow of embers flickered in the corners like the dying breaths of a firestorm. Batman's eyes, hidden behind the cowl's advanced lenses, flicked between Kirei Kotomine's frozen/prone figure on the scorched ground and the armored figure of Saber as she strode toward them, her presence suffused with an undeniable aura of raw, overwhelming power.
Her bladehad the air around her rippled unnaturally, as if reality itself struggled to accommodate her existence. Her golden hair, stained by the faint orange glow of the flames, swayed lightly as she moved with unhurried grace, every step a testament to her confidence. She wasn't charging, nor was she in a defensive stance—this was the gait of someone who knew victory was inevitable.
Bruce felt the tension coil in his muscles, his years of training forcing him to remain calm despite the primal urge to flee. He had been here before—trapped in impossible situations, staring down enemies stronger, faster, and seemingly unstoppable
The faint whine of his suit's power systems hummed in his ears, a quiet reassurance of Da Vinci's upgrades. The neuro-muscular amplifiers in the suit synced with his breathing, a subconscious extension of his body that allowed for superhuman speed and strength. His cape, reinforced with kinetic fibers, draped over his back like the wings of a predator poised to strike. And his mind, sharp as ever, controlled the Batmobile remotely through the sympathetic thought controls Da Vinci had installed—a connection that required absolute focus, something he had honed to perfection over years of balancing countless variables in combat.
Saber stopped.
The ruined church was silent, save for the crackle of distant flames.
Her eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, locked onto his.
There was no malice in her gaze, only an almost pitying acknowledgment of the vast gulf between them.
And then, without warning,the burst of mana was a blinding, concussive wave of force that shattered what little structure remained of the church. The air screamed as the ground buckled, sending shards of stone and wood hurtling outward in a deadly cascade. Bruce's body reacted before his mind could catch up, years of evading explosions and point-blank attacks kicking in like second nature.
He twisted mid-air, his suit amplifying the motion, and the reinforced cape unfurled behind him as the earth roared as the wave of energy tore through the space he had occupied a fraction of a second earlier.
Kirei, to his credit, had managed to hurl himself towards his outstretched hand, his movements jerky but purposeful, as though survival was as much instinct for him as it was for Bruce.
He hit the ground hard, coughing, his black robes smoldering but intact.
Bruce landed in a crouch, his fingers splaying against the broken stone for balance. His breathing was steady, though his heart thundered in his chest. His HUD lit up with diagnostic readouts—something he is now seeing since he's never faced such direct impact.
He noted the tremor in his own hands as he rose, clenching them into fists to steady himself. His mind raced, analyzing every detail. The distance to Saber. The terrain—uneven, riddled with debris. Kirei's condition—alive, but disoriented. The Batmobile—
Saber stood amidst the destruction she had wrought, her posture unchanged.
She tilted her head, her gaze flicking briefly to Kirei before returning to Batman. Her expression remained unreadable, but her stance shifted slightly, the first faint signal of intent to strike with a faint tightening of her grip on the sword.
The tension was suffocating, the ruined church a tableau of devastation and anticipation. Bruce's mind worked furiously, every second precious. He needed to buy time—not for himself, but for Kirei, who was still struggling to rise. The thought of leaving anyone behind was unacceptable.
His internal link with the Batmobile thrummed in his mind. He adjusted its trajectory subtly, calculating the exact angle and speed needed to create a momentary distraction without giving Saber an opening.
Saber moved again, and his next action took everything he had in body and equipment.
She closed the distance between them in a blur of motion, her blade arcing toward him with an elegance that belied its deadly intent. Bruce dropped low, his augmented reflexes just fast enough to dodge the strike. The blade cleaved through the air where his head had been, the force of its passage sending a shockwave that staggered him, fortunately further away.
He rolled to the side, his grapnel firing automatically. The line caught a jagged beam leftover from the ruins overhead, and he swung upward, gaining precious distance as Saber turned to track him. The Batmobile roared into the ruins, its reinforced chassis glinting in the firelight, and Bruce sent it careening toward Saber in a calculated arc.
The distraction worked. Saber pivoted, her blade slicing through the air to meet the incoming vehicle. The impact was deafening, metal screeching as the Batmobile's alchemically reinforced armor lost a piece but absorbed the rest blow. The vehicle spun, flipping into a controlled skid that carried it away from her, but the crucial seconds it bought were enough.
Bruce landed beside Kirei, his hand gripping the other man's arm with iron strength. "Move," he ordered, his tone brooking no argument.
Kirei, his face pale and drawn, nodded and stumbled to his feet.
Inside, Batman's mind raced. His every movement was deliberate, precise, but the odds against Saber were staggering. Even with Da Vinci's upgrades to his arsenal, going toe-to-toe with a living legend was not an option. He needed time, distance, and a strategy that could exploit her otherworldly instincts.
One such strategy rested in the Batmobile's payload—a new addition courtesy of Da Vinci. Through her access to his archives and blueprints, she had unearthed an old concept Batman had shelved years ago: a high-density immobilizing foam*.
It was meant to counter metahumans, a deterrent for those whose power made conventional restraints laughable.
At the time, it had been theoretical, the prototypes flawed and unstable.
But Da Vinci had taken his rudimentary work and elevated it with alchemical enhancements, transforming it into something far beyond what he had envisioned.
She had explained the upgrades succinctly, her voice quick with the enthusiasm of discovery. The foam, once solidified, was capable of absorbing kinetic, thermal, and—thanks to her ingenuity—magical energy. It would adapt to the force exerted against it, growing denser the more it was attacked. Against most opponents as it was now, it would hold them indefinitely. Against someone like Saber, it might buy him a critical moment.
The Batmobile's targeting system locked onto Saber, her invisible sword held in a deceptively loose grip. She was already moving, the fluid grace of her stride belied by the raw power emanating from her every step.
Batman's voice cut through the tension. "Kirei, hold on."
"What are you planning?" Kirei asked, his voice tight, his earlier composure replaced by the strain of survival.
Batman didn't respond.
With a sharp hiss, a canister shot out, arcing toward Saber with precision.
Saber's head tilted, her supernatural Instinct flaring to warn her of the incoming threat.
Her body reacted faster than thought, her blade flashing upward in a streak of light as she aimed to cut the canister cleanly in two.
The blade struck true, but instead of splitting apart, the canister ruptured violently, releasing its contents in an explosive cloud of viscous, glowing foam.
The substance expanded instantly, enveloping Saber in a dense cocoon of adhesive material. She staggered, momentarily taken aback, her movements slowed as the foam hardened around her limbs. It clung to her armor, crawling like a living thing, its alchemical properties responding to her mana output.
Batman spared a glance as he maneuvered to the Batmobile.
Saber struggled within the growing mass, her sword carving glowing trails as she slashed at the foam. Her attacks sent cracks spider webbing across the surface, but almost immediately, the material began to "regenerate", mending itself faster than she could damage it and expanding as she struggled against it.
Batman's mind worked rapidly, analyzing every detail. The foam was holding, for now, but he could see the glow building around Saber's body. Her mana was surging, a response to the perceived threat. If Da Vinci's enhancements worked as intended, the foam would absorb the energy, neutralizing her output a while before she surpassed its energy threshold.
But if it didn't…
"I wouldn't do that," Batman said aloud, his voice calm but loud enough to be heard and edged with warning. The words were aimed at Saber, though he knew she wouldn't listen.
He was counting on it.
Saber's eyes narrowed, her stance shifting as she channeled more power. Her armor glowed with an almost blinding intensity, the radiant energy seeping into the foam. The adhesive bubbled and popped, steam hissing as gas escaped from the superheated surface. The glow intensified, the foam now luminous in the darkness, its edges fraying under the strain.
Kirei watched the display with a mixture of awe and disbelief as he hurried along. "It's not going to hold her," he said grimly.
"It's not supposed to," Batman replied, his tone clipped. "Just long enough."
Saber let out a burst of energy, the force of her mana erupting in a fiery blast that sent shockwaves rippling through the ruined landscape. The foam reacted violently, absorbing the energy even as it cracked further. For a moment, it seemed like she might break free, her movements growing more forceful as the adhesive weakened.
But then, as she prepared to launch another strike, the foam's alchemical properties kicked in fully. The energy she expended was redirected back into the adhesive, causing it to snap taut around her. She rocketed upward, the sheer force of her attempt to escape propelling her high into the air.
As they reached the Batmobile, Bruce shoved Kirei into the passenger seat and vaulted into the driver's side in one fluid motion. The vehicle roared to life, its engines flaring as he pushed it to maximum speed. The church receded behind them, a crumbling monument to the clash they had barely survived.
Batman's hands tightened on the Batmobile's controls as he accelerated, putting as much distance as possible between them. "Wait for it," he murmured under his breath.
The foam reached its limit. The tension snapped like a whip, dragging Saber back down with bone-jarring force even for her, based on how loud the shockwave was even with the distance put between them.
She hit the ground hard, the superheated adhesive splattering around her as she knelt, momentarily stunned. The glow of her mana flared one final time before dimming, the foam's energy absorption rendering her surge ineffective.
Bruce didn't allow himself to feel relief. "She's down, but not for long."
The Batmobile sped through the streets, its reinforced chassis cutting through obstacles with ease. Kirei glanced back , his expression unreadable. "You've bought yourself time," he said. "But against someone like her, time is never enough."
Batman didn't respond. His focus was already on the next step, his mind calculating the best route to safety and the fastest way to regroup. The foam had worked, but it wasn't a solution—only a delay. And delays, no matter how clever, wouldn't win this war.
Bruce could still feel Saber's presence behind them, a weight like gravity pressing against his back, but he didn't look back. There was no room for error, no time for hesitation.
But her presence lingered in Bruce's mind like the echo of a thunderclap, a reminder of the overwhelming force they had just escaped—and the fight that was far from over.
The Batmobile tore through the streets of Fuyuki City, its engine snarling like an enraged beast. Batman gripped the wheel with unyielding precision, his body leaning instinctively into every sharp turn and sudden jolt. Beside him, Kirei Kotomine clung to the reinforced interior, his composure tested as the car hurtled through wreckage and firelit debris at breakneck speeds.
Bruce's mind was a machine, sorting objectives with ruthless clarity: Evade Saber. Secure distance. Expose weaknesses. Retrieve Command Seals. Neutralize her as a threat. Escape.
The first step had gone to plan—barely. Da Vinci's alchemical foam had done its job, temporarily ensnaring the legendary knight and granting them this fleeting window of opportunity. But Saber's power was a reminder that raw strength wasn't enough to hold her for long. He needed to make every second count and was already bombarding and being bombarded by information from Da Vinci.
Flames no longer licked hungrily at the shadows, illuminating broken lampposts and shattered glass from how fast he was going.
Each turn required a precision maneuver, the armored vehicle narrowly avoiding obstacles that could immobilize it or, worse, slow it down.
The only sigh of all this was internal, sweat slicked the back of Bruce's neck under the cowl. The priest had his breathing steady but shallow, and Batman knew the strain was taking its toll. Yet, Kirei's voice remained steady, even cold, as he observed their flight.
"You enjoy this, don't you?" Kirei remarked, his tone almost conversational, though it was laced with curiosity rather than judgment. "The chaos. The fire. The theatrics."
Batman didn't glance at him. His focus was forward, eyes scanning the shifting environment, analyzing the terrain. "It's not about enjoyment," he replied, his voice gravelly. "It's about creating an impression. Saber's instincts demand she take the bait. If she doesn't not understand us, we'll live. If not—" He didn't finish.
Kirei understood well enough.
Ahead, an overpass loomed. The Batmobile's HUD flashed warnings, calculating potential paths. Bruce swerved hard to the right, the tires skidding briefly as they hit loose gravel, the rear fishtailing before regaining traction. The motion rattled the interior, and Kirei let out a low grunt as the sudden movement jostled him against his seat restraints.
The cacophony outside was relentless: the grinding crunch of road under the tires, the roar of the engine reverberating through, and, somewhere behind them, the faint but unmistakable sound of Saber's pursuit. Even though she wasn't visible yet, Bruce could feel her presence pressing down like a vice—a predator stalking its prey.
A plume of fire erupted to their jetburner as mana reacted explosively.
The shockwave slammed into the Batmobile, rocking it forewards. Bruce gritted his teeth and fought the wheel, his gauntleted hands steadying the vehicle even as sparks showered over the hood. Kirei shifted uncomfortably, his normally composed face betraying a flicker of unease.
Da Vinci seemed to lack restraint.
"This is hardly subtle," Kirei muttered, his fingers gripping the seat as the Batmobile rattled over uneven terrain. "Is this what passes for strategy in your world?"
Bruce's reply was curt. "It's part of the plan."
The plan, though risky, was built on a simple principle: Saber's instincts would drive her to close the gap. Her unparalleled speed and power made her a relentless hunter, but those same instincts could be manipulated. By creating enough chaos, enough noise, Bruce aimed to establish a presence so commanding it would demand her attention. To win this battle, he needed her to misjudge him.
Suddenly, the Batmobile's sensors screamed with proximity warnings. Bruce's gut tensed as the unmistakable hum of mana based aura sliced through the air like a hot knife through flesh.
"Hold on," Bruce growled.
With a calculated motion, he shifted gears and slammed the Batmobile into a tight spin, the vehicle's frame screeching in protest as it pivoted to face Saber head-on. The sudden change in direction sent Kirei lurching against his harness, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the glowing figure bearing down on them.
"She's coming straight for us," Kirei said, his voice low but tinged with something almost like admiration.
"That's the idea," Bruce replied. His hand hovered over a secondary console, inputting commands faster than the eye could follow. The Batmobile's onboard systems roared to life, vents along its chassis hissing as they prepared to release a countermeasure.
As Saber closed in, Bruce hit the release. A high-pitched thwump echoed as the Batmobile fired a volley of dense "smoke" grenades, each one detonating in midair to unleash a thick, choking fog that blanketed the street. The smoke glowed faintly, enhanced with mystical insense/ alchemical compounds that disrupted magical energy and distorted vision.
The effect was immediate. Saber slowed, her instinctive precision faltering as the environment around her warped and shifted. Her blade cut through the smoke, but it was an ineffective gesture—her strikes hit only air.
Bruce didn't waste a moment. The Batmobile surged forward, its reinforced bumper smashing through a fallen telephone pole as it veered into a narrow side street. The sound of splintering wood was deafening, and the smell of burnt wiring filled the cabin. Bruce's jaw clenched as the vehicle jolted over a collapsed section of pavement, the impact rattling his bones.
Kirei exhaled sharply, his hand bracing against the door. "You're gambling with our lives."
"It's calculated," Bruce shot back. He wasn't lying, but the stakes were higher than he cared to admit. Every turn, every maneuver was a delicate balance between survival and disaster.
The side street opened into a wider avenue, and Bruce seized the opportunity to gain speed. The Batmobile roared like a predator unleashed, its tires spinning with brutal efficiency as it accelerated. Behind them, Saber emerged from the smoke cutting through the haze like a beacon. She was relentless, her sword raised, her presence almost palpable even from this distance.
Bruce's thoughts churned, every action aligned with his singular objective: One chance. Make it count.
"You're enjoying this," Kirei said again, his voice quieter this time, almost as though he was speaking to himself.
Batman didn't answer. His focus was absolute, his mind a weapon as sharp and unyielding as the bat emblem on his chest. This wasn't about enjoyment. It was about purpose. And no matter the odds, he would see it through.
A/N: Something to give before Thanksgiving and probably something to hold the tied over when the next update is probably a Christmas Omake.
And Young Justice Fans will remember that containment foam.
Last edited: Nov 27, 2024
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Threadmarks Chapter 18: A Knightly Drive
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The-Honored-One
Jan 15, 2025 Awarded 1
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Zatanna Zatara woke with a sharp gasp, her breath caught between disorientation and pain. She was sprawled on her velvet sofa, still in the glittering stage costume she had worn the night before. The room was dim, the flickering light of her enchanted candles casting long shadows on the walls of her sanctum. Her head throbbed with a migraine so fierce it felt as though her skull might split apart, the pulse of it echoing the chaos in her thoughts.
Fragments of visions swirled in her mind, impossible to hold onto but impossible to dismiss. Past, present, and future danced in a kaleidoscope of images that felt both intimate and alien. Her hands trembled as she pushed herself upright, brushing strands of hair damp with sweat from her face.
The sanctum around her looked... off. Books and artifacts were pulled from shelves, strewn across tables, their configurations forming patterns she couldn't immediately comprehend. Crystals glowed faintly with energies she didn't remember summoning. Her chalkboard, typically reserved for sketching out spells or planning stage tricks, was filled with equations, names, and symbols. And there, scrawled in her own hurried handwriting, were the words: "Justice League?"
She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to make sense of the fragments tearing through her mind. She had done this to herself—deliberately, recklessly.
Her sense of time was unraveling. It was as though she were untethered from the linear flow of events, caught in a perpetual loop of what had been, what was, and what might be. Faces and events from years ago merged with those of potential futures: Batman, Wonder Woman, Superman. Names and figures she had seen in her visions, working together under a banner of hope and power—a "Justice League."
But what was it? A dream? A possibility? A reality she had glimpsed but had not yet come to pass?
Her attempt to shape the future into something safer, something brighter, had left her staggering through the present. Sleepwalking, she realized, as she noticed her chalk-streaked hands and the faint ache in her legs. She had been moving, preparing, while her conscious mind was adrift in the storm of possibilities.
What had she done?
The first rays of dawn filtered through the thin curtains of the Metropolis apartment, casting a soft golden glow over the room. Clark Kent stirred, the subtle warmth of Lois Lane's body nestled beside him anchoring him to the quiet peace of the moment. Before his eyes even opened, his hearing adjusted—first, to the gentle rhythm of his own heartbeat, strong and steady. Then, with practiced ease, he tuned into the heartbeat beside him, softer, slower, and completely familiar.
Smiling to himself, Clark opened his eyes, letting the world trickle in one sense at a time. He adjusted his hearing further, expanding outward from the bedroom. The muted sounds of Metropolis waking up reached him: coffee machines bubbling in nearby apartments, the hum of early commuters' cars, the sharp bark of a dog several blocks away. Stretching his senses further, the city became a symphony—tens of thousands of lives intertwining in harmony and discord.
Beyond that, the world unfolded in layers: a mother in New Delhi singing a lullaby to her child, the crash of waves along a coastline in Australia, the distant roar of tectonic movement deep beneath the Pacific.
Clark exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the quiet sanctity of his home. He turned toward Lois, her hair spilling across the pillow like dark silk. Even in sleep, her expression carried that fierce determination he loved so much. Carefully, he brushed a stray strand from her face, making sure not to wake her.
Slipping out of bed, Clark padded barefoot to the kitchen, where he began his morning routine. Coffee brewed as he flipped through the newspaper, scanning headlines about recent events in Metropolis.
Midway through frying eggs, his heightened senses picked up something unusual: a hypersonic signal, pitched at a frequency only he could hear. The alert was subtle but insistent, originating from his liaison with the U.S. military—General Sam Lane.
Clark sighed, his morning calm interrupted, and jotted down a quick note for Lois:
"Got called away. Shouldn't be long. Coffee's ready. Love you. –Clark."
Minutes later, Superman streaked across the sky, arriving at a secure military installation hidden beneath a remote stretch of countryside. The guards saluted as he approached, their apprehension visible despite their stoic professionalism. Clark's relationship with the military had always been complicated, but he'd made a point of being cooperative when the situation called for it.
Inside the briefing room, General Lane stood waiting, arms crossed over his chest. The room buzzed with activity as analysts pored over data, their screens displaying faint but distinctive energy readings.
"Glad you could join us," Lane said, his tone clipped. "We've got a situation."
Superman nodded, his expression calm. "What's going on?"
Lane motioned to the nearest screen, where a series of energy spikes were displayed. "Our satellites picked up an unidentified energy signature that approached Earth's orbit but not before we tracked its trajectory—straight into a city in Japan. And then... nothing.One explosion and impact with visible damage. Then just .. disappeared."
As Lane explained, Superman's face remained impassive, his demeanor giving away little. But Lane had spent enough time around the Man of Steel to notice the subtle hints—Superman wasn't surprised.
"You already know what this is, don't you?" Lane asked, narrowing his eyes.
Superman hesitated, debating how much to reveal. Finally, he nodded. "It's not what you think. It's not an invasion or a natural disaster."
"Then what is it?"
"Batman," Superman said simply.
The room fell silent. Lane stared at him, incredulous. "You're telling me this is because of Batman? What the hell is he doing in Japan?"
Superman shrugged slightly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Knowing him? Chasing down a lead. Or an enemy."
Lane's composure cracked, and he threw up his hands. "Unbelievable!"
Superman's responded evenly, his tone firm but measured. "General, with all due respect, if he's in Japan, it's because he's dealing with something dangerous—something that could threaten a lot more than just one city."
"Oh, so now you're his spokesman?" Lane shot back. "Don't act like he's some model citizen. You and I both know he's a vigilante who skirts the law every chance he gets. And now you're telling me this mess—this international incident waiting to happen—is his doing?"
Superman folded his arms, his gaze unyielding. "Batman and I may have different methods, but our goals are the same. He's my ally, and I trust him. If he's involved, he's handling it."
Lane leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous tone. "You might trust him, but the rest of the world doesn't. And frankly, neither do I. You've got to understand how this looks, Superman. You fly around, helping whoever you want, wherever you want, and no one can stop you. We've tried before, and let's face it—we can't. You have your way cause you forced us to and it's still stings.Imagine how that looks for some random in a batsuit."
Superman met his gaze, unflinching. "Then why am I here, General? If you didn't trust me on some level, you wouldn't have called me."
Lane bristled but didn't deny it. The room was thick with tension as Superman continued. "You know I'll do what's right, no matter the consequences. And as for Batman—if anyone can resolve this situation without it escalating further, it's him."
The General sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. But if this goes south, don't expect me to cover for either of you."
Superman nodded. "Fair enough."
Thousands of miles away, the Batmobile tore through the narrow streets, its engine roaring like a caged beast. Inside, Bruce Wayne—Batman—gripped the wheel tightly, his jaw clenched as he swerved around another obstacle. A trail of destruction followed in his wake: shattered barricades, overturned vehicles, and the smoldering remains of a makeshift blockade.
His mind raced as he calculated his next move.
Behind them, the Saber-class Servant charged as she closed the distance with terrifying speed.
Batman muttered under his breath, "This has gotten out of hand."
The Batmobile roared through the narrow streets of Miyama City, the reinforced tires skidding slightly as Batman expertly drifted around a corner. Behind him, Saber—the legendary King Arthur, Artoria Pendragon—closed the gap with terrifying speed. Each swing of her invisible blade unleashed waves of mana that struck the rear of the Batmobile like cannon fire.
The technomagical armor, further reinforced by the energy given from a hybrid nuclear reactor and mana engine created by Da Vinci and designed by the theoretical insights of Dr. Alexander James Sartorius, (wasn't that a shock when he went over the technical information himself), was holding—but only barely. Hairline fractures began to spiderweb across the reinforced plating, and the warning systems blared incessantly inside the cockpit.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to remain calm.
He couldn't keep this up forever.
The reactor's output might be sufficient to sustain the Batmobile indefinitely, but his body was not. Every sharp turn, every evasive maneuver, every ounce of mental focus was draining his stamina.
At this rate, exhaustion would kill him long before Saber breached the vehicle's defenses.
As he swerved to avoid another crescent wave of destructive energy, memories of his training and experiences flashed through his mind in rapid succession.
His years of martial arts mastery under masters like Henri Ducard, Kirigi, and Richard Dragon taught him to evaluate every scenario with precision.
His years studying with Sherlockian detectives and strategists sharpened his ability to predict an opponent's actions.
His time with Zatara the Magician gave him rudimentary but invaluable insights into the arcane.
But none of it seemed to matter now.
Saber was faster, stronger, and her very presence seemed to radiate an aura of invincibility.
He couldn't defeat her in a direct confrontation. That much was clear.
Batman's mind shifted to another cornerstone of his upbringing: his heritage. As a child, his parents had often read him Arthurian myths. His father, Doctor Thomas Wayne, would recite tales of Camelot, the Round Table, and the nobility of King Arthur as bedtime stories.
Alfred, added his own embellishments, weaving lessons of morality and leadership into the legends. Bruce had studied the myths further as an adult in his free time whenever he was feeling nostalgic over sharing the same stories with Dick and ...
His thoughts honed in on Saber's conceptual weaknesses.
If she truly was Artoria Pendragon, then her legend was both her strength and her vulnerability. Figures like Morgan le Fay, the sorceress who had betrayed her, or Mordred, the Knight of Treachery who struck her down, represented direct counters to her. But leveraging such individuals was an impossibility in the current situation.
He dismissed the idea of using the satellite laser attack immediately; it might be powerful enough to damage Saber, but the risk to the civilians in the area made it unthinkable.
Collateral damage of such magnitude was unacceptable.
Another mana wave sliced through the air, striking the Batmobile's side with enough force to send it skidding.
Batman's hands gripped the wheel tighter as he regained control.
He quickly recalibrated the Batmobile's systems, prioritizing speed over defense, and his mind returned to the myths.
How had Arthur gained and lost her most potent magical equipment?
The Fairies of the Lake.
The Lady of the Lake had bestowed Excalibur upon Arthur, and the same fae forces had ultimately reclaimed it upon her death.
The lake…
The thought struck him like lightning.
Could the Fairies of the Lake still hold sway over Saber? Could the mystical forces that empowered Excalibur also serve as a means to neutralize it? There was a 50/50 chance that such an approach would either hinder her—or empower her further.
Bruce's brow furrowed.
There was another question to consider: could Saber even swim?
Artoria's legend painted her as a defender of Britain against invaders who crossed the seas, but her ability to traverse bodies of water remained ambiguous.
In a modern battlefield, her skill set might have evolved—but if she were restricted by historical precedent, it was a potential weakness he could exploit.
As he dodged another strike, this time narrowly avoiding a collapsed lamppost, Batman activated his Servant-Master communication link. 'Da Vinci,' he barked, his voice strained but controlled, 'I need the locations of all known Servants besides Saber and yourself. Use the residual mana signatures from the satellite laser bombardment. Prioritize anyone near the Fuyuki River.'
Da Vinci's voice crackled over the comm, calm and analytical despite the urgency. 'Understood. One moment, Master Wayne.' He held back a flinch.
There was a brief pause as the genius polymath worked her calculations. "Current locations: Archer is stationed near the Tohsaka Manor. Lancer has taken refuge in a five-star hotel in the Shinto district. Berserker is… just at a random city corner? Assassin remains untraceable if they are not already dead completely this time. Rider is near the Fuyuki River."
"The river," Batman muttered, his mind racing. "If Rider is nearby, they could be a wild card… that might be the key."
Da Vinci's tone shifted slightly, a note of curiosity entering her voice. 'What are you planning, Batman?'
'A calculated risk,' he replied, his tone grim.
The connection ended, and Batman adjusted his course, veering toward the river. Saber was relentless, her pursuit unyielding.
The streets of Fuyuki blurred past, the lights of Shinto giving way to the darker, older architecture of Miyama City.
The Batmobile's systems continued to issue warnings, the reinforced armor deteriorating under the constant barrage of mana waves.
Finally, the Fuyuki River came into view.
Its wide expanse glittered under the moonlight, the waters deceptively calm. Batman gunned the engine, pushing the Batmobile to its limits as he approached the riverbank. Behind him, Saber's armored figure gleamed in the dim light, her blade raised for another strike.
He hoped the Batmobile's sealing was airtight like before despite all of Da Vinc's modifications.
Throughout all of this he ignored the burning gaze beside him.
Iskander, the King of Conquerors, soared through the city aboard his divine chariot pulled by the thunderous bulls.
The sky above Fuyuki City roared with their might, streaks of lightning crackling around him, splitting the heavens in his wake. Each movement of the chariot was a testament to his dominance, a ferocious reminder of the Great King who once strode across continents. The bulls' hooves pounded against the air itself, leaving faint ripples of displaced mana, while thunder rolled deep enough to rattle the windows of the sleeping city below.
"Rider!" Waver Velvet's exasperated voice echoed from the back of the chariot, where he clung tightly to one of its rails, his knuckles white as snow. "You're supposed to maintain a high altitude! You're making us a target like this!"
Iskander let out a booming laugh, his crimson cape snapping behind him in the wind. "Hah! Where's the thrill in staying out of reach? A conqueror must embrace the chaos! Besides, they can't hit what they can't see. These buildings offer better cover than the open skies for the sun cannon to blast us!"
"That's not the point!" Waver shot back, trying to maintain his balance as the chariot banked sharply to the right, weaving between a cluster of towering skyscrapers. The proximity of the buildings caused gusts of wind to buffet them on all sides, and Waver couldn't help but think that they were seconds away from crashing into glass and steel. "You're enjoying this way too much!"
"Of course I am!" Iskander declared. His eyes gleamed with excitement as the chariot roared past an office building, so close that he could see his reflection in the darkened windows. "These modern cities, with their towering structures and twisting roads—this is unlike any I've ever known! To skim the surface of these monoliths, to feel the pulse of the people below, it's exhilarating! "
Waver groaned and tried to bury his face in his hands while simultaneously holding on. There was no reasoning with the man. He couldn't deny the tactical advantages of staying low, weaving through the city like a phantom storm—the buildings did provide some measure of cover, and their erratic movements made them harder to target.
But that didn't mean he had to like it.
Iskander's enjoyment of the moment, however, was cut short when his keen eyes caught sight of something unusual below. His chariot had been zipping over the rooftops in a blur of motion, too fast for ordinary humans to perceive, but there was one anomaly that stood out.
A strange vehicle, black, sleek and armored, raced through the streets beneath him. Its design was unlike anything Iskander had ever seen. It was a machine of war, he could tell that much immediately. The way its black, angular surface absorbed the moonlight and reflected nothing but menace; the way it moved with uncanny precision, strafing and maneuvering with almost sentient grace. It was nothing like the mundane carriages he'd seen in this era.
It was a beast in its own right.
"Master," he said, his tone sharpening, "do you see that?"
Waver squinted over the edge of the chariot, trying to follow Iskander's gaze. "What? The …car? What about it?"
"It's no ordinary vehicle," Iskander rumbled. "It moves like a predator. Look at how it evades, how it counters the blows being thrown at it."
Below them, the "car" swerved with precision, narrowly dodging a colossal wave of mana that tore through the air like a hurricane. The attack came from Saber, who pursued the car relentlessly, her wind blade briefly glowing with ethereal light. Each swing of her weapon sent devastating arcs of energy crashing into the streets, leaving craters and shattered asphalt in her wake.
Yet the Batmobile—smaller and more fragile in comparison—maneuvered through the onslaught with almost mocking ease, darting away at the last moment before Saber's strikes could connect.
"Saber!" Iskander roared with delight.
He gripped the reins of his chariot, the divine bulls snorting with anticipation. "I cannot ignore such a spectacle. Let us test her mettle!"
"Wait!" Waver shouted, but it was too late. Iskander had already urged the bulls downward, descending rapidly toward the chaotic battle below.
As the chariot approached, Saber glanced upward, her piercing gaze locking onto Iskander. There was no hesitation in her movements. With a flick of her wrist, she unleashed another devastating wave of mana, this time aimed directly at the approaching chariot. The air itself seemed to ripple and crack under the force of her attack.
"Hah! Impressive!" Iskander bellowed, his grin widening. He raised his arm and unleashed a controlled lightning blast, the raw power of Zeus's gift countering Saber's attack mid-air. The clash of energies created a shockwave that reverberated through the city, shaking the very ground.
But as the dust settled, Iskander realized something peculiar. The car had used the moment of distraction to its advantage. It veered sharply to the side, dodging both attacks with uncanny precision, and launched itself toward the nearby river.
Saber's eyes widened as she caught sight of the Batmobile disappearing into the water. She lunged after it, her blade gleaming with determination. But as she reached the edge of the river, her the blessing of the Lady of the Lake manifested, allowing her to stand upon the water's surface as if it were solid ground.
She scanned the depths, searching for any sign of the vehicle, but it was gone, swallowed by the darkness below. Frustration etched across her features, she turned her fury toward Iskander, who hovered above her with a satisfied grin.
"You," she growled, her voice cold and sharp as her blade. "You interfered."
"Interfered?" Iskander repeated, feigning innocence. "No, Saber. I merely sought to greet a fellow warrior. Though it seems I've been used as a distraction. Hah! Clever, whoever they are. I'll have to praise them if they survive."
Saber didn't respond. Instead, she raised her sword, its brilliance intensifying as she prepared to unleash another wave of mana. This one was far stronger than the previous attacks, a testament to her growing ire.
"So be it," Iskander said, his voice low and eager. "Show me the strength of the King of Knights!"
Before Waver could protest, the bulls surged forward, their hooves crackling with divine energy as they charged straight toward Saber. The clash was inevitable, a meeting of titanic forces in the heart of the city. Lightning and mana collided once more, lighting up the night in a display of power that no ordinary human could hope to comprehend.
Waver, clinging desperately to the chariot, could only watch as the two legendary warriors engaged in battle. His attempts to get a word in were drowned out by the thunderous roars of the bulls and the deafening blasts of energy that shook the city to its core.
'Whoever you are,' he thought with a grin, 'you've earned the respect of the King of Conquerors for your cunning. Now, let us see if you can survive the night.'
The rhythmic hum of the Batmobile's engines seemed muted beneath the oppressive weight of water that surrounded them. Kirei Kotomine sat in the passenger seat, his normally unreadable expression shadowed by faint hints of unease. It had been years since he last felt anything resembling surprise, and yet here he was, in a vehicle unlike any he had ever encountered, submerged at the bottom of a river.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
For the briefest moment, he considered the possibility that this strangely dressed man—his temporary ally—might have decided to end it all in an unceremonious plunge into the abyss.
The events leading up to this moment replayed in Kirei's mind. The cacophony of battle/race between Saber and the Batmobile, of mana-infused slashes and thunderous explosions, had been as awe-inspiring as it was absurd.
Despite the Batmobile's evident technological marvel, Saber's relentless pursuit had whittled away at its defenses in such an obvious manner that even he noticed despite his unfamiliarity, forcing their retreat into increasingly desperate measures. Yet the vehicle's driver—"Batman"—had seemingly remained eerily calm, his every motion deliberate, every maneuver calculated. The man's resolve bordered on the pathological, a trait Kirei found disturbingly familiar.
'For a fleeting instant,' Kirei thought to himself, 'I believed he intended to kill us both rather than allow Saber to claim her victory.' The Batmobile's abrupt dive into the river had felt like a death sentence.
Water pressure alone should have crushed them, but the interior remained pristine, the silence around them broken only by the soft hum of machinery. It was a disorienting kind of tranquility, the sort that clawed at the edges of his carefully controlled demeanor.
A tap on the dashboard snapped him from his reverie. Batman's gloved hand moved with precision, activating something that Kirei could not discern.
The vehicle's afterburners roared to life, propelling them through the water with startling force. Kirei's eyes darted to the man beside him.
Even in this surreal situation, Batman's focus did not waver. His cowl obscured much of his face, but his jawline was set in grim determination under the dim lighting of the car, as if even the river itself were merely another obstacle to overcome.
Kirei's curiosity, that dark and insidious part of him that sought to dissect the motivations of others, flared to life. What manner of man was this? To engage a Servant in combat, to dive into a river with the cold confidence of someone utterly unafraid of death—it spoke of someone driven by purpose. And yet, what that purpose might be eluded him. For all his years of priesthood, of studying the human soul for his own sake, Kirei could not discern whether this man was a fool or a genius.
After what felt like an eternity, Batman spoke, his voice low and gravelly, yet carrying an unmistakable authority. "Now we can talk."
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Kirei found himself momentarily at a loss. He had expected silence from this enigmatic figure, or perhaps a curt dismissal of any attempt at conversation. But this? An invitation to speak, here at the bottom of a river? It was almost laughable. Yet, as the seconds ticked by, Kirei realized the genius behind it. The river insulated them, both physically and metaphorically. No prying eyes, no unwelcome interruptions, just two men separated from the world above by a wall of water.
And there was nothing he could do to refuse whatever demand.
Kirei turned his gaze to the dashboard, the dim lights and alien controls reflecting faintly in his eyes. "You've gone to extraordinary lengths to secure this moment," he remarked, his tone carefully neutral.
Batman's eyes flicked toward him briefly before returning to the controls. "You're not wrong," he replied. "But before we talk about what comes next, I need to know something. Can I trust you to work in your best interests?"
Kirei's lips curled into a faint smile, one that did not reach his eyes. "Trust, you say? How quaint. In this war, trust is a commodity more rare than victory."
Batman's hands tightened on the wheel, but his voice remained calm. "Answer the question."
Kirei tilted his head, considering the man beside him.
"I suppose that depends," Kirei said at last. "Can I trust you?"
The silence that followed was as heavy as the water surrounding them. For a moment, it seemed as though neither man would speak again. But then Batman leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable behind the cowl.
"A fair point." He leaned back in his seat, his fingers steepled before him. "Very well, then. Let us talk."
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The-Honored-One
Jan 15, 2025
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