Night had fallen. No longer was it early enough where people were still busy rushing to and fro to arrange dinner, or get home from some early evening engagement, instead all but the vanishing minority of late-night eateries and convenience stores were closed, bars had emptied and forced their patrons away, and even the most workaholic salaryman had found their way to sleep somewhere.

In other words, the only time of night that the Grail War could be freely conducted, lest there be far too much time spent cleaning up witnesses.

As such, Asteriel had put away the last of her leftover pastries, gathered up the weapon of her predecessor's Servant, and… gone for a walk, in essence. Her shopping trip earlier had been more than just a desire to try new food; it had given her plenty of time to feel out the town as a lost little foreigner, looking here and there for bounded fields or other evidence of magecraft. Either Sako was shockingly full of unremarkable magi, or somebody had been putting up boltholes all over the place.

Perhaps she and Saber should pay one a visit?

"What say you, Saber? Would you rather hunt for an enemy, or call them to our location?"

---

"What do you think, Master?" An evening wasn't a lot of time to prepare a Mystic Code… but such was the advantage of unparalleled genius, wasn't it? Some basic materials, a few of her own hairs, and a head for once blissfully free of migraines… more than enough to prepare one, two disguises so that she and her Master could go out without being immediately identified!

Oh, they would still be very remarkable, a pair of blondes in Japan, but the important thing was that as long as they didn't explicitly give away their identities, things would be just different enough that their enemies would be disinclined to think of them as the same people at all – and perhaps even more to think of Caster herself as a native Saber or similar! While her sword was undoubtedly distinctive, it couldn't be called anything but truly unique.

Of course, there was still the matter of who would take which outfit, and making sure they both fit properly. It had been so hard to decide, and rather than a unified theme, she had just followed her muse as any true artist. One was almost exactly a replica of a local uniform, save for the magic of it all, and was perhaps more suited to her Master. The other… well, the kimono of this country were very pretty, weren't they? Obviously, some modification was needed if they were going to be suitable for fighting, but…

They were just about out of time to prepare, and Kilian was well aware that it was only the beginning of what would prove to be a long night. It was well past the point of even the most stubborn of unremarkable souls stumbling around, be they drunk or overworked, leaving only one particular group lingering around. People like him, looking to get one step closer to claiming the wish of this Faux Grail War, at least he had no promises to believe that it was worth going all in on, even now. Especially now, certainly, though he had no intentions of heading back to his safehouse. That was a last resort, and there had to be at least one of the Masters among his peers, and competitors, who would be attempting to sniff out confirmed or possible safehouses, and Kilian had no intention of falling into that trap so easily.

Rather, Kilian was heading out to have a walk about, a calculated decision that was not as openly cocky as it seemed. Between Archer being capable of intervening in a moment's notice, and his own ability to respond to danger, it was a calculated decision. It also gave him the chance to spot trouble first, giving him the chance to assess and direct Archer to lead the attack. Speaking of, Kilian reached out through the mental link, knowing well it was impossible to tell who was listening at any given point in time. He had information to discuss, given Archer had, by his own assessment, found other Servants to assess before the night began proper.

<"Archer, time for us to go for a walk. Anything of note gleaned from earlier in the evening?">

As had been the case for the evening up to this point, Archer had remained at a distance from Kilian as he concluded his rendezvous with the other suspected Master, and as he made to finally announce his participation from the Church. He had been unusually quiet in that interrim, with only the flow of power between them and the occasional crackle coming down the line to Kilian indicating he hadn't met an unfortunate end: even now, as his Master reached out to him directly, the Servant took a noticeable moment to respond.

<Some weal, some woe. Allow me a moment, I believe it better to speak in person.>

The line fell silent once more, but Kilian would feel Archer's aura draw nearer to him little by little as he closed the distance between themselves, stopping perhaps a handful of seconds apart at a time to scan the horizon. The Servant's senses were keen even by the measure of a Heroic Spirit, whose presence in this world eclipsed the abilities of mortal men: but as the day was swallowed up into night they grew sharper still, the glare of his golden eyes penetrating the darkness into the distance beyond as if he was a creature forged by aeons of adaptation or the careful hands of a creator to stalk by night afforded the shape of a man.

Kilian, however, would know there was a simpler explanation at play. While certainly a hunter in his element, it was the cover of night that best afforded the ancient mage the opportunity to ply his skills with minimal interference from the noise of the modern world.

It was perhaps a minute hence from Kilian reaching out to him that the light footfall of Archer's became audible to him, that he felt the Servant's shape take substance besides him. It seemed he'd found nothing for now that troubled their tentative plan of action for the evening, nor anything for him to second-guess his decision to come speak to Kilian directly rather than keep to their link.

"As I related, before you set out for the Church I happened across another of the seven." Although, Kilian may have noticed his lips drawn and level rather than twisted in their characteristic cocksure smirk, as if in a more pensive frame of his mind than usual. "I would not presume him an ally at this juncture, but I see potential. Prudent in the face of the uncertain, and conscious of the true rhythm of war... provided his thoughts aren't too far divorced from his Master's, I would approach them as prospective fellows."

As Archer spoke, a curated profile of information took form in Kilian's mind: an image of the man, the various quirks and tells Archer had observed of him, and his Servant's best educated guess of which class he occupied. As before, the reasoning was simple. A Lancer or a Saber would be unlikely to carry or conduct themselves in this fashion whether they would have met Archer with violence from the beat or not, and his seemingly lackadaisacal manner and means seemed uncharacteristic for a Caster, Assassin or Berserker, who would either have to tread lightly in these opening stages or presumably wouldn't have the presence of mind or free rein to do so.

That, of course, suggested that the man who Archer had spoken with was Rider. A cavalry class, explaining his relatively subdued presence and means, but also his confidence; much like Archer, Rider characteristically concealed a potent, even avant-garde Noble Phantasm beneath an unassuming profile, ready to turn a situation on its head in the blink of an eye.

Kilian was aware of Archer and his current position, roughly speaking, even after reaching out through their innate connection. He responded after a delay, brief as it was, and spoke of some good, some ill, and to grant him a few moments. Kilian simply nodded, not pursuing further or wasting time with needless words. Archer had been more remote than their relatively short time interacting would indicate as normal, though it was too earlier to prod such things. If Archer needed a moment, he could grant the Servant such, doubly so given, as he monitored the rough location of the man, his actions were increasingly clear.

Archer approached as a hunter would, scanning and assessing before moving again, never spending more than a few fleeting seconds at rest. He considered waxing poetic, however briefly, but pragmatically the night allowed them the greatest range of motion to act and react, Archer included in that equation, and after a minute's worth of wait, it seemed Archer elected to speak in person instead of continuing to act through their shared link. An interesting choice, to be sure, but given the lack of immediate threats, overt or otherwise, it was not strictly a bad move either.

It seemed, as Kilian listened and observed, Archer had indeed identified another of the seven servants at play. Though his much more, what was the word, muted demeanor hinted it had not gone nearly as well as one might like. Kilian didn't waste his breath commenting on that subdued self, focusing on the assessment instead. Not strictly an ally, naturally of course, but also much of their thinking as well. Possible fellows instead of foes, then? A bold statement and assessment, given only one could win this contest should it prove true.

"A prospective fellow, then? A charming turn of phrase. We are running out of options for our first target at this rate."

Kilian had a pleasant tone despite discussing the execution of another Servant, and possible Master, from the Faux Grail War. A part of him had hoped to foil the best advantage Assassin had, which was being unknown, but alas no such luck. It would have been a poor Assassin indeed to just rush down someone screaming like an absolute lunatic, even if it was not a traditional Assassin as far as Grail Wars went. Add in the relative lack of information otherwise, and it would make the first proper Night of the war as fraught as he expected it to be. Though that meant the same for everyone else as well, and who said they had to seek out a single fight?

"Our best bet is to assess then, and intrude on behalf of those we can sway to our cause, temporary as it might be. A task we are well suited to, I dare say."

"Now, no need to be coy." Archer levelled a curious look upon Kilian as he responded to his assessment of their likely Rider; but after a moment he shrugged and let his mouth creep back upwards as he dipped back into familiar rhythms. "I thought my meaning plain, however finely I chose to dress it."

Inevitably, with the circumstances behind the war, there would be parties whose participation was more a matter of acting on curiosity or impulse than by dint of ambition, who might well offer their co-operation to ensure they could remain in the game long enough to achieve some satisfaction or form of return, however meagre. Naturally, no-one who came here would be entirely without their reasons to pursue victory, whether that were to accumulate the respect they thought they were owed, complete some grand design that had long since elluded their grasp, or simply to stake it all on whatever laid at the end. But however fleeting an alliance may be, there was value that could be extracted from it before it ran its course.

It was ultimately nothing more than the human condition in action. Exchanging favours and courtesies to survive and improve one's station in the world, while ensuring one did not give more than what they received in kind.

"Very good." He nodded to Kilian; though, a moment later, his smile flattened a little as their thoughts beckoned him back to the other intelligence he had to share. "That being said, the second piece of intelligence I've collected is of paramount importance to these ends."

At his words, the image of the alleged Rider faded briskly from Kilian's mind; replaced in an instant with the gaunt, scarred visage of the towering man Archer had encountered outside the church. Compared to the largely speculative but ultimately logical inferrences that had guided Archer to his conclusion on the first man's identity, he was notably more cautious here. All he seemed confident to openly surmise was that he was as powerful as his imposing frame implied, and was more than aware of that in how he carried and conducted himself. At best, they were looking at an unusually composed Berserker; otherwise they may well have been looking at the war's Lancer or even Saber, incarnated in a frame that rippled with intent menace.

"While you made contact with the lady Master, I encountered this one waiting along the path to the Church." Archer's tone was cold and deliberate, as if pulling upon his powers of presentation to preface the ominous conclusion he was clearly building to. "As with our 'Rider', I sought to make contact, to gain an understanding of where he stood in our present circumstances."

"I will not belabour the point, Master. It was an utter travesty. He had no interest in friendly dialogue, let alone in entertaining any arrangement that might expect him or his Master to yield anything, however minute, to ensure a path forward; I suspect it was merely consciousness of his surroundings that kept him from attacking me on sight." Archer shook his head grimly: from the information he relayed to Kilian, it was now apparent why he been so reserved between them regrouping and the present. "Now, I can't be sure whether he was the Einzbern's attack mutt, or just a lapdog for some other woefully over-ambitious and under-educated soul. But however we arrive there, the conclusion remains the same."

"A brute of limited manners and even more limited comprehension, and I doubt whoever chose to beckon him from across time will offer anything more of value." He fixed Kilian with an intent look, as if to emphasize the severity of the information he was relaying; there was a nigh-sepulchral seriousness to his tone, far from the self-assured wit he had espoused in their previous interactions. "If we must approach them, it should be with the utmost caution and an exit plan."

"Consider it a way of amusing myself, before the night turns into conflict proper."

Kilian replied calmly, walking along calmly as they spoke on matters of the approaching night. He would be a fool to think there was even one person in this contest who was not intent on winning or advancing themselves. Ambition was the universal truth of humanity, one of them at least, even for those that tried to be otherwise. He was just as guilty of it as well, naturally, though he operated under no disillusion on the matter. Though he tempered his ambition with pragmatism, after all, dying before seeing his ambitions come true would be quite the waste of everything done up to this point.

"Paramount importance, is it?"

Kilian glanced as the image of the supposed Rider faded, to be replaced with another figure entirely. Far more cautious, far less logical speculation and reason, and overall much less to work with it seemed. Perhaps this meeting had not gone as well, which Archer would confirm just after the thought came to mind. One of the heavy hitters, most likely, listening closely as Archer explained the situation that played out while meeting the lady Master. No friendly dialogue, no attempts at playing the game of discretion and coy words, no chance of giving an inch but absolutely willing to take a mile. The reservation from before was far more understandable now, whoever this one answered to would likely not be playing the same game as everyone else.

"A more robust exit plan than normal then, noted. Though with careful posturing we can still capitalize on that brutish nature."

Kilian's tone indicated an understanding of the point Archer wanted to get across, though he was not as quick to write the pair off as a brute and handler. Conventional diplomacy and posturing might not work, simply playing the long game and flanks and striking when opportunistic could prove useful as well. Archer's feelings on the matter were noted, however, and if a plan involving them had to be made, it would be done with due caution. More due caution compared to the expected amount for dealing with any of the Servant/Master pairings.

"Naturally. Even the lowliest of beasts can serve a purpose, provided one keeps their expectations tempered." Archer nodded along to Kilian's assessment of the situation, clearly pleased that his counsel had been properly absorbed. His expression remained serious, though now it appeared more resolute, as if a plan of action were forming in his head. "Provided we keep a safe distance, we can levy their strength to deal with other intractable obstacles. Let them shoulder the burden of dealing with the dolls, or whatever other bloody-minded fools may have come here."

As he spoke his grim resolve, Kilian would perceive a flash of silver as something appeared in Archer's left hand; and as the Servant raised it to his eye level and opened his gloved fist, he would see it. To an untrained eye, it would seem a mere bullet, albeit unusually ornate in design. Four long strands of metal sprouted from a tapered base, coiling around a slender central body like a double caduceus before converging into a tip that, rather than a single point, rather resembled a maw formed by jagged points curving towards each-other: it appeared more a work of bizarre art than practical munitions. But the elaborate form was no mistake or flight of fancy; Kilian would perceive the frenzied whispers that crept into the air from the power contained within its structure, and how it seemed to writhe between the grip of Archer's forefinger and thumb like an animal eager to escape and sink its teeth into prey.

"Should they think to set upon us once that quarry is devoured, I shall make short work of the curs." Archer did not elaborate further, for there was no need. The Noble Phantasm in his hand was the bedrock upon which their confidence was built; their assurance that any unruly beast could be tamed through dialogue or death.

Kilian noted the pleased response from Archer in regards to his response, though that did not seem to snap the Servant out of his serious demeanor, though now it was more a case of purpose instead of brooding, which he could work with. He nodded along as Archer spoke, commenting on playing to the strengths of distance and observation to do the lion's share of the work before swooping in for the prize. Easier thought than done, naturally, but that was all part of planning things out, knowing when it would come unstuck and they would have to get creative.

What was unexpected was the presentation of Noble Phantasm, given such a display would catch the attention of those who were alert to such things. They had a small fortune in not being in such a position currently, though as the phantasm seemed to squirm and twist, eager to be set loose, Kilian was reminded of a beast turned to the hunt instead of turned on by it. One wrong move and it would snap as readily at the hunter as the prey. The declaration of making short work of the curs needed no further elaboration, even if Kilian thought to prod further it would prove less than fruitful.

"All the better they learn to listen then, at least until it is their time to bow out of the contest. Gracefully or not is ultimately their decision."

Kilian continued, focusing next on providing some information from his own efforts to discuss matters with the Master he had a brief chat with. Nothing of note, intelligence wise, had been gathered but it had been fruitful enough as far as first discussions had gone.

"As for my own discussion with a certain Master, she offered to not interfere so long as the same courtesy is offered in kind. No information on who her Servant is, mind, but another who is not wholly sold on betting it all on the outset of this contest. More traditionally useful to keep in mind, at least from the outset of things."

Whether Kilian strictly believed the matter of non-interference or not was unclear, but compared to the dealings with a certain Servant from before, it was downright civil. Meaning they could maneuver and play at diplomacy as far as required, allowing more focus to be given to the more overt threats before making an opportunity to take advantage of, should one not arise naturally.

"Gracious indeed." Satisfied with whatever point he'd made, Archer closed his fist and returned it to his side, the horrid thing in his grasp returning to the liminal space beyond his Master's comprehension, his smile creeping back upwards as Kilian relayed his own encounter. "As I recall, she seemed to carry herself more intently than if she were just here to satisfy some intellectual curiosity; but provided she proves more tractable than our friend at the Church, I'll be sure to keep her in my thoughts."

He looked away from Kilian, up to the night sky above. The moon was gradually ascending to its zenith, with only a scant few hours between the onset of night and the prime hours for the war to be conducted. Thus far, it seemed none among them were rushing to draw first blood, or to upset the nominal guidelines set down by the Church and the Association to prevent the Sako Grail War from growing beyond their control as its formal predecessors had: but even the most guileless among them could surmise that reticence was born of pragmatism rather than bashfulness.

"The night is young, and yet we know we are not alone in prowling the streets." Archer's outline darkened, a deep, dark black flooding into his frame. A moment passed, and the smart clothes he had worn to blend in during his reconnaissance of the city were swallowed up and replaced by heavier apparel, completed by the long, form-obscuring coat that flowed as if it were one with the night and the wind moving through it. Despite the apparent increase in mass, including the heavy boots that took the place of his pointed shoes, his already light footsteps melted into an eerie silence, and he simply he raised his hand to sweep it through his hair to complete the 'transformation'.

"I will return to my position along the skyline, and watch for any signs of disturbance in the distance." As he withdrew it, a dark shape had filled in its path along his head; with the addition of the tricorne hat, almost his entire body was ensconced in that darkness, the only light escaping his form being the keen glint of his golden eyes. Those pierced into Kilian as Archer turned to address him one last time, the well-dressed man now fully embracing the persona of the swift and terrible hunter. "Keep me apprised of affairs on the ground, Master, and I shall do the rest."

Kilian did not attempt to keep an eye on where that writhing example of a Phantasm was secreted away to, some things were not worth pursuing. Instead it seemed that smile of Archer's returned after the recounting of his humble, though fruitful, encounter with the fellow Master. Ultimately, Archer would keep her in mind should the opportunity arise for her to be useful to them, getting a single nod from Kilian as he followed up with his prior remarks on a mutual agreement.

"It almost goes without saying, but such agreements stop mattering the moment it benefits us more to ignore them."

Archer cast his gaze skyward, while Kilian turned his attention to the more immediate surroundings. While he was well equipped to square off with any of the other Masters in this contest directly, he was not foolhardy enough to even consider the possibility of doing more than maybe delaying against a Servant. Though given Archer's talents and overall role in such conflicts, he was in a unique position to capitalize on that particular skillset. It would be a dangerous gambit should it become necessary, but one they had as an option. Archer spoke again, confirming the obvious of the night being young, and would be long indeed as well.

With that, Kilian observed the gradual transformation as Archer assumed his true form as a Servant instead of the smarter, nominally more discreet attire from before out of the corner of his eye. From observer and tourist to a hunter of the darkest things that could go bump in the night, growing ever more silent in spite of the heavier garb and tread of sturdy boots. One more gesture, and Archer was in true, fitting form for the first night of conflict, meaning that Kilian could no longer allow himself idle thoughts, such as he had up to this point. The hunter would take to the skyline, and he would walk the streets, one informing the other of any prey to bring under the hunter's piercing golden eyes.

"Then that is that, as far as talk goes. Hunt well, Archer, I will be in touch as needed."

Kilian turned from the deep shadows that Archer had taken to, instead focusing his sense and attention on his immediate surroundings. While one naturally stayed alert for magecraft, it was easy to forget that just as many tells came from the mundane. Footsteps, mutterings, and more besides. But for now, the time for talk had well and truly passed for this night. Now it was time to stalk the empty streets, and see whether Master or Servant spotted trouble first, and from there, well, that was when things got interesting again.

Compared to what was likely to be the norm for other parties present, Beatrice was used to operating at a distance from her workshop in pursuit of a target, to the point of developing her particular craft around the uncertainty that it brought. As such, their main base of operations laid outside its limits, with them venturing in during the day to investigate and gather intel before returning in the early hours of the morning to relative safety, to recount and recuperate. But a Grail War was no mere hunt, and so over the course of the week they had spent in Sako she and Lancer had secured a number of 'safehouses' around the city alongside searching for any trace of its mysterious organizers.

Once they'd concluded their business at the church- both professional and personal- they'd made quickly and quietly for the closest one to them, a bulkhead atop one of the buildings on the border between Sako's business and entertainment districts. An office belonging to a nationwide company with a mid-sized branch in the city, the signage on the front indicating to any passersby that it was closed for refurbishment and due to re-open in the fourth quarter of the year. The signage also alleged that any trespassers would be prosecuted: but even before they had a chance to read it, all but the most dedicated of thrillseekers or most bloody-minded of mages would find their gaze move straight past the building like water flowing around a stone, the Bounded Field set up within gently guiding the stream of their consciousness on to the next target.

Being that her security system hadn't sounded on the way over, it seemed none had permeated that ward thus far, and Beatrice only offered the little black screen in her hand one last glance to confirm the absence of any intruders or traps lying in wait for them before returning it to her coat pocket. She wasn't willing to rest easy just yet, but as things stood matters were still in their hands.

For once, Lancer had found himself having to make a point to catch up when Beatrice decided to take her leave from the area around the church. He had little expected his master to be so caught up with whatever confrontation had just occurred to so rile her, and he had to take pains to avoid the other master and whichever servant may be accompanying them himself; Beatrice in turn had taken a direct route away from the grounds as darkness began to settle over the city of Sako. After the short delay in catching up to her, he withheld comment for the time, waiting for them to come nearer to their destination.

Once they were near enough, however, and he had satisfied himself that they were not followed, he turned to Beatrice as she checked the status of her 'security system.' He had little fondness for it himself, but he was neither a magus nor was he familiar with the ins-and-outs of their modern society. Some things, however, transcended such conceits of era and status.

"You are troubled," he stated plainly, with no preamble or warning. "I have yet to see you trouble yourself so about another master, these preparations aside; but then, it seems you did not expect to know any of them previously."

Beatrice had been conscious of the fact that Lancer would have something to say about their last encounter on the Church grounds. The heavy silence had accompanied them along their route to the safe house had been a reflection of that, her portion borne of a sudden necessity to ground herself and regain control of the situation before then, and his only seeming to entertain that until he no longer had to be concerned about interference from outside.

When he finally did so, her gaze remained focused on the entrance to their temporary base even as he rematerialized across from her, and a palpable tension still radiated over their link. But her breath remained still, and after a contemplative moment she slowly turned to look at him, the tension abating slightly as she absorbed his words.

"I'm sorry." It came out quickly, hanging ambiguously in the air for a moment. She'd expected him to comment on what had happened, and had been readying herself mentally for whatever she'd have to say or do to stay in control. The way in which he finally chose to address it, however... it was at once welcome and something she was woefully unprepared to deal with. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Lancer."

She took a deep breath. God, look at her, a hair's breadth from falling apart in front of the warrior whose eternal rest she'd thought to disturb to carry out this fool's errand alongside her. But the breath helped, as did his presence, despite everything, and so she continued.

"I expected I might see familiar faces. Even without anyone I knew from last time getting involved, and the Association carrying on like they're above it all, humans haven't changed much since your time: and despite everything, magi are hardly different." Tension yet lingered, but her voice was calm and steady, and she regarded Lancer seriously, something unspoken in both. "The rat race turns the ambitious into fools or monsters, and when I came here it was fully anticipating having to deal with the ones I'd met on the road along the way. I think- I think I'd just hoped she had more sense than to get involved."

Lancer was silent a moment longer, before shrugging. "Many have had that hope, or one like it," he mused. "Your guilelessness in the face of such things may be endearing, but if she should cross our path again, let me be the one to address her. I did not need the link foisted upon us to see what that meeting brought out in you, and I would not have you risk reprisal or death in a second."

"I truly hope it doesn't come to that." Though it stung a little to relent, Lancer wasn't entirely wrong in his assessment; a mage's guile was a language Beatrice had learned to speak over time, but it had always been a means to an end, something to close the gap with prey rather than a fluency she chose to stake her life upon. Even so, the implication of his words was painfully clear, even discounting what she knew of his story. "But if I could be certain of it, we wouldn't be here right now."

Much like herself, Rumi was a person who had been forged by a less than ideal upbringing. Beatrice had never been treasured so much as valued, something her father kept in the back of his mind in the unthinkable event that his tireless drive to prove himself worthy of the Clock Tower's regard amounted to naught; Rumi hadn't even had that, treated from the moment she was born as an entirely disposable resource that could be used to ensure an heir for a system that had long since lost its purpose. It had haunted every facet of her being, every silence a guessing game in which any wrong move would bring the world crashing down on her, every confrontation a foregone conclusion she could only hope to survive. It was what had drawn them together, the hatred Beatrice had for the dogma that had dictated their lives manifesting violently outwards to shelter her; but while that had cooled as she accepted what she was, Rumi seemed ever cursed to see the world as a binary where one was either strong or weak, where one could devour or be devoured.

"In the end, all we can do is stay the course." No good ruminating on it; she'd done her part to bring things to the present. Maybe if she could be strong now, neither of them would have to pay for her failings. "Close the book before anyone else has to die for something that happened before they were born."

"Indeed. Duty leaves little room for sentiment." He reached out, squeezing her shoulder once. Whatever he thought of the spat he'd witnessed and how much it had obviously shaken her, he was at least glad that he wasn't given a pushover or a coward for a master. "Still—try not to bother yourself about her overmuch. There'll be more than just her for us to deal with before this work is done."

He turned back to the hideout they faced, for once unable to keep an expression of obvious distaste from his face. "Speaking of threats, though."

He glanced sideways at Beatrice. "Is all this really necessary? It is important to have a secure position, certainly, but your choice of guard..."

It was clear he used the term loosely.

"You're right." Ultimately, even without Lancer's prodding, it was as Beatrice herself had surmised. A Grail War may have been a painfully literal representation of of the past being dragged back to haunt the present, but under the circumstances she didn't have the luxury of mithering over her own. Regardless of anything, Rumi had made her choices, as had she; as painful as the memories were, what was another week on top of the near decade she'd spent pondering what could have been? "We still don't know who set this Grail up, or what they're hoping to get out of recreating a doomed ritual."

A small measure of tension returned to her body as Lancer placed his hand on her shoulder, her breath hitching in her chest; but it soon passed as she accepted the gesture as the awkward display of support that it was, breath coming unstuck.

It was strange. If it hadn't been for the circumstances of her entry into the war, she rather suspected she'd have never thought to summon the strange, unkempt and wild-haired giant of a man who she'd come to Sako with. But at the same time, she doubted she'd have felt as confident with a Knight of the Round Table or Demi-God of Antiquity at her beck and call than she did with this tall, grey and terrible hero of Ulster at her side. Fate truly was a curious thing.

"Thank you, Lancer; but please don't worry about me." She offered him a smile, a brief and tired thing that seemed most unlike her regular expression. "I chose to come here rather than hand your seals off to the Association, and I'll be damned if I let something like this stop us from doing what needs to be done."

... The moment was only somewhat undercut by his sudden and apparent trepidation at proceeding fully into their base.

"Now now, I know they're not the most elegant arrangements, but I'd have thought that would suit your taste." She took it as an invitation to slip back into their regular rhythm, which she gladly accepted; though her smile remained a touch softer than normal, less teasing and more gently knowing. "Granted, I wanted them to be at least a little unsettling, but I'd hardly have expected a quick job like them to trouble you."

"You made them talk," he reminded her, an accusative complaint buried in the faintest stress on the word. "In my day, I fought beasts. I tested myself against other warriors, claimed and defended my own. That was fine, it was normal, even when Culann's dog fell into the warp-spasm and found himself a monster to rival any we faced down ourselves."

His face was as expressionless as always, though there may have been a hint of wounded pride at the joke made at his expense.

"Never once did I have to contend with an armour stand moving of its own will, or a talking doll. You magi are perverse."

"You're telling me." Beatrice snorted with amusement at Lancer's guarded indignance, but shook her head before it grew beyond that, not wishing to twist the knife. Perhaps she was simply proving his point, but she'd accept it as acknowledgement that they were performing as intended.

Though, it seemed she didn't need the praise, whether open or veiled. As she felt something vibrate in her coat pocket, it seemed one of them was about to be put to work.

"Oh-ho." It was likely already an odd experience for Lancer, seeing Beatrice so muted and quiet: but her sudden transformation back was just as disorientating, the uncharacteristically soft smile twisting back into a dubious grin as she pulled the phone from her pocket once more and began leafing through the information splashed across its screen. "Seems like Henson has an unannounced visitor."

"Let's head up, Lancer. Even if we can't be there in person, we can help greet them all the same." She said, finally making to open the door to the building and begin the climb to their base. For at least a brief moment, Beatrice's concerns seemed far away; with a partner at her side and a target to pursue, the world was back into focus.

Lancer allowed himself the luxury of a small grunt of annoyance. "Aye. Let us be off to meet them, and that one I met back by the church should pray he isn't involved in some way."
It was perhaps uncharitable of Asteriel to dismiss the bolthole as the work of an unremarkable mage; but in the absolute strictest of terms, it didn't seem inaccurate to what she was looking at.

The small workshop, if one could even stretch to call it that, seemed to have been set up in a storage unit at the edge of a park in Sako's residential area near to where it joined with the city's other districts, where it dipped away from the mountains as the land it had been built on slowly sloped towards the sea. Certainly a location chosen with some care, giving whoever had claimed it a decent view of goings-on across the city with or without the benefit of enhanced vision: but it certainly seemed to prize function over style. The small building seemed to have been neglected for quite a while before any mages had set their sights on it, bricks worn down and coated in moss, weeds sprouting from the cracks in the concrete around it, and thin metal doors scarred and dented. The Bounded Field surrounding it seemed almost unnecessary in the face of that neglect, serving to push the attention of those whose gaze deigned to linger on it for more than a moment away. Whether it had any further functions had yet to be observed, but the overall impression was that it was a simple but well-constructed ward, capable of warding away interlopers of all means and makes, but not quite robust enough to deflect the attention of an Einzbern homunculus on the prowl.

Proceeding inside, it didn't seem like anything was forthcoming to attack her or Saber. A faint buzz as they stepped inside suggested that if whoever had set it up hadn't known they were coming, they did now; but as the moments dragged on, and the worst that came to greet them was a slight chill in the air, it didn't seem like they were in any immediate danger of reprisal. The easy conclusion (or perhaps disappointing, where Asteriel was concerned) was that their target simply wasn't here, and the two of them had happened upon the bolthole while they were in transit or detained elsewhere; a more cautious assumption might be that they were prudent enough to bide their time and wait for an opening rather than rush out to attack a potentially highly dangerous intruder.

The feeling of being watched leant credence to the second of those, and if Asteriel and Saber were to attempt to return the unseen glare, it would pull their vision dead ahead: to the dilapidated building and the suddenly ajar door that seemed to swing eerily in the breeze, rusted hinges faintly creaking in tune with the buzz of static.

Lucia's eyes glimmered as she examined the two outfits Nero had made. Both seemed to have impeccable craftsmanship, and they were prepared so quickly! The focaccia was still warm, and they already had their disguises. At least, Lucia assumed. They probably had some sort of glamor on them that allowed them to pass for different people. She had no idea how it worked, but Nero's proud face left Lucia with little doubt that it would.

"Oh... they're beautiful, Lucia," Lucia chirped, an adoring smile on her face, "you certainly are talented."

Lucia softly traced her finger across the luxurious fabric, down the perfect seams, simply admiring the handiwork. It was important that Nero knew how appreciative she was, after all. She may have had no idea why Nero chose these outfits in particular, but far be it from her to question an artist.

"I should get you to make me a really nice habit. Well... since you made them, which would you like? I would be happy in either."

The other blonde puffed up at the praise, before tilting her head quizzically and staring at her Master. "Are you sure it would be appropriate for one such as myself to be making religious garments, Master? Such clothing is not a product of my time, yet…"

She trailed off. It wasn't that she couldn't – and the challenge of bending it to her interests without straying so far beyond the bounds of what was required that her Master would reject it was interesting – but it still seemed strange to invite her of all people to create Christian garments. It was still strange enough that her Master had summoned her, but to ask her to take a hand in things that she had opposed in life? Peculiar.

Of course, there was no time to wait for a response – with choice left to her, she began to strip on the spot. While the schoolgirl outfit was interesting… yes, she would take the kimono. It was predominantly red, and that was her colour. And while it was thoroughly altered towards modern sensibilities, it was still classical enough that it would aid her ruse, whereas the uniform might invite further questions.

Despite the lack of familiarity, she was dressed in almost no time at all, touching up the bun in her hair to fit the required aesthetic a little further. She had some… ahah! Yes, that would do. Not the same as her favoured ribbon, but this would hold it in place quite well.

"So, Master, what do you think? It suits me, no?" Of course, having changed in front of Lucia, the enchantments wouldn't affect her.

Her Master’s mana was nothing to complain about. A staggering amount, perfectly suitable for fueling her in combat.

Her Master had been nothing but courteous towards her. There was no reason not to treat her in kind, and indeed on her honor it was improper to do otherwise.

—However.

She had developed a honed sense for those who could display recklessness, who would endanger themselves far too easily.

It was that which concerned her about her Master.

Regardless, this was the Holy Grail War. They could not, should not, and would not remain idle.

She was a Knight. She was a swordswoman. She would ensure her Master did not fall, and she would ensure that they obtained victory. That was her purpose in this summoning.

Therefore, she would answer her Master’s question of their strategy openly and honestly.

“While I believe we should exercise caution, a proactive approach is most suitable,” replied Saber, brushing her lengthy braided ponytail back with her fingers, “The sooner that we defeat an enemy, the sooner we can conquer their territory and utilize it for staging further attacks.”

There was no doubt in Saber’s mind, at the very least, that her Master’s resources could permit such an approach. Multiple locations of safety within the city would benefit their cause and also ensure that they could retreat if necessary for her Master’s wellbeing.

So, Saber was in favour of being preactive, but the specifics remained up to her. Red eyes drifted back to focus on the storage unit, regarding its protections once again.

In all honesty, it wasn’t bad work. If the owner – foe or local – had just wanted to avoid attention, it was thorough and would escape the attention of most that came looking without any issue. But anything that would drive Asteriel away would need to be considerably more thorough.

For one, the bounded field was not without its effects; the protections unavoidably impacted the flow of mana through the local area. Any magus was somewhat sensitive to the spiritual land they stood on – one only need look at the precipitous decline of the Makiri in the scant centuries since their move to Japan for evidence of that – but she was aware of the world in a way that a human wasn’t. To be part of nature, even artificially… well, it was hard to hide from her.

Secondly, a compulsion to look away when her attention was drawn would find no purchase on the Einzbern. She was no easy target, and to try to do to her what she could do with her eyes alone? For all that she loathed the old man, his stubborn iteration when it came to their Masters had its benefits.

No, the defences here were well-made, if entirely insufficient for a workshop. She was just the wrong intruder.

But this didn’t mean she should be reckless. There could be hidden defenses or even mundane traps. Especially with that door opening, visibly trying to demand her attention. Saber, though… unless an enemy Servant lay in wait, there was nothing a modern magus could have prepared that would imperil the Knight of the Sword, and a stronger defence would only empower her further.

“Then lead the way, Saber.”

“Very well, Master. In that case—”

Saber had nothing to fear from the defenses in place. Of that she was certain. Anything short of the work of a mage from the Age of Gods would be insufficient against her. Therefore, to her mild relief, her Master’s insistence that she lead the way was a wise decision motivated by her knowledge of her Servant’s capabilities.

She would spring what would quite likely be a trap herself.

“Keep a safe distance.”

It was in the span of an instant that the Knight of the Sword reached the door and pushed it aside, the thin blade of her sword materializing in a flurry of brilliant white lights. And yet, there was no movement inside.

However—

She could sense something strange here. Something wasn’t right. A table housed some form of modern devices there, which appeared to be for use as appliances. That, in and of itself, was not strange when it came to the purposes of some form of base of operations. That much would be expected.

But the slumped, lifeless-looking shape on the other hand, was quite abnormal. At a glance, Saber could not discern if any blasphemous and wicked rituals had been conducted upon the body. Indeed, it simply appeared motionless.

“There is what appears to be a corpse here, Master,” the brunette knight said, without removing her eyes from the body. She took a step closer, then paused, running her eyes over the lifeless shape once more. She could detect something from it.

A presence. The source of the sensation of being watched?

“It seems as if it is no ordinary body,” added Saber, “I am no mage, but I can sense some sort of presence from it.”

Stepping closer to the body, more details became visible in the dim, dusty half-light of the workshop. The lifeless form appeared now to be a construct rather than a carcass, its design as spartan and functional as its surroundings. What at first glance seemed to be the pale skin of a corpse yet to peel away from the rotting meat and dry bones beneath was now evident as rubber stretched taut over a frame that merely approximated human shape; for whatever the designs of whoever had left it here were, it seemed that they had little interest in dipping their toes into their discipline’s darker depths.

And yet, that came with little relief.

Though it may not have been a corpse violated or manipulated to some end by blasphemous ritual, the figure was yet unnerving to behold. Even if one were to overlook or fail to perceive the current of energy that seemed to run through it, a particularly dense pocket collecting in its chest, there was no mistaking the perverse intent that had been placed into the figure’s construction. While its frame was of apparently mundane origin, a mannequin that could just as well been snatched from a warehouse as crafted from scratch, the way in which it had been positioned was meticulously arranged to provoke discomfort. The sickly shade of its synthetic skin and the way in which it rested lifelessly in the chair had clearly been designed to evoke a body left to rot; and even before that, the very nature of its shape drew the common response of humanity to the uncanny, whether it was pure instinct or the learned paranoia of a warrior that made them alert to the unknown.

Compounding the unease was the head that rested slumped on those clammy shoulders: the skull of a large animal, stripped of flesh and polished such that the light of Saber’s sword gleamed against its ivory surface. Although it didn’t seem to have been excessively tampered with beyond being affixed to its new body, a cord ran from one of the devices on the table behind it, running up and through the nape of the neck that joined them-

And as it raised its head to look directly at Saber, piercing red light glared out of the depths of its dark, empty eye sockets to regard her.

It was no simple corpse. While Saber’s knowledge of magecraft was restricted largely to how to combat it and some passing familiarity due to the exploits of her allies, her understanding of what she was observing as it began to move swiftly sharpened. As repulsive as it was, it was at least no blasphemous manipulation of a corpse.

That did not make its appearance any less perverse, and in utterly poor taste. Who designed such a thing? Surely, as some form of servile construct, they could have made it less repulsive.
Then again, perhaps the strange servitor’s appearance was related to the techniques used to animate it? Such things could be so, as far as Saber understood, when it came to the topic of magecraft.

“Unidentified.”The voice that came from within the skull was tinny and distorted, and its movements weren’t significantly divorced from that. The sudden upwards jerk of its head had seemed almost involuntary, the rest of its frame failing to shift even an inch in concert; the pinpricks of light that bore into Saber felt equally ambiguous, their assessment of her feeling more of a statement than an accusation.

“Your presence has been logged.” Perhaps it was too early to discern whether or not it was a conscious entity; but the deep, mechanical monotone suggested that whatever spark of life animated it was faint. That the intelligence it possessed was as rudimentary as its form. “What is the purpose of your visit?”

There was a lack of hostility from the corpse-like puppet, at least for the moment. After some consideration, Saber concluded it was best to attempt to extract more information from it before moving on and destroying it if necessary.

“Stay back, Master. It is some form of construct,” she called, looking back over her shoulder only briefly before returning her attention entirely to the puppet.

“I am here as a visitor, merely to observe this workshop,” she said in response to its question. It was not entirely a lie, and as of this moment no further action had been determined. Saber found it unlikely that the workshop was not some form of trap that would need to be destroyed, but if further understanding could be extracted from the construct then that meant it was best to take things more slowly.

The construct’s impassive stare held throughout Saber’s deliberation, either oblivious or entirely indifferent to the very real possibility of its destruction by her hands. It did, however, shift away from her the moment she called out to Asteriel; leaning briefly in tune with her own movement to stare past her, towards the doorframe and the woman just beyond it.

It maintained that position for a brief moment, the red light doing its best to penetrate the steely gleam of the sword at its guest’s side, which disturbed the darkness its primitive senses had presumably been tuned to. No response seemed forthcoming as Saber attempted to maintain its attention on her-

”Master.” As it returned slowly to its upright position, it spoke not in its previous monotone, but in the Servant’s own timbre; not conscious imitation, but a frequency decoded and replicated through its mechanical larynx. Its unblinking gaze was now squarely back on her, and though there was yet no sign of immediate hostility, the light seemed more intense than before. ”Subject identified. Servant, designation unclear. Secondary subject, Master. Unidentified. Unnaturally high mana throughput.”

There came another lull: unlike before, however, it was precipitated not by silence, but by a strange sound that came from within the puppet’s skull. Though she was unlikely to have encountered it directly since manifesting, the knowledge that the Grail supplied Saber would quickly identify it as the sound of a digital phone ringing, the electronic sound running in concert with flashes of light from one of the devices behind the skull-headed puppet.

”Request received. Stand by for transfer.” And with a click, the sound stopped, returning the workshop to silence.

“Aaaah, you really should have attacked first. Now they know we’re here,” Asteriel seemed to have some idea what was going on – or, perhaps, she had just been able to hear the ringing of a phone, “But then, perhaps this is better? It makes our search far shorter.”

”We’ll call that a matter of perspective, dear.” Once again, a tinny voice broke the silence. But this time, as the puppet rose from the chair to stand upon its own two feet, it was neither its initial mechanical monotone nor its mimicry of Saber, but a new, unfamiliar voice. ”Either way, you needn’t fret. I knew you were here the moment you invited yourself in.”

Well, now they definitely should have destroyed it. Maybe it would have made the other Master come visiting without stopping to consider the levels of mana she could bring to bear.

But if they knew anything about the war, then they would identify her on sight. It hardly mattered – she was just going to stay over here and wait.

The mannequin's movement wasn't quite as jerky and stilted as before, but that provided little comfort to balance the situation. Now that it had been roused to attention by the external impetus of its creator, it was almost the opposite problem: its movement too smooth in bursts, like an invisible hand was repositioning it between motions in flashes too brief to perceive. Perhaps, as before, it was by dint of the apparently rudimentary techniques that had gone into its assembly-

"Hmmmm. Feeling pensive, are we?" Or perhaps, as Saber surmised, it was all in concert to the morbid taste of its creator, if one could even stretch to refer to it as such. As when it played her words back to her, the voice that came from whatever distorted mechanical larynx enabled it to speak was soft, audibly feminine beneath the crackle of circuitry. But this was no vocal mimicry: the tone the voice carried now was far from robotic, the ambiguously playful lilt of the unknown magus' voice animating even this grotesque proxy as they appraised their uninvited guests.

It turned its head to look past Saber, not moving its body from its station before her but rather turning its head to look in the direction of the doorway, towards Asteriel. As before, the gleam of the Servant's sword and the Einzbern's own efforts to conceal herself seemed to interfere with the red light of its vision, and a moment passed in which it seemed it might draw closer-

"More's the pity." But after a moment, the mannequin simply crossed its arms, jerkily shaking its head. As much as was uncertain about the sudden shift in the situation, one truth shone through: whoever was on the other end was rather enjoying themselves. "I'd rather hoped that one so bold as to stroll in without so much as a by-your-leave would have a little more to say for themselves: but I shan't force the matter."

"What say you, Little Miss Servant?" The skull twisted on its neck, returning the glare of those red lights to Saber. "Is my humble little workshop to your tastes, or is it just another disappointment among many?"