2:10 am, The backstreets of Glyfada
The one called Chrysaor pulled Monica gently from the creek. She was breathing heavily and irregularly, just barely restraining the panic rising in her chest. She had lost track of reality long before now, and there seemed to be no sign of things returning to anything that could be called 'normal'. Thoughts didn't even move in her mind: the only thing she was aware of was the man- or was it a boy?- in front of her. His features were impossible to make out in the dark, but he appeared youthful, certainly no older than 21, with an athletic, if slightly feminine, build.
She was shaking all over, trembling from both cold and shock. Her hand gripped down hard on her arm, which was still bleeding and especially sore, where the strange sigil had appeared. It hurt, but somehow the pain kept her grounded- it was the most real thing about the current situation.
"Here, let me-"
He gently touched her arm just below where she held it- she instinctively flinched and pulled back.
He gave her a warm smile, eyes filled with pity, "It's okay."
She took a deep breath and did her best to relax. If she couldn't trust him, the one who had just saved her life, then who could she trust? So she offered her arm, and Chrysaor responded in kind. He gently and carefully placed his hand over the wound and focused: a light golden mist seemed to emerge from his hand, and she could feel warmth spreading through her arm.
When he finally removed his hand, the scratches were completely gone, with only the faint color of dried blood left behind. Her arm was still sore, but the pain was severely lessened. In fact, her arm and wrist even felt refreshed, almost rubbery. It did tingle slightly, but it was bearable, even oddly comforting in the way it seemed to physically highlight her arm from the inside. Troubling, though not terribly surprising, was the fact that the red tattoo remained. Even in her addled state she could still guess with some certainty that it was linked to the person now in front of her.
Her voice trembled along with her body, "W-what's going on?"
He scratched the back of his head once more, "Heh- well- I could ask you that question." He looked at the corpses littering the ground, "This is certainly unusual."
The panic that she's struggled to hold seemed to break from her chest all at once, "What's going on!? Why are there zombies!? Who are you!?"
"Oh." He sighed, contemplating what he would say next. "Alright- uh- let's go through this one-by-one." He leaned down and pinched some of the zombies' blood between his fingers, "Zombies aren't real, at least, not in the way that you think of them. But, if they did exist, this would be it."
He gestured, black blood still between his fingers. "Their blood is basically a... potion. Its main purpose is transmuting- transforming other liquids into itself, but it's also laced with necromantic properties. So, what the creature does is get its blood into its victim. The blood in the victim's body is transformed into black ooze, killing them, and then the second property of the blood kicks in, bringing them back to life as one of these." He gestured widely across the various bodies. "I can only guess that they're the work of any enemy mage, or a Caster-class Servant."
He knelt there for a few moments, like a teacher waiting for a student's response. Monica, meanwhile, was far too confused to even formulate a question. More than that, she was scared.
"....Does that mean I'm still going to turn into one of them?"
"No, no, I just took care of that, there's no need to worry."
Monica looked down at the ground, half-relieved but still worried and completely lost.
His lips pursed, "...Maybe I started with the wrong question. Do you know what a Holy Grail War is?"
...
As the odd couple made their way through the backstreets, wandering with the general goal of making their way back to her apartment, Chrysaor began to explain the rules and basic principles of the Holy Grail War. Monica walked alongside him in complete silence, quietly absorbing the fantastical nature of what she had been thrown into. Both of them kept their heads on a swivel, looking for more zombies- or whatever they were-, but none showed.
As he explained it: seven mages summon seven Servants, magical familiars based on heroes from history, to fight each other, and the winner has a single wish granted. Each Master has three "Command Seals", identified as the snake-like mark on her left arm, which marked them as the Master of their own Servant. These seals could be expended to either reign in an unruly servant or empower one in a desperate situation.
Additionally, each Servant summoned was given a corresponding class. There were the three knight classes: valiant warriors known for their great deeds and impressive strength. Saber- the class that Chrysaor corresponded to- fought with a sword, Lancer fought with a polearm, and Archer fought with long-range weaponry. The four Calvary classes were stranger and more specialized: Caster used magic, and was usually an accomplished mage in their own time, or was otherwise renowned for their intelligence or wisdom. Rider had a mount of some kind, either a vehicle or an animal, and was often a great general or king. Assassin was generally the weakest in direct combat, but had the unique ability to conceal their presence in order to launch attacks from the shadows. The last class, Berserker, had a skill that traded sanity for power, and so were both the most powerful and most challenging to control.
He explained this with an almost frustrating matter-of-factness, as if he didn't understand how strange it all was, but, as he continued, he developed a more solemn attitude. He explained how, in a proper ritual, if the seven-Master requirement failed to be met, the Holy Grail, the object that would grant the winner their wish, would select Masters from among the local population. These people seemed to be chosen at random, with no through-line besides their being chosen. She was likely one of those "filler Masters".
He seemed to struggle to find exactly the words he wanted to say, but he didn't have to.
"-We're here."
Monica spoke for the first time since they had started walking, interrupting Chrysaor's contemplation. They had arrived at her apartment building. She still didn't understand anything beyond that her life had just changed dramatically, and that she was in great danger, but at least now she had found something familiar in the dark.
They walked up the stairs together to the third floor, where, after fumbling with the keys in her jittery, shivering hands, she entered her apartment for what seemed like the first time in an eternity. It felt alien to be here, to be in the presence of such normalcy when her life had changed so dramatically, especially when the key abnormality stood right behind her.
In the fluorescent light of her run-down apartment, she was able to get her first, good look at the boy that had appeared in the stream. He wasn't too much taller than her, and, since she was about average height, she could gather that he was pretty short for a guy. His hair was pink, almost magenta, straight, and slightly long. His eyes were similarly pink to match his hair, though a much lighter shade. He was young, probably around her age, and his features were attractive, but more beautiful than handsome, almost androgynous. Considering that he was supposedly a man out of time, his outfit was surprisingly modern: he wore a black jacket with a grey, wool hood and a yellow t-shirt underneath. He had black jeans with a thin, golden chain hanging from the waist, and a matching gold earring attached to his right earlobe. The whole ensemble reminded her of a boy band, and she found herself internally cringing as she thought of how her pre-teen self would've found herself enchanted by the get-up. She almost wished he looked more... ancient. The veil of normalcy that he hid behind made everything so much harder to believe; the fact that he seemed to fit so cleanly into her reality delegitimized his attempts to pull her into the fantastical.
'Maybe I really am just high. Maybe this was just a really bad trip. A REALLY BAD TRIP.'
"Are you okay?" He asked with what felt like genuine concern.
"Y-yeah. Yeah. I just... need a shower."
"I understand. Take all the time you need. I... understand this must be hard for you." He bowed slightly, "Remember that I'm your Servant. I'm at your command; whatever you need."
She couldn't even bring herself to say anything, she just nodded and moved to the bathroom.
She felt a little guilty, Chrysaor was her guest, and she was just leaving him in the middle of her apartment. There was also the possibility that she was insane, and he was just some stranger off the street that she was bringing into her home for no reason. That was almost easier to believe than the idea that she was assaulted by zombies and given a magic boy-toy. Of course, if it were all a bad trip, that would also mean that they had worked together to kill random people.... maybe insanity wasn't so bad after all. At least that explanation worked in court.
She peeled off her wet clothes and stepped into the hot shower. The change in temperature took a lot of her tiredness as she sat down under the water and thought about the night's events.
First: magic was real, apparently.
Second: someone made zombies, and sent them into town. Was this an apocalypse, or something that only happened at night? What was their purpose? She couldn't know, and wasn't going to bother guessing.
Third: there was a secret, magic battle royale going on in Athens, fought by wizards trying to get a genie or something.
Fourth: she was pulled into it against her will. There was no obvious way out, either, nor any way to know why she was chosen.
Fifth: she now had a magic bodyguard to protect her. He seems trustworthy if a little odd.
She hung her head. This was all so impossible. She couldn't bring herself to accept it, but she couldn't deny it either, and there was nothing to do except to see what happened next. Her chest felt like it was full of bricks: a dense void created by a simple inability to predict what would happen next.
She remained like that until the hot water ran out. Satisfied that both the sand and makeup had washed off in their totality, she got out of the shower and dried off- wiping away the fog on the mirror to get a good look at herself.
That was her. This was Monica. Was she a wizard now? Who was she? She felt like a character in a movie, an actor playing a role, a fiction.
She sighed and began to dry out her hair, shaking it in the towel. If she was just playing a role, then that's what she'd do. She did it everyday.
'Am I going to die?'
The gravity of the situation began to truly weigh on her. She gripped at the so-called Command Seals on her wrist.
'Was this a death sentence?'
She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind: that was a problem for the future. She could think about that once a long-night's rest either affirmed or denied her theory that this was all just a delusion.
Wrapped in a towel, she stepped out of the bathroom. In the corner of her eye she saw Chrysaor on her dirty, old couch, looking at her.
'Am I going to die?'
The words lay on the tip of her tongue despite her previous resolve. She wanted to ask him. She wanted him to be honest with her, to tell her everything. Surely that was the least he could do for her?
-To tell her that it was going to be okay?
But she didn't.
"Hey, Chrysaor?"
He seemed slightly surprised by her forwardness, "What is it?"
"It's been a long day. I'm going to go to bed. Do you need anything? I think I have some spare blankets and stuff I can set up on the couch."
"Oh- don't worry about it. Servants don't need sleep. You go to bed, and I'll be here in case anything happens."
"Oh. Okay." She looked away for a moment and processed. She pointed into her bedroom, "I have some books if you want those. You're also free to turn on the TV if you like. I'd feel guilty if you just sat there all night."
He smiled awkwardly, "Alright, thank you." His eyes moved to the ceiling in thought before timidly returning to her gaze, "I think I would like to see what books you have, actually."
After Chrysaor took some books from her shelf; two novels and a self-help book- with her sitting on the bed awkwardly, waiting for him to leave so she could actually dress herself, they said goodnight. She gave him permission to access her fridge and pantry, but was somewhat embarrassed to learn that Servants didn't need to eat, either.
There was no point arguing with that, she didn't even eat much herself.
Finally dropping her towel and changing into her pajamas: only an overly big shirt with nothing but underwear underneath, she pulled her pillow close to her chest and did her best to fall asleep.
It was a restless night followed by a formless dream.
....