11:25, The Backstreets of Glyfada
Chrysaor stood in a defensive stance between the two Monicas with both of his swords drawn. His feet were wide, his body lowered, his swords pointing slightly to either side in order to guard his Master completely.
She stood directly behind him, her knees slightly buckled with her arms held uselessly but instinctively in front of her chest.
The other Monica stood about thirty paces away from them, her form shifting in the fog almost like a mirage. Monica couldn't help but look 'herself' up and down, comparing their forms. It was exact, like a mirror image, at least in terms of appearance. The mirrored Monica stood in a neutral stance with a plain expression while she, herself, stood defensively with no attempt to hide her fear and concern.
They stood on the sidewalk beside a main road cutting through Glyfada, perhaps the only road with four lanes on either side. The streets were well lit, granting a dreamlike air to the environment as it showered the fog.
She spoke under her breath, as if afraid that the world would collapse on her if she spoke too loud, "What's going on?"
How many times had she asked that question today?
She felt Chrysaor's voice all around her, 'Likely another Servant, or else an illusion cast by one. We don't know if they're hostile yet, so just stay behind me.'
What did he just do with his voice? Was he speaking to her with his mind? She couldn't write off the possibility at this point, and so elected not to question it, not now anyway.
He spoke, aloud this time, his body rising and straightening to speak clearly, "Servant, Saber. The girl behind me is not a participant in the Grail War, and so attacking us will result in immediate disqualification by the overseer. If you wish to talk, we can, and if not, we ask that you retreat peaceably."
The mirrored Monica tilted her head slightly, as if confused.
She felt a knot in her chest as the pressure of the situation weighed on her, but this was also an opportunity, wasn't it? Maybe she worked for the overseer directly. Or maybe she knew where to find him regardless.
She decided to hedge her bets, "Do you know the overseer? Or where to find him?"
Chrysaor turned to her quickly with wide eyes and a pale expression, a mixture of surprise and fear.
She had made a mistake.
The mirrored Monica closed the gap between herself and Chrysaor with swiftness that only he could rival. As she leapt and brought her blade down towards his head, he raised both of his in an "X" and blocked the attack.
As time stood still for those moments, she could see clearly the blade that had appeared within 'her' hands. It was a strange thing, almost teardrop shaped and transparent, as if glass or quartz, with a ripple that moved up and out from the hilt. 'Her' expression was a cold determination, dedication without emotion, slightly furrowed and clearly focused.
She couldn't help but take a step back. It was all so sudden. A mixture of guilt and panic churned her insides as she watched the fight unfold, paralyzed in fear.
But their position wouldn't hold for long, and Chrysaor had advantage in his physical leverage. He crossed the blades in a reverse scissor, sending her small form back and up into the air with physical strength beyond his immediate appearance. As he did, he leaned slightly to his left, and used the leverage to turn and send a forward kick into her stomach-
She winced instinctively, failing to break the association between herself and her mirrored form.
-But the attack didn't connect.
His kick displaced her body like steam, her body rippling into the air.
The words that had been building on her tongue poured out of her mouth at once, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I-"
Chrysaor lifted his hand to silence her, "Later. Now's not the time."
As he turned his head, he wasn't looking at her, rather, he was looking around. Searching the surroundings with his eyes and keeping his blades ready. He was breathing fiercely and was clearly rattled. The stress that had weighed on him the whole evening had come to fruition, and he was handling it as well as anyone could reasonably expect.
From his reaction, it suddenly occurred to her that this fight wasn't over yet.
She was breathing hard, doing her best not to lose her head as she scanned the surroundings. It was then that she heard a strange sound, as if her breath echoed back into her ear.
She turned and saw- Chrysaor?- behind her, crouched and poised to strike, a familiar golden dagger pointed up towards her breast.
A hand fell on her left shoulder, hard, and pulled her back with enough force to send her spinning. She couldn't help but yelp in surprise, and though she kept herself from falling, the scene in front of her took her breath away.
Chrysaor, the real Chrysaor, had pulled her away, and blocked the dagger with his own body. The dagger sat in his chest, thrust upward under his arm and through the ribs. The pain on his face made her hurt just looking at him, but there was more than pain. There was determination, and there was anger. Even as blood began to soak into his jacket, he grabbed the fake by the shoulder with his left arm, the side that he'd been stabbed, and summoned his own blade in his right, thrusting it cleanly into the fake's neck.
Once again, the fake rippled into air, the attack finding no purchase.
"Chrysaor!", She couldn't help but yell. Even knowing that his name was to be secret, at this moment, her concern and shock far outweighed her reason.
He turned with the swiftness she'd come to expect from him, and charged at her with his head down like a bull. Before she could react, his shoulder went directly into her stomach, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, hoisting her onto his shoulder as he sprinted into the dark.
The position was awkward, but clean. She wasn't jostled either, in fact, being carried like this was supernaturally smooth, as if she were riding a bicycle. As he carried her into the night, she didn't have to ask why. Whoever this was, they were stronger than him. At the very least, he didn't have the means to combat whatever it was that allowed the creature to phase like it did.
But where would they go? What would they do?
The panic that had been building threatened to burst. But before that, another thought.
"Chrysaor! You're bleeding!"
She looked from her position dangling over his back, and saw his other hand clasped over the wound, glowing with the same golden mist she had seen the night before, when he had healed her wounds.
"Don't worry about me! If I die tonight, it won't be from blood loss, at least."
"That's not very reassuring, you know!"
"Sorry!"
"Do you have a plan!?"
"This IS my plan! For the moment anyway! Keep an eye out for somewhere we can take cover!" He removed his hand from the wound and summoned his golden blade, maintaining pace.
He was suggesting breaking and entering. This really was a desperate situation wasn't it?
She pushed back her hair and held it behind her head so as not to fly in her face and began to search behind them for the faker, and after a few moments, found them.
The faker ran behind them, appearing and reappearing seemingly at random. Sometimes it ran on the sidewalk, others in the empty road, and even across the roofs of various shops and centers lining the many-laned road. Even more unsettling was that it appeared each time as either herself or Chrysaor.
"Its coming!"
He grunted in response, leaning even farther forward and increasing his speed ever so slightly. From her position over his shoulder, she could feel his muscles tense, moving with full force.
"Are they catching up? Have they revealed a new form?"
"No! No to both!" The form of the faker was somewhat obscure between the fog and the ephemeral nature of its own body, but it was becoming farther away with each of Chrysaor's strides, if only slightly, and at this distance she could still make out the mirrored forms of herself and Chrysaor, but never anyone else.
"What's that building over there?"
She looked over his shoulder as best she could, and saw the colossal building he was looking at. It was huge and strange, almost a "P" shape. She'd never been herself, but it was popular enough among her coworkers that she could recognize it.
"It's a mall! A shopping center!"
"Perfect."
Chrysaor immediately began to break across the empty road towards the mall on the opposite side, using all his strength to run as fast as he could. She could feel him pushing himself, not just on a physical level, but an empathic one, as if his emotions were emerging from the back of her mind.
She kept looking for the faker, but saw nothing. There was no telling where it was in the foggy night, even with the street lamps.
He maintained his charge, sprinting across the parking lot. At this point, she couldn't help but look behind her at where he was going, if only for her own curiosity. He charged directly at the would-be automatic doors leading into what she could see was a clothing store.
He wasn't slowing down.
It was too late to argue, and she didn't have any ideas of her own, so she covered the back of her head with her hands and pulled herself tight into his shoulder, closing her eyes and bracing herself.
As he approached the door, he began to lean back, his right foot forward. Vibrant energy like flowing water washed from and around his leg, and the door collapsed inward from the force of the kick with a satisfying shatter. As shattered glass flew by and through her hair, she could feel him wince, but he landed in stride, and continued on with only the slightest stumble.
Each step across the tiled floor of the store echoed through the empty building, though the low ceiling and thin aisles belied the actual size of the structure.
Things were moving too fast for her to think properly. The thoughts of the strange person following them and copying their appearance, the crime they were currently committing, and wondering whether or not the police would arrive, and, if they did, would that be better or worse in the long run?
Interrupting her tangled thoughts, Chrysaor turned suddenly and sharply, his shoes squeaking and threatening to give way as he turned 90° to his left, and she could see where he was going: a spiral staircase that erupted suddenly in the center of the store. He charged upwards as fast as he reasonably could, slower than before but still far faster than any normal human.
He ran up and through the complex, the labyrinth of stores and merchandise, before coming to a home decor store in the main plaza on the second floor, the storefront open to outside air in the empty circle of the "P" shaped building. Finally stopping, he gently leaned forward to set her down to her feet, before jutting his blade between the automatic doors, creating a gap that he forced open with his hands. He gestured to her and she hurried inside with him closing the door behind them, trying to obscure the forced entry as best he could.
Together they ran to the counter at the back of the relatively small shop, and he gestured once more, getting her underneath it. She went as far down as she could, and huddled with her knees to her chest. He knelt over her on one knee, breathing heavily and sweating profusely. For the first time since they'd met, he looked tired, and not just tired, exhausted. She leaned out from her hiding place and kneaded her hand gently around his, offering whatever comfort she could.
He laughed in spite of himself, struggling to speak between deep breaths, "This is why... I said... not to rely on me....Are you okay?"
She laughed an empty and pitiful laugh, "God, Chrysaor. I should be asking you that. Is your wound really healed?" She looked to the bloodstain that colored and surrounded the hole in his jacket.
"Yeah...it is."
She reached out with her other hand to touch it, but he blocked it defiantly with his hand, and she cowered back under the counter.
"Well... you certainly showed those doors who's boss." She chuckled despite the situation, an attempt at some form of levity.
"Heh... If only the same were true of Assassin."
"Assassin?"
He shook his head, "There's no one else that it could be."
"Does that mean you have a strategy?"
He closed his eyes and stared at the floor with an empty expression, "Assassins are the worst in direct combat, but make up for it with their ability to hide their presence, strike from the shadows, and disengage from combat quickly and easily. Unique strengths make for many weaknesses, but the problem isn't necessarily their powers...no... it's their morality. Because they avoid direct combat, they always attack their opponent's weakest point, and for a Servant..."
He looked at her with a steely expression, and the meaning was clear. He had explained to her the nature of Servants and Masters. If she died, he died. The Assassin's attempt on her life that resulted in Chrysaor's wound; it made sense now. She was his weak point.
"If I could just exchange my life for yours it wouldn't be a problem..."
She winced at that.
"...but if they're going to attack you, we need a better defensive position."
"But they can appear anywhere, can't they?"
"They can... and I can't be everywhere at once."
"So what do we do? Just... hope and pray?"
He chuckled without joy, "Basically."
A moment passed for his words to set in.
"But I do have a plan." He looked to her, "The first thing we do is hide, and hope for the best."
She gestured behind her to the underside of the counter, "So.. this?"
"Yep."
"Then what do we do next?"
"That's...." his eyes flicked to the floor before returning to her, "a little complicated." He reached his hand out to her, "Do you trust me?"
"Jesus, Chrysaor," She shook her head, a strange mix of emotions turning inside her numbed mind, "How could I not after all this?"
He smiled, the same warm, genuine smile he gave her when they met, the warm but solemn smile that seemed to characterize him, and took her hand in his, "Stay here for a while. I'll come back the moment I'm sure that we're safe."
A sudden fear rose inside her chest, and she gripped his hand tighter than before, "Wait. Where are you going?"
The smile didn't leave him, "I'm not going anywhere. Close your eyes... and trust me."
She looked at him for a moment, and a moment more, doing all she could to understand what he meant, and failing. She bit her lip and tensed her body as she looked away and closed her eyes, bracing herself for his leaving.
But that isn't what came.
She felt a sensation wash over her like a wave against the shore. A strange feeling like a blanket of energy that wrapped around her body before penetrating as if a thousand pins, or perhaps, inexplicably, an old friend.
As the breath she had been holding released, she felt different, new. As if all the tiredness and stress had melted away, and every fiber of her body felt encased in cool air. When she opened her eyes, there in her hand, was a golden sword.
....