11:35pm, A Mall in Glyfada
Monica sat under the counter staring at the brilliant golden blade that sat in her hands; a blade formed from nothing. Chrysaor's swords were short and without guards, more like stakes than any formal weapon, but this was a proper longsword nearly the length of her arm and appeared as if from a distant fantasy. The hilt was banded with glowing blue currents of light which transitioned up into a diamond that connected to the blade with engravings like ocean waves that ran parallel up the center. The guard took the form of twin wings with each feather sculpted in excruciating detail. The whole ensemble could only be described as beautiful, containing infinite grace within it. It was light, too light for an object of its size, like a feather. The appearance of the blade and the feeling of the cold metal in her hands wormed its way through her mind and body, bringing every aspect of herself to ease and, more importantly, to focus.
She felt the sword in her grip. She didn't think, she only intuited. She felt with her mind, with her gut, and with her heart. She had no thoughts, only sensations. A sense of what was happening, of what could happen, and what she ought to do next.
She took a deep breath.
She controlled her breathing.
She minimized her presence; her awareness of herself.
She extended her focus to the environment.
The counter. The shop. The plaza outside.
And she waited.
Moments passed.
Minutes passed.
And she felt it.
She felt the glass of the shop's display vibrate.
She heard it resonate.
And she pounced.
She grabbed the top of the counter from where she was and pulled herself over with strength she didn't possess, landing firmly on the other side with the blade bared towards the far door.
She couldn't help but be surprised.
There was a girl there, shorter than her, perhaps younger as well, but obviously something other than human. Her skin was soft in the night light, like a polished river stone, a soft near-grey indigo. Her hair was close to her head, but curled like sheep's wool with long downward ears to match. She wore nothing but a long white sash that went around her neck and crossed her breasts, then continuing down behind her nearly to the floor. Her only other piece of clothing was the barest bikini bottom over her crotch. She held a steely expression and in her hand was the familiar crystalline dagger, marking her as the Assassin class Servant.
Monica shifted herself, moving to a wide, defensive stance with both hands across the hilt of her blade. She felt no panic. There was concern, but more so determination. She had forgotten any fear for herself. She breathed deeply, focusing all her attention on the movements of Assassin.
Assassin scanned the room with her eyes, no doubt looking for the missing Chrysaor, before her gaze circled back to the blade in Monica's hands. Her brow furrowed with vague understanding before she looked back to the girl with the golden blade, and, wasting no more time, lunged at her.
With the glass dagger in her left hand, she kept her body low to the ground as she closed the distance in less than a moment and jabbed her dagger up and under Monica's rib-cage.
With mastery unknown to her, Monica arced her sword down so that it slipped under the incoming dagger and swung vertically, sending the dagger and arm up and away with a metallic yet harmonious hum from her blade as they clashed. Shifting the sword into one hand she swung back down towards Assassin, who jumped back, landing in a cat-like prowl; making no noise.
Assassin came again, aiming with a wide swing towards her thigh. But a wide swing meant more room to evade, and Monica needed only to shift her leg back quickly, leaning into the shift in her balance to bring her sword down on the shoulder of Assassin with both hands.
As the blade made contact, her body rippled into nothingness as it had before.
Monica straightened herself, moving to a wide stance with her blade tensed but at her side. She was out of her element. She didn't know what she was doing or how, but, for whatever reason, she was inclined not to question it. Although these movements, this understanding and ability in combat, was completely alien to her, it felt natural at the same time. She didn't have to think, and she wasn't afraid, even though she knew that she ought to be. In the same way, she knew that she didn't have the time to think about it.
She felt a vibration by her ear.
In a moment she turned with a wide swing, her blade intercepting the dagger she didn't know was coming.
On the counter that she had been hiding under not a minute ago was Assassin, crouched with her arm now flung to the side as the dagger she had planned to plunge into the small of her back flew across the room.
With an anger she didn't feel, she plunged her blade forward towards Assassin's naked abdomen, but was met with the same rippling form.
The same reverb.
She saw Assassin in the corner of her eye, running soundlessly across the room to pick up her dagger, her small, bare feet making no imprint on the carpeted floor.
She rippled away again.
She reappeared.
She rippled.
She reappeared.
Each time there was the same, subtle sound as she shifted, a rippling ring like no other, nearly imperceptible if not for her heightened senses and the absence of any sound other than her own breathing.
Each time she was somewhere else, always in motion. Sometimes across the floor, others through the air, sometimes rising, sometimes falling, sometimes clockwise and other times counter, an obvious attempt to disorient her.
A successful attempt.
She had no idea where Assassin would appear next.
And yet she did.
She appeared on Monica's left, swinging her dagger diagonally towards her neck.
Monica twisted back as fast as she could, fast enough to dodge the fatal blow, but not fast enough to avoid the shallow cut. She brought her blade towards the purple girl, but, as expected, Assassin was able to dodge the frantic swing with far more grace and speed than Monica had hers'. But rather than rippling away once more, Assassin came back with renewed vigor, swinging with speed, power, and precision: a direct assault. Monica blocked this flurry of attacks to the best that she was able, and though she was more sloppy, she was able to meet Assassin tit-for-tat, though it became more and more difficult to maintain her alien calm as her inner fear began to slowly overwhelm whatever force kept it at bay.
As her assault continued, even Monica, the true Monica who knew nothing of swords or sorcery, could feel the force of the blows decreasing. She had the advantage in endurance, and only needed to outlast her- she had a chance!
Assassin struck at an odd angle, bringing her dagger up with the blade horizontal not unlike a razor. As the blades met, her dagger peeled across Monica's sword, creating a shrill hum. Monica's humming blade was pushed back by the clash, she could only watch in horror as a second blade rippled into Assassin's hand.
An exact replica of her own.
Assassin directed the new sword towards Monica's side, and every part of her knew she lacked the speed and nimbleness to either dodge or block.
Could she survive that?
If she did, could she still fight back?
Every part of her knew the answer was 'no'.
Her free arm moved instinctively to block the blow, a painful but possible alternative.
She thought back to when Chrysaor had healed her the night before. She remembered the sensation, the pulsing warmth that had washed through her veins.
She felt it now.
A golden light appeared at her elbow and coursed its way through her arm, not unlike veins, but more angular, like circuitry.
The light spread like wildfire down her arm, and she could feel the pressure build and release all at once as it passed, before reaching the fingers and coalescing as golden ripples formed at the tips in the space between them and the incoming blade, then bursting with the sound of a ringing gong.
There appeared a brilliant shield. It easily blocked the incoming blade and, empowered by a will other than her own, she took the opportunity to slash down across Assassin's chest.
-But she didn't disappear.
The blade cut across her shoulder, forming a deep gash from her shoulder and across her breast, the wound already oozing with fluorescent blue blood.
In the same moment, the shield burst into a golden mist, evaporating in the air.
Assassin's face contorted with what must have been a scream, but, strangely, no sound came. Recovering, she half-leaped half-stumbled backwards to put distance between them, clutching her wound as best she could, the otherworldly, glowing blue blood already leaking through her fingers. She looked at Monica with a clear frustration, pain, surprise and rising concern gleamed through her large eyes.
Monica raised her blade, expecting her body to once again move to strike- but it didn't. Instead, her hands had begun to shake. There was a rising discomfort in her, an anxiety seemingly without cause: something was wrong but she didn't know what. Looking back up, she watched as Assassin jumped back with sudden grace and force, her body rippling into air as she phased into the glass door behind her. But before Monica could think that it was over, the door began to shake violently, until the glass on one side burst with a loud crash as thousands of shards fell to the floor in and outside the storefront. Assassin reappeared in the air, floating down into the plaza below as a glowing blue mist seemed to encompass her form.
She instinctively ran to the doorway, looking out as best she could, but she saw nothing.
Backing up to catch her breath, she noticed her reflection in the display window, brought out by glowing golden eyes. She examined the reflection more closely. She noticed her clothing was different as well. Her jeans remained, but her once plain sweatshirt had been replaced with a black jacket and yellow t-shirt, signature of Chrysaor. Her blue highlights as well had turned a shade of pink. She looked down at herself, and all these things were true, though she had no conception of when the transformation would've occurred. There was another detail, on her hip was a sheath, obsidian and gold, clearly meant for her new blade.
She looked back at her reflection, the golden eyes staring back at her.
"Are you okay?"
She didn't know whether it was her who said it or not, or, if it was, who she was speaking to.
"Yeah." She replied to herself.
She slowly removed herself from her reflection and carefully stepped through the frame of broken glass. She entered into the brisk night air and scanned the plaza below, catching no sign or scent of the indigo Assassin.
She rubbed the scratch on her neck, a thin skid of blood grafting onto her thumb. Like a paper cut, the pain far exceeded the actual severity of the wound, even on her neck.
She raised her face to the night sky, a pure black expanse colored only by fog. A deep sense of melancholy began to churn within her as she did, as if nostalgic for memories yet to be. She took a deep sigh and, taking one more look around her for the apparently retreating Assassin, began to walk the way she and Chrysaor had come. All the while she kept her blade at her side, just in case. She couldn't help but probe herself, all these new feelings and sensations rising, falling, and crashing against her own like a river flowing into the sea, it was difficult, but she worked her mind to reclaim her sense of self, to separate 'her' from 'not her'.
She was far down the road before she finally sheathed her blade.
....