4:00pm, The streets of Athens
Monica stood staring at the cliff face before her, stunned beyond words. Though she had seen it on TV that morning, to see it with her own eyes, to understand that she'd been there just the day before, left her shaking in her boots. To have the whole building, and the ground under it, plucked off the face off the Earth... How many times easier would it be to pluck her head from her neck?
Lykavittos Hill, the diner she and Chrysaor had dined at, the small chapel they'd visited, the overlook, the landscape that left her in awe, was gone. In just a day, it was rubble. Time seemed to expand to her, her mind artificially stretching memories to make some sense of the contradiction, the millennia of erosion that occurred in just a few hours. It was simply too unreal, especially after retracing many of their steps and seeing everything else the same.
She slowly rubbed at the scabbed-over cut on her neck. Behind her, Chrysaor was scanning their surroundings, his serpentine eyes making sure that no one came too close, or was acting too suspiciously. For someone so often gripped by neuroticism, his calm was unnerving. She was reminded of when he'd took down the thugs on the train, when he'd taken that dagger to the side... and of their earlier conversation. No matter how gentle he sometimes appeared, he was a warrior.
No, she corrected herself, he was a sword.
She turned slowly, unsure of herself, "...Chris... Do you think the attack here was on purpose? Were they targeting something?"
His eyes shifted in confusion before drifting back to the gentle, solemn eyes that she was familiar with, obviously still not used to the fake name, "Oh? Well, I'd imagine that a terrorist attack of that proportion would have to be deliberate, though I won't pretend to understand their motive."
She narrowed her eyes at him, and spoke in a hushed tone, "Alright, are you giving me a veiled response so we're not overheard, or are you just bullshitting me?"
He flinched, "What? I don't know what you're talking about."
She sighed, "I'd hit you, except that I know it wouldn't hurt."
He just raised his eyebrow, not seeming to comprehend her meaning.
-And she began to walk up the path, the stone staircase that twisted up the hill and led to the top.
"Hey-," he cast a frantic glance around them, though there was no one immediately nearby, "What are you doing?"
"What do you think? We need to gather information don't we?"
She continued forward.
He cut the distance between them quickly, keeping a respectful pace behind her, "There's no reason to- what are you hoping to accomplish? The chapel's destroyed, there'll be no overseer here."
"I know that- I'm not an idiot. But more information is better, isn't it?"
"And what information would we get? This has nothing to do with us-"
Monica turned on the stairs, placing her finger directly into Saber's chest, "How long ago did we talk about this? I'm not an idiot, I know a Servant was here!" She jumped at her own voice, then looked around to make sure no one heard, and continued in a whisper, "Shouldn't we take the opportunity to learn what we can?"
He brought his hands up defensively, the rose ocean of his eyes freezing over if only for a moment, "If you understand that, then I shouldn't need to tell you the stakes of the situation. Servants aren't lightning strikes, they won't disappear after attacking only once. Wandering into a place like this only draws unnecessary attention."
She heard echoes in the back of her mind, a conversation just yesterday, but which felt far, far away: 'We can be aggressive, and seek out our opponents, or be passive, and let them come to us.'
She came back to reality, "Is that really such a bad thing?"
His face curled into an unreadable expression, one that caused her own stomach to turn with worry. Worry for the situation, and worry for what he thought of her in this moment, but, ultimately, Chrysaor simply lowered his head, "I am your Servant, your sword. Whatever your order, I'll follow."
Her turning stomach, the butterflies that ate away at it, led bile to rise to her tongue, "Except for my order to be open and honest?"
He said nothing, his eyes closed and facing the hill's slanted earth.
Her spinning emotions dizzied her mind, leaving her unsure of everything around her, of her standing, but her inner stubbornness refused to let her fall here, refused to let her give up, and so, rightly or wrongly, she continued upward in silence, Chrysaor always one step behind. Each step felt like another door closing, though where these doors would lead she couldn't guess, nor would she dare to. She refused to listen to her growing anxiety, pushing upwards and upwards, refusing to stand down:
'I'm in danger'
'I don't care.'
'I could die.'
'I don't care.'
'I could walk away.'
'I could walk forward.'
Her mind swung back and forth between steely determination and crippling anxiety, back and forth, back and forth; her pounding heart reminding her of her mortality with each moment. Nonetheless, she approached the police tape that quarantined the top half of the hill from the rest of the city. She couldn't help but stop, looking around for any police, any guards, anyone at all, but could see only the scattered pedestrians of the city below, crushed between ivory buildings that reflected the afternoon light. When she turned back, the simple yellow tape seemed so small in comparison, and, without a second thought, she bent the tape back and strutted under.
-But, crossing to the other side, she felt a sharp stab in the back of her mind, and winced.
In a moment Chrysaor was already standing in front of her, blocking her body with his own, but there was no attack, nor any attacker.
"-I'm fine."
His eyes looked back at her, while the rest of his body remained forward, "No, what was that?"
Monica righted herself, "How should I know?"
His eyes drifted off for a moment, before refocusing on something behind her, but rather than surprise or concern, he looked only annoyed as he pushed back behind her and knelt before the police tape. Looking where he was, it was surprisingly easy to spot, at least, to someone who knew what they were looking for: a small circle inscribed in blood with a strange sigil inside.
"It's a ward."
"A what?"
"No, a ward. A basic suggestion spell all mages learn. Those of weak minds and without magic crests are subconsciously influenced to stay away from here."
"Does that mean someone else is here?"
He lowered his voice to a near-whisper, "It means someone has been here, and may still be here."
They met eyes for these moments, silently debating whether to turn back or continue forward, both with each other, and within themselves.
"Then I guess we had better be careful."
He lowered his head and nodded, moving back into position behind her as she continued forward again, but not for very long. Reaching the top of the stairs to the next inclining path, her breath was taken. There in the center of the path was a pool of dried blood. Too much blood. The dried stench of gore wafted in the stagnant afternoon air, and the silence they found themselves in felt heavier and heavier, weighing on the very soul. The only peace to be found is that it appeared to be just that: a single puddle of dried, flaking, dark blood. No body, no corpse, no second or third, not even an obvious blood trail. It sat as a single puddle, as if it had flowed up through an underground spring, but still she found herself strangely fixated on it, struggling to assure herself that the blood was, in fact, someone else's, and neither a relic of her past nor an omen of her future.
Chrysaor's hand fell on her shoulder, silently supporting her, and she was able to finally shuffle around the puddle and continue forward. Here, they were finally able to see the other side of the hill, the parking lot, torn to pieces and blanketed with the scattered remnants of the hilltop, underneath it, the amphitheater of orange and yellow-
She shoved back and clung to the cliff face behind her, pressing herself against it. It was fairly far away, but, among the rubble, there, in the white center of the theater, were two figures.
Chrysaor didn't need any prompting, he could see better than she could after all. "What are your orders?"
For all her talk, she had suppressed the possibility of this outcome in her mind, and her foolish attempts at mock confidence fell away to the rising panic in her chest, "Can they see us, do they know we're here?"
He followed Monica's lead, clinging to the wall and gently pulling his Master back by the arm, "Possibly. Some wards have alarms, others don't. Then again, if this were a trap, I imagine they would've acted by now."
Pushing back the tide of anxiety, she forced her mind to think as logically as possible and gestured at the rocky ridge that divided the amphitheater from the parking behind it: from this position, they were at the highest altitude, and the amphitheater the lowest, about halfway down the hill on the opposite side they had climbed up. "If we stay low, do you think we could approach without them noticing?"
He gave her a wary look, but responded honestly, "It's impossible to know for sure. I'm guessing the one on the left, with the dog, must be a Servant. There are any number of abilities that would allow someone to notice an approaching human or Servant, not to mention enhanced senses."
She tried to hide the fear in her eyes, "We should talk to them. We don't know about any of the other Servants, or even the war as a whole. This is our only lead right now."
"Our first lead- towards the overseer?"
"Towards anything."
"...May I ask a favor?"
"What?"
"If you really want to do this, let's do it my way."
...
Cheval, the black devil dog, continued sniffing and pawing at the rubble that covered the amphitheater, searching for any trace that could've been left behind. His master watched from afar, the center platform of the theater, alongside the impatient Xander Haq, who had been cycling through tapping his foot, pacing the circle, and generally expressing his dissatisfaction.
"We should go, Chauncey, there's nothing left for us here."
Chauncey, too, was impatient, not with Cheval, not even with the incredulous Xander, but with their stunning lack of progress, "Not yet, I refuse to believe there's nothing here for us."
Xander sighed, "Nothing here? We already got that blood sample, I'm not sure what else you expect to find."
"Tch. I don't know what we're looking for either, but there has to be more than that. Hell, there wasn't even a blood trail! A battle of this caliber, an entire hill decapitated, and nothing more than a single blood stain? I can't believe that! It's like they all just disappeared!"
"That's because they probably did, Chauncey. These are familiars we're talking about."
"Familiars with at least one normal human present. Besides that, battles don't just end so suddenly, there's always one guy who has to walk away with his tail between his legs, one guy without the luxury to clean up his mess; that's who we're looking for."
"Sure, go ahead and lecture me about your years of battle experience."
"It's not experience, it's just common sense! Hav-"
He was interrupted by a tickle in the back of his mind. Cheval had picked up a scent. The devil dog raised its nose to the sky and sniffed the air as the two watched in anticipation, one with excitement, the other with cynical disbelief. Both could only be surprised when it directed its nose at the far side of the theater, and let out a hideous, echoing bark. It growled and barked towards the rock wall that divided the theater from the parking lot, poised to charge at whatever would emerge.
"Chauncey..?"
The French mage cast his voice towards the direction his familiar pointed, "Who's there!? Show yourself!"
The two watched as a young man, or perhaps an old teenager, walked out from behind the natural wall, taking one, then two, then three careful steps into the theater. Black jacket and pants contrasted by a yellow tee, gold jewelry, and rose-hued hair and eyes. His hands were in his jacket, but he appeared otherwise unarmed, though his eyes were already sharp enough, not with hatred, not with animus, but with a serpent's caution, especially cast towards the black hound, which continued to bark and growl at him.
Chauncey tried to calm the dog through their empathic connection, but while the dog did stop barking, it continued to keep its teeth bared and ready to strike. With this connection they had, the reason was clear to him. The boy was divine, holy even. While 'divine' and 'demonic' were not opposites per se, it was certainly true that they tended not to get along.
Xander stepped in, "Is there a problem?"
The boy shook his head, "None so far."
"Then can I ask your business?"
"I thought I'd ask yours." He turned his gaze to Chauncey, who was now gripping his dog by the collar, "Is it too presumptuous to call you 'Rider'?"
The Frenchman spoke for himself, "Afraid so. We're not Servants, and we're not Masters, either. Is it too presumptuous to assume you're one or the other yourself?"
Xander subtly pulled down his jacket sleeve to hide the tattoos on his wrist.
It almost appeared as if the corners of the boy's lips raised a little, "It's not. I'm the Servant 'Saber'. But, that raises the question: if you aren't Masters, and you aren't Servants, then who are you? And what are you doing here?"
The leader spoke as he often does, "We're mercenaries."
The boy's rose eyes darkened slightly, "I suppose it's only natural for mercenaries to be found on a warfront. Can I ask who your contractor is?"
Xander shook his head, "Not at this point. I don't think I need to say what sort of language the people in our business speak. The question is what you have to offer us."
Chauncey turned a raised eyebrow to the man who was supposed to lead him, but said nothing.
"Fair enough. How does information for information sound?"
"Information on whom? Or on what?"
"Information on Assassin in exchange for information on other Servants."
Xander scratched his chin. "You know Assassin?"
"We've met."
Xander and Chauncey met eyes with each other, a conversation without words. 'How much do we say?', 'How much do we give?' They knew from the documents that Assassin was, along with Archer, one of the only servants disguised from Caster's clairvoyance, meaning one of the only true weapons against the rogue Servant.
Finally, they turned their eyes back to Saber, "It just so happens that our contractor has a special interest in Assassin."
They watched with interest, curious to see what sort of reaction Saber would grant them, but his expression was unchanged, "Can I ask what kind of interest?"
"No. Servants are ultimately the tools of their Masters; a deal with a Servant means nothing. If a contract, a deal, is to be made, it would have to be with your Master, not yourself, if you really are Saber."
The servant's expression became suddenly much colder, the serpentine caution turning to cunning, "If you claim a right to meet my contractor, then don't I have an equal right to meet yours?"
Xander couldn't help but smile, his brown eyes reflecting the boy's gaze, "Afraid not. See, we're not acting as agents of our contractor, but on our own behalf; it's us you're making the deal with, not him."
"But didn't you just claim to be acting on your contractor's behalf? Are you not their tool as I am of my own Master?"
"Hm. Don't pretend that your contract is the same as mine in kind or quality, familiar. These are our conditions, Saber."
The boy's face, the edges of his visage, began to crack. Whether with anger or disgust, it couldn't be said with certainty, as the moment ended almost as fast as it began. He closed his eyes with resignation. He stepped to the right and, with his left hand, gestured out towards the aisle. Following his cue, a girl stepped out from behind the very same rock he, Saber, had been behind not long ago.
She was youthful, but not too much so. Either approaching or recently passing the cusp of adulthood, her skin was supple, and her body was healthy, and all was undeniably beautiful, but not much more or less so than young women in their prime almost always tended to be. Her hair was long and blonde, with the ends dyed a shade of blue, which framed a small, soft, green-eyed face, with a triangular nose that revealed her native heritage despite her pale skin. She was dressed in a simple white hooded jacket and jeans, and one could tell from her posture, the way her arm hung over her chest, that she was rather timid, but could see in her eyes that she had no intention of backing down.
Xander raised his chin with some surprise, "Master of Saber?"
The girl took a deep breath and lowered her arm from its defensive position to her sleeve, pulling it back and up to reveal a red, trisected serpent encircling her skin, displaying it so they could see it from their position below, "That's right. What is it that you need from Assassin?"
Her voice communicated clearly what her visage already had, it was warbling with anxiety, but was nonetheless spoken clearly.
"Very well." Xander cleared his throat, he'd hoped for more time to prepare, but, as his demands were met, he longer had a right to refuse them, "What we want is an audience, specifically between our contractor and this Assassin. But, as you may assume, we know nothing of Assassin, nothing at all, nor do we have any way to reach them. If you would pass along our offer and arrange a means of contacting them and their Master, we will answer what questions we can."
She flinched slightly, "No."
"-!"
They saw clearly the boy Saber cast a quick and questioning glance towards her, expressing the confusion they all felt, but which Xander put into words, " 'No' to what?"
She took a deep breath, "I want the answers to very specific questions. I need to know that you can answer them."
Xander lowered his gaze, this girl was cleverer than she appeared. Without firm demands, there were no solid expectations for what they would give, she was changing that, "And what are those questions?"
Her confidence began to rise somewhat, her voicing warbling just slightly less, "Who is it that put the zombies across the city? Why? What is that fog? That, and I want to know who the other Servants and Masters are, as much as you know. Especially how to contact them, if necessary."
He collected his thoughts, briefly locking eyes with Chauncey for another invisible discussion, "The first questions we can answer absolutely. As for the rest, we know of, and how to contact, the servant Rider. We know of Berserker and Caster, but wouldn't recommend contact. We know less of Lancer, but should be able to arrange contact, and we know nothing of Archer. That's what I can guarantee. Is that enough?
She thought for a moment, before her eyes flashed with some kind of revelation, "Information on the overseer and other third parties, if any."
Xander smiled slightly, this girl was ignorant. There was little to no information on her and Saber in their documents, and it was clear why. It seemed they had been dealing with Assassin in Glyfada while the rest of the Servants were busy in the city proper; they'd been isolated from the war thus far, and truly knew nothing. Like himself and his team, this was likely their first foray into the war proper.
"I'll give you that for free, as a measure of good faith. There are, at current, no other groups or organizations active in Athens beyond the Servants, Masters, and ourselves, at least, none that I'm aware of."
The boy Saber spoke, interrupting his Master's negotiation, "And who are 'yourselves'? Are there more of you?"
"I will not be answering that question in any context. That will not be part of the negotiation, or else the deal will be off. That's a matter of security."
"Then, to truly show good faith, are you willing to share what you've uncovered here?"
"Is that an additional demand?"
"No. Just a question."
Xander turned to Chauncey, silently wondering if he'd uncovered any information he hadn't shared, but it seemed not as he spoke, "You might not believe us, but we haven't found anything beyond rubble," he pointed towards the hill behind the master and servant, "There's a sizable blood puddle over there, but we're empty other than that."
Saber nodded, "Thank you."
Chauncey responded in kind, and Xander stepped back into the negotiations, "So, is there anything else you'd like to add to your demands?"
The Master of Saber passed a glance at her Servant, almost asking for permission. It was known that Servants and Masters could communicate telepathically, so God only knew what sort of collusion they could have been hatching, but ultimately she returned her attention to the two mercenaries, "How will we contact you?"
"You have a phone, don't you?"
She nodded.
He reached into his pant's pocket and pulled out a small journal, a pen tucked into the circular binders, and quickly scribbled something down and tore the page. He crumpled it in his hand and brought it to his lips, softly whispering arcane words under his breath. He then flicked the paper towards the girl; it folded itself in the air into a small, crude origami bird that flew towards her- and was caught defensively by Saber.
"Use that number when or if Assassin agrees to meet. Then we'll discuss the follow-up."
Saber moved and placed his hand on his master's shoulder, clearly moving her to start leaving, but, as she went, "T-thank you. We'll see what we can do."
And so, they left as silently as they came, slinking back behind the rock, and, presumably, back to wherever the seclusive duo had emerged.
Chauncey released the breath he'd apparently been holding, "Whew! Well, that was awkward, wasn't it?"
....