9:35 pm, The parking lot of a Glyfada mall
Monica sat in the center of the empty lot on a parking block, kneading her hands together out of both anxiety and boredom. Next to her, Saber stood stoically leaning on a streetlamp. He was in what she'd come to internally refer to as his "sword mode". His eyes were sharp, and he dutifully watched the dark, foggy surroundings. He could've looked like a bouncer if not for his small frame, but even so, she was nonetheless intimidated. She wouldn't dare to look him in the eye, and the last hour they'd spent here had been utterly miserable and awkward, if only for her.
She was not one accustomed to guilt, much less to accountability. Her parents had been uniquely able to manage being overly strict and overly permissive at the same time, being incredibly overbearing when they were around her, especially around the guests they occasionally held, but not caring at all what she did otherwise. Even when her older sister had been sent off to school and it was just her and her parents, she could do as she pleased. She would run off into the woods around their home, disappearing for hours, sometimes days, and when she would come back, she would only be chastised for the dirt on her clothes. She learned when she was young that her parents' rules were entirely arbitrary, and to not allow herself to take their criticism seriously and, eventually, not to take them seriously either. At her work, she could do the same, disappearing and neglecting her responsibilities, and received no serious repercussions. Truly, it wasn't until Rhiannon that she realized that her actions had consequences, and that realization affected her deeply. But, of course, there was no recourse for that guilt; there was no way to undo what had been done.
Rhiannon was dead. Whatever apologies touched her lips, whatever words she screamed and sobbed into the night sky wouldn't bring her back. Her empty words drifted into empty space, falling only on her own ears, and serving only to heavy her heart.
Her mind swam through the options of what she ought to say, what she ought to do, or whether she should do anything at all. In truth, she wasn't entirely sure where this guilt, this sense of wrongdoing, even came from. She couldn't think of any single thing she'd done wrong, or, at least, nothing that she so far found herself regretting. For someone so unaccustomed to the company of others, especially intimate company, it took some time for her to realize that her sense of guilt came not from within, but from without. It wasn't a judgment of herself, but a judgment of Chrysaor. She felt that she'd done something wrong because, to her, it seemed that he felt she'd done something wrong. The warmness of his eyes had frozen over. He often became this way when danger was afoot, but, normally, this ire was directed towards their surroundings, or, in confrontations, against the enemy. In contrast, this coldness seemed to be directed towards nothing in particular. She wasn't sure if she'd done something wrong, or, if she had, what that wrong action was, but these questions left her more on edge than the pressing threat of Assassin, wherever she was.
In her anxious thoughts, she had, without realizing, been staring at the cold Chrysaor, at his pale, rose eyes. As he scanned their surroundings, he met her stare by accident, and she, brought suddenly back to reality by his gaze, quickly looked to her feet instead. She felt his stare linger on her, before he, too, looked back to the foggy darkness that laid beyond the sanctuary of the dim streetlight.
She went back to kneading her fingers and tried to push those whirling thoughts to the shadows of her mind, but those memories of Rhiannon rushed to take their place. She hadn't thought about her friend much since Saber came around, but, in this moment, all those regrets, that guilt, flooded her mind to the farthest edge. But in that deluge of darkness, there was a touch of something else. It wasn't light, it wasn't hope, it was... a depth so dark that it came back around to resembling light. Not so much a memory, but a reminder, those words which she'd found herself repeating in the dark of night over and over:
'Never again.
'I won't let that ever happen again.'
...
"I'm sorry."
Chrysaor flinched, actually seeming to reel forward, almost in pain. He blinked his eyes as if waking up, not believing his ears, "I'm... sorry? What are you apologizing for?"
Her voice was a whisper, strained against the fear inside her, "...I don't know. Whatever it is that you're mad at me about."
What was left of that coldness melted away, and the rose ocean once again washed warmly behind his gaze, "I'm not mad; you've done nothing wrong. I'm your Servant. I'm your sword. Your will is mine, and, if I feel you are ever making a mistake, I'll advise you otherwise. There's no issue."
"-But you seem bothered. I know things are serious... but you're different than usual."
The familiar soft smile that had begun to rise on him fell away before it could find proper purchase, and the ocean became still once more. He, too, became still, considering his next words carefully, "...There...is something that ought to be discussed, but now is not the time or place."
Monica bit her lower lip, "Why not? We don't know when or if- she will ever show up, so why not pass the time?"
She was doing a poor job of disguising her pained ego, the worry in her heart, and he, despite his own natural weakness for social interaction, clearly recognized what was happening.
He took a deep sigh, and moved his eyes back to the exterior darkness while his attention remained entirely on her. "I apologize, Mast- Monica. I'm not well acquainted with the hearts of men, even less with the hearts of women, if you'd allow me to be so frank...
"My 'bother' is simply that I'm trying to figure out what you want. Yesterday, you seemed set on finding the overseer, but today, you inexplicably took great interest in participating directly in the war," he gestured to the empty lot around them, "-leading us to our current predicament. That isn't a complaint. I'm your sword. If you want the Grail, then I'm duty-bound to lead you to that goal to the best of my abilities. I wish only to keep you safe and accomplish your goals, but I don't know what your goals are at the moment, and that worries me."
The words sat in the air for some time. She wondered how to respond- and realized that she didn't have a response. She, herself, wasn't sure exactly why, except that she wanted to help him. He wanted the Grail; he had a wish he wanted granted. So badly did he want this that he allowed himself to be continually reincarnated over and over, doomed to kill and be killed, over and over. She wanted that cycle to end, and, more than that, she wanted him to be happy, and to find peace.
She laughed to herself, and began to think out loud, "I'll admit. I didn't think things would escalate this quickly."
He chuckled, "No, I imagine you didn't."
"Did you?"
"I imagined they could. Wars, conflict- they have a reputation for spiraling wildly out of control. A single mistake is all it takes when you're surrounded by those willing to put their lives on the line."
"I suppose... You're really okay with all this?"
"Believe me, I've been asked to take far less advised action before. An alliance with Caster's faction could be very beneficial, but remember, it's every man for himself. They will betray us; it's only a matter of when and how."
A cruel smile rose despite herself, "Or if we betray them first, right?"
"In theory, yes, but that's generally not wise."
"Why's that?"
He looked out into empty space, examining his own memories, "There's no set rule of logic, but, in my experience, those who go to stab in the back most often end up tripping over their own ambition. Perhaps it's because all plans fall apart in time, but I find it's better to react to the situation than to try and control it yourself."
She found a moment of reflection. She hated the sense of the situation being beyond her control. She hated the control her parent's exerted over her, so she ran away. She hated her job, so she often didn't show up. She became frustrated when Saber himself had tried to control the flow of information, so she made her frustration known.
"But surely you can't allow the situation to get completely out of control? In principle, sure, you can't control reality, but that doesn't mean you can't make a difference."
He nodded, "It doesn't, but don't anticipate that those differences will penetrate very deeply. Focus on what you can change, and realize that it isn't very much."
Through the discussion, her eyes had gone back and forth between him and the ground, not being able to take his gaze for very long for the sake of the dark tide that threatened to break and... well... who knew what would happen then? But here, that tide began to recede, and she found herself once again staring.
He noticed, but this time he wasn't so quizzical, he only raised an eyebrow, "What?"
"Nothing, I guess. I just thought you were more of an optimist."
He looked back at his memories with a nostalgic smile, "I had a similar conversation with an old friend of mine-"
"-The same you mentioned before?"
"-The very same. Instead of trying to change the world, he chose to live in it, and to take life one step at a time and deal with whatever would come. He didn't think about the future much, only what he could do in the present, and that seemed to make him happy. He was always smiling. I suppose, in our time together, some of that rubbed off on me."
'He didn't think about the future...'
"Did he ever think about the past?"
"Not sure. He never talked much about his past, and I never had much cause to ask. I suppose that means there was nothing worth mentioning. If you're asking for the secret of his joy, I couldn't tell you. He was... duplicitous. I call him my best friend, but I'll be the first to admit that I never knew too much about him. I think sometimes that smile of his was just a mask for his own pain."
Her thoughts drifted to the night before, as the two of them abandoned the subway: 'My friend- if he had been here he would've slaughtered them without a second thought, saying something like 'Men who live to hurt others shouldn't live at all'.'
He continued, "That's all to say, while I admire him, care for him, I wouldn't recommend his lifestyle to anyone else. He was a unique person, with a unique way of doing things. Besides, even assuming his joy was pure and genuine, you know by now that I haven't inherited it, so I can't offer anything of worth."
His eyes fell to the ground, "Sorry about that."
Though the words seemed simple, they were caked in empathy, and carried far more weight than their elocution conveyed. It was just those two, in their shared despair, who could truly feel that weight. The anchor fell in her mind, and those dark waves once again rushed back to the front of her thoughts. That heaviness drew her gaze back downward, and her Servant was in much the same boat, as he, too, could bear only to look at his feet. The ocean of his eyes darkened, the depths rising to the surface with the appearance of death.
It was the first instance over the course of the entire afternoon that the attention of her dutiful Servant had slipped at all. How long had his serpent eyes remained peeled? How many faces had he scrutinized needlessly? His dagger-like focus fell away, and their watcher was keen to take advantage.
Without the slightest sound, Assassin fell limp from the streetlamp above Saber. The whistle was so subtle that Monica could have never noticed the figure flipping deftly through the air, aiming her dagger directly for the nape of the young Master's neck. Only barely did Saber catch the form from the corner of his eye, too late to properly react.
He cast his hand out, only barely aware of his own purposes, and gold mana shot across his arm under his jacket, reaching his hand and bursting forward in a blaze of blue and gold which caught the airborne Assassin directly under the ribs with an explosion of energy that sent her backwards. Though her knife had been no more than a centimeter from the girl's neck, she nonetheless spun upright in the air and landed a few feet away.
So it was, the young Monica caught with Assassin on one side, and Saber on the other.
She shot up in as much shock as preparation, stumbling to her feet, unsure of herself. Saber steadied her as he passed, moving between the two women and taking a wide, defensive stance. Assassin was still in the form of Monica, but her icy glare and teardrop dagger revealed her identity with total certainty.
Assassin shifted her weight, moving to phase into pure sound-
"Enough, Echo!"
She stopped. Her eyes, the eyes of Monica on another face, became wide with shock and anger. She locked eyes with Saber, her body stiff, tense.
"That is your name, isn't it... Echo."
...
"...Echo."
....