11:30 am, A Diner in the Old City
...
Monica was used to sideways glances. Girls had to be. If she were bothered by every stare that lingered just slightly too long, she would never be able to go anywhere or get anything done, but the last few days had seen an increase in both the amount and duration of these glances. At first, paranoia had led her to suspect each one, but she eventually realized that the simple reason was that she was constantly accompanied by a man with pink hair. Though not nearly as odd a sight as it would've been, say, ten years ago, it was still rare enough to warrant some attention.
But these were nothing compared to what the current ensemble experienced.
The four were sitting in a booth, herself and Saber on one side, and Massiah and Echo on the other. Of course, they would've received far more attention had she been in her true form, but, instead, Monica sat eye-to-eye with a mirrored reflection of herself: Echo maintaining her illusion through a set of earbuds that played her own voice on repeat.
Under normal circumstances, it would've been wiser to keep Assassin in Spirit Form, but Monica had only a slight inkling that such a thing existed, and, even if she had known, or if her company had the ability or forethought to tell her, it wouldn't have mattered, since the stone that layered Assassin's arms kept her firmly planted in physical reality. Moreover, the stone wouldn't be hidden by whatever skill disguised her appearance, and so her arms and legs were wrapped in a blanket as if a serious injury.
The four of them, a girl with blonde and blue hair, her apparently injured twin, a boy with magenta hair, and an inexplicably gaunt woman from the East, were a sight to see. Any one of them would be considered at least somewhat strange individually, but to be grouped together with no clear cohesion brought undue attention to them all, though, thankfully, the waitress didn't seem to mind.
She had probably worked herself up to it by the time she reached them.
She ordered shrimp and crayfish croquettes herself, but the clammy silence that had followed the four up to now had made her forget that the two across from her couldn't speak at all. She nearly panicked, but, of course, Echo just repeated her exactly, and Massiah, who had been studying the menu together with her servant, held it up and pointed to a picture. This, thankfully, was enough for the poor waitress to understand, and the four were left to their stiff silence once more.
It seems none of them were conversationalists.
She was racked by unending discomfort. She sat across from two women who, only the previous night, had not only tried to kill her and her only friend, but who they themselves had almost killed. Their mutual inability to communicate only made things worse, but even this wasn't half as bad as the self-awareness that the entire situation inspired.
It was the first time that the two of them, Saber and Monica, had spent any significant, casual time with somebody else. For the last few days, which was the only time they'd known each other, their relationship had possessed a certain privacy to it, beyond the bounds of other people's perceptions or expectations. Now, including her conversation with the 'friend of a friend', it was becoming an increasingly public spectacle, and their private issues weren't so private any longer. Perhaps the fact that she could hardly even look him in the eye while in the presence of other people was a problem in and of itself, and this led her to wonder what, in precise terms, was their relationship in the first place? If someone stopped her, say a coworker, and asked who he was, what would she say? Echo, as she was now, could be passed off as her twin sister easily. Massiah could be Echo's friend, or even a homeless woman she'd chosen to take in off the streets, but what of Chrysaor? Who would honestly believe her if she said that he was 'just a friend'?
His chin lowered towards the top of her slumped head, 'Are you alright?'
"I- yeah. I'm okay... just thinking, that's all."
It wasn't until after the words left her mouth that it occurred to her that she'd experienced the same sensation she had earlier this morning, but, adding to her confusion, he responded aloud in a hushed whisper,
"Right."
She noticed his arm move slightly towards her, but stopped halfway, and whatever gesture he'd instinctively moved towards was replaced with a soft smile, "Don't worry so much. Even soldiers need to rest, especially since the opportunity comes so rarely."
"...Do you really think I'm a soldier?"
He rolled his eyes with a note of embarrassment, "You know what I mean."
She did. He'd misplaced her anxiety and was trying to console her as best as he could, which wasn't much considering that he was the cause of half or more of that anxiety. Whether it was her wondering about how he felt for her, or what 'they' were exactly, or, worse, what they ought to be, not to mention the mystery of his changed appearance, the bags under his eyes and the true nature of the gold island which all seemed to be linked. All of her true worries came from him, with the general stress of the war serving only as a backdrop for it all.
Needless to say, she couldn't relax, and, unable to meet the eyes of anyone at her table, her gaze was satisfied to wander across their surroundings. Her focus shifted to eavesdrop on different conversations, and occasionally met the confused eyes of those quietly questioning the oddity of their ensemble. This was most true of one woman- or was it a girl?- who sat in the far corner. Not only did they meet eyes several times, but there were a few instances where she almost thought that Chrysaor was looking that way as well. But the idea that the girl seemed so preoccupied with them was wildly unfair given that she- the girl- wasn't so normal herself.
First, like Massiah, she was from the East, though perhaps not the same region. This wouldn't have been so uncommon except that she sat by herself, which itself might not have been significant except that there were four plates in front of her. She delicately picked away at two fried balls of something-or-other at a pace that left the other dishes behind at room temperature. She wasn't going to make it through it all in one sitting, not in the least because of her small frame, being even shorter than Monica herself..
The questions that this girl raised were so high in her mind that it became too much of a distraction, and she had to purposefully avert her gaze to avoid staring. Then, as if there weren't enough bothering her already, she spotted an unfortunately familiar face in the reflection of the store window. In the transparent reflection of their booth, a weasel-faced boy sat with his legs on the table and an infuriatingly confident smirk.
She huffed. Dealing with him was the last thing she wanted, or it would have been if she weren't so tired of dwelling on her own thoughts. So, she tentatively accepted the invitation, excusing herself, awkwardly shuffling past Chrysaor, and making her way to the women's room.
...
Monica peeked under each of the stalls to be sure that the bathroom was empty, and, satisfied that she was alone, turned her attention to the wide mirror. There, in the reflection, he leaned against the stall door behind her with the same smug expression.
He raised an eyebrow in mock confusion, "You called?"
"Ugh." She rolled her eyes, "The Hell does that mean? Couldn't this at least have waited until I was asleep?"
He shook his head, "You called me. You have been for a while now, but I didn't come because I knew you wouldn't admit it- and, wouldn't you know, I was right." He shrugged, "Sometimes I wish that I weren't such a nice guy."
She narrowed her eyes, "What are you talking about? Why would I ever call you?" She crossed her arms to punctuate her gripes, "You do realize that I want nothing to do with you, right? I want you to leave me alone."
He showed his teeth in a cruel smile, "And yet, here you are. You came here all on your own, and you did that because you wanted to talk to me- that's the simple truth, despite whatever excuses you make."
"Why, then? Why do you think I want to talk to you?" She nipped.
"Because you have questions. Questions that only I can answer. Questions that won't leave your head no matter how much you want them too." He tilted his head with an obnoxious self-awareness, "Kind of like me."
Monica closed her eyes, which, at this point, seemed to be the only time where she could even pretend to be alone. He wasn't wrong, of course, but neither was she lying. She had questions, questions for him, but she didn't want to ask them. She didn't want to resort to relying on his sympathy.
-But she knew, even in her frustration, that these things were too important to allow her pride to interfere, "I'll ask my questions, but then you go away, and you don't come back."
"Oh, I can't make that promise- not until things are resolved. Besides, you don't really want that. If I went away, you'd lose your only confidant where your little Saber is concerned. And where better to gossip than the ladies' room?"
They could go back and forth forever. She could keep telling him how insensitive he was, how much she truly loathed him, and it was loathing. Hate, like love, was an attractive force, and she simply loathed him. She could wax and wane forever about the sheer unfairness of losing the privacy her own mind, but so could he continue to call her a coward, and impotent, and any number of other things which would undoubtedly be very painfully true, all the while unbothered by her own remarks except to become increasingly frustrated with the same loathing. To make someone hate you had its own appeal- to have someone's full attention always stroked the ego, and, where hate was concerned, the more petty the reason the better. It was a point of subjugation, bringing the opponent's mind and heart under your own sole influence, even if it would almost always backfire. But he was a man immune to both love and hate: there was no attraction to be found, at least where she was concerned.
The further two opposites are, the more similarities become evident, and the more similar, the more differences become glaring and troublesome. These two were not opposite poles, but two instances of the same pole, and repelled each other accordingly. So much so that their similarity would never occur to them, much less the thought that perhaps the friend they shared sought out both for similar reasons.
And so, eager to end the engagement and to take advantage of their current closeness before they inevitably pushed each other apart, she yanked back her sleeve and cut straight to the point, "Is this you? Are you the new contract?"
Those were the magic words. His smugness faded away, and his expression became something more stoic, even melancholy, "No... not quite anyway."
He looked away, something inside him eating away at his voice, "Chrysaor was right on the money."
His eyes came back to her in the mirror, sharper than ever, "That's Gorgon."
She did her best to formulate her thoughts, "Then what are you? Why are you here?"
Her words called memories to the front of her mind, 'If you use your last Command Seal for me, then we'll no longer be connected, and whatever it is that separates me from 'that' will end along with our contract.'
His voice was hoarse, as if each syllable caused him pain, "I'm the one who killed Gorgon the first time. When she reeled her ugly head again, his memories called me there to hold her back."
"-But you can't."
"-Not forever. Killing a monster is very different from healing a heart, but, in other ways, it's also very similar. For instance, neither can be done without facing the problem directly."
Here, she forgot her dislike for the weasel-faced boy. Without realizing, her affection and concern for her Servant, her friend, had come to outweigh both her pride and her more petty emotions. He even, very briefly, and in an event so unlikely that it would never occur again, became an ally to her.
"And how do we do that? How do we fix this?"
In the reflection, he slinked behind her with the elegance of a shadow moving with the setting sun, "Those Command Seals represent your relationship with Chrysaor. When you used the sword, you let Gorgon inside of you, and you formed a contract with her. You brought her out, and, by linking herself to you, she found a way to outlive even her host.
"What Chrysaor said this morning was more true than he could've known. If you use your final Red Seal, or even if he dies, Gorgon will remain, and she'll be all that's left. You supply him with mana, but you also give strength to the evil inside him; it's like each drop of life you give comes with an ounce of poison. You're two lights shining on one snake, casting two shadows. By splitting her up, you've made her weaker, but also made her unkillable. Now, if his light goes out, then what's left becomes whole, and stronger than before, and without anything substantial enough to hold her back."
"-And if my light goes out?"
"Nothing good, that's for sure."
She knew long ago that it was too late to change course. There was only one way forward, "So what do we do?"
He gave a predatory glare, "That's a stupid question and you know it." He leaned in next to her head, staring at her through the mirror, "Think. How did we get here?"
Monica knew. She didn't know why, or how, but she knew. It just made sense to her, "I can't solve the problem so long as I'm making problems. I have to get rid of that shadow inside me."
'...if you use a black seal, then you'll be ordering the curse- which means ordering it to take me over. It means releasing it again, and you know what happened last time.'
"Right. And?"
"-And then face her directly."
He gave her a smile of mock pride, and all her forgotten loathing returned in full force.
She said, almost on reflex, "-And then you'll go away, and never come back."
The weasel-boy moved along behind her, that same, empty smile on his face, "As much as a memory can, but you're right. I won't be your problem anymore." He winked, "See? That's the advantage of being an asshole: things get done."
She couldn't tolerate his presence any longer, and averted her eyes from the mirror, hoping that, if she did, he would disappear in the peripherals of her vision, "Whatever. Just get out of the women's bathroom, creep."
"You don't have an unlimited amount of time. I can't force your hand, but I will encourage you to act sooner rather than later. For his sake."
She hoped that was the end, but he had one last thing to say. Before, his voice had seemed to echo around the insides of her skull, but here, she felt it right at the entrance of her ear, "Go get 'em, soldier."
The words crawled along her ear canal in a particularly unpleasant way, and she couldn't help but cover her ear in defense, and to scan the room for the perpetrator. But, as she had hoped and expected, he was nowhere to be found, disappearing back into whatever shadow of her mind he'd emerged from.
Various swears touched the tip of her tongue- before she thought better. He was her canary: he'd tell her when she couldn't wait any longer. Insulting him wasn't smart. If he decided that she couldn't help, that she lacked the ability to even try, he'd sooner kill her and take his chances that way. Now, she doubted that he had that ability, but he certainly was that sort of person, at least if Chrysaor's testimony was anything to go off of. Instead, she took a deep sigh, her mind which was so busy before suddenly vacant. All other questions, all other concerns, were nothing compared to this, and there was only one thing to do, so, for the moment, she could only try to enjoy lunch.
...
She pushed the swinging bathroom door open, and there found someone trying to enter, nearly sending it into her small body. It was the Asian girl from before, the one who'd ordered too much food.
"Oh! I-uh..."
The strange girl stammered on, her face flushing as she timidly sent her eyes to anywhere except the person in front of her, though it almost sounded like there was something that she wanted to say. Monica also noticed that the frame she'd previously dismissed as merely 'small' before was tight with muscles hidden under an exterior of flawlessly smooth skin. It almost reminded her of Echo, but while Assassin's muscles centered in her calves and thighs, like a dancer, hers were more well-rounded. She could swear, even in her passing glance, that there wasn't a single muscle in this girl's body that was weaker than hers.
However, all these, in light of the recent conversation, were, too, filed decisively under the umbrella of 'nothing concerns', and so she, in a voice both polite and empty, excused herself and returned to her seat, leaving the girl to wonder what she had done wrong.
There, at the table, she found that their food had arrived. Massiah was taking turns eating her own chicken meal and feeding Echo next to her, which might have been cute except for the fact that it was her own face being fed. In her own seat, there were two fried balls of something-or-other, which must have been her seafood croquettes.
Chrysaor greeted her with his signature, sad smile, as if to comfort her.
And there was comfort there. More than she was comfortable with.
….