2:03pm, Athens
Monica strolled down the streets of the city with her entourage, hands in her pockets and staring at the sky. Her legs were starting to become sore, but there was really nothing to be done about it. If any part of their skeleton of a plan was to happen, they needed to find Lancer's Master, and the only way to do that with their limited resources was to wander aimlessly and hope something came to pass.
Today, her entourage was simply two. Chrysaor followed dutifully behind her, but, like her, seemed to be losing himself in the monotony. Over his shoulders was her blue backpack, and inside that was Lancer.
For the sake of ease, they had left Assassin and her Master at the apartment. After all, Echo still wasn't in a position to run away, and, even then, losing her as an ally was hardly a worst-case scenario.
The backpack rustled impatiently, "Oi -oink-. Haven't we been here before?"
Saber sighed, "You can't see. How would you know?"
"Because I've smelled these falafels before- it's the same stand!"
Saber shushed him, "Quiet! What if someone hears you?"
"What if someone hears you, huh!? Some creep talking to his lady's purse!?" He grumbled, "Why can't yer Master carry me? She's the only one who's nice -oink-."
The best part of having Pigsy trapped in a bag, and having that bag on someone else's back, was that she could get away with ignoring him. It's not that she hated him, or that he was a bad person -er, pig-, but he was a blabbermouth. Having someone with so much energy and so little self-awareness was exhausting, especially for a girl who had spent her life deliberately avoiding as much social interaction as she could.
Chrysaor's sacrifice would be honored.
But he, Lancer, was right. They had made a long walk around uptown and were approaching where they started. The plan was to head back into the subway and try another part of town, perhaps the East side where she was least familiar.
But she was not a hopeful person, and watching the sights was sometimes the only way to distract herself from her own pessimistic musings. So she watched the sky, and kept her surroundings in mind, always looking for something to start a train of thought which would keep her occupied.
And she found it. Above her, perched on a building, was a seagull. It was a normal sight to her, but what was odd was that they were too far inland.
'Oh well,' She thought, 'Stranger things and all the rest, you know?'
"Do you see something?"
Chrysaor could always be counted upon for his curiosity, not that there wasn't a part of her that enjoyed the attention.
"Just a seagull."
He looked where she was, and, by this point, she was more than capable of seeing the concern trace across his features.
"Monica."
"Yeah?"
"Is there a place around here where we can be alone?"
Her heart skipped a beat at first, until she remembered that Chrysaor was far too innocent and straightforward to flirt, and that, thanks to the annoying talking bag, they couldn't be alone anyway, even if they wanted to.
"Huh? Oh- yeah, there should be a garden area up the road."
"That should work."
They retreated into the small green. It was secluded, covered by trees and partitioned by above-ground gardens and cobble paths. At first she was confused, but as Saber held out his palm for her to pause, that same seagull landed on a perch in front of him. Then she noticed the holster on his leg: this was a messenger bird, though she'd never heard of a seagull being used for something like that.
Then she remembered: she was dealing with mages. The unexpected should be the first thing she expects.
Like an expert, Chrysaor approached the gull and unclasped the cylinder from the bird's leg. He popped open the lid and slid out the paper inside, which kept going and going, larger than even its container.
The bag over his shoulder unzipped itself as a pig's head popped out of its own accord, "Wazzat?"
"Hey!"
Saber flung his arms behind himself to shove the head back in, but Pigsy tumbled out, rolled like a ball across the stone path, and then sprung up to perch on a raised garden.
"Lancer! Get back-"
Monica stepped between the feuding Servants with a chill expression, not to admonish them, or even to cool tensions, but only because she was tired of the bickering,
"What's it say?"
Saber blinked twice, and the frustration cleared from his face, "Oh- here."
He unfurled the white scroll and handed it over, and she positioned herself so that both boys could see, Pigsy over her left shoulder and Saber over her right. Looking at it, she first raised an eyebrow. It appeared to be a map of an island, though which one she didn't know, and there was an "X" over a piece of the Northwest. Searching for any kind of context, she flipped over the paper, and found what she was looking for: a letter.
"To the Master of Saber,
"I know what you're planning to do tonight. Attached is a map of Kythnos. The mark is Archer's base, and Lancer's Master should be there. I'll try to keep Archer busy and help if I can. Good luck.
"-Master of Rider."
Lancer began to hop around with glee, "Wahoo! Hell yeah! Ooiiiinkuu!" And pumped his fists.
Saber once more, "Lancer! Be quiet!"
She continued to ignore them, and kept her eyes locked on the page, "I guess we know where to go now."
But the strange melancholy in her voice caught Chrysaor's attention as he once again forgot his anger,
"... That's possible, but are we sure we can trust Team Rider? All we know about them is that they already betrayed Lancer's team."
She pursed her lips, " 'Betrayed' seems like a strong word. Besides, what's the worst case scenario?"
"Well," Saber began, "They could tell Archer we're coming. Or maybe that map is just to get us as far away from the central leylines as possible, and then, while we're weakened, Archer will snipe us from another island entirely. Or maybe, since we broke the truce, Rider, Caster, and Archer will all team up against us tonight, or in the days to come."
Those scenarios were, admittedly, worse than she'd imagined they would be.
Lancer shook his head, "Nah, they wouldn't do that. Even if that jerk wanted to, Rider wouldn't let 'im. Besides, all of them want to minimize casualties -oink-. They need as many hands as they can to take down Berserker."
"I doubt that," He fired back, "I know Berserkers are troublesome, but I doubt the three of them working together couldn't accomplish something; unless they're far less capable than you've suggested."
She expected Lancer to fire up with his infantile passion, but he only seemed to retreat further into himself, "Nah. It ain't that. Berserker is just more than you can imagine."
A heaviness came over the group, and Monica tried desperately to alleviate it, "Well... if that's what we're up against, then Archer should be a piece of cake, right?"
-But it didn't seem to do much, and certainly not for her own anxiety.
...
Aaron blew another cloud of smoke into the air, and watched it float upwards and disappear in the clear sky overhead. His mind was both troubled and at-peace: so many thoughts rampaging through his inner world that none could receive his full attention, and so he ignored all of them, even as they stomped across his consciousness.
Guilt. Worry. Fear. Anxiety. Foreboding. Uncertainty. These were a mere handful of his troubles, and were themselves enough to bring him low individually; much less as a group.
Behind him, the door creaked open, and Cassandra emerged to join him on the landing outside her home. She tapped his shoulder, and when he looked, his credit card was between her fingers.
"There you are."
"Eh." He pushed it away, "Keep it."
"What? No. Take it."
He didn't look at her, and after a moment, she took his hint, and the card disappeared between her breasts, but not out of flippancy,
"You're scaring me, Aaron. You're not about to go jump off a bridge now, are you?"
He kept staring into the sky, "Nah, nothing like that. I just don't feel like I need it anymore."
She allowed the words to hang in the air, picking them apart, "Renae will be fine, you know. It's not your fault."
"Cassandra..."
"...Yes?"
"Do you regret this at all? Being a fortune teller, I mean."
She touched her cheek, "Jeez, 'fortune-teller' is a bit demeaning, don't you think?" She sighed, "-But, yes, I do. Before, I just kind of accepted it, but, after I lost my abilities, I began to think about how my life would've gone, and I've realized that I'd prefer it. But it's too late now. I'll be dead before long: killed by old age before fifty. It's a bad joke."
He let the words burn along with the embers of tobacco, "...What would that life have been?"
"Oh, you know. I would've gone to parties, gotten wasted, slept around until I was pregnant, had a shotgun wedding, divorced, married a man with a real job, then one or two kids after that. Something along those lines, I think."
He couldn't help but turn his nose at that, not because it was foreign, but because it reminded him too much of the life he'd lived up to that point,
"Is that your idea of a good life?"
"You didn't ask me what I wanted, you asked me how it would've gone. That wasn't the ideal answer, just the honest one."
"Fair enough, I guess."
"Are you sure you won't come back inside? I think maybe a real smoke would do you some good."
It was tempting- very tempting, and he felt something inside him, whether chemical or psychological, jump at the idea, but,
"Nah. I want a clear head. Besides, getting wasted around a cougar like you seems like a bad idea."
"Rude," She whispered under her breath, "But not wrong."
In the quiet that followed, he felt her stare focus on the back of his head. It stayed there, narrowing, sharpening, before a sharp kick to his rear sent him faceplanting into the dirt off the front stairs.
He spat the sand out of his mouth, "Hey! What the Hell!?"
Cassandra stood above him and crossed her arms, "You're young- too young to waste time moping on my doorstep! If you want to do nothing, then come inside and smoke a joint, but if you want a clear head, then, for Christ's sake, do something with it! Go for a walk if you want to sulk, but I won't sit here and watch you act like such a loser!"
He stood up, "Screw off! I need to wait for them to respond to my letter!"
"No- you screw off! You really think I have anywhere to be?! Just come back later, dumbass! I'll be here just like always!"
"Fine! I'll go!" He grit his teeth and began wiping the dirt off his arms and clothes, straining to say what he wanted, "...Tell the girl I'm sorry."
She returned his genuine apology with a smug grin, "Don't you think she's a little too young for you?"
"Go to Hell, you whore! I'm trying to be nice here!"
"I know, but it's just too fun to watch you squirm."
She cackled like the witch she was and returned inside.
With no one around, his Servant spoke for the first time in a long while, 'What a strange woman.'
"You said it."
Still, however strange she was, and with all the strange, conflicting emotions she rose in him, purposefully and incidentally, there was one that stood above the rest, a foreign feeling that he couldn't recognize. He'd spent his young adult life in anguish, fighting with his father, with himself, with his circumstances: his happy memories were few and far between, and were usually tarnished by what came after the high. He'd spent his life in opposition to everything he knew, only bending the knee out of necessity. He had wasted away, enraged at the unfairness of it all, and so couldn't place the warm sensation in his chest.
It was gratitude.
With that, he turned around, and took a long walk down the road, taking comfort in the quiet serenity of the empty island, and in the presence of his friend and Servant close behind.
....