Nasuverse Snippets from HELL
- Thread starter Grunt
- Start date
Um, not possible with Ea. Shiki needs to understand the concept behind something to be able to kill it.
Gates of babylon is actually a ability so, can't really be killed unless he understood the concept behind the ability and Ea can't even be comprehended by Shirou in his Reality Marble, so it probably does not follow Gaia's rules.
EDIT: Shiki is Shirou
Gates of babylon is actually a ability so, can't really be killed unless he understood the concept behind the ability and Ea can't even be comprehended by Shirou in his Reality Marble, so it probably does not follow Gaia's rules.
EDIT: Shiki is Shirou
Not 7 this time. Just another idea that's been percolating in my mind for a while now.
As always, Rule of Cool is in effect.
---
A tale which starts in fire.
A tale similar, but different.
A tale derailed.
The boy is weakened.
His lungs feel raw, his eyes burn, his skin is numb even as what's under it grates painfully.
He has walked for close to forever, in his mind.
He has stumbled through the fiery maelstrom, through cries of pain, though a hell of human suffering and death.
He walks on still, unable to think.
Empty.
Empty eyes, empty mind, and a heart that forces itself not to feel.
But there are limits to the human body that determination cannot overcome, and that flickering spark of it is the only thing he still holds.
His body simply ceases to obey.
He stumbles, falls ...
And is caught.
It's just a little.
Just a slight bit of support at first, but it feels paradoxically warm. Precious.
The arms that support him tremble, as he is more carried then helped along, and he can somehow tell this person is in as pitiful a shape as he.
But despite this, somehow, from somewhere, this person still draws strength.
There is a determination to ever step, every motion, every breath that struggles against itself and a ragged edge, that almost makes him want to recoil ... in shame at his own ... at his own ...
He moves.
Somehow ... he definitely doesn't want to be seen as weak by this person. There is no logical explanation, no rational path of reasoning. This is what comes from the depths of his self.
It's cooler.
The fires aren't quite as bad.
The ash isn't quite as cloying.
The sky isn't quite as filled with winding smoke.
From the blaze, they stumble out into almost-night. From hell, into a purgatory that will foster survival.
He is lowered down onto the ground, to sit against what had once been a concrete support of a bench.
The face he looks up to is smudged with ash, the hair streaked with it, the clothes wrapped around the body singed as badly, if not worse, than his own.
But the face is also smiling. Even backlit by the fires, its brilliance shines through. It's a moment of happiness that he wants to last as long as it can.
Then it passes.
The eyes that, even with the constantly shifting crimson and orange light, he can tell are a clear sky-blue turn flinty.
Their owner moves away.
It's instinct.
He realizes in a flash what this person will do, even as they ... no, she ... turns.
It's stupid.
It's idiotic.
It's so ...
... so ...
... beautiful.
Even as his eyes want to close, the remnant of his determination prevents them from doing so.
At the very least, he'll watch.
If that's the only thing he can do, then he'll do it.
So he watches as the girl, her body still shaking with the effort of supporting his, stumbles, then walks, then runs back towards the flames and the screams of people's anguish.
He keeps looking.
He keeps waiting.
He forces himself back from the edge of unconsciousness, waiting to see his savior returning ...
Even as metal clinks against metal from somewhere beside him ...
***
The man rages.
He seethes.
The firestorm around him surges, as if feeding on this fury.
Which may not be as far fetched as it sounds.
The heat that has metal glow red doesn't touch him, or rather, has no effect.
He walks.
Fists clenched.
Eyes narrowed.
"How dare he?"
The man hisses, and something in the distance breaks.
"How _dare_ he?!"
At first, he'd thought he could acquire it for himself. Something unique. Something singular. Something noone else could hold. Something to break him out of his tedium for even the slightest of moments.
That is, until he laid eyes on it.
And for all its beauty, he knew it was a truly spectacularly ugly thing at the core.
He'd thought to at least get _her_ out of this, but this, apparently, was also not to be.
That bedamned, pitifully human killer had been the enemy, but he, at least, proved to have a modicum of sense.
The priest was an imbecile.
He could tell the energies of the summoning were already in the process of unraveling, so he did something that only anger at having been foiled had made possible.
He turned around and walked away.
Faintly hoping that he could get his hands on that moron so as to properly educate him what awaited the fools who wished to take what was rightfully _his_ to hold or discard.
The Command Spell's binding was still there, yes, but for the first time he felt the energies and snarled at them.
Not only would he be denied his prize, no.
No, this pathetic, this regrettable, this mongrel of a world still insisted on putting him in shackles!
This would not do.
It would not do at all, he thinks as he strides amidst moans of pain and crackles of this flaming, mortal forefront of hades.
A King may not bow, even to the Gods!
He casts off the shroud of flame that had settled about him like a tattered old cloak, unworthy of adorning him even in the slightest, as his armored boots burn charred footprints into the pavement he steps out onto.
This will not do, so he shall change it.
Spit in its face.
Humiliate it.
Even if it should take an immortal's lifetime.
But the leash of the Command Spell still binds.
It is wrapped around him like an invisible noose.
Mocking.
Jeering.
And then he stops.
Something he sees out of the corner of his eye makes him stop and a thought cross his mind, sweeping aside the anger to make place for a vengeful sort of satisfaction.
It would be audacity itself.
It would be something this piece of shit world would never expect.
It would go against his character and beliefs, but ... no.
No.
For the man who had, once upon a time, for spite's sake itself, scorned a _Goddess_?
Besides, he thinks to himself, there is something there.
Something in that lump of coal in human shape.
Something that he instinctively knows is unique.
A treasure is something he can Know at a glance, and it is definitely there, but at the same time, he can see a sort of hunger he himself is familiar with ...
The golden-armored man smiles.
***
It's better than sorrow.
Better than drowning yourself in it.
Better than letting it linger.
At least she's moving.
At least she's doing _something_ instead of blankly remembering something that may have been mere illusion.
The fires around her burn all of that doubt, that self-loathing away.
Even if it's just one person, it will mean something.
Then she finds him.
Then they stumble out.
And she feels, for the first time in months, that her life can have meaning again.
She turns around and runs back.
As long as this body of hers can still move.
As long as she can keep the drive in her mind alive.
As long as the pain in her body and limbs can keep her aware.
Even if it's only _two_ people, it will mean something.
From the day her parents had died, she'd been made into an instrument.
From the day her parents had died, she'd gone along with that willingly.
And when the dream was revealed to be nothing but a mockery, her world died.
Her body almost had.
The scars reach to the bone. She feels them with every motion. She fights against them, fights against injury and only recently healed muscle.
She wins.
The pain is a blinding beacon in the back of her mind, as if she were being stabbed again and again and again once more.
She wins.
She still wins.
Even if it's just two ...
Even if it's just ...
She coughs.
She stumbles.
She falls, painfully, to her hands and knees.
Stabbed.
Stabbed to death.
Not of her body, but her will.
It's the height of irony that she's regained it, now, as she chokes to death and her body refuses to move.
She wants to move.
She has to move.
If she can't move, then she can't ... save ...
Her arms give out.
With a thump, she falls to the ground, amid the inferno that's only filled with crackling flame now.
She can tell that, so she hasn't gone deaf.
There are no more screams.
No more cries for aid.
Maybe, she thinks bitterly, they're all choking to death right now like me? Some savior.
It's eternity.
An eternity in which she gasps.
Chokes.
But still, with a grasp like iron, clings to life.
Until it starts to rain.
Until ...
"Thank god! There's someone still alive ... Thank god!"
... she is saved.
---
Princes and Kings
---
In a flash of the blade, the red lance is deflected.
It's not difficult at all.
All she needs to do.
All she does ...
... is pull the sword from her mind.
It comes alive in her hand as soon as she thinks that, and her body responds.
CLANG.
The air is alive with the sound of steel singing its riddle.
CLANG.
The woman in black and red dances back and forth, blade flashing.
CLANG.
The man in blue stabs with his red lance, then draws it back incredibly quickly as he is actually pressed to defend.
It's not that the woman is faster. She's fast, but the beastlike agility of the lancer is beyond even that. It's not even that she's stronger.
But her weapon is something forged in humanity's anger, and her skill with it manages to _press_ even a Hero.
Lancer should be furious. He should be confused.
But he's grinning.
A normal human bearing witness to the War is to be eliminated. That is the directive.
That was the assumption he'd worked under before.
She is human, yes, but she is far from normal.
Not as fast as him, but somehow getting faster. Not as strong as him, but somehow getting stronger.
He's grinning, because, for all the things his chickenshit of a master has him doing that he disagrees with, he's now doing what he dearly wanted in the course of this War.
He's fighting.
The attack comes so quickly he almost misses it, as the woman's coat suddenly billows out and two, four, six, eight ... a dozen swords shoot from it, all carrying malicious intent as potent as the one she's wielding.
CLANGCLANGCLANGCLANG -
He jumps back, impossibly defending. Projectile attacks are ineffective against him, as long as he can see them, but something about this one is just different ...
He feels a trickle of blood roll down his side and grins even wider.
Then his grin sours.
He has to finish this.
From the look in the sky-blue eyes of his opponent, she's decided on something similar.
Pity.
He really wanted to fight some more.
***
The door of the church opens with a creak.
Footsteps echo.
So late at night, there is no chance of anyone but the man being here, the visitor knows.
His strides are slow and measured. Confident, despite the sense of foreboding that settles around this place like a shroud.
They stop as he reaches the front row.
He looks around.
He taps his foot in impatience.
"OI!"
He slams a kick into the lectern, shattering the wooden construction and sending the few still intact bits flying.
"Yes?" The newcomer emerging from one of the doors leading into the back is dressed in a priest's vestments. "What do you want? Or did you specifically come here to defile the House of God?"
"Not _specifically_, no," the visitor says, grinning beatifically. "But I was a little bored, so yeah ..."
The words should have been infuriating. They should have drawn some reaction from the man who is supposed to be the caretaker of this place.
Instead, the priest merely raises an eyebrow.
"What, no sermon? No words of chastisement? You haven't changed a bit, Kotomine Kirei."
"Odd. You know me, and yet I cannot seem to recall ..." something akin to puzzlement crosses Kotomine's face.
"I'll give you a hint," says the other. And snaps his fingers.
The sound that follows seems to shake the church to its foundation, as a flash of light shoots from beside him and slams into Kotomine. It's over in an instant, there is little warning, and the speed of attack makes dodging it at point blank an impossibility.
Kotomine's hands can only clutch the shaft of the spear that pierces his chest, pinning him to one of the church walls like some grotesque parody of a butterfly.
"Ah," says the attacker, chuckling. "I've been wanting to do that for a while now."
"A-" the priest chokes, throwing up blood. "Archer? How ...?"
For the first time, emotion enters the priest's voice, but rather than fear, it is simple puzzlement.
"Do you _really_ think I'll actually bother explaining myself to you, trash?" 'Archer' steps forward, chuckling darkly. The air around his hand distorts, and the pinned man can't help but realize ... that isn't what it should have looked like. That was nothing like it should have looked like. Nowhere near the power. Nowhere near the signature. This is ... somehow ... not the same Servant. No.
Rather, he realizes in shock, it is not a Servant at all.
But even still, the crimson eyes looking at him in merciless amusement from that only slightly familiar face are the ones he remembers from ten years ago.
"Now, knowing that you'll never reach your goals, or even manage to make another attempt," the former Servant says with a sincere smile. "Die like that pathetic piece of shit you are, mongrel!"
The sword in his hand flashes.
Kotomine's head bounces once, bounces twice, and is pinned to the ground by that very same blade piercing through one of the eyes and out the back of the skull.
***
It's the moment of hesitation that makes the killing blow _skitter_ from the interposed mesh of steel.
Twenty blades forming a barrier of steel in front of her heart.
Gae-Bolg shatters them all, but the woman is already moving back. The heart isn't pierced.
Her side explodes in a shower of blood as she's thrown through the air.
Though a wooden door.
Into a storage shed.
Lights flash.
Mana is expended.
The last Servant to be summoned in this War comes to facing a wounded Master and a Lancer who is staggering back as his connection to _his_ Master is suddenly cut.
Saber does not hesitate, and the first thing the blue eyed woman sees as she levers herself upright, leaning against one of the storage shed's walls, is Lancer being cut apart by an invisible sword.
The woman in blue and silver turns to her, then ...
***
Crimson eyes watch.
Crimson eyes stare.
Crimson eyes close as the face twists into a smile of almost childish glee.
"Two," the owner, partially out of breath in getting there, chuckled. "Two, two for the price of one!"
He collapses into giggles.
Not the most dignified of positions, but then, he'd probably just cut down anyone to point that out, so it's not too much of a problem.
The one who had once been Gilgamesh, and who would have once been Emiya Shirou, turns around and walks away, still snickering under his breath.
Even with the schedule being pushed forward.
Even with needing to 'fake' the Gate due to his still inadequate capacity.
Even with this improving, but still somewhat substandard body ...
"This is going to be so much fun!"
***
"I am Servant Saber, summoned by ancient contract. Are you my Master?"
"Master ... I don't know about that ..." the woman hesitates for a moment. "But thanks for back there. Name's Emiya Utena, but just call me Utena. You really saved me."
---
Yes, Gil!Shirou, by virtue of Gil screwing over the contract with the World and reincarnating himself back into a mortal body that caught his eye.
Yes, that's post-series Tenjou Utena, with the misfortune to be in Fuyuki at that particular time, adopted by Kiritsugu and pulling out the Swords of Humanity's Hatred against Lancer.
Yes, that's a heapload of contradictions, I'm sure. I fail to care right now, because the idea has my sides in stitches.
-Griever
As always, Rule of Cool is in effect.
---
A tale which starts in fire.
A tale similar, but different.
A tale derailed.
The boy is weakened.
His lungs feel raw, his eyes burn, his skin is numb even as what's under it grates painfully.
He has walked for close to forever, in his mind.
He has stumbled through the fiery maelstrom, through cries of pain, though a hell of human suffering and death.
He walks on still, unable to think.
Empty.
Empty eyes, empty mind, and a heart that forces itself not to feel.
But there are limits to the human body that determination cannot overcome, and that flickering spark of it is the only thing he still holds.
His body simply ceases to obey.
He stumbles, falls ...
And is caught.
It's just a little.
Just a slight bit of support at first, but it feels paradoxically warm. Precious.
The arms that support him tremble, as he is more carried then helped along, and he can somehow tell this person is in as pitiful a shape as he.
But despite this, somehow, from somewhere, this person still draws strength.
There is a determination to ever step, every motion, every breath that struggles against itself and a ragged edge, that almost makes him want to recoil ... in shame at his own ... at his own ...
He moves.
Somehow ... he definitely doesn't want to be seen as weak by this person. There is no logical explanation, no rational path of reasoning. This is what comes from the depths of his self.
It's cooler.
The fires aren't quite as bad.
The ash isn't quite as cloying.
The sky isn't quite as filled with winding smoke.
From the blaze, they stumble out into almost-night. From hell, into a purgatory that will foster survival.
He is lowered down onto the ground, to sit against what had once been a concrete support of a bench.
The face he looks up to is smudged with ash, the hair streaked with it, the clothes wrapped around the body singed as badly, if not worse, than his own.
But the face is also smiling. Even backlit by the fires, its brilliance shines through. It's a moment of happiness that he wants to last as long as it can.
Then it passes.
The eyes that, even with the constantly shifting crimson and orange light, he can tell are a clear sky-blue turn flinty.
Their owner moves away.
It's instinct.
He realizes in a flash what this person will do, even as they ... no, she ... turns.
It's stupid.
It's idiotic.
It's so ...
... so ...
... beautiful.
Even as his eyes want to close, the remnant of his determination prevents them from doing so.
At the very least, he'll watch.
If that's the only thing he can do, then he'll do it.
So he watches as the girl, her body still shaking with the effort of supporting his, stumbles, then walks, then runs back towards the flames and the screams of people's anguish.
He keeps looking.
He keeps waiting.
He forces himself back from the edge of unconsciousness, waiting to see his savior returning ...
Even as metal clinks against metal from somewhere beside him ...
***
The man rages.
He seethes.
The firestorm around him surges, as if feeding on this fury.
Which may not be as far fetched as it sounds.
The heat that has metal glow red doesn't touch him, or rather, has no effect.
He walks.
Fists clenched.
Eyes narrowed.
"How dare he?"
The man hisses, and something in the distance breaks.
"How _dare_ he?!"
At first, he'd thought he could acquire it for himself. Something unique. Something singular. Something noone else could hold. Something to break him out of his tedium for even the slightest of moments.
That is, until he laid eyes on it.
And for all its beauty, he knew it was a truly spectacularly ugly thing at the core.
He'd thought to at least get _her_ out of this, but this, apparently, was also not to be.
That bedamned, pitifully human killer had been the enemy, but he, at least, proved to have a modicum of sense.
The priest was an imbecile.
He could tell the energies of the summoning were already in the process of unraveling, so he did something that only anger at having been foiled had made possible.
He turned around and walked away.
Faintly hoping that he could get his hands on that moron so as to properly educate him what awaited the fools who wished to take what was rightfully _his_ to hold or discard.
The Command Spell's binding was still there, yes, but for the first time he felt the energies and snarled at them.
Not only would he be denied his prize, no.
No, this pathetic, this regrettable, this mongrel of a world still insisted on putting him in shackles!
This would not do.
It would not do at all, he thinks as he strides amidst moans of pain and crackles of this flaming, mortal forefront of hades.
A King may not bow, even to the Gods!
He casts off the shroud of flame that had settled about him like a tattered old cloak, unworthy of adorning him even in the slightest, as his armored boots burn charred footprints into the pavement he steps out onto.
This will not do, so he shall change it.
Spit in its face.
Humiliate it.
Even if it should take an immortal's lifetime.
But the leash of the Command Spell still binds.
It is wrapped around him like an invisible noose.
Mocking.
Jeering.
And then he stops.
Something he sees out of the corner of his eye makes him stop and a thought cross his mind, sweeping aside the anger to make place for a vengeful sort of satisfaction.
It would be audacity itself.
It would be something this piece of shit world would never expect.
It would go against his character and beliefs, but ... no.
No.
For the man who had, once upon a time, for spite's sake itself, scorned a _Goddess_?
Besides, he thinks to himself, there is something there.
Something in that lump of coal in human shape.
Something that he instinctively knows is unique.
A treasure is something he can Know at a glance, and it is definitely there, but at the same time, he can see a sort of hunger he himself is familiar with ...
The golden-armored man smiles.
***
It's better than sorrow.
Better than drowning yourself in it.
Better than letting it linger.
At least she's moving.
At least she's doing _something_ instead of blankly remembering something that may have been mere illusion.
The fires around her burn all of that doubt, that self-loathing away.
Even if it's just one person, it will mean something.
Then she finds him.
Then they stumble out.
And she feels, for the first time in months, that her life can have meaning again.
She turns around and runs back.
As long as this body of hers can still move.
As long as she can keep the drive in her mind alive.
As long as the pain in her body and limbs can keep her aware.
Even if it's only _two_ people, it will mean something.
From the day her parents had died, she'd been made into an instrument.
From the day her parents had died, she'd gone along with that willingly.
And when the dream was revealed to be nothing but a mockery, her world died.
Her body almost had.
The scars reach to the bone. She feels them with every motion. She fights against them, fights against injury and only recently healed muscle.
She wins.
The pain is a blinding beacon in the back of her mind, as if she were being stabbed again and again and again once more.
She wins.
She still wins.
Even if it's just two ...
Even if it's just ...
She coughs.
She stumbles.
She falls, painfully, to her hands and knees.
Stabbed.
Stabbed to death.
Not of her body, but her will.
It's the height of irony that she's regained it, now, as she chokes to death and her body refuses to move.
She wants to move.
She has to move.
If she can't move, then she can't ... save ...
Her arms give out.
With a thump, she falls to the ground, amid the inferno that's only filled with crackling flame now.
She can tell that, so she hasn't gone deaf.
There are no more screams.
No more cries for aid.
Maybe, she thinks bitterly, they're all choking to death right now like me? Some savior.
It's eternity.
An eternity in which she gasps.
Chokes.
But still, with a grasp like iron, clings to life.
Until it starts to rain.
Until ...
"Thank god! There's someone still alive ... Thank god!"
... she is saved.
---
Princes and Kings
---
In a flash of the blade, the red lance is deflected.
It's not difficult at all.
All she needs to do.
All she does ...
... is pull the sword from her mind.
It comes alive in her hand as soon as she thinks that, and her body responds.
CLANG.
The air is alive with the sound of steel singing its riddle.
CLANG.
The woman in black and red dances back and forth, blade flashing.
CLANG.
The man in blue stabs with his red lance, then draws it back incredibly quickly as he is actually pressed to defend.
It's not that the woman is faster. She's fast, but the beastlike agility of the lancer is beyond even that. It's not even that she's stronger.
But her weapon is something forged in humanity's anger, and her skill with it manages to _press_ even a Hero.
Lancer should be furious. He should be confused.
But he's grinning.
A normal human bearing witness to the War is to be eliminated. That is the directive.
That was the assumption he'd worked under before.
She is human, yes, but she is far from normal.
Not as fast as him, but somehow getting faster. Not as strong as him, but somehow getting stronger.
He's grinning, because, for all the things his chickenshit of a master has him doing that he disagrees with, he's now doing what he dearly wanted in the course of this War.
He's fighting.
The attack comes so quickly he almost misses it, as the woman's coat suddenly billows out and two, four, six, eight ... a dozen swords shoot from it, all carrying malicious intent as potent as the one she's wielding.
CLANGCLANGCLANGCLANG -
He jumps back, impossibly defending. Projectile attacks are ineffective against him, as long as he can see them, but something about this one is just different ...
He feels a trickle of blood roll down his side and grins even wider.
Then his grin sours.
He has to finish this.
From the look in the sky-blue eyes of his opponent, she's decided on something similar.
Pity.
He really wanted to fight some more.
***
The door of the church opens with a creak.
Footsteps echo.
So late at night, there is no chance of anyone but the man being here, the visitor knows.
His strides are slow and measured. Confident, despite the sense of foreboding that settles around this place like a shroud.
They stop as he reaches the front row.
He looks around.
He taps his foot in impatience.
"OI!"
He slams a kick into the lectern, shattering the wooden construction and sending the few still intact bits flying.
"Yes?" The newcomer emerging from one of the doors leading into the back is dressed in a priest's vestments. "What do you want? Or did you specifically come here to defile the House of God?"
"Not _specifically_, no," the visitor says, grinning beatifically. "But I was a little bored, so yeah ..."
The words should have been infuriating. They should have drawn some reaction from the man who is supposed to be the caretaker of this place.
Instead, the priest merely raises an eyebrow.
"What, no sermon? No words of chastisement? You haven't changed a bit, Kotomine Kirei."
"Odd. You know me, and yet I cannot seem to recall ..." something akin to puzzlement crosses Kotomine's face.
"I'll give you a hint," says the other. And snaps his fingers.
The sound that follows seems to shake the church to its foundation, as a flash of light shoots from beside him and slams into Kotomine. It's over in an instant, there is little warning, and the speed of attack makes dodging it at point blank an impossibility.
Kotomine's hands can only clutch the shaft of the spear that pierces his chest, pinning him to one of the church walls like some grotesque parody of a butterfly.
"Ah," says the attacker, chuckling. "I've been wanting to do that for a while now."
"A-" the priest chokes, throwing up blood. "Archer? How ...?"
For the first time, emotion enters the priest's voice, but rather than fear, it is simple puzzlement.
"Do you _really_ think I'll actually bother explaining myself to you, trash?" 'Archer' steps forward, chuckling darkly. The air around his hand distorts, and the pinned man can't help but realize ... that isn't what it should have looked like. That was nothing like it should have looked like. Nowhere near the power. Nowhere near the signature. This is ... somehow ... not the same Servant. No.
Rather, he realizes in shock, it is not a Servant at all.
But even still, the crimson eyes looking at him in merciless amusement from that only slightly familiar face are the ones he remembers from ten years ago.
"Now, knowing that you'll never reach your goals, or even manage to make another attempt," the former Servant says with a sincere smile. "Die like that pathetic piece of shit you are, mongrel!"
The sword in his hand flashes.
Kotomine's head bounces once, bounces twice, and is pinned to the ground by that very same blade piercing through one of the eyes and out the back of the skull.
***
It's the moment of hesitation that makes the killing blow _skitter_ from the interposed mesh of steel.
Twenty blades forming a barrier of steel in front of her heart.
Gae-Bolg shatters them all, but the woman is already moving back. The heart isn't pierced.
Her side explodes in a shower of blood as she's thrown through the air.
Though a wooden door.
Into a storage shed.
Lights flash.
Mana is expended.
The last Servant to be summoned in this War comes to facing a wounded Master and a Lancer who is staggering back as his connection to _his_ Master is suddenly cut.
Saber does not hesitate, and the first thing the blue eyed woman sees as she levers herself upright, leaning against one of the storage shed's walls, is Lancer being cut apart by an invisible sword.
The woman in blue and silver turns to her, then ...
***
Crimson eyes watch.
Crimson eyes stare.
Crimson eyes close as the face twists into a smile of almost childish glee.
"Two," the owner, partially out of breath in getting there, chuckled. "Two, two for the price of one!"
He collapses into giggles.
Not the most dignified of positions, but then, he'd probably just cut down anyone to point that out, so it's not too much of a problem.
The one who had once been Gilgamesh, and who would have once been Emiya Shirou, turns around and walks away, still snickering under his breath.
Even with the schedule being pushed forward.
Even with needing to 'fake' the Gate due to his still inadequate capacity.
Even with this improving, but still somewhat substandard body ...
"This is going to be so much fun!"
***
"I am Servant Saber, summoned by ancient contract. Are you my Master?"
"Master ... I don't know about that ..." the woman hesitates for a moment. "But thanks for back there. Name's Emiya Utena, but just call me Utena. You really saved me."
---
Yes, Gil!Shirou, by virtue of Gil screwing over the contract with the World and reincarnating himself back into a mortal body that caught his eye.
Yes, that's post-series Tenjou Utena, with the misfortune to be in Fuyuki at that particular time, adopted by Kiritsugu and pulling out the Swords of Humanity's Hatred against Lancer.
Yes, that's a heapload of contradictions, I'm sure. I fail to care right now, because the idea has my sides in stitches.
-Griever
Think about what you just said.
Seeing as some of the last thoughts before Gil came and made him an offer he couldn't refuse were obsessing about Utena? There's still plenty of Shirou left in there, but it's not necessarily the Shirou you'd remember from the game. He was pretty much a blank slate when Kiritsugu saved him, after all, and Kiritsugu was a major influence on how he developed. In this case, not so much.
-Griever
Seeing as some of the last thoughts before Gil came and made him an offer he couldn't refuse were obsessing about Utena? There's still plenty of Shirou left in there, but it's not necessarily the Shirou you'd remember from the game. He was pretty much a blank slate when Kiritsugu saved him, after all, and Kiritsugu was a major influence on how he developed. In this case, not so much.
-Griever
Well, this is a little FSN/Rifts crossover....I hope you will enjoy it....just something to get out of my funk^^
Shirou as a Burster from Psyscape.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They ignore the fire.
No, thats not accurate enough, one of them seems to enjoy it even as he puts his hand into the smoldering remains of a wall, watching the flames dance around his hand.
He smiles pleasently, as if he doesnt even feel the heat and in fact, his skin remains pink and his clothes do not so much as get hot under the fires tender caress.
Quickly, the man is in critical condition.
Hearing the comment the man walks over to the rest of his team, watching as the two survivors they had found are carefully transported away.
The man does indeed look sick.
His face is marred with ashes and sweat, his clothes have burn-marks on them and his breathing is irregular at best.
Not that the child next to him looks much better.
But in stark contrast to the older man the boy is healing.
Right under their astonished eyes the childs complexion is getting better and his wounds are closing.
Psionics...or magic, one or both, he theorizes. Did the child do it himself? Or did that man use some kind of spell on it?
Does it matter?
The child is safe for now and if they are quick the man will survive too.
He nods to the last of his companions, giving him the signal to open the portal, glad to leave the ruins of this place behind him. They had searched the place for hours but had found nothing but corpses.
If they hadnt stumbled upon those two they wouldnt have been able to save anyone.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
He throws one last look at the dying fire around him before entering the portal, having waited for everyone else to cross it before him.
If only we could have done more....
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Shirou is burning.
His body, his clothes, his very soul, everything is burning.
It feels...nice.
The flames that dance around his body are his own. Completely. Utterly. From the moment they burst into existence to the moment he puts them out with but a single thought.
They are his shield, they are his weapon.
It is both and neither. The strange duality of fire. Creator and Destroyer. Defense and Offense. It is a feeling he can not describe. Not that he has to. The people he would care to inform do not need to hear his words to understand.
Like they had opened his third eye so had they opened their own a long time ago.
They had shown him the world.
Before the gaze of his minds eye nothing was hidden.
The Truth was there, everywhere around him, wherever he would care to look and he could not escape, even if he had wanted to.
He grins at that thought. Back then he had been scared. Scared by the thought of seeing the world like this. Scared of seeing all the evil the world was filled with. He had been terrified by the thought of not being ignorant of it anymore.
Whe he had finally opened his minds eye....he hadnt been able to stop himself, he had started to sob and cry. The tears had refused to stop falling as he had gazed at his surroundings. That view would never leave his memories.
Because....beyond all illusions and lies, beyond shape and form, at the place where ideas and dreams sat at the heart of every invention.....he had found true beauty.
In the walls built around him, in the chairs he sat in, in the crude toys the other children had built....there was beauty, like a thousand precious gems they twinkled.
Every dream, every emotion, every idea that was carved, crafted, written or sung into existence, he could see them all if he just cared to look. He understood how with just a bit of polishing those ideas could transcend their own brilliance.
That was when Shirou Emiya decided his future. That was the moment when the boy that had lost everything in THAT fire had found himself.
Because wherever he looked and whatever he saw....was something worth fighting for.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His breathing is heavy and his stance is aggressive. The servant known as Archer glares at the boy in front of him. His words were spoken with the full intent of hurting the fool in front of him. He had wanted nothing more then to show Shirou Emiya just what his future would be.
He expected hate, anger or even pain.
But not pity. Not like that. That man has no right to PITY him. Not someone as broken Shirou Emiya.
So....that is why you cloud your eyes....
His voice is soft. The boy is really pitying him. The sheer gall of it makes Archers fury rise even higher.
You have seen so much....so the only way to retain your sanity was to stop looking...
Archer snorts at that.
I did not look in the first place. You should understand, right Emiya Shirou? To walk this road, is to never look back, to keep on clinging to an useless ideal till you die and beyond.
His words are full of scorn but the boy does not react. Saber is looking stricken but the boy just keeps on looking at Archer with those damned eyes filled with pity.
Your pain, it is like a mountain of grief and yet you still endure....you are strong Archer...
This time he cant stop himself. Archer clenches the hilt of Kanshou so hard his knuckles turn white. The anger that has been boiling over already explodes.
SHUT UP. You who still thinks he can save everyone.....could never, should never ever dare to pity me....the only strength I have left...is the one to kill you and end this cursed existence already. Shirou Emiyas life is a life that would be better off not being lived.
He spits the words out and this time the boy does react. The Pity slowly dissappears as Shirou straightens up.
I do understand your pain Archer, more then you would believe. Wherever I look I can see the pain people try to hide. I see all the misery they burrow deep inside their soul.
His defense is non-existent, he should attack the boy now, but Archer holds still. Those last words...he wants to hear them.
but at the same time....I can see their hopes...I can see their dreams....and no matter how dark their secrets are....those precious thoughts...they shine through the darkness. That is all that matters.
Shirous form flickers, for a moment it seems the very air next to him is wavering before flames burst into existence all around the boy.
Saving people....saving everyone I can....helping them to free those thoughts and granting them freedom....its like giving a man sight by removing the blinders in front of his eyes. How could I NOT do it?
The boy stops for a moment to stare at the floor. His words still hanging in the air. When he continues it is in a weak voice, barely more then a whisper, yet more then enough for the two servants.
How cruel must someone be to turn his back and walk away. How dark must a heart be to leave the blinders in place and the man to suffer in his blindness.
When he looks up again there is no pity in his eyes. Only determination. Only strength.
...and what kind of monster would place the binders on and tell the man he is blind?
Next to the two Saber still stares at her master. She has known him only for a short time yet....those words....touch some part of her.
If I can help people beat those monsters...be they human or not...if by doing that I can teach people how to defeat their own monsters...then I will do so...because I can....because I choose to fight the good fight....because I refuse to be a mute witness to the suffering of those around me.
His hand raises and within it there is fire, slowly growing outwards till it takes the shape of a sword.
And if I die because of that choice....then I will have no regrets....I can do no less than try.....
Archer closes in, maybe in a rush because of his slowly depleting reserves, maybe because he does not wish to allow him to finish.
But it does not matter.
Shirou Emiyas voice is loud and clear even over the sound of their swords meeting in a shower of steel and flame.
If only I could do more.
Shirou as a Burster from Psyscape.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They ignore the fire.
No, thats not accurate enough, one of them seems to enjoy it even as he puts his hand into the smoldering remains of a wall, watching the flames dance around his hand.
He smiles pleasently, as if he doesnt even feel the heat and in fact, his skin remains pink and his clothes do not so much as get hot under the fires tender caress.
Quickly, the man is in critical condition.
Hearing the comment the man walks over to the rest of his team, watching as the two survivors they had found are carefully transported away.
The man does indeed look sick.
His face is marred with ashes and sweat, his clothes have burn-marks on them and his breathing is irregular at best.
Not that the child next to him looks much better.
But in stark contrast to the older man the boy is healing.
Right under their astonished eyes the childs complexion is getting better and his wounds are closing.
Psionics...or magic, one or both, he theorizes. Did the child do it himself? Or did that man use some kind of spell on it?
Does it matter?
The child is safe for now and if they are quick the man will survive too.
He nods to the last of his companions, giving him the signal to open the portal, glad to leave the ruins of this place behind him. They had searched the place for hours but had found nothing but corpses.
If they hadnt stumbled upon those two they wouldnt have been able to save anyone.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
He throws one last look at the dying fire around him before entering the portal, having waited for everyone else to cross it before him.
If only we could have done more....
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Shirou is burning.
His body, his clothes, his very soul, everything is burning.
It feels...nice.
The flames that dance around his body are his own. Completely. Utterly. From the moment they burst into existence to the moment he puts them out with but a single thought.
They are his shield, they are his weapon.
It is both and neither. The strange duality of fire. Creator and Destroyer. Defense and Offense. It is a feeling he can not describe. Not that he has to. The people he would care to inform do not need to hear his words to understand.
Like they had opened his third eye so had they opened their own a long time ago.
They had shown him the world.
Before the gaze of his minds eye nothing was hidden.
The Truth was there, everywhere around him, wherever he would care to look and he could not escape, even if he had wanted to.
He grins at that thought. Back then he had been scared. Scared by the thought of seeing the world like this. Scared of seeing all the evil the world was filled with. He had been terrified by the thought of not being ignorant of it anymore.
Whe he had finally opened his minds eye....he hadnt been able to stop himself, he had started to sob and cry. The tears had refused to stop falling as he had gazed at his surroundings. That view would never leave his memories.
Because....beyond all illusions and lies, beyond shape and form, at the place where ideas and dreams sat at the heart of every invention.....he had found true beauty.
In the walls built around him, in the chairs he sat in, in the crude toys the other children had built....there was beauty, like a thousand precious gems they twinkled.
Every dream, every emotion, every idea that was carved, crafted, written or sung into existence, he could see them all if he just cared to look. He understood how with just a bit of polishing those ideas could transcend their own brilliance.
That was when Shirou Emiya decided his future. That was the moment when the boy that had lost everything in THAT fire had found himself.
Because wherever he looked and whatever he saw....was something worth fighting for.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
His breathing is heavy and his stance is aggressive. The servant known as Archer glares at the boy in front of him. His words were spoken with the full intent of hurting the fool in front of him. He had wanted nothing more then to show Shirou Emiya just what his future would be.
He expected hate, anger or even pain.
But not pity. Not like that. That man has no right to PITY him. Not someone as broken Shirou Emiya.
So....that is why you cloud your eyes....
His voice is soft. The boy is really pitying him. The sheer gall of it makes Archers fury rise even higher.
You have seen so much....so the only way to retain your sanity was to stop looking...
Archer snorts at that.
I did not look in the first place. You should understand, right Emiya Shirou? To walk this road, is to never look back, to keep on clinging to an useless ideal till you die and beyond.
His words are full of scorn but the boy does not react. Saber is looking stricken but the boy just keeps on looking at Archer with those damned eyes filled with pity.
Your pain, it is like a mountain of grief and yet you still endure....you are strong Archer...
This time he cant stop himself. Archer clenches the hilt of Kanshou so hard his knuckles turn white. The anger that has been boiling over already explodes.
SHUT UP. You who still thinks he can save everyone.....could never, should never ever dare to pity me....the only strength I have left...is the one to kill you and end this cursed existence already. Shirou Emiyas life is a life that would be better off not being lived.
He spits the words out and this time the boy does react. The Pity slowly dissappears as Shirou straightens up.
I do understand your pain Archer, more then you would believe. Wherever I look I can see the pain people try to hide. I see all the misery they burrow deep inside their soul.
His defense is non-existent, he should attack the boy now, but Archer holds still. Those last words...he wants to hear them.
but at the same time....I can see their hopes...I can see their dreams....and no matter how dark their secrets are....those precious thoughts...they shine through the darkness. That is all that matters.
Shirous form flickers, for a moment it seems the very air next to him is wavering before flames burst into existence all around the boy.
Saving people....saving everyone I can....helping them to free those thoughts and granting them freedom....its like giving a man sight by removing the blinders in front of his eyes. How could I NOT do it?
The boy stops for a moment to stare at the floor. His words still hanging in the air. When he continues it is in a weak voice, barely more then a whisper, yet more then enough for the two servants.
How cruel must someone be to turn his back and walk away. How dark must a heart be to leave the blinders in place and the man to suffer in his blindness.
When he looks up again there is no pity in his eyes. Only determination. Only strength.
...and what kind of monster would place the binders on and tell the man he is blind?
Next to the two Saber still stares at her master. She has known him only for a short time yet....those words....touch some part of her.
If I can help people beat those monsters...be they human or not...if by doing that I can teach people how to defeat their own monsters...then I will do so...because I can....because I choose to fight the good fight....because I refuse to be a mute witness to the suffering of those around me.
His hand raises and within it there is fire, slowly growing outwards till it takes the shape of a sword.
And if I die because of that choice....then I will have no regrets....I can do no less than try.....
Archer closes in, maybe in a rush because of his slowly depleting reserves, maybe because he does not wish to allow him to finish.
But it does not matter.
Shirou Emiyas voice is loud and clear even over the sound of their swords meeting in a shower of steel and flame.
If only I could do more.
Interesting. And touching.
This seems to be a Shirou that is.. well, his ideal is sort of "doing good for goodness sake," but somehow it seems less... naive? then canonShirou. He has a sort of Zen-like air to him.
I wonder how the encounter with Lancer went, if it did happen?
And I really want to see the meeting of, and clash(es) with, Kotomine Kirei. That man seems to be the polar opposite of Shirou--doing evil because he can, because he wants to, because it is his nature. (Appeal to Nature; a bullshit excuse. Because you can or want to, doesn't mean you should.)
The encounter(s) with Matou's would also be really something else...
What would this Shirou think of Rider, Alexander, from Fate/Zero? Gilgamesh? Hmm..
This seems to be a Shirou that is.. well, his ideal is sort of "doing good for goodness sake," but somehow it seems less... naive? then canonShirou. He has a sort of Zen-like air to him.
I wonder how the encounter with Lancer went, if it did happen?
And I really want to see the meeting of, and clash(es) with, Kotomine Kirei. That man seems to be the polar opposite of Shirou--doing evil because he can, because he wants to, because it is his nature. (Appeal to Nature; a bullshit excuse. Because you can or want to, doesn't mean you should.)
The encounter(s) with Matou's would also be really something else...
What would this Shirou think of Rider, Alexander, from Fate/Zero? Gilgamesh? Hmm..
Zen-like is nice way of saying it.
I have to admit I really like the way of thinking of the Psyscape heroes so I used that for Shirou here.
His speech has some parts from Psyscape legends in them. His interaction with the other characters would be interesting yes, simply put because as a warrior of psyscape he really is a hero...of a very special kind.
Of course, this would really change his interaction with Sakura....
I have to admit I really like the way of thinking of the Psyscape heroes so I used that for Shirou here.
His speech has some parts from Psyscape legends in them. His interaction with the other characters would be interesting yes, simply put because as a warrior of psyscape he really is a hero...of a very special kind.
Of course, this would really change his interaction with Sakura....
