Fate/Vagabond Ardor

She rolled her shoulders as more and more of her meager energy returned to her. Oblivious to her Servant's enjoyment of her scents, she turned her body to let her legs rest over the side of the body. "To the average person what we're all a part of could be seen as fantastical as those movies, you know. We may even be the villains of the movie now after what we did, but we'll see how that shakes out," she said with a wry smile, some humor coloring her voice and at least showing she wasn't as shaken as she had been the previous night, at least. "I'm certainly no Peter Parker though," she said, pondering for a time if any of the names from those movies resonated with her in any way. Nothing came to her. American comics were always in short supply in her country, and she was already far from any of the shoujo heroines of her childhood. She had ordered a ghost warrior to murder someone, now thrown a moon tiara at some goofy monster and won the day.

With some difficulty and the hint of a limp she rose from the bed and hobbled over a few steps to the chair the Servant had provided, crashing into it with a grunt and a sigh of relief following soon thereafter. She could see the papers to the side but she ignored them, not needing or wanting to know how the civilian world would mask the opening salvo of a magical war. Still, they had moved fast, which meant the Church was ontop of the situation, as much as they could be after one of their own were brutally killed.
That warrior...

Again she pondered it, its appearance. Wondering who it could be. Where it could be from. Any time a kabuto helm or a katana came to a Japanese person's memory, the history of the Sengoku era hit them like a punch to the gut, but she didn't feel as if she had been in the presence of something as great as the warlords of old, like Date or Nobunaga.

"Kinishinai," she muttered to herself. The spirit didn't matter now.

She rested her face into her palm for a time, a yawn escaping her chest. Finally, she leaned away from her hand.

"Lots of both," she finally replied to her Servant, raising her head to offer him a weak smile. "And explain to me again your plain moving forward if you wouldn't mind, now that I'm not so terrified I can barely think."
 
Lancer watched as the city swept past him in the dim morning light. He chuckled slightly to himself, resting his head against the back window of the truck, his legs stretched out across the bed. In all the commotion, he hadn't had much time to consider exactly what sort of world he was now living in. The information he'd been given by the Grail was still quite jumbled, and he doubted he'd make much headway in deciphering it any time soon. As the waking city passed, though, a small smile crossed his face. This world was an interesting one, if the city was any indication.

Despite the early hour, there was no shortage of activity in the streets. An office worker crossed the sidewalk at a full sprint, nearly spilling the coffee of a disgruntled looking older woman. A pair of tourists staggered back to their hotel, still drunk from the previous night. Everywhere, the lights of shops were flickering on as the day began. There was something about the simple actions of human life that intrigued the Servant, and he quietly lamented that each of them passed by so fast. Were he given the option, he would surely enjoy simply observing the daily lives of Sao Paulo's residents. There was a mild concern within him, though. Surely the modern world should be of interest to a Servant, but it all was a bit too interesting. He wasn't just marveling at the technology or architecture, he was entranced by society itself. He was watching people with an almost feverish level of interest, and he wasn't sure why.

The Servant sighed and shook his head. Perhaps he would understand better later on. Perhaps he wouldn't. Regardless, he had resolved to see what this world and this War had to offer. His eyes occasionally peered through the window at Martin during the ride, but the magus seemed far too focused to pay him much attention. He had perhaps overstepped his bounds with this whole "Master" business, but it could be forgiven. They hadn't exactly had time to finalize any kind of agreement before the interloper had shown up.

Lancer's mind drifted to the peculiar wraith and its Master. He had no doubt they would encounter the pair again at some point. Somehow, he was looking forward to it. In addition, there were apparently other Servants in the city to be considered. For a moment, the white-haired Servant wondered whether any of the summonings had gone according to plan. The wraith clearly wasn't ordinary, and he was still convinced he himself was some sort of mistake. With what he had observed thus far, he strongly doubted there was any sort of rhyme or reason to this strange game they were caught up in.

As Martin brought the truck to a halt, Lancer sat up. He nodded as the Magus spoke, chuckling.

"I'm afraid I've got nothing but questions... and frankly, I'm doubtful either of us know the answers to them just yet. But I'll certainly join you for a meal."

The Servant slid over the side of the truck and onto the ground. Noting the dusty and damaged state of his jacket, he removed the crimson garment and tossed it into the back of the truck. Despite this decision, the remainder of his get-up still stood in stark contrast to the citizens around them.

"Alright then Martin, let's find a place to eat. I'll let you decide on the location... if I have any preference for food I can't remember it."

Lancer walked along beside the magus.

"As for questions though, I've got a good one to start: Do you have any explanation for what happened back at the house?"
 
"I'll prepare tea next time," he grinned in response, mixing in equal amounts of sugar and cream until the concoction had reached the very brim of the cup. It'd doubtlessly be a grain-y drink now, more sweetened cream than coffee, but hey, if his Master was that weak to bitter flavors, then she can suffer through a sweet hell as well. As for strategy…

"After some consideration, I doubt the plan of posing as a fake Overseer would be effective now," the fair youth said, "Considering how the Church has other methods of maintaining control over the masses even without their Overseer. My own skills can't alter reality, after all, only minds. Of course, if they maintain a hold over the Church still, then it's very likely that stealing the Grail will be a troublesome endeavor as well. So basically…"

A nonchalant shrug. There was no disappointment on his features as he tossed last night's rather blasphemous suggestions down the trash.

"Of course," he replied, "There's still other leads to follow. The first will be that red-haired man we saw at the Church. I didn't get a good look at his Servant, of course, but his own face? I'm a good enough artist. Could draw a likeness of his face, send it to the police as an anonymous tip, and see if they manage to pick out such a striking man from the crowds."

A bit cruel, a bit underhanded, a bit manipulative, but as far as the assassin was concerned, that man was just an enemy. An enemy with a weapon that did not belong on fields of conquest and steel. His expression darkened for a moment, before he turned next to the papers, flipping through before placing a finger upon an article that spoke of a gas explosion on the outskirts of town, complete with a colored image of the blown-out ruins of a building. Smaller grayscale images, shots taken from the shaky video of that incident, lined the bottom of the picture.

"Then we have this, another explosion that warrants investigation, no doubt from a different individual that sought to draw first blood," he said, "Certainly fits the bill of a Church cover-up, if they're just explaining it as a gas explosion, doesn't it?"

The smile creased his features again.

"Of course, if you want to revel in the victory of our first night a little longer, I'm always down for just…tactically awaiting a fresher opportunity to capitalize upon, Yukari. Got a lotta movies to catch up on, after all."
@MechanicalHorse
 
Martin moved away from the truck for the moment, eyes set on a small convenience store. He'd had time to get ahold of a little local cash, so the current goal was plain.

"Lancer, if there's one thing I've ever learned, its that any conversation of real importance happens over shitty gas station coffee." He thought a moment, smirking to himself, and looked back at the vibrantly standing out red-clad individual. "You uh.. You remember coffee, right?"

He let his eyes wander, looking the Servant up and down, thinking about outer wear, and blending in. He was alright, a tourist for sure, but this guy..

Shit, there was so little he actually understood about the nature of this war that it hurt. The week breifing had been a joke, he'd already known that, but how little he'd actually learned from it hadn't sank in until he'd been ambushed on his first night in Sao Paulo, before the war had even officially begun for him.

They meant to kill me before I could collect myself, and if they didn't kill me they at least wanted to rob me blind.

"What happened back at the house.." Martin mused aloud, as he entered the store, moving quickly to the nearest coffee pot and beginning to pour two large cups of black coffee. He watched it with eyes that were alert to the point of paranoia, and though he was half lost in thought he was whipcorded, ready to react to any sign of danger. "Somebody tried to get the drop on me, a smash and grab seeming bent on knocking me out of the running before the game even officially started."

He knew he could communicate nonverbally with the Lancer, but talking out loud was more soothing, calming the frayed nerves, keeping him focused, helping him get his head in line. The Master (for there was no other thing he could be, despite his apparent status as a non-magician) had asked about the catalyst, the scrap of cloth he'd been hastily provided from some dimly lit underground repository of magical knowlege and learning that would never be tapped into fully by those stuffy old Clock Tower types. He was half surprised it hadn't been sitting in someones desk drawer, pawned off to him like a used hankerchief as it had been.

"It was a sneaky move, but I can't help feeling there's something.." He trailed off, looking around, snatching a few snack cakes and a pair of overstuffed burritos, moving to the counter and spreading the food out. He nodded politely to the individual, but his head still swam, contemplating, considering, analyzing.

Day two, and he already felt like he was in over his head. He hoped like hell that Lancer didn't know how he felt.
 
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"Appreciated," said with a nod to him as he prepared the drink. Her vision, though weak, was keen enough to see the amount he was adding to the drink. Normally picky about what she imbibed, she found herself not caring at all. Maybe it would wake her up, and being more lucid and alert was all she wanted in the days to come she assumed. Relaxing into her seat as much as her tense and tired muscles would let her, she listened to him speak. She felt some odd relief that that plan was out the window. She wasn't religious, performing casual blasphemy didn't perturb her and even if she was, she wasn't raised of that faith in particular. But it was too ornate of a plan and selfishly, she worried that it kept him too far away from her and easy a target. At least, that was how her mind had interpreted the pros and cons of the situation when he first shared the idea. Either way, it was out the window for now...

She had to take some care with the cup he had prepared, some of the fluid spilling over the sides with the slightest motion. Still, she brought it to her lips and took a sip and immediately her eyes widened. Well, she was a bit more awake now. It reminded of powdered nutritional drink, but for someone that wanted to get diabetes instead of try and stem it. She nonetheless drank that first sip down and offered him a weak, bemused smile in reaction to his mixture. "Not a terrible plan, but we can't be sure of his temperament. I don't want want whoever this is to not like any attention he's getting and kill the first cop that knocks at his door. He didn't seem dangerous... but, you know, looking at you I wouldn't say you do either," she joked lightly, taking another sip, clearing her throat with a soft, feminine cough afterwards.

She focused her vision now on the paper he pointed out. Could have been anything, even a gas explosion as explained, but she wasn't a fool. She'd watched enough anime and foreign action movies as a child to know a gas explosion was the de facto excuse to cover up some sort of superhuman exchange that caused damage in a civilian space. "That sounds more my speed. Maybe there's something there can lead us to something else," she said, then smiling a bit more and shaking her head before closing her eyes and bowing her head a little, nursing her too sweet drink before speaking once again.

"If I stay in here too much longer I'll never want to leave and get back to the dirty business ahead. I can't stay passive even if logic supports the decision. I'll get lazy. Sloppier than I already am, if that's possible. Feel free to get in another movie while I get myself cleaned up and ready."
@ERode
 
"I'm sure you can trust your womanly intuition most of the time, Master," Assassin replied, offering a half-smile as he turned to wash the pot and dishes, "After all, my two-faced nature's enough to make me a legend. Doubt our red-haired friend is the same sort of monster here."

Nevertheless, with their plan established, it was more or less time to execute it. Nodding as Yukari decided on investigation instead of defamation, Assassin set himself to the task of checking through maps and ascertaining most cost and time efficient method of reaching the place. The still-paused movie was switched to a 24 hr news channel as well, while he did his own preparations, swapping slim-fitting clothing and an apron for the sloppy sort of suit that one would expect a sleepless police investigator to have. Loosening up his ponytail as well to add to the unruly charm, Yarankash stroked his hairless chin momentarily, wondering if he should go for the 5am shadow as well…but that'd detract from his boyish charm.

Yup, clean but still tired it was.

Now, he'd just have to wait for his master to take the two and a half hours she'd require to get herself all nice and ready for sweating under the Brazilian sun.
 
Lancer smirked.

"I can't say I do, unfortunately. Everything's still a bit jumbled up here."

Lancer tapped his finger tip against his temple with a shrug.

"Nonetheless, I'll try it. Maybe it will bring back some memories."

The Servant chuckled as he followed Martin into the convenience store. He noticed a few bewildered glances, but he supposed that was normal. After all, he didn't exactly fit in, at least not so early in the morning. Perhaps it would be best to seek out some less conspicuous clothing... no, he didn't particularly care that much. Disregarding the stares, he followed Martin around the store, listening to his observations about the previous night.

"I suppose that's a fair observation. I do wonder though, why they were so determined to get their hands on that catalyst. The fellow in the fancy shirt already had a Servant... at least I assume that's what that wraith was. Maybe they needed the catalyst for someone else, in which case I imagine they have some friends somewhere out there..."

Lancer thought for a moment, watching as Martin placed an assortment of items on the counter.

"Speaking of that catalyst, though, do you happen to know who it was meant to summon? At the very least, that might help me to figure out who I might be."

Behind the counter, an old, battered television tried its best to portray the image of a woman detailing the daily news. Amidst the distortion, Lancer caught a line about a local cathedral. He raised an eyebrow at the report, nudging Martin. As the report continued Lancer became more curious. It seemed violence was on the rise in the city... that wasn't strictly related to them, but it certainly wasn't out of the question that it mig-

The last report sealed it. Lancer whistled slightly as the events of the previous night were reported as a "gas explosion". Lancer took his cup of coffee, taking a sip of the dark, bitter liquid.

"Well Martin, it seems ours wasn't the only scuffle last night. If we're looking for answers, we might do best to start with that church."

For some reason, the prospect turned his stomach slightly.

"Or we could look into this 'crime wave', if you've got any idea where to start with that. It wouldn't surprise me if that were related to this whole ordeal as well... but then I don't suppose much would surprise me at this point."

The white-haired man took a deep drink from his coffee and looked at Martin for an answer.
 
"I'm thinking we go to the house of the Big Man," Martin said, handing his cash off to the attendant and heading for the door in a hurry, sipping on that coffee. Hot, maybe a bit too hot, but the burning sensation on his tongue simultaneously felt muted, yet brought things back into focus. He needed rest, but he'd find a motel to sleep in soon enough, after he dug up some answers.

Back out in the sun, Martin lead the way back to the truck, leaning back against the passenger side door.

"The catalyst.. Hmm. That was part of my 'Good luck in the wars' kit that I got kicked out the door with. If I had to guess.." He scratched his chin, looking out and down the road, toward the city. "Considering where they supposedly pulled that scrap out of, I'd wager it was a Saint, though.." He shrugged sheepishly, continuing to sip on the burning coffee with a grin, "I can't say I know who. When we next find a phone, I've got a few calls I need to make."

He opened the passenger side door, sliding across the bench seat, leaving the door open for his Servant. Servant, Lancer, so many titles, no actual name..

"Are you opposed to me, ah.. Giving you a name? So I can stop using offensively formal titles?" The truck rumbled to life as Martin turned the key. "I've had a few thoughts about it whilst we were driving, and I think it would be easier for you to have some way of introducing yourself. How's Redmond sound? Red for short." He wasn't sure if he was trying to be clever, or had really reached the end of his rope, but the statement was already out there. He waited, somewhat apprehensively for the response, beginning to unwrap his food.
 
"The... Big Man?"

Lancer raised an eyebrow for a moment, not quite placing what 'Big Man' had been spoken of in the news report. He wracked his brain for a moment, trying to find any piece of non-scrambled information that might elucidate the situation. There hadn't been any leader of the mentioned crime wave, and their only other option was the cathe- Oh.

"Oh. You mean THE Big Man. That one. Right. Sure, we can start there."

Something in Lancer still felt a bit sick at the idea, though he wasn't sure why as he followed Martin out of the convenience store and back to the truck.

The Servant listened intently as Martin described his catalyst. As he spoke, Lancer's earliest memories from the time of his summoning came rushing back. He recalled the otherworldly voice that had called out. "Saint." had certainly been one of its cryptic statements, though what had followed had suggested some... problems in find what it was looking for.

"A Saint you say? Well, now that you mention it... while I was being summoned, I heard a voice. Whether it came from the Grail or somewhere else I'm not sure, but it seemed to be calling for a Saint. There were some other things, too. Pictures, of sorts. There was a spear, a hill, and... and a... cross."

An expression crossed the Servant's face as though he had pieced something together. Again, he felt uncomfortable, but he wasn't sure why.

"Anyway, this voice also mentioned something about two gates being opened and the Saint being lost. Maybe someone else tried to summon the same fellow you did. But after that the voice seemed to reverse its decision. It apparently decided on summoning something different... the words 'blasphemer' and 'heretic' may or may not have been used. If that were referring to me, I'm afraid I don't quite qualify for sainthood. Sorry for the disappointment."

Lancer slid into the truck beside Martin and took a sip of his coffee with a smirk.

"If that's the case though, I believe I have the answer for why my stomach feels sick every time we mention this church. That's a real relief though, I was beginning to worry it might be the coffee. Not to worry though, I'll contain myself. Let's get going."

Lancer took another sip, shutting the truck door and nodding as Martin decided upon his nickname.

"Hmm. Red is fine, certainly. If the suit is any indication, I suppose it might've been my favorite color. Red it is then."

The truck roared to life and soon the two of them were heading toward their aforementioned destination.

"So you mentioned someone gave you a kit for this war. I've been so caught up in trying to figure out who I might be that I forgot to ask about yourself. Where did you come from, Martin? How'd you get mixed up in this spectacle?"

In time, and after consulting a few street signs, the truck rolled into a parking spot near their destination. The sight of the cathedral gave Lancer a sense of impending dread, but he pushed the disturbance aside as best as he could.
 
São Paulo Metropolitan Cathedral​

The cathedral grounds were dead when they arrived. Pedestrians trickled by the sidewalks ringing the compound but despite the lack of so much as a fence around the wide open plaza, not a soul dared tread under the imposing building's fast growing shadow. Its aura of dread seemingly not limited to just passing Lancers, the faded stone facade stood alone between the rows of palms leading up to the entrance. The recessed doorways were all closed, wooden doors adorned with single sheets of printer paper illegible to human eyes at a distance but bearing notice of the establishment's unfortunate incident and the extension of its current closure. If there had been a police presence around the building it was in unmarked form, as nothing more official than a token crossing guard in his reflective vest could be seen in the surrounding streets.

Clearer still than the uncanny stillness that gripped the holy grounds was something that both Servant and Master were keen to feel: The presence of the grail, the voices in their dreams, the power that bound spirits to Earth and called wanting Magi to contest. With the building abandoned and unlit and a "Sorry we're closed," written on a sheet of A4 paper on the door, there could be little doubt that this was the seat of the war, if not the office of the Overseer.

As Lancer and his Master looked over the empty field the silence finally broke as another party arrived at the cathedral, a white van mostly painted over with a lively advertisement that read "Magia Clean! Soluções totais de limpeza!" A quartet of people in coveralls left the van toting mops, buckets, and a heaping armful of white bottles full of harmful substances. Brightly clad, and the only human beings to walk the grounds, they cut a conspicuous path making indiscernible banter between themselves on the way to the door.

Miraculously, the cathedral's main doors swung open to meet them. A man in black robes emerged from within, his clothing devoid of symbols of office and, at a glance, even those of faith. There was no mistaking his clerical collar though. He ushered them in with a broad wave of his hand, the doorway seeming to shimmer in the growing heat haze as each of the cleaning party entered the building. The new priest spared only a passing glance out at his parking lot before lofting the door closed, and returning the impression of quiet abandonment to God's house.

@ArmoredScout
@DrowsyPangolin
 
To Yukari's credit, she took two hours. And most of that time was spent in the shower getting every single emotion she could out so she could function in whatever might happen in this new day. It felt relaxing to sit there in the rather spacious shower and just soak in the cold water for a time, letting every negative thought about the situation that had controlled her yesterday enter her mind, and leave out of her eyes. This was the world she had wanted to be a part of. She had found nothing but comfort and friendship with the Organization, when she had expected to be put through the ringer and become stronger. if the leader of Yggdmillenia had any motives, and grand schemes like she had heard he might, she was never privy to them. Afternoons were spent in European cafes with her new friends, young men and women who like her, no longer had a clan or family to call their own and just wanted a place to belong.

But like her grandfather before her, Yukari wanted something more. A normal life had been stolen from her with her parents death, and left her wanting. Grandpa had his trip to Valhalla stolen by two bombs, and he spent the rest of his life punching thugs and rearing a family. She hoped that in raising her, and her father before her, he had found something there, something to make that long life worthwhile even if he hadn't died atop a pile of American corpses on the beaches of Honshu.

Why can't you stop, Yukari? Be your own woman. Let your grandfather and your family go, let the past go, she would plead to herself often, and she had asked herself on the hour every hour since she summoned Assassin the previous day. The answer every time, without emotion and as if a statement of the facts, was 'I cannot'.

An hour had passed in the shower, and only twenty minutes of that had been spent actually cleaning herself. She slapped her cold cheeks, loud enough the Assassin outside might hear, and was done.

She left the bathroom wrapped in a towel, walking a bit more surely, no longer limping as if she were weak and injured as she had the previous day. She felt some confidence now, but time would tell how long that would last. Sitting herself down on the suite's bed, she lowered her upper body and with a second towel began to dry her shoulder length hair. As she did this, she spared attention to her Servant and finally spoke "It mustn't rankle you much, me being such a damsel. You come from a far less progressive time," she said with some humor in her voice, throwing the moist towel aside, rising from the bed and approaching her suitcase, popping it open and beginning to rummage through it.

"I'm sure I threw a volley of apologies for my uselessness last night as I sobbed in your arms, coming to grips with what we're doing. But before we go out today, I want to say again... I'm sorry. Fetishists of my culture think us drawn from a lineage of proud warriors, but we're as weak as any modern society when it comes down to it. Killing is forgein to almost all of us that live in the so-called 'first world', but it was a matter of fact to people of your time, yes? And to most mages, I expect. My grandfather lived through the last, greatest conflict this world suffered, and he killed so many people I'm sure, but was still the loveliest man I've ever known. You too, have killed many, but you seem just as lovely. But you can wear many masks," she said, again a joke as she let her towel drop to the floor, beginning to dress in full view of the Assassin. She might have kept herself hidden while dressing yesterday, but in this post shower zen state she felt, embarrassment over a ghost warrior seeing her nudity was beyond her care.

Her awkward posture thanks to her disability made her look anything but 'sexy' or the like, but she was still a handsome woman that took care of herself as best she could. Her underwear choice matched her frumpy posturing, plain white cotton underwear that was soon covered by, thankfully, not a repeat of the gaudy tourist wear she wore the previous night. That would make her too visible to anyone who had been present or watching the Cathedral the previous night. It was a black suit, quite fashionable really, which didn't really fit her gaunt and tired face, but it felt fitting in the moment. There was some difficulty getting it on, but she did not ask for help tightening the belt or buttoning herself up. Though she spent her childhood bemoaning it like a silly girl, she was quite happy now as an adult her chest size was on the smaller side, as getting a bra on was a nightmare with her fumbling fingers.

Dressed, she sat herself down back on the bed and slipped black socks on, reaching for her shoes after. "Did you know any women of strength in your time alive? A warrior, or a woman that commanded respect?"

@ERode
 
To Yarankash's credit, he didn't flinch at all when Yukari reappeared, spouting lines that sounded like half-insults or just really bad jokes while wearing nothing but a bunch of bath towels. All that hinted at any emotional distress, however, was the tips of his ears turning slightly red. He may be a Servant, but he was once also a slave, trusted enough by the atabeg to attend to his many mistresses when they prepared themselves for a night with the warlord. So he kept his 'blood' slow and his 'flesh' cold, looking at Yukari and yet not looking at her as she prepared for the day, her words melting like snow against his increasingly warm mind.

"Haha, I guess it's the fate of one whose legend is so obscure, but not all Assassins gain their notoriety through the number of men they've slain, Master," Yarankash began, turning away to close the TV, "Though I suppose it's just technicalities in the end, I've made my way into the Throne of Heroes with only one kill, and I know many who don't ever become accustomed to the act of taking a life even after doing it so many times. So truly, there's no need to apologize. These aren't things anyone should grow accustomed to."

"Also," Yarankash bent over to pick up the discarded towel, folding it over the back of a chair to hang dry, "Those fetishists are called weeaboos. We had delusional fellows back in my time as well, and the only real difference is that we've lived closer to death than you…even if we haven't lost as many."

But then there came the sharper question, the one that was ten times heavier than how easily Yukari said it. Yarankash pursed his lips together slightly, dark eyes sliding off to the window and the modern cityscape after that. "Well," he turned back to Yukari, "That's a pretty rough question. I was born too early to meet Joan of Arc, and born too late to meet Hrotsvitha of Gandersheim, and as popular as I was, a slave doesn't have much place on pilgrimages or battlefields alike, so really…"

He winked then, heading for the door. "Not too many chances to mingle with the singles, you know? Let's get going, Master. Gotta snatch up information before someone else silences it, right?"
@MechanicalHorse
 
Martin pulled the truck to a halt, leaving the radio playing, phone absently tossed into the middle of the bench seat, the overly long aux cord pooled around it. He looked up to the church, admiring the structure, and attempting to drown his concerns.

"I come a long way from here, the place is called America. A fledgling place with little magical background, but our family has perservered for some time. I was sent from my home to study at a place of great prestige, and while I was there.." He trailed off, thinking to himself. The odds! It still dwarfed him that of any worthy body in that school, HE had been picked, the nobody, the barely-hanging-on.

It is the Path. The Path endures, and as long as it endures so shall I. We support each other.

"While I was there, I was chosen for this.. Conflict." He disliked the idea of it being referred to as a war. While the holdings being fought over were immense, the scale was all wrong. War was a pretty name for a short and relatively bloodless set of skirmishes.

He cast his eyes back to the church, shutting the truck off, and watching the Cleaners make their way up to the doors.. And how quickly the doors flung themselves open, to receive them. Almost coreographed. Naturally not having much else to go on, Martin carefully eased himself from the seat of the truck, still exhausted from the nights events, and leaned over to Red.

"Looks like someones home. I think it's time for a few answers, wouldn't you agree?"

Without waiting for a reply, he snatched up his phone and began to casually amble his way up to the church doors, truck door slamming shut behind him. With hands in his pockets, whistling a quiet tune, he must've seemed to passerby a strung out partygoing tourist heading for weekday confession.

Suits me fine.
 
Lancer squinted at the cathedral doors as Martin explained his origins, nodding along, but lightly tapping his fingers against his knee.

"America, you say? Can't say the name rings any bells but... let's see... that'd be... the Northern one right?"

Even the basic geographical information the Grail had given was difficult to make sense of in its jumbled state, but Red was able to determine that there were, in fact, two American continents, the one they were in at the moment and another to the north. Martin didn't seem to be terribly familiar with the area, so the latter seemed more likely.

As the cleaners approached the door, Lancer leaned forward in his seat, watching as they passed inside. The robed man that opened the door, though, was of much more interest. Something about him seemed out of place, though the amnesiac Servant couldn't tell what that might be.

As Martin suggested they go inside, Lancer gulped down the last of his coffee and took a deep breath.

"Right then. Answers would certainly be nice."

As the pair of them exited the truck, Lancer felt the sense of dread crash down on him with a resounding weight. Something inside of him was screaming that he wasn't supposed to be here. The reaction, of course, brought no explanation with it.

The red-clad Servant walked side by side with Martin toward the door, the dread becoming heavier and more sickening with every step. As they reached the doors, though, Lancer smiled.

"Let's see what we can find out. I think I'll knock. After last night I think I've decided kicking down doors to be a messy business."

He reached out his hand, giving a brisk knock on the wide doors, steadying his breathing.
 
She made the finishing touches on her attire as she listened to his response, channelning her energies to stand herself upright, to soothe her weak nerves and keep them strong. She let out a sigh, patting down the front of her suit as she look to him with a wry smile. "Quality of the act over the quantity of the act, maybe. I wonder if the assassins of Western presidents reside in the Throne, as surely they were heroes to someone at the time. The man who started the first world war... it's a wonder, really. If the pressures of a magical war weren't raging, a lot more time would be able to be spent studying the cause, effect, and makeup of the so-called Throne," she mused, stepping towards him, and finally past him. "Those luxuries aren't for us, as curious as I am."

She let out a light giggle as he continued, once more surprised by the information the Throne gave him upon his arrival, if he hadn't just happened to look it up in the bits of slow time since his summoning not even yet a day previous. "I haven't heard that term spoken before, just typed over the internet. Quite something to hear vocalised, and by a ghost of history no-less. I wonder what it would be like to hear Nobunaga or the like say something silly like that," she said, letting out a sigh, still smiling. She was well and truly relaxed, and happy that he didn't have a lengthy answer to his question about the women of the past. It was time to focus on the present, Kamei.

"Well, hopefully now I can show you one Assassin. I'm quite tired of cowering, and I didn't pack enough clean clothing to do nothing but sweat and shiver in them," she said, reaching for the knob and turning. "Let's go."

And go they did.

Once more out into new grounds, her powers of intelligence were far weaker than they expected they'd be. She had no time to scout, no time to prepare. It was because of this that it was a blessing she had been given the class she was. A Servant perfect for both of those needs that she felt suddenly bereft of. It was a long walk to the explosion site as well, and since she didn't feel comfortable with the public transportation, since she had no idea where anything was in general, she was thankful she had been given that time to rest and recoup her energies. If she had to hobble along the the entire way to the site, she would have been too tired to function, doubly so if anything awaited them there.

By the time they grew close she was of course, a sweaty mess again. The kind of humidity was similar yet so different from the swampy feeling of heated Tokyo days, and she just wasn't used to it, especially after so much time spent in European highlands. "Do you sense anything off yet, Assassin?" She asked, raising a hand to wipe her brow. "Going by the map we're pretty close," she said, a folded map crinkled in her left hand that she had continually been checking, even with Assassin reassuring her that they were on the right path the entire time.
@ERode
 
"I'll be looking forward to it then, Master," Yarankash replied.

But he wouldn't. Not really.

…

In his prana-weld suit and slacks, Yarankash was the very image of a sharp-eyed professional, the slightly dangerous aura coming from his powerful gait indicative of just how much ass he could kick if anyone got in the way of the law. Beside him, even Yukari seemed to benefit from this particular 'cloak' of menace, her slight hobble more indicative of a sign of 'assured vulnerability' rather that 'simple weakness'. Like a blind swordsman perhaps. With that dramatic atmosphere, they strode through the streets, willfully ignored by all others. Of course, all the skills in the world couldn't remove the sweat that built up from wearing such stifling attire in warm weather, but Yarankash was prepared for that as well, offering a bottle of water and a handkerchief as they cooled down beneath the shade.

Scanning over familiar street names that he had memorized the night before, Assassin closed his eyes momentarily to envision his own mental map, before nodding slightly. "Almost there. Can still smell the residue from here, and it's certainly not from natural gas."

A few more steps, and they were there, bearing witness to the full glory of the destruction left from last night.
@MechanicalHorse @Epsir
 
São Paulo Metropolitan Cathedral​

Disappointingly, the doors did not open themselves for Lancer as they had done for the previous guests. As he rapped his hand upon the old wooden door, a conspicuous bootprint still pressed in its surface from Rider's visit, only silence rose to answer him. Not quite apparent to unaided mortal ears but certainly loud enough for a Servant to perceive, his knock echoed on the other side, through the cavernous interior of the abandoned cathedral. Where the din of morning services might have been, there was nothing. Then the noise of feet scraping in the dark. Louder was the clatter of tumbling wood as fragments of destroyed pews were overturned and tossed around on the marble. Metal instruments clicked in between, sounding like the sudden orchestrations of a squadron of terse crickets before all noise died once more.

The eerie feeling of passing Magecraft fell upon the landing, a soft blue glow above the doorway revealing the face of a spectral owl and unmistakably some kind of familiar. It looked from Martin to Lancer sternly, its body still beneath the shoulders as it gave them a once over.
"Servant."
"Servant!"
A handful of voices, each more distant than the last, cast the word between themselves. The owl, looming above the two, hooted softly and fluffed its feathers at the new guests before it submerged back into the stonework. A beat of silence passed before a loud knock resounded from within the door itself. The wood shook slightly on its hinges before the main doors, slowly, opened in on dimness. Lights flickered in the blackened recesses of the cathedral, haunting beams of crimson dancing subtly through the motes of dust as red dots traced across the floor and hovered before the feet of the newcomers.

Two figures stood in the center of it all, one bravely postured in what remained of the aisle, hands aside peacefully as he stared down the newcomers. Bald and dark eyed, he was the priest who had minded the door for the disappeared guests. Behind him, and conspicuously not wearing cleaning company coveralls, sat a man who looked like he should have been dearly uncomfortable in the Sao Paulo heat. Perched against a cracked column, he wore a darkly colored coat and bundled himself in a scarf. A frail looking face turned up to the newcomers, dainty features hidden behind a pair of round spectacles. He spoke before the father, voice brittle.

"State your business or begone. The Association will offer no sanctuary while the war is adjudicated."



Martin's House​

The glory, as it turned out, laid not in what was left but in what was gone. Shells of moderate opulence, single story homes bloomed in relative comfort that far out from the city, with luxuries foregone in the urban environment taken for granted. Green lawns separated each lot. Shingled roofs gave a reinforced character lacking from the cinder block flattops of the favela. Palm trees rose from artfully distributed mounds upon lawns, with hedgerows joining them to form little bulwarks of privacy. Modern, paneled siding was common, but as a district of vacation homes some had been built with more care than normal in the cookie-cutter residential suburbs of the city. Then, there was Martin's place. As Team Assassin drew into view, the extra large gap between two of those totems of middle class lifestyle unfolded into a diorama of carnage. Almost upon the neat divide between lots, the grass had been flattened in an abstract circular pattern, emanating outwards from the blackened, skeletal remains of what could have been a house, if one guessed. Some of the trees had been snapped in their upper extremities, the more pliant specimens bent or still smoldering where the blast had touched them. Closer to the house the lawn had been browned or even scorched away, culminating in the crater that was once the front porch. The chunks of slag shrapnel laying around, long melted remains of some metallic construct, made the entire jagged affair look more like an artillery crater than a Brazilian lawn. Support beams were twisted into unrecognizability, seared by the flames which had torn or bubbled away the interior walls and left the sturdier outside to collapse on itself. The tallest things left standing were the inspectors, a couple ghostly figures in gray-blue police fatigues drifting around inside of the house and lazily shuffling the useless 'evidence' they had been punished with collecting.

It was obviously about to be the end of the night shift for the folks gathered at the cordon. Only one token officer of the law stood watch around the ring of yellow tape erected at the property lines, gruffly waving people off when the neighborhood kids loitered too long or one of the neighbors demanded to know what happened. Beyond him, a slim cadre of uniformed officers were watched over by a more casually dressed detective, easily picked out by his sunglasses. A single patrol car was parked nearby, its white chassis emblazoned with the black-gray-orange shock of the city's police department. The few who were working did so out of the back of a van situated directly in front of it, that vehicle left in plain white, with what no doubt amounted to "Crime Scene Unit" written underneath the department seal.

The officer on duty seemed to pay little mind to the new guests, offering a respectful tip of his cap to what appeared to be a smartly dressed investigator and his slightly limping company as they approached the cordon.
 
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