#Ms. Canales left an impression in me if you will

[thedevilsfamiliar]

You ever remember something that happened in your childhood and go, “huh, what was fucked up, why would the adult in my life do that?”

I was in 5th grade and taking notes while my new science teacher taught her lecture. She screamed at me for taking notes, took my journal from my hands, and then showed it to the entire class and asked if I was dumb for not remembering the metamorphosis life cycle. I just wanted to take notes.

I wonder what made her be kind to me from then on, I’m like pretty sure I didn’t report her. But she changed her tune at some point and I can’t remember why.

Lmao maybe she finally read her paperwork and saw I was a “special” student. /s

[amor-immortalem]

Can I Stay Up Here With You Forever ch. 16

Previous

Warning: child birth and all that comes with it

Taglist: @mediocredective @it-hurts-when-i-blink @ima-simp-uwu @luckyauthorlampknight @miactie

With the new house for Arella and Mammon found, Lucifer set to work on packing up the items in his brother’s room and moving the furniture in there over to the new house. He left Mammon’s bed in case there was ever a circumstance where he would need to spend the night with them although Lucifer doubts he would ever consider coming back home.

These past few months, the House of Lamentation has never felt colder or more eerie with his brothers up in the human realm. Ever since he’d had that weekend meeting with Diavolo, Lucifer had done a lot of introspection on his behaviour leading up to Mammon returning to Arella. He really was under the impression that he was protecting his favorite brother- one the brothers that had been with him the longest.

In a way, the Avatar of Pride considered the second-born the family’s rock. He’d always been there without question when it really counted and thinking back to the day Lucifer forcibly brought Mammon home all those months ago, he wondered if he had done a better job at being the eldest- at comforting his little brothers when they needed him most instead of hiding away in his study and drinking himself into a stupor like a coward, if Mammon would have had a better time at controlling himself when it came to his sin. He didn’t deserve a younger brother like that.

As the last of the boxes is taped up, the black-haired demon sighs before using his magic to transport them to the new house. He wouldn’t enter their new house- actually he was planning to go no-contact with Mammon and Arella. It’s the very least he can do after the unbecoming way he’s treated him. If the pair wanted him back in their life, he would allow them to make that decision. Ascending the stairs, Lucifer gives the room a once over in case he had missed anything before flicking off the light and closing the door.

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The months seemed to pass quicker than anyone knew. They were only three weeks out from the day Milli had decided to induce Arella. The baby had grown bigger than he was expected to. There was worry that he would be too big fit through the birth canal and Milli wasn’t as experienced with caesarean sections as she would have liked to be.

She has one last check-up before it all begins, today, her 32-week scan. As they arrived at Milli’s residence, Arella held tightly to Mammon’s hand.

“Are you nervous?” He asks as he gives his human’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“A little bit. What if 35 weeks is too early?” Arella chews her lip nervously, “For humans, 35 weeks is still considered a pre-term birth so what if his lungs aren’t fully developed yet? What if he’s not ready yet?”

“It’ll be okay, Baby. I know he’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

Arella would only nod as Mammon opened the door and walked in. The pair were met with Milli’s assistant who was working reception for the day.

“Welcome,” The young man smiled, “Do you have an appointment today?”

We wouldn’t be here otherwise,” The demon says under his breath while Arella gave him a look.

“Yes,” She nods, “I’m here for my 32-week scan.”

“Family name?” he asked as he looked up her appointment information.

“Thompson,” Arella replies.

“Ah! Here you are. Go on and sit down. Ms. Schumacher’s just finishing up now. She’ll see you in just a few.” The young man goes back to typing away on his desktop computer.

The pair take a seat as they wait.

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“What?” Arella’s eyes widened. “Why can’t Mammon be with me during delivery?”

“Unfortunately,” The witch sighs, “The midwife I work with is incredibly old fashioned. To her, child birth is an extremely sacred rite of passage for a woman. It’s not a space for men.”

“That’s b.s., Mil, ya know that.” Mammon grumbles.

“Of course, I do, but unfortunately she won’t help me if you’re there. It doesn’t matter to her if you’re a powerful demon, according to this woman, you have no place in the birthing room. Think of it this way, Mammon. You need every bit of focus to use that ability of yours to its fullest potential. You can’t do that if you’re busy fussing over Arella. I don’t expect you to be happy with it. If it were up to me, I’d have you there because unlike this decrepit woman, I think its good luck for a baby if both of their parents are with them from the moment they take their first breath. But it’s not up to me. You’re welcome to wait just outside the room, you just can’t be in the room with us.”

Reluctantly the pair nod with Arella shooting her boyfriend a worried look and Mammon just rubs her shoulder. “Are ya scared?”

“A little.” She nods.

“Don’t be.” Milli takes a hold of her hand. “Everything will turn out well for you. The reason I conscripted the help of this specific midwife is because she’s the most experienced with half-demon births. She’s an immortal- granted her status by the Demon King himself for the express of purpose of helping with both magical human and demon births.”

“What do you mean by that?” the Avatar of Greed gives Milli a confused look. “The Devildom only has record of one half-demon ever being born. Are ya sayin’ there have been more?”

“It’s still rare but yes, half-demons are more common than you all have been led to believe. Over the centuries there have maybe been 14 cases of a child born with demonic heritage that lived more than a few hours. Most commonly coming from a witch who desired a child with strong magic since its almost guaranteed that the baby will access to some form of magic. Most of the time it never works out and Mom usually dies in the end. My assistant is actually a half demon- he just doesn’t know it since he’s always suppressed his demonic nature and he was never told by his mother. I took him in off the street after he escaped from some shadow-hunters many years ago. The only reason there’s only been one in the Devildom’s records is because the mothers chose not to report their births.”

“The poor thing,” Arella frowned. “I can’t imagine what that must’ve been horrible for him to go through.”

“I knew there was somethin’ off about that kid. Do you know what court his father hailed from?”

“Pride I believe. But I could be mistaken.” Milli shrugged. There was a buzzing sound from her pager. “I have to go, now. One of my other patients just went into labor. I’ll see you two along with the others in three weeks at the birthing center. Be safe until then.

Mammon and Arella nodded as they turned to put their winter coats on.

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It's been a day since she was induced. Arella had been actively laboring now for about 13 hours. Mammon hates that he can’t be with her during this time but on the flipside of that coin, it’s a blessing in disguise. He’d need all the mental energy he had at the moment to use chance persuasion to its most efficient degree. If he were still an angel and Lucifer or Michael could see the way he was influencing fate, they’d be pulling out all the stops to distract him. But he’s not an angel anymore and there are no laws to stop him from influencing Arella’s chances for survival. He just sat outside the delivery room, lost so deep in concentration that the rest of the world seemed to fade out.

Satan comes across his older brother first, but when he opens his mouth to call out to him, Levi and Asmo are quick to cover his mouth and move him outside of Mammon’s earshot.

“What the hell are you two doing?” The Avatar of Wrath growls at his brothers.

“You can’t distract Mammon right now. This is important.” Asmodeus says sternly.

“He was just sleeping. I was going to wake him up.” Is Satan’s reply, “I don’t know how he can sleep with her crying for him, though.”

Levi and Asmo exchange a look before they realized what’s going on.

“You’ve never seen Mammon actively influencing chance for a desired target before, have you?” Levi asked softly.

“That’s what he’s doing? Influencing the chance that Arella will live?”

“Not just that, but he’s influencing the chances of everything that could go wrong and everything that could go right. That takes so much energy and mental focus which is why none of us can afford to make him lose his attention on the matter.”

Satan just looked down the hall where their brother was settled. “Beel and Belphie have been down there multiple already though, aren’t you worried about them possibly doing the same thing?”

“They’ve just been bringing him food or water.” The third-born remarks, “This has been what hour 13? As powerful as Mammon is, using his powers this long is draining both physically and mentally. He’ll need a few minutes to eat and drink right before going back to it.”

“Is that going to be enough though?” The blonde blinks.

“It has to be,” Asmo says as they leaned against the wall.

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Arella was in tears as painful contractions wracked through her body. She knows she can’t call for Mammon since he’s been barred from the delivery room but all she wanted right now was for her mate to comfort her- to hold her as he reassured her that it was almost over. As she lay in the bed, she thought about what their son would look like as that was the only thing that could really distract her from the pain.

Milli was with her for every minute of it, knowing that she needed some form of moral support.

“You’re doing so well, Arella.” The older woman smiles. “It’s almost over so hold on just a little longer, okay?”

“Mhm” The sound comes out in a pathetic whimper as she looked up at the witch. “I want Mammon. I want him here with me. It hurts.”

“I know.” Milli shushes her, “Would you like me to give you an epidural? It’ll take the pain away.”

Arella nods eagerly before letting out a scream as another contraction squeezes her. It was like her body was trying to push Cyrus out already.

“What’s going on? I need you to talk to me.”

“M-my body... It feels like it’s pushing him out on its own...”

Milli nodded. “Roll on to your back and spread your legs for me.” Milli pushed the blanket back as Arella did what she was told and the midwife came walking in.

“Is it time?” The elderly woman asks as the witch nods. “If you could start getting everything ready for after the birth.

“Already on it.” She says as Milli turns back to Arella.

“Alright, let’s get that baby out of there. On the count of three, I want you to start pushing for five seconds and then we’ll pause for a moment and then start again. Remember push with your contractions, not before.”

Arella nods as she grips the railings on the bed while the witch counts. On three, she lets out a strangled groan.

“Okay, stop.”

“God damn it,” Arella pants, eyes scrunched closed. She takes a moment to push her hair back out of her face before Milli has her start again and even more obscenities fall from her mouth as cries out.

“You’re almost there. Keep going on your next contraction, okay? He’s so close to crowning. You’re doing so well. You can do this.”

The freckled human nods as the next contraction hits and she begins pushing once again.

“There’s his head, I can see it now. Okay so I want you to push a little slower now while the head is coming out.”

“Okay, I can do that,” she’s out of breath, stray strands of hair sticking to her sweaty forehead.

After that, everything felt like it moved too fast. With one last slow push, Cyrus’ head popped out as the rest of his body followed. Milli immediately handed the boy off to the midwife as she cut the umbilical cord and the midwife took the baby to wash him off and assess him for any injuries. She suctioned out the amniotic fluid and the next thing Arella knew she could hear the cries and wailing of her newborn son.

“Congratulations, Mommy. You have a beautiful, healthy, baby boy.” The elderly woman smiles as she holds him up for the new mother to get a better look at her baby before heading back to what she was doing.

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Next

[scapegrace74-blog]

Ginger Snap, Chapter 2

A/N I am breaking probably the only rule I gave myself when I started writing fanfic, which was Don’t Ever Post a WIP.  But lord knows I’m not immune to peer pressure and the narcotic that is reader feedback, so here it is, the second chapter of what is now an open-ended modern AU story about Jamie the Chef and Claire the Kitchen Disaster.  Still a first person Claire POV, so I apologize in advance for any stray pronouns.

For the first chapter, I recommend reading it on Ao3, since I’ve made some minor edits since I first posted it on Tumblr.  See above re. not planning on posting a WIP.

Oh, and funny story.  When I decided to check the location of the real Ginger Snap catering company in Edinburgh, it was squished between “FrazersOnline” and “McKenzie Flooring”.  If that’s not kismet, I don’t know what is.  The location I describe below, however, is based on a catering venue here in Ottawa called Urban Element, where I’ve attended a few team-building events.  I have yet to set anything on fire, though.

I checked my phone for the third time, confirming I wasn’t lost.  

Frank and I moved to Edinburgh over the summer, just in time for him to start his position as Associate Professor of History at the University of Edinburgh. Despite our years spent in America, neither of us cared overmuch for driving, so we chose a flat (or rather, Frank chose a flat and I concurred) not far from campus.  Therefore, this was the first time I’d ventured as far afield as Leith, a maritime enclave just to the north of the capital that couldn’t seem to decide if it wanted to be grittily working class or artistically hip. 

When I finally reached the address, I had to smile.  No main street pretensions or non-descript commercial frontage for Ginger Snap Catering.  Before me stood a two-story red brick fire station, still emblazoned with the crest of the Scottish Fire and Rescue Services.  The two massive truck bays were now enclosed by see-through doors that could be drawn back on a sunny day.  Through these a warm yellow light could be seen, spilling onto the grey, damp pavement.

A petite woman with dark hair manned the small reception area, a red-haired toddler clinging to her like a marsupial.  She held a phone to one ear while simultaneously pacing the polished concrete floor.  I stood as unobtrusively as possible near the door, but in such an open space it was impossible not to overhear her side of the conversation.

“... they willna take ‘im back until ‘is fever goes down...  aye, an hour ago when I picked him up but it hasn’t... nay, i dinna think it’s... tis jus’ terrible timing with two weddings t’morrow... Could ye?  Och, I owe ye Mrs. Fitz, a million times o’er... Anytime, we’ll be here.  Alright, soon.”

The speaker turned to me, the harried look of a working mother sharpening her already honed features.

“I apologize fer keeping ye waiting.  What can I do fer ye t’day?”

Before I could respond, the young boy, probably no older than two, began to fuss, rubbing his flushed cheek against his mother’s shoulder.

“Och, mo ghille, Mam kens ye’re poorly.  Mrs. Fitz is coming as fast as she may.”

Unable to quell my instinct to diagnose and then cure, I spoke up.  

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.  Based on his age and the way he’s holding his head, it may be an ear infection.”  At the woman’s penetrating look, I hastened to explain: “I’m a doctor.  Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

Permission granted, I carefully palpated the boy under the jaw and peered as best I could without an otoscope into the offending ear canal.  Confident in my diagnosis, I recommended treatment with a warm compress, an over-the-counter analgesic ear drop, and children’s paracetamol to control his fever.  If, after twenty-four hours the symptoms had not improved, they could consider seeing his pediatrician for antibiotics, but these were only truly necessary for a persistent infection.

“Och, ye ‘ave no idea what a relief it is tae hear ye say so, lass.  He’s my first bairn, ye ken, an’ I can ne’er tell if I’m over-reacting or being negligent.   Can ye say thank ye tae the nice doctor, Wee Jamie?”

My stomach jumped.  “Wee Jamie?  Is he related by chance to Jamie Fraser?”

“Aye, tis his nephew.  I’m Jamie’s sister, Jenny.  Ye ken my brother, then?”

The pieces fell into place, and my insides settled.

“We’ve spoken before,” I explained.  “I’m Claire Beauchamp.  You and your brother helped me with a dinner party emergency last Tuesday.  I came to return your market bags, and to thank you again for coming to my aid during my hour of need.”

Jenny and I spoke for another ten minutes, sharing the superficial narratives of two strangers brought together by circumstance.  She was warm and thistly by turns, and I felt a longing for the honesty of female friendship that I’d given up when we left Boston.  Eventually a matronly woman arrived to collect Wee Jamie.  I carefully wrote down the exact names and dosages of my prescribed remedy.

After Mrs. Fitz and Wee Jamie had left, it occurred to me that Jenny needed to get back to work.  I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do, even if I hadn’t thanked Jamie himself.   As I began to make my goodbyes, however, Jenny interjected. “If ye’re no’ in a rush, why dinna ye join our afternoon cooking class?  My brother will be demonstrating how tae make quiche.  Tis the least we can do, after ye helped Wee Jamie.”

Which was how I found myself standing behind one of six cooking stations arranged across the fire station’s main area, a bright red apron covering my black slacks and saffron turtleneck.  My impetuous curls were slowly breaking ranks from where I’d slicked them into a bun that morning.  I worried I looked like a human Pez dispenser.

I glanced at the workstation immediately to my left.  A slight woman who I guessed to be roughly my own age was engrossed in her phone, a cheeky smirk playing on her berried lips.  Her strawberry blond hair was swept into an effortless chignon that made me twitch with envy.  She looked up from her screen and caught me looking her way.

“Geillis Duncan,” she said, offering a well-manicured hand.

“Claire Beauchamp.  Pleased to meet you.”

“Is it yer first time taking a class, Claire?”  At my nod, she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially: “Ye’re in for a treat.”

Before I could enquire what she meant, a murmur amongst the other students (all women, save one) was accompanied by the heavy tread of work boots on polished concrete and a familiar Scottish burr.

“Good afternoon, everyone.  Thank ye fer joining me on this dreich Scottish day.  I ken a few of ye are new, so let’s start with a brief overview of yer stations and some basic safety reminders, before we tackle the quiche.”

Today Jamie was wearing a pair of olive pants that tapered down his endless legs and a technical shirt that clung valiantly to his upper body.  He looked like he’d just stepped off the nearest rock climbing pitch.  I wondered if he owned anything that answered to the name of a professional wardrobe, but I couldn’t deny that he looked impressive, in an athleisure sort of way.

“See what I mean?” Geillis hissed at me as Jamie made his way to the front of the hall, speaking now about optimal burner temperatures.  “That man is a dozen kinds of yes.”

I concentrated on each step of the ostensibly simple recipe.  Pie crust had been the previous week’s assignment, so I had only to blind bake the prepared dough already at my workstation.  Once I had the crust centered exactly in the pie pan, pierced with a fork in orderly rows and placed in the oven, I rushed to catch up with the others.  I’d missed Jamie’s instructions regarding pan frying the bacon, so I increased the flame, thinking I could make up a little time.  The fatty meat crackled pleasingly as I set it in the lightly greased pan.  I was inordinately proud of myself.

Things went very badly, very fast.  First, my eyes wouldn’t stop watering as I meticulously peeled then dissected the onion into near-transparent crescents. Tears obscured my vision and I tried to wipe them away without contaminating my hands.  To my left I could make out Geillis skillfully cracking eggs into a glass bowl, her pie crust already elegantly filled with crispy morsels of bacon and caramelized onion bits.  

A vague sense of having forgotten something important tickled my mind.  My pie crust!  Grabbing a silicone glove (I wasn’t making that mistake twice) I rushed to the wall oven and extracted the pan.  Giddy with relief, I saw the dough was only a little dark around the edges.  

Before I could return victorious to my station, Jamie uttered a Scottish noise of alarm from his vantage at the front of the class.   We both rushed across the room to where my rashers of bacon now resembled blackened shoe laces obscured by a heavy veil of smoke.  With practiced ease, Jamie lifted the entire skillet into the adjacent sink and turned on the cold water.  A cloud of steam enveloped his head, highlighting his auburn curls.  I bit my lip as he looked my way in amusement.

“I hope ye werena planning on serving quiche to yer faculty guests t’night, Ms. Beauchamp?”

I stood meekly next to Geillis for the remainder of the class, no longer trusted around open flame without adult supervision.   She graciously allowed me to extract her quiche when it was done baking.  It looked like a magazine cover.  Meanwhile, my workstation looked like the scene of an industrial accident.

While we were waiting for her quiche to cook, Geillis and I got to know each other a little better.  She was a Highland lass from up near Inverness.  Married to a wealthy older man, her life sounded like an endless quest for diversion.  Despite this, or because of it, she had a sharp-witted frankness that I appreciated.  She was also a hard-core gossip.

“Wee besom,” she remarked with a nod towards a blond girl who was currently monopolizing Jamie’s attention with endless questions punctuated by manufactured giggles and flicks of her pin-straight hair.  “Tha’s Laoghaire Mackenzie of the Mackenzie brewing dynasty.  They’ve a live-in cook, so there’s only one reason she attends these classes, and it isna for the quiche.”

I watched Jamie laugh over something the girl said, mineral eyes alight and his perfect white teeth on display.  I suppose I couldn’t blame her.  I wasn’t here for the quiche either.

The interminable ninety minute lesson finally ended.  I thanked Geillis profusely and we exchanged numbers before she rushed off for her reiki treatment.  Gathering my trench coat and purse, I tried to slink away without calling any further attention to myself.

“Ms. Beauchamp!”

I cursed under my breath, then turned to face him.

“Please, call me Claire.  After I nearly burned down your place of business, we should probably be on a first name basis.”

Jamie chuckled. It sounded more natural and lived-in than his earlier response to Laoghaire, but I was likely fooling myself.

“Och, wha’s a cooking demonstration wi’out a wee bit of drama.  Will ye be joining us next week?  We’ll be making ceviche, sae I willna need tae put the fire brigade on stand-by.”

“Bastard,” I replied to his cheeky smirk.  “Alas, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a cook.  It appears to be the one science I can’t master.”

“Cooking isna a science, Claire,” he explained with sincere intensity.  “Tis an art.  Perhaps tha’s the root of yer struggle.”

“Perhaps it is.  But in that case, I may as well give up now.  I haven’t an artistic bone in my body.”

His languorous perusal of said body lit a different kind of flame in my belly.  Geillis was right; he really was a dozen kinds of yes.

“I canna say as I agree.  Come back any time if ye’d like tae try again.”

I blushed, thoroughly discomfited by his blatant flirting.  He knew about Frank.  He’d fled from him onto my fire escape, for Christ’s sake!  Maybe when you looked like James Fraser, every interaction with a woman was merely a chance to hone your craft.  Or maybe he was truly ignorant of his effect.

“I’ll take that under advisement.  Thank you again, Jamie.”

“Until the next time, Arsonist.”

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Brooklyn Lager

This was requested by @thebbtongue with the prompt “Rumor has it, I make you nervous” for our very own Billy Russo. It turned into more of a one-shot than a drabble, and as a companion piece/prequel to The Capsize. Thank you so much for this request, I had a hell of a time writing it, but every minute of it was so much fun! 

Rated: PG (mild language)

Word count: 2143

Tag list: @dylanobrusso @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor@ms-delos @madamrogers @lexxierave @benbarnestongue @yannii04@gollyderek @carlaangel86 @poindexted @maydayfigment @lexxierave

If you’d like to be added to/removed from my tag list, just ask! Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading.

Growing up, you had dreamed of being a lawyer. Your mother had always said she knew you were a spitfire the moment you were born; she’d joke that you were screaming before you were entirely out of the birth canal. As you got older, you’d bat her hand away when it was time to clean your teeth,teeter along on your little legs as fast as you could manage to avoid a bath, and as a teenager, you’d hold a deposition with your father when he grounded you from using the car… and, nine times out of ten,  lessened your month-long punishment to just two weeks. You were destined to practice law. 

One thing you’d never pegged yourself as? A bartender. You hated the smell of cigarette  smoke: it made you nauseous. The bar room looking for help wasn’t exactly what anyone would consider classy, but it wasn’t un-appetizingly seedy either. Your boss was always leering at you. But, he’d also said you were a “young, pretty thing. Flirt with the men and the women, sugar. You’ll make a good living on tips alone.” You hadn’t exactly been to bartending school, but the man only saw dollar signs, cat-eye eyeliner, expensive mascara and plum-painted lips.You dreamed of incarcerating the creep, and you took the job. Now, you just needed to earn those tips. 

And he was right. You made great money for a part-time bartender. But, after a little more than a year and a half of men snapping at you, grabbing your ass, and propositioning you in drunken slurs, you weren’t exactly concerned with the tips anymore. You had absolutely no qualms about putting a man in his place. 

That wasn’t to say you didn’t have regulars. You didn’t bother to get close to them, but you were friendly, flashed them dazzling smiles, leaned over the counter just enough to flaunt a little bit of cleavage. Then, there were those that were toeing the line, the ones who you didn’t have much of a reason to dislike, but steered clear from. And one of those who were balancing all-too-easily on that line? A guy by the name of Billy. 

You never cared enough to get his last name, and he always paid cash, never passing a plastic card your way that would boast a surname. His thick, Brooklyn accent made it obvious that he was a native New Yorker. Walking with a swagger, the man was so self-assured that he leaned precariously just over the line that drew a thick, white, chalky border between confident and cocky. The most annoying part about it all was that it worked for him. Billy was tall, over six feet, with long limbs. He wasn’t what you considered to be skinny-- he had a physique that was obvious through his clothes, muscular pecs, broad shoulders. His face was perfectly symmetrical, features striking, and he had a mega-watt smile that could light the entire city during a blackout. His hair was jet black, and his eyes were just shy of the same shade. You’d made the mistake of catching his eyes once, narrowing your own at the way he looked at you, and it was the first and last time you allowed yourself to become acquainted with Billy’s gaze. 

He always sat at your bar, and he always ordered a Brooklyn lager. Sometimes his beer would be followed by a shot of whiskey or two, amber-colored Maker’s mark thrown back without so much as a grimace. He never deviated from his beer of choice, and he never sat anywhere apart from your bar; he was a creature of habit, downright to the type of women he left with more often than not. From your understanding, he had garnered a bit of a reputation as a womanizer, and that was just one of several reasons you weren’t fond of this Billy fellow. When you saw him walk in, you’d have his drink waiting for him on the bar. There was less interaction that way. He was pretty to look at, but you had tunnel vision: getting your bachelor’s and becoming the best damn lawyer this side of the Hudson.

**.  **.  **

All of your focus was trained on your highlighted, color-coded notes pertaining to Civil Procedure. It had been years since you’d learned how to successfully tune out music and most other potentially distracting surroundings at the bar while you studied. Now, several years into your temporary career as a bartender, you could see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

While you’d found your way around most things being distracting, you’d also picked up tuning your ears into those addressing you. When someone asked for a drink, your senses automatically picked up on it, and the incidents where you had to ask for a customer to repeat themselves were slim to none. 

You were completely absorbed in dizzying, over-complex rules of the filing of a civil lawsuit when you heard a voice directed toward you, but didn’t comprehend the words. Tearing your eyes from the page in front of you, you looked upward to see a slightly familiar face. You tried to place it as you stood upright, your attention fully focused on the man in front of you. Curious eyes roamed over him, first at his three-piece suit, his undoubtedly expensive silk tie, and then at the face, the closely-trimmed beard and slicked back hair. It was his eyes, unsettlingly dark and unnaturally captivating, that clicked the recognition into place, and the face came with a name. 

“Billy,” you spoke in surprise. It had been years since you’d seen the man who favored Brooklyn lager and cheap whiskey, who dressed casually and, with the exception of his pretty face and tall stature, could blend in with any other man with a hankering for a drink. Never had you seen him in a custom three-piece suit, starched collar, and perfectly knotted tie. 

His stature was also different. There was no shadow of a hunch in his shoulders. He stood tall, proud, and commanded attention without speaking a word. His chin was slightly lifted, and as he leaned onto the bar, you found that the cockiness from years prior was still present. You were willing to bet it had grown into full-out arrogance. 

“Billy Russo, founder of Anvil Securities.” 

Your brows arched slightly, projecting just slight interest. “I never even knew your last name, Billy, and here you are giving me your credentials?”

Smirking lazily as he settled onto the bar stool directly across from you, he lifted his chin. “Lieutenant William Russo. Special Forces Marine. Don’t want to skimp on the credentials.”

Usually ready with a number of sarcastic, take-no-bullshit quips, you failed to conjure up a comeback. You hadn’t seen the man in years, and it was because he was likely overseas serving as a fucking Marine. A Marine! You repeated the sentiment to yourself, impressed, surprised, not expecting that to have been the reason behind his prolonged absence. Even still, you hadn’t thought about the man more than twice since his disappearance, never knew a goddamn thing about him besides his liquor preference, and he shows up in a suit that costs more than a college textbooks and wipes your mind clean of snark. 

You turned to reach for a Brooklyn lager- you’d developed an uncanny talent for remembering regulars’ orders- and popped the cap with a pop, setting it on the counter in front of him. He didn’t bother to so much as glance at it, but there was a shadow of a grin at the knowledge that you remembered. “Glenmorangie 18. Neat.”

“A man stumbles upon money and power and his tastes change. Or perhaps it’s just bragging rights and pretension.” You swiped the untouched glass bottle from the counter and opened the scotch, pouring a generous amount into a glass tumbler. “Mr. Russo.” Your voice dripped with sarcasm.

Leaning forward onto the bar, he tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. His attention turned to your lips, lingering for a moment before lifting them to scrutinize your full face. His gaze was penetrating, and his unrelenting stare caused you to clear your throat and busy your hands with swiping a wet towel over the smooth wood of the bar. “Rumor has it, I make you nervous.”

Your hand stilled mid-wipe and you fixed your full attention back to him with an irritated visage. Who did Billy Russo think he was? Yes, he sinfully attractive, very likely filthy rich, and he had to have more women dropping their panties for him now than before. He was powerful, but he had no power over you. Absolutely none. You’d faltered twice, but you were convinced it was because you were distracted; distracted by schoolwork and schoolwork along. Not at all by the recent reappearance of Billy Russo, CEO of Anvil and former U.S. Marine. 

Dropping the dish towel to the side, your expression turned softer. You glanced to the side as if hunting for anyone who may overhear, and you leaned forward with the knowledge that your cleavage would draw his attention. 

“Is that what you heard?” you purred. Your eyes fell to his lips- they looked soft, just plump enough to have the desire to kiss them just to curb a curiosity to know how they felt. “Allow me to debunk that rumor for you, Lieutenant.”

Billy’s eyes remained unreadable, steady. His even expression stayed cool and unaffected. His very obvious sense of pride and grandiosity did not falter. Even so, there was an added something about Billy in that moment that made you very aware that he was viewing you as a challenge, and Billy wasn’t accustomed to being challenged. Daring to look into his eyes, you steeled yourself. They were one shade shy of being black, and there was a fire burning deep within them. He looked away first, raising his glass to gulp back the last of his scotch. He licked the last of the liquor from his lips and drank in the sight of you with one swift sweep of his eyes- up and down- then back to your face. 

This asshole just undressed me with his eyes. You simply raised one brow, letting him know you’d witnessed the way he looked at you. Reaching across the bar, you picked up the empty glass tumbler from the counter before him and you refilled it with his expensive scotch of choice. You decided that, as apathetic as you were certain you felt about Billy Russo, you liked him a lot better when he drank Brooklyn lager, not as arrogant, little to no self-importance. 

As much as you hated to admit it to yourself, this new incarnation of Billy knew how to play the game. And that was exactly what he was doing; he was playing Risk and Trouble with an obvious avoidance of Sorry. It was a tug-of-war, a push-and-pull, yet his physical strength couldn’t save him. Who was the cat? Who was the mouse? 

You were keen to leave Billy to his own devices, to his stupidly expensive scotch and inflated sense of self. The bar was fairly slow, just a few stragglers arriving every now and again. With Billy out of your hair, you could get more studying done, but before you could look back to your notes, his voice interrupted your train of thought. Closing your eyes briefly, you turned as he said your name and faced him and the otherwise unoccupied bar. You simply quirked your brow. 

“Go out with me.” 

You blinked in response, a shake of your head following. He was an all-around prick: was he crazy, too? When your initial shock wore off, you couldn’t help but laugh. What had given him any semblance of an idea that you were interested? 

“No chance in hell, Billy.” 

He brought his glass to his lips, that unaffected look never leaving his face. It pissed you off, the level of coolness he projected. The amber liquid left in his glass rocked inside, rippling like a series of waves before stilling. Standing from his previously occupied stool— thank fuck— Billy reached into his back pocket, withdrawing his wallet. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, long fingers transferring far too many bills from his wallet to the counter top. 

“Tuesday night, 10pm.” He nodded his head towards you, giving you no time to speak, and you realized his eyes were biting into yours again. “See you then, Y/N.”

You watched Billy saunter through the bar and out the door, paying no attention to any other patron that may look his way. Your nostrils flared in annoyance and you finally turned back to your textbook, but the words strung together into sentences evaded you. 

[brokasteltranslations]

Fate/Requiem: Chapter 1

Once upon a time, there was a great war. It happened long ago, before I was born. And then it ended, and the world entered an age of peace.

–

In the modern era, each and every person held within their heart a tiny Holy Grail, which was nothing more or less than that person's preordained destiny. And each and every person was capable of summoning a Servant allotted them by fate, in accordance with the guidance of the Grail.

Servants were an information resource by nature, accumulated throughout human history. Their souls were enshrined in the Throne of Heroes, a place which transcended the bounds of space and time. By 'downloading' them from this Throne, it was possible to manifest them in our world.

–

The shape of the world changed greatly after the war. This town was born anew - reorganised into city units, known collectively as Mosaic City. Among them was Akihabara, the Maritime City, which I called home. Sea levels had risen dramatically as a result of global warming, and now the city quite literally bordered on the ocean. The Kanda river's name was nothing more than a vestige of the pre-war era; in reality, it was nothing more than a canal through which sea water flowed.

–

This town was watched over by the Holy Grail, and not a day went by when its citizens did not partake of its bounties. Those survivors from before the war had been given the opportunity to obtain a Grail upon its conclusion, while those young enough to have been born after the war, like Karin, possessed one within their hearts from birth.

The Grail had brought immortality to the masses. The principal causes of death in the old world – biological factors such as ageing, genetic degradation, infectious diseases, viruses and malignant cancers – had all been conquered. By expending Command Seals, one could even manipulate their biological age. In this city, one of humanity's oldest, dearest wishes – eternal youth – had been realised.

–

But I was different. I alone stood apart. I was the only citizen of this city who had not been granted a Holy Grail. I had been born into this new world, but I would age naturally – and, eventually, die – with all the senselessness characteristic of the old. An irregularity, born outside of the sight of the Grail. That was what I was – me, Utsumi Erice.

With no Holy Grail, I had no Servant to contract with as my partner. Every once in a while, someone would be unable to stifle the urge to ask me how that felt. If it were up to me, I would laugh at them, and tell them that they'd never understand even if I tried to explain – but I'd been chided no small number of times by my master for that. You would be remiss to be callous in your interaction with your social environment, if you wish to live peacefully in this new world.

So, for lack of anything else to say, I answered them like this:

“Imagine you were incredibly short-sighted, to the point where you could hardly see, but you were told you weren't allowed to wear glasses.”

“Imagine being told you had to travel somewhere on foot, while everyone else was allowed to use trains and buses.”

“Imagine going somewhere you've never been before, only to find that the navigation app on your smartphone was an unusable piece of junk.”

The question I had by far the most trouble with was the question of how I survived day-to-day life without Command Seals, which were one of the bounties of the Grail. On that point, no matter how thoroughly I tried to explain, most other people seemed to struggle to understand my situation any more than vaguely, and ultimately had no interest anyway. That was the ideal response, as far as I was concerned. I could find no fault with that.

There were also those who genuinely understood, and responded with exaggerated surprise and sympathy. Some would offer me the usage of their own Command Seals, assuring me with fawning pity that I could come to them if there was ever anything they could do for me. There were even a few so selflessly empathetic that they claimed to truly want to trade places with me – although always with some condition attached, by which they could return things to normal if they so pleased.

Every such encounter reminded me anew that I was nothing more than an amusement to them. A means of flattering their own altruistic sensibilities, and of relieving their boredom for a little while.

Akihabara was a labyrinth in three dimensions, not just two. In a block nestled a comfortable distance from the downtown area on the middle stratum, bordering a natural public park, stood a multi-storey building housing a collection of public service facilities. Contained on one floor of this building was the classroom I frequented.

I had arrived slightly late for the start time, and hurriedly took my seat. The wide, fan-shaped room was almost devoid of students. This was decidedly not a facility for compulsory education; it was offered the people at large educational lecture courses aimed at fostering lifelong learning. Citizens of all ages took the course, and attending every single lecture was virtually unheard-of. Consequently, I was known as something of an eccentric.

The people here knew nothing of the battle of immortals that occurred last night. Those kinds of incidents never made the news.

–

Well then – it was time for Pre-War Human History.

That was the name of the course I was taking. Unfortunately, it could hardly have been called the most popular subject. The content of the lectures was much closer to trivia than education. The main goal of Pre-War Human History comprised learning about the human race's greatest triumphs and blunders in the world of the past. It was...well, to put it bluntly, dry.

In the first place, Akihabara was Mosaic City's premier resort. Students who were sincerely striving to learn, or families concerned with the proper education of their children, would simply up and leave for another district. I had an inclination that this space only really existed to entertain the interests of the lecturer at the front of the hall – my master, Ms. Fujimura.

–

Oh, it looks like that girl's here again.

I cast a quick glance out over the lecture theatre from my usual perch at the back. A small, familiar figure was sat in the very front row, concentrating intently on the lecture. She had come again today. As a rule, I never saw students younger than myself attending these lectures, so she had stuck in my memory. She was a pale child, short in stature, and perhaps old enough to be at the upper end of elementary school. Her voice and attitude during the occasions that she posed questions to the lecturer had given me the impression that she was female, but there was no guarantee. All kinds of people lived in this city.

Her had was invariably pulled down low over her head, and her eyes were covered by her bangs, so I hadn't ever seen her face clearly. I had never engaged her in conversation, and I didn't even know her name. She appeared in lectures once a month or so; I felt a distinct disconnect between her keen attitude in lectures and her abysmal attendance rate.

Today, her standing record for youngest lecture attendee had been broken. The new champion was none other than my companion: the stray Servant I had taken in last night, the golden-haired child. He was at least sitting in his seat for now without making a fuss, but he was fidgeting constantly - rocking his body to and fro, and sometimes lying down as though trying to savour the feeling of the cool wood of the chair. Or so I was thinking, before he suddenly turned to peer into my face, obstructing my view of my tablet.

“You think you're a cat or something?”

“...Ca-...cat?”

“Maybe you're more of a dog, huh. Your hair's all floofy.”

“Dog?”

“Yeah, a dog. You know, woof-woof.”

“I know dogs.”

“Oh, really? Well, I'm glad for y- what the hell do you think you're doing!?”

He had scrambled up onto the seat of his chair, planted both hands on the desk and begun to howl, loud and proud.

Awooooo! Ow-ow-owooo! Awoooooo!

He finished his surprisingly accurate rendition, flashing a beaming smile. I sat for a moment in silent astonishment – and might perhaps have thought for a moment that it was a little endearing, although this really wasn't the time for that.

“Hey, stop that! Get down from there!”

Give me a break. I was just about to give you credit for at least not being as loud as Karin, and you go and pull this. The other attendees were turning back to look at us now, searching for the source of the noise.

“I'm sorry. We'll be quiet. I'm really sorry.”

My master had stopped giving her lecture, and was cocking her head at us. The girl in the front row was looking too. If looks could kill, the glare boring into me from beneath her bangs would have dropped me stone dead. Although I couldn't exactly blame her for getting annoyed at someone bringing this commotion into a class.

Yes miss I'm so terribly sorry I won't do it again...ugh, what did I do to deserve this...

I had no way of knowing how to handle a young child like this boy in the first place – but that said, I also couldn't possible have left him behind in my apartment by himself. And I had thought to myself that I might learn something about him if I brought him here with me.

“Don't dogs say “bow-wow” in English, anyway?”

“Boh-roh.”

“Not even close. Must be nice to be able to mimic things like that, huh...”

Ohh boy. Starting to get the feeling I'm not going to be learning much from today's lecture...

I rested my head on my hand and pouted. Gazing idly at the young boy's angelic face out of the corner of my eye, I cast my mind back through my memories of my baptism last night.

It had happened on the previous evening, after I had been fished from the riverbed by Karin and Kouyou on the wharf. To cut a long story short, I decided to take the boy back to my apartment and put him up for the night, still none the wiser about who he was or where he had come from.

–

I had been living on my own ever since parting ways with my grandmother.

In a quiet corner of Akihabara, there was a small, depopulated district that most people avoided. Before the war, it had comprised a collection of multi-purpose buildings crammed to bursting with shops, but they had all been abandoned after the Grail's large-scale restructuring of the city. My apartment consisted of a room in one such building.

The inside of the room was decorated in Victorian style. Every inch of floor was covered by wooden floorboards, and its antique interior had been preserved unaltered. Apparently, it had originally housed some kind of dubious culinary establishment known as a “maid cafe”.

–

My apartment wasn't exactly designed for ease of living, but it was furnished with a proper bathroom and bedroom, and was more than sufficient for one person to live in comfortably. It even had a veranda, albeit a small one. From the window of my bedroom I could gaze out over a small vertical slice of ocean hemmed in by the surrounding buildings.

–

My opportunities to invite another person back to this humble abode were rare. Considering my job, the risks involved in freely letting others know where I lived were far too high. The only reason I had brought this child back with me was that it would have been too irresponsible to leave him to his own devices. I didn't even know who his contractor was; to have allowed him to freely roam the town would have been unthinkable.

He might have manifested in the form of an innocent child, but that only set me more on edge. I had allowed myself to be disarmed by a target's outward appearance before, on a previous job, and had made a grave mistake because of it. A Servant I had believed nothing more than an angelic young child - like purity itself sculpted in alabaster - had harboured a terrible darkness. The Avenger, Louis XVII. The incident that arose around that particular monstrosity had ultimately claimed not only the life of his Master, but those of a great number of innocents as well.

At the time, I had not yet fully graduated from childhood. Louis and I had been similar in stature, and I had thought we could have been good friends. In the end, however, my friendship and goodwill had been used and turned against me. That incident was not one I would forget easily.

–

There was another reason that I had brought this stray child back with me: I had been driven to my wits' end in another sense. Frankly speaking, I could not take it any more: the rank stench that permeated the both of us had become unbearable, and I could not bear to go another minute without washing it off.

The culprit was the oil slick near the quay that I'd had the ill fortune to be dragged through when I was fished out of the Kanda river. Petroleum-based waste oil, that had leaked from one of the boats moored in the harbour. I had hardly had the time to worry about such things immediately after being deposited on the wharf, but now that I had returned to my senses the discomfort was driving me to distraction. Pouring water over myself or wiping myself down with paper towels would do nothing to remove this - I needed a proper bath.

I had been stopped by a worried Karin when I had tried to totter my way home, still bearing a serious wound that I had no right to have recovered from so quickly. She had only seen me off after I had explained about the charms and such that I kept in my house. She was easygoing like that.

I had tried to invite her to stay the night here, but she had breezily turned me down, saying that she had a friend in the vicinity who would put her up for the night. Karin's social connections remained as much a mystery to me as ever. Although she had given me a rueful smile, saying that her family would be angry with her for returning home the following morning.

–

In any case, I had finally returned home, and could allow myself to relax a little. I looked the boy over once more, this time with the aid of my apartment's artificial lights.

“Hold on. Hey, no, wait, wait, wait! Don't just go right in! Just stand here for a minute.”

I grabbed him by his sodden scarf and yanked him back, prompting a visible sulk.

“Uh...sorry.”

So he did possess emotions, and the capacity to appeal to them. That would be useful, at least.

Both of us looked ridiculous, soaked from head to toe and glistening with oil. I was at least wearing swimwear and a windbreaker in place of my ordinary clothes, but his lot was a much more miserable one. I could feel my memories of the unearthly spectacle I had witnessed below the surface of the water growing more distant by the minute.

Alll-righty. I pulled myself together, and sank to one knee in the entranceway, looking over this child once more from top to toe.

He at least appeared to be eight, maybe nine years old. He was Caucasian, with the pale features particular to Scandinavian climes - although given that Servants were as much concept as they were genetics, any attempt to determine their race was close to meaningless. His hair was a pale blonde, almost white, and it had been left to grow freely.

His scarf was sodden, and hung limp around his neck. Or maybe it was a muffler? Well, it wasn't as though it mattered. It was composed of fabric knitted from some strange, gaudy material – it was hard to say if it was actual gold, or just extremely intricate needlework. His clothing looked to be made of cotton, and had a simple design, reminiscent of a Greek-style tunic. He had a small embroidered design on his chest, which I made a note of as a potentially important clue.

His belt and shoes were made of the same material as his scarf. The heels of the latter had a strange design; they were tapered towards the back, like spurs used for riding horses. I could have taken that as an indication that in life he had been some sort of knight – but nothing else about him gave that impression. He's nothing like any other Saber or Rider-class Servants I've seen.

His pale blue eyes stared back at me questioningly as I scrutinised him. I was seized by a sudden rush of curiosity.

“Hey. Do you think you could tell me where you came from?”

He smoothly lifted an arm to point towards the ceiling.

“From the sky? From Heaven? You don't mean from the moon, do you?”

He shook his head at all of them.

“I've come...from somewhere very far away.”

“All Servants have.”

“...Really?” He must have found something amusing, because his face blossomed into a smile, and he giggled. I was relieved at the unexpected ease with which I was able to communicate with him, although it seemed like he was still struggling to understand what I was saying.

His first words had been in halting English, but from the way he had appeared to be listening in on the conversation between me and Karin I would venture that he at least understood our language. If he was a Servant who had been summoned legitimately, he would have been granted a bare minimum level of common knowledge about the modern era by the Grail, as well as the linguistic capabilities necessary to express himself to others naturally. However, now that I was trying to determine his true name, that was only serving to impede my search.

As I questioned him, I produced a pair of scissors and carefully snipped a five-millimetre length of thread from the back of his tunic, which I deposited in a zip-lock sample bag.

“Would you mind letting me take one of your hairs as well?”

It looked like he was giving me the ok. He did as I asked, without resisting, and as I did he asked me a question.

“Have you come from somewhere far away like me, Eri?”

“Don't call me that. Did you get that from Karin? Alright, listen here. I'm not “Eri”, I'm not “Old man Eri”, and I'm not “Eri-pie”. I'm Erice. Utsumi Erice.”

“Hmm.”

He remained staring at me, giving me no indication whether or not he'd understood. His reaction was a little dispiriting, but I continued anyway. If I kept talking, I might be able to glean something.

“It's not all that far away, really. I was born in Shinjuku. I'm fourteen now, so I guess you could call me a middle schooler, but I don't usually go to school anyway.”

“What's a 'school'?”

“A school is...it's where you go to learn. It's a big building where lots of children all go. Or at least, that's what I hear it was like before the war. They've changed a lot since then.”

“You don't go to school, Eri?”

“I told you to call me Erice. And I don't need to. I'm passing my academic evaluations, and I'm getting the credits I need from extracurricular courses. And I show up for health inspections and such.”

“You don't want to go to school, do you?”

I grit my teeth. He'd hit the nail on the head. He was annoyingly good at that.

“It's...not a matter of whether I want to go or not. I...I have more important things to do.”

“You're alone.” He cocked his head, and then broke out into another smile. “Just like me.”

I suppressed my irritation silently as I tapped at my tablet. I was trying a search for the symbol embroidered on his chest, but nothing was coming up. Just in case, I tried accessing the city network, but no-one had registered any missing Servants - although it wasn't as though that was a frequent occurrence anyway. I could ask my master about any information that might be being suppressed on a public level, but I could hardly go blithely to her cap-in-hand. Not after I had tried to hide from her that I had disobeyed her orders and let Kundry go.

Even so, there was one theory as to his identity that I had managed to come up with. Spurred on by that, I decided to bite the bullet.

“So, which Servant are you?”

“...?”

He tilted his head in confusion. Was he trying to play dumb? It didn't look like an act, at any rate. It seemed that somehow, he really didn't understand the concept of a Servant. Was that even possible?

“I'm asking about your true name. Although your nickname will do, if that's better-known.”

Once, Servants would not have revealed their true name lightly, but that was before the war. In the modern world, it had become more of a question of personal privacy. No small number of Servants had origins that could complicate life in Mosaic City if they became known to others, and the degree of discretion necessary might also change depending on their relationship with their Master.

This boy likely wouldn't talk about his true name if his unknown Master did not wish it. And all the more so if he didn't have one at all.

“Your name, I said. Tell me your name.”

“...Name?”

“That's right. Your name.”

“Don't you know it?”

“...Huh? Don't I...you mean my name?”

It was supposed to be me asking the questions here. I was starting to feel that if I just allowed this wide-eyed child to talk at his own pace, I would end up the one being profiled.

Abruptly, he opened his mouth again. “There's something I've lost.”

“Something you've lost? What did you lose?”

“I don't know.”

I heaved a sigh. At the same moment, a sharp stench once more pricked at my nostrils.

“It sounds like you're suffering from memory loss. I think things like that can happen after summoning...? Well, anyway, there's nothing we can do for now. And I'm about at my wits' end, so right now I'm going to have a shower. I'll let you use the bathroom too, so go on ahead.”

“Show-er?”

“A shower. You know, like a bath.”

“...A bath?”

“Wait, you really don't know? Don't tell me you don't even know what a shower is? Hang on, have you ever even had a wash?”

He shook his head. Apparently he really hadn't ever experienced a bath. Although even if he hadn't, surely the idea itself fell under common knowledge.

Do your job, Holy Grail.

For as long as I had lived here, my bathroom had been rather chic. It had a French-style interior, and was easily wide enough for two people. The star of the show was a shallow enamel bathtub, pulled straight from a western movie. Incidentally, the bedroom was decorated in equally charming fashion, and was the biggest reason I chose this apartment.

The design was uncharacteristically luxurious for a department store coffee shop. Either the owner had been extremely specific tastes...or from the beginning, this building had been designed with less-than-wholesome purposes in mind. Probably the latter. Not that that had anything to do with me; I was nothing more than a grateful beneficiary. But it did mean one more thing for Karin to tease me about.

I gritted my teeth, and led the boy by the hand to the bathroom. He was still dawdling, unsure as to what was going on. I had him take off his clothes and made him stand in the dressing room. Then I set to filling the bathtub, removing my own dirtied clothing as I did so. He's just a kid. What's there to be embarrassed about? Nothing! That's right, nothing at all.

There was still an outside chance that he would turn out to have the mind of a middle-aged man, but I'd cross that bridge if I came to it.

“I suppose I'd better put my swimsuit in to soak...ouch!”

Agony lanced through me as I twisted my body the wrong way. I re-treated the injury to my abdomen, and covered it over with a water-resistant patch. It was still undergoing accelerated recovery, and it was warm to the touch. The wound was serious enough that with the treatment methods of the past, oligemic shock and acute inflammation would have been unavoidable. But this new world had conquered death itself, and treatments for injuries and accidents had not been overlooked on the way. Many technologies had been developed during the war, and now I reaped the benefits.

“It looks like it hurts.”

“Well, maybe a little.”

His eyes were drawn to the scar on my ear, and he screwed up his face.

“It isn’t nice, is it? Every thorn-prick makes its own hole.”

“...You said it.”

Was he worrying that I might be left with a scar, in his own way? If so, he was quite the gentleman.

“But it's ok. Kouyou patched it up for me, so it'll heal with time.”

For my part, I carefully looked his naked body up and down once more. This was a vital step in my investigation, and thus an entirely proper and lawful act.

He was...definitely a boy, yep.

–

Once I had painstakingly washed away the cause of the stench, I finally entered the bathtub - along with the boy, who was trying to escape at any opportunity.

“It's hot.”

“That's what's good about it. Ordinary Servants love to take baths. They're all very happy to get in. There are even some who have baths as their Noble Phantasms. There's one who summons this great big bathchamber, called Terme di Caracalla...”

“I want to get out.”

He was pulling a very sullen expression, but at least he was being obedient.

I can't see any scars on him. His muscles and weight don't seem any different from a normal child's, either. I found it very hard to believe that he might be some kind of knight summoned in their youth. When he'd said that he didn't know what a bath was, the first thing I'd suspected was child abuse; Heroic Spirits who had come from such unhappy backgrounds were too numerous to count. But he showed no sign of having received that kind of treatment, or at least not outwardly.

My confidence in my hypothesis was growing stronger, and I decided to put it to the test.

–

I stretched out from the bathtub. With the steam-clouded mirror as my canvas, I drew a picture of a hat with my fingertip. It was a crude sketch of an old-fashioned, wide-brimmed men's hat with a slightly indented top, as seen from the side.

“Hey. Can you tell me what this is?” I asked him hesitantly, my chest pounding nervously. It only took a brief glance at the picture before he answered.

“It's...a snake.”

I started. For a moment, I was lost for words.

“It looks like it's eaten something big.”

He'd answered my question perfectly.

“It scares me a little.”

Droplets fell from his body as he shivered and turned away. I hadn't even imagined that he might show such a violent reaction. I quickly wiped away the picture on the mirror, and found myself patting his head to try and reassure him. I could feel the slickness of his wet hair and the warmth of his body through the palm of my hand.

“What about “B-612”? Or maybe you could call it “Besixdouze”?”

“Yes.” He nodded in answer. No hesitation.

“You know it?”

“It's a planet, isn't it? But there's no-one there.”

I was silent for a moment. That's right. It's a planet. Of course it is.

“I see...so there's no-one there. But I think...I might know your true name now.”’  

B-612 was the name of an asteroid that orbited the solar system. It was not remarkable in any way, save for the fact that it had been discovered by a Japanese national. It would hardly be included in the common knowledge that the Holy Grail bestowed upon Servants. But that asteroid was named for a novella from a foreign country, and the title of that novella was “The Little Prince”.

On a sudden impulse, I embraced him. In the bathtub, I wrapped my arms around his narrow shoulders from behind, and squeezed him tight. So as not to break him. So as not to hurt him.

“If only...if only you had been my Servant...”

He showed no sign of answering me.

Before entering the bathtub, as I was washing myself, I had checked everywhere. Desperately, I had searched to see if Command Seals, the proof of a contract with a Servant, had appeared anywhere on my body. I had strained my eyes in the mirror, checking my back, beneath the translucent medical patch, even the soles of my feet. But they were nowhere to be seen.

Then I was no-one's Master. I could not have made any contract with this boy through the Grail. I was just the Reaper, the same as I had always been.

In that case, what had that sense of foreboding been?

What had that trembling been in my chest? That sense that something had begun that would change my life forever?

In the end, it had all just been my own wishful thinking.

–

After the bath, we retired to my living-cum-dining room, where a mahogany table had stood ever since this place was a cafe. The boy sat in a chair, working his way through a lasagne that I had microwaved from frozen. I was recording the day's events, tablet in hand and a towel around my head, and I was blushing as red as his bolognese sauce. I felt incredibly embarrassed. This boy hadn't even yet come of age, but I had suddenly embraced him, whispered something that felt almost like a confession of love, and then ended up crying. While naked, no less.

His only response, after a while had passed, had been to furrow his eyebrows and complain “It's hot”.

“Is that good?”, I asked.

“It tastes.”

“Really? Sounds great.”

The samples I had taken earlier were on the table. Both contents of the zip-lock bag had vanished, just as I had expected. Separated from his body, his hair and the thread from his tunic had ceased to exist in their pseudo-physical form, and had reverted to being part of his mana. In other words, his body and the clothes he wore were woven from the stuff. That made for strong evidence that he was a Servant - but it was unneeded, because an easier way to tell was right before my eyes. The clothes that I had left on the floor of the dressing room had since returned to a clean, dry state.

The scarf that he wore around his neck floated freely, with no regard for the laws of physics. Even while he was eating, it fluttered gently, as though rising upon the wind. Needless to say, there was no wind inside my apartment.

He couldn't be the Simoun...could he? The poison wind?

–

The night had grown late, and I wrestled with the sleepiness and exhaustion that assailed me as I stared at my tablet. I thought back to the words I had exchanged with the Flying Dutchman, Captain Van der Decken. Every word of the warning he had given me lay heavy on my breast.

Until it became clear that our enemy was the mad queen, he had maintained a policy of non-interference, and only once had he commented on my methods. He had been cursed by a devil of the ocean. My lot was not too dissimilar - for I too was cursed, and possessed by evil spirits. Living my life beyond the sight of the Grail, I might as well have been a naked offering to them. But that was also the reason that I'd lasted as long as I had in this job.

I had let my guard down. I had allowed myself to believe that Captain Van der Decken and I might have been able to find an understanding, as bearers of the same fate. But he had seen through those naïve expectations, and had roughly spurned my advances.

“You have grown to feel joy in the act of slaying Servants, under the pretence of executing the authority of the city. Though you think yourself the master of your spectres, they in turn use you.”

He was telling me, in a roundabout way, that I was intoxicated by the idea of being a superhero. That what I had believed to be pride was in fact conceit.

“Someday, Erice, you will call forth a great evil. And when that time comes, that which you have clung to so dearly will instead force you to your knees.”

Unable to accept his words and fiercely ashamed, I had retorted with some frivolous argument - although I could admit now that it had just been something I had cooked up to make myself feel better. At the time I had thought he was just trying to put me in my place, but thinking back on it now, his words might have been as much in reproach of himself as they had been for me. His relationship with his contractor Aheseurus - equal in spite of being Master and Servant - spoke more eloquently of his sincerity than words ever could.

“Are you paying attention, Erice?”

I was brought out of my reverie by my master's polite chiding.

“You seem very tired. Perhaps it might be for the best if you took a moment to rest in the break room? I can prepare the lecture material for your perusal later, if you'd like.”

I let out a whimper. This was embarrassing. My second disgrace this morning. I shook my head vigorously. My master nodded, and recommenced the lecture in a soft voice.

–

Her name was Caren Fujimura. She was the lecturer responsible for this class, and also my master. I had known her for as long as I could walk.

Outwardly, she appeared to be in her twenties. She had light amber eyes, and wavy, pale grey hair that cascaded down to the small of her back. Her body combined a slender build with voluptuous Hispanic curves. Most notable of all, however, was her impeccable sense of style. Nobody else could come close to its audacity. Today, too, she looked sharp as a knife.

Or at least, I thought so, but waxing lyrical on the subject only seemed to earn me pained smiles from Karin and others. Well, it wasn't as though I cared anyway. If I was the only one who could understand her magnificence, so be it.

“...?”

The boy, who had been quiet at my side for a long time, had begun focusing on my master when she had spoken to me. Now he turned his gaze to the skirt of my school uniform, then to his own trousers, and cocked his head. He turned his head to make one more pass, carefully comparing, and then spoke with some conviction.

“She isn't wearing anything down there.”

“That she isn't.”

My master really was incredible.

It was not on account of her position as my lecturer that I called Caren Fujimura my master. Nor was it on account of her being my fashion role model. She was inhuman, in every way, and not in the sense of being part of the new postwar humanity. She was an artificial intelligence – an AI.

More precisely, she was the municipal administration AI tasked with the management of the Akihabara ward. A human interface that allowed the Grail to communicate directly with the people of the city. A hybrid intelligence – the most valuable in the city – born of the fusion of summoning magecraft, modelled on the kind that called forth Heroic Spirits, and cutting-edge information engineering technology. Such was the true nature of Caren Fujimura.

–

Ms. Fujimura's lecture on pre-war human history continued. Today's topic was the history and profiles of the great pioneers. Those brave adventurers who sailed west on crude wooden vessels, carving a path to an unknown lands. Those bold explorers who discovered – or rediscovered – the distant new world, and secured the shipping routes that would become the lifeblood of a global civilisation.

–

She spoke of Eric the Red, who crossed from Europe to Greenland and settled there. Of his son, Lief Ericsson, who made landfall in the northeast of North America and named it “Vinland”. Of the roots of the Polynesians, who propagated across the islands of the south Pacific in canoes little better than rafts, and were sometimes set adrift by rogue currents to journey thousands of kilometres.

Of Christopher Columbus, the conqueror who never once lost sight of his dream; who sailed to the farthest reaches of the western sea aboard the legendary Santa Maria, and there rediscovered the new world. Of Vasco de Gama, who crossed the Cape of Good Hope and pioneered the Indian trade route. Of the Cape itself - the southern tip of the African continent and one of the great perils of the Age of Discovery, where Captain Van der Decken's Dutch galleon met its fate upon the rocks.

She told of Ferdinand Magellan, whose vessels first circumnavigated the world. Although he perished before the completion of his journey, his feat proclaimed to the world beyond all doubt that the earth was not flat, but round. Through him, the people came to know that the world they lived on was just one more celestial body like the moon or Mars, forging silently onwards through the void.

And here too was the first captain to circumnavigate the globe: Francis Drake, the privateer! Ah, here was the magnificent Golden Hind! I had already been absorbed in the lecture, but here my excitement reached its zenith, my mind filling with daydreams of the open sea.

From Servants who had lived through the same era, I had heard tales that Drake, the admiral who broke the back of the invincible Spanish Armada, had in truth been a woman more gallant than any man. That the man who set the sun had, in fact, been the woman who set the sun. I personally found them impossible to believe, and I'd also heard them refuted by other pirate Servants. Stories like that ain't nothin' more'n piss in the wind, girly. Drake was a man, sure as my beard is long.

It was a common enough story when it came to Servants. Some ages of history had placed little importance on gender distinctions. Conversely, in others women had been so oppressed that they could only perform heroic deeds whilst disguised in men's clothing. Such confusion was liable to muddy historical records.

Even if Drake had been female, it would do nothing to tarnish the glory of her legend.

–

My enriching study time was now approaching its end, although I had struggled to focus on all of the contents of the lecture.

“I would like to give a brief introduction to one final figure. An American man whose one small step signified a giant leap for mankind.”

The screen changed in sync with Ms. Fujimura's commentary. Now it displayed a world of extreme contrasts: a sea of grey regolith, and the dark vacuum of space. Within the shadow thrown by a lunar lander, a figure in a space suit descended a ladder to stand upon the moon's surface.

“This was the first man to stand on the face of the moon. He, too, counts among the great pioneers of the human race.”

“...Eh...?”

A single voice arose, quavering not with wonder but with astonishment.

“A human went to the moon...? A living human?”

The source of the voice was none other than the young girl in the front row.

“Indeed. It would be fifty-six years before the modern day. Three astronauts ventured to the moon, and two among them descended to walk upon its surface.”

“More than half a century ago? There weren't even control units back then capable of calculating orbital trajectories-”

“There were.”

Another video resource flashed onto the screen. This time it showed a bulky copper box that must have weighed dozens of kilograms, and a small keyboard. The commentary indicated that this was the Apollo spaceship's guidance computer.

“Single-core, 8-bit. A most splendid computer to be mounted in the lunar lander. It likely had less than one ten-thousandth the processing power of the smartphones you all have in your pockets. And yet it was enough to guide the lander by autopilot, even though human error necessitated its rebooting just prior to landing.”

Ms. Fujimura sounded almost triumphant now. There had been a strange change in her expression, although it was so slight I doubted anyone but me would even have a chance of noticing. Perhaps, for an AI, it was a point of pride to be able to talk about the vital contribution a computer had made to one of humanity's most historic achievements.

No, that's not it...

She was delighting in the shock her student was experiencing, from her first contact with this knowledge. She was revelling in it. The girl retracted her body and sat back down in her seat, fuming.

“That's irresponsible. It's reckless.”

“Indeed it was. It was one of the most reckless ventures in human history, and precious lives were lost along the way.”

“That's all the more reason it could never have happened!”

As though scoffing at our worries from across the ages, the portly figure of the spaceman upon the screen began to moonwalk, gleefully bounding across the moon's surface. He was humming to himself merrily, like some shameless delinquent.

“Rather carefree, isn't he? One would never think only a thin spacesuit separated him from the zero-pressure vacuum and the hellish 110-degree temperatures outside.”

My master smiled faintly, as she expressed her admiration for the men in the video. Even when they raced their moon buggies across the lunar plain, they were rough and careless, as though they were driving go-karts at some amusement park. The girl at the front returned to gazing at the video, a flabbergasted expression on her face.

“Ah...ahaha...!” I couldn't help bursting out in laughter.

Her shoulders trembled a little. I'd picked an awful time.

–

The “Great Pioneers” instalment concluded by saying that although the human race had raised its flag in one great unknown after the other – first the new world beyond the seas, then the distant skies, and finally the void of space – landing a group of carefree delinquents on the surface of the moon had marked the end of their exploits. Not once since had they set their sights on anything farther. The Apollo generation's dream of a grand conquest of the stars remained a dream to this day. Mars, Venus and the outer space beyond the solar system remained unknown to the print of human boot.

I wondered if perhaps the human race had, somewhere along its way, lost sight of something incredibly precious.

I wondered if perhaps someday there might rise once again, on the edge of the farthest frontier, someone worthy of being called a hero. Someone who would lead mankind forth once more towards a new world.

“Hey, there you are, Eri-pie! Wanne grab some food?”

Karin burst into the classroom just as the lecture had ended. She must have guessed where I would be. I had thought she might have returned home after the events of last night, but she must have remained in Akihabara.

“Oh, it's you, Karin. I'll hold off for now. I've still got things I need to do.”

“Ehh? Hasn't your class just wrapped up?”

“Well, yeah, but I'm not talking about class.”

“Oh, the shrimp's tagging along? Good, good. You put some proper breakfast in him, right? What's he been eatin'?”

“Cereal. And some water.”

“Oh, ouch. You know that's child abuse, right? Like, I should probably be calling a social worker about now?”

“Just give it a rest, geez...”

I hadn't been back to my apartment for the past few days, and my reserves had all expired, so I had ended up with very little by way of food. I hadn't so much as forced cereal and water on him as noticed his interest in the food I was hurriedly shovelling down and shared a little.

Servants didn't typically require meals in the usual sense, but in the post-war world where they had become commonplace, more care was being paid to improving their quality of life. There were even some citizens' groups that insisted that they had a right to live the same as humans. In my view, Servants were fundamentally inhuman existences, and I saw those attempts to impose human restrictions on something unbound by the framework of nature as little more than evidence of their Masters' egotism – although I couldn't deny that might just have been the bitter prejudice of a have-not speaking.

“Sssssssup! Morning, Caren!”

“Good morning to you too, Karin.”

Ms. Fujimura approached the two of us.

“Karin...and Caren...?”

The boy looked between the two, confused.

“Yeah, you got it. Pain in the ass, right? The Caren in Akihabara has this kinda grown-up, sexy feel to her. The one back home is a lot more, uh...wha-chaa!”

“What's “wha-chaa!” supposed to mean? And you should be calling her Ms. Fujimura.” Karin had drawn one knee up to strike a kung-fu pose. I gave her a smack.

“Karin lives in the Shibuya district. The me who lives there is a drawer for a Chinese restaurant.” My master smiled gently. I wondered what it felt like, to know there were different versions of herself active all over the city.

A few elderly students were still hanging around in the classroom, chatting amongst themselves. My master ushered us from the room, and we relocated to a terrace protruding from midway up the building. This was a leisure space, and it commanded a wide view of the sprawl of Akihabara. At this early hour, the sea breeze was light, and the sun was not too strong. It was just cool enough that that shaded areas were still a little chilly.

The distant rumble of a train smoothly pulling in from the oversea viaduct drifted to us from across the water, along with the faint toot of its horn. Beyond the horizon, where the railway vanished, lay Shinjuku and Shibuya.

“So this child is the Servant with the unknown Master?”

“That's right.”

I had already informed her about the situation in advance, but I took the opportunity to introduce the boy to her in person.

“To tell the truth, I already have a good guess as to his identity. Although he doesn't really react to what I say most of the time. He doesn't seem to be entirely all there.”

I took the plunge, and told her about last night's discoveries – hoping somewhere deep down this made up for the regret I felt at keeping quiet about Kundry's flight and the events that had followed.

“Antoine de Saint-Exupéry...? A French author, as I recall, and one of great renown. He was also an accomplished pilot, and served in the Second World War. You believe this child's identity to be this Saint-Exupéry?”

The object of our scrutiny, the child in question, showed no reaction to the name. He took a sip of the freshly-squeezed orange juice that Karin had bought from a juice stand, and pulled a face. Sour.

“His appearance is a poor match, even taking into account the age difference.” I could sense my master checking records in the background, and cross-referencing them with the child in front of her. I pressed on with my next hypothesis.

“I think he's the Little Prince. Don't you think he looks just like Saint-Exupéry's illustrations?”

The Little Prince was an allegorical short story. It was the last completed work by Saint-Exupéry, who passed away at a young age. Whether online or in physical bookshops, one would inevitably find it in the children's book category, but it couldn't be more different to the fairy tales it rubbed shoulders with on the shelves. That said, nor was it something like the Bible, whose every line existed to be quoted and venerated. It was a comforting presence, like a familiar friend at your side, always ready with a lighthearted quip or a sobering anecdote. Or so I thought, anyway.

“Eh? So you're a prince, are you? Hmmmm? Now you mention it, he does look kinda regal. Think he'd make a good match with my Momi? She is a princess, you know. Whaddaya think?”

Karin pinched the boy's cheek, grinning wickedly, and he turned his head away in clear discomfort. I decided to leave them to it, and added to my master that last night the boy had answered my riddle with the keyword that only the Little Prince would know.

“I see...” She struck a contemplative pose as I continued.

“I'm aware that he doesn't look very much like Saint-Exupéry. That's why I'm wondering if he could be an author Servant who's taken on the form of a character from one of his own works. I'm sure there are examples of that.”

“There are indeed. Many authors' works leave a far greater impression on the world to come than the men themselves. Many more choose such forms of their own accord. However, if you would permit me my personal opinion - ”

She left a beat, pushing up her glasses.

“ - I would conjecture that Saint-Exupéry would project himself not onto the Little Prince, but onto the Pilot who narrates the story. It was, after all, his own experience of crash-landing in the Sahara desert that formed the basis for the book.”

“Ah...yes, I...I suppose...”

She was right. Given the content of the book, it was an entirely legitimate criticism. She was saying that this child was likely something fundamentally different to just some writer Servant with perverse tendencies and a strong capacity for empathy.

While I hadn't been watching, the subject of out conversation had begun sipping on a honey-lemon drink. He must have traded his orange juice with Karin. This was evidently more to his tastes; he was smiling broadly.

“I have conferred with the Caren units in the other districts, but he does not appear to match any Servant under our jurisdiction. I cannot even venture more than vague hypotheses as to his class.” It seemed that as an AI, she was capable of communicating with her other units in the background even as she talked with me.

So he wasn't a lost Servant who had wandered in from some other district. At the very least, we now knew that there was no record of Saint-Exupéry being registered as a Servant anywhere in Mosaic City.

“Please do not be disheartened, Erice. I do not mean to dismiss your opinion; the possibility remains. And just by having secured him, you have already done a wonderful job.”

“I suppose...”

“He seems to be stable, aside from his memories, so I will fit him with a classification tag. For as long as he continues to reside in this town, I will refer to him as “The Little Prince (TBD)””.

“...'Brackets...TBD'...?”

“Guess so. Would be a pain in the ass if he didn't have a name, right? Brackets, TBD.” Karin cheerily patted the Little Prince (TBD) on the head.

“Um...about last night's incident...” I straightened my back, and tried to change the topic to my report of the previous night's events – and suddenly my master stood up from her seat, looking at me ruefully.

“I owe you an apology, Erice. A matter has sprung up that requires my urgent attention. Would you mind submitting your report as a brief text document?”

“Eh...? I mean...of course.”

I felt relieved, but at the same time more concerned. Whatever this urgent matter was, this was the first I'd heard of it, and my master was not known for changing her schedule lightly.

“But what do you think I should do about him?”

“That was my next point. I am sorry to ask this of you, but would you mind taking charge of him for the time being? If his identity becomes clear during that time, all the better.”

“Eh-?”

My master's eyes narrowed into a smile as my mouth clamped shut. The already-unusual situation had just taken a turn for the stranger.

“No way, no way, no way. Isn't that going to be a problem? With my job and everything?”

“No other individual in Akihabara is so equipped to tackle as exceptional a case. To call you a specialist in the handling of Servants would not be an exaggeration.”

It would. It absolutely would. My specialisation was not the handling of Servants - it was murder. Restraining the most villainous of Servants, and keeping them under strict surveillance, I could do. But I was not nearly so capable of attending to the needs of a young boy, barely any different from an ordinary human child, who didn't even know his own name.

Karin chipped in. “Can't he just bunk at my place? What's an extra brother or two, anyway?”

“Quite a lot, I think...”

Karin's suggestion was extraordinarily irresponsible, but my master only inclined her head. “My thanks for your hospitality Karin, but I am afraid that I cannot yet say what threat this child poses. I cannot permit him to reside with ordinary citizens.”

“I'm tellin' you, it's cool. I've got Momi, don't I? It'll be fine!”

Karin dug in deeper, and my master responded with another polite but firm refusal. In all honesty, it would have been a weight off my mind – although I wouldn't say that the notion of Karin taking responsibility for a portion of my job didn't grate on me a little.

Just as I was becoming aware of my own troublesome misgivings, a newcomer hurriedly approached the recreation space where we were conversing.

“Caren Fujimura? If you wouldn't mind, there's something I'd like to ask you.”

It was her – the girl in the hat from the front row. She had run out of the classroom just before the lecture had ended, conversing with someone over her smartphone. She must have returned now that her conversation had ended.

“It's nice to see you, Haruko. Do you have a question for me about the lecture?”

“That's right. I wanted to ask about the role of astrology during the Age of Discovery-” A sudden squall blew through the terrace, and she clutched at her hat, pulling it down tightly over her ears. I saw my chance and hurriedly forced my way into the conversation – although really, she had been the one who had interrupted us.

“H-hang on a moment. I was already talking with Ms. Fujimura...”

She glared at me in silence. Her brilliant peppermint-green eyes glinted from behind a parting in her fringe. “It was only thanks to the repeated interruptions from you and your Servant that I didn't have the opportunity to ask these questions during the lecture.”

“Well, I'm...I'm sorry about that. But, well, you see, he's not exactly my Servant...”

“Is that so? My apologies. But as his guardian, you should be more conscious of your responsibility to ensure he does not cause trouble for others in public spaces.”

Her motions – her gait, and even the way she was holding down her hat - were clipped and precise. She was barely taller than the innocent child drinking juice by my side, but she somehow seemed many years his elder. Beneath the white gown I had seen so often in lectures, she was wearing a slightly old-fashioned bright yellow blouse.

I'm positive...I've seen those clothes before somewhere... Now where was it?

“Um...you mentioned astrology, didn't you? If you're curious about the involvement of magecraft in human history, why don't you go to the library? You'd be able to research it as much as you wanted.”

I'd intended it as a sincere and respectful recommendation...but instead she expelled a short, sharp sigh, and her attitude became palpably frostier. This was getting awkward.

“You're telling me to go to the library? That would be far less efficient than asking an administrative AI – I mean, Ms. Fujimura directly. I would have thought that someone who went to the trouble of attending lectures would be cognizant of the vast difference in value between the vague knowledge one can acquire through reference materials, and the clear and consistent explanations that can be gained through conversations with an expert in the field. And if you do not understand that, then I must ask why you insist on wasting others' time with your indolence.”

“W-what do you mean, 'indolence'...?”

“Well damn. Kid's got a mouth on her...”

Things were going from bad to worse - now Karin had taken an interest. If I left this alone, it could easily easily escalate beyond my control and into an all-out brawl. She was free to pick whichever fights she wanted, but I wanted to avoid any risk of worsening my relationships with other students and ending up barred from attending.

“Come on, Karin. Cut it out. I'm not mad or anything.”

“...Hm? Wait a second, I'm sure...” Karin looked as though she'd just noticed something. The girl hurriedly pulled her hat back down over her head. My master had called this girl Haruko, hadn't she?

“I too have important matters to attend to. I really do have to hurry.”

“I...I see. Sorry about all this.” She had come all the way to this terrace searching for my master, and I wanted to show some recognition of her dedication. In that sense, we were kindred spirits. “If I'm not mistaken, you don't come to lectures very often, do you? If you wouldn't mind, I could let you borrow my old notes...”

“If you're going to mock me so, I hope you're prepared for the consequences.”

“Eh? Did...did I say something wrong?” How short was this girl's fuse? I desperately looked to Karin for help, but she only shook her head as though to say there was nothing she could do. And then, in that moment -

“I think that's quite enough, Erice.”

Another newcomer – a woman, who had not been in the classroom – strolled towards us, calling out to me with uncomfortable familiarity. Her footsteps clacked on the floor as she approached.

“Welcome. Your arrival is earlier than I had expected.” Ms. Fujimura, who had been maintaining a position of neutrality in our argument, greeted her in an oddly forced tone of voice.

“It was your message that hurried me here, Caren. You said that I might have the opportunity to see something interesting.” She was dressed in a vintage black sailor uniform, and her long silver hair was left to hang freely. I knew this woman – this woman who looked so out-of-place in Akihabara, who clad herself in an elegant shroud of bygone days.

“Chitose... What...what are you doing here...?”

Now it made sense. Caren's urgent matter must have been her.

The girl in the hat must have caught my murmured whisper. “Chitose...? What kind of civilian could call directly on a municipal administration AI without an appointment...?”

I heard the rushing sound of an intake of breath, and she turned sharply back around to the woman once more. Now that they were standing face-to-face, her small frame meant that she had to crane her neck to look her in the eyes.

“You aren't...Manazuru Chitose, are you...? The Stigmata?”

“...I am indeed. It's been a while since I last heard that name.”

The girl let out a whimper. “How could this happen...”

Her reaction was so violent, I thought for a moment that they might have been about to duel it out on the spot. In stark contrast to her brief reverie, now she was tripping over herself to be polite. She scrambled backwards three paces, and lowered her head woodenly. Her ears were glowing bright red, and from the glimpses I could catch through her bangs her cheeks were similarly flushed.

One of her fingers brushed against the side of her hat. With a swish, it folded in on itself and collapsed into a hairband. With her face now exposed, she bowed her head once more.

“I apologise wholeheartedly for my insolence, Stigmata.”

Chitose only shook her head quietly. “You had business with Caren, did you not? I do not mind waiting a while.”

“I-it was nothing! Certainly, nothing of consequence next to your duties.” She was so stiff and anxious now, her haughty demeanour not two minutes ago seemed like a distant memory. It was actually a little adorable -  although in general, I found people's tendency to become so ill at ease in Chitose's presence rather hard to deal with.

For her part, Chitose might have been responding amiably, but that should not have been mistaken for warmth or compassion. Her gaze fell upon the boy seated at our table, and for an instant, her eyes were those of a serpent that had found its prey.

“Yes, that's the boy”, she said, as though talking to herself. “I can't even tell which class his Saint Graph is. I suppose the world is full of surprises.”

I confess - my interest was aroused, and I couldn't suppress a sadistic curiosity. What reaction would her gaze stir in him? Would he show awe? Animosity? Would he ignore her completely, as though erasing his own existence?

But instead – he smiled. A beaming smile, like a shining star. A clear window straight to his heart.

Silence reigned for a second, and then Chitose smiled back at him thinly. Next to me, I felt the girl with the hat flinch. And then, her expression relaxing into a slightly mischievous smile, she approached me, and laid a pale white fingertip on my shoulder.

“I charge you with monitoring this child, Erice.”

“Understood”, I muttered. She gave a small shrug at my disgruntled response.

It looked like our conversation was over. Once Chitose had made a clear decision, my master would abide by it. I stood up from my seat, bowed to my master, and accompanied the boy from the terrace as I'd been instructed.

“Who the hell was that?”, Karin asked breezily, once we were in the corridor. “Gave me the creeps.” Just this once, I was grateful for her laid-back demeanour.

“And what's up with you, anyway? Didn't you have something to ask Caren about? You sure you're ok just leaving like this?”

“It doesn't matter. Let's just go.”

I put the building behind me, as though I were running away from something.

[sussex-nature-lover]

Monday 6th July 2020 - Dennis part 2, the cast of thousands (OK, just a few)

Link to Part 1

It’s good fun choosing names, but it’s a big responsibility too. Why Dennis? Well the cat needed a name other than THE BLACK CAAAAT. I guess he must’ve had a name at some time in his early life, but we’ll never know what it was, which is kind of a shame, although he had the name we gave him for most of his life.

Through work, OH and I both knew an older gentleman called Dennis and  by personality he was more demanding and precise than the top honours graduate from the University of Precise Things in Precise Land (loose Black Adder reference. Very loose) We knew him for years and he was always the same.

I had a dream about him, the man, one night. I dreamt that he and his wife went Christmas shopping at the Bluewater centre and that he left her to browse while he prowled and inspected the loading bays of all the big stores, like House of Fraser and Marks and Spencer and reorganised them, putting everything to rights, telling them just where they were going wrong and where and how things should be stored properly to his precise standards. It was one of those vivid dreams that stay with you.

When the Black Cat first investigated our kitchen, he was just the same, sniffing at every little thing and giving it ‘ the look’ for all the world conveying ‘That Shouldn’t Be There’ every time something new, like a bag of shopping, came in.

I learned that cats don’t like change much, or for things to be moved, but he was so measured it was funny to watch and ‘that shouldn’t be there’ became his catchphrase. I gather this is something a lot of cats do, but like I said, we’re not cat people.

We felt sorry for him in the very wet and exceptionally bitter winter of 2006 and he really didn’t seem to have anywhere else to be, so slowly, very gradually, he just moved in. We moved his silver food dish just inside the patio doors so he would be sheltered as he ate and put down a blanket if he wanted to make use of it.  The first night he stayed inside was very strange, but he simply got his head down. He didn’t venture into the house beyond the corner of the kitchen door for a long time.

When he was well settled in, he’d do an inspection prowl in the evening, check the other downstairs rooms and very occasionally upstairs, although the one room in the house he never ever entered was our bedroom. The Utility Room became his ‘ensuite’ and he had a hidey home in three spots...behind the sofa in the drawing room, in between two chairs in the sitting room and under the bed in Ms NatureWatch 1’s old bedroom. OH and I learned to live with frequent sneezing and extra vacuuming. He didn’t like the doorbell at all and there were certain people who’d come to work at the house, like the man who services the drainage tank - a very nice man as it happens - but something about his voice would send D into hiding for the whole day.

Just Dennis wasn’t a strong enough name for a cat who had some impressive abilities and so over time it progressed to become Dennis The Amazing Wonder Cat...much more fitting. Sometimes he was here and then, pooft he was gone, or he was back, just like that. Amazing. He was a stealth cat.

Getting to know him better, his back story slowly revealed itself, like Skimbleshanks, Dennis was a Railway Cat and had a similar character, but a much more elevated status, in his previous incarnation as the original investigator and author of the canal and rail guides published under his nom du plume of Bradshaw.

Not only that but it was later revealed that he’d risen to an exceptional rank in the Royal Navy and later been the unique subject of a drive-by Knighting when HM Queen Elizabeth visited Newhaven Port on 31st October 2013, which, coincidentally was Dennis’s 14th birthday (we approximated his age when we first got to know him and designated his birthday, what with being a Black Cat Halloween seemed fitting)

So there we have him, in all his glory, Sir Dennis Horatio Amazing Wonder Cat of Bradshaw, Lord High Admiral of the Fleet. RIP.

Try repeating that twice over the phone to the Vet’s Receptionist.

He was a funny old boy, he hated strangers but put up with me and came to be OH’s great pal. He was very dignified and didn’t like to be disrespected. One time I mistakenly bought cat biscuits for kittens and he wouldn’t eat them, so I cunningly mixed them in with his regular biscuits, only to find he picked every ‘kitten bit’ out and discarded it. That told me! I bought him toys, including a mouse, to play with. He took one look at it and went outdoors, returning a couple of minutes later with an actual mouse. Aaaaaagh. His expression? ‘Call that a mouse? that orange bit of fluff? NO, this is a mouse’ I was firmly put in my place once more.

He never made any mess, never got on any furniture except outdoors - he did requisition empty boxes mind and he was very quiet, just occasionally hissing at the fox and in later years miaowing for a little bit of fuss as he lay by the side of OH’s chair. Otherwise he’d get your attention by stealth, creeping up and sitting silently behind you as you prepared food. He loved a little bit of cheese or some hand carved ham.

He put up with our daughter’s two cats when they holidayed here and two other cats and a kitten which we fostered for quite a while.  Did I say we’re not cat people?

The Dodger and Dennis, inside and out. A kitten who was lost in our garden. Eventually we managed to trace the owner and reunite them

Socks (the only animal we’ve ever had who gained an obvious kind of name, but not an obvious way of saying it) who was abandoned by a family in our lane who moved away. We fostered him for 8 months and I loved him. He was re-homed by a local cat rescue for us. I cried buckets when he left, but he was quite a handful and his presence could be stressful at times for Dennis, not to mention ‘Katoing’ OH when he came in from work.

Dennis (left) and Herbie (Right) - so called because he was found in the herb patch, which is only obvious if you know that fact.

As with the kitten, we looked after Herbie and advertised locally, contacted vets and used word of mouth but no one came forward to claim him. Again, we fostered him and got him vet checked with the help of a local charity and he was eventually found a nice new home.

Herbie

<Massive Tangent because it always makes me smile> 

Miss NatureWatch the Younger, when she was a toddler, got quite upset because she was fancying some ‘Herbie Sandwiches’ and (unsurprisingly) I was having trouble fathoming what she meant. It took quite a bit of working out, but we did get there in the end. Lemon Curd on wholemeal bread - a little treat I could recommend actually. I’d once made these tiny, crustless square delicacies whilst she was watching Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo (or one of the Herbie films anyway and I should point out that they were vintage films at this time) and it was the only way she could think of describing what she wanted to eat again...so Lemon Curd has been Herbie ever since.

Herbie was the only other cat that Dennis had a half decent relationship with,by which I mean he ignored him. Herbie actually managed to have a nap one afternoon on Dennis’s bed while Dennis snoozed alongside. That was quite a triumph.

With Ms NatureWatch’s cats, Dennis was disdainful of the young pretender Mr B, but seemed to have quite a soft spot for Minxy who was an older pure white female and who had the accolade of once ‘kissing’ Dennis on the nose.  RIP Minx, forever known now as Dennis’s Girlfriend. I think he was far too shocked to protest at the kiss, but maybe he quite liked it! Minxy by name...

Dennis was also an animal rescue hero (I’ve blogged this before) when he alerted us to Buster the Hedgehog who was sheltering in the kennel we’d bought for Dennis to use while we were at work. That’s going back to before he stayed in the house while we were out.

What a lad he was and how our hearts broke when it was time to say goodbye. We’d only ever been able to pick him up on a couple of occasions over all the years and his veterinary care had to be house calls and observation, but he was a strong and healthy boy who lived to a good age and brought so much richness into our lives.

That was awfully long but there’s a lot to say In Memory of a Very Important Cat

Amazing. The Amazing Wonder Cat.

Handmade brooch commissioned from Nick Hubbard Jewellery in 2009. Dennis can always be with me.

Hope you enjoyed the read and my tribute to Dennis. Just remember...we’re still  not cat people, well, not unless you count our distant relationship with M Flambeau.

Fox and Flambeau

M Flambeau seen twice yesterday

Outside links in bold are not affiliated to this Blog

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Dentist/health insurance help! simple question!?

Dentist/health insurance help! simple question!?

hi. I m 19 and i am currently a college student. I have an infected tooth and usually the procedure is to just pull it. my dentist told me that she really wants me to have a root canal since i m already dealing with a crap ton of teeth problems. I have medicad the medicard and it doesn t pay for root canals. I have been fighting the infection with antibiotics and pain pills for months because i am not sure what to do. I have tried to sign up for the money program where you pay little amounts at a time but i don t have any credit so there for i don t qualify...can someone help me out? i don t know what to do from here. I m a college student and i cannot afford an 900 dollar procedure!! is there any assistance i can get?

BEST ANSWER: Try this site where you can compare free quotes :cheap-insure.info

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hi. I m 19 and i am currently a college student. I have an infected tooth and usually the procedure is to just pull it. my dentist told me that she really wants me to have a root canal since i m already dealing with a crap ton of teeth problems. I have medicad the medicard and it doesn t pay for root canals. I have been fighting the infection with antibiotics and pain pills for months because i am not sure what to do. I have tried to sign up for the money program where you pay little amounts at a time but i don t have any credit so there for i don t qualify...can someone help me out? i don t know what to do from here. I m a college student and i cannot afford an 900 dollar procedure!! is there any assistance i can get?

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hi. I m 19 and i am currently a college student. I have an infected tooth and usually the procedure is to just pull it. my dentist told me that she really wants me to have a root canal since i m already dealing with a crap ton of teeth problems. I have medicad the medicard and it doesn t pay for root canals. I have been fighting the infection with antibiotics and pain pills for months because i am not sure what to do. I have tried to sign up for the money program where you pay little amounts at a time but i don t have any credit so there for i don t qualify...can someone help me out? i don t know what to do from here. I m a college student and i cannot afford an 900 dollar procedure!! is there any assistance i can get?

[adamoaciess]

9/18/17 - 1:18 AM

I did my best. It wasn't good enough.

I was truly happy this weekend, in glimpses. I met friends that I'd been meaning to meet for years. I experienced life in a big city for the first time. I listened to a beautiful symphony that moved me to tears. I rode my first Metra train and my first subway. I walked for hours down Michigan and Madison and Canal and never felt tired. I admired the architecture of Union Station, had my first bubble tea, and listened to an awful indie rap inspired by Final Fantasy VII with Nina. I shared headcanons and plotted RP with Will. I made an inside joke with Justin about the man on LSD on the train. I texted Sarah at the exact moment she needed me, when she was crying alone on the beach, and told her I was here to visit. She smiled today, even after all the garbage she's been through this year. By all means, I should be feeling liberated.

And yet...

Those city lights were exhilarating and new. They were not home.

I made memories. Those friendships will last for years, maybe decades, maybe a lifetime. But I made it back to my hotel on time.

I loved my company more than I could ever express. I'm not moved to write prose about the colors in their eyes.

I felt like a part of me was missing, nearly every second I was away. I tried to fill the space, but none of the pieces fit.

Kyle was a wonderful companion. I had almost forgotten how easily he can make me laugh. Our friendship is and always has been effortless. I felt safe and sound in his presence, like I was a child and he was my favorite blanket. There were moments I looked at him beside me, and his quiet, confident smile almost pierced the depths of my heart.

Almost.

I can't help feeling like I could cut and paste his words, his actions, his gestures... everything... and make a carbon-copy of a man that every girl has dated before.

My mind simply refused to stray from "one of a kind."

I wondered if they used his score in the FFVII music. I compared every single work I heard to his. His name was like an ember burning in my chest, I had to bring him up, just once. Nina wasn't impressed. I know where she stands.

I idely considered what kind of ice cream he would order. I smiled a moment too long at the Grape Crush in the drink cooler. I felt a twinge of pain in my chest when I noticed that Sarah smokes the same cigarettes.

I even imagined a tangent universe where he filled the empty space in my bed, while I kept my former lover across the room. I could have asked him to join me. I'd grown so used to sharing a bed that I can hardly sleep these days. Oh, I considered giving in to comfort... but it would be an insult. To both of them. To myself.

He's disappeared. I've tried not to pay it any mind, but it corrodes me inside. A slow-burning acid... polyprotic, because he is R. Is he happy, or has he shut himself away to suffer? Is there something I can do? Is there a way I can make this better, or will I only make it worse?

I love him, and it sickens me. I want to tear my heart to bits so I never have to know this intensity of feeling again. Part of me wishes I could go back to the way life was before him. The rest of me knows that's impossible. Sometimes people just touch you too profoundly.

Soon I will have a small favor to repay him for everything he's given me. He let me into his sanctuary, and I'm afraid that I've closed the door this time. I can only hope it isn't locked. He will have his thanks, regardless. I hope everything goes according to plan. The extra step will really be something, if it happens. Will I get to see his face, when the time comes?

Maybe. "A vicious little word that can slay me." Right, Ms. Bareilles? Thanks for always singing my life.

So what's left, then? I'll go on as best I can. I'll spew positivity like a fountain, because that's what my friends deserve. I'll be thankful to God for the absolute outpouring of love I receive every single day, and I'll fight the thoughts of abandonment and hopelessness when they creep in. I will crush this emptiness into its smallest, densest core.

Oh, but it is still there.

R has run off with an integral piece of me, I'm afraid... and I can only pray that one day I will get it back.

Hope springs eternal, after all.

[spiceukonline]

Amsterdam Unfiltered

THEY say that not all those who wander are lost. Walking aimlessly through the backstreets and across the canal bridges of Amsterdam, you’d think the Dutch coined that phrase themselves. 

Amsterdam has been a favourite amongst lads, first-time stoners and cheap thrill seekers for years, dating all the way back to the 1930s when “window” prostitution appeared.  The city has a reputation for vice and decadence that it doesn’t exactly gloat about but acknowledges and respects it nonetheless by showing curious visitors that there are no skeletons in their closet that they’re trying to hide. 

Source: Get Your Guide

Source: Wikipedia

Prostitution and cannabis usage is something many countries try to deny exists and thus remains stigmitized and poorly regulated. In Amsterdam, both are in full view. We could not walk out of our tiny apartment door in the heart of the Red Light District (or “De Wallen” to natives) without a working girl staring gazelessly at passers-by in one of the infamous windows.

To the Dutch, legal prostitution is simply an industry like any other, and they make tremendous efforts to convince you of such too. Taking pictures of the prostitutes is strictly forbidden, and various monuments and art projects have been erected around the city as a marker of respect for sex workers.

Strolling through the Red Light District at 9 am after an early morning coffee run, I accidentally meandered down what I later discovered to be the narrowest street in Amsterdam. Having recently undergone a redecoration, the walls were spray-painted with “#NoFuckingPhotos,” a creative decision spearheaded by an art project aimed at encouraging people to take pictures of Amsterdam’s artwork rather than the red light women.

The Museum of Prostitution, Amsterdam. Source: Hindustantimes.com

The narrowest street in Amsterdam, at just 100cm wide. Source: Georgia Chambers

  Call me uncultured, but the Museum of Prostitution, also located in the Red Light District, was by far the most interesting museum I visited during my time in Amsterdam. For €9.50, you not only get educated, as one would expect to be the outcome of a museum trip but also leave with your perceptions of prostitution completely altered. Throughout the tour, placards ask you probing questions to challenge your own morality, such as ‘How would you feel if you were judged by so many people day in day out?’

Interactive and thought-provoking, the tour even gives you the opportunity to feel what it’s like to have your own window. Standing at a window and staring out into a virtual reality, men leered at you and women called you sluts to your face. I was deeply affected, both harbouring guilt at the skewed perceptions I had previously held towards sex work and knowing how easily I could end up in the same situation.

Truth be told, we never intended to stay right in the heart of the Red Light District. I’m probably the wildest out of all of my travel companions and the height of my rebellion is that time I used a wok as a shot glass. Still, I wouldn’t say that the Red Light District is out of the question for those who didn’t sign up for a mental lads’ weekend. Sure, it can get loud, but for the most part, we slept soundly throughout the grunts and drunken cheers from the crowd below.

Even if you don’t smoke, I’d highly recommend visiting a few of the city’s many coffeeshops (places where cannabis is sold, not to be confused with “cafes,” which are pubs.) I’d recommend The Greenhouse Effect for produce and The Bulldog for the atmosphere. If you do plan to smoke, don’t feel intimidated but also don’t pretend you know what you’re doing when you very clearly don’t, and the closest you’ve ever come to a blunt is Rihanna’s Instagram feed. Always ask whoever is selling it questions about the strength and effect so you are aware of what you’re taking. It’s also wise to bring a responsible friend to watch over you, especially if it’s your first time.

Situated on Oudezijds Voorburgwal, The Bulldog is said to be the first coffeeshop in Amsterdam. Source: Amsterdam Travel Guide

The Greenhouse Effect is a favourite hangout for smokers. Source: flickr

Parental advice over, if you really want to catch the Red Light District at its most interesting, try taking a stroll through the streets early in the morning. The area is like a post-apocalyptic ghost town, with nothing but dumper trucks on the streets clearing up bottles and takeout boxes from the night before. There was also something kind of beautiful about being practically alone in surroundings known for its loudness and business. I felt like I had absorbed a thousand people’s stories and was carrying them along with me, trying to decode them as I went. I didn’t even mind when my travel buddies didn’t want to paint the town even redder in the evening, as I looked forward to my early morning coffee runs so much.

Walking through Amsterdam during daylight hours. Source: Georgia Chambers

Amsterdam’s infamous canals by night. Source: Georgia Chambers

Note: the coffee is good, but expensive, as is everything in Amsterdam bar the marijuana. My favourite hide-out was Ms Crumbs, a little shed turned bakery, and practically one of the only places in the Red Light District awake before noon.  They also did an incredible vegan chocolate cake, which was like a godsend for this struggling travelling vegan. I often encountered the same girl working behind the counter, and I wondered what her story was. Namely, how did she feel walking through the Red Light District getting to and from work every day?

  “There’s something beautiful about being alone in the Red Light District” 

  In a desperate effort to prove I could handle things by myself, I took a stroll through the Red Light District at around 6:30 pm whilst my friends were getting food. Five minutes in, and I was already being heckled by a small group of guys. I pretended I didn’t hear them, turned on my heel, and practically ran in the opposite direction.

Back at the apartment, I told my friends what had happened, and there was a look of concern on their faces as to why I had ever thought to wander around the debauched towns in the world was ever a good idea.

Never one to take good advice when it’s offered, I ventured out alone again the day after, this time a little earlier in the afternoon. Just my luck, I was stopped by two men speaking rapid Dutch asking if they could pray for me. Originating from a small village and able to go without human contact for weeks, figuring out how to escape from this situation left my petrified. Not wanting to be rude, I let him tell his story about how Jesus saved him from suicide, before thanking him for his kind words and making my exit. Smiling to myself as I walked away and exhaling a breath I didn’t know I had been holding in for so long, I began to reevaluate what I was so worried about. People were just people, and the beauty of Amsterdam’s people was that they came in every shape, size, colour and approaches to a casual conversation.

Exploring the city on foot. Source: Georgia Chambers

On top of the famous ‘I Amsterdam’ sign (which is harder to climb than it looks.) Source: Georgia Chambers

  That’s another thing that surprised me about Amsterdam- how colourful it was. Even if you didn’t take notice of the multi-cultural community that passed by you every day, you only had to look at the extensive range of cuisine, from Chinese to Italian to Lebanese, to grasp how proud the city is of its cultural diversity. There’s a real sense that whoever you are and wherever you’re from, in Amsterdam you never feel too far away from home.

I suppose that’s how I can best articulate my time in Amsterdam. Quirky, rebellious and a bit old fashioned, I felt more like myself than I have in a long time. By the end of my stay, I had well and truly caught the Amsterdam bug.

Despite what people say, Amsterdam deserves so much more than a short weekend that you were too wrecked from to even remember to send a postcard. Even though the city is filling up with millennial exchange students with an impressive Instagram account, no one can mistake the city’s timelessness. For a city, it lets you take things easy- eat if you want, get high if you want, wander into the darkness if you want to…in Amsterdam, you’ve got time.

  Check out my favourite Amsterdam travel guides from Lonely Planet and Nomadic Matt