Prologue Fate: False Fake (FSN SI)

Prologue

I’m not supposed to be here.

Shirou Emiya’s the one who’s supposed to be here.

As I watched a blue Lancer fight against a Red Archer in the school’s courtyard, I felt a shiver run down my spine at the thought of this preview of the Fifth Holy Grail War. The clashes between the swords and spears gave shockwaves, and I could barely follow their movements even with Reinforcement. Any normal human being would be devastated just from the backlash.

From what I remembered, Lancer and Archer were just average Servants. This war would have the likes of Hercules and Gilgamesh, and… I am absolutely not the one supposed to be here. In any sense. Shirou Emiya’s the one who’s supposed to die and fight in this War. Not me.

Which means I should leave. Quietly. Softly. Quickly.

It was just my luck that I stepped onto a branch as I turned. The snap was soft, but seeing as it caused the sounds of battle to stop, it might as well have been a nuclear explosion for how it killed subtlety.

Not being stupid, I immediately Reinforced my body and began sprinting, running into the building.

I should not have stayed back today. Granted, I usually stayed back to help clean the school every day, but not usually this late. I just had a lot to think about like how to fix the whole shitshow that was Sakura’s situation. I really wish I punched Shinji. I blame him. Fucker pissed me off today because he hurt Sakura, but I can’t punch him because if I do, he takes it out on Sakura and just…

Gah! I clean things when I’m upset, and I was really upset so I stayed behind really late and now I’m running away from Lancer.

Cleaning’s nice. Cleaning’s simple. Things are dirty? WIpe and dust and clean to a shine. Things are broken? Take it apart and put it back together. Something’s missing? Make it yourself and fill in the empty slot. Maintenance for a school wasn’t that different from maintenance of the mind and body.

Call me weird, but I love helping the school. I feel in control when I’m cleaning things, fixing things, making things.

Completely unlike now. Why, oh why, oh fucking why must this Event happen? I’m not Shirou Emiya. I haven’t even met the fucker. Why am I here!? He’s the one who should be running for his life, not me and--

Shit. Doesn’t he get stabbed? I don’t want to be stabbed. I don’t know if I’ll survive being stabbed. Where is Shirou Emiya!?

Running through the school may have seemed stupid, but I had a plan. I know this school better than most. I’ve cleaned it more times than I can count, and I know which ways to go. It wasn’t anywhere near maze-like, but there were a few shortcuts to get to the top and unless you ran through walls or broke ceilings, there wasn’t a way to get there faster.

Using Reinforcement and faking a few turns, I wanted to slow Lancer down just long enough for me to find an open window and jump out. After which I could… Maybe run?

I don’t know. Heroic Servants were feats beyond regular humans. I’m fairly certain any of them could catch up to a car. Desperation was my fuel and I had no real plans beyond--

Turning around, I brought my Reinforced arms into a crossbar block that did nothing to stop me from being punted down the hall like the world’s shittiest golf ball.

“Feet so fast, but alas, just too slow to escape my flow,” came the shiitiest rhymes ever. I vaguely remembered that a version of Lancer had a rhyming thing going on.

Forcing my wheezing into steady breaths, I punched through a nearby closet door and pulled out the first thing I grabbed. Holding it up threateningly, I glared, “Hey, hey. I don’t want any trouble. Just let me go, and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Lancer laughed. He laughed and then bent over, hands on knees to start cackling. Taking a risk, I glanced at my impromptu weapon and sighed.

…A broom. That’s what I grabbed. I suppose that was the best I was going to get, considering it was a cleaning closet, but it’d have been nice to have an actual weapon. …Shit, should’ve run towards the dojo. There were Shinai I could’ve used in there.

Still, you make do with what you got, and what I got was Broom-calibur

“Trace on,” I murmured, Grasping the structure of the broom.

Old and used, made of treated wood, this broom had been taken in and out of this closet to sweep Homurahara Academy every day for the past 20 years. Not particularly loved nor particularly hated, it was a simple broom, but it was my weapon. Reinforcing the Structure, I strengthened Broom-calibur and prepared for a fight.

“A wee lass saw a sight she should have not,” Lancer rhymed horribly as he recovered from his laughing fit, spear laid upon his shoulders in an image that exuded arrogant laxness,“As much as I wish not, I fear I must erase this blight.”

ABBA pattern?. Sight rhymes with blight but not rhymes with… Oh, this idiot.

“You rhymed not with not, you hack. Look up a rhyming dictionary if you want to be a poet.”

He chuckled as he twirled his spear, “Seems a shame to kill one with such a fine will, but that’s just how it goes, I suppose.”

Goes and suppose, but… did he seriously try to rhyme kill with will!? The meter ended with ‘kill one’, not ‘kill’. That’s not how meter works. Ignoring that, just focus on surviving. Why am I focusing on poetry when i’m about to die!?

Forcing my senses open, wider than before, I Grasped everything. The walls of the school, the air that we shared, I Grasped Lancer and sought to understand every single aspect of the battlefield before the battle began for information was power. I Grasped the spear and shuddered as legend fell upon me.

Gae Bolg. Gifted to Cu Chulain by Scathath who retrieved it from the Land of Shadows, the Master had hoped her Disciple would kill her with the accursed spear, but alas by the time Cu Chulain had earned Gae Bolg, Scathath’s own mortality had withered away. Forged from the skull of the great sea-beast Curruid, enchanted and engraved with runes of might and power and scorn, this spear was an incarnation of death.

Killing all that its Master wished dead and killing the few its Master wished lived, filled with regrets borne of arrogance, killing sworn-friend and unknown-son, the spear’s original purpose, that to kill its Creator, Scathath, remains yet unfulfilled.

If the target was fated with death, then this spear ensured that cessation of life. Call forth its name as--

I had to cut it off, cut off the overflow of information. It was… fascinating, beautiful to see the history of such a great weapon. As much as I wanted to see more, know more, I had to focus on this fight though. Holding the broom out like a spear, I scowled, “You can try, but I’ve never been one to go down without a fight.”

“Not much of a fight then.” Lancer said dismissively, pulling back his spear, spinning it to slick off the blood. “Couldn’t even last a count of ten.”

Ten? And then? Did he just force a rhyme between those two? WHy am I surprised!? He rhymed a word with itself. Worst part is that the fucker didn’t even count to-- Wait, blood on his spear? When did he sta-- Wait, why am I on my knees?

Never mind. There’s the pain. Blossoming fire all across my chest I’ve been stabbed. In the tit, I might add. That answers both questions then; why there’s blood, and why I’m on my knees. Doesn’t answer why he decided to rhyme ‘then’ with ‘ten’, but he’s just a bad poet.

…I’ve been stabbed.

Fucker stabbed me. In the tit. Who does that!? What an asshole. Intellectually, I knew Servants were strong, but I always thought I’d be able to react in time. Get some Reinforcement going at least to tank a hit, but no. He just stabbed me.

I’d scream, but kind of hard to do when breathing feels so manual.

“...Give me time next time,” I coughed, trying to aim the blood splatter at his feet, “I’ll show you a real fight then.”

Pursing his lips, Lancer leaned on his spear and shrugged, “I’d say I’m looking forward to it, but…. Ehh.”

At least he wasn’t rhyming, but his sassiness was equally annoying.

Really wish I could flip him off, but the stupid blood loss made it hard to even raise my arm. As it was, I could only slump forward to the ground. I couldn’t even look at him walking away, just struggle to breathe as I was forced to listen to his idle whistling softly fade off.

Resentment was useless though, so I discarded that and pondered my plan. If I died, I died, but if I didn’t… Well, I best get my mind ready for if I came back.

First thing’s first, I had to acknowledge one important fact. One that I’ve been trying to deny for a decade now. There’s a certain point where you can simply no longer deny the truth. Especially when said point is a spear going through your heart somewhere between your ribs on the…

Was the heart on the right or left side? Left side. Right.

Point was, you can’t deny the truth when your heart’s been stabbed straight through the heart. Wait, was that-- syntax even-- Fuck it. I’m bleeding out. I no neeed maketh senseth.

It appears that I am not, in fact, Shirou Emiya’s sibling. I am, in fact, the Shirou Emiya of this iteration of the Fate timeline which is opening up a secret cache of anxiety that has been fermenting for the past half-decade.

In my-- In my defense, I was a girl named Shiho Emiya. What was I supposed to think?

…Shiho. Shiro. How the fuck did I never notice that? I’m so fucking pis--

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AN: Like an idiot, I forgot to put the prologue out first.