Street-walking, still shaky. Eases gradual; fear aftermath mostly. Now wait night—train 7am. Dry off, no sick. Yes.
Plus: club 10min station walk. Glance: street empty, lone fool night-rain roam.
Station back, corner seat, shed coat, vending coffee/bun. Not alone; many doze benches.
Seat coffee-handed, realize: too greedy—gun! Yeah right! World deemed cheeky, denied... maybe best. Hiding issue, can't shoot anyway.
This is if you forget about the ammo—which will definitely run out. How many spare magazines did that black guy have? 2-3? Plus one in the pistol. Seven rounds per magazine—that's 21-28 shots. That wouldn't even be enough for me for basic accuracy training! So maybe it's for the best, fewer problems.
I glance at the clock—almost 2 a.m., need to hold out another five hours until the train, I'll sleep there. Luckily, it's just a one-day trip, while the whole route from Akito to Fukuoka takes 3 days. Eh, better not to remember how much effort and nerves it took to convince my parents not to come with me and that I can go alone. Yeah, well, it was worth it in some ways.
*2 months later.*
Here I am in Fukuoka again, this time without transfers and alone again. There's a certain level of trust in me now, and it was probably only scary the first time to let me go anywhere alone. Heh, this time not even Taiga-sensei is meeting me. That feeling when you realize that those around you are slowly starting to tune you out, like you're not a little kid anymore and can handle yourself. Well, that's for the best.
Hah, I'm 12, look about 14 probably. And I'm studying with 16-year-olds in 11th grade. Or rather, I will be. If you look at it from the outside, I'm one big anomaly and stand out at school. Though in studies, I don't try to shine anymore, justifying it by saying the material got harder. And the novelty effect is gradually wearing off, which is good. I shouldn't stand out.
*2 weeks later.*
I'm standing at the assembly, eyeing the first-years... ahem, I mean 10th graders. I have a reason for this—the high school transfer is Shirou Emiya. And now I'm scanning for the rest of the future masters. Earlier, I'd already combed through the parallel classes, or rather the school journals, to see who's there.
And Rin Tohsaka wasn't there. Along the way, I casually asked Shirou about Sakura's last name—Matou, that was to find her brother. But he wasn't in the parallel class either. So I assumed they were all the same age. And waited until this moment. Hm, the guy next to Shirou is probably that—"someone there" Matou.
I scan the crowd and spot a girl in a red coat thrown over her school uniform with two braids on the sides. And there's Rin Tohsaka—yeah, yeah, how could we not stand out against the riffraff? After all, we're such great magi, and everyone else isn't.
*9 months later.*
End of the year soon, and I decided to talk to my parents about how I should move out and live alone, even if in a tiny room. As an argument, I said it's valuable experience, since next is only university, or wherever they want me to go. And I need the experience—seemed to convince them, and it went even easier than expected. Harder with Taiga-sensei, but I managed her too. Everything's going surprisingly well, which is suspicious.
*4 months later.*
New school year, last grade of high school. And my temporary one-roomer in a panel building. As they say, you asked for it, you got it. Yeah, seems they took me too literally. But whatever, I only need it to sleep here basically, though after living in private houses, it's not cozy. And the ceilings are kinda low. Grumbled a bit more, sat by the window, and looked at the city—2003, autumn, more precisely October, evening, clear dry weather. And the time has come—time to go on the job.
All these years, I didn't just go to school; on the way, I scoped out neighbors in private houses and already picked a couple of victims. Loners or childless couples, no pets, not too high fences. But I decided to start with something simpler—old folks, who often fit the description too.
Threw on a cloak with a hood, tucked my trusty knife into rubber boots and the shocker, put my "Flag-canvas" in a special bag. Of course, it's a bit scary to head out into the night—you never know who'll be the victim today, as they say. But I hope it's not me. And yeah, this'll be my second murder. Since that time in Okinawa, I haven't touched anyone else—not out of fear. Just no need. With those thoughts, I headed out on the job.
*An hour later, around 1 a.m.*
There's the target, no lights in the house—an old lady lives alone. No one on the street, so I lean on the trash bin and climb the fence. Walk calmly through the yard to the house—no point sneaking, that'd just be more suspicious if anyone notices. The paper door so popular with locals is flimsy in my opinion, but just what I need here, heh, and it's not even locked. Honestly, they treat security here with huge leniency. I've heard that in Russia some folks don't even lock their apartment doors, but I suppose such people exist.
I slowly head to the stairs to the second floor—basically, even if she wakes up, it changes nothing. Climb the stairs, listen, follow the snoring into the room. Eh, how simple—pull out the shocker and zap her a couple times, hope she doesn't croak. Unroll the tube and spread the Flag-canvas on the floor, drag the body onto it, and slice the arms.
Well then, now the most important part—the speech! Ahem. "O great Holy Grail! Grant me The Servant, I offer this life in sacrifice!"
Short and to the point. And yeah, I'm no orator, but I'll prep my own speech each time. Wait a minute, nothing—okay, take two, slit the old lady's throat, maybe it's because she's still alive? "O great Holy Grail! Grant me The Servant, I offer this life in sacrifice!"
And nothing again. Not even a faint glow from the circle. Eh. Shove the old lady off the Flag-canvas and head to the Bathroom—nothing to be shy about now, rinse the Flag-canvas, plug the tub and Sink, let it flood everything—not a fire, but flammable enough, and it'll wash away some traces. Think that's enough, no need to draw attention with a fire. I've got one more target today, and time's short.
*3 months later.*
January, cold, but surprisingly no snow. It's already 2004, and I still haven't managed to summon The Servant. Which worries me. Don't even mention the number of ritualistic killings—it's into the third dozen. Actually, I stopped counting after 12. And I have to get creative; just killing someone in their house isn't enough, and can't do it often—paranoia whispers the cops have been hunting me for a while. So to up the victim count, besides killing the homeowner, I started ordering deliveries too—hey, +1 person. Doesn't always go clean, but the shocker hasn't let me down yet.
To avoid repeating and walking into a possible ambush, I keep a wildly varying schedule. Also worries me that the news has zero word on the murders. So following my paranoia, I only head into the city on jobs during rain, hunting hobos in alleys. In a way, I even justify myself—I have my own style, like a "water man." There was a sand man, not from Spider-Man, some story or urban legend? Point is, he strangled people in their sleep or something.
Distracting myself with random thoughts, I reach another victim, zap the body with the shocker—by now I barely care who it is. Drag from the bed, lay on the Flag-canvas, slit the throat right away.
"Fucking finally give me The Servant already!" More a cry from the soul than a spell.
Wait a minute, nothing again. Bitch.
*A voice from behind.* "Well, not bad. Are you my master?"
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: Granulan