The golden motes drifted upward like embers from a dying campfire, catching the light of the burning Wicker Man before winking out one by one against the flames of the wooden cage. Griswald stared at the empty space where the Archer had stood, his body still locked in a half-crouch, hands braced against the ground.
"A chonách san ort."
The words were quiet.
Griswald blinked and turned his head. Cú sat cross-legged on a scorched patch of concrete, staff planted upright beside him, chin resting in one palm. His cloak pooled around his legs in tattered blue folds. Blood ran freely from the gashes across his arms and chest, soaking into the fabric, but he didn't seem to notice. Or care.
Cú tapped the base of his staff against the ground once. A single rune flared along its length.
The Wicker Man groaned. Its massive timber limbs cracked and splintered, the fires guttering as the structure lost cohesion. Burning planks fell inward, collapsing on themselves, and the oppressive heat that had caged them began to bleed away into the ruined city's cold air. Within seconds the towering construct was nothing more than a ring of smoldering debris, ash floating in lazy spirals.
"Three days," Cú said. His voice carried a strange, flat quality. Not angry. Not sad. Something between. "Three days I had to work alongside that bastard before the fire came."
Griswald lowered himself fully to the ground, his legs giving out now that the adrenaline had nowhere left to go. His rune-carved arms throbbed with a deep, persistent ache.
"Couldn't go five minutes without some comment." Cú shifted his weight, rolling his neck until it cracked. "Every tactic I suggested, he had something to say. Every spell I cast, he'd watch with that face. You know the face. That raised eyebrow, that little smirk."
A piece of the Wicker Man's ribcage collapsed behind them with a shower of sparks. Neither flinched.
"And the aloofness." Cú's lip curled. "Gods above, the aloofness. Acting like he had everything figured out. Never explained himself. Never shared a plan. Just showed up, fired his arrows, disappeared."
He picked at a splinter embedded in his glove, flicking it away.
"Our Masters couldn't stand each other either, which made the whole arrangement a special kind of misery. Two mages who hated each other's guts, and their Servants who—" He stopped. His jaw worked. "Well."
The silence stretched for a beat.
"Tsk." Cú's eyes narrowed at the spot where the Archer had dissolved. "And then the fire hits, the Grail vomits corruption everywhere, and what does the idiot do? Gets himself swallowed by it. Just like that. Three days of watching each other's backs, three days of covering his blind spots while he pretended he didn't have any, and he goes and gets corrupted so I can't even get a proper one-on-one out of him."
Cú's knuckles whitened around the staff.
"Not a fair fight. Not a real contest between warriors. No. Instead I get a hollow-eyed puppet pointing a stolen spear at me." His voice dropped.
Griswald watched him. The Caster's composure had cracked just enough to show something raw underneath. Not grief, exactly. Something closer to offense.
"And somehow—" Cú laughed, but it came out thin and humorless. "Somehow that asshole managed to lose and still make it feel like he won."
Griswald remembered the Archer's amber eyes finding his in that last moment. The blood on his teeth. Something in that gaze that wasn't defeat.
"Like he'd already gotten what he came for." Cú shook his head slowly. "Unbelievable. Even dying, he had to have the last word and it wasn't even his real name."
The Caster went quiet.
The wind shifted, carrying the Wicker Man's ash eastward in a grey curtain. Somewhere in the distance, a building's remaining wall surrendered to gravity, the crash echoing through empty streets. Cú stared at his own blood-streaked hands, staff resting across his knees, and said nothing more.
A shadow fell over Griswald.
"Senpai."
Mash dropped to her knees beside him, shield planted in the ground like a wall between him and the rest of the world. Her gauntleted hands found his face first, turning it left, then right, her visible eye scanning every inch of skin with clinical intensity.
"Your cheek—there's a laceration here, and—" Her fingers moved to his jaw. "Bruising along the mandible. Can you open your mouth? Does anything feel loose?"
"Mash, I'm—"
"Your arms." She took his left hand and turned it over, examining the rune carvings where blood had dried in dark lines along the cuts. Her brow furrowed. "Senpai, your sleeves are shredded. How many impacts did the arrows—"
"Oi. One-eye."
Mash's hands froze on Griswald's shoulder. She turned her head toward Cú with a look that could have curdled milk.
"Knock it off," Cú said. He hadn't moved from his seated position, hadn't even opened his eyes. "Your Master didn't survive an ambush by one of the last Servants in this Singularity just to get mothered to death in the aftermath."
Mash's glare intensified. Her lips pressed into a tight line. The single visible eye narrowed, the lavender bang over her other eye trembling with the force of her displeasure. Her fingers tightened on Griswald's arm—possessive, protective.
Griswald looked at her face.
The furrow between her brows. The slight puff of her cheeks.
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
She looked like a rabbit trying to intimidate a wolf. Every line of her face broadcast righteous indignation, but her features were too soft, too round, too earnest to carry real menace. The result was something that made his chest ache in a way completely unrelated to his injuries. He was just glad the lessons about first aid in the field that Dr. Romani taught her stuck.
Cú's lips twitched. Then curled. A low chuckle rumbled from his chest as he watched Mash's attempted death glare, the sound building until it became an open laugh that echoed off the ruined buildings around them.
"Oh, that's adorable." He wiped a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye with one bloodied finger. "Truly. Terrifying. I'm shaking in my sandals."
Mash's cheeks flushed pink. Her jaw tightened, but the effect only made her look more like an offended kitten than a battle-hardened Servant. She opened her mouth to retort—
Cú's attention shifted to Griswald before she could speak.
"You." The Caster's amber eyes swept over him with an appraising weight that made Griswald's skin prickle. "Still breathing. Still have all your limbs attached. No holes where holes shouldn't be."
Griswald blinked. "I... yes?"
"Congratulations." Cú planted his staff and pushed himself to his feet, joints popping audibly. Blood still seeped from the gashes across his torso, but he moved like the wounds were an afterthought. "Not many people can say they've survived being in proximity to a Servant battle. The collateral damage is usually enough to turn most even mages into an after thought."
He rolled his shoulder, grimacing when something cracked.
"You've now been around two." Cú held up two fingers, wiggling them for emphasis. "Two Servant battles. And not just around them—you were closer than most people would ever recommend. Close enough to feel the heat off my Wicker Man. Close enough for that Archer's arrows to part your hair."
Griswald's hand rose unconsciously to his scalp. His fingers found a spot where the hair felt... shorter.
Cú's tone was conversational, almost casual, but something sharper lurked beneath. "Most would have had their hearts give out from the fear. Or they'd have frozen at a critical moment and gotten their heads taken off."
The Caster's gaze locked onto Griswald's. Held.
"But you didn't. You ran when you needed to run. You charged when charging was the only option left. You braced that shield when your Servant needed the support." A pause. "You're still a shit mage. But you might actually have something resembling survival instincts buried under all that self-doubt."
Griswald didn't know what to say to that. The words sat in his chest, warm and uncomfortable. He settled for a small nod.
Cú turned to Mash.
The shift in his attention was immediate. His posture changed—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, the idle amusement draining from his features to leave something more serious underneath. More professional.
"And you." He circled her slowly, studying her stance, the way she held her shield, the position of her feet on the broken concrete. "The Spirit fused with you is settling well."
Mash's flush deepened, but this time from a different kind of self-consciousness. "I'm not sure what you—"
"The way you fight." Cú stopped in front of her, arms crossed. "It's seamless. Instinctive. You didn't learn those movements in a training room over a few weeks. The footwork, the timing, the way you read attacks before they fully form—that's battlefield experience. Years of it. Carved into muscle memory so deep it might as well be bone."
Mash's gaze dropped to her shield. Her reflection stared back from its polished surface—armored, battle-ready, nothing like the quiet girl in the grey hoodie who'd waited for medical checkups in Dr. Roman's office.
"Given all that." Cú's voice softened, just slightly. "Has anything jogged loose? A name? A phrase? Anything about your Noble Phantasm's true nature?"
The question hung in the air.
Mash's shoulders drew inward. Her grip on the shield's edge tightened until her gauntlets creaked. She stared at her own reflection for a long moment, searching, reaching for something that remained stubbornly out of grasp.
"No." The word came out small. Defeated. "I've tried. During the fight, I kept waiting for something to... to click. Some revelation. But there's nothing. Just silence where there should be answers."
Griswald moved before he consciously decided to. His hand found her shoulder, squeezing gently through the armored plating. The metal was warm from exertion, almost feverish.
"Hey." He ducked his head, trying to catch her eye. "It's okay. These things take time. You've only had these powers for—what, a few hours? That's nothing. The answers will come."
Mash looked up at him. Her visible eye glistened, wet at the edges, though no tears fell. Something in her expression eased at his touch. Just slightly.
Cú huffed.
The sound cut through the moment like a blade through silk. Both of them turned to find the Caster shaking his head, his earlier amusement replaced with something grimmer.
"It makes the next part harder." He retrieved his staff from where it rested against a chunk of rubble, spinning it once before letting it settle against his shoulder. "Saber—Artoria—she's not just corrupted. She's connected to the Grail itself. Acts as its guardian, its anchor in this world. Taking her down without knowing your Noble Phantasm's true name..." He sucked air through his teeth. "Possible. But ugly. And a lot more dangerous than it needs to be."
He started walking, boots crunching over debris.
"Come on. We should meet up with Red and the crabby woman before they assume we all died and do something stupid." Cú glanced back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Assuming they haven't already killed each other while we were busy."
—
The walk back stretched longer than Griswald remembered.
Every step felt like wading through water. His legs moved, one foot in front of the other, but the motion seemed disconnected from the rest of him. The ruined streets of Fuyuki passed in a blur of collapsed storefronts and shattered glass, the red sky bleeding its sick light over everything, and none of it felt real anymore.
He had almost died.
The thought kept circling back, a vulture that wouldn't land. Arrows had carved through the air inches from his skull. A spear wreathed in killing intent had been pointed at his chest. He had charged into a cage of burning timber alongside a Servant fighting another Servant, and somehow—somehow—he was still breathing.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Mash walked beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. She didn't say anything. Didn't try to fill the silence with reassurances or questions. She simply stayed there, a solid presence at his side, her shield dematerialized but her armored form still radiating that faint warmth he'd come to associate with her.
At some point, her gauntleted fingers brushed against his.
Griswald glanced down. Mash was staring straight ahead, her expression carefully neutral, but a faint pink had crept across her cheeks. Her hand hovered near his, not quite holding, not quite pulling away.
He took it.
Her fingers curled around his, metal and leather against his bare skin, and something in his chest loosened. The trembling in his hands didn't stop entirely, but it became more distant. More manageable.
Cú walked ahead of them, staff tapping a lazy rhythm against the broken pavement. If he noticed the hand-holding, he didn't comment. Small mercies.
The fatigue hit Griswald in waves. Each one heavier than the last. His rune-carved arms throbbed with every heartbeat, the cuts stinging where sweat had seeped into them. His legs burned from the running, the dodging, the desperate scramble to stay alive. Even his thoughts felt sluggish, like they were moving through honey.
By the time they rounded the final corner and saw the makeshift shelter, Griswald was operating on something past autopilot.
Two figures stood in the doorway.
Ritsuka spotted them first. Her whole body sagged, tension bleeding out of her shoulders like air from a punctured balloon. She grabbed Olga's arm and pointed, her mouth moving in words Griswald couldn't quite hear over the ringing in his ears.
Olga turned.
For just a moment—a single, unguarded heartbeat—her expression cracked. Relief flooded her features, naked and undisguised, her golden eyes widening as they swept over the approaching group. Her lips parted. Her hand rose halfway to her chest.
Then the mask slammed back down.
By the time Griswald and the others reached speaking distance, Olga Marie Animusphere stood with her spine straight as a rod, her chin lifted, her features arranged into something approaching regal composure. Only the slight tremble in her clasped hands betrayed her.
Ritsuka grinned, planting her hands on her hips. "Well, since you're all standing in front of us and not dissolving into golden light, I'm guessing you won?"
Mash nodded. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "The Archer has been defeated."
"Excellent." Olga stepped forward, clearing her throat with a delicate cough. Her voice dropped into something formal, almost ceremonial. "Then as the acting Director of the Chaldea Security Organization, I believe congratulations are in order."
She drew herself up to her full height.
"In recognition of your successful elimination of a hostile Servant threat within this Singularity, I, Olga Marie Animusphere, hereby extend the official gratitude of—"
"Oh good, she's doing the speech." Cú leaned against his staff, scratching his jaw. "How long is this going to take? Because I've got wounds that need—"
"—Chaldea to each member of the combat team," Olga continued, her voice rising in volume. "Your bravery in the face of overwhelming odds demonstrates the very qualities that—"
"She practiced it the whole time you were gone," Ritsuka stage-whispered to Cú, not bothering to lower her voice. "Kept her from pacing a hole in the floor."
"—our organization values most highly in its operatives. The successful coordination between Servant and Master—"
"So she was worried." Cú's smirk widened. "How sweet."
Olga's cheeks flushed pink. Her voice climbed another octave.
"—REPRESENTS A SHINING EXAMPLE OF WHAT CHALDEA STRIVES TO ACHIEVE IN ITS MISSION TO PRESERVE HUMAN HISTORY—"
"Reminds me of the wives back home," Cú mused, loud enough to carry. "The ones who'd wait by the city gates for news of their husbands away at war. Pacing back and forth, wringing their hands, practicing what they'd say when their beloved finally—"
"I WAS NOT WORRIED!" Olga's face had gone from pink to crimson. Her scowl could have curdled fresh milk. "I WAS SIMPLY PREPARING APPROPRIATE REMARKS AS BEFITTING MY STATION AS DIRECTOR!"
She jabbed a finger at Griswald.
"AND AS SUCH, I HEREBY AWARD GRISWALD VON GARMISCH THE HONOR OF OFFICIAL MEMBERSHIP IN THE NEWLY DESIGNATED TEAM F!"
The words echoed off the ruined buildings.
Silence fell.
Griswald blinked. "Team... F?"
Everyone at Chaldea knew about Team A. They were legends. The elite Master candidates handpicked by the first Director himself, each one representing the pinnacle of magical potential and rayshift compatibility. Daybit Sem Void. Kirschtaria Wodime. Ophelia Phamrsolone. Names whispered in the corridors with a mixture of awe and envy. Griswald had passed them in the hallways a handful of times, always keeping his head down, always acutely aware of the gulf between their abilities and his own meager talents.
But Team F?
He'd never heard of anything beyond Team A. The organizational structure of Chaldea's Master program had always seemed straightforward—there was Team A, and then there was everyone else waiting in the wings, hoping for a chance that would probably never come.
Olga smoothed down the front of her coat, her composure restored now that she'd regained control of the conversation. The flush had faded from her cheeks, replaced by the cool authority she wore like armor.
"The designation system is quite logical, actually." She lifted her chin, assuming what Griswald had come to recognize as her lecturing posture. "Teams are ranked in descending order based on a comprehensive evaluation of their members' capabilities. Rayshift aptitude. Magical circuits. Technical expertise. Combat potential. Anything that might prove useful when deployed to a Singularity."
She began pacing, hands clasped behind her back.
"Team A represents the absolute pinnacle. The best of the best. Each member was personally selected to spearhead Chaldea's mission, chosen for their exceptional qualities and proven track records." A shadow passed over her features—grief, quickly suppressed. "They were meant to be humanity's vanguard."
Griswald thought of the staging area. The bodies. The blood.
"Team B serves as our secondary force," Olga continued, her voice steadying. "Comprised primarily of accomplished mages from the Clock Tower and other prominent magical lineages. Individuals of considerable renown who, while not quite reaching Team A's standards, still possess formidable abilities."
Cú had settled against a crumbling wall, arms crossed, watching the explanation unfold with the expression of a man who'd seen this kind of bureaucratic nonsense before and found it mildly amusing.
"Team C consists of Master candidates still in training. Those who show promise but haven't yet completed their preparation for active deployment."
Olga stopped pacing. Her golden eyes swept across the assembled group.
Griswald's brow furrowed. "What about D, E, and F?"
The question hung in the air.
Olga's lips pressed together. For a moment, she seemed to be wrestling with something—pride, perhaps, or the reluctant acknowledgment of circumstances she'd rather not admit.
Then she turned and pointed directly at Ritsuka.
"You." Her finger jabbed the air with decisive authority. "You hadn't even begun formal training before the explosion. No rayshift experience. No combat preparation. No magical education beyond whatever hedge-witch nonsense you learned before stumbling into our recruitment office."
Ritsuka's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "Uh—"
"As such," Olga barreled on, "I am officially assigning you to the newly established Team D. Solo membership. You will undergo accelerated training as circumstances permit, with the understanding that your current capabilities place you firmly in the 'barely acceptable' category."
Mash shifted beside Griswald, her gauntleted hand still wrapped around his. She said nothing, but he could feel the tension in her grip.
"We'll be skipping E entirely," Olga added, waving her hand dismissively. "The designation system is based on academic grading standards. So, the letter serves no practical purpose."
She turned.
Her golden eyes locked onto Griswald.
"Which brings us to you."
Griswald's stomach dropped.
"You, Griswald Von Garmisch." Olga's voice carried the weight of official pronouncement. "A medical assistant with substandard magical circuits, no combat training, and are here by virtue of being the last warm body standing when the system needed someone—anyone—to link with the remaining Servant."
Each word landed like a hammer blow.
"You are, quite literally, the last person qualified for this position." Olga's expression remained imperious, but something flickered in her eyes "As such, you have been assigned leadership of the newly created Team F."
She clasped her hands in front of her, looking thoroughly pleased with herself.
Silence.
Cú's low chuckle broke first, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder.
Ritsuka's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You're really that bad at this," she finally managed, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and awe.
Olga's composure cracked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Well… why did you bother separating us into different teams at all?" Ritsuka asked, planting her hands on her hips.
Olga's cheeks reddened.
"That—the circumstances are entirely different." She drew herself up, spine rigid. "Unlike Griswald, you don't need to—" She faltered. Her blush deepened to crimson. "You don't need to engage in... in face-sucking and... and other such activities to maintain your Servant's operational capacity. Putting you in a higher tier than him"
The words came out strangled.
Mash made a small sound. Her hand tightened around Griswald's.
Ritsuka's grin spread slow and wicked across her face. "Face-sucking."
"You know perfectly well what I mean!" Olga's voice pitched higher. "The mana transfer!"
"She said face-sucking," Ritsuka stage-whispered to Cú.
"I heard." The Caster's smirk could have lit the ruined street on its own. "Very official terminology. Very directorial."
Olga's composure shattered entirely. "THIS IS A SERIOUS ORGANIZATIONAL MATTER AND I WILL NOT HAVE IT UNDERMINED BY—"
Olga's tirade continued to build momentum, her voice rising in pitch with each syllable as she jabbed her finger alternately at Cú and Ritsuka. The Caster leaned against his staff with infuriating nonchalance while Ritsuka's grin only widened, clearly enjoying every moment of the Director's unraveling composure.
"—AND FURTHERMORE, THE HIERARCHICAL STRUCTURE OF CHALDEA'S OPERATIONAL TEAMS IS NOT SOME JOKE FOR YOUR AMUSEMENT—"
Griswald watched the scene unfold, exhaustion settling into his bones like lead. His rune-carved arms throbbed. His legs ached. And somewhere beneath all of that, a familiar recognition stirred.
He'd seen this before.
Not at Chaldea. Earlier. Years ago, when his family had still harbored hopes that their disappointing middle child might prove useful for something. They'd dressed him in uncomfortable clothes and pushed him into rooms full of children from other mage families. "Make connections," his mother had instructed, her disappointment already etched into the lines around her mouth. "Try to be useful for once."
Those gatherings had been exercises in social navigation that Griswald had failed spectacularly. But he'd learned to recognize certain things. The way some people performed competence to mask uncertainty. The way authority could become a shield against vulnerability. The way someone who'd never learned to connect with others would substitute formality for warmth, procedure for genuine interaction.
Olga Marie Animusphere, Director of the Chaldea Security Organization, was absolutely terrible at this.
The realization wasn't cruel. It wasn't mocking. It was simply... recognition. A shared understanding of what it meant to stand in a room full of people and have no idea how to bridge the gap between yourself and everyone else.
"—COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE CONDUCT IN THE PRESENCE OF A SENIOR CHALDEA OFFICIAL—"
Griswald cleared his throat.
The sound wasn't loud, but something in its timing—or perhaps the unexpectedness of any interruption at all—caused Olga to stumble mid-word. Her mouth hung open, finger still extended toward Cú, golden eyes swiveling toward Griswald with startled confusion.
"Director Animusphere." Griswald straightened his posture, ignoring the protest from his aching muscles. "Thank you."
Silence crashed over the group like a wave.
Olga's finger slowly lowered. Her brow furrowed. "I... what?"
"For the position." Griswald met her gaze, keeping his voice steady despite the exhaustion pulling at him. "Team F leadership. I appreciate the recognition."
Ritsuka's jaw dropped. Her eyes darted between Griswald and Olga, the grin sliding off her face to be replaced by something closer to bewildered disbelief. Whatever response she'd been preparing—probably something designed to further wind up the Director—died unspoken on her lips.
The quiet stretched.
Then Mash's hand tightened around Griswald's, and she stepped forward with a brightness that cut through the awkward tension like sunlight through fog.
"Congratulations, Senpai!" Her visible eye sparkled with genuine warmth. She clasped both hands around his, gauntlets and all, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "Team F Leader! That's wonderful! I'm so happy for you!"
Griswald blinked at her. "Mash, you realize the position is basically—"
"A formal recognition of your capabilities!" Mash nodded vigorously, her lavender bangs bouncing. "The Director personally evaluated your performance in combat and determined you worthy of an official designation. That's not nothing, Senpai. That's acknowledgment. Real acknowledgment."
She beamed at him.
Griswald opened his mouth to explain that Team F was quite literally the lowest possible ranking, that the designation existed specifically to categorize his inadequacies, that Olga even with her good intentions had essentially created an organizational tier just to house his failures—
Mash's smile didn't waver.
He closed his mouth.
Perhaps some things didn't need to be said.
Olga made a small sound. When Griswald turned to look at her, a faint blush had crept across her pale cheeks, staining them pink in the crimson light of the corrupted sky. Her golden eyes had lost their sharp edge, replaced by something almost uncertain.
"Yes. Well." She cleared her throat, composing herself with visible effort. "You're welcome. Obviously."
Her hands clasped in front of her, fingers twisting together in a gesture that seemed unconscious.
"Your actions in the field were... adequate." The word came out stiff, rehearsed. She paused, seemed to reconsider, and tried again. "More than adequate. Given the circumstances and your limited capabilities, you performed acceptably. The recognition is earned."
Cú's eyebrows rose. Ritsuka's mouth was still hanging open.
Olga's blush deepened, but she pressed forward with determination.
"Furthermore." She lifted her chin, assuming something closer to her usual imperious bearing. "Given the current state of our operational capacity and the importance of Team F's role in resolving this Singularity, I will be overseeing your team personally."
Griswald processed this. "Personally?"
"Yes." Olga's voice carried a hint of defensiveness. "As Director, it falls to me to ensure all teams operate at peak efficiency. And since Team F is currently our only functional combat unit, direct supervision is warranted."
Translation: she had nowhere else to be and nothing else to oversee. But Griswald understood the subtext well enough not to voice it.
"Thank you, Director." He inclined his head slightly—not quite a bow, but close enough to convey respect. "I appreciate your dedication to my team's success."
The words came out automatically. A social reflex honed by years of family gatherings where saying the right thing could mean the difference between a cold dinner and a colder silence. He hadn't even thought about them before they left his mouth.
Olga froze.
Her entire body went rigid, like someone had replaced her spine with an iron rod. Her golden eyes widened, fixing on Griswald with an expression of absolute bewilderment. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. She stared at him as if he'd suddenly sprouted a second head—or perhaps a third arm, or started glowing, or done something equally impossible.
"I..." She swallowed. "You..."
The blush that had faded slightly came roaring back with reinforcements. Pink became red. Red spread from her cheeks to her ears, down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her tailored coat. Her hands, still clasped in front of her, began to tremble.
"That's—" Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat violently. "That is to say—"
Cú made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
Olga's head whipped toward him, but whatever cutting remark she'd prepared died when she caught sight of his expression. The Caster wasn't even trying to hide his amusement, his lips curled into a knowing smirk that spoke volumes.
"I—" Olga turned back to Griswald. Then away. Then back again. Her movements had become jerky, uncertain, nothing like the composed Director who'd delivered formal speeches moments ago. "Your acknowledgment is... noted. And... appreciated."
The last word came out barely above a whisper.
Cú pushed himself off the crumbling wall, his staff clicking against the broken pavement as he stretched his arms overhead. Several joints popped audibly, and fresh blood seeped from the gashes across his torso.
"Well then." He rolled his neck, grimacing. "Now that Team Fucking has been officially established, I suggest we all get some rest and treat our injuries."
The words hung in the air for precisely half a second.
Olga's face went from pink to crimson to something approaching nuclear. Her entire body seemed to vibrate with barely contained fury, her golden eyes bulging, her pale hands clenching into fists at her sides.
"TEAM—" Her voice cracked. She sucked in a breath that made her chest heave. "TEAM WHAT?!"
Cú examined his fingernails with studied indifference. "You heard me."
"I WILL NOT HAVE MY ORGANIZATIONAL DESIGNATIONS TURNED INTO—INTO VULGAR—" Olga's arms windmilled as she searched for adequate words. "THE OFFICIAL NAME IS TEAM F! F AS IN THE LETTER! AS IN THE ACADEMIC GRADE! NOT—NOT THAT!"
"Sure." Cú's smirk could have powered a small city. "Team F. For Fucking."
Olga made a sound like a teakettle reaching full boil.
Ritsuka's grin spread slow and dangerous across her face. She stepped forward, clasping her hands behind her back with an expression of perfect innocence.
"You know, Cú's right." Her voice dripped with sweetness. "And as the official overseer of Team Fucking, Director, you really should make sure everyone is well rested."
Griswald could have sworn he saw actual steam rising from Olga's ears.
"YOU—" The Director whirled on Ritsuka, finger jabbing the air between them. "THIS IS INSUBORDINATION! GROSS MISCONDUCT! I WILL HAVE YOU WRITTEN UP FOR—FOR—"
"For what?" Ritsuka tilted her head, the picture of innocence. "Expressing concern for team welfare? I'm just trying to support your leadership, Director."
"MY LEADERSHIP DOES NOT REQUIRE—"
"Team Fucking's leadership," Ritsuka corrected helpfully.
Olga's shriek echoed off the ruined buildings.
Griswald turned away from the spectacle, his exhaustion making the whole scene feel distant and slightly surreal. The argument continued behind him—Olga's voice climbing to frequencies that probably violated several noise ordinances, Ritsuka's cheerful provocations, Cú's occasional interjections that seemed designed purely to add fuel to the fire.
He found Mash standing apart from the chaos.
Her face had flushed a deep pink, the color spreading from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. Her visible eye was cast downward, fixed on some point on the ground near her armored boots. Her shoulders had drawn inward, making her seem smaller despite the impressive bulk of her combat outfit.
"Mash?"
She startled slightly at his voice, her head jerking up. The blush deepened.
"Senpai." Her gaze skittered away from his, then back, then away again. "I—yes?"
"How are you?" Griswald stepped closer, pitching his voice low enough that it wouldn't carry over Olga's ongoing tirade. "The fight took a lot out of both of us."
Mash's hands fidgeted with the edge of her gauntlet, metal fingers clicking against metal palm.
"I'm fine." She paused, seemed to consider the statement, and nodded more firmly. "Really. My healing factor as a Servant is—it's quite remarkable, actually. The minor injuries from the battle have already started closing."
She touched her side, where Griswald remembered seeing a shallow cut earlier. Her fingers found only intact armor.
"And if I need more energy for healing..." The blush returned with a vengeance. Her voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. "The condoms in my pack. They're still there. I can use them if necessary."
Griswald's own face warmed at the reminder. The memory of Mash's lips, the way she'd looked up at him through her lashes, the small sounds she'd made—
He cleared his throat.
"That's good." His voice came out rougher than intended. "Good to know you're taken care of."
Behind them, Olga had progressed to threatening Ritsuka with everything from formal reprimand to summary execution. Cú's laughter punctuated the tirade at regular intervals.
Mash's gaze softened as she studied Griswald's face. Whatever she saw there made her expression shift from embarrassed to concerned.
"Senpai." She reached out, her gauntleted hand hovering near his arm but not quite touching. "You should rest. You've been through—" She hesitated. "You've been through a lot today. More than anyone should have to endure."
The exhaustion hit him all at once.
It was like someone had cut the strings holding him upright. His shoulders sagged. His knees wobbled. The adrenaline that had carried him through the ambush, the battle, the long walk back—all of it drained away in a single moment, leaving nothing but bone-deep weariness.
"Yeah." The word came out slurred. "Yeah, I think you're right."
Mash guided him toward a relatively intact section of the shelter, her hand firm on his elbow. The interior was dark and dusty, but someone had arranged a few blankets they had found in one corner. Probably Ritsuka, during the hours they'd been waiting.
Griswald lowered himself onto the makeshift bedding with all the grace of a falling tree. The blankets smelled musty and faintly of smoke, but they were soft, and right now that was all that mattered.
"I'll keep watch." Mash's voice drifted to him from somewhere above. "Sleep, Senpai. You're safe."
He wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that she'd fought just as hard as anyone, that she deserved rest too, that keeping watch was something they should take turns doing.
But his eyes were already closing.
The sounds of the ruined city faded—Olga's distant shrieking, the crackle of still-burning debris, the whisper of wind through shattered windows. They softened into background noise, then into nothing at all.
The last thing Griswald registered before unconsciousness claimed him was Mash's quiet presence nearby, steady and watchful, her shadow falling across him like a shield.