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flitswitch) wrote2021-10-16 06:46 pm
flitswitch) wrote2021-10-16 06:46 pm
[top row left] fate/extra au - mechanisms
HEKTOR, or - how we adapt.
The first time Hektor kills a man, he makes it through the rest of the battle as a puppet. He doesn't know how many more he kills; the only thing in his brain is the face of the first as his helmet came tumbling off, stricken into a horrific mask of shock and fear as Hektor wrenched his spear free of his gut. He remembers the sickening squelch as the blade slid free, and the effort it took to do so, the flesh suddenly unwilling to release the intruder. He remembers the heat of the man's blood spilling on his hands. He remembers how he collapsed, still howling like a dog, until he finally fell silent.
When he comes back to himself, he's on all fours, throat burning as he wretches everything in his stomach. There's a hand on his shoulder, and Hektor blindly scrambles for his spear, animal terror lighting up every nerve in his body, until Polydamas' voice finally pierces the haze in his brain. When Hektor raises his head, Polydamas's face is pale and drawn.
"It's over."
And Hektor presses his brow to the earth, watering the soil with his tears.
Once the hysteria passes, they rinse themselves in the nearest stream. Just enough to wash the blood from their limbs and armor, to splash their faces and rinse their mouths, to pull themselves into something resembling presentable. Hektor is the prince of Troy, and he cannot go back out before the men as a mess. But he cannot go back without evidence either.
When they return to the soldiers, to their city, when Hektor stands before his father, his face full of pride, all Hektor can think about is the blood still spotting his clothes and crusted beneath his nails.
It is the first and last time he weeps on the battlefield.
*
As Hektor wrenches Durindana free of the false Servant, he eyes the blood staining the golden blade in curiosity. It's an odd contradiction the Moon Cell has chosen; its lesser programs don't bleed, at the most shedding errant cubes of data as they unravel, and even Servants dissolve back into lines of code when they fall. Yet blood still stains the stone, spattered across Hektor's armor and weapon, and, as Hektor discovers when he swallows, bleeding from the split in his own lip. Out of all the Moon Cell's unnecessary recreations, this seems to be the most pointless and cruel.
He's in the middle of lighting a smoke when a Servant ports in next to him. The face of Jouhei's Archer is as severe as ever, his keen eye taking in Hektor's handiwork and the last of the false Servant's unraveling code, disappearing back into the digital sea.
"You've been busy."
Hektor blows out a cloud of smoke and offers a lazy smile. "Caught a little rat scurrying at the edges on my patrol. What brings you out this way?"
"Master wanted me to check out activity he spotted in this sector. Seems you've already taken care of it."
Hektor hums, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his smile widens. All the other Servants, Hektor included, call both twins Master; the only exceptions are the red-clad Archer and the emperor herself. The only ones they address as Master are their summoners. It makes Hektor's heart ache a bit, makes him miss the headstrong young man with wild curls he once called his one and only Master.
None of it makes it to his voice when he whines. "Next time, pick your pace up a bit, would you? This old man had to fight all by himself!"
Archer crosses his arms. His voice is as dry as kindling when he says, "Wouldn't want you straining something, would we."
Grateful for the invitation, Hektor grins and snubs his cigarette out on his metal palm, the return code already executing. "Exactly! So you won't mind taking care of the second check for me, hm? Thanks!"
Archer, usually so put together, sputters immediately. "Hey, wait - !"
And Hektor is borne away from the outskirts back into the heart of Nero's Rome away from Rome. His eyes scan over the familiar architecture, Durindana dissipating back into code. The design is loud enough to make up for the lack of citizens to fill its streets, and the thought quirks his mouth in a lopsided smile.
"Mm, but what to do with all this free time..."
He stretches his arms overhead, arching his back to release the tension still settled in his frame. As he's settling back into his usual slouch he pauses, staring up at his hands, blocking the light of the false sun from beaming into his eyes. In the light, the blood still crusted under his nails is black.
He picks at it for only a second before shrugging it off, hands lacing behind his head and feet ambling towards the nearest quiet and shady napping spot he can find.
The first time Hektor kills a man, he makes it through the rest of the battle as a puppet. He doesn't know how many more he kills; the only thing in his brain is the face of the first as his helmet came tumbling off, stricken into a horrific mask of shock and fear as Hektor wrenched his spear free of his gut. He remembers the sickening squelch as the blade slid free, and the effort it took to do so, the flesh suddenly unwilling to release the intruder. He remembers the heat of the man's blood spilling on his hands. He remembers how he collapsed, still howling like a dog, until he finally fell silent.
When he comes back to himself, he's on all fours, throat burning as he wretches everything in his stomach. There's a hand on his shoulder, and Hektor blindly scrambles for his spear, animal terror lighting up every nerve in his body, until Polydamas' voice finally pierces the haze in his brain. When Hektor raises his head, Polydamas's face is pale and drawn.
"It's over."
And Hektor presses his brow to the earth, watering the soil with his tears.
Once the hysteria passes, they rinse themselves in the nearest stream. Just enough to wash the blood from their limbs and armor, to splash their faces and rinse their mouths, to pull themselves into something resembling presentable. Hektor is the prince of Troy, and he cannot go back out before the men as a mess. But he cannot go back without evidence either.
When they return to the soldiers, to their city, when Hektor stands before his father, his face full of pride, all Hektor can think about is the blood still spotting his clothes and crusted beneath his nails.
It is the first and last time he weeps on the battlefield.
*
As Hektor wrenches Durindana free of the false Servant, he eyes the blood staining the golden blade in curiosity. It's an odd contradiction the Moon Cell has chosen; its lesser programs don't bleed, at the most shedding errant cubes of data as they unravel, and even Servants dissolve back into lines of code when they fall. Yet blood still stains the stone, spattered across Hektor's armor and weapon, and, as Hektor discovers when he swallows, bleeding from the split in his own lip. Out of all the Moon Cell's unnecessary recreations, this seems to be the most pointless and cruel.
He's in the middle of lighting a smoke when a Servant ports in next to him. The face of Jouhei's Archer is as severe as ever, his keen eye taking in Hektor's handiwork and the last of the false Servant's unraveling code, disappearing back into the digital sea.
"You've been busy."
Hektor blows out a cloud of smoke and offers a lazy smile. "Caught a little rat scurrying at the edges on my patrol. What brings you out this way?"
"Master wanted me to check out activity he spotted in this sector. Seems you've already taken care of it."
Hektor hums, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his smile widens. All the other Servants, Hektor included, call both twins Master; the only exceptions are the red-clad Archer and the emperor herself. The only ones they address as Master are their summoners. It makes Hektor's heart ache a bit, makes him miss the headstrong young man with wild curls he once called his one and only Master.
None of it makes it to his voice when he whines. "Next time, pick your pace up a bit, would you? This old man had to fight all by himself!"
Archer crosses his arms. His voice is as dry as kindling when he says, "Wouldn't want you straining something, would we."
Grateful for the invitation, Hektor grins and snubs his cigarette out on his metal palm, the return code already executing. "Exactly! So you won't mind taking care of the second check for me, hm? Thanks!"
Archer, usually so put together, sputters immediately. "Hey, wait - !"
And Hektor is borne away from the outskirts back into the heart of Nero's Rome away from Rome. His eyes scan over the familiar architecture, Durindana dissipating back into code. The design is loud enough to make up for the lack of citizens to fill its streets, and the thought quirks his mouth in a lopsided smile.
"Mm, but what to do with all this free time..."
He stretches his arms overhead, arching his back to release the tension still settled in his frame. As he's settling back into his usual slouch he pauses, staring up at his hands, blocking the light of the false sun from beaming into his eyes. In the light, the blood still crusted under his nails is black.
He picks at it for only a second before shrugging it off, hands lacing behind his head and feet ambling towards the nearest quiet and shady napping spot he can find.