A / N: I couldn't fit this (and other stories) into the current narrative, thus I'm posting them as their own, separated side-stories. This one focuses on Bazett before the main story starts. It's not told in a strictly chronological order. Furthermore, it'll be a cross-over with Black Lagoon, but, as it's more Fate-involved I've decided to keep it in this section. The other side-story I have planned and already written material for is called Crimson Moon.

Chapter 1

—Today, the youth who holds the lance in his hands shall have all the glory and praise he desires—

The familiar presence Bazett felt began to multiply; fan out among the shipyard in a formation reminiscent of what was taught in her Enforcer training days.

They'd finally made their move.

Falling back into the ship, she masked herself and listened, chanting one of her more immediate five-verse incantations beneath her breath.

"Ar mo mionn, A ligean ar an spéir dorchaigh..."

One of them moved to check for any traps.

But, it was already too late. "... In ainm mo shinsir, beidh mé tost ar fad séantóir..."

Continuing her chant, the sky grew black and the clouds drew closer to the ground. They retreated.

But, it was far too late. "... Istigh leis an búir toirneach!"

Thunder crashed, lightning striking down from the heavens, its roar drowning away their screams. Stepping out into the open after, Bazett ignored the grisly smell of charred flesh and pulled up her sleeve, exposing her metal, prosthetic left arm to the elements. It sizzled in the rain. The lightning coiling around it like white-hot tendrils. She channeled magecraft along its length and aimed at where she calculated those still alive to be hiding.

"... Tá brón orm..."

With a deafening screech, it chained through the metal littering the shipyard, and the air filled with the dying screams of more of her pursuers as they sprang up, lit aflame. They thrashed about in the rain, those dying screams bubbling to bestial howls.

And, she waited.

And, in the second it took for her to register that not all of them were dead, something hit her chest with such force the others would've crushed her ribcage if she hadn't dodged them in time. Spitting blood, her former, fellow Enforcer was already making their next move, launching several more bullets of magical energy. She dodged what she could and blocked what she couldn't with her prosthetic arm and, letting the useless limb fall away to her side, empowered her other hand and slammed it down in their direction. The ground broke, and a man was thrown clear, sliding in the mud, the magical barrier he'd put up to shield himself shattering violently, sending have her tumbling across the ground with a particularly acute blast of magecraft which rendered her temporary immobile in the same instant.

If she were an ordinary person, an ordinary magus, the blast would've been enough to kill her.

Gasping for air, she lunged out with her prosthetic in a last ditch act to catch him unaware, coming just shy of swiping him across the face. Only, the damage was done and she heaved, rolling over on her back and clutching her chest. Next she knew, he was above her, hand glowing bright, about to finish the job.

But, even he couldn't anticipate the intervention of a Servant.

—Until the day comes when this land and this era itself disappear into the ocean, not a single human, not a single bird nor a flower will ever forget him—

Blood dripped onto her jacket, blood trickled down the Enforcer's chin, blood ran down the barbed weapon nearly touching her abdomen and jutting from his.

He was dead before his body hit the ground.

"Ya hurt, Master?" Lancer asked, as he twirled his spear, offering his hand.

"It's fine," she replied, gazing up to a dirty clouds in a sweat. Her prosthetic arm was out flat, inoperable. A number of her ribs were broken. When she tried to rise to her feet again, her chest was being squeezed to death.

She got up anyway.

She labored her way to a spot overlooking the bay, spotting a group of shipbreakers laboring themselves to drag a massive piece of metal through the muddy sand.

—Our dearest Son of Light—

—§•Ω•§—

Not long after, between rows of derelict ships, slipping in and out of their towering shadows, save for the sparks that showered them as the workers up on their decks were busy cutting them down to size, Bazett read the names of various barnacle encrusted steel skeletons left abandoned. The shipyard was silent, the ships forever still. The air hung heavy with the odor of brine and fuel and a distant aroma of salty, burnt flesh that was carried by winds. She continued to ignore that particular smell.

In the weeks since the end of her assigned Holy Grail War, losing her left arm, acquiring her Sealing Designation, and finally luring out the last of those magi sent to apprehend her, she'd gotten no rest. The hunter was now the hunted. Covered in oil and mud, peering down into the dark, polluted waters of the shipyard, she thought of that initial assignment, that wish she'd secretly held close to her heart, a childish dream, and, looking back at Lancer, honestly wished she'd never in the first place.

When she'd first summoned him, at the time, to meet Cú Chulainn in the flesh, to speak with him and find out with her own two eyes what such a man was like rather than just reading about his deeds in storybooks... Once, she thought she could save him, but, now knew that if anyone needed to be saving it wasn't him.

It'd nearly cost her everything, not just her left arm, but, pulling her hood down, slinging Fragarach over her shoulder again, and trying to form a fist with her prosthetic replacement, it was something she should've accepted by now: failure.

—My older brother told me this once: 'Life itself is not painful. It's you, who's holding your breath'. Getting rid of that habit is not easy, Bazett Fraga McRemitz—

… His words came back, that night came back, the fire crackling between her and the Executor priest she was content to call a friend despite their affiliated organizations being less than friendly. When she'd whined about her woes to a man who'd listened with rapt attention, disheartened, still trying to find herself and her purpose in the world. A stupid girl who nobody needed, hated by many, and loved by none; to a man needed no one, who hated no one, who loved no one. The first, and only, night they'd spoken at length.

—If you feel you are unnecessary to this world… to forgive yourself, you must first see a greater world—

Her Sealing Designation. From hunting down loansharks in Tokyo's underbelly where they'd first met the master puppeteer to recovering research materials from known, rogue magi in Sochi that would suit her own mechanisms, it was during that brief period it'd been placed on her head, and their initial reason for being here in Bangladesh, artifact collecting, overlapped with the arrival of the Magus Association. While it was only appropriate to receive one as she was a loose-end, she couldn't help but wondering Touko herself had her hand in seeing it pushed through this fast.

It was no secret that the infamous holder of the title Red, who in exchange for crafting her a new, fully-functional left arm, requested they work for her for at least six months, would have connections within the upper hierarchies of the Clock Tower—those noble and prestigious magi families, histories of tradition spanning centuries who'd love nothing greater than the chance to have a rare Mystic Code and Magic Crest within their possession—and had the resources to send the two of them wherever she needed her business done.

Not that she was complaining, it gave her something to do, though this was taking it too far. It wasn't something she took pleasure in nor that she had time to deal with right now except more grief.

As they came to the shantytowns outside the city, Bazett paid their ferryman and lowered her hood down further as she and Lancer melted into the crowd.

She didn't want to think about it any longer.

Eyes shifting to the tattered cloak over her clothing, concealing the bag they'd risked life and the rest of her limbs for, they needed to find a place to rest and mend her wounds.

—§•Ω•§—

"Ya know, my teacher would've liked you a lot, Master." Lancer, leaning against the wall of the unoccupied building she'd decided upon in one of the Chittagong's poorer neighborhoods, grinned.

Short, youthful, and beardless, his skin fair and features slender, blue-black hair thick, and eyes, swift and gray, the color of dreary rain, he was cheerful as ever. His weapon, the infamous barbed spear Gáe Bulg made from the bone of the sea monster Coinchenn, lay propped up beside him.

Without him, she never would've been able to escape Japan.

She winced.

Lancer spoke again. "Something wrong, Master?"

She shook her head. "No, it's nothing."

The pain in her chest. It wasn't the best job, but, enough to heal on its own, and that was all that mattered. She ran her hand across her prosthetic. Just a replacement for the original of flesh and blood where skin met metal, despite how real it felt, it was never going to be no matter the prosthetic nor skill of the practitioner.

She stood up. Stretched. "... Are we sure that was the last of them?"

He wore partial scraps of leather and metal armor over a tight fitting bodysuit for a balanced mixture of speed and protection. He shrugged. The pieces clicked together.

"Then we should hurry."

When she stepped out, and they were in busier streets, a boy bumped into her. She stopped, turned, but he was gone, and in her hand was a letter that hadn't been before while the bag holding the artifact's they'd collected was gone.

That troublesome woman worked too fast.

Lancer pursed his lips, looking in the direction the boy disappeared, then looked back. "Aye… where to next?" So, he knew it too. It hadn't been a boy, a local, but, one of her uniquely crafted puppets. He peeked over her shoulder, probably hoping it was someplace where he'd get a decent fight. Humans and homunculi weren't enough. No, what he wanted was…

She scowled. "Dammit."

Closing her eyes for a moment, she didn't want to know whatever scheme Touko was up to, or, in actually, who her other clients were nor allow herself to get further involved than necessary, but, some things couldn't be changed, could they? The Einzbern family. A certain homunculi required disposal of. It was the second time she'd gotten such a request from them specifically, recalling that particular assignment. Black mud, a lawless city, virgin blood. Bullets, mayhem, crooks and thieves. Bazett's eyes narrowed. Back then she's still been inexperienced, still fresh as a lamb on slaughter-night, but, even now, no longer wet behind the ears, the wolf who devoured the lamb, she was hesitant. If the idea of having every bone in her body crushed to dust by one of their homunculi again wasn't enough, the letter also mentioned that it'd wound up caught in the middle of something nefarious. Keyword: Yggdmillennia. She already didn't like the sound of it. And the last bit, especially, sealed the deal.

… Her name is Forte. Perhaps you've heard of her?

Of course she knew the name.

Quite the favorite among those given the privilege of a Sealing Designation. After hearing about your circumstances, she personally contacted me to offer her services.

Forte was a magus not tied to anyone within Clock Tower and who openly went against its core values for the sake of money and personal benefit. In other words, a freelancer. Moreover, a formidable, experienced combatant of many gruesome melees capable of challenging Dead Apostles on par with those dealt with by the Canticle Brigade.

She burned the letter between her fingertips. So, another time, another homunculus, another Holy Grail War, another partner, and all the stress that came with them. She just hoped Forte wasn't as uncouth as the Magus Killer—not that she'd ever met the man, but, there were stories. After all, the very last thing she needed was even more attention from the Association...

Translations:

- Chant,

Ar mo mionn, A ligean ar an spéir dorchaigh. On my oath, let the sky darken.

In ainm mo shinsir, beidh mé tost ar fad séantóir. In the name of my ancestors, I will silence all the apostates.

Istigh leis an búir toirneach! Inside the roar of thunder and lightning!

- Other,

Tá brón orm. There is sadness about me / I'm sorry.