634Astolfo was stoked!
Why, every step he had taken today was either a hop, a skip, or a jump. That was how happy he was feeling! Why, you might ask?
He didn't know!
'Well, hold on now, Astolfo,' he chided himself. It was unbecoming of one of Charlemagne's Paladins to indulge themself in a vice without first understanding the source of the joy that it brought. Of course, that hadn't stopped him in his life, or Roland, or Charlie, or even Bradamante.
Okay, maybe it wasn't as improper as he made it out to be, but regardless! He had to know why he was feeling so happy.
"Hmm… What a conundrum," he muttered as he continued to walk around in circles, something he had been doing for the past… thirty minutes? Who knows, his only indication of time was that the cafeteria was full when he started—sometime after his own meal was finished, in celebration of how delicious it was—and that now it was empty sans him and those two in the kitchen.
Why was he feeling so elated? Was it the presence of some familiar faces? Ruler—or Jeanne now, he should call her—was a very welcome sight for him. In the first place, the fact that he remembered her was a miracle, so maybe that was it?
No. He was overjoyed to meet her, don't get him wrong, and Jeanne had been equally delighted, but there was… someone missing, someone whose absence was like a hole in his heart made in that someone's shape. It was in Jeanne's eyes too, Astolfo recalled. Something flashed in her eyes when they talked after his summoning, like she felt she was someplace that was wholly aligned with her person but without the someone who she wanted to share it with.
Well, that was enough moping. He still had a conundrum to solve!
'What could it be… what could it–' Clank. His foot bumped against something. He looked down and, oh. 'That's right!'
It was Chaldea!
He bent down and picked up the object he bumped to: a saddle, for Hippogriff! It had been a gift of sorts from Chaldea, maybe. It was a week or so ago, a few days before he gave Master King a joyride, that he had let it slip out of his mouth. "Oh, man… Hippogriff would look so cool with a saddle!" he said out loud while traversing Chaldea's halls. It turned out that someone had heard his pleas, someone who Astolfo would've forgotten about had he not patiently listened to his ramblings, a man by the name of John, and that was the only thing he remembered of him.
But John came through regardless, as a few days later he came delivering Astolfo the saddle neatly wrapped in a package.
And it was magnificent!
Well, maybe it would be. It looked fancy enough at least, with surprisingly detailed adornments on its edges in the form of embroideries depicting knights on horses on a loop. He had yet to actually put it on Hippogriff, but he would soon enough, when he had to deploy Hippogriff, whenever that time would come.
Either way, that was it! That was why he had been feeling so elated! Chaldea was such a wonderful place. Where else could a servant get free housing, food, space, and even custom requests? Man, he really lucked out being summoned here!
Well, that was the conundrum solved!
…
But hold on. Could he perhaps… request more?
Certainly, if such a sudden request for a saddle could be so quickly fulfilled, then maybe Chaldea had more in store for him, no? Perhaps he could ask for–
"Astolfo." The Rider looked towards the source of the stern voice, down. The furrowed face of the cafeteria's own mighty chef met him. "I have to ask you to not stand on our tables."
"Oh, right," Astolfo said sheepishly, hopping off the table before quickly dashing out of the cafeteria.
He had a request to make!
Astolfo, Olga decided, was quite the nuisance.
The first bit of news she received today was that of a noise complaint, described as 'someone walking with too much pep in their step'. If you were to give her three guesses then as to who was the culprit of this complaint, she would answer Astolfo before you gave her the first chance. And wouldn't you know it, it was in fact their very own crossdressing Rider.
The second news she received was confirmation that she was indeed correct, followed by an addendum that "Astolfo was prancing around on top of the cafeteria tables" as reported by their head chef.
And now, he had come to disturb the status quo once more.
"Astolfo has another request for us, Director," John said, standing in front of her with his hands behind his back.
A groan forced itself out of Olga's mouth. "Sorry," she said. It had to be a bad look for her to do that in the Director's Room of all places. "So, what is it this time?"
"A dress, director."
"A dress."
"A dress."
It took everything Olga had to not bury her face in her hands. A dress. A servant, one of those coveted figures in history she had once sought after almost as much as most mages did the Grail, was asking for a simple dress. She let out a breath filled with perplexion.
"Alright. If you see Astolfo, tell him the same thing as last time."
"That Chaldea will do its best to accommodate him?"
"Yes," Olga nodded, "and if you see Kali, tell her to come here."
"Understood, Director. Good day."
John exited her room after his farewell—going straight to Astolfo, Olga assumed—leaving Olga free to let out a long sigh.
The matter of servant residence had always been a topic in Chaldea, even before she took the mantle of director. Da Vinci was a model of what they would do once Chaldea reached its original purpose; accommodate each servant's wishes as best they could. To that end, they gave Da Vinci an entire workshop to do with as she would, and while FATE never bore fruit until recently, it was understood that similar actions would be taken with additional servants, with discretion being given to each servant's master.
Now, with the number of masters being a measly two, that responsibility fell to Chaldea.
To her.
And Astolfo was proving to be a most troublesome first hurdle.
She rejoiced when the first batch of servants turned out to be more than agreeable. The ones that requested some form of arrangement did so to help Chaldea: Emiya as the head chef, Murasaki as the librarian, and those who didn't were satisfied with simply battling their hearts out in the simulator.
She should've known to not celebrate so soon.
No… No, that wasn't right. What she should've known was to pay attention to the plans Chaldea had left unfinished. What she should've known was how unprepared they were. What she should've done was get off her goddamned ass and work.
Damn her and her incompetence.
A knock on her door woke Olga from her musings. "Director?"
"Come in, Kali."
The explanation that followed was met with a blank stare from Kali, as if asking if this was really what working at Chaldea supposed to entail.
"So… a dress, huh?" Kali said, echoing words she didn't know had already been uttered twice in the room.
"Yes. The dress itself we will simply ask for from logistics. That being said, I'm counting on you to put some sort of design on it—if only to make it more appealing to Astolfo." Olga sighed. "Sorry for springing more work to you. It's just… I don't really know anyone else with the skill set for this." Maybe there were more in Chaldea, even among their depleted ranks, who had skill in artistry, but she wouldn't know, would she?
"Oh, no worries, director. It was… refreshing to stretch the creative part in my brain at work. I don't usually get too many chances to do that."
Olga bit her lip. "Right." Intentional or otherwise, there was an underlying accusation in Kali's words: that it was because of her that she could not. And she would be right, it was because of her.
"Say, who's handling all these requests anyway?" Kali asked, tweaking her glasses. "Sure sounds like it'd be a pain."
"It's John, and for what it's worth, he's yet to complain about it."
"Just because he hasn't said anything doesn't mean he's not annoyed by it," came the reply, said with a harsh edge to it that made Olga wince. Kali shook her head. "Sorry, that was uncalled for."
"No, it's fine. You're right."
"But… John? Who's that?"
"He's one of our employees."
"Of course, but which one? Just John is a little too nondescript of a name for me to remember, no offense to him."
Olga's mouth opened, but the words dried up. She just met with John, she had seen John, she had talked with John, but not a single word came up in her head to describe him in a meaningful way.
"He's… He's one of those guys in logistics," Olga finally said, hiding the frustration in her voice.
"Logistics, huh? John… John… Doesn't ring a bell. Well, whatever, I guess it doesn't really matter."
No, it didn't, not to Astolfo's request anyway.
But it bothered her that she couldn't remember one of her employees.
It was Medusa who first encountered Astolfo that particular day, and immediately, her attention was grabbed by the Rider's outfit. Gone was his black skirted armor and white cape that she remembered from their few (and wordless) meetings, and in its place was a white, embroidered dress that even on first glance she could tell was personally worked and designed, not manufactured en masse.
"Oh! It's you, Medusa!"
"Sir Astolfo," she greeted back in a much less passionate voice.
Their conversation did not go beyond greetings, but for some godforsaken reason, Astolfo stopped walking after their simple exchange. Instead, he took his time to twirl around the hem of his dress with his hand, showing it off with a smug smile on his face, though Medusa felt it wasn't directed at her as much as it was directed at the world itself.
And it didn't seem like he was stopping.
Medusa sighed, and took the bait. "So, Sir Astolfo, pray tell, where did you get that new dress of yours?"
"Oh~? Curious, are you~?"
'No, not really,' she thought dryly, but whatever it took to get this over with, she was content with doing. So, she nodded.
"Ha-ha-ha! Why, Chaldea gave it to me, of course!"
"Chaldea?" she said, her eyes furrowing.
"Mhm!" replied Astolfo, hands on his hips. "Turns out, not only is Chaldea a save-the-world organization, but also basically a five-star hotel for servants!"
She so verily doubted that was the case.
"I see," she said in a level tone with a hint of disinterest. Perhaps Astolfo would catch it. He was still a legendary knight, after all.
"Right?"
She expected too much of him.
"Well, Sir Astolfo," Medusa said, "it has been nice meeting you, but if you have nothing else for me, then I need to go."
"Just wanted to let you know that you can request things from Chaldea, really. Just look for a guy named John," Astolfo said, pointing his thumb behind him, as if this 'John' was in the empty space. "Well, see ya!"
Medusa gave a half-hearted nod as Astolfo walked past her, the details of their conversation already becoming fog in her memories. However, one piece of information did stick with her.
"Hmm… A request, is it? I do have something in mind."
Astolfo couldn't believe it, Chaldea came through once again!
He once again lifted the hem of his new dress and gazed at its intricacies. It had come a mere three days after he put in his request to John, who Astolfo had by now assumed to be Chaldea's premier courier, and the amount of work put in that short time was staggering. Beyond its comfortably lightweight material, there was a surprising amount of stitch work done to decorate it, with lace patterns going around the dress around his waist and even a gold embroidery on the hem!
He was more than satisfied.
Once again, Astolfo couldn't help but think that Chaldea truly was amazing.
If once was a happenstance, and twice was a coincidence, then Astolfo sure hoped there would be a third time to make it a pattern!
He stopped in his tracks.
"Wait… I can test that out, can't I?"
"Can you repeat that, John?"
"Astolfo wants decor work for his room," John repeated, this time sliding a folded piece of paper across her table towards her. "He even took the time to list out the specifics."
Olga reached out to the paper, gritting her teeth to prevent the tremors in her mind from reaching her arm. Slowly, she unfolded the paper and began to skim through its contents. Strobe lights, a paint job, decorative swords, a room wide carpet, bathroom decor, and… an entire wardrobe's worth of sailor outfits?
And that was less than half of what he asked.
This… This was no longer within the scope of a minor favor.
"John," she said, the employee's head raising to meet her. "Tell Astolfo to wait a week."
She needed to contact the engineering department.
"I didn't really expect to be called for engineering again after my, uh, transfer," Harada said as he kept walking beside and slightly ahead of her, leading her to the engineering department.
"Neither did I, but you are a former member of the engineering team, right?"
"Technically, sure, but I came here, like, a year ago. I only know two or three guys there. Hell, you probably know more of 'em than I do, Director."
No. No, she didn't. Five years after becoming Chaldea's Director, she knew only the heads of each department—most of which were now lying unconscious in the medical rooms. It had always been "Lev! Can you sort out these complaints?" or "Can you help me deal with this department, Lev?" with her, she had come to realize in the past month, but it was only now, her own ignorance thrown in her face, that her incompetence had truly come to light—even more than when Kali snapped at her.
"Well, here we are." Harada's voice snapped her out of thoughts. In front of them was a simple door; not like the automatic sliding doors typical of Chaldea, but instead a simple, metal door with handles to open them.
Harada opened the door with a grunt, and gestured at her to go inside. With a breath longer than she usually took, she stepped into the room.
And immediately, it felt like she had stepped into a different world.
It was humid, and the air was comparably hot to the constantly air conditioned halls of Chaldea. The ground was softer, not so much that her feet sank into them, but enough that she felt the soles of her shoes stick for just a moment before leaving the floor. And above all, it lacked any of the colours of Chaldea. Gray, unpainted walls surrounded various machines that were overseen by the ceiling, as tall as it could possibly be in the confines of Chaldea's architecture.
And in the middle of it all, men covered in soot from thankless hours of work she had been blind to till now, their numbers countable on one hand, but each heaving work in their own way.
"Harada?" came a gruff voice accompanied by heavy footsteps approaching their way. "I thought you got sent to the kitchens."
"Sure did, Sir. I'm just here to accompany her," Harada said, gesturing to Olga with his arm.
The man, now right in front of them, turned his eyes towards Olga. He was tall, almost as tall as King was, and she had to crane her neck up to meet his eyes. Blue overalls covered his dusty white shirt, and it bulged outwards to accommodate his rotund stomach. His eyes narrowed slightly as their eyes were locked in the contest, the folds around them shiny with sweat and oil. He scratched his thick beard and leaned closer to her, and asked with a Slavic accent:
"And you are?"
"Olga Marie Animusphere, Director of Chaldea," she answered with a tone reserved for formal meetings, as if she was introducing herself to a future employer rather than her employee.
"Oh, of course! The Director who never even once came here herself." He threw his head back with laughter that sounded mocking, and came out slightly raspy like the air had gone through barbed wire in his throat. "Tell you what, I didn't even know our director was such a young lady! I thought that man in green that turned out to be a monster was our director! Wonder why I thought that. What was his name again?"
"Lev. Lev Lainur," she answered on instinct. "You probably thought he was the director because… because he did my job—or what was supposed to be my job."
He raised an eyebrow. "So, the nepo baby does have some self-awareness after all."
Olga steeled herself against the accusatory tone, hiding the rising grimace on her face. "Maybe, but self-awareness isn't what I'm after." 'It's self-improvement', she silently continued.
"Hmph. We'll see," he replied with a huff. "So, what brings you here, 'Director'?"
"As I understand it, the engineering department works simultaneously as a manufacturing center of sorts for Chaldea." She had heard from Lev that the engineering department was split into two cliques of sorts. One that was composed of high-level college graduates, dealing with various equations and decisions to be made for Chaldea, and one made up of ragtag manual laborers, who dealt with the unpleasant work necessary to maintain the decisions of the former.
In the industrial world, there are two kinds of engineers, academic and practical.
This room belonged to the latter.
"Aye, that we do."
"Well, as it happens, a scenario that Chaldea once expected to happen has come true. A servant has requested from us a… bevy of things."
"Uh-huh. And what does that have to do with me and my boys?"
"Let's just say that this particular servant's requests have gotten slightly out of hand."
He scoffed. "More than slightly if the Director herself has to come down here and beg for help."
Once again, she showed no reaction to the blatant provocation.
The man raised his brow and huffed before saying, "Come with me. You'll want to see for yourself."
"Well, guess I'll take my leave. Good luck, Director," Harada said, excusing himself to his former superior, before going back to the kitchen.
The man, who by now Olga had assumed to be the de facto leader of this offshoot branch, started walking deeper into the bowels of Chaldea's inner workings, and she followed suit. The deeper they went, the hotter it became, with the air now more alike to the breaths of a reptilian phantasmal beast. With every step she took, wafts of steam carrying the stench of evaporated sweat hit her face. She did not let it show through her expression, and kept her professional demeanor as they made their way.
Her ears began to ring as scenes of a few men tinkering with parts and gizmos she wouldn't be able to name if you were to lock her in a room, and eventually the noises of even her own breaths fell silent against the heavy thuds of machinery.
Then, the man stopped walking.
"This," he said loudly, gesturing to the scene as if it was a grand opening of a theatre play, "is where the magic happens." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Where real magic happens."
She didn't respond immediately, and instead looked around. The ceiling was higher than she had ever seen before in Chaldea—they were in the lowest level. Around her, pipes, wires, and various metalwork lay haywire, the connection of pieces broken occasionally by the sight of few men whom she did not recognize.
Shamefully, the first thought that came to her mind was to ask why this kind of work hadn't been taken over by robots. Her father had what was practically infinite wealth. Why would he not simply replace the human workers?
"Wonder why we're flesh and not wires?" he asked, and for a moment she wondered if she had just spoken her thoughts out loud. "Don't look at me like that. It was an educated guess. I'm not one of you mages."
"Yes," she answered after a few seconds of silence. "I was wondering that."
A smirk appeared on his face that seemed to make his beard dance. "Well, you see, Director, there are robots in Chaldea. You don't need to go far. Just go inside one of the fancier 'engineering' rooms and you'll see those clankers aplenty." She had seen them before. Da Vinci in particular always seemed to be bragging about some new development the other engineering team made every other week. "But have you ever wondered about the literal dirty jobs? The kind of work those higher ups deemed too uncouth for even machines?"
"My father never told me much," she admitted, unconsciously averting her eyes down, away from both the man in front of her and the men surrounding her, all of their names her blind spot.
"Typical," he scoffed. "See, the thing is, no matter how advanced a company is, at a certain size, it would not simply be able to operate without a bunch of guys putting in their elbow grease to keep the gears running. Get under the belly of the beast, clean gunk off the small cog which Chaldea could not run without, smell the shit left behind from this place's digestion. That is us, Director."
He unfurled his hands in the direction of a large machine, to which her eyes followed. Under the large metal machine that was shaped more like an elaborate creature, a pair of legs stuck out.
"You're going to die someday doing that, Pieter," the man beside her admonished, looking down in disapproval at the limbs.
Something clicked, then clacked from underneath the machine, and the pair of legs slid out to reveal a man in an uncomfortably stuffy jumpsuit that at first looked gray, only for it to be orange covered with dust at closer inspection.
The dust-covered worker guffawed. "But not today, Boss." Pieter's eyes shifted to Olga. "And this is?"
"Our very own director, Olga Marie Animusphere."
Pieter's eyes widened. "Verdomme! You didn't say anything about this, Boss!"
"Well, neither did she."
"But still!" Pieter said, before turning to her. "Ah, where are my manners? Pieter, Director, the mechanic responsible for this generator." He extended his hand, still covered in thick safety gloves that had more soot covering it than the color yellow.
She hesitated to shake his hand.
"Oh, sorry! Guess you don't want to dirty your hands, huh?" He took off his gloves, and offered the handshake once more.
This time, Olga took his hand. It was sweaty. Sweatier than any other hand she'd had to shake before. She tried to meet his gaze as she shook his hand, but found that a protective mask was covering his face. It could not possibly feel nice under there, she thought, and yet he had been wearing it for God knows how long.
"Good to meet you, Director."
"Likewise, Pieter."
"That's enough. Go back down, Pieter."
"Whatever you say, Boss."
Pieter went back to his station—if it could be called that—and his whistling from under the machine was now audible to her, even if it didn't get any louder nor the machines any quieter. She had simply acknowledged his existence, and with it, her implication in neglect, and as a result, he was now more than a title. He was Pieter, mechanic of one of Chaldea's generators.
"Is that…up to safety standards?" she asked while looking at Pieter's visible lower half.
"Not at all, but no one cares that much." That should not be the case, Olga thought, but who was she to argue? She was very much part of that group until just now.
"This generator…"
"It is a mere backup generator. The main power source of Chaldea runs on more magical means, you should know that better than I," the man said, the importance of such a backup remaining unspoken. She knew, of course, of the importance of having a backup to rely on, but only now did the reality sink in on how it needed to be maintained even when not in use. "As you see, Director, we are the load-bearing wall between Chaldea's pillars."
"Well, you have my thanks then," she said, turning to him and, for the first time since they started talking, looking him in the eyes.
He met her with an unimpressed gaze. "Your thanks are as empty as your platitudes."
Her eyes narrowed, but she pushed the rising heat in her stomach down. "Regardless of what you think of me, our—Chaldea's—problem still stands. Perhaps it is of a minor scale now, but consider the ramifications if, shall we say, less well behaved servants are to ask for something similar."
The man pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a resigned sigh. "Very well. Give that to me," he said, extending his hand towards her while looking at the piece of paper in her hands, then snatching it after she extended her own.
For a minute or so, he read the contents of the paper, eyes scanning up and down multiple times. At first, he seemed (rightfully) confused, then around his third read, he held the paper up and began reading it from below, as if the ceiling lights would somehow reveal a hidden clue in the paper, then finally, after the minute passed, he laughed.
"And how long do we have to do this, exactly?"
"He set no timeframe, but for futureproofing, I was hoping we could get it done in a week."
He scoffed. "Hah! A week? You give us a month and maybe we'll crank out half of the crap written here."
She grimaced. "So that's a no, then?"
He sighed, and for the first time Olga felt like he did something truly genuine without some hidden mockery towards her. "We're short on people, Director, just like every other place here," he said, voice taking a small but genuine tone of exasperation. "Look around! Do you really think this is enough people to carry out these ridiculous requests?"
She did as he said and looked around once again. Despite the raucous noises, there were, in fact, only a handful of people working, perhaps fewer than the fingers in one hand. All this work, this sweat, and they only belonged to what could barely be called a skeleton crew.
"The world is ending. We'll keep working. You and your ilk will keep thumbing their asses. The wheel goes on," he said. "So, no, Director. We'll do what we have to keep the ship running, but we won't become your lap dogs."
"I never said that," she snapped, her frustration spilling into her voice.
"You never said the words, sure, but you never needed to."
She gritted her teeth. Anger was boiling in her, and the foams were starting to appear, in her eyes, her voice, and even her steps as she found herself inches closer to the man before she realized it. The bubbles started to rise, and for a moment, she briefly considered letting the dam break and let the surging heat turn into words and action.
Even so, he remained still, eyes still boring through her.
And as if it was never there, her fury disappeared.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Very well. I will see what I can do."
He gave a small, sardonic chuckle. "See to it that you actually get something done, Director."
Walking back to her office, the metallic thumps, piercing shrieks of steam, and blazing heat slowly dying behind her (though not without leaving a ringing in her ears that seemed too far to truly be real noise), Olga couldn't help but bite her lip in frustration. It was annoying, shameful, humiliating to be talked down like that man did her, but who was she to argue? Her ignorance was hers to act upon then, and hers to acknowledge with her head hung down now.
Now, she had to somehow convince Astolfo to lessen his requests.
And she knew just who to give a call.
It was time to bring out the big guns.
"So, King, that is why we need your help."
Fuck this.
He couldn't just be a master could he? No, he had to be a mage too, and if that wasn't enough, now he was a consultant too? One man could only hold so many professions in a single organization before someone calls bullshit on it, but it didn't seem to be the case here if Olga's, Romani's, and Da Vinci's gazes were any indicators.
Sitting there, in the chairat the center of the table, it felt like he was waiting for the punchline to a killer joke, except there was no joke, and a wrong answer might be his killer.
"So," King began, resting his chin over his clasped hands, "you want me to be the bridge between servants and the Chaldea management?"
"Basically, yeah," Da Vinci said. "It's something that was planned all the way back when we were plotting out how to properly manage an organization full of servants. Well… except now there are only two masters." She stuck her tongue out in a playful manner, as if that last bit wasn't a big problem at all. "But hey, if it's someone like you, it shouldn't be any problem, right?"
Like hell.
"Well, look at the bright side, King!" Romani chimed in. "You already have pretty good rapport with most of them, don't you? I heard you even managed to get our Avenger to calm down. Just treat it like hanging with your friends on company time!"
King very much wished he could give the doctor a glare without looking suspicious. He barely knew most of the servants. Some of them, he'd give Romani that, but most of them he hardly knew beyond what the books had written about them. Shame that they did not return the courtesy and treated him like someone special.
"Before we go any further," he said, "may I know why you specifically called for me?"
"Well, you've interacted directly with Astolfo before, have you not?" Olga said.
Well, he wouldn't call it that.
"Uhh, Director?" came a younger voice. "Can I ask something?"
"Shoot, Ritsuka."
King glanced at the other Master. Originally, King was supposed to be the only Master in the meeting. Of course, he'd be damned if he was to shoulder the burden of being clueless by himself. So he suggested bringing Ritsuka."I think it'd be best if Ritsuka is brought in as well, seeing as he is the other Master of Chaldea," he said back then to cover his ass. Unlike him, Ritsuka being clueless was seen as acceptable by Olga and the others.
"Have you tried telling him no?" Ritsuka said, raising his finger at the idea.
Olga turned to Ritsuka with the kind of eyes that stopped your heart for a second, and not in a good way.
"Right," he muttered. "Sorry."
"I thought it was a good idea, Senpai," Mash reassured, sitting by Ritsuka's side.
For the next few minutes, King tuned out the back-and-forth between Ritsuka and the management. It didn't seem like they minded his disinterest as they didn't raise an objection towards him, and it gave him the chance to think a bit about the situation at hand.
Namely, Astolfo.
What a strange man he was.
Not a bad man, mind you. King was sure he was perfectly pleasant when the stars aligned; too bad that only happens once every million years or something. Truthfully, Astolfo was far too scatterbrained in their brief meeting (if you could call it that) for King to properly assess him, but he was at least sure that the Rider meant no harm, hopefully. On the scale of Heracles to Karna in terms of how much he didn't mind being around a servant, he would put Astolfo somewhere around Jean. Both of them meant well (probably), but it was hard to decipher through their… mannerisms.
"So, what do you think, King?" Olga asked suddenly, jolting King out of his musings. "What do you think we should do with Astolfo?"
"I mean… is my suggestion really that bad?" Ritsuka weakly said.
"Shush!" Olga replied harshly, before turning back to King.
He rubbed his chin and thought about it for a while. The whole gist of it was that Astolfo was asking for too many things for his room, right? And then there was something about the engineering department being unable to keep up with it. The way Olga had described it made it seem like a daunting task.
But in King's mind, it felt like a jigsaw puzzle composed entirely of two pieces.
"No, but seriously, I think my idea could work!"
"Would you shut–"
"No," he finally decided, "I agree with Ritsuka."
The room suddenly dropped in volume, and the slightest bit in temperature. Olga turned to him with the most incredulous look he had ever seen on her.
"King, you… you also think that we should honeytrap Astolfo?" Olga asked, her voice transparently shaky.
"What? No, I meant what he said at first." Honeytrap? How the hell did they get there?
"You mean, we should just tell him no?"
"Yeah, exactly," he said. He looked around the table. Olga and Romani looked unsure, while Da Vinci wore her ever-present amused smile. Then, it hit him. "Have you even thought of just talking to Astolfo?"
His answer was silence.
King put his face into his palms, resisting to just slap his face on the way there.
'Oh my fucking God.'
Doing his best to wipe the frustration off his mind and suppress the sigh threatening to escape his mouth, King stood up from his chair and said, "Tell him that we'll grant him a part of his decor requests. Then, Ritsuka and I will tell him to tone it down."
"Are you sure?" Olga asked. "No matter how… hectic he might be, Astolfo is still a servant. He might not take too kindly to a rejection."
"You're overestimating them, Olga." A conversation with Karna came to King's mind. It was just yesterday around lunch, whereupon the lack of any empty tables made him seek one occupied by someone who wouldn't be a troublesome eating partner. In the end, he chose Karna, the Lancer making a rare appearance in the cafeteria. Something about Indian cuisine being on the menu that day, he recalled. It wasn't until their respective meals were done, that it happened.
"Indian food's pretty good, huh, Karna?"
"I'm glad you liked it, Master."
"Uh, yeah. Thanks for… being the country's Hero, I guess."
"Surely, the people there are more deserving of that praise than I."
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Just accept the compliment, man."
"Very well, Master. Ah, say, do you have any spare tissues, Master?"
"Oh. Sorry, man. This is the last one."
"Noted. I shan't ever ask Master King for tissues again."
He had to clear a few things up with the Lancer afterwards.
And, hey, if a demigod could take rejection that well, what was to say Astolfo wouldn't? Besides, with how Astolfo was during their fleeting but 'exciting' encounter, King felt that the Rider might accept the rejection without fully understanding it.
"But if more problematic servants in the future–"
"We can take care of it," he said quickly. Then, images of Jean popped up in his head. "You can take care of it, Olga," he amended.
Somehow, Olga seemed taken aback in a good way by this, as what looked to be the infant of a smile began curling her mouth, only stopped by her suddenly coughing.
"Right, King. Thank you."
King did not even deign to pretend he knew how that unfolded.
"Very well. Romani, call Astolfo here!"
"Ehh? Why didn't you tell me sooner that I was being a bother? Of course I'll tone it down!"
Three sentences—two, if you discounted the weird noise he made at the start—from Astolfo was all it took.
"I-I see," Olga said, the shock at how easy it just went down visible on her face. "Then, can you perhaps specify which part of your… decor you want to keep?"
"Sure thing! Do I get a limit or…"
"Keep it below five, if possible."
"Okay!"
And so he went, taking the paper that, only a few moments ago, represented a dreadful problem, and scribbling over it.
"Done! Thanks for everything, Director! Do tell me if I'm being a bother again! Charlie always said I can be pretty hectic or something, sorry about that! Seeya!" Astolfo said in quick succession, before leaving the premises of the meeting room.
"R-Right, thank you for your time" Olga muttered, seeing the door close on the Rider.
"Some servants sure can be… colorful, huh?" Romani said after the Astolfo-induced silence. The word 'colorful' was clearly not the first word that came to his mind, or second for that matter.
"These are… completely new," Olga said, inspecting the revised list. "He just made up new requests on the spot. Only three of them."
"That's good, then," Mash said, a small smile on her face. "The engineering department should be more receptive now, right?"
"Hopefully," Olga said. "If not, then maybe I'll need to have Da Vinci be my second to further negotiate with them."
"Will do if you need me," the Caster replied nonchalantly.
"You know, Director," Romani said suddenly, "you sure are a lot more professional when dealing with the others."
"What do you mean, 'more professional'?"
"You know, you say things like 'I appreciate it' or 'Thank you for your time'."
"And by the others, you mean…?"
"Everyone except the people here, I guess. Like, can't you be a little nicer to me and Ritsuka?"
"Don't be daft," she scolded. "I'm not going to act like that to people I'm not close with." Olga's hand shot to her mouth the moment the words left her mouth.
A smirk appeared on Ritsuka's face. "Does that mean… we're special to you, Director?"
"Wha-"
"O-oh! I-I didn't know you felt that way, Director!" Mash said, her hands cupping her mouth.
"Ah, I see," Romani said. "It makes sense now! Thanks, Director! Wish you showed it by giving me more leeway, though."
"You still maintain that professionalism with me, so I guess I'm not there yet, hm?" Da Vinci chimed in. "Well, here's hoping I become 'special' to you as well, Director." She gave Olga a wink, and blew a kiss her way.
"Y-You…" Olga started to say, but the words seemed to falter in her mouth.
"Hold on, she's pretty quiet around King though," Ritsuka pointed out. "Does that mean… King's, like, extra special to her?"
Olga looked like a deer caught in headlights.
And King, who had stayed quiet in the pandemonium so far, stared at her, astounded but not letting his face show it. Was that how she felt? What did he even do to get that kind of distinction? And what did 'special' even mean here? Still, he probably shouldn't look this particular gift horse in the mouth. Regardless of the specifics, being in the director's good graces could only be a good thing.
"Huh," King said, "I… appreciate that, Olga."
She let out a scream. "All of you! Your pays are docked!"
"I don't even get paid," Ritsuka said.
"Then you better start scrounging to pay me."
"T-That's abuse of power!"
After what felt like hours (and in reality about thirty minutes after he checked his phone), King felt the sensation of serenity making its comeback to his day.
Romani and Da Vinci both had things to do in their respective sectors, while Ritsuka said that he had a 'date' with Emiya. Olga, on the other hand, was setting up an appointment with those engineering guys with the rest of them.
It was now just him and Mash.
And left almost all by himself, King could not help but think it was all so silly. An ancient hero requesting decor arrangement? Yeah, right.
'On second thought, I guess that's not too different from what the S-Class does, huh?' They basically got special treatment. He heard Metal Bat requested an indestructible bat when he got inducted. King himself only really requested a private abode in M-City, separated from A-City where most of the heroes were. Thinking about it now, the S-Class sure had a lot of power to boss around The Association. Fortunately, it seemed that the workers of Chaldea had more backbone than them.
Unfortunately, that very same backbone was now also his problem.
"The engineering department, huh?" King muttered to himself. He had yet to familiarize himself with Chaldea's infrastructure even after the month he spent here. Part of it was that he was never the most intuitive when it came to workplace politics, and the other was that he just didn't care about Chaldea beyond what he needed to know.
Of course, now that he was (unfortunately) chosen by Olga to accompany and help her deal with the engineers, his ignorance had become a problem. And even if he wanted to rectify it, he couldn't. He hadn't lived here for long after all.
How convenient, then, that someone who had was right next to him.
"Mash."
"Y-Yes?" she stammered, her body jolting upright from a slumped position.
"You've been here your entire life, right?" he asked, turning to her.
"Yes, I have."
"Then you must have a few friends here."
Mash averted her eyes.
Oh.
'Well, there goes that idea.' He sighed, turning his gaze down onto the table.
"S-Sorry, Mr. King," she said. "I… wasn't the most social person."
"Don't sweat it. I understand."
"You do?"
King nodded. Sure, she had the look of someone who was chipper, and at times acted like she could be anyone's best friend, but looks can be deceiving. God knows how many times he had to deflect accusations of being some kind of mobster before his hero days, and how many more times he was mistaken as a hero until he became what he was. If Mash was a bit antisocial, then more power to her.
That being said, he couldn't deny that his curiosity was piqued. For someone to live sixteen years in a single company—in one building, no less—and have no friends seemed outlandish.
"Thank you," Mash said. "Honestly, it's a bit… frustrating."
"Frustrating?"
"A-Ah, no! P-Please forget what I said!" Mash stuttered, flailing her hands in front of her face in a futile attempt to erase the words already said.
"It's fine," King said. "You can say what you want. I'm not gonna tattle on you." He didn't have anything to gain by doing that, and hey, might as well lighten up the silence.
Mash looked hesitant, twirling her fingers around her clasped hands as she cast her eyes down. It was almost thirty seconds before she finally spoke. "It's not that I've been avoiding them. It's more that they look at me… different."
"Different? Like, good different or bad different?"
Mash's mouth opened, but the words didn't come out. Once again, she hesitated, but this time seemingly out of genuine confusion as to how she should answer rather than nervousness.
"I-I don't know," she admitted. "But I know that in their eyes I'm some kind of exception. I can't say for sure how they view me, or even how I feel about it, but I know that they avoid me because of it."
"From all I've seen of you, you're a good kid, Mash," King said, in the barest attempts at reassurance. "If they're avoiding you, then I'm pretty sure it's not your fault, at least."
"It's… prejudice, I think."
"Prejudice?"
She nodded. "It's, well, I assume you already know about my… circumstances."
'No, not really,' he thought. He knew some parts of it, that she was a result of some form of experiment that attempted to combine humans and servants, but that was the extent of his knowledge. Somehow, Olga didn't seem to know that much about her either, from how she acted around her. The best bet, King thought, was probably Romani or Da Vinci. But then again, who was he to be so nosy? If they tell him one day, sure, but if they never tell him, whatever.
It probably wasn't all that important.
"That's the reason?" he asked.
"I believe so," she nodded. "I… I don't exactly fault them for doing so. I'm sure if the roles were reversed, I would be doing the same thing: stay away from the anomaly."
"Don't say that," he said back, with the quickness that surprised both Mash and him. "You shouldn't make hypotheticals based on what other people do in that situation. You're you, Mash. You'd probably be friends with you in that situation." He knew he wouldn't be like Saitama if he got the insane powers.
She mustered a small smile. "I'm glad you think so, Mr. King."
The room fell into silence again, one warmer than the last. Something about Mash's little story still didn't really add up to him. Sixteen years without friends definitely isn't something that can be brushed off that easily, yet Mash didn't seem to hold grudges. In contrast, the fact that she was fighting in the frontlines for people that shunned her was almost disconcerting.
Why would she go so far for them?
"I'm… sorry?" Mash said suddenly. "Why what, Mr. King?"
King's hand instinctively went to cover his mouth. Damn, did he say that out loud?
"You're asking me why I'm fighting for them?"
Damn, she heard all of it. Seeing no way out, King nodded.
"It's nothing interesting, really," she said. "I guess I'm just doing this because I don't know what else to do. The top brass—or former top brass, I should say—always pushed me to be the lynchpin for The Grand Order, and Dr. Romani always told me to follow what I want to do, even though he never really helped me find what that's supposed to be." She chuckled. "He's kinda lame, isn't he?" she said, but with a smile that belied the words, and one that King wasn't sure she would show if the doctor was here. "It stayed that way, until I met you and Senpai, that is. Senpai has taught me a lot, and he said that you have taught him a lot, so I guess you taught me a lot too. But, in the end, I guess I'm still just following the tide." She chuckled again, with far less mirth. "That sounds so dull compared to you and Senpai, isn't it? I mean, you two are so heroic!"
"I don't think so," King said, averting his eyes. "To me, the fact that you're fighting even if you're not sure why is really brave, Mash. Braver than me, even." A sardonic smile—aimed at himself—appeared on his face, remembering that not even three weeks ago he had tried to punch his ticket out of this world.
"M-Mr. King, you're flattering me…"
"No, no, I'm not. I'm serious."
She gave a small laugh. "If you say so, Mr. King."
'Oh, believe me, Mash. You'd hate my guts if you actually knew me.'
Mash turned her gaze away from him, and to the door of the command room—nowhere in particular. "Sorry for being so chatty, Mr. King. I guess… no one ever asked me something like that."
"It's fine," he reassured her. "It's healthy to let some things out every now and again." The memory of confessing his 'sins' to Saitama resurfaced in his mind. Even then, only thirty minutes after he pissed himself as a grown man, it felt like a giant burden being swept away.
Man, now he felt really bad for leaving Saitama hanging with that invite he sent before he got whisked away here.
"Is that so?" she muttered. "Then, if you'd allow me one last thing to say, I'd like it if I can be more certain on how I feel towards the people in Chaldea, Mr. King." She turned to him, wearing a sad expression he didn't think he ever saw on her before. "Maybe if I knew them better, I'd have a reason of my own to fight."
Well, shit, now he was feeling guilty about her, of something he had no hand in, no less.
But at the same time, it sounded like there was a simple—thought not necessarily easy—fix to this one last thing.
"Do you want to make friends here?" he asked.
Mash looked away and tapped her index fingers together, her crimson cheek peeking through her purple hair.
"Y-Yes…" she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.
King nodded and rubbed his chin, a small grin showing on his face. "Then, it's the perfect opportunity."
"W-what?"
"The meeting," he said. "Why not try to make friends with those engineering guys? It'd probably help Olga too."
"B-But I've never even met them before!"
"Don't worry about it. I'll be your second. Just treat it like a boxing match."
"A-A boxing match? But I don't want to hurt anyone…"
"Not literally, Mash."
"Oh, okay!" She promptly started shadowboxing, throwing jabs with her small hands at a nonexistent enemy with a grunt each that sounded more like a small animal's mewls. Despite knowing that each of those punches could probably send him to the ether, King could not help but find it… cute.
"Look, Mash, in my experience, something like social interactions—making friends, enemies, and the like—are all about presentation."
"R-Really?"
"Yeah. Take my word for it." Or rather, take the word of that one rom-com manga he read ten years ago. "Alright, Mash. Head up high!"
"O-Okay!"
"Look forward!"
"Yes!"
"Proud chest!"
"Roger!"
"And finally… exude confidence!"
"I'll do my best!"
King couldn't help but smile as Mash took a strong, confident, soldier-like pose at his commands. Was this what having a younger sister feels like? Or was this closer to a niece?
The door suddenly opened with a hiss. They both turned to it, and Olga was there, eyes narrowed with tension that was felt in the air.
"It's time. Let's go."
King was used to looking down on people—in the literal sense.
It wasn't something he reveled in, nor shied away, but it had been something he had come to expect when first meeting people: to crane his neck down just a little bit to meet their eyes. There were few exceptions to this habit, excluding the monsters he had the misfortune to encounter, and in those few cases, it was typically something of a pleasant meeting of commonalities.
This was not that.
"So," the man in front of him drawled out, "I suppose you brought one of our 'Masters' here to help, hm?"
Olga remained unflinching at his hard stare. "Yes. I was of the opinion that having our key members here would help bridge the understanding between servants and staff here."
'Romani wasn't kidding,' King thought. 'She really does sound professional here.'
The man's eyes shot towards King's direction, and Mash's. King almost flinched at the sharp eyes suddenly meeting his own, but through sheer experience, he managed to steel 'The Expression' and keep his posture straight, masking his anxiety. Mash, however, stayed strong and followed his advice—for better or worse—to present herself as the most confident she could be.
Wait, her lips were quivering, her eyes were periodically taking glances at him for help, and her hands, though balled in a fist, were shaking. Yeah, no, she was nervous, alright.
"And how are you two going to help here, exactly?" he asked. His stance, tone, and eyes did not seem to indicate that the fact that he was talking to two of Chaldea's most pivotal members was of any bearing to his disposition.
"W-Well," Mash began, the pitch of her voice killing whatever remaining bravado she had, "I think you'd be pleased to know that Astolfo—the servant that made the requests—had reduced his list to three items."
"That so?" He raised his eyebrows, then narrowed them after a few seconds. "How old are you, girl?"
"E-Eh?"
"Just answer the question."
"S-Sixteen, sir."
He turned away for a brief moment and cursed in a language King didn't know. "And what do you do here, in Chaldea?"
"I, uh, fight, sir."
"Fight?"
"Yes," she affirmed, "as a Demi-Servant."
The man's eyes went from Mash, to Olga, then King, repeating this pattern a few times, before landing on King, who almost jumped at the sudden shift in attention.
"And I'm guessing you're her Master?" he said in an almost accusatory tone.
"No, not really," King answered quickly, almost from instinct. "Her Master is Ritsuka, the younger Master."
"Younger Master?"
"He's also sixteen," Olga added.
The man fell silent then, and a slightly awkward tension filled the room even over the metallic clangs. Then, he sighed quietly. "You, girl," he said, in a softer voice than before, "what's your name?"
"Mash Kyrielight, sir."
"Mash." He walked closer to her, his rubber boots and gloves squeaking as he did. "Why fight?"
"Um… What do you–"
"Surely, a girl at your age has much better things to do," he said, interrupting her. And through his snappy voice, an almost pleading tone seemed to seep into his words.
Mash hesitated to answer, glancing to King for a moment, but not to ask it would seem, as she simply nodded to herself. "Maybe. Maybe I would have something better to do if I have the chance," she admitted. "And admittedly, the answer I have is nothing more than a template, something I'm only holding on to until I have something better."
"And that would be?"
"It would be wrong, wouldn't it?"
"Hm?"
"If I can contribute, even just a little bit, by my existence, then I should, shouldn't I?"
King bit his lip at the all-too-familiar sounding answer. It seemed that his pretend-speech to Ritsuka that night also got into Mash's head, for better or worse.
The man took a long look at Mash, scanning her from feet to head, stopping for a while at her face—her smiling face—before giving a low sigh. "I see," he said. "If you need anything from me—from us, don't hesitate to ask."
"I, well, um…" She turned to look at King.
He shook his head, as if saying, 'Just answer him.'
"Will do, sir."
"You two can take your leave now," he said, shooing them away with his hand. "I'd like to talk with the director by myself."
"Alright, sir. Good day."
"Good day to you too, girl, and take care."
King and Mash made their way out quickly after that, leaving Olga by herself, presumably to further discuss the specifics. Walking side-by-side in the halls, King could only think what a relief it was that he had to play basically no role at all back in that 'meeting'.
"The Director sure made it sound like he was more cranky than he actually is."
King doubted that. In fact, he was quite sure Mash was the exception there.
"So, Mash," King said, "where are you going after this?"
"Me?" she said, pointing to herself. "I was thinking of getting lunch."
"Yeah? Well, see you later, then. I'm going back to my room for now." He better get his rest on this one off day, after all. "Oh, and by the way, Mash? Good job back there."
Mash looked abashed at the praise. "Thank you, but… was that really 'making friends'?"
King tilted his head and grimaced slightly. Would he call that man and Mash friends now? No, probably not. It was more like a concerned older neighbor than anything. "No, not quite. But it was a step in the right direction."
"Really?" Despite the 'bad news' she smiled earnestly at him. "Well, I guess I have to give you credit for helping me, then, Mr. King."
"Save that for when you actually make some friends."
She nodded. "Of course! I'll keep using your method!" Pausing her steps, Mash repeated his instructions: head up high, eyes forward, proud chest, and confidence.
He had to suppress a laugh. "Keep at it," he said. "But I think you'll do fine, with or without me."
"I wouldn't say that," Mash replied. "After all, I think I made my first friend other than Senpai today."
Did she now?
'Huh, wonder who it is.'
"Well, I'll be damned. You did it."
"I wouldn't say it's me," Olga replied. "The credit, if it has to be given, belongs to Astolfo himself, who immediately complied after being told the circumstance."
"Really? And what about your hypothetical 'problematic servants'?"
"The Masters, King especially, has said that we will cross that bridge when it approaches us."
He scoffed. "No need for such wishy-washy nonsense. Just give us more time to prepare next time, and we'll satisfy whatever ego these servants bring with them."
She stopped in her steps. "So you understand that servants can be unreasonable."
"Of course I did. Do you think I came here without reading the fine print?" he said, turning to face her. Behind him were his men, Pieter among them, ready to work at his order. "It was simply the physical limits of our forces that prevented us."
"I… see," Olga muttered. It seemed like he wasn't that much of a hardass after all, his distaste for her notwithstanding. Still, it felt like there was a shift in how he acted. And though she could guess the reason why, an admittedly big part of her wanted to hear it come out of his mouth. "Mind telling me what changed your mind?"
"Let's just say, seeing her like that gave me a little kick on the ass," he said, before facing his men. "Boys! We got work to do! Straight from the upper brass themselves!"
A cheer came from the men, numbering six. It was an incoherent kind of cheer, the type where you could only grasp that they were, in fact, cheering, but nothing else.
"Uh, Boss?" one of them asked, raising his hand dyed black by oil. "Do we get extra pay for this one?"
"Johnson!" he barked. "Has all the smoke turned your brain to ash? The world is ending! None of us are getting paid!"
"Aww, unpaid labor…" the man, Johnson, complained.
"Barely anything's changed, then!" another man beside him joked, earning a few laughs from the workers.
"Well, if you all got time for jokes, then you all have time for work! Get your asses moving!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Well then, Director," he said, turning to her, "our orders, please."
She handed the revisions made by Astolfo, to which he snorted, saying, "Much more workable."
And so it began. The men pulled the strap of their overalls to their shoulders, tightened their boots, and dispersed like bees at the behest of their queen. One went to a machine that had some sort of funnel on one end and a small chamber on the other, while others went to a circular machine that throttled when turned on.
In less than a few hours, the situation had been turned on its head.
It would seem that she had Mash to thank.
"You know," Olga said, "I thought you would've given me grief about her."
"Who?"
"Mash. You're right in your anger. She is just a sixteen year old girl, and one of our Masters is a boy of the same age."
He scoffed. "And I'm supposed to criticize you when I didn't know about it before?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Were you not at the briefing we had after the First SIngularity?"
"I was. I just didn't pay enough attention. Thought it was empty, coming from a mage like you. Didn't even bother looking at the Masters when you put them up front." He sighed. "Maybe in my contempt I have been blind. It would seem I did not pay attention to how dire our situation is—as a collective."
Olga turned to him, eyes widening slightly at the admission. "Worry not," she said, "I was the same."
"And I didn't expect much out of you, but I expected better of myself."
She held back a sigh. A step is a step, not a leap, it would seem.
"Well then," she said, "I'll leave you and your men to your devices."
He grunted affirmatively. "I'll have Pieter tell someone when we're done."
Olga nodded. She supposed that was that. They were now going to do their job, and she was going to do hers. She took light steps toward the door, as if it would disturb the workers had they been any louder. And then she stopped, for something was squirming in her mind, something critical that she had been shirking since she first met him.
She turned back to face the man, head of this part of Chaldea. "I just realized, I 've never asked for your name."
He chuckled, low with a transparent mocking tone. "Is that not something a director's supposed to know?"
"Yes, but I don't. Which is why I'm asking."
"And you think I'm going to give it to you if it's only to soothe your bruised pride?"
No. No, she supposed he wouldn't.
She cast a forlorn look down to the floor, and once again made her way out. Some other time, she would be angry at the dismissal, but for once she resigned herself to the urge of letting herself feel downcast. Maybe one day she would get the respect she– No, that wasn't right. Maybe one day she would earn recognition from her employees, but that day was not today.
Olga was inches from the door when, suddenly, a clang—much sharper and louder than the other ones—pierced the room, followed by a jagged sound like someone tried pushing a metal sheet through a paper shredder.
"Pieter?" she heard the man shout. "Pieter? What's wrong?"
"He's fell into the funnel, sir!" one of the workers—not Pieter—answered. "An' the machine's emergency button ain't working!"
"Ебать," he cursed under his breath. "Tell him to hold on! We'll–"
A gust of wind interrupted him, one that at first he thought with dread was another critical failure of a system. But he quickly realized it was caused by someone passing him swiftly.
It was Olga, the director, rushing towards the large machine with all her might.
Olga's eyes kept trained on the large funnel from which faint cries could be heard—louder as she became closer—as her legs moved as fast as they could. A few meters away from the foot of the machine, the situation became as clear as Pieter's voice. He had almost fallen into the funnel, his only saving grace being the very ends of his fingers. Every other worker was on the floor. There was no time.
Olga rummaged her pockets and threw one of her catalyst stones onto the ground, creating a yellow barrier. Narrowing her eyes, she sprinted as hard as she could, using it as a makeshift ramp to jump onto the machine. At the edge, she jumped, and her body smacked against the edge of the square behemoth, nearly knocking the wind out of her. Holding back a scream with a wince, she glanced up; the funnel was just a few steps away, and Pieter's hands were now clear as day.
"Girl!" She heard the man shout at her from below, but she ignored it. Whatever insult, jeer, or curse would have to wait until none of her employees were in any danger.
With her teeth gnashed against each other, Olga picked herself up, and made her way into the funnel. It had the diameter of large double-swinging doors, enough to fit a thousand gallons of water if you pour something into it. Some ungodly sounds were coming out of it, clanging, crunching, bursting, like something was stuck in its bowels without anything in its wirings to vomit out the error.
And with oily gloves clutching at its edges was Pieter, face struck somewhere between fear and surprise.
Not mincing any words, Olga ran to him, and offered her hand. "Pieter! Grab my hand!"
"Director!" Pieter now looked surprised, with no shade of fear left. "But I-"
"Just do as I say!"
He looked conflicted for a second, but nodded nonetheless.
"On three!" she shouted.
He nodded again.
"One…. Two… Three!"
At three he jerked one of his hands, and she caught it.
She pulled as hard as she could, knees bent and feet pushing down against metal below, but still the ascent was slow, in the realm of seconds soon to be tens of seconds. He was bulkier than she had expected. Her hand turned red from the sheer force of her own grip, and the underside of her nails began to darken from the oil smears on the yellow glove. Yet still, she held on.
"Calm down, girl. It's just–"
"No!" The ferocity of her answer surprised even herself, but her grip stayed true. "I'm not letting go! I'll be damned if I let even one person die around here!"
After almost thirty seconds of pulling, Pieter and her both growling on the way there, the fruits of her labor finally started to show, as his face began to show itself. After a few more seconds, with her body now nearly diagonal against the ground, Pieter was finally able to plant one of his feet on ground, and pushed himself with it out of the funnel.
Olga hit the metal of the machine with a thud, the force of her own pulling getting the best of her. She let out a few ragged breaths, the sweat on her skin starting to be felt by her nerves—wet, sticky, and rank, and also the proof of her efforts.
Then, she heard clanging steps coming from her right.
"Pieter," the engineering lead said, "you alright?"
"Sure, boss," Pieter said, sitting on the ground. "All thanks to our, huff, very brave director over there!"
The man turned to her, and walked in her direction with softer steps. "Why did you do that?" he asked dryly.
In spite of her current condition, she managed an equally dry chuckle. "Because he's my employee, and I'm responsible for him. Salary, work, and well-being."
"That's not what I meant."
"What?"
He sighed, annoyed but with a small hint of amusement. "This machine—an injection molder—may have a large funnel, but the hole on the bottom of it is small, maybe the size of a plate. Pieter's… large body could not have possibly fit into it. He knew this. I knew this. We all knew this. He was just surprised, and us frustrated that something like this happened again."
The realization began to dawn on her. "So, you're saying that…"
"He was never in danger in the first place."
A blush creeped to her cheeks, pink against her pale skin.
The way back down was more than a little awkward, as every single man threw joking cheers at her, including Pieter, with every step she took. She tried her best to keep her head down and prevent her bright red face from being seen, an attempt that could scantly be called successful with how the blush reached her ears.
After what felt like the longest walk of her life, she finally saw the door, and sighed as she made her way toward it, ready to put everything that just happened behind her, forever.
"Before you go," the man suddenly said from behind her, "I want to ask you something."
She glanced back, giving a look of 'go ahead' to him.
"You're the director. You know that, right? Even if Pieter was in danger it could've been anyone else to help him."
"Maybe," she conceded, "but some people, when they see someone that needs help, regardless of who is the most suited, how is it best done, or should they even go, something just tugs at them to move."
His brows furrowed, looking somewhat doubtful. "And you're saying you're one of them."
She chuckled, and fully turned to him, a sarcastic grin stretched across her face. "Of course not!"
His expression stayed the same, waiting for an elaboration.
She sighed. "But someone I… really admire seems to live his life that way, and I'm trying to be like him—better. A better director, a better leader, a better person. Whatever it takes for me to earn what he already gave me." She turned her back to him, and returned to the door. "And I'll do it, with or without anyone's approval.
She could almost feel his mouth frowning. "For the record, I still think you're a spoiled nepo baby."
That was fine with her. Years of mismanagement could not be undone in a single month, or year, or any frame of time for that matter. They didn't owe her forgiveness, nor did she need it; whether she wanted it or not was irrelevant. All she could do—and all she would do—was to simply atone.
She was not looking for redemption.
"But, who knows?" he said suddenly, and she stopped moving. "Maybe by the end of this 'Grand Order' we will be singing a different tune." There was an inflection to his gruff voice. Sarcastic, but not without a hint of harsh encouragement, as if slapping her in the back to get her moving.
Her feet stayed rooted to the ground for a whole second after, before she eventually walked out of the room, trying to keep to herself an air of professionalism, the way she should.
"Oh, and if you have to know, my name is Alexandr Levin."
But her cheeks pulled up just a little too hard for her to keep it that way.
Olga was back in her room, back in her swivel chair, back in comfort after spending a nice long bath to take off the sweat, oil, and spit that had gotten on her, but not the shine of accomplishment. No, that stayed, and it would stay until it became a permanent part of her.
Today was a success, one even more than she had initially expected. And even if it wasn't acknowledgment she was looking for, she had to admit, it made her happier than she thought it would.
A glint in her desk mirror caught her eye, and she couldn't help but scoff lightly at her own painfully smug grin. But she didn't even try to put it down, because after a while, she wanted to say it to herself: she earned this shit-eating grin.
A knock on her door woke Olga up from the basking of her own success. "Come in."
The door opened with a creak, revealing John, the person who Olga now realized she wanted to see last. "Director?"
A knot appeared in her gut. "Yes?"
"We've got more requests."
She sighed. "Alright, what is it this time with Asto–"
"Oh no, it's not from him this time. Let's see… Miss Medusa is requesting some specially made sunglasses, Miss Medea is requesting a personal workshop made for her, and Miss Marie is asking for one of our unused rooms to be renovated."
She sucked in a deep breath, and leaned her neck back towards her chair, her face facing the lights on the ceiling.
Olga allowed herself a soft, "Fuck."
"What is it, Elizabeth? You've been humming for a good ten minutes now."
"Oh? You must feel privileged to hear an idol's voice for so long, then!"
"No. I am annoyed. And I'm asking so that I may put an end to it."
"Hmph! IF you must know, Kiyohime, word has it that Chaldea has begun accommodating requests for us servants! Why, I hear that pink-haired Rider got all sorts of stuff!"
"Why, yes, now that you mention it, I have heard something to that effect. But pray tell, what does that have to do with your inane singing?"
"Still not catching on, huh?"
"What are you–"
"A concert, Kiyohime! A concert!"
Hey
Yeah, I don't know either.
I… didn't have the clearest idea going into this chapter. The premise was basically: Astolfo is an airhead Accidentally causes trouble for Chaldea Chaldea responds I use this as an opportunity to explore Chaldea as an organization.
I don't know how that became this.
I swear I meant this chapter to be 6-8k.
iamthezero try not to write 10k challenge (impossible)
Yeah, but really, I don't know what happened. I wrote Olga in the middle of the chapter, got a massive writer's block on how to continue, eventually got to the scene in the engineering room, and somehow it became an Olga development chapter featuring an OC who literally came to existence in the middle of writing the chapter, plus a side of King/Mash relationship development because I've been neglecting it.
If at any point during reading, you feel like the chapter started to not make sense, it's fine, because it started to not make sense to me too at some point during writing.
A patient and anal writer would go back and polish it as much as possible; I am neither patient nor anal.
Still, sorry for the 1.5 months wait. I got hit by a massive writer's block in the middle of writing a chapter I didn't have the clearest vision to begin with. For what it's worth, I have a much clearer vision on the next chapter.
This was definitely one of my most pointless-in-the-grand-scheme-of-things and indulgent chapters yet, but nevertheless, I'd like to hear what you think about it.
Next time, Elizabeth holds a concert.
Later