The van rattled gently over a pothole, stirring Riley in the back. Satoshi looked over his shoulder briefly, checking if she was still asleep with Ralts curled beside her. Then Ashwatthama leaned forward, snagging the tablet off the dashboard where it had been resting, screen dimmed.
"I was thinking…" he said slowly, "about Arjuna Alter."
Satoshi turned toward him, blinking. "Arjuna Alter? Isn't he, uh…?"
"A god. Or close enough. In his Lostbelt, he devoured the gods and took their authority—became something beyond human, but... not in a good way." Ashwatthama's voice was quiet, but the weight of it settled across the van like fog. "He wanted to create a perfect world. So he started erasing anything that didn't fit."
Satoshi frowned. "Including people?"
"Including everything," Ashwatthama said. "Individuality, emotion, suffering, even death—he saw them as flaws to be purified. But that purity came from pain. From loneliness. From being torn apart and reassembled with too much power and no one to anchor him."
He looked down at the tablet, but didn't turn it on.
"I fought him. Tried to kill him. And every time, he'd just bring me back. Over and over. He used Krishna's curse and twisted it into a chain. I hated him for it."
Satoshi hesitated. "But?"
Ashwatthama's shoulders slumped slightly. "But I saw the cracks. The way he looked at the world—like he didn't want to do it, but couldn't stop. Like he was screaming inside his own mind."
He let out a breath. "Eventually, I broke. And he offered me a place by his side—not as a tool, but as a Lokapala. A guardian. He wanted someone who remembered what it meant to be human. Someone to bear witness, maybe… keep him from falling too far."
There was a long pause.
"I accepted. Not because I forgave him," Ashwatthama said. "But because I saw myself in him. In the rage. The sorrow. The way the world kept demanding sacrifices from us, no matter how much we bled."
Satoshi looked at him carefully. "Do you still hate him?"
Ashwatthama's voice was low. "I don't think I ever did. I hated what he became. But not him."
He leaned back again, eyes on the passing highway as Satoshi turned to look at him better. "You think he deserves a second chance?"
Ashwatthama nodded. "He'd be dangerous if we summoned him fully powered, but… he needs help. Like we did."
That earned a quiet snort from Shirou. "Speak for yourself."
Ashwatthama ignored him and continued. "We have 440 credits. We need 500 for Arjuna. We could depower him slightly. Or maybe earn the rest dealing with a few gangs in Boston." He shot a glance to the side. "Shouldn't take long."
Satoshi reached for the tablet, taking it gently. "Show me his entry."
Ashwatthama tapped the screen, searching for Arjuna's page. The stylized profile appeared—gleaming dark armor, ethereal energy spiraling from his shoulders, and that face.
Shirou leaned closer to see. The moment his eyes landed on the image, a faint tick twitched at his brow. "...Seriously?"
Ashwatthama's brows rose as if only now realizing. "...Oh. Right. He's pretty."
Satoshi was already reading, fingers skimming the text. "Oh no, he's loaded with pain." His voice softened. "We should help him."
Shirou groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face. "Here we go."
Ashwatthama folded his arms, annoyed. "We could use the credits to improve Satoshi's physique instead. Give him some muscle. Maybe fix that 'lean, delicate build' thing you keep drooling over."
"I don't drool—" Shirou snapped, then glared at him again. "You didn't remember Arjuna was pretty?"
"I was fighting him," Ashwatthama shot back. "Not admiring him."
Satoshi, oblivious to the growing tension, kept scrolling. "He's... complicated. I think I like him already."
Shirou leaned back in his seat and muttered under his breath, "Great. Another pretty tragedy."
Ashwatthama chuckled, low and bitter. "Well, at least it'll be an aesthetic disaster."
Satoshi looked up from the tablet, eyes bright. "So… should I start thinking of where he'll sleep when we summon him?"
Both of them groaned.
.
The van rolled past the rusted "Welcome to Brockton Bay" sign, its white paint long since peeled by salt air and neglect. Satoshi let out a long breath as he gripped the wheel, easing them down the cracked road. The closer they got to their new neighborhood, the quieter Riley became in the back seat—her eyes flicking between the unfamiliar buildings and graffiti-tagged alleyways.
"We're here," Satoshi said, voice tight with nerves. "Home sweet… salvageable home."
Emiya glanced out the window, scanning the surroundings. "This street looks clear. No gang tags. Good lines of sight. Should be easy to defend."
Ashwatthama, meanwhile, was still staring at the Company tablet, thumb hovering over the "Buy" button on Arjuna Alter's profile. "We're short sixty credits," he said. "Still think he's worth the risk?"
Satoshi didn't answer immediately. He took the control of the van after Shirou kept grumbling about 'pretty boys' and wasn't paying attention to where he drove so now he was too busy double-parking in front of their new rental house—a modest two-story that looked like it had survived a few storms and a mild apocalypse. Ralts stirred on Riley's lap, blinking sleepily as Satoshi turned off the ignition.
"I do," he said finally. "He didn't ask to become what he was. Neither did you. Or Shirou. I think… he deserves a new story."
Shirou, who'd already unbuckled, turned toward him with a half-lidded gaze. "And what if his new story ends with us on fire?"
Satoshi shrugged, hands still on the wheel. "Then we hose each other down and try again."
Ashwatthama snorted. "That sounded almost dirty."
"I am trying to have a moral moment here," Satoshi muttered.
Riley perked up in the back seat. "Are we fighting someone again?"
"Not if we can help it," Shirou said. Then, to Satoshi, "But if we need those last sixty credits fast... maybe we take a trip back through Boston. Quietly. Hit a few of the gangs causing trouble. Leave them trussed up for the PRT to find."
Ashwatthama looked thoughtful. "I could use the exercise."
"You're not venting just because I won't let you vent on me, right?" Satoshi asked suspiciously.
"I don't know what you're taling about," Ashwatthama said cheerfully, already opening the van door.
Shirou rubbed his temple. "We move in first. Unpack. Then we plan."
Satoshi stretched and finally smiled. "Right. No monster summoning until the boxes are inside."
"Reasonable," Shirou admitted. "Uncharacteristically responsible."
Ashwatthama was already pulling open the back doors to unload. "So, what room does the future pretty disaster get?"
Satoshi called out without hesitation, "One far away from mine until I say otherwise!"
That got a laugh from both of them—loud and surprisingly easy. Even Riley joined in, not knowing why but giggling anyway as Ralts floated above her.
Brockton Bay might be broken, but Satoshi thought as he stepped out into the sea breeze, maybe they could build something new here.
.
The smell of grilled fish and tamagoyaki filled the kitchen of the small rented house, curling up into the cracked ceiling tiles like incense. The space wasn't much—too many stains on the linoleum, a fridge that hummed like a dying engine—but Satoshi had made it home for now. Even if it was temporary.
Riley was seated beside him, hunched over her miso soup like it was a shield, while Ralts nibbled daintily on a rice cracker at the edge of the table. Across from them, Shirou sipped tea with that same unreadable calm that always made Satoshi wonder what calculations were happening behind those sharp eyes.
Ashwatthama, shirtless as usual despite Satoshi's earlier protests, was wolfing down his rice like he was preparing for war. Which, to be fair, he might be.
"So," Satoshi began between bites, "today's the day we split up, yeah?"
Shirou nodded, still sipping. "I'll head to the PRT. Let them know I'm operating in the city and Boston. If I don't make the first move, they'll come sniffing around eventually."
Ashwatthama wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'll go too. Might as well get the power testing out of the way. Better to show them I'm above board than wait for trouble."
Satoshi looked at him, mouth twitching. "You do know you can't punch the sensors if you don't like their numbers, right?"
"No promises," Ashwatthama grunted, but his smirk gave him away.
"Try to be polite," Shirou added, setting down his cup. "You're scary enough just by standing there."
Satoshi sighed, and patted Riley on the head. "While they're off playing cape politics, we're house-hunting. Got six listings lined up from what we saw in Nebraska. We'll check them out today."
"Are we picking the one with the best garden?" Riley asked hopefully.
"We're picking the one with the best security," Satoshi said, then softened. "But if we can get both, even better."
Ralts made a soft, happy trill and climbed into Riley's lap.
Satoshi turned to Shirou and Ashwatthama. "We'll meet back here before dinner, yeah?"
"Text if anything weird happens," Shirou said as he stood and grabbed his coat.
Ashwatthama stretched, all muscle and sleep-rough hair. "Define weird."
"You'll know," Satoshi muttered, getting up to gather the dishes.
They moved with a kind of practiced routine now. Like a machine slowly coming together, each part still a little rusty but fitting. It was strange, how quickly they'd begun functioning like a unit.
Satoshi watched them for a second—Shirou grabbing his gloves, Ashwatthama tightening his scarf, Riley giggling softly at Ralts hiding under the table.
Then he smiled.
Maybe today would go well.
.
Ashwatthama's newly printed power classification file lay between them on the Director's desk.
Brute 6 / Mover 4 / Striker 5 / Blaster 2
Piggot glanced up from it with a cool expression. "This places you just shy of 'top-tier' status. You're not Alexandria, but you could be a nightmare if pointed in the wrong direction."
Ashwatthama didn't flinch, standing with arms folded across his crimson chestplate. "That won't happen."
Next to him, Shirou—Arsenal—stood calmly, clad in red and black with only a domino mask hiding his face. Piggot studied him next.
"Your classification is more modest," she said. "But paired with him, I don't think anyone would call you low-tier."
Arsenal said nothing. He didn't need to.
Piggot leaned forward. "Now, let's speak frankly. New Wave—once the Brockton Bay Brigade—chose to go maskless. Full transparency. It gave them public trust, built loyalty, and allowed their image to be legally protected and monetized." She tapped the desk. "You instead are not so subtle. Boston caught a glimpse already."
Ashura didn't respond, but the low sound he made was more growl than breath.
Piggot continued, "I don't need to read Dragon's report to connect dots. You're not hard to miss, but I don't care who you were. I care who you are now. If you want to go maskless—be public about who you are—the PRT can help you. Support. Revenue. Legal protection. That said, it comes with risk."
She looked them both in the eye. "You have families. I know that. You will be targeted, and not just by villains. Do-gooders get press. Unconventional family units get attention."
Ashura's shoulders tensed slightly. Arsenal tilted his head.
"We'll think about it," Shirou said, finally.
Ashura nodded beside him. "We'll talk with our... partner."
Piggot's eyebrow twitched, but she didn't comment on the plural. "Good. Whether or not you go public, I'd recommend sticking close to the PRT for a while. As I said, you're not hard to recognize. Better to have us at your back if things go loud."
She tapped her tablet. "You'll be flagged as independents operating in Brockton Bay and Boston. Paperwork is handled. Dismissed."
They turned to leave—Ashura's armor gleaming under the office lights, Arsenal's red coat fluttering slightly as he stepped into the hallway.
"Shirou," Ashwatthama murmured once they were out of earshot, "She's right. We're not subtle."
"No," Shirou agreed, glancing at him. "We aren't."
.
.
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