Shirō paced the living room, her freshly showered hair still damp and her mind running in circles. The note left by Fuji-nee sat on the table, her usual dramatic handwriting standing out like a declaration of war.
"Shirō! Where were you?! Call me as soon as you see this! I'll be back later—don't think you can slack off on cooking dinner tonight!"
She groaned, burying her face in her hands. How in the world was she supposed to face anyone who knew her? This wasn't just a matter of explaining things—it was a whole existential crisis with no instruction manual.
"Okay, Emiya," she muttered to herself. "Step one: calm down. Step two: plan. Step three: survive."
The first step was easy enough, or so she thought. A quick shower was in order to wash off the grime of the last few chaotic hours. Refusing to even glance at the mirror, she stripped out of the raincoat and tattered clothing, stepping into the warm spray of water. The sensation of the water cascading down her new body was…strange. Unfamiliar yet oddly natural. She avoided thinking too much about it.
Once out, she toweled off quickly, wrapping herself up like a burrito to avoid catching even a glimpse of her reflection. Back in her room, an idea struck her.
If she had to make this work, she needed to reinvent herself.
Without hesitation, she opened her laptop and started browsing. The first order of business? A new phone case. She scrolled through endless designs before her eyes lit up at the sight of Usagi from 'Sailor Moon'. Perfect. She added it to her cart.
Next, footwear. She needed something practical. Not the usual sneakers she wore, but something sturdier. Her mouse hovered over various boots until she found a pair designed for women but plain enough to avoid standing out. She clicked "add to cart."
Clothing was next. Shirō had to admit, even though she wasn't thrilled about her new situation, she could have a little fun with this part. A cream-coloured overcoat, a pair of jeans, and three T-shirts caught her eye—each featuring her famous characters: Goku, Naruto Uzumaki etc.
Underwear was…awkward. She groaned as she scrolled through options, her face burning as she quickly skipped over anything frilly or overly feminine. Eventually, she settled on plain shorts and a vest. Functional, nothing fancy. That was good enough.
Once her orders were placed, Shirō leaned back with a sigh. "Step two complete," she said, giving herself a mental high five.
While waiting for her purchases to arrive, she pulled out an old luggage bag from the storeroom. The thing was practically falling apart, but with a little ingenuity, she tore off the damaged outer layer and repurposed it to look almost brand new. It would work as part of her cover story.
The doorbell rang intermittently over the next couple of hours as packages arrived one by one. Each delivery brought her a little closer to becoming someone new. She changed into her newly delivered clothes, tying her hair back into a loose ponytail and lacing up her boots.
By the time she was done, she barely recognised herself in the mirror.
"Okay," she whispered, staring at her reflection. "From now on, you're…Saber."
The story was simple: Emiya Shirō, her distant cousin, had gone on a trip. In his absence, she, Saber, was staying at his house to take care of things. It wasn't foolproof, but it was the best she could come up with on short notice.
Hopefully, Fuji-nee wouldn't think too much about it.
Now, all she could do was wait for the afternoon and evening to arrive, praying that nothing else absurd happened in the meantime.
[—(/-\)—]
Sakura Matou nearly burst into her senpai's house, her heart racing with worry. He'd been gone for an entire day! Even Fujimaru-sensei didn't know where he was, which only made her anxiety worse.
Stepping inside, she immediately caught a whiff of something comforting and familiar. Food. Shirō's cooking? Relief washed over her. 'Senpai's back!'
But when she rounded the corner to the kitchen, her jaw nearly hit the floor. Instead of Shirō, a blonde foreign girl was standing at the stove, casually cooking as though she owned the place.
"Ah, Sakura," the girl said, glancing over her shoulder. Her voice was calm and friendly, with an unsettling familiarity. "Have a seat."
Too stunned to argue, Sakura quietly sat on the floor, folding her legs beneath her. She didn't know what else to do.
The sound of hurried footsteps interrupted her confusion. Moments later, Fujimaru-sensei stormed in, yelling, "Shirō—!" only to freeze mid-step at the sight of the unfamiliar blonde.
The girl turned to her with a polite smile. "Please, have a seat as well."
Fujimaru-sensei blinked, then sniffed the air. The smell of the food was too enticing to ignore. Reluctantly, she sat down beside Sakura, still eyeing the girl suspiciously.
One by one, the mysterious blonde brought out the dishes, filling the table with a spread that looked and smelled exactly like Shirō's cooking.
"Hope you like it," the girl said cheerfully as she set the last dish down.
Despite their hesitation, neither Sakura nor Fujimaru-sensei could resist the aroma. A few bites in, and both were stunned. This was Shirō's cooking. The taste, the texture—everything was identical.
But that only raised more questions.
Fujimaru-sensei slammed her chopsticks down, pointing at the girl. "Alright, stranger! Who the hell are you, and why are you here?"
The blonde gave a sheepish smile, scratching the back of her head. "Um… this might take a while to explain."
"I'm not going anywhere until I get answers!" Fujimaru-sensei snapped.
Sakura finally found her voice, her tone cautious. "Um… who exactly are you?"
The girl hesitated before responding. "I'm Shirō's distant cousin. From far away. My name is… Saber."
Both women stared at her, incredulous.
"...Sorry, what?"
It had taken some effort, but she finally managed to convince them. Sending a carefully crafted message from her (or rather, Shirō's) phone had sealed the deal. "Going on a trip. My cousin Saber will look after the house," it had read, perfectly mimicking Shirō's casual tone. If nothing else, the simple explanation was enough to disarm any suspicion.
Fujimaru-sensei quickly warmed up to her, affectionately calling her "Saber-chan," while Sakura, though more reserved, politely addressed her as "Saber-san."
Thankfully, neither had argued to stay the night. Once they left, Shirō—'or Saber now'—finally had the house to herself.
Sitting cross-legged in her room, she couldn't keep the thoughts from racing through her head. How long could she keep this up? This web of lies felt paper-thin, ready to tear apart if anyone so much as tugged at the wrong thread. She had no legal identity, no real existence beyond the mask of "Shirō's cousin." And what if someone decided to dig deeper?
It wasn't just the mundane dangers that plagued her thoughts. The Holy Grail War loomed like a storm on the horizon. Illya—'her sister?!'—had tried to kill her with that monster of a Berserker. And then there were six other pairs of Masters and Servants, all equally dangerous. She couldn't even forget Rin, who'd already declared them enemies despite their history.
But something else gnawed at her. That crimson arrow… the one that had saved her from being crushed. Who had fired it? And why?
She sighed, pulling herself from the spiral of thoughts. Sitting around worrying wouldn't protect her from anything. If she wanted to survive, she needed to act.
Grabbing a metal rod from the corner of her room, she straightened her back, focusing her mind. It was a familiar routine, one she'd done countless times to hone her skills. But now, it wasn't just for practice, it was life or death.
Placing the rod across her lap, she closed her eyes, her hands brushing the cold, smooth surface. 'Focus. Breathe. Analyze.'
"Trace, on."
The words came instinctively, and she felt the flow of mana surge through her body, extending into the rod. Her mind's eye opened, peeling back the layers of the object in her hands. She could see it, every crack, every imperfection, every microscopic detail etched into the metal. But that wasn't enough.
Delving deeper, she began to unravel its structure—the carbon content, the arrangement of atoms, the balance of weight. Her mana flowed into the rod like water filling a mold, seeking to reinforce and replicate its form. She could feel it resisting, her own lack of mastery creating friction.
If she could do this with precision, with intent, she could turn this basic object into something more. A weapon. A sword.
The rod began to tremble, faint sparks of energy dancing along its surface. Shirō's brow furrowed as she gripped it tighter, pouring her focus into the task.
The metal responded. Slowly, impossibly, it began to change. Its dull, featureless surface shimmered like liquid, the shape warping and elongating in her hands. The weight shifted, becoming lighter and more balanced. Lines appeared, tracing a blade's edge, sharp and pristine.
Her breath caught. It was a sword. A real sword. For a fleeting moment, she held it in her hands—gleaming, perfect, radiant.
But the moment shattered as quickly as it had come. The sword flickered, its form breaking apart like glass. The energy collapsed, and the rod reverted to its original shape, clattering to the floor.
Shirō stared at it, her chest heaving. She didn't know whether to feel exhilarated or defeated. For a brief second, she had done it. She had 'created' something extraordinary. And yet, it wasn't enough.
She gritted her teeth, picking up the rod again. If she could do it once, even for just a moment, then she could do it again. And next time, she wouldn't fail.
"Trace, on," she muttered, determination burning in her eyes.
[—(/-\)—]
The next morning, Shirō woke up to the familiar routine that kept her mind from spiraling—cleaning, cooking, and practicing in the family dojo with wooden swords. The rhythmic motion of her strikes helped ground her, but something about her movements felt... different.
Her arms moved with a flexibility she'd never known before. Each swing was instinctive, precise, and impossibly smooth. Even her stance had shifted into something foreign, something that felt like second nature but completely unfamiliar.
As she moved, her thoughts drifted back to the blue, frilly dress she'd worn during her desperate flight from Berserker. Despite its impractical appearance, she'd felt oddly comfortable fighting—well, 'running away'—in it.
She stilled as a strange sensation washed over her, like a ripple of energy. She glanced down, and to her utter shock, her casual outfit shimmered and transformed. In the blink of an eye, she was once again clad in that exact blue dress, down to the armour-like plating and the snug fit of the bodice.
"Whoa," Shirō muttered, staring at herself in disbelief. "Instant outfit change? That's... actually kinda cool."
Experimentally, she thought about her casual clothes again, and the same ripple returned. Her attire shifted seamlessly back to the jeans and graphic tee she'd bought online, now featuring Goku striking a causal pose with the words 'Yo'.
Curiosity sparked, and she spent the next hour searching the internet, trying to find information about blonde, green-eyed swordswomen in European history. Maybe this was some weird inherited memory? Maybe her new abilities had a historical link?
The results were... disappointing. Every lead turned into a dead end. No one seemed to match her description, and any hope of finding an explanation fizzled out.
With a sigh, she realized it was already lunchtime, and she was out of vegetables. Grumbling, she decided to head to the market.
Changing into her casual outfit with a flick of thought, Shirō made her way through the streets. The glances people threw her way didn't escape her notice. Her distinctly European appearance, coupled with her unusual sense of style, made her stand out like a sore thumb. Still, she couldn't help but admit that she looked good.
"Flat chest," she muttered under her breath with a small smirk, glancing at her reflection in a shop window. "Thank god. Flat is justice."
At the market, a few vendors tried to take advantage of her, assuming she was a clueless foreigner. Their tactics didn't work. Shirō was blunt, firm, and armed with enough common sense to haggle down their ridiculous prices.
On her way back, however, she found herself bumping—quite literally—into someone familiar.
"Tohsaka-san!" Shirō's face lit up with a relieved smile. Finally, someone who understood the situation, someone who could help!
Rin Tohsaka, however, didn't look nearly as pleased. Her sharp eyes scanned Shirō up and down, suspicion and annoyance written all over her face.
"Are you going to fight me, Emiya-kun?" Rin asked bluntly, her arms crossed as her Servant, Archer, appeared beside her in a swirl of light. Her gaze drifted to the bag of groceries Shirō was holding. "Because it doesn't look like you're taking this war seriously. What are you planning to do? Fight me with that cucumber?"
Shirō faltered, her smile wavering. "I, uh—"
Before she could even explain, Rin stepped closer, her tone cold and cutting. "You're weak, Shirō. Inexperienced. Vulnerable. Do you understand how easy it would be for me to kill you right now?"
Shirō froze as Rin raised her hand, a ball of crackling mana forming at her fingertip. It hovered there, glowing with ominous energy, and Rin's expression left no doubt that she was ready to use it.
"But—" Shirō tried to interject, only for Rin to cut her off.
"This is a war, not a game. You're not taking it seriously, and that makes you a liability. If you can't fight, then you're just another obstacle in the way."
The weight of her words hung in the air, and Shirō couldn't help but feel the truth in them. She 'was' weak. She didn't even have a real plan beyond surviving.
"Rin," Archer's calm, measured voice broke the tense silence. "There's no need to kill her."
Rin turned to him, raising an eyebrow.
"A Saber is always a Servant with potential," Archer continued, his tone matter-of-fact. "And an ally, even an inexperienced one, is better than an enemy. Think about it. Wouldn't it be more beneficial to have her on your side rather than as another obstacle you have to deal with?"
Rin frowned, considering his words.
Shirō couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. "He's right," she said quickly. "I can help! I'm not... I'm not totally useless, you know. And I'm a good cook!"
Rin's frown deepened, but there was a hint of hesitation in her eyes. After a long moment, she sighed, lowering her hand and letting the ball of mana dissipate.
"Fine," she said at last. "Let's talk this over at your house."
"Great!" Shirō beamed. "It's lunchtime anyway. I'll cook something for you guys!"
Rin pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath about priorities, but she followed Shirō anyway. Archer, ever composed, gave a small shrug and fell into step behind them.
As they walked, Shirō couldn't help but feel a strange sense of optimism. Sure, her situation was still a mess, but perhaps she could turn things around.