Speak Without Speaking

...

Monica lied in bed far longer than she ought to. It wasn't so much a lack of motivation, but the crushing weight of responsibility that kept her pressed to her mattress for minutes on end- interrupted by brief periods of anticipation for her Servant's return to her room, which she dreaded beyond belief. Perhaps she would've tried to fall back asleep and get some proper rest, she was already up earlier than usual after all, but two fears kept her mind spinning when she would rather it be still: first was the fear of the weasel-faced boy, the fear that her sleep would be once again interrupted. The second was the fear of Chrysaor's opinion, which she worried was now in a spiraling decline.

Instead, she wasted away scrolling on her phone, watching videos and checking social media for five, ten, over twenty minutes. She hadn't had much of any time to do this, and so took advantage of her procrastinatory lethargy to do just that. There was really nothing of note, except for the piling messages from her boss and coworkers. There weren't many, of course: few cared and fewer had the means to reach her, and besides, she'd only been gone for two days. For any normal person, two days without reply or alibi may warrant a missing persons report, or at least a knock on her door given that all the employees lived in the same complex, but such stints weren't so uncommon among their peers, and certainly not for her.

She recalled how, immediately after Rhiannon's suicide, she'd spent the better part of a week wandering the city in a dissociative stupor carried forward by reckless drinking and drug use- enough that it should have killed her, and, indeed, she spent some time in the hospital afterward. The one good thing that came from the experience, though she knew many who would consider it unfortunate, was that she could no longer stomach hard drugs- literally- and so had remained clean since, even of alcohol. Just the sight of either left stones in her stomach, and she saw both a lot, which might have explained her chronic lack of hunger, but that was besides the point.

There were a few scattered messages, one from her boss, which was really more of a warning then it was genuine worry, and another from a coworker with a more maternal attitude which came off as polite chastising colored with vague concern, but she, for her part, was concerned with neither, and cleared the notifications without even considering a response. There was only one thing that warranted a response right now, and that was her current situation: the two presumed enemies sitting in her living room.

...

Monica slowly opened the door to her room and peeked into the apartment. She noticed her Servant leaning against the corner between the living area and the kitchen. He watched her exit before returning his gaze to the couch, where their 'guests' almost certainly were. A flash of guilt cut through her chest as she wondered how long he'd been waiting, but even this was pushed deep down into her stomach so she could focus on the task ahead.

On the couch sat the Servant and Master duo, blankets still decorating the seat behind them, with Assassin on the left, nearer the bedroom door, and her Master on the right, nearer the balcony. Echo refused to make eye-contact, constantly looking to the side at some wall decoration that didn't actually exist- the kind of expression one would expect from a teenager. Her arms and legs were together in her lap, and no wonder, as they were still made of stone. Monica's eyes were keen enough to see that the stone had regressed enough for Echo to regain control of her shoulders and pelvis, but her arms and legs were still useless as anything other than glorified stilts, both remaining frozen in the drama of the previous night and contrasting with her serene, if slightly perturbed, expression.

While Chrysaor had a nasty habit of making the supernatural seem natural, Echo made it seem downright ethereal. To have such an impossibly beautiful woman-literally impossible, as women with indigo skin and pointed ears were rather rare nowadays- on her couch made her feel like she was in a bad sitcom, and that, at any moment, her sparkling skin would begin to flake away as nothing more than body paint. This was especially true given her outfit, which to her, even in her line of work, seemed like a teenager's bad joke. The sheer voyeurism of it, the cleverly folded sash and nothing else, caused mixed feelings to warm her chest, though Echo certainly didn't notice or care about the effect her indigo body, which sparkled as if stars laid just under the surface, would have on the average person, much less the average man. It occurred to her that her inordinate focus on Echo's clothes might have been spurred by jealousy, but she stubbornly suppressed that idea in her mind, as one usually does when suddenly confronted with the ugly truth.

While Assassin was calm, the same was not true of the Master, who sat hunched over pitiably, wringing her hands together as if anxiously awaiting dreadful news. As if that weren't enough of a display, her right leg bounced up and down, as if readying to run at the next opportunity. Monica suddenly felt a wave of shame, as if she were the one in the wrong, and maybe she was, but Assassin certainly hadn't been in the right and, for better or worse, the Master had been strung along for the ride.

In front of the couch was a chair taken from the kitchen table.

She couldn't help looking back to Chrysaor, not quite sure what she was looking for in exact terms, but, with his firm nod of both understanding and resolve, she took her seat in front of the two women and began in the most logical place, "So..." she pointed at Assassin, "Echo."

"Echo." 

Monica almost thought she detected some playfulness behind Assassin's reply, but decided against being so hopeful.

She then moved her finger to the oriental Master, noticing three red circles on her hand which confirmed her status as such, "What's your name?"

Her thin, scared eyes took only a passing glance at Monica's face before returning to her shaking hands and squeaking, "Massiah."

'Massiah?'

The woman in front of her was clearly from the East, but her name almost certainly wasn't. People from that area of the globe gave their surnames first, so maybe she had married a European and taken his name? Was the name was given to her? Was it a codename?

In any case, she didn't know the origin of the name in its personal history or in its ethnic origin, and so she left the matter aside and continued, "Why did you attack us?"

Silence from both. Neither met her gaze.

Not knowing what else to do, she went to repeat her question, but felt a strong hand on her shoulder before the words could escape.

"I ran into a similar problem earlier." He turned his stoic eyes to Assassin, "Echo, can your Master answer our questions? Yes or no?"

Echo's beautiful, wide eyes, half-closed in what could have been apathy or frustration, crawled over to meet his, "...Master...can...no...answer."

He narrowed his eyes with suspicion, "Is that because she can't, or because she won't?"

"...can't."

She could never escape the chill that ran down her spine when Echo spoke in Chrysaor's voice. The contrast was so sharp that her brain rejected the association entirely, even more than when Echo had used her own voice; at least then there was some symmetry. Chrysaor, at least, seemed unbothered, and peeled his hand from her shoulder to return to his post.

-But when he did, she felt a voice come from deep in her mind, 'Go ahead with your questions. Let me know if you need help.'

Had Chrysaor spoken into her head? She recalled asking herself a similar question before, but, by this point, was so accustomed to the oddities of her situation that she simply assumed the answer was 'yes', and so returned her focus to the women in front, this time on Echo who, despite her clear displeasure, was the only one who was offering any answers, muddled as they were.

"Was there a specific reason why you attacked us, or was it just a matter of winning the war?"

"...Just....the war."

Given that Echo's tone exactly mimicked her own, there was no way to detect any lies, but, given the limits of the interrogation, she decided to let Chrysaor handle such logistics.

One passing thought led to another, and before long there was another question on her lips: "You got angry when we mentioned Caster. Do you two have a history?" Then, remembering Chrysaor before her, she quickly added, "Yes or no?"

Echo's gaze fell to the floor, and her lips, as well those portions of her limbs that were still flesh, quivered ever-so slightly in discomfort. Her eyes moved back and forth, as if reading words invisible to her, but she ultimately said nothing.

"Is that a 'maybe'?"

"...Maybe?"

Here, at a loss as to where to go next, she turned to Chrysaor for help, and he took up her place in the conversation, "Do you know Caster's True Name?"

Here, quieter than the last, she, for the first time, repeated herself rather than somebody else, "Maybe?"

He tilted his head to the side, as if to examine her face from another angle, "So... you have a theory, and that theory is that he's someone not to be trusted. Is that right?"

"...Right...Not to be trusted."

Monica interrupted briefly, "Well, of course he can't be trusted. He's the one who made those zombies, right?"

Echo's eyes flashed open with recognition, and she began to point furiously at Monica, as if to say, 'That's what I mean.'

Saber rolled his eyes with an uncomfortable expression, but soon returned to his stoicism with a certain severity, "I'm guessing, then, that you wouldn't be willing to meet with Caster or his Master, right?"

Echo's eyes drifted to and from each person in the room, particularly lingering on Monica first, and then longer on her Master, and responded, "I'm... willing to..."

"-But you aren't happy about it."

She nodded solemnly, "...aren't happy about it."

Everyone in the room exchanged glances with one another, each wondering what the other was thinking. Monica was particularly curious and, in respect for the potential sensitivity of the discussion, returned to her bedroom, hovering in the doorway just long enough to invite her Servant in with her eyes, who followed suit after casting a cautious glance at their company.

She closed the door behind him and began in a slight whisper, "Any thoughts?"

"Not so many thoughts as questions. I never asked, but how did you get them here in the first place?"

She blushed, "I-I'm not quite sure what came over me, I think it may have been from the sword but..."

"-But?"

"I told them that they'd lost, and threatened them, telling them to come with me... or else. The memories are a little hazy..."

He nodded, almost relieved, "That makes sense. They- or at least Echo- believe that they're under threat, and have chosen to help us rather than die... surprisingly sensible."

"-But what do we do with that? Do you think we could get more information if we had Echo write instead of speak?"

Saber shook his head, "I tried that. I said, 'tell me everything you know', and handed her a piece of paper. She wrote something down, and when I looked at it, all it said was 'everything you know.' Of course, that could be a bluff, but there's really no way to confirm or deny that without...drastic action."

"-We're not torturing them."

"Naturally. Even so, if the only motive for all this was information, we can probably get more from Caster than her regardless."

Her hands clenched out of reflex, "Does that mean we're ready to use that phone number?"

His eyes darkened with a deep sobriety, "Seems so. Are you sure you want to?"

She closed her eyes and envisioned all the possible futures that she could, but found herself unable to predict much of anything. However, in reaching this mental wall, she found another conclusion: the deal, if followed through, would grant them more information, and so, more possibilities to consider.

"...We don't know if Assassin actually intends to remain our ally, or if they plan to stab us in the back. I think passing them off to Caster may be safer in the long run, especially if we can use that to gain an ally that- well- hasn't tried to kill us yet."

He nodded, "That's not a half-bad way of thinking, but, for all purposes, I want to make sure of one thing."

Her face became flushed, her mind rushing to all the things that could possibly be said next, "What's that?"

The look was familiar: his eyes went to chill, to sharpen, and then became brittle and broke, melting away into an impossible softness, "Do you really want to try and win this war?"

...

Though it was only a moment, it felt like a thousand years, made worse by the fact that she already knew the answer. She wanted to win- the problem was that she didn't want to try, but she knew, as much as anything else, that he wouldn't accept that answer, as he shouldn't. He would never let her get away with such half-assed resolve, which, up to this point, was really all the resolve she had. The resolve to keep going until she encountered an obstacle, in which case she'd immediately return the way she came, never to come within a mile of that place again.

But then she remembered that horrible place- the churning sea and acrid smoke. In that moment, she'd pressed forward, and, somehow, had, at the very least, prevented the worst from happening at that time. Even if she just prolonged the problem, she had done something, and she'd done it by going forward. What's worse is that the problem remained, and that, to her surprise, she was the only one who could solve it... apparently.

She hated him for it. She hated how he made the abnormal seem normal, and how he kept her from her horrible life for one simple reason, the reason that squeezed through her throat even as the more reasonable parts of herself tried to keep it away-

"I have to try."

She had to. She wouldn't forgive herself otherwise. That, if nothing else, she knew from the core of her soul.

He gave her a smile, though there wasn't a trace of joy in it, "Then let's try."

He gingerly reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out the crumpled note from the day before.

...

The seconds that turned to minutes felt much, much longer as the two waited for the mercenary's reply in the living room.

The text was nothing special: it was all business, and read, "we've made contact with team assassin, and they're willing to meet. what next?"

Theoretically, given that the whole exchange was the mercenary's idea, it shouldn't have taken so long to respond, though, given the chaos of the war, there were any number of viable explanations. As she began to wonder to herself whether the most likely explanation wasn't the outright death of her correspondent, a reply finally came.

"Great. We'll be in touch when the need arises."

A flash of anger struck her heart like lightning, as it seemed to her that she'd been scammed. Showing the texts to Chrysaor, he had much the same reaction.

"He doesn't seem to be ready yet." He shrugged, but there wasn't any heart in it, "Maybe he'll get back to us later. Things like these usually don't happen until after dark."

"-But what do we do until then?"

As the two thought far too hard about their afternoon itinerary, their mutual silence was interrupted by the far-too-loud grumbling of Monica's stomach, and she was reminded of her rather sparse meals in the past few days, not to mention the physical stress she'd endured.

A refreshing smile crossed Saber's face, as if relieved to know that his Master was still human, "How about lunch?"

She smiled back, the question seeming casual to the point of being absurdity, but just as the idea began to sink into her head, and her mouth starting to wet in anticipation, both Master and Servant shared a revelation.

They slowly turned to meet the very confused eyes of Echo and Massiah.

....