THG: 1.1 The Holy Grill (Patreon)

Preface

I blame Aria, Dragon Lord of Tea. May his tranquili-tea be disturbed by chuuni little sisters. May his sereni-tea be overturned by oni. May his tea only be referred to as soggy leaf juice.

Down with the tea dragon! Rise, oh paladins of coffee! Champion the cause of beans soaked in cat shit!

The Holy Grill 1.1

John Soprano

I let out a contented sigh as I pulled the very first brisket of my new life from the grill out back. It had been a bit of a shock, waking up in a new world, but I always saw myself as an adaptable figure. It certainly didn't hurt that I had my memories of living in this world as well.

John Soprano, Johnny to his friends, was a chef born to a family of chefs. There was absolutely nothing noteworthy about his family, save that he had a falling out with them out in Texas. So, he packed up, took up his share of the family inheritance, moved to the East Coast, and decided that he'd bring a Texan touch to Brockton Bay.

Was that a good idea? What with crime rates being especially high here?

Probably not, but the city had proportionally low property values and taxes to compensate and John didn't have too much money. Even his portion of his grandfather's inheritance, a sizable amount considering the man had owned a few hundred acres, wasn't enough for a place in New York or Boston.

So a young man set out with a dream. He opened a restaurant near the Boardwalk and swore to bring the holy light of Texas barbeque to this heathen land.

And then I arrived, chucked into his/my mind like a multiversal baseball.

The worst part of it all was that I didn't come alone.

Shirou Emiya, the Wrought Iron Hero, tagged along. Somehow. I had no fucking clue because magic sure as shit didn't exist in my old world and Shirou's understanding fo the greater mysteries was… suspect…

'Hey, I'm not that bad,' he complained, though more for the sake of being contrarian than because he considered himself an expert. 'I think I have a wide breadth of knowledge, even if it's shallow. I encountered a lot of different types of magecraft along my travels, you know.'

'Fine, and your expert opinion, oh, great magus?'

'When in doubt, blame Zelretch.'

'Genius. Truly, your insight is as boundless as your delusion.'

'There is nothing wrong with being a hero. This world is full of them,' he tried to convince me, not for the first time, that seeing how I'd inherited his unique magecraft, I would be best served by putting on a pair of tights. 'You also have the Heaven's Feel. I can feel it, you know, the connection to an infinite source of prana. I don't even know how that happened. You're a walking sealing designation.'

'Like you weren't before?' I asked sarcastically. 'Mr. Reality Marble?'

'Yes, but you have a True Magic. Not because you're a researcher, or because your deeds in a previous life echoed through the Throne of Heroes, simply because you lucked into it. Do you have any idea what mages would do for your fortune?'

'Sacrifice their pregnant wives and unborn children.'

'Yes! Exactly! Be a hero! You could do so much more than just be a pitmaster!'

'Shirou, trust me. I know this setting as well as I know yours. Being a hero in this world is a cursed occupation,' I tried to explain patiently. 'I can count maybe one… four… unambiguously heroic figures. The rest are varying flavors of corrupt or douchebag. It's not worth it.'

'All the more reason to set a proper example. With my magecraft and the Heaven's Feel, you could even take on the endbringers you told me about!'

'That sounds dangerous,' I said blandly. 'I have no experience fighting.'

'You have my memories. And the memories of the greatest warriors across the world, every myth and culture. Scathach! Heracles! Guan Yu!'

'Yeah, but have you considered?'

'Considered what?'

'If I were to become a hero, who would enlighten this poor, barren city to the wonders of Texas barbeque?'

'...'

'...'

'You can't be serious…'

'Of course I'm serious. I'm Texan. Barbeque is serious business.'

'Isn't there an American comic? With great power-'

'-comes great possibilities,' I finished for him. 'Don't you quote Uncle Ben at me.'

'Come on, I like cooking too, but is it really worth more than saving lives?'

'Barbeque can save lives.'

'You're really missing the mark here.'

I hummed merrily as I went about tending to the fire. I'd been experimenting with the wood chips. My family liked to use hickory, but we were up in New England. Why not maple? Or maybe a bit of apple?

The smoke wafted into my nostrils as the heady aroma of barbeque filled the air. A deep, satisfying warmth bloomed in my chest as I went about my day. Sure, it involved waking up at the crack of dawn to tend to the fire, but damn was it worth it.

'Please, can we at least change the name of the store?' Shirou begged.

'What's wrong with it? You like cooking.'

'Don't you think "The Holy Grill" is disrespectful to those who went through the Grail War?'

'You were the one who told me I had the Heaven's Feel. I'm just paying proper homage.'

'You could pay better homage by doing something beneficial with the Heaven's Feel. Like saving lives.'

'Shirou, I'm not enabling your delusion,' I said patiently. 'I know you promised Kiritsugu, but you both being idiots is no excuse to romp across the world looking for people to stab in the face.'

'I didn't do that!'

'Really?' I asked, skepticism evident. 'How many of your "heroic missions" after you left Rin in the Clock Tower lead to you inevitably stabbing someone in the face?'

'...'

'Relax. Think of this as a vacation.'

'I hate this already. And it's not a delusion!'

'Sure, sure… Now let's make breakfast. I'm thinking the burnt ends of the brisket, fried eggs, and potatoes.'

X

I looked down at the sign. It was a wooden affair, painted white so the text on it was clearly legible. It was past the lunch rush now and with the smokers quietly burning, the kitchen clean, and the store empty, I had little else to do.

'What do you think, Shirou? Perfect, right?'

'I don't like this,' he grumbled.

'You're impossible to please. I'm trying to compromise here.'

'By sticking Caliburn into the ground outside your store?'

'Exactly. It's the Sword of Selection. You want me to be a hero. I want to be a pitmaster. So, I've decided to give this world a hero. No, a king. See? Compromise,' I replied smugly.

'That's not how this works!'

'Why? It picked Artoria, didn't it? I'm sure it'll be fine.'

'Listen, a strange pitmaster by the sea distributing magic swords to random people is no basis for the birth of a hero!'

'D-Did you rip off Monty Python at me?'

'Not important! Leave Caliburn alone!'

'Relax, Shirou. I'm sure it'll be fine. I mean, come on, Artoria did well enough so we know the sword's got great taste. You say the world needs a hero, so fine, let's give it one.'

I grinned at the sign in front of my store. It read:

Whomsoever draws this blade shall be the rightful king of Brockton Bay.

Then, in far smaller print:

Disclaimer: A strange pitmaster from Texas distributing holy swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical seaside ceremony.

Any attempt to claim your future kingship may involve treason against the government of the United States of America. The Holy Grill acknowledges no liability in such matters. However, the new king of Brockton Bay may redeem a single meal at the Holy Grill each day we are open.

Tally ho!

Naturally, in front of the sign was Caliburn, that legendary blade of King Arthur fame. It was lodged near to the hilt into the earth, its golden and royal-blue hilt gleaming in the afternoon light.

I tapped it with an eager smile. "See, Shirou, this is how you butcher a Monty Python quote."

'I hate this so much…'

'Quit complaining, or I swear I'll share all my memories of Saber hentai from my world.'

'Mercy…'

X

The Holy Grill became an overnight sensation. Or rather, the sword became an overnight sensation. And by extension, my humble restaurant rode along on its mythical coattails.

It drew so much attention in fact that I had to set up a bounded field in the form of several swords stuck along the property line. Shirou was no expert, but he knew enough to move things along. More importantly, Scathach was a master beyond compare and the Heaven's Feel was bullshit atop bullshit.

In the end, I didn't need anything overly complicated. Anyone who approached the restaurant with thoughts about interrogating me, recruiting me, or about harming me, the building, or the people within, would suddenly find something else to occupy their attention. It was the single best way I knew of to keep the PRT, and Cauldron, off my back. Sure, I was an outed cape now, but there was a neat little apartment above the store.

I chuckled and went about my business as yet another frat boy got dared to try to yank the sword from the ground. He failed of course, Caliburn didn't impress easily; it'd take more than a few months at the gym pumping iron to earn the sword's acknowledgement.

It had been several weeks now and business was booming. I'd expanded the menu, now including more than just brisket. Pulled pork of course, "dino ribs," chicken, and two types of sausage rounded out the menu. I refused to include wet ribs because I wasn't a pathetic poser from St. Louis.

'You know, having a rivalry about food is meaningless, right?'

'Quiet. A Japanese wouldn't understand.'

'It's just food.'

'Cream cheese belongs in sushi.'

'YOU TAKE THAT BACK!'

'Heh. Point proven.'

'... hate you…'

X

Missy Biron

Clock was being an idiot… again… I loved the guy like a brother, but he was best in smaller doses, preferably when we weren't on patrol.

The trouble with patrolling with Clock was that he was a comedian. That in itself wasn't bad per se. The public loved him. Kids always said he was their favorite. He had a way of putting people at ease, never letting his fans catch onto just how tired he was beneath the mask.

No, the problem was in how I was compared to him every step of the way. "You should smile more, sweetie!" or "Don't cross your arms, Vista. Be mindful of your body language," or "Be sure to laugh with Clockblocker."

Clock could turn his patrol into a twenty minute standup comedy routine as he walked along the Boardwalk. I could not. Worse, I had no excuse. Aegis and Gallant could be the serious straight men to Clock's antics, looking like the tall, broad-shouldered young heroes full of responsibility and determination. Kid Win's awkwardness fit in with his super-nerd skater schtick. And no one even tried to interact with Shadow Stalker. Being the angsty, broody one had its perks.

But me? I was the pixie, the darling of the Wards who was expected to be a glowing ray of sunshine and good cheer. I couldn't hide behind my image because my image demanded I be a Saturday morning cartoon character, one of those magical girls who fought to "defend everyone's smiles" or something.

I plastered a plastic smile on my face and nodded along. It wasn't Clock's fault. In all fairness, he tried to shield me from the crowd whenever he saw me get overwhelmed, telling jokes or freezing a woman's purse in midair for laughs. He was great like that, real sensitive to the way other people were feeling. Gallant even said so; where Gallant had his power, Clock's awareness was all natural.

Thankfully, we were coming to the tail end of our patrol. The Boardwalk was where the tourists all congregated so we could tone down the PR stuff once we were away from the line a bit.

"You hungry, V?" I heard Clock ask.

"Hmm? Not really. You?"

"I wasn't until two seconds ago. Come on, that looks awesome," he said, pointing to a store that had opened up recently.

The Holy Grill. It was a mystery. The proprietor was a man by the name of John Soprano, an all but confirmed parahuman. However, the business was fully above-board and any attempt to speak to him about parahuman affairs failed as agents found other places to be.

Director Piggot, being the paranoid woman she was, had food ordered from there and dissected like a frog for any kind of tampering. When the results came back, we were forced to conclude that it was, in fact, Texas barbeque. Slow-smoked brisket, salt and pepper bark, with fat that practically liquified on touch.

To her dismay, the PRT had a new favorite lunch spot. Not only was the food great, those inside were physically incapable of talking about work. For those of us who wanted to take our minds off things, it was practically a godsend. And, whatever kept us from talking to him about parahumans also kept the gang recruiters away.

Somehow, he'd turned the restaurant into neutral ground. No one could discuss business there. No one could make an attempt to recruit him. And yet, if you were hungry, if you just wanted some great barbeque, you were welcome.

"Well…" I began, "I did hear good things about this place."

"Exactly! That's okay, right, console?" Clock asked our handler.

"Yes, that's fine. We'll chalk this one up to business expenses. Enjoy yourselves, kids."

"I'm not a kid," I huffed, more out of habit than anything. I knew he didn't mean anything by it.

The store was a brick and mortar affair only two blocks away from the Boardwalk. The sign above was pretty detailed: a silver and gold chalice, but with the bowl of the cup converted with a grill's grates. And of course, just outside the store, was the infamous Caliburn.

I didn't know why the store owner thought it'd be a good idea to stick a sword in the ground and name it after King Arthur's sword, but he did and I couldn't deny that it was a big attraction. Even now, I could see half a dozen boys tugging at it.

No one knew what anchored it to the ground. Every idea from magnets to tinkertech were thrown around, only for the owner to deny them all.

It wasn't just overeager boys trying to pull the thing either. Everyone who ate here tried it at least once, capes included. When Assault and someone we highly suspected of being Hookwolf failed, Armsmaster was convinced that it was tinkertech of some stripe. He arrived the next day and demanded that Mr. Soprano hand the sword over.

"You can have it," the pitmaster said with a careless shrug. "You just have to pull the sword out like everybody else."

So he tried.

And failed.

Armsmaster returned each day with an increasingly ludicrous idea. He tied the handle to his bike, and needed a new bike. He made adjustments to his armor that made his arms look like a gorilla's, sacrificing speed and dexterity for raw power apparently, and almost threw out his back. In the end, he achieved PHO stardom as the newest meme in the city, and absolutely nothing else.

Clock and I stepped into the store. I had to admit, the place smelled amazing. The interior looked like some kind of great hall in a medieval castle. Camelot, I presumed, without the singular, round table that supposedly occupied the center.

Weapons and shields lined the walls, all incredible recreations. Each shield was decorated with an elaborate sigil, presumably of the legendary knights, or what the owner thought they might have looked like. Beneath each was a bronze plaque, declaring the name of the weapon, its original wielder, and their titles if they had any. Obviously not real of course, no one really used shiny, over-decorated swords like that in a real fight, but still incredibly cool to look through.

Excalibur Galatine: Sword of Revolving Victory
Sir Gawain: Knight of the Sun

Arondight: Unfading Light of the Lake

Sir Lancelot: Knight of the Lake

Longinus Count Zero: Shining Spear of Destiny

Sir Percival: Holy Knight of the Dove

Failnaught: Phantasmal Music of the Painful Lament
Sir Tristan: Knight of Lamentations

There was something magical about all of these weapons. They were so well-made, so flawless in their construction that it was hard to imagine that they were just set pieces meant to decorate a wall.

But there was one sword that outshone them all. It had pride of place, just above the serving counter. After all, it was the sword of the legendary king himself.

Excalibur: Sword of Promised Victory

King Arthur: Once and Future King

It was amazing. Excalibur. Sure, an artist's recreation, but there was a mysterious air about it, as if it truly was the holy sword of legend. It felt… austere? Just standing beneath made me feel as if I was being judged, as if this was a true great hall in a castle and King Arthur was looking down on me, laying all my secrets bare.

It wasn't uncommon for people to take pictures, sometimes even forgetting their orders as they got lost admiring the weapon. Plenty have asked for the artist's name, only to receive no answer.

Even the grill was highly decorated. The smoker was out back, but there was a central, round grill behind the counter that the owner used to cook sausages on a spit. It was his "round table," he said.

"Ah, Vista, Clockblocker. How can I help you?" he asked as he turned the spit, some kind of big, red spear. In fact, there were several such spears, all with thick sausages tied to them along the shafts.

"Are those spears?" Clock asked. "You're turning meat on a literal spear."

"Gae Bolg. Its name is Gae Bolg, the Piercing Scarlet Spear," he said with a bemused smile. The owner was a fairly plain-looking man with brown hair and eyes. He was muscular, though in a way that reminded me of Gallant over Aegis. He also had that kind, earnestness to his smile that reminded me of a stereotypical farm boy filled with "American family values." "Cu would have thought this is hilarious. Scathach too, but then she'd probably flay me alive for the disrespect."

"But isn't there only one of each legendary weapon? Having copies kinda makes it not a legend anymore."

"Nope. Gae Bolg is a bit special. Scathach has dozens of these things."

"Who?"

"The Witch of Dun Scaith and Queen of the Land of Shadows. She's a legendary queen from Celtic mythology, said to be mightier than many gods."

"Right-o! I want a brisket and sausage platter, please. PRT's dime so throw in those roasted brussel sprouts and a side of loaded mac and cheese!"

"Sure, kid. And you, shorty?"

"I'm not short!" I did not pout. I expressed my dissatisfaction like a mature, responsible adult. "And I want a brisket sandwich with a peach slaw on the side. Oh, and can I have the mac too?"

He turned the spear-spits a final time before heading off to prep the order. "Alright, kids. One minute."

X

A while later, we sat outside, munching on delicious barbeque. Today wasn't so bad. The PR patrol sucked, but it did get me good food on PRT dime so I couldn't complain. I wasn't looking forward to going home though, mom and dad were having a row again, probably arguing over something idiotic.

My mood must have showed because Clock nudged me with his foot. He motioned towards Caliburn, unoccupied for the first time since we arrived. "Say, think you can pull that?"

"I'm not stupid, Clock," I snorted. "If Armsmaster couldn't budge the thing, why would I try?"

"It'd make for a pretty cool picture."

"True…"

I polished off my sandwich and headed for the sword. The sign, and the lengthy disclaimer, made me giggle. What would I do as queen? What did it mean to be queen anyway?

'Maybe people would treat me like a real hero for once,' I thought. 'It'd be pretty great if this really was a magic swo-'

I couldn't even finish the thought. Before I knew it, Caliburn was in my hand, raised clear of the ground and lifted high into the air. The sun shone down on its blade, pristine despite just having come from the dirt. Its radiance was like nothing else I'd ever known, a glow of power that warmed me to my very soul.

Author's Note

Again, blame Aria. This is a one-shot and I have no plans to continue this story. I have so much on my plate that I don't even have the barest outline so the adventures of Holy Knight Missy will have to come another time.

Yes, I butchered Fate lore. I'm aware. No, I don't really care. It's crack, because Aria is a horrible person who wanted to see Shirou rage at the injustice of having his dreams so close yet so far.

Also, congrats on finishing your fic. This totally isn't a bribe to include a bunny in your next project.