THG: 1.2 The Holy Grill (Patreon)

Preface

This is, as with most things in my life, Aria's fault. It's also Bapping's fault. Their validation is like crack to me.

The Holy Grill 1.2

John Soprano

I was out back, taking advantage of the brief lull in kitchen duties to pull my recently cleaned dish rags off my oversized drying rack.

'The Monohoshi Zao shouldn't be used like this,' Shirou griped.

'Its name mea-'

'I know what it means! I'm Japanese! Just because it's the Laundry Drying Pole doesn't mean you should literally use it to dry your dish rags!'

'I also practice the Tsubame Gaeshi with it on my off hours,' I pointed out reasonably. 'You can't rightly tell me I'm not using it for its intended purposes. Both of them.'

'You know, corrupt samurai of old used to stand behind street corners, cutting down people who passed by to test the quality of their blades.'

'Are you suggesting I murder people to sate your bloodlust? Aren't you supposed to be a hero?'

'I'm saying you should get some real-world experience! By fighting the gangs! Go touch grass!'

'Yeah, but you can see why that's a terrible analogy, right?'

'Just… Just get back to the grill…'

Then it happened. It wasn't the column of light shining down like divine benediction from the heavens that caught our attention. It was the pulse of prana that spread out from the front of my store like the mushroom cloud of a nuclear bomb. In both quality and quantity, the surge of magical energy dwarfed everything this world could offer.

There was no question. Though I'd only had the Heaven's Feel for a short few weeks, it was impossible to deny this unique signature, the feel of something sacrosanct taking place.

'Someone pulled Caliburn,' Shirou and I said as one.

'Well then,' I mused, sweeping the dish rags from the sword of the "swallow-slayer." I turned to head back inside, whistling a little ditty. 'Shall we go greet the king?'

X

Missy Biron

It wasn't just my imagination. A literal pillar of light descended from the sky, surrounding me in a warm glow. It wasn't blinding. Somehow, I knew that this light would never harm me in any way.

I'd never held a sword before. Once, Armsmaster let me hold his halberd for a few seconds, but that was the extent of my experience with weapons like this. And yet, nothing had felt so at home in my hands before. Caliburn, there was no doubt in my mind now, was a perfect fit, as if it belonged with me. A warm pulse of something surged through me and I knew that it agreed.

Console was screaming something in my ear. So was Clock, but I couldn't pay them any mind. I was captivated, utterly transfixed by the radiance of the sword in my hand.

Then the restaurant grew silent as the owner came from the back. Mr. Soprano, most definitely a parahuman, clapped idly as though he'd seen a school play rather than this… anointing.

"Bravo, King Vista," he said, falling into a flourishing bow. "Congratulations on your ascension, your majesty. I certainly didn't expect Caliburn to choose you."

"What did you do to her?" Clock demanded, his normal jocular personality nowhere to be found.

This was bad. We were in the lair of a parahuman, having triggered something. I wasn't stupid. The countless weapons on the wall, if Caliburn was real, how many of them were more than they seemed? On the surface, this looked like a terrible position to be in.

And yet, I knew we were in no danger. Caliburn was mine now. If Mr. Soprano meant us harm, I didn't think he would have ever put this beauty out for anyone to draw like that.

"Do to her? Nothing. She drew Caliburn. It's hers now. As promised, she may eat here for free once per day. And because I am a generous man, her majesty's court jester may likewise consider this meal on the house."

"What happens now?" I asked.

He went behind the counter and produced a sheath. Its body was made of crimson, lacquered wood, with ornate designs engraved into it in gold and royal blue. It was the single most elegant thing I'd ever seen, a work of priceless art that took my breath away. I could admire the design for hours and not notice everything.

He handed it to me with a smile. "What happens now? Why, you take the sheath obviously. A sword needs a sheath, doesn't it?"

"Y-Yeah."

A part of me wanted to give it back. The part that hated owing people said I should stick the sword back in the ground, that this was far too much to receive as a gift. It was all too much, a gift so overwhelmingly lavish that there just had to be a catch.

But a bigger part of me rebelled at the idea. Wasn't this what I'd wished for? The chance for something more than the Wards mascot?

I took the sheath with trembling hands. Caliburn's blade slid inside perfectly. The sheath was attached to a belt, one that fit over my hips as if it was tailored for me. The weight of the sword settled and I couldn't imagine a world without it.

"Caliburn is yours to keep, now until the day you die. You don't know what it means to be king, not right now. But Caliburn certainly thinks you have the potential. May you rule justly, oh King of Brockton Bay. So long as you fight with conviction, that sword will never fail you."

"I don't know anything about swords," I mumbled.

"Well then, you'd best be off. Swordsmanship is the least you must learn if you wish to become a true wielder," he said with a mysterious smile. He turned and headed back behind the counter to tie more sausages to the red spears on the grill. "I hope you do Artoria proud. Truly, I do."

X

"You can't take it!" I protested as some PRT techie did exactly that. Next to me, Miss Militia and Armsmaster looked on, wary for what, I didn't know. Maybe they thought the sword would explode or something.

"Vista, be reasonable," Miss Militia said gently. "This could be an unknown piece of tinkertech."

"I won it!"

"And we just want to check to see it's not dangerous," the lab tech said, some guy named Dr. Graham. "Once it's cleared, we'll give it back if the director gives us the green light."

That wasn't going to happen. Director Piggot was the grumpiest grump in the world. I didn't know if she hated parahumans in general or she just couldn't stand the thought of something she couldn't control, but I knew I'd never get Caliburn back if she had her way. It'd probably be stuck in a vault somewhere gathering dust.

I wanted it. It was my sword. I knew nothing about swordsmanship but I'd learn. I didn't want things to end like this, to lose the potential for change so soon after I'd finally gotten it.

Then, as if by magic, the sword slipped from the technician's grasp. It scattered into motes of golden light, only to appear at my hip again.

"Woah…"

"Vista, what was that?" Armsmaster demanded. He had a whole host of scanners open, trying to get whatever information he could.

"I don't know! I just wanted Caliburn back and it… came back…"

"I… This is a problem. We still need to know what that sword can do. It's clearly not just a fancy sword," Miss Militia said. She thought about it for a minute. "Can you give it to the techs for testing?"

"They won't give it back."

"You can call it to you."

I eyed the tech warily. "I'm going to call it back when I go home."

"You can't, or people will know your identity." I swore under my breath. I hated when Miss Militia made sense. "Language, Vista. And it'll be waiting for you when you come back tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"I promise. We just want to make sure it's not dangerous."

"Okay…" I did not sulk. No matter what anyone said.

X

Colin Wallis

I looked at the sword and scoffed. Caliburn, what an obnoxiously pretentious name.

It wasn't uncommon for parahumans to take on the names of mythical figures, but rarely did they pan out for the better. Oftentimes, such grandiose names were indicative of the cape's arrogance, and arrogance killed in this profession.

The two exceptions that came to mind were Myrrdin, my fellow Protectorate leader in Chicago, and Dragon, who liked to name her suits after dragons and serpents from mythology. For an unknown, untested parahuman to name his sword after King Arthur's suggested a conceited personality, the kind of man who thought he was "above it all."

It was a gorgeous weapon, I'd give him that, but that was all it was, a simple set piece. The amount of ornate filigree on the sword and sheath made that clear. Truthfully, the sword's appearance made me want to let Vista have it. After all, what harm could this showpiece do?

Perhaps, had Soprano been a PRT-affiliated hero, his goodwill would merit more trust. But he wasn't and so I would do my due diligence.

For starters, what was this sword made of?

There had been cases of tinkers constructing metamaterials that were potentially harmful to the wielder, usually unintentionally. I'd run my tests back when it was in the ground of course, but it couldn't hurt to be thorough.

The head of my halberd detached and folded into a smaller knife and multitool, ideal for both extreme close range as well as on-the-spot tinkering. I was proud of the blade; it had an edge I'd forged through techniques optimized with my power. It was as close to a monomolecular edge as was physically possible, and without sacrificing its durability in any way.

I wanted to chip a small section of the blade, take a sample of the metal to gauge its physical properties. I'd of course do that with the paint and gold filigree as well to be thorough. Once I was sure the materials were safe, I would move on to dissecting the weapon in earnest to see how the teleporting effect had been achieved. Finally, the light waves it emitted had to be measured for radioactivity. My sensors suggested no when I saw Vista summon it, but a second or third trial couldn't hurt.

The tests and hypotheses running through my mind screeched to a grinding halt with the sound of scraping metal. I stared in disbelief at my blade, one forged through countless hours of dedication.

It was dull.

The edge had been worn away as though I'd hammered away at Alexandria.

"Impossible," I muttered. "I just sharpened this."

I shook my head and got out my spare knife. After checking to see that yes, it was in fact razor sharp, I went back to testing the sword, only to arrive at the same result.

That was intriguing. I didn't know what kind of metal Soprano used, but he was clearly some kind of materials tinker. He had to be to produce a blade as fine as this.

I pressed on. My blade might have dulled, but if I could put enough force behind it, I ought to be able to scrape off a hair-thin sliver. Even that would be enough for me to study its atomic structure under a microscope. Then, I could see about incorporating the material into my own tinkertech. If initial signs were accurate, it ought to improve my capabilities by a significant percentage.

The sound of snapping metal filled my workshop and my brow twitched in annoyance. I had found an enemy, an obstacle that I would surpass.

"How intriguing… You will show me your secrets," I muttered.

X

I stood slack-jawed in front of my workbench. The shattered remains of my entire arsenal lay scattered around my floor, plasma and prototype nanothorn blades included. I could feel my entire body twitch with frustration. Everything I knew about material science suggested this should be impossible.

And yet, the impossible had happened.

Nothing.

Nothing. Worked.

I'd even distilled a special acid for the purpose, one that could dissolve every molecular bond, no matter the elements involved. And still, the sword mocked me, pristine as ever.

"Armsmaster? I think you should stop," came the voice of my longtime friend, Dragon. She'd checked in on me three hours ago, suggesting some tests and theories that I had not considered.

"I can't stop, Dragon," I told her. "I'm close. I can feel it."

"That would be the fatigue talking. We haven't made a dent in that sword."

"I need to know. I won't let Soprano win."

"He isn't aware there is a challenge."

And that hurt. She didn't mean it that way, but it hurt anyway.

This mysterious tinker, someone who considered himself so above it all that he used his spears as grill spits and gave away tinkertech to random children, made a weapon I couldn't even scratch. Never mind the teleportation function, I couldn't even begin to analyze the damned thing because for all I knew, it was as durable as Alexandria.

Nothing worked.

I looked up in weary resignation and inspected the damage done to my lab, damage I'd inflicted entirely of my own volition. The forge, one hot enough to completely liquify even tungsten alloys, was so much molten slag now, its very structure having warped beyond repair before Caliburn had so much as turned red.

The hydraulic drop hammer, one used to shape metals beyond anything modern science could replicate, had exploded. The head had cracked like a split log and the mechanical components had burst from the pressure. I'd almost injured myself from the flying pieces.

The nanothorn blade, my pride and joy, had failed to find even the slightest crack in the sword's molecular structure. Rather than mechanically breaking the molecular bonds, each nanobot had instead crumpled itself against the seemingly invincible surface of the sword like an empty soda can.

As best as I could tell, there was some sort of force field protecting Caliburn's molecular structure. And that was a theory I came up with because I had no other options, not because I could find a force field generator or discern any type of radiation typical of such tinkertech.

In short, I had nothing.

I slumped into my seat, head cradled in my hands. "What do we know, Dragon?"

"We know that the sword is not dangerous," she said, always looking on the bright side. "If there is any type of toxin or radiation, it would need to propagate from the sword, and we know that that sword doesn't shed even the smallest atom."

"That's… true…"

"So you have succeeded in your task. We know it's safe for Vista to have."

"And maybe better for my sanity as well," I admitted grudgingly. If nothing else, the director couldn't say I hadn't been thorough.

"Yes, that too," she said with a teasing smile. "Have you considered simply asking him? Mr. Soprano, I mean."

"Ask him?"

"Yes. He has been remarkably forthcoming. He has shown no hostility. Why not just ask him what the sword's properties are?"

"I… I don't want him to win."

She made a show of looking at my thoroughly ruined lab. "It's not a contest."

"Fine, I'll visit the Holy Grill tomorrow."

"Good, maybe you could even get a new tinker in the Protectorate out of this."

She was, as always, correct. I ought to be looking forward to a new tinker. If he could do this much while running a restaurant, what more could he do when he fully dedicated himself to the task?

X

I forgot.

For days.

No matter how many alarms I set or how many times Dragon reminded me, I forgot to go to the Holy Grill. Cearly, there was something that kept me from approaching. A master effect.

I raised Soprano several notches on the threat meter. He likely had some kind of tinkertech that kept people away based on intent. A brainwave scanner of some variety? Or perhaps he had dealings with Cranial of Toybox. Either way, that man was unexpectedly competent.

On the other hand, Vista managed to visit on the daily, coming back each time with a feast fit for a king. At her hip was her new favorite sword. Caliburn. I was forced to retract my earlier assumption: It was well-deserving of a mythical name.

When Director Piggot found out I couldn't break it, she had it confiscated and flown to Boston. Then New York. She'd even called in a favor from Strider to teleport it to random locations across the world.

It didn't matter. Each time Vista called for it, Caliburn returned to her side in a shower of golden sparks, settling gently on her hip as though it had never left.

"Say that again," I asked Panacea. When all attempts to separate Vista from her sword failed, we decided to run a thorough medical exam to ensure that there were no side effects to using the sword's teleportation effect. My scanners showed there were no harmful radioactive particles involved, but we called in Panacea to be certain.

"She's immortal," Panacea said flatly. "I don't even know how that works. Her cells just… stopped aging."

"That's not possible."

"You think I don't know that?"

"There has to be another explanation for this."

"Well, there isn't. Or my power has no fucking clue." Panacea poked Vista's chest. "Congratulations, pipsqueak, you're immortal now. You don't age."

"Sweet!" Vista cheered. "Best. Sword. Ever."

"You know this means you're never going to grow up, right?"

"What?"

"You don't age. What do you think that means?"

Her grin froze, reminding me of cracked glass. "I… B-But…"

"Enjoy being twelve for the rest of your life," Panacea said, grinning ear to ear. I noted that the healer had an unexpectedly vicious streak. Or perhaps she had plans we'd interrupted. "I can't even adjust your body at all, not even grow your fingernails or something."

"I'm… going to be twelve… forever…?"

"Eyup. All hail Vista, pixie queen and eternal Wards mascot."

"Nooo! Fix this!"

"Can't. Trust me, if I knew how, I would. You should make plans to rebrand in a few years."

"I don't want to be twelve forever!"

As amusing as Vista's dismay was, Panacea raised a vital point. If she was truly immortal, her secret identity was forfeit. Missy Biron could be passed off as a late bloomer for a few years, but eventually, the lack of sexual maturation would be blatantly obvious. The only person I knew of who retained her youth was Glaistig Uaine, the Faerie Queen, and her residence in the Birdcage made the point moot.

I looked across at Miss Militia and saw the same, pained expression mirrored in my own eyes. The director wouldn't like this.

X

John Soprano

'You know, I'm okay with this,' Shirou's voice echoed in my mind.

'What happened to respecting weapons and their histories?' I teased.

'Yes, but hear me out: Gilgamesh was a jerk.'

I chuckled. The grill, my "round table," had been modified somewhat. One half of the circle had been elevated higher from the flames with a semicircle ring of bricks, with two, neat divots to hold a rotating spit.

Said spit?

Ea, the Sword of Rupture.

It was, after all, more like a baton than a true sword. When in use, its three-section "blade" rotated in opposing directions, gathering prana in what could only be classified as an "anti-world" Noble Phantasm. It was a weapon that predated the very notion of "sword," and hence one of the few that Shirou couldn't copy outright. Its presence was only made possible by the bullshit that was the Heaven's Feel.

With such perfect rotation, how could I not use it as a rotisserie?

At the moment, four, whole chickens were stuck on its "blade," spinning languidly high above the flames. Sure, a rotisserie wasn't exactly Texan barbeque, but I had some time between working the smoker and manning the counter. With infinite energy provided by the Heaven's Feel, I thought it'd be a great way to diversify my menu a bit more.

"Heya, Kingmaker!" I heard Vista say as she skipped into the store.

"Hello, your majesty. Please don't give me silly names," I drawled. I left Caliburn out to outsource my heroics, not so the PRT could saddle me with some stupid name.

"You're a cape. You need a name."

"Correction: I am a parahuman," I said. Technically, I wasn't even that. "A cape implies I take on an alter ego to go fight crime, or to commit crimes for my own interests. I am neither of those things. I am a simple pitmaster bringing the joys of Texas barbeque to this heathen land."

"Well you have a name, Kingmaker. Maybe you shouldn't have made that stupid sign then."

"Touche, brat. And where's your court jester?"

"Clock's not a jester, silly," she giggled. "He needs to be funny for that."

"Oof, I felt for him and he's not even here. So what'll it be today?"

"Can I get a loaded mac? And some collard greens. Miss Militia says I should eat some greens."

"You have Caliburn. You can eat whatever you want, kid."

"Oh yeah," her jovial expression faded into an outraged glower. It reminded me of an angry kitten. "When were you going to tell me that I'M FUCKING IMMORTAL NOW?"

"When were you going to ask?" I replied with a smug grin.

I took an inordinate amount of pleasure in frustrating people. I didn't used to, either in my old life or in this one. As far as I could remember, John Soprano was a kind, mellow sort of guy.

Perhaps this was proof that Zelretch was in fact involved in my transmigration here. Maybe his trollish behavior had rubbed off on me a bit. Or maybe being a frustrating asshole was just a byproduct of possessing a True Magic.

Vista took in a deep breath, then exhaled. Then she did it again. When she finally calmed down, she said through an adorable pout that made me want to squish her cheeks, "What else can this sword do?"

"Nothing much," I said honestly. "It's kinda boring as far as magic swords go. It stops aging but you can still be hurt."

"I know, I stubbed my toe this morning," she grumbled.

"Yeah, but you'll be tiny and adorable forever."

"Screw you. Is there a way to turn that off?"

I shrugged. "Give up the sword. Abdicate your kingship. Or just join the Slaughterhouse and become a murderhobo who's so despicable that Caliburn abandons you. Remember, Caliburn is the 'sword that chooses the worthiest king.' Becoming unworthy would be one way to lose its magic."

"I'd never do that!"

"Or I could just take the sword away."

"Wait, you can do that?"

"Of course I can. I made it."

"Well, yeah, but…"

I slid her plate of food over the counter. "Do you want me to? I can put Caliburn back in the ground, you know."

"So… I can stop?"

"Anytime you want."

"Then no," she said with a determined smile. "Just you wait. I'm going to be the greatest hero ever."

I couldn't help it. I reached over and ruffled her hair, only for her to try to slap my hand away with a scowl. "That's the spirit, squirt. You're making the ultimate sacrifice here. Inches for valor."

"I hate you."

"It also shoots lasers."

"It does?"

"Yup. Just point it at something you want gone. Caliburn will do the rest."

"I love you."

"Damn straight, brat."

Author's Note

Armsmaster can't visit the Holy Grill because of the bounded field which prohibits all attempts at recruitment. Since he's convinced John is a tinker and wants him in the Protectorate, he can't even approach. Meanwhile, Vista's having a blast pigging out on all the Texas BBQ she can stuff in her adorable little face.