THG: 2.1 Spit of Spite (Patreon)

Spit of Spite 2.1

John Soprano

'You know, this is all your fault,' Shirou pointed out, like the smug, Archer-lite bastard that he was. 'I'm not smug. The "smug" you're hearing is called "being a logical human being."'

'Shut up, Shirou. No one could have predicted this.'

'Really?' he gasped theatrically. 'You mean giving away one of the most iconic Noble Phantasms in history to a little girl, saving another little girl from kidnappers, demonstrating foreknowledge comparable to some of the greatest astrologers in my world, contacting this world's Illuminati, showing that you knew how to keep the greatest hero in the world from declining, and then removing the most basic drawback among these "thinker" type parahumans shouldn't have led to increased interest in the mysterious chef with obscenely broken powers? Please, do explain your reasoning.'

'I don't appreciate your sarcasm, Shirou.'

'And that's not even getting into how you made two little girls immortal. Or showed you are a font of infinite wealth.'

'I get it, I'm terrible at thinking ahead,' I sighed. 'I just wanted to outsource my heroics.'

'And you have. You've exchanged your heroics for becoming the new favorite Illuminati hangout spot. Congratulations.'

I sighed. He wasn't wrong…

I slid open the broiler and took out the sweet corn I'd baked with onions, cheese, butter, mayo, and smoked paprika. I sprinkled a bit of freshly chopped chives on top for color contrast before sliding it onto the gargantuan, aluminum tray next to the rack of ribs, sausage links, and brisket. There was a separate tray full of coleslaw, collard greens, Texas toast, and wings because I couldn't fit everything onto one tray. The corn was a recipe I'd gotten from a friend of mine. It was popular in Korean barbecues apparently and went just as well here in lieu of more traditional cornbread.

I passed one tray to a grinning Dinah Alcott, Delphi now. The littlest oracle had taken to the idea of being Cauldron like a duck to water, though that was probably because of Fortuna's social-fu. The fact that she was now part of some "super-secret spy organization" tickled her pink.

"Ninety-eight percent chance we'll be eating here again," she grinned cheekily up at me. She also hadn't stopped asking her power inane questions, reveling in the lack of thinker headaches.

"You're going to grow up to be such an insufferable know-it-all," I warned.

"Lies. I'm adorable. Daddy says so."

"Ugh, you won't be cute forever."

"So I should milk it while I can."

That got a chuckle out of me. I pulled off my disposable, black gloves and balanced two trays of drinks and food before nudging her out of the kitchen. "Come on, kid. Let's get this over with."

"Yes, Mr. Soprano!" she sang as she skipped back to her seat. She promptly grabbed a slice of Texas toast and pulled pork and went about making herself a sandwich.

At the table sat Fortuna, in her snazzy suit and outdated headwear, and Rebecca Costa-Brown herself, in her identity as Alexandria. Why Legend or Eidolon didn't show, I couldn't say beyond that the Path probably said things would go smoother without David being his usual self.

Across from them, and looking especially worriedly at Alexandria, sat Mr. and Mrs. Alcott. The two were typical high society types, with good grooming and clothes that might have actually been worth a fraction of a fraction of my grill spit. They were bigshots in the city: family of the mayor, lots of investments, came from old money, the sort used to getting what they wanted.

And they looked so damn awkward in front of the "strongest brute in the world" that it almost made having Cauldron invade my restaurant worthwhile. I could practically see the hamsters in their brains running on little wheels like their lives depended on it, trying to figure out who the hell the unmasked yet clearly very important woman in a suit was.

Meanwhile, Dinah Alcott, Delphi, the reason they were here at all, had a beard of sauce dribbling down her face as she gorged herself on enough food to make mukbang professionals nauseous. Truly, she was putting Avalon's health benefits to good use. At this point, I was starting to wonder if Caliburn and Avalon had some unknown side effect of turning its wielders into shameless gluttons.

'I never ate like that,' Shirou pointed out.

'So just little girls then? Do the Noble Phantasms recognize that they have more growing to do and encourage them to eat more even while preserving their current forms.'

'They're not sentient like that. And you're making them sound like Asian grannies.'

'I mean, I know it sounds ridiculous, but we're three for three here. Artoria, Vista, and Dinah now are all gluttonous black holes. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, and thrice is enemy action… sentient artifact action.'

'I really don't think that's how this works, John.'

'You're right. This needs more testing. I should make additional copies of Avalon and shove them inside little girls to confirm my hypothesis.'

'Is that really necessary?'

'No, but hearing you tear your hair out amuses me greatly.'

'You're a terrible person.'

I laughed, drawing a few odd looks from the table. For a short while, there was absolute tranquility as everyone indulged in the smoky perfection that was Texas barbeque. Truly, there was no greater force in the world, for what else could pacify two members of Cauldron even temporarily?

On a side note, I found out the littlest oracle had a taste for spicy food. She even liked my "Tohsaka Special," a spicy barbeque sauce I made using Szechuan peppercorns, star anise, and other Chinese spices more commonly found in mapo tofu.

As had been explained to the two socialites, Fortuna wasn't part of Cauldron. No, she was a "special consultant" for Watchdog who had been in the city for a mission before chancing upon their daughter. Noticing the exceptional power she held, Fortuna decided to take her under her wing.

Did that story line up with the shish-kabobed sculpture garden of mercs I left in my wake? Or helmet cam footage of me dressing down Tattletale at the bank?

No, no it did not.

Then again, some random lady claiming to be Watchdog called in Alexandria, from LA, to testify as to her legitimacy and trustworthiness. These two sure as shit weren't going to ask too many questions.

"You know, I'm not happy with you idiots doing business in my store," I grumbled as I refilled their drinks.

"Your cooperation is appreciated, Kingmaker," Alexandria hummed as she sipped on real sweet tea. It was amazing how stupidly hard the stuff was to find in the Northeast.

"Shut up, Becca. Yes, I know who you are. It's John."

Her eye flitted briefly towards Fortuna before darting to me. "Noted. I take it you are an… associate… of my friend here?"

"Something like that. I'm a… special consultant."

"A pleasure, John Soprano."

"And get the hell out of my store once you browbeat these fuckwits into signing their daughter over."

"We are no-"

"Yes you are," I cut off Dinah's dad. "You didn't realize your daughter triggered. For two fucking months."

"We will not be talked to li-"

"You will. You're under this strange impression that your opinion matters here." I turned to Fortuna. "Here are my conditions: I will help you kill the Warrior. I will kill the endbringers for you. In exchange, you are to do as you always have. Leave Brockton Bay alone. It's mine now."

"We want your weapons," Alexandria said. Such was her force of personality, her reputation with the people, that Dinah's parents just slunk back into their chairs, cowed without so much as a word in their direction. "You will provide the PRT with a list of weapons you can create and we will match them to heroes they would benefit most."

I sighed. Fortuna lifted a spoonful of cheezy corn to her lips. How she somehow made that look elegant, I had no idea. By the look on her face, she didn't intend to intervene one way or the other. Either Alexandria would successfully browbeat me into compliance or I would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I wasn't to be fucked with.

Well, if that was how she wanted to play…

I strolled back over to my rotisserie and pulled the spit off the fire. Ea, that glorious divine construct, began to rotate with the barest hint of crimson prana. It was an infinitesimal amount, the slightest spark compared to the supernova that was Enuma Elish, but it was enough for the task. If Rebecca Costa-Brown wanted to wave around her ego like a beatstick, I had the condensed embodiment of Gilgamesh's ego right here.

The body was more than a meat shell. In Type Moon terms, it was the outward manifestation of an inward reality. Zelretch was a vampire, a Dead Apostle Ancestor at that, because his soul was that of a vampire. If he were to acquire another, non-vampire body, it would probably morph until it reflected his soul.

The same was true of Servants. They weren't true Heroic Spirits, but copies of their spirits and memories stuffed inside a shell of prana that took physical form. It was why they were so damn strong, capable of feats that made even the majority of capes look like children in comparison.

And my soul was the Heaven's Feel. It was as infinite as the Root and my body reflected that. The amount of prana I could output at once would make even most Apostles green with envy. It was what allowed me to permanently generate Noble Phantasms from Shirou's reality marble, and what gave me free license to abuse the Einzbern Wishcraft like my personal, cosmic vending machine.

Naturally, the same applied to Reinforcement. The maximum prana capacity this body could handle was just far higher than it had any right to be.

I blurred forward, so fast that I caught the strongest brute by surprise, and smacked her upside the head.

Repeatedly.

With the chickens still attached, spinning, and likewise reinforced to be absurdly durable.

For style points.

"Ow! What are you-"

"You." *Smack*

"Do." *Smack*

"Not." *Smack*

"Tell." *Smack*

"Me." *Smack*

"Stop that!" she snapped. She tried to catch my rotisserie spit of justice but it was futile. The memories of the King of Heroes taught me everything I needed to know.

I wove around her hands with laughable ease and promptly continued to bludgeon her with delicious, flame-roasted retribution.

"How." *Smack*

"To." *Smack*

"Use." *Smack*

"My." *Smack*

"Noble." *Smack*

"Phantasms." *Smack*

"You-"

"Alexandria," Fortuna cut in. "Path."

She was about to lunge, fist cocked, but froze at the thinker's voice. "But he-"

"He hurt you."

Three words. Three words made her freeze in dawning realization. I, a random chef, just hit her with a skewer of roasted chickens. And made it hurt.

Then, I bopped her once more time, for good luck. "Mongrel."

"What did you do that for?"

"The spirit of blonde douchebaggery demanded it. Now that I've thoroughly ruined your reputation in front of these two fuckwits, let's talk more about those conditions of mine…"

X

In the end, my demands were simple: Dinah was to join the Wards so she could interact with her family. She would primarily be doing "consultancy work" with Watchdog. In exchange, she would receive tutoring on the optimal use of her powers and the ways to best frame her questions from Kurt and Fortuna. And of course, Brockton Bay was to be left to its own devices. On pain of further poultry payback.

They did get me to compromise however: At least once a month, I would seek out a champion to wield one of my weapons. The key phrase here was "seek out," meaning I was free to determine that none were worthy. I didn't think I fooled Fortuna with my language, she wasn't actually as stupid as fanon liked to pretend she was, but she seemed content to know that I would at least make a sincere effort.

That was fine. Outsourcing my heroism to Vista was what got me in this mess anyway. Perhaps, if I gave away enough weapons to great people, they could make the world a better place in my stead.

'The amount of copium you're taking can't be healthy.'

'You know what? Fuck you, Shirou. I just want to make brisket and chill. Is that too much to ask for?'

'Yes, yes it is. You have a responsibility as the Third True Magician. You have my entire library and more. You can do things that would make Gilgamesh cry. Don't you think a restaurant is… dreaming a bit small?'

'I already promised to make more heroes. Get off my back, you delusional monkey,' I grumbled.

'Do you have any plans? I mean, you're not planning on just sticking random weapons into the ground, are you?'

'...'

'John….'

'Fine, I get it. I'll think of something.'

I walked back to the grill and put my rotisserie spit back where it belonged. Gil could bitch as much as he pleased from the Throne; I'd put Ea to use more in the past week or two than he had in his entire fucking life. By that metric, clearly, I was Ea's proper wielder.

The chickens however presented a conundrum: They were yet delicious, as were all my creations. However, they were also contaminated with Rebecca. Eating them might make me catch her stupidity.

'You really dislike her, huh?'

'The only reason I didn't shove a Gae Bolg through her chest is because murdering someone in front of a tween is bad manners. Dinah doesn't deserve that trauma.'

'And you thought beating her with chickens on a spit would be hilarious,' he deadpanned.

'See, now you get me. Now, is there a Noble Phantasm that cleans things?'

'John, I really don't think that this is a good excuse to dig around the Unlimited Blade Works.'

'Oh, relax. You've only seen the stuff Gil's used during the FIfth War. Maybe a few more things from your travels. Me? I know a fair bit more than that.'

'Dare I ask?'

'What do you know about the Eddas?'

'Norse mythology?'

'Yup.'

I held out a hand over the flames. Fire held a special place to all peoples, but perhaps most of all to the Norse. After all, they believed that the world would end in cleansing fire. This fire would end not just the world, but the very gods themselves.

It was the fire of ruin, Muspel literally meant "World Ruiner," but it was also the fire of rebirth, for a new world would spring forth from the ashes of the old.

I reached out and grasped that idea. Fire wasn't my element, I wasn't even sure what it was or how I could go about finding out, but fire was nonetheless something I was intimately familiar with. What kind of pitmaster feared fire?

It was our friend, our tool and partner as we made delicious, smoky goodness. It was cleansing and changing, the catalyst for all that was great. Whether on a spit or in a smoker, a pitmaster was someone who mastered fire.

When next I spoke, it was with the burst of prana that could rival Excalibur at its finest. Perhaps I ought to make my own aria, but for now, just about anything would do: "From the Throne, manifest unto this world to purge the stupid in pursuit of poultry perfection! Laevatein!"

Molten heat roiled forth from the "Sun-Like Sword that Becomes a Calamity." It was intense, a near overwhelming heat that would have overwhelmed anyone else. Yet, I held on. If I could wield Ea, I could master the Flame of Surtr. They were both anti-world Noble Phantasms. What difference did one or the other make? Whether one be a rotisserie spit or the fire I cooked upon, it mattered not in the end.

I was the pitmaster. These were kitchen tools. Nothing more.

'I'm impressed with the amount of mental gymnastics going on here,' Shirou said dryly. 'Congratulations, I was wrong about you. You're just as insane as every other magus I've ever met.'

'I choose to take that as a compliment.'

'It is, oddly enough. You're… You're a very special person, John.'

I chuckled as the Flame of Ruin became the Flame of Cleansing. That was the end after all, the final destiny of Ragnarok was not the destruction of the Nine Realms, but the new beginning.

Fire, cursed and sacred in equal measure, rose up and consumed the chickens, devouring all impurities and leaving behind only what was good and delicious.

X

Missy Biron

This was bullshit. It's been several days since the bank robbery and I hadn't done much. Sure, we got new Ward out of it all, but what did that matter when we weren't actually allowed to go out and be heroes?

How could they keep me here? I was literally the strongest person in the Bay now! But nooo I was too young to help out. Never mind that I was a shaker-nine, blaster-FUCK YOU!

Ever since I cut the ocean in half, and by God was that awesome, they'd only had me on baby patrols, and on minimum rotation while the brass tried to figure out what to do with me. "Too cute to fight, too deadly to bench," Assault told me with his usual laidback grin.

Just about the only good thing about it all was that Dinah was a Ward now. She'd be announced in a few days but she was apparently some bigshot thinker. I liked the boys but they didn't get girl-things. And the less said about Stalker the better.

The whole robbery thing had been wrapped up in a neat bow. I didn't know what happened to the Undersiders, but Dinah just said, "Mr. Soprano handled it," and left it at that.

What that meant for me was that I spent a lot of time at HQ watching recordings of HEMA tournament matches and sword form tutorials. It felt right, holding Caliburn in hand. It felt like I was fulfilling one part of a grand destiny. Maybe I was buying into Mr. Soprano's hype about his sword, but I felt like there really was something to this "holy sword" thing.

But that didn't mean I'd rather not be outside. I knew I had a long way to go, but Bakuda was bombing the city!

Then the alarms around HQ blared to life. I listened for the distinct patterns. It was like fire drills at school, except not all the flashing lights and loud noises meant fire. This one meant "intruder alert, parahuman detected."

I was a Ward. I was supposed to be holed up in our section of the base, safe behind reinforced doors. I was supposed to let the grown ups handle things. If they needed me, they'd come find me.

I moved to follow, it was always less trouble in the long run to just listen. And then I felt Caliburn's scabbard knock against my thigh. I looked down at it with a wistful sigh. I had all this power now, but it was like nothing changed at all.

'How long will you wait?' it seemed to say. Or maybe that was my own inner thoughts mocking me. 'How long will you let someone else fight your battles?'

I… I couldn't… The chewing out I got for fighting Hookwolf that one time had been so much worse than the scar on my chest, at least the physical wound could be patched up by Panacea in a minute. I didn't hear the end of it for months. Literal months.

If I went out there, they'd bench me until I graduated.

'But you can make a difference,' I couldn't help but tell myself.

"Vista!" I heard. Dean found me, which meant I didn't have time for inner dialogue anymore. "Come on, let's get inside."

"Who's out there?"

"Oni Lee is trying to break out Lung. We need to get you somewhere safe."

Safe. Again.

I hated this.

He took me by the hand and led me into the Wards common room. There, I found Chris and Dinah, the former hurriedly putting on his armor, just in case. Dinah, Delphi, didn't really have a costume, just a fitted suit, a clip-on bowtie, and a little fedora that was too small for her head. How it stayed on her head was a mystery.

"Hey, Missy," Dinah said. She still wasn't good about using our cape names when in costume.

"Hey, Delphi. It's Vista right now," I chided gently. I didn't really know Rory's cousin well besides that we had a class together, but she seemed generally like a good person.

"Oh, sorry. Miss Fortuna and Mr. Soprano don't care so I guess I'm not used to the names thing yet."

"Yeah. Will Lung get away?"

"Vista-" Dean began. "You know you're not supp-"

"Ninety-eight percent chance that Lung and Oni Lee escape," Dinah said, speaking over him. She scrunched her nose in thought. "Seventy-four percent chance of serious injury on the part of the PRT or Protectorate. Forty percent chance of death."

"And what if I go join them?" I asked. I had to know.

"Error. Insufficient data. Extrapolation impossible."

I took a deep breath. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe the hero wasn't supposed to know. What was it called again? A leap of faith?

Yeah, that sounded about right.

"Vista-"

"No, Gallant. I'm not going to sit this out," I told him. He reached for me but found the space between us as wide as the entire room. "I'm going, everyone."

"Vista, wait!"

I didn't listen. I couldn't afford to. If I waited, he'd convince me. Dean would find a way; he was too good at talking.

If I waited here, I felt that I'd never start walking forward.

Space distorted itself, answering me like an eager friend. Ever since I drew Caliburn, my power came to me more readily. I still had the Manton Limit, but the strain that reminded me of a rubber band wasn't there anymore. It was like my power was alive, urging me to test myself.

I drew Caliburn from its sheath with a satisfying grinding noise and punched a hole through the nearest wall. That tiny slit was all I needed.

A second later, the sword-sized hole in the wall became a gate I could run through, as wide as a garage door. Space warped to lengthen my stride as I headed towards the sound of fighting. Fire alarms blared and smoke filled the corridor but I warped it all away with a wave of my hand.

I arrived to a scene of devastation. It was like looking at a war documentary. Everything was on fire. Whatever wasn't flammable was melting, or reddening in the heat.

I cursed myself for my hesitation. Lung was so much bigger now. He stood in the courtyard, as large as a house. He had to be fifteen feet tall by now. His mouth had split into four, making an x-shaped monstrosity with pointed teeth jutting out in every direction. Spear-like tips sprouted from his back and I wondered if he'd grow wings if he fought long enough.

Around him were Miss Militia, Armsmaster, Assault, Battery, and Dauntless. Oni Lee flitted from person to person, dropping bombs that kept the heroes pinned.

I almost froze in fear. There was so much going on. It was nothing like my brief bout with Hookwolf. The smoke, the heat, the sound of men screaming in pain and panic, it all fed into a chaotic scene that made me understand on a visceral level why Lung was so feared.

But I couldn't freeze. I couldn't afford to. I promised I wouldn't anymore.

Caliburn glowed with golden light. It seemed to fill the space, banishing the smoke. Even the raging flames seemed dimmer now, the sounds of panic and battle dulled as if through padded walls. If reality was a play, I knew that this would be the moment the spotlight would shine on my sword. Everything and everyone else faded into the sidelines, as if the world itself was saying, "Look! Behold! The holy sword!"

I stepped forward, my spirit buoyed by its golden rays. I practiced. I worked so hard. If not for this, then what?

Admittedly, much of my practice had been learning to hold back, but this was Lung. I didn't want to split the city in half behind him, that would be disastrous, but I also knew I could afford to put my back into this.

The well of power within swelled as those familiar, accursed words formed on my lips: "For the sake of those that were smiling...! Show me the direction of hope, Caliburn!"

A ray of light, as wide around as a car door, shot out. It was blinding in a glorious way that would have probably been akin to a religious experience. My spirit surged and I felt like I could conquer the world. There was nothing I couldn't do with Caliburn at my side.

And then, the light faded, just in time for me to watch Lung topple backwards.

I'd aimed up. Lung was taller than me. Apparently, I hadn't aimed up far enough because all I managed to do was send the sword-beam straight through the dragon's crotch.

I let out a despondent sigh. I could see the memes already. The "direction of hope" was straight through the dragon's pearls. I had my victory. It just didn't feel as glorious at the moment.

Somehow, I didn't know how, but this was Mr. Soprano's fault.

Author's Note

I'm pretty sure like 90% of the things I said about Fate lore are wrong. My knowledge comes from the F/SN and F/Z anime I watched over a decade ago, a minute of wiki-diving per topic, and F/SN Abridged. And I'm keeping it that way.

The general rule of Fate seems to be "It's a rule until Nasu says 'fuck it,'" anyway.

Eyy, I finally made a crotch-beam joke. Are you degenerates happy?

This was a bribe for... reasons.