2015, Chaldea Security Organization - Main Entrance
The pneumatic hiss cut through Antarctic silence. Warm air rushed past Cicero's face—recycled, sterile, tinged with ozone from the Bounded Fields humming in the walls.
He stepped across the threshold.
The memories hit him sideways.
Not metaphorically. Actually, physically sideways, like someone had shoved six years of warmth into the space between heartbeats. His hand found the doorframe—steady, grounding—while his mind tried to sort the present from the past.
Cicero breathed. Once. Twice. The present solidified.
His lips curved before he could stop them.
"Master." Ciel's voice threaded through their soul corridor, quiet enough it could've been his own thought. "Heart rate: elevated. Pupils: dilated. You're smiling like an idiot."
Right. He straightened, smoothed his expression into something less obviously besotted. "I'm fine. But you didn't have to put it like that."
The entrance hall stretched before him—smaller than he'd expected, all clean lines and reinforced walls. Security cameras swiveled. Bounded Fields layered the air thick enough he could taste the magic, sharp and metallic on his tongue. Somewhere deeper in the facility, that massive reactor thrummed a subsonic rhythm that resonated in his chest.
A door opened. Six figures emerged.
Professional. Precise. The way they moved had that telltale stiffness—magical constructs trying to mimic human looseness and not quite managing it. Ready for any eventually at a moment's notice. Golems, he realized. Alchemical, probably based on Reines's Trimmau if the craftsmanship was anything to go by. Each bore a symbol on their forehead: constellations, planetary markers, celestial bodies etched into synthetic skin.
Well, the Chaldeans have always been astrologers, he thought with humor. Not to mention that using them for security patrols means you don't risk human casualties if things go wrong.
A woman in secretary attire followed them, a tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. Her eyes—sharp, assessing—catalogued him in the space of a breath.
Then she walked in.
Olga Marie Animusphere entered the place like she owned it. Well, she did owe it but that is besides the point.
White hair pulled back severe and perfect, director's uniform without a single crease despite the late hour, spine straight as a blade. Authority in every line of her, from the set of her shoulders to the deliberate way her heels struck the floor.
She'd grown into it. The uncertain girl who'd hunched over library books, who'd flinched at her father's name, who'd apologized for existing—that girl had been forged into someone who could stare down magi three times her age and make them blink first.
But Cicero saw the cracks in the armor.
The way her fingers tightened on her tablet. White-knuckle pressure.
The tension at the corners of her eyes.
The barely perceptible tremble in her lower lip before she pressed it flat.
"Stand down." Command, not request. She didn't even glance at the golems.
They obeyed instantly, postures shifting from alert to standby.
The secretary opened her mouth. "Director Animusphere, we haven't completed—"
"I said stand down, Astravia." Each word had edges. "I've got this. Return to your post."
I couldn't help the snort that almost left my mouth. No. 69 and Olga seemed to have caught it because both sent me annoyed looks.
Hey, it's not my fault you ended up with such a funny number as your name! You should have let yourself be recruited sooner. Hmpm.
"As you order, Director Animusphere and Mister Cicero." She said with certain emphasis in his name.
69 withdrew, but Cicero could still feel her boring holes through his back beyond the doorway. Loyal. Smart. Ready to intervene if he so much as breathed wrong.
Yeah, it's definitely because I could be an impostor that didn't go through the security protocols and not because of a grudge. No student of mine is that petty… Right? Nah, it can't be. Patience was an essential part of the training.
"As expected from a professional" he murmured proudly. Though I really should have gone through security screening. I'm the one who recommended she implement these protocols.The hypocrisy tasted sour.
Too late now.
Olga's gaze pinned him in place.
"You." Her voice could've flash-frozen the Antarctic wind. "Left a week ago. Said you'd 'be back in seven days.' Do you have any idea what time it is?"
Cicero opened his mouth.
"After I went to sleep," she continued, voice rising, "after I spent the entire day coordinating your elaborate, needlessly complicated plan with Alpha, Gamma and Albedo—the alarms went off. Intruder, they said. Automatic doors, they said. Hacked, they said." Her cheeks flushed with fury. "I woke up to screaming from security, saw you on the cameras standing there strutting around like a peacock—"
She took a step forward. Close enough now he could see the exhaustion bruising the skin under her eyes.
"Couldn't you have waited five minutes?" Quieter now, but somehow sharper. "Why did you have to be so—so impatient?"
Guilt hit him like a physical weight.
"You're right." The words came out rough. "That was inconsiderate. Thoughtless. I wanted to look cool and didn't think about—" He gestured helplessly. "About you. I'm sorry."
Something flickered in her expression. Not quite forgiveness. Not yet.
"I tried calling," she said. Each word careful, controlled. "Multiple times. You didn't pick up. I tried the bracelet—the one you gave me, the one that's supposed to always work—and nothing." Her hand moved to her wrist, fingers brushing the silver chain there. "I knew you said you'd come back. I knew that. But I couldn't—"
Her voice cracked.
Cicero closed the distance in three strides and pulled her into his arms.
She went rigid for a heartbeat. Then something in her chest hitched—not quite a sob, but close.
"I'm sorry," he said into her hair. Quiet. Meaning it. "You're right. I should've warned you I'd be out of contact. Should've left an explanation. Should've been better." His arms tightened fractionally. "Every second away from you felt like forever. I'll make it up to you."
A pause. He felt her breathing against his shoulder.
"Light of my life," he added, soft enough it might've been for her alone.
Olga's thought-spiral crashed to a halt.
He felt it happen—the way her entire body went stiff, the sudden spike in her heart rate, the heat blooming across her face.
"H-how—" Her voice came out strangled, muffled against his coat. "How can you just—we're in public! 69 is watching! The golems have recording functions!"
Despite the protest, her hands crept up to grip the back of his coat. Not quite returning the hug. Not quite letting go either.
"That was so cheesy," she muttered.
"I know."
"You're an idiot,"
"Fully deserved"
"A complete moron."
"Also accurate."
"And you're going to make this up to me."
"Absolutely." He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, offering his best smile—the one that had charmed three different department heads and one or two very grumpy True Ancestors. "I brought gifts."
The transformation was almost comical. Hurt melted into exasperation. Exasperation gave way to suspicious curiosity.
"You think—gifts don't just—" She stopped. Narrowed her eyes. "What kind of gifts?"
"The good kind. You'll like them."
"That's not ominous at all."
"I'm mysterious."
"You're a pain in my ass."
"Can't I be both?"
The ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. She caught herself, smoothed her expression back to professional disapproval, stepped back and adjusted her uniform with sharp, precise movements.
"You can explain yourself to the senior staff," she said. "I'm sure they're delighted about your security breach." She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaled slowly. "I need warm milk. And sleep. Preferably before the sun comes up."
She turned toward the lift, then paused. Glanced back over her shoulder.
"Cicero?"
"Yes?"
"Don't disappear on me again." Dead serious now. "Next time, I'll hunt you down myself."
"Noted."
Chaldea's Cafeteria
The cafeteria sprawled empty and echo-prone at this hour. Round tables, utilitarian chairs, overhead lights dimmed to evening mode. In the far corner, a single table showed signs of life.
Kirschtaria Wodime sat with perfect posture—the kind that came from years of being watched, evaluated, measured against standards only possible for her. Golden hair caught the light. Her hands were folded on the table, fingers interlaced, the picture of serene composure.
Beside her, Hinako Akuta pretended to read. Book held at precisely the right angle, eyes moving across the page at precisely the right speed. Her fingers drifted to the pendant at her neck—touch, pause, release—in a rhythm that suggested nervous habit rather than conscious thought. A black cat lounged in her lap, purring like a small motor.
And there, picking at a salad that looked sadder than a funeral, sat Rin Tohsaka.
Cicero cleared his throat and deployed his most obnoxious voice. "Hey girls! Having fun without me?"
Three heads snapped toward him.
"Ugh." Rin's face cycled through several expressions—surprise, relief, annoyance, settling finally on forced irritation. "I could recognize that voice anywhere. Did you finish your oh-so-important mysterious business?"
But he caught the longing underneath. The way her eyes lit up for half a second before she wrestled them back to dismissive.
"Yep! No more disappearing. Well." He paused. "Not without telling you first."
"Oh?" Rin abandoned the sad salad immediately, practically bouncing in her seat. "Did you bring—"
"Gifts?" He grinned. "Obviously. What kind of boyfriend would I be otherwise?"
"Amazing how fast you change your tune." He caught her mid-leap, wrapped her in a hug that lifted her slightly off the ground.
"Shut up." She buried her face in his shoulder. "Tell me about my gift."
He set her down, produced a small box from his coat with a slight flourish.
"For you," he said, "something with history. Alexandrite—saw it and couldn't help thinking of you. The way it shifts, changes, shows different faces depending on the light." He opened the box. "Thought you might put it to good use."
The gem caught the overhead lights and transformed. Green bleeding into blue bleeding into purple bleeding into red—colors shifting, dancing, alive with inner fire.
Rin's breath stopped. Her hands came up slowly, reverently. "That's—the clarity—the size—" Her voice went thin. "Where did you even find this? Do you know what something like this would cost?"
"You know, here and there. Just..." He offered an embarrassed smile. "Don't ask. Took my breath away. Reminded me of the first time we met."
"Cicero..."
He took her hand gently, lifted the ring from its velvet cushion. Moved as though to slide it onto her left hand, ring finger—
Rin's breath caught. Her face flushed pink.
—and then smoothly redirected to her middle finger instead.
Her expression shifted so fast it was almost funny. Indignant outrage mixed with an absolutely adorable blush mixed with confusion about which emotion to commit to.
Before she could explode, he leaned in close. Whispered: "Don't worry. The wedding ring will be even better."
He felt her brain encounter a fatal error.
Watching Rin Tohsaka short-circuit was genuinely entertaining. All that genius-level intellect and magecraft talent, and she still became completely flustered over romantic gestures.
"The quality of this—how rare—the formation process—" She'd devolved into incoherent gemstone analysis, turning the ring this way and that, completely absorbed.
Adorable.
"I hope," a cool voice cut in, "that's not the only gift you brought, nor that you expect the rest of us to be distracted as easily as that little girl."
Yu Mei-ren fixed him with a stare that could've carved marble. Neutral expression, but the hurt leaked through in tiny tells—the set of her jaw, the way she held herself fractionally more rigid than usual.
Olga and Wodime radiated silent agreement from across the table.
"Who are you calling a little girl, you hag!?" Rin snapped back to awareness immediately, eyes flashing.
Cicero recognized that look on Yu's face. She was approximately three seconds away from deploying her extensive vocabulary to curse the Tohsaka family line backward and forward through time.
"Of course I have gifts for everyone!" He stepped between them before the verbal warfare could commence. "You're all important to me. I couldn't disappear so suddenly without bringing back something meaningful."
Yu's expression softened fractionally. She maintained her aloof mask, but the hurt had eased.
Getting close to Yu Mei-ren had been hard. She got lonely so easily but kept everyone at arm's length, terrified they'd discover her secret and reject her. Or worse—hunt her down like every other being minimally related to True Ancestor that has existed.
She'd tried to run once, about two years into their friendship. Thought she could just disappear in the middle of the night. He'd had to reveal he knew what she was. She'd attacked on instinct—violence as a first language after centuries of being persecuted.
After they'd made up, she'd been awkward as a teenager with her first crush. Terrible at socialization. Self-control nonexistent for someone who'd lived multiple human lifetimes. She weaponized indignation as a defense mechanism and thought subtlety was a foreign language.
It was endearing.
"For you, Yuyu," he said, producing an ornate wooden box, "tea leaves, seeds, and various plants that I borrowed from that pain-in-the-neck in Avalon. For your garden."
He called Merlin a "pain in the neck" with affection. She was his pain in the neck. She'd be annoyed he took plants without asking, but he'd deal with the thirsty succubus later.
Yu's eyes widened fractionally—the most emotion she'd shown in public since the start of the conversation. She took the box with careful hands, opened it to reveal packets of seeds and leaves.
"Varieties only found on the Reverse Side of the World," Cicero explained. "Beneficial effects for body and spirit. Some of the finest specimens this world has to offer. Merlin was harming humanity by monopolizing such treasures."
Interest flickered across Yu's face as she examined the contents, fingers gentle on the delicate packages.
"And that's not all—there's quality incense and oils in there too." He smiled warmly. "I'll make sure to give you a proper massage later. And a little suck. I know how thirsty you get, especially after I had to leave so suddenly."
"How many times," Yu said with barely restrained irritation, "do I have to tell you that I am not one of those Dead Apostles or vampires you've seen in your movies!? I don't need to drink blood!"
"Who said anything about blood?" Cicero's smile turned radiant with innocence.
The effect was immediate and devastating.
Yu's face cycled through colors—white, pink, red, crimson. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
"Xia? Xia-Xia-Xia-Xia—" Smoke practically rose from her ears."
"Bless you," Rin offered, barely suppressing a smirk.
"Ahem." Olga made a small sound, her own face slightly pink.
Wodime maintained perfect composure, though her lips twitched.
"Right! Sorry, got distracted." Cicero turned to Olga before Yu could recover enough to murder him. "And for our esteemed Director..."
He pulled out a beautiful wooden box, presented it with a flourish that was only slightly over-the-top.
Olga took it warily, shot him a suspicious look before opening the lid.
Her breath stopped.
The tea set inside seemed carved from starlight. Each piece shifted between silver and something deeper—material that caught the light and transformed it into constellation patterns that moved slowly across the surface. The craftsmanship transcended anything in the Clocktower's most prestigious collections.
"It's..." She lifted the first cup carefully, barely breathing. "It's a stellar map. A perfect one."
"That's right." Cicero's expression softened. "The first cup is Mercurian silicate, the second Venusian pyrite, the third Earthly labradorite, the fourth Martian regolith, the fifth liquid metallic hydrogen from Jupiter's core, and the last one diamonds formed in Saturn's rains."
Olga's hands trembled. "That's impossible. These materials shouldn't exist in a stable form outside their planets."
"And yet." He gestured at the set.
"Moreover," he continued, "drinking from these will provide clarity. Mental fatigue will ease. Stress becomes manageable." He reached out, touched one cup gently. "And if you channel just a bit of magical energy into it..."
The cup warmed in Olga's hands.
The world shifted.
Suddenly she was there—Clocktower library, late at night. The smell of old books and fresh coffee. Cicero's laugh echoing softly as he handed her a croissant. The crushing weight on her shoulders easing for the first time in months. The sensation of being seen—truly, completely seen—for the first time in her life.
She gasped as the memory faded.
"Every time you drink," Cicero said softly, "you can revisit the warmest memory you hold. A reminder that good moments matter. That they're worth fighting for."
Olga stared at the tea set. Then at him. Her vision blurred.
"This is..." Her voice cracked.
"Too much?"
"Perfect." She set the cup down carefully and pulled him into a hug—not desperate, not needy, but tender. Certain. "You absolute idiot."
"I've been called worse."
"Thank you," she whispered against his shoulder.
"You're welcome."
When she pulled back, her eyes were wet but her smile was radiant. "You're still in trouble for the security breach."
"I know."
"But this helps."
"Good."
Cicero turned to the last person at the table, who was making a barely discernible jealous expression at Olga's gift.
"Of course," he said with a knowing smile, "don't think I forgot about you, Wodime. I brought you a complete bakery set. I know the last one broke recently, and how much you loved it. So I made you a new one."
Wodime's eyes widened fractionally—the most surprise she ever showed.
"The knives are forged from asteroid belt metals, cups made out of diamonds from Uranus's atmosphere, pans from Neptune and Pluto's exotic ices. Even some molds from materials in the Oort Cloud!" He grinned. "It enhances your cooking and provides all sorts of benefits."
The jealousy in Wodime's expression melted into pure joy. She stood, walked around the table to accept the gift with both hands.
"Thank you, Cicero." Her smile was small but genuine. "I'll treasure it."
"So!" Cicero clapped his hands together. "Everyone likes their gifts. Why not use them now?"
"Cicero." Olga's voice held a warning. "It's really late. We should all get some sleep."
"Come on, it's barely 11 PM!"
"Some of us have been working all day coordinating your elaborate plans—"
"Please." He put on his best wounded expression. "I just want to see everyone use their gifts. Plus I'll help you bleed off all that stress so you can sleep better. So, what do you say? Quick tea party?"
Olga opened her mouth to refuse, then looked at her new tea set. Then at Yu's excited expression as she examined her new tea leaves. Then at Wodime, already mentally planning what to bake.
"...Fine. But quick."
"Excellent! Olga and Yu can prepare the tea with the new leaves. Wodime and I will handle the baking." He turned to Rin with an absolutely innocent expression. "And Rin can, uh... light the fire! Yes!"
"Hey!"
"Well, it's not my fault you don't know how to cook. Last time you tried, you nearly put Chaldea on lockdown."
"That was one time! Modern electronics are confusing! I'm a Master, not an engineer. Servants don't need instruction manuals!"
"You tried to microwave metal."
"The plate looked microwave safe!"
"It was aluminum foil."
"In my defense—"
"There is no defense."
"I hate you."
"You really don't."
The impromptu tea party that followed would later be remembered as one of the strangest and most wonderful nights in Chaldea's history for them.
Wodime and Cicero commandeered the kitchen, working in companionable silence punctuated by occasional commentary about technique. The new bakery set performed beautifully—knives cut through ingredients like passing through water, pans distributed heat with impossible evenness, and everything they produced came out perfect.
Meanwhile, Yu and Olga worked on the tea with intensity usually reserved for high-level magecraft. The new leaves released aromas that transformed the entire cafeteria into something out of legend. Steam rose from the cups in delicate spirals, carrying scents of flowers that existed only in fading stories.
Rin, relegated to "fire duty," had given up on being offended and was now helping by setting out plates and arguing with Yu about optimal tea temperatures.
As they worked, something strange began to happen.
The artifacts—tea set, bakery equipment, Yu's pendant—began to resonate. Subtle at first, just a faint harmonic hum you might mistake for the building's ventilation. But it grew stronger, and with it came light.
Soft, starlight-silver radiance emanated from each piece, growing brighter as they were used in conjunction. The constellations on Olga's cups began to move faster, spinning and aligning with the celestial patterns on Wodime's baking molds. Yu's pendant pulsed in rhythm with both.
Then the cafeteria disappeared.
Or rather, it was still there, but overlaid with something else.
A projection of the solar system materialized around them—not huge, just large enough to encompass their table. Planets orbited in stately procession. Stars glittered in the spaces between. The sun hung overhead like a gentle lamp, casting warm light without heat.
"Oh my," Wodime breathed, staring up at Saturn's rings passing overhead.
"This is..." Olga's hands trembled on her teacup. "This is beautiful."
Yu said nothing, but her eyes were wide with wonder as she watched Earth rotate slowly past.
Even Rin had stopped complaining, transfixed by the cosmic ballet.
Cicero smiled, watching them. This was exactly what he'd intended—the artifacts archived their objective splendidly.
They settled around the table as the solar system wheeled overhead, passing around tea and fresh pastries. Conversation flowed easily—light topics, gentle teasing, comfortable silences punctuated by appreciation of good food and good company.
At some point, Yu started explaining the medicinal properties of the various tea leaves, her usual terseness giving way to genuine enthusiasm. Wodime discussed the science of baking with the passion of a true craftsperson. Olga actually laughed—not her usual polite chuckle, but a real, unguarded laugh.
And Rin, despite her earlier protests, was clearly having the time of her life.
Hours passed like minutes.
Eventually, conversation began to slow. Words came further apart. Eyelids grew heavy.
Wodime was the first to succumb, slumping gently against the table with a soft sigh. Her usual perfect posture finally relaxed, face peaceful in sleep.
Olga followed shortly after, her head coming to rest on her folded arms. The stress lines around her eyes smoothed out, making her look younger. Vulnerable.
And Yu—normally so vigilant, so unable to truly relax around others—slowly leaned into Cicero's lap and drifted off. Her breathing deepened, the tension finally draining from her ancient frame.
"That's... wow," Rin whispered, staring at Yu. "I've never seen her actually sleep before. She always just meditates."
"She must feel safe," Cicero murmured, carefully adjusting Yu so she wouldn't wake with a crick in her neck. "And relaxed. That's rare for her."
He gently levitated blankets from a nearby storage closet, draping them over the sleeping women with tender care. Then he pressed soft kisses to each of their foreheads—Wodime, Olga, Yu. Each touch granted with tender care.
Rin stayed awake, helping him clean up the kitchen with quiet efficiency. They worked in comfortable silence, putting away dishes, wiping down counters, returning the cafeteria to order.
As they finished, Rin paused at the window, staring out at the Antarctic night. Snow had begun to fall—thick, heavy flakes that caught the exterior lights.
"Hey," she said quietly, "Did you design those gifts like that on purpose?"
Cicero joined her at the window. "Like what?"
"Really?" She crossed her arms, still watching the darkness outside. "Yu's, Olga's, Wodime's—they were specifically designed to work together. That wasn't a simple illusion. I'm sure that was something similar to a Reality Marble" She gestured vaguely at where the solar system projection had been. "That should be impossible, even if they synchronize together."
He didn't respond, just listened.
"You gave them to those three specifically because you know how difficult it is for them to open up. How bad they are at socializing, at trusting, at being vulnerable." Rin's reflection in the window showed a small, knowing smile. "You're hoping the artifacts will give them a reason to spend time together. To bond. To build something resembling friendship."
"Maybe," Cicero allowed.
"You're not as subtle as you think."
"I'm devastated."
Rin laughed softly, then fell quiet again. The snow continued to fall, silent and beautiful.
After a while, she leaned her head against his shoulder—a gesture of affection, of trust, of connection that needed no words.
They stood there together, watching the snow fall while the women slept, until the first hints of dawn began to creep across the horizon.
Some moments, Cicero thought, were worth more than all the power in the world.
This was one of them.
The Next Morning - Chaldea Cafeteria
Cicero has come to learn that Chaldea's cafeteria at 7 AM was a study in controlled chaos.
Technicians stumbled in for coffee before their shifts. Night shift workers grabbed food before collapsing into bed. Early risers like Wodime had already finished a perfect breakfast and were on their second cup of tea.
And there, in the corner, sitting alone with a tray of food she was picking at without enthusiasm, was a girl with orange hair who looked like she'd rather be anywhere else.
Ritsuka Fujimaru. The last Master candidate to arrive. He'd read her file—"acceptable" magical circuits, no family connections to the Mage's Association, recruited through the public system basically to fill out the numbers.
On paper, she was forgettable.
But Cicero knew better.
He grabbed his own breakfast and made his way over. "This seat taken?"
She looked up, startled. For a moment, she just stared at him with the expression of someone whose brain had temporarily stopped working.
Then she blinked, seemed to reboot, and her face went red. "I—no—I mean yes, you can sit, it's not taken, I just—" She took a breath. "Sorry. You're... um. You're very pretty. It's disorienting this early in the morning."
Cicero couldn't help but laugh as he sat down. "I'll take that as a compliment. Cicero Tempest."
"Fujimaru Ritsuka." She seemed to be recovering from her initial fluster. "You're the one everyone keeps talking about, right? Heard you were the one who woke up the bigwigs yesterday, including the Director. They were panicking that something was happening."
"Guilty on all counts. Don't worry though, everything's been handled. I only have to apologize to them." He examined his breakfast—Shirou's cooking, which meant it was probably better than most restaurant food. "How are you settling in?"
"Honestly? It's weird." She poked at her rice. "Everyone here is so... accomplished. Genius mages, combat specialists, people with legendary family lineages. And then there's me, who's pretty sure I only got accepted because they needed to hit their quota."
"Imposter syndrome is real."
"Is it still imposter syndrome if you actually are an imposter?"
"You're not an imposter. You're here, aren't you? That means someone saw something in you."
Ritsuka snorted. "They saw 'acceptable magical circuits' and 'warm body to fill a slot.' I don't even know the slightest thing about magic or mages."
"Maybe." Cicero took a bite of his breakfast—perfectly seasoned, as expected. "Though I think I can at least help with the last one," he added quietly. "But that doesn't mean you can't prove them wrong. There'll be plenty of opportunities."
"What can I do?"
He paused, considering how to word it. "Well, Chaldea isn't just a research facility. It's... insurance. Against the worst possible outcome. And when things go wrong—not if, when—the people who'll make it through aren't necessarily the strongest or the smartest."
"Then who?"
"The ones who don't give up. The ones who can make friends in impossible situations. The ones who see people, not just resources." He met her eyes. "You strike me as that type."
Ritsuka stared at him, something shifting in her expression. "You don't even know me."
"No, but I'm a good judge of character." He smiled. "Also, I noticed you picked the breakfast special that Emiya made instead of the generic cafeteria food. Shows good instincts."
"The redhead who works in the kitchen? She's incredible. I asked her about her technique yesterday and she spent twenty minutes explaining the importance of proper rice washing." Her enthusiasm was immediate and genuine. "Do you know she adjusts her cooking based on predicted weather patterns? Because atmospheric pressure affects how ingredients cook? That's insane attention to detail."
"She takes her craft seriously."
"It's inspiring! I mean, I can barely make instant noodles without somehow messing it up, but watching her work..." She gestured expressively. "It's like art. Functional, delicious art."
Cicero found himself grinning. There was something refreshing about her—no pretense, no political maneuvering, just genuine enthusiasm for things she found interesting.
"So what do you do for fun?" he asked. "When you're not contemplating your imposter status."
"Video games, mostly." She pulled out her phone. "I know it's probably childish compared to actual magecraft, but I've been playing Pokemon since I was a kid. There's something relaxing about it."
"Pokemon?" Cicero's eyes lit up. "Which generation?"
Her entire demeanor changed—defensive to excited in an instant. "All of them! But I started with HeartGold. That's still my favorite." She pulled up her current game. "I'm doing a Nuzlocke run right now in Black 2. It's brutal but so satisfying."
"Wait, you do Nuzlockes? Self-imposed permadeath?"
"Of course! It's the only way to make the games actually challenging." She leaned forward, animated now. "Plus it forces you to use Pokemon you'd normally ignore. I've grown attached to so many random encounters that way."
"That's dedication." He pulled out his own phone, seemingly from the same brand, with an M in its back. "I've been doing a monotype run in X. Dragon-types only. The early game was painful."
"Dragon monotype? That's rough. What's your team looking like?"
"Garchomp, Salamence, Dragonite—though I had to trade for Dragonite's pre-evolution. And I'm trying to get a Noibat but the spawn rate is terrible."
Ritsuka's eyes went wide. "You're running three pseudo-legendaries? That's not a team, that's overkill. Where's the diversity? The strategy?"
"I'm being practical!"
"You're being boring! Where's the passion? Where's the love for underdogs?" She stopped herself, laughed. "Sorry, I get worked up about this. My friends back home used to make fun of me for caring too much about competitive team building."
"Never apologize for caring about things." Cicero grinned. "Though I notice you didn't mention what's actually on your Nuzlocke team."
"That's because half of them are dead." She made a tragic face. "I lost my starter to a critical hit from a random trainer's Watchog. A Watchog. I'm still not over it."
"Ouch. What do you have left?"
"A Magneton that's somehow become my ace, a Deerling I caught out of obligation that's actually really good, and—don't laugh—a Patrat that I'm genuinely attached to despite it being objectively terrible."
"The heart wants what it wants."
"Exactly!" She was fully engaged now, the nervous uncertainty from earlier completely gone. "Everyone always goes for the optimal competitive builds, but that's not what Pokemon is about. It's about the journey. The bonds. The—"
"Strategy is temporary, but your favorites are eternal?" Cicero offered.
"Yes! Exactly that!"
As they fell into enthusiastic discussion about EV training, the merits of various type combinations, and their most devastating Nuzlocke losses, a shadow fell across the table.
"Mister Tempest." Olga's voice was crisp and professional. "I've been looking for you. We have a meeting with—" She noticed Ritsuka and paused. "Miss Fujimaru. Good morning."
"Director Animusphere!" Ritsuka stood so fast she nearly knocked over her juice. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to monopolize—I mean, we were just—"
"Sit down, Miss Fujimaru. You're not in trouble." Olga's expression softened fractionally. "Though I'm surprised to see you fraternizing with our resident troublemaker."
"Hey," Cicero protested mildly.
"You hacked our door system less than twenty-four hours ago. The designation stands." But there was fondness underneath the stern tone.
Ritsuka looked between them, clearly trying to figure out their dynamic.
"The meeting isn't for another hour," Cicero said. "Join us? Ritsuka was just explaining why my team building is terrible."
"I said boring, not terrible. There's a difference."
"Is there, though?"
Olga actually smiled—small, but genuine. "I suppose I have time for a brief breakfast." She sat, pulling out her own phone. "Though if we're discussing team strategy, I should mention I have a complete Living Dex in Pokemon Home."
Ritsuka's eyes went huge. "A complete Living Dex? Every Pokemon? Every form?"
"Every single one. Organized by National Dex number." Olga's tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a hint of pride. "It took three years."
"That's... that's incredible. That's dedication I can't even comprehend."
"I find the systematic collection and organization... soothing." Olga pulled up her boxes, showing rows upon rows of carefully organized Pokemon. "Each one properly trained, with optimal movesets."
"Of course they have optimal movesets," Ritsuka breathed, scrolling through the collection with reverence.
Cicero watched them bond over competitive builds and shiny hunting, a warm feeling settling in his chest. This was exactly what Ritsuka needed— to be seen as a person, not just a statistic.
Other Master candidates filtered through the cafeteria, most giving Olga's table a wide berth. But a few—Mash Kyrielight, looking nervous but determined—gradually joined them.
"Um, excuse me," Mash said quietly, clutching her own phone. "I couldn't help but overhear you talking about Pokemon..."
"You play too?" Ritsuka's eyes lit up.
Mash nodded shyly. "I've been doing shiny hunting in Alpha Sapphire. I just got a shiny Ralts after two weeks."
"Two weeks?" Olga looked impressed despite herself. "That's dedication."
"It's very calming," Mash said, pulling up her game to show them. "The repetition helps when I'm nervous."
As they fell into animated discussion about shiny hunting methods and best routes for EV training, Rin Tohsaka wandered over, drawn by the unusual sight of the Director actually smiling.
"What's everyone so excited about?" she asked, dropping into a seat without asking.
"Pokemon," Ritsuka explained. "It's this video game series where you—"
"I know what Pokemon is," Rin interrupted. "I'm not that out of touch. I just..." She hesitated, looking slightly embarrassed. "I've never actually played. Modern game systems hate me. Last time I tried to use a handheld console, I somehow made it display everything backwards."
There was a beat of silence.
"How do you make a screen display backwards?" Cicero asked, genuinely curious.
"I don't know! That's the problem!" Rin threw up her hands. "Technology and I have a mutual understanding—I don't touch it, and it doesn't spontaneously combust."
"That's probably for the best," Olga said dryly. "We can't afford to replace more equipment."
"That was one time and the microwave was clearly defective—"
"Remeber the time you somehow corrupted Sakura's save file just by going through the options screen?"
"That wasn't my fault!"
"She cried for an hour."
Ritsuka was trying very hard not to laugh. "I mean, if you ever want to try Pokemon, I could help you? They're pretty intuitive once you get past the menus."
Rin looked torn between curiosity and her well-founded fear of electronics. "Maybe. But you'd have to supervise. Closely. With a fire extinguisher nearby."
"I don't think my new Mitsugoshi Aurora is flammable—"
"You underestimate my talent for catastrophic equipment failure."
Mash giggled, then looked surprised at herself for making the sound.
"Although," Rin continued, eyeing their phones with suspicion, "I don't understand the appeal. Aren't you just... collecting things? That's what magecraft is for."
"It's about the journey," Ritsuka explained. "Building a team, forming strategies, bonding with—okay, yes, it's basically just collecting things, but it's fun collecting things."
"I collect gemstones," Rin pointed out. "At least those have practical applications."
"So do Pokemon! You can use them in battles!"
"I can use gems in battles too."
"Not the same thing!"
By the time Cicero and Olga had to leave for their meeting, the corner table had become something like a social hub. Mash was shyly showing off her shiny collection while Ritsuka explained type matchups. Rin was simultaneously fascinated and frustrated, asking increasingly technical questions about game mechanics while maintaining that she'd never actually touch a gaming device herself.
"Though if someone wanted to explain the strategic depth," she said imperiously, "I suppose I could appreciate it from an academic perspective."
"You just want to know if your competitive instincts would transfer to Pokemon," Cicero observed.
"That's—completely accurate and I'm not apologizing for it."
As they walked toward the administrative wing, Olga spoke quietly. "That was kind. Bringing her out of her cocoon like that."
"I'm sure she's going to become the heart of the party in the blink of an eye," Cicero said simply.
"You say that with remarkable certainty for someone who just met her."
"Call it intuition."
Olga was quiet for a moment. "She seems nice. Normal, in a way most people here aren't."
"That's exactly why she'll fit right in."
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the morning chaos of Chaldea flowing around them.
"Thank you," Olga said eventually.
"For what?"
"For helping me see past files and statistics. For reminding me that people are more than their qualifications." She smiled slightly. "Even if their magical circuits are merely 'acceptable.'"
"That came out of nowhere and I feel hesitant to claim credit for that but… Anytime."
As they reached the meeting room, Cicero glanced back toward the cafeteria. Through the corridor windows, he could see Ritsuka laughing at something Mash had said, looking more relaxed than she had when he'd first sat down.
Some people, he thought, were easy to underestimate.
Later - Romani's Office
Cicero found Romani exactly where he expected—slumped over his desk, surrounded by coffee cups in various states of emptiness, looking like he hadn't slept in approximately three years.
"Dr. Archaman," Cicero said pleasantly. "You look well."
Romani's head shot up, eyes bleary and vaguely accusatory. "You. You're the one who caused the security breach close to midnight. Do you have any idea how many incident reports I had to file?"
"In my defense, I did try to be quiet."
"You hacked our automatic door system and waltzed in like you owned the place!" Romani gestured wildly at the paperwork covering his desk. "I went to medical school to practice medicine, not to push paperwork. How is writing reports even part of my job? I don't remember signing up for this."
"I thought the confidence would be reassuring."
"It wasn't!" Romani slumped back in his chair. "I got three hours of sleep because of you. Three. Do you know what happens to the human body with chronic sleep deprivation?"
"Decreased cognitive function, impaired decision-making, increased irritability—"
"It was rhetorical!"
Cicero pulled out a chair and sat without being invited. "I came to apologize, actually. The late-night disruption was inconsiderate. You have enough on your plate without me adding to the chaos."
Romani blinked, thrown by the genuine apology. "Oh. Well. I... thank you?"
"You're welcome." Cicero produced a small envelope from his coat. "Also, I brought a peace offering."
Romani took it warily, opened the flap. His eyes went wide.
Inside was a signed photograph of Magi☆Mari in a limited-edition costume, with a personal message written in her handwriting.
"How did you—" Romani's voice came out strangled. "This is—where did you get this?"
"I have my sources." Cicero's smile turned knowing. "You have excellent taste, by the way. She's quite talented."
"She's amazing," Romani said automatically, then seemed to realize what he was saying and coughed. "I mean. Her magical girl advice streams are. Informative. For research purposes."
"Of course. Research."
"Very serious research."
"About magical girls."
"It's a valid cultural phenomenon!"
Cicero held up his hands in surrender, grin widening. "I'm not judging. Everyone needs something to help them unwind. Especially in a place like this."
Romani's defensiveness faded, replaced by something more contemplative. He set the photo down carefully, like it might disappear if handled too roughly. "You're not wrong. This job is... a lot."
"The weight of humanity's survival tends to be heavy."
"Everyone keeps saying that like it's normal. 'Oh, just another day trying to prevent human extinction.' How is this my life?"
"Because someone had to do it," Cicero said quietly. "And you're one of the few people who actually cares enough to try. That's what being human means."
Romani looked up, startled by the sincerity in his tone.
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, Chaldea's distant hum filling the space.
"Can I ask you something?" Romani said finally. "And I mean this genuinely, not as your superior or whatever authority I'm supposed to have here."
"Of course."
"What does it mean to you? Being human?" He leaned forward, fingers steepled. "You're not entirely human, are you? I can tell. There's something... else about you. But you act more human than most actual humans I know."
Cicero considered the question carefully. "Being human isn't about biology. It's about choice."
"Choice?"
"Humans are finite. Mortal. Every second is precious because there are only so many of them. And yet despite that—or maybe because of it—they choose to love. To hope. To keep trying even when everything seems impossible." He met Romani's eyes. "That's what makes them remarkable. Not their power or their knowledge, but their refusal to give up on each other."
Romani's expression did something complicated.
"Gods and immortals and cosmic entities—they have forever. Humans have now. And they make now matter in ways that transcend anything eternity could offer."
"That's..." Romani swallowed hard. "That's a very specific philosophy."
"I learned it from someone who gave up everything to understand what it meant to be human." Cicero smiled gently. "I think they'd be proud of what you've built here."
Romani's breath caught. For a moment, he looked like he might cry or laugh or possibly both.
Instead, he cleared his throat roughly and stood. "I should—there's work to do. Always work. But thank you. For the photo. And the... conversation."
"Anytime." Cicero stood as well. "Oh, and Dr. Archaman? Get some sleep. The world-saving can wait until you're functional."
"That's not how emergencies work."
"Then learn to delegate. You've got good people here. Trust them."
As Cicero left, he caught Romani staring at the Magi☆Mari photo with an expression of such unguarded fondness that it hurt to look at.
Some people, he thought, deserved happiness more than they'd ever admit.
Da Vinci's Workshop
Cicero found Da Vinci exactly where he'd left her six hours ago—bent over the same workbench, except now there were three additional projects scattered around her in various states of completion.
"You know," he said, setting down the coffee he'd brought, "most people take breaks."
"Most people aren't trying to optimize Chaldea's power distribution while simultaneously improving the Rayshift stabilization matrix." She didn't look up from her soldering. "Also, most people bring terrible coffee. This smells acceptable. You're learning."
"I had a good teacher." He pulled up a stool beside her, examining her work. "Is that... are you using a Fibonacci spiral in the circuit layout?"
"Obviously." Now she did look up, eyes bright with the particular joy of someone who'd been waiting for another person to notice something clever. "The golden ratio appears in everything from nautilus shells to galaxy formations. Why shouldn't it apply to magical circuits? Natural patterns are efficient because they've been refined over millennia."
"Biomimicry in magecraft. That's brilliant."
"I know." She set down her tools, picked up the coffee, and took a sip. Her expression shifted to pleasant surprise. "This is actually good. What did you do differently?"
"Added a pinch of cinnamon and used the beans you hide in the back of the third cabinet."
"You found my secret stash?"
"You label them 'DO NOT TOUCH - DA VINCI'S EMERGENCY SUPPLY.' It wasn't exactly hidden."
"The labeling should have been deterrent enough." But she was smiling. "Most people respect boundaries."
"I'm not most people. Also, I replaced what I took with a better blend. Fair trade."
Da Vinci examined him for a moment, then laughed—genuine and delighted. "You're terrible. I like that about you." She gestured at the secondary workbench, currently covered in his own projects. "How's your impossible battery coming along?"
"Not impossible, just improbable." Cicero moved to his workspace, picking up a crystalline sphere that pulsed with faint inner light. "I'm trying to create a stable magical energy storage system that doesn't degrade over time. The problem is maintaining the bounded field integrity while allowing energy transfer."
"Mmm. Paradox of the permeable barrier." Da Vinci joined him, peering at the sphere with interest. "You need it to be both open and closed simultaneously. Have you considered using a möbius topology?"
"A what now?"
"Here—" She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, sketching rapidly. "A möbius strip is a surface with only one side. If you apply that principle to a bounded field, theoretically you could create a space where energy flows in a continuous loop without ever having a true entrance or exit point."
Cicero stared at the sketch, mind racing. "That's... that could actually work. The energy wouldn't be entering or leaving, it would just be... existing in perpetual motion."
"Exactly! Though you'd need to account for entropy. Nothing is truly perpetual." She tapped the sketch thoughtfully. "Unless you used a reality marble principle. Create a small internal world with its own physical laws."
"That's horrifyingly complex."
"But beautiful, no?" Da Vinci's smile was radiant. "The best solutions usually are. Complexity that appears simple, like a perfectly balanced equation or a well-composed painting."
They fell into comfortable silence, both working on their respective projects. Cicero found himself appreciating the easy companionship—no need to fill every moment with conversation, just two people creating things in parallel.
After a while, Da Vinci spoke up. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Why do you make things?" She was still working, fingers deftly assembling components. "You have power enough to simply... manifest whatever you need. But you still build. Still tinker. Still experiment. Why?"
Cicero considered the question, hands pausing in their work. "Because the process matters. The journey, not just the destination." He picked up one of his failed prototypes—a crystalline structure that had cracked during testing. "This didn't work. It was hours of effort that led nowhere. But I learned something from the failure. And there's satisfaction in solving problems with your hands, your mind, your effort. Not just... snapping your fingers and having it appear."
"The struggle is part of the beauty," Da Vinci said softly.
"Exactly."
She smiled, something warm and approving in her expression. "You know, when I was alive, I filled notebook after notebook with designs I never built. Flying machines, war engines, anatomical studies. People thought I was lazy for leaving so much unfinished." She held up a component to the light, examining it from multiple angles. "But the designing was the joy. The thinking, the sketching, the problem-solving. The final product was almost... anticlimactic."
"So you weren't unfinished with your work," Cicero said. "Your work was the process itself."
"Someone understands." Da Vinci's smile turned playful. "Though don't tell anyone. I have a reputation as a genius to maintain, and that sounds dangerously philosophical."
"Your secret is safe with me."
They worked in silence for another hour, occasionally passing tools or asking for second opinions on design choices. At one point, Da Vinci started humming—something Renaissance-era that Cicero didn't recognize but found pleasant.
"You're musical?" he asked.
"I'm everything." She said it without arrogance, just simple fact. "Music, art, engineering, anatomy, mathematics. They're all aspects of the same thing, really. The universe expressing itself in different forms."
"That's a very unified view of knowledge."
"Because it is unified. People like to separate art from science, beauty from function, emotion from logic. But that's artificial. A well-designed machine is beautiful. A mathematical proof can be elegant. A painting can teach you about light physics." She gestured with her soldering iron for emphasis. "The Renaissance ideal was the universal man—someone who could encompass all forms of human knowledge. Not because they were better than others, but because they saw the connections between things."
"And you were the ultimate expression of that ideal."
"I tried to be." Something wistful crossed her face. "Though I wonder sometimes if I spread myself too thin. Master of many trades, expert of... well, also many. But did I go deep enough into any one thing?"
"You left behind works that still influence the world centuries later," Cicero pointed out. "I'd say you went deep enough."
"Maybe." She set down her tools, stretched. "Or maybe I'm just overthinking things. That happens when you're technically dead and have too much time to contemplate your legacy."
"Want to know what I think?"
"Always."
"I think you're exactly where you need to be. Here, now, with the knowledge and perspective of your first life and the opportunity to keep creating in this one." He met her eyes. "Not many people get a second chance to make things. You do. So make them count."
Da Vinci's expression softened. "You know, for someone who claims to be practical, you have a remarkable idealistic streak."
"I contain multitudes."
"Clearly." She picked up her coffee, now cold, and made a face. "This is undrinkable. Want to take a break and get fresh cups? I want to show you something I've been working on."
"The mysterious project you keep covered in the corner?"
"That obvious?"
"You literally have a sheet labeled 'MYSTERIOUS PROJECT - DO NOT PEEK.'"
"I'm starting to think my labeling system needs work."
They moved to the coffee maker—a complicated contraption that Da Vinci had personally modified to achieve what she called "optimal extraction parameters." As it hissed and gurgled, she pulled the sheet off her secret project.
Underneath was a partially completed musical instrument—something that looked like a violin merged with a keyboard, with additional strings running through crystalline chambers.
"It's a viola organista," Da Vinci explained. "I designed it five hundred years ago but never built it. The principle is simple—bowed strings like a violin, but activated by keys like a piano. The crystal chambers amplify and modulate the sound."
Cicero examined it with genuine awe. "This is incredible. Does it work?"
"Not yet. The resonance is off. I can't quite get the harmonics right." She ran her fingers along the keys, and a discordant sound emerged. "See? It should be beautiful, but it's just... noise."
"Can I try something?"
"Be my guest."
Cicero pulled out his own tools, examining the crystal chambers. "I think the problem is the crystals themselves. They're uniform, but sound isn't uniform. Different frequencies need different resonance chambers." He started making minute adjustments, using his magecraft to subtly alter the crystalline structure. "Try now."
Da Vinci pressed a key. A pure, clear note rang out—something between a violin's warmth and an organ's depth.
Her eyes went wide. "That's—that's exactly what I heard in my head five centuries ago."
"Then let's finish it properly."
They spent the next three hours working together, adjusting crystals, fine-tuning mechanisms, testing harmonics. Da Vinci would play and Cicero would adjust, then they'd switch roles, and gradually the instrument began to sing.
Finally, Da Vinci played a simple melody—something that sounded like an old Italian folk song. The notes floated through the workshop, rich and strange and beautiful.
When the last note faded, she sat in silence for a moment.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"For what?"
"For helping me finish something." She smiled, but there was genuine emotion underneath the playfulness. "I have so many unfinished works. So many things I started and abandoned. It's... nice. To complete one."
"Anytime." Cicero meant it.
Da Vinci stood, stretched, examined the time. "It's late. Or early. Time is a social construct when you're working."
"Very philosophical."
"I'm allowed occasional philosophy. I'm a Renaissance genius." She started covering her projects, tidying her workspace. "Same time tomorrow? I want to show you my designs for improving the Servant summoning chamber."
"Wouldn't miss it."
As Cicero headed for the door, Da Vinci called after him: "Hey, Cicero?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're here. Chaldea is more interesting with you around."
"Right back at you, Da Vinci."
Her answering smile was warm and genuine—the expression of someone who'd found a kindred spirit.
Some friendships, Cicero thought as he left, were built not on grand declarations but on shared work, good coffee, and the quiet satisfaction of making something beautiful together.
One Week Later - Hallway to Yu's Quarters
Ritsuka Fujimaru had decided that Chaldea was the weirdest place she'd ever been, and she'd once accidentally wandered into a yakuza gambling den.
The week had been a blur of new experiences, confusing terminology, and the growing suspicion that she'd somehow stumbled into something way above her pay grade.
She'd made friends with a girl named Mash Kyrielight who was sweet but seemed perpetually apologetic about existing. She'd bonded with Rin over their shared love of gemstones, even if Rin could be kind of intense about magecraft. She'd met Ophelia and her friend Sakura, both of whom seemed nice if a bit reserved.
And there was this woman named Shirou, who made the most amazing food she'd ever tasted. She tended to get into heated debates with Rin, she seemed to object on principle to anyone else in her kitchen. These standoffs occasionally culminated in a minor explosion or two.
She'd also begun a series of medical exams with Dr. Archeman and was due to be fitted for a new uniform—something they called a "mystic code." On top of all that, she was buried in paperwork just to get fully registered in the system.
But mostly, she'd spent time with Cicero.
Movie marathons. Game sessions. Long conversations about everything from philosophy to the best Final Fantasy game (they'd agreed to disagree on that one). He was funny and kind and treated her like an actual friend instead of the inexperienced recruit everyone else saw.
The polyamory thing was still kind of weird to wrap her head around—multiple girlfriends seemed like something out of anime, not real life—but everyone involved seemed genuinely happy, so who was she to judge?
"Okay," she muttered to herself, standing outside a door marked with Yu's name. "Tea party with the Director, Wodime, and the scary senior that always has a book. No pressure. Just be normal."
She'd been invited three days ago—a formal written invitation delivered by one of those weird golem-secretary hybrids. An invitation to tea with some of the most important people in Chaldea.
She absolutely could not screw this up.
The door opened before she could knock. Yu stood there, expression neutral, black cat draped over her shoulders like a fur scarf.
"You're early," Yu observed.
"Sorry! I can come back—"
"Come in." Yu stepped aside. "And put this on."
She handed Ritsuka what looked like a modified hazmat suit, except more stylish and less bulky.
"Um," Ritsuka said intelligently. "Why?"
"The environment inside requires protection. Something about atmospheric toxicity mimicking the Age of Gods." Yu's tone suggested she was reciting something she'd been told. "I don't pretend to understand all of it."
"Inside?" Ritsuka looked around the small quarters. "Inside where?"
Yu touched her pendant. "You'll see."
The world shifted.
One moment, Ritsuka was standing in a cramped room that smelled faintly of incense. The next, she was—
"Holy shit," she breathed.
A garden stretched before her, more beautiful than anything she'd ever seen outside of fantasy games. Impossible flowers bloomed in colors that didn't exist. Trees with golden leaves rustled in a breeze that smelled like spring and ancient magic. And in the background, a traditional Chinese pagoda rose against a sky that held three moons.
"This is..." She spun in a slow circle, taking it all in. "Is this real? Is this actually real?"
"Welcome to my personal domain," Yu said, a hint of pride breaking through her usual flat tone. "It exists within the pendant. A pocket dimension preserving a fragment of my homeland."
Ritsuka's brain tried to process this and failed spectacularly. "Pocket dimension. Right. Cool. That's a thing. That's apparently a thing people can just have."
Olga and Wodime were already seated at a low table near a koi pond, tea service laid out before them. They looked up as Ritsuka approached, Olga with her usual stern expression and Wodime with serene politeness.
"Miss Fujimaru," Olga greeted. "Please, sit."
Ritsuka sat, still looking around with wide eyes. "This is amazing. How is this even possible?"
"Magecraft," Olga said simply. "Which, I suppose, is what we should discuss."
And so, over tea that tasted like liquid starlight and pastries that Wodime had apparently baked that morning, Ritsuka learned just how little she actually knew about the world.
She took it about as well as could be expected—which is to say she asked approximately seventeen clarifying questions, made several incredulous sounds, and had to be reassured three times that no, they weren't pulling an elaborate prank on the new girl.
The thing was, Ritsuka had only learned magecraft existed a few weeks ago during her minimal introductory briefing. She was a first-generation magus with barely any training. Everything they were explaining—Mystery, Thaumaturgy, the Root, Bounded Fields—was completely new.
She was pretty sure she was missing half the significance of what they were telling her, but she was trying her best.
"Wait, wait," she interrupted at one point, holding up her hands. "So there's regular magecraft, which is what most mages use, and then there's capital-M Magic, which is like... super rare impossible stuff?"
"A simplification, but essentially correct," Olga confirmed.
"And True Magic is different from True Ancestors, who are also different from Dead Apostles, who are different from Servants, and all of this is apparently just... normal? For you people?"
"We don't generally consider it normal," Wodime offered gently. "But it is our reality."
Ritsuka slumped back. "I feel like I've been living in a completely different world this whole time."
"You have been," Yu said bluntly. "The question is whether you can adapt to this one."
It wasn't said unkindly, but it still made Ritsuka flinch.
"She'll adapt just fine," Olga said, surprising everyone—possibly including herself. "She's been handling the strangeness better than most would."
Ritsuka looked at the Director with something like gratitude.
Eventually, because the tea was excellent and the garden was beautiful and these women were surprisingly easy to talk to once they relaxed, the conversation drifted to lighter topics.
"So why Cicero?" Ritsuka asked, genuine curiosity overriding her usual filter. "I mean, I get it—he's attractive and nice and shares your interests. But what made you all decide to... you know. Share?"
Olga was quiet for a moment, fingers wrapped around her teacup. "He saw me when no one else did. Not the Director, not the Animusphere heir. Just... me."
Wodime nodded slowly. "He gave me a path toward my goals. And more than that—he offered understanding. A place where I belonged."
Yu's hand drifted to her pendant. "He gave me somewhere to return to. Something worth protecting." Her eyes flashed with something ancient and dangerous. "I would burn the world to keep it safe."
The temperature dropped several degrees.
Ritsuka suddenly understood why people described Yu as scary.
But then Yu seemed to realize how intense that sounded and coughed. "I mean. Hypothetically. If it came to that. Which it won't. Probably."
"Right," Ritsuka said weakly. "Hypothetically."
They moved on to safer topics—favorite foods, embarrassing stories, the eternal mystery of why Dr. Romani survived on nothing but coffee and instant noodles.
"I think he's trying to caffeinate himself into efficiency," Ritsuka offered.
"It's not working," Olga said dryly. "I've seen his office. It's a disaster."
"But he cares," Wodime said quietly. "About all of us. About making this work. That counts for something."
Olga's expression softened. "Yes. It does."
The afternoon stretched into evening, and by the time Ritsuka left the pocket dimension, she felt... lighter.
Like maybe she'd found something here. People who might become actual friends, not just colleagues forced together by circumstance.
As she walked back to her quarters, mind still reeling from everything she'd learned, one thought kept circulating:
I'm in so far over my head. But maybe... maybe that's okay?
She'd come to Chaldea expecting a job. What she'd found was something that felt almost like family.
Weird, magical, slightly concerning family.
But family nonetheless.