CHAPTER FOUR - UNWILLING PARTICIPANT

Shirou Emiya sped to the marked location, steering wheel rotating smoothly and gear-stick moving to and fro between the empty front seats, breaking more than his fair share of traffic laws in the process. His journey was marked with the flash of speed cameras, but he didn't see any police. It seemed the Director was helping in whatever way he could as no one followed him or tried to pull him over, for which he was thankful. The last thing he wanted was to have to outrun the police.

Not that he didn't think the Nissan GTR could do it. It was like driving a rocket. Whenever he put his foot down on the acceleration, it pushed him back into the caressing softness of the leather. And braking was the same; the only difference being the direction in which he was pushed. Never had he been more thankful for a seatbelt.

He parked some small distance from the marked location—a decrepit warehouse that, from the faded and torn sign hanging on the side, was an emporium. The warehouse was a typical one; hidden from the general populace in the industrial park of the city, in the outskirts where few dared to venture. It was gated, though rusted from lack of maintenance. He pulled on the balaclava and made his way to it, locking the door behind him and noting where the car was positioned for a quick getaway if need be.

Sticking to the shadows, Shirou climbed over the gate, nimbly avoiding the spikes that were supposed to stop such activities. Seeing no guard around, he dropped the last few feet and started running, boots clacking softly on the bricks. His head was down to gain momentum, cruising speed established before he jumped, his momentum and enhanced strength carrying him up the side of the building. Tracing small but durable knives, he used them as makeshift climbing tools to scale the wall, his ears primed for noise other than his. Holding the edge, he flipped himself over and onto the roof.

This was a time-sensitive mission, he knew, of two important criteria that needed to be fulfilled. First would be the rescue of spider-man before anything untoward happened to him. The second would be ascertaining his identity and any other valuable piece of information the hero might have before iron-man arrived—an obvious conclusion the Director and Shirou arrived at.

Reaching the top of the building while avoiding been seen was child's play. He realized why the moment he flipped himself unto the roof, twisting sharply to the side and pirouetting on his hands to dodge a thrown shuriken. It was a trap, and in his obvious haste, he had fallen right into it.

Aware of the severity of the situation he was in, he got into a stance, Kanshou and Bakuya appearing in motes of electric blue grasped tightly in his fist. His opponent simply brought up a gun, leveled it, then unleashed a spray of bullets.

With an annoyed sigh, Shirou kicked off against the floor of the roof, blades flashing to stop the incoming moon-shaped projectiles. His only hope was that he wouldn't be too late to stop whatever it was Spider-Man was unwillingly dragged into.

. . . . .

S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Sword

. . . . .

Peter Parker would be among the first to admit when he was scared. When the mask was on though, he was able to hide that fear. Along with his sarcastic and witty comments, it was easy to fool most that he was a paragon of confidence. Bereft of his mask as he was now, he couldn't keep the fear from being obvious. At this point, it wouldn't have surprised him if it was boldly written on his face.

Not to say that fighting against criminals outfitted with crazy futuristic weapons and the vulture wasn't scary… somehow, it didn't measure up anywhere near the fear he felt at the moment. Simply put, he was terrified and out of his depths. Like a fish out of water just flopping on the hard ground. The mental image was funny enough to bring a smile to his face.

A pity that smile died a horrible death as a thin cloth hood was pulled over his head, bound through means unknown. Though, to be fair, it didn't take an Einstein to figure out it was through magic. It wasn't tight by any means, and it wasn't difficult to breathe through, but the mere concept of being brought, hooded into a secret lair was enough to give him a mild case of the freakouts. Okay, maybe a major case. Which, he realized later, was very likely his captor's intent. Well, that, and possibly murdering him.

Anger needled him just enough to counteract the terror, though only a bit. He had no reason to believe he was going to live through whatever this was—kidnapping? Ransom? Ritual? Maybe Mr. Stark was right in not allowing him to do things on his own. If he had a crime-fighting partner, the chances of him being rescued would have been significantly high.

He caught a hint of smoke. But there was more than that: a hum in the air, a tremor of power gathering that poked and prodded his heart into racing. Well, that was one way to get the terror juice flowing again.

And soon it would be his life juice flowing out and onto the floor.

He cursed himself for the mental image he unwittingly projected into his mind, involuntarily flinching as a result, and distracted himself by looking around the room. Straining his eyes to its fullest capabilities, he could barely make out the dark grey stone floor carved with worn glyphs, so numerous that the room felt circular. There were no windows which made him believe they were in a basement or something like that, no furnishings, and a door up ahead of him, ajar, with two henchmen at the sides. Arcane light cast by shimmering sigils high above-bathed everything in an amber glow and eerie sliding shadows. Wisps of smoke rose from glowing ends of various crystals and pots and branches of herbs, pieces of fruit, and flowers, likely the source of the smoke and funky smell that permeated the air.

The head honcho, inferring from the way they all deferred to her, stood before him, tall and elegant in what looked like a perfectly tailored charcoal grey Armani suit, complete with a crisp white shirt and black tie. Keen green eyes set in a face with a British cast left no doubt that she was thoroughly assessing him on all sorts of levels.

Inky black hair entwined with a bleached white cord hung to the small of her back in a heavy intricate braid. Power pulsed from her in such controlled undulations that he got the sense he was only getting a hint of her full aura.

Doctor Octopus—otherwise known as the asshole that brought him here (they were right. Swearing, whether mentally or orally, did take an edge of the situation)—busied himself at the perimeter of the summoning circle, doing things men of sciences shouldn't really be doing. He erased and traced sigils with a confidence that could only come with lots of secret practice in the mystic arts or a heavy dose of mind control, or more likely, simping hard.

Shitty tier-3 subs.

He sighed. Was there a slim chance that he wasn't going to play a huge part in a plot to take over the world? For the sake of Aunt May, he hoped the answer to that question was a resounding 'yes'. His aunt would kill him if he died, again. He would be dead, twice. Like Rin from Inuyasha.

No… anything but that.

He straightened his shoulders. "So, have we met before?… because I would have surely remembered you if we… uh… met before?"

What was that? C'mon Parker, you can do better than that.

His hope that she was a cool evil chick who would ignore his attempt at flirting was dashed the moment her face grew hard, and when she spoke, her voice was a lava flow promising to consume all in its path. "A pity, you are still a child." she seized his chin and looked into his face as though determining his worth. "But know this, your sacrifice wouldn't be in vain."

She released him with a slight shove, and he staggered back a step before recovering. Hold on, why was there a stress on the 'sacrifice'. Could it be…? Terror coiled in his gut, but he did his best to put on a sneer.

Only to stop when he remembered she wouldn't be able to see his facial expression. Resisting the urge to face-palm, he spoke out:

"You can't do that, I mean, Mr. Stark is going to be so angry if you use me as a sacrifice," he said, squaring his shoulders and doing his damnedest to look like he did this sort of thing every day. "Yup, I know that much. I'm like his pseudo-son or something." he scowled at the last part and brushed himself off. His pants felt sticky, and when he glanced down at his hands, he realized he was splattered with blood. Gross! He dragged his gaze back up. "Why are you sacrificing me? I may be a virgin and young, some might say beautiful too, but I'm neither fair nor a maiden."

The madam of the entire operation's eyes skimmed over him, taking in his general appearance and the spattered fluid on his pants and—he knew—in his hair. He had no doubt she knew exactly what it was. But if she thought he was hurt during his capture, she sure as shit didn't show a flicker of dismay or remorse. Instead, she turned away, clasped her hands behind her back, and headed for the doors.

"Bring him," she ordered.

Why were the evil ones always beautiful assholes? Okay… maybe, except for Voldemort, but even he was handsome before he became a magical British Orochimaru.

A soft scrape of sound from behind alerted him—boots on stone. He turned to see the largest henchman he had ever seen moving his way. Like Mike Tyson. Peter paused. Was Mike Tyson going to lead him to his death? Oh, God, he always knew this day would come.

Swallowing thickly, the teenage superhero raised his hands, palms out. "There is no need for force, honored one," he ass-kissed quickly. "I will offer no resistance."

The henchman growled low in his throat and pointed a beefy hand toward the doors. It was pretty clear what he meant, and Peter turned quickly to comply. While he was sure that Mike was in fact a nice person in any other situation, he had pretty much let go of any illusions he might have held about the overall friendliness of henchmen during work hours.

If they wanted to go up the ranks, they needed to show how cutthroat they were. Or else, they would be stuck working for minimum wage.

Doing his best impression of a cooperative prisoner (hehe), he passed through a set of doors he hadn't seen in his earlier assessment, wondering—

. . . . .

—how he still managed to fight extremely well and make use of his abilities despite his memory loss. Shirou figured, as he fell into a roll and landed past his opponent, that good instincts, knowledge, and hard-earned disciplines had simply carried over.

Without it, he supposed, this fight would have been going differently.

In one fluid motion, he stepped up from the roll and swung his elbow back into the man's neck. Or would have, if not for a timely twist of the man's heels. A sword swung quickly prevented energy claws, most likely to mimic the mutant wolverine's, from thrusting into the side of his neck.

His opponent was not an easy foe to best, to be honest. The vast array of weaponry he had on his person, and his ability to duplicate the movements of others through brief observation, made him a more than fair matchup for Shirou.

He narrowed his eyes as a troubling realization dawned on him. The person orchestrating this event specifically had him in mind and had been monitoring him long enough to get a read on his abilities and come up with a suitable trap.

That… was a troubling prospect.

As Shirou stepped forward to meet the Taskmaster's charge, he tilted his head to dodge an arrow. Taking no note of the blinking red light on the bulbous tip, he was ill-prepared for the subsequent detonation. He felt a wave of vertigo hit with white washing his vision, rocking his balance. The world wavered, and he forced himself to focus as he brought his swords up to block the man's descending sword stroke. Taskmaster's swords struck Shirou's with a loud clang and flitting sparks, and the force of the blow coupled with the disorientation he felt sent Shirou to his knees, his arm stretched above his head.

The man could likely feel Shirou's arms quivering beneath his swords, the vibration transferring up to his own arm. With a wicked chuckle, the man drew his leg back, the sharp edge glinting in the moonlight.

As the boot flashed forward, Shirou somehow found the will he needed to heave himself to his feet, twisting aside as he did so. Taskmaster's boot scraped his side, catching in his shirt but only scratching along his skin, and Shirou slashed his own blades across in front of him. The man danced back, easily avoiding the attack, and Shirou felt the world tilt around him again.

He had never been exposed to a flashbang, and it showed in his slow and groggy movements.

Shaking his head, Shirou darted closer to the man and struck him hard in his mask. The antihero's head snapped back and he stumbled, flailing his hand out to maintain balance as his energy sword dissipated. Shirou pressed his advantage and made a stab at his neck. Taskmaster wheeled around and blocked the attack with an energy shield. He spun on his heel and smashed his elbow into Shirou's nose, which split open and sprayed them both with blood.

"I expected much from you, agent." Taskmaster said, dipping his shoulders as he balanced on the balls of his feet.

Shirou grunted, closing the distance and lashing out with his swords. Taskmaster leaned back as a white blur narrowly missed his throat. They came together once again with a crack of metal on substantial energy as Taskmaster attacked, aiming for Shirou's head. It was a predictable move, and he blocked predictably, not exerting himself, and not giving him any information—any more than he currently had. The man pressed his attack, aiming at his stomach and then right shoulder and left knee, but Shirou's swords blocked each attack easily as it cut into place. The man sped up, trying to get past his guard, but he sped up his defensive movements to compensate.

Apparently tired of the game after a little while, Taskmaster stepped forward as he blocked Shirou's last attack, this one aimed at his left hip, and the man spun around his left side, aiming a strike at his knee as he moved. Shirou jumped sideways, easily outdistancing his hit, but the jump left him a little unbalanced, and Taskmaster pressed the attack.

The man's energy swords moved quickly as he threw shots at Shirou's head, arms, and thighs, alternating from left to right, but the predictable pattern of attacks made it easy for Shirou to move his swords into position to block. The man was fast though, so he was unable to take back the advantage.

The sounds of battle filled the night sky, with Shirou and Taskmaster spinning around each other trying to find openings that didn't exist. Suddenly, Taskmaster changed direction, stepping into Shirou's path and causing him to lose his balance as he tried to stumble out of the way of his attack at his ankle. Shirou avoided the attack, but his unsteady balance caused him to fall backward, landing with a thud.

Shirou's weapon was up defensively before he had even finished expending his momentum. He held off a series of attacks as he got his feet under him, still slightly disorientated from the concussive blast.

They were both seemingly evenly matched, and the time wasted was continuously been accumulated. Apparently determined to end this combat quickly, Shirou increased his speed even more. His swords were nearly a blur as he blocked Taskmaster's attacks and made attacks of his own.

Not to be outdone, Taskmaster stepped up the intensity of his attacks too. But when Shirou intercepted each of his strikes with a clank, he moved into a series of quick attacks, alternating left and right, all aimed at the agent's head. Shirou blocked them easily, but the rhythm of the attacks and defenses drew him in, so when the man suddenly swept a lone sword down and across at ankle height, he was slightly unprepared. Taskmaster's weapon swept his legs out from under him, and suddenly he was on the ground for the second time in this encounter. Unfortunately, his momentum continued to carry him backwas, and his—

. . . . .

—senses were tuned to high alert since information on the perpetrators and layout could be useful later. But mostly Peter did so because getting into that mindset helped keep him from thinking about how very fucked he was and then letting go of his bladder functions. He took in what he could, but with white Mike herding him close behind, he didn't have time to sightsee.

A few steps down the corridor and to the right, they turned and climbed down a curving staircase, eventually coming to a room that, judging from distance and direction traveled, was likely directly below the previous chamber.

A multisided obelisk of polished black stone rose from the center of the room, ragged fissures radiating from the base in a pattern of sorts, along the floor and to the walls. The whole thing hummed with potency, palpable even to his non-magical senses. Odd glyphs sketched in colored chalk marked the tapered tip of each fissure like physical mirrors of the flickering sigils above them.

He just knew they would burn an ominous red.

Going back up the stairs seemed like a much better plan than going forward. Except for the big hulking henchmen that blocked the way. On the far side of the room, the head honcho stood like a stereotypical leader, facing away, hands clasped behind her back.

I really should find out her name, he thought as he took a couple of steps toward the woman, hugging the wall and putting as much space as he could between him and quite possibly his death bed. Scintillating and raw potency flared from them like angry azure flames, and he froze.

The power crackled over him in twisted, disorienting pulses for a few seconds then subsided, leaving his ears ringing and the world tilting. He staggered and set his back against the wall, barely managing to stay upright. In another couple of seconds, it was as if it had never happened, except for him standing drunkenly with his mouth near impossibly dry, as though all of the moisture had been sucked from him.

It was small comfort to see that Mike Tyson took a step back as well, angry demeanor gone in a flash, though he recovered within a few heartbeats and regained his stance.

Peter worked spit back into his mouth and shot a look at the madam's back. "Is this where I die?" he managed, pissed that his voice had a slight quiver at the end.

Her only response was to extend her right arm to her side and gesture for him to come to her with a slight movement of the index and middle finger, not turning even a millimetre toward him. Clenching his jaw, he moved forward.

When he reached her side she spoke, voice low and disturbingly melodious. "Yes,"

Oh, God... His heart restarted its nervous pounding.

The woman lifted her chin a fraction. "Big Turk," she said. He saw the white Mike Tyson straighten. "Go prepare the boy." her voice resonated with intensity. "We will begin the summoning shortly."

Yeah, that wasn't ominous or anything. He gulped, working hard to maintain a demeanor other than freaked out.

She turned to him, face cold and hard, yet with molten, living heat behind her eyes. "As I implied, I am not so far gone as to enjoy using a child, but needs must. You understand, don't you?"

Never in his life had he felt the overwhelming urge to tell someone where exactly they can stuff their needs. He bit back a smile at that, and threw his hands up, utterly frustrated and exasperated at the woman.

"I demand a lawyer,"

She had no reaction to his, admittedly, funny outburst as she—

. . . . .

—grabbed Shirou by the shirt, pulling him forward and bringing his knee into his stomach. He was held down, the knee driving into his body like a piston. Then, Taskmaster lifted him up onto his shoulders and threw him across the room. Shirou turned in the air, protecting his crushed shoulder, and rolled when he landed heavily onto the ground.

The man rushed him. Shirou blocked the first blow, but the second was too quick and his knuckle glanced off his shoulder. The antihero leaped forward, his body empowered by his anger, and grabbed at the teen's throat. Shirou smashed his arm down, breaking Taskmaster's grip before it could properly take hold. He brought his elbow up sharply and caught him squarely under the chin, knocking him backward. A chip of his mask fell and pinged against the stone tiles.

The man halted, shocked. Bruised flesh peeked from within the mask. Then, he sprang to meet Shirou, his own swords held out ready to parry, and they met in a flurry of blades.

Shirou danced aside, his weapons crossing to block Taskmaster's descending sword stroke. He pushed his blades up and apart, throwing Taskmaster's swords out to the side and following through with a kick to the midsection.

He was in control of the flow of the fight now. And it showed in the way he attacked the man's arms, face, and stomach. Taskmaster could do nothing but parry his attacks, unable to disengage long enough to step backward and give himself some breathing room.

Suddenly, Taskmaster missed a beat, and seeing the opening for the trap that it was, Shirou feinted forward with a sword, transferring his weight onto his right leg, knee bent. Then, he immediately pushed off his right leg, spinning in a roundhouse kick aimed at the man's head.

The antihero ducked, still perfectly balanced, but his lower body position enabled Shirou to land his kick and push off again, driving his knee into his mask and forcing him backward. He followed his attack immediately with a snap kick, breaking the mask further and sending blood cascading down his face. While his opponent reeled in agony, Shirou drove forward with his swords, slicing across the side of his face and sending more blood flowing down his face, this time into his eyes.

Shirou didn't dare lose his advantage, and he drove forward with his swords again, determined to end this now. Unfortunately, despite his pain and semi-blindness, Taskmaster was expecting his attack and grabbed his wrist as it shot forward. He was still crouched, and now he straightened, using Shirou's momentum against him as he flung him over his head to crash into the ground.

This made it the third time he became painfully familiar with the rough surface.

A bit dazed, blood now streaming from a cut on his forehead through the rip of his balaclava, he staggered back up, trying to clear his head before the killing blow came from behind. Fortunately, Taskmaster had taken these few moments of respite to wipe the blood from his eyes and assess the situation, so he was able to regain his balance. The two fighters paused for a moment, appraising each other, and the situation in which they found themselves. They were both hurt, but neither knew how bad the injuries were for the other party. They were both still alive, though one was evidently more alive than the other.

Shirou knew that the man was weighing his options, and he knew that he would attack again, unwilling to give up the task as lost. He prepared for that and took a deep breath, the married blades once again appearing in his clenched fists.

When Taskmaster finally charged, he was intending to finish the fight.

. . . . .

S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Sword

. . . . .

Peter was slowly led around the outer perimeter of the ritual circle. At the moment, he was more than thankful for his powers. His enhanced senses had allowed him to see through the hood. Knowing where and how he would die was infinitely better than dying in the dark; the fear alone would be enough to give him a heart attack.

A golden glow occupied the far side of the circle. The head honcho. He was certain of it. Under any other circumstances, he probably would have thought this was some really cool shit. Actually, he did think it was some cool shit. He simply didn't like the idea that this particular cool shit was about to be used on him to summon who the hell knew what.

Sorry, the situation was a bit hard to take in. And oh God, he was talking to himself more than usual. Was he going insane?

Big Turk released him, shoved him forward, and stepped back. Now the woman ran her hands over him in a thorough search that reminded him of a pat-down, thankfully steering clear of his 'areas' and using the back of her hand because it sure as hell wasn't consensual.

She finally stood from a crouch after running her hands down each of his legs. "To the center," she said, voice even more intense than before.

Peter was firmly guided to the center of the circle, maneuvering between some of the sigils and passing straight through others. Where they touched, his skin tingled, and some tugged at him as if reluctant to let him pass.

"On your back," the henchman said, voice lofty, though it held the faintest touch of a waver that made Peter think his entire attitude was an act. Were they playing games to keep him off balance? Or did Big Turk just realized the kind of twisted shit he got himself in? Either way, the effect was certainly working.

Sweat stung his armpits and lower back as he obediently lay supine on the slab of stone in the middle of the diagram. Irritated at the covering over his head, he pleaded for it to be removed as there was really no need for it. Thankfully, it was pulled off. He blinked and looked up at the ceiling as he tried his damnedest to hide how very and utterly scared he was.

Casually, the henchman separated and bound each of his limbs against the cool stone with cold, iron chains, spread-eagle. His fear spiked with the sudden restraint, and he bit back a noise of dismay, chains clanging as he tried to wiggle and get comfortable. He chewed his lower lip. At least he wasn't naked.

The woman approached, looked down at him for a few more heartbeats, then stood and moved to the perimeter of the circle above his head and out of sight, unless he wanted to do some serious neck-craning. Which he really didn't. He didn't bother testing the chains because he knew they wouldn't shackle him with normal ones, even though for some reason they forgot his enhanced senses negated the use of a hood. Instead, he focused on regulating his breathing and tried, unsuccessfully, to not wonder what was about to happen.

The patterns of the diagram brightened even as an intense red (ha, called it!) light flared into existence above his head. He squeezed his eyes shut as the light seemed to permeate every cell of his being, pulsing with the thrum of the room. It didn't hurt, but it was definitely odd.

After what felt like a few minutes, the head honcho stood beside him again, this time clutching at the broken hilt of an ornate sword and an old book. The woman, raising the athame above his sternum, began chanting the words from the now open book:

Let silver and steel be the essence.

Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.

Let Gaea be the mother I pay tribute to.

Let a wall rise against the wind that shall fall.

Let the four cardinal gates close.

Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate.

Let it be declared now; your flesh shall serve under me, and my fate shall be with your sword.

Submit to the beckoning of the high priestess

Answer, if you would submit to this will and this truth.

An oath shall be sworn here.

I shall attain all virtues of all of Heaven;

I shall have dominion over all evils of all of Hell.

From the Seventh Heaven, attended to by three great words of power,

Come forth from the ring of restraint, protector of the holy balance!

Reaching the climax, she stopped and added, "Man of spider, prepare," tone uncompromising and intense.

"Wha—"

He couldn't voice out his confusion as without preamble, her hands drove down and searing heat ripped through his chest. He screamed, arching his back as he pulled against the bindings, his—

. . . . .

—perception of time was slowed as his breath was held, magic flowing through his veins, empowering his physical attributes.

Shirou's senses focused and sharpened like that of a telescope peering at an object far away, his vision becoming nigh perfect. He was able to observe and scrutinize a perfectly preserved still of existence, seeing every detail with an inhuman clarity. He could zone in on any object and see the minute factors of it. All of this, while everything was moving at a snail's crawl.

He took the moment to pick apart and consider Taskmaster's stance. He already had excellent reflexes and predictive abilities, but with time sluggish, and his eyesight so focused, he calculated the exact ways that the man's hips and feet were aligned. All possible actions were considered and put together, as he created a direct plan to end the fight.

He touched upon that power he possessed, channeling greater strength to the muscles in his arms and legs that he would need for the attack, and brought to bear greater mystic energy near his hand, where he could unleash it into and then through Kanshou and Bakuya for a devastating strike.

To his mind, this moment of observation, contemplation, and planning went on for at least a couple minutes. In reality, all of this lasted less than a second. Such was his speed.

He released his breath and surged forward inhumanly fast. All the muscles and bones of his body worked in perfect synergy to create an indomitable attack. Instantly, he was upon Taskmaster, breaking past his guard, and pinning the man against the floor of the roof.

Taskmaster barely survived, holding a hand's forearm with the other as an energy shield was quickly formed between them, using it as a desperate last defense against the married blades. Shirou pushed against that, and the man's arms shuddered with the immense exertion necessary to counteract Shirou's titanic strength. He had hit Taskmaster with all the power of a speeding semi-truck, and the antihero stretched his muscles and power-suit to the absolute limit trying to hold that back.

They both knew he couldn't keep it up.

Taskmaster growled loudly, the sound twisted in a ferocious, animalistic, furious way, bringing his leg up in a devastating knee strike.

It didn't matter.

Shirou ignored the sound of armor breaking at the point of contact and pressed his blades forward. Taskmaster's held his shield over his face, and the blades dug deeper, angled toward it. They were mere inches away from ripping through the mask.

His hands shook from the exertion, and the armor he wore began to crack at the sides.

Shirou pushed further, and Taskmaster's trembling arms gave way another inch. The light of the energy weapons fell upon his mask, was reflected in his eye holes; the edge of the blades came closer, slowly but surely tearing into the protective gear.

And Shirou saw it. He saw it in his eyes. He saw fear. Panic. Despair. He saw the frightened, desperate look those orbs conveyed as the antihero realized he was going to die.

And Shirou hesitated.

He sighed loudly leaping back, halting his actions and dissolving his weapons into electric blue motes of light. Taskmaster stood before him, swaying on his feet, blood streaming from the side of his mouth and various cuts on his face and body.

"I'm giving you a chance. Leave now or I'll be forced to kill you."

He had already wasted much time with the antihero. How much more would elapse before he could rescue spider-man?

"No can do, Emiya." Taskmaster said mockingly, rolling his shoulders as a lone sword appeared in his grasp. "They paid me to take you out…"

The man lunged forward, the wicked sharp sword glinting in the moonlight as it was swung down in an arc.

"…and I intend to do just that."

Shirou took a step back, slapped the weapons away, and backhanded the assailant.

"That's your first and final warning." Shirou nearly growled.

Taskmaster rubbed his jaw, then with a shout of, "Bastard!" took out a simple black-handled blade and charged once again.

Shirou clasped his knife hand and twisted the weapon out of his grip, the blade clattering to the roof-floor. The antihero bent low, ducking under the hands that made for him, and lunged forward, trying to slam his body into Shirou. But said agent was faster, spinning away and darting his hands out to smack against the back of Taskmaster's head, a leg coming out to trip the man. He was sent over the edge, swallowed up by the darkness of the night. A moment later there was the sickening thud as soft flesh met the hard ground.

Still, Shirou knew, the taskmaster would survive. The man was resilient like that.

He took a second to relax before his eyes narrowed and his body straightened out. Now, it was time to rescue the young hero. His legs tensed, and his body was coiled in preparation to jump, when suddenly—

. . . . .

—the intensity and power emanating from the diagram gradually increased, causing an all-encompassing glow and a scorching heat to be discharged. However, before the explosion tore through the place, bathing him in the embrace of heat, he could see—knelt in the stance of respect—a young armoured blonde woman in her early-mid teens.