[ An old mansion, a storm, a layer of dust that quakes with the thunder—the corpse seems par for the decor course, but the guy in full-body tights might not. The murder weapon—a long-necked rubber chicken—seems a little out-of-place too, but Lancer isn’t all too concerned. Questionably weirder things have happened. Like sudden mass extinction by alien invasion, maybe.
Instead he squats by the dead guy, watching for the tell-tale rise and fall of the gut, touching his skin by the jaw. Warm, but dead as a doornail. Lancer’s seen a couple bodies now or then, here and there, a dozen or couple thousand times, but usually he remembers if he's the one who took 'em out.
He swings the chicken around by the neck. It squeaks menacingly.
Not ideal. ]
Man—
[ He lets go, sending the rubber fowl flying into someone’s chest just as the doors creak open. ]
I’m impressed, how’d you manage that? [ He didn’t murder him, so… maybe you did. If not, didn’t hurt to dump the ‘weapon’ anyway. ]
PHASE III
[ Lancer sits along the stair rails, kicking a leg at some lazy tempo. He’s been at this a while to no avail, so deeply engrossed(?) in his efforts that he doesn’t seem to notice any extra company right away. Instead, he keeps his attention on a mightily interesting spot on the ceiling. ]
Duked it out with a giant once—or was it a dragon? [ The stairs don’t answer. He continues flatly, disinterested in his own bullshit. (It is, presumably, all bullshit.) ] Anyway, I cut off his head, and he just picked it up and left. The nerve, right? Better than just leaving it there to bloody up the floor, I guess. After that…
[ He pauses, finally looking sidelong with a resigned smile. ]
Ah, whatever. Ain't that interesting—what've you got? [ Wow them all with your tales, stranger, because it's all up to you. ]
PHASE IV
[ Moved as he is by the wailing in the distance, if the ominous pitter-patter of feet is any indication, it probably spells out incoming trouble. Which he doesn’t want. But he trots to a slow stop anyway, considering. To anyone else on the lam from the long, robotic arm of vigilante justice, ]
I bet we could clear this up quicker if we stop running. [ With words, or otherwise. Probably the latter, though his tone stays purely conversational. ] Unless you like bumbling around in the dark... then don't let me stop you.
lancer | fate/stay night
Instead he squats by the dead guy, watching for the tell-tale rise and fall of the gut, touching his skin by the jaw. Warm, but dead as a doornail. Lancer’s seen a couple bodies now or then, here and there, a dozen or couple thousand times, but usually he remembers if he's the one who took 'em out.
He swings the chicken around by the neck. It squeaks menacingly.
Not ideal. ]
Man—
[ He lets go, sending the rubber fowl flying into someone’s chest just as the doors creak open. ]
I’m impressed, how’d you manage that? [ He didn’t murder him, so… maybe you did. If not, didn’t hurt to dump the ‘weapon’ anyway. ]
PHASE III
Duked it out with a giant once—or was it a dragon? [ The stairs don’t answer. He continues flatly, disinterested in his own bullshit. (It is, presumably, all bullshit.) ] Anyway, I cut off his head, and he just picked it up and left. The nerve, right? Better than just leaving it there to bloody up the floor, I guess. After that…
[ He pauses, finally looking sidelong with a resigned smile. ]
Ah, whatever. Ain't that interesting—what've you got? [ Wow them all with your tales, stranger, because it's all up to you. ]
PHASE IV
I bet we could clear this up quicker if we stop running. [ With words, or otherwise. Probably the latter, though his tone stays purely conversational. ] Unless you like bumbling around in the dark... then don't let me stop you.
WILDCARD