Fate/Infinity

"Alright, just be honest, who do you work for?"
Tired of the cat-and-mouse game, Sven Glascheit kicks his chair aside and strides around my table, grabbing a fistful of my collar. "Still sticking with the bad cop routine?"
Grinding teeth exposed, the Enforcer's eyes briefly glow a deep blue, accompanied by a strength I hadn't expected from his skinny frame. But I stand my ground. He's strong, certainly, but not nearly on par with Eredin. He's firmly in the F-rank, though I suspect he's holding back a bit given the barely forming outline of a… "Minotaur? That's pretty cool, bro."
Now I remember!
Wasn't there some lordly kid with the same surname in El Melloi's classroom? His Astral Phantom was a Werewolf, though.
"Beast Magecraft? Very impressive."
"For a First-Gen, you sure know a lot." Steam releases from his nostrils, carrying a scent that reminds me of boiling blood. Don't ask me how I know that smell.
"That's my whole shtick: I know things."
With a swift move, I yank the Enforcer's wrists, sending him crashing to the floor. His hoof lashes out, catching me square in the chest and propelling me through the reinforced glass behind which a group of his fellow Enforcers are silently observing us.
"A little excessive for upholders of the law, wouldn't you say?"
Dusting myself off, unfazed by the impact, I crack my neck and offer the stunned Enforcers a casual wave.
"Need I remind you forced confession is not admissible in a court of law?"
Ewkwardly, the five of us stare at one another, waiting for someone to make the first move.
Suddenly, another Enforcer stumbles unwittingly into the charged atmosphere, a box clutched awkwardly in his hands.
The middle-aged Enforcer hesitates, his eyes darting between me and his colleagues, before clearing his throat.
"Donuts?" He manages, holding out the box.
I stare at him for a moment before plucking a chocolate-glazed donut from the box and taking a bite. "Not bad… Where'd you get these?"
"Place five blocks down. You should check it out sometime."
"Wasn't that cranky old Mrs. McGee's thrift store?" The brunette next to me chips in.
"Think she sold the place."
"Guys, please!"
Clearing my throat loudly to capture everyone's attention, I continue, "Look, I can be as unprofessional as I want—I'm the disgruntled good samaritan whose entire livelihood is on the line because of the Tower's failure. But you guys represent your Lord's authority; act like i–!"
Before I can finish, Sven Glascheit charges at me, hooves sparking against the polished floor, his horns aiming for my back.
Just as I did with the Fiend, I whirl around; feet firmly planted to meet the unprovoked attack on more even grounds. The Clock Tower's HQ is basically a metal death-trap extending nearly 20 kilometers underneath the Big Ben.
While it was decorated to resemble the average office, the structure's basically solid metal enchanted to contain the explosion of a nuclear warhead, yet the force of our collision leaves dents in the sleek surface still.
Hands pushing the Enforcer's head down, I knee him in the chin; the impact causing the Beastly Apparition around him to flicker once, twice…
It holds, albeit just barely.
Dazed, Glascheit sinks to one knee, the back of his head just begging to be smashed by my knuckles.
I won't deny I'm tempted.
This smug fucking Malfoy-wannabe has been gunning for me ever since I set foot in London.
The only thing staying my fists is the fear of getting into hot water with the Tower.
If Kiritsugu could avoid capture, I see no reason why I can't do the same, but having the Tower hounding my ass would be too much of a headache. Thus, reluctantly, I release Sven Glascheit, who rolls to the side immediately.
It looks pretty smooth, I admit.
Dazed, Glascheit sinks to one knee, the back of his head just begging to be smashed by my knuckles.
I won't deny that I'm tempted.
Could've been smoother if he hadn't hit his head on the way up.
Walking over to one of the Enforcers, I hold my hands up, showing the handcuff I had snapped in half during our scuffle.
I don't even know why they bothered if the materials are that poor… I barely flexed a muscle. "How were you able to use Magecraft? The handcuff should have prevented that…"
"I wasn't." I wasn't lying.
I had already gauged Glascheit's strength and used just enough to match his.
"Wait, these cuffs stop Thaumaturgy?" It didn't show when I used [Structural Grasp] at all!
"They interfere with your Trigger, so yes. How are you so strong? Are you a Legacy?"
"Not to my knowledge, no..." Granted, if this Vessel were connected to a legendary Hero, I wouldn't be too surprised. That's how it usually goes, right?
Some random kid from the far-flung corner of the world turns out to be the long-lost descendant of a Hero, which explains all the cool powers he's collecting like Pokémon.
"Then how are you so strong?"
Pursing my lips, I shrug. "Sorcery Trait?"
[Whispering Wind] picks that moment to transmit a conversation to me… It's patchy and filled with a grainy sound that itches my teeth, but I manage to discern the speakers' genders, my own description, and two crucial words: Sealing Designation.
Heart sinking to my stomach, I instantly put my guard up.
The Enforcers must've picked up on the subtle shift in my body language because their laid-back demeanor vanishes almost immediately. "Mr. Magnus, as amusing as your altercation with Glascheit was, we are legally obliged to recapture a suspect if they escape."
Bending the handcuffs, I toss the pieces aside and shares my sight with Caragor who is… Playing with the passerby?
The lil' shit's picking up more chicks than I do with [Lust Spot].
Respect.
With a mental order, I instruct the Demon to sneak into the Tower.
Though I know not the identities of the speakers, I can deduce they're quite high up ladder
It lazily stands, stretches as is its usual routine, then mewls cutely, before going straight for the alley where the vents connected to the Tower's underground HQ are.
Even Magi need to breathe, and forcing the local Mana Reactor to run at maximum capacity to support thousands, miles deep within the earth's crust, sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. The tunnels they've created are quite Impressive, to be honest. There are even thousands of false tunnels that lead to the train station nearby to trick wannabe tricksters.

Caragor himself wouldn't be able to find the way in, not without the Link between us.
While it can move through occupied space, Od picks the path of least resistance.
To prevent this, Kiritsugu said the Tower used Bounded Fields to scramble the signals between Magi and their Familiars, but Gaunter O'Dimm's work is a different breed it seems.
Attention split between my normal field of view and Caragor's, I answer the Enforcer with a smirk. "I was under the impression I'm here as a guest and potential seedling, not a suspect." I wasn't. It's just a roundabout way to remind the Tower's dogs of their own laws. There's no way I will let them cuff me again, not while knowing the function of the handcuffs and what's being discussed about me behind closed doors.
"This is… A sensitive matter, Jasper. You know we can't let you go, not without clearing you first."
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I notice the donut box shaking lightly.
"Why you making hand signs, bro? Whatchu' trying to communicate? Let's hear it."
Awkwardly, the Enforcer coughs, sets the box back on the table, and gestures toward the door. "If you don't wish to be cuffed, we won't. The higher-ups have requested that you remain in the Tower. You need not worry about accommodations. Wouldn't want rumor to get out that we at the Tower mistreat our guests."
"Don't you think that ship has kinda sailed?" I snort, gesturing at my assailant. Furthermore, I'd definitely call getting probes shoved up my ass like I'm starring in a shitty parody of 'Alien Abductions' mistreatment.
"I'll ensure Enforcer Glascheit receive proper punishments for his behavior, you have my words."
"Words…" I taste it in my tongue and mock. "They don't mean a whole lot, do they?"
The smile on the Enforcer's face instantly stiffens.
"What if I refuse? What if I decide to waltz out right now?"
"We'll stop yo—!"
The Enforcer doesn't even have time to blink. One moment I'm there, the next I'm a breath away, my index finger a hair's breadth from his skull. "You'll do what exactly?"
Sweat beading on his forehead, the Enforcer stumbles back, but holds his ground.
Before things can escalate further, I raise my arms to the air and laugh; the aggression bleeding away on command. "Just kidding…" Understandably, no one finds the 'joke' funny except me. "Tough crowd."
I grin, then wrinkle my nose, taking a purposefully loud sniff. "Is that… Excrement I smell?"
"Sorry, that was me."
We both turn to the unfortunate soul who just confessed to soiling himself.
You'd not be able to waterboard that out of me.
Holding his breath, Enforcer 'Donut' practically leaps away, a look of disgust twisting his features as he pinches his nose and mutters apologetically, "Forgive him, he's new."
"No problem?"
"Now, where were we?" Donut asks, eager to move on.
"You were about to escort me to the most expensive room in the Tower."
"Well, it's not my money we're spending."
After settling into the lavish room, my first order of business is a thorough sweep for surveillance. I'm not surprised to find the place crawling with hidden cameras and listening devices—at least a dozen concealed in every nook and cranny.
What does surprise me is their curious resistance to [Structural Grasp]. My attempts to analyze their composition are seemingly met with an impenetrable barrier; the Od waves I project bouncing off harmlessly.
Fortunately, their camouflage isn't foolproof.
While they may hide from my Spell, they can't mask the evidence of their presence: The faint scents of sweats clinging to their surfaces, nor the telltale thrum of Od coursing through the Mystic Codes like a buzzing fluorescent light.
I gather the offending devices and leave them with a curt knock on the Enforcer's door.
Let them stew.
It's a classic tactic, forcing someone to wait and letting anxiety fester.
But I'm not that easily rattled.
I might not be able to take on the entire Tower, but with Caragor at my side, escape wouldn't be an issue.
As midnight strikes, I notice the decorative flowers in the room suddenly bursting into more vibrant life. Interesting. Rising to my feet, I yank open the door a beat before the old man can knock.
Our eyes lock, and in that split second, a silent exchange takes place.
We size each other up, running through a thousand simulated battles in our minds. It's taken time, but I've honed my instincts. I can now glean a measure of a person's strength just by observing their demeanor.
Aura, some might call it.
There's an inherent difference between the weak and the strong; the wealthy and the poor.
The weak telegraph their fear, their insecurity. Sometimes that manifests as aggression in a desperate attempt to level the playing field.
It's the same principle behind those wildlife videos—bears and gorillas performing mock charges, backing down when they're met with confidence.
It's why Glascheit lost control; why my composure drove him nuts.
"Lemme' guess, you have an offer for me?"
Clad in a sleek black suit, accessorized with gloves and luxurious leather shoes, the man's white hair catches my eyes first.
At first I believe it a sign of aging, and maybe it is, but the purple tint tells me otherwise.
The next are his irises, shinning a deep violet that even Yennefer's cannot compare.
He reminds of the Dick Wiz—I mean the Magus of Flowers.
I might confuse specific traits with those of other Heroic Spirits, but not him.
"Are you related to Merlin, by any chance?" I inquire.
As soon as I mention the name, his tense expression melts away, replaced with a look of profound exhaustion. "Go on, tell me—what did my prick of an ancestor do to yours?"
"Nothing," I shrug. "I'm just obsessed with Arthurian legends."
Though, in this universe, it's more like Artorian.
"Really?" The man breaths a sigh of relief.
"This isn't the first time, is it?"
"You'd be surprised," He responds, a weary smile crossing his face. "When I was younger, there'd always be one or two people coming to seek 'justice' for my ancestor's wrongdoings every year or so. Like I had any involvement in it."
"Tough…"
As we step into the room, the man introduces himself. "My name's Titus Ambrosius."
"Sounds Roman." I comment.
"Yes, my parents had an inexplicable obsession with Rome," He replies, reaching for the teapot to pour himself a cup.
The frown on Titus' face deepens in distaste the instant he takes that first sip.
"I distinctly remember instructing them to serve you properly… What is this bitter horsepiss?"
"It's not their fault. I specifically demanded it." The tea still doesn't have the same flavor, but it is probably the closest thing they have in store.
"Your taste in tea is… Curious."
"You can just say it's shit. I won't take offense."
Pouring myself one as well, I knock down the cup like an alcoholic would a shot.
"It's late, best get to it."
"Just waiting on you." I respond with a smirk.
"Jasper Hangman, we have done a background check on you. Nothing came up, and Lady LeBlanc herself has vouched for your innocence."
"But that's not why you're here." I prompt.
"Indeed, it isn't. I'm here to represent her Majesty Lady Barthomeloi and officially extend a hand to you."
"Let me hear her offer then."
Titus Ambrosius does not hide anything.
He lays out the threats I'm currently facing and then mentions how the Aristocratic Faction can protect me from getting a Sealing Designation slapped on me.
It'd definitely be more sincere if they weren't subtly using it on me if I decline. "On account of your… Gift."
"You mean 'gifts,' plural." I correct him.
Ignoring my remark, Titus continues. "We'll provide you with all the privileges usually reserved for the Heir of a Great House; we'll smooth your path to Lordship. All we ask is that you marry one of our own and produce a child as soon as possible. We cannot indefinitely prevent their attempts, securing your lineage will give other Factions less leverage. Naturally, your children will be raised in the Tower, but we have plenty of room for them."
Translation: They're hoping a wife and children will tie me to their Faction forever.
In times long past, nobility would send their children to other kingdoms or territories to foster peace and strengthen alliances. This ancient practice is essentially what they are demanding.
The real dilemma is my plummeting worth should children bearing the same Traits I have were born.
It's the same with the free market.
The rarer something is, the more worth it has and vice versa.
"That's a huge decision you're pushing me into."
"It's the best offer I can think of. The alternative is a lot worse, trust me." He replies seriously.
Honestly, I don't mind marrying someone I don't love.
Marriage was never about love; it was about responsibility and duty once upon a time.
Even peasants would sell their sons and daughters for more benefits, hence why a little thing called 'bridal price' exists.
This is a responsibility and a trade-off that I really don't mind making.
What's concerning is how Ciri and Gill will receive the news to me getting a political marriage. The Golden Queen probably won't care, but Ciri? I know exactly how she feels about these kinds of relationships.
While she's fairly open-minded thanks to Geralt's tendency to charm the dress off every woman he ever meets, a political marriage could very well strain or even break our bond. "Can I think about it?"
If the Aristocratic Faction has made its move, the Democrats won't be far behind.
I reckon a representative of theirs is already on the way.
I'll listen to their offer first.
* Knock!
"Speak of the Devil…"
The door swings open and in comes a woman.
Compared to Ambrosius, she's pretty lackluster.
Probably no one of importance, just a normal representative.
"Lord Ambrosius," She greets before making her way to me. "Mr. Hangman. I brought you an envelope from our Lord."
Ripping the thing open, I read through the eloquent handwritting and contemplate my options.
The Aristocrats offer a lot more benefits and privileges, which include tax breaks should I ever decide to do business in the Tower, but the Democrats give me far more freedom to do as I please.
Their only demand is I stand with them on certain policies and be their propoganda mule, at least on the surface.
"Every year I'll gain more Sorcery Traits, or my existing ones will be upgraded."
Both look at me, confused.
"Every year."
"And you're telling us why?"
"To increase my importance." I answer honestly, tipping the chair to make room for my feet. "Both of you want me, but I'm not sure which of you I want, which is why I'm going to need time."
Personally, I'm leaning towards the Aristocrats for obvious reasons.
The tax breaks they include will be of tremendous help when I'm building things up, but making more 'hostages' for them to leverage against me? Big oof. "What's there to think about? They give you nothing but a promise of protection—a promise they can't keep, while we provide actual benefits."
"Forgive me if I'm not too eager to sell myself and my Firstborn. Like you said, Lord Ambrosius, it's late. I can't make this decision while muddleheaded."
Exchanging hostile glances, the two representatives file for the exit.
"I hope you'll make the right decision."
Merlin's descendent doesn't forget to push as he leaves.
As Merlin's descendant prepares to leave, he doesn't miss the chance to prod further.
"Trust me, I hope it too. But quick question, who will I be marrying if I agree to your terms?"
"That can be discussed,"
Titus replies, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "But I was under the impression Heiress LeBlanc has a bit of a schoolgirl crush on you?"
That's an even bigger oof…
Once they've filed out the room, I pull up the interface and—after much hesitation—open [Void Bridge: Witcher].
This needs to be further discussed with Ciri.