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She's born out of fire, death and rebirth. Like the resurrection of Christ, Joan of Arc as an unholy witch rises from the ashes of whatever goodness or purity her original self once had. Jeanne Alter is furious, and ravenous for revenge.
In hindsight perhaps destroying all of France wasn't the best idea, but the pain she'd been brought into was too much to bear. It was sink or swim, fight or die.
An Avenger is a being of hatred, so they say. A walking grudge, malicious and unpredictable. The Alter stalks the halls of Chaldea, hating the staff and Servants and most of all the Master that binds her here. (And, more than a little: herself.) Hot coals burn in her chest at seeing Jeanne, how Jeanne's so happy while her Alter is condemned to a wretched existence of choking on bile and hating, hating forever. So Jeanne Alter hates, and does not speak to her other self.
She would hesitate to call Shinjuku nice, but it feels like she belongs there. Everything in Shinjuku is just as wretched as she is, o horrible city, black maiden fire wheel. There's something comforting, deep in her soul, about the eternal night.
But Shinjuku is temporary, a passing existence made only to be wiped away. The Master of Chaldea comes, like the Alter knew she would. They fight, and the Alter burns herself up like always. She's betrayed, like always. She claws her way back to the top, like always. She spends a precious few moments silently slow-dancing with Ritsuka Fujimaru on the top floor of a glass tower while the Singularity dissolves into dust around them.
Nothing gold can stay, huh? she thinks, slipping back into the warm light of the Throne.
In the summer, though, something changes. Oh, she knows what it is—it's a stupid little book, drawn by hand and photocopied and stapled together last-minute. The art's not the best, and neither is the story. Something about a monster and a princess, left open-ended and unresolved. What a piece of crap. Yet, the Alter has to admit, there's something charming about it. It has a certain appeal, in spite of or maybe because of its imperfections. It's barely finished. At the very end: Jeanne, it says, in scratchy handwritten letters.
So this is her doing. Well. The Alter could make something better in her sleep.
There's a freedom to being a Berserker, to being batshit crazy and not caring. The Alter is actually excited for something. ServaFes can't come soon enough. Not after she taught herself how to read and write and draw, not after she spent the whole flight alone in first class reading the Hawaiʻi guidebook cover to cover. Sure, there's the problem of actually making a doujin on such short notice, and whatever horrid thing BB's roped them into, and Medb, but the Alter feels… strangely unbothered by all of it. It's an annoyance, nothing more. She can make a book, easy.
It loops and loops and loops. She makes a shitty book, and then makes more books. Draws more and more, sketching such tiny details that her fingers cramp up. Doesn't sleep. At least she has helpers: Mash, Master, Robin, Ushiwakamaru. The formation of Gespenst Ketzer. Ibaraki disappears a few resets in, but Osakabehime takes her place as an assistant. The Alter definitely prefers it that way. This, in itself, is something she's never felt before, and she struggles to find the words for it—camaraderie, teamwork, collaboration. She's part of something, passionate and made with love. (To put it lightly: she's working her ass off.)
Between the drawing and inking and fighting and screaming, she finds that she looks forward to the end of each loop, the day of the convention itself. Not just to see if they've finally won, though that's a part of it—God, she'd love to be free of this endless nightmare. No, more than that, she wants to see how the book does each time. The way other Servants' eyes light up when they see something they like at her table. The excitement in their voices as they ask to pick up a copy. Their smiles when she hands them their purchase.
Is this fulfillment? Is this what she's been missing all this time?
When she finally returns to Chaldea, she feels at least twenty years older. Exhausted, and drained, and yet so satisfied. She did it. She did it, with everyone's help, and she's gained so much knowledge and experience and work ethic and all that bullshit Jeanne's told her about. Shit. She'd thought that first book was good when she made it—now, she can see she's improved by leaps and bounds, and still has room to grow.
There is no happy ending for an Avenger. There is only fire, and death, and rebirth from the ashes as a living grudge. That's fine, as far as the Alter's concerned. Perhaps she was always meant to reject that fate. If she can't have her happiness naturally, she'll just have to make her own. Over, and over, and over.
She's crazy, after all. That's how she likes it.