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She feels ratty. All wrinkled clothes, worn and frayed, and wild unkempt hair. A great speck of dirt in the immaculate white cafeteria, its reflective tiles and fluorescent lights utterly blinding to her. Everything here is white. The walls, the floors, the ceilings, the furniture- even in the dormitories- the fucking uniforms. It gives her profound headaches, the kind that pound with each beat of her heart and build up pressure in her skull until its all she can do to restrain herself from pounding her head against the floor. She sits alone in the empty cafeteria, her eyes closed, thick red hair falling over her face in tangles as she tries to focus on the things in her hands. The thin paper of the cigarette, the loosely packed tobacco underneath. The weight of it between her fingers. The cold steel of the battered old lighter. She wonders if her mother ever felt this way- if she ever let herself really feel the cigarette, considered carefully the action of lighting it, or if smoking had become so rote for her that she did it by reflex.
The lighter flips open with a satisfying click, heat washing over her hand as she lets the Marlboro between her lips and guides the lighter up towards them. One last moment of hesitation- would this help her? How much does she really want to light this smoke? - and the lighter comes to its tip, the warmth bathing her face for just a moment before she flips the lighter shut. She takes a slow draw, holds it for a moment. A deep breath, in and then out, and smoke dissipates into the air in front of her. She had expected to cough. Or to feel something. Dizziness, euphoria. Maybe relief from this damned headache. There is no head rush, no feeling of having been held upside down, no burst of adrenaline. Maybe, she thinks, it takes some time. The disheveled girl taps the spent ash from the edge of the cigarette into her makeshift ashtray- an empty estradiol box- and brings the smoke back up to her lips. She waits a moment before taking her second draw and- -a gloved hand, lovely blue velvet, descends from above her and a single slender finger presses against the burning end of the smoke, stubbing it out without so much as a word of warning.
"No smoking inside, Fujimaru-san. It could be a problem for us if someone complained to Human Resources." Her voice is playful, friendly. Chaldea's de-facto chief administrator, Caster class Servant da Vinci, saunters elegantly around from behind her and settles on the other side of the table before pausing- the vibrant blue of her eyes drilling into Ritsuka's head, drifting slowly down to her mouth- and reaching across the table to pluck the cigarette right from between her lips. Ritsuka holds back her kneejerk response- she had already learned in her short time at Chaldea that da Vinci was not worth getting angry at, and letting herself get worked up over the aristocracy that poured off of the mature woman in waves was pointless; with research jobs, you just had to accept that you were going to be working with rich people who were in charge of you- and adjusts her posture. Leans back in her chair, rubs at the tense muscles in the back of her neck with her now-free right hand.
"You and Archaman are both going for the honorifics thing. Have you heard my accent? I'm not from Japan." Her voice is intentionally abrasive, bitter. People making assumptions about how Japanese she should be had always been a sore point for her, an annoyance that had followed her to wherever white people could be found since grade school. Ritsuka's eyes hold on the cigarette, watching it roll over da Vinci's fingers as she toys with it distractedly. Better than actually looking at da Vinci herself- letting her eyes follow the decadent fabrics of the Caster's clothes (or worse, the figure underneath) tended to end in her completely losing track of her own mind.
"Oh?" The sharp point of curiosity in da Vinci's voice stabs at her- she hates having this conversation. Easily the worst part of meeting anyone new, ever. She'd been forced into it by Archaman, but had managed to dodge it with da Vinci so far by avoiding direct conversation so religiously that Caster would have had to have learned her name from Mash. "It seems we don't know very much about you, miss Fujimaru. There's no personnel file, so all Roman and I knew is your name and that you flew in from Japan. Forgive the ignorance." What's the most painless way I can dodge this conversation this time?
"I don't live there." She leaves it at that, hoping her clear disinterest in sharing and the prickly irritation in her voice will deter a followup.
"Sorry if my asking bothers you, but I don't think I've gotten a very comprehensive impression of you. For example," da Vinci gestures at her with the pilfered cigarette, "I wouldn't have ever pegged you for a smoker. Mash- oh she went on at length about your physique after the French singularity. An athlete, she was sure. And your teeth- perfect." Caster maintains her favorite patented inscrutable half-smile, pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose with one long finger. For a moment, Ritsuka catches herself staring- at her glasses, the frames thin rose gold, at the softness of her face, at her expensive-looking matte pink lipstick, at those beautiful velvet gloves and the beautiful hands underneath them, at those long fingers still gently playing with Ritsuka's cigarette- and clears her throat to force her focus. Wait- what did that mean? Mash liked her physique? Like, her body? Mash Kyrielight was checking out her abs? She must have misheard- Ritsuka couldn't imagine the quiet girl, so professional and driven, gushing over someone like her- someone so mundane. She decides to just let that one slide- nothing good can come from lingering on it.
da Vinci's voice is inviting- she wants to talk. Really talk. Well- it's true that since arriving at Chaldea Ritsuka hasn't had a real personal conversation with anyone. A brief medical history with Doctor Archaman was the closest thing, and she couldn't stand him. She hadn't spoken to anyone else on the staff except for Mash, and that was all about their immediate situation. Not exactly fun talks. She wasn't much of a talker anyway, usually. But- well, circumstances were unusual here. With each passing day, it became more clear that she had unknowingly made a lifelong commitment to Chaldea. There would be no returning to normal life if, by some miracle, she was capable of resolving the threat to history posed by the singularities.
Thinking about it felt insane, even now. Her eyes fall to her hand, the vivid red command seal burned into the tan-ish skin. Master of Chaldea. She's supposed to save humanity. Her. Ritsuka Fujimaru. A fucking anthropology student. This was supposed to be an internship. She tugs the sleeve of her oversize jacket down over it, sighs with resignation. No more thinking about it. Not on her day off. If she was going to be living at Chaldea (and she definitely was), she couldn't stay this far detached from everyone else here for long. It couldn't hurt to talk to da Vinci, at least. If she was going to make friends with anyone at Chaldea, it may as well be the other trans woman on the staff. Mash liked her, which had to count for something, and she had come off as nice before, if a little egotistical- and if anyone deserved an ego, it would be da Vinci. Okay. Tell her the truth. Open up, for once.
"I'm not. A smoker, I mean. Bought a pack on impulse and I was thinking the nicotine might clear my headache. Didn't feel like anything, though."
"No, it wouldn't. Not for you, at least, so you should probably give up on it. Wouldn't want your breath to taste like smoke for nothing- not when you've got pretty girls to impress. Isn't that right, miss Fujimaru?" There's a lot to dissect there, and there's at least one part that Fujimaru is too scared to touch with a ten foot pole so- order of urgency.
"Just- Ritsuka's okay. I don't like the last name thing. You're not my coach. What do you mean, it wouldn't do anything for me?" That was the most pressing thing. Is there something wrong with her? Does she have some kind of strange, unique physiology she doesn't know about?
"Resistance to poison. Mash shares it with you through your contract, remember?" Oh. Duh. Right. The whole… contract thing was still alien to Fujimaru. Even in combat situations, she sometimes had trouble recognizing that Mash wasn't a human. More than once she had been scolded for taking a risk she shouldn't have on instinct for the sake of protecting someone infinitely stronger than her. Wait- resistance to poison worked on nicotine? That makes sense, she supposes, but how far does that go? Does it affect alcohol? Other drugs? Is she going to have to live the entire rest of her life sober? She stumbles through an acknowledgement, caught up in her own confusion.
"Oh. Right. I, uh-"
"This is all very new to you, isn't it?" For a moment there's an uncharacteristic look in da Vinci's eyes- something almost comforting. Warm. Ritsuka flushes, embarrassed, and looks away. It's natural to be inexperienced, uncomfortable when in the position she is in. she knows that. There's no judgement in da Vinci's assessment. But still- looking incompetent in front of someone like her wasn't one of her top ten favorite things. Pity is not the preferred emotion to inspire in the gorgeous older trans women in one's life.
"I know you aren't a magus, but I had assumed it was due to extenuating circumstances- a lack of a family crest or formal training."
"That's… kind of the case. I knew about magic in abstract, that it was a real thing, but that's it. My dad was the mage. I was raised by my mom." The words are like ashes in her mouth. Some bitter thing reaches out from inside her, wraps around her throat. That old piece of shit, a mage, and her mother dead alone at thirty-five. Her fist closes involuntarily as she bites the inside of her cheek. She was going to regret not burning that man's mansion down for the rest of her life. da Vinci catches something in the explanation- something nobody at Chaldea knew yet. Was. Her father is dead. Died without passing on his magic.
Velvet, soft and cold against the back of her hand. Lightly at first, and then the weight of da Vinci's hand- the warmth of her palm- settles atop Ritsuka's. Firm. She freezes for a moment, frightened by the sudden touch and she can't help but think about the other thing da Vinci had said- isn't that right, miss Fujimaru?- but she shuts it down immediately. She's just being consoled because she looks pathetic. Don't think about it. "You've been doing wonderfully. Not just for a novice- for anyone. Any magus would envy your performance in these first two Singularities, although they'd be loathe to admit it. Your response to emergencies is fast, effective, and- maybe most importantly- inspiring. Leadership is the hallmark of an admirable magus; you've got your terminology wrong, but that hardly matters at all." Her tone is genuine. Ritsuka wishes it wasn't, wishes that she was just being patronized. The earnest praise makes her want to pull her jacket tight over head and curl up like an armadillo, makes her wish she could burrow into the earth and never return. She is horrified to imagine how red her face must be, judging by the spread of warmth across it.
"Thanks," she chokes out. Her performance had been- would continue to be- a point of anxiety for her. Ritsuka Fujimaru was not built to be depended upon in times of crisis. She didn't want this. She didn't want the trust everyone was putting in her. What were they going to do when, inevitably, she couldn't measure up? When they realize that she isn't The Last Master of Humanity, but rather The Last Anthropology Student With An Anxiety Disorder? No more. Don't think about it. "That- it means a lot."
"You're cute when you're shy, Ritsuka," she says, totally unprompted. da Vinci leans forward, elbows on the table, and rests her chin in her hands. "One to fawn over, for sure, and dependable. Were you popular at home?" Ritsuka wants to explode. She wishes her plane had crashed. She prays for some interruption- a sudden emergency, perhaps, that threatens the lives of everyone at Chaldea. She wouldn't even mind if Doctor Archaman showed up at this point, provided he served as a good enough distraction.
"Uh- I- uh-" she swallows, considers sprinting away at full speed. A stupid idea. da Vinci is a Servant. She's probably- no, definitely- a thousand times faster than Ritsuka could ever be. She remains, hiding behind her sleeves, and prays that that's all the teasing the Caster has in store for her. A simple light flirtation for fun, and nothing else. No need to get into outright humiliation by continuing like this. da Vinci laughs, soft and elegant, and Ritsuka feels so tragically small before her. Here, in front of her, one of the greatest artists in human history. A real, actual genius. The mother of the renaissance. Her superior in every measurable way- Every Measurable Way, interjects a bitter, jealous voice in her head as Ritsuka inevitably finds her gaze drawn to da Vinci's body- laughing at her embarrassment, complimenting her just to watch her squirm.
"Um- Caster- or, da Vinci-" she stumbles on her words for a moment, takes a deep breath when da Vinci lets the moment pass without another flirtatious jab. "- what did you mean, earlier, when you said that I had, um-"
"- pretty girls to impress? What do you think I meant, Ritsuka?" She doesn't answer, busy as she is trying not to scream at the playful cruelty in da Vinci's voice, to push back her inevitable full transformation into a tomato.
"How about this, Master of Chaldea," da Vinci starts, placing as much emphasis as she can on the title- as if the ratty girl trying her best to curl into a ball without leaving her chair wasn't already uncomfortable enough- "tomorrow, at about this time, I can come see you in your room. We'll put together a lesson plan to teach you about magecraft, and maybe we'll talk more about this then?"
What? Teaching? She was going to take a class on magecraft? Was that even something that could be taught? Ritsuka had been under the impression that it had to be inherited, for some reason. Could she even learn it- not physiologically, but would she be even capable of holding the concepts in her head? Well, if anyone could teach her it would be someone like da Vinci. What was it she liked to call herself? A Universal Genius, the little echo of da Vinci that now lived in Ritsuka's head offered.
"I uh- sorry uh- I can--"
"It's a date, then. I'm sure you'll be a good student for me, won't you?" The other woman winks, doing little to hide the joy she takes in Fujimaru's lesbian agony. Ritsuka offers a timid "sure" in response, and da Vinci stands. Slowly. She strides around the table, comes to Ritsuka's side, holds out a hand expectantly- what could she possibly want? Ritsuka stares at the hand, unresponsive for a moment, before noticing the cigarette held between da Vinci's fingers. Slowly, reluctantly, she holds out the battered lighter for the Caster, flips it open to light the smoke. It reignites and Ritsuka watches, transfixed, as da Vinci draws the cigarette up to her lips, takes a slow draw, a long breath. In and out, smoke rising from her soft, soft, soft, soft- stop it, Ritsuka, you're freaking out- pink lips. da Vinci pulls the cigarette away from her mouth and Ritsuka can't help but focus on the slight hint of lipstick left on the filter. Wait- was that real lipstick? It could rub off? Did da Vinci really have to apply her make-up? Doesn't she just look that incredible completely naturally, since she's a servant?
A gloved hand touches her cheek gingerly, and she barely stops herself from whimpering as da Vinci turns the cigarette in her other hand, slides it between Ritsuka's barely parted lips. Her heart pounds hard in her ears, her breathing nearly frantic. "Don't forget. This time tomorrow, Master."