Don Texas 3.2

Dean Stansfield

Dean Stansfield was in the Rig. This wasn’t an usual occurrence, the Wards operated out of PRT HQ for the most part, but he was probably the Ward who visited most often. These visits inevitably made him feel like a fraud.

He was Gallant, Brockton Bay’s third heroic tinker. He made power armor and had his signature “photo-empathic” blasts. At least one of those was false, a lie perpetuated to hide the fact that he was really a human master. He saw the need for it, but sometimes couldn’t help but wonder how he’d have been received had he been honest with the public about his powers.

His eyes ran through the same line in the book on his lap, Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle. It was one of several possible reading choices for advanced English literature; they were doing a study on satire and dark humor. He liked it, as off-color as it could be at times, but he wasn’t making much progress.

Sighing, he closed the book. Sitting around in Armsmaster’s lab while the senior hero performed routine maintenance on his armor always left him in an introspective mood.

Then, there were klaxons. Red lights flashed across the lab as alarms began to blare. Not endbringer sirens, he noted amidst his panic, it had only been two weeks since Leviathan’s death, but alarms like these couldn’t be good.

Armsmaster put down his multitool and glanced at a display monitor. “Aerial projectile. Approaching from the sea at mach one. Well within the Rig’s force field’s durability thresho–”

He was cut off by the sound of shattering glass. Gallant didn’t know what a force field breaking sounded like, but the tremor that accompanied the noise made the source obvious.

A split second later, there was a deafening crash as what could only be described as a distorted skewer impaled itself a mere inch from his throat. It had carved a perfectly straight, cylindrical hole through the reinforced walls of the Rig, into Armsmaster’s lab at the heart of the structure, and directly next to Gallant.

Trembling and with a newfound appreciation for the air he breathed, the young hero looked down at the shaft. He traced it upwards to find a piece of paper, artfully folded into a perfect origami crane and tied to what he now realized was an arrow.

A thousand thoughts ran through his mind. There was only one person who would use a supersonic arrow to send a letter, only one person who could, and only one person ballsy enough to make the attempt on the Rig.

“I-I think Mr. Soprano wants to chat,” he said, doing his best to remain calm.

Armsmaster looked at the hole in the wall. It had gone through some kind of wall-mounted tool that probably cost more than most people made in a year. He pursed his lips in frustration. “So it seems. You may as well read it.”

Gallant unfurled the note and began to read aloud:

Dear Gallant,

Take heart, brave hero! Through great deeds or the strength of your character, your commitment to nobility and chivalry have been recognized.

You have been selected to participate in the First Holy Grill War. Victory shall earn you the holy sword, Excalibur Galatine, the Sword of Revolving Victory. It is one of the sister swords of Excalibur and the favored weapon of Sir Gawain, the Knight of the Sun.

Once upon a time, it belonged to the Lady of the Lake. Just as she once found a worthy wielder, I too shall bestow this blade upon another. Your integrity makes you a worthy candidate to carry on Gawain’s noble legacy.

With it, the fire of our nearest star shall be yours. A miniature sun is contained within the hilt of this weapon. It will empower your strikes, extending the blade with sunfire as far as the eye can see. You will become immune to all forms of heat, up to and including the sunfire you now wield. 

Cut the ocean? Nay! Should you emerge victorious, you shall boil it!

How can you earn this splendid sword for yourself? If you are not the most powerful of fighters, fear not. Gawain’s heir shall be determined not in a contest of arms, but in the only skill that truly matters: Cooking!

On the appointed day, you shall cook one pot of mashed potatoes and present a serving to each of your three judges. You have all been deemed men and women of sound character. This contest shall determine which of you is the most “Gawain-like.”

May the most accurate potato win.

Yours truly,

John “Don Texas” Soprano
The Third True Magician
Chef and Overseer of The Holy Grill War

PS: Participation is voluntary.

PPS: Food for thought: I can shoot a lot farther than you can run.

PPPS: You may or may not inherit some of Gawain’s skills as well. I’ve been fucking around with various Saint Graphs. Side effects may include airheadedness, inability to comprehend sarcasm, the inexplicable urge to praise the sun, and becoming a (man)whore.

Gallant’s eyes rose from the page and met Armsmaster’s. The Protectorate leader looked utterly baffled.

“A cooking contest… He means to give away one of his weapons using a cooking contest…” he muttered.

He couldn’t blame him. He was trying to wrap his mind around this as well. What did “the most Gawain-like” mean? Did Soprano want him to guess at a recipe lost to history? Made by a knight who was almost certainly fictional?

“I guess I’m not winning,” Gallant said with a sigh. “I can’t cook anything more complicated than cup noodles.”

“You must try. We have no guarantee that the letters went out to heroes who would not abuse this… Galatine.”

“I mean, he did say ‘nobility and chivalry…’”

“Unacceptable. His definition of those words is not the same as a normal human being’s. Case in point,” he said, gesturing to the hole in the wall. And his very expensive equipment.

“Yeah, that’s fair. But how am I supposed to replicate a medieval mashed potato recipe?”

“You don’t.”

“The letter said–”

“Potatoes are native to the new world. That is to say, South America. The crop was first introduced to the British Isles in the late sixteenth century. That is approximately a century after what is generally referred to as the Middle Ages and well into the Renaissance. King Arthur, if he lived at all, reigned sometime in the fifth or sixth century.”

“Wait, so potatoes weren’t even in Europe for a thousand years after King Arthur died?” he asked, dismayed.

Armsmaster nodded. “As far as any historian can make out, that is correct. Ergo, Sir Gawain, even should we consider him a historical figure, never tasted potatoes.”

“So… How do I make a ‘Gawain-like’ mashed potato dish?”

“That is indeed the puzzle. It seems there is more to John Soprano’s challenge than first appears.”

X

John Soprano

I hummed happily as I entered the store. I spread my arms wide as though in glorious benediction. “Mars! I have a task for thee!”

The blonde cradled her head in her hands. “Oh, no… I told you, I don’t want to be a hero!”

“Then don’t. I want you to participate in a cooking contest.”

“Me? Why? I can barely boil tea!”

“Weren’t you the one who said you wouldn’t mind learning how to make a few simple dishes? Well, now’s your chance to learn.”

“Yeah, but why a contest? I’m obviously going to lose!”

“Because you have fire powers and you’re a good person,” I said honestly. Those really were the only reasons.

“What? Wait, is this about your stupid grill war?”

“The First Holy Grill War. Capitalization is mandatory. It’s a monumental event, you know. Entire family lines have gone extinct to reach Akasha. It’s only fair that we give our parody the respect it deserves.”

She looked at me like I was an idiot. “Somehow, I get this weird feeling that you don’t mean that at all.”

“None whatsoever, magi are all dicks anyway. Doesn’t matter. I needed a heroic fire user and that’s you.”

“Really? Do you have any idea how common pyrokinesis is? I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s at least one in every major city! Pick someone else! There’s gotta be a hero who can make fire somehow.”

“I already did. I shot an arrow through Cinereal’s office window just now. Other than her, I really can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have here. It’s not just about the fire. It’s also a matter of personal character.”

“What character?”

I ticked off Gawain’s best traits from my fingers. “Let’s see. Sir Gawain was honest, kind, strong, supportive, and loyal. He was also unafraid of doing what needed to be done.”

“He’s got you there, Mars,” Noelle chimed in. “I can personally confirm that you’re all those things.”

“Yup. If you didn’t want me to drag you into stuff, maybe you should’ve been more of a bitch,” I said happily. “Like Francis. You don’t see me dragging him off, do you?”

“Hey, that’s my boyfriend you’re badmouthing.”

“Who’s also standing right here,” Francis glared.

I waved them off. “And? My point stands. I need someone who is ‘Gawain-like’ and you fit the bill.”

“I’m terrible at cooking. And I don’t even want to win!”

“Congratulations, you’re perfect.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t. You hate that I make your boring life more interesting.”

“Don’t be proud of it, you asshole.”

“So, you in? I meant it, you know. I’ll teach you how to cook.”

“Fine, but I’m totally throwing the contest,” she said with a defeated sigh.

“That’s alright. I don’t even care if you throw the potato at the judges. I just need seven participants. Honestly? If you do the best you can to make the recipe I give you, I guarantee you’ll lose.”

“Why seven? That sounds arbitrary.”

“It’s tradition,” I replied with a shrug.

Jesse leaned in towards Noelle and whispered conspiratorially. “Is this the bossman’s attempt at flirting? He keeps trying to give priceless magic weapons and armor to Mars.”

Noelle’s head tilted to the side in confusion. She’d started to intentionally overexpress herself with body language because her new doll body lacked the facial muscles to make the same expressions. “You know? I think it might be. I’m not sure though. Francis?”

“Definitely flirting,” Francis said with a shit-eating grin. “You know, I could give you some advice on keeping a long-term relationship, boss.”

I rolled my eyes. Teenagers. Then again, how sad was it that the best example of a long-term relationship I had was Krouse?

“Not flirting, she really is the best option. If it wasn’t for her pacifism, I’d happily deck her out in Noble Phantasms and throw her at every S-class threat in the world. It’d save me a lot of effort honestly.”

Mars paled at that. “Nope. Nu-uh. I like my boring, relaxing life as a waitress.”

“Wait, is that why you’re giving away weapons? Because you’re too lazy to go be a hero?” Francis asked. 

“Yes? I’m outsourcing my heroics. I thought I told everyo–Oh, never mind. I only told the voice in my head that.”

“You’re fucking nuts.”

“Hey, now. Just because I have the voice of a ginger, Japanese man in my head who’s weirdly passionate about sushi, heroics, and harem antics doesn’t mean I’m insane.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure you’re the definition of a schizophrenic,” Noelle quipped.

“Says the Ziz bomb.”

“I’m not–”

“Yes, you are. Technically, that goes for all of you. It’s at least partially the reason I’m having you work for me, so I can keep an eye on you.”

“I… That’s not…”

“If it makes you feel better, as soon as I figure out how to fix you, I’m happy to kick your collective behinds back to Aleph.”

“Y-You can send us back?” Mars gasped.

“Eventually, yeah, sure. But only if you want to go back. I have no idea what circumstances were like for you kids back there. For all I know, you’re all Oliver Twist-style orphans and sending you back would be a colossal dick move when I can provide for you indefinitely.”

“I just… I never thought it was an option.”

“It is. Operation of alternate dimensions is the domain of the Kaleidoscope, but I’m sure I can figure something out. All else fails, I can just bully the Illuminati into it. Think about what you kids want, alright?” I said gently. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind having a permanent crew, but I do understand the restaurant gig isn’t everyone’s first idea of a lifelong career.”

“We’ll hold you to that,” Francis said, unusually serious.

“You do that. This is a promise I have every intention of keeping. I’ll even swear on the Throne.”

“Whose throne?”

“Caps. The Throne. Just know I mean it, okay?”

“Whatever, crazy bastard.”

I chuckled and flipped him off as I headed for the back lot.

Over the past two weeks, I’d built a small walk-in chamber out back, next to the smokers. It had racks full of meat, excellent ventilation systems, and temperature and humidity controls that kept the room at a constant thirty-six degrees Fahrenheit and seventy-five percent humidity.

I was sure I wasn’t technically allowed to build a secondary building next to my restaurant, even if I did own the lot, but no one told me otherwise. The only time I walked into city hall to try to get permits, I was told very clearly and politely that I could do whatever I wanted and, “Please don’t visit city hall, you make people panic.”

I was getting the “appease the dragon” treatment. Weird, but understandable. And convenient.

That was how I purchased the lot beside mine, doubling the area. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with that space yet, but I was Texan. More land was always a good thing.

I went in to pull out some of the meat I’d been dry-aging. Beef could go for twenty-eight days, but I’d also left several ducks in there because an uncle I had told me once that it was doable. Looking it up online, I was only supposed to dry-age poultry for five to seven days. Technically not Texas barbeque, but a man got curious.

‘You know, speaking of fixing problems, don’t you think it’s time you tried to make Noelle a new body?’ Shirou asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. It was doable. Hell, even modern magi like the Einzbern and Touko Aozaki were capable of making clones, or near enough. I knew that intellectually, but… ‘Aren’t bodies complicated?’

‘They’re not as complicated as souls and Saint Graphs and you’ve been messing with those like a child playing with Play-Doh.’

‘I guess I have,’ I said with a rueful chuckle. I could admit it; this was my own failing. ‘I didn’t grow up a magus, Shirou. Hell, I grew up in a world where magic didn’t exist at all before I got yeeted here with you stuck to my soul. To me, what I’ve been doing is… fantastical, a degree of separation removed from what I knew was possible. A Heroic Spirit isn’t the person, just the memories.

‘And sure, I’ve been messing with Saint Graphs, but it doesn’t feel the same. Anything I do to a Saint Graph, no harm done, it’s my Saint Graph to mess with. It also feels… intuitive? It’s soul magic, and that’s what the Heaven’s Feel is all about.

‘Noelle though? Noelle isn’t like that though. She’s not some ascended figure whose memories are recorded in the Throne. She’s here, right now, like the Artoria you summoned during the Fifth War. She’s her own fucking person, you know? And there isn’t some backup I can call up; the fragile, insecure girl in front of me is all I’ll get.’

Shirou was silent for a minute. When he next spoke, it was far more understanding. ‘I can see that. The body is sacred to normal people because they have no way to confirm the existence of the soul. But John, respectfully, that’s your own hangup.

‘Even normal mages in the modern era can make an empty body and you can access the spirits of those who lived during the Age of Gods. The only mage from that era I’m familiar with is Medea and creating a soulless vessel would be a joke to her. You know far more about Heroic Spirits than I do. Don’t keep someone in need waiting because you’re afraid of your own shadow.’

I sighed. I hated when he was right. Then again, maybe it was good to listen to the voice in my head, once in a while. ‘I… You’re right. Making a body for her… It’s not impossible. I’ll think of something.’

‘Again, Medea. Her personality was… problematic… but it’s not like that’s relevant. Divine Words can do some truly incredible things.’

‘She could,’ I admitted. By all accounts Medea of Colchis was a genius magus even for her time. ‘But I have someone else in mind, someone who’s already made herself a body.’

X

Noelle Meinhardt

John was… He wasn’t at all like I’d expected him to be. He was easily the most powerful man in the world. Eidolon? Legend? Alexandria? They were all eclipsed by his shadow. People were comparing John favorably to Scion because not even Scion’s slain an endbringer before.

He could demand absolutely anything of the world and the world would obey. And what did he want to do with that power?

He wanted to make brisket. It was simultaneously so nonsensical and so John that I couldn’t help but laugh.

In a way, that overwhelming power made him easier to trust. The truth was that he was so powerful that he didn’t need us. Not me, not Francis or Luke, not even Mars. He might have a torch for my best friend, but he didn’t need her for anything. He kept us around because he wanted to, because he wanted to help in his own trollish, asinine way.

So when he grabbed me off Francis’ shoulder, I didn’t panic. I went limp like a plushy and resigned myself to getting involved in whatever bullshit idea my boss had this time. Mars got a turn so I guessed it was my time.

“Hey, what the hell?” Francis exclaimed.

“Relax, Francis. I’m just gonna throw this one in the wash for a bit,” he said, waving him off. “Get back to work.”

“What? Noelle doesn’t need a wash!”

“I don’t! I’ll drown!” I shouted, cotton-filled arms waving in panic. I was suddenly not willing to go along with his bullshit.

John tossed me in the air and caught me again like a football. “You don’t breathe air right now.”

“I get motion sickness!”

“You can’t throw up either so there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Why? I can wash myself!”

“Just think of it like a hot tub with very powerful bubble jets.”

“Nooo! Francis, save me!”

I vanished from John's hand, replaced by a salt shaker. He cradled me like a baby in his arms.. It felt pretty awkward. “You can’t have her, asshole.”

John rolled his eyes. “Fine, I was joking anyway. I just wanted to talk to her about her body. You know, that thing I promised to make for her.”

“What? You’re a biotinker too now?”

“I ripped her soul out of her body and stuffed her in a hello kitty doll. Why does anything I do surprise you anymore? I’m whatever the fuck I want to be. Now give me the hello kitty.”

“Swear you’re not going to put her in the washing machine.”

“Yup, just wanna talk.”

I hopped onto a nearby table and raised my hands so he could pick me up. Being a plushy wasn’t so bad, but there was a lot I missed about an organic body, like smelling and tasting delicious food, having the finger dexterity to play video games, and showing my incredibly loyal boyfriend all my appreciation.

If he could fix me, then a bit of teasing was well worth “Fine, let’s go.”

“You want me to come along?”

“It’s fine, Francis. This chat needed to happen anyway.”

“Just finish your shift,” John said. “Seriously, I just want to talk to her about what she looked like and stuff.”

“You better,” he growled.

I shook my head fondly. Francis always had to get the last word in, even if it was mouthing off to the most overpowered guy in the world.

Author’s Note

Everything Armsmaster said about potatoes is true. As is the estimated reign of King Arthur. Unfortunately for him, Morgan fucks logic up the ass like she fucked her sister.

Also, I was told that the reason Artoria hates potatoes is because Morgan cursed her little sister to only have potatoes on campaigns. I don’t know how true that is, but it got a chuckle out of me. British food is conceptually cursed in the Nasuverse.

If anyone knows how to unfuck a Ziz bomb via Fate hax, please, let me know.

Animal Fact: Animals can sometimes develop addictions in the wild. Dolphins use poisonous pufferfish to get high. Elephants will sometimes seek out fermented fruits for alcohol.

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