Here we go! Fic!

This one took way too long and sucked up my time. I ran out of inspiration halfway through; it probably shows. Still, I'm actually okay with it, if only because I think I at least captured Berserker's character. By the way, this Berserker belongs to Logan Murder of Crows (obviously not the historical figure, but this incarnation), and if you should like to know more about him (pretty likely, I didn't give you that much) give him a PM. His Servants are epic and his mind is brilliant, if also a hopelessly convoluted labyrinth. Expect a late X-mas oneshot from me soon, so those of you wondering whether or not to track me down and burn my mutilated corpse can make up their minds so as to stop this flow of drivel.

If you actually enjoy this stuff...I don't know what to say. Seek help. Fast.

That said, here it is.

"Ever on and on I continue circling
With nothing but my hate in a carousel of agony
Till slowly I forget and my heart starts vanishing
And suddenly I see that I can't break free-I'm
Slipping through the cracks of a dark eternity
With nothing but my pain and the paralyzing agony
To tell me who I am, who I was
Uncertainty enveloping my mind
Till I can't break free..."
-Bad Apple

"Evil, filthy child! You were unwanted when you were born and you are unwanted now!"

"I propose..."

"Brat! Born of incest!"

"I will create thy body, and thy sword will carve out my fate; if thou dost accede to my will then come forth!"

"Do not do this thing, dear heart. Revenge is not a path you should walk."

"I hereby swear..."

"NO!"

"I am all that is good in the world eternal. I am all that is evil in the world eternal..."

"...why must I suffer so? WHY?"

"You whose eyes are clouded with chaos are trapped in a cage of madness, I am she who holds thy chains..."

"But of course. As a weapon, I care not whose blood I spill, only that I spill it."

"So you, hero of ages, rise from thy throne and answer my call!"

"AAARGH!"

The summoning hurts. It feels like red-hot hooks are ripping at his skin, tearing out his flesh and searing it with their ungentle ministrations. It is irritating and agonizing all at once and it will not stop.

A roar bursts forth from his lips, the pain and rage surging through his voice as they always do, even before his form finishes solidifying. He knows that it will be the first thing his erstwhile summoner sees, and most likely it will terrify them. Magi are nothing like they were in his day; despite their airs and graces and presumed superiority they still feel fear.

Good. Let them.

The Aria of Madness is working; red mist clouds his eyes and all he wants to do is rend and tear the stupid, pathetic, worthless humans who go about their lives without any idea of what they have.

Why? Why should they have happiness, contentment, joy? Why should I permit them that, when I have never known it?

He screams again, the sound more like the howl of a wolf and tinged with a little more than just madness. It is not fueled by the pain of the summoning this time, or the artificial compulsion of the aria. This time, it is all his own. As Berserker, he will be nothing but a mindless dog, used at his Master's whim to butcher and slay.

He is fine with that.

"Hmm...he'll do."

The last thing he sees before the fog of rage settles around him is a delicate slip of a girl, porcelain-skinned and pale-haired, walking towards him slowly, haltingly, as if in pain.

"Then I'll kill you. Go ahead, Berserker!"

As always, he reacts instantly to his Master's command. His armor is as heavy as he remembers, the weight a comfortable familiarity against his skin. He was an unmatched warrior in his time; he will maintain that title by killing this worthless little Master and his Servant.

Interestingly enough, he does not feel the overwhelming rage of Mad Enhancement. Maybe that should not be a surprise; he is relatively calm right now. His anger is simmering, ready to spark and burst into devouring flame at the slightest fuel, but right now content to bide its time.

He leaps forward, landing heavily on the pavement and the asphalt. It cracks under his feet, the cement buckling under the weight of his body. He stomps a foot for good measure, relishing the feel of something giving way to his strength.

His opponent is a petite woman - no, woman is not the right word. She is barely more than a girl, almost two feet shorter than him and clad in an ornate dress of blue fabric and gold embroidery. Armor plates cover her chest and skirt, and gauntlets sheathe her hands in a bizarre juxtaposition of the feminine and the masculine. The whimsical part of him, a very small part, wonders exactly what hero she is supposed to be. He brushes the thought aside as quickly as it comes with a flicker of irritation. It does not matter who she is, only that she die.

The thought of slashing her pretty face in with Ukonkalpa, or wrapping his massive hands around her dainty little throat and just squeezing summons up a twisted joy in whatever shriveled little organ now serves him as a heart. A laugh erupts from his lips, harsh, low, and utterly mirthless; promising pain rather than humor.

In response, the little blond knight slides her feet out to shoulder with, clenching her fists around something he cannot quite see. The wind appears to pick up in response, a strong breeze whipping his pale hair around him so that it bounces off his cheeks. She angles the invisible weapon at him, eyes the color of emeralds narrowing in challenge. The boy who is her Master stands beside her, fists clenched and wide-eyed.

He snorts, blackly amused. An invisible weapon would be potent indeed, against simpering fools who fear to be cut. How appropriate for a woman, one who does not have enough strength to call her own. She will undoubtedly put up a fight; no Heroic Spirit hosted by the throne is ever weak, but her choice of tools indicates a lack of faith in her weapon.

Enough thinking. It is time for death.

His sword materializes in his hand with a flash and a boom of thunder. It is a truly massive blade; the blade itself is four and a half feet, with the hilt rounding out to make it almost five feet in length. Crimson lightning crackles across its massive length, the four jagged barbs on each end sparking with the electrical discharge. The massive gem set into the middle of the hilt glows menacingly, red light emanating from the black mark in its center. The whole weapon exudes malice and hate.

The blade's desire for carnage mingles with his own lust for carnage, and suddenly the lack of carnage and the absence of blood on his hands is unbearable.

He charges.

Credit must be given; the girl meets his assault head-on, without any sign of fear or hesitation. Her mysterious wind blade clangs against Ukonkalpa and diverts his swing. Red lightning shoots away into a nearby lamppost, denied. In the opening that gives her she ducks down and performs a low sweep, blocked by Ukonkalpa hastily imposing itself between her blade and his legs.

He reverses his grip, temporarily, and swings the blade forward. The blond knight is tossed away like a rag doll by his enormous strength, but rolls with the blow, landing easily on her armored feet. Her green eyes narrow with concentration, and suddenly she's streaking towards him again with surprising speed. Her first blow slams against Ukonkalpa again, sending spears of light blasting outwards.

He knocks the weapon aside with another heavy-handed swing and slashes the demonic blade down diagonally to separate her in two. Instead of blocking, she leaps upwards in a fluid motion that catches him off guard. As she flips past his head, her invisible blade licks out once, twice, three times. He twists his head to avoid the first cut, but the second opens a red line across his cheek and the third shears a lock of hair in two.

One hand goes to the wound even as the other swings Ukonkalpa outwards, triggering a bolt of scarlet energy that strikes the Servant, turning her recovering roll into a graceless fall. Armor clatters against the pavement as she hits, and the red-haired boy lets out a cry of panic.

The wound is thin; if the blade had cut any deeper it would have ripped through his face. Red stains his fingers, the crimson like fine wine. He feels a grin stretch the corners of his face. Perhaps the little girl will provide some real sport after all.

He is moving now, boots pounding against the pavement. His opponent leaps up again, invisible weapon clutched in both hands. She deflects Ukonkalpa, sliding it away instead of attempting to block it full-on. The demonic blade is useless for a single, fleeting second.

He twists aside in lieu of blocking, taking the attempted decapitating stroke on his left gauntlet. The wind-shrouded weapon screeches against his armor, edge against plane. It cannot be a spear, then; the cutting part is too long. An axe is possible, but also less likely. It is too early to know for sure, but he is confident the blonde knight is wielding a sword.

Then he drops Ukonkalpa and punches her, while she is over-extended from the thrust. Air escapes her in a rush as his mailed fist knocks her through the air once more. This time he does not let her catch her breath. One hand snatches up his blade as he sprints towards her still-hurtling body. He slashes the demonic sword in front of him as he runs, and bolts of lightning blast outwards, filing the air with the smell of ozone.

Even suspended above the ground, with all balance gone and nothing to give her any purchase, the knight is incredibly agile. With feline grace she twists and tumbles, dodging most of the crimson discharge and blocking those shots that make it through. Electricity crackles up and down the length of her blade, and her mouth twists into a pained grimace. He lets out a bark of laughter; clearly the lightning is less than pleasant with all the metal she is wearing.

The coruscating light is disrupting her sheath of wind; though he cannot see the actual weapon its outline is clearly picked out in red. It is a European longsword, though significantly wider than most weapons and meant for a two-handed grip. He can see how long it is now, just a little less than three feet in length.

The swordswoman - Saber, in a moment of black humor he wonders why it took so long for him to label her as such - glares emerald daggers at him. The sword in her hand flares once, the crimson lightnings dissipating, and once again it is completely invisible. She takes up her ready stance once again - turned to one side, feet at shoulder with, sword held parallel to the ground - but this time remains still.

She is letting him make the first move. The idea that she thinks she can survive one of his attacks is laughable, if it did not make him so furious. He feels the hard planes of his teeth grind against each other. This small, pathetic girl pretending to be a man and hiding her weapon thinks she can defeat him, Untamo's bane?

His Master is laughing, a sweet sound like the chiming of bells, but suddenly it is no longer the laughter of the Einzbern heir. Now it is the dark guffaw of Untamo, after selling him into slavery. Untamo, the reason why his entire life was nothing but misery, anguish, and pain.

The world around him...shifts.

There is no real change; the street remains as it was five seconds ago. The combatants - Saber, her Master, the raven-haired witch, and his Master - are all still present.

Except now there is an unmistakable sense of resentment permeating the air. A hatred so strong that even an ordinary passerby would feel it, anger as powerful as it is confusing, with no obvious source. The shift clearly alarms the human girl; she glances around fearfully. The red-haired boy simply looks confused.

Saber's reaction is the most pronounced; she gasps and takes a step back, placing herself squarely between him and her Master, raising her sword protectively. The black-haired magus also shifts, turning so that she is guarding the boy's back. He can feel the hostility ratchet up a notch.

The Hisii are here. In this urban place, they will be fairly weak, but they will still assist him to the best of their limited abilities. They are perhaps the only things who have ever helped him. His parents tried, and deep down in his shriveled heart he loves them for that, but they were never successful. The gods doomed him to a fate he did not deserve, and his life was nothing but pain and sorrow. In the midst of all that, only the spirits helped him. His rage is stilled for a moment, and he is calm.

One of the trees lining the side of the road groans, branches contorting in a way living wood was not meant to. The gnarled limbs extend, snapping and cracking. One branch stretches far beyond its natural length, lashing out at the redhead. Saber severs the branch with a brutal blow of her sword, but is forced backwards as more and more branches make their appearance.

The girl magus yells out something. Black prana, molded and projected in a very familiar way, shoots out from her fingers. With something of a shock, he recognizes the spell; it is a very advanced form of the Gandr curse, but manifested into a physical, corporeal form. Having never received any formal training, he is nevertheless aware that such a manifestation denotes a particularly skilled magus.

Fortunately, it does not need to.

Even as the black bullets of prana shoot towards the tree branches, he can feel the power bleed away from the projectiles, quickly and abruptly. Without the energy required to maintain themselves, the curses dissipate well before they reach their targets, withering and fading into the open air.

The horror on the girl's face as her spell vanishes is delicious. Her outstretched hand drops, fumbling into her jacket pockets for something. Saber shouts a command at her, and he notices the armored hands tighten around her sword.

He gives the magus credit; she reacts admirably despite her obvious trepidation. The hand fishing in her pocket comes out with something clutched tight in its fingers and she hurls it at him. A flash of crimson catches his eye before the object detonates in a kaleidoscope of colors, blue and green and gold all mixing together in a surge of light. Prana splashes his form with a feeling not unlike the patter of rain on bared flesh; noticeable and possibly uncomfortable but certainly not harmful.

He smirks. He will enjoy taking apart that girl once Saber is defeated. His Master will almost certainly not begrudge him that; like him she was abandoned to the harsh mercies of a cruel overlord. She will understand.

The bolts of prana are not disappearing; with an irritated growl he swings the demonic sword. Red lightning answers his call, blasting the interfering loops of color away with a surge of hate. His vision clears and he focuses on the magus. He did not notice earlier, but she is quite beautiful for her age. Her exotic features and nubile figure stoke the raging flames of lust; he will take what the world has never seen fit to give him.

"Berserker, what are you doing? She's-"

His Master's high-pitched voice cuts into his ears; he lets out a growl of irritation. Who is she to distract him -

His mind experiences something akin to an electrical shock, mixed with a sudden feeling of danger. Immediately he whirls around, the long blade in his hands rising to guard. For one brief second, he sees Saber's lithe form hurtling across the ground towards him, a golden glow enveloping her gauntlets. Her face is hard, her jaw angled and set. Green eyes flash with determination.

She hits him with the full force of a freight train. Golden light flares out from where her sword meets Ukonkalpa's edge, blasting away his vision in a stream of sun-yellow rays. He bellows in pain, lashing out with his free fist only to encounter nothing. The soft flutter of cloth alerts him to movement, but Ukonkalpa is too unwieldy and he is too off-balance; the sharp edge of a blade shears into the back of his neck with little resistance. He stumbles from the blow, which is the only thing that saves him from a decapitation. Blindly he turns and slashes with all his might. A clang echoes as his sword is deflected, and Saber's blade whips straight through his left knee, sending pain stabbing into the affected joint. He tries to step forward, only to drop to the knee as it fails underneath him.

The gold light clears from his eyes and he stabs Ukonkalpa into the ground, forcing himself upright. The demonic sword's displeasure is palpable, but he ignores it, levering his body upright.

He hears a rustle behind him and immediately whirls, jerking his sword from the pavement. Saber flashes into existence before him, the wind-shrouded blade streaking for his face. He throws it aside with a desperate sweep of Ukonkalpa. Saber simply goes with the blow, flipping over him and landing to the side. Her sword lashes out for his chest-

Unexpectedly, the ground suddenly heaves, cement and pavement flying off in chunks. Saber stumbles and he throws himself to the side. As a consequence, her blade only nicks his armor, glancing off the mail haubergeon. He seizes his chance.

WIth a roar of pain he grips Saber by her sword arm and smashes her head-first into the street. Gravel flies and Saber grunts. He smashes a booted foot down on her back and hears her scream. His bad leg threatens to buckle, but the knight's back is giving her all the leverage he needs.

"Saber!"

He looks up. The redheaded Master is looking at him with unadulterated horror. Behind him the raven-haired girl is blasting Gandrs at the restlessly-whipping tree-branches, picking them off before they can attack. Her efforts are futile; the branches simply regrow, shaking off the decaying effects of the curse.

His knee no longer hurts; his Master must have cast healing magic on it. He straightens, bringing up Ukonkalpa. Lightning crackles along the blade's edge as he focuses his prana, the demonic sword's lust for blood increasing as it feels his intentions. Fully charged, Ukonkalpa can blast an entire city-block with electricity enough to turn everyone in it to dust. He does not need anywhere near that much to kill a Servant, even a Saber.
He picks her up from the ground, savoring her groan of pain, and throws her into a nearby streetlight. The pole shudders from the impact, and Saber falls to the sidewalk with a clank of armor against cement.

The lightning around Ukonkalpa's tip is crackling so intensely it is now a continuous sound instead of separate, sporadic noises. The tip is glowing with the power of the heavens; at this point there is enough power here to turn Saber to pieces of ash and charred metal.

He quite likes the sound of that.

Saber will only need a moment to recover and return to the fight, but he does not intend on giving her that moment. Lightning blazes. Crimson curls around the tip of the sword, and -

"No!"

Something strikes his chest, a negligible impact, but it jolts his arm. Ukonkalpa discharges, scarlet power streaking off into the night sky harmlessly with a boom. Smaller lightnings crackle around the sword's edges as it hisses, cooling down.

He looks down and sees the boy slammed against his leg, straining with all his might. It does not do him any good, but he still persists, heaving his entire body against the Servant's leg. The sight makes him angry; does the little fool not know that it is pointless? A magus cannot defeat a Servant, especially not him, the Golden Boy. Why, then, does the idiot persist?

Suddenly, he is filled with rage at the Master who believes he can fight fate. Fate is inexorable and cannot be changed. He should know, he battled for his life every second he drew breath, and all the struggle got him was pain and suffering. Every happiness he experienced was only allowed so that it could be ripped away when it would hurt the most. What purpose is there to fight fate?

He kicks the boy in the ribs, knocking him to the ground. With a grunt he raises Ukonkalpa and drives it savagely into the boy's chest. The pleasant sensation of blood splattering across his face gives rise to a hot satisfaction as the boy screams in agony. He twists the demonic sword, fueling it with prana so that lightning races across its edge and into the boy's body, making him spasm and flop as electricity spears his nerves.

He laughs, a twisted sound of sadistic joy, as the boy flails wildly, howling in pain. A booted foot lands squarely on a twitching thigh and the crack of bone splitting is audible. The boy's wails increase in octave as he does the same to the other leg.

A Gandr strikes him in the chest and he looks up to see the magus girl before him, hand outstretched with a look of pure fury on her delicate features. The curse does nothing to him, courtesy of his Magic Resistance, but it carries a great deal of power, and continued salvos of the spell might tax his defenses.

Ukonkalpa removes itself from the boy's battered body and spits lightning. Surprisingly, the girl manages to dodge the bolt, but trips and falls to the ground, stunned. He readies his weapon again, but then Saber is there, raining blows down upon him like a warrior possessed. Green eyes are filled with rage, and a desire to see him split into many pieces, bleeding out on the ground.

He answers her hate with his own. His thoughts fall away and all that remains is the anger at a world that crushed his every attempt at happiness and joy. He can feel the fury rising in his veins, whispering to him every slight he has ever endured and the injustice that has been done to him.

Uknokalpa hammers down against the blade of wind and Saber tries to disengage, but he presses down, forcing her to her knees as his lightning-sheathed sword slides ever closer to her face. A stray burst of energy fries a clump of her hair and she grimaces, straining against his superior might.

The battle is his, he can feel it. Saber is not at her full strength, and pressed as she is she cannot invoke any of her Noble Phantasms. He will break her guard and skewer her through with his demonic sword, then take his pleasure from her to drive in his victory-

"That's enough. I'm bored. Let's go, Berserker."

He growls. No, he will not leave! Not when victory is so close.

"Fine, you overgrown oaf."

Rage consumes him, a completely unnatural anger with no focus or direction. He realizes what she is doing, and fights against it, but her control is complete. The seals that give her her strength, combined with her indomitable will, leave him no choice but to submit.

Once again he is submerged in the depths of hell.

Saber gasped as the giant warrior released his blade and disappeared. She slammed her own sword into the ground, pulling herself upright.

The pale girl smiled, a cold and vicious expression. "What a poor showing, Saber. You need to do better next time...oh, what a shame. There won't be a next time for you." She cast a glance of mock-sadness at the forlorn body collapsed on the pavement. "Or..." her eyes narrowed. "No, looks like he's alive. That's good. I would have hated to leave things like this." She shivered. "So...unsatisfying."

Abruptly, she turned and walked away, footsteps echoing loudly in the empty air of the street. Saber gazed after her retreating back.

Who is her Servant? He is strong, as befits a Berserker, but I sensed rage in him, more so than even Lancelot. He is not just mad, he is cruel and spiteful-

"Saber!"

Rin's voice ripped her from her reverie. She turned and ran, all thoughts of Berserker banished from her mind.

Idiocy! What possessed him to charge a Servant? I will have to give him a piece of my mind-

He is angry.

It is all he knows, and in the tiny part of his mind that retains its sanity he is comforted by the familiar feeling. It is all he has, all he can rely on.

He is forced to be dormant now, kept in spirit form by the will of his Master, but one day she will have to let him out, to destroy the other Servants and claim the Holy Grail for her. The battles to come will be hard and brutal, and it is extremely likely he will fall, after bringing pain and misery to as many Servants and their Masters as he can.

Kullervo Kalervonpoika is fine with that.