After Dusk
Prologue (Part I)

Disclaimer:I do not own Fate/Stay Night or any form of media associated with it. I am not using this work of fan fiction for any form of profit or compensation, and if the day comes that I do I hope to be run over by a bus and forcibly removed by a streetsweeper.

A/N: Okay… This is scary. Just a quick note: This part of the prologue doesn't directly focus on the FSN gang – it's just part of the build-up leading to what's going to happen. The next part of the prologue (more FSN-centric) should be up within the hour. So Be Warned: This chapter focuses on two OC's. Shirou and the gang are coming next chapter.

"That was pointless…"

A gruff voice echoed off steel walls coated with dim, fluorescent lighting as two figures strode down a frighteningly military-looking hallway. Steel girders, pipes, grates, hydraulics, cameras, sensors – they were abundant in the lifeless, dull passageway, the low hum of moving mechanical components filling the gaps between loud footsteps and arguing voices with an eerie, barely audible stream of sound. These two figures were moving with a purpose – there was no poise, no grace, no haughtiness or composure in their postures, and their faces were etched with worry, anxiety, regret and fear – fear for what was coming, fear for lack of knowledge, of surety, of even the slightest semblance of common sense that could explain their predicaments… And fear for the future, fear for whether their actions truly were for better or for worse.

"Thirteen men hospitalized and one dead to take the Servant," the same gruff voice spoke again. "Might've been more if that redheaded kid actually attacked." The cold silence of the long passageway made it excruciatingly clear – there was much resentment in the low growl the figure used to speak. "And it might've been even more if that little toy of yours didn't work the way you hoped…"

"The end justified the means," the second figure spoke up, his voice a sharp contrast to his companion. Where one voice was gruff, accusatory and downright venomous, the other was calm, smooth and collected. "Those men fought the Saber servant for a noble, valiant cause, and-"

"Your fucked up dreams are hardly a 'noble and valiant' cause!" The gruff voice all but spat at the other figure. "You're not even sure if it was a dream! For all I know you could have been shitfaced when you saw it…"

They finally stopped under one of the brighter tubes of lighting. Their voices were not the only contrasts – the men seemed to be from two different lives. One was dressed sharply in a white business suit, his greying hair flicked back, his tie hanging loose around an open collar, while the other's attire screamed soldier, mercenary, killer. Kevlar and camouflaged clothing decorated his foreign frame, a large pistol hanging in a hip holster and a heavily customized rifle resting on his back. Indeed, these figures were two sides of the same coin - two men from two different classes of society, sharing the same goals.

"I understand your anger, Donovan." The sharp-dressed man's voice held faint traces of sympathy – a hollow sound at the end of each word, making them sound strained, but the figure still kept his words void of emotion. "Those men were brave – exceptionally brave. To stand against a Servant like the Saber with nothing but M16's and concussion grenades is something even daredevils would find foolish-"

"You're not helping!"

"-However," the composed figure spoke through the interruption, "each and every one of those men accepted their orders with stone-faced courage and determination. They were loyal to our cause. They were loyal to you, even if it meant staring down the Saber, even if it meant Gilgamesh himself was scarcely half a mile away." He sighed. "There were two Servants left, Donovan. Three if you count our friend, the 'Golden King'. Those men were told to storm a battlefield right when the brutality was at its apex, and yet they did not waver." He looked over to the soldier, Donovan. "Their trust in the technology we are developing was simply that strong." He frowned. "It bothers me that you cannot have the same faith."

"Well forgive me, sir," the title Donovan spat was laced with sarcasm, "but it's kinda difficult to have 'faith' in something you're rushing because of a scotch-induced nightmare!" He growled. "You were basing the odds of the success of the operation on a gambit, Conrad! On a game of chance!"

"A game of chance that we won!"

"That doesn't matter!" Donovan's voice finally blasted from his throat, a harsh shout filled with anger and resent. "We were supposed to wait! For even more Grail Wars! This technology is years too young for you to be spewing bullshit about success!" His hands started to tremble as rage overtook his body. "Every little part of this half-assed plan is based on one of your little gambits! Half the tech you're bragging about hasn't even entered testing yet! What if your little Taser actually killed the lass?"

"It's not a Taser-"

"For fuck's sakes!" A loud thud echoed through the narrow passageway, prompting the man called Conrad to turn around. His eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of Donovan's bleeding fist slammed squarely onto one of the pipes running along the walls. "Do you have any kind of soul in you, you demented bastard?!" Donovan's eyes were filled with hatred – hatred directed right at his well-dressed counterpart. "I need to go find that dead soldier's family – I need to tell his wife and sons and daughters that he's not coming back, and all you could give a flying fuck about is what I call your toys?!" He shouted. "Have you become the most fucked-up cunt alive?!"

He could see the soldier was looking for a response. Not just any response, either – Donovan wanted anger, malice, hatred, resentment, anything to show him the man he partnered with was still sane. The bleeding fist stood as proof of that – in mere minutes, it seemed Conrad had pushed his business partner of almost ten years right over the edge. He sighed sullenly – Conrad always knew some soldiers among the mercenaries he had hired would show some form of disagreement with his attitude as he drew closer to his ultimate goal. But to see Donovan of all people, the very Captain he served with in Vietnam, draw so close to shooting him on the spot… That was something he never anticipated.

"…Do you think this is easy for me, Donnie?" Conrad spoke softly, still trying his best to keep his voice emotionless. Despite his efforts, however, he could see the surprise on his mercenary friend's face. He could see the hardened soldier's posture slacken slightly at the use of the nickname he hadn't used since the NVA ended their tour of duty at Khe Sanh. "Did you even see the Servant? Did you see the Master, and the rest? The Matou girl, the Einzbern… Did you see them, Donnie? Did you see how young they were?" Conrad asked. Despite the calm façade he kept plastered on his face, he could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. Despite his plain, stony face he was being bombarded by grief and guilt. "Did you even hear about the interactions between the Saber and her Master? Do have any idea how difficult it is to deny them their future?!"

Conrad immediately cursed himself for letting even a shred of emotion get the best of him – he had heard his own voice crack at the end of his question with such clarity that he could swear it sounded as though a bone close to his ear had snapped. Slowly, his hand drifted to his tie, his fingers working past the fabrics until they came to rest on warm steel – a small, ornate silver cross. His hand retreated back to his side the minute he felt the outline of the symbol – he absolutely could not afford to show any emotion at this stage.

Slowly, he turned away from his friend. "In any case, the darts are a success. The Saber servant outlasted each of our estimates, but she fell eventually. That's as much of a sign as I need." He sighed again, a weary exhale. "It's good enough. I'm authorizing the activation of Subsidium circulation in the servants, and the use of our dampeners on all subjects related to any form of magic."

Conrad did not even need to prepare himself – he had expected Donovan to sigh dejectedly at his choice as soon as he had started to speak about his decision. There was no way in heaven, hell or pandemonium that the ex-soldier would stand for his decision. Friends or not, he knew Donovan would be going for his sidearm right about now… And oddly enough, Conrad didn't blame him. He was authorizing the use of a potent synthetic drug that had scarcely entered any form of testing – one that had been completed hardly one week ago, and he was also planning on connecting disadvantageous, untested, prototype technology to a vast majority of the people he had seized. The risks were extreme – the tech would interact with everything; bodily functions, skeletal structure, pulse rates, hell, the entire nervous system would be bound to the dampeners – but it was still a prototype. Untested, unused, unsafe – basically a death sentence… And he had absolutely no idea whether it could work on the Servants. They were spirits, after all – he didn't know if they even had actual nervous systems despite all the research his scientists did. He was smart, but he could not dream to fathom every little thing the scientists had told him. He could not dream to fathom the Grail War in general.

And yet, here he had just decided to use it anyway. No estimates, no procedures, no failsafes, no insurances… And he still decided to authorize it.

As if on cue, Conrad heard the ever familiar sound of steel on fibre; he didn't even need to turn around. He knew Donovan was standing with his sidearm in hand. Even if he'd expected it for months, it was still as though a dagger had been driven right into his heart – one of his oldest and dearest friends was now pointing one of the world's strongest handguns at him.

"No."

Donovan only said one word, but it spoke volumes to Conrad. "I don't care how scared you are after you saw that dream… I don't care how sure you are about the success of your simple little toys… If the Subsidium is a failure… If the dampeners are failures… Then you're sentencing hundreds to death!" Donovan was yelling now. His thunderous voice still made Conrad flinch slightly. "I don't know what happened to you, Conrad…" He said mournfully. "I don't know what you saw in that dream that scared you so much… But with the choices you're making now?" He said with a pleading voice. "Authorizing use of a substance that could kill the Servants themselves if it fails? Use of tech that could render innocent people – children – cripple, catatonic or brain dead with no hope of help?" Conrad could hear the sorrow in Donovan's voice. "For fuck's sakes, Conrad, the Saber servant looks no older than sixteen!"

"She can worry about her growth when she wakes up."

He simply could not lose face now. Conrad knew his comment would sting worse than any bullet. He knew he had just killed himself in the eyes of one of his only friends, simply by saying something so cold and heartless. He knew he was mere seconds away from getting a forty-four round plugged into his spine. And yet…

He could not waver.

He could not show emotion.

He could not be weak.

He could not back down – not now, when he was sure the end was so close he could literally foresee where the catastrophes would hit.

So this is the price… He thought as his hand reached into his coat. Despite his willpower, despite his need to keep a straight face, despite the irony not being lost on him, he felt a single tear roll down his cheek. His age-old enemy - the pious group of miscreants who called themselves the "Burning Dusk" were poised to try and exterminate all life on the planet – without mercy, without pause, without sanity – and he was the only one who knew what they could do with such a paradoxical youngster leading them in secrecy for years. He had depleted his family's funds for the research, the technology, the slightest chance of having people survive the Dusk's malicious plans. His wife had left him barely a month ago, and his own daughter hated his guts. And now… Now his best friend was aiming a one-hit ticket to Hell at his back. To defeat a monster… Do I really need to become one? He grimaced as his hand wrapped around the ivory grips of the small pistol he kept in the shoulder holster.

He'd never thought about using it on someone who was, once, so close to him. He was advised to invest in a small, deadly firearm due to being part of such a wealthy heritage, and to him, the PPK he was holding now seemed ideal. But now… The mere thought of aiming it at a comrade he had known since boot camp made him struggle against the sudden urge to toss it away, to draw it and throw it down the hallway and wait for the inevitable end when the magnum round ripped through his back.

But he had come too far.

Too close to his goal.

And now… Now he was far too desperate.

Conrad thought back to the dream that spooked him like this – he remembered seeing two armour-clad knights exchanging blows in a ruined town, two Servants unknown to all trading slashes and stabs as their masters, faceless fodder hidden in shadows, barked commands at them from afar. He remembered the ferocity with which the knights fought, he remembered each swing and each stab delivered solely to kill the opponent – and the he remembered the bombs.

He remembered the fear-inducing suns erupting among buildings everywhere. Skyscrapers, supermarkets, office buildings, hospitals, homes – all were torn apart in the bloodthirsty waves of death and decay spread by the missiles. He remembered the mushroom clouds towering high into the sky – so close to each other that each land, each country, seemed like an orchard of such clouds… There was no escape. Mothers clutched at their children as skin and flesh turned to ash, men ran futilely as the wave of death tore them apart and reduced them to cinders. He remembered himself watching from afar. The Pentagon was reduced to a smouldering crater, and the White House stained black with ash. The Eiffel Tower toppled mere moments after the first bombs shook Paris, and the Buckingham Palace crumbled before even the most important people inside realized what was happening. He saw men and women in lavish black and red robes laughing and spreading their arms as the nuclear fire engulfed them – they sang in triumph until the blasts took their throats and even then, kept twirling and dancing until their bodies were nothing but brittle coal and bone. He could have sworn he had heard everyone on earth cry out in unison, a pained cry to pose as the whimper that echoed after the bang that ended the world.

To any normal person this would be a nightmare, a bad dream that should be shaken off, but Conrad was everything but normal. "Magic" in his family had died out almost ten generations ago, but the knowledge remained. The knowledge was his power, his food, his weapon-…

… And that dream was the embodiment of a fall from grace, from standing, a death by starvation, or the ever damning click of a gun without ammunition.

That dream had haunted him around every corner. It taunted him in everything he did since it ripped him from his sleep, and even now, the strain from the fear was evident on his face. Rings under his eyes vainly covered by make-up, gaunt cheeks hidden by a thick layer of stubble and a weakened body hidden under lavish suits.

The dream had cost him everything – his wife, his daughter, his riches… The only things he had left were the mercenaries staying by his side through sheer loyalty and the knowledge he had gained. The dream had even cost him most of his friends – many claimed he was crazy, others claimed he was an addict. Their excuses all differed, but they all left all the same. He had only friend left now – and he did not remember when he had turned and aimed, but he realized he was now aiming his PPK right at him. Conrad and Donovan stood with their sidearms aimed right between each other's eyes… And with faint dismay and a blow to the little hope he had left, Conrad realized the small German handgun in his hand looked absolutely ridiculous compared to the massive Desert Eagle Donovan was holding.

"I stood with you through everything, Conrad…" Donovan's voice sounds hollow; his eyes are wet, but he refuses to let any tears fall. "I stood by your side at Khe Sanh… I risked prison to save you from the scumbags who went after your money… I stood next to you, vouched for you when you went to meet these mercenaries and I kept telling them you were a wonderful person, even when I had my doubts. I let you send thirty men on a suicide mission against Saber of all people, just to test something as simple as an advanced Taser… But I can't stand with you now, mate. I can't stand by and watch you play Russian Roulette with these people's lives." The expression on Donovan's face was the most sombre expression Conrad had ever seen. "You said it yourself… They're young… The chances of them all dying are through the fucking roof." Donovan frowned. "The Conrad I knew wouldn't do something like this… Please, please, don't do this…"

As if the words alone weren't bad enough, the sheer hopelessness and sorrow in Donovan's voice just added to the weight on Conrad's shoulders. He knew the risks were astronomical – even if the dampeners weren't effective on the Servants, if it killed the Masters, his last hope of a fighting force for the future would be shattered before the first bomb even launched. The sheer idea of such a thing happening made his knees tremble…

…And to make matters worse, his best friend was begging him to let go of his goal.

He cast a final glance as his old companion. He saw sadness, terror, hope, anxiety – every possible emotion Conrad kept hidden was evident in Donovan's eyes. It very nearly made him break – it almost made him drop his gun and fall to his knees. He'd been keeping his emotions under lock and key since his wife labelled him a freak and his daughter told him that she hated him – and that lock was dangerously close to breaking.

Then the explosions, the death, the destruction and the mushroom clouds flitted across his mind's eye once more, and again he realized:

He was too close.

He had sacrificed too much.

And he had come too far to let go.

He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, just long enough to steel his thoughts and steady his emotional state. It seemed like a blink to his comrade, but that blink was all Conrad needed. He opened his eyes once more, and saw Donovan recoil slightly, the barrel of the Desert Eagle dropping by a centimetre or two. It was a success – he had hidden his emotions once again… And once more, he steeled his voice, beckoned to the obscenely large handgun and spoke:

"I really don't know how you find that useful..."

A simple statement. One delivered in such a dull tone that Conrad himself almost believed he was soulless – and the reaction was exactly what he had desperately wanted. Donovan looked as though he had been slapped – a look of confusion, hopelessness and sheer terror was etched on the grizzled veteran's face. What seemed like a random comment had proved to the mercenary that his friend was too far gone – there wasn't even a hint of acknowledgement directed at his begging and pleading. "Not what you wanted to hear?" Conrad asked, forcing himself to grin haughtily, enduring the pain such an action caused him.

Donovan's lips trembled slightly, and Conrad saw something he never thought he'd see: The retired Master Sergeant, veteran of the Vietnam War, the man who'd seen every terror war could ever offer, let a tear roll down into his beard for the first time since Conrad had known him. The look of sheer, heartrending sorrow only persisted a second or two – Donovan steeled his face soon after, and opened his mouth to speak.

"No…" He spoke, "it's not what I wanted to hear…" He closed his eyes for the briefest moments, and when he opened them Conrad saw the same fire in the blue irises that he had seen during Khe Sanh. "But it's all I needed to hear."

That was Conrad's signal – for the first time since his wife left him, he prayed – a quick, fleeting sentence: Forgive me.

Then he pulled the trigger.

The PPK let out its death-dealing crack in reply – a soft, yet sharp paff that signalled a .380 round blasting forth to end its target's life. Conrad closed his eyes and kept squeezing the nickel trigger. He heard two more of his PPK's shots resonate through the hallway, and the ever familiar thud of the small rounds impacting with the Kevlar vest before he was forced to flinch once more. The chrome-plated Desert Eagle roared in response to the threat, a sound akin to that of a cannon firing in the cramped hallway, and pain exploded in Conrad's chest. The large forty-four magnum round slammed into him with all the force of a freight train, ramming him a pace or two backwards and making his shoulder jerk back. His vision was dominated with white and the wind was taken right out of his lungs – he didn't register the short yelp of pain that escaped his throat; he just knew he had overestimated his tiny PPK, and that it was a mistake that would stop all his plans dead. That realization hurt him more than anything – even more than the magnum round that had ripped through him.

He felt his hold slacken as the PPK started to slide out of his hand, but he was denied any action to try and keep his grip – the Desert Eagle roared again and again, and this time he could not contain the screech of pain the burst out of his mouth as two more forty-fours found their marks; one in his side, one in his shoulder. He felt his knees give way, and just as the sensation of falling overtook him, the large chrome handgun finished the contest of power with a final, deafening retort – a retort that signalled the final bullet…

… A bullet that threw Conrad right off his feet.

It was nothing like he saw in the films. Nothing like he saw in Vietnam. The descent after being shot always looked so slow… In reality it was a frighteningly short trip – the ever-annoying, ever-terrifying feeling of falling followed shortly by the uncomfortable embrace of the cold iron floor. Blood flew from his mouth and wounds when he impacted with the steel grating covering the pipes, and the pain shot through his body quicker than a cold breeze after leaving a warm room. His vision was still obscured by white – his heart was hammering in his ears and his breathing sounded like some kind of grinder.

It was futile, he realized. His PPK did almost nothing to the Kevlar Donovan wore, while the Desert Eagle slapped him around like a ragdoll. Was this how it was going to end? Losing everything, only to greet the Reaper with a mind dominated by pain and a white suit stained red? Were his plans so short lived that they would end before they were even initiated? Conrad gasped slightly, a slightly coy grin appearing on his lips despite the crippling pain he was in. Even if he could fight through this, he wouldn't last very long – he barely lasted the ten minutes' wait for the medics after AK's ripped him up when the NVA charged all those years back. Yes, there was grief… Yes, there was sorrow. He could do nothing to prevent the Burning Dusk's plans. Yet, at the same time… There was joy.

Donovan had stopped him - prevented him from sentencing hundreds of young people to death. Any moment now, Conrad's vision would clear and he'd see Donnie standing over him, triumphant, before ending his miserable existence with a final forty-four. He slowly built up the excitement – he'd wanted to die ever since his own daughter slapped him, and shouted how she hated him. The very fact that he'd be relieved of what he called his duty spurred joy in his heart, despite the fact that it was giving out due to blood loss.

And then that joy turned to ash.

His vision cleared and he saw something that increased his terror tenfold – Donnie was indeed standing over him… But the chrome Desert Eagle lay by Conrad's side, leaving an imprint in the blood. Instead of the normal smoke one would see rising from where a bullet hit Kevlar, Conrad saw – with absolute horror – that the petty .380 rounds from his PPK had punched right through the vest. There were two bullet wounds – both pouring blood onto the olive drab garment; but what terrified Conrad most of all was the fact that the neckline of the vest was a deep crimson hue. With wide eyes, the rich bureaucrat realized that the third shot he fired did find its mark – right below Donovan's throat.

The grizzled veteran swayed slightly – his eyes were laced with pain, and agony, and… Is that grief? Conrad frowned slightly, just as much as his sapping strength could allow. Donovan had done exactly what he had expected – the soldier stood up for his beliefs. He stood up for it with bellowed words, trembling hands and the ever-stinging brass from a forty-four Desert Eagle. Even after everything Conrad had seen the discharged Master Sergeant do in life – the burning huts in Vietnam, the desperate blind-firing in the trenches and the jungle… Even after Donovan had answered the threat of the NVA with nothing more than shouted profanity, a stone-faced expression and a roaring M60… The fact that the veteran mercenary killed his oldest friends in the face of his morals spoke volumes about how much humanity was left in the old man. He had saved hundreds – potentially granted the Emiya boy a less bloody future than Conrad had planned, ensured an extension in the Matou girl's liberation from that worm-infested sack of excrement, and countless other deeds of good will - so why was Conrad's old friend frowning? Why was there grief in his eyes?

… And when did he start crying so openly?

"Don't… Don't tell me you actually regret that…" Even at death's door, Conrad still let a bit of the charisma he'd been granted as a businessman seep into a sarcastic little pre-mortem joke. Even on a pain-laced face, he plastered a cocky grin. He'd always told himself that's how he'd go – with a joke, a grin and, if possible, a bottle of scotch in his hand. "Y-You stopped me Donnie… You s-saved them all… From me…" He started damning himself again when he felt his own tears stinging at his eyes despite the cocky expression he tried to plant on his face. "Y-You stopped mass m-murder, Donnie…" He smiled. "Stopped me from be…becoming a mons-s-ster…"

"…Aye…" Donovan's voice was hollow, raspy, strained. The wound was hindering him – and yet he spoke. That was the stubbornness Conrad remembered in the trenches – the boisterous man from Massachusetts yelling at the medics to 'get the fuck away' despite having a gaping hole in his side, courtesy of some cocky fellow with an AK who would, undoubtedly, be meeting the veteran's M60 later on. The memory made Conrad smile – not a haughty smirk or a cocky grin, but an actual smile – for the first time in weeks. "I stopped a monster…

"…but I lost a friend."

Those words dulled everything. The pain from the four gaping wounds in his body, the regret of forcing Donovan so far, even the grief of losing a family that had haunted him for so long, every minute of every day. I lost a friend… It left Conrad gutted, pained, and shattered – and yet… He felt that ever-scarce thread of happiness blooming in him again. He had done everything – everything – in his power to alienate everyone he knew. He sent good soldiers, mercenaries with wives and husbands and children – straight to their death against the likes of Gilgamesh, the 'Golden King' and his so-called 'Master'. He discarded every thread of respect he could have for others' lives, and hid every possible symptom of having a soul under business deals and science reports and general harshness towards the researchers dissecting the whole concept of the "Holy Grail War". He'd heard the mercenaries talking about him too many times to remember – and he cheerfully recalled the smirks that grew on his face each time.

"Ol' man Conrad's a right cunt sometimes…"

"He's a bastard, is what he is. But, he's paying well. And the tech he's working on is hot shit."

"I simply cannot comprehend how such a snake attained such wealth. It's ludicrous."

"Bastard says he's gunna save th' world. Good luck, I say. Saviors aren't fuckin' arseholes."

"Y'hear what he's on about? The Holy Grail? Now wonder the shitstain's wife left 'im."

"I'm not stayin' for him. Fuck no. I'd rather work for a thug if 'loyalty' was the main factor. He's fillin' my pockets – so long as that's the case, I hate what he hates and I'll shoot what he wants me to shoot, no matter how much I want to introduce him to buckshot."

"The man's soulless – one of the biggest motherfuckers I've known in my life. If it weren't for this tech… If it weren't for the Dusk… I'd kill him myself if I got the chance."

Loyalty to the cause, and not to the one leading it – precisely what Conrad had wanted. He absolutely could not afford any affiliates when this was over. He wanted them to hate him – the researchers, the few magic practitioners in the ranks, the soldiers, the engineers… He needed them to hate him. It was that much easier to be a bastard, to be a soulless little cunt when absolutely nobody gave a damn about his reasons and justifications in any case. And yet… Here his oldest friend stood. The man had just shot him four times with one of the strongest pistols in the world…

…And now he felt sorry about it.

Donovan regretted killing him.

Donovan regretted killing a monster.

Donovan regretted killing a friend.

And that small little realization was tearing Conrad apart from the inside – just as when he'd lost his daughter.

"Y'think…" Donovan tried speaking again, a small jet of blood shooting from the wound under his throat. He was getting paler by the second, and even through the cargo pants and kneeguards one could see his legs trembling, straining under the weight. "Kidnapping, blackmail, murder, theft… It's been that way for weeks… Y'think you're going to Heaven?"

Conrad laughed despite the pain at the sheer ridiculousness of the question. If it were any other person he'd have thought it to be sarcasm – but Donnie always was such a person. Kill the threats first, and fret about God's forgiveness for a few months afterwards. It had always been that way. Only recently Donovan had come to terms with the fact that, even after 'Nam, bloodlust was something that stayed, that tainted and corrupted. "What does it matter?" Conrad's voice was just a hitch higher than a whisper.

"I know you." Donovan's hands were trembling. More blood squirted from the gaping holes the PPK left, and even after years of business deals and negotiations hindering his instincts as a soldier, Conrad still realized the same thing he was forced to realize in the jungles and trenches of Vietnam: Donovan had scant seconds left. "You won't stay down. It's not like you." The balding veteran's voice was soft as well. "You'll get up. You'll go do what you wanted to do. I couldn't kill a monster… But I tried to kill a friend." Donovan's eyes had lost the fire they had when he had pulled the trigger. There was now nothing but regret and pain in the slowly dulling eyes. "Again… You think you'll go to Heaven?"

"Not a chance…" Conrad himself was surprised at how quickly he rasped his answer. It seemed to have the desired effect though – A brief flicker of light sparked across Donovan's eyes, and he smiled.

"Good… Then I'll pray whatever you do doesn't kill those kids…" He smirked, a smirk that reminded Conrad of the good old days where deals and hijacks were the key threats. The same kind of smirk he wore when he was mouthing off to the Drill Sergeant – and subsequently getting beaten down – and the same kind of smirk he wore each time they repelled the NVA. It was the same smirk he'd often carry when enduring meetings as a bodyguard using sarcasm and feigned obedience, and the same kind he wore when he was Conrad's best man at the wedding.

"And I'll save a spot for you."

The words snapped Conrad right out of his reverie, and with terror, the fallen bureaucrat noticed the last few semblances of life drain leave Donovan's eyes. The mercenary's legs finally gave out after those eyes lost focus – with a soft thud, he dropped to his knees, head still held high despite the absence of life, and tumbled forwards. Conrad felt the grating under him shake as his old friend slammed down, face first. Donovan was dead – he'd tried to kill his friend, and died instead. Conrad slammed his eyes shut when the reality dawned upon him. That boisterous attitude he'd seen in boot camp, the steely determination in the jungles, the stupidly sick sense of humour, and that overwhelming loyalty the man showed even after leaving the army – Conrad would never see that again. His last friend – the only one who believed in him despite his own disbelief – now lay dead beside him… And for what? A dream? Fear? Some group, some cult full of magic worshippers and heretics?

Conrad always had everything he desired in life – ten generations of riches and economic standing ensured that. Yet still, he was constantly told that he'll never know what he truly has until it is gone. He realized he lost the humanity his parents praised when he first killed someone in Vietnam. He realized the support he had from one of his companies only after said company was liquidated. He didn't realize how much he truly cherished his daughter until she had left him. And now…

Now he realized that, despite the hiccups in their friendship, the man he had just killed was as close to him as a brother could ever be.

Images flashed through his head – images of people taken, people coerced, to be placed in large, science-influenced forts. Images of those people after what his scientists called 'something similar to cryostasis' and all the risks it entailed. Images of those people dying from the stasis – unable to resuscitate when each fort's doors finally opened sometime in the future. There were images that yanked at his heart even more – images of the Saber servant and her Master in that graveyard after facing Gilgamesh, just before his men risked their lives to bring them in; images of the young Matou girl, Sakura, crying and begging even the unarmed scientists not to hurt her; images of the young Einzbern and the Tohsaka girl –

Christ. Conrad's eyes flew open. Rin Tohsaka. It had been almost a day since his mercenaries had procured Saber and her Master – but he had heard nothing of the squad he sent to retrieve Rin. He'd taken every precaution in case the false priest beat him to the punch when he gave the order to find her a few hours before his men moved on Saber. He'd outfitted them in such manners that could make even S.A.S operatives jealous; state-of-the-art Kevlar, thermal and night optics for their gas masks, grenades, flashbangs, Bouncing Betties, CornerShots – every possible useful piece of equipment had been given to them to ensure the safe retrieval of Rin Tohsaka. And I still haven't heard from them…

The implications were all too easy to deduce. Did the Priest already kill her when the squad got there? Did Gilgamesh pitch up and curb-stomp his forces? Or did they succeed, and was she now being brought from Fuyuki as well?

Slowly, Conrad tried to edge himself into moving. The Tohsaka girl mattered to Emiya just as much as Saber and Sakura – it was heartless to cast him into the future without his consent, but to do so without anyone close to him to help him, to keep him company after the missiles fell? That… That was inhumane.

The ironies surrounding his stress weren't lost on him. Even as he struggled to make his shredded body move, he damned himself once more. Donovan was right. Conrad had just seen his only remaining friend die from a bullet he fired, and he was still planning to continue with his ludicrous plan. Had he gotten so used to the idea of this hellish act that he was too far gone to stop himself? Were the lives of everyone he'd sealed away – women, children, and elders – worth so little to him? Maybe he truly had become soulless, despite the tear trails on his face and the guilt gnawing at his heart. Maybe he'd truly dropped all his ideals and standards – the man who, in the past, fought viciously for what he believed in, and used his economic standing to ensure that the right thing was done, even if it was not the desirable thing… Was that man dead?

Was he doing this for nothing but his loathing of a cult?

Was the dream simply a visage from the scotch he binged on before it woke him up in a cold sweat?

Everything he was doing – sentencing people to an uncertain fate, treating all his employees like filth, squandering his fortunes in a rush… Killing his own friend in cold blood…

Was he doing this simply for the sake of doing it?

That little doubt alone made his strength leave him. In the past, the idea of the dream meaning nothing simply annoyed him. Now, when he had come so far, when he had ruined so many lives… Now the thought of the dream being just that terrified him. He'd kidnapped people, blackmailed people, subjected the last Servant alive to the pain of a Spinal Clamp – fourteen to be precise – and maybe, just maybe, sent a platoon of mercenaries to their deaths – and the chance was there that it was all in vain.

The thought made him shudder as he closed his eyes again. His heart started beating wildly, hammering into his ears and punching pain into his chest with every audible thump. It could not have been in vain – it simply could not be. It was not a regular dream, he could swear it! He'd swear it in front of God himself if he had to! He'd had plenty of nightmares before – nobody walked away from Vietnam mentally unscathed. But that dream… That dream had something else, something the other nightmares never had. Throughout the unholy visage, Conrad heard something in the back of his head, an unnatural urge to shrink, to fall to his knees and cower as though he faced Hell itself. The dream of the end shook him to his very core – even the start, where he saw the two unnamed warriors and their masters clash, he felt something in him that dominated him, overtook control of what he felt and what he thought and filled it with nothing but sheer, unadulterated hopelessness, terror and pain.

…Such a thing simply could not be induced by a bottle of scotch or two.

He knew the cult. He knew about the Burning Dusk. He knew they operated in secrecy – using catastrophes like hurricanes and the fall of the World Trade Center to draw attention off their operations, operations that sickened him to his core. Human sacrifices, brainwashing, Typhoid Mary disease carriers – most of what people would pass off as psychological problems – were all part of the Dusk's repertoire of dark tricks. They even had a magic practitioner or two.

And after what he saw the Dusk do… There was no way that his dream was some kind of hallucination.

He closed his eyes again – the chest that had swollen with such a sense of urgency at the Tohsaka girl's unknown fate and the minute possibility of his acts being vain deflated once again. What could he do now? He was closer to a corpse than a simple old timer – true, Donovan didn't exactly aim precisely during their little Mexican Standoff, but four magnum rounds tend to do much more than give someone a slight limp. But he would not try to fool himself – he was bleeding more than an amputee and his insides resembled barbed wire. The forty-fours shredded skin, flesh, muscle and bone – each one had torn right through him as though he were made of paper.

Conrad frowned slightly. This seemed a lot like one of those 'life flashing before your eyes' moments. Why is it only on his deathbed that he considers all his actions? He wished Donovan was alive just a bit longer – with just a bit more strength. That way his old friend could plant a final forty-four into his skull and end his doubts. He sighed softly. The drive he had when he'd aimed his PPK at his friend was gone. The personnel in the fort awaited his order, after all – without him there, they might as well set the Servant and her Master free. It started to seem like the logical conclusion to him.

He tried.

That was all that mattered. He tried to avert a possible – possible – future that he saw in a dream, and he failed. 'Leave well enough alone', his father would always say – and Conrad was very tempted to do just so. His eyelids were becoming heavy, his breathing was becoming shallow and his whole body was becoming numb. Rest sounded… absolutely wonderful. His mind was a mess of doubt and logic, and his body, an amalgam of pain and creeping death. Even if he closed his eyes, for just a few seconds, he could cast it all away and-

A foul laughter filtered through his ears the moment he closed his eyes. Even in its half dead state his body tensed – his eyes were closed, yet his mind was filled with images. An ominous figure stood laughing, his pale face shadowed by the hood of the ornate black and red robes adorning his body. He was laughing in a terrible manner; an inhuman manner – there was no joy or pride or scorn in it… There was only madness… madness and the ever visible signs of bloodlust. In one hand the figure held a kriss-like dagger, curved and doused in blood, and in the other hand, an old Beretta pistol, with its slide locked back and smoke coming from its barrel. At his feet lay the bodies of the dead – men, women, children, newborns, their throats slashed messily or their skulls shattered by lead. The figure continued his madness-induced hysteria – and then, almost as suddenly as the images themselves came, a loud boom made Conrad's neck twitch as the visions in his head were dominated by fire. The buildings around the figure crumbled – turned to ash as mushroom clouds rose from their ruins. The figure's robes were incinerated, and his body turned to cinders…

And yet, his laugh continued.

Conrad's eyes flew open. That was no dream – that was a premonition. The Dusk was making a move, and they were going straight for the king – pawns and rooks be damned. Could this be their master plan? Could they really have acquired nuclear ordnance while he was focusing on their more morbid distractions? He knew the Dusk was ever-growing – there were members everywhere. But nuclear missiles…

Yes. It had to be. There simply was no other explanation. His grandfather spoke the truth when he told Conrad about the Burning Dusk – they were nothing but zealous extremists following a madman who wanted nothing more than to see every shred of life on earth trampled, powdered and spread to the winds – including himself. They did not have the numbers for war, but they had influence – enough influence to obtain even a truckload of nukes. This was their master plan. This was their way of not only attacking, but going right for the throat. This was what Conrad prepared for.

And to think: He almost let himself die.

Conrad frowned – renewed strength coursing through his wreck of a body. It was still numb – he had trouble clenching his fists and sitting upright, so he would make do. He grabbed hold of his tie and ripped it off; it took a few tugs, but eventually success came to him. With fire in his eyes he shoved the tie into his mouth and bit down. This was going to be painful.

I did not come this far… to greet the Reaper… having achieved nothing!

Pain shot through his body as he swung himself onto his stomach. His clenched fists were almost useless, but they'd do for this purpose. He planted one fist onto the steel grating and pushed, forcing himself up. His vision was swiftly dominated by white – shredded organs and chipped bones vehemently protested his movement. He should not have been moving in the first place. He should have been dead – reality prescribed death to anyone plugged four times by a Desert Eagle.

But this once, just this once, reality took a backseat.

He had his motivation back. Despite the lack of blood in his body, the fire was back in his eyes. He was not mistaken. He was not defeated yet… And he sure as hell was not going to back down now. His free hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the grip of the chrome handgun Donovan dropped. Eight bullets… Four discharged, four left – just in case someone didn't want to let him die when this was over. He knew his time was limited, almost laughably so. But death could wait. The Reaper could wait. Even God and His judgement could wait – wait until he was done. He was still going to do what he had planned – nobody would listen to him now, but he could still do the world a favour. The masters, the servants, the magic users – he'd have them all saved so they could one day, just maybe, help to rebuild the destruction that damned cult would leave in its wake.

Yes, he was going to do as he originally planned. Just as Donovan said he would. But that didn't mean he couldn't set his other errors right. Shirou Emiya… Sakura Matou… Even Arturia Pendragon, as hard it was to believe - they were about to be cast into an uncertain future.

The least he could do was set a few things right before that happened.

A/N: And this one's done! Whew. That was... Scary, to be honest. I'm terrified of writing this story because I'm new to the fandom, but it's one of those ideas that just won't let go. So let's see how it turns out. As you might have realized my chapters turn out to be almost excessively long... So please bear with me.

Next Chapter: The truth will out! What does Conrad really want with Shirou and the gang?

Thanks a lot for reading - I sincerely hope that, despite it being long-winded and focusing on OC's, it was till a good read.
-Chaos.