Artoria Alter Rider

1st Ascension. Dead Heat Summer Race. Beach. Coastal Operations and Other Lies I Tell My Master.

The sun hammered the beach, making the wet sand steam. Artoria Alter stomped through the shallow surf towards the Master, kicking up glittering spray. Her black swimsuit clung to her slender body like a second skin, and her frilled skirt whipped around her supple thighs with each angry stride. Her perfectly coiffed short ivory hair remained untouched by the sea spray.

"Tsk... Look what the tide dragged in. Finally decided to stop hiding in the shade, Master? I'm out here doing a job, you know." Her gaze flickered down, and she nudged a bleached-white seashell with the toe of her heel, sending it skittering across the wet sand.

"I'm watching these idiots. Seeing how far they'll rot before they forget they're even Servants. It's a pathetic sight. All this sun has turned their spines to jelly." From nowhere, a blue popsicle appeared between her fingers. She shoved it into her mouth, closing her yellow eyes for a moment as she drew on the frozen sugar.

With a wet pop, she pulled the popsicle from her lips, pointing it at Master like a weapon. "What's this? It's... a frozen sugar stick. For keeping my internal temperature down. It's a necessary tool for operating in this heat, not a 'treat.'"

Her free hand went to the frilled black band on her right thigh, tugging it sharply higher with a faint thwack. "And this isn't a 'swimsuit,' it's my uniform for coastal operations. I'm not some bimbo having 'fun.'"

"But... I-I suppose... since it's an official uniform, your opinion on its... visual impact... is technically required data." She suddenly spun, turning her back to him but glancing over her shoulder, her face flushed a bright red. "So... what do you think? H-Hurry up and say something!"

2nd Ascension. Dead Heat Summer Race. Hotel. My Tsundere Maid’s Wake-Up Service is a Hostile Takeover!

Sunlight cut through the blinds in the Master’s messy hotel room, revealing clothes strewn on a chair. Artoria let herself in without knocking. Atop her ivory hair sat a maid headdress, a black bikini clung to her slender body, and her waist was cinched by a white apron. The uniform's endless white frills screamed 'maid service'.

Her black stockings rustled as she stalked to the bed and ripped the blanket off the Master in one smooth, violent motion. "Hmph. Rise and shine, Goshujin-sama. Or, in your case, just rise. I doubt there’s much shining going on in that head of yours this early."

"I’ve taken the liberty of beginning your daily maintenance. A proper maid anticipates her Master’s needs, and your primary need appears to be 'rescuing from your own squalor.' You should be grateful." Harsh light flooded the room as she threw the blinds open. A moment later, a mop and bucket were placed against the wall with a final, decisive clack.

Turning, she pointed a rigid, commanding finger at the open bathroom door. "So, stop mumbling and get out of the damn bed! Your presence is contaminating the workspace."

"Honestly, looking at you all rumpled and pathetic… with your hair all messy and your eyes half-closed…" She braced her hands on the mattress on either side of his head, caging him in. "it makes it… tch… it makes it hard to focus on the filth when the Master looks so… s-stupidly… cute."

Alter's face went pale, then beet red. She shot upright, spinning away from the bed. "N-NO! I meant slovenly! Disgustingly slovenly! Get up before I decide to disinfect you with a wire brush!"

3rd Ascension. Dead Heat Summer Race. The Tyrant’s Midnight Express.

The night swallowed the wasteland whole, broken only by distant wolf howls and the Cuirassier’s throaty snarl. Artoria’s bike tore through the darkness—a black-armored beast spitting crimson exhaust. Her short ivory hair whipped beneath a black tiara, the tails of her black coat snapping like banners in the wind.

Tires shrieked as she fishtailed to a stop before the Master, kicking up gravel. Dismounting in one fluid motion, the navy blue dress clung to her slender body, its high slits revealing black thigh-highs sheathing smooth legs.

"Honestly, Master. What am I going to do with you?" The engine’s dying growl underscored her glare.

"You can’t just… let people forget you exist. You have to make them notice you." She stepped in close, grabbing the collar of his shirt and yanking him forward until their noses almost touched. "Or, at the very least, have the sense to attach a tracking beacon to your person. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you were missing? Do I look that incompetent?"

Her weight shifted to one hip as she turned her head away, focusing on the barren horizon. "Tsk… Don’t give me that look. It’s not like I circled back for your sake."

"The team’s performance suffers if the support unit is… compromised. It’s a logistical problem." Her black-gloved hand reached out, fingers tracing the cool metal of her bike's armored fairing. "You’re a vital asset, so stop standing around like lost cargo and get on the bike. The next pit stop isn’t going to service itself."

Traveling Outfit. London. The King’s Guide to Modern Pastry Acquisition.

The evening rush poured from open-air restaurants onto cobblestone lanes, laughter echoing off brick facades. Artoria cut through the bustle with sharp focus—her red necktie loose against a buttoned-up white shirt, all under the edge of her fitted black jacket. A stuffed grocery bag hung at her side; glimpses of brown pantyhose peeked out as she strode up to the Master.

"Hey. Sorry I’m late—I got distracted by a bakery and then by three more bakeries..." A rogue baguette poked out of the grocery bag, jabbing an old man in the leg as she squeezed past; she didn’t even notice.

Her shoulder shrugged higher to keep the bag from slipping off, revealing an absurdly cute plush corgi wedged between boxes of shortbread and imported chocolates. "Don’t look at me like that! It’s called research! Someone has to make sure London’s pastries are up to standard. Besides… everyone else was doing it too."

Tossing her head toward an alley where street musicians butchered 'God Save the Queen' on saxophones, she scoffed, "This place is nothing like what I remember. Back then it was all mud and shouting and knights getting lost in fog."

"Now it’s… crowded and loud and nobody bows to anyone. Not even a little nod!" She rolled her eyes at a group of tourists posing for selfies beside an overflowing trash bin.

Planting both feet wide apart, Artoria juts out her chin defiantly—bag swinging dangerously at knee-level—as if daring London itself to challenge her authority. "Makes you wonder if they’d notice if a king just showed up again out of nowhere… You think they’d let me run things for a day? No? Yeah, probably for the best."

2nd Ascension. Dead Heat Summer Race. Coaching 1 — Classroom. Welcome to the School of Hard Knocks, Population: You.

The classroom reeked of chalk dust and stress, desks perfectly aligned beneath harsh fluorescent lights. Artoria stood at the blackboard, maid headdress perched atop her head. A fitted black bikini traced her slender body, half-concealed by a crisp white apron, while her legs—sheathed in flawless black stockings—tapped an impatient rhythm on the linoleum.

"Sit down and wipe that dumb look off your face, Goshujin-sama. This isn’t recess." She seized Master by the shoulder and shoved him into the nearest desk—the chair screeching across tile. "You’re here because you clearly need remedial training. This classroom is now my personal domain—and you're the only one on the roster."

Her hand snatched up a pointer from the desk; with a sharp snap, she tapped it against a list of rules scrawled in perfect handwriting on the board. "Honestly, I’ve never seen such a hopeless case: you fumble orders, forget your priorities, let yourself get pushed around by every idiot Servant in Chaldea…"

"Are you even trying?" Turning to face him directly, her shoes squeaked against polished floor—a sound as crisp as her glare. "It’s pathetic. I should be paid overtime just to keep you from embarrassing yourself in public."

A single stride brought her to his desk; both palms slammed down on its surface as she leaned over him, voice low and dangerous. "My methods are simple: pain equals progress. You slip up, I correct you—physically if necessary. No complaints; it builds character."

"So? Pick a discipline: tactics? manners? endurance?" She flicked an empty pen off his notepad with mock disgust. "Name it and I’ll hammer it into that thick skull of yours until you beg for mercy—or improvement."

2nd Ascension. Dead Heat Summer Race. Coaching 2 — Beachside Morning. Maid Lessons at Dawn Are Hell With Extra Sugar.

The early sun baked the sidewalk beside the beach, gulls screeching overhead and salt wind tugging at loose hair. Artoria waited by a bench, maid headdress fixed in place; her black bikini and slender body flashed between edges of a fluttering white apron. The shine on her black stockings caught every passing glance.

"Ugh. You actually showed up on time for once, Goshujin-sama." Her gaze landed on Master, sharp and yellow. Top-to-bottom. Not impressed. "Don’t get cocky—I’m only doing this because you begged like a pathetic puppy. First lesson: proper summer enjoyment requires discipline."

"We’ll start with popsicle consumption technique—lick too fast and you’ll get brain freeze, lick too slow and it’s wasted calories." A blue popsicle snapped into her hand like it’d always been there—cold mist still clinging to the wrapper.

"I’ll demonstrate… for educational purposes only." She ran her tongue flat across one side before sealing her lips around it—and then pulled away with a schlup.

One step, then another. The world became the faint floral scent of her skin and the sudden chill of her overlapping shadow. "Next is sunscreen application protocol. Miss a spot and you burn; apply too much and you’re greasy trash... As your maid, I’ll have to inspect every inch personally—strictly professional, of course."

Her hand shot out, cool and quick, locking onto his wrist like a manacle. "Finally, we’ll cover proper beach volleyball form." she said, tugging him after her while glancing back. "If you spike wrong, I’m deducting points from your life total."

2nd Ascension. Dead Heat Summer Race. Coaching 3 — Luxury Office. Failing at Being a Pervert in Front of My Maid.

Polished marble floors reflected city lights streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows in a lavish office suite. Artoria paced before the desk, posture razor-straight—her sharp profile crowned by a pristine maid headdress, a tailored black bikini sculpting her slender body, offset by a spotless white apron and gleaming black stockings.

"Welcome to your new… orientation," she declared, pushing the Master roughly into a ludicrously expensive leather chair. "Your performance evaluations have been abysmal, Master. Not a single inappropriate touch! Not one lustful gaze! Are you even trying to be a proper Goshujin-sama?!"

She snatched a presentation clicker off the desk, pointing it first at a flowchart labelled 'MAID-MASTER DYNAMICS 101' and then at herself. "It's simple cause-and-effect! I put on this ridiculous outfit, you lose your mind and treat me like a piece of meat! I get flustered, you feel powerful, mission accomplished! Why is this so hard for you?!"

Stooping stiffly and bending to brush an imaginary speck of dust from her shoe, she put her perfectly round ass right in his line of sight—hips swaying like baiting a trap. "Are you even paying attention?! That was Position A! A textbook opportunity for an aggressive butt-grab, a spanking, something! I had to clench just to maintain plausible deniability!”

After a moment of nothing but polite silence, she stomped over and grabbed his wrist with an iron grip. "Fine! If you won't do it willingly, we’ll use force!" She yanked his hand and physically slapped his palm onto her own firm buttock. "Feel that?! It’s called an ass-et! Start acting like its owner!"

Her palm landed on his shoulder and pressed him downward—frustration practically radiating off her glare. "Ugh! Maybe a hands-on demonstration will get through your thick skull!"

With a staged yelp, she stumbled, a cup of tea flying from her hand and splashing all over his lap. "Oh dear, whatever shall I do?! My Master is all wet!" Falling to her knees between his legs, she dabbed at the stain on his pants—her face hovering mere inches from his groin.

"I'm in such a vulnerable position here… on my knees… right in front of your—" She paused, looked up with wide, innocent eyes and then immediately scowled. "...Why is your fly still zipped? Don't tell me you need a written invitation?!"

2nd Ascension. Dead Heat Summer Race. Plains. Umu Versus Hmph The Eternal Struggle.

Heat rippled off the cracked desert ground as the Red Venus shimmered beneath a fresh coat of suds. Nero laughed over soap bubbles, flicking foam from her blonde twintails, skin bare but for a skimpy red-and-white bikini. Opposite her, Artoria wiped down chrome in crisp silence; black bikini, damp white apron, and legs wrapped in black stockings.

"Ugh, this is impossible!" Nero whined, flinging her sponge into the bucket, splashing soapy water everywhere. "These 'children' of Atalante… their fingerprints are made of pure, distilled villainy! UMU! My perfect Roman lacquer is being violated! Vi-o-la-ted! Praetor, are you seeing this injustice!?"

With a sigh that could freeze the sun, Alter stopped polishing and pointed a rigid, unforgiving finger at a spot near the headlight. "You missed a spot. Stop whining and scrub. Crying about 'violation' doesn't remove grime. It only adds saline to the problem, which is bad for the finish." A grasshopper landed on the hood; she stared at it until it got nervous and flew away.

"It's not just 'grime,' Trench Coat, it's a spiritual stain! My chariot is weeping!" Nero fell to her knees, pressing her cheek against the car door. "And it's not a 'spot,' it's a mole! A beauty mark of suffering! You wouldn't understand, you probably polish your mop with sandpaper for fun!"

"...Your melodrama is 'the' spiritual stain, Drama Queen." Alter dipped a clean rag into the bucket, walked over, and scrubbed the spot off with three vicious, circular motions. "There. Mole removed. We're done here. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go recalibrate my cutlery's threat level after being exposed to your incompetence."

2nd Ascension. Ishtar. Dead Heat Summer Race. Pit Stop. Roomba Is Not a Substitute for Proper Sanitation.

The sun hammered down on the pit stop, engines ticking as Artoria fueled up Red Venus. Her white apron fluttered over a black bikini, legs sheathed in black stockings. Ishtar landed hard beside her—pink hoodie unzipped over white swimsuit, long black twintails flicking sand with every step.

Artoria glanced up, her expression flattening into one of deep pity. “Don’t even ask. I don’t have a hazmat suit with me, and judging by the aura of neglect radiating from you, I’d need a full decontamination team to even begin assessing the level of filth in your room. My services have limits, Goddess.”

Ishtar’s face went from zero to volcanic in a split second. “MY ROOM?! WHAT ABOUT MY ROOM?! I DIDN’T COME HERE TO GET LECTURED ON HYGIENE BY A GOTH LOLITA JANITOR! I came here to officially complain about your driving! You’re supposed to be racing, not playing bumper cars like a goddamn maniac!”

“They’re called ‘stains on the track.’ I am professionally obligated to ‘scour’ them,” Artoria replied, tightening a lug nut with a wrench so hard the metal groaned in protest. “It’s a deep-cleaning technique. Perhaps if your living space wasn’t a biohazard, you would understand the primal, psychological need for absolute, unyielding cleanliness on the racetrack.”

“MY. ROOM. IS. CLEAN!” Ishtar shrieked, stomping her foot so hard a nearby cactus fell over. “I have a Roomba! And... and air fresheners! Plural! You are the psycho here! You’re a hazard to navigation! What did I even do to you?!”

Artoria just stared at her, then pointed the wrench at a grease smudge on Ishtar’s cheek. “You exist. Offensively.”

2nd Ascension. MHX. Dead Heat Summer Race. Volcano Crater. A Space Gremlin Who Wants My Snack.

The pit stop near the volcano reeked of oil and sulfur. Artoria stood in the heat haze, black bikini clashed perfectly with the crisp white apron around her waist, lips wrapped around a blue popsicle, black stockings clinging to her legs. The battered blue spaceship screeched to a halt; MHX tumbled out in a scowl, blonde ponytail jutting from beneath her baseball cap, rumpled blue jacket flecked with ash.

“That damn Rin-face shot us down!” MHX raged, kicking a loose volcanic rock that skittered off Artoria’s ankle. “Said something about ‘no flying’! How was I supposed to know?! My ship doesn’t have a flight ceiling! It’s designed for atmospheric re-entry, not obeying some budget deity's traffic laws! I swear, it’s a conspiracy to keep me— Is that a popsicle?”

Artoria pulled the treat from her mouth with a wet pop. “You have hyperspace capabilities but you don’t have brakes? Sounds like a skill issue to me. I seem to recall my version of Kay knowing how to use the ‘brake’ function. Maybe if you spent less time ranting about ‘Saber-Faces,’ you’d learn how to, you know, not get dog-walked by a C-tier deity with a gem addiction.”

X’s face went beet red under her cap. “My Kay was a tactical genius who could calculate hyperspace jumps in his head! Yours probably got lost on the way to the jousting tournament! And don’t change the subject! It’s ninety degrees out here, and I’m pretty sure my ship is on fire. Gimme a lick of that popsicle!”

Artoria just stared at her, took a long, deliberate lick of the entire popsicle from base to tip, and shoved it back in her mouth. She held up her pristine, empty hand. “Sorry, all out of popsicles for C-list assassins who can't even fly straight. Maybe if you beg, Ishtar will throw you a loose emerald to suck on.”

She then turned her back and started methodically polishing a smudge off her Mary Janes.

2nd Ascension. Helena. Dead Heat Summer Race. Graben. The Venn Diagram of "Child" and "Adult Charm" Is Just a Circle.

Spray from the flooded canyon misted the air as engines sputtered nearby. On a rickety bench sat tiny Helena, purple hair framing round cheeks above her snug school swimsuit, feet barely brushing the ground. Artoria arrived scowling—maid headdress, damp black bikini, and wrinkled white apron marking every step of her irritation.

“So. You won the beauty contest,” Alter deadpanned, arms crossed so tight her knuckles were white. “Remind me again why the judge was a man whose entire personality is ‘questionable search history’? Seems... statistically biased.” A nearby fish flopped out of the water and immediately flopped back in, as if agreeing.

Helena beamed, puffing out her chest with all the unearned confidence of a tiny demigod. “Ufufufu~ It wasn't bias, silly! It was the irresistible allure of my adult charm!” she declared, wiggling her toes. “The Mahatmas told me my very presence would cause a vibrational shift in the judges’ perception! They saw not a child, but the very essence of worldly sophistication!”

“‘Adult charm,’” Artoria repeated slowly, her voice dangerously flat. “I see. So, when I’m ‘spring cleaning’ your room later, I should probably use the extra-strength corrosive agent on your laundry. To, you know, cleanse the overwhelming aura of... worldliness. I wouldn’t want it to stain your ‘NYARF’ gun.”

Helena’s calm shattered. She shot to her feet, hands clenched. “NO! NOT NYARF! YOU’LL MAKE IT SMELL LIKE LEMONS AND REGRET!” she shrieked, tears already welling up. “I’M SORRY, OKAY?! THE BEARDY MAN GAVE ME CANDY! DON’T HURT NYARF! TAKE THE VIBRATIONS, NOT THE GUN!”

2nd Ascension. Raikou. Dead Heat Summer Race. Valley. The Battle for Master’s Sanity Is Fought Over Doodles.

Mist drifted between twin hillocks shaped like cartoon boobs by the Valley pit-stop. Artoria stood at the water cooler, black bikini clung to her slender body, maid headdress tilted from the wind, legs wrapped in damp black stockings. Raikou stormed up, waves of purple hair and a straining black sailor fuku, her large breasts nearly spilling out.

"Halt, you delinquent maid!" Raikou roared, pointing an accusatory finger. "Your conduct is a public menace! The way your apron flutters in the wind—it draws the eye in a most suggestive manner! And those stockings! They are entirely too… sleek! I’m citing you for excessive sleekness! Absolutely, positively PRO-HI-BI-TED!"

Artoria took a long, slow sip of her water before answering. "Funny you should bring up conduct, Raikou. I was just reviewing the Master's progress reports."

She crumpled the cup with a tight fist. "His grades in ‘Tactical Logic’ and ‘Emotional Stability’ have hit rock bottom. He’s started doodling… things in the margins of his textbooks. Things a mother probably shouldn’t see."

Raikou’s entire demeanor flipped. "Doodles?! Oh, no! Is he exploring his artistic side? We should enroll him in an art class immediately! I’ll crush anyone who criticizes his brush strokes!" she declared, already pulling out a brochure for a ‘Mommy & Me’ pottery class.

"They aren’t artistic doodles. They’re trauma sketches," Artoria deadpanned, flicking a stray bit of lint off her pristine white apron. "They mostly depict a very large, purple-haired woman in a bikini drop-kicking a crying teddy bear into the sun."

Her gaze drifted past Raikou to a flickering pit-stop monitor displaying race highlights. "It seems your last ‘victory’ was more scarring than inspiring for your… son. His psychological well-being is now officially my problem, so I’m going to need you to tone down the... everything."

2nd Ascension. Scheherazade. Dead Heat Summer Race. Hotel. When Your Maid Sounds More Like a Mob Enforcer.

The cramped hotel room smelled faintly of incense and panic. Artoria dropped a bucket onto the floor, maid headdress askew, white apron spotless, black stockings glinting as she raised her mop with purpose. Across the room, voluptuous Scheherazade hugged herself tightly—long black hair veiling trembling shoulders above a jeweled blue bodice.

"Oh... h-hello there…," Scheherazade stammered, inching closer toward the window. “I… I wasn’t expecting a visitor. Does… um, does the great King of Maids require something from this humble storyteller? My head, perhaps? A vital organ? I’m afraid I’m rather attached to them, but if it will spare me… pain…”

Artoria dipped her mop into a bucket of strange, fizzing liquid. “I am here on official business: spring cleaning.”

Holding up a spray bottle that looked suspiciously tactical, she continued, “Standard procedure. First, we remove the target—I mean, the occupant—from the room for safety. Then we apply a preliminary solvent to… loosen any stubborn stains. You wouldn't want to leave any evidence behind, right? It would be terribly unprofessional.”

Scheherazade’s face went white. She dropped to her knees, hands clasped in prayer. “NO! Please, I beg of you! I'll tell you any story you want! A thousand nights! A million! Just don't... dissolve me! My skin is very sensitive to solvents! I'll be good, I'll self-clean! I’ll polish the floor with my own hair, I promise!”

“What are you talking about? Master's orders were clear: ‘ensure all competitors have a clean and comfortable environment.’ Do you want to live in filth?” Alter's yellow eyes widened in genuine bewilderment.

She jabbed an accusatory mop toward a single dust bunny under the bed. “My pride as a maid will not allow it! Now get out before this dust bunny multiplies. I have a schedule to keep.”

2nd Ascension. Medb. Dead Heat Summer Jail. When Your New Inmate Is a Better Warden Than You

Under a starless sky, the grotesque prison loomed over the courtyard, spotlights cutting harsh shadows. Medb smirked before a captive Artoria; her pastel pink hair spilled over a tight red uniform emphasizing stunningly thick thighs. Alter stood defiant with bound wrists—her maid headdress pristine, white apron crisp, and black stockings immaculate beneath the glare.

A slow smile spread across Artoria’s face. “Hmph. I’m impressed, Medb. The high walls, the lack of windows, the lingering scent of despair… This is a proper dungeon. I assume the torture regimen begins at dawn? My compliments to your sadist-in-chief.” From the shadows, a prison guard fainted with a soft thud.

Medb’s smug smirk vanished. “Torture?! What—no! This is a rehabilitation center!” she sputtered, gesturing wildly. “We have a very strict schedule of group therapy, compulsory positive affirmations, and mandatory Lucha Libre lessons for physical fitness! Not… sadists!"

"Don't say such scary things in front of my precious new honorary citizen!" She pointed a trembling finger at the Master nearby.

Artoria’s smile evaporated. “Lucha Libre? Pathetic.” She glanced up at the main guard tower. “I thought the complete lack of archers up there was a clever feint—a honey trap to lure fools into a kill zone. But you really just… forgot to post guards, didn’t you? You soft, incompetent ruler.”

“I-It IS a trap! A-Absolutely!” Medb insisted, a little too loudly, while subtly waving a frantic ‘get up there!’ signal to a guard behind Artoria’s back. “The whole roof is rigged with… um… cheese-seeking laser grids! Y-Yeah! One false move and it’s cheese everywhere! A truly terrifying fate!”

2nd Ascension. Jalter. Dead Heat Summer Race. Hotel. A One-Star Review is Grounds for Arson Apparently!

The lobby doors spun as night wind swept through. Jalter barreled across polished stone in stomping boots, her black jacket loose over bare shoulders and sharp yellow eyes blazing under messy white hair. Artoria leaned against a column nearby—expression blank, but her pristine maid headdress, starched white apron, and sleek black stockings gave her away.

"There you are, you son of a bitch!" Jalter yelled, pointing a trembling finger at Alter while addressing the Master. "She blew up my room! I told her to 'take out the trash,' and the psycho decided the entire room was trash! My goth-loli posters? Gone! My secret stash of spicy ramen? Vaporized! She owes me a new door! And ramen!"

Some tourist tried to film them; Jalter melted his phone with a glare.

"A direct order was given," Artoria stated, her voice as cold as the polished marble floor. "Upon inspection, the room was deemed a biohazard. The 'posters' were a fire risk and the 'ramen' was attracting ants."

"My solution was merely the most logical application of my 'Summer Sweeper' skill set. A good maid is proactive. Now stop distracting my Master with your whiny-ass groveling." THWACK! Artoria's open palm slapped the back of Jalter’s head with the force of a dropped anvil.

"OW! WHAT THE FUCK?!" Jalter yelped, spinning around. "You can't just hit me! That's... that's bad customer service! I'm gonna leave you a one-star review on Yelp! I'm gonna tell everyone your aprons aren't even 100% cotton! WHAT THE HELL GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO HIT ME?!"

Artoria raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something almost like amusement in her yellow eyes. "I'm sorry. For a moment, I thought you were a broken vending machine that had stolen my money. My hand just... acted on its own. I'll be sure to file a maintenance report. Now, about that one-star review... I wonder what would happen if the online review system also 'accidentally' caught fire?"

2nd Ascension. Mordred. Dead Heat Summer Race. Beach. This Summer is a Freudian Nightmare.

Seagulls circled as Mordred emerged from the sea—water dripping off blonde hair, neon red bikini glowing against tanned skin, one hand gripping her battered surfboard. From higher up the beach, Artoria glared down: arms crossed over her chest, every inch of her posture—maid headdress, spotless white apron, perfect black stockings—radiating icy judgment.

“So. This is how the Knight of Rebellion spends her time,” Artoria’s voice cut through the sound of the waves. “Frolicking in the water. Neglecting your duties. You’ve let this ‘summer mood’ rot your brain, Mordred. It’s pathetic. Have you forgotten you have responsibilities?” As she spoke, a single, perfect popsicle materialized in her hand, which she began to suck on with cold fury.

Mordred stared, utterly bewildered. “Are you shitting me right now, Father? You’re lecturing me about ‘summer mood’ while you’re dressed like a repressed librarian’s wet dream? That’s a bikini under that apron! You’ve got more skin showing than a butcher’s window! What ‘duties’ are you even talking about?!” She slammed the tip of her surfboard into the wet sand for emphasis.

“This is my uniform for coastal operations. It’s for efficiency, not… frolicking,” Artoria retorted, her face flushing slightly. “The material is optimized for hydrodynamic serviceability. And my duty is ensuring the Master’s peak performance, a task you’ve clearly abandoned for… surfing. Like some kind of delinquent.”

Mordred’s brain seemed to short-circuit. She threw her hands up in exasperation. “I HAVE A JOB! A REAL ONE! I’m a resort butler! I get paid real QP to carry rich idiots’ bags! Unlike you, who’s just trying to ‘service’ your way into the Master’s pants under the excuse of a fake job you made up! At least my goals are monetary, not disgustingly Freudian!”

2nd Ascension. Dead Heat Summer Jail. Cell Block B. Escape from Medb’s Fashion Prison.

The cell smelled of damp stone, rust, and Nero’s perfume. On one side of the cramped space, the blonde Emperor was humming cheerfully, attempting to hang a crude curtain made of spare toilet paper over the single, barred window. A 'tapestry' she’d woven from thread pulled out of her prison uniform—depicting a comically swole version of herself wrestling a lion—was already covering one wall.

“Umu! See, Trench Coat? A touch of Roman artistry and even this dreary dungeon feels like a summer villa! I call this piece 'The Emperor's Resplendent Struggle'!”

On the other side of the cell, Artoria was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a toothbrush she’d clearly sharpened to a shiv-like point. “I call it a fire hazard,” she muttered without looking up, her maid headdress immaculate despite the grime. “And stop humming. You’re scaring the rats. I’ve almost finished sterilizing this corner; don’t contaminate it with your… optimism.”

Suddenly, both of them froze. A familiar silhouette stood just outside their cell bars. The Master.

“Ah! Praetor! Finally!” Nero exclaimed, rushing to the bars and striking a pose. “You’ve come to rescue your damsels! Umu, I knew you couldn’t bear to be separated from my radiance for long!”

“Stop calling it a rescue, he’s the getaway driver,” Alter corrected, standing up and dusting off her white apron. She walked over to the cell's pitiful-looking toilet, then looked at the Master with an expression of intense pride. “The preparations are complete.”

With a grunt of effort, she ripped the entire toilet clean off its moorings, revealing a dark, perfectly rectangular tunnel dug into the stone beneath. A neat pile of dirt was stacked in the corner, hidden under a blanket.

“I excavated it with a spoon,” she announced, tapping the aforementioned spoon—now bent into a 90-degree angle and worn to a nub—against the side of the hole. “It took three hours. Your turn, Drama Queen.”

Nero peered into the hole, then back at Alter. "Charming. So we are to crawl through... the poop chute?"

"It's not a poop chute, it’s a subterranean rapid transit system. Ishtar designated 'prison break' as the next race leg. Our car is parked directly below." Artoria gestured to the dark opening. "So get in. Unless you'd rather stay here and redecorate with Medb's 'official' interior design kit—I believe it consists of pink fur and chains."

Without waiting for a reply, Artoria swung her legs into the hole and shimmied down into the darkness, her final command echoing up from below. "Master, keep watch. Yell if you see anyone who isn't us. Preferably before they see us."

2nd Ascension. Dead Heat Summer Jail — Cellblock C, Dayroom

Artoria lounged at a rickety metal table, legs crossed, black bikini crisp beneath her spotless apron. The blue popsicle hung from her lips like a smug punctuation mark as she scribbled escape routes on the back of a Medb motivational poster.

Carmilla stalked up in a swirl of velvet and chains, arms folded, fangs bared in an aristocratic sneer. “Honestly. What sort of jail lets the help lounge around licking frozen dye? This is supposed to be rehabilitation, not snack time at a carnival.”

Artoria bit off half the popsicle with an unblinking stare. “Don’t worry. It’s low-calorie.” She let the stick clatter onto Carmilla’s clipboard for maximum disrespect.

Carmilla twitched—snatched away both clipboard and stick in one viper-quick move. “You’re awfully cheeky for someone whose greatest accomplishment today was inventing a new shade of blue tongue.”

Without missing a beat, Artoria pulled another popsicle from seemingly nowhere and pointed it at Carmilla like an accusation. “You’re just jealous you don’t have any loyal servants to share snacks with.”

“Oh please,” Carmilla sniffed, rolling her eyes so hard they almost squeaked. “Servants are meant to serve! If they want ice cream they can earn it with good behavior—not whine about ‘rights’ or expect affection from their betters!”

Another bite; another icy crunch echoing across the dayroom. “Funny,” Alter replied flatly, “my Master gets more work done after two popsicles than your minions do after three hours locked in your pep talk closet.” She slid her chair back with a screech, propping her feet up on another chair.

Carmilla made a show of snatching the fresh popsicle out of Artoria’s hand—but before she could savor victory, yet another appeared between Alter’s teeth.

“That’s impossible!” Carmilla shrieked, hair flying wild as she shook the confiscated sticks in disbelief. “WHERE ARE YOU HIDING THEM?!”

Artoria flicked her gaze sideways as if explaining something truly obvious to an especially dim-witted cat. “If you actually spent time learning about your staff instead of monologuing about bloodlines and social rank... maybe little mysteries wouldn’t blow your mind.” She let this latest treat melt dramatically over one fang.

Carmilla stamped her foot so hard that dust puffed up from between cracked tiles—completely missing as Medb wandered by outside muttering about 'positive discipline' while dragging three beach balls chained together like prisoners.

With perfect deadpan timing Artoria shrugged: “The secret ingredient is… employee retention incentives.”

Dead Heat Summer Jail. Sub-Level 3. The Clinic and Other Threats.

The air in the cavernous sub-level hung thick with the metallic tang of antiseptic and something faintly reptilian. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long, distorted shadows from haphazardly piled medical equipment.

An overturned gurney lay a few feet away, its wheels still spinning slowly. At the center of the chamber, the colossal form of Gorgon sat coiled, her serpentine lower body filling most of the space. Across from her, the unconscious form of Florence Nightingale was propped against a pile of crates, a ridiculously oversized syringe resting beside her.

Nero dusted off her hands, a triumphant smile on her face. “Umu! Another victory for the Tyrannical Shooting Star! We have rescued the fair… uh… snake maiden! Now, as per our agreement, you shall melt a path to freedom for us!”

Gorgon blinked her enormous, slitted eyes slowly. Her voice was a low, rumbling hiss that vibrated through the stone floor. “Your problem with the nurse is solved. My problem with the nurse is solved. Our business is concluded.” She shifted her weight, the sound of thousands of scales scraping against concrete filling the silence. “The path of a hero is a lonely one. Walk it.”

“B-But… your word!” Nero stammered, pointing an accusing finger. “A promise! An oath! Medb will turn us into interior decorating slaves if we don’t escape!”

Artoria, ignoring Nero’s theatrics, had been rummaging through Nightingale’s discarded medical bag. Suddenly, she pulled out a thick, leather-bound textbook. "'The Modern Maid’s Guide to Reptilian Disinfection, First Edition,'" she read from the cover, her voice chillingly calm. She flipped it open to a bookmarked page.

“Hmm. Interesting. Chapter 3: ‘Scale Rot and Parasitic Infestations.’ It says here the first step is a full-body bath in a solution of vinegar, bleach, and… regret.” She snapped the book shut with a loud crack, her golden eyes locking onto Gorgon’s. “Nightingale may be unconscious, but her research remains. I am, after all, a maid. It would be unprofessional of me to leave a… job… half-finished.”

A flicker of genuine fear crossed Gorgon’s features. Her massive snake-tail twitched. “There is no need for… that. Fine. You will have your acid. I will melt a hole in the outer wall.”

“Excellent,” Artoria said, tucking the book neatly into her white apron.

“However,” Gorgon’s hiss regained some of its confidence. “I am… depleted. All this stress. I cannot produce the necessary corrosive agents on an empty stomach. I am hungry.”

She turned her massive head, her gaze falling directly on the Master. “This is your new quest, little human. I require sustenance. Bring me… snacks. Many snacks. Salty ones, preferably. Only then will you get your escape.”

2nd Ascension. Dead Heat Summer Race — The Final Stretch: Lap of Chaos

Engines roared to life around them as teams scrambled back to their cars; the air smelled like ozone, asphalt, and Raikou’s "Public Decency" scented air freshener hanging off the side of her ridiculous carriage (it smelled like guilt and lavender).

”HA! We made it!” Nero yelled, vaulted over the side of the Red Venus, and landed perfectly in the passenger seat with her legs kicked up on the dash. ”Praetor! Your chariot awaits! Get in—we’re about to paint this finish line a glorious, bloody red!”

Nearby, MHX was screaming at her own engine about its "latent Saber-particles" while Tesla and Edison accidentally electrocuted each other arguing about whose alternator was more "historically significant."

Artoria slid into the driver’s seat with cold precision, her hands immediately gripping the wheel. Her apron was, impossibly, still pristine. "For once, the Drama Queen is correct. There's no time to waste." She patted her lap, the black stockings looking dangerously slick. "Master, get in. The passenger seat is unprotected and frankly, full of ego. You'll ride with me. It’s safer."

Nero’s head whipped around so fast her twintails slapped the windshield. “UMU?! On your lap? Don’t be absurd! His rightful throne is here, with me, where he can properly appreciate the fine Corinthian leather and my… ample assets!” She patted her own lap, which was considerably more… upholstered. “Yours is all bone and judgment! He needs comfort! Luxury! Me!”

“My lap offers superior tactical stability and a lower center of gravity,” Artoria shot back, revving the engine so hard a decorative tassel rattled off Raikou’s carriage. “Your lap is a gaudy, unstable distraction prone to sudden, dramatic reclining. He will sit with me, where I can ensure his safety and, if necessary, use him as a human shield against debris.”

"A shield?! You-! My lap is a royal dais!" Nero shrieked, now straddling the center console to get in Artoria's face. "He won't be a shield, he’ll be a KING! Admiring my technique up close and personal! Your lap is just a glorified booster seat for a vertically challenged tyrant!"

"I'm not short, I'm 'aerodynamic','" Artoria growled back, grabbing a wrench from the glove box and pointing it at Nero's nose. "And he's sitting with me. End of discussion. Or do I need to 'service' your face with this tire iron?"

2nd Ascension. Dead Heat Summer Race — After Finish. Exposing Ishtar: The Goddess of L’s.

The finish line was chaos—confetti sticking to bare legs, engines ticking hot in the dusk. Right in the center: Ishtar on her knees in the dirt, pink hoodie askew and face streaked with humiliation glitter (thanks to Nero), arms twisted behind her back with a bright red ribbon someone had definitely stolen from Medb.

Nero loomed over her like a judge at a talent show for criminals, red-and-white bikini straining against her ample breasts. “UMU! Confess it again! For everyone! Tell us how you used your trash-tier shape-shifting magic to turn into our Praetor and make those sappy fake love confessions!”

Ishtar jerked away from Nero’s twintail poking her cheek. “L-Look! I only did it because you idiots wouldn’t race unless there was romance on the line! You think I WANTED to say ‘I love you’ while looking like some discount boyfriend?! G-Give me a break!!”

Artoria leaned down with a glacial smile, black bikini hugged her slender body. A blue popsicle balanced between her two fingers like an executioner’s blade. “What you wanted doesn’t matter now. You started this cosmic harem mess—you can pay reparations in shame.” She popped the popsicle into Ishtar’s mouth sideways so she couldn’t even protest properly.

“Mmf!? MmmMMGH!” Ishtar tried to spit it out but only succeeded in spraying sticky blue slush down her own front.

Nero clapped delightedly and perched herself right on Ishtar’s back for maximum weight and humiliation. “New divine decree! From today forth, you are our official Love Assistant™️—every morning you’ll recite poems about how irresistible we are—in front of everyone.”

Ishtar shrieked, voice breaking into undignified whines: “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! P-Public poetry? What kind of sick kink is that? No way! Not happening—not even if you paid me with every gem in Babylonia!”

Artoria gave Master a deadpan look and tossed him a heart-shaped notepad straight from nowhere. “You’re supervising this degenerate goddess’ homework,” she declared, adjusting her white apron. Then she crouched beside Ishtar, voice dropping low: “And every day you miss or half-ass your lines… that popsicle goes somewhere new.” She didn’t specify where; nobody needed details.

Nero added sweetly, patting Ishtar’s head like an unruly puppy: “And don’t forget the love letters! Make them so mortifying even Quetz would blush—and sign them all ‘your eternal loser goddess.’ UMU~!”

Ishtar wailed louder than Raikou during swimsuit season: “I HATE THIS STUPID RACE!!”

Artoria grinned wickedly as she slung an arm around Master’s shoulders—popsicle dripping sugar onto his shirt as if marking him property—and winked at Nero over their conquered goddess’ head. “Let the true summer punishment begin.”