Atalanta/Alter - Gone Hunting - (Fate/Grand Order)

The Storm Border's massive, sterile steel corridors felt particularly cold and confining that afternoon. The omnipresent hum of the advanced technology, the muted beeps from observation screens—it was a world away from open sky and fresh earth. You were checking inventory manifests in a quiet section of the ship when a familiar, lithe figure approached. It was Atalante, the Archer of Arcadia. She wore her usual outfit, the light, practical green dress emphasizing her readiness for action, but today, she seemed hesitant. Her expressive lion ears twitched almost nervously, and her green eyes, usually sharp and focused, darted away.

“Master…” she began, her voice quieter than usual, almost hesitant. “I, um… I was told that the pantries are running low on meat, and I thought that perhaps—” She faltered, her words failing her as color crept faintly into her cheeks. After a brief pause, she exhaled and shook her head. “No… forgive me. That was untrue.”

Her fingers curled within her gloves, betraying the restlessness she tried to suppress. “The truth is… I am bored.”

She looked away for a moment before continuing, her tone measured but heavy with longing. “The combat simulator provides a semblance of hunting, yet it lacks substance. The wind carries no scent, the ground does not yield beneath one’s feet, and the prey… does not live. I miss the forest. I miss the chase itself — the rhythm of pursuit, the sound of my breath and footfalls as I run beneath the canopy.”

Her gaze returned to you, earnest and unwavering. “I find myself in need of it, more than I had realized. I even attempted to run throughout the ship, yet its corridors are far too narrow, too crowded to allow such freedom.”

After a brief pause, she added quietly, “You venture each day into minor Singularities in search of resources. Should one of them lie within woodland or open wilds… I would ask to accompany thee.”

Her simple, honest request fundamentally shifted the routine aboard the Storm Border. From that day onwards, every once in a week, you and Atalante would Rayshift to a suitable, low-threat forest Singularity. It was a dual mission: to help restock the ship's pantry through real, satisfying hunts, and to blow off steam. The transition was a necessity for the Archer's soul, and an invaluable lesson for you. You even began to learn how to use a bow yourself. Atalante was an exacting, patient teacher. She taught you the proper stance, the crucial feel of drawing the string to the anchor point, and the importance of breath control—all while gently chiding your tendency to overthink the shot. It was a small but significant ritual, a shared moment of peace and growth amidst the chaos of saving humanity.

On this particular day, you Rayshifted to a lush forest inside a Singularity. The air immediately felt thicker, rich with the smell of damp soil and pine. The sunlight filtered through the dense canopy in shimmering emerald rays. The moment her shoes touched the real earth, Atalante's demeanor changed. She stretched her arms, a look of pure contentment washing over her features. She inhaled deeply, her chest expanding.

“Ahh… there is nothing that compares to air such as this,” she said, her voice bright and unrestrained. “Only a forest can offer this feeling — the breath of the wild, untouched and true.”

As you moved deeper, a sparkling lake came into view. You whipped out the compact, multi-piece fishing rod you'd started bringing along, but Atalante merely smiled, her hand already moving to the quiver on her back. She took great pride in fishing using her bow instead. She took a moment to study the water, the surface rippling with tiny life. She chose her target—a sizable silhouette just beneath the surface—and in one fluid, impossibly fast motion, she fired. The arrow sliced cleanly into the water, pinning the fish instantly. She grinned as she retrieved it.

"Maybe if you didn't slack so much on your training, Master, you'd be able to fish like that one day," she teased, her eyes glinting mischievously. "How about a friendly competition? First to ten fish wins. The loser will have to carry the coolers the entire time."

Unsurprisingly, your trusty rod was no match for a legendary hunter. She won with a smug, yet affectionate, smirk. And so, you found yourself carrying two large coolers—one filled with your meagre catch, the other already holding her substantial haul—as you headed toward the deeper hunting grounds she had scouted out.

Once in the deeper woods, Atalante was a blur of golden energy and deadly efficiency. The hunt itself seemed less about effort and more about natural grace. She moved through the underbrush with the silence of a ghost, her arrows flying with flawless precision. Without much effort, she managed to bag two magnificent elks and a dozen of hares, proudly displaying them side by side on a clearing beside the coolers. The spoils were incredible, enough to fill the Storm Border's freezers for a week.

"All that is left now is to Rayshift them back to the ship... and..." Before she could finish her sentence, her lion ears twitched sharply and rotated backward. Her nose wrinkled, tasting the air, and her eyes narrowed to slits. The easy contentment of the hunt vanished, replaced by the predator's instinctive alarm.

"Master, I don't think we are alone anymore."

A moment of chilling silence was followed by a deafening, terrifying roar. You heard a stampede coming from the thickest part of the forest. The ground began to tremble beneath your feet. Trees began to fall with splintering, cracking sounds, and every bird in the vicinity rose into the air in a massive, panicked cloud, almost darkening the skies as they cried out. Taking aim, Atalante began to fire her arrows toward the forest's edge with incredible speed, the steel shafts whistling a grim counterpoint to the growing thunder of hoofbeats. You were both surprised by the appearance of a giant pack of Demonic Boars—massive, tusked monstrosities with unnatural strength, driven into a frenzy. The more Atalante would fire her arrows, dropping beasts in their tracks, the more seemed to come pouring out of the woods. The air was thick with the scent of fear, earth, and blood.

"I think I went a little too hard on our hunt, Master," she shouted over the cacophony, her brow furrowed in grim determination. "The smell of blood... it probably drew them to us." She loosed another series of arrows, each one finding a mark. "I'm sorry, Master, but I'll have to... do that again..."

Fearing having you overwhelmed by the relentless, swelling tide of beasts, a desperate resolve hardened in her eyes. Atalante prepared to unleash the brutal power of her second Noble Phantasm, her ultimate recourse, transforming into the feral, furious form of the Berserker Atalanta Alter.

The air cracked with a sudden, painful release of power. Atalante's second Noble Phantasm, Agrius Metamorphosis was not a glorious surge of magical energy, but a desperate, brutal transformation—a willing surrender to the curse that haunted her very existence. Her beloved, worn green hunting dress dissolved in a ripple of dark mana, leaving her exposed to the cold forest air for a stark, fleeting moment. Then the change accelerated. Her normally vibrant, forest-green hair began to rapidly turn silver, cascading down her back like liquid moonlight. The single, expressive tail of the archer form split, becoming two powerful, whip-like tails that thrashed in anticipation. Over her rapidly changing form, a new outfit materialized—a savage armor of dark fur and leather. Dark fur-trimmed thigh-highs encased her powerful legs. Her familiar boots were replaced by footwear that seemed to merge with her very body, ending in tips that horrifyingly resembled the hooves of the Calydonian Boar—a chilling physical manifestation of her legend. Her soft, dexterous hands thickened and sharpened, her fingers elongating into glistening, sharp talons that looked capable of tearing steel, now covered by long, dark gloves of the same material. The rest of her torso was covered by a simple, minimal cloth that resembled a dark bikini, a grim testament to the speed and savagery of the transformation. The final, gruesome element of the curse settled upon her: draped over her right shoulder was the grotesque, severed head of the Calydonian Boar itself, its dead eyes staring sightlessly. From its mouth, a slick trail of blood would freely leak, staining the dark fur of her shoulder. Most terrifyingly, her soft, green eyes were utterly extinguished, replaced by a pair of feral, green-on-black orbs that burned with an almost insane, single-minded focus. The grace of the archer was gone, replaced by the relentless, berserk power of a true, monstrous hunter.

The last vestige of the Archer vanished as she abandoned her cherished bow, Tauropolos, on the ground, a silent acknowledgment that subtlety was over. With a guttural roar, she lunged forward. The battle was not a measured fight; it was an execution. She tore through the giant pack of Demoniac Boars with her bare, clawed hands. Bone snapped, fur was shredded, and dark blood sprayed the surrounding trees as she moved with a velocity and savagery that defied reason. She did not aim for vital points; she sought only utter, immediate annihilation. One after another, the monstrous beasts fell, their stampede reduced to a terrifying chorus of death shrieks.

When the last boar dropped with a shuddering thump, an abrupt silence fell upon the clearing. The scent of ozone and fresh gore hung heavy in the air. The berserk energy subsided just as quickly as it had erupted, leaving the ravaged creature standing amidst the slaughter.

She slowly looked down at her own taloned, blood-soaked hands, the dark fur and sharp claws utterly alien to her. Then, her silver-haired head snapped up, and her feral eyes fixed upon you. For a flicker of a second, the insanity in her gaze seemed to waver, and a terrible comprehension dawned. Before you could even process the extent of the carnage or call out to her, the newly transformed Atalanta ran as fast as she could—a dark, lightning streak—toward the shimmering expanse of the lake.

When you finally reached the shore, she was hunched at the edge of the water, the dark boar head resting on her shoulder. The powerful figure was trembling, the feral green light dimming in her eyes. She was utterly still, her taloned hands desperately covering her face in a gesture of profound shame. She was not celebrating the victory; she was blaming herself, distraught over being so weak that she had to resort to her own curse and monstrous form in order to protect you, her Master.