Without the Sparda bloodline, Luke might have considered becoming a Blacklight Prototype as a last resort. The power was undeniable—near-immortality, shapeshifting, the ability to consume and absorb anyone you touched.
But he had waifus now. He had a demon heritage that didn't require sacrificing his humanity.
Only an idiot would choose to become a sentient virus when he had better options. Even if the Prototype retained his memories, it wouldn't really be him anymore. Just a viral consciousness wearing his face.
Hard pass.
"Start the timer."
Luke set the charges and began the countdown. Between all the explosives he'd pulled from various game drops—enough ordnance to level a city block—this underground level was going to cease to exist. Whether the rest of the base survived depended entirely on how well it had been constructed.
"Time to go."
Riven and Skadi didn't need to be told twice. They grabbed Luke and moved.
The base officer had already raised the alarm. Security personnel were mobilizing throughout the facility. But with no need for stealth anymore, Riven and Skadi simply punched through walls, carving a direct path to the surface. Concrete and steel parted like wet paper.
They'd barely cleared the blast radius—maybe thirty seconds of distance—when the charges detonated.
BOOM.
The shockwave hit like a physical wall. Skadi's instincts kicked in—she wrapped her arms around Luke, shielding him with her body.
The gesture was touching.
It also nearly killed him.
Skadi had forgotten, in that split second of protective instinct, exactly how fragile humans were compared to Abyssal Hunters. Her embrace tightened with superhuman force, and Luke felt his ribs crack like dry twigs.
"Skadi! Let go!"
Riven's shout cut through the chaos. The Deep Sea Hunter released her grip immediately, eyes widening as she realized what she'd done.
Luke collapsed, gasping, pretty sure every bone in his torso had just become a jigsaw puzzle.
"I'm sorry, Doctor—"
"It's fine," Luke wheezed. The Sparda bloodline was already working, knitting fractured bones back together at a pace that would have seemed miraculous to anyone else. "Just... maybe warn me next time before the bear hug."
He'd almost become the first Doctor in history to be hugged to death by his own operator. There was probably a joke in there somewhere, but breathing hurt too much to find it.
So much for sleeping in the same bed as Titi, Luke thought ruefully. I'd wake up as paste.
The military base burned for a day and a night.
Luke had underestimated just how much thermite he'd deployed. The fires were so intense that conventional firefighting was useless—the responders had to resort to containment barriers and oxygen deprivation tactics just to keep the blaze from spreading.
By the time the flames finally died, half the facility was slag.
But Luke wasn't done.
The Hematology Research Center still existed. The original site of the outbreak. Even if the military samples were destroyed, there could be residual contamination—in the walls, in the drainage systems, in the soil itself.
He contacted Pierce for more thermite. The HYDRA mole didn't ask questions, but Luke could hear the wheels turning in his head.
When news reached Pierce that the research center had also been firebombed—including the sewers, which had been flooded with burning thermite until nothing could possibly survive—the connection became obvious.
The Assassins did this, Pierce realized. But why?
Luke's sewer obsession wasn't paranoia. The Blacklight virus could spawn Hydras—not the organization, but the creature. Massive worm-like infected that burrowed through the ground, spreading contamination wherever they went.
And New York's sewer system was extensive. People literally lived down there. Abandoned pets had grown into apex predators—pythons, alligators, things that shouldn't exist in urban infrastructure.
If even one infected rat escaped through those tunnels, the outbreak would become uncontainable.
Better to burn it all.
The explosion in the sewers yielded an unexpected result.
One moment Luke was watching thermite consume the underground passages. The next, a figure materialized beside him—tall, dark-skinned, white-haired, dressed in red and black.
Riven's hand went to her sword. Skadi raised her blade.
"Wait." Luke held up a hand, recognition flooding through him. "I know this one."
The man regarded Luke with calm amusement, seemingly unbothered by the weapons pointed at him.
"EMIYA," Luke breathed. "Red Archer."
The Servant from Fate/Grand Order. The future version of Emiya Shirou—a hero who'd become so disillusioned with his ideals that he'd tried to kill his own past self. Cynical, pragmatic, and absolutely ruthless when necessary.
Also known as the "Faker" for his ability to copy any weapon he'd ever seen.
"First time meeting, Master." EMIYA's voice was dry, faintly sardonic. "I look forward to working with you."
Luke's brain short-circuited for a moment.
A male Servant?
He'd been hoping for Jeanne Alter. Or BB. Or Tomoe Gozen. Or Musashi. Any of the countless waifus in FGO's roster.
Instead he got... a guy.
The gacha truly was cruel.
But then again, EMIYA wasn't a bad pull. Far from it. The man was a walking arsenal, capable of projecting legendary weapons at will. His combat experience spanned countless timelines. And unlike certain other Servants, he was actually practical—no ego, no drama, just cold efficiency.
Plus he could cook.
That last part was surprisingly important.
"Serious question," Luke said, fixing EMIYA with an intense stare. "Can you make American food?"
EMIYA blinked. Whatever he'd expected his new Master to ask, that clearly wasn't it.
"I... can learn. My specialty is Japanese cuisine, but I'm adaptable."
"Good enough. Welcome to the team."
Back at the mansion, Luke handled introductions.
"This is EMIYA—call him Archer if you want. Skadi, think of him as a sniper operator who sometimes switches to vanguard. Riven, imagine Jayce but with a bow and twin swords instead of a hammer and cannon."
He turned to EMIYA. "Skadi's basically a Saber-class in terms of combat style. Riven too. Treat them accordingly."
The gaming analogies weren't perfect, but they got the point across. Everyone understood where they stood relative to each other.
"He's like Jayce?" Riven asked, curious. "Can he switch between ranged and melee forms?"
"Bow and dual blades," Luke confirmed. "The famous close-range Archer."
EMIYA's expression suggested he'd heard that joke before. Many, many times.
That evening, EMIYA insisted on cooking.
The results were... educational.
He'd attempted to adapt to Luke's preferences, but certain habits were hard to break. Phrases like "a pinch of salt" and "sugar to taste" meant very different things to someone who'd spent years cooking for a Servant with Saber's infamous appetite.
The portions were enormous. Enough food for a small army.
Luke, Riven, Skadi, and EMIYA together managed to eat maybe one percent of it.
"Not every Saber is a bottomless pit," Luke pointed out, staring at the mountain of leftovers.
"Old habits." EMIYA's smile was sheepish—or at least, it looked sheepish. With his poker face, it was hard to tell if any expression was genuine. "I'll adjust."
Later that night, Luke pulled EMIYA aside.
"I have a job for you. There's a man named Alexander Pierce—I'll give you the details. Deliver a message."
"What message?"
"Tell him that the military base and the research center were both our doing." Luke's smile was thin. "The Assassins claim responsibility."
EMIYA raised an eyebrow but didn't question it. He simply nodded and vanished into the shadows, moving with the silent efficiency of someone who'd spent lifetimes as a Counter Guardian.
Luke watched him go, already planning his next move.
The Blacklight threat was contained. HYDRA thought he was their ally. SHIELD was chasing shadows. And now he had a Servant who could project Noble Phantasms on demand.
Things were finally starting to come together.