Her Mystic Eyes were useless if she wasn’t able to set them off properly. Or if the other was a proper magus who knew how to counter them. As powerful as her mana stores were, she had never been properly trained, and that made her vulnerable.
Whatever the reason, it hadn’t worked. Coming off as some sort of affluent child, it seemed she had walked into the wrong place at the wrong time. Demands for Dust had left her confused, and by the time she had covered her head, curling up to avoid any blows, the yelps of her attackers had clued her in on a third party.
Hoping against hope itself, she turned quickly, white hair flowing. “Berserker-”
She paused at the more than familiar woman. Shirou’s Servant…Although something was off. Remaining on the ground, she looked up at her savior, wondering for a moment - why - and feeling her heart sink.
Eyes cast down for a moment, hair fell limp around her as she stood, dusting herself off. “Thank you.” She murmured, hands clasped together in front of her.
“I’m…Sorry. I thought you were someone else. But, thank you.”
CONTRARILY, Illyasviel was precisely the intended target. There was no mistaking her for another, no matter how familiar the aura she shared with her mother. Chaotic ambers rest on the crown of silver for a moment, recalling how sunlight used to collect its nest of rays there on the days they’d gather at Shirou’s compound.
Is this what Hercules experienced? This unfathomable and constant impulse to protect, in spite of the havoc dictating his frenzied mind? Discipline alone must have kept him lucid enough to see to it that she did not fall.
“Are they causing you trouble?”
Arturia makes no moves to establish her identity or correct her misunderstanding. She simply dissects the threats with a brief observation, and ascertains the nearest perpetrator to make an example out of him. Whatever bones laid dormant from his left shoulder down shattered the instant she used her mana burst on it, and soon he was being detained over the sound of his own screaming and limp arm.
“Police department,” she mutters beneath her breath, as if reluctant to admit, “--you are under arrest.”
As if on cue, Illyasviel becomes her next objective. “Come with me. There’s a motorbike parked outside. Situate yourself on it.”
