Chapter 50: Fate/Zero Begins Filming

                                 

Chapter 50: Fate/Zero Begins Filming

Since the studio set on the Einzbern estate was still under construction, Shinji decided to begin filming Fate/Zero with the indoor scenes first.

But unlike during the production of Fate/Stay Night, this time around, Shinji’s standards were on a whole other level.

“Cut! Arturia, your expression isn’t right.”

“Cut again! Kiritsugu, you’re not cold enough. Start over!”

“And what the hell was that camera wobble just now?! Cameraman! If your hands shake like that again, I swear I’ll fire you and send you back to train under Li Shuwen for Parkinson’s rehab!”

…

From the very first day of shooting, the veterans in the crew noticed that this production was nothing like the last one.

Back when they shot Fate/Stay Night, Shinji was content as long as the scene was passable.

But now, in the Fate/Zero studio, he has transformed into a ruthless perfectionist.

If a shot wasn’t perfect, he’d reject it outright and demand a retake—no matter how many times it took.

Take, for instance, a seemingly simple dialogue scene between Arturia and Kiritsugu.

Shinji made them redo it ten times already, and he still wasn’t satisfied.

Kiritsugu didn’t mind. His role in the scene was mostly silent—just sit there, look cold, let Arturia rant.

Though technically he and Arturia were the two main leads of this ensemble piece, the man had a grand total of three lines with her in the whole film.

But Arturia? She was starting to get frustrated.

Sure, as a Servant, she didn’t have to worry about things like vocal fatigue. But repeating the same damn lines over and over, only for the director to shake his head and say “again”—that was wearing her down.

‘Why is this so hard?’ she thought.

‘It’s not even a major scene. No action, no emotional climax. Just basic strategy talk…’

To be fair, from a “usable footage” standpoint, the scene had long since been fine.

But Shinji had his reasons for being picky.

Partly, he wanted the perfect visual.

And partly, he wanted to make a statement to the veteran cast and crew:

“This isn’t Fate/Stay Night anymore. This is Fate/Zero. And I’m not cutting corners.”

That’s why he’d gathered everyone already in Fuyuki into the studio, under the excuse of “opening scene energy” and “building team spirit.”

Everyone had to be present.

Everyone had to witness how serious this was going to be.

“Cut!”

Shinji shouted again, slamming the megaphone down as he rose from the director’s chair.

He strode onto the set, frowning.

“Kiritsugu. Arturia. You both had issues. Your facial expressions were off.”

Kiritsugu gave a half-shrug, faintly resigned.

Arturia accepted a hamburger from her assistant and took a bite, careful not to smudge her makeup.

“…What exactly was wrong with me?” Kiritsugu asked. “I thought I’m supposed to act cold toward her?”

“Not just cold,” Shinji shook his head. “There’s more to it.”

“There needs to be this undercurrent of disdain, of quiet mockery toward her naive ideals. You’re not just detached—you’re silently judging her.”

Shinji’s directing philosophy was simple:

“Don’t explain. Act it.”

A single derisive glance from Kiritsugu was worth a dozen lines about how “naïve King Arthur is.”

He didn’t need the audience told what he thought.

They needed to feel it.

Putting emotion on your face—that was far more powerful than dumping a bunch of lines.

Take, for example, the legendary Episode 15 of Ultraman Z. When Haruki returned to the past and reached for his father's hand, he didn’t say a word about missing him. Just one line—“Father”—and yet, everything he wanted to say was right there in his face.

Not even ten thousand “I missed you, Dad” lines could top that.

“Now, as for you, Arturia...”

Shinji turned toward the King of Knights, who had just finished her burger and was now listening intently.

“Don’t tell me that after filming a month of drama episodes, the only thing you learned is how to eat without ruining your makeup.”

Arturia puffed up and shot back loudly, “Of course not! Master, don’t underestimate me!”

“How many times do I have to tell you—on set, call me Director! Not Master!”

Bonk!

Shinji smacked her on the head with his director’s baton.

“Understood, Master! Watch me! I’ll definitely make you proud!”

Arturia clenched her fists and beamed with determination.

“Then show me what you’ve got!”

Unlike with Kiritsugu, Shinji didn’t spell out exactly what he wanted from Arturia.

Because, unlike Kiritsugu—who was more of a casual actor—Arturia was Shinji’s personal project.

He wasn’t just expecting her to perform.

He was cultivating her.

Telling her what to do step-by-step would only make her performance stiff and artificial. Shinji had learned that lesson the hard way during Fate/Stay Night’s production.

He patted her on the shoulder and glanced toward the edge of the set.

“Give it your best, Arturia.”

“You wouldn’t want your old subordinate to think you’re lame, would you?”

Arturia followed his gaze—only to spot Lancelot holding a handheld DV camcorder, filming her with childlike enthusiasm.

“You got this, my king!!”

Lancelot waved at her like a proud dad on Parent Observation Day.

“…That guy…”

Pwing—

Her ahoge sprang straight up. A vein throbbed on her temple.

‘Tristan once said I didn’t understand people’s hearts… but I genuinely don’t want to understand his.’

“Master, can’t you just kick him out?”

It was rare for Arturia to feel embarrassed, but this so-called “support squad” was seriously making her feel like a weirdo.

Shinji just smiled cryptically. “You just need to prove him wrong.”

“…I understand.”

Arturia exhaled and nodded. “Please give me a few minutes to get into character.”

“Got it.”

Shinji waved and stepped off the set.

Since he’d already said everything he needed to say, it was best to give them space. Arturia and Kiritsugu were scene partners, after all—they needed time to sync up.

But Shinji didn’t spend that downtime resting. Instead, he called over a very specific person—Touko Aozaki, now the props team’s de facto leader.

“Senpai, we’re filming the action scenes tomorrow. Any problems?”

“None at all. I’ve made everything exactly to your specs.”

She pulled a long, wriggling object out of a bag. “I even brought a sample. Check it out.”

Shinji blinked.

He watched in eerie silence as the long, flesh-colored tentacle squirmed gently in Touko’s hands.

A cold bead of sweat ran down his face.

Of course.

Since Caster Gilles was now being played by Mr. Background Extra Yan Qing, the only people who could prep props for that kind of magic were… themselves.

‘Yup. That’s the sea demon tentacle alright…’

It was… kind of a problem.

Having a gorgeous woman like Touko waving around a wriggling, spike-covered tentacle in public—anyone passing by would think they accidentally walked into the porn section of the store.

“…Is this thing alive?”

Shinji poked the tentacle, only for the slimy thing to snap toward him like it wanted to stab him with its spikes.

“Of course not. Taking care of a real one would be way too much work,” Touko waved off the idea. “Technically, it’s more like a semi-autonomous familiar. It just does basic reactive movements.”

“Then that’s more than enough.”

Shinji nodded in satisfaction. “How many of these can your team make by tomorrow?”

Touko tapped her chin in thought. “Twelve… maybe fifteen.”

“That should be enough for tomorrow’s shoot.”

Shinji jotted a note in his notebook. “Now, what about the big ones? The full-scale sea monster props?”

“Hold on, kouhai—”

Touko’s face twitched. “You’re not seriously planning to build the entire creature, are you?”

“Of course not,” Shinji replied calmly. “That’d be a complete waste. But we’ll need at least one man-sized version for the close-ups, and a few detailed partials.”

“Then give me a proper list of requirements.” Touko sighed, knocking on her head. “I can’t work with just vibes.”

“Here.”

Shinji scribbled quickly in his notebook and passed it over.

“Gimme a sec. I’ll call the others at the workshop.”

Touko took a quick glance and then walked off to make a call.

While she was on the phone, Shinji waved at Cu Chulainn, who tossed him a cold water bottle without a word.

“Thanks.”

Shinji cracked it open and took a long gulp. His mouth had been dry from yelling all day on set.

“Sometimes I’m really jealous of you Heroic Spirits,” he joked as he wiped his mouth. “As long as you’ve got mana, your body’s always in top condition.”

“Well, we are dead, y’know.”

Cu Chulainn laughed without an ounce of shame.

“Hmph.”

Shinji grunted and took another sip.

“But seriously, Master, you’re something else,” Cu Chulainn said, intrigued as he eyed the abandoned tentacle. “I honestly thought you were gonna put someone in a monster suit.”

“No way,” Shinji replied flatly. “A costume wouldn’t give me the movement I want.”

Even though he was a huge tokusatsu fan, Shinji never worshipped the genre blindly.

Monster suits had their charm, sure. But they had limits—especially when it came to replicating the fluid, writhing motion of a creature like the sea monster.

Besides, the level of detail was another issue. He didn’t want the monster’s sharp spikes to look like soggy sausages.

“…Wait, don’t tell me you wanted to be the guy in the suit?”

Shinji narrowed his eyes.

Cu Chulainn panicked. “Hell no! I’ve got a handsome face, remember? I’m made for the screen!”

Then he added slyly, “But if you’re offering… I could play a cool civilian who gets tragically eaten.”

‘So that’s why you wandered over here, you acting-addicted mutt.’

Shinji could see right through him.

“…If you really want a role, we actually have something this afternoon. It needs someone who can move well.”

Originally, Shinji had planned to give the part to Yan Qing, but the guy was already buried in roles. He didn’t want to drive the poor man to schizophrenia.

“What do you say?”

“Really?! I’m in!”

Cu Chulainn nodded furiously, tail practically wagging in joy.

…

That afternoon.

“MASTER! This is NOT the kind of role I meant!!”

In the middle of the set, Cu Chulainn—dressed in a skintight black suit and wearing a white skull mask—looked every bit the Assassin he’d been assigned to play.

“And what’s with this mask?! How am I supposed to ‘get screen time’ with this stuck on my face?!”

“You do get screen time.”

Shinji spread his hands with an innocent smile. “You get one full frame—right before Gilgamesh kills you, Zayed-kun.”

“WHO THE HELL IS ZAYED?!”

Cu Chulainn screamed, tearing off the skull mask and hurling it to the floor.

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