"We shouldn't be here." For the first time since the pair had begun following the trail of residual magic, Lancer spoke up, saying something Waver didn't really understand. Yes, everything down to the air in the dark subterranean room felt oppressive and yes, there was that deeply nauseating smell hanging in the air, but any actual enemy would have attacked long before now. Waver had chalked the sensations up to residual magic in the air; he assumed by now this was a magus' workshop, or even that of a Caster-class Servant. But it wasn't like Lancer to hesitate in this way.

"What are you talking about? There's no one else here right now." Waver countered, rummaging in his pocket as he spoke. "As long as we don't hang around, we'll be long gone by the time whoever established this place gets back." Completely still, Lancer didn't look back at his Master as he broke a small object open with a cracking noise. As he tossed it into the air, it became a pale green light source...and Waver immediately wished it hadn't.

The vaguely shaped shadows against the wall and scattered across the floor were outlined in the dim light his magecraft had created, and thus were shadows no longer; it was clear that which were shapes in the dark were corpses in the light. No, not even that--pieces of corpses, dissected and torn apart. Waver could all but feel the floor violently yanked out from beneath him when realization hit like a sucker punch to the stomach: there was no water on the floor, or had not been for some time since their entrance. Instead, the liquid that was underfoot even now was deep crimson, originating from the countless chunks of flesh and bone that were only barely recognizable as having once been human--and young at that. Did even one he could place as human look a day over ten years old?

"Gh...hrk--" Choked sounds were all Waver could produce, falling back against his Servant's side to stop from collapsing to his knees on a blood-soaked floor. Both hands flew to his mouth as everything in his stomach threatened to present itself violently. Yet even as Waver trembled and frantically tried to get himself under control, Lancer was just as still as when they had walked in.

"I did try to tell you." he remarked, tone even rather than admonishing.

"<i>What the hell is wrong with you?!</i>" Waver heard himself snap as soon as his stomach had stopped its horrible turning. "How can you--how can you just stand in a place like this and not even--...n-<small>not even...</small>" The reprimand was never finished, trailing off as Waver caught sight of the trace of scarlet on his Servant's own hand. Motionless as he was and calm as he sounded, there was an incredible tension in every inch of Lancer's stance; his hands shook from what was unmistakably rage, curled so tightly into fists his own blood had been drawn. While the show of emotion was a relief in one way, it was terrifying in another: Lancer could actually get angry? According to the burning murderous rage in gold eyes, the answer was yes. His own indignation silenced, Waver placed a hand on Lancer's arm to steady himself as well as try to bring his Servant back down to a less foreign level for him.

"...destroy it. Please. <i>Please</i>, Lancer, I don't care how, just--" Silence fell as Waver's halting voice gave out, but a full sentence wasn't needed. Waver doubted he would have had to give the order at all; the only answer was a firm and resolute nod of agreement. For the first time, they seemed to be completely in agreement rather than a Servant taking orders from a clueless Master.