The night air hung thick and greasy, smelling of rain-soaked asphalt and old fryer oil. Streetlights cast long, distorted shadows down the empty avenue, turning puddles into pools of inky black. My Burger King uniform felt stiff and smelled faintly of flame-broiled disappointment. The late shift was always a killer, a slow, draining march toward closing time. I was just heading home, my worn-out sneakers squeaking on the wet pavement.
Then I saw him.
He stood bathed in the aggressive, fluorescent glow of a McDonald's sign across the street. Leaning against the rain-slicked brick wall, he wasn't wearing their sad, polyester polo. No, he was dressed in a pristine, custom-tailored version of the manager's uniform, the golden arches on his breast pocket embroidered with what looked like actual gold thread. His blond hair, usually immaculate, was slightly damp, catching the light like a halo. It was him. The arrogant bastard from the graveyard shift at the Golden Arches. Gilgamesh.
"Leaving so soon, faker?" His voice cut through the quiet hum of the city, dripping with a condescension so pure it could curdle milk.
I stopped, my hand tightening on the strap of my backpack. "What do you want, Gilgamesh? Got a problem with our two-for-six deal?"
He scoffed, a sound of utter disdain. "Your pathetic 'deals' are an insult to the very concept of sustenance. You sling your imitation patties, your mass-produced char, and have the audacity to call it food. You are a cheap copy, a purveyor of knock-offs."
"It's a Whopper," I bit back, my temper flaring. "People like it. It's an honest burger for an honest price."
"Honest?" He laughed, a booming, arrogant sound that echoed in the deserted street. "You know nothing of honesty. You, who mimics the craft of your betters without a shred of understanding or originality. You are unworthy to even stand in the shadow of the Golden Arches."
He pushed himself off the wall, his posture radiating a terrifying self-assurance. "I have tolerated your presence in this city for too long, mongrel. Tonight, I will show you the gulf that separates the genuine from the imitation."
Behind him, the air began to shimmer, rippling like a heat haze over summer asphalt. A golden light bled into existence, swirling and coalescing into a shimmering, circular portal. It wasn't just light; it was gold. A perfect, spinning arch, humming with a low, powerful thrum. From my side of the street, I could make out a familiar red-and-yellow clown silhouette, somehow rendered regal and terrifying within the vortex.
This was his… Noble Phantasm? No, that was from the anime club's marathon last weekend. This was something else. Something real.
"Behold, boy," Gilgamesh sneered, his arm outstretched. "Witness the infinite, glorious pantry! The Realm of Ronald!"
My breath caught in my throat. From the golden portal, objects began to emerge, hovering in the air around him. A perfect, golden-brown hash brown. A carton of fries, each one impeccably straight and salted. A glistening apple pie in its cardboard sleeve. A soft-serve cone, impossibly pristine, with not a single drip.
My eyes widened in shock. I knew that spread. "That's… that's just the Dollar Menu!" I yelled, a disbelieving laugh escaping my lips. "You're going to kill me with items from the Value Menu? You cheap son of a bitch!"
Gilgamesh's smirk widened into a predatory grin. "You still don't understand, do you, faker? Your eyes see only the surface." He gestured to the floating food, now glinting like weaponry. "Look closer."
I did. And what I saw made the blood freeze in my veins.
The fries… they weren't the standard, frozen-then-fried sticks we all knew. They were different. Thicker, with a slightly darker, richer color. The carton they were in wasn't paper, but some kind of enchanted parchment. This was the original 1955 recipe. The one cooked in beef tallow. A flavor profile lost to time and corporate cost-cutting.
The apple pie wasn't the baked, healthier version. It was the original, deep-fried pocket of magma-hot cinnamon apples, its crust blistered to a perfect, crunchy gold. The McFlurry swirling beside it wasn't made with the modern, homogenized soft-serve; it was full-fat, real-dairy ice cream, so dense and creamy it defied gravity.
"These… these are the original recipes," I whispered, awe overriding my fear. It wasn't just Dollar Menu junk. It was the foundation. He possessed the ur-recipes, the primordial concepts of fast food from which all modern imitations were derived. Gilgamesh didn't just have McDonald's products; he had the Platonic ideal of them.
"Indeed," he gloated, sensing my realization. "All the culinary treasures of this world belong to me. Your flame-broiled mockery is but a pale, pathetic imitation of a single burger in my infinite grilling stations. You are not a chef. You are a forger, a copier of copies."
He pointed a finger at me, and a single, perfect Chicken McNugget—one of the original four shapes, the "Ball," long since retired—shot forward like a bullet. I dove to the side, rolling on the grimy pavement as it punched a hole through the bus stop's plastic shelter behind me.
"You exist to churn out fakes!" he roared, his voice filled with righteous fury. "While I, the one true King, possess all the originals! Now, perish along with your char-grilled heresy!"
A fusillade of food erupted from the Realm of Ronald. Searing hot apple pies spun through the air like throwing stars. Fries rained down like golden needles. A Big Mac, its three buns and two all-beef patties a paragon of burger architecture, hurtled toward me like a cannonball.
I scrambled back, my mind racing. He was right. Everything I made was just a copy. A pattern. A set process learned and repeated. But that was my strength. I didn't need the original.
Trace, on.
My mind became a forge. I didn't need a Noble Phantasm. I just needed to project.
I am the bone of my spatula.
Steel is my body, and fryer oil is my blood.
I have created over a thousand Whoppers.
Unknown to death, nor known to life.
Have withstood pain to create many burgers, waiting for one's arrival.
I have no regrets. This is the only path.
My whole life was… Unlimited Burger Works.
The air in front of me warped, not with gold, but with the searing heat of a grill. A reality marble, born of grease and conviction, began to manifest on the wet street. Swords? No. Spatulas. Hundreds of them, blades of stainless steel, their plastic handles a sea of Burger King black and orange, rose from the asphalt. A wall of broiler trays materialized, their grates glowing with phantom heat, deflecting a volley of Filet-O-Fish sandwiches.
Gilgamesh stopped his assault, his eyes widening slightly. "What is this? An imitation reality? Filled with nothing but mongrel tools?"
"They're not just tools!" I yelled, grabbing a long-handled spatula from the air. It felt perfectly balanced in my hand. "This is a world built on a single, simple idea! To make a burger better than yours! I'll show you! Even if my food is a fake… it's a fake that can surpass the original!"
He threw his head back and laughed, a wild, unhinged sound. "A world of fakes to challenge my treasury of truth? How entertaining! Show me, Shirou Emiya! Show me what pathetic meal you can cook up before you're buried under a mountain of my McRibs!"
The Realm of Ronald blazed brighter, unleashing a torrent of golden-brown perfection. And my own world of steel and fire rose to meet it. On a dark street, under the watchful eyes of a clown and a king, the battle of the fast-food chains had begun.