[ Which is a hilariously unintentionally reoccurring theme in his life. Avenger's posture isn't as forcibly straight as hers; he slouches a little with his shoulders a thick lazy line that curved downward, a casualness or carelessness to the way he holds himself and he moves very little. In the cavernous darkness of the floor, he remains still and looks unerringly at Saber. Her tension isn't hidden.

It was fortunate he had a tendency to be honest when people thought to ask the correct questions, it really was. He cocks his head to the side. ]

Pretend? [ And unfortunately Avenger had a very weird ideal of what counted as fake and what counted as real, which was probably more than a little confusing when his definition of it seemed to mix the two up. He said it was a disguise, but he was a shadow without form to begin with. Nothing can't turn into something, nor can it imitate anything.

So—even if he took shape by using somebody's body, he was still no more than nothing. He couldn't influence the host. ]

Hah. You could say that. Even though I was a fake, those actions were the real thing's idiotic sentiments.