A Full Chaldea (Fate/Grand Order)

All's Fair in Love and War-NOT!

Day 32 since I was summoned to Chaldea, 10:00
My head has been aching for the past day-and-a-half, and I have no clue why. Eh, whatever.
The burns in my throat have been really acting up recently as well. My Master has knocked on my door a few times, saying that he's worried about me, but I didn't respond; instead, I just pretended to be asleep.
I don't even get why, considering I'm a third-rate Servant and someone you could find anywhere...actually, that's probably why: my idiotic Master cares about literally everyone. Whatever.
I've not left my room in three days, except in the middle of the night to grab some food. Haven't gotten any sleep, either. Not that I normally do.
...why am I even writing in a diary?

Andersen sighs and shuts his diary. The quill that he usually uses disappears.
"Ugh...maybe I should go to the security room and watch everyone do their dumbass things..." he mutters, and is immediately stricken by a coughing fit. He clutches his throat with one hand and covers his mouth with the other.
Stupid damn burns in my damn throat.
He throws on his long white jacket and his glasses, punches himself in the throat (which leads to another coughing fit), and slips out of his room with the intent to not run into anyone on his way to the security room.
It's been a while since I've been there. I wonder what ridiculous bullshit everyone's up to?
As he quietly walks through the harshly-lit yet seldom-used side corridors, he runs his mind through what he has seen since being summoned, trying to decide what was the most entertaining.
Maybe that time where Mordred got drunk and challenged Artoria to a duel for the kingship of Britain with a table leg? Or maybe when Mash followed Lancelot around for a day and counted the number of women he flirted with (nineteen)? Or maybe when Ozymandias and Gilgamesh got in a literal, no-powers, honest-to-god fistfight for no reason? That was really funny.
Andersen decides to take a slightly longer path when he sees his Master running after his twin sister. As he walks, he listens to his Master's slightly irritated yelling.
"Gudako! Get the hell back here!"
"Not a chance!"
"C'mon, little sis—"
"For the last time, WE ARE TWINS!"
"I'm still 23 seconds older!"
"Damn you, Ritsuka!"
Andersen scoffs under his breath and clutches at his coat pocket, absently tracing the outline of the letter sitting inside, patiently waiting for its use that will never come.
Tsk...my Master's an idiot. His sister's an idiot. And I'm an idiot. Such a damn idiot.
As typical, his thoughts run tirelessly through his life failures. Alone. He was alone for all seventy years of his proper life. Alone and worthless.
Not that it bothers me, he half-lies to himself. Peeking out of his thoughts, he narrowly avoids slamming face-first into someone. He steps to the side and clears his throat, trying hard not to cough.
"Watch where you're going, you anno—"
He looks up (CURSE THIS TINY FORM, he thinks to himself), and standing before him, in all her evil sexual glory, is Kiara Sessyoin: his former Master, total tit-brain, and all-around worthless pain in the ass. He digs his nails into his palms to keep from reeling away in disgust, although one thought pokes its stubborn head out, vying for his attention.
I'm not her Servant. As such, I can hate her all I damn well please, and I sure as hell don't have to do whatever she says.
"Andersen-senpai!" She exclaims excitedly, her too-perfect face red with anticipation, her long black hair flowing behind her, but Andersen's already gone, retreating down the hall as fast as he possibly can. It might look stupid, but he really doesn't care.
She can go shove her sex addiction up her ass. What a useless tit-brain.
He gets back to his room and locks the door, and only then does he realize how much he's shaking. He shudders at the thought of seeing her at all, let alone what she was almost definitely planning on asking or demanding of him.
Nope. No, no, no. No way. No, nope, no damn way, hell no, NO!
He slaps himself in the face, forcing himself back to reality and knocking his glasses to the floor with a startling clatter. He picks them up and puts them on his nightstand stiffly, before just turning off his light and trying to sleep for real. He recites every story of his in his head, mentioning to himself every little detail that the strokes of his quill brought to life. He clutches at the letter in his pocket, careful not to crumple or tear it. He sighs and quietly curses his own uselessness, before closing his eyes and hoping for no dreams, as sweet dreams are too much to ask for.