The three of us walked down the roadside, side by side. And much like I had planned, we drew a ton of attention.
How could we not?
France might be facing multiple threats, such as mutants, rogue mages, cults, and who knows what else, but people walking around with guns?
Yeah, that was still not common, more so when it was a group like ours, we looked like the cast of a new blockbuster action movie.
"I don't like it, we are drawing too much attention, it's only a matter of time before someone calls local law enforcement." Lancelot said as we walked into Orléans.
"Don't be such a coward, if anyone comes, we will send them running." Mordred scuffed, rolling her eyes at his caution.
"While I don't wish to kill innocents, we aren't here as knights of the Round Table, but as the hand of justice. We shall show no fear, and even less mercy." I said, backing up Mordred.
If we wanted to pull attention towards us, there could be no hiding. I didn't want just Morgana to see us, no, I wanted every dark force, because someone like Morgana would never pay attention to something minor, which meant to get her attention, we would need the attention of others.
Only by getting their attention and then defeating them would we get Morgana's attention, and only then could we end this once and for all.
End the evil that was the Marvel version of my sister.
"Heck yeah, Father! You heard that, Loserlot? Father agreed with my plan!" Mordred mocked Lancelot without holding back.
Lancelot kept mostly quiet, not arguing, just lowering his head in silent acceptance. Though it did at least deprive Mordred of fun so she just clicked her tongue in annoyance.
"No fun, stupid adulterer." She whispered under her breath as she continued leading us towards our destination.
Though I was tempted to ask her if it was necessary to have us walk in the middle of the road… because while people might be willing to ignore three people dressed like us due to our guns, that didn't extend to them having to slow down behind us.
Cars slowed, sped up, then slowed again as drivers tried to figure out whether we were cosplayers, vigilantes, or some kind of new French reality show.
Then someone honked.
A loud, prolonged BEEEEEEEP from behind us, followed by a car trying to edge past on the narrow street.
Mordred stopped walking and turned slowly. "Was that for us?"
Another honk, shorter this time, more urgent.
"Oh, you poor dumb mortal," she whispered with a grin.
"Mordred—" I began.
Too late.
Clarent II came up, aimed sideways like she was in a gangster film, and let off a single round into the air. The noise was like thunder ripping through a concert hall.
The car behind us screeched to a halt. The driver — a man in a too-tight polo shirt and sunglasses — threw open the door and dove behind his car.
Traffic immediately devolved into chaos. Cars swerved, people shouted, some ducked, some pulled out phones, and at least one motorcyclist made a U-turn so fast he nearly toppled over.
A woman leaned out of a taxi's passenger window and screamed, "Vous êtes fous !"
"I don't know what she said," Mordred said proudly, spinning Clarent II on her finger, "but I think it was a compliment."
"She called us insane," Lancelot said flatly.
"She's not wrong," I murmured.
"I'm just saying," Mordred added as she resumed walking, "if they don't want warning shots, they shouldn't honk."
Lancelot was pinching the bridge of his nose now. "We will have the gendarmerie on us in minutes."
"Then we best be gone by then, the attention is fine, but let's not get into too many fights with them too early on, so Mordred, lead on, and try not to shoot everything that annoys you." I said as I eyed the people peeking out from their windows or moving along in hurried steps.
Mordred gave me a salute with two fingers. "Aye aye, Father. No more shooting… unless it's cool."
"That's not comforting," Lancelot muttered.
"You wouldn't know cool even if it shot you in the chest!" She waved her gun at him as she itched to shoot, but did hold herself back.
An improvement, if a small one.
Had we not waited until nightfall before heading outside, it would have been far worse.
The closer we got to the river, the more the streets narrowed, the more the graffiti thickened, and the more the smell of cheap beer and burning incense filled the air.
At last, Mordred stopped in front of a stone archway tucked between two shuttered buildings. Neon lights pulsed inside. A bouncer the size of a truck leaned against the doorway, checking IDs, utterly unfazed by the three heavily armed lunatics approaching him.
"There it is!" Mordred declared proudly, gesturing with both arms. "The Cathedral. Told you it was shady."
Lancelot blinked. "That's... a nightclub."
"Yeah. I said it was underground." Mordred didn't flinch.
But I could hear in her voice that she hadn't expected a nightclub.
"Mordred, get your phone out and show me where you found this place?" I said as I looked at a suspicious-looking poster stuck to the wall beside the door: DJ DreadLich – One Night Only.
The reason I thought it was suspicious was because the background of that poster featured an evil-looking Cathedral building, something that looked right out of a horror movie as an evil cultist lair.
Mordred hesitated, then slowly pulled out her phone. "Okay, look. This account I follow — WitchWatchFR — posted a tip. Said something big was brewing at 'The Cathedral in Orléans, dark rituals, no survivors, etcetera.'"
I narrowed my eyes. "And you didn't vet it?"
"I did! I scrolled their whole feed!" Mordred insisted, tapping rapidly on the screen. "See? Look! That's the post!"
She turned the screen toward me. It read:
Darkness gathers at The Cathedral tonight. Shadows stir, and blood will spill. France's reckoning begins beneath pulsing lights. #WitchWatch #Orléans #RitualBeats
Lancelot leaned over her shoulder and read aloud: "Ritual... Beats?"
Mordred furrowed her brow. "Okay, so maybe it's... a themed night?"
"It's a club," Lancelot said, unimpressed. "They are literally advertising it with hashtags."
"I liked the aesthetic," Mordred muttered.
I rubbed my temples again. "You dragged us halfway across the city in tactical gear because someone with an edgy username wrote song lyrics."
"It sounded sinister!" she protested. "And look at that building on the poster! That's not a normal cathedral. That's evil. Like, at least medium-tier evil."
"It's a poster!" I said feeling tired all of a sudden.
"Well how was I supposed to know that? I don't see you using social media!" she tried to defend herself, but I was honestly just surprised she hadn't smashed her phone out of sheer embarrassment by now.
The bouncer cleared his throat. "You're holding up the line."
There was indeed a line. At least a dozen young adults in glittering clothes, face paint, and LED accessories were watching us now — some recording, some whispering, one waving at Mordred like she was part of the act.
"Damn, didn't expect such nerve from a frenchy." Mordred said as we all admired the sheer balls of that guy.
Because both Mordred and I clearly had guns in our hands, and well, he didn't look like someone who could resist bullets.
"I respect the bravery," I murmured. "Utterly misplaced, but admirable."
"He's gonna get himself killed," Lancelot added, though he said it with the same tone someone might use to describe a housecat picking a fight with a lion.
"Should I shoot the poster?" Mordred asked, half-lifting Clarent II again. "Symbolically."
"No," I said immediately.
"But—"
"No."
She sighed and holstered the weapon — an act that made three people in line start clapping nervously.
"I hate France," Mordred muttered. "Next time I'm picking Germany. Or Vegas."
I stepped forward toward the bouncer. "We're going inside."
He didn't even blink. Just nodded and opened the velvet rope like we were on a guest list from hell. "Try not to shoot anyone unless they really deserve it."
I paused. "That's a… surprisingly understanding reaction."
He shrugged. "You're hot, and I get paid for letting hot chicks in, not deal with someone with a gun."
Mordred snorted. "Damn right. See, Father? Weaponized fashion wins again."
The bouncer looked at Lancelot next and immediately lowered his arm to block the way.
"Not him."
Lancelot blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're not on the list," the bouncer said, expression flat. "And you're dressed like a militarized spaceman. That armor screams 'buzzkill.'"
Mordred was already doubled over laughing. "Oh my god. He got bouncer-blocked!"
"I am with them," Lancelot said stiffly.
The bouncer didn't budge. "Yeah, but you're not them."
I sighed and pulled out a wad of cash. Crisp five-hundred-euro bills, about ten of them.
I didn't say a word. Just handed it over.
The bouncer spent only a moment checking them over before casually tucking them into his jacket like he had done it a thousand times before.
"You know what?" he said, stepping aside. "Must've missed your name. Go on in, Metalhead."
Lancelot walked through without a word, but his jaw was tight.
"You should just have let him say out there, Father, that adulterer isn't worth the money."
"He's worth less than the coat I'm wearing," I muttered.
Mordred burst out laughing again. "Now that's the energy I like to hear!"
Around us, the music pounded louder. The line was moving again, the club's neon pulsing to some blend of techno and chanting that, honestly, could have been sampled from a demonic summoning ritual. Fitting, really.
"Alright," I said, brushing past the bouncer and entering the dark hallway beyond. "Let's see what kind of heresy hides beneath glow sticks and bass drops."
Mordred followed at my side, bouncing slightly with excitement. "Ooooh, do you think there's an actual cult in there? Like, demon DJs or something?"
"If there is," Lancelot said from behind us, "let's hope they're more competent than their doorman."
"Hey," Mordred shot back, "the doorman had taste. You didn't make the vibe check."
"I'm armed," he said flatly.
"So were we," she grinned. "But we were armed fashionably."
-----
Officer Étienne Moreau tapped his pen against the desk as the young man shoved a freshly printed phone photo across the table.
"There! Look! I told you it wasn't cosplay! Look at them!"
Moreau squinted at the photo.
Three people, walking side by side down a dark street like it was a fashion runway.
One — tall, blonde, dressed in black like some gothic royal assassin. Gun tucked under her coat like she owned the world.
Next to her — a shorter blonde, red racing gear, fingerless gloves, grinning like someone who thought explosions counted as foreplay.
And finally — a man in sleek dark-blue combat gear with a sweeping cloak and glowing purple… sticks. Not swords. Not sabers. Sticks. Moreau couldn't tell if he was cosplaying or moonlighting as a techno-priest.
He stared.
Then he stared harder.
Then he dragged the aspirin bottle out of his drawer and popped three.
"Sir," he said without emotion, "you've brought me a photograph of what appears to be the cast of a low-budget superhero series filmed in a parking garage."
"They shot at me!"
"I'm sure they did," Moreau replied with all the enthusiasm of a drying baguette. "After they left their underground lair and finished their Netflix pilot."
The man slammed his hands on the desk. "You're not listening! I was threatened by vigilantes! Possibly mutants! Or cyborgs! Or… or rogue knights or something!"
Moreau nodded solemnly and jotted something into his notes.
Reported assailants:
Lady Assassin BarbieGenderflipped Hot Wheels MascotFrench Batman (budget variant)
"I am filing this," Moreau lied.
"You think I'm crazy."
"I think," Moreau said, carefully closing the file, "that your insurance company is going to love this."
He stood up, handed the man a slip of paper, and gestured toward the exit. "Claim number. Have a pleasant evening. Try to avoid any more trench-coated blondes with firearms."
The man stormed out.
Moreau slumped back in his chair, sighed, and muttered, "Next it'll be someone saying Jeanne d'Arc came back with a sniper rifle."
The lights in the station flickered.
He blinked once. Twice.
"God help me if they turn out to be real."
(End of chapter)