The Stark Industries private jet touched down with all the smoothness of a luxury yacht sliding into a private marina. Even before the wheels stopped turning, a small welcoming party was already assembling.
A line of uniformed escorts stood at attention near the tarmac. Two sleek, silver-black vehicles, marked with Albion's crest — a roaring lion wrapped in vine and flame — waited at the bottom of the portable stairs.
As the cabin door hissed open, a warm breeze swept in, carrying with it the scent of rose gardens and distant chiming bells.
"Welcome to Albion," said a woman in an old-fashioned maid uniform, smiling as she ascended the steps to greet them. "Lord Stark, Lady Potts — Her Majesty extends her gratitude for your visit."
Tony flashed his signature grin. "She's not here in person? I'm hurt."
"She regrets not greeting you herself," the woman replied smoothly, offering a tray of sparkling drinks and delicate sugared fruits. "But your comfort has been seen to. If you'll allow us to escort you—"
"Say no more." Tony took a drink, nudged Pepper gently, and whispered, "Told you. VIP treatment. Maids taking care of us from the moment we stepped foot here."
Pepper, trying not to smirk, simply said, "At least they aren't the skimpy maid outfits you normally prefer."
As they stepped down the stairs, a small group of attendants stepped up to assist them. Pepper and Tony didn't have to worry about anything; their luggage was placed inside the back of their car, and they skipped the entire normal entry process.
They were ushered directly into the cars. The doors closed with a whisper.
The motorcade pulled away smoothly, taking a scenic route all the way from the London airport to the new capital city of Camelot.
Every moment along the way, a full VIP experience, as the two sat in the car and enjoyed refreshments, snacks, and a guided experience as one of their guides told them all about the changes Albion had gone through since its founding.
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Meanwhile…
Thirty-seven minutes later and five terminals away, Steve Rogers stepped off a loud, stuffy budget airliner and into the customs terminal with a backpack slung over one shoulder and no fanfare in sight.
The air smelled like jet fuel and cleaning fluid, and the line for customs was already forty people long.
He moved quietly into the queue, offering a small smile to the mother with two kids behind him, one of whom was already complaining about the lack of knights around, whispering about how it felt like a normal airport.
When he finally made it to the front of the line, a bored official took his passport.
"Business or pleasure?" the man asked, not looking up.
"Neither. Just visiting an old friend," Steve said with an easy nod.
The agent frowned as he looked up Steve's identity. "Sir, according to this, you were born in 1918, which makes you… ninety-one this year."
The doubt in his voice was unmistakable.
Steve offered a small, polite smile. "I take good care of myself."
The agent blinked, clearly unsure whether it was a joke or not. "Right. Uh… please wait here." He stood and walked into the back room with Steve's passport in hand.
Steve stepped aside, letting the next person in line move up. He didn't sigh, didn't complain. Just shifted his backpack slightly and folded his arms across his chest, waiting.
After seven minutes and two confused security agents checking his record, the man returned. "Okay, Mr. Rogers, we've confirmed your clearance. Please proceed to the secondary inspection."
"Of course," Steve said.
He soon started to realize that his inspection was taking a lot longer than the normal process. He was taken into a quiet room with fluorescent lighting and a thin strip of reinforced glass on the door. No one was rude — they were polite, even respectful — but the questions came in waves.
"Are you truly Steve Rogers?"
"How is it possible? Steve Rogers is a dead person."
"Who are you really?"
"What is your purpose in Albion?"
"Do you have any affiliations with foreign military groups?"
"Are you armed?"
He answered each question with the same quiet clarity. Calm. Honest. Cooperative.
But the hours dragged. Eventually, they offered him water and an energy bar from a vending machine. The kind that tasted more like cardboard than food.
By the time they finished and cleared him, it was late afternoon.
The terminal was nearly empty.
He slung his backpack over one shoulder and stepped out into the main atrium, blinking against the soft golden light filtering in through the enchanted stained-glass ceiling. A few tourists walked past, clutching guidebooks and Albion-stamped passports.
No one was waiting for him.
No shuttle. No banner. No press.
Just him and London. Well, London was still a massive place, filled with people, so it didn't take him long before he found a cap and made his way into the city proper.
His first destination wasn't Camelot, no, he wanted to see the nation itself, see the people, meet them where they were, and find out if they were suffering or not, if Albion was a good place, or the den of evil the media back home liked to portray it.
He wanted to see the nation itself. See the people. Meet them where they lived, worked, walked, and prayed. He wanted to understand Albion for what it was, not what the news said. #2
So he flagged a cab. It wasn't hard. London was still a bustling, sprawling maze of streets and history, even under Albion's new banners.
The cab itself reminded him of those old, boxy, and loud models from his time; it captured the charm, but it was all new, all comfort, none of the noise, no bad smells. It was nice and cool, a modern car, but it felt old and classic.
The driver, a balding man in a worn brown jacket, gave Steve a sideways glance as he slid into the back seat.
"Where to then, sir?"
"I have a hotel reservation." He said, handing over a piece of paper SHIELD had arranged for him.
The driver looked it over for a bit before nodding. "I know where it is. Small place, nothing fancy. Honestly, I'm almost surprised you aren't going to Camelot. Everyone coming to England—er, I mean Albion—these days comes to see the new capital."
Steve smiled slightly. "Figured I'd see the rest of the kingdom first. Capitals tend to put on a show. I want to see what's real."
The driver chuckled as he pulled into traffic. "That's not a bad instinct, mate. Albion still got plenty of offers other than Camelot, I mean, the place is amazing, a must-see, but good old London still has a ton to offer. A bit cleaner now, bit safer. Fewer politicians, too."
"Sounds like an improvement," Steve said, gazing out the window as they passed a modest open-air market. People were chatting freely, browsing goods, and a little girl was chasing a paper kite shaped like a lion crest.
"You'll like it here, I think," the driver went on. "Most Americans come expecting castles and holy swords everywhere. But it's just… nice. Prices dropped. Jobs came back. You can raise a family again without selling your kidney."
Steve glanced at him. "And the people? Are they okay with all of this?"
The driver shrugged. "You'll always find people who don't like change, can't please everyone. So while some people don't like the crackdown on crime, everyone likes the peace, so while some might say they have problems, the truth is they just want to complain about something."
Steve nodded, watching as a bus full of schoolchildren passed by, Albion flags flapping gently on its rear windows.
So far, he was feeling good about this place.
Albion was a land that drew countless curious people to it, from gods of faraway realms to curious tourists, secret agents, and superheroes. New and old, all types came to Albion, and their final destination was always its shining white heart: Camelot.
Steve, however, didn't want to just go there; he wanted more, and he had arranged a good three-month stay through Albion.
From London to the far reaches of Albion's countryside, he planned to travel town by town, one train station, one bus route, one conversation at a time.
He'd walk through open-air markets and dusty old churches. Visit schools and bakeries. Shake hands with old soldiers and sit beside tired factory workers in quiet pubs. He didn't need headlines — just honest faces.
Three months. No shield. No headlines. Just a notebook, a good pair of boots, and the will to listen.
Because before he could make a judgment about Albion, about Arthuria, about the truth, he had to understand the people.
And to understand the people, you had to walk their streets.