Steve stepped out of the cab onto a modest corner of South London. The kind of place that hadn't made the headlines in decades. No golden spires here. Just red brick flats, newsstands, and pubs with chalkboard menus out front.
The inn SHIELD booked for him was clean and small. Not cheap in a bad way — just unpretentious. His room had a twin bed, a kettle, a window view of the street below, and nothing else.
He didn't unpack.
Instead, he left his bag behind, stepped out into the early evening air, and started walking.
The smell of vinegar and oil pulled him in. A narrow counter. A few wooden booths. Everything looked a bit older than it was, but that made it feel more honest.
Behind the counter stood a woman in her fifties with a sturdy frame, a no-nonsense expression, and sleeves rolled past her elbows.
"Can I help you, love?"
"Cod and chips, please," Steve said.
"You want it the real way or the tourist way?"
"Let's go real."
She gave a brief nod of approval.
"First time in London?" she asked, dropping the fish in the fryer.
"Sort of. Was here long ago, but everything is different."
She held back a laugh, instead letting out an amused snort. "Damn right everything is different, who would ever have guessed a few years back, that London wouldn't be the capital of England? Or that England itself would disappear and be replaced with Albion?"
Steve smiled. "How is living here now? Compared to before?"
"Things were worse before," she said as she wrapped up his order in paper. "Sure, my sales are way down, not many tourists, not like before, but honestly, I worry less about money now, and crime is way down, no need to worry about getting pickpocketed or anything, it's… It's good, yeah."
"You'd hear yelling in the streets every week. Graffiti on the walls. Stabbings. Then she showed up. The lady with the sword."
"Arthuria."
"Aye. Bit dramatic for my taste — crowns and knights and all that. But I'll tell you what: the corner shop started staying open past dark again."
Steve took the wrapped bundle gratefully and nodded. "Thanks. That's good enough for me."
Steve continued through the city, just floating along, chatting with everyone who was willing. And many people were.
He spoke briefly with a busker in a side alley, strumming a weathered guitar while an open coin box lay at his feet. The man didn't recognize him, but he smiled when Steve asked about how business was going. "Not a ton of people here, but I really don't need them, I get paid by the state to entertain people these days, a great change honestly."
He bought a newspaper from an old man in a small newsstand. He felt right at home doing that, like he had almost stepped back to his own time. "Newspapers are on the rise again, with Camelot keeping away from technology, it's giving more life to the old trade, and not just in Camelot itself, even here."
He helped a woman with a baby stroller navigate a curb that had half-cracked, and she told him, in passing, that she felt safer now than she ever had raising her first son. "It's the knights," she whispered, as if embarrassed. "Just something special about the armor and swords."
Eventually, he found himself near a small church tucked away between two apartment blocks. It was holy ground, so despite the high prices of the property around, it had been allowed to remain a quiet little haven in a glowing city.
Steve took a seat on the bench near the gate, unwrapped what was left of his chips, and sat quietly.
After a moment, the door opened again and out stepped a man in his sixties wearing a battered black coat and a faded clerical collar. He paused when he saw Steve.
"You alright, son?"
Steve nodded. "Just resting."
The priest squinted, then gave a small smile and sat beside him. "Not from around here."
"No, sir."
"Let me guess. American. And military."
Steve hesitated — then nodded. "Yeah."
"Don't see many of either these days. Not out here, anyway."
Steve offered his hand. "Steve."
The man shook it. "Father Brennan."
They sat in silence for a bit, listening to the hum of streetlights and the distant sound of a tram groaning down the road.
"What do you think of it?" Brennan asked eventually.
"Albion?"
The priest nodded.
Steve took a breath. "Still making up my mind."
"Fair. We all are, in some way." Brennan leaned back. "People ask me all the time if it's right. If the changes are holy or heresy. If they should kneel or protest. I tell them the same thing every time: Look around. See how people treat each other now. Then decide."
Steve looked out across the street — a young couple walking hand-in-hand, a kid riding a bike with streamers, someone opening a corner shop for the night shift.
"They seem better off," he said.
"They are," Brennan said simply. "It's not perfect. And it never will be. But for the first time in decades, people feel like they've been heard. That's worth something."
Steve nodded again, slower this time.
"You staying long?" Brennan asked.
"Three months," Steve said. "Want to see the country. The people. Everything in between."
Brennan smiled. "Well, you're starting in the right place. Come by on Sunday, if you're around. Service is short, and the tea afterward is decent."
Steve grinned. "I'll think about it."
They sat a while longer as the sky turned indigo above them.
After parting ways with Father Brennan, Steve continued walking until the warm amber glow of a nearby sign caught his eye:
The Thistle & Crown.
It looked exactly like the sort of place someone like him was meant to end a long day — low timber ceilings, warped glass windows, flower boxes on the sill, and a swinging wooden sign that creaked every time the breeze picked up.
Inside, it smelled of aged wood, roasted meat, and old beer.
The bar was polished but worn, the kind of surface that had been wiped down ten thousand times and still carried stories in its grain. A crackling fireplace warmed the far wall, and the whole atmosphere was that of a place much older than even him.
He stepped up to the bar. The barkeep, a round man with a gray beard and the steady calm of someone who'd seen too much to be impressed by anything, gave him a nod.
"Evenin'. What'll it be?"
Steve glanced at the chalkboard. The specials were handwritten and slightly smudged.
"I'll take the shepherd's pie," he said. "And a pint of whatever you recommend."
The barkeep pulled a mug from under the counter and poured a deep amber ale with practiced ease.
"That'll set you right."
He had just started in on his pie when someone approached his table — a man in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, stocky and ruddy-cheeked, with a thick wool sweater and the kind of laugh lines that only came from a life of good stories and better company.
"Mind if I join you?" the man asked, already half-sitting down with a second pint in hand.
Steve nodded. "Go ahead."
"Clive," the man said, settling in. "Here most nights. Food's decent, but drinks are great."
Steve smiled faintly. "Steve. First time here."
"Figured as much. Not seen you here before, and well, I pretty much live here." Clive laughed.
They sat quietly for a moment, the low murmur of the pub filling the space between them.
Then Clive leaned forward, his eyes lighting up. "You want to hear something daft? One of the actual Knights of the Round Table came through here. Not a joke. I've got proof."
Steve raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
"Sir Kay. I swear on my mum's grave. Came through last spring — some kind of business in the city. But he stopped in here. Sat right at this table."
Clive pulled out an old smartphone from his coat pocket and began swiping through pictures. "Here, look—" he turned the screen to Steve, revealing a slightly blurry photo.
It showed a tall man in full armor with a helm under one arm, standing beside the pub's dartboard. A few locals crowded around him, smiling with pints in hand. The knight too had a pint in his hand, and a smile on his face.
"The king's own brother, that one, pretty much royalty he is. Still not too good to enjoy a good pint. Honestly, was a big deal around here." He pointed to a picture hanging on the wall. "There he is again, brought a lot of people round here for a fair bit."
Steve studied the picture, something about it holding him in place.
"I'll never forget it," Clive continued, voice softening. "Being near someone with such power, he could have turned the whole place into rubble, but he was so… normal? He was special in a way, too, but he didn't come off as threatening at all."
Steve nodded slowly. "Sounds like he is someone special."
"Oh, he is," Clive said. "King's brother he is, next in line after Mordred, I guess."
Steve continued to sit there, slowly talking with Clive, though it was mostly just the other man who boasted about the meeting with Steve just nodding and saying a few words here and there.
"Say, Clive, what do you do for a living?" Steve finally asked, wanting to know something more about the man he was talking with.
"Me?" Cleive snorted. "Used to work at the airport, Heathrow, used to handle all the baggage coming through."
"Used to? A young lad like you could still throw around bags like it's nothing, I wager." Steve said which caused Clive to laugh and clap him on the shoulder.
"Young lad? Me? Compared to you, I'm already an old relic." He laughed, not realizing just how old Steve really was, because, well, Steve didn't look it.
"But Heathrow doesn't get as much traffic as it used to, people are still afraid, or their governments are keeping their people away, scared they realize how good we got it," he said with a dismissive snort.
"So, the new regime cost a lot of jobs?" Steve asked, curious about the negative effects of Arthuria's reign.
"Oh yeah, tons, mostly from those greedy bankers and all that, and I got another job, better on my old bones and all that, so I don't complain, though I do miss the airport at times, worked there for thirty years, part of my life."
Clive took another long drink from his pint and sighed, the kind that carried years in its weight. "But I admit, at the start… I didn't like it much, felt everything was changing, I mean, the cut in taxes, the cuts to costs… none could complain about that, but it was a lot all at once. In the end, was worth it."
Steve nodded. "Sounds like you adapted."
"Had to." Clive tapped his chest. "Got grandkids now. Albion might've taken my old job, but it gave me a world I'm not scared to let them grow up in."
He paused, then chuckled. "Listen to me going on. Sorry, I don't usually ramble this much unless I've had a third pint."
"I don't mind," Steve said honestly.
They sat in companionable silence for a while, the hum of the pub settling into a quiet rhythm around them. Someone put another log on the fire. The dartboard got a new challenger. The barkeep changed out a keg with a practiced grunt.
Finally, Clive stretched. "Well, that's me for the night. You enjoy the rest of your visit, mate. If you stop by again, first round's on me."
Steve smiled and offered his hand. "Thanks, Clive. It was good meeting you."
"Same here. Don't let the knights scare you off, eh? They're mostly ceremonial unless someone breaks the law, but honestly, they are harmless, unless you like lying, they see right through that."
With a wink, Clive wandered off into the crowd, leaving Steve to finish his ale in peace.
As he looked again at the framed photo of Sir Kay on the wall — armor and ale both shining in equal measure — he couldn't help but reflect on something Father Brennan had said earlier.
"See how people treat each other now. Then decide."