Camelot, 2023 A.A. (After Arthur)
1
TWO CAMELOTS
For as long as I can remember, there have always been two Camelots.
There's the one from all the bedtime stories Mom used to read to me; a simmering kingdom of white-bearded wizards, blood-thirsty dragons and enchanted swords with proud, intoxicating names. A land so abundant with possibility, that even a single rose petal could change the fate of the world.
And then there's the Camelot I call home; a cruel cesspool teeming with heartless politicians, hopeless beggars, and cutthroat catalyst dealers. A glass and steel metropolis fueled by blood and corruption.
And that would be on the good days.
On the really bad days, when the weight of this place seems to be resting squarely on my shoulders, I imagine diving into the pages of the old leather-bound storybook Mom had kept at my bedside, and hiding amongst the shadows of legends.
As the rookie police officer in back of me tightens his iron grip around my scrawny neck, I realize that today is definitely one of those days.
Officer McNair kicks open a mahogany door with the tip of his metal boot, revealing a pristine corner office with a dizzying view of the entire city.
"In," he orders from behind a glowing face-shield.
"You should try using a verb sometime," I reply, wiping a line of blood from the spot on my chin where he had struck me moments before.
Not the right answer.
The disgruntled cop presses a static-baton between my shoulder blades. A sizzling bolt of power sends me hurling through the door where I face-plant into a freshly vacuumed carpet.
I wobble to my feet, cough up a plume of smoke and take in my surroundings. I'm in some kind of posh executive lounge, decorated with more shiny and twinkly things than I expected existed in this world. Platinum paperweights and gold pens and certificates encased in glass.
It looks more like a dragon's den than a corner office.
In the middle, a handsome man sits behind a polished, antique desk. Ebony hair swept perfectly to the side. Bleached white teeth stretched into an easy grin. It's a face I know well from magazine covers and billboards and the evening talk shows.
I've always found it odd how relaxed and cheery Mayor Tristan LeMorte always appears, considering that half of his citizens teeter on the brink of starvation.
But that's Camelot for you.
Across from LeMorte, a woman spins around in her seat to glare at me with bloodshot eyes. My stomach lurches at the site of my Aunt Krystal. My two-year-old brother, Magnus, balances on her shaking knee like a puppet.
Man. This day just keeps getting better.
As always, Krystal's hair is an atomic mess, the perfect compliment to her obscenely pink halter-top. I can't help but notice it's the same outfit she wore last night before she headed out to the Drunken Sailor, the local dive bar across the street from our apartment. She's been spending a lot of time over there lately, ever since Dad disappeared last year, forcing her to step in as our legal guardian.
As it turns out, the only thing Krystal's good at legally guarding is the dented whiskey flask she keeps stuffed in her purse.
"Sorry, Mr. LeMorte," Officer McNair preens. "Kid was belligerent since I picked him up in front of the 3MA arena."
LeMorte nods. "I can take it from here, Officer McNair."
McNair spins on his heels, gives me a fiery glare, and exits the office. "Please take a seat, Marlon. I was just having a little chat with your mother."
"Aunt," I reply. "We buried Mom over a year ago."
I limp to the chair next to Krystal and plop down beside her, taking in the jaw-dropping view out the window over the Mayor's shoulders.
From the 182nd floor of the King's Spire, I can see the entire city of Camelot humming with activity. The Kilgharrah River slithers in a jade ribbon across the horizon, separating a gleaming Downtown from the crumbling Outer Boroughs squatting on the opposite bank.
I locate a jagged line of dilapidated tenement apartments, peppered with leaning smoke stacks and shuttered factories.
That would be my neighborhood, Trudge.
Considering how epically ugly it is up close, I had always imagined that it could only improve with distance.
Not quite. Even from the top floor of Camelot's grandest skyscraper, my hometown resembles a pair of moldy dentures. It couldn't be any more pathetic in comparison to the glittering steel towers, glowing 3MA arenas and lush parks that spiral around the King's Spire like a collection of precious stones arranged neatly in a jewel box.
Not that I've ever seen a precious stone. Or a jewel box. Those aren't the kinds of things people own in Trudge. In fact, the only thing I've ever seen arranged neatly in a box was my best friend Fisher's mom, when her corpse was wedged inside a pine coffin at her funeral last week. Poor lady froze to death in her own apartment. It's not uncommon. Static-heaters are expensive to keep running these days. Especially in a city with eleven months of brutal winter.
"Well, well," LeMorte says, opening a blue folder with my name on it, "If it isn't the legend himself."
"It depends which legend you're referring to, sir," I say.
LeMorte plucks a page from the folder. My rap sheet. Then he plucks another thick stack of documents. And another.
Ok, rap sheets.
"Marlon Ambrosia. Eleven years old. Born in Trudge."
"Technically I was born on the floor of a burger joint."
LeMorte smiles. "Thank you for the clarification," he says, returning to his documents. "Last year you were taken in for buying illegal catalysts outside a 3MA arena. First-time offense. Released on a warning."
LeMorte flips the page.
"The following evening you were taken in for destroying an automobile with static. Fined. Still unpaid."
"I was practicing. I'm way better now."
LeMorte doesn't even look up. "Two weeks later you were arrested in a raid of an underage 3MA arena. Resisted arrest. Broke one of my officer's fingers."
"He was very brittle--
"A month after, a physical altercation outside the same establishment with a pedestrian."
"He was a catalyst dealer and he sold me a dud. Someone had to teach him."
LeMorte rifles through the stack, spouting grievance after grievance. Most of me doesn't give a damn. But a small aching part of me wonders what Mom would say if she could see me now. How ashamed she'd feel. Mom always said being a Caster was a blessing; a glimpse of magic hiding beneath a dull and predictable world.
I look down at my hands and study the blackened tips of my fingernails, the way the veins in my palms push to the surface like purple rivers, the odd blue-green sparks of light that sift between the shadows of my knuckles; fireflies seeking refuge.
