3MA

3MA | Chapter 1

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."