AN: No romance

The night was young and joy was in the air. A local holiday was held within Peak District National Park of the United Kingdoms to celebrate the discovery of the Cave of Mordred ; a clearing was cut out of the land for the festival and future events. Food stalls and entertainment centers spread as far as the eyes could see as tourists and locals went about their business.

Normally, an event of this scale was illegal because the location was considered government owned preservation land. Yet here, the government officials could not stop the celebration for the simple fact that it was both a site of historic importance discovered by foreigners and a holiday recognized by the local people. The inhabitants were overjoyed with the new influx of tourism that came to their towns and earned a pretty penny from selling souvenirs, food, and other services. The merry mood was a great change to their monotonous lives. To have one's birthplace to celebrate was an extravagant experience. It was also no secret that the governing authorities were hesitant in keeping foreigners away since the money collected from tourism was also split between their wallets. To keep everyone happy, the government announced statements that sectioned the land as being outside the national park. Their decision angered environmentalists and other activists, but the pro-support for the holiday snuffed out the opposition.

The stalls that swarmed the festival were mainly worked by locals; they shared their craft and culture with the incoming tourists. The festival guide books established the path of most enjoyment and immersion were separated into three parts: tour inside the Cave of Mordred, enjoy the local specialties, and participate in the house-sized bonfire.

The employees and volunteers from tourists began preparing the wood and kindle before dawn. When the last of the sun's rays disappear, lottery tickets would be pulled to earn fabulous prizes. The most prestigious prize was the honor of lighting the fire and a gift basket of gift cards. For the fanatics with membership, the top winner would receive a body pillow as a bonus. The remaining prizes ranged from Mordred action figures, books, and merchandise. Envy and cries of jealousy was common among the cults who failed to be chosen for the role of lighting the holy flames.

At this time, the sun was down and tickets were pulled out by the local governor. Everyone crowded around the large pile of wood, waiting in anticipation for their name to be called. The many stalls were empty of personnel and the cave was abandoned. At least, it was thought to be because the main event was occurring outside the manmade tunnel.

A child and her mother lingered through the tunnel and entered the throne room that enshrined the body of Mordred and Caliburn. The child had green eyes and long blond hair; she would sometimes be mistaken by her relatives to be a younger copy of her mother. The daughter danced in joy as the pair reached the room and laid their eyes upon the sword. As the child walked towards the blade, her excitement grew; it felt like she was meant to touch it. The mother stood behind her and smiled affectionately at her fidgeting daughter.

"Try it." The mother encouraged her daughter. The child's eyes lit up as she extended her hand towards the hilt of Caliburn.

With a slight tug, the legendary blade left its pedestal. This was no means a small fate. All who had tried to lift the sword had failed, but she didn't. The 12 year old girl had accomplished the impossible. Believing she would fail and having her actually succeed had agitated the blade's new wielder.

"Mommy." She looked back at the mother, her eyes screaming for help and the hilt of Caliburn was firmly gripped in her smaller fingers.

The mother held the stance as she had before. She was not worried about the scene that befell the pair. All she showed was the proud smile of a parent for her child.

"Remember...You choose what you want to be." The adult informed her child. In response, the daughter glanced at the blade in her hands, her reflection danced on the metals that made the weapon. Slowly, she placed Caliburn back to its pedestal and ran back to her mother.

"Oh, so you don't want to be king?" The mother kindly asked in curiosity.

The daughter shook her head. "Nope. I want to make giant robots."

The mother patted her daughter's head as the youth giggled at her own answer. The idea of self destiny had been passed down in their family for countless generations. The parents would always tell stories of a mysterious knight who wished for nothing else but to decide her own fate. It was only now that the idea took a more physical and mystical form of Mordred and the Caliburn sword that impaled itself in front of the knight. For her daughter to decide to be something other than what she was given, though her own devices, brought pride to the mother.

"You will be a great engineer when you grow up." She cheered for her daughter.

"I sure will." The youth pridefully puffed out her chest.

"Well, does my little engineer want some ice cream and a story until we get back to Papa?" The daughter loved the suggestion and jumped in excitement. The mother laughed at the overreaction of her child.

"Can I tell a story this time?" The plea was responded with a nod.

"Sure, what will your story be?"

Her daughter thought for a bit before holding the adult's hand. "The story will be about a long lost knight. He is lost in the desert and finds his true love."

"Isn't that something that happens at the end of a story." The mother joked to her daughter.

"Not this one because his lover runs away. The knight becomes sad and chases her." The youth continued her story. The mother listened to the story and held her child's hand. It was a great coincidence that she became a student in Dr. Macton's lectures and was invited free of charge to travel to this celebration. This trip went very well and her family was enjoying themselves. Even her husband made some friends immediately after they had arrived at the festival. He got separated from her a few hours ago. Hopefully, he didn't do anything strange with his new friends.

Elsewhere in Festival

Inside a tent, Cult Mo was holding an annual recruitment ceremony.

"By the holy light of Mordred and all that she represents." Jon placed an armband and a necklace upon a knelt figure.

"We accept you as one of us." The hooded figure stood up and shook Jon's hand. "Welcome to Cult Mo, fellow brethren."

The new cultist took off his hood and gleamed in frantic excitement. "I am happy to be a part of this."

Jon nodded. "Everything is for her happiness."

"For her happiness." The new member and the other cultists repeated.


Singularity: Camelot

(The story will be about a long lost knight. He is lost in the desert and finds his true love.)

Bedivere transverse on his path under the blazing desert sun. He stopped in his tracks when he saw a plume of sand forming to his right side. His eyes squinted to get a better view and saw a knight in black and red armor sprinting towards him.

(His lover runs away.)

Cold sweat dripped from his face as he felt the deep fury coming from the stranger. Immediately, he ran from the knight as he felt the impending doom he might face if he was to be captured. His actions only increased the pace at which the knight ran.

(The knight becomes sad and chases her.)

"COME BACK HERE YOU PIECE OF HORSE SHIT!" A figure in black and red armor screamed as she chased her prey.

"Why are you chasing me!?" The unfortunate doppelganger of a certain knight of loyalty stated in confusion. The gap between the two people was shortening; the predator was gaining in speed, while the prey was losing energy and slowing down. A plume of sand was left adrift in the wake of the angered knight's rush towards the silver-haired stick man.

"I'LL TELL IF YOU STOP RUNNING!" she screamed back; the wrath she was emitting could not be ignored. Bedivere refused to accept that she would tell him her identity without bringing upon his soul untold amounts of pain.

"Can't we talk about this?!" Bedivere tried his luck and pleaded for mercy.

"You can start talking when I HAVE MY ARM UP YOUR ASS!" She spat and tackled the desperate man.

"Please. I am not who you think I am." The man continued to beg for his life...Or his chastity...whichever was worse.

"Don't give a shit." The knight raised her clenched fist and held her victim down onto the desert sand with her other hand. "Now...Spread them."

"What! No! Not there!" His plea was ignored.

Cries of suffering could be heard across the desert plains followed by a cynical howling laughter.

(And they lived happily ever after.)