- Round Table HQ, London, 2020 -

William carefully knocked on the well disguised door. If you, much like Jon, were too busy just looking at how many paintings, statues, bookstands and general ornamentation this entire hallway had in display, this door would have been missed entirely. If not for the doorknob and hinges clearly giving it away, the door completely blended with the wall. The questionably mint-green, top half gilded boiserie, bottom half bland white dado, wall.

As the door slowly opened, the question of why it was camouflaged with the wall was revealed. On the other side, a masterfully decorated meeting room: mahogany bookshelves and display cabinets, perfectly 3 meters (slightly above 9ft 10in) tall, filled to the brim with appropriate content. Countless books, old enough that you can’t read their titles on the spine; medals of war, medals of peace, medals for having too many medals; apparatuses of dubious usage, clearly mementos of the inglorious days of British alchemy. And the walls themselves, a striking red, almost imperceivable from the shelves, cabinets, and the tapestry and heraldry hung upon these walls. Depictions of legends, myths, factual events, and events of dubious accuracy. One of these caught the attention of Allain: a depiction, rather exaggerated, of his escape all those centuries ago. Instead of a soldier, an emaciated figure strangles Death itself with the shackles on his wrists.

In the perfect center of this room stood a table. A round table. A table even more impressive than the room itself, perhaps. Mahogany wood, sculpted into the form of a perfect circle, with five legs supporting its weight, and in each leg the figure of a lion stood. The surface of the table contained inscriptions in Latin, Welsh, Cornish, Breton, Irish, Gaelic, and Old English; and in its center, a symbol, the “coat of arms” of the Knights of the Round Table. All of these details, the inscriptions and the symbol, were seemingly made of gold, inlaid upon the table.

Around the table were placed fourteen chairs. All of them equally as ornate as the room and the table; a solid mahogany body, combined with a masterful upholstery technique that culminated in an outer layer of red velvet. One of these chairs did stand out, with a taller back, and far more padding in the armrests. Clearly a chair fit for a ruler, or whomever holds the title of Arthur within the Knights. Curiously, it was one of the three chairs found empty, the second being the famed Siege Perilous, which remains empty even after fifteen centuries, and will remain empty, as the Holy Grail lays safely within one of the countless vaults in the Vatican, affectionally referred to as the “Don’t Fuck With This” Vault; and the third being Merlin’s, of course, as he now stood by the door, inviting the guests into the meeting.

– Merlin! What is the reason for this inappropriate interruption?! – barked a balding, fat old man, in a beige three-piece suit, and with a moustache that would make you think he was cosplaying as Teddy Roosevelt.

– I apologize, Lord Cromwell… I mean, Lancelot. I understand that with the weight of being acting leader in the absence of Arthur, the pressure alters your temper. But I hoped you would be more restrained in the presence of our esteemed guests. – answers Will, with a smug look on his face, while gesturing towards Allain and Jon.

– I uhm… I-I… I’m terribly sorry – Cromwell visibly reddens, and sweats profusely, dropping the boss act entirely. – If I… knew we’d, we’d be having guests… I’m so sorry.

– Good afternoon gentlemen. – chirps Allain, clearly enjoying the situation. – Am I in time for tea? Or should I wait for a more, say, opportune, moment?

– Absolutely not, kind sir. It is quite rude to leave guests parched. – the trusty butler of the Enfield family, and by proxy of the Knights, Mortimer, answers, seemingly appearing out of thin air. Allain chuckles lightly, and Jon ponders to himself if the butler was there the whole time.

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– Unfortunately, Morty, we’ll have to decline. We’re only here to ask a few questions to the knights, and then we’ll be on our merry way back home. – clarifies Allain, while looking in the direction of the Table and all those seated. – Jon, the documents, please.

Allain reaches his arm backwards, his hand hovering over his shoulder, waiting for something. Behind him, Jon struggled to find the right folder in his bag, until he pulled three folders, each brimming with papers, and each stamped “confidential” with big, bold, red letters. Jon passes them to Allain, who holds on to them. He then addresses the table.

– You see, a few days ago, several of our partners, allies, whatever you wish to call them, issued statements… – while still talking, Allain throws the folders onto the table – …regarding their understanding, or lack thereof, of the current situation regarding the sudden increase in Anomaly activity. Curiously, one of our oldest allies did no such thing. Can you guess who I’m talking about? – Allain abruptly turns towards Lord Cromwell.

– Is… Is it the Round Table? – he asks, intimidated by this sudden confrontation.

– Bingo! Otherwise, I would’ve obviously stayed home instead of coming here. Although I must say, my superiors are not informed of this impromptu meeting. It’s in your best interests to be as thorough as possible. – as he finishes, Allain moves to seat in the Siege Perilous, and before anyone can complain, he quips – Come on, you know very well I found the damned thing. Just because I’m not a magnate of the Crown, doesn’t mean the seat can’t be mine for a few minutes.

Lord Cromwell tries to speak, but all he can mutter are grunts and repeated “sorry’s” and “I’s”. William decides to speak in his stead, but not before he takes his own seat. Allain jokingly gestures for Jon to seat in the Arthur chair, but Morty once again does what a butler does best and hands over a small chair for Jon to sit on, right next to Allain. Jon questions his senses once more; he could swear the chair was never there in the first place.

– Well, Allain, – Will says with a somber look on his face – the reason why we didn’t send any reports or information regarding this situation is precisely because we lack it. We have nothing. Our intel centers across the country, including our ley line fort in Ireland, were all attacked. The stationed workers were all killed, and any documents, mattering or not to the current situation were all destroyed. If you can think of any way to destroy documents, they did it, whoever it was. – William, and all the other Knights, were visibly distraught. All of them kept fidgeting in their seats while Will told of the events. Will felt like he needed to add something. – No, while the delicate location of some of the sites could suggest it, they were not political attacks. We have confirmation.

– “Alan”… – Lord Cromwell managed to finally utter some comprehensible words, but was quickly cut off by Allain.

– “Allain”, sir. There’s an “i” there you must pronounce.

– Uhm… yes, yes… Allain. I apologize. – Cromwell takes a deep breath. – It pains me to ask you this, but as you can see, we are currently in a crisis. Ever since the position of Arthur was separated from the duties of the ruler, the bureaucracy increased a thousandfold. We currently require all hands on deck, so we can’t send our specialists to investigate the site in Ireland. Could you please go there? This will obviously be treated as a conjoined effort between us and Wolfheim, with the appropriate compensation included.

– What do you say Jon, do we accept? – Allain turns to Jon with a raised eyebrow, clearly intent on giving all of these elderly men a series of heart attacks just from the thought they are helpless.

– You had me at compensation, Sir Lancelot. – answers Jon, joining in on this mind game Allain had going on from the start.

– I just have one request. - adds Allain. – We need to be taken there.

– I can handle that. – Will says, with a wide smile. – You can be transported in Lancelot’s personal helicopter. If you don’t mind, we’ll be sending an agent of ours to accompany you, simply to assure your safety.

Allain stands up, ready to leave and Jon follows suit. William decides to accompany them to the door, and poor Cromwell is left speechless once again, from the sheer audacity Will displayed in offering *his* helicopter, of all vehicles.

Before they’re fully out of the room, Allain whispers to Will. – Can I use him as cannon fodder?

– Absolutely not. – replies Will, whispering as well. – Like Lord Cromwell said, we need all hands on deck. This doesn’t mean you could do it in any other situation though.

– You know me, I can’t promise I’ll play along.