Offline
When he was finally free of work, Lancelot took the bus across town, right up to the gates that kept the residential areas of the city well-protected, safely cushioned from the rest of the city and, of course, the disgusting hovels outside the city where the likes of Lancelot lived.
At the gates, he showed the visitor pass Merlin had sent him, and the gates chirped before opening to let him pass.
On the other side, as the gates slid shut behind him, all Lancelot could do was gawk, even as his chip set off an alarm, reminding him he was already running late for his first meeting with Merlin outside of the game.
Why in the world was Merlin here. It made no sense.
Well, there was no reason he couldn't be born into a wealthy family in this life.
It was just so against everything that was Merlin.
Even back in Camelot, he'd eschewed the wealth that had come his way, never keeping more than he needed, hating the obscene displays of wealth of most of the court.
He must be furious about this. The thought drew out a laugh.
Lancelot had never seen such incredible beauty.
Such beautiful, colorful trees, nothing like the dense, towering ones north of the city where people raised meat and special crops and foraged for things like mushrooms that were sent straight to these fancy neighborhoods.
Water…there was water everywhere. Carefully built, artistic brooks and streams wending through the neighborhood.
The streets were paved with beautiful, gleaming solar glass, and the buildings were basically works of art.
So many colors. So soft and pretty. So much like his games, so much like memories, but so much more. Lancelot could cry.
Sniffling, he scanned his chip at one of the entry points to the moving walkways and stepped onto it, letting it whisk him away through all the splendor, up a gentle incline to a house that seemed to be made of real stone, real wood, and more of the iridescent solar glass.
He was still gawking at everything when he was deposited in front of the third of five houses at the very top of the incline.
Not just rich, but rich rich. These must be the five ruling families of the territory.
Years ago, corporations had essentially become nobility, dividing the country into seven territories, each one ruled by one arch duke, two to three slightly less powerful houses under them, and various minor ones.
Lance's district was controlled by the Archduke of Mondelez, supported by the Houses of Kellogg and Kraft-Heinz.
Oh, the look on Merlin's face…Lancelot wished he could have seen it.
At least he could tease Merlin about it.
Taking another calming breath, Lancelot took the walkway to the right of the driveway and followed until he reached the front door.
Could he use the front door? Should he use a side or back door?
He had no idea what the etiquette was for houses like this, though he knew people who worked in them and always had scathing comments about how their employers wanted servants to be more or less invisible at all times.
He finally chose the front door, scanning his chip at the reader there and startling when there was a loud, clear chime.
For several seconds after, there was absolutely nothing.
He debated whether to try again, or go around to the back after all, when the doorframe turned from white to blue, and the door split in two, the sides withdrawing into the frame.
To reveal Merlin, dressed in shimmering nex-denim that fit like a glove and a black mesh tank top smattered with glow threads. "Lancelot!" He threw himself into Lance's arms and hugged him tightly, the scent of dark forests and fresh mint washing over him. "I've missed you so much."
"I've missed you too," Lancelot replied, holding him as tightly as he could without causing harm.
Galehaut was the love of his life, but Merlin was his oldest and dearest friend, the only other person who had been there at Arthur's side as they built Camelot up from nothing.
They'd found others, but not for a long time; those first several months had been just the three of them as they worked to make the old castle habitable and defend it from those who would kill a new, young king while he was still weak.
One by one, knight by knight, mage by mage, they'd built up the Round Table, and attracted more and more nobles, other wealthy people, until they'd had a true kingdom, stable and loyal. But it had begun with the three of them.
And he and Merlin had died together, hand in hand, paying a price they'd yet to be told in order to have this second chance. That was a bond that nothing could break, not even Maleagant.
"What are you doing here of all places?" Lancelot asked as Merlin pulled him into the house, the door closing behind them. "This isn't like you at all."
Merlin laughed. "Right? I hate it. My late mother married into it, and after she died, my stepfather was kind enough to let me remain. Wait until you meet my stepsister." He sighed.
A prickle ran down Lance's spin, like icy fingers dragging from the top of his neck all the way down to his tailbone. "Who is it?"
"Morgan," Merlin said softly. "I've been poking at her gently, in every way I can think of, but I've had no luck."
"You said it would take both of us to wake the rest—or something like that," Lancelot said. "Does it have to be in the game? Why is so much happening in the game?"
Merlin shrugged and spread his hands, a gesture so Merlin that Lancelot wanted to laugh and cry. "Because everything in this age that matters is digital? Ego? Familiarity? Fate is nothing if not mercurial?"
Lancelot huffed a laugh. "All true."
"Hungry?"
"Starving. We don't get to eat a whole lot, those of us who live outside the city."
"Then come and feast, stay as long as you like, or I'll send you home with all the food you can carry and courier even more to you. Whatever you want."
Lancelot smiled and hugged him again. "We'll work out the details later. I want food."
Hooking his arm through Lance's, Merlin led them to the kitchen, a beautiful, old fashioned number that looked like an Italian Garden cooking game he'd played as a kid.
The kind of kitchen where people did the cooking, not automated systems, which was far more common in modern kitchens these days, at least in the nice houses.
Lancelot generally bought his food from carts or got stuff already made.
His kitchen was almost entirely just for storing things, not practical use.
"Sit, sit," Merlin said, waving him to a bar-like area that had stools in front of it. As he moved around the kitchen, he said, "I have really sweet set-ups here. I don't talk about it online because that draws a lot of attention. I tend to turn off the shiniest features and…"
"Play peasant?" Lancelot asked teasingly.
Merlin shot him a sheepish look. "Something like that. Anyway, now we're here together, we can go hard. The trick will be getting Morgan into the game. How do you get someone who doesn't give two shits about video games to try a brand new, max level game?"
Lancelot gave him a look. "What's her name in this world?"
"Still Morgan, Lance."
"Martin," Lancelot retorted with a grin. "Why not do it your way? Well, one of your ways."
Merlin laughed. "Sorcery or seduction? I guess. Feels like cheating or something, but I guess that's a dumb way to think about it."
"She wouldn't hesitate if your positions were reversed.
She'd—" Lancelot forgot everything he was going to say as Merlin set a plate in front of him that was heaped with so much food it could feed his entire apartment floor.
It would last him at least a couple of weeks if he stored everything properly and doled it out carefully. "Is this… is this all for me?"
"Yes, every bite of it. Eat up. We'll pack what you can't finish, or throw it in the fridge for later."
Lancelot nodded. Times like this, his past memories and his current ones clashed and matched in strange ways.
He'd been poor for most of his previous life, as he'd not taken his mother's wealth and power with him when he'd set out, and even after being 'Arthur's greatest knight,' he tended to live frugally, like Merlin, rather than extravagantly like so many of his so-called peers.
Most knights eschewed living like the nobles who kept the court thriving.
When you were worried about whether or not you might survive the next battle, how many silk tunics you owned became irrelevant quickly.
Though he was sorely tempted to just start grabbing food by the handful and shoving it into his mouth as quickly as possible, Lancelot forced himself to act like he was more or less civilized and used chopsticks instead. "What kind of meat is this?"
"Beef."
"Like, real beef? From real cows? The ones raised like northwest of the city or something?"
Merlin smiled sourly. "Yeah. We get weekly deliveries: beef, pork, and chicken. Daily deliveries for things like dairy and vegetables. Goat, mutton, other things are by request. So what do you do for a living when you're not back to work as a knight?"
"You mean when I'm not getting my ass kicked by—" Lancelot stopped, anguish ripping through him, chopsticks slipping through his fingers.
"What's wrong?"
Lancelot laughed, the sound cracking in the middle as the urge to cry nearly got the better of him. "That knight we fought, that you saved me from just in time. It's Gale."
Merlin's eyes widened. "No. How did I not— Oh, no. Lance, I'm so sorry." He jumped clear over the bar as though it was nothing and pulled Lancelot into a tight embrace. "We'll get him back. Whatever it takes, we will bring him back to you."