Unknownfate
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Chapter 80
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 03:44:30 +0000 UTCIt didn’t take all that long before Mordred and I found ourselves sitting in the main restaurant. A place far finer than anywhere in our time. Velvet curtains, crystal glasses, fine, impossibly white linen tablecloths, and everything made with the finest woods.
I, with my fine suit, fit in well, though Mordred, with a more punk look, stood out like a sore thumb. The staff, however, didn’t bat an eye.
A waitress approached. Young, professional, with sleek dark hair tied into a bun and a crisp uniform that matched the casino’s black-and-gold aesthetic.
“Welcome,” she said. “May I start you off with anything to drink?”
“Bring one of everything that has sugar,” Mordred said immediately. “No—two of everything.”
The waitress blinked. Then smiled like she had seen worse. “And for you, ma’am?”
“Everything else, let us try a bit of everything.” I said calmly, not willing to be outdone by Mordred when it came to eating or drinking.
To this the poor woman froze, firstly she didn’t take Mordred’s order serious, no doubt expecting me to correct it, and secondly, she was in disbelief over the fact that I ordered everything, given the high-class nature of this place, it had some very expensive wines and champagne on the menu.
The waitress hesitated for only a moment longer—just long enough to remember where she was, who she was serving.
Since I had stayed there for more then a day now, I was well known, mostly because I was both stunning and had performed stunningly. Not to mention Mordred handed my chips out like they were worthless.
Tipping anyone around her with big chips, often ones she won. After all, she was lucky, just… not very good at playing.
“Very good,” she said with a professional nod, masking her surprise. “I’ll have the bar begin the preparations immediately. Will you be dining à la carte, or—”
“We’ll take the full menu,” I said simply. “Everything that’s house-made, from starters to dessert. Served as it’s ready.”
Mordred leaned back in her seat, lacing her fingers behind her head. “Make that double… not triple! Just keep it coming.”
I gave her a long, narrow-eyed glance. “What she said.”
Mordred grinned wider.
Within minutes, the table began to fill. Sizzling wagyu bites on slate tiles. Buttered escargot in golden dishes. A tower of caviar toasts, still glittering with chilled roe. Candied carrots, truffle risotto, seared duck, roasted bone marrow.
In addition to more glasses than either of us could count, each sparkling with a different color of liquid—from clear sodas to blood-red wines and effervescent, petal-infused cocktails.
And that was only the first part, the poor waiter had to inform us that all we ordered couldn't fit on our table, or any table for that matter, so they had to bring it out bit by bit.
Mordred’s eyes went wide.
“Holy hell,” she breathed, reaching for a strawberry soda and a tiny lobster roll in the same motion. “I don’t even know what half of this stuff is!”
I couldn’t help but agree, even I only knew the name of the stuff because I was told that before it was sat on the table, but beyond that, I didn’t know what it was.
Expect that it was food. “Let’s learn then, we have plenty of it after all.”
Mordred dug in like a woman possessed—fork in one hand, soda in the other, occasionally reaching across the table with zero shame to spear something from my side of the spread.
“This is amazing,” she said through a mouthful of honey-glazed duck. “I didn’t even know food could taste like this. What is this one?”
“Foie gras,” I said, glancing at the little slice she was waving in the air.
She stared at it. Then at me. “That sounds like a spell.”
“It’s liver,” I added, sipping delicately from a flute of something floral and cold.
Her chewing slowed. “...Still tastes good.”
I smiled faintly. “So. Are you having fun?”
Mordred looked up, blinked once, then gave me the biggest, most unfiltered grin I’d seen from her in… forever.
“Hell yes,” she said, leaning back in her seat and stretching, arms above her head. “This is insane. Cards, booze, food, more cards. I feel like I’m in some kinda fever dream, and Agravain to come wake me up anytime.”
“Careful,” I said with a half-laugh. “If you have too much fun, he might feel it and come running just to stop you.”
Mordred snorted mid-sip, nearly choking on a fizzy grape soda. “I can see that happening, but with you here, I’m good.”
“What am I? A shield?” I cracked a joke.
“The very best!”
I watched her for a moment—laughing, wolfing down three desserts at once, dipping fries into a bowl of hollandaise like it was ketchup—and I couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth settle in my chest.
“You’re happy,” I murmured.
She blinked. “Yeah. I guess I am.” Then her expression softened. “You?”
I paused.
The weight of Camelot. The duties. The secrets. The crown and sword and all that came with them—they were still there, just waiting for me to return.
But for now, I sat at a table too fine for anyone from our time, beside the only person who could ever call me “Father” without fear or doubt, and be right.
“Yes,” I said. “I think I am.”
-----
“Okay, this is great and all,” Mordred says, licking whipped cream off her spoon, “but I’m kinda getting cabin fever. Can we go do something else? Like, I dunno... the beach? Wanna try surfing.”
I looked up from where I was counting our winnings. I had the chips traded for bigger ones, which were small cards in gold, not real gold, but they were worth one hundred thousand dollars each.
So they might as well have been.
“The beach? Can you even swin?” I couldn’t help but ask, because I honestly didn’t know. Mordred was summoned as a Saber, so I didn’t know if she could swim; it wasn’t something she ever did back in our time.
Mordred blinked, then narrowed her eyes like I’d just insulted her lineage.
“I can swim,” she said, tossing the spoon into a half-devoured dessert with theatrical offense. “Probably. I mean, how hard can it be? You just kick a lot, right?”
I tilted my head. “That’s not… entirely wrong.”
“Besides,” she added, stretching her arms over her head again, “it’s not like I’m gonna drown. Endurance A, remember? I’ll just walk back out if it goes badly.”
I sighed. “That is not how the ocean works.”
“Okay, Father,” she said, smirking. “Then come with me. Teach me how the ocean works. You’ve won enough chips to buy the ocean anyway.”
I glanced to the stack of gold-edged cards glinting like trophies beside us. She wasn’t wrong. We’d made enough. I was honestly surprised we hadn’t been kicked out by now.
“A beach, then,” I said. “I’m sure there is one around… though I think we are in the middle of a desert, so we properly have to use the TemPad.”
Mordred’s eyes lit up instantly, all fatigue forgotten. “Oh hell yes. Portal me to paradise!”
I raised a brow. “And what exactly counts as paradise for you?”
She leaned forward, grinning ear to ear. “Blue water. Warm sand. Coconut drinks. Surfboards. And maybe—just maybe—a volleyball I can smash into someone’s face.”
“That last part worries me.”
“It should,” she said proudly.
I reached into my inner jacket pocket and pulled out the TemPad and started playing around with it. “Wait, do you even have a swimsuit?”
Mordred just grinned and ran off, only to return a moment later wearing one. “I ordered this one through the room service! It's awesome, I can get anything at all, and the best part is that I don’t have to pay for anything.”
“No, I do.” I said with a sigh.
“And that’s the best part! Now let's go!”
Mordred darted ahead like a child promised candy, practically bouncing on her heels as I keyed in the coordinates. The TemPad hummed to life in my palm, golden light tracing across its surface like veins of magic pretending to be science.
“Coordinates locked,” I said.
The portal shimmered into existence beside the dessert cart, a square cut into space and time, though without the time part. The roar of waves, the scent of salt and coconut, the call of gulls—it all spilled through the rift like a promise.
Mordred whooped and bolted through without hesitation.
I followed more gracefully, stepping through the portal and onto sand so soft it nearly gave beneath my heels. The transition was seamless—no dizziness, no disorientation. One moment marble, the next: paradise.
-----
The glass walls of Director Fury’s office let in the dull gleam of early morning light, though inside, the mood was far from quiet.
Maria Hill stood beside the conference table with a tablet in hand. On the main screen behind her was a paused frame of surveillance footage: a tall blonde woman in a black suit, seated at a blackjack table in the Gilded Serpent casino. Next to her, paused mid-shout, was a shorter, similarly blonde woman in next to nothing.
Hill tapped the tablet. “This is our potential enhanced individual. She’s been active in Las Vegas for two days now. Same casino, same table. She has not lost a single hand.”
Nick Fury sat behind his desk, one hand steepled under his chin. “Tell me this isn’t just another lucky high-roller.”
“She’s not using sleight of hand. Not counting cards. Dealers have been rotated, tables shuffled mid-deal. Nothing changes.” Hill glanced toward Phil Coulson, who stood quietly by the window. “She doesn’t blink. She doesn’t flinch. She just wins.”
Fury leaned back slowly. “And the other one?”
“They appear related,” Hill replied. “Facial analysis shows a strong resemblance. Could be sisters or mother and daughter, but the age gap doesn’t quite match either theory. The younger one calls the elder ‘Father’—not ‘mother,’ not by name. Just ‘Father.’”
“That’s odd,” Coulson finally spoke.
Hill nodded. “Exactly. Staff at the casino took note but didn’t press. The pair tip in four-digit chips like it’s nothing. The younger one— called ‘Mo-chan’—nothing suspicious about her playing, she wins, she loses, mostly loses, but she just plays badly. But the older one… she’s the problem.”
“She is the one who is suspicious, never losing; that isn’t normal.” Fury murmured.
“Over three hundred thousand yesterday,” Hill confirmed. “All in small, consistent wins. She doesn’t stop after one or two hands. She plays for hours. She sits like she’s carved from marble and cleans the place out.
Fury tapped his fingers against the edge of his desk. “Any record? ID?”
“No names on file. No credit accounts. They paid cash, converted to chips. They’ve been staying in the penthouse suite and charged over sixty grand to the room on food and drinks alone. All paid in chips.”
Hill brought up another still image—Arthuria leaning back in her chair, the chip stack in front of her glowing under the table lights. “They’re ghosts.”
“Normally I would send Natasha, she fits in well in such a setting. But with her still assigned to Camelot.” Fury paused as he turned his one eye over to Coulson.
Fury gave a short nod. “Then it’s you Coulson.”
Coulson turned from the window. “Sir?”
“You’re going to Vegas. You’ll observe, you play next to her, you carry all our best equipment to see if you can detect anything.”
Fury pushed away from his desk and stood, the room seeming smaller for it. “Don’t spook her. Don’t provoke her. Just figure out what she is—and if she’s a threat.”
Coulson gave a faint nod. “And if she is?”
Fury didn’t answer right away. He walked to the window, staring out over the city as the morning sun caught the edges of his coat.
“You still do nothing, but we will send a team to grab her once she leaves, too many people are after enhanced people these days, and we can’t let them get more.”
Hill exchanged a look with Coulson, then tapped a final note on her tablet. “Jet’s ready. You leave in ten.”
Fury didn’t turn. “Good luck, Coulson.”
Coulson exhaled, straightened his coat, and headed for the door. “I hope it’s just good luck, yeah.”
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