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Chapter 24
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 00:21:29 +0000 UTCAs time marched on, the magical essence of Camelot faded, giving way to the monotony of everyday life.
The UK government’s slow drip of new information barely kept pace with the mundane routine that was returning to people’s lives.
Despite this, many still yearned to enter the city or, at the very least, find answers. Fueled by this intense longing came the promise of money.
Yet, the spell of Camelot was not easily dismissed. The mystery, enchantment, and untold stories continued to ignite passions among many. It evolved from mere curiosity into an opportunity.
Where there is desire, there is profit.
News outlets, eager to rekindle the fading interest, began offering enormous sums for exclusive footage, interviews, or even snippets of unverified news.
The media frenzy roared back to life as independent journalists, thrill-seekers, and influencers focused their attention on Camelot.
Civil servants, already overwhelmed with media requests, found their inboxes bursting with pleas, bribes, and demands.
In a cramped office tucked within a government building, one staff member sighed as he opened yet another email tagged “URGENT: Camelot Access Request.” His desk was cluttered with folders marked Denied, Pending, and Escalate.
“I swear,” he grumbled, rubbing his temples, “if I read one more pitch about an ‘exclusive partnership’ or a ‘documentary series,’ I’m going to snap.”
His colleague leaned back in her chair, scrolling through another pile of overwhelming requests. “One guy even offered to donate half his earnings to charity if we let him in,” she reported flatly. “And another claimed he was a direct descendant of Arthurian legends.”
The first staff member scoffed, “Let me guess—he’s a descendant of Merlin?”
“Actually, it’s Lancelot,” she said, rolling her eyes as she tossed the email into the Denied folder.
Requests escalated to higher levels were also largely refused; the unwritten rule was to deny every request while keeping media access tightly controlled.
This did not imply that no requests were approved, but only those the government could manage were permitted entry, with strict limitations placed on what could be disclosed afterward.
Typically, only written articles or a handful of limited-question interviews were released, sufficient to prevent unrest but insufficient to sustain the hype.
However, some individuals remained unconvinced by this ruse.
Daily crowds continued to gather outside the barricades around Camelot, eager to catch a glimpse or demonstrate their ongoing interest, wishing to show support for King Arthur.
Yet, the enthusiasm was gradually dwindling.
Nonetheless, one journalist was resolute in her quest to uncover the story and gain access to the city with her camera: Amy Hardy, a young, blond woman filled with passion.
Growing up with four older brothers, Amy’s old-fashioned parents instilled the value of being well-read and active.
This led to bedtime stories rich with knights, dragons, and princesses, which naturally transitioned into playtime centered around these themes.
Though often cast as the princess in her brothers’ games, Amy developed a fascination with knights and their tales.
As she matured, she retained the virtues she admired: honor, justice, and truth.
This passion ultimately guided her into journalism.
When she learned about Camelot, her eagerness to explore and understand everything related to the legendary king and his city intensified.
However, despite her fervent efforts, even her network could not secure an opportunity for her to visit.
Yet, her desire to enter Camelot burned intensely, and she resolved to be the one to gain access, regardless of the cost.
The reality was she had neither money nor connections, and even those with ample resources struggled to reach the city.
This bleak situation seemed hopeless unless she was truly willing to make sacrifices for her story.
After all, she had one undeniable asset: her looks – she was undeniably beautiful.
She had received countless offers for exclusive interviews and other opportunities but turned them all down, finding such propositions distasteful.
Amy aimed to elevate her career through her skills, not by compromising her integrity.
Yet, like many, she had absorbed stories of King Arthur, numerous tales featuring acts of self-sacrifice for the greater good.
She contemplated whether her small sacrifice could be justified if it meant bringing the world what it yearned for.
Yet, she refused to compromise herself for just anyone, especially since most couldn’t provide what she sought in return.
Only one man had shown interest and had the power to make things happen. Thankfully, he was rather appealing, making the potential risk feel manageable.
Determined, Amy picked up her phone to call her boss.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
“Hey, Amy, what can I do for you, sweetheart?"
“I recall you mentioning Stark... I want to have a conversation with him, an interview... please send my picture," she said, feeling her cheeks flush.
Her boss paused, his tone losing its usual warmth. “Amy, are you certain about this? With Camelot around, I thought you’d overlook Stark’s upcoming weapon demonstration."
“I understand, but I have a plan," she responded, her voice steadier than she felt. “Just send my picture. If he’s agreeable, I’ll take it from there."
"Okay," he conceded after a brief silence, reluctance evident in his voice. “But don’t say I didn’t caution you."
Amy hung up, her heart racing. She placed her phone on the cluttered desk, staring at it as if it might suddenly accuse her of wrongdoing. This wasn’t the way she envisioned making her mark in journalism, yet the prospect of unveiling Camelot’s secrets was too compelling to dismiss.
----------------------
After what felt like a forgettable interview with Tony Stark regarding his latest weapon poised to revolutionize warfare, Amy, now more personally acquainted with the infamous playboy, was en route to England.
Having fulfilled Tony’s desire for her stunning presence, she received her own prize: several calls from the world’s wealthiest man later and she had gotten an invitation to Camelot.
Despite the British government’s attempts to ignore the American arms dealer, it wasn’t an easy task. They relented, allowing Amy Hardy a spot in Camelot alongside a local cameraman.
She suspected they had plans to restrict her releases after her visit, but she was determined not to let that happen; she had a strategy in place and was eagerly anticipating the opportunity.
Upon arriving in England, she couldn’t overlook the dreary weather; it was all grey and wet. "I hope it clears up before tomorrow," she murmured as she took a cab to her hotel. The following day marked the pinnacle of her career.
Early the next morning, she donned her finest attire, with a backpack loaded with top-tier equipment that was ready for any situation.
Although she had never seen such high-quality gear before, upon being offered the chance to visit Camelot, her superiors at the agency spared no expense to prepare her.
After checking her phone and paperwork for the last time, she hailed a cab and headed out of London toward the legendary city.
"You're heading to see Camelot, love? Lots of people doing just that these days," the driver remarked casually. "Where are you from?”
Amy flashed a polite smile through the rearview mirror. “The States,” she replied, glancing at the passing countryside. “New York, actually."
The driver acknowledged her with a nod. “Ah, New York. Always wanted to go there. Must be quite different from all of this, eh?” He gestured broadly to the rain-soaked fields.
She chuckled lightly, her thoughts elsewhere. “Yeah, a bit different."
The driver continued, clearly intrigued. “So, are you with one of those major media companies? Everyone’s buzzing about Camelot—can’t blame them. I’ve never encountered anything like it in my life."
Amy paused, weighing how much to disclose. “Something like that,” she responded evasively.
"Shame they don’t let anyone inside; I’d love to see it for myself—sounds incredibly impressive with all the hype."
He remarked, unaware that she was among the select few allowed entry.
Amy smiled politely, her gaze drifting back to the rain-speckled glass. “Yeah, I can imagine it’s something special," she maintained a neutral tone.
The driver shook his head, tightening his grip on the wheel. “It’s a bloody shame, if you ask me. A site like that should belong to everyone, not just the government or a few lucky individuals. What’s the point of history if it can’t be shared?"
She hummed in agreement, her mind racing. She wasn’t about to reveal she was one of the “lucky ones.” The less attention she attracted, the better.
As they neared a checkpoint leading to Camelot, the vehicle slowed. Uniformed officers manned the barricade, checking IDs and cars. The driver let out a low whistle. "Seems like they’ve really tightened security. Can’t get too close these days."
Amy felt her heart race. She fished her credentials from her bag and held them tightly. “Guess they’re just being cautious," she offered.
The driver scoffed. "Cautious? More like they’re trying to conceal something. Always suspected this Camelot thing was a bit too perfect."
She remained silent, focusing instead on the imposing walls of Camelot that loomed in the distance, their grandeur and pristine light evoking an almost surreal feeling. Her stomach fluttered with a blend of nerves and exhilaration.
The driver took a detour, heading towards a cluster of large tents set up by locals to earn extra cash by offering shelter and seating for those gazing at the city through binoculars.
Even the nearby pub had set up a mobile stall, selling pints and fish and chips, likely doing excellent business given the throngs gathered outside the secured area.
“Well, I wish you a lovely day, love, and don’t feel down if nothing happens; it rarely does these days," the driver said as he dropped her off before heading back to see if anyone else needed a ride.
Taking a deep breath, Amy gazed up as the sun broke through the clouds, smiling at the clear skies. Everything seemed promising.
She quickly pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed the local contact supposed to meet her in the city, hoping all was well on that end. Listening to the steady ringing, she felt a surge of determination.
The sunlight streaming from the clouds felt like a small victory, casting a golden hue over the fields and tents surrounding Camelot. The vibrant buzz of tourists, journalists, and hopeful onlookers around her was electrifying.
At last, the call went through. “Hello?” answered a rough voice on the line.
“Hi, this is Amy Hardy,” she responded, her voice bright yet professional. “I’m at the drop-off point. Are you close?”
“Yeah, yeah,” the man said, his voice muffled, as if he were multitasking. “I’m just parking. I’ll be there in five.”
“Great,” Amy replied, relief flooding over her. “I’ll wait at the main entrance.”
She ended the call and tucked her phone back into her pocket, taking a moment to absorb her surroundings. The atmosphere was electric. Groups of people clustered around portable heaters, some peering at Camelot’s walls through binoculars, while others were taking photos and live-streaming their thoughts.
Nearby, two teenagers loudly debated whether the knights inside were genuine or just highly advanced robots. A bit further away, a man in a long coat was animatedly disputing with a vendor about the “authenticity” of his Camelot-themed merchandise.
A small smile appeared on Amy's face. The world hadn’t experienced anything like this in decades—something so enchanting that it drew people out of their daily routines, making them believe in magic, even if just for a moment.
She shifted her bag, double-checking to ensure all her gear was secure. Today wasn’t merely another assignment; it was her chance to witness history in the making. The seconds dragged on as she awaited her cameraman, but she felt the weight of her ambition propelling her forward.
Finally, a man in a suit, carrying a hefty equipment case, approached and waved at her. “Amy?” he called out.
“That’s me,” she answered, moving toward him. She couldn’t help but notice he didn’t resemble a typical cameraman; he looked more like a high-ranking civil servant or perhaps an agent of some sort.
“Phil Coulson,” he introduced himself, extending his hand. His grip was strong, his demeanor friendly yet focused. “Hope you’re prepared. I hear it’s very strict past the gates.”
“I’m ready,” Amy declared with a confident nod. “Let’s make history.”
