The All-Purpose 2814 Fanfiction Thread

The Dusk of the Age of Knights

The King was dead. And with him, all reason.

The castle was not Camelot, but merely one of the outlying fortresses that protected the city. The enemy could not ignore it, for if they marched upon the capital with the fortress at their backs, they would be hounded by its knights and armsmen. The fortress, guarded by those loyal to Artur, remained steadfast, waiting for reinforcement from one of the other fortresses or the city itself. They would not allow the pretender the throne. No woman would rule Camelot!

Knights stood upon it's walls, some skilfully cutting arrows out of the air, a few using meager knowledge in magic, magecraft and wizardry to send down retribution upon their besiegers. Together, they killed the enemy by the score. And yet, always there was more to fight, to strike, to die. All about it, as far as the eye could see, the lands was blackened and death, leaving only fallow ground and dead rock beneath the open sky.

Demons besieged the fortress. Shaped like men, with skin like a frog's belly, clad in loincloth and random armor, armed with axe and club, spear and sword, they were relentless. They manned catapults armed with stone and fire, battering rams and cavalry. Their archers filled the sky with arrows, and their sulfurous stink filled the sky.

In this midst of all this, a lone woman on a horse stood like an island on the sea of time. Clad in a long, royal purple dress, her long black hair trailed behind her like a banner, her beautiful face haggard but determined. One hand held the reins of her horse, if only by habit. Her other arm held a babe in swaddling. The child lay sleeping, innocent of all the death about it, golden hair an accent on its little head.

“Soon, my child,” she murmured as catapults sent fire though the sky, as the screams of the dying rose in the distance. “Your father's kingdom shall be yours.”

As she watched, a mass of demons charged at the castle, shields over their head, battering ram held between them.

“Very soon.”

No one noticed the overly fluffy white animal pass by.

"That's XCOM, Baby!"

Colonel John "Central" Bradford first impression on Commander wasn't really overly positive. Well, sure, Commander manages to salvage situation in Switzerland with minimal loss (4 killed, 12 heavily injured, no civilian casualities), but isn't like our Commander had proven to able to command the whole XCOM, with various nation interest, soldiers' personality, how to arrange supplies, base management, and the fact that the head scientist and chief engineer likes to bicker Like The Old Married Couple. Which, according to some, they were.

The only reason he accepts the Commander was because he realizes he was a total fuckup in Berne. Though Heavy Argentine isn't really hold it against him, though.

However, with weeks passed, into months, Central saw that Commander certainly lives up the hype. Even faced with rookies dying every week, diminishing support with countries start pulling their funding, scientist/ engineer rivalry, Commander simply man it up and tackle every problems come in the way, growing stronger with each challenge solved. In a way, Central feels proud that his early assumption was mistaken, and grew fond of the Commander.

No, that's not because Commander has a great ass, certainly not.

And with XCOM grew stronger and steadier, it seems that they could slowly, but surely, push their way to victory and survival.

Then Base Assault happened.

Aliens dump everything they got, including large amount of mechanized units. Including Sectopods. Numbering close to 3 digits.

XCOM fought valiantly, but the sheer numbers were simply not in their favour.

Commander, realized this, decides to took a grave decisions: sacrifice the base, but evacuates all personnels and continue the fight somewhere else. The Commander, like a proud captain of sinking ship, decides to fight together with the last line.

Central's greatest regret is that he, sanely, accepts responsibility to basically lead the survivors to victory, instead doing "something stupid and un-military" like declares mutiny, dump unconscious Commander with the surviving lot, and be the last line himself.

What breaks Central's hope in humanity was the fact that, when faced with XCOM destruction, most government decides to fold and allowed XCOM to officially disbanded, effectively betrayed what's left of XCOM. Plasma rain and chryssalids drop on stubborn countries' cities certainly didn't help matters, but a scapegoat still a scapegoat.

For years, Bradford struggle for survival and identity. Occasionally helping scattered resistances, his only trusted friend is spirits, which only last until last drop was spent. He can barely think. He can't hope anymore.

He doesn't dare.

However, after years of running, he began to heard gossips. Rumours. Whispers.

Resistance starts to growing.

ADVENT start to lose its grip.

But the most of all, is that XCOM is back.

He doesn't dare to hope. Still, he can feel the embers inside him begin to grow stronger, embolded him to seek the source.

If only to make sure no bright-eyed rookies dead by stupid mistake. Even if it means getting his lazy ass back on the field.

The door held firm as it was struck with great force. Again and again, thick and aged oak, hastily strengthened by shody magecraft, withstood the pounding of the battering ram. This was all to the good, for beyond it, none but two knights stood to oppose any intruders. One was the great and much storied Sir Robin, the Not-Quite-As-Brave-As-Sir-Lancelot, the other the equally legendary Sir Not-Appearing-In-This-Film (he was French, though no one held that against him. They had strange names in France). They had both been there since the early days of the king's rule, back when Camelot was only a model, and something of a silly place. Sir Robin, older now than he had once been, held his mighty sword Yushelblind, called Minstrel Bane, which all players of annoying music justly feared, to much rejoicing. It was a fierce and potent weapon, its strike like a thousand trumpets, flaring so bright as to rival the holy Excalibur, and was most definitely not just a loud and bright distraction so he could run away, certainly not, that was foul lies and calumny spread about by damned lying minstrels. They were just jealous his sword had a better singing voice than them.

Great as his weapon was, it was no match for the one possessed by Sir Not-Appearing-In-This-Film, whose blade was given to him under mysterious, almost divine, circumstances. It was known throughout the land, envied by lesser knights and spoken of with grudging praise by his equals, acknowledging that the mighty blade came second to their own sword, maybe, just maybe. All had heard of the great sword–

Foots steps, and a running knight in distinctive armor came running from a side passage. “Quickly!” Sir Yson of the Bloody Hair called. “Sir Pent needs reinforcements in the south tower! Sir Kel and Sir Vice are being overrun!”

“But the gates!” Sir Robin protested.

“I will stay and guard them,” Sir Yson declared, pointing back the way he had come. “Hurry!”

The two knights exchanged a look and nodded, racing towards the tower in question.

For a moment, stillness came to the fortress hall, the sounds of battle distant but for the ram upon the door.

And then even that was gone. Yson sheathed his sword, stepped toward the portal, and began to push aside the heavy oak bar secured to its brackets. The bar was solid, over ten feet long, a foot thick and even wider, but Yson was a Knight of the Round Table. It was not quick work, and his muscles strained, but the bar moved smoothly as he slid it aside. It fell heavy to the stone floor, and he hastily stepped back as it bounced.

There was a stink of inhuman foulness as the doors were pushed open from the outside. Demonic faces eyed him darkly, but made no move towards him as they crossed the threshold, spreading out and moving with surprising silence and order towards the hallways to either side and the stairwell across from the door. Yson ignored them, eyes seeking and finding only one thing. “Morgaine, my love,” he said, holding out his hands. Her smile was small, graceful and beautiful. In her arms she carried a small babe, and for a moment his heart leapt. Was that his child? She drew closer, filling all he could see and stepping into his embrace. “Your beauty has possessed me,” he sighed. “I have longed to hold you, to feel you in my arms again.”

She smiled. “I too have thought of this moment.” She leaned into his embrace, and his head bowed down. Their lips met.

The sting was minor, barely a twinge, except it exploded into agony. He let out an exclamation of pain, recognizing the sensation of foreign magic in his body as pain. He stumbled away from Morgaine, knees shaking as they fell out from under him, leaving him kneeling on the stone floor as waves of agony washed over him, building up stronger and stronger with every heartbeat, sapping his strength. He stared at Morgaine, eyes uncomprehending, denying.

A hand rose futilely to his face, as if to press the pain back. “But… why?” he asked, confused, betrayed.

She smiled at the infant in her arms. “For love, of course,” she said, before turning her eyes forward, ignoring him as insignificant. “The love of my child… Heir tot he King, Camelot's new ruler.”

She walked past him as he futilely tried to grab at the hem of her dress. They slipped past his fingers, and he lay there helpless as he watched her walk away.

From the staircase above, he heard a semi-familiar, high-pitched voice cry out. “We are betrayed!” Swords being drawn. “For the King! For Camelot!”

His strength waned, his head drooped, and the cold stone floor cradled him. The world became strangely colored as death approached.

He became aware of a presence behind him. He turned to look, his body strangely free of pain. A beautiful young maiden stood there, garbed in a black dress with falls of white lace, skin pale, a strange painted mark around one eye. On her head was a very strange, cylindrical hat. “Who are you?” he asked.

She smiled, gentle and warm and compassionate. “Oh, you're having a near-Death experience. That means I have to be nearby. It's not your time yet though. Give it a few minutes.” She looked up, past him. “Although it looks like someone wants to talk to you.”

And suddenly he was back, trapped in his body, filled with pain, surrounded by fighting nights and demons and soldiers, who all seemed to be ignoring him. None stepped on him, and all seemed to circle around his prone form. And in front of him, hair pale and dressed in outrageous clothes, a familiar figure strode through the battle, just as ignored.

Despite himself, Yson groaned, a habit of many years living in Camelot. “Oh no, not you!”

Merlin pouted childishly. “Now, that's a really mean thing to say Yson,” the insufferably annoying magus said. “I'm not doing anything. You did all this.” He waved a robed arm. “So, are you happy? Because of you, Camelot is going to fall, and for ever after, this land will be a cesspit of stupidity, insanity, inbreeding, bad teeth and arrogance. Sure, that Blackadder person is going to rule for a few years and make it better, but for most part it's going to suck. What an epic failure.”

“Oh, shut up Merlin,” Yson said, feeling very knightly as he uttered the most commonly used words in the King's court. “You'd never understand. You're not a man. What would you know about love?”

For some reason, this seemed to amuse the magus. “Oh, I know more than you think. I'm absolutely violet with it.” He paused, staring at the carnage and battle around them. “And so Camelot falls, not with a great battle, but with a little traitor. The king would be so sad, so see their dreams crushed so, their knights against their sister.” The magus sighed. “All our dreams burn because of you.”

“I pay for it with my life,” Json said bitterly. “Is that not enough?”

There was a pause, and sudden fear gripped Yson as he remembered one of the sayings common in Camelot.

Never give Merlin ideas.

“No. No, it isn't, Yson of the Blood,” Merlin said. “You do not get such an easy escape. You do not leave with Death.” Merlin nodded to empty air somewhere behind Yson, as if acknowledging someone. “You will not have it so easy. Whenever people say I made a mistake, they crow at me to fix it. And so shall you. You won't get to die, fallen knight. I curse you to live until what you have done this day is forgiven, until what has been done is atoned.”

The magus knelt over Yson. “Do you know how magi make familiars, Yson? One way is to take part of a human soul and mix it with something else. You're soul is leaving, but not really dead yet. But it's just loose enough to mix.”

Merlin lay hand one Yson, and suddenly pain changed into fire.

“I'd like you to meet one of my relatives on my father's side,” Merlin's voice, distant through a haze of burning, said. “His name is Etrigan… ”