The answer comes soon. Almost too soon. It's impressive that within the span of two calls, with the first lasting a minute that Morgan picks up in less than ten seconds of the second. Of course, now that I phrase it in my head, it seems distinctly less impressive. But trust me when I say that it really is.

"Camille, is that you?" asks Morgan.

"I wouldn't suppose there's someone else called 'Camille' on your friends' list, is there?"

"Well, jeez, I wouldn't know. There sure are a lot of Camille's in New England these days."

"As much Camille's as there are Arthur Pendragons, I reckon."

A slight chuckle, then a retort.

"I meannn, there might be some person who'd name themselves that."

"Probably." I agree. "Though there is a difference between someone wanting to change their name and their petition actually being accepted."

"I guess it'll just depend on who they're petitioning too then, hehe."

"If by that you mean how much metaphorical Arthurian cock the one petitioned to sucks, then yes."

We share a long note of laughter following my attempt at humour. To be frank, I think my joke was quite garbage. The punchline was terrible, really.

I mean, seriously? How much Arthurian cock the guy being petitioned to sucks?

That barely makes any sense. Like, it's just too open-ended. Does the guy accept the petition based on the fact that he's such a fan of King Arthur, or the precise opposite, as in he's such a devotee that he can't bear the thought of any other heathen using the name?

Nevertheless, we share our joy all the same. Maybe it's precisely because of how shoddy my humour is that it drew some laughter. The same kind of entertainment you get from watching an idiot trip and fall for one.

Ultimately, some manner of perceived tension shatters as a result. I can tell by Morgan's slightly higher-pitched laughter. Same old thing as always. Her voice too. A soft 'mezzo-soprano', as my high-school music teacher would say.

"So, how is my dearest, bestest friend in the world doing?" Morgan says completely un-self-aware, I think.

"All's good."

"Same as always?"

"Same as always, unfortunately."

"Hehe,” she chuckles. "Same as always until today, right?"

My words stick to my throat. "What makes you say that?"

"Otherwise you wouldn't be calling me."

"Suppose you're right," I reply indifferently. Well, attempt to anyway. I'd be lying if I said there wasn't the slightest moment where my paranoia hit a peak level and wrestled some inane thought into my head.

"So, what do you need?" Morgan asks, now quieter than before. "I'm always here for you, Camille."

"Could we meet up, like right about now?" I say. "You know, just a friendly rendezvous."

"Want me to come over?"

Everything after proves to be just one quick hurry. With me saying yes and Morgan promptly agreeing, our meeting becomes settled. No debate of circumstance, no nothing.

How simple.

Feels good to have someone at your beck and call.

I spend the next ten minutes just waiting, back against my chair, checking my phone, staring into the occasional void for no reason; before finally, a sound echoes through the apartment.

Rather, to be more specific, the bell.

The high-pitched ring stirs me to motion. I walk to the wooden door just after a right turn and look through the peephole.

Morgan Pendragon.

Named by idiots too devoted for their own good. Though thankfully, she herself can be pleasant to be around. Well, at least from what I recall, anyway. Can't say for certain how much things have changed before I learn for myself.

Though her style seems to be a constant at the very least.

Hair's the same. Blonde and down to her shoulders. Face too. No surgery or nothing. Same blue eyes and the same objectively pretty face.

Seems weird to analyse her this much, but that's what too much time alone does to you. Since I've committed to it, I might as well finish checking her. Just in the improbable event, she's hiding a sword or something. You never know. What if she’s trying to kill me?

Could it be that Morgan schemed this whole thing up? There’s always the possibility that she’s somehow involved in this whole ability thing. That she’s trying to get at me for ignoring her. I mean, six months of no contact does that to you right?

Maybe she put something in my water supply or cast some magic on me.

People kill each other for the dumbest of reasons. Hard to say Morgan didn’t just decide to prank me for an even lesser cause. Right? That does make sense. Maybe. I think so. Does it? At this rate, it’s hard to tell.

So I continue to stand there, idly waiting as twenty seconds pass by.

I inhale deeply at the end of its duration. Hah. The prickly cold air rustles some semblance of thought back into my head. It occurs then that I’d just spent a good time overthinking things like an idiot.

There’s something about meeting someone after all the time alone that sets me on edge. The instinctive urge to overquestion and contemplate matters. Though, thankfully, it’s somewhat faded now.

So long as I breathe properly and remind myself I should stop thinking like a teenager on edge, things should work out just fine.

Now let's see…

Continuing to peer through the eyehole, I resume my analysis of Morgan.

She's wearing a green tunic hoodie. Sewn onto it is a purple circular pattern covering most of the fabric. A homage to the Knights of the Round Table. Never quite got into it myself, but the style of the outfit is quite popular nowadays.

Neo-Arthurian, they call it.

A mix of the wonderous old and the progressive new.

Maybe if they used metal or chainmail instead of depending on people wanting to look like farmers, I'd like it more.

On the more important matter of examining her for dangerous weapons.

Seems everything is in the clear.

If Morgan's planning to kill me, she's either going to have to strangle me or use some hidden weapon up her arse.

Now comes the tricky part.

I finally open the door.

Immediately, Morgan's face lights up, and she energetically bobs her body up and down. The impression I get is like a child unwrapping their birthday present. Somehow, despite the improbability of such, I also feel as if her eyes are glowing, literally.

There's a short moment where we say nothing to each other. Some indescribable void of nothing happening. Maybe a second or so of Morgan just visually dissecting me, staring my body up and down.

"Hello," I say flatly. "It is I, Camille, in flesh and blood". A sigh escapes my throat. "I am indeed alive and well."

"Mhm hmm."

It's hard not to feel judged right now.

Especially given that she's just staring at me, hands behind her back, and with a mischievous smile that I can only interpret as malicious in nature.

Dammit.

Fine. I concede. But only because I want to hurry things along and actually get to the important part. I'll do what's necessary to move things ahead; that's all there is to it.

Wasting time on menial relationships couldn't be any less important when I have another matter to attend to.

"Look, I get I'm an arse, alright? Yes, I apologise for not contacting you and ignoring all your messages. But, hey. That's what you signed up for when you got to know me. So, might we just cut to the chase?"

A pause. Neither one of us speaks; our eyes meet in the process, hers unwavering, mine struggling not to.

I realise I might've been a bit harsh; I'm no stickler for good manners, but damn, maybe, just maybe, I overstepped a slight bit over the edge of what's acceptable within her eyes.

Actually, never mind.

Seems it doesn't matter—irrespective of my answer, Morgan struts into my apartment.

Thank goodness.

With a spring in her step, she peers around, sticking her head out in an almost comic fashion. It's only at a minute in that she finally seats herself, waiting with a cross of her legs.

"So Camile, what's so important that you finally decided to contact me?"

Peering at a shelf of trophies behind her, Morgan continues to ask, "Could it be that you got a job?"

"No," My reply is quick. Disconnected from the successive statement. "Status."

Without delay, I summon the blue box I was so concerned over.