Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three.
We do not merely destroy our enemies;
we change them.
WELCOME TO THE END OF TIME.
The Regency has its spies and its cloaks and daggers. You may have even brushed shoulders with one and not have known it. There is a place for such tactics. You are not in that place any longer.

On missions like these, the Regency prefers to keep its base close, in a intradimensional time pocket. You're apart from Gallipoli, no longer technically on Earth or in the 1910s. There are multiple segments to this complex base of Regency operations, but you can only really see two places...
THE BRIG
This is your holding cell, a constantly shifting room of indesctructable grey squares. It folds and bends to hold you and your seven companions as you await... something.
There are no guards in this place. There are no bars to look through, or sounds to listen for. You are simply in the box, left to your own devices.
Occasionally, holes will open in the ceiling, and packaged, processed rations will fall from them before immediately closing. This is the only way to measure time. There are always exactly eight bags, each with the name of one captive written on the side in their native language.
Holes will occasionally open in the walls, and they always bring with them a searingly bright light. Sleeping and sitting is difficult on the ever-shifting floors, and when you try, it always seems like a pinhole of light opens right on your eyes. Even leaning on the walls has mixed results.
DON'T GO TOWARDS THE LIGHT
The windows of light that open always stay very small, making it difficult to look through, and always pour radiantly bright, hot light. If you're feeling particularly self-punishing, you might be able to peek at an odd angle and see something of the world outside without being completely flashblinded. The world outside the Brig looks rather like the interior of a Dyson sphere. In the center, a great, bright, hot energy radiates out like a sun, and it reflects off the exterior globe the pocket dimension functions within, illuminating everything from every angle. The Brig floats around it in a slow orbit, as do many other similar looking box-rooms made of similar material, connected by constantly moving tubes and chutes. Some boxes have more chutes going toward them than others. No chutes connect to the Brig, unless someone is about to disappear into the floor...
Getting this view will be difficult, but not impossible; it will just take characters willing to blind themselves with an overabundance of light multiple times until they get the correct angle, allowing them to see outside for roughly a half second before the room shifts to redirect the light back into their eyes.
not so solitary confinement
Occasionally, the cube will split into smaller segments, throwing characters together with others at random in close confinement. This is unpredictable and fast, splitting you off from the whole for what feels like hours at a time, often with only one companion as the cube shifts and squirms around you.
technical malfunction
The power nullification is still in full effect. No magic or special abilities rule this place. Your only master are the walls, undulating with no discernible pattern, always moving.
The Regency has also attempted to break the BCE's translation capabilities, but due to the fact that COST-jailbroken BCEs work on a different system than Regency ones, this is an intermittent problem that occurs sporadically. (ie, have the translation capabilities blink in and out at your discretion.)
THE OTHER PLACE
And then, suddenly, the floor drops out from underneath you. The shifting walls make a hole perfectly your shape and size, and sucks you through. The hole closes neatly, immediately, and you slide along in a world of boxes pressing close to your skin as you are moved from one holding area to another.
When you emerge, you do so in total darkness. Power nullification is still in effect, but even if you can naturally see in the dark, it doesn't matter. All you can see is an endless blackness, and walking doesn't help. You can keep walking for however long; there is nothing to walk to. The floor is perfectly level, but you'll never reach a wall.
Finally, there's light in the distance. A spotlight from nowhere shines down on a person with the head of a jackal. Looking closer, you'll find it's some kind of highly technical mask. They are wearing armor that obscures their exact shape-- no skin shows, no hint of identity or personality, just the cold eyes of the mask. They turn to you, and speak in a voice clear and soothing, almost gentle.
"I am Kebechet. I have been looking forward to speaking with you."
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Pointless or not, she can't just sit still. In the dark, she stumbles around, shouting, reaching, looking for something (or someone) to grab hold of. To demand answers from. When the figure appears in the distance, her head whips around, and she glares. She's exhausted. She doesn't have her sword, her armour, or her Master. She's weak. Only a fool would pick a fight with an unknown enemy under such circumstances.
Mordred has always been foolish. Closing the distance between them with newfound energy, she bares her teeth in anger, taking a swing at Kebechet's mask-clad face.
"Bastard! You're gonna regret screwing with me!"
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Only then does Kebechet acknowledge Mordred. "I had hoped a prince would show princely manner." Disapproval mingles in that calm, cool voice
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"Prince? I'm a king," she hisses, angry. Someone didn't get the memo on not revealing things about herself — or more likely, she just doesn't care. Some things can't go uncorrected. "So cut the crap. Did you come here just to piss me off? Because I'm not interested in small talk."
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The answer is obvious.
"Dumbass. The only thing I want is your head." Some attitude creeps back into her voice, despite her fatigue. "And I'll take your ugly mask as a trophy, too."
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The kidnapping. The isolation. The power nullification. Mordred fights dirty, but she's the first to admit it — and she has limits. This isn't even a fight to begin with. Her tone is jeering, trying to incense her opponent, annoyed at the mask and ambiguous tone.
"You're scared of humanity, too. That's why you're trying to change things." She smirks. "I hate humans, but even I wouldn't pull a stunt like this. You screwed up when you made me your enemy."
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Against order. Against kings, regents, anyone in power. Mordred, the Treacherous Knight, shadow to the radiance of all others. She watches them go, not moving immediately to follow.
"Leaving already? Well, it's fine if you run away from me."
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"You know nothing of my father's country. Don't think you can mock me with it."
Still, always, 'my father's country', not 'my country', even when speaking of her own future rule. Britain, England, belongs to King Arthur, was loved by King Arthur, and it will always be his first and foremost. Hers only to take, to usurp, not to inherit. That's why she needs the Holy Grail, for the chance to draw the sword from the stone, to prove herself her father's equal.
And yet, despite her dismissive comment, she turns, strides past Kebechet, makes to push the door open herself. Her actions speak for her, louder than her words.
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But Kebechet lets her go. She crashes through the door, only to find a wasteland outside. A battlefield, knights dead and dying in the mud, screaming horses and broken swords. The sky is dark, and ravens circle, looking for carrion. In the far distance, the fighting continues.
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Mordred doesn't turn her face away, though. She stares in silence, listening to the screams, smelling the rot.
"Yeah? Then listen close," she says, finally. "I won't fail like my father did. Even if he was perfect— I'll surpass him. I'll show you that you're wrong."
About her. About him. She faces Kebechet again, her hand sweeping wide, taking in the battlefield.
"After all, I'm the only one who can destroy this land. You don't get to decide Britain's fate." And if she chooses to preserve it, instead, then this scene should never come to pass. "You're just pissing me off. Quit messing with my stuff."
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The fact it might just be bait doesn't occur to her. Balling her hands into fists, she steps follows Kebechet, her footsteps heavy.
"Shut up." It's angrier, carrying none of the smug attitude of before. "I'm going to kill you. So if you have something to say, then say it now."
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"You can't keep me here forever. Eventually, you'll either kill me or trade me for something. And when that happens..." Her fist smacks against her open palm, the smirk on her face a little forced. "I'll come for you. You and your stupid mask."
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Kebechet sighs. "But I see you will not be reasoned with. I wish only to converse with you as befitting both our stations. I will ask you one last time: Will you calm? Or will I be forced to take more serious measures?"
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Maybe they haven't harmed her physically, but the isolation — taking her away from her Master — is still disruptive. If anything happens to Ryuji, or to anyone else, because she isn't there to help, she'll feel responsible.
"If you want an obedient pawn, look somewhere else. I'm not playing along with your crap." With no better way to show her distaste, she lifts her middle finger and thrusts out her hand. "I've already seen what you're trying to do."
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Something like a sigh emanates from Kebechet's mask.
"But it seems you are not the regal creature I've read so much about. So be it." And Kebechet... begins to disappear so subtly that it's as though they were never there, leaving Mordred alone on the battlefield. She may begin to feel something strange in her gut-- not painful, but shifting, heavy and familiar. Looking down, there will be a sword hilt growing out of her midsection, less as though she was stabbed, and more like it was always meant to be there. It's proper place, the stone it could be drawn from.
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"Hey! What the hell?" A demand shouted across the bloody plain. Mordred has no doubt Kebechet, or someone else, is watching. Watching to see if she breaks. She hisses in anger, even as her gut churns. "Screw you! You think you could stand before my father with this?"
With both hands on the hilt, she yanks, grimacing at the sensation. It feels rooted in her body, like she's ripping a part of herself out. And yet she pulls with all her strength, as if she's proving her worth to the real sword in the stone, no matter her own fate.
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A coronation.
The Once and Future King sits on her throne, holding a circlet crown. She places it upon the head of another woman, blond and identical, but the beatific smile, the inner peace and grace, all point to an imposer. This is not Mordred. This is someone else. A third in a line of regal women, a late-comer, or something worse. Whoever she is, this replacement is deemed superior; she receives the crown with grace. She bows, and assembled crowds clap. All acknowledge her, and bow in return.
No one acknowledges Mordred, if they can hear or see her at all.
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—And it's happening again, right before her eyes. It has to be an illusion. But without her Instinct to guide her, to clear her sight, it feels as real as any other, and she howls. Full of rage, misery, and above all else, pain.
"That crown... belongs... to me!" Not really — but in her mind, it does, as surely as it belongs to King Arthur. Of course, she's deflecting. It isn't the crown that bothers her the most, but the acknowledgment. That her father would deign someone else worthy over her. No one loved the king more than her. No one followed the king as earnestly as her. And yet: "Do you hate me that much? Then I'll kill you! King Arthur!"
King Arthur. The impostor. Every single person in the crowd ignoring her. She reaches for her father, hands outstretched, as if to choke the life out of him herself. Even if she has to drag her entire body along the weapon growing into it.
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Blood begins to pour from the wound in Mordred's gut. Only now can the pain of it be felt. Still, it won't move.
Kebechet is at her shoulder, curious. "Is this how you want things?"
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"Father," she says, looking at the man (woman) that forms her mirror image. It sounds angry — but more than that, heartbroken. Her voice cracks when she twists her neck to look at Kebechet, eyes blazing with hatred. "You're the one holding me here! Let me go, you fool!"
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