Morgan le Fay

Midday in the middle of Chaldea’s latest Summer Singularity, which had decided—for reasons known only to the Counter Force’s sense of humor—to dump everyone into a neon-soaked version of Las Vegas. Morgan le Fay stood just inside the entrance of the Camelot Casino, pale-blonde ponytail hanging heavy down her back, black-and-blue dress looking aggressively out of place among the flashing lights and sticky floors. Her sky-blue eyes swept the room once, flat and cold.

“A casino,” she said, voice perfectly even. “Named Camelot.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Somewhere overhead a cartoon version of Artoria’s face winked from a giant sign. Morgan’s expression did not change, but the temperature around her dropped a few degrees.

“And Artoria owns it.”

The other Servants treated the place like a second cafeteria. Gawain was already at the buffet. Tristan was murdering a harp on the small stage. Lancelot was… somewhere. Morgan decided not to investigate.

She had come with a plan. Simple. Elegant. Dethrone her sister, seize the casino, and turn it into something that did not make her want to set the entire Singularity on fire. Artoria, seated behind a desk buried under poker chips and an alarming number of burgers, had only raised one eyebrow.

“In my casino,” Artoria said, “everything is settled by a bet.”

Morgan accepted without hesitation. Of course she did. She proceeded to dismantle every challenger who sat across from her—Medb, Gilgamesh, even Columbus—stacking chips with the calm certainty of someone who had already written the ending.

“Pathetic,” she murmured, surveying the table. “Is there no one left who can actually play?”

A random patron—some background face with no Saint Graph worth mentioning—slid into the empty seat.

“I’ll take that bet.”

Morgan barely looked up. “Very well. Prepare to lose.”

She lost.

The silence that followed was so complete that even the slot machines seemed to hold their breath. Somewhere in the distance Oberon’s laughter started and did not stop. Morgan’s face remained perfectly blank while the world rearranged itself around the simple, impossible fact that she had been beaten by a nobody.

The winner grinned and held up a folded bundle of black fabric and fishnets.

“You’re working the floor. In this.”

Morgan stared at the playboy bunny suit for a long second.

“I will burn this casino to the ground.”

Somehow—through a combination of Fujimaru’s quiet promises and the unbearable knowledge that Artoria would never let her forget a retreat—she ended up wearing it anyway. Black strapless leotard. Brown fishnet pantyhose. The ears. She stood on the casino floor with a tray of drinks, posture regal, expression murderous, every line of her body radiating the quiet promise of future violence.

Gawain choked on his steak. Tristan’s harp made a noise like a dying animal. Oberon already had his phone out.

“One more word,” Morgan said, voice still perfectly level, “and I turn you into an actual insect.”

Fujimaru stepped up beside her, careful not to smile too obviously, and gave her shoulder a light pat.

“You look… focused.”

Morgan’s eyes cut sideways, cold enough to frost glass.

“I will end you later.”

Fujimaru only hummed, entirely too comfortable with the threat.

“Looking forward to it.”

Morgan exhaled through her nose, adjusted the tray, and continued serving drinks to drunk Servants as if the entire situation were beneath her notice. Deep down, beneath the humiliation and the fishnets and the cartoon Artoria still winking from the sign outside, she was already planning the precise shape of her revenge.

She hated this Singularity.

She was also, regrettably, stuck in it until closing time.