Steve had never expected to spend so much ti in London, but he was surprised by how much the city had to offer; it truly lived up to its reputation as the center of the world for more than a century.
Countless things to see, and people to et, within a single city, he could et all kinds of people, from the rich to the poor, the young to the old, and everything else.
People who benefited the most under the new regi and people who suffered the most. In London alone, he learned much about Arthuria and her realm.
Yet, Steve didn't just want to speak to the people of London; he wanted to talk with many more people, of all kinds, and he wanted to see what had happened to small towns and villages - had they disappeared? Or had they flourished?
So, he left London behind and ventured out into the countryside of Albion, out where people lived far quieter lives, far slower lives than within the big city.
With nothing but a backpack on his back, he left the big city, walking right out of it, and very quickly realized that it wasn't going to be a short walk.
He hadn't realized just how much walking he'd have to do until he saw the hills stretch endlessly across the horizon, dotted with forest patches, stone fences, and the occasional grazing sheep.
"This won't work," he muttered as he walked along, scouting around for a lift, because walking clearly wasn't going to get him anywhere in decent ti. He was hesitant about knocking on random doors and asking for a spare bed.
While he had experienced the hospitality of the people of Albion, he still doubted he could just get away with that; no, he still needed to make it to so hostel for the night.
Thankfully, while still too big to comfortably traverse by horse, Albion was also small enough that the roads weren't deserted, and Steve quickly waved down the first bus he found.
He let out a sigh of relief when the bus slowed down, and eventually stopped next to him, opening its doors and welcoming him inside.
"Out for a walk, are we, son?" asked the older driver.
"Guess I underestimated the terrain," Steve replied with a small, sheepish smile as he climbed aboard. He quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.
The driver chuckled and shook his head. "No need to pay here, bus is free these days, travel all you want, no cost. Pretty sweet deal, isn't it?" he said as he pulled back onto the road.
Steve quickly threw himself into the nearest seat, having scanned the bus and seeing only a few other passengers scattered around it. "Free? That's quite a service indeed, is that all buses?" Steve had been using cabs to get around inside London, so he hadn't really used public transport much.
He had learned very quickly that public transportation had deteriorated significantly since his ti. At least in New York, it now seed pretty much unusable. Here, he had seen those famous red buses around a lot, so he figured it might be better.
"Yeah, public transport is free, all citizens are allowed to travel the realm freely. Though there are so more luxurious options you can get for a premium, like first-class train tickets and the like." The driver grunted.
"Can't help but be curious," Steve said after a pause, "how do they afford to make transportation free?"
The driver shrugged one shoulder. "I don't understand all that stuff, so people say she can't afford it, and it's only a matter of ti before the whole kingdom ends up on end, but others say it's just lies and we are all golden, who knows… I leave that to those in charge, they seem to know what they are doing."
He glanced in the rearview mirror, chuckling. "Not that I'm saying it's perfect, mind you. But things work, you know? Haven't had a pothole in the last year."
Steve humd noncommittally. He, too, had heard about how Albion would collapse, how its economy was impossible, but after spending so ti here, he really couldn't see it. Albion looked far more alive than even Arica.
Was it an illusion? Or was it the truth, he still hadn't found answers to this question. "How do things get done? Like who fixes potholes and that, without a governnt around?"
The driver gave a low chuckle, his hands steady on the wheel. "You're thinkin' of how things used to work. It's not like the old days with MPs and councils arguing for months over who gets what funding. These days, we've got local wardens—every town and district has a handful. Kind of like a mayor, but less about politics and more about getting stuff done."
Steve raised a brow. "Wardens?"
"Yeah, wardens," the man repeated. "Appointed by the crown, usually folks from the area, trained in how to manage things properly. Rather than worry about their re-election campaign, they only worry about their work, nothing else, just their work, and it gets done."
"And who becos Wardens?" Steve asked.
The bus passed a series of terraced cottages with flower boxes in every window. A woman in a work coat waved as they drove by. The driver tipped two fingers off the steering wheel in return.
"Anyone can beco a warden, often it's people who live around where they work, like an old-ti mayor. I know plenty of the wardens along my route. Right now, a guy nad Dick is in charge; he is a good guy." The driver explained.
"The king's whole thing," he continued, "Isn't about telling us what to think or how to live. She gives us the freedom to live, to make our own choices, sure, there are so things we can't choose, but other doors are opened."
Steve tilted his head, considering the words. "So, no elections?"
"Those were useless anyway. What did they get us? Nothing changed, no matter what they promised. So, no elections, not for wardens, no. You want politics? Try the Crown Assembly. It's all nobles, and they don't rule, they advise. She still makes the final call."
"And people are okay with that?"
"Depends who you ask." The man gave a thoughtful frown. "Plenty of people have sothing to complain about, but personally? I'm alright with things, I don't have the sa worries anymore. Will my pension be enough? Will I get proper care when I need it? I don't have those anymore."
Steve stared out the window again, watching the neat farms go by. "What happens if soone does want to change things? Speak out?"
"They're allowed," the driver said simply. "Speaking isn't a cri, as long as you speak with respect. A few people got punished for being too disrespectful, but if you wanna complain, go right ahead. It rarely does much, not unless you've got one concrete issue."
The driver tapped the steering wheel lightly with one hand as he turned onto a narrower lane, winding toward a village nestled between hedgerows and low stone walls. "Arthuria's not above listening, if that's what you're asking. If a warden brings sothing to her, sothing real, sothing that actually affects people, she listens. Changes get made. Quiet ones, sotis overnight."
Steve frowned. "Quiet?"
"Yeah. No press conference, no party celebration. Just… poof. New school roof shows up. Road repaved. Doctor assigned to a clinic. Don't get wrong, there's still red tape. But it's a thinner kind."
Steve could believe that. Everything he'd seen about Arthuria's rule hinted at efficiency… sotis to a scary degree. But it wasn't fear he saw in the people. Not the kind bred by dictatorships.
"And the punishnts?" Steve asked carefully.
The driver didn't look away from the road. "You say your piece like a decent human being, no one bats an eye. Call her a tyrant? Scream for blood in the streets, threaten people, and get others hurt? We use the old punishnts now, the enforcent knights aren't above so corporal punishnts."
Steve knew about the new kinds of punishnts, or rather, the old styles brought back. Stocks in the town square. Fines carved in hours of public labor. Whippings and other forms of beatings, hangings, and beheadings, brutal ways of executing criminals.
What Steve found even worse was that these criminals weren't all murderers; death was given out far too often and far too easily for his liking.
It was the one thing he struggled to accept; he found that Albion seed like a paradise, but he just couldn't and wouldn't accept that it had to be built on blood and brutality.
The driver didn't say more after that, letting the hum of the road fill the silence between them. Steve stared out the window, watching as the hills leveled out into farmland. Stone cottages dotted the green like scattered dice, smoke curling lazily from their chimneys.
After a while, the driver cleared his throat. "So then, where exactly are you headed, son?"
Steve blinked out of his thoughts. "Sowhere small. A place not too far from the city, but quiet. Not touristy. Just… real. You know what I an?"
The driver gave a knowing nod. "Aye. I think I've got just the place. Little village called Marstead. Population under four hundred. No hotel, but the pub's got rooms, and the baker's a wizard with sourdough. You'll find honest folk there—so old, so young, none shy about talkin' your ear off."
Steve smiled. "That sounds perfect."
Fifteen minutes later, the bus creaked to a gentle stop beside a painted wooden sign that read: Welco to Marstead – Est. 1629. A narrow lane curved through the village center, flanked by ivy-covered hos, a whitewashed chapel, and a tiny stone bridge crossing a lazy stream.
Steve slung his bag over one shoulder and stepped off the bus. The air slled of rain and rosemary. He turned to thank the driver, who gave him a wink.
"Careful now," the old man said. "Folk here'll tell you everything they think—and more than a little they don't."
Then the door hissed closed and the red bus disappeared down the road, leaving Steve alone in the heart of Albion's countryside.
And so, he walked toward the village square, looking for conversation, for insight, and—if he was lucky—for the truth.
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