we are clockwork people in a clockwork world.

"Kill him," they said. Well, that's what they meant, anyway.

"He's getting too smart, he's getting too dangerous, he's getting out of hand. We can't afford the risk," they said. At least, that was what they were thinking when they spoke.

Actually, what they said was, "He's a problem that needs to be contained. We trust you to make the right decision." And they put the gun into her hands.

Maybe it was their idea of a joke. Maybe, years later, it was their way of saying: we know what you did. Did you really think it would go unpunished?

They'd given her the address, they'd given her the gun, but what they hadn't given her was a choice — there was only one decision to make, and they knew it, too. She hadn't expected anything less of them. They were manipulative and sneaky and kings among liars—it was what made them the best of the best.

Now, crouched on his window sill, she watched him sleep. The number of the house matched the one on the paper, she'd checked the street name three times—but even without that knowledge, she would've known it was him, anytime, anywhere. Haven't I been a good daughter to them? she thought. Haven't I done my duty? And even if I have slipped, just that once—For years I've been good, I've been the best. Isn't that worth something?

How many years since she'd seen him? Five? Sounded about right. She heard that he'd changed, that he'd lost some, most, of the morals he'd once possessed; he was colder, crueller, more heartless. But come on, that was no reason to… she was worse, really, she was an assassin, they all were, it was what they did after… well, after that. Couldn't she just speak to him? Reason with him a bit? He'd always listened in the past, a bit impulsive, true, but when it counted he'd listened and obeyed.

And it had been so many years… Her breath fogged up the window, flawing her view. He didn't seem to be going anywhere, though, so that was alright. Besides, she would notice if he left. She rested her forehead on the glass. His face had changed—a lot older, with more lines than what would've come naturally had he aged without worry. But that was a luxury none of them had… truthfully it should've been like a stranger's face, but memory had branded him into her mind like searing iron and she was fairly sure that in whatever time, however much he changed, there would always be something remaining for her to recognise him by.

Alright, so she'd gotten distracted, but she'd been busy, okay? Mutants on the loose, an uprising here, a government scandal there, and through it all money that stacked up in her account with each person's blood she spilled… so she hadn't called him that one time. It wasn't like he'd made the effort either.

She pressed her hand against the glass. A stranger, a threat, it didn't matter—she couldn't have killed him even as he pressed a gun to her head. He was the only one left. The only one who remembered, and that was something; she couldn't, wouldn't end his life.

Well, fuck.

She weighed her options. Okay, so, don't kill him. Go back. Say… say what exactly?

It's kill him or say goodbye Faith.

She shook her head. She killed him and they'd tell the whole world. They'd have her up in front of a judge before she could say: framed! So not only would she have wiped out the person who was arguably second most important to her in the world and therefore hate herself, she'd spend the rest of her life locked up in a maximum security prison with no one and nothing for company except herself. And that would be it, then, only who would look after Faith? It didn't matter that the world did not know who he really was; she, she was the same, and they would be able to make it so that she would be condemned for telling them what they wanted to hear.

It was a lose-lose situation.

So what, then? If he wasn't dead by morning they would know what she did and they would have her out in front of the tabloid cameras. It would all come out then when they put her on the stand, everything she'd tried to hide. She would be their witch to burn, their Joan of Arc, only with all of the crime and none of the hero. Finally she would have given them the rope to hang her with. And now there was no Lupa to stroll in and rescue her last minute.

Kill him. Maybe they won't tell.

She used her gun to push open the window. It was a small window, barely big enough to slip through—she supposed there was no way he'd have the big kind, floor-to-ceiling, that were both revealing and a target, and even as she cursed him for the tight fit she could already imagine the argument that had taken place. He'd have wanted to see the sea. She knew that if he'd gotten his way there would be nothing but, the wall comprising almost solely of panes of clear glass. Unwise, but then he'd hardly been anything but—no, it was always her who was the wise one, the coolness to his fire, keeping him behind space station walls when he'd wanted to reach the sun. He would've been long dead by now though, if he'd gotten her way. Really, it was only her who was capable of keeping him alive.

She would've laughed at the irony, but it would've woken him up.

The gun rested dark and cool between her fingers. Out of habit, she twirled it, watched it dance, a myriad of steel more beautiful than anything she'd ever seen before; she would have loved to possess such a thing, if only—

Well. Regrets were a bit late now.

It took her a long time to get into the room, not because of the tight fit so much as for the fact that dammit, she didn't want to be here! It was nice to see him and all, but Bellona save her, she didn't have a choice—when the guards came in there would be a body to bury, and it wouldn't be hers. Praying to the gods had no use, not in this time, not in this world. Even if they hadn't been forbidden to interfere—by helping they would just make things worse, even the most obtuse of them could see that at least.

The room was simple, clean, white walls and brown, varnished floors. It was full to the brim, though, even though decorations were sparse and it was surprisingly clean for him—of course that was relying on what memories she had of him, and she didn't suppose they were worth much, by this time anyway. People changed. She'd changed, more than she thought she would, more than she liked to admit. And the boy —it hurt, just a little, to see how far down he'd fallen.

But then again, who was she to judge? Knowing the Fates he'd turn out to be more of a hero than she ever was, despite everything he'd done. And if ever the world returned to the way it was, then Percy Jackson would be the hero once again—with no one, immortal or otherwise, ever doubting him again!

Damn this. Maybe she should kill him after all.

But no. She hated it, and sometimes, she almost hated him, but the price would be too high. She could not abandon Faith, yet at the same time she could not abandon the world she had lost and the world that had crumbled—the room was full to brim with memories, dammit, and just maybe he would be able to give to her what the others had stolen. And he was the only one left, the only one who remembered, or at least he was the only one she knew of and could find—but surely there were others! there had to be, she just hadn't found them yet, because they, the other they, they could not have wiped them all out!—

Gods, she was confusing herself now. Focus. She had a job to do. She only needed to figure out a plan to get the job done in a way that would keep both Percy and herself alive—it seemed that the only alternative now was to delay the job for a little, until the suitable time, the suitable place, until she figured that she could finally let go.

So take the boy with you. Run away. Sounded cowardly, but she was a good enough tactician to realise that it was the best option, the only option she had.

Now was just a matter of convincing him to go with her without anyone getting hurt…

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Damn.

She should've known he was already awake. After all, she hadn't exactly been all that quiet, what with trying to get in through the window and thinking so much she hadn't been able to move as soundlessly as she should have on a job like this… But she supposed it was actually better, this way, so she wouldn't have to wake him up personally…

Despite the initial outburst, he seemed quite coolheaded. None of the impulsiveness that he had displayed in the days before the… but no, that was just wistfulness, trying to pretend that they'd ever had anything in order to console herself with more reasons to do what she was planning to do… in truth they'd never been very close, bonded, perhaps, by a brief, shared praetorship, but not enough to actually fully become friends. But she was going to save him, if not for his sake then for her own.

He was older—they were all older—he was what, twenty-one? twenty-two? Five years… yeah, sounded about right. Around her age then. In truth she no longer quite knew how old she was anymore, so this was a good way to check. When he'd first come, they'd been roughly the same age, so… really? Twenty-two? Faith was four years old, which meant… eighteen or nineteen, something like that. She was mildly surprised, to tell the truth; eighteen had been such a long time ago…

He had the same black hair, same green eyes, and if not for—well, he looked almost the same, anyway. There were lines in his face where there should not have been lines, a tiredness alongside the steeled resolve where there should not have been a tiredness, eyes old and weary in the way only those who grew up too fast know how. Although she supposed they all had those eyes—every single one of them growing up too quickly, and really anyone who didn't ended up dead. But his eyes were colder, deader, and tired; anger did not do much in this world, so slowly the coldness took over.

She shook her head quickly. Too many thoughts. Too many eyes.

He said, "Reyna. Isn't it?"

She said, "Yeah."

Silence.

Then, "I hope you're aware that there's nothing stopping me from calling security right now and having you arrested."

"No," she agreed. "There isn't."

A beat.

"How did you get through security anyway?"

She shrugged. "It was easy."

"It would be, yeah. For you anyway."

"So it's true then," she said quietly. "You knew I was coming. You were waiting for me."

He smiled. "Of course I was."

He spread his arms wide, the muscles of his face performing the motions of a smile. "Well? What are you waiting for? Do it. Finish the job."

Isn't that what you want?

It was not said. But she heard it anyway.

And then he got very still, and he said, "But that's really not what you want, right? Because I'm one hundred and ten per cent sure that you could've killed me thirty-seven different ways standing outside the window, and seventeen with your hands tied…" She smiled at that—it had taken her a long time to master such skills, after all, and that was one thing she was and remained to be damn proud of—"but you didn't. And that says something, Reyna."

He studied her face. "But there's something I'm not getting here… as far as I know there's no one left —" a shadow to cross both faces — "and that makes me the only one who… and I know you don't care about that, so why would you—oh."

A change in expression. "How long?"

She exhaled. "Two years."

Of course he would know. She'd realised it when they first met, those long years ago—he acted goofy, and sometimes he was just really, really dull—but sometimes he was pretty damn perceptive, too, and it took brains to stay hidden for so long. Admittedly a lot of it had been because of the girl, but, well, Percy Jackson wasn't all dumb. And in this time, in this place, when talking about this particular subject; it was no wonder that he could guess her reasons as quickly as he did.

"Name?"

"Faith."

He sucked in a breath. "Faith. You chose Faith?"

A nod.

He shook his head. "Always had to go with the ironic ones, didn't you… Girl, right?"

"Yeah."

"How old?"

"Four years, seven months."

He appraised her silently. "Where's she now?"

She hesitated. "I—"

"Yeah, don't tell me, too risky."

Not exactly, she thought, more like even I don't know. He got the risky part down, though. It was definitely risky. So much that she herself could not know.

He sat there silently for a while, brow furrowed, eyes open and unblinking. She didn't do anything either, just sat there and watched. She waited for him to voice what she was thinking—

"So what now?"

"I'm supposed to kill you."

"But you won't."

"No," she agreed, "I won't."

"You can't."

He was right.

He stretched almost lazily, and then he was up on his feet, faster than she could blink. He had always been a warrior, and a good one too—the only other person she'd seen with such natural power was—but no, she couldn't and wouldn't go there… And anyway who knew what he was like now? Those days were over, they were a long time before, and it was possible that his instincts had dulled, that he no longer fought as he once did, that the only part of him enhanced since those days was his perceptiveness and shrewd, wary thought…

She was fooling herself. Of course he could still fight. Well, that was a double-edged blade like no other—on one hand he was be a lot of help if he was as skilled or better, but on the other hand he was also more dangerous and more unpredictable and more of a challenge, which was a pain because she had always liked challenges and challenges were harder to kill.

It wasn't like she wanted to kill him. That much was evident.

But if it meant saving Faith…

Gods help her, she needed a strategy. Oh wait—they couldn't—because—

Don't go there.

She didn't.

"So what's the plan?" he said, interrupting her brief soliloquy. "You're not going to kill me—" a brief return of coldness—"not like you could—" a hard, knowing flash of teeth—"but they know — and so really you've got nowhere to go."

Damn him. Damn him and his stupid stupid bluntness. What he said—well, that was what she was thinking anyway but that wasn't the point—up until now she had been or at least had been trying to fool herself into believing that there was another way out, that she could hold it out for longer enough for Faith to be returned to her, trying to believe that she could clearly know which one was dearer to her, trying to believe that she was not as selfish as that. Because if she was honest with herself (and that really wasn't her strong suit but gods she was trying), she had avoided her task as much out of selfishness as of—of love, for her Faith, if that was love, if leaving her with faceless strangers could be called love, if getting what she wanted and leaving a child to die was love—

She did not know if she loved Faith. It was—complicated—the situation was desperate, chaotic, and she was so confused; so come on, she should, could be allowed this one lapse in compassion, right?—and yet she did not know if she loved Faith or if she loved—the other one—if she was honest with herself, if she was brutally honest with herself—she was not sure if she had held on to the girl out of love for her or for him—and then what did that make her? She was afraid to know.

By leaving him alive she was condemning Faith. They would find her and they would kill her, or they would use her as bait to lure her to them and make her their servant once more. Because they knew her, they knew her maybe even better than she knew herself, and they knew that even if—even if she did not love Faith, she loved him, and she would try to save her because that was all she had left of him.

But if she killed Percy Jackson—it was obvious that that was the most direct way of condemning them both. She did not fear death, it was almost the viable option, but she would be locked up; she would not be dead, they would not let her die, and she knew that even if she tried, they would not let her die in the process of killing the boy. Their influence extended to and beyond the reaches of the earth—; no, if she really killed him she would have to do it so that she lived through it, they would make it so, in order to secure for them one last weapon. As if they didn't already have enough—but she was perhaps the least controlled variable in their carefully wrought equation, the most effective pawn in their celebrated game of chess—second only to the boy, the man she was sent to kill.

Perhaps the world had not known the truth; it was the last act of the gods; they had managed to make it so that the slate had been at least partially wiped clean. But soon, soon they would know.

And she would be the messenger to deliver it to them.

Perhaps they thought it more convenient, to murder the boy in the middle of the night. She suspected, though, that it was more to punish her—a petty triumph, really, but they could afford it, and they had. She alone had caused them the most trouble, a fact that she had gloated over, once, if only because it was the only thing she was sure she had done right since then. So in a way it was flattering that she had been able to deal them such a blow that they would go to such lengths to punish her, but the flattery was useless—absolutely, utterly useless.

Of course it would come back and bite her where it hurt. It had seemed like the right thing at the time—but she should've known, should've known that whatever she did, if it against protocol then morals or not they would turn it against her.

And they had.

Try to save the boy you love and end up not only failing but condemning yourself to lose everything you've ever strived to keep. That was it in a nutshell, really. What she had done… If she left Percy Jackson alive, they would know, and they would use Faith to punish her later. But if she killed the boy, then that was immediate damnation—they would lock her up and even if she had told the world what it wanted to hear, she was no better than him, and Faith would be as good as dead.

It was just a matter of timing. It would happen either way—but the second option at least left her some more time. More options. More space to figure out an escape.

"The plan," she said, "the plan—"

She made up her mind.

"We're leaving," she told him. "We're going to leave this place, and we're going to find Faith, and then — and then—" it wasn't like she even knew, but at least she had a purpose. She had a plan.

She knew that by leaving him alive, she was firing the first shot, landing the first blow. She could not deny it now; anything that followed, it would be her own fault. But she was above all a daughter of war, and at least this way, she could go down fighting.

She refused to think about what would happen when he found out. When he realised what she'd done. She would prolong it for as long as she could, and then—when she could not delay it any further—she would tell him. Tell him that was he suspected was always true. And she would take the hell that was sure to follow.

For a moment he seemed to consider resisting, calling security, to have her sent to deepest, darkest folds of the earth. But then he nodded—she had not expected anything different; she was not the only one to have lost an entire world—and he said, "Okay."

When the sun broke across through the curtains and into the room, the two of them were gone.