ACT ONE
PROLOGUE
"weep little lion man, you're not as brave as you were at the start"
-little lion man, mumford and sons
"Take it or leave it."
He wasn't in much of a position to argue. Blood dripped along the once-elegant contour of his jaw line and his ribs had long since punctured his left lung. His fingernails, grimy and dirty, taunt with strain, dragged through the broken marble of the dungeon floor. His blood was there too. Probably more than was inside him at this point.
The man tapped his foot impatiently.
"Let me tell you again," he started, as though explaining to a small child. Kronos listened, though his ears were ringing. "The deal is simple: the titans go free," the man paused, eyes lolled back into his head as though he were thinking, "Well, they live among us, anyway – so long as you promise to give up everything." He waited, maybe at an attempt for emphasis. Kronos didn't see the point – he was already bloodied and defeated. What more could dramatics add? "Ha, okay." He interrupted himself here again, blue eyes shining in brilliant clarity. His hands waved up and down. "Everything save your immortality." A wicked smile spread across his face. "Wouldn't want you to live a short life, would we?"
It wasn't much of a challenge for Kronos to make his decision. What would be the price of his refusal? The eternal servitude of his brothers and sisters? He knew the reality. He knew the blood dripping from him and the broken bloods throughout could not fight Zeus and win. "I'll take it." His voice was awfully hoarse, though he'd meant to impose an air of dignity to his reply. "But only," he had to stop and wheeze here, blood gushing up his bleeding throat. It trickled in the same stream along his jaw when he coughed and painted his white teeth a gruesome red. "Only if you swear it."
The man laughed, though his eyes were cold and he did not smile. "Swear it? On what?"
"On your mother's name."
Zeus' glacier blue eyes narrowed and the lightening god pursed his lips. Another tap of his impatient foot. Kronos winced.
"Fine." he decided. "On Rhea's name – I swear it." He reached out his hand; cold and dry to Kronos' forehead. The titan's chest clenched in agony as he felt Zeus restrict his powers within his body – Zeus' own magic coursing through him forcing him to shut down. He couldn't control the muscle spasms that lashed him. His veins ached. His eyes burned. His skin was both painfully dry and sweating. But he did not cry out.
And then the deal was made, and that was that.
The Crooked One was defeated at last.
"Fuck." She moaned. "Shit."
Kronos wanted rolled his eyes at her, but he kissed her jaw instead, a smirk on his lips. The girl, a minor goddess he was sure, writhed beneath him. Her fingernails, long and painted and garish, clawed at his naked back like talons. It broke his skin a little. He liked it.
"Shit!" She panted against him and her breath, her final moan that night, was deep and wet in his ear. She blinked up at him when she could, her chest still just barely heaving. She slid her shaking legs up the side of his torso with a languid grin. He was more controlled – just squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled sharply through his nose. She smiled up at him. Their skins were flushed and slightly sweaty and they could hardly see each other in the darkness of the room. She did her best to make her voice deep and sexual. It wasn't much of a success. "That was nice, honey." Her toes ran down the backs of his legs. He felt very suddenly sick. "Another night?" Leaning back to make sure he could see her, all of her, she prompted with a flourish of her hair, "You want me tomorrow?" A flutter of her false eyelashes.
He smiled and lay down beside her, brushing bleached hair from her face. "No."
Her pout was not as cute as she thought. "Why not?"
He kissed her nose. "Because I said so." He kissed her lips. "Now hush. Sleep."
Moments of scuffling and the gentle sound of the sheets settling around them distracted Kronos for a moment. His head sunk lethargically into the pillow beneath him. The dim moonlight from the window painted his face.
It'd been years since he'd payed attention to the weather, to the seasons, but now, reclined in fresh hotel sheets, his eyes traced the delicate flakes of snow as they flittered past the window. The plain white curtain billowed as the freezing air entered the room; he couldn't remember the last time it'd snowed in hot, dry, horrible Athens. He'd decided long ago the city wasn't all it was cracked up to be – especially not after the second rise, but he lived here nonetheless. Home is home, after all. And now, despite everyone, it was snowing.
Lazily, he slipped his fingers through the girl's hair. He regarded her for a moment. She was pretty, surely, but nothing like some of the girls and boys his estranged brother Hyperion ran through his club in Exarchia. Absolutely gloriously gorgeous people – all wasting their best years away in hopes to catch the attention of some god. Wasn't unheard of. It'd been centuries since the Olympians had made themselves known to mortals again – but this time – they'd decided they were here to stay: clubs in high-rises flourished beneath the watchful eye of Zeus in central Athens. But here, where the buildings never broke three stories and the people couldn't look you in the eye – you settled for a girl like her. The fifty-credits-a-night girls and boys who were on every street corner. Cheap and pretty enough. Her breath came even and smooth as she fell into sleep. He'd paid her for the whole night, of course, but not for more sex. To let her sleep. Well, why not? Seemed polite, almost. Who else was going to give her a break?
Besides, she was a great alibi.
He left her a banknote larger than she'd earned beneath the hotel lamp beside the bed after he'd found his clothes strewn around the room. Pulled the sheet over her still naked body. Brushed her bang behind her ear. He tied a scarf around his nose, partly to keep out the chill of the frosty air, mostly to hid his face. He found his knife where he'd left it, behind the dresser next to a fake, tacky Doric column; and after that, it was fast work. The halls were silent so early in the morning. He'd been sleeping when it happened. And then it wasn't his problem anymore. It was done. Once Kronos' knife was returned to his grip and he'd concealed with his long, winter coat – he set out into the haunting dark of the Greek night.
ONE
He raised an eyebrow and tapped an index finger against the pad of his laptop keyboard. How could he not? It blinked at him in plain lettering up from a burner phone:
Spam?Mark yes
Unknown Sender:
130 Ambassador Street. Room 403. December 4th, 21:30. 20.000.000 c.
It was a colder day, very much unlike Athens despite the winter season, so the cafe's already busy atmosphere had nearly doubled with clientele. Hot chocolate seemed a popular drink with the locals today. Last night's snow fall had made the news, and the cafe's small monitor above its broken pastry case showed an airbrushed woman carefully describing the phenomenon in explicit details – issuing driving warnings, weather warnings, etc. The murder of a UK businessman in a tasteless Plaka hotel somehow hadn't seemed as important. Usually, Kronos made a point not to work in his own neighborhood – but he'd made an exception last night. He'd seen the rest money wired to one of his accounts earlier this morning. Another job well done, then. He sipped his coffee. A tourist with a stuffed backpack knocked into his table, making Kronos have to steady his laptop as the thing wobbled on its single leg. The tables here were old. The chairs were rickety. The plug-in electric fan on the display was loud and dusty. Kronos didn't think the floors had been cleaned in a good month or so. Agata, the slightly overweight owner who had a shockingly mean face for such a nice woman, only had one employee – a boy, maybe eighteen – who was probably busy getting high in the kitchen. Unbelievably though, this is why Kronos liked the place. Busy. Too small. Kinda gross honestly. Hard to spot an unassuming Greek-looking man drinking a cup of hot coffee among a throng of hungry, tired Americans with fanny-packs. Besides, the free internet was a plus. Internet connection in Greece was joke and everyone knew it – hence every tourist-trap cafe advertising "free wi-fi here!" on their little street-side billboards. Sure, he could have paid for it in his apartment – the shithole – but why bother when he could have an excellent view of sweaty, miserable tourists trying to check their email on smartphones? And he supposed the scones weren't too bad either.
A Turkish man leaned over the counter. "How much for a cappuccino?"
The pastry crumbled in his hands as he pulled a dried cherry from the bread. His eyes flicked back to the burner. His tapped his finger.
He knew Ambassador Street, of course. Everyone did. They'd renamed it some seventeen years ago – it was a crucial artery of what had once been the upscale district of Kolonaki. Now, of course, the new Olympic district. Kronos didn't understand that particular move either – the rest of Athens' districts had seemed to retain their names with the transition to the gods. Why make Kolonaki more ridiculous than it already was? He digressed. Adjacent to Olympic Boulevard, no, he wasn't kidding, that's what they'd decided to call it, he wasn't having it with these names – Ambassador Street was where Zeus and his new pantheon of dipshits stashed guests that weren't quite prestigious enough to warrant a stay on Olympic Boulevard itself. It was a nicer part of town. Certainly. And nicer parts of town usually meant better security. Higher security measures made his job harder. And the whole "at this time" thing was sort of weird too. Most people just wanted the job done. That being said, he could do a lot with twenty million credits. Maybe he could move back to Crete and settle for awhile – twenty million would set him up just fine for a century or two if he handled it right. Probably more if he tried his hand at farming again, like he used to. That decided it then, didn't it? He could deal with some fancy locks for twenty million credits.
"Two hot chocolates, please. Small." Said a mother to Agata over the counter.
Confirmed. He typed with his thumb into the rubber keys. Had to love old-fashioned number and letter buttons. His thumb held down the top button and he slipped out the battery after it'd powered itself down. He slammed his laptop closed. Finished his coffee. Brushed the stray crumbs off his shirt. It was November 11th today – just past mid-morning. He had some time to kill.
"Bye, Corax." Yelled Agata over the thrum of the crowd as he moved toward the door.
"Bye, love." He smiled. "See you tomorrow."
She raised her hand in a quick acknowledgment.
"May I have please-"
And he was on the street.
It was busy. With tourists, locals, tired kids coming home from class, and chic woman walking their tiny dogs to even chicer patio restaurants – despite the snow. Not a bad part of town. Not too expensive. But not really a good part of town either. A boy in heavy clothes and thin coat stood on a corner in front of a grocery store – handing out multicolored fliers from the stack in his grip. His hands were shaking fiercely in the cold. Vaguely, Kronos wondered which of his relatives had sold their soul this time.
"Flier, sir?" The child asked politely, extending his arm. Kronos paused. Sighed. Removed his gloves.
"Wear these," he chided as he traded his old knit gloves for a flier. He didn't say anything else to the kid as he left, though the boy made the pretense to refuse out of politeness, because he didn't have to. Better left unsaid. His eyes flicked down to the paper in his hands.
Themis Miracles
128 Ambassador Street
His sister, apparently. Must have been making pretty good business too, for a girl with really very little practical skill to offer the world, to have a solo front on Ambassador Street. Since the Olympians had made themselves known to the mortals, in a manner of speaking, the so-dubbed "Miracle Market" had boomed. It'd started small, some minor gods doing minor things for a mortal with enough coin – but it'd grown rapidly out of hand. Gods and goddess like Athena and Ares had begun to sell their powers as "miracles." "Oh, Mrs. President, you want to win that war? Ha! Easy. What you gonna pay me, haha?" "Yes, Mr. Prime Minister? All the intel I know on that submarine class? Certainly. Fifty million credits, please." After the Olympians, it'd been the Egyptians, then the Norse, then the Slavic, the Morrigan, Yemanja, anyone else you possibly name from childhood storybooks. From the stories your family told you. Kronos' former friends, his titans, had sprinted down that road with the Olympians – running just as fast, clamoring just as brutally to get to the front of the pack. It'd taken awhile for the world to rebalance, after more and more gods offered themselves as clairvoyants and tanks for purchase, but eventually it sort of had: as you'd expect perhaps. With the gods on top. With mortals grovelling at their feet, just getting by. Such was power. The Olympians themselves had always been too slimy to fall below – they were always willing to make a deal – hence, Athens: once a poorer city, now a powerhouse force to be reckoned with. Again. History has a funny way of repeating itself. Of course, Kronos had been there through it all. From the beginning, when his son and Athena had fought for it. Through civil conflicts within Grecian city states, countless wars with the Turkish, the establishment and the fall of the Orthodox Church. The second rise of the Olympians. To him, it was just Athens. Kronos folded the flier into his pocket and shrugged his laptop bag – a prehistoric Jansport, well? he was cheap – higher on his shoulder. And it was a nice red.
Kronos, then? Former king, powerful, wily, brilliant titan? Surely he was a leader of this movement. A "miracle-maker" as it were.
No. He'd kept his promise to Zeus. Zeus had kept his promise to Kronos. The titans were free to ruin their world how ever they wished. Kronos could do nothing. Had nothing. Not physically. Not to live for. To see his brothers and sisters somehow smiling among all this?
That was enough.
TWO
He was usually pretty good about doing his own research on this kind of thing. Most jobs didn't need much. Shocking, really, how so many terrible people were convinced of their own invincibility. Once he'd scaled the side wall – as it was defended from view by a windowless apartment complex – and he'd slipped in. He had only one adage: be brief and be silent. Easy. In the case of the Plaka hotel, the UK businessman in case anyone's keeping score, he'd just booked a room with a hooker and just… waited. Even easier.
This crappy- well, okay, actually what was shaping up to look like it was a beautiful resort-hotel, on Ambassador Street? Not so much.
The had-beens on Ambassador Street must have moved up in the world since Kronos had last visited. He'd expected some fancy locks. Some expensive video surveillance systems. But this shit? Were they kidding? Kronos flipped through the building petition sheets, staring at the initial blueprints for the proposed hotel. Hall of Records. The absolute bane of his existence. Sorely, he wished that they would make a digital, online, free catalogue of all their absolutely endless papers so he didn't have to sneak in the back window while the lady working at her desk got up for a bathroom break. Well, everyone has their dreams. Couldn't he just walk in the front door? Of course. But then they'd know his face and what excuse would he have to be there so often? "I just love going to buildings that incidentally have people go missing the day after I check out the blueprints!" Yeah, right. Better to not raise suspicion if at all possible. Still – the "avoiding everyone in the building while he found the document he needed only to escape down to the unused, creepy, dingy basement" shtick was getting old. Not that it had ended up mattering at all in the end. Since the hotel was warranted by the Olympians – they hadn't been required to submit officialblueprints to the Hall of Records. Which was infuriating. The asshats. He had managed to scrounge together some receipts from a technical supply store in Nikaia, confirming the head of security had placed an order for some ridiculous heat-sensing security system. Which was nice. But typical. And useless. And annoying to circumvent.
Kronos scrubbed his face with his palms.
Ding.
Kronos furrowed his brow. He didn't have a cell phone- well, okay. He had burner phones. And a lot of them. But never more than two at once and he never gave out his numbers. Phones were strictly for business. He never got texts – he didn't need the headache of dealing with the authorities. Besides, the only job he had right now was connected to his other phone. The one he'd pulled the batteries from. This particular gem of a Nokia didn't have anything vital connected to it yet. He dug it from his front trouser pocket.
Spam?Mark yes
Unknown Sender:
Don't worry about the blueprints, I'll send you the access code to the room.
Ha.
Ha, ha. Say fucking what? Kronos' fingers hovered over the buttons on the keypad. What did he say? Thanks? When am I going to get this magical access code? How did you acquire this so-called magical access code? How did you know I was looking at the blueprints? Do you know where I am? His eyes darted around the room, only to find dusty old furnishings, and hey, he could use that chai-. No. Focus. Something was fishy here. Something was fishy as hell. He drummed his fingers onto the steel table. Rubbed his eyes. The perfectly straight lines of the security system wiggled and dancing his view. He'd been here too long. He was tired – and it was time for dinner. Besides, whoever hired him seemed to know where he was. Logically speaking, if the buyer was going to hurt him – he would have done so by and now and certainly not notified him of it. But better safe than sorry. The chair screeched against the polished concrete as he stood and stretched his arms over his head. Climbed the stairs. Waited for the lady to leave her desk with her legs a little crossed, by the gods she must drink a lot of water, snuck out the window. Kronos sighed in the thick, cold Athens air.
He didn't eat out a lot. Above the below but below the upper? Well. He wasn't really sore for money, but he wasn't so well off either. No one was. Money wasn't so easy to come by in the turbulent climate the new rise of the Olympians had left in its wake. The years had been hard and he'd been alone for most of them. Amber – a veterinarian – had made money, a girl he'd briefly considered proposing to, but between the two of them they'd only been able to afford Kronos' current apartment. One bedroom, one non-shared bathroom. In Plaka. Sigh. That wasn't the point though, he shook his head – the point was, when he did eat out – he went to the same restaurant. It wasn't fancy, or chic and modern. Sure as hell didn't have a little patio with wire chairs. It was your classic hole in the wall, with fixtures from sometime in a bygone century and a menu from not much after. Classic Greek food. Like, classical Greek food. Athenian cabbage and shit people read about in historical texts. What Kronos had grown up on. It was owned by some huge history buff – ironically an American, not a native Greek – who'd spent years researching ancient Grecian recipes. They weren't always totally authentic, but they did make Kronos sorta happy whenever he felt like he needed something more homey, more comforting than a salad. What? He had a soul too.
He found a seat in the back of the restaurant by himself and ordered a water and ice with his dinner. They served him bread and offered him wine mixed with water, in the traditional way. He refused, they offered again, the usual unnecessary rollercoaster of eating out. It wasn't until he'd finished his second slice of bread, a nice barley loaf, just having put in his order for his main meal, that something… unusual happened.
This restaurant was a novelty, and was popular with history-minded tourists; so different clientele every night was sort of the norm. Kronos rarely recognized anymore from the times he'd come months before. Not even the waiters and waitresses often stayed the same. Tonight was different. She was sitting not very far from him, in a table set for two leaning against the wall. Her fingers idly pricked at the tines of her fork as she waited for her meal and her hair was covering most of her face. She was leaned down over the menu like she was protecting it, but he would know her in a crowd of a thousand.
Shit.
The clock ticked on the wall behind him loudly, each second ticking by making him jolt. One, two, three… he waited twelve beats before he slid into the chair across from her. There was silence between them for a moment, when she didn't look up from her menu.
"Would you recommend," she paused to lick her lips, "the "authentic dolmathes?" Or the "original baklava?"" She flicked her eyes up to meet his imploring gaze. "I'm tempted by the baklava, I think. Something sweet for me tonight." She smiled at him – skin at the corners of her eyes crinkling. He stared. It hadn't been thirty seconds and she was already flirting. How very typically her.
The waitress, young, Slavic-Greek, and bored, materialized from out of nowhere to their table side. "Would you like to take your meal together?" She asked, pen lazily in hand – pressed against the paper notepad in her hand.
"Please." She answered smoothly before he could. He nodded almost glumly.
The waitress addressed her. "Are you ready to order?"
"Baklava, please. And an espresso if you have it."
"Of course." She jot it down and zipped away.
Kronos sighed. "I imagine you're here for a reason."
She smiled down to her empty water glass. He filled it for her with the latched bottle on the table. "To see you."
He glowered. "Why?"
"Well, it's been awhile." Her humor shone in her eyes. He didn't want to budge.
"Why?" He repeated, stagnant and lips pressed together.
"To talk."
Kronos had always considered himself strong-willed. Strong to uphold his brothers. Strong to take the fall and gracefully as he had attempted. Strong to be alone through millennia. He was not strong with her. And she knew it. They did more than talk.
By the end of the night, Rhea had not only seen his absolutely shit single bedroom apartment on the third story of a fifty year old building in Plaka – but the inside of his kitchen, his bathroom, his bedroom, beneath his clothes… He rested his face against her scalp, later that night when she was lost in her dreams, and breathed in the sinfully sweet scent of her hair, the smell of sex permeating the air around them. Kissed her without fear of repercussion or thought. Lifted the sheets around their bodies and fell asleep for the first time in awhile – happy and content.
He hated to admit anything, much less this: he'd missed her.
THREE
One week to the day Rhea had been in Greece. She was only visiting, having made a name for herself as a curator in New York in identifying classical pottery – which was apparently a job possibility that paid decent money. Go figure. The bitch lived in the Hamptons. Maybe if Kronos had paid more mind as the ages had passed… alas. He had to settle with his former wife's circuitous spiels. He could live with that, he decided after the third museum.
Happily.
He thought she was talking about a vase they saw in the vacuous antique store she'd dragged him into, but he was much more interested in her. He didn't think she was the modern epitome of beauty, not really even close. But the long, shallow scar cutting into her cheek to her neck only endeared her more to him. She'd fought a fucking drakon for it. She'd earned it. What mortal model could say that? Nothing against them, then, he still thought they were pretty – but Rhea? She was gorgeous. Fuck, he was sappy.
"You listening?"
"Yeah." He said immediately. He wasn't. Squinting at the vase, maybe it was Chinese? Or Dutch? Fuck, he didn't know – it was that blue at least. You know the one.
She raised an eyebrow.
"You're more spacey than I remember."
"Am not."
She snorted. Pointed to his head.
"When the fuck did that get there?" he mumbled more to himself than anyone else, pulling the baseball cap from his hair. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, it read in plain English cursive.
"When I put it there." She rolled her eyes. "Come on."
He blinked. "To where?"
She glanced back carelessly. "My hotel."
"It's noon." His hand motioned aimlessly over his shoulder. "Didn't you want lunch?"
"Room service."
"Is expensive."
"Didn't you want sex?"
"Oh."
"Yeah. Wait. N- no. Kronos. Wrong way, idiot. Follow me."
"…I'll follow you."
FOUR
Today was the day. December 4th.
Yay.
Money.
Who doesn't like money?
But of course, Kronos was hardly thinking about the impending murder he was going to commit. No, no. He was thinking about Rhea. Rekindled relationships and all that crap. She'd arrived three weeks ago now and though she was only spending a month here, Kronos had basically spent every waking hour with her since he'd seen her in the restaurant. His life had gone from him planning his life on Crete with whatever was leftover from twenty million credits to him planning their life somewhere in Upstate New York. Together. Funny how such things could happen in a day. How he was already tripping pathetically over his heels for her in a week. He knew it was stupid and that, really, he needed to follow up on this so-called intel he'd been sent by his client, or think of an actual plan as opposed to his current idea of just winging it, but instead – he was sitting at one of those stupid, cliché patio restaurants he'd been making fun of his whole life, laughing over some overpriced goddamn salad across from Rhea. She looked gorgeous today, 'course, in a light-colored sundress and laced-up leather sandals. He meant to think about the blueprints of the security system: he thought about her laugh. He meant to think about how his client had miraculously gathered the entrance code to the hotel room: he thought about her naked body. What? He was a guy. He liked sex.
And fuck,he liked her.
All of her.
Even so, he had to refuse her flirtatious offer, only one of many – most of which he'd yet to refuse, to follow her back into her hotel room. She raised an eyebrow, but gave him her half-knowing grin and waved him off from her suite. "There's always tomorrow." She winked.
"Morning." Kronos elaborated. "Tomorrow morning. I'll take you for coffee."
"Or later tonight if you change your mind…" She trailed off, eyes darting down the hall. Her voice left a question in it. "You don't have to go."
He genuinely hesitated.
She laughed. "Go, you horny bastard. Do what you have to do." A wide smile. "I'll be here." She closed the door in his face.
And finally, he was ready to do his job.
The long anticipated mission at the hotel on Ambassador Street? Easier said than done. Walking through the back entrance to the kitchen was easy, the uniforms the hotel used in the kitchen were a standard dress available from most restaurant supply stores. White, pristine, plain. Sneaking up the elevator to the fourth floor went without a hitch – no guard would question room service. Come on? What? Killer steak? Poisoned latte? Forget it. He wasn't a Cold War era Russian super spy. No one was in the hall when Kronos crept across, knife tucked safely in his pocket, catering trolley bouncing gently against the carpeted floor.
Only problem?
There was, um… another assassination in progress. In the same room. At the same time. As in, right there – in front of Kronos. What the fuck?
The odds of that particularly extra shitTM?
Not good.
At least, Kronos didn't think so.
A raven-haired boy fought desperately to keep a man, whose back was to Kronos, from choking him. He'd fallen to his knees sometime during their struggle and had broken a probably rather expensive decorative vase in the tussle. It took him a moment, his mind still a little, well, stunned at the scene, but Kronos was finally able to recognize the blond man after that brief hiatus of gawking.
Jason was his name. Jason Grace, son of Zeus, brother of Thalia. Who was Thalia? Zeus', and let us be reminded that Zeus is current overlord of the universe, right handma- woman. A very high powered politician. Um. Well. Fuck. Kronos looked left and right like a cartoon-character – waiting for himself to realize there was no floor beneath him. Maybe there was still time to bail, Jason, and the boy Kronos didn't know, seemed pretty distracted in their fight, and didn't seem to have seen him. It was very possible he could just backtrack and slip out through the kitchen out to the alley. Right? Go back to Rhea and take her up on her offer. And he really wanted to take Rhea up on her offer. Sexy fucking bitch.
But no. The moment he took that single step back towards the door – the two men froze like deer in headlights.
Jason's wild blue eyes, just like his father's, found Kronos lurking in the doorframe. The other man, black hair and green eyes that Kronos could see looked at him in seemed to be a mix of fear and hope. Trepidation had frozen their limbs. The room held its breath.
"Anyone order room service?" Kronos spouted. Then the tension snapped and the world exhaled – Jason released the black haired man to the floor – and laughed, fingers running through his hair.
"He must have, yeah." Jittered Jason nervously, "I was just leaving-" He cut himself off. "We were just wrestling, you know." He forced air through his chest out, still smiling too broadly. "Uh, yeah. Haha."
Sure, thought Kronos. He flashed the son of Zeus a toothy grin. "Of course, sir." The cart's empty dishes clanked and jumbled as Kronos moved it away from the doorframe. Jason slipped out, not being especially careful not to bump into Kronos, and the titan was left alone with the raven haired boy. He blinked at him from the floor for a moment, neither of them knowing how to broach the obvious elephant in the room. What does he do? Offer him a bottle water? It was cold and everything.
"Thanks." Started the boy, an uncomfortable chortle rising in his throat. Kronos guessed he was around nineteen, maybe his early twenties. Good-looking, fresh-faced, good skin, healthy. Raven colored hair was a mop on his head and his clothes were nicer than what most mortals could afford. Well-off then, and confident in himself if his stature had anything to say.
"...Sure." This wasn't has he'd expected. What now? Sorry to bother you, but I'm an assassin and I'm pretty sure someone hired me to kill you. Would you mind lying down or something to make my job easier? And he wouldn't get paid at all if the intended victim had been Jason fucking Grace. What the hell had gotten himself into. He motioned vaguely to the trolly. "Room service? Wrong room, I suppose." I hope, he thought.
The boy blinked at him for moment. Of course Kronos was trying to weasel his way out – what else could he do? He didn't really know who the intended target had been: Jason or Mr. Raven-hair here, and he wasn't going to bet twenty million credits on the off-chance he guessed right. Sometimes failure was the only option. He'd learned this the hard way.
He began to back towards the still open door.
"Kronos!" Boomed a masculine voice from behind him. He jumped. "I'm glad you came."
He turned, slowly, cautiously, and was not happy with what he saw.
Anxiety crawled up his body, in his stomach, through his spine. He thought bile was rising in his throat. A strong reaction? Maybe. But what the hell had he gotten into? It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of water over him. Very cold water.
"Poseidon."
The sea god gave a careless smile. "Father," fuck, he hadn't expected that greeting, "this is my son, Percy." The demigod gave a breathless wave, rubbing his throat with a wince as though it already pained him. Bruises were sure to follow.
Kronos tapped his fingers against his thigh. "And? You hired me?"
Poseidon looked pleased with himself. "Yes."
"And what? You wanted me to kill Jason?"
The sea god looked thoughtful. "Among other things maybe, if it comes down to it. Jason's not much of a threat."
"He just tried to strangle your son."
Poseidon waved away his words with a flutter of his hand in the air. "No, no – that was a… an unusual case. He wasn't supposed to be here anyway."
"I see." He did not. The titan felt suspicion tugging at his gut unpleasantly. he remembered why he'd avoided the gods for so many years. Let this be done quickly so he could go and be with Rhea. "Why am I here then?"
"A proposition."
"I'm… sorry?"
Poseidon spread his arms wide. "Look," he boomed. Kronos blinked. "Look at what Zeus has done. The world is in ruins," the world is always in ruins, thought the titan, "and mortals scuttle around the gutters of the worlds like rats." This had the disgusting tinge of a rehearsed speech. Kronos sighed internally. "We," here he motioned to his son and then to himself, "plan on re-ordering the world. Freeing mortals from their cages and making man and god equal."
"And..." Kronos chose his words carefully. The sooner he diffused this, the sooner he could go home, back to Rhea. Even he was a stunned how one track a scheme his mind had settled into since she'd waltzed in. Who cares? He'd long since dismissed the idea of receiving his payment. He tapped his fingers. "How do you plan to do that?" Fucking A, Kronos, he scolded himself. Sure, let's tempt him with possibility of more speeches.
Poseidon nodded, arms crossing his chest like he'd expected the question. Look at this, the god was all puffed up like a good peacock. Oh boy, thought Kronos, here we go. "That's where you come i-"
"Me?"
Vague annoyance at the interruption, "Yes, you." Too long a pause between the phrases, testing him perhaps. "I plan to hire, and aid you, in taking out key figures in the Olympian government-"
"Your government, you mean."
"N-" Poseidon pursed his lips. His nostrils flared just minutely. "No. Zeus' government. No more brothels on every street corner, no more tired children begging for credits, no more-"
"I get it."
Poseidon huffed. "Then you understand why we need your help." Need. A politician, indeed. Kronos licked his lips.
"Why would I help you?"
The king of the sea seemed floored Kronos would even ask such a question. "I-" another sharp exhale. Good, smiled Kronos, it was nice to know he was still annoying. Poseidon regained his composure. "Because," he smiled here, like it was a good joke between them. "I'm paying you."
"Paying." Kronos echoed.
"Of course," and back again was the jaunty disposition, the laid-back attitude of Poseidon. A flash of white teeth in his smile. "You thought twenty million credits was good?"
Kronos raised an eyebrow.
"Consider it your signing bonus. I'll pay fifty million for every confirmed kill." His bushy eyebrows pushed up on his forehead. The titan stared at his son for a moment and tried to truly see him. He'd grown handsome, he supposed grudgingly, with sun-bleached brown hair and deep mossy green eyes. Skin was weathered kindly, crinkles around the eyes and wrinkles around his mouth. Small scars on his fingers. Signs of a happy life. He could see Rhea in Poseidon. He thought that might be a good thing.
"No." He said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"What?"
"No. I won't take the job." He held up his hand to silence Poseidon's stuttering. "Don't worry," he stressed this harshly, "I won't tell your brother about your coup."
"It's not-"
"I don't want to have anything to do with this, Poseidon. Not your plans, not your brother's plans, none of it. Leave me alone."
"Kronos." Poseidon said as his father moved to the door. "Kronos." Poseidon jumped in front the titan's path, the bottom of his neck at his father's eye level. The god of the sea had never known just how small Kronos was. His left hand pushed on the door until the lock clicked. "Listen to me."
Kronos narrowed his eyes.
"I'm not hiring you because you're a good assassin."
"Which I am."
Poseidon glowered. "Yes, fine. You are. But," he paused, "you were a good king."
Silence. Percy shifted on his toes from his position by the couch.
He could feel the ploy. He knew, the pathos the fucker was invoking to pull at his heartstrings. It was obvious, yeah, but it didn't stop his ear from twitching up slightly, didn't stop his pupils from dilating a little. His body turning towards him, just a touch.
"I want you to help me reshape the world, back to what it was, to the Golden Age. People believe in this, Kronos. My son, his friends, mortals, gods, Thalia believes in it. The daughter of Zeus for Gaia's sake-"
Kronos watched him ramble. He would not lie to himself, it sounded good. Like a dream. But, of course, that's what it was. Idealism. A false hope that men deluded themselves into believing when they committed atrocities against other people. He'd experienced that effect of grandeur enough to know when he saw it. Perhaps a younger man would have seen this start, this commission, as a chance to make the world better. He'd always had a revolutionary spirit, an innate drive to do better, at least, so Rhea had told him. He'd felt just a robust drive to live before the first Great War. To run, to laugh, to make everything he saw just that much better. How wonderful that'd been. Perhaps if Kronos was younger, if Poseidon were talking to a Kronos from a thousand years ago, he'd say yes.
But he wasn't, obviously, this was Kronos now. His voice was tight.
"I said no."
And that was that.