a/n: dedicated to tim (not for granted) for indirectly giving me this prompt.
Annabeth Chase is the only one to notice the anomaly.
It happens on a routine quest, in the back alleys of a New York ghetto with a hellhound fast on their heels. One of their party of seven - she thinks it might be the Demeter boy, Harris Wahlford - suddenly turns and fills the monster's face with five quarrels. In the haze that follows, as the hellhound shatters and disperses into dunes of sand, she spies a man in a tall black trench coat peering down at them from an apartment rooftop, face obscured by a wide-brimmed fedora, thick grey scarf, and sunglasses. She tenses, drawing her sword in case the observer is hostile, but he only seems to stand and gradually lose definition before her eyes, ultimately obscured and lost from view as a cloud of hellhound-dust splashes up and into the glare of the sun.
She starts to notice several other recurring patterns in the succeeding missions; small things, a raven feather lit up in the rainbow hues of gasoline reflecting light, a spiderweb cluttered with bizarre runes, scrawled glyphs on a brick wall contained within a bisected triangle. The observer reappears once or twice, never more than once in the same week, no more than three appearances in a month. At the edges of the camp, beyond the familiar hum of the barrier, she catches impressions of a foreign magic beyond the campgrounds, raw and elemental, bearing the same basic rhythm of the magics both godly and natural she's accustomed to, but more arrogant. Cold in practice but warm in imagination, it conjures up memories of baking summer heat, gold and lapis lazuli, sand and earthy soil, as well as the faintly insidious touch of a presence more chaotic. A wild magic, deadly and stern. Stay away from us, the winds whisper. Go back to your home, girl. It is not your place to walk here.
Chiron is perplexed by her findings and even the Oracle provides little clarification. She investigates for roughly half a year, searching for the observer time and time again, but he never chooses to show himself when she demands it. Instead, he appears in the skulking shadows, casting the dark on the ground, drawing the life out of the air. He looks at her only a single instance, and she trembles at it. She does not understand him. But, she thinks, none too bravely, he understands more of her than she does herself.
In the end, she decides to forget when a new anomaly arrives in the form of Percy Jackson, and the study slips from her mind as easily as fish swimming through water. There is an ease with which that memory detaches from her mental archive, as though it has wanted to be free of the constraints of recollection for a long time. She forgets the experiment, and the empty spot where the memory once was is soon filled with other, more pressing details - Luke Castellan defects and begins his campaign to raise Kronos, the camp quickly devoting resources and energy for the rest of the year in preparing for war.
The watcher is the only one that remains.
When the twentieth century emerges, it brings with it a flood of revolution. Information becomes a form of currency, the Civil Rights movement gains an increasing amount of steam, Kennedy is assassinated, the Roswell saucers spark a flurry of rumors, and the facets of America shift in an entirely new direction, a ship guided from its charted route by a more ambitious captain. Apple and Microsoft become household names with the advent of the personal computer, and that is when the changes start to happen.
Reality subtly inclines, shifts. A blink, and the scenery is changed; only a tiny bit, but altered nonetheless. A crucifixion scene replaces the temple at Ephesus, a star of David pushes aside a triquetra, a Quran takes the place of a smoke-filled lodge decorated in furs and skins, bones scattered throughout. Religion is binary and Biblical text, stock exchanges and cars and seaside resorts in tropical islands, crinkled patriarchal faces on creased dollar bills and pristine, colorful euros in the pockets of Armani suits, business meetings in Tokyo and one million-yen meals at a five star restaurant, with cold drinks afterwards. Worship is the prostitute in pink on a businessman's bed smoking a Marlboro post-coitus, a spa with Dead Sea salt facials and bathrubs for a credit card, perfumes and leather briefcases and shopping districts, the vicious ecstasy of a good fuck or a good kill. Faith: supply and demand, world economies, the flux and flow of numbers. There's little joy to be found in the repetition, but it keeps them fed, so they pray to it, worship it, slather upon it their brand name clothing and sports teams and petty devices, mildly sipping soda and coffee to the concertos of car crashes and robberies.
The old gods shiver and cringe in their feathered cloaks and sagging armor, blood and ruin and empirism forgotten in the light of industry. America is the nuclear winter, the great fallout; few survive the steady corrosion, the absence of belief trickling the ichor in their veins onto highways and cheap rugs, blots and blisters on the face of innovation. Nature has never been kind. A gunshot, a slash across the wrists, a prison-blanket noose - even old dogs can learn new tricks, and nothing is newer, nothing so brash and bold following the wake of debaucherous immortality, than the bittersweet simplicity of death.
Year 2000, the new millennium, is marked by the singlehanded slaughtering of millions, a closed genocide. The mountains and the forests and the oceans shudder and hiss, We are not yours for the taking.
No one listens.
They find each other in a bar filled with deep but amiable Southern voices, cool beer from taps, and smiling buxom waitresses suntanned and inconspiciously skimpy. He walks in and sees the other man at one of the tables, nursing a half-filled mug and tracing absently on the beechwood wall panels. The man looks up as he sits down, grinning and extending a hand.
"Wednesday."
"Zeus." The voice that answers is the rough drawl of a smoker, white beard recently trimmed and an eyepatch covering an eye. "You've been taking your time."
"It's never good in these parts for me." He takes off his suit jacket, puckering. "Dry. Hope I haven't caused too much of an incovenience for you; I tried to be as 'urgent' as possible but, well, you know how things are..." His shoulders roll in a heavy shrug.
Wednesday looks amused in a faintly cat-like way, his one good eye narrowed, lips twisted into a sickle-shaped smile. "I'm quite sure," he laughs. "I've heard about your latest exploits. A city." The god's brow suddenly furrows. "I remember when we took countries."
"There's no use dwelling on the past."
"How easy it must be, to tell me something as banal as that. For you, it's of little importance; you still get your square meals. I-"
On the verge of another tack, Wednesday's eyes light up as Zeus makes a sudden pass over the cup. The beer that remains glows, newly amber in color, and fills to the top with sweet liquid. Wednesday takes a swig, downing the contents in a single gulp, and burps, sighing contentedly.
"Good?"
"It will do. Not tailored for one such as myself, but a close enough approximation." Wednesday yawns and stretches, his joints popping stiffly. "Ah, I haven't felt something like this in a long time. You really know how to get on my good graces." His look is one of supreme satisfaction; Zeus drums his fingers on the tabletop impatiently.
"I haven't got much time to waste, Wednesday. The Summit's in an hour, and I'll have to be there. Tell me what it is you want."
"You got my invitation, didn't you? You know why." Wednesday steeples his fingers, adopting a look of mild concern. "Ragnarok will happen next year. War. I'm collecting signatures, making a guest list, if you will, of those who'll be around to attend the festivities. I was wondering if you would be interested."
Zeus frowns. "I've already stated my position in the past."
"Perhaps you've had a change of heart since then?" Humming, the god accepts a plate of hot wings from a waitress named Sheila and tears off a strip of skin and meat, pinching it between his index finger and thumb and wiping the grease off politely on a napkin. "You won't get shortchanged. If you choose to accept, you'll get an equal stake in the spoils. All that undiluted devotion, that worship, the prayers of a billion people on this bustling planet - ours. Yours."
"It's a large risk. You're underestimating the Other Side; they're few in number, but they're strong. Don't downplay youth; it doesn't suit you."
Pausing mid-bite, Wednesday flicks a bone away and scowls. "Since when did you empathize with the Kid and all his goonies?"
"I'm not empathizing. I'm being pragmatic." He swills beer around in his mouth, straightening his tie. "You should, too, if you want to save your skin."
Wednesday's look transforms to one of disgust. "That's pitiful, coming from you. You weren't always such a squirming insect of a man, afraid to take even the smallest of gambles. You used to bid large, you were confident. What the hell changed you?"
"Time," he answers dryly, "and parenthood. I could bid when we still had territory and valuables to offer. What I've built up, I can't rebuild. I'm afraid I won't be participating, old friend."
Something ugly flashes over Wednesday's face - radiant and terrible, a remnant of the past - before it subsides, before he smooths it out, collecting himself. Baring teeth, he retorts, "I know. You're afraid, beneath all that bluster and bravado, you are terrified of losing what little dominion you have over these petty souls. Distracting them from the greater conflict with miniature skirmishes, cheap diversion tactics? Your empire is run on parlor tricks."
Zeus stiffens. "I did what I had to. The Egyptians did as well, and they're still flourishing, despite their age. You didn't prepare, so now you're blaming it on me, on us, on the ones who foresaw what would happen and stockpiled."
"Your cattle must treat you well." Wednesday lets show a dark sneer. "Offerings, faith - you're farming your food from your own children."
"They aren't livestock."
"From the lips of a king."
"Would you have done any different?"
"You never told us, the rest of us, what was happening."
"We are gods, Wednesday," he says, imperious. "You should have learned."
"Perhaps," Wednesday muses, anger gone, replaced by a quiet state of thought. "My boys - I only had two of them, and now the eldest is gone. They did not believe. Not many of my family did, nor our followers. It was cold. They were desperate. If I had... gone, shall we say, down your route, do you think things would be any different?"
For a moment, Wednesday looks so pitiable that he cannot find it in himself to muster up the slightest bit of ill will towards the god, and then it goes. It slips away, and the old, hard resolve returns. Zeus purses his lips and replies, "I don't know."
Chuckling, Wednesday stands up. They shake hands, something nostalgic shining in the old god's eyes. "Thank you for your time, at least. Many requested I come to them. You're one of the few to come to me."
"You sent the request, didn't you?" But he understands the reason why, the unspoken query on the tip of Wednesday's tongue.
"I wish you luck."
"You too. You need it more than I do." He claps Wednesday on the back, and the man booms with laughter.
"You may be right there." As he pulls out a wallet to pay, Wednesday slaps a hand over his and shakes his head. "No. My invitation. My treat."
They each leave a five dollar tip and walk outside. It has begun to drizzle, soft rain hissing against the warm ground. Wednesday surveys the scene, looking almost peaceful.
"Have you found your candidate?"
"Narrowing down the list," Wednesday answers, distracted. "But I'm close."
"May I ask who?"
"Shadow," responds Wednesday, and Zeus nods. They shake hands again, businesslike, and Wednesday walks off.
Shadow declines, and that is the first tear. Percy Jackson meets Carter Kane, and the gap widens. The solstice draws closer, bringing with it Gaea and whispers of unearthly power. America's lovely smile falters and stays that way, perturbed in a way the civilians cannot understand, and which the politicians understand even less. The stock market drops down, rises up, sways and teeters on its pedestal as the onlookers bite their nails and wait with bated breath for closure.
A storm brews.