''So, how's that design been going?'' Aphrodite asked Hephaestus curiously as he showed her a… small square contraption with a button on it. She wasn't entirely impressed, but then again, everything wasn't exactly what they seemed on the surface — take Hephaestus, for example.

''Ah…'' Hephaestus cleared his throat, as his complexion flushed red. He fidgeted with the small contraption, as Aphrodite watched it dance around between his fingers. ''It basically teleports things into various destinations. Thought it'd be a convenient design for easy Olympus teleportation.'' Shrugging, he said: ''We won't even need to bother about powers at all.''

Aphrodite quirked an eyebrow. ''Oh?'' She'd love a break from teleporting into Olympus and her palace front-and-back again. The flashes of pink light made love triangles so hard to set up!

''Recently tested it on a live subject.'' Hephaestus let out a grunt of disdain. ''Think it worked.''

But then, Hephaestus stopped, as he stared at something—no, someone in the distance. Following his eyes, Aphrodite noticed a couple on the dance-floor.

Specifically, her one-true-pairing.

Aphrodite glanced at Percy, dancing with Annabeth. Her heart filled with squealing as she fervently thought up new ship names for the couple. Chackson? Annacy? Oh, there it was... Percabeth!

Meanwhile, Hades, who was busy picking his food, noticed Aphrodite's not-so-subtle squeals. He looked over at her, and then to who she was looking at.

What in my name is that kid doing here? thought Hades, grunting as he stared at the figure of Perseus Jackson with his girlfriend Annabeth. Beside him was his Satyr compainion and what seemed to be a Dryad. He was not a fan of the upstart demigod, although he had to begrudgingly tolerate his presence—after all, he did save Olympus, despite being a son of Poseidon.

If only Nico was the prophecy child… But alas, the God of the Dead could only wish, as he plucked some bacon for his wife Persephone.

Dr. Quinzel really needed a drink.

Sighing, as she threw away the last available bottle into the trash, she contemplated buying more booze. Usually, she wouldn't've drunk this much, but this particular situation called for particular solutions.

Her eyes wandered back to the phone call from Dr. Isley earlier. Dr. Quinzel mentally sighed as she thought about the conversation...

''The gods lied to you. All of them. Now, will you help me or them?''

She stopped. ''Wait, what do you mean they lied to me.''

The line paused for a moment, as if the receiver was contemplating. But a moment later, it crackled to life:

''You're no ordinary mortal, Quinn. You're a demigod.''

''What?'' Her eyes widened. What did Dr. Isley mean?

''You're a daughter of Dionysus. It's why you see your visions.''

Dr. Quinzel stopped. After her erratic heartbeat returned to normal, she started again: ''I—I don't understand—''

''You don't need to.'' the voice from the other line snapped. ''Now, give me the files.''

What files? But then, she remembered the files—notes she'd taken, stray observations, everything she'd noted down about the Olympians. Dr. Isley couldn't possibly mean those files, could she? ''I—can't—''

''Why? Patient-doctor confidentiality? Pah, I don't care. You're not even officially a Doctor, anyway.''

''But—''

''Listen to me, Quinn.'' Then, the line became impossibly low. ''They lied to you. They used you for their own gains. Hell, they gave you your insanity.''

That was when she finally stopped, as she truly digested the information Dr. Isley had thrown at her. ''What?''

''A result of being a daughter of Dionysus. You receive visions—a consequence of remaining unclaimed by Dionysus.'' The line scoffed. ''Most demigods are claimed at the age of 12. Not long enough for the visions to manifest—or certainly, short enough for them to forget about them. Clearly, they've—he's— forgotten about you.''

Dr. Quinzel stopped. Take slow breaths, she thought, but they were quick, fast. Her mind wandered back to her visions. She thought about the purple, flickering lights. The fear in her heart, as she stumbled for a diagnosis that just wasn't there. The distrust of her mind, not trusting her eyes, not believing what she saw. All the visions…

''Fine,'' she choked out, as her mind yielded a furious, ironic laugh. ''What do you want?''

''Their weaknesses. I need—'' A hiss came from the other side. ''I need to take them down.''

Yeah. Dr. Quinzel really needed to buy booze.

After all, 7/Eleven was just around the corner.

''I hate mortal travel,'' Dionysus grunted, as he shambled towards Dr. Quinzel's office.

Hermes shrugged, as he stared at Dionysus. ''Dude! You can't say that. It took, like, what?'' he scowled. ''—twenty-so minutes? I mean, you can't teleport everywhere!'' he sighed in exasperation.

''Well, let me clarify,'' Dionysus said, clearing his throat. ''I hate walking in general. Now, can we...?'' he asked, gesturing towards the locked drawers.

Hermes gave Dionysus an easy grin. ''What did you think I was here for?'' he said, as he dangled a bunch of keys from his hand.

''Wait for her face when she sees this!'' Hermes said mischievously as he rifled through their papers. ''Aha! Here's her file!''

He passed it to Dionysus, who was standing around in the office, keeping watch for Hermes. Lazily, Dionysus flicked through the pages, until one document caught his eye. He opened it, expecting something boring—

But the contents made him freeze.

It was a personal profile on their Therapist, Dr. Quinzel. Four Ph.D.'s in Psychiatry, some family history... mostly boring stuff.

But it was the name that stuck out to him. Specifically, the Mother's name part.

On the top read Frances Quinzel.

Distinctly, a memory poked at him—a memory of a Frances Quinzel twenty-four years ago, impressing him with her psychology degree in a bar, as they drank wine and revelled for the night. And they—

He froze. Flicking through the pages in his mind, he tried to recall the past...

''I'd hate to get you drunk,'' Dionysus said, a silly drunken grin plastered on his face, as he stared at the twenty-or-so woman in front of him.

''Oh, yeah?'' the woman challenged. ''Bet I can drink more than you.''

He remembered that night. He remembered the drunken cheer. And most of all, he remembered—

Frances Quinzel had a daughter.

He and Frances Quinzel had a daughter.

Harleen Quinzel was his daughter.

A/N: Yay, cliffhangers, gotta love em! :D

Sv007, thank you once again for the in-depth review! Hopefully this chapter cleared some things up. :) On the Hephaestus/Aphrodite subject, I'll see if I can fit in some scenes with them in the future, though that depends because I have some things scheduled up for the next chapters. :D

Queen of Poptarts, who doesn't love some Percabeth? ;D And procrastinatingmushroomfangirl, sadly I can't promise a bargaining chip-esque situation... but we'll see what happens in the next few chapters!