You would think a week's worth of extramarital affair should have made him feel as if he were walking on hot coals, but instead Michael was the most relaxed he'd been in a long time.

Dino was gone day-in, day-out which left Michael and Mrs. Bacchus– he only called her 'Helen' in private– alone to do as they pleased. The strangest part was that Michael was convinced Dino knew, and that he didn't really care. If anything, he was almost pleased. Though, Michael was a bit suspicious that the man's good mood came more from Michael's recent nightmares more than anything.

It was common for ex-soldiers to have war flashbacks, especially after having been a terrorist prisoner while serving, but these nightmares were different. They were like the one he'd had the night after he'd met Violet for the first time.

He wasn't in Iraq, not in the present even. Once again, he was on ancient battlefields and reveling in the blood his sword spilt. That made no sense and when he confided in Helen about such things as they laid together in secret while Dino was off conversing with his associates, she simply gave him a small smile and said nothing. The other day she'd brought it up at dinner when Dino was, for once, at home.

"Excellent! I see you are remembering indeed, old friend!" Dino had said, raising his glass of wine towards Michael's direction, in higher spirits than before.

Michael hadn't commented back. He was scheduled to meet with Dino's infamous associates any day now, having had the conference confirmed three days prior, and he would have his answers over the man's strange behavior then.

Or so he hoped.

In the meantime, he thoroughly enjoyed his days spent with Helen, playing house like he'd never had the chance to before. He'd never thought himself the civilian life type, it just hadn't ever fit. But with Helen, things were different. She was a stoic woman, yet soft around the edges with her husband gone. The moment Dino left the house she attacked Michael with kisses, read to him out of old, beautiful books, taught him how to cook more than the average grilled-cheese sandwich. And he always called her Helen when they laid together curled in the sheets after hours of lovemaking, talking about their childhoods outside of all of this shit they'd gotten themselves messed up in.

He never, not once, called her Ariadne like her husband did– a nickname he'd still yet to figure out the origin of– or Mrs. Bacchus like he figured he was supposed to call her, when it came to formality.

He knew her better than that.

So Helen it was instead, the way both of them liked it. And while he knew this affair wasn't going to go anywhere past its title, he didn't much care. He figured he may as well enjoy it while it was happening, because Helen made him feel good again and it'd been a long fucking time since he'd had this feeling. He figured it was just short of a miracle Dino hadn't castrated him for all of this, or something. Because here Michael was, under the obviously dangerous man's employment, owing Dino his life, acting as a guest in his home, and fucking the man's wife whenever he got the chance.

Really, it was a wonder Dino hadn't just killed Michael by now.

Then again, Michael had never witnessed a marriage where the separate spouses both seemed fine with the idea of cheating on one another before. Just the other night Helen had said Dino had his side-lays and she didn't much care. He always came back in the end and that was what mattered.

Michael didn't really get that. For seeming not to care about Dino's actions in the slightest, Helen still insisted that she loved him. But it wasn't Michael's place to question her about it; their affair existed separately from the dealings he and her husband was involved with.

"Pan's being dropped off later," Helen said that morning, snapping Michael from his thoughts as she cleaned up the dishes used for breakfast after Dino had kissed her goodbye and headed out the door to talk again with his associates. He'd mentioned something about 'complications' being the only reason Michael hadn't met with them yet, whatever that meant. These people were annoyingly complex.

"Pan…Dino's kid, right?" Michael asked, getting up to help Helen take the dishes into the kitchen.

"Sort of," Helen said evasively, giving him one of her teasing smiles. "He's twelve. He knows about everything, so feel free to speak your mind."

"He knows his dad's in the mob?" Michael asked, speculative brow raised as Helen turned on the tap to start washing the dishes.

She laughed at him then, a tinkling sound in the open room. "Oh, Michael, is that really what you think? I'm afraid you're confusing my husband with John Storms."

"You know about John Storms?" Michael asked, taking the cleaned plate she offered and drying it before putting it in the cabinet. Over the past week he'd figured out the workings of Dino's house pretty quickly, despite its massive size.

"Of course I do," said Helen. "And I know about little Violet Porter too. Tell me, is she as quiet as I remember?"

"You've met her?"

"A long time ago. We were good companions, once."

Michael's brows drew together, eyes going a bit wide as he stared at Helen in shock. She waited expectantly for him to answer. He cleared his throat and dried the next dish she'd set in the wrack at his side. "She is quiet…but I think it's because she's afraid. That Fairgrave guy did kidnap her, after all."

"Oh, yes, he has the name Fairgrave in this life, doesn't he?" Helen asked absentmindedly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She'd been wearing it down lately since Michael had made a comment the other day on how beautiful it looked not always tied up in one of her immaculate buns after they'd finished with a romp on the living room floor, his fingers working through the strands while the rest of his body was numb in post costal bliss as she laid atop him, limp and satiated.

"This life? Christ, Helen, are you and Dino in some weird religion or something? I'm not joining a cult instead of the mob, am I?" He meant that last part as a joke, trying to give her a lopsided smile but she stared at him somberly. His hands froze in the middle of drying a plate, almost dropping it to the floor. "Shit. You are in a cult?"

It made a bit of sense just the way the mob theory did, he couldn't suddenly help but think. It would explain why kidnapping someone seemed so normal with Violet's case, why Dino could call in so many favors and his associates were so aloof. Why everyone kept talking about past lives and Michael needing to remember who he once was. They were probably obsessed with the idea of reincarnation or something.

Goddamn.

Well, at least he couldn't be their virgin sacrifice, or something. But little Violet…she seemed like a nice girl, and she'd appeared so astounded with everything around her.

"It's not what you're getting at, Michael," Helen said, giving him a leveled shake of the head as if trying to placate his sudden nerves. He didn't like the idea of Violet getting hurt from all this, even if Dino had promised she wouldn't. She was just a girl after all, as innocent as Helen. "We are not crazy devil worshipers, nor do we wear white robes and burn people at the stake to give homage to our Gods, if that's what you're thinking. We have no God that we answer to but ourselves."

"Then what do you do?" Michael asked, feeling suddenly rooted to his spot. He had thought he'd gotten to know Helen over the past couple of days, the way she told him of her childhood spent in fairytale and her little sisters that all three grew up to be doctors and her time in Moscow after college that she spent studying foreign language before she met Dino and her whole life was changed. But now, she was like a complete stranger. A cult? A cult? "Look, Helen, don't get me wrong– I'm gonna work for Dino until I pay off my debts, but I was raised Catholic. I more or less believe in the Big Guy upstairs, y'know?"

"And I was raised Jewish, but that doesn't mean I practice it," Helen replied, stopping with the dishes to lean back against the chrome of the sink for a moment. Her eyes shone in the mid-morning light and she looked ethereal, something unreal. "There are more Gods in the world than we are led to believe, Michael."

He didn't understand what she was getting at, gave her a questioning sort of eye when abruptly there was a knock at the front door, signaling and end to the conversation. "That'll be Pan," she said with a small grin, leaving Michael standing there in the kitchen staring at where she'd once stood, baffled. After a moment he got his wits and followed her through the dining room and into the living room, stopping at the door to peer into the entry hall where Helen opened the door to find a tall, bird-boned woman with a boy at her side.

The woman spoke in snippets of what Michael recognized as not any Middle-Eastern language, but instead something that sounded more like Swedish or German. The boy looked out into the house as Helen and the other woman conversed, his eyes landing on Michael and lighting up.

"Oom Ares!" he said enthusiastically, prancing into the house without warning.

Michael gave a small 'umph' as the boy's body slammed into his. He held off a curse from how the boy's sudden affectionate hug took him aback. Instead he blinked before awkwardly patting the boy on the back, trying not to be rude. "Hij kan zich niet herinneren u, Pan," said Helen from the doorway as she shut the structure, her discussion with the other woman obviously having been finished. There was a suitcase just inside the entryway now, as well as a stuffed goat sitting on top of it.

"Oh," said Pan, stepping back from Michael and tossing wooly hair out of his face. "Het spijt me."

"I'm sorry," Michael said, grimacing. "I don't speak…?"

"Dutch," Helen supplied for him. "Do converse in English please, Pan."

"Sorry," Pan said then, glancing up at Michael with shining green eyes, accent light and unsure. "It is fine you do not remember though, I did not either until I met Father last year."

"Was that your mother at the door?" Michael asked, changing the subject before they got on the whole 'remembering' topic again. He stuffed his hands in his pockets so he didn't begin to fidget uncomfortably under Pan's strangely admiring gaze.

"Yes," answered Pan with a bored frown. "I stay with her in Limburg except every other weekend, when I come here with Father and Ariadne." So Pan was in on Helen's nickname too, then? Michael glanced at the woman in question and she nodded in answer to his silent inquiry. "So you are from America this time?"

This time? "Yeah," Michael said instead of asking what Pan had meant by that last part of the comment. "I'm from Texas originally."

"You moved much?" asked Pan.

"Yeah," Michael said again. "I was a soldier and got moved to a lot of bases. The last one was in Montana." Where I got thrown in the slammer for killing someone and your old man sprung me free as long as I made a deal with the devil.

"Cool!" Pan cried, throwing arms in the air. "I remember when you used to teach me how to sword-fight and wrestle and–"

"Pan," Helen said in a warning tone.

"Sorry," the boy blushed, taking a step back from Michael towards his suitcases. "Well, I should go put my stuff away. Ariadne does not like it when I just leave things laying around."

"Okay," Michael answered, rubbing the back of his head in confusion as Pan grabbed his things and went up the stairs towards where Michael assumed the boy's room to be. There were a lot of spares in the house, his own guest room down at the end of the second-floor hall. "So you guys brainwashed the kid, too?" he asked the moment Pan was gone.

"It isn't brainwashing, Michael." Helen rolled her eyes, headed back towards the kitchen not waiting to see if he would follow. He did. "It is simply truth."

"Truth?" Michael questioned. "What truth?"

She cast a glance over one bone-winged shoulder, arching her brow archaically. "You will see."

He didn't like it here.

This place reeked like danger and the more he sat in the waiting room chair, the more his hands began to shake. He couldn't even properly light a cigarette, the receptionist behind the front desk throwing him weary glances when he started cursing about it.

"Are you okay, sir?" she asked in clipped English, smiling falsely over maroon lips.

"Yes, ma'am," Michael answered, bouncing his knee impatiently. "Think that meeting'll take much longer, though?"

The receptionist shook her head. "No, sir. They do not keep clients waiting for too long."

Apparently Dino's associates reserved themselves under the guise of an international law firm. Funny front for a cult, Michael had thought when Dino pulled them up in front of the office. The man had come home not three hours after Pan had arrived, ignoring his son and wife to grab Michael by the collar and out the door to Dino's fancy foreign car blathering about how his associates wanted to see Michael right this minutes and there was no time to waste. The last thing Michael had seen before being the door closed behind them was Helen mouthing 'good luck' his way.

It'd, as he felt, served for a bad omen. So did this office, with its foreign architecture and stained windows depicting scenes of violence. The plants lying around the waiting room weren't Turkish, but Greek. The pots they sat in had ancient etching on them and looked like something he'd seen in that Disney movie Hercules back on his first leave from military training. The chair he sat on was more of piece of art and the whole place smelled like extra-ripe wine and incense.

It was on his fifth try lighting the cigarette between his lips that the door Dino had disappeared into twenty minutes ago when they arrived banged open. Standing in the frame was a tall, lanky sort of man with wiry build. He motioned with one long finger for Michael to follow him.

Blinking, Michael stood from where he sat, cigarette forgotten on the floor. He didn't get a chance to notice the pitying look the secretary shot his way.

Anxiously, he followed the tall guy into a long hall equipped with various doors looking into spacious offices straight out of Law and Order looks wise. Between doorways were old, beautiful painting depicting scenes of war and story Michael had never heard of. Most of the figures were naked, draped only in half-made chitons as they fought and loved with unmoving form. Michael's attention caught on one picture in particular– a bronzed man with shining helm and spear, a lush woman wrapped around him as they laid upon a dais in some great pantheonian hall. It seemed almost a…familiar scene.

"I am Pallas," said the tall man, pulling Michael from his thoughts. Their eyes met and Pallas' glowed a strange burgundy color that gave Michael the creeps. "It is nice to see you again, old friend." His accent was Russian, his movements twitchy yet poised.

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember you," Michael said as politely as he could manage.

"You will soon," said Pallas, leading him down the corridor to a set of double doors which he opened to a large conference room. It was lined with wooden panels, the back wall made entirely of windows that looked down into the city streets. There was a large, round table in the middle of the room. Around it sat varying people of varying age. He spotted Dino on the east side, empty seat pulled out for Michael to sit at.

"Thanks," Michael said to Pallas, who gave him a curt nod before sitting down at the edge of the table nearest to the doors, which closed all on their own.

Michael took the chair next to Dino, acutely aware of the eyes on him. He shifted, kept his head high and refused to show how intimidated he was by these people. He may be some lowly ex-marine convict they hired to ruin someone else's life or whatever, but he wasn't going to act any less than them. If they killed him for cockiness, so be it. Not like he had much of a life outside of this business anymore, anyways.

At last, a sharp, regal looking woman at the head of the table spoke. "Mr. Bacchus has told us you're here looking for a piece of mind, Mr. Halefire," she said, lips curling up at the edges to show sharp teeth. She sounded like she was from around this part of the world, though looked like she could be out of a magazine, fine brown curls and flawless dark skin.

Michael nodded, swallowing the nerves in his throat. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Bia, please," said the woman. Her eyes sparkled with malicious intent. "I can assure you, you have come to the right place. Though, remembering won't be without its downfalls, I must warn. The mind is a tricky thing to trigger, especially for those who are no longer young."

"I don't…I don't understand what you mean, Ma– Bia," Michael admitted, brows drawn together.

Everyone else around the table laughed, causing chagrin to heat his cheeks. Dino gave his shoulder a reassuring pat before saying, "He keeps denying the truth, Bia. I am afraid that we shall have to speak outright, even though he won't believe us."

"I see," said Bia. She stroked her chin thoughtfully, giving Michael a sizeable stare before nodding. "You are a God, Mr. Halefire," she said simply. "More specifically, a God of war. We here are all Gods here, reincarnated throughout the years to be cursed to live the lives of mortals ever since they ignorantly forgot of our importance to them, we who created them.

"The men we have sent you after are Gods as well, though they are more savage than even the mortals in their greed and lusts. They have ruled for too long and we wish to put an end to such matter, which is where you come in. Logan Fairgrave and Violet Porter are crucial in finding something we seek, as their last embodiments hold the key to what we need, and since no one knows of your true identity yet, hardly even you, you are the perfect man for the job."

Bia paused a moment in her spiel then, giving Michael time to take in her words. And the longer the silence lasted, the more he thought all of this was a joke. Blinking, he looked at the people around the table, their expressions blank and waiting for his reaction. Even Dino seemed to believe Bia's words, nodding to Michael with reassurance.

And Michael simply couldn't help himself when he started to laugh. He laughed so hard it hurt and he bent over the table, still laughing. "You– you guys are nuts," he said, gasping for breath. "Shit, I told you they were just nightmares, Dino! God of war, ha! I hoped Helen was telling the truth when she said you weren't a bucha psychos in a cult, but I guess she was just– heh– pullin' my leg, huh?"

He laughed some more, eyes watering from all of this. Leave it to you to get involved with a cult, dumbass, he thought to himself, only it was his dad's voice in his head. The man had always said Michael would end up in more trouble than he was worth one day. And while Michael had thought that line had been crossed when he'd murdered that kid and gotten thrown in prison, it turns out he'd only been on the edge. He'd finally dove over when he'd accepted Dino's offer. Deal with the devil indeed, especially because these fruit loops thought they were Gods.

"I assure you this is no laughing matter, Mr. Halefire," said Bia, her tone having turned to venomous steal. "Your so called nightmares are memories. Though I can see it is going to take more than words to convince you."

"Lady, it's gonna take the fucking universe to convince me of a story like that!" Michael guffawed, ignoring Dino's warning tone when the man said, "Michael, you must not be rude."

"Yes, well, I don't think it shall require that much," Bia said with a roll of her eyes. She sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers together. "Cratos, Pallas, I believe we shall put into effect what we were talking of before Mr. Halefire over here joined us."

"You can't mean that, Bia," said Dino, and his despairing tone was enough to make Michael stop laughing and instead eye Pallas at the edge of the table where he began to stand. Next to him a beast of a man stood as well. Their eyes were the same strange brownish-red as they leered at Michael, making his pulse spike in warning.

"Hey now, wait a minute–" Michael said, but was cut off when Pallas and the other guy– Cratos– abruptly came forth to grab him by the arms. It was in that moment he knew he should've bought a gun when all of this started as he'd considered doing, if only to defend himself with. But at the time he'd figured it would be more trouble than worth. Now though, he knew so much better. Fucking idiot, his mind screamed, body struggling in the grip now held of him. The men were stronger than anyone else he'd encountered before, and he began to sweat with effort and dread.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, lady?" he asked, thrashing as if he were a wild animal being hooked to a chain.

Were they going to kill him, then?

"There are other ways of triggering the brain to memory besides talking, Mr. Halefire," Bia said calmly even as he battered against the men holding tight to him. He could've probably taken Pallas out if it was just he holding onto Michael, but Cratos was twice his size and about four times as strong. Even elbowing him right in the throat was like crashing bone into brick wall. "I believe a little repeat of your time in Iraq may start digging up…suppressed memories."

Repeat of his time in Iraq? What did she mean by that…?

Fuck, she couldn't really mean…

With a grunt, Michael began to struggle harder, a full-out fear inside of him now. They couldn't. Not again, he refused to let that happen again. It couldn't, it simply couldn't! Already, his lungs felt deprived, head swimming as he tried to make out dream from reality. He was drowning but there was no water on his skin, just in his mouth, his throat. There were screams of other men, his fellow soldiers, until finally he was the only one left, sitting to rot in his own filth while he died, only the sounds of war roaring in his head.

"Get the fuck off me! Get the fuck off!" he cried, kicking and spitting as Cratos and a newly injured Pallas– his nose was bleeding where Michael had managed to slam his head back and catch the man off-guard– began to drag him from the room.

"Bia, please," Dino tried, but the woman simply held up a hand for him to stop.

The men had Michael to the newly opened doors by now, hefting him down the hall even as he screamed and fought. "You crazy bitch!" he shouted at Bia, sweat pouring down his skin and adrenaline flooding his veins as if he were in combat all over again. Because he was. They were not going to kill him, but what they had planned was so much worse. Even the memory of his entrapment made him wish for death. "You crazy fucking bitch!"

"You don't know the half of it," Bia smiled, and with a wave of her hand, the doors shut in Michael's face.

For a moment, no one in the room spoke as Michael's shouts and struggles echoed down the hall, until suddenly another door banged and no more sound came at all. The silence was distilled only by Dino Bacchus, who raised his eyes to the woman at the head of the table with disapproval and worry for his old friend. "Bia, I really don't believe all of this is necessary. He has done everything that we asked of him. Surely there must be another way other than torture."

Bia shrugged, seeming unaffected and quite bored with the entire ordeal now that her decision had been made and Michael was on his way to break and bruise until the torment left nothing but his old life behind. "He wanted to remember, Dionysus," she said with an air of simplicity. "And so remember he shall."