why hello my ever-adoring fans! ^^ (i'm feeling arrogant) i hope you enjoyed the last chapter and your new character, Agent Moros. Three guesses what his name means! (just kidding; it's obvious) let's just say that yours truly has a thing with greek mythology. yay. Responses at the bottom!

When standing, Agent Moros towered a full head over the other men around him. He had non-descript brown hair clipped close to his head, and he wore a pair of John Lennon-style sunglasses to top off his suit. The sunglasses were the only personality Agent Moros had at all.

He had draped himself across the base of a large statue in one of the many agorae of Athens. He had laid one long leg out in front of him, along the base, and the other he bent at the knee. Moros was using one hand to fiddle with a Zippo, and but for that one arm, Moros was not moving at all, still as the statue above him. At high noon, he was in the same position he had been in at sunrise and the same position he would be in at sundown. What's more, no one saw him because no one was looking for him; he was effectively invisible.

~@~

Rhea wandered down the lane, passing luscious groves and sprawling homes. The golden sun above her failed to pique her interest, nor did the ripe fruit growing all around her appeal to her hungry stomach. It was warm, but not too warm, and a cool, gentle breeze played in the air while fluffy clouds hung in the sky without blocking the light, their constant shifting affording several little children playing by the side of the road great enjoyment. Birds flitted through the air, singing and wheeling beneath the large, shady trees planted close to the road to keep the sun from beating down on the weary traveler. Yet neither the beautiful scene, nor the perfect weather could quite pierce Rhea's terrible countenance. She walked angrily aloof from her surroundings as if she moved in some terribly aggravating place instead of the most beautiful Grecian lane.

It seemed Rhea ambled blindly, but a whiff of something bitter trailing faintly on the wind stopped her. She sniffed the air delicately, reassuring herself that she really had smelt it. There was a cigarette burning in the city.

Rhea bounded away, unnoticed by the children; she leapt over rocks, trees, and even houses, shredding the countryside to get to the city. People scattered before her, falling over themselves and wondering why they did while she wildly followed her nose to an agora crowded with more people, where she scanned the throng eagerly. To her chagrin, all she saw was peons; she must have imagined the cigarette. She glanced over the scene again, proving to herself that there was no cigarette smoke, but her eyes flicked back to the statue.

There, on the base, sat the long-legged Agent Moros, with a cigarette dangling from his lips and several charred stubs littering the ground. He did not see her until she stood a pace before him, until she demanded his attention.

"Bastard," she growled.

He looked up, confused. "How…?"

"You killed Rhea."

"Apparently not."

She spat, "You deleted Rhea three days ago. Or have you forgotten?"

"Yes, I deleted Rhea three days ago," Moros said. "But, Rhea, here you stand."

"I'm not Rhea," she declared before sparks literally flew between them. Inside his head, Agent Moros screamed, searing pain erupting from his very bones as he felt every part of his body ablaze in white hot fire. There was no fire, he knew it, but it burned as if it was real. Knives stabbed at him, knives that were not there, knives that should not reach inside so far as these did. Darkness sank deep into his mind, spreading slowly. He willed it move faster, for everywhere it touched brought cool numbness, before he fell into the sweet peace of the darkness. Moments later, Rhea's body fell dead to the ground, Moros watching grimly.

He bent down, face blank. "I am your nemesis," quietly he said. Then, laughing demonically, he cried, "See, Moros, you're dead, too!"

The wind ruffled his short hair, but it was not a sea breeze.

~@~

All too quickly, they called the unknown avenger Nemesis, for she stole only the bodies of sinners. Striking like a violent ghost, Nemesis left behind the body of a missing person in place of her newest victim. Around her, legends of body snatchers grew up, but after a few hundred years, she disappeared with her legends. Then, on the eve of the fifth reloading, Nemesis surfaced again after securing passage from America to Japan, and as she waited in a warehouse by the edge of the sea, she caught a would-be attacker. However, he was but a young boy, aged twelve years tops, and his only protection was a small powder box. It was richly decorated with jewels and gold leaf, and, thinking her to be the robber, the boy offered it to her just as she leapt for his body. With the box held in front of him, open, he was saved; she was caught in the box. Terrified by the suddenly dead body before him, the boy dropped the box and ran, the briny air stinging his lungs.

~@~

The small boutique was actually a bit larger on the inside than it seemed, and the bohemian goodness of the raunchier European rip-roaring twenties filled it fit to burst. Tiffany-style lamps, most for sale, lit the room dimly, and feathers and coloured glass spilled across the entirety of the shop. Pillows and bedspreads of velvet and satin sheets draped themselves across beds and sofas, and several sat folded in mahogany drawers. Fancy Victorian prostitute dresses lined the walls, hanging next to the garb of flappers and showgirls. Lacey tights and sequined garters, feathered hats and diamond-studded cigarette holders. It was truly Bohemian Goodness.

One bright morning, a blonde street-rat slipped into the store unnoticed, grabbing some of the smaller dresses on her way to the back of the store. The child snuck into the dressing rooms, adorning herself in the rich clothes seen only on porcelain dolls. She spent several hours with the large fake rubies and dark red skirts before the clerks noticed her. Mistaking her for the daughter of a wealthy man, the clerks began styling her hair, dressing her as best they could, which was astounding anyways. They helped her into dress after dress, fitting each outfit to her très petite size. For several more hours, they showered her with praise and jewelry, but as soon as their backs were turned, the homeless brat smashed a glass case, grabbed the box inside, and made off with the goods, to the utter dismay of the clerks. They gave chase, sending the little girl into such a frenzy she sprinted up the side of a building, a feat that did not by any means go unnoticed.

After slipping through the window, panting, the little girl said to the box, "Why are you so special?" This was not unusual; she often talked to herself. It made the time pass quicker.

Gently, she explored the outside of the box with her hands. "Well, let's have a look at you." She had no idea where the invisible hinges were, nor could she see any lock, so she gingerly lifted the lid, hoping not to break it.

Just as she thought she could peer inside, a thump alerted her to an intruder. A man in a suit had just leapt through the window. Having no experience with any authorities, the girl thought the police were after her, which, as she had heard, was an awful thing indeed. She tucked the box under her arm and sprinted for the door, slamming through it and into the hall. Down the corridor she ran, practically falling through the rusted metal door above the stairs. She made it down three flights before her treacherous skirts caught her ankles and sent her toppling to the concrete landing. The world spun, and the child fought to stop the dizziness. She did not notice the disappearance of the box, but only ran onward.

Into the street, the blonde-haired brat spilled most ungraciously, ducking under the arms of businessmen and women. She was aware of the appearance of two new pursuers as well as the first. There was nowhere to run but straight ahead, until the entrance to a parking garage caught her eye. She threw herself into it, running for all she was worth, but the men behind her were almost on her. As they caught up with her, she screeched.

"Stop running," one demanded. Instead, the girl leapt behind a parked car.

She squeaked, "I'll give everything back, I promise. I won't ever steal again, just please, don't kill me."

"Give us the code you've stolen, and we'll make it quick."

While she sat terrified next to the tire, one of the men snuck up beside her, earning a shriek as she jumped back into another man. She kicked and struggled, only barely wriggling out of his iron grasp. She ran again, and they chased, easily catching her. She escaped from one only to be captured by another, and the distinct feeling that they were toying with her came over her. By chance, she leapt away from one onto a rusted grate, which fell from under her, sending her falling to the floor below.

~MnI~

­now for my excuses, I mean, responses… but first the excuses. I wrote most of this on various pieces of paper and I'm a disorganized scatterbrain. There.

Protectress: whoa, whoa, whoa. hold it. back up. rhea's kids weren't too nice to her, that's all i'm getting at. i was totally not pulling out symbolism that deep. you'd be stellar in my theology class, though. moros is named for a greek divinity, of course. glad you like the fic. oh, and you were the only one to catch pandora's lovely slip of the tongue. niice ^^

Kit: Rhea is that chick Ate and Eris kept talking about a while back. Oh, and phear the bohemian goodness!

Skittles: have some pocky. lots of it. ^^ glad you like it. gosh. i feel speshul. *blush blush*

FST: oh, i haven't stopped yet, obviously, and i'm glad you like it.

Wintergirl: next chapter will be chock full of ate and eris, i promise.

Pocky to all my faithful reviewers, and please, I'd love some concrit. I know this has issues.