He opened his eyes to fog and darkness. The ground beneath his sandaled feet was cool and wet. Sticky, muddy. It stank, too—like a bog, foul and rotten. As his eyes adjusted to the low light and he looked down at himself, he saw that he was once again clad in robes and adorned with jewelry. The low, aggressive snarl of what sounded like a large bear drew his attention forward; and there he saw a beast, cloaked in shadow. Three heads, each with a pair of glowing ember eyes, growled in unison at him.
As the creature moved closer, it became clear to Logan that the animal was a dog. A massive dog, as big as a two-story house, growling with the features of a canine on each of its snarling heads. Logan placed his hands in the air, backing away slowly. "N-nice doggy."
As he retreated, the beast stepped forward, shaking the ground beneath their feet, disturbing the thick fog around them. He continued to retreat until the damp bark of a tree pressed against his back, locking him in place with fear. Slowly, almost gingerly, the great beast padded forward until it was close enough for Logan to feel the body heat radiating from its jet-black fur.
"Nice doggy," he said, his voice nearly breaking. "Please don't eat me. Please."
It sniffed the air, leaning its three heads closer to him, and he froze as one of its wet noses—the size of his entire torso—pressed against him and inhaled his scent. He could feel tears streaming down his cheeks in hot rivers, could hear his breathing become increasingly erratic and terrified. His heart beat rapidly and painfully like a rabbit's, threatening to break through his chest. He hadn't felt this kind of fear since he was a child, and its potency burned his skin like steam.
The hound sniffed him again and yelped, almost as if in question, and Logan felt the urge to faint as one of its gigantic tongues licked his scalp. Please don't eat me, he thought, delirious. Please don't eat me. It made a sound then, one of recognition, and as it laid its massive heads down in front of him in what looked like supplication, its glowing ember eyes faded to a soft brown color. The eyes of a dog looking at its master.
"Nice doggy," he said again, collapsing against the tree. He couldn't lift his arms or turn his head; every muscle in his body felt completely drained as he stared at the curious, gigantic animal in front of him. "You're not going to eat me, are you?"
The dog blinked, a look of confusion crossing its three faces. Its middle snout nudged him gently and he folded over on top of it, completely overtaken by fear and no longer in control of his body. The animal whined; one of its other heads licked him again. He shuddered.
"Ah, there you are, Boss. I see you've become reacquainted with Cerberus."
At the mention of its name, the animal wagged its massive tail, creating a gust of chilling wind that sent goosebumps trailing up Logan's arms.
"Cerberus," Logan said, hesitantly reaching to touch the beast's nearest snout. Its fur was surprisingly soft. "God."
"No god. Just a hound that misses its master."
"And you're Thanatos. Death Incarnate."
"Bingo, Boss." Cerberus, Thanatos, Hades. Mythology, come to life. It was too much. It wasn't real, couldn't be. Just some nightmare, a fucked up hallucination of a class he took in college. Conjuring up mythic figures that he'd learned about in his classics elective—divine punishment, and probably well-deserved. "I've completely lost my mind." He laughed, though the sound was not amused nor pleasant.
"Tch. C'mon, Boss. We've not got much time here before the Furies arrive, let's go." Death Incarnate was dressed differently now, in robes similar to Logan's own. His silver hair fell down to his shoulders, slick and shining like mercury. Black, feathered wings folded behind his heavily-muscled back, and in the low light of the cavern, they sparkled with stars. He moved with fluid grace, though he was easily twelve feet tall now, nearly as tall as the damn hell-beast.
"Before you ask, I got them from my mother."
"Er. Got what?"
"My wings. You always ask about them."
"Oh," Logan said, hoping that if he would play along with his hallucination, it would end more quickly. The 'Hades' nickname given to him during his enforcer days had turned into a full-blown fever dream and he was just going to have to sweat it out...and probably see a psychiatrist about it, too.
They stepped through a black gate that shuddered closed behind them. The three-headed beast barked sadly as they continued on their path.
"Back to denying what's happening right in front of your eyes again?"
"You're not real."
"Glad to see your rigidity of thought hasn't changed, Boss."
The giant man in front of him was Death Incarnate. And he was Hades, God of the Dead. Yes. He'd sweat out this hallucination, but not before flexing his authority—might as well enjoy himself. Right?
"You're damn mouthy for someone who's supposed to be my subordinate."
Thanatos looked over his shoulder at him, nonplussed. "Come now, Lord Hades, before the punishment for your numerous misdeeds arrives, and the cycle repeats itself all over again."
Hearing the title 'Lord Hades' sent a sharp spear piercing directly through Logan's skull. The urges to faint and/or vomit both hit him simultaneously, and he was forced to brace himself against the cave wall.
"Punishment? Am I...am I dead?" he asked. This could definitely be hell. He certainly felt sick—and it wasn't like he hadn't earned his place in perdition. But, then again, the gigantic hell-beast probably would've ripped him apart already if that were the case...right?
"No, though if you dally, you soon might be. C'mon."
"Where are we going?"
"To see your son."
Wait. Logan shook his head, unsure of what he had just heard. "Son? But I don't—I don't have any—"
"You do, in fact, have a son. Hard won, too. He wants to see you, messy and human as you are."
Logan wanted to continue the argument, but then he reasoned that it was pointless to argue with a hallucination, so he dropped it. He was God of the Dead, and he had a son, and he was walking through the Underworld with Death Incarnate. Yes. Logan rubbed his temples; he was definitely going to have to be committed somewhere.
"Not much farther until we reach the Styx. I'll pay your fare this time. But remember that you owe me."
"I still have to pay a fare even though I'm supposedly the lord of this place?"
"Correct."
In the distance, he heard screaming—enraged voices, distinctly female, and he felt his fear beginning to return.
"Uh...what was that?"
"Dammit all," Thanatos swore, turning around. "They're here already."
"Who's here?"
"My meddling sisters. Get behind me."
From darkness, they emerged: three women dressed in black and red leather. Their clothes were modern, from what Logan could tell; not the restricting, unwieldy robes that he found himself in. Very modern, in fact—like something one would see at the Met Gala, if the theme were dominatrix fetish gear. They each carried whips covered in barbs.
One stepped forward, a wicked smile splitting across her sharp features. "Thany, look what you've brought for us."
"Alecto," Thanatos said, holding his arm out. In his hand, a scythe appeared. Logan's hands twitched, wishing for a weapon to materialize out of thin air for him too. But none came, because he wasn't a god, let alone Hades, Lord of the Dead—he was just a man. A human man: useless, terrified, and above all, fragile.
"You thought you could sneak the Master in by dressing yourselves in the old way."
"It was worth a shot."
"He smells even fouler than usual," said the sister behind Alecto. "The metal smell of red blood." The sister in the middle stayed silent, watching him with cool, red eyes.
"A poor, wrathful copy of the one who sleeps on the throne, wouldn't you agree, Tisiphone?"
"A murderer deserving of punishment, Alecto," said Tisiphone, nodding and stepping forward. Her features were the sharpest, like she had been carved from obsidian. "Look at how small he is. How... mortal. It's disgusting." She cracked her whip towards Logan, though Thanatos managed to shield him from the blow by spinning his scythe.
"Now, now. My dear sisters, there's no use in trying to torture him if he is not dead."
"You should've kept him up on the surface to play your game, Than." Tisiphone cracked her whip again and Alecto laughed. "You know what he's done. The punishments he deserves."
"The Prince wanted to see him."
The one in the middle broke her silence, keeping her face unnervingly neutral: "The son of a king and queen no longer capable of acting in accordance with their duties has no authority over us." Her gaze was probing, piercing unlike anything he had ever seen, and he was forced to avert his eyes to the ground. "Yes, look down," she continued, malice dripping from her words. "You are debased and pathetic, unfit to wear those rings that now adorn your fingers. All for that boy. Hmph."
"Megaera, you know this is his last chance," said Thanatos. "The Fates have run out of patience and will no longer be lenient toward our cause. The shadows of Poseidon and Zeus wreak havoc upon the world—"
"What should we, who reside in Chthonia, care for the misery the Olympians cause upon the surface?"
"The other pantheons have begun to notice. It will mean another war."
"They are the ones who made the pact! They are the ones who mocked the Fates," Megaera shouted, pointing up above. "It is not our responsibility to reunite their aspects. Chthonia was here before the humans and before the Olympians, and here it will remain until primordial Chaos decides otherwise. Now," she continued, staring at Logan once again. His ears were ringing; his skin felt hot. "Give him to us."
"I can't do that," said Thanatos.
"We won't ask nicely again, Than," said Tisiphone. "You brought this filth here."
"On orders from the Prince."
They laughed in unison. "The Prince, who is the cause of all this," said Tisiphone.
"Y-yes," Thanatos sighed. "Yes indeed. Yet he is still the Prince. And this...man, is our Lord."
"Seems like the Prince wants his father punished, then, for you to bring him here. Like a fool. You should've kept him on the surface, Than."
Logan watched as the three of them circled around both he and Thanatos, surrounding them. Shit, shit, shit, shit, he thought, desperately wishing once again that he had a weapon, a stick—anything to defend himself from the ten-foot tall furies waiting to tear him limb from limb.
"Aww, look, he's afraid," said Tisiphone, tutting her tongue against her teeth. "Poor little man, so scared of the punishment you've earned."
"Tisiphone, he is your King," Thanatos said, his voice tinged with warning.
"The King sits on the throne, asleep," said Maegera. "He ," she continued, pointing at Logan with her whip, "is only a man. And one deserving of punishment. Ladies."
Logan heard the whip crack before he felt the sting of its leather against his neck. It wrapped around his throat, choking him and cutting into his skin. There was a slight pull and he landed hard on his back onto the marshy ground. As the seconds passed, the whip grew tighter, and he tried to claw at the sharp cord winding around his throat to no avail. Distantly, he heard the sounds of metal clashing against leather, the flapping of wings, and the drawing of desperate breaths. As his vision tunneled into darkness, those sounds turned into the distinct yelling of his father; the throwing of glass bottles; the cries of his little brother; until at last the only light he could see was a sliver of bright yellow underneath a locked door.
The basement was cold. It was always so cold; the three of them had to bundle together to keep warm. 'Basement time' started as a timeout—"Much needed discipline," according to his father, and then it slowly became more than that, until they were living there, like rats instead of children. Mom would come down briefly and give them cold eggs and cereal for breakfast. Peter would beg for another hug before she'd leave, and she'd acquiesce once or twice.
"I'll get you out of here soon," she'd say, touching Logan's cheek. "But you need to be strong for Peter and Sofia. Can you do that for me, baby?"
Over time the yelling got worse. Eventually she stopped coming down at all, instead putting their meals at the top of the stairs. Mom was pregnant again, and too weak to do anything for them. The yelling got worse. Sofia was coughing more.
"Where're you goin', Big Brother?"
"I'm gettin' us out of here, Pete. Sofie needs medicine. Aww, c'mon now, don't cry. Why you cryin', Pete?"
"Daddy's gonna eat you."
That was the threat, the thing that always made them stay put, even if the door was unlocked, as it seemed to be now. Logan had heard that line, had believed it once, too, just like Peter, but he was older now—seven. A big kid, with big kid responsibilities, and his little brother was three, so of course he was still scared of being eaten. But Logan wasn't scared, no sir. He had to set the example and be strong. He could do it. He could. "Dad just likes to be scary for fun. If he was gonna eat us he would've done it already, y'know."
"It's not fun when he's scary."
Logan didn't know what to say to that, so he just said: "Dad's not gonna try to eat me."
It wasn't the first time or the last time he'd be wrong about something relating to his father.
As he walked up the stairs to the basement door, taking slow, ginger steps, the yelling got louder, until he could feel warm breath and spit landing on his face.
"WHAT IS YOUR NAME, RECRUIT?"
He was shaking. He was eighteen years old again. A drill instructor, a full head shorter than him, but commanding and frightening nonetheless, was screaming right into his ear.
"My name—"
"This recruit— SAY THIS RECRUIT!" Another one descended on him, the platoon sergeant, so that now there were two D.I.'s screaming obscenities at him. "YOU DISGUSTING PIECE OF TRASH!
"SAY 'MY NAME' AGAIN—"
"Aye, sir! My name is—"
" ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO SAY 'MY'—ARE YOU AN INDIVIDUAL ?"
"No, sir!"
"THEN WHY ARE YOU STILL SAYING 'MY,' RECRUIT?"
"This recruit's name is—"
"I TOLD YOU TO SAY 'MY NAME,' AGAIN, RECRUIT!"
The entire staff was on him now, all three hats, forcing him in turn to say or do one thing one moment, and then punishing him for saying or doing that very thing the next moment. The greatest of games: contradicting each other's commands so that there was no right answer; failure and humiliation were the only options. Tears were threatening to fall from his eyes, and though he kept them in, the D.I.s immediately noticed. They always, always noticed.
"ARE YOU CRYING ?"
" YOU HAVE NO BEARING AT ALL, RECRUIT! "
"WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU'RE IN A PLATOON AND HAVE TO FIGHT?"
"ARE YOU GOING TO CRY ?"
" STAFF SERGEANT ALENKO ASKED YOU A QUESTION! "
"CRY MORE!"
"Aye, sir!"
The tears were streaming down his face now and he couldn't control them. He was at Private First Class Hansen's funeral, on crutches, so it was impossible for him to present the flag to Hansen's family. His youngest brother, Will, was there, even though he hadn't known Hansen at all. Had the audacity to dress in his Army blues, newly commissioned Army lieutenant bars on his shoulder boards, and act like he wasn't a ghoul committing a massive faux pas for doing so, too.
After the funeral was over, Logan stayed behind to pay his respects to the eighteen year kid old who senselessly lost his life for a useless, endless war, long after the Hansen family had left. Thing is, Will stayed behind with him, and damn, that just pissed him off even more. How dare he? "What are you still doing here, Will?"
"I wanted to make sure you were okay. Sofie says you've been acting weird since you got back, and I didn't want you to go through this alone—"
"I'm fine, sir."
"Oh, come on now, Logan."
He turned around, not bothering to hide the rage in his voice. "No, you come on. You didn't know this kid or watch him die, and yet you stand here in your uniform, like he was your brother in arms. Did you get the attention you wanted, Will? Did you get all the 'thank you for your services' that you've been cravin' since gettin' into West Point?"
"Jesus, Logan—"
"Fuck off, Will."
It started to rain. The drops were fat, hitting hard against the headstones. "Fine," Will said. "Have it your way."
The rain fell harder, soaking through his uniform, leaving him chilled. His face was wet, though he couldn't tell if it was from the rain or from his tears.
A baby was in his arms, a little boy black of hair with green, sightless eyes. Behind him, a woman was wailing, screaming a name he didn't recognize. The baby in his arms was stiff, lifeless; still-born, they said.
"But how can that be?" he asked, numb. It does not rain in the Underworld, but his face was wet regardless. "He is a god."
Thanatos looked at him, his pale gray eyes laced with worry. "My lord...it would seem that the Fates do not abide the birth of a god in this place, to those who were once dwellers of the surface."
He wasn't listening. The baby in his arms was his. Small, gorgeous. He just needed to breathe. Just breathe. "Breathe for me, little one," he whispered, begging, but the child did not move.
It had taken so long for his wife to become pregnant, so long indeed that he thought he might be sterile. He had to have been the cause: she was a goddess of life and fertility, after all. A consequence of Fate; a result of his station, his rule over Death.
On a whim, they made love in the glade where he first saw her, in Enna, under the cover of night, and they had finally—finally —conceived. They may have ruled over the dead, but they themselves were not dead; they were gods, and they were fertile. And yet, the pain of being unable to conceive for an age was nothing compared to this: Fate's twisting of the knife once more. Punishment, but for what, he did not know.
His wife wouldn't look at him; she shrank from his touch, like he had poisoned her, and once again he felt Fate's knife twisting in his belly. His wife sequestered herself from him, from everyone, endured her pain alone and refused his comfort while his heart withered. He was a god, lord of the realm, ruler of a third of the cosmos, and yet he felt utterly helpless. What do I do with this pain?
At night, she wailed and the realm shook. He walked up the stairs towards the sliver of yellow light. He carried PFC Hansen on his back as shrapnel tore through his hip and thigh.
What do I do with this pain?
A man begged for his life in front of him, on his knees. "Please, Logan, please, I know I messed up, I'll have the money, plus interest, please, just tell the Old Man—"
"Too late for that now."
"Please, Logan, my family—"
"Should've thought of that before. It's what it is," Logan said, shooting the man point-blank in the head. The hot blood sprayed his face. His hands shook, holstering his pistol. His hands shook, trying to touch his wife's shoulder as she screamed their son's name.
What do I do with this pain?
The rain was heavy; the desert was hot; the basement was freezing.
The screaming became louder; his limbs became stiff. In front of his eyes, the world turned white, blinding.
"Mr. Black, you're okay—Jackie, hit him again with it."
He blinked, feeling clammy and sick. "Where am I, who are you people? "
There were several large men around him, holding his arms and legs in place, and as he struggled, he felt something sharp dig into his forearm.
"You're at Kino Hospital."
"Hospital?"
"Yes, Mr. Black. Your sister found you unresponsive on your bed. You suffered a massive heart attack."
"Heart attack? "
The EKG monitor started beeping rapidly. "Mr. Black, I really need you to calm down, can you do that for me?"
The arms around him were binding, frightening. The men's faces looked like those he had killed for the Old Man, and they were smiling. Their time to collect vengeance.
"Stop touchin' me!" he cried. "Let me go!"
"I need you to calm down before we can do that, sir. I know it's uncomfortable, but we need to make sure you're not going to hurt yourself."
Hospital, hospital. You're at Kino Hospital. Calm down.
He went limp, forcing himself to relax, yet the hands around him did not let go until it was apparent that his heart rate had slowed down. When the last of the nurses left, and he was alone with the eerily youthful doctor, he immediately knew that something was wrong.
The clock on the wall clicked loudly. Tick, tock, tick, tock. They stared at each other, until the young doctor grinned, inhumanly beautiful.
"My, my, my, Lord Uncle Hades, how I'd wondered when I'd be able to see your dark, brooding face again. I was never certain of the date, or the manner, but I always knew. The terms of the pact seem to have run you roughshod."
Not again, he thought. No more. Please.
"Who are you?" he asked, completely and utterly exhausted.
"Why, my dear, austere, grim uncle, I'm your favorite nephew, of course. Apollo," the doctor said, bowing dramatically, "At your service."
