There would be no plans. Bloodshed was the order of the day, and he would have his fill of it from the warehouse one row down. Angron did not know, nor did he care to know, what monsters would need with a warehouse. Maybe a stockpile, or a headquarters. Headquarters for what though?
Stop.
He felt a slight pressure, centered between his muscular shoulders, dissipate along with the curiosity. There was no place for plans today. Wisdom would be wise to leave him be.
Angron took a deep breath, ran a hand through his brown curls, released the air smoothly, and took off in a sprint. His father would have his due.
The wooded door of the warehouse blew inward under the force of his kick, showering the concrete floor with splinters. Their fear was intoxicating. Twenty monsters, no cyclopes, no armor, no ranged weapons. A golden, one-handed ax materialized in his right hand. The fear spiked.
"M- Me- Mercy," a small, green monster stammered.
Angron's response was simple. "For Ares."
He was upon them in seconds, cleaving scales and flesh with equal ease. One dog-fish monster raised a sword, its hands shaking violently. He slashed the dog-thing across the gut, spilling pale ropes onto the ground. The thing was staring at them when he drove his ax into its head. He cleaved a green, fanged monstrosity from its skull to groin and took the arm off at the bicep of a humanoid. Blood splashed him as he worked, and he grew faster from it. Angron backhanded a fire-haired female and drove his ax down through her clavicle, shattering ribs. He brought his ax-arm back, maximizing the force of his next swing.
Someone grabbed the handle of his weapon, just below the head. Angron thrusted his elbow back, obliterating the nose. He lunged as he pivoted to face the humanoid, slashing his ax across its chest. The man-thing spun with the force of the blow, slapping face-first against the hard floor. Angron mounted his back, grabbed a hand full of its denim shirt for grounding, and slammed his ax into the back of its head. He ripped the ax out, splattering his front in skull fragments, brains, and gold... blood?
Angron blinked and took a deep breath. All the monsters were dead. He looked at the golden blood oozing out of the fissure in the man's scalp Oh. Oh.
"Oh," he murmured.
.
.
.
Well, in for a penny.
Angron brought his ax down on the god's head twice more before the body burst into golden dust. Which was strange. Monsters, as ancient as the gods, did not burst; they rotted like everything else. Were these golden flecks some form of second life, like with the nymphs and satyrs and their plants? Could the moots be a part of a kind of regeneration?
The dust evaporated quickly, revealing a golden circlet where the body had been. Angron snatched it off the ground and it expanded as if to sit comfortably on his head. With a thought, his ax shattered into shards of light. The demigod turned to take in the carnage, saw that it was good, and left the voiding corpses where they lay.
Angron twirled the golden circlet around a finger, the light of his campfire making it glitter brightly. Midnight was close at hand and he was no closer to an answer for the enigma of the crown; there were too many possibilities. It could be a symbol of power, a marker of rank, or even a spoil of a sort. Monsters did not spawn items, but monsters did not burst into dust either.
He stopped spinning the circlet and looked into the fire. Regardless of what it might be, it was evidence. So, to Violence or Wisdom?
...Which had brought it into his possession?
"To Ares," Angron intoned.
He tossed the crown into the fire. The flames consumed it quickly and the fire's color shifted from orange to blood red. Argon smiled.
"That was unwise of you," a feminine voice said tersely.
Angron's head swiveled to the left, losing the smile with the movement. Wisdom stood just outside of his peripheral vision, but close enough to touch him. She was in blue jeans and a white blouse this time. Her brown hair, pulled back as it was into such a severe ponytail, added to the frigidity of her glaring grey gaze.
Angron offered her a flat stare, and responded, "Was there wisdom in my elbow, or the swing of my ax?"
Wisdom's nostrils flared, but she did little else. "There could have been."
"But there was no need for wisdom in it."
Wisdom scowled. "You think I'm being intrusive."
"I think." Angron turned his brawny body away from the fire to face her fully. "That you never visit without a request."
The two stared in silence, seafoam green challenging glowing grey. Wisdom looked away. Angron was mindful not to smile; to gloat was to invite peril.
She chose to look at the fire instead, her scowl deepening.
"I need you," she said, voice smooth as silk. And how Angron wished she had meant it how she implied, but he was no fool. When he did not react, she turned that baleful gaze on him.
"...One of my children travels in poor company," she confessed. "By being near them she is in danger. I want you to hurry them along to the camp."
Angron looked away from her, dejected. He searched the fire for some comfort his father could not provide. "I'll admit it," he whispered. "I had hoped you'd prove me wrong."
He felt her presence move a bit closer, but that was all. Was it pride that kept her away? Had he not made his intentions clear a thousand times? Angron sighed. "What do I stand to gain?"
"What do you want?"
The demigod shifted, gazing silently up into a face as beautiful as the universe was vast. Wisdom would not meet his eyes. If he could just catch her eyes, she would give in. "...A favor, to be claimed at a later date," he finally said.
Wisdom did not hesitate. "Done."
Angron rose, standing over her at six foot-five to her six-one. He took a half-step closer, placing himself deep in her personal space. Wisdom did not warn him off; she kept her eyes on his feet.
"I may find my death tomorrow," he began. "Will you send me to it like this?"
Wisdom placed a warm hand over his heart, fingers splayed. Fatigue seeped into every fiber of Angron. He pitched forward, his head landing on her collar bone. He turned his head into her neck as he slipped away into oblivion.
He awoke under the thread-bare sheets of a stiff bed in a motel room, well-rested and nude. Wisdom must have been responsible for the restorative sleep. The snoring that filled the room was loud, nasally, and would have kept him up the entire night.
Angron slid his feet over the side of the bed, his back to the snoring. A pair of black running shoes and a set of clothes sat on top of a black backpack. He pulled on the clothes: black joggers and a loose-fitting, grey long sleeve. The shirt had the Owl of Athens done in white on the front. He found socks stuffed in one shoe and a note in the other.
"The clothes and shoes are self-cleaning and repairing. I cannot foresee you ever needing to replace them. - W"
Angron chuckled, a low rumbling like distant thunder. She would claim him like the conquistadors with their flags claimed the new world. Wisdom would have to do better than a shirt; he was not a man to be placated by gifts.
A gasp pulled him back into the moment. He turned his head. The gasper was a bony little girl with a toothbrush in her mouth: tan skin, callouses on the right hand, smooth left, grey eyes, blonde hair. Her face reminded him strongly of Wisdom.
Angron smiled warmly at her. "You must be Athena's kid," he said. "Your mom sent me to help you."
"Uh, uh, Thalia?" she mumbled.
There was a grumble from the bed, but no movement. Angron raised an eyebrow and the little thing flushed in embarrassment.
"Thalia!" Wisdom's daughter shouted.
An older girl sat up in the bed, her hair a ball of black spikes and split ends.
"Wha?" the girl asked, still drowsy.
"Hello," Angron said in a conversational tone.
Thalia's head whipped towards him and she recoiled, hard, tumbling off the bed.
How had these children survived this long?
The other two in the bed, a scrawny boy and a satyr, were rudely awakened by her fall but slow to gain awareness. When the satyr got his bearings, he started bleating.
Angron stood then, boredom plain on his face. "If you all are quite done," he grumbled.
They grew silent, staring up at him apprehensively. Thalia pointed a pale finger at his chest. "Is that owl on drugs?"
That broke the spell on the other three: The satyr fell out of the bed, hooves tangled in the sheets, the scrawny boy fumbled for something underneath his pillow, and Wisdom's daughter palmed a bronze dagger in her right hand.
The son of Violence smiled at her again, cooing, "That's adorable."
And her little glare made it even more so, but there was a time and a place. Angron clapped his hands together, the sound clear and sharp, and the children froze.
"I can see that you all are afraid and confused." Angron placed his hands in the pockets of his pants. "I'm more than willing to answer what questions I can."
The older children glanced at the daughter of Athena, but the girl did not need prompting. "What's my mom like?"
An honest answer from him would not do; Athena had killed people for less. At the same time, he could not find it within himself to tell her a flat out lie.
"Intelligent, prideful, a bit egotistical." Thunder boomed overhead, but the son of Ares paid it little heed.
The satyr raised a hand like he was in school and mumbled, "Who are you- I mean, would you tell us your identity, uh, my lord?"
Angron glowered at him and the nature spirit started shaking. "I'm not a god, satyr. I am Angron, the first horseman, harbinger of war, son of Ares." Thunder, louder than the previous spell, boomed overhead. Angron rolled his eyes. His father was obsessed with dramatics.
The scrawny boy finally found his voice, and asked, "So, you're a demigod, like us? Well, most of us."
Angron nodded and they relaxed. Which was good for him, but it showed they were entirely too trusting. To be fair though, he had killed enough hostile demigods over the years to know better.
Thalia's gaze was fixated on his face, her neck turning red. "You've got to be the oldest demigod I've ever seen," she said bluntly.
Angron met her eyes evenly. "How old do you think I am?"
Thalia blinked. "Um, twenty-something?"
He supposed that was a fair assumption. The son of war was large, muscular, and lacking any signs of adolescence.
"I'm sixteen," he said, voice carrying a hint of humor.
Thalia's mouth opened and closed repeatedly without a sound leaving her. Annabeth looked from the scrawny boy to Angron and back again. Said boy got out of the bed, his chest slightly puffed out. "I'm Luke, son of Hermès," he said, voice cracking on his father's name.
The others took that as their cue to give their introductions.
"Thalia, daughter of Zeus."
"Grover, just Grover," the satyr said, bowing his head.
"Annabeth," the little blonde said, raising her chin. "And you already know my mother."
"I do. What city and state are we in?"
Luke was quick to respond, "Youngstown, Ohio."
The son of Ares nodded. "Then we just need to catch a plane." His charges cringed and looked at Thalia. Angron frowned at the daughter of Zeus, his green eyes penning her where she stood. "What's wrong with planes?"
"I uh, I have a fear of heights."
She could not look him in the eyes after she said that. Angron squatted down, checked the backpack, considered his options, and made his decision. He stood up, slinging the backpack over a shoulder.
"That's fine," Angron said. "We can catch a train to New York. Get dressed, we leave when you guys are packed."
Mercifully, they did not take long. The group seemed to have rapid packing down to a science. He ushered them out the door into the relatively empty parking lot. Thalia looked from one car to the next, and asked, "You wouldn't happen to have a better way to get to the station than walking or by bus?"
Angron fished in his pocket for his key fob, enchanted to always find its way to him, and hit the "unlock" button. A beep sounded from all directions, spooking the little ones. A white 2006 Pontiac G6 materialized in front of the group, the engine already running.
Thalia marveled at the four-door. "That's so cool."
Angron glanced down at her freckled face. "It's usually a 911 Porsche, but that won't fit all of you. By the way, here." He dropped a pill into her hand. "Swallow that. The car flies and I don't want you panicking if I have to take us in the air."
Thalia paled and swallow the pill quickly. Angron kept his amusement off his face.
Too trusting by half.
The sea of clouds outside the plane window made for a bewitching view; so free form and unrestrained. What would life be like as a cloud spirit? Did they cry when their parent cloud came undone? Perhaps it served as the first taste of the cost of freedom. But it was their existence, and they had no choice in it. Would they give up their boundless lives for permanence? Would he himself give up stability for the potential offered by an unfettered existence? That flight attendants "personal recipe" was more potent than Angron had initially believed; inebriation always turned him philosophic.
"I still can't believe you drugged her."
Angron looked away from the clouds and met Grover's glare.
"We're safe up here," the demigod assured. "The only danger to us is Thalia, so, I gave her the pill."
"You never intended to go by train. Was your car being able to fly a lie too?"
The secret bartender-flight attendant came by with his food and his fourth glass of her concoction. Angron thanked her with a wink and a fifty-dollar bill. He was more than a little pleased to her giggle as she left. "Yeah," the demigod admitted. "But I never have to stop for gas, which is better than being able to fly."
Grover allowed him to eat in silence, but not drink. "Alcohol isn't allowed at camp," he snapped.
"Good, children have no business drinking."
Angron felt the satyr's indignation as he drank from his glass. Hypocrisy was the lesser-known trait of the philosophically inclined.
"...That means you'll be left dry."
The demigod bobbed his head. "If I stayed, satyr, if I stayed."
"Why wouldn't you? You're a demigod, it's the safest place for you."
Angron considered his drink in silence: orange coloration, mango flavored, and no burn going down. Either he was drunk, or there was a great deal of sugar in this. He took a sip of it before he answered, "I thrive off of bloodshed and the subjugation of my foes. I am a conqueror, Grover, and there is no place for a person like that at your camp. "
"Everyone needs a place to call home," the satyr pressed.
Angron relaxed into his seat and watched the clouds. Not even their beauty could dampen the pain in his chest.
To hell with Wisdom.
"I had something like that, or at least I thought I did." He imbibed deeply from his tropical drink. "I suppose it's time I found a new place."
Turbulence rocked the plane violently. People screamed, Grover bleated, and attendants made to calm the passengers, but Angron did not react, keeping his gaze out the window. The turbulence was over as suddenly as it came.
The satyr was hyperventilating. "Y-You said it was safe!"
"It is."
"Then what was that!"
"My old place was acting unwisely," he said. "She could have awoken Thalia and doomed us all."
Green met grey. Wisdom was standing, in full battle regalia, on the wing of the plane like the wind was little more than a breeze. Even with the distance between them, Angron could see wrath turning her face harsh. Her chest was heaving, a golden spear appearing in her left hand, shattering into shards of light, and then reappearing. Over and over, the spear came and went as the seconds turned into minutes.
Would she have struck him down if he had been alone? Let her fury destroy the very thing she wished to keep for herself?
Yes.
Because Angron did think she was that selfish. She would run him through with her spear before she ever allowed him to run someone else through with his own. Not that she had ever been stabbed by his spear. Angron smiled at her and she bared her teeth. Distantly, he heard the satyr calm his breathing. "Who's she?" he whispered.
Angron turned away from the goddess then, but Grover was staring into the headrest of the chair in front of him, his face pale. "No one you need to worry about, for the moment at least." Angron looked back out the window; Wisdom had disappeared. "She won't hinder our trip to the camp."
"Go-Good."
The rest of the flight was uneventful, the disembarking long, the baggage-claim boring, and the ride out of the city proper silent.
"You didn't have to lie to me," Thalia grumbled.
Angron looked at her in the rearview mirror, her face still had red marks from Luke's shoulder and her eyes were half-lidded, and focused back on driving. They were riding over the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge now, the bay below it grey and choppy. "So, if I had told you the truth," he said. "you would have still taken the pill?"
Thalia gave no response; her silence was answer enough.
"Where'd you get it from anyway?" Annabeth inquired from the backseat. She was sandwiched between Thalia and Luke.
Angron smirked, "It was in the backpack your mom gave me." A collection of gasps sounded off. It amused him greatly.
Luke spoke in disbelief, "Athena told you to do that?"
"No, but she provided me multiple options on how to accomplish my mission."
Luke grew hesitant. "...What else was in that backpack?" he asked.
"Food, water, rope, nectar, ambrosia, and three more pills."
Grover, sitting shotgun, stared at Angron with wide eyes. "...You wouldn't have really tied us up, right?"
Angron did not take his eyes off the lanes. "You'd have been asleep for most of your time tied up, I assure you."
The feeling of impending doom suddenly seized Angron, but it failed to cloud his mind. He slammed on the gas, weaving past honking cars for the home stretch off the bridge.
"Whoa, whoa, slow down!" Grover yelled. "What's wrong?"
"I'd rather find out once we're off this damn bridge!" he growled back.
Annabeth whispered, "Look, the water..."
A blue Plymouth Barracuda had taken exception to Angron's driving and kept weaving to stay in front of them, playing on its breaks.
He did not have time for this.
Angron hit the gas, clipped the muscle car, and sent it turning sharply to the side, its tires screeching. He did not look back, but he heard it plow through the railing and plunge towards the water. The crash of the car hitting the bay came entirely too soon after.
Angron cursed, but they made it off the bridge seconds later. He took his foot off the gas and finally looked in the rearview mirror. A wave, as tall as the topmost part of the bridge, washed over it. The sound of crashing water, groaning metal and the screams of his charges filled his ears in an all-consuming cacophony. After the wave had passed, the demigods could see that the bridge was still intact and devoid of cars.
They drove the rest of the way to the camp in dreadful silence. When Grover pointed to a hill they needed to go over, Angron did not stop the car. He drove into the grass and up the incline of the hill; his car's tires and engine shifting for the change in terrain.
He did not stop the car until they were right outside the big house. Angron relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, the indentations left by his fingers clear to see and leaned back into his seat. Demigods in orange shirts were gathering around the car in a wide circle.
Angron closed his eyes, took a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair, and let the air out in an explosive sigh. It was not every day that Poseidon tried to murder him; his heart was still hammering against his ribs.
"You know what Grover," the son of Ares muttered. The satyr, stiff as a board, slowly turned toward Angron. "I think I'll stay for a bit after all."