(Alright, for whatever reason, I could not get this chapter to turn out the way I wanted for the longest time. Sorry for the stupidly long delay.)

-O-

Oliver woke up with a painful throbbing in the back of his head and a pang in his gut. He cracked open an eye and flinched as light from the setting sun hit it. Shifting onto his side, away from the stabbing brightness, he tried to take in where he was. He was in a bed, with a comfortable but cheap mattress and cotton covers, which he was laid on top of. The rest of the room was plain. A desk in one corner, a nightstand to his immediate left and a large window against the wall, curtains drawn tight, a sliver of sunlight peeking underneath. A door that he assumed lead to the bathroom was adjacent to the door leading to the hall, and it seemed to be dark. Even though he was wearing only a white tank top and boxers, he barely felt chill, even though it was December in Colorado.

Putting a pin in that train of thought, Oliver tired to sit up, only to be sent crashing back onto the covers as pain suddenly flared up at the base of his skull. A terrible, red-hot pressure began to build in his head, left him breathless and writhing silently on the bed, fingers clawing at his hair in a vain attempt to acquire some kind of relief. It built and built and built until it felt like his skull was going to split open and paint the walls in his gray matter and-

The mountain wind cut through my cloak like so many frozen arrows.

My fingers were clamped around my walking staff, stiff and unresponsive.

Then, suddenly, it was calm.

I looked up and my breath caught in my throat.

The countryside spread out before me, villages and towns dotting the green expanse.

And in the distance, shining on seven hills, lay my target.

Behind me, one hundred thousand throats let out a cry of triumph as they too caught sight of the glorious vista.

Despite being in full view of my men, I allowed myself a small, savage grin.

It was time for Rome to bleed.

-fresh, sweet air flooded his lungs as Oliver's eyes shot open, back arching up. The pain slowly dissipated, his head cleared, and a relieved sigh escaped his lips as he flopped back onto the bed. Whatever the hell that was, it seemed to be a release of some kind. He closed his eyes to will away some of the residual throbbing and sat up in the bed, rubbing his temples in small circles. This was the second experience he's had in as many days. Both started with a pain in the back of his head, and both showed some kind of event from the past. They were both vivid, and he only started seeing them after he came back. There had to be a connection there, somewhere, but Oliver just could not find out where it was, and it was starting to get on his nerves.

There was a knock on the door, and Oliver nearly jumped out of his skin. He said nothing, and after a beat of silence a voice called out, "Room service!"

Even though his stomach writhed at the words and their implications, he sure as shit didn't order any room service. Maybe one of his teammates ordered it? Then where were they? Common sense told him that they were probably gathering information or supplies, and were confidant that he would be safe in the room. Paranoia told him that it was another one of Apollo's agents, trying to trick him into opening the door so that they can avenge the God's sister. Then again, that would imply that there are Godlings with attention spans long enough to form a plan that didn't involve them just charging in blindly, and Oliver had yet to meet any. Still...

He didn't reply, and the voice called out again, "Sir! Room service!"

Oliver ignored the voice and walk/limped over to the desk in the corner of the room. The back of his knee still throbbed softly from where the Godling had hit it with a bat, but it wasn't as bad as it had been. On top of the desk was his set of winter camouflage fatigues, as well as some civilian clothing; a pair of jeans, socks, boots and a fur-lined, brown leather bomber jacket. Next to the clothes was a note with tight, neat handwriting on it.

Boss,

Denali and Rosa are keeping lookout in the lobby and on the roof, respectively, I'm doing some scouting magic, and Kevin went out to get real food. The stuff they got here is shit. He should be right back. And don't worry, you've only been out for a few hours. We're close enough to our destination to have a bit of time to kill, so just relax. Doctor's orders.

-Nina

P.S. Like the new threads? Picked 'em out for you myself.

P.P.S Weapons in the drawers. Just in case.

Oliver put the note down and wasted zero time slinging on his holsters, looking over the two outfits on the desk. He doubted that he'd need the camouflage any time soon, so he threw on the civilian clothing over what he was already wearing. Though it wasn't what he would pick himself, he had to admit; the fur lining of the jacket was very comfortable. As he got dressed, the knocking of the lady outside came to an abrupt halt. He waited a few seconds before pulling the drawer open. Inside were his two .45 handguns, his Ka-Bar knife, and an extra magazine for both firearms. As he slid home the weapons into their respective holders, he heard voices somewhere outside his door. They sounded hushed to him.

Oliver kept the Ka-Bar in his hand as he forced himself to heel-toe towards the door, held slightly behind his back. Though he was more comfortable with a gun, in such close quarters a knife was the better choice. It was easier to rush forward a step and stab or slash than it was to bring a handgun to bear on something vital. He tried to count the voices, but it was difficult to discern the differences in them through the wall and door. Three, at least. Stab the first, pull them into a human shield, leave the knife in their chest, draw a handgun, shoot the remaining two, get some answers out of the one with a Ka-Bar in their chest, leave. Like how they got past Rosa and Denali, for example. Plan formed, he rehearsed the motions in his mind's eye to get them perfect before lifting one eye up to the peephole in the door.

Across the hall, the maid lady was handing over a platter of food to the occupant of the room, joking about, "The wrong room."

Oliver blinked, watching as the maid lady closed the door and disappeared down the hall. He slid the Ka-Bar back into it's sheath with a shuddering breath, silently thankful.

A few minutes later as Oliver was cleaning his handguns, another knock banged against the door, this time accompanied by Kevin's welcome voice, "Yo boss, open up! Got some food."

Kevin stood in the hallway, arms laden with cheap-looking brown paper bags that smelled like heaven. He was also dressed in civvies, an olive army jacket and matching pants. He grinned brightly at Oliver as he strode into the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft kick. He dropped the bags onto the table and said, "Wasn't sure what you preferred, so I got a little bit of everything."

Oliver was about to turn him down when he felt a tremor pass through his stomach, and then the smell of greasy meat and fries really hit him. He reached into one of the bags and pulled out what smelled like a bacon cheese burger and a giant thing of fries. Before he knew it, there were two empty wrappers in front of him, and he was three quarters through the fries when he remembered to breath. Kevin raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing, leaning against the wall and chewing slowly on his own burger. Oliver set his third burger down on the desk and asked, "What happened after I went out?"

Kevin started to answer, realized he still had a mouthful of food, swallowed, and then answered, "Well, Nina did some of her healing magic straight away, and then-"

Oliver cut him off, "No, I mean what happened to me after I went out? 'Cause I feel fuckin' awful right about now."

The grin died from Kevin's face, and he started messing with the burger in his hands like he wasn't sure what to do with it, "It uh... it was real bad, boss."

Oliver told him again, but the look on the normally jovial big man's face made his stomach twist, and he had to force the iron into his words, "What happened?"

Kevin let out a long, shuddering sigh and said, "You were bleedin' from the eyes and nose, skin was steamin' like you were being cooked from inside out, shakin' like you were havin' a seizure," he put his burger down on the desk, his hands shaking slightly, but noticeably, "and you were... you were talkin', too."

Oliver felt his mouth and throat go dry, and he too put down the burger. He was almost afraid to ask, but he did it anyway, "What was I sayin', Kevin?"

"That's the thing, boss; we don't know. Wasn't Greek or Latin, Egyptian or Norse or anything in between. Sounded like gibberish to me, but Nina insisted it was a language of some kind."

Oliver sighed and rubbed his forehead. Of fuckin' course it was some mystery language. He tapped his fingers against the desk and forced his mind away from the topic. There were more important things at hand, and he had to focus on them. He asked Kevin, "When do we bug out?"

Kevin blinked at him, "Uh, boss, I'm not sure if you're-"

"When, Kevin?"

There was a beat of silence, before Kevin answered, "We can leave when Nina gets back from scouting ahead, in about," he checked a small watch from his pocket, "ten minutes. I got Schrödinger parked outta town a ways. Want me to go get her started?"

Oliver just nodded, and Kevin disappeared out the door and down the hall.

He bit his lip and glanced at the winter fatigues on the desk, folded and stacked neatly. With another sigh and a long look at the half-eaten burger on the desk, he stood up and started to change.

He wasn't hungry anymore, anyway.

The lobby of the hotel was small, clean, and dead quiet. There was a receptionist on duty, but he was utterly enthralled with the novel in his hands. Oliver sat in one of the admittedly comfortable chairs, while Denali stood in the corner next to the door, his slight frame and positioning rendering him all but invisible to anyone entering. There were two slight bulges in his jacket, hiding the two Glock 18s he kept on him at all times from any untrained eye. Though how he was supposed to use two full auto machine pistols at once, Oliver had no clue.

He was thinking about what he saw, trying to form connections and make sense of them when he heard Rosa's lightly accented voice buzz in through the short-range radio in his ear, "Be advised Lobby, possible contacts approaching. Vans, black, armored assumin' that extra bulk ain't just for show. How copy?"

A bit earlier, when Oliver had asked how Rosa was supposed to keep overwatch with a shotgun, she had simply replied, "Slugs."

Oliver glanced up at Denali. The smaller man just nodded and, if possible, shrank even further back into the corner. Oliver pressed his finger to his ear and replied, "Solid copy, Roof. How many?"

There was a few seconds of silence, before her voice came back, "Four. No plates, windows are tinted. Please advise."

Oliver frowned. Armored, unmarked black vans? That didn't sound like Godlings to him. He glanced at Denali. He shrugged. Sighing, Oliver pressed the radio again, "ETA?"

"Thirty seconds."

Oliver licked his lips. Every time Godlings have come for him, they rode in on Pegasi. Why would they change that pattern now? Then again, they did start forging entirely new swords just to kill him. But these weren't just pieces of metal attached to leather; if the description Rosa gave was accurate, these were secret service level vehicles. You can't just bang one of those out on an anvil or whatever, much less four.

"Twenty seconds."

He chewed his lip and muttered a curse to himself, glancing at the watch on the wall. Nina was still four minutes away, and Kevin was all the way across town. He made sure he was still armed, he was, before standing up and pointing at the ground, saying to Denali, "Stay here. They kill me, kill them back, then continue as planned."

The mute just raised an eyebrow, but stayed where he was. Oliver nodded and pressed a finger to the radio, "Roof, going out. Only fire if conflict comes up, copy?"

Rosa responded after a brief pause, "Solid copy, Lobby. Ten seconds."

Denali gave him a thumbs up while his face remained placid while Oliver rose from his chair and stepped out into the cold Nebraska night. The hotel was outside the city limits of Fremont, Nebraska, and the quaint little buildings seemed like blocks from this distance. A few cars were spread out in the hotel's parking lot in front of him. Part of him wished Kevin hadn't taken the Humvee. He would feel much more confidant facing down the mystery machines from behind a .50 cal. Just like Rosa said, four big, black vans were trundling up the road towards him, the setting winter sun causing the left side of the chassis to gleam. They formed up in a semi-circle in front of the hotel, engines eerily quiet for such big machines. Oliver forced himself to look calm, hands folded behind his back to hide the shaking.

For about two hundred years the vans were still, until the one that had been leading the pack opened it's passenger door, and a thin figure stepped out. He was wearing a crisp, slate gray suit, black hair slicked back, a pair of dark tinted glasses resting on his nose. As he strode up to Oliver, the rest of the vans opened their side doors, and men began disembarking. These weren't any Godlings Oliver's ever seen; they were in full combat armor, camouflaged for winter. They each had assault rifles in their arms, helmets with thermal goggles attached to them.

It seemed that the vans were packed to capacity, and Oliver's heart fell through his gut as at least two dozen of them poured out. And as he watched them form up into a half-moon in front of him, barrels pointed at the ground, he realized that no, these weren't Godlings. These were professionals.

The thin man was about three yards away when he stopped and planted his feet into the ground. He reached up and pulled away his glasses, revealing a pair of mismatched eyes, causing Oliver's heart to stop. Suddenly, he was back in Vermont, a lifetime ago, fighting off a monster with a man's face, and a man's name.

Thorn's face split into a broad smile, and his heavy French accented voice similarly split the silence, "Oliver Irons, I presume?"

Oliver's fingers were around one of his handguns before he fully realized what he was doing. He forced himself to breath, and he slowly unwind his fingers from his weapon. He cleared his throat and answered, "The fuck are you doing here, monster?"

If anything, Thorn's grin only widened at the insult. He said, "Monsieur Irons, I assure you that I mean you no harm," he bowed his head slightly, "quite the contrary, in fact."

Oliver squeezed his hands into fists and almost shouted at the Manticore in disguise, "What do you mean?"

Thorn straightened his back and began, "To ensure that the mission at hand is completed in a satisfactory manner, our gracious Patron has deemed it necessary to give you command over me," he placed his hand on his chest, "as well as a platoon of the Sons of Saturn's finest."

As he said that he swept his hand back at the assembled men in a kind of bow, who planted the butts of their rifles into the concrete and kneeled, bowing their own heads down.

Oliver felt his mouth go dry. The Sons of Saturn. One of the premiere paramilitary organizations in North America. They made up for their relative lack of numbers with near-fanatical devotion, discipline, and ruthlessness. Somehow, Gaea had either hired them to listen to some twenty year old with gray hair, or was pulling their strings all together. If Oliver had to bet, it was the latter.

And now he had a platoon of them.

Thorn looked up and placed his dark glasses back on his face, arms behind his back, that damn grin still plastered on his face, "What are your orders, Commandant?"