Okay, so I understand that my first eight chapters are crap. You don't need to keep reminding me of that humiliating point in my life.
Disclaimer: You know how it is.
WARNING - Explicit language, violence, and innuendos.
Chapter 11 - Worthless, Helpless, Innocent
…
"You know what you are, my prince. You know what you did."
A blind man approached the green-painted door, hesitated, and felt for the door-knocker.
Thump, thump, thump.
He stepped back, releasing the knocker, and with unseeing sky-blue eyes, he glanced over his shoulder in the direction where he knew his twin sister would be standing, listlessly glowering up at the dim day moon.
Even with the sound of Queens' bustling streets, the blind man could hear shuffling from the other side of the green-painted door. The rustling of pages, the tapping of a typewriter. "One minute!" promised a feminine voice.
Regardless, the blind man snatched the door-knocker again, finding it through memory, and rapped against the door.
Thunk, thunk, thunk!
"God, I said one minute!" simmered the voice from the other side of the door. "If it's a package, just leave it, I'm working. Sorry."
The blind man smiled ruefully, then finally spoke. "My kind of package I don't leave lying around doorsteps."
The stunned silence from the inside incited an anxious swallow from the blind man. Maybe a sexual joke was crossing the line. But they had gotten him this far with mortals. Then again, Mara Day wasn't like most mortals. There were urgent whispers, and even from here the blind man could hear Mara desperately shooing her daughter from the room, promising her ice cream and television—anything at all to keep her from seeing the man just outside their threshold.
The blind man's heart knotted itself a tad, and whatever light mood he leaned on perished. He heard the door unlocking, followed by a pause. Mara was readying herself for the onslaught of unbridled fury and other conflicting emotions that were bound to come boiling up from once cold pots.
She opened the door. "Adam." Her tone was brisk, formal, but still had that husk to it that would make her a fantastic phone operator. "If that's even your name."
Gods among us, she sounded hotter than she did four years ago. Or has it been five?
The blind man smiled. It was a sad, small smile, that quirked the edges of his sculpted lips and crinkled the corners of irksomely empty, brilliant cerulean eyes. She could feel her gaze washing over him, trying to find hints to where her once-lover had been all these years while she was left alone, young, desperate, and impoverished, to take care of a lovely little baby girl that was theirs. And she didn't even know his name.
Eh, what the Hades. "It's Apollo, actually," said the blind man, almost awkwardly. He bounced on his heels, the nervous tendency of some hardwired athletes.
He heard her scoff. "Surprisingly fitting. Apollo was the god of poetry, of healing, of the sun, and prophecy. You always had an almost inhuman relationship with any instrument you got your hands on. It all fits, except for one thing." She leaned in, he could feel her presence draw nearer, smell the perfume. Honeysuckle. "Apollo was the god of truth. You lied about everything. You lied about your name, your identity. Your job, your family. You lied about loving me." She took a breath, which was practically blazing with near unrestrained rage. "Do you know what that does to a woman? You make her open up, you seduce her into lowering her walls until she is vulnerable, then you rain traumatizing hell on whatever's behind those walls."
Apollo didn't answer.
"I went to authorities after you disappeared, Adam—Apollo—whatever the hell you are," she spat her literations like they tasted vile on her tongue. "The only known Adam Brookly in the world is a Canadian banker, and he's latino."
"Not with that name he's not," Apollo chuckled, sobriety returning swiftly after.
"Who are you?" Mara Day shook her head and leaned against the threshold, crossing her arms. "Not even the government knows who you are. Why did you feel the need to thrust yourself into my life?"
Apollo faced where her voice came from, and hoped that where was looking was her eyes. It wasn't. Mara scowled, disgusting, and crossing her arms protectively over her bosom. "I can't even—the nerve of you!" She went to slam the door in his face, but Apollo, noting his error and sensing what was happening next, shoved his sneaker in the doorway. The door slammed against it and bounced back open, and he leaned his weight against the door to keep it open at Mara fought to close it.
"What do you think you're doing?" screamed Mara, "Go away!"
"Mara! Mara look, I'm sorry! I—," he shoved the door open, his strength superior. "Look, I don't—I couldn't tell." For emphasis, he waved a hand over his unregistering eyes.
Mara stared at him, incomprehensive for a few drawn-out seconds before her own eyes widened. "You're blind."
"Yeah."
She studied him, and for the first time since their encounter, she really looked at the man whose charm once had her ensnared. He wasn't the same. Hell, the both of them had changed immensely. Mara had grown stronger, grown up a lot quicker under the responsibility most women in their thirties would dread. She was resolute, headstrong, and mature.
This man before her was a man defeated. His shoulders were slumped, hands tucked into the pockets of raggedy jeans. His hair, which was once so devilishly mussed was now truly messy, radiating hobo vibes. The slopes under his eyes, bruised hills, spoke of the lack of a good night's rest in months.
"If this is some ploy for sympathy," Mara said slowly, "You aren't getting any from me."
Again, the god smiled. He tilted his head back. "You never really win a woman over with sympathy. A man can lie and lie and lie about dying, about suffering from grief and about losing a fabricated friend or family member, but that'll only win him a comfort-hug and maybe a sad little peck on the cheek." He placed his hand on his cheek, closing his eyes. "No, if you want to win a woman, Mara, you have to be what she wants you to be. Be her listener, her Disney prince fantasy, her protector, her wallet. Not all girls are like that, of course, but I'm just speaking of the majority. You…" Eyes opened again, he tried to find her through the powers that veiled his vision, but to no avail. "You are different. Unlike some girls, you wear no makeup, despite acne scars. You dress modestly, though you have the body most girls would kill for. You were free-spirited, your head in the clouds, filled to the brim with wonderful little tales of your characters and your worlds. You were the first girl I had ever met that felt no need in a man, who didn't really care how men looked at her. You had me the first day we met, Mara Day. Not the other way around."
Mara glanced up the narrow stairway to ensure that Abby wasn't listening in as Apollo continued.
"It took much longer than other woman I've been with. That's when I knew this was worth it. You were worth it."
"We knew each other for seven days before you got us drunk," Mara snapped.
"It usually takes an hour," Apollo shrugged.
Mara felt like vomiting, and she promised herself if she did, it'd be all over his shoes. She shook her head, lovely features contorted with contempt. "You player shit. You just wanted to get in bed with me."
"Yes," he admitted unrepentantly. "To begin with, yeah. That's all I wanted. But the next morning…" Apollo paused, his expression growing distant and wistful. "I turned over and I see you. You're bathed in the sunlight glaring in through the window. Your hair's all over the place, and you were snoring because you were recovering from some sinus infection."
Mara blinked. She didn't recall telling him about that.
"There were freckles on your shoulders, over your nose. And you were drooling," Apollo chortled, forgetting himself, "And I asked myself: 'Why the Hades did I want this girl?' I stared at you for a while, how imperfect you seemed, and I realized that that is exactly why I wanted you. You seemed so much more real than other women I've been with. Models, actresses, reporters… When you woke up, when you smiled at me and yawned like a hungry hippopotamus and offered to make us both coffee and talk this over, I realized one thing: I was in love with you."
"Hah!" It came upon Mara, a fountain of dry, dark humor. "Ahah! Don't bullshit me, guy. You can't come to my house out of the blue, you can't knock on my door, you can't attempt to make amends for what you've done to me, and you most certainly can not spit horseshit out of your mouth and expect me to eat it up!" She strode past Apollo, to the door, and and opened it wide. "Out. Get out."
Apollo continued without missing a beat. "People like me aren't supposed to love like I did, Mara. I didn't want to run, it wasn't my choice."
"Bullshit. Out."
"The Mara Day I knew didn't curse."
"The Mara Day you knew is dead!" Mara practically screamed, "You killed her! I had rooted myself to you and the belief that I had found the rarest thing on earth," she took a quivering breath, "They almost took Abby. I was on antidepressant pills for months, and the doctors thought an abortion was best for my health. I—..." She covered twitching lips. "I didn't want her, I didn't want to raise a girl in this world without a father. What kind of life that would lead? I didn't want my firstborn to live like I did," she tried to regulate her breathing, "I signed the papers, Adam. They were going to take her, inject me with a chemical and she would go as smoothly as falling asleep. It was in me, Adam. I made the decision, I killed our baby. Five minutes later, I felt a bump. She was kicking! I thought she was too small to kick. I knew then that I had made the biggest, most horrible," she coughed a sob into her first, "... I felt like a monster. I thought she was writhing with pain in my own tummy, dying, and I had killed her. It was as easy as snuffing a candle flame." Rivulets of tears trickled down her cheeks. "Five more minutes passed. The doctors came to me, they were speechless. They told me that had injected two pumps of the poison that would kill her, more than enough for a smooth and proper passing, but she was alive."
She was crying now, walls akin to post-Jerico, all the tension was washed away with the drops of Mara's tears. Apollo felt like he should embrace her, offer her what strength he had left in this moment of weakness, but he knew that would make things worse. Mara saw him as a grotesque animal. She would never let him touch her, not ever again.
"They," Mara sniffled, "They offered to try again, no fee. I screamed at them no. No, don't take her away. She's beautiful. This was before her gender had even been identified. They thought I was raving mad, but they let me go. Months later, I go in for a check up, and they check her sex. And I swear to God the whole nursing staff were converted to Christians that day. The woman whose baby fought and defeated a lethal poison, then tells them that it's a girl."
A long silence followed. Apollo didn't know what so say, other than to note how strong his daughter must be to have fought the mortal concoction as a baby barely out of the embryo phase.
"I want you out, Adam," Mara said softly. "I want you away from me, away from my daughter, and I never want to see you again, or so help me God I will stick your head so far up your ass you could eat your own stomach."
"I want to see my daughter."
"She's not yours, Adam. You gave up that right when you left."
"No," Apollo shook his head, "No, you don't understand. I have to see her. I need to tell her something."
"What could you possibly tell Abby?" Mara was incredulous.
"He wants to give me my birthday present."
Both adult's heads spun in the direction where Abby spoke. Somehow, with mynx-like stealth, she had crept down the stairs, and was now seated half way down, clenching the bars of the railing with little fists. With big blue eyes, so much like Apollo's, she stared and stared at her father.
Apollo thought he might cry. No prophecy, no foretelling could ever possibly prepare him for hearing the voice of his last daughter, the heir to his legacy, for the first time. She sounded so beautiful, so profoundly angelic, and he wanted nothing more than to take the girl in his arms and hug her and smother her in sloppy daddy kisses. Oh, the brutality of immortality.
"You hurt my mommy," Abby said as Apollo slowly approached the girl, as though he were nearing a frightful doe. "But she will forgive you. Mommy is very forgiving. And she can do cartwheels, too. Not many mommies at the daycare can do cartwheels. Some are too fat, others're too shy, and most think it's… it's…" Abby squinted her large, breathtaking eyes, in search for the perfect word. "Improper."
"Abigail Bethesda Day," breathed the god of the sun, "You're right, I'm here to give you my present."
Abby stared at her father, expression unreadable, which was unsettling to see in such a young and alive child. "You're one hundred and eighty-two days late. I can wait another one hundred eighty-two."
Even Mara was stunned. She had expect at least a light dose of curiosity from her girl, but Abby seemed to have expected her father's arrival. And rather than anger, or confusion, or joy, she met Apollo with grim and blatant rejection.
Abby's rebuff rolled off Apollo's shoulders like water over riverstones. He approached the slight and sullen little girl, fumbling for the railing. His hand found it, and against his will, the god's voice broke when he spoke. "You sound so perfect."
Gods, when had he become so mortal? When your godhood was robbed.
Mara stepped over to stop the intruder in his tracks, to keep him away from her beloved daughter, but Abby shook her head. "Mommy, he's right. He needs to talk to me."
The young mother halted, blinking. "Abby, sweetheart, don't be silly, he's—"
"—My daddy," finished Abby sagely. "Apollo, God of the Sun and Prophesies and Health and Archery and Music and… and, um," again, her eyes narrowed intensely, "of truth."
Apollo grinned madly. She had dreamed of this very encounter, she knew who he was. She probably even knew what she was going to have for dinner. This little girl, his very last daughter, was far more adept than he had imagined. She had the potential of godhood in her blood. Maybe the Fates had remained true to this world after all, rather than abandoning Earth. "You're right, Abigail, girl. You're absolutely right," breathed the god. He drew closer.
Mara hesitating, the primal urge to send this man toppling out of her house and down her steps suppressed by her daughter's chilling words.
From under Apollo's jacket, he revealed a leather bound volume. It was frayed with age, and glaring from its crest, winking in the house's lights, snugly lay a pure scarlet ruby the size of a large toe. Breathlessly and in total awe, vibrant eyes so wide with delighted wonder, Abby took the book in her delicate little hands and traced her fingers over the worn cover.
"I'm meeting her soon, aren't I?" Whispered Abby, elated and anxious.
"Very soon," confirmed the god.
Abby felt the book's buckle that clasped it shut. "May I?" She said, tentatively.
Mara shook her head as though she might be dreaming. Her daughter, her Abby, never asked another adult for permission. And who is this girl they so passively mentioned?
"Sure thing," Apollo nodded. "It's yours now."
The buckle seemed to unclasp itself as Abby stroked it methodically with tender fingers. The cover swung open, and on the first page stared back an array of words in Ancient Greek. Abby began reading dutifully, her lips mouthing the words she read as smooth as she might read English. Smoother, even.
"The Mist," said Abby.
"Crumbling," Apollo said, "It will be gone by Christmas Eve."
Abby fixed her attention on Apollo with a grim stare. "The world will change."
"Dramatically," Apollo nodded again, then coughed into his fist. "Protect your mother, okay Abigail? Keep her close, protect her."
"What're you saying to my daughter?" Mara demanded, stepping closer. "Adam, what's going on?"
"What about you?" Hissed the little girl. She clutched the book to her chest.
Apollo's smile was morbid. It was bitter and it was peaceful and it was just so very sad. "I'm an old man, kiddo. A Cataclysm is coming, a storm with no other purpose than to shake humanity to its founding bones. The gods' hour has come, we've lost the war to time. It's about time we fade humbly into the shadows."
"What do I have to do?" whispered Abigail Day, lips parted, awestruck and terrified.
He told her, gentle and comforting whispers into the little girl's ear. Then he pressed a firm kiss to the girl's brow, as he will never hear her again, and then he was gone. Out into the night, across the street to the car where his listless sister sat, lauding the moon and bathing in its divine shine.
Mara Day watched them go, and she felt uncharacteristically saddened. For whatever reason, she knew not. So many questions boiled in her mind, and when she had turned back to her daughter, she asked the one question that stood at the summit of curiosity.
"What did he say? I couldn't hear."
It took Abby a moment to return to planet earth. She rose her head from the book that was given to her, auburn curls framing a youthful and somehow regal face. She said two words, one name.
"Tony Stark."
…
That was not the end of the Days' night.
Just as the car zoomed away into the distance, and as Mara closed the door to their condo, leaning against it, mentally drained, another vehicle slowed and parked itself at the other end of the road. It was a black suburban, its windows illegally tinted.
The back door popped open and a terribly average man, balding and plump, hopped out. He fixed his glasses, and despite it being 10 at night, looked both ways down and up the road before crossing to the Days' residence.
Mara, at the other side of the door, went to the open kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee, after which she'd examine the gift Apollo had given her daughter.
Just as the coffee maker began humming, the average and balding man had successfully lock-picked the door and swung it open. Mara hadn't heard it over the humming of the coffee machine, but the cool night breezes would reach her promptly. Abby noticed the man from the stairway, however, and her lips parted, frightened. She couldn't make a sound.
Stepping briskly, the man pulled from the flat package in his hand a record disc, and he placed it on the antique record player at the end of the hall. He set the needle down just as the record player began spinning the disc.
I Got You (I Feel Good) by James Brown began to tumble from the record's mouth. Mara yelped, dropping her mug of hot water, which shattered against the ground. She spun to face the hallway, and spotted the intruder and the spinning record player.
"Who the hell—? What—," she desperately snatched a knife from its rack on the counter and pointed it uselessly at the plump man. "What are you doing in my house?"
The man rose his hands, but he remained dead calm. "I'm not here to hurt you," he said in an accent that was definitely European, yet not at all friendly.
Mara shook her head. She felt something like static buzzing at the helm of her conscience. The muscles drawn taut with panic relaxed a fraction, and Mara involuntarily lowered her knife. "Abby, where's… Abby, are you okay?"
"Your girl is fine," assured the intruder, sparing a glance at the girl who crouched on the steps like a doe in the headlights. "She will be fine."
"Don't… don't." eyelids torturously heavy, a throbbing headache. It came like a pool of magma filling a once cool sink. The young mother gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, leaning against the counter. "Don't touch my dau…" The privilege of speech became something totally unknown to the mother.
"We're not here for your daughter, Ms. Day," murmured the plump little man. He grinned suddenly, like he knew a secret she did not. "You know who you are, Ms. Day. You know why I am here."
"I've never…" Mara tried to stand straight. She rose the knife again, fighting it. Resisting the magma pooling in her mind and melting away all sense of being. All that mattered was the threat. "I've never seen you in my life."
The intruder took a step back, scowled, then turned to twist the volume knob of the record player.
The increased volume almost sent the young mother reeling as if she suffered some severe mental blow. She clapped her hands over her ears, but the I Got You bled from between her fingers to stab fiery arrows in her mind.
Mara Day screamed.
Abby grimaced from her spot on the steps, clutching her belated birthday present close, and looked on in horror as her mother writhed against the counter in unmatched agony. All she wanted to do was help, to take the thick volume to the intruder's noggin, but she knew that could be no option. There were some things outside. Bad, bad things, with claws and smiles and sharp-toothed monsters. She knew they circled the house like wolves, and they gnashed their fangs and howled with delight when the sounds of Mara Day's pain blessed their ears.
Nobody else could see them, though. They were only her enemies, and hers alone. But they would not allow her to interfere. If she did, they could kill everyone.
And so she sat, and she watched, and she cried.
Mara Day lay still at last, appearing to have passed out from the torture. The balding intruder turned the volume back down, which hadn't even been that loud to begin with, and pulled the disc from the record player, sliding it back into its package.
"She fought it this time," spat the plump little man, clearly frustrated. "You said we wouldn't have any issues. That is an issue."
"Oh please," the woman that was Mara Day, but not, sat up. She rubbed her head, wincing, as though it had been struck. "It was nothing you couldn't handle."
"I am just a scientist! A psychologist!" shot back the little man. "What am I supposed to do if your roommate fought the trigger off enough to get a blow at me?"
The woman that was not Mara Day checked herself in the reflection of a wine goblet. She frowned disapprovingly and ran her fingers through her mussed, lush, dark auburn hair. "Too long," she clucked. "Impractical. You're half a year late, Doctor Avil."
Avil threw up his arms. "The Avengers! After SHIELD fell they got their hands on in-base intel. They know our outposts, our checkpoints, all our facilities! So my team and I decided to move, sanction ourselves in Albuquerque until the Massacre blew over."
"You ran when HYDRA needed you," the woman quirked Mara's slender brow. "Why should I not kill you where you stand?"
The doctor laughed. "Oh please," he mocked. "We both know I am far more important than you could ever be. You are just an asset; I make the assets. So, rather, why should I not have my men hang you from the lamp posts outside?"
Not-Mara's smile was slow but sure, wicked and knowing. "Because I have information on Percy Jackson."
Doctor Avil's eyes widened. "The New York Incident."
"Yes," confirmed the woman, perching at the brim of the counter, "So that wasn't you. Thought you were trying to kill me, at first."
"I hadn't ordered the assault," said Doctor Avil, "I can't! I'm just a psychologist."
"Oh, for the love of God," the woman threw up her arms and slid off the counter. It was strange, seeing someone wear the same face as Mara, speak in the same voice as Mara, but seem nothing like her.
This woman had a lax, almost predatory slink to her saunter. Her voice adopted a lilting tone that exuded peril rather than admiration. It was almost if Mara Day had taken a long swig of vodka, stretched long unused muscles, and was ready to "bring the sexy back."
Her name was Ray Adams, created by HYDRA.
"Well?" urged the doctor impatiently. "What is it? Tell me."
Ray leveled the man with a flat glower, and he wilted away like a snail under salt. "Now why would I do that? You're just a psychologist."
Doctor Avil scowled yet again, then spat.
"Yuck!"
Both heads spun to stare at the little girl crouched on the steps. Abby had exclaimed her disgust of Avil's actions involuntarily, and now had her hand clasped tightly over her mouth.
Ray shook her head. "Kids," she muttered.
Doctor Avil shuffled his feet, averting his gaze. "The Faceless Man is here," he said, defeated. "He will debrief you."
With absolutely no belief in what she was hearing, Ray stepped to cut the doctor off as he made for the exit. "You can not be serious. Why would he be—"
"He's fascinated," Doctor Avil didn't meet her eyes, and instead busied himself with adjusting his glasses. "Fascinated in you and Ms. Day's… relationship. He now possesses Level Cerberus, so you may tell him everything." He dabbed his brow, which shone with sweat. "Damn it, damn it. Percy Jackson," he mumbled on and on as he bustled out the door.
Ray watched him go, then turned to jab a finger at her dual-self's daughter. "One word while he's here and I'll feed you to the neighbor's pooch, capiche?"
Abby stared at her, knowing full well who exactly glowered from behind her mother's face. "Poodles don't eat people, dummy."
Ray didn't answer, and instead sat herself down at the kitchen table, staring blankly ahead as if the chair she sat in may be the throne of the death row. She was tense, too, like she expected the jolt of thousand vamps of voltage to shock her body to death. She stared at the open door, averting only when the threshold was filled suddenly, and a presence entered the room with ghoulish silence.
The Faceless Man probably did have a face under that black mask. It was a head-sock, made of some seamless, ebony fabric. The eyeholes were concealed with built-in lenses of shades. He wore on his head an equally dark, wide-brimmed hat, at its crest gleaming a stainless steel star. His suit, black, tailored with silver buttons. His pants, shiny shoes, all inkwell black.
This man was like a walking shadow.
Even with the skintight mask on, Ray could see how it clung to the Faceless Man's, well, face, telling tale of a man gaunt and towering. Hollow cheeks, a sharp jaw.
The Faceless Man paused on his journey down the hallway to closely examine a 2 by 2 fresco hanging on the wall. With black leather gloved hands he reached up to stroke the oakwood frame.
"I want this," he said.
Just as he concluded his admiration of the fresco and continued down the hall, one of the HYDRA agents dogging his steps took the fresco and tucked it under his arm.
"Ah," the Faceless Man's voice, smooth with a honeyed tenor, was not at all muffled by the mask's material.
Ray struggled to find any hint of eyes behind those tinted dark glass lenses, any sign of movement that signalled anything human.
Nothing.
As he came to the lip of the hallway, again the Faceless Man stopped, this time to behold Abby Day. He altered his course from Ray and instead crouched down at the bottom of the stairs.
Since the very moment the Faceless Man had crossed the threshold and into the Days' flat, Abby had opened the book given to her and hunched over its pages, scribbling with an almost rabid passion.
He ignored Ray Adams entirely, his interest fixed only on the little girl. His head titled, and with it the brim of his hat slanted. For the first time since he entered the house, he spoke.
"What do you have there, my dear?" His voice was rich and quaint, like warm syrup. He laced gloved fingers, his posture not all menacing, albeit eccentric.
Abby's eyes snapped up to the man, but even as her gaze left the pages, she still drew with a pencil in her hand like she needn't sight at all. "It's my sketchbook," she said. "I tell stories in it. This is my first one."
"Show me, sweetheart."
"Would you really be interested?"
"Of course."
Abby granted the Faceless Man her first smile, then turned the book so that he could see its pages.
A stick figure in a cowboy hat was depicted there, his head tilted, hanging by the neck from a gleaming lamp post. The Faceless Man took one look through tinted shades, threw his head back, and he laughed. He slapped his knee before standing, shaking his head in bemusement as he sauntered over to the kitchen table where Ray Adams sat attentively.
He pulled out a chair, turned it about, and sat in it backwards, arms hanging over the backrest.
The ensuing lack of speech, save an awkward cough from a HYDRA henchman, was engulfing. After what seemed like eons, the Faceless Man shrugged nonchalantly. "Well?"
"Zul is my scheduled data collector," Ray kicked lightly at a shard of the shattered mug, almost fidgety. "What changed?"
"Zul has been compromised," The Faceless Man answered steadily. "The salvage team found him in his office with a smoking crater in his chest and a gun in his hand."
"Stark," Ray noted.
"Stark," The Faceless Man nodded once. "The Avengers sheared through our forces like a sickle through barley. Only now have we been able to recollect ourselves. An unforeseen stroke of luck distracted the Avengers long enough for the rest of HYDRA to hide in our holes, plot our next move. Therein lies your critical information on our most… intriguing asset."
Ray Adams leaned back coyly in her seat, crossing one leg over the other while she checked the contents of a mug still in-tact on the table top. She took a sip of the lukewarm tea, then stole a glance at the sheet of paper tucked in the typewriter. "Purely by chance, I've had an indirect encounter with Level Cerberus asset Percy Jackson on August 18, 2015. He knows me by face as my dual cover, Mara Amanda Day. Earlier that day, Doctor Avil had conducted an experiment in which he plays the trigger at a very low volume, so low that Day could not consciously hear it. I woke, though, and I was conscious and active in her mind as she took her daughter to a side-street restaurant for her birthday. The ass—"
"You're birthday!" The Faceless Man's head swiveled to Abby, who had gone back to drawing fervently. "Happy belated one to you, Abigail Day!"
Abby did not bother to acknowledge him.
"Sorry," said the Faceless Man to Ray. "Please continue."
She did.
"There was no way I could seize control and direct Day to the asset. But we had the good fortune of Day's daughter confronting Jackson. Day found interest in the asset, and a conversation ensued. He identified himself as Perry Johnson."
The Faceless Man snapped a finger at the nearest HYDRA operative. "Perry Johnson, look it up on the Database. He may be using the name of a friend or relative."
The operative stepped forth and swept the typewriter and the stack of paper beside it to the floor. Ray regarded the mess dispassionately. "She loved that thing."
"Then we'll order another," the Faceless Man drawled absently. "Watch yourself, would you?" he said to the operative. "You'll make Ray's host here sad."
The operative ducked his head sheepishly as he removed a sleek white laptop from the compact backpack he had slung from his shoulders. Ray continued her report as the laptop powered up and the operative began typing away.
"Initially, asset appeared to be ill. His hands shook, suffering erratic spasms. Behavior was sporadic; I suspected violence if the kid kept on yammering."
"Explain their conversation for me, Ray," said the Faceless Man conversationally. The way he talked gave the impression he was sharing a warm coffee with an old friend, rather than conducting a critical debrief.
"Oh, she told him about her writing passion. How his 'name' and her protagonist's were the same. A funny coincidence, that. Mara could have dug deeper, but those HYDRA field idiots had to stomp in and ruin everything. Do you have any intel on who authorized the attack?"
The Faceless Man waved his arm dismissively. "Unimportant. Stay on topic."
"Unimportant?" demanded Ray. "If those agents hadn't stuck their asses where they didn't belong, Day could have given him a phone number or her email. Are you saying that's not important?"
The Faceless Man might've risen his eyebrows. It was hard to tell. "How do you figure?"
Ray's smile was wicked and lazy, like a preying cat. "I felt potent levels of attraction for Percy Jackson."
"Oh my."
"Right? At first I couldn't believe my luck."
"That's adorable!"
"I—... what?"
The Faceless Man clapped his hands together with the giddiness and energy of a devout fangirl at a concert. The sounds his hands made when they met were muted by the thick leather gloves. "Adorable! Purely a delight. Mara Day and Percy Jackson, both so, so much more than they seem, sharing a little spark. Tell me, do you believe the attraction is mutual?"
"Uh," Ray coughed into her fist, caught completely off guard by the Faceless Man's girlish antics. "Yes, from what I could tell. Glances at her fingers in search for a wedding or engagement ring, frequent blushes and stuttering. If I may say, off the record, it was quite endearing."
"Nothing you say is off the record, Ray," he could be smiling under that mask. "Please, continue."
She shrugged. "The attack knocked out Day. She suffered a concussion. You know the rest."
She got up, in search for something on the bookshelf. As she did, The Faceless Man obliged.
"Jackson efficiently eliminates the threat through marvelous displays of power, vanishes for a week, then reappears robbing a bank. Not any bank; the world's wealthiest bank, in Dubai. And with a wide portion of that money, he rents the service of some of the world's most apt soldiers of fortune."
Ray Adams slammed a thick atlas onto the table and flipped it open to a bookmarked page. In the dead center of the book, spread to both pages, was a ovalar depiction of the whole world. Daycare stickers of blushing stars and smiling suns in shades dotted the map on specific locations.
Ray poked one sticker. "A pyramid in Egypt. Ransacked, only one thing taken. A medallion. Two days later, a museum watchman finds the very same medallion wiped clean of fingerprints in a ziplock bag at their doorsteps. Move on a few weeks, Jackson and his entourage are sighted in Mexico, raiding an ancient Aztec pyramid. A Sun King's tomb was found pried open, his remains crumbling bone. Historians and experts say that the king, Chulan, should have been in possession of a book that as fabled to teach sorcery."
"Ahhh," The Faceless Man nodded slowly, stroking his chin. "It seems that our asset is in search of power."
"Sir," said Ray, with no other idea of how to address the man, "I have reason to believe that Jackson here is not Jackson."
"Oh? Do enlighten me."
She obliged without missing a beat. "Before our encounter, Percy Jackson's actions had been strictly obscure. He made no personal connections. He drifted from shore to shore like a ghost. The only violent action he had made was knocking flat a man who was abusing his girlfriend on the bus. The abuser's girlfriend, not Jackson's."
"What do you believe has changed?"
"In all those years on the run, the asset never put his powers to use. At least, not so open as he did dismantling the HYDRA field monkeys. Then he reappears, using his powers every chance he gets. Flaunting them, even. Hurting people, tomb-raiding, stealing historical or mythological artifacts even our archeologists haven't been able to find in their centuries of digging. It is completely unlike him. Even the name he chose, Chaos. Before then Jackson was anything but chaotic."
"You suspect a neurotic switch? Akin to you and Day's relationship?" Doctor Avil stepped forth, his mind reeling faster and faster every passing moment.
God, mused Ray, that man never stops thinking.
The Faceless Man must have made some sort of disgusted expression, for sound distaste was laced in his tone. "Please don't use the word 'neurotic'. You make it sound like brain porn."
Doctor Avil courageously ignored the walking talking shadow of a man, his eyes darting about as he made the mental calculations. "I am no adept in the supernatural sciences, but I do suppose every use of some abnormal force would require a considerable flashing city of flaring neurons. And that CAN very well lead to some sort of personality disorder, schizophrenia, or something of the likes. But that is only a theory."
The Faceless Man stared at him. "Well that got us nowhere at all. Tell me his hospital records. Show me where he's been, medically. And you," he nodded to the operative on the laptop, "did you find anything on Perry Johnson?"
The HYDRA operative squinted at the screen, scrolling through bio files. "Several Perry Johnsons in the states. Nothing stands out."
"Perhaps just a childhood acquaintance," the Faceless Man waved his hand dismissively. "Get started on Jackson's medical record."
"No need," interceded Doctor Avil, "I have the record memorized. The only appointments he had ever made with any doctor was in his elementary years. Bruises, laceration, and a concussion. No clear answer was given by Jackson, but abuse was suspected. His stepfather, Gabe Ugliano, was put on the NYPD watchlist, but was never brought in for questioning."
"Why not suspect the mother? I understand he has one living relative left." The Faceless Man drummed his fingers on the table in his ponderings. "One must realize that any woman could show a magnificent display of cruelty. Gender has little matter here."
Ray sat quietly, and soon the only sound that split the air was pencil to parchment as Abby worked tirelessly on her birthday present.
"Is that all, Ray, my dear?" inquired the Faceless Man.
Ray nodded. "Yes."
"Perfect. We shall take this information to our analysts, see if any of our theories bare any fruit." He nodded to his men, and they retreated out the door. "My men are following a golden corvette as we speak. Gorgeous specimen, but too modern for my tastes."
"Your point is?"
"The owner was speaking to Day not a minute before we arrived."
Ray shrugged a shoulder, passionless. "Day did suffer some sort of emotional breakdown. I could feel the residual misery after we switched."
"We'll find out who that man is within the hour, and we'll decided whether or not he affects our operation." The Faceless Man stood and stretched, scooting the chair back under the kitchen table. "Have a lovely night."
And he was gone. The door closed behind, so gentle a click ensuing that it was near soundless.
The very instant the door closed, Ray sprung from her chair and scrambled for the bathroom. Her hands trembled, it was all she could do to keep them still in the presence of HYDRA. Ray swung open the bathroom door and practically tore the mirror-cabinet hinges off as she frantically opened it.
The only thing sitting behind the mirror was one small case of pills. She took it, popped it open, and shook three out. Ray then closed the cabinet after putting the case of pills back in, with more force than intended, a hairline split running down the middle. Ray glared at her reflection, and rose the pills to her pillowy lips, tilted her head back, and swallowed them whole.
The effects of the heroine took a few seconds to kick in, and the shaking stopped. Ray relaxed, leaning against the sink. She became absorbed with her reflection.
Mara truly was a beautiful woman. She was fair, with a faint splash of freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and her upper cheek. Her hair was a dark mahogany, lush and wavy and unruffled. Her lips full and plush. Ray felt a spark of jealousy. She was only an elaborate disorder. This was not her body. This was not her life.
She was a HYDRA experiment who became important only because she encountered Percy Jackson. And under that, she was an addict, a junkie.
Ray let her head drop.
Mara Day lifted it back up.
She gasped, as if all the air had left her lungs. She jerked, her eyes locking with her own in the mirror. With her brow crinkled, she traced the vertical crack down the middle of the mirror, befuddled. Mara stepped out of the bathroom stiffly, and she gaped at the mess in the kitchen.
Her typewriter was laying flat on its side, her manuscript once stacked neatly on the table and ready to be stapled was strewn about the floor, some pieces of paper soggy with the puddles of water that had come from the shattered mug.
In a haze, Mara Day stared, rubbing the dreadful headache at her temple. "Oh no," she whispered. She found Abby on the steps, her attention fixed on her mother.
"Abby, honey, did I have one of my episodes again?" she asked quietly.
Abby, sacrificing not a sound, nodded slowly after an elongated silence.
Oh dear God, not again.
"Baby, I'm so sorry," Mara pushed her fist to her mouth to suppress a gasping sob, "I-I don't know how to stop it. The doctors say my blackouts are partial to anger. Did I hurt you? Oh God, did I hurt you?"
Abby stared at her mother, unblinking, saying not a word. But Mara spotted the quiver in her daughter's lips, and she stepped forth in an effort to reconcile. "Honey, I—"
Abby shied away. Mara halted, speechless, impossibly wide eyes brimming with liquid dread as she helplessly watched her daughter take up her massive book and dash up the steps.
The tears came. Mara's sorrow climbed up and out of her throat, and the young mother pressed her fist to her mouth and bit at her knuckles. The sobs sounded like she might vomit, and Mara staggered back and away from the steps and into the open kitchen.
She slipped in a puddle. Mara caught herself on the counter, but ultimately lowered herself onto the kitchen floor. She leaned against the cabinets under the sink, blinking at the tears that blurred her vision, and Mara Amanda Day cried like she did when she was a little girl, hiding from the flying beer bottles and the swimming curses.
Just like mother.
…
It was 5 in the morning, and Percy could not sleep.
So he chose a night out in the twilight shoreline of Crete, rather than to deliberately seek out the nightmares, which were sure to daunt should slumber find him.
The moon was a smiling crescent, a luminescent curve in the night-blue sky. The stars were so very far away, as though they were in retreat, disgusted by the vile and contemptuous sins humanity had committed against the earth. Even as the thought fleeted by, Percy found the stars, as distant as they might be, to be celestial in their beauty, and serene in their winking and diamond twinkling.
And again, the moon, oh the moon. So phosphorescent was her shine that she illuminated the languid, ebony waters of the sea, whose rolling waves churned the white sand of the beach with content and satisfied sighs. The whispering of the tide enthralled the son of the sea, and he knew that it was in this hour that all things, good and evil, right and wrong, innocent and vile, were still.
The gentle pitter patter of bare feet against cool stones stole away Percy Jackson's ponderings. He jerked, the darker instincts in his bones nearly seizing the helm of his awareness, and he cast a glance over his shoulder.
Anastasia Esperanza Valdez halted midway down the winding stepping-stone pathway that led to the porcelain beach. Even from the twelve feet that yawned between the two, Percy could spot the whites of her eyes as she widened them.
During his days living with the Valdez's, he hadn't once ever heard little Ana speak a single word. It was so very unlike both her parents. Leo, who still cracked his humor through grueling work, and his mother, who fussed and debated and was always on top of the latest happenings of the Crete village. Ana possessed neither of these qualities, and instead remained ghostly in her silence.
And here she was, out so early in the morning, without her parents in sight. Concern and curiosity embedded itself in Percy's features, and he turned a bit where he sat on the stone stair-path. "You can't sleep either, huh? What're you doing so far out so late?" Or early, he stated in the privacy of his mind.
Ana was ghastly silent. In the night, adorned in her white nightgown which draped down to her ankles, Anastasia resembled some phantasmal stigma. Even with the fright etched in her youthful features, she displayed a serene quality that was so profoundly angelic, that it wouldn't take much convincing at all to persuade a mortal that she was the daughter of a demigod and a titan.
"Ana?" Percy attempted to reach the girl with his speech, the sea's breath carrying his voice to her, "Are you okay?"
The girl stared at him, then she ran. Straight for him. So astounding was her speed, and so abrupt her actions, that Percy had to duck. Even as he did so, Ana sprung, placed one small, bare foot on his head, and pushed off, sailing into the air and amid the sea wind.
Anastasia Valdez flew. From her spot in the air, she glided down to the crest of the beach as the gales cradled her. Her feet met the sand with a gentleness that denied such a long distance traveled. Frantically, with a fear unknown to Percy, she dashed for the rolling waves.
Percy Jackson cursed, springing to his feet after overcoming his initial shock of seeing a girl with no previously presumed powers levitate twenty to thirty yards. But what was even worse, the girl was heading straight for the waves.
He knew an attempt of suicide when he saw one.
He broke for the girl, size, speed, and stamina all in his favor as he careened down the hillside to swiftly overcome the the youngest Valdez. Frankly, Percy had underestimated his ability to run, and with momentum on his side, he, completely unintentional, full-on tackled the slender little girl.
"Oh gods!" Percy shouted into the sand right after faceplanting there. He lifted himself up and off the girl. "Oh gods, I'm sorry!" He spat sand.
Anastasia was merely winded, as if one of the boys she played soccer with in the dirt roads had knocked her over, nothing more. She looked up at him, cheek smeared with sand and mud, and with a strength that denied her slight and slender frame, connected her foot with Percy's jaw in a piston-kick, sending him in a complete flip back and head first into the sand.
That's a first.
Percy was back on his feet almost as instantly as he landed, but Ana's feet were already splashing in the shallow tides.
"Ana! Wait! Wait!" A primal desperation seized Percy, and again he pursued the girl as she fled for her death.
What Anastasia failed to account for, Percy bore the seas' reins. So as the salt water splashed at Ana's ankles, rising to her shins and nearing her knees, Percy reached out with one hand. With a cry of exerted effort, the water rose abruptly to conform a wall so vast and wide, the youngest Valdez found herself trapped in its shadow.
She skidded to a halt, yelping, and tripped over her own feet. Mud and sand staining her knees and skirts, she scrambled back as Percy approached, who was unwittingly ominous in the moon's luminous shine. "St-stay away! Stay back!"
Percy stopped when her heard her pleads, and so he obeyed, lowering himself to a crouch to near her eye-level. The girl looked so small and frightened, like a cornered doe. Her jaw trembled, fighting tears.
There they were, the girl propped up against her arms, leaning back as she looked up at the man crouching not two feet away from her. There they were, a man and a girl, bathed in the moon's phosphorescent smile. The only sounds made were the shortness of their breath, the aftermath of adrenaline, and the sighs of the tide that pushed at their toes.
Percy Jackson reached out with his hand, fingers spread wide, smile affectionate and eyes brimmed with a profound sense of… knowing. The wisdom of a man harmed, and the diamond-tipped strength and resolve of a man who clawed from the pits of utter despair.
"Hey," his voice was warm as the Black Sea, "You don't need to be afraid. Not of me, anyway."
Ana swallowed the burning coal in her throat, and let out a gasping sob. She covered her mouth, and her shoulders shook with the sorrow there. The utter helplessness displayed in such a fragile and brittle portrait was such a dreadful sight to behold. Without so much as thought but the instinct engraved in his bones, Percy took the girl in his arms like he would a daughter of his own blood.
"H-He's not h-h-" She gulped a sob, tears soaking the shoulder of Percy's shirt. "Not h-here," a faltering inhale. "He's never h-here."
Percy was not sure what to do. He never had a child, he never boasted the luxury of leading a boring desk job, working to finance the life of a little and loving family. To be terribly—beautifully—average. With no monsters dogging your shadow, no nightmares hiding under your pillow, and no threat hovering over your shoulder. Comforting this girl was considered such a mundane task, one that even he, killer of monsters and things much older and ghoulish, had no faith he could accomplish.
So, hesitantly, with the tenderness as though Ana might shatter like glass under his touch, Percy lay a hand at the back of her head and stroked her impossibly soft curls. A sea of questions rose like a tsunami within Percy, but he withheld them, allowing Ana to bubble out.
"Every night, I-I dream. I dream of this beach, and this moon, and these waves, and a man lying there. Always a man, on his back." The front of sorrow had passed, and now Ana's voice, albeit more stable, no longer trembled so. "He was always there. I would play ball with the moon and with Mama and Papa. But it would always end, and there the man would be. Sometimes I trip over his body."
"Do you know him?" Percy asked gently.
"Yes," said Anastasia. She pulled away from Percy, meeting his gaze with a desolation and terror that constricted at the demigod's throat. "You. He's you."
And so the plot thickens. A lilting voice, languid with amusement, arose from the deepest and darkest corners of Percy's conscience. How delightful.
Shut up, was Percy's mental retort.
"Are you sure?" he inquired aloud, taking the girl by the shoulder. "Are you absolutely sure? Do you know it's me on the beach?"
Anastasia did not confirm with neither a nod nor a word. Rather, she seemed aimless in her search in his eyes. "That's why I have been so afraid of you," she confessed. "I see you alive and all I can think about is his eyes. How—how empty they are."
Demigod dreams were always more complicated than mere playtime for the brain. The dreams of a demigod were like windows into a grim future. Other times, the dreams took the dreamer to places in present-time. In their sleeping hours, a demigod was helplessly victim to the Fates, who showed them whatever is necessary or adequate to see. Of course, a demigod experienced ordinary dreams, and it was never all that difficult to distinguish visions from fantasy.
Anastasia dreamed of him, lying motionless on this very shoreline. Repeatedly.
He did not allow trepidation to dishearten his smile. As it grew, Ana found that Percy's smile was one of those damned smiles that one couldn't help but find a contagious quality to. Her own smile was lovely and dimpled, and forgetting herself and her fear, she took Percy Jackson's large finger in her slight little hand.
"Want to see something cool?" With a twinkling mischief, Percy leaned in to whisper his offer, as though it was some forbidden secret.
The youngest Valdez hesitated for a heartbeat or two, then nodded at last. "You're not scared?" she breathed.
Percy, taking her small hand in his own, turned to waves. "Scared?" he chuckled. "Of what? Of death?"
"Yes," answered Ana, clinging to the prince's hand as he began treading through the waves.
"Well," Percy furrowed his brow in thought. "It would probably make sense. To be afraid of death. See, there's this place we all go when we die. A wonderful place, filled with the most respected people in the world and all of your closest friends. But I don't think I'd be welcome there."
"Why not?" asked Ana, bestowing true earnesty. "The tickets are sold out?"
An immaculate wedding dress, a breathtaking smile. Kiss, cheers, laughter, the clinking of goblets of nectar and wine. Lively violins and flutes providing a tune to which to dance. Clapping.
"Well, not really," admitted Percy. The sea was up to Ana's knees now as they trekked further from sturdy land. "Things got…"
Screams, fire, roaring, blood. The wedding dress afire, the newlywed inside it beating at the flames like it was some tangible enemy. Goblets shattering on marble tiles. Begging for life. And a voice rising above it all, with the plumes of choking smoke.
"The Son of Poseidon has betrayed us!"
"... Complicated."
"Oh." Ana let her fingertips trail over the sloshing tide.
"Ana," Percy began warily, voice as gentle as he could manage. "Do your parents know what you can do?"
Anastasia Valdez looked away. Even in the dimness of night, Percy could see her reddening.
"No," she said at last. "I haven't been doing it for very long."
"I haven't seen anything like it," declared the Exiled Prince. "I mean—I have, but not from such a little girl. What are you, seven, eight?"
"5."
Percy gaped, because she sure as hell didn't look it. This girl looked maybe 7, at the very very least. And she was composed, held herself with the poise and maturity one couldn't find in most adults. It was like the poor girl had been robbed of her childhood. She looked so grown up, even with such a youthful face and slight frame. So this is what could happen when you mix Titan blood with a god's, mused Percy privately. You get a whole new species.
"What are we doing out here?" Ana broke his reveries. "We won't find him—you. He's never here."
"Do you dance, Ana?" Percy asked, scanning the inky waves.
"No," said the girl.
"Well, you're about to."
Just as he said those final words, there was a ripple that widened from the pair. A ripple in the water that stilled the waves in a radius of roughly twenty feet in all directions. The waters within their circle were completely tranquil.
Ana was breathless, and with that, speechless. She blinked, shook her head, then rubbed her eyes.
"Look at your feet," prompted Percy with a gentle smile.
She did, and her hands flew to her mouth when she found that the baby waves no longer lapped at her knees and soaked her nightgown, but upon the water she stood, as if it were real solid stone. She stood still as a statuette for several passing moments, then took a tentative step forth. Ripples passed over the face of the serene waters, the perfect reflection of the star-speckled sky becoming slightly distorted.
"How are you doing this?" cried Ana, true delight plastered over a most-times sullen face.
"Magic," Percy answered.
…
The blind man could see.
Apollo blinked owlishly at the night beyond the windshield of his golden car, hands gripping the wheel, although not seconds before he hadn't the privilege to see anything at all. The car had been driving itself. As a magical chariot of Olympus, it was capable of that.
A grim clarity instilled itself in the sun god. He grit his teeth, eyes fluttering to the rearview mirror. The headlights of a following vehicle glared back.
A soft, aggravated curse from his side. Apollo glanced over as Artemis leaned forth in her shotgun seat in an effort to get a clear view of the moon that had so ensnared her. "Can't see her," she muttered.
"Arty," whispered the man who had once been the sun god. What he said next nabbed the moon goddess' attention at last, and she looked at her twin brother.
"Run."
…
The child and the prince danced under the everglowing moon.
Anastasia Valdez, her youth sound as she laughed and kicked about in the sea underfoot, with gentle tremored like agitated jello. This further delighted the girl, and as she stomped on the water again, a fountain sprung to life. Salt water jumped high to catch the moon's luminosity, so that winking diamonds became airborne and danced through the twilight air.
Percy allowed himself a quirk of the lips, a mere ghost of cheer, and beheld his handiwork as the daughter of gods and titans twirled like a ballerina under the sea spray. The sight was truly ethereal.
…
"You have to run," urged Apollo, frantically pushing at his sister's shoulder, who looked at him as though he had sprouted a second head.
"If there is danger, Apollo," she said, "we'll face it. We're gods, you idiot." Artemis leaned ahead in her seat again and smiled as the moon returned to sight.
Sweat specked sheening his brow, Apollo glimpsed the headlights of their tail again. She still thought the gods were in power, poor delusional woman. Neither of them are gods.
Not for months.
…
The waves began to dance along the rim with the pulse of a heart. In stunned awe, Ana beheld this all in her wonder-stricken orbs.
She turned to Percy, and there were tears in her eyes. Concern marred the prince, and he stepped over to counsel her. But she laughed and pushed him away. Those tears were not sorrowful, they were relics of glee.
"I don't know what to say!" she shouted over the crashing of the dancing sea. Then something stole her attention, eyes turning to Percy's feet, and what replaced such a pure happiness was a potent horror.
Ana screamed as a vice-like grasp closed around Percy Jackson's ankle.
…
"Artemis, if you don't get out and run, so help me dad I will kick you out myself," hissed the sun god, shaking her by the shoulder.
Artemis took no heed, allowing an absent "Mhm."
…
Percy yipped like an alarmed puppy.
He jerked up and brought the heel of his other bare foot down upon the wrist of his attacker. Surprisingly, as far as most attackers go and their notorious stubbornness, the grasp on his ankle instantly grew slack.
The sea went crashing back to its home, subsiding from the beach over which it had crawled to accommodate the will of their master, and the pleasure of the ghast-clad girl.
"It's him!" shouted—screamed—Anastasia, ignoring Percy's apparent loss of dignity. "It's you! From my dreams!"
…
The disguised chariot, like its owner, was dying.
The engine choked and sputtered. The night lights that marked the fingers of the odometer and gas gage blinked rapidly, and the headlights blew out. Apollo, like his relic, felt an indomitable weight upon his shoulders, and he crippled under it, slouching in his seat.
"Please, Art…" He struggled, frantic. "They're coming. They're coming and I won't be able to help you."
"I never needed your protection, brother," Artemis said, almost vacant as she ate up the sight of the moon. His struggles went entirely unknown to the infatuated woman.
…
"Ana," Percy said sharply, crouching down beside the man. "Ana, go, now. Get your parents." His voice was steady and calm, yet no less urgent. "Tell them what happened."
Ana was still for a moment, aghast as she stared at the tangible figment of her nightmares.
"Go!" Percy urged.
She did, dashing up the stone stairway that led to the hills and their cabin.
He watched her retreat for a moment, then fixed his attention in the man. The man was roughly his size, and even though his hair was matted with a thick layer of grit and sand, appeared to be raven dark. Holding his breath, Percy turned the man over.
His heart stopped. It was not him.
Poseidon, God of the Seas, stared glassily back.
…
"My time is up, Artemis!" Apollo was screaming now, beating at his sister's shoulder. The car rolled to a stop, and the smell of gasoline and smoke was acrid. "Can't you tell? Don't you see?"
"I see her," Artemis said softly, ever so entranced by the medallion inlaid amid night's canvas. "I see her, how she mocks me and the death of my Hunt."
"You can rebuild! You can re-sanction! Begin again—anew! But, Artemis, please. You have to go!" Apollo begged.
The doors of the vehicle behind them opened. It too had slowed to a stop.
...
Percy stared. A riptide of once buried feelings tore at the shores of his consciousness. Feelings that he had buried, deep down, locked away, forgotten.
Or so they had been.
Shock slammed its tusks against the hedges of his awareness. It was a stunning stillness that left Percy gaping down at the man in the sand. Then rose a sense of wariness, a touch of confusion, brimming on madness. It assaulted his mind, contorting into an unbridled, sheer and unrelenting terror that seized him.
The son's hands flew to the father's shoulders. "Dad? Dad!"
…
HYDRA was drawing near.
Even from their angle, Apollo could see the stalkers drawing their weapons and cautiously approaching the car, wary of an attack from the unknown occupants. The street was empty. The only potential witnesses would be the civilians who would scramble for the windows to get a grasp on the shootout that was sure to transpire.
Apollo lunged across and rooted his hands at the seat's headrest on either side of Artemis' head, blocking her view of the moon. Artemis grimaced in aggravation and tried to shove him off, but her bothersome twin wouldn't budge.
"Artemis! Artemis, look at me!" he grabbed her head and forced her eyes to meet his own.
HYDRA heard the shouting from within the vehicle, and quickened their pace.
"Remember who you are," Apollo whispered, shaking her more gently now. "Remember, come on."
Artemis' silver orbs sharpened, and that keen clarity flickered at the helm of her senses. She looked at her brother, truly, for the first time in a year.
"Apollo…" she whispered, hapless, like a meek child. So unlike her.
"Run," her brother replied. holding her face. "Run."
She looked past him, at the men approaching, at the moon and the stars and her beloved brother whom she had forsaken for so long. Artemis wanted to cry. Where was she? What had happened? Had the moon fooled her? Had she been hoodwinked?
Had the beauty of the face in the sky been a farce?
…
One, two, three.
For three beats, Percy pumped the heel of his hands against Poseidon's breast, attempting to stimulate a heartbeat.
One, two, three.
The desperation of a frantic and beaten child clawed and bit and gnarled at Percy. He kept going, relentless.
One, two..
One…
Movement. Poseidon budged coughed, hacked, and he rolled over to vomit. Percy laughed, forgetting himself, and pulled away, watching his father upchuck see water.
Sea water. Percy's delight vanished like a smudge under rain. Had the sea betrayed his father?
"P-Percy," wheezed Poseidon through chapped lips. This wasn't right; gods' lips weren't supposed to be chapped. Gods were the epitome of strength and health.
"Dad," breathed the exiled prince. "Dad, what happened?"
Poseidon chuckled wryly, his fingers enclosing into a fist. "Out of all the places to-to wash up. The Fates really do h-have a sense of humor."
Nothing about this was funny.
"Dad, what happened?"
The god that had once been a figure of such indomitable strength and will and loyalty rolled back over to gaze up at Percy. "My son, oh my son," he whispered, hand straying up to touch the young man above him on the cheek. "I am so sorry."
…
A shout from outside. Apollo lurched and looked over his sister's shoulder, where HYDRA were swiftly closing in on them. He looked down at his sister, a woman who seemed so young and meek. And he gave her one comforting squeeze of the shoulder.
"It's okay."
And with a speed that denied all things physical and comprehensively natural, Artemis was gone. Apollo closed his eyes and gripped his hands into fists as he heard the barking of gunfire pursuing his retreating sister. They would never catch her,
Nothing could.
"Father?" Apollo's voice was shaky. "Are you listening?"
…
Poseidon was trembling. Percy looked up, frantically scanning the crests of the hills that ringed the beach. No sign of Ana or Leo, Calypso or Nico. Nobody was coming.
"Dad, what're talking about?"
"You know what I'm saying," breathed Poseidon, gaze fixed entirely on his son. "You know what we did to you. Do they—" he faltered, and for a moment it looked like he, Poseidon, god of the seas, was holding back a sob. "Do they still hurt?"
"You mean the brands on my back?" Percy leaned over his father, gripping the ashamed god's hand tightly. "No."
"You're a bad liar. Got that from—" he coughed, and the cough shook his entire body in a brief but alarmingly violent spasm. He covered, breathing steadily as possible. "—from Sally. And from me, I suppose. My brothers and my wife could always tell when I lied."
"They don't," insisted Percy, in vain.
"Don't try to fool me, son. Don't try to fool me like we fooled Olympus."
…
"If you're even up there anymore?" Apollo raised his voice to a shout, and he beat the ceiling of the car. "Rotting on your throne like the miserable man you are!"
HYDRA was there. An arm broke through the window and grabbed Apollo in a headlock, which he fought with the fierceness of a rabid beast. "Don't you see what you have done, father? The mistake you made?"
"He's mad," muttered a HYDRA agent, who kept his distance, pistol leveled. Apollo, with a burst of strength, flung the HYDRA agent that had him in a headlock off of him.
A shout. A blinding blow to the back of his head from a baton. Apollo sprawled on the road, but he was still raving, albeit disoriented. "Banishing him was a mistake! Admit that! Admit it!"
…
"What?" Percy blanked.
"It was a mistake." Tears threatened to spill over the rim. "I knew it was a mistake the moment it happened. The moment Ares—"
"What mistake?" He let go of his father's hand.
Poseidon coughed, then set his jaw, which trembled still. "Percy," he muttered, "you did not kill Piper McLean."
…
Hands, strong, terribly rough hands grasped Apollo's shoulders. A gash across his brow now leaked crimson mortal blood and blinded the poor man, who babbled his madness like a drunkard in mourning.
"But I have a daughter!" he screamed triumphantly into the night sky. "I have a daughter, and she sees what nobody can!" He laughed, gleefully and so utterly insanely. "And she's coming for you, you cowardly bastard! Not even Zeus can hide from the wrath of Abigail Day!"
The sky growled in retort.
…
Percy allowed the truth to sink itself in. The truth was so completely unfathomable, that it hadn't truly registered at first. But when it did, Percy had forgotten how to breathe.
Unmoving, he blankly stared on as his father let it all out. "You-You scared my brother, Zeus. Terrified him, even. He… wanted you gone, despite what you sacrificed for us. Some gods agreed, others did not, with you in favor. In fact, as I recall, you were the winning vote. Whenever you were around, there was an almost tangible tension in the atmosphere. Then I learned that the gods had betrayed the vote, betrayed ceremony and honor, and plotted your exile in secret. Your power was so great, my son," he said softly. "But even then, you were no matching rival to the cunning deception of the gods. I tried to stop it before it even started, the plan to frame you…"
"The plan to…" This was too much in one dose. He was outrageously overwhelmed.
Blood on his fingers. Piper's detached head was in his lap, glassy eyes devoid of anything at all. Blood on his fingers. Blood on his fingers. Blood on his fingers. Blood—
"But I—I remember," Percy breathed. "I remember it."
"What came after, maybe," Poseidon's voice was waning. Blood, dark, red, mortal blood ran from one of his nostrils. "But… but do you remember doing it?" He faltered, the words hurting as they came out. "Do you remember beheading her?"
He didn't have to answer aloud to tell him that he didn't. Percy audibly gasped, heaving, holding his chest. This was.. This was… what was this? For so long, so very long had he listlessly roamed the earth, the guilt of avoiding the penalty of a crime he thought he committed, a crime he was convicted for. The scars and brands on his back were false.
"Who did it?" Percy said, near inaudible, "Who killed Piper?"
Poseidon was dying, this he could see. Guilt shone tearily in his eyes, such a horrible guilt that must have shredded at him for so long. "It's beginning, son," said his father. "The war is lost, the Era of the Gods has drained, and the Fates have knotted their tethers."
Percy said nothing, but baffled he was. He was baffled, he was scared, and he was more than merely angry. Words could not possibly fathom the sheer, raw rage that festered in his heart.
"And you," Poseidon's tone changed. Although soft, it was now something as lethal and perilous as the storms he once commanded. He may have been looking at Percy as he spoke, but it was not Percy he addressed.
"You," the words weren't simply spoken, but spat, directly at Chaos. "My son is your doom."
And in this state of complete and utter weakness in Percy Jackson, the lurid presence within him sunk its fangs into the helm of his mind, and seized control. Wearing Percy's face, eyes ebony stones, Chaos leaned forth, the wicked smile plastered over his face so very misplaced on a man so often kind and caring.
"I know. But the Serpent never bowed to the Lion, did he?"
And in one swift and terrible motion, fluid as removing a bottle cap, Chaos snapped Poseidon's neck.
…
Apollo felt it. A twang in his soul, like harplay out of tune. Like odd keynotes and a dysfunctional symphony. He felt the gun at the back of his head, and he found himself on his knees, hands, with fingers interlocked, behind his head, kneeling under the light of a glaring lamp post.
A man, black and silent as a phantom, blocked his view of the light. "What is your relationship with Mara Day?" The voice, pleasant and honeyed, asked rather politely.
Apollo spat out a tooth that was knocked loose when he was floored by the baton, and his bloody grin was deemed unsettling. How strange and beautiful, it truly was, to see again. Even if it hadn't been for much longer. Oh, the things he would've given to see his daughter. To see her eyes, and the prescience shining there.
"We kanoodled," he said frankly, and his car behind them exploded.
Apollo closed his seeing eyes for the last time and turned to face the stars as the fires, like a vengeful beast, came to feast upon his flesh.
The sun god was dead.
…
It took Leo and Calypso Valdez too long to reach the beach.
Calypso didn't stop when she saw the body beside a kneeling Percy, but rather quickened her pace. Leo kept up with her, completely alert, with the family med back in his hands.
"Percy!" he called. "What the Hades happened?"
Percy was still. So still, in fact, and so very unsettling, that the couple stopped. Leo's demigod wiring flared in warning, and before his wife could react, he stepped between he and the thing that was not Percy Jackson.
Chaos snarled and flung about, hurling from his hand a sphere of lime green fire. It exploded against Leo's back in a dazzling and eerie display of blazing green flames. When the smoke cleared, surrounding the Valdez's in every direction, the sand had been burned to glass. So sheer was the heat of Chaos' attack that it had transfigured the laws of nature itself. Despite Leo's body-shield, Calypso had been blown off her feet, and she was now attempting to right herself. She turned, dazed and hurt, and saw in the rippling haze her husband locked in mortal and fatal combat with the beast wearing Percy's skin.
Green and orange fire rose around them in a battle of will and vigor, a maelstrom of powers so indefinitely angelic and demonic, that Calypso could not tear her eyes away. So this is what it looked like. This is what war did to people.
In an intense ten seconds of exchanges, Chaos ruthlessly tore into Leo, driving him flat on the ground. The father, husband, and friend tried to stand, but his knee was literally knocked loose as Chaos drove his foot into the side of his leg. The snap was soundly, and Leo screamed.
With a nonchalance that was misplaced in the face of such mercilessness, Chaos pushed Leo aside with a poke of the index finger.
"Leo!" Calypso wailed, and rushed for the defense of her beloved husband.
Something stopped her. A hand so frigid and firm that Calypso thought it might be ice. She looked back to find Nico di Angelo, eyes not on the Titaness but fixed on Chaos, holding her back.
"Protect your daughter." He was grim, and he was urgent. "Protect her at all costs. Even if it means your life."
"But Leo…"
"I'll handle this," Nico assured her, and when she looked into those horrifyingly dark eyes, she believed him.
Calypso cast Chaos a glower of such profound distaste that any mortal man would have keeled over and died then and there. She looked down at her wheezing husband again, who crouched on one knee. Leo, uncharacteristically solemn, gave her one slight nod. Go.
Calypso retreated back up the beach, hating herself for it, but knowing she had no other choice.
Chaos' grin was lazy, but there was a touch of wariness behind those featureless eyes. "Something's different about this one," Chaos mused, mostly to himself. "Almost familiar…"
Nico answered, but not in the way one might imagine.
From his back sprouted two black, 12-foot spanning wings of an eagle. The limbs were huge and majestic, and under their feathers twinkled what looked like stars. Nico was winged.
"Ah," Chaos nodded in understanding, "Asrafel has claimed you as her host."
"There's a distinct difference from the 'relationship' you and Percy harbor," Nico shook his head, and drew his long, slender, stygian iron sword. It seemed to seep all the heat in the air, replacing it with a cold that brought frost to lips and rashes to skin. "Asrafel and I, we have an accord."
"How adorable." Chaos's hands became torches of green hellish fire, basking them in its horrible phosphorescence. "Get out of my way. The blood of two races poses a special, personal interest to me."
"If you're gonna get to Anastasia, you've got get through me," Nico declared, then he winced. "Gods, that sounds cliche."
"Do you really want to dance this waltz?" Chaos questioned, the two beginning to circle as the beast deemed Nico too dangerous to overlook. "I promise you, the outcome will be most unpleasant."
"That Biblical charade of yours is fooling nobody," Nico drawled, calm as a mother bear in her den, "But by all means..."
Nico di Angelo's smirk was menacing, and so delightfully fiendish, "Let's frolic."
…
Hoo boy. Okay. I just did that.
Word count: 13094
I hope you enjoyed!
A special thanks to kramer53 for proofreading, encouragement, and patience, and the sharing of ideas and opinions. I wouldn't have gotten this far without her.
kramer53: He gives me too much credit. All I do is get his gears turning. He does the rest.
And pssssst… you should check out my one-shot titled "Red and Blue" ;) it's guaranteed to make you hate me.