Thankyou to my lovely reviewers, I like you guys a lot. This chapter's a little more cheerful, but don't worry, more angst to come! Please do review, even if it's just to let me know my stuff's being read, it really does motivate me to keep writing…
Jason was being attacked. Again.
It was the third time in less than a week that one of Hercules' 'simple' security jobs had ended in total fiasco and Jason being forced to fight off whoever was trying to kill them.
The burly goon wielding the club swung at his face. Mistake. Jason grabbed it, twisting the man's arm upwards then grabbing him round the neck in a chokehold and pulling him back against his chest as a human shield. His friends, two overwhelmingly enormous thugs who had clearly seen many more street brawls than Jason backed off as the captive would-be thief started to turn a rather lovely shade of burgundy.
One of the men, wearing a tunic obviously designed to show off the frankly disturbing amount of muscle on his shoulders, held up his hands in platitude.
'Okay, okay, boy. Put him down and we'll leave you in peace.' Jason didn't believe it for half a second, but had no wish to choke a man to death. He released him and shoved him at his friends' feet. The man lay panting with relief until the second man, slightly smaller, but still twice the size of Jason kicked him in the ribs and told him to get the hell up. By the time he was recovered sufficiently to look up, Jason was sprinting along the same alley that Medusa had taken with the strongbox. Hercules was nowhere to be seen, having legged it the moment they'd been jumped. He knew that he was a liability in any confrontation, and Jason and Medusa were perfectly capable of looking after themselves. What else would you expect from a reformed master thief and Atlantis' foremost personal protection expert?
Jason slammed the door shut behind him and leant against the wall of the home he shared with Medusa and Hercules, sliding down the surface until he sat on the floor.
Their rooms were basic: a room for dining and sitting took up most of the space in the little compartment, with two doorways leading off into Hercules' and Medusa's rooms. Jason had slept on a straw mattress in the main area since the two had taken him in after he'd fallen through the portal in Atlantis. The three had become a team; Hercules procured jobs for them, Medusa now specialised in the recovery of stolen goods, and Jason's athletic abilities and fame as the killer of the Minotaur had made him a much sought-after bodyguard.
It was only when they worked together that things tended to go wrong.
Pushing himself up wearily, Jason inspected the damage. They'd been ambushed so quickly that the thugs had managed to get a few solid hits in before he'd managed to grab one and hold the others off long enough for to Medusa get away with the strongbox they'd been tasked to guard. He forced himself up and crossed the apartment into Medusa's room, which contained their only mirror; a beautiful full-length thing, the only item she'd kept from her thieving days.
After she had fallen in love with Hercules, many Atlanteans had woken to find vanished items mysteriously returned, or small purses of coins hanging from their doors. Once, after a night of wine and plenty after an unusually successful job, she had said that gaining something precious of your own was enough to make you realise how much it must hurt to have it stolen from you. But the mirror was useful in a more practical way, in that it meant you could fix yourself up after a fight, and unfortunately, that made it indispensable to the three of them.
Jason stood in front of it now, eyes running over his own reflection. It always shocked him these days; after years of taking reflective surfaces for granted, he now only rarely saw himself. He somehow still expected the English archaeologist with his hoodies and Converse, slightly tanned, hair messy, young, innocent. Now, he was shocked at how much older he seemed. The way his skin had darkened in the Atlantean sun made his eyes seem brighter. His hair was longer, curlier than he'd ever seen it. Back home, it would have looked strange, but in Atlantis it seemed normal, just like the tunic and leggings he now wore. Foolishly, he'd left off his leather chestplate today; what would have happened if one of the men had had a knife? But conversely, it had made him faster, unencumbered by the unbending armour.
There was a wide purple bruise blossoming across his right cheek, flecking with grit from where he'd fallen from the force of the blow. Scrapes across his arms from the street and the wall he'd been thrown into as he took on three at once to allow Medusa to run; while she was quick, she was too light to be of much use in a fistfight. Better to make sure they could claim the protection fee. Scratch marks on one arm and shoulder from the man's scrabbling attempts to get free. Those were bleeding a little, the rough material of his tunic beginning to turn rust-coloured and stick to the skin.
All in all, nothing to worry about. Still, maybe best to keep a low profile for a little while; small gangs of thieves tended to band together, and the last thing he wanted to do was to get beaten up when it wasn't for any good reason. No big jobs, nothing too public, at least for a few weeks.
But then again, trouble did have a habit of seeking him out.