Proxy

 

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Introduction

Proxy is a experiment in story telling, a fusion of historical, fantasy, and science fiction, told through the eyes of many characters at once. The chapters in this story are really "parts" or "novellas", organized by the points of view of individual characters. Because third person limited is just that, limited, it prevents characters from knowing the story before they experience it themselves. Some parts will seem confusing or not fully fleshed out. Trust me, and go with it. Everything in it's own time. I will not leave unanswered questions, but I will make you work for them. 

Thanks for reading,

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Part I: Max

    Chapter One

Chicago, Illinois, 2012.

    Despite protestations of being broke, lured out by the promises of drinks to be purchased from another pocket, Max Lucas now found herself in a bar full of hipsters. She did not want to be there, and she had no intentions of having a good time. With the alcohol in her apartment having run dry, and a rattle detectable in her hand, Max had come here in a moment of weakness and desperation. The possibility of facing the night sober was worse than dealing with hipsters, but only just, which is why she had caved to her friend Leo’s offer to purchase her drinks if she would just come out and be social.

    From the moment she observed the clientele, she immediately regretted the decision to come. Thankfully she was here for the sole purpose of getting nearly black out drunk which, thankfully, was the only mode in which she found hipsters tolerable. Guilt laden lectures on the benefits of veganism and arguments over new underground German electronica were best handled while absolutely faced. 

    Bisecting the throbbing crowd unapologetically, she made her way to Leo at the bar. She could see he was chatting up a miserable looking girl with burgundy colored hair swept into her face, wearing a Jareth the Goblin King t-shirt with a hideous floral skirt held up by suspenders. Upon this, Max viscerally braced for impact. Slinging herself onto the edge of the bar, she leaned against the edge of a retrofitted old bowling alley lane, and propped herself up by the elbows.

“Fuck, I miss smoking in bars,” she lamented. “Two minutes with these post-adolescent Emo kids, and I already feel like I need a cigarette.”

“Nice to see you dressed up for the occasion, Maxine.” Leo tugged at her shirt and loose fitting jeans, paint splattered from an afternoon spent working on her latest for-profit masterpiece. The use of her formal name always sounded like a scolding.

“You wanted me here, I’m here,” she reminded him, stealing a stirring straw from the mix station and popping in her mouth like a toothpick.

“Well, at least you won’t have to spend all evening telling innocent and interested young men to fuck right off—you’ve perfected a look that does it for you.” He bopped the messy, tangled brunette bun on the back of her head.

“The black rimmed glasses to skinny jeans ratio is far too high for a starving artist to not be in someone’s wheelhouse,” she raised her voice to be heard over the next song that had just begun to play on a jukebox that played 45s rather than digital streaming music, “So, I’m sure several of these pretentious poser douchebags will get the royal treatment before night’s end.”

“What are you drinking tonight, Tyler Durden?”

“Anything with alcohol.” She waved her hand nonchalantly, then catching her mistake, replied, “No PBR. I have standards.” She leaned further on the bar to speak to Leo’s quarry, who had made absolutely no attempt of acknowledging her. “Hey Big Red.” She reached over to get the girl’s attention by snapping a suspender. “What tastes ironic?”

    Leo jabbed Max in the ribs as Big Red made a prissy, judgmental scrunch face.

“Yeah... I’m gonna get in line for the ladies.” she sneered, and swished off to another group-- not the bathroom.

“Thanks, Max,” Leo grumbled.

“You’re going to realize I just did you a favor,” she scoffed. “Seriously, what is your fetish for these self-righteous hipster chicks?”

“Uhh…” he hesitated like it should be obvious, “the fact that most of them have astonishingly manipulatable daddy issues.”

“Well, pardon my cock block.” She feigned remorse with a hand placed delicately to her chest.

“Don’t worry about it. That girl’s going home with me tonight.” He spun around to lean his back on the edge of the bar, running his hand through his dirty blonde hair, and then smoothed out the wrinkles on his black vest jacket over a plaid button up.

“Trust me, dude, she thinks you’re repulsive.”

“What makes you think that?” Leo asked skeptically, squinting at her from the corner of his eye.

“I can read her aura,” she joked. “I’m very sensitive to vibes.”

“Well then, let’s test your ability. I bet you I take that girl home tonight, and...” he proposed, his eyes scanning the crowd as if he was suddenly looking for somebody, “… she’s coming with us.”

    Following the direction of his pointed finger, she spied a top heavy bottle blonde with dark roots, wearing mom shorts from the early nineties over purposely snagged neon orange tights, and an over-sized unicorn sweater.

“You’re going to have a threesome with Big Red and My Little Pony?” Max asked cynically.  

“Loser buys drinks next time, all night.”

“I do love getting drunk for free.” She extended her hand to shake on the deal.

“I hope you sell a painting. I’m going to be very thirsty next Saturday.”

    Max nodded playfully, but it was not merely her conceited demeanor that convinced her she would win this bet. When she joked about being sensitive, it was not really a joke. Which was the reason she was putting herself through hipster hell for free drinks—if she could read that girl’s mind, then she was sobering up. When the voices were silent, Max found it easier to function. Unfortunately, the only effective means of silencing the voices she had found in the eleven years since she had developed her ability had resulted in full blown alcoholism. Finally flagging down the bartender, she ordered a Long Island followed by three different shots, none of which were for sharing with Leo, but all ended up on his tab.

    A few short hours of binge drinking later, Max was feeling better, lighter. And, she only had to tell two pretentious poser douchebags to fuck right off.

    When she was getting to the point of needing to sit down, Leo walked away, telling some guys to get out of a booth. Or, at least that is what it kind of looked like being they made no argument about evacuating.

    Sometime near round six, or ten, or possibly thirteen for all she knew, Max noticed a man with side parted black hair in a gray leather jacket leering at her from the bar. She pretended never to have noticed. But, she couldn’t help looking as Leo walked back from the restroom, the man grabbed Leo by the arm and held a short conversation. The talked for less than a minute, and Leo came back looking irritated.

“Who was that?” she asked when her companion returned, unable to keep her curiosity at bay, and being frustrated that in her current condition, she could not actually use her ability to glean the guy.

“Just an old friend from my military days,” he answered, quickly taking a long drink of his import beer.

“You mean from the three weeks you spent twisting your ankle at boot camp?”

“You’re fucking hilarious…”

    When she looked back, the man  was gone. Just before last call, Leo disappeared again, returning about ten minutes later, arms draped over Big Red and My Little Pony.

“What if you buy a painting? Does that still count?” Max asked, drunken giggling sandwiched between her questions.

“Excuse us ladies.” Leo leaned towards My Little Pony, stage whispering into her ear over the last song of the night. “Why don’t you hail us a cab? I’ll be with you momentarily.”

    With two big, empty smiles, the girls left him alone with Max, and he slid into the booth. “How the hell do you do that?”

“You have your powers, I have mine.” He shrugged with pride.

“And, how the hell am I getting home?” Max shouted, trying not to slur her words at this point.

“I took care of that.”

    Leo tossed his head towards a gawky looking guy with wavy brown hair, wearing teal scrubs that in this crowd screamed I have a real job, losers! As he made his way towards them, Max observed that he did not look amused.

“Son of a biiiiitch…” She slid down into the booth, almost disappearing under the table, kicking Leo’s knee cap for his trouble. “You called Ridley?”

“What was I supposed to do? You weren’t getting home in your condition… I’m just trying to keep you out of someone’s basement freezer.”

“You get her smashed, and yet I get the pleasure of dragging her drunk ass home,” Ridley huffed, pointing at the smudge of  hair against the backrest of the booth that he assumed was Max.

“Quit your bitching. Are you her boyfriend, or her big brother?” Leo teased.

“Strangely, kind of both,” he replied flatly, “It’s... complicated.”

“It’s fucking weird.”

“Can you criticize me and slide her my way at the same time?”

    Together, they managed to prop Max up onto Ridley’s shoulders, and accomplished the task of getting her to the door without a fight or vomiting—a surprise on both levels. Saluting them as he walked towards his own cab, Leo sarcastically wished them luck, and Ridley slid the barely conscious Max into the back seat of the cab, giving the driver the address of their apartment.

The driver shot them a pointed glance in the rearview mirror and slowly pulled out into traffic, “Just so you know, buddy, I charge triple for pukers.”

Chapter Two

A shrill repetitive beep tore Max from a very lucid dream starring Dean Winchester set in the back of his Impala. Another perfectly good dream, needlessly ruined by the fact she had neglected to switch off the alarm before passing out, face down, on top of her sheets. She groped blindly for the button to silence the insufferable machine. Unable to locate the clock, and completely incapable of removing her face from within the pillow where it was firmly implanted, Max resorted to other means to end the obnoxious beeping. 

    With a flick of her dangling wrist, the alarm clock lifted off the red milk crate nightstand, smashing against the opposite wall into a dozen fragments. The noise ceased as the shattered plastic parts collected in a mess on the floor below, but Max was still forced awake by the sun creeping in between the split in the curtains. Even through her eyelids it was bright enough to give her a headache. Max moved only to slide under the sheets, drawing them over her head, creating a warm, soft hangover cocoon. Within seconds she was drifting back, imagining hazel-green eyes, black leather, and a bad ass smirk that said, “Yeah, I got freckles—they're fucking adorable. Wanna fight about it?” 

“What hell was that?” Ridley’s voice came muffled from the other end of the apartment. “Did you hear that crash?”

    She sighed heavily, fighting in vain to hold their image in her mind. “No…”

“It sounded like something fell.”

“Weird...” she mumbled from the recesses of her lumpy pillow.

    Ridley rolled his eyes. “C’mon, get up and eat something.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Have some coffee at least.”

“Can’t you see I’m sleeping?” she whined.

    Yanking away her protective sheath, he tossed the sheets to the floor, evoking from her a noise that could only be described as the moan of a dying pterodactyl, followed by a desperate flail to shield her body from the light that did more than to send her to the floor.

“I could have been naked!” she cried, hanging her body on the edge of the bed like she was clinging to it for dear life.

“Yeah, like naked Max would be something new for me? Get up, or I am opening the curtains.”

“You are officially King of the Asshats.” <3

“Then, as your King, I demand that you get your drunk ass out of bed.”

“I think I have vertigo,” she whined, climbing to sit on the end of her bed, dropping her head into her hands.

“Look, enough dicking around, Max. Your shenanigans kept me up past three this morning, and I have rounds in…” Ridley peered at his watch, “thirty-two minutes. I am not leaving until I know you have something in your system besides alcohol.”

    Unsteadily, Max rose and drug her feet to the dresser where she pulled out a hooded sweatshirt, and tugged it over her pajamas. Ridley switched on the light illuminating the room.

“C’mon, Ridley,” she groaned. “That was completely unnecessary.”

“Get moving, Lush.”

    Squinting her eyes, she exited the bedroom with Ridley on her heels. The apartment was unpleasantly bright. With an errant motion of her hand, the blinds and curtains closed. Nauseous from what little movement it had taken to get from the bedroom to the kitchen, she collapsed her head onto the counter.

  “Here,” Ridley said, handing her a TARDIS mug full of freshly made coffee, “Drink this.”

    Through some unexplained mystery of physics, she managed to lift her massive-feeling head. Grasping the square, blue mug with both hands, she took long inhales of the hearty smelling steam to jumpstart her much resistant body. Fighting the urge to yawn, while she was swallowing a long, slow slip of coffee, she concentrated on the pungent, bitter taste and how it made her feel semi-human again.

    Of course, Max only ever considered herself semi-human to begin with.

    Max pulled the rim of the mug to rest at her lips, eyes closed tight, long deep breaths moving in and out of her nose, still having to expel a good majority of her willpower to remain standing upright. The sound of Ridley assertively thumping a box of cereal on the counter in front of her pried her eyes open only for an exaggerated eye roll.

“Eat,” he demanded.

    She reached for her half-crushed pack of cigarettes instead. The cherry on the end of the little white stick burst into life as Ridley stepped back towards the toaster where he awaited his browning bagel. Max stifled a laugh as the door to the cabinet next to his head swung open, and he had to evade a rogue ceramic bowl as it came flying to her waiting hand.

“Fuck, Max,” he inhaled sharply from the jolt of surprise, “warn me when you’re about to do shit like that.”

 Placing the bowl down, she picked up her coffee, took a sip followed by a long drag as the fridge door swung open and the nearly expired milk came shooting past. Exhaling the smoke as she captured the handle of the plastic milk jug in her had, she smirked. “Head’s up.”

    The toaster popped and Ridley busied himself with cream cheesing and strawberry jamming in an attempt to avoid her taunting. Tapping her ashes into a retro, plastic ashtray, with one hand and sipping from her coffe in the other,  Max leaned her elbows on the counter as the milk jug and the cereal box tipped simultaneously, spilling their contents evenly into the bowl.

“Show off,” Ridley mumbled around a mouthful of bagel.

    Once she had successfully managed pouring a bowl of cereal, both the milk and the cereal box open and left on the counter, she shuffled her way to the couch, climbing and sliding over the back rather than exerting two more second worth of energy to walk around. Ridley followed behind with the roll of paper towels, cleaning up the splotches of displaced milk that landed on the floor. Cradling her cereal in one hand, and her coffee in the other, she was forced to abandon her cigarette in another ashtray on the side table. As the spoon lifted to her mouth, delivering mouthfuls of Cini-Mini Crunch, she blinked slowly, flicking through the channels one by one.

    Behind her, as he packed his overnight bag for the hospital, Ridley was lecturing about the few chores he needed her to do. But, after the second or third task, she completely blocked out what he was saying. The spoon hovered in mid-air, milk droplets rolling down the curve of the spoon and back into the bowl. Her eyes did not break from the television, nor did she respond. She was too engrossed in the looping images of carnage sprawled across the screen- there had been a train accident in New Jersey.

    Memories rolled through Max’s head like a forgotten old movie— mangled bodies, sparking wires, fire, and the faceless man with an infinity tattoo on his forearm who had pulled her from the flames. The sounds of buckling metal and horrified screams were vivid in her mind. For a second, she could almost again smell the mix of smoke and melting plastic.

    It was strange to Max what memories the mind held onto in traumatic experiences. Oddly, newsreels of fresh carnage and tragedy always recalled Shel Silverstein. His books had always been her favorite as a child, and Where the Sidewalk Ends had been the book her mother reading to her when their train car broke from the tracks and splayed its content across the countryside. She could still feel the lurching of her stomach from the inertia of the crashing cars, and then banging around the cabin as the car toppled, rolling partially down the hill.

    Dropping the spoon into the cereal bowl with a plop and a clatter, her fingers found their way to where her head had banged against the ceiling, knocking her unconscious for the rest of the tumultuous ride. When she had finally regained consciousness, the pain in her chest was excruciating and she was being carried away from the wreck by a man who was not her father. Her face was pressed against his chest as he ran away from the flaming mess of blood and metal. A scarf wrapped around his head to protect his lungs from the searing smoke prevented her from seeing his face. But, his ripped sleeve exposed the tattoo just below the elbow crease on his left arm. Being five years old at the time, she recalled thinking that it was the number eight.

“Max?” Ridley touched her shoulder.

    Unconsciously, she jumped, knocking the bowl and splashing milk across her lap. The color had bleached from her face, and the glimmer of held back tears lined the bottom of her bloodshot eyes. Max growled, and walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind her in his face. She grabbed a towel, wiping the milk from the front of her clothes as Ridley spoke through the door.

“Maybe we should go visit them this weekend?” Ridley suggested, voice muffled by the wooden door.

“You can’t visit the dead, Ridley, you can only throw cheap flowers on forgotten graves.”

“But-”

She flung the door open at a fierce speed. “I thought you had to work? Have a good day. Don’t kill anybody.” 

    Nodding, Ridley half-heartedly smiled, and nodded before slipping out of the reflection of the mirror, then she heard the heavy slam of the door. Throwing the towel at the shower, it made a thick, wet smack against the stained tile before plopping into the tub. The motion triggered acrobatics in her stomach. She placed both hands on the edge of the porcelain sink, and vomited a little into the basin. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and looked up to face her own reflection.

    Thin, stringy strands of brunette hair clung to her face. Her skin was pale, translucent almost, but covered with rosy blotches and deep violet crescents that weighed down her eyes. She whipped her shirt over her head to expose her chest. An ugly, malformed aberration marred her skin just under her clavicle. The scar rose up from her skin in a pattern like deformed lace. She ran her fingertips over the place where a scalding hot, broken luggage bar had impaled her. The Infinity Man had removed it while she was still unconscious, and plugged the gushing wound with his own ripped sleeve.

    Gabe and Diana Lucas had told their daughter they were going to visit her grandparents, but even at five Max knew something was amiss. She had racked her brain a thousand times, trying to justify why they were on that train, and the only, yet seemingly ridiculous answer she had come up with was that they were running. The anxiety in her mother’s voice, the forceful way in which her father had rushed them out of their Chicago apartment-- they were both terrified of something.

He can’t really expect me to believe he’s working late again? Does he think I am an idiot?

What? These pants fit last week. I absolutely hate my body. I’m disgusting.

Next time he pulls that “You’re not my father” crap, I’m going to knock the smirk of his face.

    She hated her neighbors, and she hated their incessant, superficial problems.

“I need booze.”

    There was nothing that made her feel guiltier than stealing money from Ridley, but she did not really have a choice. She had to finish this painting today, and get it posted on her Artsy account. She could pay him back when she sold it. And, she would. For all her abrasive, alcoholic failings, Max was one hell of an artist. She even kind of had a following—she would sell a painting within days of posting it, for hundreds of dollars. Once, she even broke a thousand with a particularly large piece she had been commissioned to paint. The problem was most of the money went right into her liver, and within a couple weeks she was stressing to finish another piece to pay the bills and buy her quiet juice.

Do not forget to set the DVR tonight.

Shit! Did she say 12:30 or 1:30 for lunch tomorrow?

Bread, laundry detergent, condoms ...

When the hell did they raise the price of stamps?

Oh my god, look at that dress! I wonder if it comes in a size ten?

Is this 13th or 14th street?

I’m starving. God, a hot dog sounds-

    A wicked, inhuman scream rent her mind, silencing all the other voices surrounding her. She was stricken with a wrenching pain in her chest near her heart. She had never been infiltrated by such a searing raw emotion. It reeked of terror and torment. Amid the throngs of moving people, she fell to the cold concrete splitting the crowd like a busted melon. Onlookers froze in shock, gawking as she writhed in torture on the ground. She held her head so tight her nails embedded into her scalp. The last image she registered was of an older, gray haired man leaning down and yelling to the crowd to call 911.

Chapter Three

Don’t pull the plug! Please! I’m still in here! I’m alive! Please God ... I’m still… in here  ... I’m ... still…

    Screaming, panicked, Max erupted from unconsciousness with the dying cries of a woman burning in her brain. She searched frantically to establish her surroundings, but the unfamiliar room with its white walls and beeping machines was giving her an anxiety attack. Or, maybe it was just the voices here. The anguish and despair that drifted through the walls was the worst she had experienced since, well, since a couple hours ago.

    A full throttle flashback wrenched her body as if she relived the torment over again. She had never felt anything like it in her entire life. The emptiness and agony that had penetrated her was overwhelming. It was if all the torment and sadness that existed in the world had been compressed, and then injected directly into her cerebral cortex. She raised her intravenoused arms to run her fingers through her hair, and suddenly wished that she had taken a few moments to shower that morning. While she was taking time evaluate the greasiness quotient of her hair, a nurse entered the room carrying a clipboard.

“Well, good evening, hun! I’m so relieved to see you’re awake,” announced a nurse coming into the room carrying a hot pink clipboard and wearing a kind, genuine smile across her face. “We thought the worst for a while, but it looks like you are out of the woods now." She pulled out a large pen with some unpronounceable pharmaceutical name across the barrel and clip. "What’s your name?"

"Ma..." She hesitated halfway through giving her real name, quickly realizing her mistake and searching for any name she could finish. "—rtha. Martha Jones." 

"Alright, Ms. Jones, we believe you had a seizure, but we have not been able to isolate the cause. The doctor will be right with you."

    Considering the name she had given, she had to bite her lip to prevent laughing at that statement.

"In the meantime sweetie, I’m sure your family is worried sick."

This was seriously not good. There was no way she could pay for any of this, and from the sound of it, her mystery condition was going to require a myriad of tests conducted by fearful doctors convinced that if they could not find a cause and a cure she would sue them out of practice. And, what if they found something remarkable about her brain, like for instance, an aberration that made it possible to have psychic abilities? She took a deep breath and tried to focus on what the nurse was asking her.

“Actually no, my grandmother died a couple years ago, and she was my last living relative.”

    The nurse gasped dramatically and covered her mouth with the top of her clipboard. The waves of empathy and sadness emanating from the nurse actually made Max wince, and it kind of made her nauseous. This was a woman way too committed to the concept of understanding.

“Oh my goodness, you poor thing. Well, you must have a close friend that we can call then?”

    Now Max had to think seriously. This woman would not believe that she had no family and no friends.

“I just moved here.”

     It was the only lie she could muster. The sadness of the nurse intensified to incomprehensible levels of ridiculousness.

“Well, maybe we’ll try getting a hold of someone tomorrow then. If you need anything, my name is Kelly.” She tapped a name tag that looked like it had been accosted by a Bedazzler.

“I’ll remember that. Thanks, Kelly,” Max nodded, returning a pleasing smile.

    Kelly was sweet, but she was obviously a complete idiot. With another big smile, she tucked her clipboard under her arm and moved on to the next room. Max was grateful as the abundant sadness left with her, but mostly, she now had the opportunity to get the hell out of dodge before they figured out she belonged in Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. The process of removing the IV proved to be more challenging than anticipated. Max tried to gently glide it out, but it stuck in her flesh, pulling at the tissue rather than releasing it. She knew if she had to tug on it, it was going to bleed like a son of a bitch.

    Looking around, she saw a roll of gauze and some spongy neon colored tape and portioned out the lengths necessary for her task. The needle squeezed out of her skin with a soft, sucking pop. Blood immediately oozed to the surface. Once several layers of gauze had been fitted to collect the blood, she wiped her hands on the clean white sheets and applied the obnoxiously green tape around her arm. Her muscles pulsed under the restriction of the tape, and it hurt to bend her arms when she tried to pull on her shirt, but at least the tube was out.

    The nurses doing their rounds seemed completely engrossed in their tasks, and the two nurses remaining at the station were too busy talking about the unconscious woman in room 384 who, in their opinions, had clearly been beaten by her husband. With the coast apparently clear, Max made a mad dash down the hallway through a set of double doors.

    As she crept around the halls, Max couldn’t help but imagine Ridley as he hurried up and down these halls, responding to flatliners and strokes, and whatever else happened to people in an ICU. Were the other rooms holding patients that he had diagnosed? Did he know those nurses? Did he flirt with Kelly? That last part made her snort. Ridley did not have the necessary human communication skills to flirt properly.

    The doors led to a large hallway that contained elevators and seating areas with furniture not updated since early nineties-- naturally varnished oak and pastel vinyl seats. Frantically tapping the down button, she persisted even after it glowed orange and indicated it had understood her request. The mechanical noises of the rising elevator were drowned out by approaching voices. Someone coming up in the elevator. Max jumped around the corner of an adjoining hallway that had a sign pointing towards the maternity ward, and hoped that whoever was coming up the elevator was not having a baby.

“…was a completely bogus call on the part of the umpire. I mean, the Cubs haven’t been in the series in 65 years! You’d think they would cut them a little frickin’ slack,” one said to the other.

“Did you see that—“the doors slid open and two doctors emerged, “—play in the fifth inning?”

 “No! What happened in the 5th?” The first doctor asked the second, who had stopped and was looking behind.

“Sorry, I thought I saw someone,” he said hesitating, turning back to continue their conversation on their way to Intensive Care. “Anyway, so, Rodriguez was leading off on third…”

    After waiting for them to pass, she pushed herself in just as the doors began to close. Leaning against the cool metal wall of the elevator, the panic constricting her lungs started to subside. As the silver doors drew together, narrowing her view, something, or rather someone, caught her attention at the end of the hall. Sitting in the waiting area at the dead end of the hall was the black haired guy in the gray leather jacket.

    Thrusting an arm in between the closing doors, they rebounded with a ding, and slowly started to retreat to the sides. She took few tentative steps forward, as if a few steps closer would focus her eyes and see it was not him – help her see that she was just being incredibly paranoid. She moved slowly down the hall towards him. He was bent over, resting his elbows on his knees, one hand holding a cell phone to his ear and the other holding up his weary, down-turned head. The fading lilt in his words gave her the impression he was not originally a local boy.

    The strangest thing, perhaps even a terrifying thing, was that she hadn’t felt a single thing from him yet. Closing her eyes, reaching out mind out like mental tendrils, she groped at the empty void that was what should have been his mind. There was nothing. No, not nothing. It was something. Something other. Some dull vibration that should have been thought, but avoided existence.  She moved close to him, hesitant steps moving her body through the negative space between them, until she could at least hear his conversation.

“... They’re running more tests,” his words colored by a faded Irish lilt, “but we both know they’re not gonna find anything ... she accidentally gleaned  Vapid— you know what that does to an untrained empath? It’s no bloody wonder why she had a seizure... “

  Empath.  The words stopped her dead.  She had known the word for a very long time; she had carried that word like a secret. But, to hear the word spoken from the mouth of a perfect stranger, especially in reference to her, was simultaneously the most disconcerting and comforting thing she had ever experienced. Lifting his head from his hand, the inevitable happened. They both just stared at each other, each shocked by the presence of other.

“Gotta go,” he hastily muttered, smashing his finger against the screen to disconnect the call.

    She tried to glean him, but as her mind reached out for his, it felt like it was hitting a wall. Nothing in, nothing out.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Not here, Max,” his eyes darted around, fearful others. “This place is not safe-”

“Of course, you would know my name,” she rolled her eyes, forcing him against the back of the chair with the single thought. “Dude, you picked the wrong chick to pull the ‘come with me if you want to live’ routine on.” She pinned his arms to the chair, and the cell phone fell from his hand. “I fangirl way too much Science Fiction to fall for that crap. So, why don’t we skip the melodrama, and start with your name.”

“Finn,” he admitted, and she gave him a few inches.

“Why are you following me?”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want,” he promised, his tone calm, which worried her, “just not here.”

Chapter Four

    The glass door swung open into the dining room and the scent of burned coffee and warm maple syrup invading the air. The smells wafted around, mingling with the curling plumes of cigarette smoke that were fogging up the place. Max glanced around the restaurant, waiting for something special to catch her eye and make her understand why Finn had chosen to take her here to explain himself.

“Denny’s?” Max scoffed, “This is your safe place?”

“Sometimes the best way to hide is in plain sight.” He said opening his menu and tapping it on the table top.

“Aren’t you worried that everyone here is going to hear us talking?” Max asked,  reluctantly grabbing her menu and flicking through the laminated pages.

“I’ve been coming here for years, and there is certain type of person who comes to Denny’s after midnight.” He gestured to the motley band of alternative looking teenagers, frumpily dressed students, and the drunks sobering up for the ride home. “Trust me—that lot tend to keep to themselves.”

“Hey, Doll!”

    A middle aged woman with frizzy, over dyed black hair was approaching the table.

“Hello, Marilyn, love,” Finn winked. “The usual for me.” He looked over the top of her menu and his demeanor softened a little. “Are you hungry?”

“I don’t have any money.” Max sighed.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

    Debating on whether she should accept charity from this guy, she decided she was too hungry to let her pride get the way of free food. She folded the menu, smacking it down onto the table swiftly as if she had known what she wanted order the moment she sat down.

“Coffee, French toast with whip cream, extra bacon.”

    Scribbling down their orders, Marilyn sauntered back to the computer, and a bit of awkwardness settled into the booth with them. Max slunk down further into the booth, spinning the mood ring she wore on her left index finger—Ridley had bought it years ago as an ironic joke, which admittedly, she agreed was pretty funny. Finn drummed his fingers on the coffee stained laminate top.

“How are you feeling?” Finn asked raising his eyebrows.

“Hung over,” she scoffed.

    Up close, he was better looking than he had appeared across the crowded, dimly lit bar. The cut of his dark, wavy hair seemed old-fashioned- short back and sides, longer on the top so that it curled slightly back. On anyone else it would have seemed like a trendy, lame attempt to seem sophisticated, but not on him. Somehow he carried an aged quality that did not translate to his features, only his essence. The contrast between the black of his hair and bright blue of his eyes had a swoony, Superman quality. Deciding her train of thought was heading in a dangerous direction, she forced her eyes away from his face, thankful she was the one who could read minds, and not the other way around.

“Do you remember anything?” Finn asked.

    Examining the paper placemat in front of her to have somewhere her eyes could focus besides him, she shrugged.

“You had a seizure.”

“I heard.”

“Oh…”

Their eyes danced around the dining room, looking at everything but the face that sat across from them. Well, this was underwhelming.

“I’m an alien, aren’t I?”

“What?” He snorted. “Uh… no.”

“Damn.” She frowned, crossing her arms disappointingly. “I was really holding out for Time Lord. So, mutant then?”

“You were right.”

“I am an alien?”

“No,” he shook his head, giving her a skeptical look by quirking an eyebrow, “I meant about you being way too into Science Fiction.”

    Delivering two steaming mugs to the table, Marilyn deposited them before disappearing into the bowels of the kitchen.

“Alright,” she leaned across the table top, “the suspense is killing me. Are you going to tell me why I read minds, or not?”

“You seem pretty open minded, which I have to admit, I did not count on—“

“I have super powers—what exactly am I going to find hard to believe?”

“Point taken,” he acknowledged. “You’re not an alien, and you’re not a mutant. Well, not technically anyway…” He bit his lip thoughtfully searching for the right words, changing his approach, “Are you religious?”

    Flashing a cheeky look through the tops of her eyes, she replied, “If God existed, I of all people would be able to hear him.”

    Humming as she handed off the greasy plates full of food onto the table, Marilyn passed Finn his usual, which turned out to be steak and eggs. Placing Max’s stack of collated toast with dollops of whipped cream on the corners, she laid the ticket on the edge of the table and bid them to enjoy the meal. The minute the taste of cinnamon and cream hit her tongue Max realized just how long it had been since she had last eaten, causing her to attack the French toast like it was trying to escape from her plate. After a few bites, the delight of good, comforting food in her stomach waned, and the odd situation was beginning to feel more evident.

“Right, so, human beings are the only known animal to ever achieve consciousness, but no one knows why. One day we’re fighting each other with pointy sticks and grunting.” He added emphasis by jabbing towards her with his fork. “Then bam, we’re growing wheat and keeping pets, but our life expectancy drops, and it is shorter than our hunter- gatherer ancestors. You following any of this?”

“Give me some credit.”

“Okay, so the question is why? Why does achieving consciousness shorten our lifespan?”

“There are lots of reasons,” she countered. “The birth of civilization brought new complications to life, war, disease, nutrition deprivation from a restricted diet of agriculturally produced food...“ Finn smirked at her, giving her a look of impressment. “What? I like history.” She swiped at a whip cream dollop with a finger to distract her eyes from his adorable, know it all kind of grin. “… People just die. We’re fragile little meat bags.”

“No, Max,” he shook his head. “Even modern scientists don’t know why we die. It’s not written into our genetic code to expire. Our bodies are perfectly capable of producing new, healthy cells into perpetuity.” He cut off a slice of his cooling eggs and forked it into his mouth. “So why do we die?”

“What are you implying?” She put her own utensils down onto the table. “We should be immortal?”

“I am saying that dying of old age was the price we paid for consciousness. What we think of as our soul is nothing more than a electro-magnetic parasite. It metabolizes our energy, and excretes what we perceive as consciousness.”

    The idea kind of made her skin crawl, but truthfully, she was enthralled at the idea the world was less normal than even her overactive imagination could envision it.

“Or, in other words, the human race has metaphysical worms,” she paraphrased.

He sighed, “Yes, I suppose, you could say that, except it’s really more like ninety percent of the human race has worms,” he mocked with another charming, devilish smirk. “The remainder of us, not so much.”

“Us?” Her eyes perked up. “And, us would be whom?”

“The Preternaturals.”

“Come again?”

“Even if you don’t prescribe to a religion you can’t ignore the countless references in sacred texts to mortal beings graced with incredible longevity or mythical abilities. Every civilization had a pantheon of observed deities they believed blessed them and led them to thrive and conquer. And, just like Yahweh and Jesus, they actually existed.”

    He paused to read her reaction. She sensed his hesitation as if he was finally expecting her to leave, to call bullshit and run.

“Humans adapt when faced with obstacles to their own survival, and a parasite that sucks the life out of you is the top qualifier in my book of scary shit out to kill you. Most humans will age and die, withered by their own soul, but not us,” he indicated with his finger from him to her. “One of our ancestors adapted. So, yes, Max, in a small way, you’re a mutant, and you carry a gene that developed to reverse this process and the result of a natural defense mechanism to an environmental change.. Our bodies work symbiotically with our soul—it metabolizes our energy, and our bodies metabolize the energy it expels as consciousness, resulting in—“

“Immortality and hyper brains with super powers,” she pointed her fingers like a gun and clicked her tongue. “Got it.”

    Returning to warm up coffees, Marilyn hovered quietly for a brief moment, topped off their mugs, then flitted away to other tables.

“You’re being pretty receptive to all this,” he joked.

“People like me pretty much just wait around for things like this to happen at any moment,” she waved her hand dismissively, squinting her eyes like she was examining him. “How old are you?”

“I stopped counting.”

Still unable to glean him, unsure whether it was a side-effect of the medicine or her exhaustion, or one of another million possibilities in this strangeness, she still knew he was lying.

“Bullshit,” she countered with a smirk. “What year were you born?”

“1836.”

“Fuck! You survived the Irish Potato Famine, didn’t you?”

“Only just,” his features softened, obviously still an open wound. “I was adopted by a British aristocrat who knew of my… condition. He took me away from Ireland, but the rest of my family never made it out. If it wasn’t for him, I would have died alongside them in a dirty, disease-ridden hovel before my voice even changed.”

“Die? You just said we’re immortal.”

“I said we don’t age, love,” he corrected. “I never said we couldn’t die. Sure, we’re less vulnerable than your average human, but bullets and bacteria are just as deadly to us as any other fragile little meatbag. Not to mention, as you cleverly pointed out, starving. Our bodies still have needs to function properly.”

    Digesting the information she had just received, Max leaned back into the booth, crossing her arms, far too distracted to have any further concern for her now congealing French Toast. From childhood, she had always expected this moment. She remembered watching The Matrix with envy, wishing someone would show up and explain why she did not make sense in the world. Now, here it was, neatly packaged and delivered, but instead of relief or unbridled excitement, there was another untempered emotion starting to smolder in her chest.

Anger.

“Where the hell have you been for the last twenty odd years?” she snapped, her tone becoming defensive. “Why am I just finding out about this?” Finn opened his mouth to reply, but Max was not finished, her tone taking a harder edge. “Do you know how fucking isolating it is to think you’re a lone freak in the whole world?”

“There were exceptional circumstances.” he argued. “Normally, Preternaturals aren’t raised by Naturals since the trait is inherited, but…"

“…my parents are dead,” she finished, flicking her eyes out the window to contain her composure, “and, my grandparents definitely did not have super powers.”

“Your mother was adopted—we’re not sure what exactly happened to her parents.”

Feeling a dire need to change the topic, Max asked the question that had been nagging overhearing the phone conversation at the hospital.

“Okay, if they’re Naturals,” she pointed to another booth of Denny’s patrons, “and we’re Preternaturals," she said the word with air quotes, trying out the way it felt on her tongue, "Then what the hell is an Vapid?”

    By the widening of his eyes, it was apparent  Finn was not ready for these types of questions.

“I overheard you talking at the hospital—I know it’s what caused my seizure.”

He took a deep breath, like he was choosing his words. “Well, technically, there are two kinds of Preternaturals—Primes and Vapids.” He turned each hand palm up as he mentioned them, like he was holding each of them up for her inspection. “Preternaturals developed a symbiotic relationship with their souls, but Vapids developed defense mechanisms to ward them off. They actually mimic the brain waves of a human who already has a soul, and thus developed consciousness all on their own. Vapids have no souls.”

“So they’re evil?”

“Souls aren’t a moral compass,” he shook his head. “The difference between the Preternaturals isn’t goodness, its wholeness. Those with souls aren’t intrinsically better than those without souls, they just have a feeling of completeness.” Finn swigged a bit of coffee to wash down a bite of cold steak. “The flaw in a Vapid is that many develop a sense of loss or emptiness that becomes impossible to fill. Vapids aren’t born evil, but that need to satisfy the emptiness in their lives can drive them there.”

“Like, stealing a soul from another human being?” Max assumed.

“Exactly,” he nodded. “Ripping the soul out of a natural human is so traumatic it kills them. It leaves an echo, like scar tissue on the soul, and when Empaths encounter them, you can perceive all that pain and suffering. Obviously, it’s very dangerous.”

    Taking her pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, she one out and placed it between her lips, speaking around the butt as she prepared to step outside, “How do you remove a soul?”

He reached across the table wrapping his hand around her wrist, and before she could pull it back.

“Like this.”

    Denny’s, Chicago, the entire world faded into muted colors and a gray haze seemed to pollute air. Max felt the breath leave her chest, and cold embraced her entire body until she felt numb. The cigarette fell from her lips, somersaulting down, bouncing on the laminate table top. Her eyes started to roll backward. She thought that the ground had fallen out from under her as something tugged her forwards until Finn released her hand. The colors returned and the haze disappeared. Her skin was covered in goosebumps from a chill lingering just under her skin..

“What the fuck are you?”

“Preternatural. Same as you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You’re right, you can read minds.” He stood up, removing his wallet from his pocket. “I, on the other hand, have the ability to control electromagnetic energy.” He tossed a stack of cash on the table between the plates. “Which, includes souls.”

Chapter Five

    The sky unable to decide whether it wanted to rain or not, settled on an inconsistent drizzle that was just shy of sleet with the drop in temperature. Most of the ride back to her apartment had been silent, but pregnant with unasked questions. Finn had assured her when they left Denny's that they would talk again tomorrow, and he promised he would answer any questions she had then, but right now, he insisted she get some sleep.

    Disgruntled, she had no other choice but to agree. Finn held all the cards, and he could play them however he wanted. Truth be told, she really was tired- almost dying does that to you, apparently- but, her mind was racing with too much information to fool herself that she would sleep a wink tonight. Not to mention, the rounds she would be going with Ridley about where she had been, all by herself, without letting him know. She sighed heavily at the thought of the argument that waited in inevitability.

    Finn insisted he walk her up to her apartment, so Max followed Finn up the three flights of stairs, fumbling with her keys to have something to do with her hands. As they stopped at the door, Max paused, holding the key in the lock without turning it.

"I'm not trying to sound with a whiny tween protagonist, but..." she turned to look at him, eying him with severity. "Promise me you're not going to disappear after tonight. You can't just drop all this crap into my life, and then decide to pull a Houdini on me."

    Finn rested his hand hers while it was paused over the lock. "I'm not going anywhere, scout’s honor. I wouldn't leave you hanging like that. Preternatural have to stick together."

"Good," she expelled a relieved breath, "because I just have this sinking feeling in my-"

    The words died cold on her tongue as she pushed into the apartment to find a tall man hovering overing Ridley. In the semi-darkness of the room, Max could make out limited features- mixed complexion, hair cropped close enough to be nearly bald, wearing a vest and tie- lit only by the ambient kitchen light and the blue-white glow of the television. He flinched toward the door, eyes wide.

"What the fuck!?" Max shrieked.

    With a pronounced thrust of her hand, Max hurled the intruder across the living room, slamming them against the television and makeshift entertainment center, which collapsed into a pile of smashed plastic, busted particle wood, and scattered Blu-rays. Thicker darkness choked the room as the television screen spider-webbed, the light shrinking to a prismatic ball before fading out unceremoniously. Scrambling towards the couch, Max fell to her knees before Ridley's languid form, and reached her hands up to his face to inspect him. Just above his vacant eyes, over his left brow, blood oozed from a gunshot wound, trickling down his cheekbone, along the curve of his slack jaw, dripping onto his pale green scrubs.

"Ridley!" she smacked at his face in a futile attempt to rouse him. "Ridley, wake up! God damn it, you can't fucking die!"

"Fingerprints!" Finn yelled as he seized Max from behind, pinning her arms to her sides as he tried to haul her away from the body.

"No! Let me go!" she screamed, searing her throat, thrashing against his hold, until she saw movement in the debris pile that had been their entertainment center. Eyes hardened, smoldering, she relaxed in Finn's arms, and growled, "I said, let me go."

    Arms flying apart, Finn jolted back against the couch, releasing her and landing backwards across the arm rest. Freed, Max turned her anger on the intruder who was shuffling to his feet.

    Ridley was dead, and Max was going to make this motherfucker pay in kind, using the only weapon she knew how to wield- her mind. With an upturn her palms, the intruder's body went slack, raising into the air like a rag doll, dangling above the splintered mess he had crawled from. His breath hitched as Max began concentrating on the slow process of denying air to his lungs, halting the blood in his veins, stilling his beating heart.

    Gurgling spurts rattled in the intruder's throat. Propping her hand and knee upon the coffee table, Max buckled some under the stain of such intense concentration, one she never knew herself possible of performing. But, he had taken away her best friend, her only living family, and the fear of living without Ridley was fueling her laser focus.

    Somewhere in the distance, what seemed like mile away, she heard Finn shouting her name, but it was lost, dying on a the raging gale of her fury. All the color drained from the intruder's face, save for a putrid shade of gray-violet, his limbs trembling from blood and oxygen deprivation to his brain. As if a rubber band had snapped, the intruder's body lost all tension, and his head flopping towards his chest. Letting the corpse drop back onto the pile of mangled furniture, Max fell spent across the table, with a strangled, pitiful sob. All composure lost, she wailed in both physical and mental pain and exhaustion.

    Finally able to reach her, Finn slid his arms under hers, hooking her at his elbows, dragging her to her feet.

"Max, we can't stay here!"

"Ridley..." she muttered.

"He's dead, love. I'm sorry, but I have to get you out of here!" Finn argued, fighting her dead weight.

"No... not... not without Ridley." Her words lolled around her mouth as if she barely had the energy to speak them.

    Unable to get her to walk, Finn managed to get her to her feet long enough to throw an arm under her legs. Eyes fluttering, fighting to stay conscious, her head bobbed up and down against his chest without the power to hold it steady, as he took the stairs two at a time. When they burst out of the entrance onto the sidewalk, Max could hear sirens in the distance, but saw no vacillating blue and red lights casting up and down the street. Tossing the door open hard enough to creak back on its hinges, Finn dumped Max ungracefully into the passenger seat, hesitating only long enough to sink her seatbelt into the clasp, before slamming the door shut again.

    Tears were blurring her vision now, pooling in her eyes without effort, and she raised a hand to the window, pressing her fingertips against the glass.

"Ridley..." she whispered one last time before her eyelids fell, swiping the tips of her hand down in slanted stripes across the fogging glass.

Chapter Six

    The musty scent of musty sheets greeted her when she woke.  Lurching up out of the coma of sleep, panic arrested her conscious, in that paralytic reaction to realizing the alarm did not go off. Scanning the very modern designed room where she found herself it felt very spartan, and there was a thin but old layer of dust on the flat surfaces. Not only was this not her room, this was a room that had not been used in a while. Or, they had fired the house keeper. He mind was rambling, but for good reason. She was trying to ignore the fact that this was the second time this week she had woken in a foreign place, with barely a semblance of what had brought her there. The feeling did not get more pleasant with experience.

    Dragging her hands across her face, Max could feel the grimy, slick film from two days of not showering as life as she knew it smashed apart into fiery wreckage. Vainly working her fingers into the pockets of her weighted eyes, her hands trembled. Counting backwards, she realized her last drink had been at the hipster bar with Leo.

    Its absence was painfully evident as the stream of uninhibited conscious bled into her pounding head. The atmosphere felt like home, so she knew they were in a large city, but it was not Chicago. As she pulled herself into a sitting position, the mattress springs creaked under her shifting weight. Her last memory was…

    The image of Ridley, blood splattered, and laid out across their couch sent a paralyzing spike through her body, and she braced herself by pressing her hands against the mattress. Flashes of the murderer suspended in the air assaulted her memory. The sound of ragged, choking gasps rang like her own heartbeat in her ears. The urge to vomit rose and fell in her throat. She covered her face with twitching hands, waiting for the feeling to pass.

    The feeling only intensified, edged by a headache. Scrunching her eyes tightly, she took deep breaths, exhaled slowly, and repeated to herself that she was not going to throw up. Mind over matter. As the breathing cleared her head and focused her thoughts, that dull vibration she had felt in the hospital consumed her, stronger than what she had felt in the hospital. So strong that it felt directional, as if it was resonating from some source nearby.

    The muted sound of voices could be heard though, as well as the crackling pops of cold, raw bacon hitting a hot skillet, on the other side of the closed bedroom door.  Finding her feet, she pulled herself out of bed to peer out the door through a thin crack. Towards the left, past the end of a short hall, she saw Finn slouching in a chair at a dining room table. People moved around a open room decorated in bright whites, light wood, and clean modern lines that reminded her of Ikea.

    A door clicked shut firmly behind her, and instinct slid right past flight and into fight as she jerked towards the unexpected noise. As she threw up her hand, the man coming out at the end of the hallway smashed back first against the wooden door, gasping as the blunt force knocked the right from him in a thrust. Shaking off the panic, Max shuffled towards the prone man until her she registered the familiar face.

“Leo?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Glad to see you're feeling better, Max.”

Shaking her head, she said, “I don't even know where to start with the torrent of belligerent questions, so I’m just going to start with: what the hell are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story.”

    The response didn’t come from Leo, it came from Finn, drawn by the noise and joined by a petite, black woman that she didn’t know. Raking her fingers through grimy hair in frustration, she grimaced at the greasiness quotient of her hair. The spastic twitch in her hand became something larger, a powerful torrent of a spasm that sent her to the floor. Hands hooked under her arms, slowing her descent, and avoiding a head smashing impact. All she could process was the prickling feeling of electricity in every muscle of her body as the ceiling faded in and out intermittently, then darkness.

    When Max’s eyes finally rolled back to the proper alignment in her head the sunlight bouncing off the clean, pale walls was biting her eyes. The sinking, comfortable feeling of cushions cradling her weight told her that at some point she had been moved to a couch. The crowd of faces around her had grown from three to five, and now included and Indian man and another light haired man with a scowl.

“When was your last drink,” asked the petite woman as she dabbed Max’s head with a cool rag that made her sigh and want to drift back to sleep.

“What gave it away?” she smirked, suddenly feeling like a child caught sneaking back in by her parents.

“I recognize the signs,” she replied, her words rounded by a romantic cadence that had been eroded away by a long familiarity with the English language. She sat the cloth on a coffee table, swapping it out for a third-empty bottle of red wine. “Mon pere was no stranger to the eau-de-vie. Here, drink”

Max didn’t have to be told twice- in fact, she was rather glad to not have to resort to her emergency plan of scouring the bathroom for mouthwash if it became necessary. Wine wasn’t her preference, especially dry, bitter red wine, but anything was better than mouthwash, or worse, the DTs.

“Is more alcohol really the solution here?” asked the newly arrived white man.

“Would you pull a opiate addict straight off of heroin? No.” snapped the petite woman. “You must slowly wean them from the poison, using methadone. They must mend their brain chemistry first.”

“She’s already had one seizure, and I’m starting to wonder whether it was alcohol related as well,” Finn added.

“Well, then why are we not taking her to the hospital?” the Indian man asked, his words touched by the reminder of British colonialism in his country.

“They’ll be forced to admit her- we don’t have time for that,” Finn argued.

“Can the complete strangers in the room stop arguing about me like I’m not here?” Max interrupted, silencing the group.

“Athene will know what to do when she returns,” the petite woman stated, which seemed to put an end to the whole issue. She turned back to face Max, a wide smile plastered across her face. “Besides, she’s right- how entirely rude of us. Bonjour, Max. I am Simone,” she extended her hand for Max to take, which she did giving it a limp shake. “These two unfortunates you already know,” she indicated to Leo and Finn, “but the lovely couple who have just arrived are Tanvir and Drew.

    The Indian man nodded with a half smile, and the other saluted.

“Greetings,” Max half-heartedly flashed the hand sign for Live Long and Prosper. “Well, now that we’re all besties, mind filling in the missing time of how I got from my apartment to…?” she let the sentence hang unfinished hoping someone would clue her in promptly.

“Athens,” Simone replied.

“Athens? As in, Greece?”

“Well it ain’t Georgia,” Leo scoffed.

Finn threw him a dark, narrow eyed leer, which Max followed by a whack to the head.

“You still haven’t told me what the hell you’re doing here, asshole.”

“In time, mon chere,” Simone said, soothing like a mother, and offered her hand to help Max stand. “For now, let us get you cleaned up and something to eat. Then, questions.”

    The bathroom was bright in a way that was different from the pure, pale walls of the apartment- rich, vibrant hues of blue scored the back of her eyes with their tiled mosaics and ombres.  Simone spun the handle of the elegant faucet spilling water into a deep basin of a tub with a high back rest.  Retrieving a large corked glass container, Simone scooped out about two cups of epsom salts into the water, and they hit the bottom of the tub like plinking pebbles of glass. The heat of the dispersing steam pressed against her face, already dulling the anxious tension she was carrying. Pulling at the loose fabric of her Max’s hoodie, Simone yanked the fabric upwards.

“I can handle it from here,” Max protested, staying her hand.

I’m sure you can, but you’ve also had two seizures in the last twenty-four hours. What if the next one happens when you’re submerged in a foot of water?” Then she added, “besides, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before?”

“Whatever, I'm too exhausted to fight about it”.

Throwing her arms up over her head as Simone guided the sweatshirt over her head. As the skin underneath exposed the blemishes across her skin, some faded into yellow-greens, other bursting with dark red-violets, Simone paused.

“Merde,” she breathed.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Simone’s fingers brushed over the pallid skin, the bruised, irregular blotches, the exposed ribs through the skin of her back.

“Mon chere, you are a walking corpse.

“Don’t be so dramatic, lady.”

“It’s the voices, isn’t it? You seek solace in the bottle.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I had  friend who was an empath like you.” Simone’s voice wavered, “she struggled too. But then she found peace.”

“What was her secret?” Max turned, meeting Simone’s eyes over her left shoulder, face an expression of genuine concern and curiosity.

    Simone swallowed as she hesitated, then gave a soft, unconvincing smile. “Arsenic.”

    Max let the topic drop at that.

    Two days’ worth of soiled clothes crumpled into a pile on the ceramic tile floor. The hot water hit Max like a punch in the face, resulting in an abrupt, surprised gasp as she came to rest against the high back.

“Just try and relax. I’m going to grab you some clean clothes. Try your best not to die in the next thirty seconds.”

“No promises.”

    Once Simone slipped out of the door, the silence of being alone was oppressive. The room was easily the size of her living room and kitchen combined. A white quartz countertop stretched across one wall, a double sink sandwiching a lower set vanity with an ottoman.  On the opposite wall sat a toilet and a bidet. Tucked into the corner behind her was a standing showers.. The tub was built into the floor in front of a window with a line of modesty protecting frosted glass. Spirals and blooms of blues, dark to light, spread out from the tub, across the floor and up portions of some of the walls and shower. The effect was both ethereal and serene, coupled by the soft light spilling into the space from the large windows.

    A hand mirror set on the shelf at the base of the window, and Max grabbed it, inspecting her features. Simone was right- she did look like a corpse, but it was the same corpse she saw every time she looked into the mirror. She had seen that corpse yesterday in the mirror after she had vomited into the sink, and had still decided she needed more alcohol- the quest for which had resulted in the events that had brought her to this moment, half a world away from every home she had ever known. Somehow now the reflection echoing back to her was repulsive. She looked every bit the homeless addict she was in her current situation. Who was this reckless mess staring back at her?

    At some point in the last few years, everything that had once comprised the whole of Max Lucas had been abruptly scraped out and replaced with fragile, substandard replacement parts. There had been a whole girl in there once—fueled solely on adrenaline and curiosity. A girl who was going to keep the world in a glass jar just to prove it could be conquered, tamed, and confined for her own amusement.

    Where had that girl gone?

    It was no mystery—she was long dead. Darkness and drink had murdered that young, invincible girl who believed in improbabilities, abandoning her ravaged body in a black hole from which nothing, not even hope, could escape. What was left had mutated into a scabbard of a human being, disfigured and gnarled by emotional self-mutilation. In no way was the woman that she had become a fitting replacement for the girl that had been cast asunder.

    How could Ridley ever justify that this rancid, loathsome heap was ever worth dying for? Just another casualty in the war that Max Lucas had declared on herself. Perhaps the real reason that all her loved ones were taken from her was to spare them the insufferable disappointment that their Golden Girl would amount to nothing more than an elegant medley of squandered talent and promise, made impotent from her mercy to the drink. Or, it was to punish her for allowing it to happen in the first place?

    The feeling of hot water on her skin felt cathartic, like for a brief moment she could actually wash clean of these flaws. Gliding the water down her arms, she paused at the spot where Finn had taken her wrist at Denny’s. Thoroughly inspecting it, she was amazed there was no mark. Max felt like there should at least be a burn or a bruise—something to ground it to reality, to make it feel like it actually happened and she did not just imagine it all. To make her feel like she wasn’t crazy for believing every lilting word from the mouth of this complete stranger. To make her feel like Ridley didn’t die in vain.

Chapter Seven

Springfield, Illinois, 1992. Kindergarten.

Max had learned very early in her life not to tell people that you have superpowers. Naturally, she had learned this lesson the hard way, during story time. All the students sat in a clustered ring around their teacher, eyes following and necks craning as she moved the book in a half circle so every student could see each page.

“Molly was the spitting image of her dad,” read the teacher, pausing to put that into five year old terms. “That means she looked just like her dad. Do any of you look just like one of your parents?”

A few excited hands shot up in the air, and came back down.

“Sometimes, we can look like both of our parents. I have my mom’s brown eyes, and my dad’s nose. What about you guys?”

Laura’s hand shot up into the air, and she said, “I have my mom’s red hair.”

Ashley’s hand shot up in the air, and he said, “I have my dad’s blue eyes.”

Bryce's hand shot up in the air, and he said, “I wear glasses like my dad.”

And, then Max’s hand went up, and she exclaimed, “I have my mom’s superpower!”

    The entire class erupted into a fit of giggles.

“Max, don’t be silly. It’s not right to fib,” the teacher corrected. “You don’t get to play if you’re going to fib.”

Tommy’s hand went up, but before he could speak, Max stood up, wholly offended.

“I’m not fibbing!” she shouted angrily. “My dad had superpowers too!”

    Class erupted again.

“Sit down right now, or you’re going to the hall for lying.”

“That’s not fair!” she stomped her foot, accidentally smashing the hand of the boy sitting next to her.

“Ow!” 

“That’s it!” The teacher stood up, pointing towards to door.

“But—“ she cried, but the teacher was already guiding her towards the door.

“You can come back in when you learn to be honest and not throw tantrums.”

    The door shut in her face. Max slid down the wall, angry tears falling down her cheeks. More than ever, she wished her parents were still here. Everything had happened so quickly, and she missed her parents so much. They would have told off her mean teacher. They would have shown her they had superpowers. But, her parents were gone, and they weren't coming back. Things were so different living with her grandparents. This small town called Dawson where her grandparents lived could have fit inside a few blocks of Chicago. Her Grandma would be mad at her for telling, but she just wanted to be included.

    The door opened again, and Max looked expectantly upward, hoping to see her teacher who had decided she could come back inside. Instead, she looked up at the boy whose hand she had accidentally smashed in the midst of her tantrum. He was rubbing the part of his hand that was red, but he did not look mad.

“Sorry about your hand, Ridley,” she apologized, wiping tears from her eyes.

“It’s okay. It doesn't really hurt anymore,” he said as he sat down beside her. “I believe you, and I told her she was stupid.”

Max smiled. “Thanks.”

“Are your parents X-men?”

“Probably.”

“Cool.”

    The latching of the closing door broke the memory, and Max was thrown back into blue vortex of the bathroom walls. Simone threw a pile of folded clothes onto the vanity bench.

“We’ll get you some of your own clothes later today, but this should do for now.”

    Padding in bare feet across the tile, Simone settled on the wide rim of the tub behind Max’s head.

“Hand me the shampoo,” she requested, pointing at two black bottles sitting on the shelf made by the base of the window meeting the rim of the tub.

    Max handed her both, not taking to time to differentiate the labels. Simone accepted both, and set one aside, and Max realized she would have chosen wrong if she had guessed. In her free hand, Simone reached for a cup that was within reach, dipped the cup below the water, and brought it up to pour over the top of her head.

“Close your mouth, and hold your breath.”

“Wha-”

    Water was streaming down her face, sputtering from her lips as the word drowned in the torrent of water plastering her short hair across her face.

    With a  gushy splat the gel piled in Simone’s palm, and after a few swipes of her palms together, she began working the suds through Max’s hair.

“Just lean back, mon’amie. Close your eyes, relax, and breath out your troubles.”

    Max was skeptical of this stranger who was washing her hair like she was some damn princess. Something about the fact that she had an African woman tending to her every need made her feel like a plantation owning southern belle. Why the hell were they rolling out the star treatment for her?

Then, as the thick, hazy lull of Simone’s comforting touch coupled with the warm suppression of the water, Max reminded herself she was too tired to fight. The fresh clean scent of the frothy shampoo revealed a distinction from the scent lingering from her own skin, and Max was embarrassed to realize the faint smell of stale vomit and sweat had settled into her hair, her clothes, the greasy layer of scum across her skin. It disgusted her, and she settled lower into the water until her shoulders were totally submerged.

The brush of fingers across her scar made her jump.

“That is an impressive scar.”

    Max’s eyes dropped to her clavicle. “I was in a train accident when I was a kid- it’s how my parents died. I was impaled by a metal bar from the luggage rack, pinned me to the floor. The fire superheated it, leaving the burn scar. I only survived because some guy dragged me out.

“How old were you?”

“Young, six.”

“I’m very sorry about your parents,” Simone spoke quietly. “And, your friend. It’s a shame he got involved in this.”

“He wasn’t. I made a mess, and he is the one who suffered for it- kind of the story of our entire friendship.” Max’s voice tightened, becoming a whisper. “He was always cleaning up my messes.The guy who killed him was there for me, I know it.  This has to have something to do with my parents.”

“If they sent Seth Merrick, he wasn’t sent to kill you, he was sent to retrieve you. Your friend probably just got in his way.”

“Seth Merrick? Should I know that name?”

“Not really,” Simone sighed. “I mean yes, you should, if everything was right in the world. But, were that the case, we wouldn’t be living like refugees...”

    Max’s eyes danced around the elegant bathroom, and thought about the luxurious, meticulously decorated apartment she now found herself in, and thought the comparison was a little melodramatic.

“So, who is this guy?”

“Athene will explain everything soon enough.”

“I would really appreciate with everyone would just un-cryptic their bullshit,” Max spat, rolling her eyes and set her jaw in annoyance.

    Water was abruptly pouring over her  again before her scowl could set too firmly.

    Styled hair, a clean set of strange clothes, and delicately applied makeup-- something she hadn’t bothered with in years, because let’s be honest, who did she have to impress? It was like a classed up cosplay of herself. Exiting the bathroom, heads swiveled around from the circle of bodies occupying the seats in the living room. Finn actually stood up to take her in, eyes wide with surprise, or perhaps pleasure. Under the gaze of his glinting, mischievous eyes, Max wanted to shrink. She shifted uneasily, and wrapped an arm around her chest, gripping her shoulder.

    The man that had been referred to as Drew also stood up and walked out into the open space of the living room.

“About time, Simone,” he smirked.

“Get over yourself, Andrew.”

“You know she has little patience for waiting.”

“The task was more intensive than expected,” she crossed her arms defensively. “Athene has even less patience for a job haphazardly done.”

“Am I missing something?” Max interrupted.

“You’re going to need this,” Drew handed her a green, army style cargo jacket. “It’s windy today on the hill.”

    Max threw it over her red and blue flannel and the pair of loose fitting jeans.

“Take this for good measure,” Finn was behind her in the next second, handing her a plain, aluminium flask, scratched and dinged in a few places, “just in case you start to feel sick.”

“Thanks,” she nodded, “but where the hell am I going?”

“I’ll see you soon,” Finn stepped back.

“Seriously, guys! I’m so-” a hand came down on her shoulder, and the entire apartment warped, then wiped out of her vision, reassembling as a wide blue sky and the Parthenon. “sick of this… fuck me.” Her breath caught in a stunned choke. “Holy shit! That’s the fucking Parthenon.”

“She’s waiting for you over here,” Drew pointed with his head.

    Dragging her across top of the Acropolis, Max stared stupefied by her surroundings. She stumbled over the uneven surface of the stone covered ground, bumping into the shoulders of tourists, blinded to their surroundings as they peered through the lenses of cameras. As the neared the less crowded far end, Max spotted a woman perched on the solid remains of a half crumbled wall. She wore a crisp white shirt with gray pinstripes, fitted attractively to the curves of her body, tucked into the waist of a pair of navy trousers with sharp creases pressed into the fabric that ran over her long crossed legs. The matte gray heel of her elevated foot was bouncing in a bored, unamused sort of way.

“Maxine Lucas,” Athene greeted.

    From the power suit to the imposing stature to the stick straight, shoulder length, ink stained hair, his woman exuded raw, unyielding power. It clung to her like perfume.

“And, you could only be  Athene.”

“Are you feeling better?” Athene raised an inquisitive brow.

“Working on it,” Max replied, indicating with the flask still held in her hand, forgotten after their warp through space.

“Then, do you feel up to taking a walk? I need to tell you a story.”

“Sure, on one condition.”

“Oh?” Athene crossed her arms and knit her brows together.

    Max slipped the flask into one of the many cargo pockets of her newly acquired jacket, and pulled something else from the back pocket of her jeans. Producing her cigarettes, she answered by shaking the nearly empty contents:

“Yeah. Provided we pick up smokes.”

Chapter Eight

    Crushing the now empty pack in her fist, Max casually tossed it into the trash can next to the tourist kiosk where she had bought the pack she was about to open. Pinching the tab of the faint white ribbon circling the pack, Max severed the plastic wrapping with a move that resembled the hustle. Snapping back the lid, she brought the box to under her nose, taking a long inhale. The pungent aroma of the tobacco indicated that this European brand was going to me much more intense than she was used to smoking. Regardless, Max pulled out a cigarette, breaking the perfect unity of their packing, and shoved it between her lips. Drew pulled out a lighter and light it for her, and she nodded her thanks.

    In the twenty minutes it had taken them to walk from the Parthenon, Athene had recounted the history of the conflict between the Vapids and the Preternaturals. It had been a crash course lesson to be sure, but it cleared up most of her big questions. Now they stood in a place called Syntagma Square, across from what Athene had informed her was the Greek Parliament- a form of government that Athene had herself played a part in forming. Now, she stood here, in the square named for the Constitution that had given Greece it’s sovereignty from outside rule and rule by the people, yet she was a virtual stranger to all who passed their trio.

“So, how does this ancient grudge match have anything to do with me? I was born in 1987,” Max asked as they stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for their chance to cross the street.

“To be absolutely frank, it doesn’t. But, you’re about to become very much apart of it.” Athene pointed across the street, and Max followed her hand. “Can you tell me what that sign says?”

    Max squinted across the street in the bright glare of the midday Greek sun, and wished Athene had been thoughtful enough to bring a pair of sunglasses for her as well.

“Entrance to the National Gardens.”

“You need to work on your accent,” Athene said, “but, your Greek is passable.”

“Greek?

“How many native English speaking tourists do you think this country gets to put up a sign in only English?”

“So, how the hell did I know what it said?”

“Simone,” Athene answered as they moved across the white lines of the cross walk towards the park. “Her ability is to be able to read or speak any language just by processing a segment of it. That’s a useful skill for you to have in a place where you don’t know that language. We needed to test how you assimilate abilities, and my best guess was by touch. That’s why this mess involves you, Max. All other Preternaturals have one ability, but you had two, now you have three.”

“How did I get the first two then?”

“Your parents. Your mother, Diana, was an empath. Naturally, you assimilated her ability while she carried you in the womb. We’re not sure how your father passed his gift on to you.”

“But, the night I met Finn, he grabbed my arm and showed me his ability by starting to pull out my soul. Why didn’t I get his ability?”

“Perhaps it has to do with your mental state, or the length of contact?” Athene offered as they passed through the gates of the National Gardens.

    Within the confines of the gates they were immediately engulfed by the most random assortment of trees Max had ever seen grouped in one place. Tall palms with thick trunks and strange looking evergreens with over their tops covered in needles towered over deciduous bushes and trees closer to the ground, lining the paths.

“Then I know exactly how my father passed his ability to me,” Max stopped in the middle of the walking path, and Athene turned to acknowledge her. “The last thing I remember during the accident was my father holding on to me for dear life as the train hopped the tracks.”

“The time for hiding is over, Max. The threat to our kind is a threat to the survival to human existence. They need us, more than ever, and yet we’re forced into darkness or risk execution. Once we’re gone, there will be nothing to stop the Vapids from killing of humans, taking souls, waging war, devouring resources- and if we’re to survive we need you.”

“What the hell could I possibly do? I’m one person.”

“Your ability is new, something we have never seen before, and that means someone very dangerous is going to want to exploit it, or destroy it.  There is a Vapid named Silas Dethridge- he’s not as old as most of us, but in the few centuries he has lived, he has dedicated his time and energy to removing what little influence we have left, fueled by a vendetta he has against us.”

“Over what?”

“The fact that we killed his wife.”

“Was she Vapid?”

“No, Dethridge fell in love and married a mortal woman, but he was obsessed with the idea of making her immortal. He spent years uncovering all the knowledge we had tried to bury dealing with the Messiah and his ability to bestow immortality to mortals, especially since it relied on Preternaturals to assist in the process. We don’t know how he found it- whenever the records are discovered we destroy them immediately, but his father was rich and well connected. He was able to get his hands on enough, because he managed to successfully remove his wife’s soul and make her immortal.”

“But, you said he would need assistance from a willing Preternatural- why would they help a Vapid.”

“Dethridge managed to find and adopt a young magnetic boy whose parents had perished in the Great Famine in 1848.”

“Finn,” Max laughed out in a nervous breath.

“Which is why once we were able to save him, he realized the danger of overpopulation and tying up available souls, we verged on creating an entire generation of Vapids.” Athene turned and continued their walk, with Drew still in tow a few feet behind, part protective escort, half patiently waiting chauffeur.  “It didn’t take long for Finn to realize he must undo the wrong her had done.”

“He killed her.”

“And, Dethridge has been on a rampage against the Preternaturals since.”

“Then, the question is: What does he want, my help, or to eliminate me as a threat?”

“We can’t be exactly sure, but we have to assume that if he sent Seth Merrick he knows about your ability, and thus your potential.”

“My potential to be what exactly? A symbol? A martyr?”

“A weapon,” Athene stated a serene and matter-of-fact as if she had just announce her plans for lunch. “With the right assimilation of skills and training how to use them to your advantage, we could finally hunt these abominations down, one by one, just as they have done to us for the last two thousand years.”

 

 

 
 
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Part II: Athene

Chapter One

Caucasus Mountains, 1667 BCE

    The morning sun had not yet risen, but father and daughter trekked across the rocky outcroppings that served as the lower mountains of the Caucasus, marching towards the glow that was burning away the darkness like embers on smoldering paper. The father had explained very little when rousing her so early, and she was stifling a yawn every dozen steps or so. But, now she found herself hundreds of miles from home, following her father into the mountains, trailed by three emissaries from the Council of Primes, and Mercury, who had been their escort to these dark ridges and valleys.

    Remnant patches of old snow crunched under her sandals and dampened the hem of her chiton as it grazed the ground, collecting ice and mud debris, and melting against the heat of her fast moving legs. As the the group reached the top of the line of rocky hills that laid at the feet of the mountains, a great, jagged depression opened up between the hills and the line of steep, snow covered mountains, created by an ancient rock slide long before their time. Miserable sounding wails emanated off the surrounding stone, amplifying not only the volume, but the impression of the pain too. The wretched creature responsible for the sound writhed in agony at the center of the depression, barely illuminated by the light of the sun peering over the peaks.

“Father,” she gasped, “what is this?”

    When he did not immediately respond, she looked to the others who had traveled with them, searching their faces and receiving only solemn looks as response. Suddenly, being the only child among her elders became a very ignorant weight, and she cast a pleading look at Mercury, who was only a handful of years her senior.

“I have made no secret that you are my prized child, Athene,” Zeus finally spoke, eyes narrowed on the creature at the base of the hill. “My shadow and reflection, so very much like me that the humans tell stories of your birth from within my own head.” He then cast his eyes towards her, heavy with severity. “Which is why should the day come that I fall, it will be you who leads mankind as my successor as lord of the Greco-Roman clan. But, with the responsibility of leadership, so too comes the harsh lessons that must be learned to lead with strength.”

    With his words hanging in the air, he descended into the depression. Athene hesitated, but Isis’ urgent hands nudged her forward, and she was soon half-chasing, half sliding after her father down the gravelly slope. As the light crept slowly in, brightening the darkness in the hole, she gasped when she realized that this was no pitiful, wounded creature.

“Father? Is…” she struggled to form the words, knowing she must be confused, “... is that… Prometheus?”

“No longer our trusted ally. Prometheus has slighted the council, blatantly disregarded one of our most important tenets.”

    He kicked the incapacitated Prometheus in the abdomen, rattling the chains that bound him to the largest of the boulders that had fallen from the cliff face. A cry of unrelenting agony escaped, and when she felt the urge to help him, she felt Mercury’s hand on her shoulder, and she saw him covertly shake his head. Athene swallowed down the revulsion she felt watching the entire display.

“What has he possibly done to deserve this?”

    Stepping away from the loathsome heap of the once proud man, he nodded at Isis and Shiva, who stood to the left. Isis turned Prometheus, unfolding him from the fetal position into which he had curled, eliciting more cries as she situated his back against the boulder.

“As the most powerful beings on Earth, it is our destiny to rule mankind, to guide them forward when they deem themselves worthy, restraining them until they reach that point. In this, we protect them from themselves, from their own ignorance. Their minds are weak, uncultivated, but willing to be tended until they yield reason.”

    Parting the scraps of fabric that barely covered his chest and stomach, Isis exposed a gaping wound that looked picked clean of meat and organs down to the bones and globules of honey colored fat just under the skin . The putrid stench of rot permeated the air, gagging Athene, and a hand covered her mouth, fighting down the urge to vomit. She felt Mercury’s grip on her shoulder tighten in a firm, reassurance.

“Acting of his own selfish accordance, Prometheus has delivered to mankind a resource they are not yet ready to control and use.”

    Isis laid her hands flat on either side of the gaping wound, closing her eyes in concentration. Convulsions ricocheted through Prometheus’ body from shock. The flesh rippled, then slowly began to regenerate, strands of tissue weaving together like wool on her loom, rebuilding until the dripping blood dissipated and the skin sealed up like a newly sewn seam.

“He has given them fire, hasn’t he?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

“Your gift of foresight and knowledge grows stronger every day, my girl. You’ll be the wisest of us all soon.”

“This is not necessary, father!” she argued, feeling the grip on her shoulder tighten in warning. “Simply take the fire away from man- do not let them keep it!”

“A monster unleashed is not so simply put back inside a cage, Athene,” Zeus replied, voice empty of any of the empathy that Athene felt overflowing from her own heart. “The council has unanimously decided that his reprehensible actions were taken as a direct attempt to undermine our authority, in a petty attempt to curry favor with the lesser men. As recourse, we have devised a punishment fitting of so heinous a crime.”

    Her eyes flicking back to Prometheus from her fuming father, she watched as Shiva loosed a weapon from the strap across his back. He pulled forth a trident, though smaller and more ornamental than the kind her uncle prefered.  Without pretext, he plunged the weapon into the gut of Prometheus in the same exact place that Isis had just healed. Twisting and gouging at the wound, the flesh  grotesquely tore open once again.

    Blood sluiced from the tore flesh, mixing with spilled innards in a tidal wave of gore. When Shiva removed the trident and stepped away, Athene could see inside his ripped abdomen, and that Shiva had exposed the dark spongy flesh of his liver. A shrill whistle split the peace of the early morning, and the cries of roused birds filled the air.

    Though she wanted to turn away more than anything, Athene never took her eyes from the eagle as it rent Prometheus inside apart over and over again.

Chapter Two

Greece, 1246 BCE

    Blood. Everywhere; in shallow pools underfoot, dribbling down the stone walls, shimmering with the reflections of flames.  Nowhere was untouched by death. The eyes of the children, vacant from life stolen away. Everyone in the house was dead, and at the center of the carnage kneeled her brother Herakles- the byproduct of yet another one of her father’s dalliances with the mortal females. A child born with the immortality and fortitude of a Prime, but like his mortal mother, lacking the abilities of their mind. A child of two worlds, and yet belonging nowhere.

    And, like her brother Perseus, another child grown into a man maddened by poisoned blood. Another man of great potential ruined by envy, paranoia, and contempt.

“Athene!”

    Her own name reverberated in her ears, and her notoriously piercing eyes burst open as she grasped fearfully at the person she found hovering over her prone form. Her younger brother, Apollo, gasped when she clenched his shoulders.

“Athene.” He shook her, forcing her focus towards his. “What did you see?”

    Apollo’s twin sister knelt at her other side, helping her back to the chair that Athene had slipped out of when she had been struck by the powerful vision.

“Tell us what you saw!” Apollo was nearly shouting.

    Athene forced the image from her head, to form the words and push them out of her mouth.

“Herakles, mad with rage...covered in blood,” she managed, panting with shortened breath. “...The children… Megara… Where’s father? We have to warn father!”

    Apollo opened his mouth, but looked to Artemis when no answer came. Artemis shrugged her shoulders uselessly.  Athene sighed bitterly. No one ever knew where Zeus was these days- he was certainly never around when needed. Probably chasing another mortal whore, siring more blood-mad abominations.

“Apollo, get Mercury. Artemis, come with me.”

    Her younger brother took off down pillar lined hall at her word, and Artemis helped her to her feet. Athene could feel her hands trembling after Artemis released them, but she had to pull her nerves together. The images were grotesque, haunting, but if she acted quickly, she could prevent this tragedy from ever occurring.

“What are you going to do?” Artemis asked innocently as they entered Athene’s chambers.

    The question hung in the air as Athene lifted the lid of her trunk, acknowledging what she was actually considering. Lifting her spear and shield, she put them aside thoughtfully, and lifted a sword.

“Whatever I must, Artemis.”

“But, Herakles is the best swordsman alive. You’ve already said he was out of his right mind, what if-”

“I know!” she interrupted more curtly than she had intended, pausing her movements and staring into the depth of the trunk, but her mind was racing to much concentrate on politeness. She spun slowly, bending down towards her sister, closing the space between her and the child, laying the sword aside upon the floor between them. “It’s only a last resort, little sister.”

    Artemis took a deep, tentative breath, never breaking from Athene’s eyes.

“She’ll be fine,” a voice came from the doorway. “I’ll be there to protect her.”

    They both rolled their eyes, and Artemis smirked, trying to hide a smile.

“I think he likes you,” Artemis whispered.

“I think he likes himself more,” Athene replied, flicking her eyes over Artemis’ shoulder to meet Mercury’s. “Run along, and see if you can find father. If not, Poseidon or Hades will do. Just find someone, and warn them.”

    Artemis nodded intently, grabbing her brother’s hand as they ran out the door, pausing only to add, ”Be safe, Athene,” before disappearing around the corner.

“Do you know how much time we have?” Mercury asked as he entered the room.

“I have no idea,” Athene answered as she retrieved the sword and rose to full height- tall for a woman, but still inches shy of Mercury. “It may already be too late.”

    Mercury reached into the trunk, picking up and offering her a shoulder scabbard. She promptly accepted it, but he did not release.

“If this is as bad as you believe, you’ll have to use this for more than decoration, Athene.”

“I’m perfectly aware of how to use my own weapon, Mercury,” she chastised, throwing an offended glare in his direction.

“I’m aware. I’ve seen you in combat. You’re a glorious warrior… against the enemy, against strangers. But, this is your brother.”

“Half-Prime brother,” she reminded, jerking the belt from his grip at last. “I saw what happened to Perseus, what happens to all the half-blood Primes. A fall from grace which also ended in blood, and death. I will not abide that again. If he has fallen into madness, he’ll be too much of a danger to allow him to live.”

“Words are one thing, Athene, but if you find that in the moment you can’t-”

“We’re wasting time,” she spat.

    Mercury acknowledged the dismissal with nothing more than a sigh, offering his hand. Securing the strap over her shoulder, she placed her hand in his, and in the blink of an eye, found herself standing inside the darkened courtyard in the center of Herakles palace. Nothing stirred, and no light burned from within.

“Seems quiet,” Mercury said.

“Quiet before the storm,” she replied. “Or perhaps, the silence in it’s wake.”

    A scream rent the night following her words, and the pair jerked toward the sound.

“We’re too late,” she shouted, sprinting through the doorway, Mercury fast on her heels.

    Inside, light could be seen down the length of the hall, and shadows moved frantically eclipsing the flames. More screams reached her ears, drowning out her own pounding footsteps. Servants pushed past her in panic, fleeing the violence she knew was descending within the chamber.

“No father! I’m your child! Dear father, please, no-”

    Blood splattered against her face, stopping her cold as she entered the chamber. There before her, covered in sweat, eyes wide enough to see the ring of white, stood her maddened brother. And, crashing against her sandaled feet, her nephew fell dead, his light colored head smashed like a clay pot underfoot. Her eyes snapped up, disbelieving despite having witnessed it in her mind’s eyes. Foam gurgled from Herakles’ snarling lips, brandishing the bloodied club in his massive, hand, striking towards his adoptive father, Amphitryon.

    Reacting on instinct, grabbing at the first thing available besides her spear which would result in a lethal end, she grasped with both hands a large shard of shattered column, destroyed by one of Herakles’ missed assaults. Hurling towards her brother, it struck him in the chest, halting his advance and taking him to the floor. Freeing her spear from the scabbard, she stabbed its point against his neck, daring him to move against her. But, the fervor was gone from his eyes, and the fight was out of him. Gasping for the breath that Athene had knocked from his lungs, Herakles choked and wheezed, eventually succumbing to the unconsciousness of oxygen deprivation.

    The tension released from her shoulders, and a relieved breath escaped. Taking in the state of the room, Athene fought the sickness rising in her throat. She had seen battle, and walked through its carnal aftermath before, but this was something else entirely.

    His servants. His wife. His children. Strewn about in various contorted positions, fallen to a club or an arrow.

“It was Hera,” Amphitryon panted wearily. “I saw it happen. She sent a madness to punish him!”

    Athene gripped her spear shaft in quiet annoyance. How little these mortals actually could conceive about the workings of the world. It was not Hera who was responsible for his madness, but his own true father.

    When would this end? How could Zeus continue to pursue these affairs with mortal women when he knew the chaotic result. Twice now she had been forced to intervene when her brothers had gone blood-mad, and twice now, the interventions had come too late to prevent tragedy.

Chapter Three

Greece, 357 BCE

 

    Despite the early morning hour and the silent darkness of the streets, the temple chamber flared like a beacon upon the Acropolis. Hiding in the shadow cast by her own edifice, Athene sat back to back with her gold and ivory likeness, though the statue towered above her by two dozen feet. In her hands she absently handled one of the tokens she had found lying on the altar left as an offering to the Prime, to her, their goddess. The stone token- crudely carved and polished into the shape of an owl- had to be the work of a child. The symmetry was unbalanced, and the lines were to sharp of be anyone of any actual artistic talent. Perhaps their first offering- a momentous day for any youth in Greece.

    Rubbing her thumb over the lopsided eyes, she perused the other offerings that had yet to be collected by the temple priestesses- precious metal and stone, statues, and art depicting her visage. All offerings to please her, to garner her favor, to ask for her insight, her power, and her intervention. To which, she would do practically nothing for most. Athene knew that to keep her power she had to influence those who held their own power, which were those favored by the Primes. It was a vicious circle in which one entity thought they needed the other to keep power.

    For all her praise and worship as the Goddess of Wisdom and Intelligence, she was stunningly at a loss. The problem with the half-bloods was becoming a major problem, yet she seemed to be the only one who perceived it. And, it was not as if her father was the lone culprit. Her own Prime siblings had fraternized with the weaker of the humans, seducing them with the intoxicating power of being the chosen love of a Prime. Not that it was ever meant to last, or that they intended to take care of the offspring they sired. She was her father’s self professed favorite child, and if Zeus would not listen to her concerns, what hope did she have for influencing the rest of the Primes.

    An abrupt rush of air breezed through the chamber, sending the flames rippling and rustling her loosened, unpinned hair. Never moving her eyes from the small, poorly carved owl in her hands, Athene only saw him sweep into the periphery of her vision. He scooped up an apple from a basket against the nearest column. His teeth cracking the skin resonated throughout the enclosed space. Still refusing to acknowledge his presence, he slid down the back of the edifice, seating himself next to her, pressing their shoulders together.

“Hiding in plain sight,” Mercury mused. “What a brilliant strategy.”

“If you insist on joining me, I insist on silence.”

“Yes, quite right,” he agreed, snapping another loud bite out of his apple, or rather, her apple. “Why relieve your burdens on a well trained ear when you can sit in brooding silence?”

“Must you speak simply to hear yourself speak, Mercury?”

“Must you keep up this pretense of the stoic, warrior maiden just to keep up appearances?”

“Why do you chase me, when there are so many others willing to have you. I’ve heard my cousin, Persephone, express such a desire just a few days ago. And, Venus has been throwing herself at you for months. She is much fairer, and quite more amenable, so seek her instead- I deplore you.”

“For all your vision, you miss the point point of the hunt entirely.”

“Then please,” she gestured with an open hand. “Enlighten me. What is the point?”

“The hunt is the point.”

    Athene pushed out an annoyed breath and knocked the back of her head against her own ivory carved legs. She closed her eyes to fight the urge to roll them. Since the Roman Primes aligned with Greece, all their men had all been the same. Mars, Vulcan, Bacchus- each one of them arrogant and self-righteous- but, Mercury’s cavalier attitude irritated her the most.

“That makes no sense, Mercury.”

    He twisted around, leaning forward so she would have to look at him. “Why would I hunt a wounded deer like Venus, when I could challenge myself to bag the fox, the much more cunning and worthy opponent.”

“You seek me for the challenge in seeking me?” she narrowed her eyes at him.

“Makes for a worthier prize when caught,” he winked, cracking down on the last bite of the apple before tossing it aside.

“Why are you here?” she finally relented. “I don’t feel like being your entertainment for the night.”

“Is it impossible to you that I might actually be concerned for whatever is causing your anxiety?”

“I find it implausible that you could be concerned with anything beyond yourself.”

“You really do not seem to like me, do you Athene?” he laughed incredulously.

    There is was again- that cavalier arrogance at the possibility that he just might not be beloved by everyone. What an incredulous idea.

“I promise that I did not come here under any kind of pretense.” He raised his hand as if swearing an oath. “I am just genuinely concerned over your melancholy since you received word of the birth of Zeus’ child in Macedon.”

    Again she released a tense breath, the fight to resist him anymore left her.

“If I admit something to you, do you swear it will be held in complete confidence?”

“Of course.”

“I’m starting to believe the half-Primes are becoming a threat, to both man and Prime alike. And, yet, despite growing incidents like that of Herakles, no one seems to be bothered by it. Especially my father, who is possibly the worst offender of them all in conceiving these…” she searched for the right word, finding it at first hard to say, but knowing it true, “... these… abominations.”

“But, that is not what is really bothering you, is it?”

She shook her head, pausing, finding the will to say what must be said.

“I’m afraid that if my father will not listen to me, he will have to be stopped.”

“And, that duty will fall to you.”

“Precisely.”

“Then, your course of action seems obvious to me.”

“Pray tell…” she sighed.

“Herakles and Perseus were raised as outsiders, not wise to their parentage until well into adulthood. If the child was raised with the knowledge he was half-Prime, perhaps the madness could be thwarted…” his words drifted as his eyes met hers. “I can think of no better mentor to a future king than the Goddess of Wisdom and Victory.”

Chapter Four

Alexandria, 33 BCE

    The fire of sconces danced against polished sandstone and lapis tile, illuminating darkened corridors. Buried deep, beneath the scrolls and scholars at the Library of Alexandria, the envoys of the Greco-Roman Pantheon were the last arrivals to this urgent gathering of the four prime pantheons. Entering the large, round chamber, the trio took their customary seats at the table—ring shaped, with an opening to allow access to the hollow middle, and four extensions jutting out like spokes in compass shaped design.

    Sympathetic eyes fell upon the lone woman of the Greco-Roman envoy as she took her newly inherited seat at the head of their table. Against her long dark hair and deep olive complexion, her unusual slate colored eyes were piercing enough, but today they burned with vengeance. Her two male companions, one blond and one black haired, both sharing her olive complexion, silently sat to both sides of her as she remained standing with the heads of the other tables.

“In these dark times, I thank you all for risking the journey to our shores,” spoke a Nubian man at the next table, turning to acknowledge the Greco-Roman woman personally. “Athene, all Preternaturals mourn the loss of Zeus. He was a Prime, and his hand was in the birth of all known civilization—“

    The blond man slammed his fist, rattling the entire table, “You extoll his virtues, Osiris, yet when he warned you of Athene’s vision, it was cast with doubt and aspersions. Now, because of that ignorance, he is dead.”

“Vision? That a man would rise and proclaim himself the true god, threatening our reign?” Odin spoke from the table next to the Egyptians. “Messiahs rise as often as the sun.”

“Do not forget, Apollo,” Freya cried out in anger, “Your father has not been the only casualty of Yahweh’s insurrection. Or, has conceit erased from your memory the death of Brahma, Anubis,  and Loki’s dear brother, Thor.” To which, the young blonde man to her left bristled. “Your pain is still ripe, and for that my hearts bleeds for you, but you do not have the monopoly on grief.”

“Yahweh has been punished for his insurrection. His disciples are weak. Most are slaves,” Krishna injected from the table left of the Greco-Romans. “Who can possibly be perpetrating these murders?”

“His son.” Mercury answered, not bothering to stand or address the others by meeting their eyes.

“What son are you speaking of, Mercury?” Shiva asked. “We had no evidence that Yahweh has produced an heir.”

“That is because his mother was a mortal,” Mercury declared, and silence fell among the envoys.

“Were that to be a crime, it is one your own father is guilty of committing, Athene,” Osiris retorted.

“This is true. My father had a weakness,” Athene finally spoke. “And, in my half-brothers I have seen the tragic result in mixing with mortal blood—born immortal, yet absent of talents. Insipid, empty, maddeningly searching for purpose. A Vapid is a danger to us all. Herakles murdered his own wife and children. Alexander, founder of this very city, shed the blood of every civilization in his path between our land and yours. Why? Chasing the divinity they felt deprived.”

“We believed the same of Akenaton,” Isis replied.

“Unlike the Akenaton,” Mercury replied, “the power of this mortal has only grown in the wake of his father’s imprisonment. He continues to preach the message that fealty to any other Prime is a sin. As long as Yahweh’s commandments live, his adherents will seek to eliminate us, and his numbers are growing. But, we have devised a plan of action to eliminate this threat before it eliminates us.”

    Mercury nodded toward Apollo moved to open the doors to the chamber. Into the room walked a timid looking Semitic man with shoulder length curly hair and short beard. Entering the hollow in the table, he humbly fell to his knees, prostrating himself before the Primes.

“Judas,” Athene moved towards him, placing her hand on his back to signal for him to rise, “was an apostle of the Messiah. He has come to us out of fear. Seeking only our protection as payment, he has offered to deliver the Messiah into our hands.”

The heads of the Pantheons exchanged looks between their envoys and the other tables.

“Judas, do you believe that this man is the son of a god?” Odin asked.

“What I have seen I have thought to be miracles. I have witnessed the Messiah take his hands and with them return the sight to the blind and strength to the lame. I have seen him walk upon water, and drive away the fury of the storm.”

“If the Messiah is a Vapid, how does he possess talents?” Shiva asked.

“The Messiah receives his talents through his wife.”

“His wife?” Freya asked.

“Tell them, Judas,” Athene urged.

“The Messiah has performed miracles, but his power is fleeting. After performing these miracles he must withdraw for days, weakened and hungry. Then, when he emerges he seeks a crowd to begin evangelizing. He speaks to them of conversion to his father’s faith, and that those who follow Yahweh will live for eternity in paradise in return for their everlasting soul. Several apostles have also been gifted immortality for their service.”

“Can he remove the souls?” Ganesh asked, fear and confusion breaking his silence.

“The Messiah only receives his talents when the souls of the faithful are taken by his wife, who is called Mary of Magdalene. Upon which, the faithful adherent ascends to paradise, and Mary delivers the soul into the vessel of the Messiah.”

“In other words,” Mercury interrupted, “he is devouring the souls of mortals, burning them out in order to retain the short term talents they yield.”

“But, those closest to him have been made immortal? I was not aware it was even possible.”

“To remove the soul of a mortal would be death—the process is too traumatic for them to survive. But, the Messiah’s inner circle are believed to be Preternaturals. The disciple named John is believed to have a healing talent, and resurrects those from which Mary takes the soul.”

“Mercury, am I to understand you are telling us that they have found a method for making humans immortal?” Isis’ wide, pointed stare emphasized her fear.

“That is exactly what I are telling you.”

    A shocked hush lingered in the chamber as the idea resonated within their minds.

“Then the Greco-Romans are right—we must eliminate this Messiah and this circle,” Freya announced.

“Yes,” Odin agreed. “I pledge our assistance in whatever need you have.”

“Will not elimination only make him a martyr?” Krishna questioned. “There will be a crisis in the power vacuum left by his absence that may have even worse consequences.”

“Undoubtedly, yes,” Apollo agreed. “But, his followers will weaken without this leadership. Like Akenaton, we will wipe his legacy, erase him from history. In a century’s time, barely anyone will recall the name Jesus of Nazareth.”

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Alexandria, 391 CE

Blood pooled under the feet of rioting mobs filling the streets of Alexandria. Those trapped inside the city feared for their lives, fleeing in the shadows or barricaded into their homes. Temples crumbled under the destructive force of the mobs, fires raging, blood spilling. The city was a beating heart of anarchy and violence.

The chamber felt abandoned with so few surviving Primes. The Egyptian Pantheon had been the first driven to extinction in the wake of the Messiah’s Crucifixion, and the Greco-Romans had scattered to the corners of their empire. Athene and Mercury had stayed behind, taking refuge in the Library, laying low as their adherents converted. The Christians had made it such an easy sell— life eternal brought them in, but incorporating pagan holidays into the Christian calendar had been genius. The Primes realized all too late that they had vastly underestimated the zeal of promised immortality.

“There are rumors they plan to storm the Library,” a young woman with dark hair and light brown eyes pleaded to the Primes. “They know you are here. You must leave.” Her eyes spoke of the anguish she felt, the feeling of loss and dread welling in her chest. “Where will you go?”

“Do not fear, Hypatia. We plan to take refuge with the Hindu. Everlasting life is only tempting to those who believe they live once, and the word of the Messiah has not permeated quite so deeply in East Asia.”

“I fear it is just a matter of time,” Hypatia admitted defeatedly.

A thunderous clamor resonated from the library halls, down into the chambers below. The foundations of the library quaked, columns cracking and crumbling, as the heavy sound of hundreds of foot falls pounded the floors above.

“Lady Athene, there is no time.”

“Listen to her!” Mercury demanded, urging her to take his hand.

Her eyes darted to Mercury, then back to the terrified woman standing before her, heart breaking as the only constants she had ever known prepared to abandon her. Hypatia, like her father, had served one purpose in life—to serve the gods by protecting their sanctuary in the Library. In return, she was left to pursue whatever interests she deemed worthy. Now her purpose was evaporating before her very eyes, and Athene could see the fear in Hypatia’s eyes.

“You can still save yourself,” Athene took her hand. “Both you and your father were loyal servants to the Primes all these years. Come with us.”

“My duty is to protect this library. An honor bestowed unto my family by the Primes, and I will not falter, even in these dark times.”

Hypatia bowed her head slightly as a sign of gratitude and respect. Then she returned her gaze to meet Athene’s eyes.

“Then promise me one last thing—your final duty to your Primes.”

“Anything, wise one.” Her eyes lit with the possibility of one last duty to her beloved gods.

“Destroy it. All of it.”

“What? You can’t be—“

“Please, Hypatia. Do as I ask.”

“But, the knowledge stored within these walls has been collected over generations…” The breath seemed to escape her lungs, and she stammered trying to find it again. “Think of what will be lost.”

The sound of the chamber doors cracking and splintering under battering rams echoed against the stone. The muffled cries of the murderous, enraged Christians chilled the room.

“They have made their choice. Almost nothing that resides here among these scrolls could have been achieved without our intervention and guidance. If those savages choose to follow a false idol, then let them wander in the darkness and ignorance of their choice.” Athene placed her palm against the cheek of her panicking servant, then pressed her Hypatia’s hand between her own. “Promise me. Burn it to the ground.”

“Yes,” she whispered, still in disbelief that her goddess would beg this request of her, then once more with confidence. “Yes, Athene. My final duty. Now, go!”

Hypatia turned on a heel, rushing to gather the torches lining the chamber.

“Athene!” Mercury barked, jarring her in her grief. “Take my hand!”

She risked one last glance at her darling, loyal Hypatia, who stood whimpering in the hall, torches in both downturned hands, before the touch of her palm against Mercury’s sent the two of them thousands of miles away to the shores of the Ganges River.

Athene fell to her knees, angry and sickened by what she had asked Hypatia to do, but convinced she had no other choice. She felt Mercury close in by her side, kneeling to her and taking the side of her head into his chest to comfort his love.

Chapter Six

Athens, 1804 CE

    The golden hour cast gilded rays onto the crumbling edifice of the Acropolis. Pockmarked by munitions and pillaged through the ages, architecture scattered in dilapidated piles, the Parthenon was a mockery of the magnificence once known when this temple was first dedicated to the patron goddess of Athens. The rumors had reached her in the city Samarkand, the place of exile where many of the Primes had taken sanctuary in the centuries since the fall of their reign. A city taken by her mad half-brother Alexander, and introduced to the Greco-Roman gods through his influence. The irony was not lost on her.

    But, even hidden far away in the mountains outside Samarkand, word had come to her that she refused to believe. That was at least until she sat here, witnessing the atrocity with her own slate colored eyes. The barrens gaps in the entablature taunted her. In those gaps had once been the ornate sculptures that depicted the celebration of her birthday, of her victory over her uncle to win the adoration of her beloved city, of the greatest moments of her life.

    Gone. All gone. Stolen away by a British Lord by the name of Elgin, taking advantage of an opportunity under the foreign Allah fearing government of the Ottomans.

    Here again, Yahweh’s insurrection and the fallout that ensued chased her from across the centuries. That is what haunted her the most. Despite every attempt to intervene, to cut off the limb before the gangrenous infection spread, their subversive measures had won over the mortals. They had crucified the Messiah, besmirched the name of his wife, and chased his apostles into deserts and graves, yet nothing could yield the hope the word of the one true God had created.

    Faith in an afterlife was too powerful of an incentive, sending eager, ignorant mortals to deliver their souls. Little did they know the Hindus were the only ones who had ever told their adherents the truth. The soul doesn’t belong to the person. The vessel is merely housing the soul until death forces it to find another vessel, so on, and so forth. That is how it had been as long as any of the Primes could remember.

    Primes no more, though. Now they were disdainfully referred to as the Relics. Pitied. Allowed only to live as a testament to their uselessness, and the knowledge that they were too weak to pose a threat any longer. And, no greater symbolic gesture could have demonstrated their subordination than the stripping and desecration of her once grand temple. They had even go so far as to convert it into a church to the so called Messiah.

“Is nothing sacred to them anymore, Mercury?”

“Nothing has been sacred to them in the last millennia that was not pissed on by the Messiah.” His comforting hand fell onto her shoulder, and she felt a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Let’s not dwell here. Let me take you somewhere still beautiful, untouched by their wretched hands.” He tipped her face towards him to force her to meet his eyes, drawing them away from the repulsive scene from which she could not tear away her gaze. “Let me remind you what the world was like when we were still their saviors.”

    Frustrated, she brushed away his hand, stepping away in anger.

“One billion.” Her voice strained under the anger she was trying to contain. “One billion of these loathsome, sacrilegious beasts now roam the planet, despite our efforts to curtail them. They defile our legacy, standing on the very foundations we laid for them.”

“They will destroy themselves soon enough, Athene. You have seen it for yourself.”

“They will continue to destroy each other, and their methods will be brutal. But, still their numbers will grow. More and more place their faith with science. Do you not remember why we punished Prometheus for teaching them to harness fire? If they can unravel the mysteries of the universe, where in that universe will our place be?”

“What other option do we have?” He retorted, cross at her ever present melodrama. “It is time to let go of the past. Enjoy what we have now, and rejoice in the fact that despite all those we have lost, we have never lost each other.”

    Her shoulders dropped, and she stepped to him, brushing the dark hair off his brow.

“Look into my eyes, and tell me that you do not feel adrift in stormy waters. Tell me you are satisfied to live a life of wandering and hiding, never again to feel the praise of the worshipping masses.”

“Athene, I—“ But, his tongue did not have the strength to carry the weight of his words. Words he could not really bring himself to believe, no matter how many times he had hollowly recited them. “…You know you are right. Let that be enough.”

“We can correct this, Mercury. I know now the mistakes of our past. I have spent a millennia cursing myself, searching for answers. The whole time, it was staring me in the face. Our fault was in only punishing Yahweh and his Messiah—they were not our enemy. Our true enemy are the mortals whose number bleeds over the billion mark this very year, lives unnaturally lengthened by their medicines and industry. If we are not careful, the number of available souls might be exceeded, held inside vessels that live too long.”

“Is that possible?”

“I do not want to find out, because if it is true, we will be living in future where every human born is a vapid.”

“What are you proposing?”

“Extermination. As they have done to us.” She stated bluntly, without qualms or hesitation. “Wars, plagues, famine, genocide. Whatever it takes. Either we do it ourselves, or we coerce them to do it for us.” She took a deep, resolute breath, voicing desires repressed for far too long. “We do whatever is necessary to thin their numbers.”

    Mercury’s features softened at the reality of her proposition, “How do you propose the two of us undertake such a feat?”

“We rally our forces. We seek our fellow Preternaturals who have been hiding in shame and fear. We get them money, and power-- the very things these savages crave and worship most. And, once that is acquired, and we have them placed in positions of authority, their influence will guide the mortals to their own destruction.”

    Fire burned within her slate eyes, and Mercury remembered why Athene had not only been worshipped for the wisdom of her prophetic visions, but for her cunning at strategy and warfare.

“Alright, my love. Where do we begin?”

 

 
 
 
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Part III: Gwen

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