Chapter Text
Thick, hot liquid runs down my arm.
Blood.
Funny, I don’t remember the guard nicking me with his sword before my fist connected with his face. Despite being a Flash—and a son of Hermes, no less—he apparently couldn’t manage to move faster than my right hook to his jaw.
The smell of soot stings my nose, forcing me to clamp a grimy hand over it to stop a sneeze from slipping out. That would be a very pathetic way to get caught, and I, for one, believe that if I must go out, it would be in a dramatic, honorable way. (My father always told me that drama ran in my blood. I take that as a compliment.)
When I’m sure that my nose won’t alert the Imperials lurking beneath where I’m hiding, I return my hand to the filthy wall my back is currently pressed against with my feet planted opposite me. After taking a deep breath that nearly has me choking on soot, I slowly begin my climb upwards once again. With thighs burning as much as my nose, I force my body to continue shimmying while stifling the sneeze.
Climbing up a chimney isn’t exactly how I thought I would be spending my evening. The small space has me sweating, swallowing my fear before scrambling to the top of the cramped corridor, eager to replace grime-caked walls with a stary night. When my head finally peaks over the top, I greedily gulp down the sticky air, then climb up and over, immediately bombarded with the new concoction of smells far more unpleasant than the stench of soot clinging to my body, my clothes, my hair. Sweat, fish, cheeses, and I’m quite certain some sort of bodily fluid, blends to create the aroma that surrounds Hell’s Kitchen.
Balancing atop the chimney, I strain my eyes on the shadowed roof to inspect my sticky arm. I’d nearly forgotten to examine it without the usual biting pain that accompanies a sword slash to remind me.
I rip off a strip of cloth from the sweaty tunic that clings to my body, dabbing at the gash with it.
Daphne’s going to kill me for ruining her stitching. Again.
I’m surprised when I don’t feel the familiar twinge of pain as I rub at my arm with the rough fabric, impatiently sopping up the stickiness.
And that’s when I smell it.
Ambrosia.
The same ambrosia that belongs to the scones oozing out of the many pockets in my ragged vest and dripping down my arm—mistaken for blood. I sigh, rolling my eyes at myself.
It’s a welcome surprise, nonetheless. Even ambrosia soaking my clothes beats trying to wash blood out. And believe me, that’s a task that will be a pain no matter how accustomed one gets to it.
I take in a deep breath, coughing a little from the remaining soot, and look out over the crumbling, rundown buildings cast in shadows by the flickering lampposts dotting the street. There’s not much electricity here in the slums, but the king generously spared us a few lampposts. Even if the king is a Volt and can easily light up the entire nation with nothing more than a twist of his hand. Thanks to the few children of Athena and the Scholars that have taken pity on us and use their abilities to create a sustained power grid, however, I have to work exceptionally hard to stay in the shadows.
Farther from the slums, the more the rows of shops and homes slowly improve in condition and size. Shacks turn into homes, homes turn into mansions, leading up to the most daunting building of all. Squinting through the darkness, I can just barely make out the looming towers of Mount Olympus and the sloping dome of the Stadium of Olympia that resides beside it.
My eyes flick back to the wide street stretched out before me, scanning the surrounding sketchy buildings. Hell’s Kitchen is the very heart of the slums, pumping crime and trade throughout the city. I trace almost two dozen other alleys and streets jutting off from it, getting lost in the maze that is the city before me, offering a sigh and small smile to the familiar street beneath me.
Home. Sort of. Technically, a home implies that one has a roof over their head.
But stars and the sun are always more fun to stare at than a ceiling.
I would know, seeing that I used to have a ceiling to stare at every night, back when I had no need for the sky to keep me company.
My traitorous gaze sweeps across the city to where I know my former home lies wedged between Eighth Avenue and 59th Street. Where a happy little family is likely sitting around the dinner table, laughing and discussing their day with one another—
I hear a thump, followed by the murmuring of voices that drag me from my bitter thoughts. I didn’t have to strain myself to hear. For some reason, my hearing has always been over-average, even in my early stages of life. Not Godly—no, never that, but it wasn’t particularly normal, either. I suppose it came from my love for music. I love to pick up on even the softest of noises, and I never had a problem with exceptionally loud ones, either.
The voice is deep, belonging to the guard I so kindly relieved of his duties a short while ago.
“—came up right behind me, quiet as a mouse, and then…then the next thing I know, I get a tap on the shoulder and a fist to the face.”
A very irritated and very shrill female voice echoes up the chimney. “You’re a son of Hermes, for Olympus’ sake, aren’t you supposed to be fast or something?” She takes a deep breath. “Did you at least get a look at his face before you let him rob me? Again?”
“All I saw were his eyes,” the guard mumbled. “Gold. Very gold.”
The woman huffs in irritation, and I can’t help but smile. “How helpful. Let me just stop by every person in Hell’s to see if their eyes match your vivid description of very gold.”
“I’m serious!” the Imperial protests. “They weren’t hazel, or anything. They were actually gold.”
The woman scoffs.
I stifle my snort as something creaks from the other end of the room, followed by a chorus of footsteps. From the groan of the rotting wood shifting beneath several new pairs of boots, I immediately deduce that three more guards have joined the hunt.
And that’s my cue.
I hop off the chimney and grab onto the raised ledge of the roof, swinging my legs over the side to dangle above the street. With a soft thud, I drop ungracefully into a dumpster, filled to the brim with trash bags. The stiff contents of the rancid-smelling waste pokes through my clothes like one of Daphne’s pincushions, and a cloud of soot and the aroma of decaying fruit rises on the night breeze when I jump out onto the street.
I begin my journey back the Waystation, weaving through beat-up merchant carts, all abandoned for the night, feet dancing over trash and broken trinkets. The unfortunate citizens of Hell’s Kitchen slumped against alleys or tucked in between buildings whisper among themselves as I pass.
I feel the weight of the dagger tucked into my boot and relax at the comfort of the cool bronze as I pass the groups of fellow homeless huddling together for the night. I can see the faint shimmer of golden forcefields shielding some, while others don’t even have an ability strong enough to allow them to sleep peacefully, which is the exact reason they call the slums their home.
I kept my steps swift and sure as my eyes sweep back and forth across the alleys, never letting my guard down. While acting confident often allows you to avoid confrontation, I look dirty, and not the usual “I live in Hell’s Kitchen” dirty. If an Imperial somehow managed to grow the brains to look in my direction, things could get ugly fast.
Several guards cross my path as I zigzag down the streets, forcing me to slow down to steer clear of them. Every shop, corner, and street has been bestowed the gift of leering, fully armored law enforcers. These brutal Imperials have been stationed everywhere along Hell’s Kitchen by decree of the king due to an increase in crime.
Clearly has nothing to do with me.
I slip down a smaller alley, making my way towards the dead end. There, tucked in a corner, is a mangled barricade of broken merchant carts, cardboard, metal sheets, ripped up pipes, and Plague knows what else. Before I’m even halfway to the pile of garbage we call home, a face obscured by wild, shoulder-length waves pops up over the fort.
“Did you get it!?”
Untangling her long legs from where she sits, she effortlessly stands and phases right through the three-foot wall of our trash barricade without a second thought, and then she’s bounding toward me with so much hope in her eyes that you’d think I’ve offered her an actual roof over her head and a warm meal. And though I can give her none of those things, I do have something far better in her opinion.
I sigh. “I’m offended you doubted me, Daphne. You’d think your best friend would have a little more faith in your abilities after all these years.” I sling my backpack off my shoulder and pull out the crumpled green silk from within, unable to suppress my smile as a look of awe settles on her face.
She greedily claws the silk from my hands, running her lithe fingers through the smooth folds of the fabric. Peeking up through the wavy bangs hanging in her hazel eyes, she looks at me as though I’ve just singlehandedly irradicated the Plague rather than steal from a woman not much better off than we are.
Like I’m the hero and not the villain.
It’s worth it, though, because Daphne’s smile could rival the sun over Tartarus. “Pollo, you and your sticky fingers work magic, you know that? It’s fucking Godly.”
She throws her arms around my neck, pulling me into a crushing embrace that causes more ambrosia to ooze down my vest and pool in my pockets.
“Speaking of sticky fingers…” I peel myself from her hug to fish around in my pockets. I retrieve seven smashed ambrosia scones, only slightly unappetizing with the soot now decorating them.
Daphne’s eyes go wide at the sight before snatching one from my hand just as greedily as she did the fabric. She turns mid-bite and strides right back through our fort without a second thought, uncaring of the layer of grime covering the scone in her mouth, plopping herself down on the colorless, rough rugs that lay on the inside of the barricade. She pats the spot beside her expectantly, and unlike her, I ungracefully leap over the wall before I can take a seat.
“I bet May wasn’t too happy about her shop being looted. Again. Poor thing really should up her security,” Daphne says between bites, giving me a crooked grin. Despite her eagerness to devour the scones, she ate politely, as if she grew up in the royal halls of Mount Olympus rather than the slums.
“Actually,” I say with a shrug, “she had two more Imperials stationed around her shop than normal. She must be getting tired of all the stolen scones over the years. Rather ironic, how she keeps getting stolen from when she was once in love with the god of Thieves.”
Daphne narrows her hazel eyes at the sight of my smile. “Thank the Plague you didn’t get caught, Pollo.” As soon as the familiar phrase slips past her lips, my jaw sets instinctively while hers falls open mid-bite. She visibly cringes, her brow crinkling and throat clearing. “Sorry. Bad habit.”
My fingers drift to the thick ring on my thumb, spinning it mindlessly while I muster a weak smile. This topic is one we typically try to avoid, though it’s my fault the subject became suddenly awkward to speak of in the first place.
All due to a moment of weakness that I wish I wasn’t so relieved about.
“You know it’s not the words that bother me, it’s—”
“The meaning behind them,” she cuts in with a smile and a shockingly accurate imitation of my voice.
I nearly choke on my laugh and a piece of sweet goodness. “Are you quoting me, D?”
By way of answering she takes a careful bite of scone before setting it down, declaring, “And it’s not the Plague that makes you sick, it’s what came after.”
I nod slowly, though the action is mostly useless because she doesn’t need confirmation of what she already knows is a fact. The idea of thanking the Plague that killed thousands of Olympians makes me lose my appetite for even ambrosia scones. Thanking the thing that caused so much pain and death and discrimination.
But all anyone cares about now is who the Plague didn’t kill. The kingdom was isolated for years to keep the sickness from spreading to the surrounding cities, and only the strongest in Olympus survived the disease that altered the structure of humans. The fast became exceptionally faster, the strong became unbeatable, and those who lurked in shadows could become shadows. Dozens of supernatural abilities were bestowed upon Olympians alone, all varying in strength, purpose, power.
Gifts given as a reward for surviving.
They are Gods. They are immortal. They are all-powerful.
The strongest of them make up the Olympian Council, and to be descended from one makes any ability you have twice the more powerful.
“Just…” Daphne trails off, picking at her scone while struggling to form words for once. “Just be careful, Pollo. If you get caught and aren’t able to talk yourself out of it—”
“I’ll be fine,” I state far too casually, ignoring the worry that washes over me. Because in this society, “fine” wasn’t a right, it was a privilege. One slip up, and you were as good as dead. “This is what I do, D. What I’ve always done.”
She sighs through her smile, waving a dismissive hand. “I know, I know. You can handle yourself with the Gods.”
I feel that rush of relief once again, making me feel both guilty and grateful that she truly knows me. Because not all those who survived the Plague were fortunate enough to be gifted with abilities. No, the Mortals were just that—flawed, powerless, and utterly mortal. And over the next several decades following the Plague, the Mortals and Gods lived in peace.
Until King Zeus decreed that Mortals were no longer fit to live in his kingdom.
It was over three decades ago when the sickness swept through the land. Due to the outbreak that was likely a common illness, the king’s Healers used the opportunity to claim that Mortals were carrying an undetectable disease, saying it was likely the reason they hadn’t developed abilities.
Extended exposure to them became harmful for both Gods and their powers, and over time, the Mortals were dwindling the abilities Gods are so protective of.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the thought.
My father believed that was bullshit, and I think no differently. But even if I had proof of the king lying through his teeth, it’s not as though a boy from the slums is in any position to be believed.
But the king couldn’t allow his Godly society to be weakened or worse by mere Mortals. Extinction was not an option for the immortal.
And so began the Purging.
Even now, decades later, tales of the bodies that scattered the sand under the scolding sun are casually passed around campfires, scary stories whispered among children.
Sticky fingers close over mine, the ambrosia coating Daphne’s hands as sweet as the spreading smile she shares with me. My secret is stowed in the glint of her eyes, in the loyalty lining her expression. I’ve spent so much of my life resigned to the fact that nothing would ever be real. Every friendship false, every kindness calculated.
“Hide your feelings, hide your fear, and most importantly, hide behind your façade. No one can know, Apollo. Trust no one and nothing but your own instincts.”
My father’s gentle voice is oddly jarring as it echoes in my head, reminding me that every part of my life should be a lie and the girl sitting before me should be as deceived as the rest of the kingdom.
Selfishness only stole my sanity for a single night, but that was all it took for me to endanger the both of us.
“Alright, enough talk of the Plague,” Daphne says cheerily, scanning the alley before adding, “and your…situation.”
I don’t bother stifling my snort this time. “It seems that two years haven’t been enough time for you to practice subtlety, D.”
I doubt she even heard me. Doubt she can focus on anything other than the fabric now gliding between her fingers. With hazel eyes scanning over sewing supplies, Daphne abandons our previous conversation to ramble about the pieces she’ll be making with the new silk. Her soft, olive hands dig through the scraps of fabric in the flickering lamplight, beginning to fold edges, pin corners, prick fingers, curse relentlessly.
We fall into the type of easy conversation that only comes after spending years surviving on the streets together, making it easy to interpret Daphne’s garbles words around her pins pressed between her lips. I roll over, finally falling quiet as I watch her steady fingers and furrowed brow, too engrossed with her work to sleep.
A stabbing pain in my side has my dropping eyes flying open, drowsiness forgotten. The jagged stone jutting up form the alley floor had me groggily grumbling, “Mark my words, I’m going to steal a cot one day.”
Daphne rolls her eyes at me, just as she does every night I make the same empty promise. “I’ll believe it when I feel it, Pollo,” she singsongs.
I’ve rolled over about a dozen times before a scratchy, balled-up blanket collides with my head. “If you don’t quit your squirming, I swear I’ll sew you to the bloody ground,” Daphne says with all the sweetness of an ambrosia scone.
“I’ll believe it when I feel it, D.”