Chapitre 12: Setting the Stage - part 2

Words 3,356

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"Quick question, you know of any knife-wielding assassins who like to dress up as owls?"

"No," she replies suspiciously. "why?"

"Well, one's currently in my living room trying to kill me."

"Oh, if you really think that's gonna get you off the hook then-"

Diving beneath the counter, a knife flies through the space where your neck had once been before embedding itself deeply into the fridge.

"Do you know how expensive that was?" you ask indignantly.

"Who are you talking to?" Rose says. "is it that Artemis girl, because I swear -"

"What? No! I'm talking to the assassin with a bunch of very sharp knives." you whisper-shout indignantly.

"Oh, right. The assassin." Every word she spoke dripped with sarcasm.

Another knife whistles through the air before clashing with your own, inches from your face. Both blades clatter to the ground.

The sound of boot falls came from your right as the owl-masked assassin approached, circling around the countertop.

You survey your surroundings looking for any possible weapon to arm yourself with.

Overhead is an assortment of kitchen knives you got as a housewarming gift from Slade. Naturally, a number of them are serrated and a vial of poison are hidden inside the display.

There was another cache hidden underneath your couch, filled with enough guns and ammo to hold off a small army if necessary. But, you'd have to cross the kitchen to get there.

And also, you're really tired of this guy's shit. What gives him the right to waltz into your house and mutilate your refrigerator? Those things aren't cheap!

So, when the assassin rounds the corner, an overripe peach splatters across his mask in a suitably gory display of carpicide.

The assassin slowly wipes the chunks of fruit off his face. You would have given everything you had to see his twitching eye underneath the mask.

His momentary lapse is all you need. With a victorious smile, you advance on your prey.

A stone settles its way into your stomach and your lungs protest as you draw in a deep breath.

Desperation takes over their actions, and they lunge towards you, knife in hand, in a last-ditch effort to finish you off.

It isn't enough. Not even close.

The air goes cold, the world becomes frozen in amber, and the knife stops just short of plunging into your heart.

A snort escapes your throat. Followed by an increasingly loud and boisterous chuckle, until you're laughing straight into their face.

Somewhere, hidden behind that blue glass, the assassin futilely fights against the chains that hold them, as helpless as a fly trapped in a spider's web.

"You should have brought more," you whisper to them.

Metal gives resistance for but a moment before it crumples, and bones shatter as your fist carves an inexorable path into the assassin's chest.

A soundless howl of pain and agony escapes them as time resumes and they fly into the wall. A sickening crack fills in the room as they slide bonelessly to the ground.

"Well, shit. Didn't mean to him so hard. That's going to be a bitch to clean." Only very good detergent cleaned out brain matter, a good thing you know a guy who could get you some.

That guy being Deathstroke, but that's not the point.

"Cadmus, Cadmus, answer me." Rose's muffled voice comes from the phone you left behind.

"Hey, sorry about that, just had to deal with something," you answer as you begin wiping down the counter.

"What's going on over there?"

"Well, I smashed a peach into the guy's face and now bits of him are staining my wall."

"If you don't want to talk to me, you could just say so."

So, candid clearly isn't the way to go with her.

"Do you want me to send you a picture? Just a warning, I might get put on a watchlist."

In truth, Chimera was already on a number of international watchlists charged with crimes ranging from, aiding in the overthrow of a legitimate government, murder, and worst of all, money laundering.

Two of those charges were actually true.

"Idiot," she mutters. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"So I guess you don't want a picture?"

The line goes dead. You sigh deeply and give a baleful glare at your uninvited guest.

"Even dead, you're causing me problems. Now, what am I going to do with you?"

Divesting the assassin of their mask, you're met by a ruin of a face, features os utterly warped it wouldn't look any different from someone who caught an eighteen-wheeler to the face.

In short, you couldn't identify him.

But maybe, there was someone who could help.

"I am going to regret this," you say aloud. " I know I'm going to regret this. And yet, I'm doing it anyway."

Your grumbling and ruminating continue as you drag the body out onto the terrace and retrieve the emergency barrel you kept behind the washer, just for events like this.

It always paid to be prepared, after all.

"Now where did I put that vat of quicklime?"

Why does a seventeen-year-old have a tub full of liquid that is very, very good at dissolving human bodies?

That isn't really the point right about, now was it.

You shut the balcony door behind you, the smell of rapid decomposition indistinguishable from the natural smell of Gotham at night.

You hold the mask aloft, looking into your own reflection from within its blue orbs. "Well, best to rip the bandage right off."

But first, you had to sleep. It's a school night after all.

Monday came with the dawn, and with it, so did the cruel and unusual punishment that was high school.

With bleary eyes, you drowsy went about your morning routine, cursing whatever deity gave you the dubious talent of waking up exactly one hour prior to the first bell.

Sometimes, you wanted to sleep in, you know, like a normal person is won't to do.

And yet, you always woke up on time, no matter what.

Idly, you scarfed down your breakfast of juice and toast, giving your watch a redundant check.

Thirty-seven minutes until the first bell.

You already knew that, but it never hurt to double-check.

But before you could leave, you had to take out last night's trash. Donning two pairs of gloves and a very-very thick mask, you nudged open the balcony door, bracing for the pungent odor that awaited you.

It smelled like shit. But, to your surprise, not that of a decomposing corpse.

No, what invaded your nostrils was the natural scent of Gotham, of acrid smoke, sewer waste, and a miasma of a thousand other things you really didn't want to know the source of.

Peeking into the barrel that sat innocently on your balance, you came face to face with clear liquid, and not even a hint of the body you had dumped inside, apart from traces of dark substance that lingered at the bottom.

"Well, fuck." you summarized succinctly.

Twenty-five minutes until the first bell.

Do I deal with the disappearing zombie assassin, or an angry Ms. Aclis? You mused.

The choice was obvious, after all, one wasn't a matter of life or death.

You made it with five minutes left to spare.

The moment you stepped foot on the school's pristine cobblestones, you know something is wrong.

Students walked just a bit faster. Their conversations were more short exchanges in passing, as though everyone is afraid of staying in one place for too long of a time.

It isn't even confined to the school grounds. Outside the gates, the streets are almost completely empty. A scattered pedestrian hurriedly walking here or there is all you can see

In fact, even on your walk here, there was a noticeable lack of the ever-present druggie tweaking in the alleyways, or groups of thugs huddled along with the street corners.

Hah, take that, Bats.

Of course, like most things, there is an exception. And by Occam's razor, the most simple answer is the right one.

The answer, in this case, is the goths, who of course, are still in the same corner, that they've been in for perhaps the entire storied history of this school.

Their nihilistic musings on the purpose of life are complemented by the drifting sounds of death metal as you pass by.

Oh and also, Rose isn't there. That's not to say it wasn't the first thing you noticed. Not that you would admit to her or anyone else. But honestly, how long could she possibly hold a grudge against you?

That answer, you suspect, is far longer than you would like.

With that in mind, you walk into homeroom, and into another maddeningly eventful arc of your life.

You take your seat with something close to wariness, no, not wariness, just well founded caution of being in close quarters with a highly trained killer with a history of trying to stick you with pointy objects.

Rose gives none of that away, writing in her notebook and pretending to not notice you. Her legs cross just a bit tighter, only offering a glimpse of the flesh beneath before the fabric settled.

Come on Cadmus, you're better than this. You tell yourself.

As though mocking your internal struggle, your mind decides to flip through the veritable gallery of your experiences together.

The curve of her body pressed against your own. Wide blue eyes hazed over with naked need. Pink lips wet and inviting.

No, no, I'm not.

With a defeated realization that her teasing would in fact work, you took your seat.

She offers you a saccharine smile, blue eyes shining with mirth and malice, before glaring at your left.

Luckily, Artemis is blissfully ignorant of the death glare she's receiving from a highly trained killer, one who has a bone to pick with her, mind you.

Ah, high school, how I hate you so.

Ms. Aclis begins to speak just as the first bell rings.

She looks severe as ever, clad in a beige pantsuit and hair done up in a bun, unruffled by the paranoia that bubbled just below the surface throughout the school.

Students all around you whispered amongst themselves, the chance of fresh gossip overriding their innate fear of angering Gotham Academy's strictest teacher.

They're brought back into line by a single look.

"I have a brief announcement before we begin today's lesson. Gotham Academy has hired grief counselors in response to last week's," she paused. "senseless tragedy."

"Many students here lost close friends and family to last Wednesday's senseless act of violence. As such, The school and I encourage any of you to take full advantage of these resources."

Actually, lady, it was premeditated. Also, I had enough motive to get at least a couple of documentaries about it.

"With that through, let's begin with today's lesson. Continuing on with our discussion of creation myths, we will discuss that of the Ancient Greek civilization."

The projector flashes and a hazy image of vaguely Greek sculptures and art appear on the wall.

"Uh, professor," a redhead in the front row interrupts. It's not just any redhead thought, that's Barbara Gordon, daughter of Jim Gordon, Commissioner of the Gotham Police. "Don't you think we should take some time to, well, talk about last week? Many of us were affected, and I think it would be a good idea for everyone to have the chance to speak."

She looks around for support from her fellow peers. None rush to her aid.

"No, Ms. Gordon, I do not, and your peers seem to agree with me. My job is to teach you. I have already outlined the resources that you may reach out to. Now if there is nothing else, please let me continue. You've already lost the entire class two minutes of precious time."

Even from where you sit, you could see her cheeks turn a flaming red, and they somehow even turn even rosier when snickers rise up around her. They just as quickly with a quick look from Ms. Aclis.

You internally snort. Honestly, sometimes you wonder if she never learned how to interact with people properly.

You aren't the only one thinking that. Artemis and half the class also give her incredulous looks. Rose just raises a single eyebrow before glancing at you at the corner of your eye.

Your eyes meet for but a heartbeat before you both break it, both of you too stubborn to be the last.

"Contrary to the monotheistic religions, the Greeks did not have a single omniscient and omnipotent deity. Instead, they believed in the idea of Chaos. A cosmic void or "soup", for lack of better term that would be the source of all creation."

The projector flickers again, this time displaying a nebula of colors sitting within a dark endless space.

"And it is from Chaos that the first generation of Greek deities was born, the so-called Primordials. These primordials were the very manifestations of their domains, in contrast to the more popular gods, who simply ruled them. A few of you may even be familiar with them."

An old, weathered sculpture appears, depicting a woman with flowers sewn into her hair.

"The first of them was Gaea, the Earth. She was followed by Tartarus, the Underworld."

The next picture is not of a sculpture or painting, but instead, it is of a pit, with a thousand hands reaching out from its endless depths. Then more appear, a man sitting above the clouds, another framed by the sun, and another with what looks like to be a dolphin's tail.

"Then, Ouranos, the Sky. Pontus, the Sea. Erebus, the Dark. Nyx, the Night. And finally, Aether, the Day. These beings, according to Hesiod's Theogony, represent the first generation of the Greek Pantheon."

Already, half of the class had begun to tune out the lecture, and the dim lights of cellphones shined discreetly out from below more than a few desks. But for you, you couldn't even ponder the thought of looking away.

It fascinates you, that's the only way you could describe it. It draws all of your attention in a way nothing ever has. Within the span of only a few minutes, your notebook is a mess of writing and notes, each word spoken documented with reckless care.

"As I said before, many of you will be more familiar with the second and third generation, popularly referred to as the Titans and Gods. Though there were many more offspring from among the Primordials, these are the most important for our lesson. Now, are there any questions?"

No one raises their hand. Mostly because they have no clue what the lesson is about. "None, very well then.

"The majority of the second generation of the pantheon is composed of the twelve children of Ouranos and Gaea, they would come to be known as the Titans."

"Wait, isn't Uranus Gaia's son?" someone asks.

"Uranus is the Roman name," she corrected, unmindful of the muffled laughter. "and yes, that is correct."

"But that's incest," another jumps in.

Most teachers would have become at least a little flustered at being backed into the corner likes this. Ms. Aclis simply stared at the questioner.

"Yes, it is. Are there any other insightful deductions you would like to make, Mr. Rory, or may I continue the lesson?"

They did not.

A good thing for them too, or you'd have made sure they didn't. Honestly, wasting time with questions like this, you shook your head, it just ruins it for people who actually care.

It's been a long time since you cared about something this much, you realize. Longer than you care to admit.

"Their twelve offspring would share the primordials' trait of personification, they did not have domains. The Titans simply were their domains. Ouranos and Gaea sired six sons, the Titans and six daughters, who we will call the Titanesses."

"Oceanus, Titan of the Sea. Coeus, the Titan of Intelligence. Krios, the Titan of Constellations. Hyperion, the Sun Titan. Iapetus, the Titan of Mortality. And finally, the youngest of them all, Kronos, the Titan of Time."

All the other names seemed to lose meaning in that moment as the figure of Kronos appears, embossed in bronze. He bore a long beard, and nothing is unique about his appearance. Except for the scythe, taller than even the figure, and forebodingly dark.

And just like the one you saw in your dream.

"Kronos and his brothers, aside from Oceanus, would conspire to overthrow their father with the aid of their mother. It is said that Kronos' scythe was forged by Gaea herself and was offered to each of her sons, and it was only her youngest who dared to take it up."

"Why would Gaea want to kill her own husband?" Barbara asks.

Ms. Aclis paused for a moment before answering. "The Titanes were not the only offspring of Ouranos and Gaea. There were others, namely the hundred-handed ones, but they were cast into Tartarus by Ouranos, who was disgusted by their forms."

"That's harsh." someone mutters.

"Yes, quite. Moving on, Ouranos was ambushed and pinned by four of his sons, each of who would become Lord of the cardinal direction by which they held him. Hyperion, the east, Krios, the west, Coeus, the north, and Iapetus, the south.

"Kronos would then cut his father into a thousand pieces using the adamantine scythe, and scattered the remains into the ocean. This would make the beginning of the reign of the Titans, self-styled as the Golden Age, and Kronos was ordained as their king. They would rule from Mount Othrys for thousands of years being overthrown by their own children, the gods."

Othrys. Kronos. Time. Your head spins madly with a thousand and one thoughts, each more impossibly believable than the next. Too many coincidences, too many chances. It didn't make sense, and yet, it did.

You're so engrossed in your own thoughts, you don't even realize the two pairs of blue and grey eyes that watch you keenly.

A new mosaic appears, depicting the scene of Ouranos' demise. The figure of Kronos stood above the former king's fallen form, bloody scythe in hand. The smiling form of Gaea stood behind him, placing a crown of onyx upon his brow. And all knelt before him in submission, from his siblings atop the heavens, to the humans that lived below, all the universe acknowledged him as their king.

The concerns of mortals matter little to us. The woman's words rise up from the fog of memories.

The bell begins to ring. The pencil slips from your grip and clatters to the ground. Belatedly, you realize, it's not even the first bell, but the second. The classroom is empty, apart from you and Ms. Aclis.

"Mr. Othrys, are you okay?"

"Yes," you get out as you slowly pack up the rest of your things. "I was just lost in thought."

She nods her head in understanding. "I'm happy to see the subject intrigues you. Do remember, that you must submit your paper topic by tomorrow.

"Topic?" you ask. How much had you missed?

Ms. Aclis taps her foot impatiently. "Yes, a five-page paper on your choice of any subject of Greek Mythology. You may wait until tomorrow to see if you find something else that catches your interest if you must."

Golden eyes and a bloody scythe. An old man in an empty palace, an isle of men that bled ichor. No, you didn't think so.

"Ms. Aclis, is there a specific color associated with Kronos?"

"Whatever do you mean, Mr. Othrys?"

"Well, many of the gods you spoke about seemed to have specific motifs. Green for Gaea, blue for Ouranos, black for Tartarus, I was just wondering if the same applied to the Titans."

Her grey eyes seem to peer into your very soul.

"An interesting question, one that very few would think to ask. To answer you, yes, Kronos is generally associated with the color of sand, much like that of an hourglass, more specifically, gold."