one last hope

On Pontius, Dolus had crafted a mask. The mask of an immature person who didn’t have a care in the world. A person who had never had to worry about his status, about the stability of his position or the security of his future. He took cues from the people around him — Hermes, Poseidon, even Artemis. He took pains to be laidback, funny, talkative, earnest…and just annoying enough that nobody would ever question whether it was genuine.

The presence of Hercules, his brother, his anchor, tugged at the mask. He threatened to rip it apart, just by being there. And there was nothing that Dolus could do about it, because he wasn’t prepared to push away any more family. Instead, he met Hercules in the kitchen for dinner.

The smell of home, grilled fish and olive oil, made his eyes burn. How ridiculous was that? That Hercules could make this marvel of technology smell like home. He shut the kitchen doors behind him and resisted the urge to lean back against them. “Yeah.” His voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat. When he spoke again, it was back to flippant. “Yeah, I do. How do you even remember that shit?”

He strode over to the table and took a seat, resting an elbow on the shiny metallic tabletop that was absolutely nothing like home. “Did you like, do any work today, or were you just fishing?”

-

He doesn’t put too much stock in his own intuition. If his were truly sharp, he would have avoided the mess of legal condemnation and Scalpel altogether. And no, he was no genius. Unlike the sharp brains aboard Pontius, Hercules was average at best. Yet he was not dumb when it came to Dolus. He could see the internal war, waged between who Dolus was and who he wanted to be. With an emphatic smile, he continues to ply sauce over the well-grilled fish. It’s a plight he knows all too well, and he simply curbs the urge to say a thing about it.

If Dolus wanted to be the person he dreamed of, each time he stares out at the sea’s horizon? Well, Hercules would make certain it happened.

“Maybe you’re not the only genius in the family. Ever think of that?” He says in jest, though the reality is far less impressive. He remembers, simply because it’s important. And frankly, little else occupied his thoughts in the cells deep within Arcadia’s borders. “Fuck off - I got plenty done. Morning and afternoon patrol at the decks, security brief with Alecto... I even helped one of the guests retrieve their water wings at one of the pools.” He has to laugh, thinking back on the image. Hercules retrieves a fork, and hands it back to Dolus.

“Did you put all the one’s and zeroes at the end of Pontius’ password, then?”

There is no joy to be found in failure and in Scalpel’s past, there is plenty. Scylla outweighs it with their successes and moves on, leaving marred bodies in the past and looking ahead. That is, after all, the purpose: to look ahead and push until there is no more pushing to be done. Really, she is unbothered, ambivalent, not filled with sadistic glee but neither with harrowing remorse. And still, it displeases her when her moment of fresh air and staring hard at the horizon is interrupted by a familiar figure. 

It takes a moment to place him: first, there’s the subject number, HM_21, and then comes the surname. The first name … that she does not remember. Scylla looks her failure in the eyes and she feels no regret for the ways it may have hurt him, but rather for the ways she and her team could have done better. “Mendacius,” she says. No relation to Dolus, she hopes. What she remembers of the man in front of her is, primarily, how he had not taken the money, how he had been relentless in a way that could have been considered impressive if it hadn’t directly affected her. Her mind races, wondering why he is here, what he might want, what his intentions are. “Right?”

She gives a wry smile. “How have the years treated you?” She tries to find it within herself to hope that they’ve treated him well, but finds only ambivalence. Annoyance, that she has to deal with this, too.

-

He’s seen several incarnations of danger; the cruel fists that land behind iron cells, the judgemental shrews that see only vice and no virtue, and the callous creatures who maim the human heart for sport. A life long lived at the young age of thirty three, yet nothing haunts him the way Scylla and her methodical eyes do. It is perhaps the most dangerous thing of all. Worse than sadism, was apathy. A singular mind that would see only result, and not the human pulse behind it. Hercules can see it unchanged in those transparent eyes. Nary a soul, nary a heart.

“Hercules.” He is quick to correct, with a shrewd look of importance. He was no longer HM_21, or patient Mendacius. His worth could no longer be diminished into vials of his blood, or test results on glowing screens. He is blood and skin - and though he does not expect Scylla’s sympathy, he certainly demands a recognition of that. Did she look at him, the burn marks so callously displayed up and down his arms, and recognize her untold horrors?

“I didn’t think you cared much about, what did you all call it? Right - conversing with test subjects.” A paraphrase of years past, yet the sentiment is forever ingrained. “Fine.” Hercules finally answers. To describe his hardship, was to allow her to win. But to exonerate her? Highly unlikely. “I’ve built a good like here on Pontius, on Poseidon’s team.”

"Great. You’re here. I’m almost done.” Hercules notes, in mild surprise. It’s not as if his little sibling kept time well, when he was busy tinkering away in that super-brain workspace of his. Of course, it does him a world of pride. Dolus may be many things (fast-talking, sarcastic, and horridly impatient) but he’s made this life for himself. Could Hercules say the same? Perhaps it is the way of the eldest and the youngest; the first fails, the second thrives. And there is peace in that, for Hercules. Better that Dolus thrive, than languish in mistakes like he did. He tightens his smile into a careful, fine line. Three years later, and so much of that want that near bursts from his chest, is painstakingly pinned down a size. Three years is nothing, to half a life apart.

“I caught it this morning.” He explains, carefully removing the fish from the grill. It’s wrapped in careful tin, and seasoned with olive oil and vegetables. A simple Mendacius family recipe, that was commonplace on their dinner table. “Do you still like it with a bit of the sauce? I wasn’t sure.” Never the less, he carries the sauce pan with him.

The years between them creates the passage of time, the changing of season. It evolves in learned realities and heavier eye bags. But it does not create distance. At least, not for Hercules. Five years later, and he still finds himself reiterating the same old story. The mundane days in a sterile lab, with brains far more inventive than his. Who would have thought that such horror could come, from the safe blanket of a University experiment? He runs through each discourse, each shriek of disgust, and even the forgettable things - like the way she tapped her pen, or the weather that day. Is it to remember, or to forget? Of that, Hercules is uncertain.

One thing is certain, however, and that is the final need to lay eyes upon her. Now, for all his anecdotes and sly remarks, Hercules is a fair officer of Pontius’ security. He has eyes on everyone; including someone as dangerous as Scylla Vardanyan. Yet he keeps his distance, seeing only parts of the illustrious figure. Like the familiarity of their back, as it undoubtedly roams Pontius for its next victim. This time, however, he intends to look her in the eye. Just to talk, he tells himself. But really - what could he say, to the fixture of his worst nightmares? History has proven that neither his moral spiels, or indignant rage left any true mark on those scientists.

Restlessness and impulse lead him to her, under the bright sun light. Maybe it’s better that company surrounds them.

“Do you remember who I am?”