SINKING UP

Artemis does not find herself lost in introspection often. She does not seek it out, after all: she is sooner an escape artist, climbing out of the window of her life to seek other stories. In the people around her, in the movie scripts she hunts, in the roles she brings to life. Everything is a narrative and nothing is real: that is the game of media and that too, tends to be how life is lived.

But then, she is human. And when it all falls away – the self-imposed stage, the extras in the background, the script – she becomes something quiet. So, she sits at the water’s edge, one water dangling over the ledge, toes tickled by the calmly moving sea. The other is pulled up, fingers folded on top of her knee, chin leaning on top of her fingers. What she attempts to do here is what she does with scripts, too: dissect. Reach into the pit of her being and find out what it is she feels, rather than what she’s supposed to feel.

It’s quite a search. 

She’s interrupted by Ares, and turns her head, continuing to rest it on her knee. “Hi to you too,” she says, slipping a hand from underneath her chin and patting the brick next to her. “Come, sit.” She doesn’t like being alone, anyway, and Ares has something grounding about him. Artemis nods. “Yes. Dad, a while ago. Mom, first day of the summit. I’m not particularly interested in talking about it with them, though.” They hadn’t seen it fit to, not until someone had caught wind of it and sold the story or whatever and so Artemis has little interest in pushing them for answers. Or associating with it at all. “You?”

“Understandable,” he makes himself a space next to her, in the hollows that she carves out with her edges, now curbed in a moment of rest. “Haven’t had a chance to talk to father yet. Doubt I will with how busy he seems to be at the moment. I’ll get around to talking with your mom eventually.”

But first, he’s going down the list of people closer to him than their parents, with perhaps the exception of Hermes, simply because of all the siblings, he’s found he has the least success with words when it comes to the youngest. An issue to be dealt with at a later date. For the time being, he’ll start where he has reasonable sureness of footing.

Of all the people he does expect to give him grief for the affair, Ares is at the top of the list, and yet, the Rhea is the most nonchalant he’s seen him, here, fresh off the heels of hearing of a scandal and far from Olympe. 

He’s lingering off to the side of the stage as people are slowly filtering in, the din of civil chatter filling the hall, gaze fixed upon his notes when Ares approaches. Institutionally, he grimaces, squares his shoulders. No great secret he wasn’t particularly proud of the way he’d acted the last time they’d ran into each other - accusing him of being nothing more than a mindless hound to his father, and here he is, humiliating himself acting the part of mistress for Zeus Rhea. The irony is not lost upon him.

“Erm. As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose. Thanks.” Not entirely the truth. It’ll be his first public appearance since the scandal broke. He’ll power through it he always does, but he hardly believes Aegean’s financials will be top of mind during his stint. Hephaestus lifts a brow, openly incredulous. “You surprise me, Ares. Behaving so politely.”

He could laugh at how Heph clearly braces with his approach, as though expecting a fight, or perhaps another close encounter with his teeth to their throat. That reminder of what happened the last time they’d been left to their own devices makes him grimace in turn, unintentionally leaning a bit away from the other man and turning so he’s no longer facing them.

When Ares arrives, Hera lets go of a little bit of tension she didn’t even notice she was feeling. It happens with each of her children as they are away (or, rather, while Hera is away from their home). It feels wrong to distance herself from them during such turbulent times for the family, but she reminds herself that this is necessary for the children’s protection. She repeats it over and over again, day after day, and it still doesn’t taste right.

“It is a great place for a vacation, but it still doesn’t compare to home.” She confesses, and almost regrets it. Of course no part of Gaia can compare to the paradise they own. It’s pointless to mention it. She half smiles when Ares speaks of his siblings, fondness and grief fighting for space in her expression. “They’re switching between demanding answers and avoiding the issue as a poison. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

When he asks how she is, Hera wants to reach for her son and hold him tight, but she isn’t sure if Ares would appreciate that. Instead, she studies him as attentively as he watches her. “It’s okay, I don’t minding talking about it. Not to you.” Even as a child, Ares has always kept a certain distance, a sort of respect and hesitation that no kid should have to carry. Whenever he approaches her, Hera welcomes the chance to connect with her son, however sour the matter might be.

“I am not at my best, of course,yet it isn’t as difficult now as it was at first.” When she found out of Zeus’ betrayal - the one Ares will never hear about, if the Fates have any mercy on Hera - it became a deep wound to her soul. She didn’t expect it to ever start healing, but, where she stands now, the pain isn’t the same. Maybe not lighter, but a different one for sure. “The press doesn’t help, but that is something I’m quite used to. What about you? It must have been quite a shock.” Ares’ loyalty to his father is unquestionable, but not blind. What would it take for that bond to break?

Home. So, she still thinks of Olympe as where she belongs, even if subconsciously. He tucks that knowledge away, sure that it will come to use one day. "Yeah, that sounds about right,” the news that his siblings are alternating between two extremes in how they’re handling this entire situation is unsurprising. Part of him wonders how much of Pontius is going to survive his family as they all sort through their feelings in their various ways, most of which unhealthy.

He hums in acknowledgement of her words and shrugs, looking down at the water churning under them rather than meet her eye for this bit. “It is what it is,” this indifference has always been a failing of his, that inability to connect with the rest of them emotionally in any way that is not apathetic at best and negative too often. He wants to say it hadn’t been much of a shock when the article broke, not really, not after it’s already happened at least once that they know of in the past.

She’d always liked ARES – there weren’t many people she considered to be intellectual equals, but, although he put his mind to work for the other team, Ares was certainly someone whose intelligence she admired. There were a lot of similarities between them – which is perhaps why they had always managed to get along so well, neither of them particularly cared about the minefield of social etiquette, far preferring the company of machines or books to other people. When she spoke to Ares, she didn’t feel as though she was always struggling to keep up – they spoke the same language, and it was a welcome relief for Circe in a week already filled with stressors.

She’d offered to give him a tour of some of their facilities ( none of the restricted ones, of course – she was no fool ). Sure, there were already tours taking place around PONTIUS, but Circe knew that most of the locations they were visiting would be of no interest to Ares – simple tourist hotspots lacking any real substance. Instead, she took him to some of the facilities on the second deck – newly released technologies and gadgets that had just hit the market. “We have them on display for the shareholders,” She explains, “But these have already been announced, so you can have a look at them, if you like.”

In a way, this is worse than Heteraidia had been. At least on Olympe, he knew where to turn to when he needed to get away for a moment of peace, and he knew who to avoid encounters with. Here, there are no such easy loopholes to help him get out of faking awkward pleasantries with faces he recognizes but cares little to know. So when Circe finds him and offers to show him around on another level, he takes the presented opportunity for a convenient escape route and flees the general bustle of the upper deck.

It was a nice night, Prometheus thought, with the breeze blowing gently that felt cool against their skin, the rhythm of the wave crashing against the white sand, and the clear sky overhead. It was the kind of vista that washed over you with a sense of serenity, even for one Ares Rhea. A change of pace that Prometheus hadn’t seen coming, not when they could barely get through an interaction without a scowl from Ares that they were almost sure it was a permanent feature fixed on his face. Still it was a pleasant one that Prometheus could ever find themself enjoying his quiet company.

Or maybe that was just the alcohol talking. It was a bit soon to tell after all.

It was then that both of their phones chimed simultaneously, which could only mean one thing: work. An emergency, maybe. Another source of headache, most likely. Either way, Prometheus should probably rush up and attend to it. Work had brought them here after all, and that entailed cleaning after the ruins that any of the Rheas had left behind in their wakes. But for the love of Fates, Prometheus was tired and they wanted to stay with the view and the booze and just enjoy this one night without any interference.

So they let out a long hum without moving a single inch from where they were sitting, arms hugging their own knees as they stared off into the horizon. “Dunno.” The word came out a little slurred, hopefully convincing enough to sound a little drunk. If it wasn’t, well, they hope the silly little grin they were wearing would do the trick. “Ooh, maybe we should make bets on it– I’m putting my money on one of the twins!”

His phone sounds again, and he continues to ignore the chime, pretending to go deaf and blind to how the screen lights up. Apparently, Prom is taking the same course of action and shirking duty entirely. How unfortunate. Whatever the matter, they’d better hope it resolves itself for once.

“I’m not about to bet on any of my siblings getting into trouble,” he cracks open one eye to glare half-heartedly at the other. Knowing the Fates’ sense of humor, that will be exactly the thing that tips things out of his favor and into the territory of ‘definitely his problem now’. “Fine, I guess we can have one night off.”

He’s about to continue the thought with a comment on how surely their retinue will be able to keep it together for that long, that no one will be starting any fires on deck in their absence, then remembers who all from Olympe has come along for this trip, and decides to not push his luck.

Seems that Apollo keeps getting thwarted at this event. What, did everyone like ruining his fun? Or could they see him suffering and decided that they couldn’t let him suffer in his own way. Squishing him into the boxes they wanted, as always.

He’s just trying to get the attention of the masses, just trying to share his own thoughts. One that he fully knows no one cares about but he’s not going to let that make any sort of difference for him. That is, until Ares pulls him away like a small child. 

He feels like one lately.

“Can’t I?” He quips. “Why not? Ruins your pretty image?” He tries to create distance between the two of them. Arms crossed over broad chest, a symbol of protection from his brother’s judgement. “Fine, I will stop because it makes your life better. Why don’t I make your bed and file your paperwork, too?”

There’s the familiar flare of his temper, wearing thin again after a long day now made unnecessarily longer, rising up to challenge the petty tantrum his younger brother seems intent on throwing. Not the first of them either, if the accounts he’s been hearing are to be believed. Something has clearly gripped Apollo since the news broke, perhaps even before then, and watching them now is like watching a rerun of an episode to his own life he’d rather not see play out.

“Did you set cameras up here, as well? How Big Brother of you.” Although not the first or second born, Ares looks upon his siblings with an indescribable maturity. It convinces most who look upon them, to imagine Ares as the fair-minded exception to the Rhea’s ever-emotional rule. Dion, however, has never subscribed to a stiff upper lip as the sign of emotional maturity. In fact, some days, she wonders if it’s Ares himself who is most adrift. With an ambivalent expression, Dion takes comfort in the chair she’s settled into. Far unlike the party princess to avoid the festivities, but Hera’s face lingers no matter how many shots meet her lips.

“Do you?” Dion challenges, warm and yet somehow matter-of-fact. For all of her eccentricities, she could cut to the point just as well as her sibling. “We aren’t the only ones in this, you know.” Her fingertips drum along the edge of her chair, before shifting to look gingerly at Ares. “You have just as much to hurt about, as we do.”

“That would be pretty convenient if I could have,” he doesn’t sit, instead, taking up a position slightly behind her chosen seat. Leaning forward, elbows resting across the back of her chair, he keeps his eyes trained on the distant stage while speaking to her. “Alas, our dear Uncle would have my head on a platter, and I’m rather partial to keeping it attached to my neck at the moment.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he’s only half-joking. “Heartless and all that, robotic, nothing under here by circuitry and wiring, remember? The tabloids have been speculating on whether I’m human, or actually an incredibly advanced android for years now.” And they’re not entirely wrong. Sometimes, when he takes a moment to step back and look over his track record, he does wonder at his own detachment.

This is not how he imagined the end of the summit going for him—tired, restless, just about out of good-will and hauling the dead-weight of one Icarus Volati across Pontius. What in Chaos they were doing to end up passed out in one of the lounge chairs on the main deck, he doesn’t want to know, but past altercations aside, they are still from Olympe, and he has a job to do. He hadn’t smelled any alcohol on them at least, but it’s hard to tell with other substances. Hopefully, all they need is to sleep off whatever it is that’s put them in this stupor.

It’s with substantial relief that he finally makes it into Caro’s room. At some point after leaving the bustle of the deck area, he’d switched from lugging them over his shoulder to carrying them in both arms, both for convenience—he’s not about to go digging through their pockets for the key—and for a sentimentality he’d rather not place. Perhaps it’s a lingering pity for what all they’ve had to put up with since the new year began.

Artemis had been right. For a tour that touts whale-watching as its main attraction, there is a distinct lack of whales out in these waters. Unsurprising though—not even Poseidon can command nature to yield to his whims, at least, not yet. “It’s nice here,” he comments idly, forgoing a bland greeting with his mother this time as he joins her by the boat’s railing, leaning over to rest his elbows against the cool metal.

And it is. Much as he may dislike the uncle that rules this domain, there is a certain appeal to Pontius beyond its technological advancements. Something freeing in all the open space to be found, salt and wind in your face as you drift aboard a monolith entirely beyond your control. He can see why she’d choose this place to weather out the storm that is the Rhea family’s latest major scandal.

“I’m guessing most of my siblings have already bombarded you since arriving,” he turns to her finally, peering at her closely and trying to see past whatever masks she may be hiding behind. “And I’m sorry for dragging it out again, but you know I have to ask. How are you doing?”

There is no rhyme or reason to how the antagonistic nature of their push-and-pull relation came to be, none that he chooses to dwell on at least. Since day one of crossing paths, they simply have not been able to see eye to eye on hardly anything. Fortunately, the difference in age guaranteed they wouldn’t have to be caught in the same room together more than twice a year at most, a fact he’d been happy to contend with up until a departure made the time apart more permanent.

Now though, he’s beginning to wonder if the Fates have a personal agenda to fulfill, to force him into close proximity with Hephaestus seemingly at every presented opportunity—making up for lost time or lost connections neither is keen to recover. If it hadn’t been for the fact this is also Circe’s panel, and he’d promised to show in support, he might’ve turned around and walked back out the auditorium. But alas.

If anyone had told him that in two weeks time he’d be sitting by the water’s edge, sharing a bottle of scotch pilfered from the open-bar with Prometheus of all people, he’d have checked them into the nearest hospital for taking leave of their senses. Yet here he is, doing exactly that, and wonder of all wonders, they are actually playing civil—no bloodshed so far, barbs and knife edges tucked away behind backs for the night. The Fates do have a strange sense of humor.

The quiet lasts for only a minute though, a blink in the eternity that has been the drag of the days since arriving on Pontius, before both of their phones go off with the familiar ping of a new notification. Another fire to be put out, another crisis that needs diverting—it seems to be all he, all either of them, has been occupied with lately.

There it was again – the scowl that was all too familiar now, making its appearance like a clockwork. After months Prometheus still found it almost too amusing how easy they could get that reaction out of him just from carefully pushing on his buttons a certain way or another. It was a dangerous game, as dangerous as poking on a slumbering bear in its den. But curiosity had always been a hubris of theirs and, quite frankly, a part of them often wonder how far they could get away with before Ares would do more than baring his fangs at them.

Right now, however, was not the right time to find that out. Not when more eyes were around to watch, and certainly not so soon after arriving at the belly of the beast. So they put the game to rest, at least for now. “Well, thank you Ares. You can consider myself very assured then,” they replied with a laugh. “Now then, mind showing me where armory’s at? I might as well try and join in on the hunt before you change your mind.”

And so it goes: Artemis beams giddily as Ares gives in, nodding at his request and resting easily in the short queue before making her order. A black coffee (boring) and blueberry muffin (classic) for Ares, and a frothy coconut cappuccino (delicious) and lemon-poppy-seed muffin (cute) for herself. There’s a cheeky autograph given to the barista and then she’s quick to step outside, feel the morning sun on her cheeks, ready to slip down on an iron-wrought chair and wait for her brother in a rare moment of peace.

It’s ironic, really: Artemis had thought of how it’d look if a picture of herself and Ares were to be snapped and spread around. Good press, lovely press: the Rheas united strong, Artemis smiling brightly alongside her tall, tall brother, who poses such a mystery. But when a paparazzo approaches, a fucking vulture of a man, her reaction is not one of glee. And so it goes: Artemis grows increasingly agitated as she’s asked questions she has no interest in answer (something about a recent, rather public ex, which leaves her with angry-yet-burning-eyes). Soon enough, she’s attempting to accost a man with a ready-to-go camera and a full head on her, angry words spilling out, hands moving alongside her tirade before the vulture swats at one of them, “Don’t touch me,” she snarls, unaware that it had looked like she was about to touch him.

He’s gone all his life hearing how similar he is to his father. Not to Zeus—that is a comparison far too lofty to ever be allowed—but to the man whose unfortunate temper and possessive-protective instinct he inherited. Even as a child, there’d been an animal kind of reactionary violence that curls deep in his gut, always ready to rear its head at the slightest provocation, always ready to lash out at anyone perceived as a threat to him and his.

And like it or not, Artemis is his—has been since she’d been a tiny slip of a wild creature, tongue a dagger and apologies an awkward thing delivered in the form of a favored childhood toy when she should have been sleeping. She is his as all the rest of the Rheas have slowly become in their own time and way, and though he may not have been born into this family, he had long since decided he’d wield his anger as a weapon for their sake.

There’s cheap plastic cracking into his palm before he realizes he’s even moved, shards of a flimsy camera body breaking under a grip it was never designed to withstand. He shoves what remains of it into the sunken chest of its owner at the same time that he pulls his sister back towards himself. No doubt someone will write about this and post it all over the web in the seconds following. No doubt this sneering vulture of a man will find a way to spin the whole encounter into his favor for a quick buck. No doubt he should feel bad for assaulting a stranger in broad daylight, but all he can think in the moment is that the bastard is lucky he hadn’t gone for the throat. 

“Let’s go,” taking her by the hand, he leads Artemis away from the scene they’ve caused, back towards home and a reminder of what all he has to lose before he changes his mind.

It was the first time Circe had returned to OLYMPE since breaking off her engagement with Dion – though, this time, she was here under vastly different pretences. She’d only commenced working for Poseidon a few months ago – her brother pulling her from the boredom she faced in her previous lab and into the light that PONTIUS provided her. The opportunity to work among some of the greatest minds of modern times, to take her ideas and put them into practice, rather than simply tinker with the ideas of others – it was an opportunity that she never thought she’d be able to find, and one she was determined to hold onto with both hands, for as long as she could.

Though she was still only a junior developer – she’d been invited to the gala by Poseidon, along with a few more senior members of Pontius’ staff. She’d already shown promise, and she’d been advised that it was uncommon for someone so new to the company to be given such treatment. Even so – she couldn’t help but feel out of place here, awkward with smalltalk and reminded of the times she’d been here in the past, she’s relieved when ARES speaks to her. She’d always felt a kinship with him – both too similar to one another for their own good. “I’ve got no idea.” She admits, “I’ve never understood the fascination with abstract art. It seems that anything can pass for it – where do they draw the line between masterpiece and nonsense?”

“Oh good, so I’m not the only one who doesn’t get the point of this,” he’s careful to keep his voice low, half an eye kept trained on the milling crowd around them for anyone who may be close enough to overhear them. The last thing he wants is to accidentally set himself up to be drawn into a debate over creative expression with some wannabe art connoisseur. “Pretty sure the line is wherever the people willing to buy this kind of piece say it is, to justify the checks they write.”

// END.

It’s like a bad parody of the night he’d been the one pulled from the ledge by his brother—one of them toeing their downfall with a grim satisfaction, the other an anchor reeling them back to safer shores. He’s not sure how long the spectacle has been going on for before he happens past, and he has only half an idea where it might have stemmed from, but one thing is clear immediately: he needs to get Apollo out of there.

So he does. Disregarding the nameless, faceless pit of vipers that have congregated with the hopes of seeing another Rhea fall from grace, he reaches into their tangling mass and pulls his brother out of that inhospitable corner. There will be photos snapped and captions created and idle talk filling the internet about this event, all to be filtered and dealt with accordingly in time. For now, he needs to figure out how far Apollo has driven himself into a corner in his own head, and see if he can still bring them back in one piece.