exitus acta probat.

week two of the summit; after the HELE-N presentation; helicon deck

as cly stands on the edges of the crowd, his eyes follow agamemnon as he drifts around packs of what the two of them deemed important people; amon had no issue with just diving into the deep end, charming one too many faces with whatever they wanted to hear. cly can see it clearly, he smiles, they smile, he laughs, they laugh—he wouldn’t be surprised if amon’s telling one of cly’s jokes, one of many he sold him during their joint debrief this morning. still, he can’t keep his gaze away—some things never change.

just before and after the demo, the spotlight’s been mostly on his friend and cly doesn’t exactly mind—his thoughts are off doing everything but getting in order so if there were crowds of people gathering around him, eager for some insightful answers, cly would most surely fail to deliver. he probably wouldn’t even be able to answer the question of how are you. so he hope this is what the person joining him doesn’t start with. 

“hello,” he greets them, his most charming smile planted firmly on his face, plastered on so fast you couldn’t even notice the change. his fingers wrap tighter around his drink. the ice chills his skin and brings him some comfort. “how many more of these,” he lifts the glass up a little, “until it’s acceptable for me to just leave?” it’s part joke, part indication of how he feels—cly mostly tries to sell it as the former. “this is my second, mind you.”

She’s silent, watchful, focused like a snake observing its prey during the presentation. HELE-N promises to move further than Cronus Rhea had managed to, promises to utilise tech in the industry of age extension. Augmentations are nice and well, a kind of science that can be broadly used, that can dazzle and push humans past the brink of their usual boring existence — but age extinction, immortality even? It nearly makes her heart beat faster. She feels challenged.

The CEO is busy afterwards and she has little interest in the crowds that surround him, the games of trying to catch his attention. But she is not yet done: she feels restless, giddy, stimulated. Excited about something that is not hers. Finally, this Summit is proving to be worth its while. So, she sets out with a goal and finds it in Clytemnestra Tyndareus, a drink in her own hand. The edge of the crowd is where they meet, which gives him a point in his favour.

“Depends,” she says, before continuing, “Are you aiming for alcohol poisoning, and having to be brought out on a stretcher? You’ll have to start chugging, then.” Scylla nips her glass, turns towards HELE-N’s COO fully. “Otherwise, I’ll buy you a temporary escape ticket.” A pack of smokes is produced, and she wiggles it, “Perfect excuse to catch some fresh air. Won’t even have to light one, if you’d prefer.” She pushes the pack back in her pocket, flashes her badge, which displays a scalpel, shining-sharp-silver, reflecting the lights above and around them. “Exhausting, isn’t it? Being behind some of the more exciting things the Summit has to offer?” Is she claiming that Scalpel is on the same level as HELE-N? Maybe. 

During the Summit and during any other day of the week, Scylla said. If that was how she thought of her work, Athena could about understand why she loved it so much. Although she also had to wonder just what she might do to seize that future. What she had done, as well. The question itched under her skin, threatened to burst from her tongue. This wasn’t her job, strictly speaking, but the familiar desperation for truth had seized her, and she had never been able to escape its grasp.

If it was also a distraction from other, pressing matters, well. It was a welcome one.

But the key to these things was grace and subtlety, so she didn’t burst forward with accusations. Instead, she nodded in agreement. “Yeah, Pontius is definitely no Arcadia. Even when I’m in Olympe, I find myself homesick for Arcadia. There’s something about it that no other place has, I think. But I’m glad that you’re settling in here.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Oh, you know. I’m busy with work, especially at the Summit. I’m moderating a panel next week and working on some articles between now and then. But I love the work, so it doesn’t bother me much. You must be busy too, right?”

Scylla hums, somewhat intrigued. “So, where do you mainly stay? Olympe or Arcadia?” She’s not too familiar with Olympe, in all truth, finding little appeal in the news and entertainment industry, only thinking of it as a potential market for Scalpel. “And ah, I guess I’ll be able to travel down there if I ever feel the need for some familiarity, right?” 

Admittedly, there is something that’s relieving about Pontius. Scylla likes to think herself cut off from past ghosts and hauntings, but she is not — not in Arcadia, at the very least. Pontius is new territory and with it come no memories, no familiar corners or nooks, nor crannies. And in these past few months, she has started to make it feel her own.

“Oh, right, I saw your name on the itinerary. One of many Rheas taking to the stage, huh?” Is she jealous, or in awe? Perhaps a bit of both. On another hand, Scylla feels smug: she had not needed a family name to get where she was now. “Anything interesting you’re working on? And yeah, yeah, for sure. Scalpel has a station where I’ve got a fair amount of shifts, you know, getting people some simple augmentations. You should step by. And besides that, well, ‘tis just general Summit things keeping me occupied.” 

she stiffens, and he thinks maybe he’s done something wrong. it’s always been easy to let paranoia win, and so he makes sure that their bodies are far enough apart that he won’t mistakenly bump her when he isn’t paying full attention to all his limbs and the space they take up. “oh, shit, yeah. that’s you? damn. i mean, that demo was pretty insane. not that i’m surprised though, you’s always proper smart.” he takes a sip of his cocktail, and at the mention of getting augmentations himself, his eyebrows raise as he swallows a mouthful.

“scylls, i have few redeeming features, and one of them is that i’m pretty. and if you tell me i could be prettier, i will cry,” he teases, but it’s not a lie. he just might keep his tears for when she’s no longer close enough to see or hear him. “ask amon, though, he could do with looking less… well, like that,” he huffs with some residual bitterness, but it’s quickly swept away with the smile he forces back onto his lips. “mm, good. ‘cause you know i won’t get any of it,” he chuckles, “but, yeah, i’m good,” he lies, “this whole thing would be way more fun if hele-n wasn’t part of the show, though, gettin’ real sick of hearing people talk about them.”

Really, she doesn’t mean to be condescending when she thinks that Menelaus Mycenae is a breath of fresh air. The way he says you’s always proper smart, the way he says it without agenda or any indication that he thinks himself equal or better as so many other attendees do. She smiles a little, amused, maybe. “Cheers, Mene.” Then, she chuckles. “I mean this in the best way possible, but everyone can be prettier. That’s kind of the whole business model. But you don’t need any improvements, really. If you ever wanna try a hand at anonymity though ...”

An eyebrow raises as she slides down a little, staring up. “If your brother shows interest in our product, I’d be more than happy to give him a little demonstration.” Amon is, of course, quite a polar opposite to his brother: a point of interest not because he offered reprieve, but because HELE-N offered innovation, opportunity, discussion, intrigue. She very clearly does not share that with Menelaus, though. “You don’t wanna talk about it and yet you bring it up? Silly lad, you are. What’s it about HELE-N that you dislike so, then? I think it’s pretty cool, what they’re claiming to be doing.” And they seemed to like the mystery approach Scalpel had benefited from. Birds of a feather, maybe. If she was lucky. “But then, I’m a proper nerd, and you’re more a cool guy type, yeah?”

The labs have a cold veneer to them that most would find inhospitable; tours never linger too long down here, and in the beginning, he never did either. But Poseidon was frequently down here, and he grew to find it homey, even when he was visiting from Olympe, taking to his notes and his emails as the Rhea built his empire under a microscope. But he’s not here for Poseidon now, who he hopes to be elsewhere - he’s here to fully examine that which Aegean has taken on. Who, they’ve taken on. 

Of course, he’s done his research, enough of it, on Scalpel, on its rocky beginnings, the miasma of image issues, and most recently, on Scylla. A brilliant scientist, there wasn’t denying any of that, but particular searches have led him to some benign, Cronus-shaped rabbit holes. Nothing particularly out of left field for someone of her caliber, of her study, but… it is a peculiar thing, to read praise of Cronus and not have it be a distant thing to tune out. 

“Hello, Scylla.” He’d muttered something in greeting earlier already, but she presumably had not heard. He feels too big, too long for the space that is undoubtedly hers. “No, no. Nothing needed. Just thought I’d come by, see the Scalpel space - I never got the chance to see it.” He loathes small-talk, but he’s just as sure she does too. “What was it you were just working on, if I may ask?”

As a child born on soil only fertile for crops, not knowledge, Scylla had grasped tightly to all stories of those that had made a living of exactly that. Clicking around the RheSeq website, delving into everything that had to do with the company that had promised the impossible, led by a man who had, like a mother, died too soon despite the science at hand. Intrigue, when awakened in Scylla Vardanyan, is tough to snuff out. In stead, it tends to grow.

So, Hephaestus Galani: his ward, now CFO of the company she’s signed to herself. Fixations are hard to shake, especially ones developed in a disease and grief-ridden childhood of under stimulation. She would like to fold back the skin around his scalp, extract memories and inspect them on her own time. No need for conversation about any childhoods, really: she just wants to know. Satiate her curiosity. Maybe one day, if the tech is there.

Dolus hit close and whirled around from the lab’s main computer when Scylla entered, giving her a perfectly innocent smile as if she’d walked in on them in one of Pontius’s pools rather than sneaking into her lab. They waved at her, wiggling their fingers. “Evening, Scylla.”

They glanced back towards the computer, then at her. “What, me? Oh, I was just checking the lab’s security features.” Not technically a lie, though not nearly the full truth either. They’d managed to get into a folder full of lab notes, though they hadn’t read anything interesting before she arrived. “Yeah, I have this weird thing, it’s called a job…? It means I have to go around and do stuff like that. Crazy, right?”

They walked away from the computer and closer to Scylla, though her last question stopped them in their tracks. Their smile flickered, just for a second. Hercules. The chink in their armor. The uncontrolled variable. “Ah, yes, that would be my dear, sweet brother, Herc. He works physical security. Big muscles, big heart — I suppose that’s also muscle. Brain? Eh.” They waved their hand from side to side. “Why?”

An eyebrow raises, Scylla not bothering to hide the scepticism she feels. “Does your job not entail informing us of these kind of check-ups, then?” Admittedly, t hey may have sent a memo that she skimmed over and didn’t pay much attention to, but nonetheless. There’s a wariness for Dolus that she hasn’t shed just yet, a wariness that mostly leads back to that Fates-damned brother of theirs.

“So, the security features? All good, then? Or were you not yet done?” She watches him move closer, arms crossed in front of her body, that look still not washed from her face. Maybe she’s just agitated that he’s here, because of some kind of territorial instinct she hasn’t bothered to shed. She won’t admit to that, though.

Hera has more than a few tips for dealing with the media attention. Where could she even start? “Hmm, let’s see. I prefer to stablish a time and place to answer their questions, so they follow my schedule, not the other way around. The structure of this event helps. There are panels and meetings dedicated to talking to the press, so you are allowed to ignore them if they chase you around out of the designated opportunities.” That was easy for Hera to say. She didn’t have a brand to sell, and most reporters would give blood, sweat and tears for a couple words from her, in whatever conditions she chose. Still, Scylla could apply that to her own situation with the due adaptations.

“You can rely on Aphrodite to help you navigate the most sensitive topics. Try to control the conversation, but when they bring up issues you don’t want to address - and they will - don’t panic. Answer what you can, decline what you can’t, trust the team to handle it later. You know your product and you believe in it. That will get you through.” Hera wasn’t a big fan of augmentations, but she understood passion. Scylla had given Scalpel so much, she would have no trouble highlighting the best of it to the public. “And besides, you have the support of Pontius. Everything you need will be provided.”

“That is my M.O., refusing to talk to them unless they have set up a formal interview.” The fact that she and her team have denied any and all interview requests goes unsaid, even if it’s part of the mysterious act they are trying to go for. With Poseidon lifting the veil on Scalpel, though, it would be good for someone to go on record. She? She’s hardly the most charming scientist on the team, but she is the most controlling one. “So yes, I’ll set something up in a proper place. And hope that, no offence, Nemean’s lackeys leave me alone when I’m sat at a bar.” Little nuisances. What a terrible business to be in, where you’re so reliant on others for your work to do well.

There’s a nod. “Yes, Aphrodite has been a great help establishing talking points and what topics to avoid.” There were admittedly plenty, within Scalpel’s murky past. The focus was on the future, as that was the entire narrative Pontius seemed to so loyally subscribe to. A narrative she found herself agreeing with, at least. “It’s just a head ache. I’d rather waste away in the labs.” She grins, a little, self-aware enough of that. “Thank you though, Hera. And that is true: it is nice, to have such backing.” Some might say they were undeserving, but Scylla didn’t busy herself with such sentiments. Science wasn’t about fairness: it was about results. And Scalpel? Scalpel delivered. She cocks her head to the side, takes a sip of her drink, lifts one corner of her mouth, “What about you, Hera? Can I count on your support, as well?” 

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.”

Hercules. She never got too close to those that volunteered their bodies and brains for a bit of cash, as a general rule of professionalism. With some, that kind of attitude was abandoned slightly, only if they were fun enough to join the team on pub crawls ( and deserving of an invitation, of course ), but she cannot say she had gotten to know the other well. Not a pity, but not beneficial either, now that he stands across her once more.

He seems to remember her more starkly than she him, which makes her want to pick him apart and pry any grudge he has against her from his body. Her eyes are stuck on his scars for a moment, gliding over the tissue of skin, the way he permanently wears it now. Playing God meant cursing people too, as it turns out. Her gaze returns to his face. “Right. Hercules.”

He shouldn’t be here. It’s making her hands itch and she starts scratching at a hangnail the moment her hand has found its way in a pocket. “Well, we can skip the niceties if you want.” There is a shrug of her shoulders, “Up to you.” He’s not even a test subject, now, but maybe she should try and play somewhat nice. “What is it you do here? Either way, it’s good to hear.” It really is of no difference to her, but that’s a rude thing to say. “Does Poseidon know, of your history with us? Or is that something I need to worry about you bringing up down the line?” Did he think he had a little trump card on him? Scylla wants to disregard her worry, but then ... Hercules did bear physical proof of the harm Scalpel had done. She could only hope Poseidon had the stomach to look the fuck away and make everyone do so, too. 

“Yes.” She says, eyeing the woman across from her. Her team was something Circe was vocally proud of – in the years since she had first joined Pontius, it had only grown and changed for the better, Circe cultivating those around her like one would a garden – ensuring that it would flourish, noting and reporting any insidious weeds to Poseidon to be pruned away. Aegean was a tightly run ship ( both literally and figuratively ), and, as she had risen through the ranks, Circe had come to see exactly how much work this entailed – not just from those in charge, but from everybody beneath them, so the values of everybody on board had to align. “It’s important to value talented employees when they enter our ranks.”

Once upon a time, Circe had been under Scylla’s tutelage – had sought to learn from her, to be guided from her ( though, even at the age of twenty-one, Circe knew her mind was far sharper than most ). Perhaps it would be uncomfortable that Scylla now reported to her, that she was now another weapon in Aegean’s arsenal. It would be that way, except Circe thought Scylla could benefit from being in Aegean’s ranks, rather than out on her own – she just had to look at what had happened with SCALPEL prior to the acquisition to see that perhaps Scylla was not fit to be running a company. 

She does not voice this opinion, of course, instead pursing her lips before offering a polite ( if slightly tight ) smile. She didn’t want to seem as though she were micromanaging Scylla, particularly not with the trust she liked to afford her team, but she did wish to keep a close eye on what Scalpel was working on. After all, everything they did now would reflect upon Aegean, and, of course, upon Circe herself. “I like to make a habit of regularly checking in with everyone on my team.” She says with a shrug, “See what you’re working on, any assistance you might need. That sort of thing.”

Scylla wonders if she ought to be flattered, that the acclaimed Circe Ephyra considers her talented. It is nice to hear the word, of course, but it’s not like she seeks validation, especially not from those that could not bear to stick around Scalpel. “I can imagine. It’d be a pity, if anyone were to feel underappreciated.” Empty words, really, as Scylla has little interest in corporate chit-chat, or this entire conversation as is. It’s harms her pride, after all, to sit across from someone who had deemed herself too moral for her team and have to report to her. 

But even so, Circe could not be as moral as she had once claimed to be: Aegean Waters seemed guilty of plenty of sins. Poseidon himself was willing to look away from Scalpel’s murky past, to help brush any future murky actions under the carpet. Pontius, she’s starting to understand, is not as pristine as it was attempting to look. That’s where there might be a lesson or two for her to learn: the optics of it all. It’s not something she likes to concern herself with, really: she expects the masses to adore Scalpel as she does, to find a thrill in its enigmatic and somewhat dark nature. Thank the Fates for Aphrodite Dilbat, then.

“So, is this that? You checking in on me?” Circe isn’t particularly clear about what she wants to know and Scylla wonders, if she’d like her to pull all the skeletons from her closet and display them on the table between them. “We’re mostly preoccupied with ensuring everything is ready for the demonstrations, that on the stage and that at the station. After all this, we’ll resume with working to reach Alpha stage.” They were still stuck in beta, and Scylla half-expected the likes of Odysseus to make the journey towards proper product launch harder. Especially after all this showing off. Let him try, she thought. “So that’s where we’re at. You don’t have any concerns, do you?”

“Yes, the presentation was quite… revealing. Enlightening.” He raises his eyebrows. “Not to mention, a surprise. I suppose you had to let the cat out of the bag sometime, but it still feels so…” He makes a move between a shrug and a shiver, like a ghost is passing through him. “Who knew all it took to make you talk was a– literal– boatload of cash, and some very high-tech equipment? How could us lowbrow Olympians ever compete with that?” A sigh. “But yes, thank you for your generosity in there today. You’ve given us enough to report on in our tech review, for the next week at least.” He lowers his voice, as if conferring bad news with a dear ally. “Unfortunately, once a secret like this is revealed, the returns on its coverage are… diminishing. It sets quite a difficult expectation to meet, you know? Almost impossible for any answer to not fall flat, in the face of all that built-up speculation.”

He almost snorts at her description; covers up the unflattering little laugh with a sip of his drink. Soft features. It’s not something he hears often, but he doesn’t think she’s exactly wrong, either. But what an interesting feature to catch on to first. “I’d like to see you try to borrow them. I could take you to court over it, the first case of copyright infringement via facial features. Or would it be an invasion of privacy issue? Or theft?” He grins, bright and quick. “I bet we could have some fun with it, either way. Make some history together. I hear your team enjoys controversy.”

The note about her own eyes almost throws him off. Almost. He gets the feeling it’s the reaction she was aiming for from him, so he just manages to keep his footing instead, brows only raising a fraction higher. “I suppose we all have to draw our limits somewhere. How interesting to hear yours doesn’t extend past your eyeline.”

That it had been Poseidon who led the demonstration does not sit entirely easy on Scylla, she won’t deny it. Possessive pride makes it hard to make concessions, but she does nonetheless. “We did not sign with Aegean Waters to talk,” she points out rather matter-of-factly. “Even if their reach does help move the conversation forward, of course.” Scylla ponders her words, then chooses to throw subtlety overboard. “Does it grate you, that you never got one of our scientists on record? All this seems more a problem for you than for myself and my team, Mr Rhea: I dare say we’ve played our cards well. Scalpel is talk of the town, even though we’re still in beta mode ... I can only imagine the coverage once Scalpel is an accessible product.” She smiles. “Maybe I’ll accept an interview, when that time is there.”

He grins and she grins back, letting out a soft sound of laughter. “Do you think yourself able to claim copyright to your features, then? Were you the one who designed your features? Some would say that it’s sooner Chaos and Order, who designed you in their image, and well...” Her grin grows. “I’d love to have them take me to court. It would be historic indeed.” She likes this train of thought, thinks for a moment, eyes squinting. “I’d sooner say that your face and its characteristics are public property, rather than private. I could download an image of it on Talaria without getting in any legal trouble, so why should this be any different? As long as we give credit where credit is due, naturally ...” Scylla shrugs. “All hypothetical, of course, but an interesting ethical debate, I’d say. How much do we really own, of the things that were created through natural biology? Isn’t it hubristic, to want to lay claim to it?” Her head cocks. “What did you do, to gain that nose, those eyes? Nothing. They were handed to you, created for you. Maybe that is enough to claim ownership, or maybe it isn’t at all. Like I said, it’s an interesting debate.”

@sccylla​​ location: scalpel’s station.  time: week one. 

something seizes in odysseus at the sight of the station – scalpel, displayed as if they are an inevitable part of this world. something to accept, something to giggle at. people leave the demonstration with a pair of mismatched eyes or a sprinkle of freckles where none existed before, and odysseus cannot help but think how monumentally stupid it all is. he wants to shake them all; he wants to drag every quorum member here and give them a lecture on everything not mentioned by the scalpel team – that forgotten narrative that holds more truth than… this. 

instead, he stands with the rest of the small crowd, breath in and breath out. 

“scylla,” he announces the name, quick and clean. they stand on opposite sides of the table. they know this about one another. “should i congratulate you on your new employers?”

She does not do her work in order to win, but when she does acquire victory? It tastes really fucking sweet. Odysseus shows up and she does not pay him too much mind, but she does shoot him a grin, just the once. It’s he who addresses her verbally, first, and she counts it as another small victory. “Odysseus.” She gives a nod of her head, pumping some antisceptic on her hands and rubbing it into her skin. “Why yes, I do think it’d be the polite thing to do.”

𝐖𝐇𝐎: DIOMEDES & SCYLLA ( @sccylla​ ) 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: PONTIUS, AUGMENTATION DEMONSTRATION STATION 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: FEBRUARY 2130, WEEK TWO OF THE SUMMIT

Here’s the thing about the smaller cities in Arcadia: they are almost impossible to escape. Not in the way one would become trapped in a haunted house, or a giant maze – but in the sense that, when one is growing up there, it is difficult to imagine a life anywhere else. Sure, there are a few success stories – people who went out and made something of themselves, despite their humble beginnings, but these are few and far between – most ‘successes’ seemed to be those who already had deep pockets and rich bloodlines. So, when Diomedes had set their mind on greatness at a young age, it had been with the knowledge that they would need to fight for everything they would earn. Scylla… well, Scylla never seemed to need to fight as hard.

Having grown up in neighbouring cities, it is easy enough to draw comparisons between Diomedes and Scylla. They had both been among the lucky ones who had escaped, who had managed to create lives for themselves outside of their humble upbringings. Despite coming from similar backgrounds, Diomedes had always been quietly jealous of Scylla. Her intelligence had seemed unmatched – and she’d never had to work to be the best, not in the way Diomedes had. Things seemed to come naturally to her, and though Diomedes was always destined for greatness, Scylla seemed to seize it as though it had been her prophecy, all along.

She would admit to taking some satisfaction in watching the mighty fall – in watching Scalpel crumble under the weight of its own shortcomings, though she still considered Scylla friend enough to reach into her own pockets to save it from the brink of collapse. It was always like this, with them, just waiting for the other to fail so they could seize the upper hand – she was sure that Scylla now took the same pleasure in watching Diomedes squirm under the scrutiny of the public eye. 

They approach Scylla’s station with a playful smirk, leaning up against the bench as though it were theirs ( though, with the amount of money they had invested into both Scalpel and Aegean, they supposed this was almost the case ). “So, is this what you’ve been working on since boarding ship?” She asks, “Doesn’t look like much.”

It is an endless game of trying to gain or keep the upper hand, with Diomedes Delyle. Scylla think she has it, these days, what with Scalpel having more sure footing than ever and the politician in hot water. There are cards she holds that could make that water even hotter, actually, and she revels in the knowledge. Not that she is about to: sometimes the knowledge that you have power over a person is enough. No need to wield it, when it simply exists.

But really, she likes Diomedes, and that isn’t a sentiment she extends to many. Ambivalence, after all, is Scylla’s preferred state: her passions extend to her work, to her fixations and to her endless hunger for power, not to something as fickle as people. But there is something about having a person in your life who has been there for decades, a kind of constant: even if it’s sometimes nothing more but a constant, annoying humming.

See, Scylla tends to forget, that she was once a small girl that threw herself in her lessons with a childish ferocity. She prefers to forget most of her past, as life to the likes of her is all about the future. Diomedes Delyle could just be a politician on whose good side she resides, but they are more than that: they are some kind of strange anchor, a reminder of the place from which she dwelled. The only one, perhaps. It’s not like she speaks to her father much these days.

“Is it?” He smiles, slow and wide. “Well. Glad to assist. We live to inform the people, after all.” He takes her hand. Shakes it. “And even more glad to be finally meeting you. There are few true mysteries left in this high-tech world of ours. Still, your team remains impressively enigmatic. It’s fine work. Highly effective.” What goes unspoken is the numerous rejections passed between Scalpel and Nemean over the previous months, the declined interviews and requests for comment, every connection and surreptitious workaround leading to the same closed door. It’s not even a lie; their strategy was effective in drawing in interest. It just also drove him up the wall.

“What is it about my face that’s so interesting?” Zeus knows she was leading him to the question, wanted him to ask, but he wants an answer more than he wants to sidestep her games. Unfortunate, when the weighted chitchat is too interesting to brush past so easily. “You have an interesting face too. Do you get questions about it quite often?”

She wonders how often he says those words: we live to inform. If she was in a more casual setting, not as intent on playing nice, she might gag. But there’s a twinkle in her eyes, still. “In an era of widespread information, we prefer to stick to our own methods of letting the masses know about ... well, us. But I’m sure after your brother’s presentation, you’ve plenty to report on?” This is not an offer for an interview, after all: she’s not about to go on record for Zeus fucking Rhea. 

Her lips curl, slightly. “Stellar proportions, plenty of character ... there’s a softness to your features due to their roundness, which is sure to lure people in.” Was there anything soft within Zeus Rhea? She does think so: someone so set on seeming like a loving person in the public eye must find some worth in love. “Interesting characteristics. I won’t borrow them, I promise.” She chuckles, then, “There are rumours that my eyes are an augmentation of their own. I can neither confirm or deny such kind of gossip, of course.” Something about being enigmatic.  

the hot springs were supposed to be a little breath of relaxation, where his muscles would be forced to relax as he sips on cocktails, neck deep in the warm water. but it becomes increasingly more apparent that so long as amon is here, mene can’t rest. no amount of margaritas and drugs have been able to shake off that demon, leaving the adored star in a constant state of hypervigilance. 

he wishes he was in tartarus. there, the darkness makes it easy to forget, where there’s no shortage of the things he needs most. he thinks of time spent with hypnos. what he would give to be laying at their side on hyp’s gondola, slowly moving through the canals. at peace.  

mene is floating on his back, eyes blinded by the sun but not looking away for a moment. he doesn’t see someone approach, but he feels it in the way the water ripples. blinking finally, he turns his head to see a familiar face. agilely not spilling his drink, mene puts his feet under him, standing up to embrace her. “oh, scylla! how are you, mate?” the hug is tight but brief, pulling back to submerge his torso back into the warmth of the springs once more. “you involved in all those showcase things?” he asks, as if he has any clue what half of the things the speakers talk about.

There is need for a break, even for the likes of Scylla Vardanyan, so unhealthily devoted to her work. The summit is cause of many an emotion which, is wholly distracting and simply annoying. There’s excitement and dissatisfaction, there is the gnawing presence of Charybdis and all her new friends, there is all the potential of failure and all the more potential of success. She does not succumb to stress, she’ll have you know: but she does need a break. 

The hot springs, then. She has found she likes them best abandoned, but that can’t be during these two weeks, where people trample around Pontius and its surroundings like mad pack animals. It’s a quiet hour, now, but still not completely desolate.

That is not to say Menelaus Mycenae is a wholly unwelcome sight. He’s hardly like the other attendees, and that is to say that he’s hardly as smart as them. Maybe this guy could offer reprieve, if only because he won’t ask her any too complicated questions. Scylla grins in greeting, is then pulled into a hug that has her stiffening. “Very well, very well. Good to see you, Mene.” She supposes she does meaning. She lets herself sink into the water, keeping at least a feet between herself and the actor. “My product is. Poseidon did a demonstration of Scalpel, did you see it?” Then, she shrugs. “No matter if not. We’re doing hands-on shit, too, if you ever wanna step by the augmentation demonstration station and try it out.” It would be good, to have someone like Menelaus don some Scalpel augmentations. His brother, too, but that seems like a can of worms best untouched. “But I didn’t come here to talk shop. How are you?”

It is crucial that Scalpel wins the public favour back. For Scylla, it isn’t primarily about the public optics and business: for her, it has always been about the science. About the push beyond boundaries. But then, a part of the agreement had been a marketable product. There was no endless toying without some way to finance it and that, naturally, is where Pontius had come in. Swooping them up but, simultaneously, demanding results. So, it is crucial that Scalpel wins public favour.

This is part of it: the small augmentations, offered for free to those in attendance. A glittering purple pair of eyes, or perhaps your eyebrows thickened a bit? Anything is possible at the augmentation station. Well, not anything: here, Scalpel’s scientists limit themselves. They behave.

Maybe she resents it. Another part of her is giddy at the sight of people – regular! normal! people! – trying Scalpel’s product and smiling at their reflections once done. Possessive as she is, it is a thrill to watch it shared.