Exhaustion and Defeat: PHOCT Round 5 Part 3

     “Hmm, she doesn’t trust readily enough, that’s the thing,” Loki said, putting his feet on the desk and leaning back. “So when she reckons someone’s betrayed her trust, she jumps to action. Gotta keep the reputation and all that.”

     “You are confident Izanami will see to Merrit? We cannot afford to have him in the city tomorrow.”

     “Ooh, we’ve got a date now?” Loki asked. “We’re all set and ready.”

     “We’ve been forced to move our plans forward,” the hooded figure replied. “The explosion at the Fleet headquarters provides too perfect an opportunity to miss.”

     “Did birdbrain tell you that?” Loki asked, “Is he around here somewhere, scribbling in that little pad of his?”

     “It is the wish of Lord Hades that we act sooner,” the hooded figure replied. “It is not a significant change in our plan; we had planned on acting within the month.”

     “Right, right. Anyone else you want me to get all riled up? I could talk with Anubis. Poor bloke’s all het up about Merrit, could be easy.”

     “No. Leave him for now. The injury to Osiris is an unfortunate complication that we do not wish to irritate any further.”

     “Alright, if you say so.” Loki seemed put out. “Baldur’s still hanging round with the Godkiller, just so you know.”

     “We are aware of this.”

     “She’s trying to heal him. Could be problematic if she’s any good.”

     “Saturday assures me she will fail. Only he would know how to reverse the damage inflicted upon Baldur’s mind.”

***

     “Tell me what you remember,” Arya said to Baldur. “Anything would be helpful.”

     “I mostly talked with Saturday,” Baldur replied, staring down at his hands. “He was… was building an army.”

     “What was in this army?”

     “Monsters. Old Gods. The foot soldiers are mainly made up of the Ghede.”

     “The Ghede?” Arya asked, “Who are they?”

     “Guides of the dead. They work under Saturday – or they did, anyway. There are a bunch of important named ones, and then… well an army of unnamed ones. The Loa Barons are like their portectors or something.”

     “There are other Barons?”

     “Yeah, but neither of the other two were in Hades when Charon went… went…” Baldur stopped talking, and looked up at Arya, his eyes wide. “It’s Charon.”

     “What do you mean ‘It’s Charon’?” she asked.

     “I mean,” Baldur explained, “That it’s Charon that’s behind all this. Charon who’s pulling the strings, manipulating Saturday.”

     “Are you sure?” she asked, sitting up straight.

     “Positive.” Baldur swallowed. “He… Saturday took Forty-eight,” he nodded towards the kitchen door, through which they could just see the little sphere, who had insisted upon continuing to guard the front door, “because he wanted to know what Charon was up to. He knew Forty-eight had seen both Charon and Hades, and he needed to know how the plan was going.”

     “What plan?” Arya asked impatiently, “What is it Charon wants?”

     “I can’t remember.”

     Arya actually growled in frustration, throwing herself back in her chair and folding her arms across her chest. “Can you remember any other names?” she asked after a moment.

     “Not right now, but I think whatever you were doing was helping.”

     “Well then, let’s go for another round,” Arya said grimly. Almost against her will, her eyes strayed to the kitchen counter. The golden dagger lay there sheathed. She had, so far, resisted the urge to pick it up or even touch it, but Izanami’s words rang through her head. She looked away, closing her eyes tightly and refusing to think about it. The urge was there, to pick up the dagger and accept the deal Izanami had left open for her.

     But what of her end of the bargain? What of this Ron Merrit? Could she take him in a fight? Did she want to fight him? She shook her head and turned to Baldur, reaching a hand out for his forehead.

***

     Hunter crested the hill at last, and the desolate club lay before him. A few pitiful souls lay around it, but the building itself appeared deserted. Slowly, he moved forward, edging down the hill. There was nothing to hide behind here, no way to conceal his approach, but still no one came.

     When he entered the club, he found that the place was just as broken inside as it was outside. Certainly, it looked as though people had died inside. There was a large bloodstain upon the floor of the club proper, and the back room looked like the sight of a recent massacre.

     He found the trapdoor with little effort. The edges didn’t quite match up with the planking behind the bar, and his foot made a hollow thunk when he stepped on it. Slowly, he lifted it away and saw the ladder that lead down into the darkness.

     He descended. He counted the rungs as he went, but lost count at about three hundred. When he finally reached the bottom, his eyes had become accustomed to the grey murk, and he could see a short distance ahead of him.

     What little light there was came from the end of a narrow tunnel, the red and orange of flickering flame. He headed towards the light, and allowed himself a brief internal chuckle at that thought.

     There before him was Saturday’s army, and the sight near took his breath away. It was far larger than he, or any of them, had imagined, stretching before him in the orange light of a hundred thousand torches. Many terrible shapes filled the cavern, beasts of myth and legend made real before him. Many tall figures in black, their skin the texture of paper, filled the ranks.

     And before them all stood Saturday, laughing. Beside him stood another figure, in a black hood, scribbling something in a small notebook.

     “We’ve been forced to move our plans forward,” the cloaked figure was saying. “The disarray of the fleet gives us exactly the opportunity needed.”

     “And my part?”

     “Shall be as we discussed. You will lead this army to the city. Do what you will, the fleet will no longer be required when the battle is done.”

     “And the Godkiller? She must be mine.”

     “Yes, eventually."

     "Eventually?"

     "We may have need of her. By all accounts she is an astoundingly strong fighter."

     "I will have my powers back," Saturdays said warningly. "I will kill her, and then I will kill the bastard Prometheus."

     And that was all Hunter needed to hear. He withdrew, returning to the ladder. At the base, he pulled out his walkie talkie. “Merrit,” he muttered, “Are you listening?”

***

     “Someone else has been spying on you,” Forty-eight said as soon as Arya withdrew from Baldur’s mind.

     “Did you get a good sense of them?” Arya asked with a sigh, leaning back against the sofa cushions.

     “No,” Forty-eight said after a moment, “It was as though they were hidden from me somehow. They’re on the roof now.”

     “Could it be Merrit again?” Arya asked. “He doesn’t give up, does he?” Baldur blinked blearily up at her, but he hadn’t fallen unconscious. Perhaps he was getting more used to her forays into his mind. With Saturday’s help, she was beginning to unwind the tangled threads criss-crossed his mind.

     “I don’t think it’s him,” Forty-eight replied, but there was doubt in his voice.  

     “I guess I’ll go check this out. Whatever happens,” she said after a moment, “they must not get the opportunity to speak with Baldur. No one should, except the two of us, at least until I’ve fixed him.” Baldur nodded, and Arya assumed Forty-eight had also agreed.

     “How long has this guy been there?” Arya asked.

     “An hour, maybe a little longer,” Forty-eight replied.

     “Let’s go see what they want then,” Arya replied. She hesitated, and then turned to Forty-eight. “Wait here with Baldur,” she said after a moment. “Izanami got in without any trouble, who knows who else might follow.”

***

     Ron had almost given up hope by the time Arya came up to the roof. His mask was firmly in place, and although he had taken care to deliberately swoop quite near their window, he had wondered if perhaps the mask prevented the little alien from sensing him at all. When finally Arya appeared, she looked straight at him, her golden eyes narrowing.

     “I told you to leave us be,” she said, her voice sharp. She had foregone the armour this time, instead wearing a white suit jacket and black trousers. Her sword was still strapped to her hip, however, as was the silver dagger.

     “I don’t think we’ve met,” Ron said, leaning against an air conditioning unit.

     “Quit the act Merrit,” Arya snapped. He stiffened, and she smiled grimly, the white of her jacket leeching to black. How had she known it was him? Where had she learnt his name?

     “That mask looks ridiculous, by the way,” Arya snorted. “I’ve heard some things about you,” Arya said, “You and your god killing water.”
That meant one of two things. Either Arya was working with Charon, or she had been in contact with Izanami. “What do you know of that?” he asked, trying to keep his voice relaxed. This meeting was not going even remotely as he’d planned. Since it appeared to be doing him no favours, he reached up and removed the mask.

     “I know that it wouldn’t have worked,” she replied with a shrug. “I know that you’re in way over your head. Heck, I’m in way over my head, and I’m a god these days.” She laughed, and there was bitterness in it.

     “Look,” Ron said very carefully, “I’ve spoken with some of my people, and a lot of what goes on around here backs up your story.” Arya snorted, but didn’t interrupt. “Then on the other hand, I’ve got a trustworthy source telling me he saw Saturday alive and kicking not two hours ago.”

     “That happens,” she replied with a shrug. “Apparently he’s popping up all over Hades, finishing jobs and stuff until I can take the full mantle.”

     “Does taking jobs include leading an army in a march upon the city?” Ron asked. “Because that’s what he’s doing.”

     Arya was silent for a moment, and then her eyes shifted to a spot just to the right of Ron. “Got an explanation for that?” She seemed to be asking a question. He could see no one else on the roof, but Ron was quite sure she wasn’t talking to him.

***

     “Well?” Arya prompted when Saturday failed to respond.

     “I would imagine one of my… co-workers, shall we say, is responsible for that one.”

     “And a name would be too much to ask, I’m sure?” Arya asked scathingly.

     “Thoth,” Saturday answered with a shrug.

     “What, that’s it?” Arya was genuinely taken aback. Saturday had not once been this straight with her since he had taken up residence in her mind.

     “I’ve found death rather suits me,” Saturday replied. “It’s surprising how peaceful it is to be free of the hustle and bustle of business, yet I still find myself unwilling just to give information away. You know the compulsion better than any other, naturally.”

     She ignored his last words and turned instead to Merrit, who looked decidedly confused. “Saturday has been brought back somehow,” she said, “Believe me when I say he was most definitely dead.”

     “Still is,” Saturday chimed in, and Merrit started, turning with wide eyes. The Baron, it appeared, could allow others to see him when he saw fit. “Thoth has rewritten a timeline somewhere or somewhen along the way, but he can’t have changed too much, or I wouldn’t be here now. Things are progressing as though I had died, but at the same time...” He stopped talking and raised his eyebrows at the gun Merrit now held levelled at his forehead. “I’d put that away if I were you, boy,” he sighed.

     “Why, does it frighten you?” Merrit thumbed back the safety, his hands steady.

     “No,” the Baron sighed, “I’m dead, remember? But she seems quite agitated by it.” He nodded his head towards Arya, whose sword was out, the red blade winking in the false light of the city. “Believe me when I say, that’s not a sword you want to be on the wrong end of.”

     “That’s what killed you?” Merrit asked, clearly surprised. His gun lowered a fraction as he turned to face Arya, perhaps beginning to realise that Saturday was indeed not the threat in this situation.

     “Bingo. Really, the two of you are on the same side, if you want to stop Charon."

     “Is that what you’re trying to do?” Ron asked Arya, eyes narrowed.

     “I don’t even know what Charon hopes to accomplish,” Arya replied, and her voice was tired. Something Saturday had said was eating away at her mind. I’ve found death rather suits me. She was beginning to see something, and every part of her felt suddenly exhausted. This was it. This was her life… or rather her death. She was a God now, and this was eternity. Maybe it would just be easier to let Charon win? To lie down and accept defeat.

     “Then let me tell you what I know,” Ron replied. “Perhaps we can find some common ground.”

     Arya hesitated. Ron still held his gun, and she her sword, but his words were tempting. It would be flying in the face of Izanami’s deal, but she hadn’t taken the dagger up quite yet. She still had the choice.

***

     Baldur was in the bathroom, and both the doors between there and the living room where shut. Still, Arya had her sword out. If it turned out Merrit knew any of the trigger commands, she’d kill him. That seemed to have done the trick when Saturday was pulling the strings.

     “Charon wants things to go back to the way they were,” Merrit was explaining to her and Forty-eight. “Before Minos took control and set up the fleet – I blew up fleet headquarters to force them into action, with Minos’ permission. It's complicated, but basically the fleet are busy relocating at the moment, moving themselves and preparing to fight. They could really do with someone like you on their side, especially if you can coax Saturday's army over with you.”

     “What interest do you have in this?” Arya asked. “Why does it matter to you who’s in charge down here?”

     “It doesn’t,” he said after a moment.

     “Then what does matter to you?” Arya asked, eyes narrowed. She hesitated a moment and then leant forward. Merrit flinched away and she raised her eyebrows. “If you want me to go along with anything, you let me do this.”

     She could see Merrit weighing the pros and cons of this in his mind. He knew she’d be a strong ally – never a friend, but possibly the enemy of his enemy. “Very well,” he said at last, holding out his hand for her. Arya reached forward and clasped it in her own, before diving into his mind.

     It was a maze of passageways, doors both locked and unlocked – things the two halves of himself were hiding from each other. She could feel them – Ron and the part of him she now knew to call the Ghost. They coexisted within his mind, united by their single goal.

     Save Paige.
    
     Next to that, nothing else truly mattered to either of them.

     She saw what Merrit had done since arriving in Hades, and the strange sequence of events that had led to their presence here in the first place. Blood stained his hands, and he acknowledged it with weary resignation. Guilt ate away at him, but it was buried by his anger and his purpose. When she had seen all she needed to, Arya drew away and let go of his hand.

     “Well?” Ron asked after a moment of silence.

     “I think…” Arya said very slowly. “I think I can help you.”

***
     The room was clean. White walls, white ceiling and white furniture: a desk, a high-backed chair, and a low stool facing it. Upon the desk was a single file – a lever-arch, crimson red. Along the side, printed in neat and careful writing was a name.

     Merrit, Paige

     The room was not real. Or, at least, it was not real yet. For now, it was simply a place between places, an intermediary; a dream. Arya slept, and she saw it, guided by Saturday’s words and his careful instruction. It was a memory of a time yet to pass, something in one of the many futures that were laid out before them. With careful manipulation she had brought it forward, and allowed herself to see it before it’s time.

     In the high backed chair there was a man, and he had no name. Instead, he had a title, and his title was Benefactor.

     “It is a high price you ask of me,” he was saying to Arya, or rather to the shadow-stuff of her, the shadowy figure in a blue suit jacket, leaning against the wall and staring down at him. “I have had my eye on this one for some time now, and it will truly take something impressive to tempt me to turn away from her. What can you offer me in her stead?” His eyes were cold, calculating as he stared at Arya. She could feel Ron’s presence in her mind, sharing this not-quite-memory with her.

     “I have all the souls of the Ghede,” she said calmly, "and I have the weapons of Angels. I have the loyalty and trust of those who rule in Hades.”

     “Yes, that was a messy business. Still, I’m glad it was all straightened out in the end.” His eyes glinted. He knew more about what they would come to call the Charon Rebellion than he wished to let on. “But I have no interest in these things. You must surely know what it is I want. What are you willing to give me, Arya… but you have so many names. Arya Anderson. Arya Goldeneyes. Arya Godkiller. And that last one, the one you go by now. Remind me, what was that one?”

     Arya did not answer him, but pushed herself away from the wall. Her eyes swirled from gold to bright blue and she moved her hands away from her waist, where they had subconsciously been resting against the weapons at her belt – a long sword with a red blade, and a short dagger with a golden one.

     “I will offer you this one last deal, benefactor,” she said, and her voice was calm. “In exchange for Ron Merrit’s soul, and the freedom of his daughter Paige.”

     The Benefactor did not speak. There was no sound in the room.

     “I will offer you my own soul.”