CHAPTER SEVEN

History Repeating Part 2

And All Ways Remember

(There is still that which is to be)

Do you really think Zeus still sits on his Golden Throne, wearing his almighty Aegis and wielding his bolt of lightning according to his discernment?

Zeus watched the whole thing unfold from his position. Sitting on a grassy knoll, beneath his favorite tree, he went unnoticed while the parade in the sky above flew by him with Marianas at the head of the snake and Nyxana as the tailwind that propelled the entirety of it forward. The view from his vantage point was quite mesmerizing. He appreciated the grace with which they carried out their mission. He nodded to himself as the whirlpool formed and did have a moment of despondency at the very idea that they were completely oblivious to him throughout. He knew he should appreciate the concentration and focus they exhibited in their effort to dispose of this perceived threat, but he still was the same old Zeus.

The thought occurred to him that the collection of maggots looked like a human brain unravelling before his very eyes. Something deep stirred within him at this thought. It had a deeper meaning. He pulled himself up and sighed, as he stroked his magnificent beard and reached for his walking stick. He leaned heavily into the timber he had hewn and carved with his own hands, and, as the Lordesses disappeared from view, he stepped out from under the boughs of the Ash, and looked towards the now empty sky, save for the streaming nimbus clouds and glaring sun. The azure skies above Olympus were still his trademark. Zeus was and would always very much be his own brand of God.

No one can connect the dots quite like the Old Man. He knew, immediately, the time for talking was nearing its end. The time for action was at hand. He might need to light a fire under Blaze to instigate the difference. He knew his own impulsivity had led to his retiring, and he had since become more measured in his approach, but his need to be spurred on was still his nature. While he appreciated that Blaze was careful and considerate and made for a respectable lead chair for the sake of Olympus on High and its preservation above All, a call to arms was written in the stars and could not be ignored. He walked back towards his compound and contemplated the spark he would settle on to move things forward at the next Counsel, he knew was being convened while he strolled towards home and sup.

Fortunately, he had an in on Counsel. He was, after all, not one to go quietly. As SOZ, he would, as his own Heir Apparent, bring the required matchstick to the funeral pyre he had been building in his mind for over two millenia now. Vengeance was at hand and vengeance would be his. Zeus had a bone to pick - still. And he was determined to pick it clean.

“Fucking Prometheus and the one that got away.”

He wanted to inscribe it in the heart of hearts of Olympus. The depth to which she had betrayed him still stung. While he was far from undeserving of her ire, the fact that she would turn her back on Olympus and use it to exact her revenge, by raising up his rival to Godhood, and setting out to turn all mankind against them was beyond the pale. While he still loved her and rued the day that became the truth he could not escape, there could be no mercy for her deception. The fact that Hera was the spitting image of Kronus and took after him to her detriment, was always the source of contention between them. There had been fewer choices between them back then among the conceptions available. She was and remained the most beautiful and powerful of the Original Olympians, but, also, the most devious and underhanded. The very aspect of her nature that drew him to her. The very aspects of her nature that drove them apart.

And while he cursed her and himself for ever loving her, he reminded himself that ultimately, he wanted to restore her to rightful place and spare Prometheus a permanent resolution. Prometheus, he wanted in Tartarus where he could forever keep a watchful eye over him. This man was never meant to be a God. He was destined to be a leader of and among man. They were designed and inspired to be rivals for the benefit of All. Now, dearly departed and her weapons and wiles, sought to keep them removed from Humankind for All Time and Space between them. The dichotomy had been compromised.

As SOZ, Zeus, who understood omnipotence and omnipresence better than any other divine being, remained integral to the process of reunification for one main purpose over All. There could be no Olympus going forward without Hera at the helm in her original position. Many disagreed. He “knew” otherwise. She was the Original Feminine Divine that created the Olympus they all resided and relied on to this day. She was the touchstone.

Having two completely different and ongoing identities and relationships was no real challenge for Zeus Almighty. Keeping everyone else unaware of it was the tricky part. Trying not to tempt Fate during the course of them was the prerequisite that everything relied on. He walked a very fine line these days. A very fine line indeed.

Anyone who thought Zeus was ever going to actually retire was only fooling themselves. Anyone who really wanted him to, was sadly mistaken.

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Santos took a kitchen towel off the top of the pile, ran it under the cold tap, wrung it out, unfolded it, and draped it over his face. He tipped his head back and let the cool comfort of it sit for a minute until it started to feel suffocating. He pulled it off and chucked it into the laundry bin. He looked around at the line that was finally caught up for the night and let them do their thing. They could finish up the last of the orders and clean up. He was done in. Getting back into a routine was taking longer than he thought it would. He took off the chef coat he wore for appearances sake, and threw it in the laundry bin as well. He grabbed his hoodie off the hook by the back door to the kitchen, and stepped out into the mild night air, reached into the kangaroo pocket and took out a pack of smokes and lighter. He went over to the staff table by the corner, kicked a cigarette from the pack, put it to his generous lips, and lit up. He sat down while he inhaled, and looking skyward, he breathed out a stream of smoke. Leaning back, his arms draping off to his side, he thought about his PO appointment earlier that day. He would be the first to admit that he had issues. But not to some peon appointed and duly anointed by the so called justice system. He had better resources than they did.

Putting the dart out in the ash can, he took his phone out of his back pocket, and scrolled some useless crap for any signs of disruption. Nothing. He knew it took awhile for things to bubble up to the surface. There were so many layers of disinformation and propaganda and self-indulgent shit to wade through before anything meaningful caught on. He wouldn’t delve any further right now. Certainly, not on his phone. He had reworked some of the AI programs Cadie had installed to refine and optimize them to their needs and updated firewalls and installed a better VPN and Virus Protection. He did not trust the AI coding and preferred to do it himself still. Once the kitchen and front end staff were done and clocked out, he would jump online for a bit, before heading home. The work laptop was better than his own. He needed to amp up the latest initiative for the collective.

He put on his hoodie and longed for a cold beer, but he was not allowed to drink on the job. Santos rubbed his eyes and cursed under his breath. He plunged his hands into the hoodie pocket and let the rage inside of him dissipate. None of that mattered. He got screwed by the system. It was that very system he was determined to upend. Santos was a chef by trade and a hacker by choice. He was still amazed after everything he’d done that he went down for involuntary manslaughter. The irony was palpable. He gamed his way into the deeper recesses of the internet and streamed himself into a rabbit hole of anarchists and other disenfranchised fringe dwellers that liked to stir shit up. He was back at his old stomping grounds and he knew it was risky, but it was the only thing that mattered anymore. He was what they made him now.

These days though, his screen time was limited and he was not allowed to game online or stream. Thanks to the courts. He had killed at World of Warcraft and damn if they hadn’t used that against him. He still couldn’t believe his court appointed lawyer had let them introduce that into evidence. The whole idea that violence begets violence. The Crown had expert witness testimony to back up the claims. Bullshit testimony in his opinion. The gaming was just a means to an end. An extra revenue stream to support his real job as he saw it. Bringing down the house of cards that money built on shaky ground. He was part of it on the inside. He still had his crypto wallet that they had never found and he was still set up. And he was still putting his money where his mouth was.

For now, he was spearheading a new campaign along with others to raise the consciousness of disruption. They were always trying to level the playing field one way or another. A petition had begun circulating globally, throughout the free world and was gaining traction in some areas, but had yet to breakthrough mainstream. Well, thought out and properly navigated, it was a simple enough idea whose time had come. If you want to solve all the world's economic injustices and discrepancies and have enough leftover to fix the planet and strengthen the social fabric of society, you only had to do one thing. Tax all the churches. If they run themselves like businesses, which they do, then they should have to contribute their fair share. Moreover, Santos wanted them to pay and pay big, not just for his sake, but for their crimes against humanity. This effort was years in the making and highly organized. They had run the numbers. They crunched all the math. They put the bottom line online. They had drawn all the side by side comparisons structurally, and drawn up new tax codes for free world distribution. The results were staggering. The difference would be astronomical. Getting it moving was slow going. But where there was a will, there was a way. There was some political will. There were even darker forces at work that snuffed out those kinds of movements. But you could never shut down all the chatter. People do love to talk.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

He checked the time on his phone and went back in to finish closing for the day. He made sure to whistle on his way in to make it look like everything was as better as everybody wanted it to be with him so he could be a success story for reform. This was nothing new for him. He had always been more enigmatic than anybody realized. Enigmatic was putting it nicely. Even the love of his life didn’t know his deepest secrets. He was sure she wouldn’t want to know the man behind the mask. Also, he had kept it that way for her own protection, until that failed at his own hands.

He inspected the cooktop, ran his finger across it and nodded at how clean it was. Sometimes, you just have to put the fear of God into some people to get them going. Unless you don’t believe in God. Like Santos. Then you quietly stoke the fires of discontent and wait for the controlled burn to do its work. One day, the inferno will rise. Anonymous forces would go scorched earth on the system, even if they had to shut it all down to do it. And he would use the opportunity to erase his name, face, data and even his fingerprints from everywhere and everything. That was his failsafe, written, locked and loaded. Till then, he had to appear to be towing the line. For some, patience was a virtue. For Santos, it was his weapon of choice.

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Nobody understood the razor’s edge quite like Myka. As the First of the Fates, he was a constant reminder that one wrong step changes everything. And he should know. Myka was the judge of that.

These days, the Fates were known as The Judge, The Jurisprudence, and The Executioner. Or Myka, Pru and Calliope. Myka prefers graffiti to weaving, Pru will wander the Underworld, seemingly aimlessly, but always measuring the breadth and scope of every occasion of one’s destiny, and Calliope is conclusive. The proverbial curtain Call of Fate. She is the final act. They work in tandem while remaining autonomous and independent of each other. Rarely, if ever, seen together, theirs is a trifecta that determines one’s Fate from one’s Destiny. Destiny can make the difference. Fate is just pushing your luck. You are called or you are not. If you are not, you are reacting. If you are, you are acting. Fate results in Karma. Destiny results in transcendence. Quiddity helps you discern the direction. If you are living your truth, you should never need the Fates. They prefer it that way. However, if you are not, and you make them have to work on you behalf, they exact a toll. They are there to hold up your Destiny no matter what. Not to do your dirty work for you.

The worst thing you can do to attract their attention is to say “Never” unless you really mean it. Throw that word around at your own risk. Myka’s ears will perk up at the sound of it. Then he will begin to tag the walls of the Underworld in your name, and you have entered into a manifest destiny. Of course, you can always back out of it. You are allowed to self correct course and carry on. Sometimes, never is needed. Setting your boundaries is important. There are plenty of things you should never want to do. The most important thing you should never want to do is tempt fate. But also, their lives would be no fun at all if nobody did that.

Myka was currently stepping back to survey his latest work. His Graffiti was a tapestry beneath the surface that defied explanation. Only he really understood it. He was once a child of Hecate. Now he was the master of his own Destiny. So far, he liked what he saw, considering the source. Unbiased, uninhibited and unabashedly bold, this piece represented a twist of Fate that could turn back around and bit you in the ass or prove to be transformative. He judged it to be sufficient for now. He ran his hands through his luxurious hair and dispensed of his supplies for now. Somewhere off in the distance, he could sense Pru coming this way, and he headed further down the tunnel towards the river. Styx was everywhere in the Underworld.

Her banks were rocky and gritty. She ebbed and flowed at her own discretion and she had a mesmerizing effect on the soul. He liked to wander alongside her and pick up clever little rocks that appealed to him. He had quite a collection. He sometimes fused them into his artwork for emphasis. These were pieces of soul, memories hardened over time and discarded by her to make room for more. They were unusable by this point. He saw one such offering that caught his attention, and he went towards it to retrieve it, as it was closer to the water's edge. He crouched down to pick it up when something in the water turned his head. He peered. Something just beneath the surface. A silvery presence that captured his attention. However, even he knew not to go too close to the edge. He grounded himself in the grit and focused instead. There it was again. You would think it was a fist at first glance, but no fish live in The Styx. He traced the edges of it and compared it to what might exist like this as a memory. The glistening transfixed him. He wanted to retrieve it but would not venture further. He set his ass down firmly and considered the thing instead. He surmised that it looked like a cocoon with something inside that shimmered and shivered uncontrollably- like wings. Perhaps, a lure.

“That’s that.” He thought as he got up and, tossing his stone in the air and catching it deftly, he walked away.

There was nothing he could do about it. They belonged to her.

“Oh Styx, you are a wicked bitch sometimes.” He sang to her as he strolled off in the opposite direction.

Styx smiled her own knowing smile in agreement and approval. “Myka never takes the bait,” she thought, and immediately qualified, “and with any luck he never will.” She loved him, even though she knew theirs was a rocky relationship at best.

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Rhe watched as Forge poured the liquid, molten gold into the cast he had made. This was his third attempt to create the desired medal. The first two were fine but not excellent. Forge wanted excellence. They had to look like what they needed to represent. She leaned against the cold stone of the archway into the forge and watched his muscles bulge and strain as he worked. While he was quick to dismiss his looks as unfortunate, they very much appealed to her. They harbored a deep and introspective soul that was very hard on itself. Something about that felt familiar to her. Forge made her feel at home.

He was working tirelessly to have something he could take to Counsel that would turn her words from turmoil into inspiration. She was far less worried about that than he was. To her, tomorrow was just another day. But if it spurred him on, then so be it. He was happier when he was working away at something than he was any other time. She turned and went back into their living quarters. She still had her own room, but every now and then, the lines between them blurred and they took comfort in each other’s company. How it never got complicated, she did not know. Because Forge was definitely complicated. She grabbed some grapes from a dish and began to absentmindedly pop them in her mouth. They were plump and sweet and refreshing. She stared out a far off window and let her mind drift. She stood there silent, contemplating the gold. It wasn’t setting quite right. Too soft and it bent easily. Too hard and it looked dull instead of shiny. It needed something to harden it and still brighten it. She dropped the grapes back into the bowl, half-eaten and turned back around. He would hate that but she would deal with it later.

“Forge.” She interrupted him. He had his bellows in this hand stoking the fire. He turned to her with a slight grimace on his face at the intrusion.

He went to speak but she spearheaded him with a revelation. They were on the right track but something was missing.

“It needs platinum. To make it harder and more brilliant. The gold isn’t enough for what we need it for. We need to up our game. All the way around. We are settling on gold. We need to be striving for better than gold. We have to bring on the platinum. Pump up the volume. Next level shit.”

He wasn’t certain what all her words meant at times, but he could always get the gist of them. For Alchemists, lead to gold or Iron Age to Golden Age had always been the standard. The quest, the goal and the desired result. She was pushing the edges of the mythical envelope further to give them the upper hand. Gold is what was expected. Ethereal is what was to come. Platinum was the future.

Forge threw everything he had accomplished thus far out. He swept it all away. Cleared his space completely. Together, they had just hit on something.

“Do we mix them together or do we combine them into a single piece?” He pondered out loud.

“If you mix them, you get white gold. I think we still need the Gold of Gold but surrounded by the strength and resilience of platinum like protection. What if platinum was the framework and structure, and gold the inlay?”

She could tell by the look in his eyes that this excited him, and that gave her a tinge of happiness. She liked how she could uplift him. It gave her a sense of purpose that made up for the less succinct aspects of their fraught relationship. He set about to design, when there was a knock at the door. Then a scowl came across his face and his brow furrowed once again. He knew who it was while she did not.

On the other side of the door Blaze stood waiting. Apollo had just ripped him another one for not reporting in with High Counsel pending. Blaze tried to explain they were convening tomorrow for good reason but that had done little to quell his “overlord’s” frustration. Apollo had the opposite effect on Blaze’s temper than anybody else did. It was lost on him. He had become desensitized to it over time. Blaze shrugged it off and appealed to Polly for assistance, once again. He needed to speak to Rhe before the Counsel gathered. Her memory may be gone but her intuition was more pronounced a sense as a result. If Khain was right, and fervent was on the brink of madness, he needed to know what the tipping point might be and what the best possible response other that reason would be. He felt instinctively she had a better read on this. Little did he know that they were already way ahead of him. He was most surprised when Forge thrust open the door and gave him a stone cold look.

“Took you long enough to show up here. Apology accepted on her behalf. We have work to do.”

Blaze cast his eyes towards heaven and shook his head. He was in no mood to argue.

“Is she here?” He asked politely, being a guest.

“She is and remains so.” He ushered Blaze in.

Rhe was cleaning up the fruit bowl, removing the grapes from the stem and placing them one by one inside. She looked up at him and immediately felt that familiar tug to something beyond her understanding at this time. Blaze was greatness in the making. She was a work in progress. And, as always, something was missing.

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