Whoa, a little dramatic, Poseidon? Jeesh!

The final leg of that trip had been a dozy-and-a-half, Emma mused as she came to on the beach. What happened? She thought back to the failed kraken hit on her… eventually, she recalled, Poseidon had managed to locate her; summon a massive undersea storm, but… it was too little and far too late. She hurled every lever in the submarine and pushed it outside the confines of the storm. The waters got rough, but the sub was traveling at such fast speeds, it didn’t matter. Emma knew not what material or magics the machine had been created from, but it was a marvel to behold. The last words uttered by the mad god which Emma could still recall, was him cussing Emma with many a bad name. But, day in the life. Hardly unusual for her as a feminist activist.

Emma woke on the shore and to the sounds of boatmen readying themselves for departure — coastline travel, presumably. Far away the sounds might have been, but Emma was glad she could hear them; it meant she was alive and had stuck it to that divine asshole!

Slowly picking herself up, Emma turned herself up and out, readying herself for a resumption of her civilized life.

Limping through the shoreline and into the outskirts of town, it took Emma many a minute before she found the city’s thoroughfare and collapsed into a bench.

Emma knew what she had to do — find a phone, contact her parents, and tell them and everyone, that she was alive. And yet, as Emma sat on the park bench, tired beyond all reason, she could only laugh.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Finishing off the last of her chuckles, she felt a hotness run down her cheek. Quickly placing her hand to her face, checking if she had not been bleeding, she realized belatedly that it was not blood, she felt, but tears.

Beyond most, Emma disliked crying. It made her feel weak, like how men told her she was for expressing her emotion. But now? After what Emma had just lived, she would allow herself the tears, now openly, and have a good cry.

“Ma’am!” called out a masculine voice. “Do you need some help, you look absolutely awful!”

Emma turned to see who it was. No one she knew. But she was just happy to be back.

Gingerly getting up from the bench — or as gingerly as a battered lady could rise — she approached the man and said, “Yes, and thank you very much. If you could direct me to the nearest hospital, I would be much obliged.”

Quickly, she was escorted to the hospital. The young man served as an ample guide. Very polite. And very keen on averting his eyes from the parts of her form which were nude from the dangers of the voyage. Emma thought him to be a well-rounded gentleman.

Back on land, she felt herself different from the person she was on the sea. She felt calmer. More controlled. Less impulsive and rude. Out there, it was like she was another person. How could that be?

But Emma pushed such thoughts from her mind.

How could it have been? Many reasons, she assumed.

But right now wasn’t about rationalizing what had transpired. It was about reconnecting with family. And commiserating.

Out there, something had happened to her… and it did not have to do with the god of the sea. It had to do with humanity. And why she had fled Europe.

And why her parents would never again see a dear friend.