Sun's Heir
Chapter 5 - Departing
Owen pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing through his teeth. "This," he muttered, "this right here is exactly why Nexus exists."
Hades' brow arched.
Owen looked up, exasperation dripping from every syllable. "Because people got tired of the shining pricks and their endless, divine stupidity. You know, 'follow our will, don't question the system, ignore the hypocrisy.'" He waved a hand lazily. "So, yeah, they said'screw it'and went off to make their own playground. A place where divine logic doesn't apply and the idiots run the asylum. Honestly, I respect the commitment."
The flames in the sconces flickered. Shadows crept closer across the marble floor.
"Watch your tone," Hades said, his voice sharp but cold. "Nexus isn't a playground. It's a gutter. A festering pit built by bottom-feeders too greedy or too arrogant to know their place. The air there stinks of desperation and rot."
Owen smirked. "So you have been."
Hades' glare could've stripped flesh.
Owen held up both hands. "Easy, easy. I'm just saying, sure, Nexus is a dump and full of every lowlife and vice imaginable. But at least it's honest about being a dump. Doesn't go around pretending to be some holy utopia while backstabbing anyone who blinks too slow."
Hades' tone dropped a shade colder. "You tread close to blasphemy."
"Oh, please," Owen scoffed. "Blasphemy implies I still take the system seriously. And anyway, " he tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief, "when Nexus kills someone, it usually knows why. Or at least admits when it doesn't. We're honest backstabbers and cutthroats. Can't say the same for the gods pointing fingers at Aquadaddy's Mistake for the crime of existing in the same postal code as a missing lightning rod."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"Careful," Hades warned quietly.
Owen shrugged. "Careful's not really my brand. I'm just saying, if geography's all it takes to get accused, I'm guilty of half the weird divine disasters that've happened in the last few years. And fine, yeah, maybe two-thirds of them were technically my fault."
Hades' eyes narrowed. "A generous estimate."
"Okay, okay, most of them," Owen conceded, grinning. "But still. That's not the point."
"It rarely is with you," Hades said.
"Hey!" Owen jabbed a finger at him, mock offended. "I don't try to start chaos. It just… happens."
Hades' expression didn't flicker. "By which you mean the chaos you cause through your impulsiveness, lack of restraint, and inability to keep quiet for more than a minute."
Owen frowned. "You forgot my charm and stunning good looks."
"I assure you," Hades said, "I did not."
"Anyway." The word left Owen's mouth like a sigh of defeat. He straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his jacket. "As much as I'm enjoying this riveting discussion about who's to blame for the cosmic soap opera upstairs, I've got to shoot. Because a certain someone—" he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward Hades without looking, "gave me a job with absolutely fuck-all to go off."
Hades didn't move, but there was a faint tilt of his head. "Consider it an opportunity to demonstrate initiative."
Owen froze mid-step, slowly turning to face him. "Initiative?" He repeated, voice dripping disbelief. "You say that like it's not just a fancy word for effort."
"Precisely."
Owen let out a groan like he'd just been stabbed. "Ugh. You say that like it's something to be proud of." He shuddered dramatically, hands clutching his own shoulders. "Effort. Gross. The sheer audacity of expecting me to work for something."
"I see you're already suffering," Hades said, his tone as smooth as obsidian.
"Oh, I'm thriving in agony," Owen shot back, spinning toward the exit. "You've turned my life into a tragedy." He looked over his shoulder and pointed at Hades again. "And I hope you're proud of yourself."
"I am," Hades replied without hesitation.
The casual cruelty in that single line made Owen's face twist into theatrical despair. "Wow. No remorse. None. You're actually enjoying this."
"Immensely," Hades said.
Owen's jaw dropped in mock betrayal. "You're supposed to at least pretend to feel bad!"
"That would require effort," Hades said, with the faintest ghost of a smirk.
There was a long beat of silence.
Then Owen groaned, rubbing his temples. "I walked right into that, didn't I?"
"Headfirst," Hades said.
"Fantastic." Owen sighed, exhaling as if the weight of the universe had been dumped on his shoulders. "All right, fine. I'll do the job. I'll even, ugh, put in effort." He cringed at the word if it burned. "But just so we're clear, if I end up traumatised, underpaid, or dead, I'm haunting your palace and rearranging your furniture out of spite."
"I'll look forward to it," Hades said, settling back on his throne with calm satisfaction.
"Of course you will," Owen grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like sadist,and started toward the exit again, muttering all the while. "Gods and their stupid dicks and their stupid jobs. No info, no warnings, no pay raise. Just 'go solve the impossible, Owen, and maybe try not to get dismembered.' Absolute disgrace. I swear, Nexus has got better management than Olympus…"
The air shimmered as the Doors of Orpheus swung open. Owen stepped through without slowing, the chill of the Underworld peeling away as Central Park's warm evening air hit his face. The sounds of traffic hummed faintly beyond the trees, the distant honk of horns mixing with the rustle of leaves.
The Doors vanished behind him in a curl of mist, leaving no trace they'd ever been there.
Owen shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and started walking, cutting through the park's pathways with his usual casual slouch. "So," he said aloud to no one, "step one: find out who stole a lightning vibrator. Step two: do it with absolutely fuck-all info because Uncle Bones apparently thinks vague threats and cryptic stares count as briefings."
He sighed dramatically. "Truly, the gods hold the wisdom of the universe." A couple passing by gave him a confused glance, but he ignored them, muttering louder as he went. "And of course, the cherry on top, if I want answers, I've got to contact him." His face twisted like he'd just swallowed something sour. "Mr Tumnus." He groaned the name like it physically hurt. "Because nothing says 'productive day' like talking to a goat in a sweater who thinks sarcasm is a cry for help."
He dragged a hand down his face and shook his head. "Honestly, I'd rather wrestle Cerberus again. At least he drools less."
By the time he reached the edge of the park, his car was right where he'd left it, parked at a crooked angle in a shaded alley. He walked up, leaned forward, and knocked rhythmically on the bonnet three times.
"Still alive," he murmured with a grin. "Good girl."
Sliding into the driver's seat, he slumped against it and stared at the dashboard in silence. The city lights flickered faintly off the windshield, painting shifting patterns across his face.
"All right," he said to himself. "Option one: call Mr Tumnus, endure forty minutes of condescending goat logic, and maybe get a lead. Option two…" He trailed off, tapping the steering wheel with his finger. "Food."
The thought of it alone made him sigh with relief.
"Yeah. Food first. I'm not dealing with hooves, guilt-trips, and unsolicited life advice on an empty stomach."
He let his forehead drop against the steering wheel with a dull thud. "This is my life now," he muttered into the leather. "Dealing with divine idiots and farm animals."
After a long moment, he lifted his head, turned the key in the ignition, and muttered under his breath, "Screw it. I'm getting a burger."
The car rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the dim park road as he pulled out onto the street, grumbling all the while about gods, work, and the cruel injustice of effort.