Apple of Discord: Chapter 2

The warning comes too late.

As you step into the BELCH, a fist hits you like a wrecking ball.

At least you think it’s a fist. It feels like all the air has left your lungs as you emerge through to the other side, hitting the wall of a stairwell. Your chest feels as if it’s on fire. Your world goes helter skelter as you tumble down a flight of stairs and come to rest, gasping and wheezing, at the bottom. You black out as an impossibly thin man in a yellow suit leans over you, taking off his fedora.

“Allow me to introduce myself…”

Sometime later you come to, chest burning and tender from where you were hit in the BELCH. Other than that, you appear to be okay. Someone (or something) is watching out for you.

You’re in an old building, long abandoned from the look of it. The place smells earthy, full of mold. From behind you someone clears their throat.

“It does my heart good to see you up and about. Didn’t hit you too hard, did I?” The man in the yellow suit has a voice nasally and gravel-like. He is all knees and elbows, so thin and tall as to almost be unreal.

“Don’t try and speak just yet. It’ll hurt, I promise. Give yourself a little time. They call me Pontifex.” The man doffs his hat in greeting. His pencil mustache draws tight over a smile of rotting, needle-like teeth. “At his service!” He bows awkwardly, revealing a ukelele strapped to his back.

At his service? You’re pretty sure that’s not how that saying goes. You try to speak, but your chest and throat burns and instead you sputter and cough uncontrollably.

“You really should listen to me. I could have destroyed you if I wanted to. I’m just here to have a little chat,” Pontifex says, casually tuning his ukelele.  It’s then you notice dark metal shackles on each of his wrists. Three links on each cuff clank dully. Odd choice of jewelry.

You nod slowly. There isn’t much you can do otherwise.

“I serve his gloriousness, the eternal spark of Rome, Emperor Nero,” Pontifex begins. “I am a former priest of Apollo, however.” Pontifex pats his ukelele fondly.  “But, I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

Pontifex exudes danger—that kind of unhinged zealotness that could unsettle the calmest of heroes. He is a mismatch of limbs, attitude, speech and style, and his calm demeanor is as profoundly unsettling as his razor sharp teeth. He fixes you with an icy stare.

“I want to be absolutely clear. The markers have been placed. You will not succeed. There is no outcome that favors you or any of the gods, save Nero,” Pontifex lectures. “As we speak my… agents… and I ensure that anger, fear, disgust and hatred spread like fire. Much like the burning in your chest.” Pontifex strums a jaunty chord.

“Think of us as the physical manifestations of the Apple. We tip the scales toward hopelessness. My hands ignite the flames of Nero’s virtues. I’m afraid the world you knew is now gone.” Pontifex tuts softly, his back against an old wooden door. “There is no hope for you.”

There is always hope, you think to yourself. Also? What markers have been placed?

Then, you hear a knock at the door behind Pontifex. It catches him off guard momentarily. The physical knocking is followed by a voice.

“Knock, knock!”

Pontifex arches one eyebrow as he seems to respond instinctively, “Who’s there?”

“Tank,” the voice behind the door replies.

“Tank, who?” Pontifex asks, suspiciously.

At that moment the door explodes open, in splinters of wood and metal fittings, swinging into Pontifex so hard, he flies across the room and crashes through the wall in front of you.

“You’re welcome!” The voice belongs to a woman with long dark hair, pulled into a ponytail. She’s wearing athletic Under Armour beneath her orange Camp Half-Blood Austin shirt. She looks stern and formal except for her bright orange Camp Half-Blood socks peeking out above her black combat boots.

“I’m Cat, the hand-to-hand combat instructor at Camp Half-Blood Austin. Grey told me what happened. I’m here to get you back on track and work on my punch lines,” Cat says in a rapid-fire fashion. “Let’s get out of here. He won’t be down long.”

Cat helps you to your feet and then hands you your sword. “Must have dropped it in the BELCH.” 

You make your way outside, emerging onto a street of nightclubs and bars, all boarded up and covered in graffiti. It’s a ghost-town. No pedestrians. No cars. You can see skyscrapers reaching up to touch the sky all around you. You’re in downtown Austin.

The normal sounds you’d expect to hear: cars, busses, music, people, and horns are all missing, no exchange of stories between people—none of the normal interactions. Just the occasional lonely siren. It’s surreal. 

In the next doorway over is a makeshift shelter. Nothing more than a tattered sleeping bag and an old wheelless shopping cart and an empty dish with a few morsels of dog food. A handwritten sign, on old cardboard, is tied to the cart. 

The sign reads, Sorry buddy, we’re all gonna miss you. We’ll look after Jazz. You begin to understand just how effective Nero and Pontifex have been in their mission.

You move quickly down the street until you both duck into an alley. Cat calls out, “Grey, we’re alone and safe!”

A swirling mass of purple energy opens in front of you. You don’t feel entirely safe entering the BELCH this time, but you don’t seem to have any other choice. You both step through.