Apple of Discord: Chapter 2

You step through, into a park close to Camp. No sneak attack this time.

You realize you were holding your breath in anticipation of something going wrong. Thank the gods nothing did.

You look over at Cat and notice she looks a little disappointed.

“Let’s get searching,” you say.

Two hours pass.

“Question,” you say to Cat. “I feel kind of awkward having to constantly introduce myself to every storm drain we pass. Do I look like an insane person?”

“Kind of,” Cat replies without hesitation. “Good thing it’s just me out here with you.”

“How many storm drains can one place have?” you wonder aloud.

As you cross over a section of path with a trickling drainage ditch covered by a brown metal grating, a high pitched but garbled voice yells, ”Who goes there?”

“Mr. Fillet, is that you?” you ask, taking a knee, pretending to tie your shoe.

“Don’t use my name, you fool,” Filet hisses.

A thin fish man slides himself out of the drainage grate on one side of the footpath.

Fillet slides back under the iron grating, without another word.

Well, that was oddly productive, you think.

“Time to go climb that hill, Mr. Fishman mentioned,” you say over your shoulder to Cat.

“Gosh! What did I say about using my name!?” comes an exasperated voice from beneath the grate.

“Sorry. Mr... “ you stammer.

“Gods! Just gooooooo!” Mr. Fishman pleads.

Cat chuckles and pulls you toward the hill.

The path is narrow and rocky, winding between twisted oaks and junipers vying for purchase in the thin layers of soil. Cat is in the lead as you crest the hill, when she turns suddenly, pressing a finger to her lips.

She wants you to remain quiet. She points at her own eyes and swivels her wrist outward toward the horizon line - a tracking sign you learned out at camp that basically means watch carefully.

You crouch, getting as low as you can and silently move into position behind an old oak to take in the scene playing out below.

“P… please don’t hurt me!” wails one of the Fishmen tribe.

Standing over the fish-man is Pontifex. In the tree line, at the periphery of the clearing, you see a swirling mass of shapes. Horrific looking faces, pock-marked and diseased looking, shift and roil in a greenish purple mist.

Plague spirits, you think. I hate those guys. Ever since Lord Apollo was cast out of Olympus, his plague spirits have been pretty much roaming the earth unchecked. That they were working with the former priest of Apollo doesn’t come as a shock. This makes things a little more tricky.

“Just give me the piece of the Apple. I know you have it,” Pontifex coos, menacingly.

“I am a semi-aquatic species, sir. I don’t like or have any use for apples, and I’m afraid I’m h-horribly allergic to d-dying,” the fishman stammers, holding his slimy hands out protectively.

“Do you take me for an idiot? I can sense the magic of the Apple on you,” Pontifex growls.

“S-something like that is t-t-too powerful and dangerous for some poor old loner like me to have on him. I w-wouldn’t ssssuggest getting anywhere near sssomething like that.” 

“Do I look worried?” Pontix sneers at him.

“Not really, but you d-don’t look too smart either, ssso I’m trying to give you the b-benefit of the d-doubt,” Fishman stammers.

Pontifex leans in to the fishman and sniffs the air around him like a predator. “I smell your fear, and I smell the apple piece.” His face breaks into a blissful ear-splitting grin, exposing his rotten needle-like teeth. “No hope, for the world I’m afraid.”

“You want to d-destroy the world? That’s awful.”

“No, I just want to destroy most of the people in it. The ones unworthy of Emperor Nero. That’s an important distinction, I think. Admittedly, I shouldn’t speak for his greatness…” Pontifex tuts softly as he seems to consider his next words. “However, once his Gloriousness, the Light of Rome, gets the Apple, he won’t destroy everyone immediately. At least, I don’t think he will. I envision him spreading hopelessness, destabilizing governments, tearing down cities, destroying billions of lives. You are looking pale all of a sudden, Mr. Fishman.” Pontifex tilts his head, strumming on his ukelele. “I am afraid there isn’t going to be any room for you or your family in this new world.” 

Pontifex places a hand on the fishman’s chest. As he does the fishman shakes violently for a moment. A sizzling sound fills the air.. Smoke and steam drift up from the point of contact. 

“Rude! Ouch!” screams the fishman.

Cat looks at you, her face flashing alarm. “I’ll handle Pontifex. You get the Apple piece and drag fish guy to safety. Get him back to Mr. Fillet. Don’t let those Plague spirits touch you. Remember the distance training I taught you? Do the opposite, don’t get that close to Pontifex of the Plague spirits unless you have to. Wait for an opening and then make your move.”

Cat disappears up an oak and quickly bounds from tree to tree, toward Pontifex. She’s so light and quick the trees hardly move. She may as well have been a squirrel. You can see what she’s heading for. One of the oaks has a massive branch that leans out over clearing, above the two men.

Well, you think to yourself. This is going to suck for someone.

You watch, as Cat jumps from a branch in an adjacent tree to the one leaning out over Pontifex, closing the gap between them. Cat vaults over a crossing branch into open air.

She pounces, cat-like, on top of the unsuspecting Pontifex. A sort of falling superman punch that connects with the side of her enemy's head sends him sprawling. It’s a solid hit, easily heard from your vantage point. 

Pontifex goes down and rolls. Cat quickly closes the gap between them. Her fist flashes out, but despite being visibly shaken, Pontifex ducks, responding with a punch of his own.

It would have connected with Cat’s ribs had she not spun at the last moment, taking his attack offline to what she must have judged as his weaker side. Pontifex tries to turn, to match her, but Cat lashes out with a forward kick and her combat boot lands squarely in his stomach, both staggering him back and doubling him over.

You decide to move down toward the fishman while Cat has Pontifex “engaged”, risking a quick look toward the Plague spirits roiling in the mist at the edge of the treeline. They look especially angry as the fight unfolds. You can start to hear their whispering moans and wails. It gives you a chill.

Pontifex straightens, holding out a hand. “You’re the one they call Cat, aren’t you? Apt name. It’s not often someone sneaks up on me and lives to tell about it. You’ve done it twice.”

Cat has spotted you as you move into position not far from the moaning fishman. She shifts her stance and moves into a new position, drawing Pontifex to a point in the clearing where his back is to you. She’s a pro.

Cat holds up a hand, making it claw-like, while hissing. 

Pontifex chuckles. “Oh, you can fight, and you think you’re funny?”

“I’m hilarious,” Cat replies evenly

His hand flashes forward so quickly Cat doesn’t have time to respond. His arms are impossibly long, with nearly three times the reach Cat has. The blow lands squarely on her nose, sending a hot spurt of blood down her chin.

That rocked her, you can tell. But she keeps moving, just like she taught you to do. Don’t get caught flat-footed. Pontifex’s reach changes the calculus of the fight. Cat has to get inside, quickly.

Cat launches herself forward with a flying knee that catches Pontifex in the solar plexus. He isn’t ready for this and loses his footing, stumbling backward.

Even so he lashes out with two shots that would have hobbled Cat had they connected. She brings her elbows up at the last possible second and twists to one side just as she regains her own footing. 

You decide it’s time to make your move, and you dart in to grab Mr. Fishman, who is still on the ground moaning and whimpering.

Unfortunately, you trip over a root and sprawl on top of the poor guy, who squeaks like a chew-toy being murdered by a very happy hellhound.

You look up to see Cat raining down blows on the head of Pontifex, who has stumbled on to his back, covering his head with his forearms and elbows. Because of how he fell and how unlucky you seem to be at the moment, he sees you. 

Bummer. 

You scramble to your feet, offering a hand to the poor fellow who just cushioned your fall. “Sorry, Mr. Fishman. We gotta go!”

“You tried to kill me!” he bellows.

“Nope. You got me, and I’m still kind of new. You want to live? Let’s go!” You offer your hand again. This time he takes it, getting to his feet.

Pontifex snarls, “No!” He bucks his hips straight up, throwing Cat off of him for a few moments. It’s long enough for him to get up on all fours and scramble toward you like some kind of obscene circus contortionist. It’s oddly spider-like and nightmarish.

Mr. Fishman screams and grabs you by the shoulders, squarely placing you between himself and imminent death.

Pontifex rears up in front of you, mouth open in rage. “Do not let them escape!”

Your last strike connects. Pontifex is more shocked than anything else, but the pause is enough for Cat to recover and resume her attack.

She yells, “Great job! Now go!”

You grab Mr. Fishman by his gown and make for the trail. You’re not sure how many Plague spirits there are, and you aren’t going to pause to find out, but the sound of all those moans and wails is absolutely chilling. They are getting closer.

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it,” you mutter to Mr. Fishman.

As you crest the hill and start to pick your way down the trail, you are greeted by a dozen archers in Camp Half-Blood orange tee-shirts already in position.

You almost cry with relief. Instead of arrowheads it looks like they have glass vials. You recognize one of the archers immediately—Adele from your Magical training class. 

Another is a big, bearded, smiling guy wearing an Ares cabin bandanna. 

Then you see a solid-looking guy in a black Hades cabin bandanna, who shouts the order, “Fire.”

The bearded guy yells, “I will punch you!” and fires his arrow.

The guy wearing the Hades cabin bandanna yells, “I will kick you!” as he fires his arrow

Adele yells, “And I will laugh!” She fires her arrow.

Huh, they have a routine? Very Robin Hood: Men in Tights, you think.

The arrows with the glass vials shatter on contact. You can hear the moans and whispers turn into shrieks.

“Hand sanitizer?”

“In gaseous form?”

“Wait, why would someone shoot Gatorade in syrup form at me?”

“No fair!”

The archers fire round after round, driving the Plague spirits back. Whatever the reason for the choice of ammo, you are grateful. 

You pass through the staggered line of archers toward the metal grates where Mr. Fillet O’Fishman resides.

“Hey t-thanks for the assist,” the fish-man says.

“You going to be okay?” You look up at the fishman. “Pontifex got me in the chest too. The pain gets a little easier to deal with if that helps any.”

“Not really,” the fishman says. “Sorry about your friend, Cat.” 

You have the odd feeling she’ll be okay. She did her job. She trained and protected you. You silently call out a prayer to your godly parent to watch over her.

“Yeah, I hope she’s okay,” you say.

“Ssshe’s p-probably not,” fishman responds dourly.

“How about a little optimism?” You shrug.

“Oh, I l-lost all s-ssemblance of optimism when I agreed to hide t-this!” Fishman produces a piece of the Apple of Discord. “I’m d-done. You take it.”

The fishman hands you a piece of the Apple of Discord. Just before he plops it down into your waiting hand, he hesitates and asks, “You’re n-not a psychotic m-murderer are you?”

“Nah, I’m trying to make the world a better place.” You shrug again.

“A l-lot of psychotic m-murderers think they’re trying to make the world a b-better place, but okay.” The fish-man drops the Apple piece into your hand.

“Hey, I hope everything works out for you and the rest of the Fishman family.”

“Again with the name thing?” comes the voice from the grate.

“Sorry! Grey! I’d like to go home.”