Apple of Discord: Chapter 6

You slide, feet first, between the guard’s legs, slicing through the rope binding Cat and Da’Mon to the steel base plate. You come up, turning to kick Cat on her shoulder, in hopes of sending them tumbling off the platform. 

Fate has other plans.

You can hear the hiss of steam as the piston above drives the hammer downward..

“Not them!” you scream, throwing your hands up in the impossible hope of stopping the hammer from crushing Master’s Cat and Da’Mon. For a moment the world goes blazingly white hot. You close your eyes and wait for the crushing pain, but it never comes.

Time stops for a moment.

You open your eyes to see a young woman in a light blue t-shirt, with the words They/Them printed across the front, khaki shorts and hiking boots, threading their way through the crowd of combatants.

They carry a cornucopia bursting with flowers. It seems as though you and they are the only ones out of time. They smile and nod at you as they approach. Oh that smile. Such strength, such hope.

Then, time resumes.

It’s only then you notice your arms held up above your head, hands splayed across the bottom of the hammer, somehow preventing it from crushing Cat and Da’Mon. The steam hammer screeches and groans. Your mind knows your body should be in unbelievable pain, yet here you stand. 

“Go! Get... out you two. Not… sure how long I can keep this up,” you grunt out the words.

Master’s Cat and Da’Mon are still tied to one another, but you cut the cord binding them to the base plate of the hammer. They look up in awe as they butt-scoot off the platform. You catch a white glow reflected in their eyes for a moment.

Relieved, they are safe, and overwhelmed with the weight of the hammer and the increasing despair you have been carrying throughout  this journey, you start to crumple under the burden. You’ve done your job. It’s okay if this is the end. Maybe it’s just time to let the hammer fall and be at rest.

Then, everything goes still and silent. Except the steam hammer, which reverses its downward assault and rises back up into the carriage housing. The Germani look confused and lower their weapons. The Blemmyae fall from the bodies of Otis and Ephealtes and begin to dissolve into gold powder. 

You collapse onto the base plate.

“What is going on?” you gasp.

Pontifex, beaten and bruised, stumbles into the building.

All remaining campers cut their eyes between you and Pontifex as they shift their shields and spears to the ready position.

Pontifex holds up a weary hand, “I don’t have any need to fight any of you. I’m done. It’s over. He doesn’t appear to have control over any of us now.”

“Who doesn’t control you?” you gasp, suspiciously.

“Nero. I can no longer feel his will guiding me,” Pontifex looks around the factory floor. “By the looks on their faces, I’d wager it’s the same for the Germani too. 

“Does that mean he’s gone or dead for real this time?” you ask. “No more coming back?”

“I can’t say with any certainty,” Pontifex replies with a shrug. “The last report I had from headquarters was that the tower was under attack. Something about half-bloods and hat wearing frogs? I can’t for the life of me imagine what that means and frankly, I no longer care.”

Yasin walks up to you. “You know you’re still kinda glowing, right?” Then he turns to Pontifex and gazes up at him thoughtfully, wagging his finger. “So, what banana-man is saying is that Nero had some sort of magical mind-control over him and Fulgar and all these dudes and monsters?”

“That’s an oversimplification, Yasin, but correct in the essentials,” Pontifex replies.

Yasin seems to consider this and then says, “Sorry Ba…, I mean Pontifex, that really sucks.”

“Thank you, young man.” Pontifex smiles down at him in what you imagine was intended to be gratitude.

Yasin and the Germani and campers around him all wince and breathe in sharply.

“Yeah, maybe ease us into the smiling for kindness thing, okay? Slowly. Really slowly,” Yasin says.

Pontifex, as if suddenly aware of the effect his smile has, relaxes the muscles in his face and sighs.

“Can we get a field medic over here? Pontifex looks like he’s gonna fall over,” Yasin calls out. Also, give our glowing hero friend over here some of that juicy juice stuff you all use for healing. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.”

You take a swig of nectar and manage to feel good enough to be steady on your feet.

You can hear the Germani and fellow campers whisper in awe as you walk by.

“Did you see?”

“The Blessing of Zeus, it must be.”

“That’s a 25 ton steam hammer.”

It wasn’t Zeus. I don’t know who they were, but it wasn’t Zeus, you think, shaking your head.

You weave through the confused Germani and make your way back to Masters Cat and Da’Mon. Da’Mon looks as though he has been stupefied, probably to prevent his minor god powers from engaging and freeing them. His head wobbles loosely on his neck.

You cut their remaining bindings and are thanked with both smiles and tired fist bumps. Tree emerges a moment later and takes Da’Mon up in a huge bear hug. Whatever Pontifex used to sedate Da’Mon it’s very effective. Master Da’Mon is a very physically impressive creature, but still manages to look like a bit of a ragdoll in Tree’s embrace.

“I’m so glad you are both okay,” you sigh. 

The Cyclops looks around wild-eyed and then smashes two of the Germani that had been prodding him earlier. The rest of the group scampers out of the way, confused and bleary.

“Get away from him! Go on clear out if you know what’s good for you.” You wave the bewildered Germani out of harm’s way.

The cyclops regards you for a moment and then speaks, “Thank you. You are kind. They are... not,” the cyclops grumbles nodding toward the sellswords. 

“You’re welcome. What’s your name?” you ask.

“Brontes.”

“Wait. What? The Brontes who helped forge Zeus’s Master Bolt?” you ask, stunned.

“Uh, yeah. Biggest mistake my siblings and I ever made.” Brontes rubs the back of his neck with his shackled hand. He looks forlorn. “That mistake is the first thing associated with my name. Can you imagine that? ‘Oh you’re the Brontes that made a weapon so powerful it can destroy the world?’”

“Well, you made some other really great stuff too. Poseidon’s Trident and Hades Helm of Darkness just to name a few,” you say, trying to cheer him up.

He sniffs curtly. “Yeah …  Hey, how did you come to work with those two goofball gigantes?” Brontes wags his finger toward Otis and Ephealtes.

You quickly explain the very odd circumstances of your meeting to Brontes, who rolls his eye in response.

The two giants are sitting up now, golden ichor flowing out of countless bites and scratches suffered under the Blemmyae onslaught. Otis shakes his head and then smiles, holding up his arms to examine.

“I’m covered in gold dust, E! Remember that rave we threw about 15 years back?” Otis chuckles.

“How could I forget? You tried to convince the party-goers that the title track to the Thomas the Tank Engine show was the ultimate dance tune,” Ephealtes sneers.

“Yeah, but the body paint. You remember the gold body paint we had on that night?” Otis sighs.

“Yeah?”

Otis points to his other arm and face. “Remind you of anything?”

“That we need a public relations person? Know anyone in Tartarus? We’re due back in a little while. Wouldn’t want to anger the shadow man,” Ephealtes says, standing up.

“In that case, we’d better collect our paperwork and take possession of the markers.” Otis spots Ryan and Shai. “I assume our business here is complete?”

“Yeah. Totally.” Ryan looks around the space and nods emphatically.

“In that case, we have an underworld party to plan,” Otis replies.

The two giants pat themselves down, sending golden dust everywhere. It reminds you of being inside a giant snow globe, only way more disgusting. Why has no one brought up the fact that you are inhaling the destroyed remains of your enemies?

Ryan hands over the “documentation” and the two giants head for the hole in the wall they created.

“Watch out for the Plague Spirits!” you call after them.

Ephealtes stops in the hole and looks outside, as dozens of Germani and campers stumble to avoid being crushed.

“I don’t see any of them,” Ephealtes states. “Maybe they had something better to do. Is there a big pharma convention in town this week?”

“Not likely,” you reply.

“You sure you don’t want me to squish the yellow guy?” Otis asks, smiling.

You look back at Pontifex who looks… at peace for the first time since you met him as he gets medical attention. “Nah, thanks guys.”

And there it is again. That kindness and hope. The sense of coming together when things are at their worst and folks need a helping hand. It wasn’t that long ago when you were all at one another’s throats.

You watch as the kids from Apollo cabin work their way through the factory floor, offering aid to the remaining Germani. Here a makeshift sling for a broken Germani arm. There, a bandage around a camper’s head to stop the flow of blood. Conversations erupt between the Germani tribesmen and the campers of Camp Half-Blood Austin.

You wander over to Tree, Da’Mon and Cat, sitting with their backs up against the support legs of the steam hammer. They regard you smiling and nod their thanks. Brontes nods at you too. There is a sense of relief shared amongst everyone you pass. You see the young woman again. They smile earnestly at everyone they meet, handing out flowers to campers and Germani alike, all graciously accepted.

“Otis has left the building!” Shai calls out, laughing at a joke no one else gets. “Aw, come on guys, that was a good one.”

Someone makes a raspberry sound in response.

Then you feel it.
The chaotic tug of despair.

It feels more like a pinprick than a torrent of anger and fear. The pieces of the Apple of Discord. You’ve momentarily forgotten about your quest.

Even with Master’s Da’Mon and Cat safe, the Apple needs to be safely out of the mortal world. 

“I’m glad you’re okay, you two,” you say to your fight instructors.

“Thanks to you, demigod,” Da’Mon says.

“I was worried after our last training session, Master Da’Mon. You look confused. That’s not like you.”

“It was because of that piece of the Apple,” Master Da’Mon explains.

“Um, what piece of the Apple?”

“The one I wrapped up in wax-cloth and gave you, before I made you leave that session.”

“What?” you say, twisting your pack around to rummage through. You find the wax-cloth bundle and peel the wax sheets apart to reveal another Apple piece.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you sputter.

“I was kind of out of it. Right after you left I was attacked by a bunch of mummies if I recall.”

“So I have three pieces of the seven,” you state.

“And it would stand to reason that Nero’s former lieutenant might have done his job faithfully and retrieved the other four pieces for his former master,” comes Pontifex’s voice from behind you.

Freshly bandaged with one arm in a sling, Pontifex offers you his leather knapsack.

“I would be so grateful if you could get these as far away from me as possible. As soon as possible, demigod.” Pontifex hands you the bag and then doffs his hat.

Masters Cat and Da’Mon both laugh.

“For once I agree with you, Pontifex,” Cat says. “I’m sorry, but can you go stand someplace else, demigod? It feels like I can’t breathe with those Apple pieces so close.”

“What, no bad puns?” you ask. 

“I’m not feeling very punny at the moment,” Cat says, shaking her head.

“There it is!” You smile.

“What are you going to do, now Pontifex?” you ask, backing away.

“Not sure. I’ve hurt a lot of people. Sure, most of them are long dead, but still,” Pontifex says more to himself, looking suddenly deflated.

“I think we have some room in one of the empty cabins out at the Austin branch, if you need a place to stay. I’ll have to clear it with Topher and Isaiah first,” Cat offers.

Pontifex looks profoundly touched by the sentiment. “I would very much like to take you up on that offer, Cat.”

“I’d like to talk about your fighting style too. You throw hands at some crazy angles, my man. After you heal maybe we could train together?” Cat suggests.

Okay, you think. Everything appears to be in order. Nothing else to see here. You have an ancient fruity artifact of discord to get to Mount Olympus. 

“Hey Grey, can you get me a BELCH to the Empire State Building?”

“Ha! Are you good looking and dangerous, demigod?” Grey chirps warmly. “I’ll open it up by the old foundry doors outside.”

You wander outside, taking the regular door that Pontifex came through. It opens up into a small tree covered, dusty loading area. Concrete K-rails act as a fence along one side. Rusted aluminum cans, and candy bar wrappers litter the ground.

As you step through and look back into the building you can see your campmates, perfectly framed in the door, laughing and hugging one another. Above the doorway, on the outside of the building is a word in black spray paint.

“Nero”.

Really? You think. On the outside of the building where everyone can see it? Why not just have a neon sign that reads, “Bad guy entrance”? 

To your left, on the other side of the K rail is the huge open field where the battle took place. Sitting on the K rail is the young woman with the flowers. They motion you over.

“Before you go to Olympus, I just wanted to say how very proud I am of what you’ve accomplished, demigod. You never gave up, no matter how difficult, bleak and dreary things became, you stuck with it.”

They hand you a flower that somehow manages to look like every beautiful flower you’ve ever seen all at once. “You are a perfect case study of my divine principal.” They say, beaming.

“I’m sorry. What is that, exactly? Who are you?” you ask.

“Hope. It’s for everyone, although many have a difficult time seeing and hearing it. You, my dear? You have no problem hearing my voice. Even more impressive than that, you amplify my voice by using your own.”

They put one hand over their heart. “You let hope live in your head, rent free. And, to my great delight, I’ve noticed that your warrior spirit is grounded in finding a non-violent answer first. That philosophical approach holds more space for hope, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, I’d rather work it out before I throw hands, but there are people worth fighting for,” you add.

“Always.” They smile and nod.

“Did you give me the power to do what I did in there?”

“You did that. I whispered into your ear to remind you of how strong hope can be, that’s all,” They shrug, smiling.

You hear the sound of a spray paint can being shaken somewhere in the distance. 

You spot the area where the foundry doors lay. Another tall, impossibly thin man has his back to you as he regards the old iron doors. 

You turn back to say goodbye to the hope filled, flower carrying ray of sunshine, but they are gone.

You approach the man, picking your way through the battlefield, and spot the can of spray paint that he’s slowly and rhythmically shaking up. You can hear the plastic on metal thocking noise all rattle cans make.

You’re close enough to hear the man laughing to himself. He hasn’t taken notice of you as he begins to tag the doors in big wide arcs of yellow spray paint. Satisfied, the man tosses the can aside, and then casually lifts one of the doors up as if it were nothing more than a sheet of cardboard. You know how heavy they are. Who is this guy?

“Hello? Who are you?” you ask.

The stranger doesn’t respond. He just continues to giggle.

“It’s really dangerous down there. You might not want to …”

The BELCH opens with its characteristic crackle. The stranger doesn’t seem to take notice or even care. Instead, he descends into the old foundry and turns to regard you for a brief moment.

On his face is a lurid yellow mask in an obscene mockery of a smiley face. It tilts its head and slowly disappears into the darkness below laughing softly all the while. Once the doors close fully you notice what the stranger spray painted on the rusted metal doors.

“DRAMA” 

That’s weird, you think. Then again, nothing about this quest has been normal. 

“Grey? Who or what was that?” you call out.

“I’m sorry. What are you talking about?” Grey chirps.

“The tall guy in the scary yellow smiling mask that went into the old foundry space, laughing to himself?” You point to the hatch doors.

“I don’t have any record of that. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Grey replies, sounding concerned.

You know you didn’t make that up.

“He just painted the word ‘DRAMA’ on the doors, right there. Look, the paint is still drying,” you explain.

Laughter echoes through the closed metal doors.

“Don’t you hear that laughing?” you ask.

“I don’t mean to question your sanity, but I don’t detect any paint on the doors. Nothing recent, anyway,” Grey replies calmly. “No laughter either. You better get going. The longer the Apple of Discord remains in the mortal realm the more damage it can do.”

“Yeah,” you say, looking at the doors. It’s probably just the effects of all the Apple pieces being together again. 

Then again, the word ‘DRAMA’ is still clearly written on the rusting metal. You can even smell the paint.