THEMYSCIRA
"A tempting offer… but I decline," Atrius said, his voice flat, as if already disinterested.
He knew manipulation when he heard it. To use him as a pawn in whatever feud bound the gods of this world was bold—foolish, even. Perhaps her plea might have swayed a man who was helpless, or one drunk on self-righteous benevolence. But Atrius was neither. Especially not for these gods.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
He turned, donned his helm, and without another word began to walk away. The shadows of the night slowly consumed his figure until he was nothing more than a vanishing silhouette.
"Are you certain?" Gaia asked softly.
Atrius did not answer. His silence was final.
Gaia lingered, staring at the place where he had disappeared. The night grew quiet once more, save for the crackle of the fire.
She turned her gaze toward the woman who had already stirred, awakened by the Custodian's thunderous steps. she sat upright, her eyes still heavy with drowsiness, silently following the path Atrius had taken.
"You're far from home, Aliya," Gaia murmured as she approached. She crouched, her hand moving with maternal tenderness to caress the siren's tangled hair.
Aliya leaned into her embrace without a word, like a child surrendering to a mother's comfort.
"It's not safe for you here," Gaia whispered.
"Water… fall," Aliya said haltingly, her hand lifting toward the sky and then to the lake shimmering in the distance.
Gaia understood at once. Amusement tugged at her lips as she shook her head.
"Poseidon," she said knowingly.
Aliya must have been cast ashore during the chaos of the battle weeks ago, swept through the whirlpools that had carried the trench dwellers here. Unlucky, perhaps—but not unsurprising. This one was notorious for her clumsiness. Still, it was a small blessing she had survived unscathed.
"Food," Aliya demanded abruptly.
Gaia sighed softly. With a flicker of thought, fruits materialized in her hand, glistening with morning dew though the night surrounded them. She handed them over, and Aliya plucked them one by one, biting greedily.
RUMBLE.!!!!!!
suddenly the earth convulsed violently. A shudder rippled through the island, uprooting trees with brittle roots, sending showers of soil cascading. The cries of beasts echoed through the forest in panic.
Aliya whimpered and pressed herself against Gaia's bosom, covering her ears. Sirens were painfully sensitive to seismic vibrations, their senses pierced by the quakes.
Gaia remained unmoved, her expression calm amid the chaos. Around them, the flora responded to her will—trees bending, roots unfurling, vines spiraling outward to weave a living cocoon of green and brown. Within its shelter, she held Aliya close, her voice low and soothing.
They are here, she thought solemnly, eyes narrowing at the night beyond her barrier.
Elsewhere on the island, Atrius had stopped mid-step. The ground writhed and tore apart around him, but he remained untouched.
The ground convulsed, yet within ten feet around him, the soil remained untouched—his indomitable will pushing outward like an invisible bastion. Stones shattered and rolled away, fissures split open, and trees groaned as their roots tore free of the earth. But where Atrius stood, there was only stillness. The chaos broke itself upon an unseen wall of psychic force, dust and dirt parting like waves crashing against an immovable cliff.
He did not move, every line of his posture carved in tension, the air around him humming with restrained power. The crimson lenses of his helm flared, their glow cutting through the swirling murk like beacons in a storm. His gaze swept to where he had left Gaia and Aliya—yet the landscape was drowned in upheaval, veiled by falling earth and surging roots. He saw only a shifting blur of green and brown, an obscured vision where once there had been clarity.
The machine-spirit of his helm clicked and whirred, analyzing, classifying, distilling order from chaos. Symbols and sigils danced across his sight, tracking movements too swift for mortal eyes.
fwoooom!!
suddenly,
a dark shape tore through the sky, a streak slashing against the trembling night. Atrius's senses caught it—just barely. Too fast, impossibly fast. The machine-spirit captured a blurred outline, then enhanced it.
It appeared to be humanoid.
The image sharpened—one leg thrust forward, the other trailing back, arms pumping in rhythm. A running posture.
Atrius's eyes narrowed. His thoughts sharpened to a single blade's edge.
' Running… in the air?'
OLYMPUS
Mount Olympus—the home of gods.
The seat of power of the Olympians.
This place bore more murals of triumph than any other realm known to man. Wars had been fought upon its peaks, wars not against mortals or foreign foes alone, but wars between family—brother against brother, mother against son, father against child.
The Olympian pantheon was chaotic beyond measure, woven with treachery, betrayal, and schemes that spanned centuries. Yet this chaos did not weaken them. No—it sharpened them. Their cruelty toward one another tempered their cunning, made them brutal, made them stronger than any pantheon that had walked Mother Gaia before.
To outsiders they appeared divided, but it was an illusion, a snare. For when the threat came from beyond, they moved as one. The knives turned inward were drawn outward, and every feud was forgotten in the face of trespassers. When enemies mistook their strife for weakness, they were crushed beneath a unity more terrible than thunder.
And now, war had come.
Not to Olympus alone—no. To Gaia herself.
This world was more than a sphere of earth and sea to them. It was their playground, their sanctuary, their dominion. To trespass was an insult they might ignore. To invade was sacrilege. To invade meant war.
Within the vast citadels and sanctums,
servants marched.
They were mortals—but not common mortals. These were the graced, chosen by the gods to stand within their presence. Their bodies shone with scented oils, their skin marked by painted sigils of worship. tunics and robes of white and gold wrapped them, dyed with rare pigments, embroidered with serpents, waves, lightning bolts, and laurels stitched in gold. Laurel crowns and bronze circlets adorned their brows, while their sandals clattered upon the floors in solemn rhythm.
hymns chants echoed
Upon their shoulders they bore burdens far too great for their mortal frames—
shields larger than doors, spears as long as ship-masts, helms shaped like roaring beasts. Their steps faltered, but their eyes shone with ecstasy. To collapse under the weight of the divine was no shame. To bleed for the gods' service was glory.
Today was a glorious day.
They marched toward the sanctums, where their masters waited.
Not the shells the gods wore among men. Not the masks of flesh and beauty. No—today they would "see".
They would behold their lords in their true essence. The sons and descendants of the Titans. Beings too radiant and too vast for mortal sight. To gaze upon them was to have the veil torn away, to stand before truth and divinity naked. The servants trembled but marched still. Today was holy.
At the peak of Olympus stood the Master Citadel.
The sky darkened as clouds gathered, thunder rolling in endless waves. The light of Helios was drowned, the brilliance of Apollo dimmed. Lightning struck in blinding arcs across the heavens.
The citadel rose from the mountain like a pillar of eternity, upheld by colossal statues in postures of eternal subservience. Their stone faces bore pride and agony both, frozen in devotion to the gods they carried upon their backs. Along the pathway to the citadel, statues of the Olympians loomed on either side, silent witnesses to the march of mortals below.
Rain began to fall—cold, heavy, relentless. But it was not ordinary rain. Each droplet gleamed with silver light, divine essence mingling with storm. The mountain was baptized in the blessing of the Skyfather.
And beneath the mountain, the earth thundered.
The armies of men.
men of many nations.
Thousands gathered in ranks that stretched across valleys and plains. Shields bristled like scales of a serpent, spears rose like a forest of bronze. Their voices roared in unison, war-cries that shook the air, that rivaled the sky's thunder.
They raised their weapons to the storm, rain cascading down their helms and cloaks. Lightning lit their armor in flashes of steel.
The Skyfather's blessings poured upon them.
Today, they were not merely an army. Today, they were instruments of destruction—harbingers of death.
The earth shook from their fury.
for the first time in ages,
Olympus had awakened once more.
PENTAGON [EARTH, 2021]
"Greetings. My name is General Robert H. Caldwell. It's… an honor to meet you."
The man stepped forward, his voice steady despite the silence that pressed upon the scene. He wore the dark-blue service dress uniform of the United States Air Force, ribbons and medals gleaming across his chest like fragments of old wars. Four silver stars shone at his shoulders, his peaked cap tucked beneath one arm. His bearing was textbook—square jaw, close-cropped silver hair, broad shoulders stiff with discipline. The very image of the American general, carved from years of service and ceremony.
Yet for every step he took toward the alien envoys, the ground itself seemed heavier. It was not fatigue—his body was strong, his stride unbroken. No, this was something else. His vision wavered, his balance faltered, as though unseen hands were stripping certainty from him. His instincts screamed at him to halt, to retreat, yet he pressed on, jaw set, each stride a small defiance.
Above, the skies roared with rotors. Helicopters circled not only military but civilian—a swarm of news choppers, their cameras peering down through the night. Beyond the barricades reporters in ballistic vests clustered at the edge of the cordon, emboldened by the global spectacle. To deny them presence would only sow fear, and the world could not afford chaos. If this encounter ended in blood, they would report it. But if it ended in peace—then their cameras would buy the government time, time to soothe the public and to negotiate. For once, the generals and politicians alike agreed: visibility was survival.
Caldwell reached the envoy. Swallowing the pressure in his chest, Caldwell extended a hand, palm open in the simplest gesture of peace known to man.
Varr tilted his head slightly, confusion stirring. His vox-grille rumbled, the sound grinding like stone.
"What are you doing?"
Caldwell flinched at the sudden weight of the voice, but recovered quickly, wrinkles easing from his brow as realization struck.
"Oh… forgive me. This is a custom of ours. A gesture of peace, of trust."
"You trust us?" Varr asked, his eyes lowering to the still-outstretched hand.
The shutters of cameras flickered like lightning, capturing every heartbeat of hesitation.
"Unless you are not to be trusted," Caldwell replied evenly. "This is our… first contact with beings beyond our world."
Varr regarded him in silence, reading the calm mask on the General's face. the silence making Cadwell stirr in discomfort.
Finally, the envoy turned to his right—toward a sister. The sight of her gnawed at him, her presence was suffocating, an erasure of thought itself. Standing so close to such a being was like placing one's hand in the fire and daring it not to burn.
Caldwell, for his part, did not even glance at her. As though his mind had chosen to forget her existence entirely.
The Sister inclined her head almost imperceptibly.
Consent.
Only then did Varr extend his hand, clasping the General's firmly.
flick—flick—flick—flick
The cameras flared, catching the moment, the image destined for every newsfeed in the world. The first handshake between mankind and the stars.
at the barricades, a photographer frowned. He lowered his camera, blinked, then looked back at the screen. His photo showed the handshake clearly, the General's lined face and the alien envoy's armored gauntlet locked in symbolic unity.
Yet the armored women who had stood at Varr's side… were gone.
Not obscured. Not blurred.
Simply not there.