Present Day
The corridors of the museum stretched out in silent grandeur, each alcove showcasing treasures that spanned the ages: the Golden Fleece, the Mask of Agamemnon, the Parthenon Marbles and countless others whose names were whispered in reverent awe.
A museum assistant handsomely dressed in a tailored jacket patrolled these halls every day with a proud smile. Though he had walked this path hundreds of times, the sight of these relics never lost its magic. To tend such wonders was both privilege and honor.
He paused before a heavy oak door inscribed: "SACRED ROOM." He murmured a quick prayer beneath his breath, inserted the key into the lock, and pushed it open.
But the bright anticipation in his eyes crumbled into horror. His jaw dropped. Then a shrill scream tore through the stillness.
The most sacred relic in the museum had vanished.
A man dressed in a simple gray robehis hood drawn low, recalling an ancient Greek priest rushed forward at the scream. Seeing the assistant's panic, he called out in Greek, "Τι συμβαίνει; (What is it?)"
Trembling, the assistant leaned in, voice choked with dread.
Moments later, the priest collapsed.
Pandemonium erupted. Staff and visitors flooded the hallway, alarmed by the assistant's frantic cries. Yet through the mounting chaos, one question rang out above all others: What was stolen?
The answer was simple and shattering.
Athena's divine spear and helmet, tokens of her authority and wisdom, had been spirited away.
Legends claimed that no mortal could wield their own destiny without the influence of a higher power. Some even said that Robert Oppenheimer and his fellow scientists, the architects of the atomic bomb drew their uncanny insight from Athena herself, gifted by the goddess to usher in humanity's greatest triumph and darkest atrocity.
When the dawn after Hiroshima and Nagasaki revealed ruin beyond reckoning, Athena recoiled in horror. For the first time, the goddess of wisdom saw herself as indistinguishable from Ares, god of war.
"Well done, sister," Ares had mocked. "I'm the god of war but even I can't kill that many people so quickly."
Wracked with guilt, Athena renounced her immortality. She cast off her divine status and retreated to live among mortals in secret. Her spear and helmet were locked away in this very museum, entrusted to an unbroken line of guardians chosen by Zeus himself.
The priest who had fainted was their latest scion.
---
Some Days Earlier
Athena slipped into a dimly lit pub on a narrow city street. She wore black jeans and a crisp shirt with rolled sleeves vanishingly casual, yet her presence transformed the room. Conversations hushed. Glasses paused midway to lips.
The tang of spilled ale mingled with raucous laughter and the clink of metal pint mugs. Neon signs flickered overhead, casting jagged patterns of light and shadow across the floor.
She slid onto a sticky wooden stool at the bar. The bartender approached with a practiced grin.
"Yours?" he asked.
She inclined her head, but her grip on the stool wavered. A wave of dizziness washed over her.
What is wrong with me? she wondered.
A brash stranger sidled over, offering a lewd compliment. Athena waved him away.
He persisted and she snapped. In one swift motion, she seized him by the collar.
"You have no idea what I can do, mortal," she hissed, her eyes aflame.
The manager intervened, apologetic, but when he too crossed an invisible line, Athena stood abruptly and stormed out.
Outside, she strode through an alley, boots echoing on wet cobblestones. Frustration boiled over until she halted.
"Hermes?" she demanded, irritation in her voice.
A cheery whistle answered her. The messenger god leaned against a brick wall, arms folded.
"Still sharp as ever," he teased.
Athena scowled. "Spare me your flattery. Get to the point."
Hermes's grin faltered. "The relics of your helmet and spear are gone."
Her eyes darkened at the confirmation. The weakness in her bones, the sudden lapse of power it all made sense now.
"Of course," she muttered, voice low and fierce.
Hermes, uncharacteristically mute, met her gaze. She studied him.
"Why so quiet?" she asked.
He sighed. "I did not expect you to say 'I don't care.'"
Athena turned away. "I've no wish to be a goddess now. Whoever took my relics let them become the new deity of wisdom."
Without another word, she strode off into the night.
In the darkness, Hermes called after
her:
"There will be consequences, Athena. Consequences beyond your worst nightmares."