The air tasted like gasoline, adrenaline, and cheap nacho cheese. It was, in Dr. Alistair Finch's professional opinion, absolutely magnificent.
He sat in the front-row splash zone of the Thunderdome Arena, a grin plastered across his dirt-speckled face, as eighty-thousand tons of custom steel named "Megasaurus" stomped a sedan into a pancake with a glorious, ear-splitting CRUNCH. Shards of safety glass twinkled in the stadium lights like deadly confetti. Alistair whooped, shoveling a handful of absurdly yellow popcorn into his mouth.
"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! GET SOME!"
To his left, the literal Goddess of Love and Beauty was losing her divine mind. Aphrodite, forgoing her traditional peplos and doves, was clad in artfully ripped designer jeans and a black leather jacket that probably cost more than the monster truck currently reverse-parking on a school bus. A pink trucker hat reading "GODDESS OF ♥" was perched on her cascading blonde curls. She was on her feet, screaming with unfiltered, millennia-sated joy, shaking her glittery fist at the spectacle.
"YES! MORE! CRUSH ITS SOUL!" she bellowed, her voice somehow cutting through the diesel roar. She dropped back into her seat, breathless and beaming, her eyes sparkling with more than just reflected pyrotechnics.
Alistair, still chewing, offered the bucket between them with a theatrical flourish. "Popcorn, my lady? It's artificially buttered, which is arguably a greater miracle than anything on the field."
She snatched the entire bucket from his hands, a move that was both playful and possessively divine. "You are a treasure, Ali," she declared, before leaning over and planting a firm, sparkling kiss on his cheek. Her lips left a perfect, faintly glowing pink imprint on his skin. It smelled of roses and, incongruously, gunpowder. "I love how you commit to the bit. No ironic detachment, just pure, wholesome revelry in the mortals' magnificent, noisy idiocy."
Alistair touched his cheek, the divine glitter sticking to his fingers. "The bit is my life, Dite. Also," he added, nodding at the retreating Megasaurus, "that truck's rear differential is a crime against engineering, physics, and good taste. It's beautiful."
"It's passionate!" she corrected, munching popcorn. "Raw, untamed power seeking violent expression! It's a metaphor!"
"It's going to need a new driveshaft before the main event," he countered, his eyes analytically tracing the vehicle's wobbling back end. This was their dynamic: her unfettered appreciation for the spectacle of mortal emotion, his delighted, detail-oriented dissection of how the spectacle worked.
His left wrist buzzed, not with a mundane notification, but with a distinct, layered hum that vibrated through his bones. His mythic scanner. He glanced down, shielding the watch face with his other hand. The usual Celtic knot screensaver had been replaced by a stark, priority alert.
An image hovered above the screen: a scabbard of exquisite workmanship, gold filigree wrapping aged leather, set with gems that pulsed with a soft, internal light even in the hologram. Below it, coordinates and a name flashed urgently: LAS VEGAS, NV. EMERALD ISLE CASINO. 24 HRS. And the all-caps tag: EXCALIBUR'S SCABBARD. AUCTION. LEPRECHAUN SYNDICATE.
Alistair's grin didn't fade, but it changed. The boyish wonder in his eyes sharpened into the focused gleam of the world's foremost archaeological recovery expert. A deep, fond sigh escaped his lips—a sigh of professional excitement immediately tempered by personal regret.
He showed the display to Aphrodite. Her glowing smile dimmed by a single, gentle watt.
"Duty calls, my love," he said, his voice barely audible over the revving engines. "It's a big one."
Aphrodite's lower lip pushed out in a pout that could have launched a thousand diplomatic incidents. It was a genuine, stunningly beautiful sulk. But millennia of watching mortal dramas unfold had given her perspective. The pout melted, transforming into a look of soft, understanding resignation. She took the hand not holding his mythical smartphone, lacing her glitter-dusted fingers with his.
"The scabbard of infinite wound-stitching?" she asked, her tone shifting from cheerleader to connoisseur of divine artifacts. "The one that makes the wearer simply… not bleed? How dreadfully dramatic. All that fear of a little mess." She squeezed his hand. "Go. Save the world from bad fashion and fatal paper cuts. But!" She released his hand to point a perfectly manicured finger at his nose. "You owe me a sequel. A make-up date. I want the Demolition Derby next week. And I want pit passes."
Alistair brought her captured hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles where the glitter was thickest. It tingled on his lips. "It's a date. I'll even get us matching fire-proof jumpsuits. With sequins. For you, obviously."
He stood, the plastic seat flipping up with a clatter. As he turned to navigate the row of cheering fans (a minotaur, a family of kitsune, and a man who was mostly water vapor), her voice chased after him, sweet and commanding.
"Alistair Finch! Bring me back a nice souvenir! Something shimmery!"
He shot her a grin and a thumbs-up before disappearing into the tunnel leading to the parking lot.
The relative quiet of the concrete parking garage was a shock to the system. The roar of the crowd was now a distant, muffled beast. Alistair leaned against the hood of his vehicle—a modified, gunmetal-gray Land Rover Defender that looked like it had been born in a trench. Glyphs were etched subtly into the door frames.
He tapped his earpiece. The connection chimed, and was immediately filled with the cacophonous sound of ringing hammers, hissing steam, and what sounded like a screaming mandolin.
"Hephaestus. Talk to me. Excalibur's scabbard in Vegas? That's… bold."
The voice that crackled back was gruff, deep, and profoundly annoyed. "Finch. Took you long enough. Were you at a library?" A resonant CLANG! nearly blew out the earpiece.
"Close. Monster trucks. Details, please."
A sigh like grinding tectonic plates. "The scabbard's been missing since Arthur went into his 'suburban retirement' phase. Without it, the man nicks himself shaving and needs a transfusion. Embarrassing for everyone. The Leprechaun Syndicate fished it out of a bog in Cornwall, think it's just a fancy Celtish money-clip. They're auctioning it to the highest supernatural bidder in twenty-three hours. Likely contenders: a dragon with OCD, a bored trillionaire titan, or some upstart crypto-mage trying to buy credibility."
Alistair whistled low. "So, I walk into the Emerald Isle, make an offer they can't refuse?"
"With what?" Hephaestus snorted. "Your devastating smile? They deal in raw gold or cutting-edge mortal wealth generation. Your credit card's no good there. Also," the god of the forge added, his annoyance deepening, "your sword won't stop complaining. She's linked to my comms network and she's been broadcasting a continuous loop of sarcastic commentary about my smelting technique for the last hour."
A new voice sliced into the connection. It was smooth, female, metallic, and dripped with sarcasm like a leaky faucet. It came from the elegant jian sword strapped across Alistair's back. "Oh, thank the forge. The party boy remembers he has a job. Vegas. A shimmering monument to mortal poor life choices, perched in a desert. My absolute favorite. Do try not to get us turned into a pair of novelty dice, Finch. I'd hate to spend eternity rattling around in a cup with a bunch of plastic dots."
"Kassy, my love," Alistair said, patting the sword's jade-inlaid hilt affectionately. "You're my lucky charm."
"I am a blade of peerless lineage and evolving power, currently being used as an emotional support artifact for a man covered in snack food residue. My existence is a paradox."
"Hephaestus," Alistair said, refocusing. "I've got an idea. It doesn't involve gold or credit."
"Does it involve common sense? Because I'm doubtful."
"Better. It involves a 1988 Best Picture winner. Gotta go. The house awaits."
"The house always wins, Finch," Kassy intoned, her voice the audible equivalent of an eye-roll.
Alistair slid into the driver's seat of the Defender. The engine growled to life, a sound of pure, reliable potential. Through the windshield, the distant glow of the Las Vegas strip painted the night sky like a radioactive orchid. He touched the faint, still-glowing lip-print on his cheek, then gripped the wheel.
A wide, fearless smile spread across his face.
"Not this time."