Welcome to Gaia! ::

“We don’t need a legacy / We don’t need money / If I could grant you peace of mind / If you could let me inside your heart…”

The lilting words faded into a pleased hum as Misha slipped further down in her chair until she was curled up impossibly and thus compressing her diaphragm in such a way that singing became not only impossible but downright painful. Neither the loss of her voice or the cat-like contortions of her body impacted her focus on the iPad held in her dainty hands. A delighted smile played over her lips before she shifted again to a new position in the overstuffed chair, freeing one hand to tap a few quick words into the chat room window in the center of the screen. Then the hand blindly stretched and searched to the right and back until her sensitive fingertips found the controls for the battered boom-box resting on the side table. Without hesitation, she traced across the buttons to find the “skip” and pressed it three times.

“The battle of…”

Before the words could get much further, Misha tapped the button again while shifting the iPad to balance on newly upraised knees. Other hand freed now, she swiped a fingertip down the screen to check a previous comment in the chat window as the next track took over with a few piano notes and a slow-building soar.

When one had the resting speed of a slightly drunk hummingbird, multi-tasking became just a normal way of life.

Bringing her hand back, she raised a finger to her lips and tapped thoughtfully. “Hm. Let’s see,” she mused aloud. “Word play. Puns. Innuendo… Aha!” Her smile burst into glorious life as she moved both hands back to the screen’s touch keyboard and she began typing away merrily. A giggle escaped her.

If you’re talking about scenic routes, I can get behind that. I’ve always been a big fan of following trails and seeing where they lead. Especially when they go south.

As she waited for the response, the brunette flicked to another tab in her internet browser. A list of ads appeared, various plays and staged readings and musicals in search of immediately available actresses. Misha chewed her lower lip for a moment before reaching out again to grab a notepad and pen from the side table. She quickly jotted down a few dates and places in her own loopy shorthand before tucking the pen into her disheveled top-knot of dark, loose curls and dropping the tablet into the crevice between chair-arm and cushion. Just then, the other tab flickered to signal a reply in the chat.

One corner of her mouth turned up in a smirk and Misha tapped the screen to bring it back to the foreground. Then she paused and a little furrow appeared between her eyes.

Naughty Nights Chatroom? Really, my dear. Surely you can do better than this.

“What the..?” The furrow became a pout. And so can you, I’m sure. Yet here you are. Typing away. Lonely on this long Tuesday night, are you?

Never. Nor should you be.

Do I seem lonely? Never. After all, you are the one who messaged me. She paused in her rapid-fire typing, thought for a moment, and then smirked. Just for the record, no, you cannot have any topless pics. Go fish somewhere else, “my dear.”

My, my. You are a sassy one. I knew I Chose you for a reason.

Just like everyone else on here, stud. You are really going to have to do better if you want my best.

Misha squirmed until she had her back against the arm of the chair and her shapely legs were draped over the other arm. The iPad rested on her thighs. She stared at the screen intently, waiting.

And I only ever want your best, Mishael. There is no other acceptable level for one of my Chosen. You must be all that is desireable, all that is soft and hard and sweet and tart. You must be everything to everyone and never lose yourself.

… Misha swallowed hard, gray eyes wide as she stared at the words appearing before her. That was her name. She never used her name on this site. It was her playtime site, her fun and games place. It was therefore kept completely separate from her “serious, adult-type” life. As she watched with a mixture of fascination and horror, the words faded from the screen and a too-lovely face appeared. The woman smiled up at her and Misha felt her insides go warm and butterflies briefly come alive in her stomach.

“I am Aphrodite,” the beautiful vision announced. Her lips did not move, though, remaining in an enticing curve, an inviting smile. “I have Chosen you. If you accept my blessing, someone will visit you within the next week and you will say yes. You must say yes. Why? Because you cannot resist the promise of magic in your life.”

The screen went white and the iPad shut itself off.

Misha stared at it for another minute. Then she laughed, shook her head, and powered it up once more. Of all the ridiculous things to space out and dream! Still… Her finger paused in the very act of opening her browser. Still… Magic sounded like an awful lot of fun...

[words:889]

Armani D'Cruz: 728 word count.

She knew this day would come, but she did not think it would come so soon.

The Cruz boys had a reputation around town for being trouble makers; mainly due to the social circles they eldest three ran with in their youth. They were petty criminals and they caused Armani great deal of heartache growing up, however when the eldest Tyson was sent to prison; Isaiah and Jerome straightened out. They youngest of the boys, Aiden, was very different in his nature but looked enough like a Cruz boy to be stuck with the stigma. They were large, well built and handsome, it was hard for them to go unnoticed.

Aiden had always been Armani’s baby boy and though she was not meant to have favourites, he had always been special. He was nineteen and was ambitious, Aiden aspired to be a mechanic and was attending college to do just that. He said he was going to have his own shop one day and Armani never doubted it, she believed in him so much she was paying his tuition. God, she never expected he would be the one to get some girl pregnant.

Armani did not know how to take the news; she was as horrified as she was excited. She had never met this girl, she did not have a job, he did not have a job and they were both so young. She just stared at him after he told her, asked her if she would go with him to tell their mother. They were keeping it then, she realised, knowing Aiden would not tell their mother if they weren’t. Rosa D’Cruz was a scary woman, she had to be to control her boys and Aiden would not tell her if they were going to terminate.

Isaiah had children, but Isaiah was married, Isaiah was in the army and had home. What did Aiden have? Well, he had his big sister. He had left and Armani diverted from her routine to digest the news. She swirled the liquor in her glass and just stared into space; the local Dive smelt of stale cider and cigarettes and was her go to place when she wanted some peace. Aiden was going to be a daddy, Aiden was still a kid himself.

She ran her manicured nails through her thick hair and shook her head. Worrying was not going to change anything, she told herself, knowing the best thing to do now was to just be there for him. Help him however she could; I mean if she was scared then how must he feel? Downing the last of her drink she stood up from her stool and left some notes on the bar. The tanned woman made her way outside and let the cold night air fill her lungs.

Everything was going to be okay; better than okay. She was going to be an auntie again.

That was her thought as she stepped out into the night to begin the short journey back to the motel. The road home was quiet and dark due to the lack of lampposts and in places it seemed more like a dirt trail; but that is what you got when you lived in the middle of nowhere. Before long the light from her establishment illuminated her face and she started to rummage through her purse to find her keys.

She was not looking at the door as she approached the reception and when the glass panel smacked her in the face she could not help but feel like she deserved it. It hit her just right and all of a sudden small pecks filled her vision.

Armani fell backwards and hit the ground, the stars above suddenly filling her vision. She did not know if it was the blow to the head or the alcohol that made her hallucinate, but she could have swore she heard someone speak to her; maybe it was the person who had opened the door?

Armani, I am Hera and I have chosen you. Your story is just beginning, please accept my blessing-

It was all she heard before her vision went blank, not realising she had just set the wheels of destiny in motion. Not knowing what challenge she had just accepted. That was when she heard another voice, a more familiar voice, shaking her awake.

He was just surfing when it happened.

Not competing, not putting on a show for someone, not modeling.

He was just surfing.

The ocean was calm, and the sun had yet to peek over the horizon enough to cast anything but a distant, pinkish glow. He'd sat on the sand, drinking beers with some of the other early risers or late-nighters, until light had begun to blossom at the ocean's edge, glistening on the tops of the incoming waves. He'd picked up his longboard and sprinted right at them. He was in Hawaii, working like always. His agent had put in some prettied up tourist resort, but he preferred to spend whatever free time he managed to snag as far away from the place as possible. The beaches were his home, the open ocean was where he truly belonged. The surf was gorgeous. He caught one wave after another; grinning each time he dropped down the transparent mountains, his board cutting easily through the clear water.

Then, it happened- because it always happened, even to pros. He tipped his weight too much forward and gravity took hold as his board's tip dove just a bit too far beneath the water. He flipped forward and his body crashed into the water, wave following suit. Time slowed. He let the wave take him, his board's leash tugging painfully at his ankle as his body was sent into a whirlwind of uncontrollable motion. His lungs ached, he wanted to take in a breath but he wasn't sure yet which way was up. He was still tumbling, at the ocean's mercy. He didn't think there were any reefs nearby, but he'd drifted pretty far since he'd first left the beach.

Suddenly, a voice broke through the water; as though someone were speaking directly next to him. He either had way too many beers on the beach than he should've or, he thought- this is it, I'm passing out, I'm ******** dead-- but still, he heard the water's message.

"I am Poseidon," it said, "shaker of the earth, and God of the sea."

Somehow, the water was still. Isaiah was floating on his back, though he had no recollection of how he managed to get there. The waves had died, the ocean was more peaceful than he'd ever before seen it. His board floated next to him, but his entire body felt too at ease for him to want to move toward it. He let himself continue floating, and he listened.

"I have Chosen you, Isaiah." The voice said. "Should you accept my blessing, your life will change. You will be granted power and knowledge most others will only be able to guess at. Someone will come to you soon. You will give them your answer. I know you'll have no other choice but to say yes."

The water had carried him safely to the very bit of shore he'd first entered the surf at. The sand cradled him. The tide rose and fell across him. He stared up at the sky, thinking.

It was supposed to be just another weekend. Edward had arrived to work at the club the same time he always did for his evening shift, taken up post at the door, watched the slow string of familiar and unfamiliar faces filtering through into the dim heart of the club beyond.

It always started slow, despite the heavy, bone vibrating pulse of the bass pounding out from the DJ booth tucked into the back corner. The dancers rotated their line ups, usually. Taking turns to fill the first couple slots of the evening until the crowds thickened and taking the stage became worth their time. Ed couldn't have said which it had been tonight, he hadn't bothered to glance at the line up pinned in the dressing room before heading back to man the doors. It didn't matter, really, because he wasn't there to watch any of the dancers. He was there to keep the peace. That was what he'd been hied for. That was what he was good at.

The club filled, the dancers began to actually make money, and Ed couldn't help a small yawn as waved through a group of ladies all dressed in pink. A bachelorette party, if the tiaras and veil were any indication. He'd have to keep his eyes on them, they were already tipsy, and the larger the group of women, the more rowdy they tended to be.

In his experience, women were considerably less respectful of strippers than men were. It was an odd statistic, but a true one.

"Don't you think you might be wasting your talent here, Edward?"

Ed blinked, turning to glance back over his shoulder towards the dj booth in the corner, brows arched as he tried to catch Darren's eye. The dj didn't seem to be paying any attention to him, nor did anyone else for that matter. All eyes still on the dancer on the stage.

"No, you aren't imagining things." The voice was coming over the speakers, or at least he thought it was, but no one else seemed to hear it. Deeper than Darren's, more amused. "I'm Ares, god of war, and you have an exceptional set of skills that aren't being properly harnessed. Such a shame."

He was staring now, not that there seemed to be anything to stare at. Arms down at his sides and features set in a puzzled, unhappy pinch. What the ******** was going on?

"You could be more, you know. Do more. This isn't what you want to be doing." It really wasn't, but how the hell did they know that? "All you have to do is accept my blessing. I've chosen you. I know you'll do great things." There was a hum of amusement, a hint of a baritone laugh. "All you need to do is accept my blessing, and your real life can begin."

It was hard to be both suspicious and eager at the same time, but somehow Edward seemed to manage it. His brows were creased, lips drawn in a thin, puzzled line. People still hadn't seemed to notice, but at this point the man had realized that the voice, hallucination, whatever it'd been--had been meant for him alone. A promise of better things, of something more then standing guard in the door of a stripe club or bruising his knuckles in some back alley fight.

Edward wanted more...

But did he dare to hope it had been real?

Most people who made their way to Times Square spent a lot of time looking up. It was a natural response to the three-story digital billboards, the lights, the New Year's ball left on display long after it had outlived its usefulness. Zan kept his eyes closer to the ground, for the most part. The people, smiling faces upturned to the gods of spectacle and tastelessness, were far more interesting to him than some ad for Aladdin.

There were plenty who took advantage of the inattention of tourists as it was, weaving between the awestruck and distracted to swipe neglected wallets and cell phones. Zan preferred to make them come to him. He was no Naked Cowboy, but he earned enough to get by most days. Unfortunately, today was not one of them. The crowds were thin, and more importantly, there was something bizarre going on with the ABC news crawl, something no one else seemed terribly bothered by. Between the horrible violence, embarrassing election coverage, and plummeting stocks, the ticker displayed an unnatural boredom, spurting out a trail of Zs whenever he caught sight of it. Maybe it was happening more often than that, but Zan was prompted to check every twenty minutes or so, a jolt at the back of his mind alerting him to the nonsensical snore just before it began. His resulting inability to focus made doing his job next to impossible. Even when the buzz wasn't plaguing him, the promise that feeling would return lingered like the threat of an unwanted hiccup. It was easier to get caught in an anticipatory loop than pay attention. That was how the kid got the drop on him.

"PIDERMAAAAAAAAAAAN!"

The screech preceded a very small thud against his legs. Zan let out an exaggerated oof as he looked down, but otherwise kept his mouth shut. He was almost always quiet in the suit, trusting pantomime to get his point across. His Peter Parker was impeccable, if he did say so himself, but the less he spoke, the less likely it was that people would try to get him to say stupid s**t. The number of times he had uttered WITH GREAT POWER COMES GREAT RESPONSIBILITY for five bucks was already humiliating enough. The kid clutching him was a little girl, chubby arms encircling his knees, her hair done up in two perky and frankly adorable poofs. He waved, a wiggle of his gloved fingers.

"Piderman swing!" The girl released his legs, holding her hands up toward him now that they were free.

Zan glanced around. He was not swinging a child anywhere without the permission of its parent. He waited, expecting a harried soccer mom to jog up, spewing apologies. Thirty seconds passed. A minute.

"Piderman?"

Thirty more seconds.

"Piderman. Piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman piderman

Against his better judgement, Zan scooped the kid into his arms in the hope that she would shut up. Her chant grew softer as she grinned and rested her head on his shoulder. Now where was the nearest cop? Fully intending to look for one, he was drawn back to the news ticker instead.

ZZZZZZ Z Z Z ZZ ZZZ

A heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder, its owner circling around to face him.

"Drop my daughter, perv."

Zan did as he was told, placing the toddler on the ground and holding out his hands in surrender. He opened his mouth to explain, pausing when the sign started up again.

ZZZZZZ ZZZ Z ZZZZZZ ZZZ ZZZZZZZAAAAAN

The display popped, sending a shower of sparks onto the people below. They continued walking, laughing, chatting, taking selfies as if nothing had happened.

"What in the f—"

The first fist met his cheek, twisting the rest of his question into a pained grunt as he fell. The second ground his teeth into his lower lip. Zan tried to focus. All he could see was the news. His news. It floated above him in a neat stripe of flashing color.

ZAN

I AM HERMES AND YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN

SOMEONE IS COMING TO PICK YOU UP SOON

GO WITH HER

THERE WILL BE MAGIC

WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA LEVEL

NOW ROLL

Throwing all of his weight to the right, Zan rolled, knocking his assailant's leg out from under him just long enough to get away. His feet skidded and scraped across the pavement as he got them firmly underneath him, and then he was off, speeding toward the McDonald's where a friend let him leave his street clothes. His lip was warm and raw and he'd never get all the blood out of this stupid mask, but he wasn't getting punched anymore, no one was following him, and he was going to be a wizard. Maybe. He wouldn't have been at all surprised if this whole day turned out to be a hallucination.

A night off. Like any other job, those were scheduled and observed. It was easy to burn out: he'd heard that early on from the mouths of those with too many years under their belts and not enough luck. He'd been lucky, though. Clarence - no, Dahl, Dollface, had found clients easily and thick upon the ground. He hadn't gone into things blind or out of necessity; he had a network; it was a business, complete with discreet business cards and a tasteful website. The upkeep was expensive, but he hadn't been in the red for a very long time.

He sighed and curled up in a large chair, the black upholstery swirling with embroidery. With a press of a button, he turned on the radio and picked up a book, leafing through the pages idly. Everything in his apartment looked plain, but it was expensive and well-made - gifts, some of it. A perk of the job. He cracked his neck and winced. Another 'perk' of his business meant sometimes clients wanted spur of the moment things, un-discussed or vetoed things, and that meant he sometimes walked out with bruised galaxies pressed into his thin skin. The phrase 'pre-paid' was a beautiful thing, at least.

The radio looped the song. Hotel California. A smile almost tugged at the corners of his lips. Dahl possessed a certain fondness for the song, and others of its era, though he'd never be the type to push his way up front for karaoke. He flipped the pages of his book, not really reading the words an dinstead thinking about how he didn't hate his job. But it had stained him, he supposed - like the way ink stains a clerk's hands, near-permanent, transferable. A disease or a filth, but most of the time he didn't care. The song started over. He frowned. This station had ads, talk show hosts, didn't play songs again. He tuned it to a different station. No change.

...She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys she calls friends
How they dance in the courtyard- I was wondering when you would notice.

He froze, muscles tensing. And then Dahl blinked, and the voice continued, melding in and out of the song, tuning words to the music.

You know me, how could you not, Dollface? Thin skin, such limpid eyes, soft, malleable.
And still those voices are calling from far away...

Unfolding himself from the seat, he walked briskly over and unplugged the radio. Oddly enough, he didn't feel unsteady, which ruled out the theory that he might have taken something odd. The voice stopped with the music, too - a strange broadcast? Or he was getting sick. He couldn't afford that; he was booked fully for the rest of the week. When he'd had to cancel before, the clients took that as him owing them extra, free services. He grimaced just as his phone vibrated. Not his work phone, but the personal cell that rarely saw a text or call. He pulled it out and unlocked the screen.








What kind of ******** fever dream was this? He stared at his phone and the number that wouldn't quite focus enough to be legible, despite the rest of the text veritably sparkling with clarity. There were implications and unspoken promises in those texts from a.. a god. A Grecian Goddess. The smooth skin of his brow creased in thought. What could it hurt to humor someone who clearly had the wrong number - because that was the only explanation for this. (He ignored the use of his name.) Taking a deep breath, he texted back and tossed the phone onto the love seat. Maybe he should make it an early, a very early night. The phone buzzed again and he paused, hand on the door frame... and continued walking towards the bedroom. He'd deal with this tomorrow.

It was a normal day at work, really.

There was something about his job that was both very extraordinary and very ordinary all at once. Being a toxicologist was certainly an interesting field choice, and whenever he mentioned it people usually had some sort of reaction, whether it be excited or frightened, but in the end it wasn't all that much different than any other lab job. Everything was measured and each day was, at its basics, the same. There was order, there were systems, and there were observations and experiments and hypotheses.

He was just working with more dangerous things.

That was his first thought when he could have sworn he heard something odd when the chemical he piped into the beaker sizzled. He could have sworn he heard his name, but there were plenty of explanations for that. Hallucinations of one's name weren't necessarily unheard of, especially when it was quiet. Wouldn't be the first time.

He ignored it.

After about twenty minutes of quiet, he swore he heard his name again, a breathy Zeb that sounded all at once too close and too far away. Was someone playing a joke? This wasn't necessarily a good time for that. He looked up for a second and glanced around, eyes falling on a nearby intern.

“You need to focus.”

The intern blinked, shaking herself out of her tense position. “Uh, yeah! Right! Will do, doctor!”

Assuming the problem was resolved, Zebulon went back to work.

For all of six seconds.

The voice came again, and Zebulon this time eyed the intern rather closely. She didn't actually seem to be looking at him. And would she really try to disobey him so quickly after he told her to get to work--

“Zeb.”

Okay, now he knew he heard something. His eyes darted towards the door, only to see one of his coworkers. Oh. That explained it. He smirked and started with a, “Can't you just make a normal entra--”

“No, Zebulon.”

Zebulon stopped talking with a start. What the hell did he mean no--

“Because this isn't a normal entrance. You can't tell me you didn't notice something was a little off?”

He squinted. “I guess. You sound weird--”

“I am Athena.”

Athena-- “Good for you? I'll make sure to take note of the--”

“Stop talking.” Zebulon bristled, but before he could protest, his coworker continued on. “I am Goddess Athena, and I have chosen you. And yes, before you ask, this is a conduit, and yes, I do exist.”

It was rare that Zebulon was stunned into silence, but at the moment, he seemed to be staring with his jaw a little slack. What the--

She laughed and moved closer. His coworker’s steps seemed to be closer to an elegant waltz than his typical stomping cadence-- “I have chosen you, because I think you are capable of even more than this. I always need new, brilliant minds, and you will benefit greatly. Magic will enter your life.”

Magic? Of course, considering what was happening in front of him… “Someone will come in the next week to recruit you. And you will go with them. You will say yes to them, because it'll mean magic in your life, knowledge you currently cannot fathom.”

Zebulon’s breath hitched. This was insane. Maybe he stuck his nose too close to the fumes earlier. But this was the chance of a lifetime. If it was real. It probably wasn't. This felt like a fever dream. But what was wrong with-- “Yes, of course.”

“You already have results? That's exciting! What are they?”

His coworker suddenly sounded normal again, and Zebulon squinted. What? He glanced over to his intern, who looked exceptionally interested in what he was going to say next. No one was reacting to the fact that Dr. Thorne was clearly just possessed by some kind of--

Maybe Diryas was right about Zebulon working too close to the vents.

“Ah, no, sorry, I misheard you. But I can show you the observations so far?”

Back to work. Maybe a step further back from the vents.

The laptop whirred as Marisol pulled up more information on a large, highly sought-after diamond that had recently come to be in the vicinity. It would have been better if sources could agree on its color; pink and blue may have both been highly valued but she’d rather know exactly what she was after. It’d help with her planning, too, past the stunning silver-gray evening gown that hung in her closet.

She let the pen drop, pushing herself up even as her legs remained in a side split to stretch. Even on days off, it was impossible to shake the routine that seeped into her ballet bones. It was only 9am; she could have tried sleeping in for once but no, she crawled out of bed at the usual 6am to eat the same old two eggs, two pieces of toast breakfast that she did every day.

The clock chimed as a neighbor’s cat yowled at her fire escape window; how Autolycus knew she was even home—she pushed the laptop away and pulled herself up, stretching out her back as she made her way to the window. Yellow eyes gazed at her, as her fingers skimmed the lock, seeming to narrow the longer she took to twist the metal sash. She’d barely lifted the bottom window when the black hooded, black nosed feline flattened himself like a pancake and scurried in. Not that he needed much of a gap, he still looked like a kitten despite the fact he must have been at least six years old—which made him older than her by 14 years.

Once the sneak had made himself comfortable on her bed, she shifted the notebook onto her laptop’s keyboard. Pen pinched between her thumb and forefinger, she hefted them up and set them on the plush blue bedspread. She settled herself next to the cat, a hand idly running over the animal’s soft fur as she contemplated what to do.

There wasn’t much more she could look up, at this point. She’d researched the temporary caretaker of the diamond, the woman’s house plans, even managed to snag an invite under her cover alias. For once, all the tricky portions of the end con had been relatively easy. The one thing that eluded her should have been simple, but even Caroline—a perfect leak, who gossiped like most people breathed—hadn’t been able to get Miss Emma Mercier to reveal the color of the diamond. If it hadn’t been her day off, that might have been enough to shelve it. Except, it had been nearly 38 days since her last con, and she needed the high of pulling something complicated off. In the off season, when the spotlight of ballet was missing as a substitute, the siren song’s lure had no antidote.

“What do you think, little kaht?” Marisol’s voice slipped into a mimic of her grandmother’s hard Irish accent. Despite taking far more in appearance after her Mexican mother, she’d never quite gotten the hang of Spanish—it didn’t help that her mother had basically abandoned it in favor of English and trying to blend in. Her father hadn’t really done much better with introducing her to his heritage, minus his mother’s occasional slips into Irish. As it was, every once in awhile, when she felt the anxiety of need overwhelming her common sense, she’d mimic the comforting tone of her father’s mother.

“You could do so much more,” the cat replied, voice light and airy.

A second passed in thought and then Marisol yelped, leaping up from the bed and whirling to stare at the feline. Bemused yellow eyes stared at wide green eyes. Holy sh—the thought was cut off as another replaced it. I’d end up a goddamn drug dealer in the psychiatric ward!

“You did not just talk,” she commanded, voice firm. A finger pointed at the cat as he made to refute and she beat him to the punch with a sharp, “No.” And then to prove that she was in control and not crazy, she picked up the cat as if it had fleas and quickly opened to the window to deposit him on the fire escape; the bronze window sash locked tight and the curtain swept across to erase the feline from existence. Autolycus, or not-Autolycus, was forcibly and sternly forgotten as she decided that what she needed, more than a successful con, was to dance.

With a once over of her apartment, she grabbed her dance bag and slipped on a pair of canvas shoes. It was mindless repetition to navigate her way to the ballet company where she was employed. By the time she shed her overall shorts and exercise crop top, slipped out of her leotard, showered, pulled on her warm-up clothes, and threw her hair up into a bun, she’d be able to make it to rehearsal with enough time to put on her pointe shoes.

The door was still open when she made her way into the studio—a quick glance told her more than a few faces were late—and took her place in the front of the room with her fellow principals. She wasn’t surprised to see Isagani was there despite it being his day off, too. Gani, as she called him, was one of the company’s most hard-working principals and kindest. Kind, however, was an easy compliment to receive when compared to Joanie, a corps member who had done nothing but sneer since she was passed over to become first soloist six years ago. Queralt had received the promotion instead and just last year become the newest principal of the company. She, too, had apparently given up her day off to attend rehearsal. Joanie, inauspiciously, was absent. Thoughts were put on hold when the ballet mistress strolled in. It was time to work.

Hours later, a subtle tiredness settling over her limbs, Marisol lingered as the other dancers left. The need for a successful con hadn’t diminished. Instead—a breeze swept across the back of her neck. She lifted a hand to swipe at the skin as she turned to see that one of the windows had become unlatched. Weird; Madame refused to ever open the windows during rehearsals and she’d heard nothing of the creak that usually signal a dancer had needed some respite.

Standing, she moved towards the window only to still in her movement when a flash of white caught her attention. On top of the piano sat the same cat known as Autolycus but after this morning, she wasn’t so sure if it was him or not. Hell, she wasn’t sure if the blasted feline was even really here. And of course it didn’t help when he began to talk.

“Marisol Caoimhe Whelan.”

Surprise erupted on her face, a slight upturn of her mouth emerging, as she remarked, “You pronounced it right.”

“You are my chosen,” the cat—definitely not Autolycus—chuckled. “The least I can do is know your name.” And then he winked!

“Who are you?”

“I am Hermes, God of Thieves, among other things,” he introduced himself and bowed his head, furry ears flat.

“Great,” she muttered. “I go crazy and have delusions of grandeur. Way to go, Key,” she snorted at the thought. “You are my neighbor’s cat, Autolycus, that’s it. And I’m taking you home.” And even she had to wince at that. If she had any sense at all, she would have run screaming out of the room and moved out of the country. But no, she was apparently going to take the talking cat home.

The journey home was difficult to say the least. Marisol kept trying not to talk back to the cat and failing miserably whenever he brought up magic and gods and chosens. She received more than a few strange looks, even a few looks of camaraderie, as she muttered at the so-called Hermes. Crazy cat lady had never been a life’s goal.

After far too long, she returned home and entered her apartment. Hermes had the good sense to leap out of her arms before she could dump him on the nearest piece of furniture. It might have been the thrill seeker in her rising up, or even the need for a con substituted with a new unknowable adventure. Either way, insane or not, she found herself giving in to the idea.

“Prove to me that you’re Hermes and I’ll say yes,” she decided.

“Your father is—“

“No,” she interrupted, “Tell me the color of the diamond I’m after.”

Hermes chuckled, pleased, “Clever. It’s a stunning pink. If I say so myself, it’ll fetch far more than the Unique Pink did.”

“That, I can work with,” she returned.

“Someone will be by in the coming weeks and when you say yes, you’ll find a whole new world awaits you.”

Marisol cocked a brow, “Really? Aladdin?”

“He was a street rat,” the cat grinned and then Hermes was gone, leaving Autolycus meowing in his stead.

That night a stunning pink diamond went missing and the theft went unreported. Perhaps she wasn’t crazy after all. Not that she’d ever bother trying to tell such an absurd story to begin with.