The Beginning of the End

Las Vegas, Nevada. January 21st, 2019.

It is the evening before the world’s largest gun show begins. Tens of thousands of representatives of the shooting, hunting and outdoor trade industry will spend the weekend clustered inside the Sands Expo and Convention Center, browsing all manner of military, law enforcement, and tactical equipment.

By coincidence, or perhaps divine design, it is during this very same week that another gathering is set to take place in the neighbouring Wynn resort and casino. Though smaller in its number of delegates, this meeting of like-minded individuals has the potential to fundamentally shape the course of humanity as we know it. Of course, such a caucus is invitation only and taking place in a location so secret that the Wynn hotel staff not only deny any knowledge of it’s occurrence but appear to genuinely have no idea that the meeting's participants ever checked into the Wynn to begin with.

“They would have used aliases, of course,” says a voice at the other end of the phone that Saoirse Murray has pressed to her ear. No matter how hard she strains to her him, it always sounds as if he’s calling from the other side of the world. From the underworld, even. Standing in the Wynn’s extravagantly colourful lobby, beneath the bough of an artificial tree, her all-black attire does not allow her to blend in. “My nephew isn’t particularly... imaginative, however,” the voice carries on, with a sigh. “You might find him more easily than the others.”

His nephew. Six months ago, Saoirse would have had no idea he was talking about, but now? Ares, she thinks, imagining the Greek god of war, like a statue come to life, striding across the Wynn’s marble floors with all the subtlety of a chariot. Even after meeting one of them face-to-face, it’s difficult for her to picture the gods of ancient Greece as anything other than walking sculptures.

“I’m going to look for their children,” she says, stepping aside to allow more room for a porter with a luggage cart to pass by. She looks over the dozens of other people in the lobby: some checking in, others getting ready to start their afternoon on the Strip. Could anyone of them be a god or goddess of war in disguise? Or had she walked past one of the children, one of their Scions, already? The prospect was as likely as it was infuriating. With any luck, the scion of Ares had made the unimaginative choice of checking into Caesar’s Palace.

Her gaze catches on an ornate clock above the check-in desk. “I need to go. I’ve got tickets for a show,” she says. Before he can cut in and ask what acrobats and musicians have to do with war, she adds, “I’m following a lead.”

“Oh?” She can hear his disdain in that single syllable, punctuated by a hmph of laughter. “Be certain you don’t allow yourself to be lead anywhere I wouldn’t want you to go.”

“I-” she starts to reply, but he’s already cut the line. She shoves the phone into her jacket and from the same pocket pulls out a gilded ticket for Panegyris, listing a starting time in just over ninety minutes. Before then, she has a meeting of her own to attend: in a cocktail bar, with a stranger who sent a cryptically worded message to her room - of course. If Saoirse Murray had learned one thing since being named the scion of Hades, it is that gods and their scions will never act artlessly when they could instead do something dramatic.

"Teh-WEE-lah, T-e-u-i-l-a," Teuila spelled for the clerk at the Wynn. "Teuila Collins."

"Oh yes, I have your room here." The girl smiled, but Teuila was scanning the lobby. "Just a few moments... you are paid up for your stay already and here is your room key, and Players Card. I can have your suitcase taken up if you want?"

"Good, thank you." She offered the clerk a smile at last, took the offered plastic cards, and walked off toward the Eastside Lounge. She had an appointment to keep.

Her father's instructions had been vague. They were always vague, of course, and he didn't contact her very often. Still, Ares Himself was here in Vegas, and she would be a fool to pass up the opportunity to gather more information.

At the very least, she would pretend she knew what she was doing. And part one of that idiotic plan was meeting her in the Eastside Lounge. Hopefully.

Teuila planted her six foot tall body in a red velvet upholstered sofa and ordered a drink, keeping her eyes open for the scion of Hades.

"Fuck me..."

Reilly pinched the bridge of their nose as they waited in the longest fucking line ever to check in to the Wynn. Normally an all-expense paid trip to Las Vegas would have been something to be thrilled over, gossiped and lauded about. For Reilly though? It was just another strange damn family thing. Oh sure, this whole damn thing had started only a handful of months ago in what was a perfectly normal day visiting her less than normal ailing demented - literal translation, you asses, as in someone suffering from dementia, not some cutesy bullshit quirk - grandfather. He'd passed along this piece of iron roughly the shape of some sort of blade and then blammo everything upended itself and now welp, here they fucking were. Vegas. It was fun if you gambled, Reilly supposed, but they didn't fucking gamble and they didn't give two shits about Celine Dion or any of the other myriad of shows... the food though? Now that was something they could get behind. Because god damn the food. They'd gone to Hell's gods damned glorious Kitchen for lunch after their plane had touched down and Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker there was no reason on this earth that a fucking burger should have been that good.

But the taste was gone now, a mere memory of hours passed and now there was just this purgatorial line with some old bat harping about her points and not having a Strip view from her hotel room and all Reilly wanted to do was pick up her cell and text the weird damn half a number back with a "Nope. Not doing this shit. Gonna bail. Gonna visit that all-you-can-eat seafood joint at the Rio and then I'm flying back to Long Island and there isn't a god damn thing you can do about it, so fucking help me..."

They took a breath. A real... deep... long... breath... Even as a supposed manager was brought out to quiet the aged harpy bitch. Now, if only one of the many spas in this town could do something about that hypnotic waddle at their throat... How in the hel did they not have the money for plastic surgery to fix that misery...

"Next!"

Oh thank fuck.

"Reservation's under Askelson," Reilly began and nudged the tightly packed carry-on at their side. "When all's said and done, be a peach and send this up to my room, yeah? Also, if you could point me in the direction of the Eastside Lounge, I'd be really appreciative."

It didn’t take long to reach the Eastside Lounge. While the host searched for the table for Collins, Saoirse considered the bar. Set just off the Wynn’s casino floor, it had a floor to ceiling window looking out over a mock-lagoon and not one but two pianos that were mercifully quiet. Almost every table and booth was occupied, the chatter of conversation almost enough to drown out the nearby rattle and ring of slot machines. Saoirse studied the faces of the drinkers and diners, wishing not for the first time that there was some clue, some immediate giveaway that would tell her when she was looking at the child of a god.

“Right this way,” the host leaned into Saoirse’s line of sight and, grinning, motioned for her to follow him. Of course, he lead the way to the only person in the bar that didn’t quite fit in: a woman sitting on her own. As they approached the table, Saoirse smiled, feigning recognition of the other woman. “Here we are. Now, can I get you ladies anything else?”

As she sat down, Saoirse glanced back at the bar, at the well-lit selection of spirits stacked high behind it. “Not for me, thanks.”

“Can I just say, I love your accent! Irish, right? I’m basically like, half-Irish myself.”

Saoirse smiled, but said nothing, knowing full-well what a bad idea it was to dangle even a morsel of interest before him. Really, she just wanted him to fuck off, to leave her alone with this woman, who somehow knew her secret connection to the ancient Greek god of the underworld. Of course, all he wanted was the biggest possible tip, so he made a point of offering to take Saoirse's coat and then recommending a few items from the food menu before finally getting the hint.

“Well, you just let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, ladies.” With a too-white smile, the host wandered off, leaving the two women alone.

Saoirse sat back and regarded the stranger.

“So. You’ve got my attention.”

While the server had prattled on and on, Teuila had made a few observations. The first was that Saoirse Murray’s designer suit was worth more than Teuila’s car. The second was that she was severely outclassed by said suit, in her jeans and flowery blouse, even if her ankle boots were killer.

And lastly, that Saoirse Murray might have taken the bait, but setting the hook was going to be difficult.

When they were finally alone, Teuila smiled at the slim Irish woman sitting at the other end of the red sofa, the small table in front of them holding only one drink.

“I understand you are a busy woman, Ms. Murray, and I’m not good at subtlety.” Teuila gestured toward herself and her tall, Samoan frame. “My name is Teuila Collins. My father hoped that putting us in touch with each other would... open doors. Communication and cooperation against common foes.”

She reached down for her whiskey sour and took a sip, her eyes never leaving Saoirse as she judged the other woman’s reactions.

My father… Two ordinarily innocuous words, but to Saoirse they were confirmation enough that Teuila Collins was exactly what Saoirse had assumed her to be: another scion. The note delivered to her room had lead Saoirse to believe she would be dealing with someone with less pragmatism about them, yet Teuila seemed - seemed - at least to be practically minded.

“Common foes?” Saoirse lifted a dark eyebrow. There were secrets that Hades kept from her, she knew that, but that he was a deity who gave rise to distrust and anger in others required only the smallest leap of logic.

“Who would they be?”