Reincarnated, But Still Medusa – Chapter 1

Logos & Concept Created By Brandon K Montoya, All Rights Reserved

Written By Sonne G

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A very nice toga has been selected for the occasion. An entire hour is spent coaxing the girls into an elegant, braided up-do. The expectation, naturally, is romance. Perseus possesses a phenomenally strong jawline, and a man in leather sandals has always been a terrible weakness of mine. Sitting in the damp stone temple, waiting for him to arrive, the smell of earth and olive oil hangs heavy in the air.

When he finally steps through the marble columns, there are no flowers. Instead, he brings a mirrored shield, a very sharp bronze sword, and absolutely zero conversational skills. Men, historically speaking, are terrible at reading signals.

There isn’t even time to offer him wine. The sword flashes, catching the Mediterranean sunlight. A sharp, terrible pressure bites into my neck.

The floor rushes up to meet my face.

SNAP.

Blinking clears a sudden, violent onslaught of fluorescent lighting. The damp stone of the temple is gone. The smell of olive oil is instantly replaced by the sterile tang of ionized air, cheap break room coffee, and printer toner.

Staring down at my hands, a stylized, ergonomic keyboard sits beneath perfectly manicured fingers. Glancing below the polished desk reveals two entirely normal, human legs, currently clad in sensible tailored slacks. A heavy, collective sigh of relief escapes the vicinity of my scalp. The girls are still here, hissing softly as they adjust to the harsh, recycled climate control of the year 2126.

Reincarnation, it turns out, comes with a dental plan.

Working as a Senior Epidemiologist at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention is a far cry from antiquity. However, blending in is remarkably easy when the galaxy has opened its diplomatic doors. Having a head full of venomous vipers barely registers on the HR weirdness scale when the guy in the adjacent cubicle is a sentient, gelatinous mass from the Alpha Centauri system who communicates primarily through interpretive bubbling. To the rest of the staff, my appearance is merely an exotic genetic quirk, perhaps a touch of alien ancestry. It certainly doesn’t detract from my cheekbones.

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A throat clears nearby, a sound remarkably like dry autumn leaves scraping across pavement.

Glancing across the aisle, my eyes meet the severe, perpetually annoyed gaze of Dr. Pallas. Athena, though she insists on the bureaucratic pseudonym these days. She sits in her own cubicle, aggressively typing up a pathogenic breakdown on a translucent screen.

For reasons completely unknown to me, we have always rubbed each other the wrong way. Our relationship is a rich tapestry of passive-aggressive sticky notes and stolen staplers. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, she is the only person in this entire fluorescent purgatory who actually knows my true identity.

“You missed a decimal point on the synthetic rabies report, Gorgon,” Athena mutters without looking up from her monitor. Her sensible orthopedic heels tap an irritated, rapid rhythm on the carpeted floor.

A polite, razor-thin smile is offered in return. “Thank you, Pallas. Your attention to minutiae is, as always, utterly exhausting.”

Before she can retort with a barrage of inter-office venom, the frosted glass door to the corner office swings open.

The boss steps out.

A collective hush falls over the bullpen. He is tall, impossibly broad-shouldered, and possesses the kind of confident, oblivious swagger that usually gets people killed in Greek tragedies. He is currently struggling to unwrap a foil protein bar.

Director Percy.

Perseus.

The man who, quite literally, chopped my head off two minutes ago from my perspective. Now he’s wearing a tailored charcoal suit and complaining about the quarterly budget. To him, I’m just Dr. Gorgon, the ridiculously beautiful epidemiologist with the scaly hair.

“Listen up, people,” Percy booms, finally conquering the wrapper and taking a bite. “We have an irregular outbreak down in Sector Seven. Looks extraterrestrial, maybe a localized magical anomaly. I need a field team prepped in ten.”

He points the half-eaten protein bar directly at my desk. “Gorgon. You’re on it. Take Pallas.”

Staring at the man who murdered me, the urge to take off my polarized safety glasses is nearly overwhelming. A direct, unfiltered look into my eyes would still turn him into solid quartz. It is a profoundly tempting thought. However, the CDC medical bay has an excellent de-calcifying protocol these days, mostly involving sub-dermal lasers and a massive, painful dose of Vitamin D, so it would only be a temporary inconvenience for him, and a mountain of HR paperwork for me.

Instead, a long, calming breath is taken. Eunice, a vibrant green tree viper, gently nudges my ear in solidarity.

“Right away, Director,” the reply comes out smoothly, betraying nothing.

Grabbing my sterilized field coat, a side-eye is cast toward Athena, who looks like she would rather swallow a live grenade than ride in a dispatch rover with me.

Reincarnation is one thing. Middle management is a completely different kind of curse.

Navigating the sterile, aggressively beige corridors of the CDC requires a certain level of emotional detachment. The silence stretching between Pallas and myself is thick enough to stop a bullet. Walking side-by-side, our synchronized footsteps echo against the linoleum. Her heels click sharply, my flats make a soft, muffled thud.

Eunice and the rest of the girls are agitated, weaving themselves into a tight, insulated knot at the nape of my neck. They detest Pallas. The feeling is intensely mutual.

“Sector Seven,” Pallas finally mutters, staring straight ahead as we step into the massive freight elevator. “Of all the miserable, damp corners of this city.”

“Perhaps it will rain,” comes my mild reply. “A perfect opportunity to test the waterproofing on those aggressively sensible shoes.”

Her grey eyes snap sideways, narrowing into slits, but the elevator doors chime and part before she can formulate a suitably venomous response.

Sub-Level 4 is the motor pool. It smells sharply of ionized copper, burnt ozone, and the distinct, sulfurous exhaust of Rigellian hover-tech. It is a vast, subterranean cavern of concrete and grease, entirely devoid of the surgical cleanliness found upstairs.

Managing the fleet is a man who insists on being called Smitty.

Smitty is currently waist-deep in the repulsor engine of a standard-issue quarantine van, swearing fluently in a dead dialect of Aramaic. He is broad, thickly muscled, and permanently covered in a layer of soot. When he pulls himself out from under the chassis, the heavy, mechanical whir of his prosthetic left leg is clearly audible.

Hephaestus never quite got over being thrown off a mountain by his mother, but he found a spectacular severance package working for the federal government. Give the God of the Forge an unlimited budget and a garage full of extraterrestrial combustion engines, and he is generally too distracted to hold a grudge.

“Smitty,” the greeting is pitched loud enough to cut through the grinding of a nearby plasma torch.

Wiping a grease-stained hand on a rag that’s seen better centuries, he limps over to the dispatch counter. His beard is singed on the left side.

“Gorgon. Pallas. Tell me Percy isn’t sending you two out in the middle of this mess. Half the municipal grid is down, and the Centaurians are striking over the cafeteria food again.”

“We need to go to Sector Seven,” Pallas says, her tone implying that this is entirely Smitty’s fault. “Director’s orders. We need something fast and completely shielded against biologicals.”

“And magic,” the addition is necessary. “The readout looked unstable.”

Smitty grunts, a sound like boulders grinding together. He tosses the rag onto a pile of discarded spark plugs. “Everything is unstable. The whole universe is held together by duct tape and divine oversight, and frankly, both are degrading.”

Reaching under the scarred metal counter, he produces a heavy ring of physical keys. In an era of biometric scanners and retinal locks, Smitty builds his vehicles with iron tumblers. He claims digital locks lack a soul.

“Take Rover Nine,” he instructs, sliding the keys across the scratched surface. “I just reinforced the chassis with Olympian bronze and alien polymer. It’ll stop a tank shell, and the air filtration system will scrub a Class-4 curse out of the cabin in under ten seconds.”

Snatching the keys before Pallas can reach them, the cold metal feels good against my palm. “Appreciated, Smitty. Try not to blow up the sub-basement while we’re gone.”

“No promises,” he rumbles, already turning back toward the sparking repulsor engine. “If you see a multi-dimensional rift opening up over the highway, roll the windows up.”

Hitting the unlock button on the key fob, the heavy, armored headlights of Rover Nine flare to life in the dim garage. It looks less like a medical transport and more like an armored personnel carrier that mated with a luxury sedan.

Opening the driver’s side door, a cool, leather-scented breeze wafts from the interior. Pallas practically throws herself into the passenger seat, aggressively buckling her five-point harness.

“Drive,” she commands, gripping the safety handle for dear life.

Putting the rover into gear, a profound sense of irony settles over me. Three millennia ago, a supposed monster was slain by a hero. Today, the monster is carpooling with the goddess of wisdom to investigate a cosmic health violation, ordered around by the very same hero.

Bureaucracy truly is the ultimate equalizer.

Sector Seven has always possessed the distinct charm of a neglected fish tank. Bringing Rover Nine to a halt against a cracked, neon-lit curb, the promised rain finally begins to fall. It spits against the Olympian bronze chassis in a greasy, acidic drizzle.

Through the reinforced windshield, the nature of Percy’s irregular outbreak becomes abundantly clear.

Yellow holographic quarantine tape already cordons off a two-block radius of municipal housing and noodle stands. Beyond the flickering barrier, the basic laws of physics appear to have unionized and gone on strike.

A municipal garbage receptacle is currently floating at eye level, spinning slowly like a majestic, trash-filled satellite. Beneath it, a disgruntled Centaurian delivery driver, identifiable by his four sturdy equine legs and bright orange high-visibility vest, is also hovering a good two feet off the asphalt. He’s gripping a lamppost to keep from drifting away entirely, looking profoundly irritated as he argues with a local beat cop.

“Gravity inversion,” mutters Pallas, already aggressively tapping at her data-pad before the rover’s engine has completely powered down. “Combined with localized structural crystallization. Look at the pavement.”

Following her gaze, the cracks in the asphalt are no longer filled with moss or discarded cigarette butts. They are violently glowing with the same jagged, purple geometric spikes from the lab’s holographic model. The crystals are spreading outward like frost on a windowpane, humming with a low, teeth-aching frequency.

Magic is the only logical conclusion. Extraterrestrial spores usually smell like burnt sugar or ammonia. This smells exactly like the air immediately following a lightning strike, mixed with something ancient and unpleasantly metallic.

Unbuckling the heavy five-point harness, a loud clack signals the door unlocking. “Shall we, Pallas? The floating deliveryman looks like he’s going to drop his package, and frankly, dealing with an irate Centaurian seems worse than whatever is growing on the sidewalk.”

Stepping out into the damp chill of the sector, the girls immediately voice their displeasure. Eunice burrows deeper into the collar of the sterilized field coat, while a rather temperamental copperhead named Thalia hisses sharply at a passing droplet of rain.

Pallas emerges from the passenger side, her sensible heels clicking against the one patch of sidewalk not yet consumed by purple quartz. She holds her data-pad out like a shield.

“Pathogen density is highest near that alleyway,” she dictates, her grey eyes scanning the readings. “It isn’t biological. It’s ontological. The localized reality is degrading. Whoever, or whatever, sneezed this into existence has a fundamental misunderstanding of gravitational constants.”

Walking beneath the yellow quarantine holograms produces a strange, static tingle across the skin. The beat cop, a burly Minotaur wearing a badly fitted Kevlar vest over his precinct uniform, nods respectfully as the CDC credentials flash from my lapel.

“Docs,” the Minotaur grunts, chewing on a synthetic toothpick. “It started about an hour ago. First the pigeons started flying upside down, then the bodegas started crystallizing. We got most of the civilians out, but a few refused to leave their apartments.”

“Idiots,” Pallas snaps, adjusting her glasses. “Are they currently floating?”

“Most of ’em,” the cop sighs, his bovine ears twitching. “Mrs. Higgins in 4B is pinned to her ceiling. She’s demanding someone fetch her tea.”

A sharp laugh almost escapes, but centuries of bureaucratic conditioning keep it adequately suppressed. Looking up at the brick facade of the apartment building, the purple geometric infection is climbing the fire escape, transmuting rusted iron into jagged, humming crystal.

Somewhere back at the pristine, climate-controlled office, Percy is probably sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, effortlessly digesting a protein bar and looking remarkably handsome while doing absolutely nothing helpful. The infuriating realization that his phenomenal jawline and broad shoulders somehow excuse his total lack of field utility is a problem for another day. Really, the fact that he remains so objectively attractive despite being a chronic nuisance is just a different sort of curse entirely. Right now, there’s a cosmic mess to clean up.

Opening the heavy aluminum field case, a set of atmospheric calibrators clinks against sterile sample jars.

“Alright, Pallas,” my tone shifts to professional detachment. “You calculate the rate of reality decay. I’ll go see about scraping some of this violet nightmare off the pavement without accidentally removing my own gravity.”

“Do try not to touch it with your bare hands, Gorgon,” she replies, already walking toward the alleyway with her data-pad raised. “I refuse to fill out the incident report if you drift off into the stratosphere.”

“Your concern is touching.”

Crouching down near a particularly jagged cluster of the purple crystal, a sterilized scalpel is drawn from the kit. The job might lack the tragic grandeur of the old myths, but at least the benefits package is decent.

Pressing the sterilized scalpel against the jagged purple growth yields unexpected results. Instead of chipping, the crystal emits a high-pitched, harmonic whine that rattles the teeth in my skull. A tiny spark of violet static arcs from the point of the blade to the tip of my gloved finger, leaving a faint scent of singed hair in its wake.

Fascinating. And highly weaponizable.

Before another sample can be attempted, the rhythmic thud of heavy ordnance vibrating through the asphalt interrupts the quiet hiss of the acidic rain.

Rolling up to the perimeter are three massive, matte-black assault transports bearing the insignia of the Department of Anomalous Defense.

While the CDC handles the biological and ontological analytics, DAD is called in for the heavy lifting when magical outbreaks threaten to consume entire municipal zip codes.

The doors of the lead transport hiss open. Stepping out into the greasy drizzle is a man built entirely like a tectonic plate. He wears tactical combat armor painted in urban camo, though the reinforced poly-weave seems strained across shoulders broad enough to eclipse the neon signage of the noodle stand behind him. Thick golden hair is tied back in a careless knot, and his beard looks like it was woven from spun brass. As he approaches, the air around him crackles faintly.

Major Torin. The Norse pantheon always gravitated toward the military-industrial complex when swords went out of fashion. Thor found a very comfortable, highly funded niche commanding the hazard containment squads.

“Well now,” Torin rumbles, his voice carrying the deep, resonant timbre of a distant avalanche. He completely ignores a floating garbage receptacle and strides directly over to where the scalpel is still hovering above the infected pavement. “The CDC dispatch didn’t mention they were sending the Eighth Wonder of the World into the hot zone.”

Standing up smoothly, the scalpel is tucked away. “Major Torin. We appreciate the tactical support. Though I assure you, my academic credentials are far more impressive than my face.”

“I sincerely doubt that, Doc,” Torin grins, flashing perfectly straight, blindingly white teeth. He leans in closer, completely unbothered by the reality-warping plague slowly devouring the brickwork around us. A spark of ambient static jumps from his tactical collar to my shoulder.

Eunice, who usually despises sudden movements, leans out from the mass of coils to happily flick her tongue at him. The girls are incredibly susceptible to static electricity, it functions like a divine heating pad, and the Norse God of Thunder is practically a walking space heater.

“Incredible bio-mods,” Torin murmurs, reaching out a massive, calloused hand to hover just inches from Eunice’s emerald scales. He looks genuinely delighted, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “The way they catch the neon lighting is absolutely stunning. You wear them like a crown.”

A sharp, furious noise suddenly erupts from the alleyway. It sounds remarkably like a kettle boiling over.

Pallas marches out of the shadows, her data-pad clutched to her chest like a shield. If looks could petrify, the Major would currently be a very large, tactical garden gnome. Pity for Athena that power is all mine.

“Major Torin,” Pallas snaps, her voice clipped and practically vibrating with hostility. “You and your lumbering grunts are currently stomping your size-fifteen combat boots all over my contamination radius.”

Torin straightens up, offering the goddess of wisdom a lazy, infuriatingly charming salute. “Just securing the perimeter, Dr. Pallas. And greeting your exceptionally lovely colleague. No need to blow a gasket.”

Pallas’s grey eyes dart toward my perfectly styled, snake-woven hair, then down to my flawless jawline, before finally settling a murderous glare back on the Norse god. The vein pulsing at her temple is a beautiful testament to her internal torment. The fact that a curse specifically designed to render a woman monstrously ugly has instead turned her into an avant-garde military distraction is clearly eating Pallas alive.

“Dr. Gorgon is here to catalog an ontological hazard, not provide scenery for the infantry,” Athena bites out, every word dripping with acidic resentment. She steps between us, physically blocking Torin’s view. “Now, unless you have a method for reversing localized gravity failure, I suggest you deploy your perimeter nullifiers and let the scientists work.”

Torin chuckles, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest. He winks over Athena’s shoulder. “All business, this one. Let me know if you need a heavy lifter, Dr. Gorgon. I’m well-versed in operating heavy machinery.”

Watching the God of Thunder amble away to bark orders at his tactical squad, a small, genuine smile touches my lips. The girls are practically purring on my head.

“Honestly, Pallas,” the observation is made while turning back to the purple crystals. “Your hostility is going to give you an ulcer. He was only being polite.”

“He was being a thick-headed, muscle-bound ape,” Athena hisses, her knuckles white around the edges of her data-pad. She stares at my profile with an intensity that borders on unhinged. “And you… you are entirely too fond of the attention.”

Crouching back down, the scalpel is retrieved. The rain continues to fall, hissing against the magical contagion. Let Athena seethe. A good compliment is hard to come by in a quarantine zone, and whatever bad magic is brewing in Sector Seven, it can wait an extra five seconds for a little divine flirtation.