Reincarnated, But Still Medusa – Chapter 3

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

Written By Sonne Gerber

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Escaping the overwhelming sensation of enforced mindfulness feels like shedding a heavy, waterlogged winter coat. The door of Loki’s limousine seals shut, immediately cutting off the sitar music mid-twang.

Eunice and the girls drop their meditative swaying, hissing in collective relief. The overwhelming positivity of the Hindu pantheon is profoundly exhausting for reptiles.

Loki settles back into the seat with a small groan. “Well. That was violently serene.”

“They are holding the spiritual fabric of the nation together,” Pallas snaps, aggressively re-pinning a stray hair that has dared to escape her brutal bun. “While you are actively selling devices that tear it apart.”

“Supply and demand, my dear,” Loki murmurs, flashing a razor-sharp smile. “The market simply yearns for a forceful insertion of chaos. It isn’t my fault the end-user didn’t utilize the proper shielding. Honestly, deploying a Class-4 reality-destabilizer without adequately prepping the metaphysical boundaries? It’s practically begging for a premature detonation.”

Pallas closes her eyes. The vein at her temple is throbbing with a mesmerizing, erratic rhythm. “If you make one more thinly veiled anatomical analogy regarding your stolen ordnance, Contractor, I will throw you out of this moving vehicle.”

“Such hostility,” Loki sighs, looking delighted by her misery. He turns his attention to the opposite seat. “And what about you, Gorgon? Does the thought of a massive, unregulated magical discharge frighten you?”

A slow, deliberate blink is my only immediate response. The girls flare their hoods slightly, sensing the shift in conversational territory. “My concern is strictly epidemiological. Magical or otherwise, an outbreak requires containment. Your hardware is simply the pathogen. A rather messy, poorly handled pathogen.”

Loki chuckles, a low, genuinely amused sound. “Oh, she has venom. I adore that.”

The limousine banks sharply, leaving the towering glass structures of the bureaucratic district for the brutalist, sunless canyons of the financial sector. The sky outside the tinted windows darkens, the acidic drizzle turning into a heavy downpour.

Tracing phantom shell corporations requires delving into the darkest, most unforgiving corner of the federal government. The Centers for Disease Control deals with biological death, but the Internal Revenue Service deals with something far more permanent. Financial ruin.

The IRS headquarters doesn’t bother with falsely welcoming architecture. It’s a monolithic block of black concrete that seems to actively absorb whatever miserable light makes it through the city smog. There are no windows. There are no zen fountains. There is only a single, heavily reinforced steel door guarded by a bored-looking Arcturian.

The alien is easily seven feet tall, covered in iridescent blue scales, and possesses four entirely humorless eyes. Arcturians are famously devoid of a central nervous system capable of processing empathy, making them the perfect entry-level hires for the revenue service.

“State your business,” the guard demands, his voice a series of wet clicks translated through a vocal-modulator collar.

“We need an immediate audit on a shielded shell corporation,” Pallas states, holding up her CDC credentials. “Authorized by the Director of Operations.”

The Arcturian blinks its lower set of eyes, entirely unimpressed by Perseus’s digital signature. It steps aside, allowing the heavy steel door to groan open.

The lobby is freezing. It smells overwhelmingly of dried ink, fear sweat, and the distinct metallic tang of impending doom.

“Charming,” Loki whispers, shooting his cuffs. “I always feel a profound sense of nostalgia coming here.”

Reaching the subterranean levels requires bypassing the standard elevators. The IRS does not use modern anti-gravity lifts for its high-level audits. It relies on the old infrastructure.

Standing before a wrought-iron grate is a gaunt, impossibly ancient man wearing a faded transit authority uniform. His skin is the color of old parchment, and his eyes are hollow pits of absolute indifference. He leans heavily on a lever that controls the descent into the abyss.

Charon. The ferryman traded his wooden skiff for a freight elevator when the underworld modernized, but his core business model remains entirely unchanged.

“Going down,” Charon rasps, extending a skeletal palm. “Exact change only.”

Pallas reaches for her government-issued cred-stick, but the ferryman merely shakes his head, the movement producing a dry, rattling sound. “No plastic. No digital. Coins.”

“Really, Pallas, the lack of preparation is astounding,” Loki tuts, producing two heavy, solid gold drachmas from the depths of his tailored pockets. He drops them into Charon’s palm. The ancient immortal bites one to check its authenticity, nods slowly, and hauls the iron lever back.

The grate slams shut and the descent begins.

The elevator drops with a stomach-churning lurch, plunging past floor after floor of bureaucratic despair. The temperature drops steadily until our breath plumes in the dim, flickering light.

“So,” Loki breaks the grinding silence of the descent, leaning casually against the rusting iron mesh. “How exactly did the glorious Athena and the infamous Medusa end up carpooling to the underworld? The last I heard of your particular mythology, there was a temple, a curse, and a rather definitive decapitation. It lacks a certain collaborative spirit.”

Pallas stiffens, her spine turning to steel.

“We are professionals,” the answer is delivered in a flat, unyielding tone. “Ancient history has no bearing on current municipal emergencies.”

Loki’s smile suggests he absolutely does not believe a word of it, but the elevator screeches to a violent halt before he can probe the wound further.

Sub-Level 99. The Audit Floor.

Stepping out of the elevator, the atmosphere is thick enough to choke on. The waiting room is a vast, cavernous space lit by buzzing fluorescent tubes that cast everything in a sickly, pallid glow. Rows of uncomfortable plastic chairs are bolted to the floor, currently occupied by a truly miserable assortment of beings.

A hulking, fur-covered Rigellian is openly weeping into a stack of crinkled receipts. Three rows back, a minor Celtic deity of agriculture is arguing loudly with a ticketing machine that refuses to dispense a number. The air hums with the collective anxiety of a thousand delayed returns.

“Right then,” Loki says, striding confidently past the sobbing Rigellian. “Let’s go unmask a shell company. Try to look destitute. They hate it when you look like you have disposable income.”

Approaching the reception desk, the entity behind the reinforced glass is not an alien, but a being of pure, crystallized bureaucracy. A minor deity of accounting, likely poached from the Babylonian pantheon.

“Appointment?” the entity asks, not bothering to look up from a towering stack of ledgers.

“We need to see the big boss,” Loki leans against the glass, turning up the wattage on his smile. “A matter of urgent, untaxed municipal destruction.”

“The Director is currently extracting penalties,” the clerk replies dryly.

“We can wait,” Pallas says, though her tone suggests differently. “Tell Tezcatlipoca that the CDC requires his specific expertise.”

The mention of the dark Aztec god’s name causes a noticeable ripple of terror to wash over the waiting room. The weeping Rigellian suddenly goes very quiet.

While waiting in the plastic chairs for the clerk to process the request, the sheer absurdity of the situation becomes impossible to ignore.

A low, guttural snarl interrupts the ambient misery.

Sitting three chairs down is a heavily scarred, reptilian humanoid wearing a tailored, double-breasted suit that is actively smoking at the lapels. The creature belongs to the Draconian syndicate, a species known for their short tempers and aggressive planetary acquisitions.

The Draconian’s slitted yellow eyes lock onto Loki.

“You,” the creature hisses, a forked tongue tasting the sterile air. “You sold us the plasma-disruptors for the Orion campaign.”

Loki doesn’t even blink. He crosses his legs, adjusting the crease in his trousers. “Ah. General Vrax. I trust the disruptors performed to your satisfaction?”

“They exploded in the armory,” Vrax growls, standing up. He is roughly the size of a vending machine, and his suit jacket strains against heavily muscled shoulders. “Wiped out half my battalion before we even made orbit. We lost the contract. And now the IRS is auditing our mercenary write-offs because we have no proof of deployment.”

“A tragic logistical oversight,” Loki sighs, sounding genuinely bored. “My user manuals clearly state that the disruptors require a cooling period between unboxing and insertion. You really can’t just forcefully engage the primary thrusters without reading the literature. It’s user error, General.”

The Draconian takes a menacing step forward, razor-sharp claws extending from his fingertips. “I’m going to rip your spine out through your-“

“General,” my voice cuts through the tension.

Standing up from the uncomfortable plastic chair, I utilize my full height. Eunice and the girls, sensing a threat, immediately rise from my collar. A dozen venomous heads fan out, hissing a synchronized, chilling warning.

The Draconian freezes. His yellow eyes dart from Loki to the mass of swaying, highly agitated vipers.

“I understand the frustration of faulty hardware,” the statement is delivered with slow, deliberate enunciation. “However, this contractor is currently commandeered by the Centers for Disease Control for a Level-One ontological crisis. If you assassinate him in this waiting room, the paperwork will take centuries to clear, and I will personally ensure your entire syndicate is quarantined for a synthetic scale-rot infection.”

Vrax weighs the options. The hissing of the snakes grows louder, echoing off the concrete walls.

“Keep him on a leash,” the Draconian eventually mutters, “He cannot be trusted.” He slowly backs down and sinks back into his plastic chair.

“I try,” a heavy sigh escapes. “But he is remarkably poorly behaved.”

Loki beams, looking utterly delighted by the intervention. “My hero. The way you threatened him with biological warfare was deeply arousing.”

Pallas looks like she is praying for a localized meteor strike. “Can we please just get our audit and leave before I lose my mind?”

The Babylonian clerk finally clears his throat, a sound like dry parchment crinkling. “The Director will see you now. Hallway B, third door on the left. Do not touch the walls. Do not make sudden movements. And if you hear screaming, it is strictly classified.”

Leaving the crowded waiting room behind, the three of us proceed down Hallway B. The lighting here shifts from pallid fluorescent to a deep, ominous crimson. The air grows warmer, carrying the scent of burning resin and something distinctly metallic.

Heavy wooden doors line the corridor, each bearing a polished obsidian plaque.

“It truly is remarkable how well the old gods adapted to modern capitalism,” Loki muses, admiring his reflection in a passing plaque. “You’d think a pantheon built on blood sacrifice would struggle with the transition to government-issued currency, but Tezcatlipoca really found his calling in aggressive tax collection. It’s the same basic principle, really. You give him a piece of your livelihood, or he carves it out of you. Only now, it’s metaphorical. Mostly.”

“Just focus on the shell company, Contractor,” Pallas demands, stopping in front of the third door. It is imposing, carved from a single slab of petrified mahogany and bound in dark iron.

Taking a breath to steady the girls, my gloved hand reaches for the heavy iron handle.

To breach the shielded industrial building and shut off Loki’s rogue magic, the leaseholder must be unmasked. Finding a phantom corporation means making a deal with the god of the smoking mirror, and the IRS rarely negotiates in good faith.

Pushing the heavy iron-bound door open reveals a space that aggressively defies all municipal building codes. The air inside the office is thick with the sweet, choking smoke billowing lazily from braziers set into the dark corners. Shadows cling to the walls, flickering and shifting with a life of their own.

In the center of the expansive room sits the undisputed focal point of the agency’s collection methods. A massive, waist-high sacrificial slab carved from porous volcanic rock.

Heavy, impeccably oiled leather restraints are bolted to the four corners of the stone. Stepping closer, a deep, quiet appreciation for the craftsmanship settles in. The cuffs are lined with soft, breathable suede to prevent chafing during a violent struggle, and the heavy brass buckles are reinforced with meticulous double-stitching. Whoever designed this hardware intimately understood the delicate, vital balance of rigorous restraint and proper aftercare. It is a truly gorgeous piece of equipment, maintained with obvious devotion.

Pallas, naturally, views the setup with utter revulsion. Her sensible shoes come to a dead halt just inside the doorway. “Barbaric,” she mutters under her breath, adjusting her glasses as if they might shield her from the implications.

“Efficient,” Loki corrects cheerfully, wandering over to admire a nearby rack of jagged obsidian flaying knives. “Nothing expedites a convoluted 1099 tax form quite like the immediate threat of ritual dismemberment. It cuts right through the red tape.”

Seated behind a desk made entirely of a single, flawless piece of polished black stone is the Smoking Mirror himself.

Tezcatlipoca wears a charcoal pinstripe suit that drapes perfectly over a lithe, athletic frame. A tie clip made of shattered black glass catches the dim light of the braziers. His eyes are pitch black, absorbing the room’s illumination rather than reflecting it, giving him an aura of terrifying, infinite depth.

“Tezcatlipoca,” Loki greets, leaning casually against the desk. “The suit is impeccable. Brioni?”

“Bespoke, Contractor,” the Aztec god replies, his voice smooth and cold. “Woven entirely from the despair of defaulted mortgages. It breathes wonderfully in this subterranean humidity.”

“I must give my tailor your supplier’s contact information,” Loki sighs enviously.

Currently occupying the bespoke leather restraints on the stone table is a red-faced, heavily perspiring mortal wearing what remains of a very expensive linen suit. He is thrashing weakly against the cuffs, his eyes wide with a very rational, impending sense of doom.

Tezcatlipoca looks up from a translucent digital tablet, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. “Ah. Dr. Pallas. Dr. Gorgon. To what do I owe the pleasure of a joint CDC task force interrupting an active audit?”

Stepping forward, Pallas actively ignores the whimpering mortal on the table. “We need the unredacted lessee information for a shell corporation. Warehouse 44, Sector Seven. It is currently masking a severe ontological hazard, and we need the entry codes to shut it down.”

Tezcatlipoca sighs, leaning back in his ergonomic mesh chair. The dark god taps a manicured finger against his chin. “Federal privacy laws, Doctor. Even the divine must adhere to the tax code. I cannot simply hand over shielded corporate data without a court order. The bureaucracy of it all is staggeringly tedious.”

“The eastern seaboard is turning into magic quartz,” Pallas grits out, the vein at her temple resuming its erratic pulsing. “Surely you can bypass a privacy clause.”

“I am a god of night and trickery,” Tezcatlipoca murmurs, “But even I do not cross the IRS compliance division. However,” his black eyes drift toward the stone slab, “I am currently experiencing a minor delay with Mr. Sterling here.”

The billionaire lets out a pathetic, wet squeak. “I told you! The offshore accounts are a blind trust! I don’t know the routing numbers!”

“Mr. Sterling has been hiding three billion credits in undeclared offshore assets,” Tezcatlipoca explains, sounding deeply bored. “I find tax evasion profoundly joyful, of course, because the resulting penalties allow me to utilize the table. But he is proving stubbornly resistant to standard auditory intimidation. Bureaucratic regulations require me to wait another twenty minutes before I can legally deploy the flaying knives, and it is completely throwing off my afternoon schedule.”

The Aztec god’s gaze locks onto my face. The predatory smile returns. “Perhaps a fresh perspective is required. A bit of biological persuasion to expedite his memory. If he yields the routing numbers, the shell company data is yours. A simple trade.”

Moving toward the stone slab feels entirely natural. The leather creaks as Sterling struggles, his breath catching in his throat as the overhead lights illuminate the iridescent scales weaving through my hair.

Leaning over the table, the scent of the mortal’s fear is overwhelming, sharp and sour. Eunice slithers down past my collarbone, her emerald coils sliding smoothly over the lapel of the sterile field coat. She pauses mere inches from Sterling’s nose, her forked tongue flicking out to taste the cold sweat beading on his upper lip.

“Mr. Sterling,” the greeting is delivered in a soft, soothing whisper, maintaining a completely neutral expression. “My girls have had a very long, highly irritating day. The rain has ruined their mood, and the ambient magic in the city has given them a terrible headache.”

Thalia, a notoriously ill-tempered copperhead, weaves her way down to rest her scaled chin directly on Sterling’s wildly pulsing jugular.

“Their venom,” the explanation continues, keeping the tone light and conversational, “Does not kill immediately. It is a highly complex enzymatic cocktail designed to curdle the blood while keeping the nervous system violently, exquisitely awake. It turns your veins to burning acid. I am told the sensation lasts for roughly three agonizing days before the heart finally gives out from the strain.”

Sterling goes completely rigid. He stops breathing entirely.

“Now. Tezcatlipoca is a very busy deity, and I have a magical plague to contain before rush hour traffic gets worse. Give him the routing numbers, or I will let Thalia express her workplace frustrations directly into your bloodstream.”

“Cayman branch!” Sterling shrieks, his voice climbing an entire octave. He presses his head as far back into the stone as physics will allow. “Account seven-seven-alpha-nine! The decryption key is my dog’s name, Mr. Snuffles! Just get those things away from me!”

Straightening up, a gentle pat is bestowed upon Thalia’s head before she obediently retreats into the warm knot at the nape of my neck. “Excellent choice, Mr. Sterling. Financial transparency is a beautiful virtue.”

Tezcatlipoca chuckles, a dark, rich sound that sends a shiver down the spine. He taps rapidly on his translucent screen. “Beautifully executed, Dr. Gorgon. The sheer, terrifying elegance of it. I really should keep you on retainer for the stubborn cases.”

He swipes a finger across his tablet, sending a secure data packet directly to Pallas’s data-pad. It chimes sharply in the quiet room.

Pallas stares at the screen, her brow furrowing in confusion. “This makes no sense. The shell corporation doesn’t belong to a terrestrial entity. It’s a registered subsidiary of an unauthorized, extra-atmospheric import company.”

Loki leans over her shoulder, completely ignoring her hiss of annoyance as he reads the data. “Extraterrestrial smugglers? Oh, this is getting delightfully complicated. Someone dropped my hardware from orbit.”

“If it came from orbit,” the logical conclusion is drawn immediately, “Then it bypassed the planetary defense grid. There is only one agency with the clearance logs for low-orbit atmospheric entry.”

Tezcatlipoca nods, adjusting his obsidian tie clip as he prepares to properly welcome Mr. Sterling to the penalty phase of the audit. “Indeed. You need to verify the atmospheric logs to find exactly who caught the package. Good luck with the carbohydrates, ladies. The Director of NASA is notoriously fickle on a Friday.”

Leaving the subterranean dread of the IRS feels like taking a deep breath after nearly drowning. The heavy iron grate of Charon’s elevator clangs shut behind us, securing the underworld away beneath the bustling city.

A profound silence fills the cabin of the limousine. For once, Loki is entirely devoid of inappropriate commentary. The revelation that his stolen hardware was deployed from orbit seems to have genuinely captured his attention. He stares out the tinted window, tapping a manicured finger against his chin.

Pallas, meanwhile, is furiously swiping through the encrypted data packet Tezcatlipoca provided. “An extra-atmospheric import company,” she mutters, her grey eyes reflecting the glow of the data-pad. “They bypassed standard customs. That means they had to mask the entry vector. Only the National Aeronautics and Space Administration has the sensor arrays sensitive enough to detect a cloaked drop through the planetary shield.”

The journey to the aerospace sector is mercifully brief. NASA Headquarters was originally designed as a monument to human ambition, constructed from sweeping curves of pristine white polymer and brushed steel. It is meant to evoke the vast, sterile emptiness of the cosmos.

Currently, however, the pristine aesthetic is severely undermined.

Stepping through the automatic glass doors, the sterile scent of advanced aeronautics is entirely absent. Instead, the lobby smells overwhelmingly of simmering garlic, roasted oregano, and boiling pasta. A distinct trail of rich, red marinara sauce dots the immaculate white floors, leading past the security turnstiles and directly toward the primary command hub.

“Fascinating,” Loki murmurs, carefully sidestepping a rogue puddle of pesto near the elevator banks. “I always forget how aggressively culinary the cosmos can be.”

Navigating the corridors requires a certain level of acrobatic grace. Dozens of technicians in crisp white lab coats rush past, carrying clipboards and carefully avoiding tangled piles of spilled linguine that seem to have manifested directly out of the ventilation shafts.

Approaching the Director’s office, the heavy double doors are already propped open.

“Director,” Pallas announces, stepping into the room and immediately halting.

Sitting behind a massive, semi-circular console of blinking telemetry screens is not a humanoid deity. Hovering three feet above the reinforced ergonomic chair is a majestic, tangled mass of sentient carbohydrates. Two massive, perfectly seasoned meatballs serve as visual receptors, blinking slowly as they swivel toward the doorway. A multitude of noodly appendages, glistening with a light coating of extra-virgin olive oil, drape over the keyboards, casually adjusting satellite trajectories.

The Flying Spaghetti Monster, undisputed ruler of the cosmos and Director of NASA, regards us with silent, starchy judgment.

As a deity possessing no vocal cords, the Director communicates through a sleek, silver translation module sitting on the desk. The machine hums, analyzing the subtle squelching and bubbling noises emanating from the pasta.

“Greetings, Centers for Disease Control,” the translation module suddenly speaks, projecting a voice that sounds remarkably like a deeply tired, Midwestern air traffic controller. “May your trajectories be true and your water always reach a rolling boil. State your operational parameter.”

Eunice and the girls sway in collective confusion. Reptiles lack the cognitive framework to process a sentient, divine entrée. They hiss softly, unsure whether to bow or ask for a side of garlic bread.

“Director,” a polite nod is offered, maintaining the absolute professionalism required when speaking to a pile of pasta that has been deified by the Pastafarians. “We are investigating a localized ontological hazard in Sector Seven. A piece of unlicensed magical hardware was deployed, and IRS financial records indicate it was dropped from a cloaked vessel in low orbit. We require your atmospheric entry logs for the past seventy-two hours.”

The massive meatballs rotate, fixing their gaze on Loki, who is leaning against the doorframe looking intensely entertained.

A wet, slithering sound echoes through the office.

“The contractor,” the silver box translates flatly. “Your proprietary tech is currently chewing a hole through the municipal gravity grid. My satellites are having a terrible time maintaining geostationary lock over the eastern seaboard because the local physics are weeping.”

“An unforeseen complication of third-party logistics,” Loki replies smoothly, offering a charming, entirely unapologetic shrug. “Which is why we need to know exactly who dropped it, so we can go shut it down.”

Several noodly appendages retract, gesturing toward a large holographic display in the center of the room. The module hums again.

“Seventy-two hours ago, the planetary defense shield registered a micro-fracture in Sector Seven’s upper atmosphere. The vessel utilized a Centaurian light-bending cloak, but they failed to mask their thermal exhaust. They lingered in low orbit for exactly four minutes. Long enough to drop a heavy, unshielded payload directly into the industrial district.”

“Warehouse 44,” Pallas confirms, cross-referencing her data-pad. “Did the sensors track the receiver? Who caught the package on the ground?”

The pasta mass bubbles thoughtfully. A glob of marinara drops onto a keyboard, instantly executing a complex search algorithm. The hologram zooms in on the gritty, neon-lit streets of the industrial zone.

“The payload was intercepted by an unregistered ground transport,” the box translates. “Heavy magical shielding. But my thermal imaging caught the heat signature of the personnel before they entered the warehouse. Three lifeforms. Draconian syndicate mercenaries. Highly aggressive, severely lacking in spiritual nourishment.”

“Draconians,” Loki clicks his tongue in mild disappointment. “Terrible tippers. And notoriously clumsy with delicate machinery. No wonder the reality matrix is fracturing. They probably tried to activate the destabilizer with a hammer.”

“We have the location and the hostile contacts,” the situation is quickly summarized by Athena. “Thank you, Director. Your assistance has been invaluable.”

“Go with parmesan,” the machine translates solemnly as the enormous meatballs blink in farewell. “And please fix the gravity in Sector Seven. My telemetry analysts are getting motion sickness.”

Turning to leave the marinara-scented command center, the path to Warehouse 44 is finally clear. The shell corporation is unmasked, the extraterrestrial smugglers are identified, and the origin of the magical plague is locked.

Before the heavy double doors can swing shut, a familiar, upbeat chirp emanates from my wrist-comm.

The pale blue, three-dimensional image of Perseus flickers to life, projecting directly over a spilled pile of penne. He is now wearing a tailored navy blazer over his polo shirt, looking devastatingly handsome and completely oblivious to the cosmic stakes of the afternoon.

“Gorgon! Pallas!” Percy beams, his golden-retriever energy radiating through the hologram. “Just leaving the squash court. Absolutely crushed the Undersecretary you’ll be pleased to know. Listen, I’m swinging by that fantastic artisanal deli on 4th Street before heading back to the office. Did you ladies want anything? They do a phenomenal turkey on rye. Or maybe a meatball sub?”

He pauses, glancing at the marinara stains on the floor visible through the projection. “Actually, maybe skip the meatballs today. How’s that little magic problem coming along?”

Staring at the holographic face of my ancient executioner, I draw a long, steadying breath.

“The problem is nearly contained, Director,” the reply is smooth, professional, and entirely devoid of the simmering urge to turn him into a very attractive paperweight. “Hold the sandwiches. We are proceeding to Warehouse 44 for immediate hardware deactivation.”

Percy offers a bright, clueless thumbs-up. “Excellent hustle, team. See you at the Monday briefing!”

The hologram winks out.

“Right,” Loki says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go raid a warehouse. I hear Draconians are incredibly fun to shoot at.”