As plots centered around the disease began to form, the Greek king wandered from the Fields of Asphodel, getting lost withing the Underworld, and within the recesses of his own mind.

A dark patch of color swirled along Herry's skin, blossoming into various shades of purple and blue. Purple and blue. The color of a bruise. His arms shook with tiny tremors that spiraled down to his nerve endings. His skin was a sickly pallor, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. The disease was slowly eating away at him, and the vomit he'd been able to produce was speckled with blood. He felt sick, as if his body was just an empty shell. Worse yet, he knew that he was dying. Lifting the hem of his green shirt, he examined his torso, which was marred with scars and bruises.

Herry licked his chapped lips, trying to moisten them, but he couldn't produce enough saliva to do even that. There was a rusty taste in his mouth as well, as if a coin had been placed in his mouth. There wasn't a coin there, was there? He knew it was customary for the Greek's to place an obolos under the tongues of the deceased, so that they'd have payment for Charon, but if there was indeed a coin under his tongue, it meant it was truly dead.

He could almost hear the gusto in Cronus' cackling voice. "Oh how the might have fallen." He could almost see his friends' faces as they gazed at his tombstone. Odie would mutter something about Herry being the brawn, because that was his codename, that was his designation on missions, but it wasn't how he wanted to be remembered. Herry knew he was the muscle in the group. He knew he was strong; he always had been. But that wasn't all he wanted to be. Wasn't there anything more to him than that? He'd never know, because now he was dead.

"Herry, wake up," Atlanta gave his shoulder a slight shake.

"Wai—what?" He jerked upright, still dazed. "What happened?"

"You fell asleep."

"Oh. Right. Wait... but I..." Was dead. He wanted to say that he was dead, but he clearly wasn't. He wanted to voice his fear, about what it had felt like to have the disease take hold of him. He'd wanted to die. It had been painful and draining but mostly... it had been scary. He'd felt afraid. He could wrestle with Greek monsters and entities, bend steel with his bare hands, but he was afraid of dying. Or maybe he was just afraid of disease. Herry wanted, more than anything, to confide that he was afraid. He wanted to show his weakness, that he wasn't just the brawn, the muscle behind the group. But when he opened his mouth, what came out instead was, "Where are we?"

"New Olympia," Atlanta said gently. The light filtering in from the skylights was like liquid caramel against Atlanta's skin. Her unnaturally red hair glowed the crimson color of blood. Herry noted that she looked pretty, but in an affectionate, brotherly way. Anything more than that was well... about as gross as he'd looked when the disease had taken hold.

"When did we get here?" Herry asked dumbly.

"After visiting Hades' temple."

"We didn't go to the Brownstone?"

She shook her head. "Wasn't any time, remember? Theresa, Jay, and Neil went to Persephone's study. Hera is questioning Archie about the base, in case they missed anything that might be, uh I dunno, relevant?"

Herry rubbed his temples, as his stupor wore off. He remembered now. They'd arrived early morning. Really early, as in, the sky was still inky black, but with a thin strip of red that meant sunrise was coming. He remembered a slightly frazzled Hermes welcoming them back as they proceeded to the main chamber, where an artfully carved golden statue of Zeus stood, showcasing the Olympian god in all his glory. He remembered taking a seat on the couch and resting his eyes for a few minutes. Except those few minutes had spanned into hours, and he'd been claimed by sleep.

"Man, I had a weird nightmare. And my mouth tasted like copper," he muttered.

"Maybe you bit your cheek while you slept?" Atlanta suggested. "I've done that before."

"Ready to go?" Odie sidled up to them, sporting a light blue t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

"Go where?"

"Hermes talked to us while you were sleeping," Odie explained, "this disease thing has got the gods really worried. It doesn't help that we've made practically no progress, except that the Arae made the disease, and Cronus is mostly likely the one after it. Our best bet is to see the Oracle, see if he knows anything we don't. Would you mind driving?"

Herry gave a noncommittal "Mhmm," before rising to his feet. He examined his arms and legs, and felt a surge of relief. There were no marks or bruises. He wasn't infected by the disease.

Atlanta and Odie headed to the parking lot, with Herry trailing behind them. He shuffled through his key ring as the trio stood beside his cherry red pickup truck. Once the doors were unlocked, they each slid into a seat, and Herry inserted his key in the ignition. His hands fit comfortably around the steering wheel, and he stretched his fingers, smoothing them along the leather of the wheel.

The car stalled as a traffic light flickered red, and Herry took a moment to glance at Odie and Atlanta through the rearview mirror. "You two are being awfully quiet."

Stifling a yawn, Atlanta muttered, "yeah, well, not all of us got a decent sleep." Herry's eyes drifted to Odie, who was fiddling with his PMR, and not even bothering to respond. Herry's lip twitched in annoyance, but he ignored the fact the Odie was too enraptured with his technology to pay him any attention.

The traffic wasn't too bad, but it was a good ten minutes later before the familiar sushi stand came into view. The Oracle sat on a bench with a crumpled newspaper folded beside him. Did this guy ever do anything besides sit and read the newspaper? And wasn't it kind of redundant that an all-seeing Oracle relied on a printed piece of paper to know what was going on?

"Um, hi. Excuse me, Oracle," Atlanta began.

The old man didn't startle, or even look up, as if he'd been expecting them all along. It was hard to tell if he was even looking at them, as his eyes were shielded behind a pair of opaque glasses.

A moment of silence stretched, before the Oracle said, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Biting her lip, Atlanta continued, "we were wondering if you could tell us anything on the disease?"

"The disease? You speak as if there is only one."

"Look," Odie cut in impatiently, "we've been trying to find the location of this disease created by the Arae. We were wondering if you knew anything about it, or where it is?"

"I do."

"Could you tell us?" Atlanta asked, this time with a bite of impatience in her voice.

"I could," the Oracle said slowly, shifting on the bench so that the newspaper crumpled even more, "but then you would attempt to get it for the gods."

"Well, yeah, if we don't then Cronus will get it and—"

"—Cronus is not after the disease you seek."

Herry folded his arms across his chest, watching the conversation unfold. It was really annoying how cryptic Greek deities could be. He watched from a few steps back as Odie and Atlanta shared a look. This clearly wasn't going the way they'd hoped.

"Look, we need the disease. There are lives at stake. If you know something, you need to tell us. It would be the humane thing to do," Atlanta said vehemently.

The Oracle gave a grim smile. "I am a neutral force in this battle, my dear. As the Oracle, I am inclined to share knowledge with whomever seeks it. Yet the gods you work for do not always have good intentions."

"Of course they do! They're the gods! And you can't have 'good' without 'god'." Atlanta's tone was growing steadily louder.

"Please don't shout. My eyesight may not be what it used to be, but my hearing is as excellent as ever. Have you bothered to find out why the gods so desperately want the disease?" When no answer forth-came, the Oracle continued, "they are immortal beings, and a force able to cripple your kind is a power they themselves do not possess. Their intentions may be good, but their means to get it are just as, to use your word-choice, inhumane as the other forces after it. If you would like my help, then I will only offer it if you promise to destroy the disease."

"How would we destroy it?" Odie asked curiously, his eyes narrowing.

"All magic has a unique marker. If a spell, or curse, is cast, then it needs to be destroyed by the one who incited it. The Arae are spirits of retribution, but while it was they're power used to form the disease, they did not create it."

"Then who..."

The Oracle held up a hand to silence Atlanta. "A Greek King now residing in the Underworld asked for the disease. He wanted to wreak vengeance on the residents of the mortal world. All residents, mind you. In order for the disease to be destroyed, the king needs to no longer wish for it to take effect."

"It's been hundreds of years since the king was murdered," Odie interjected, "why would he care about killing everyone alive today? None of us did anything to harm him. The people who caused his death are long dead."

The Oracle took his glasses off and began to clean a nonexistent smudge off with his shirt. "For the answer to that," he said, gesturing to Herry, who had been quiet for the duration of the conversation, "I'd suggest you ask your friend Herry."