He doesnât notice that his jacket and the shirt underneath are wet until they say something, and even then, all he does is look down and wipe away at the champagne dripping down the front. They ramble, and they lie - do they expect him to really believe that? It suddenly hits him then that they really donât know who he is, what he does. Why heâs here, of all places. And that worries him more than it relieves him, because it tells him just how much Diana knows and itâs not much, and he knows that when you donât know enough around here, your chances of survival are slim.
It irritates him that he still cares about what happens to the other, because heâs told himself over and over again that itâs all in the past. So he steels himself, fixes his expression and puts on a small smile instead that doesnât quite reach his eyes.Â
âI donât rub elbows with anyone, Diana. I run them.â
I run them. Under any other circumstances, Ash would have laughed - poking fun at the sheer extraness of his statement and the way his face solidified to deliver its dourness. They would have cajoled and charmed, secretly wheeling out information using wit. But those tactics wouldnât work here. And, for once, the first thought on their mind wasnât about the job...but about them. Or at least, the they they were a lifetime or two ago. Erik was one of...well, who the fuck knew what mob he belonged to. And since he didnât shed his skin, that meant he was one of then all along. Itâs funny how blind you can be when youâre not trying to look. For a moment, the shield shatters - and Erik can see them in a genuine light - startled and vulnerable. But then the mask reappears. âRun them?â They ask, skeptically. âI think Luli, Syrus and...whoâs the last one - oh Richard - might have a thing or two to say about that?â Their half-hearted smile didnât reach their eyes. Stiffening at the name, Ash tugged at their lip. âItâs Ash, actually. Or Caerus - although I think the nicknames are fancy extras designed to inflate egos.â
Felicia suffered a minor wound, but it wasnât much compared to any one else, it helped that she had a bigger mob boss take a bullet for her. That was her story anyways. Standing in Syrusâs office seemed wrong, it wasnât that the work wasnât anything she couldnât handle, but Felicia was more independent than she thought. The leading part? That wasnât something she did. She could lead a board meeting or a defendant to justice, but she usually didnât need to lead the rest of the gang. Still, she was as ready as she would ever be to step up. When Ash came in, she smiled and let out a soft laugh with a shrug. She wasnât warm to Ash when they first arrived, mainly because she didnât like newcomers but she had opened up a little bit. âTrust me, Iâve dealt with worse.â She put down the paperwork in her hand and looked up with a raised eyebrow. âHow are you doing? Not too shaken up right?â
Lips curling into a smile (more genuine than they would have liked), they laughed at her question, nodding at the stack of papers in her hand. âStarting with that?â Choosing not to keep the curiosity out of their tone, Ash stood up a little straighter, as if trying to peer. Just enough to convey enthusiasm, but not enough to overstep a mark. At Feliciaâs second question, they backed off, leaning casually against the door frame. âI...â They considered their response, a note of uncertainty entering their voice. âItâs not really what you expect when you go to a wedding.â Ash joked softly. "I guess Iâm only just finding out what it really means to be...well, a part of this.â That lie tasted bitter. It tasted wrong. It tasted true. Shaking off their insecurities, they ploughed on. âThatâs actually why Iâm here.â
There arenât many demons to haunt him from his past. The people who stole his work, those people who used to look down at him for one reason or another are all underneath him now, barely a blip on his radar. But there is one person - one shadow heâs never been able to shake because heâs never found the right answers, of why they left, what heâd done wrong. But the last thing he expects is to see that face, one he wished he wouldâve forgotten, at the wedding, staring right at him with those big, familiar eyes.Â
â - what are you doing here.âÂ
Lies. They come so easily so them. You can, Ash has found - ten times over - build a whole life on lies. It resembles a tower of cards, to be sure - threatening to tumble in a gust of wind - but theyâve always been the type to take flight easily. The tower has never crushed them. Until now. They exhale softly - and thatâs all the time it takes for the shock to wear off. After all, theyâre not the person Erik met. Theyâre Ash now. Ash - the go-lucky charmer - would wriggle out with half a smile. Diana, the person Erik knew them as, was a little softer. They would have had the grace to look sad. So, they settle for a place half-way between. The words of Ash with the regret of Diana. All the time, their mind is whirring. Why is he here? How is he...no...is he connected to Olympus? âWell I was drinking champagne.â They begin, swinging the glass between two fingers. âBut we know how that story ended.â But that isnât the answer he wanted, so they press on. âBut er - sort of weird. I know like...five people here. Kind of a group invite?â Eager to transfer the focus, Ash continues. âHow about you? I...I didnât know you rubbed elbows with such elite circles.â
LOCATION: MOMA, wedding place, side corridor
DATE: February 14th (before the shooting)
STATUS: Closed @posvidons
The problem with not looking where you are going, is that you have no idea who or what you will bump into next. Perhaps an unfriendly face. Perhaps a haunting from your past. Perhaps both. The universe doesnât slow down as they collide. One moment, Ash is turning a corner, champagne flute in their hand - and the next, they are bumping into a figure in a sharp-cut suit. âOh,â they murmur - âIâm so - â Blinking, his face pulls into focus - and Ashâs heart drops through their chest in recognition. Oh shit.
LOCATION:Â Central Park
DATE: February 17th
STATUS: Closed @ofdemeter
Around them, snow tumbled from the sky. Someone they had been before, a long time ago, would have looked up in delight, in pure joy. As it was, Ash shivered - burrowing their face into their hundreds of dollars scarf. Under a blanket, nearly everything looked the same. And yet, Ash found their way to Elias without a problem, settling beside him on the neat park bench overlooking the pond. Giving nothing away, they wore an expression not of steel, but paper - like a deck of cards. The twig of amusement at the parting of their lips was deliberate, very Ash of them. âYou called?â
LOCATION:Â New Olympus HQ (where is this?)
DATE: February 19thÂ
STATUS: Closed @cerberusfelicia
Deception, Ash had learnt, worked best when you evolved. You didnât just wear the mask, you stitched it into your skin. You became the person you were pretending to be. The trick, which so few managed, was not getting lost in your disguise. Ash never had, not until now. Now, they could feel themselves beginning to slip. And they despised it. This needed to end. The job needed finishing. Before they snapped their own neck over it. With that in mind - and Eliasâs words ringing in their head - Ash bounced towards Felicia, Jersey accent strong. Every step was a betrayal, but Ash couldnât have told you towards who. âGlad to see you in one piece. I guess it takes more than bullets to keep a girl like you down?â They laughed. Ash was charming. Ash was a light-touch. Ash had come to ask for a bigger slice of the pie.
The chicken noodle soup, kept hot and fresh in a Thermos, felt heavier than it shouldâve in the plastic bag Julian was holding with his left hand as he knocked on the door with his right. Heâd always adored Ash that he was surprised at himself for ever accusing Ash of being something of a spy. And now that heâd found out that theyâd been beat up by someone - word on the street was that it was someone from Old Olympus, those bastards - it only made him feel more guilty about ever thinking that Ash could be the cunning mastermind behind the Dock fiasco.
Which was exactly why he found himself at their door, waiting to apologize and to at least see if they were okay.
â - Hey, I knowâŠthat you might not want to see me, but, uh, I heard you kinda got socked in the face so I thought I should bring you somethinâ. I made soup? And I used Martha Stewartâs recipe and everything so itâs gotta be kinda good, right? Iâll just - Iâll just leave it here, if you donât wanna come out, Iâll justâŠâÂ
For as long as they could remember, make-up had been a form of artistry to them, a method of transformation. Apply the right concealer, swap out a pair of colour contacts and pin your wig snug to your scalp - and you could become someone else entirely. Appearance was a matter of flexibility, to those who could master the craft. But some days, there were tasks for which no amount of talent could cover. Sometimes, you need the bruises to be real. You needed to ache. It was a high price to pay, but if it kept them in the game for longer, it was a toll Ash would cough up again and again.
A day on from their attack - and Ash knew they were at their worst, skin littered with purple and blue blemishes, a patchwork of pain. Shuffling to the door at the sound of Julianâs voice, they leaned into the frame, slowly opening it, each inch an effort.
âHey Jules. Guess you canât win âem all.â Their breath short, Ash smiled uneasily - having specifically requested their teeth be left alone. âI didnât think youâd come.â Underneath lay an unspoken question. Did my ruse work? Do you trust me? âIâm glad you did.â
Name: Asher âAshâ Strike (they/them)Â
Affiliation: Old Olympus
Occupation: Spy/Informant. Drug Dealer/Dancer for New Olympus.
Faceclaim:Â Paulina Singer
BIOGRAPHY:
You go by Ash now, but that is not the name you were christened with - and this isnât the first time youâve shed your identity, only to have it remade new. You are made of fleeting moments and running shoes, a creature to whom lying comes naturally, always inventing falsehoods. Where some might do such wicked things in the name of survival, youâve never been one of those desperate phoenixes - rising from the ashes. Instead, youâre a chameleon, changing your spots to adapt to your habitat. You canât deny that itâs fun either.
Your parents call you Jane. You learn to scowl at that name - much the way you scowl at everything in your childhood. Traditional, they say, with approving nods. Plain, old Jane, you reply, bitter. Itâs not as if your upbringing is hard - your parents are perfectly nice people, if not a little dull - and they make enough so that you never worry about money. Your mother is a school teacher and your father works in insurance. Your home has a white picket fence and a tree you can swing from - but your world is only as big as the town you live, 10,000 apiece. Even now, you can still remember each one of their names. There was Muriel your next door neighbour and Jack the first friend you made in Elementary. But they, like your parents, are so small. Your entire world isnât big enough to fathom, nor fit, your desires. Simply put, you want it all.
You never manage to pinpoint exactly what that means, preferring to focus on the wider concepts - places, people and things. You draw your inspiration from works of fiction, your only outlet in this black-and-white life - and picture yourself in the shoes of your pretend heroes, living their lives. You suppose that your talent for lying and irresistible charm stems from there, mimicking their sentences until you could stole their voices for your own. Next step? Their stories. Had you been born on the West Coast, you might have been a child actress - prone to stepping out of your own skin and into those of others. Bored with your life, you often played games - to your benefit - and at the expense of the town dwellers. You snuck into the local bar, dolled up to double your age and drank whiskey without flinching. You stole cigarettes from seedy men and smoked in the school bathroom, doe-eyed when you were caught. You stole lipstick from the local store and deliberately got caught, seeing the limits to which you could push people. Deploying a variety of tactics, you got away with each act of rebellion. With time, even that game grew tiring, too easy. You wanted to sink your teeth into something real, into a challenge.Â
So, at seventeen, you tear your college applications to shreds - and months before youâre due to graduate high school, you buy a one way ticket to New York City - with no intention of ever coming back. You had always liked the charm of teenage runaways, the romance behind pursuing a dream and leaving it all behind. The logic of reality would dictate that it wouldnât work out, that you return within three months with your tail between your leg, but things have always slotted into place for you. Youâre fortunate like that. So within moments of arriving, you drop into The Stardust Diner just off Broadway and sell a story about being an aspirational musical star. You call yourself Maria - just like the one from West Side Story. Maria is innocent, naive and a little air-headed. But boy can she sing. They give you the job - and you sink your teeth into your new life. You donât just play the role, you become it. You make friends, kiss your co-workers and live off leftover pancakes and fries. But being the ingeune grows tiring for a while, so after nine months, you claim youâve been casted and leave without a goodbye to all those you have known. All thatâs left is a name badge in a shoe box at the end of your bed.
You sublet your apartment and move in somewhere else, where they donât ask too many questions. Youâre Jean now, a chain-smoking Parisian native. Getting to grips with the grit of the city, you live in Queens, working in a dive bar to make ends meet. You spend most of your days pouring beers and acting as a sort of therapist, listening to the woes of your customers â but their stories too. Such magical ones, that set your heart alive. You feel a little like Jane then, captivated by a fairy tale. You donât stay Jean for very long, but not because the accent is too hard or the hair dye begins to ruin your hair. You donât mean Jean because the adventure isnât enough. You need more than beer bottles and crumbled cigarette packets, hook-ups and half lived adventures. You need something better. Youâre not asking to become a magnate of Wall Street (itâs too structured), but would it be so bad to have a little of something else?
The night your life changes, the night you meet Zeus, youâre nameless. Youâve always taken great pride in your identity choices, musing for a long time â so when they ask for your name, outside the Warehouse (you picked it because itâs like nowhere youâve been before, very Carrie Bradshaw of you) you donât give them one, tapping the ash of your cigarette like youâre playing them. (You canât shake the last vestiges of Jean, after all). Iâve been watching you, she said. Youâve got the world wrapped around your fingers. Itâs true, youâve spent your evening flirting with random strangers and scoring free drinks, the eyes of the world beholding your charisma. Thatâs what Iâm looking for. Do you like adventures? You tried not to look too curious, to hide the spark in your eyes. Tossing the cigarette away, your breath was mist on the damp night air. Depends on what they are. The woman laughed. And what they can give you? Well I can offer you a slice of the world, served up on soliver â riches and powers and meaning. You hated to admit that you were drawn in by the sound of that â of playing out your own rise, dipping your claws into something with meaning. Iâm in the middle of a war â one I intend to win. But to do that, I need someone to be my eyes and ears on the other side, someone from outside the inner circle. Someone with an air of innocence. Someone who wants to be there. You paused, being a bond girl had never sounded very appealing, but 007 themselves? Perhaps a spy could be fun. Otherwise, why would fiction salivate about it so? What do you have in mind? The woman smiled, or snarled, it depended on your perspective. How do you feel about getting your hands dirty? You shrugged, indifferent. Morals had never mattered much â you never thought they would. You know, Iâll need your name. You laughed. Iâll give it to you tomorrow. Â
 Sure enough, when you turned up at the cusp of dawn, you were armed. Your name was Ash, a lucky name â and you were from New Jersey, just up the road. It was the closest to Jane you had ever been, fulfilling long held hopes. From that moment on, you never looked back.Â
Zeus taught you everything about the world you were about to possess. Both the flower and the serpent, the rose and the thorns, you became everything under their tuition, the best version of yourself that you had ever been. You words were intoxicating, your aura undeniable. You gave them â and Old Olympus â everything, all the parts of you â Ash and otherwise. In return, she let you into her world â darkness and shadows, daggers hidden in the dark, fine white powder. With her patronage, you blossomed. Without it, you were done â and after one tasted, you never wanted to leave. This truly was the role of a lifetime. You thought you knew better than Alice. You thought you wouldnât fall into Wonderland. After two months of careful training, you made your move, haunting Club Nyra until they noticed you. At first a bartender and then a dancer, it was months until you were taken to the one they called Hades. You had your eyes set on him from the start. A distant creatures, he gave nothing away. But he let you in. That was enough.
Since then, youâve spent every waking moment crawling your way in, a pest who wonât let go. Itâs been longer than you thought â the longest youâve spent as anyone (you may be losing yourself in the role) â and youâre only just beginning to gain their trust, to be allowed into the inner circle of the group. A low-level drug runner and part time Dancer for them, youâve not gotten the ultimate pay-off yet, the one that will strike the final blow. Zeus circles impatiently, craving each nugget of information. Youâve given her everything you have, chipping at New Olympus piece by piece. In the process, however, youâve discovered something beyond belief â completely unintentional. Youâve found a conscious. New Olympus arenât the backstabbing monsters Zeus made them out to be â and Zeus isnât the hallowed King she likes to parade as either. Thereâs weakness. New Olympus have been kind, even welcoming â and youâve started to feel unconscious working against them. Had this been any other role, you long would have taken off â leaving everything else, even yourself, behind. Instinct urges you to do just that, knowing you canât keep playing both sides forever and dread having to pick one of them. But something else urges you to stay. Youâre just not sure which side to stay on. Youâd better figure it out fast â before someone else does.
