Lemongrass Doesn't Actually Taste Like Lemon and Sage Isn't Wise
Sweet and smokey, the scent of vanilla bean incense filled Janus' lungs. It had been so long since a mortal had come to visit his temple. And while he knew this would not last, that all too soon, the cold stone walls would scream their silence; that his altar would lay barren again, dusty and heavy in its emptiness, perhaps because he knew it would not last, he relished the worship while he could.
In a world of simple black and white opinions, of video evidence and history etched in bits of zeroes and ones, there was no room left for a god of duality, for a god of sometimes and it depends.
There was no room for a god like him.
And yet, there in his temple, knelt a sole pilgrim. By dress and complexion, he appeared to have traveled far to visit these halls that once threatened to burst at the seams with worshipers from every edge of the earth. But this visitor was the first in… Janus shook his head he did not know how long.
But of course he did. He knew to the day. The last sojourner to cross his threshold had been over six decades.
So Janus listened to his prayers, absorbing his entreaties, and considered how he might reward this faithful man. He tried not to think about how this worshiper might very well be his last.
~
Roman knelt, forehead brushing the prayer stone at the center of the temple without letting it support his weight. He could hardly believe his luck, his fortune, his blessing to have been able to reach the prayer stone on his very first visit to God's temple.
"Hear me," he chanted. "Hear me, hear me, hear me."
Stone scraped stone and Roman squeezed his eyes shut. One was never to look upon the altar doors when they opened. "Hear me, hear me, hear me," he whispered and listened.
Footsteps, dull, heavy, strong, shook the ground beneath him and he held his breath.
A presence had entered the temple. And it did not come from the parishioners' door behind him.
"How can I hear you when you do not speak?" God asked.
"I... I..." Roman's mouth had gone dry and his neck and back aches but he would not look, could not look. "I do not know," he finally said.
God chuckled. Chuckled? He made God laugh?
"Does it please you that I do not know?" he asked, silently cursing himself for impertinence.
"Perhaps," God said. Footsteps moved past him. Decades of dust settled in the seams around the prayer stone, vibrating with God's movement. "Perhaps it is merely your presence that pleases me."
God fell silent, waiting. Waiting for him to respond? But He did not ask him a question.
"You have not come seeking wisdom? Riches?" God asked. "Supplicants do not come to see me without a request."
"Wisdom will not come from asking for it and riches are..." Roman sighed, his arms and hands the only parts of him emptier than his coin purse. "Riches are fleeting."
"And healing?"
"Even God cannot heal what was given freely," he whispered, his brother's note in his pocket next to his heart.
"You only wished to speak with me," God repeated, quieter. A melody in his voice as though it were not just him speaking.
"That is all I wish," Roman insisted, temptation sweet and so close. If he turned his head he might glimpse God's robes whispering by his ear. "I have come far."
"I can tell..." Feather light, God touched his cloak and Roman's cheeks burned with shame over the state of his clothes.
"When I return tomorrow, I will have bathed and washed my clothes in the river," he promised. "I should not have brought the dirt of the road with me inside your temple, but I could not wait after such a long journey."
"Could not wait for what?" God asked. Was this a test? Roman didn't think so. God sounded... curious.
"For my chance to speak to you."
A sound Roman couldn't interpret echoed against the walls the God fell silent. He did not move away and so Roman remained as he was.
Finally, God spoke. "Then go, my traveller. Go and bathe and return tomorrow at dawn."
"I—I will!" Roman stammered. He waited for the sound of the altar doors before he rose and hurried from temple toward the setting sun's golden beacon.
He had much to do before morning came.
~
Hidden behind a pillar, Janus watched the pilgrim rise and dash away. He'd respected the old customs, still and eyes down as Janus put away God's Feet and Voice, the clay automation safely locked behind stone.
Morning would come and perhaps his pilgrim would, too. Perhaps this one would stay when he showed his true face.
This is a Human Sander Sides Au, I came up with the idea after watching Katy Perry's Chained to The Rhythm music video.
This has some ideas from it, but will not be exactly or follow the story line of the music video.
Chapter Warning: Hospitals, war, nuclear war, needles, drugs, memory lost, Deceit (please tell me if I miss anything)
[Deceits name is Damian. Also I wrote this on my phone, so I apologize for any mistakes]
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Prologue
Everything was fuzzy, that's the one thing he could tell for sure. His thoughts, his vision... his ears were ringing, his eyes watered from a overly bright light... there was a blurry object above him, and something seemed to be touching his cheek in a repetitive motion.
As his eyes started to focused, he noticed that the object was a person, a person with glasses and freckles across their nose. Behind the person were walls that were a blinding white, and their were wearing clothes that matched. Causing it too look like there was just a floating head to his tired eyes.
Who is that head? Wait, no person, if there is a head, there has to be a body, right? His eyes bugging out as his scrambled mind tried to connect the peices. However it was like trying to finish a puzzle with only a sixth of the pieces.
The motion on his cheek had stopped and there seemed to be fingers combing through his hair.
An almost comforting, "shhhhh, it's okay, everything is okay," cut through the ringing in his ears. He could hear ugly hiccuping and sobs, who was crying though? The person wasn't crying, and it was only him and them there...
The stranger brought a tissue up to his cheek. Oh, he must have been the one crying, as his strained eyes saw the tissue come away wet. He looked away out of slight embarrassment, not surprised that the rest of the walls were the same blinding white.
Everything slowly went black, had his eyes been covered? Why couldn't he see? Was he going blind?
Yet he embraced the dark, which was oddly comforting after the bright white... Wait no, he needed to figure out why he was here. And who he was. Wait, who is he? His brain went into overdrive, like a squirrel on coffee trying to find the exact place he had buried his nuts last season.
After a moment, perhaps it was a few moment's, he couldn't tell, the name Damian popped up in neon lights in his head. And with the name, came a memories. Not a lot, but a few that helped him get a grip on things.
He was being spun around a wooden floor, as hearty giggles filled the air, a genuine smile on his face. The memory fluttered across the back of his eyelids before it changed, There was a spraypaint can of yellow in his hand, and a brick wall in front of him covered in colors, a can rattled next too him as a voice said something he couldn't understand, that one disappeared to reveal another one, he was walking with a couple of other dudes, all of them wearing matching, torn and worn, jackets, with the words "Eat The Rich" messily hand-sewn on the back, this time the shapes reformed, into a mess before clearing, he was sitting in a classroom, and his classmates were dead silent as all of them were watching the television that was mounted on the wall. A news reporter was speaking in a rushed voice before the screen was filled with an image of a mushroom cloud.
His thoughts where painfully clear now, the war! Did he get hurt? What of his friends or his family? Does he have a family? If he did, his mind could not recall it.
The light fluttered back into his vision, as he opened his eyes, having finally figured out that he had simply had closed them. The person was still there, and now there was an odd air of familiar around them.
"Wh-where am I?" A horse and cracking voice asked, that he recognized as his own. "What's hap-" he coughed, his throat feeling raw and dry. His arm jerking as his body shook with the action, a slight pinching sensation in his inner elbow. "What happened wi-with the war?"
The person, let out a gentle laugh, "You are at the hospital, sweetie. You just had a bad bump on your head."
Damian didn't think that was right, it didn't feel correct. But that would explain why everything seemed so vague.
The nurse stood up next to an IV bag stand, a needle in their hand. "You just need to sleep it off, honey." Their voice washed over him like honey, as he watched as the IV bag seemed to be turning from clear to blue. He blinked a couple of times, as a sugary, "Rest darling," flooded his head.
His eyes struggled for a moment before closing in defeat. "Good job," the praise floated around his head like a balloon, pretty and shiny. Distracting. Things started to get fuzzy again, worries of the war, what was happening or even if his friends are okay floated out of his grasp. But he couldn't bring himself to hold onto them. So they just drifted away.
Moments later Damian drifted off into a sweet, dreamless, drug induced sleep.
The nurse checked his vitals, made a few notes on a clipboard, then left the room, closing the door with a soft click. Then they went to inform the boss that another patient was ready.
Written (very late) for the @sanderssidesgiftxchange for @prince-rowan-of-the-forest. Thank you for your patience as I struggled through the edits for this little Roceit Superhero/Supervillain tale.
Rated: G - WC: 5147
~
Torchlight flickered through the third floor windows at the National Archives secured repository. A little after midnight, it was well-past visitor hours for the display levels and only museum staff were permitted on the upper level. Easily visible from the front gardens, the lights danced, announcing the presence of ne'er-do-wells skulking about in the dark museum.
That was the thieves' second mistake.
Their first mistake was daring another break-in attempt so soon after the smash and grab at the Natural History museum last week. And right in the heart of Prince Hollywood's own city.
It would be their last.
Prince Hollywood leapt up from the bushes where he'd been watching the building, cape fluttering in the damp spring wind. He landed softly on the open windowsill—likely how the burglars got in—and slipped inside. Three people, dressed head to toe in black, bustled about near the shelves housing the Southern Ignots. One turned, his profile revealing the ornate voice changer curled over his neck and mouth. The Silver Serpent! Hollywood might've guessed there was only one villain in this city audacious enough to attempt this break-in.
Cast in shadow, the Serpent didn't see him and he returned his attention to the large crate his henchmen carried to the door.
"Freeze!" Hollywood shouted.
The Serpent's lackeys froze on the spot, but glowing yellow eyes turned to him, the rest of his face illuminated with his torch's glow.
"I knew it was you behind these thefts, you… you fiend!"
"Carry on," the Serpent muttered, flicking his torch toward the door.
"Halt!" Hollywood shouted, but they continued.
The Serpent crossed his arms, torch pointed down at over-polished shoes. "Or…" he prompted, laughter in his voice.
Hollywood slid out of the shadows, letting the cold moonlight shine on the emblem on his chest. "We'll see who's laughing when you're on your way to prison, you snake!" He stepped closer. "Your dastardly deeds are ov—" Too late, he felt a shimmer near his ankle. Before he could react, something—a rope, perhaps?—dusted in gallium tightened on his calf and hauled him up in the air.
He hung, spinning slowly, nearly six feet above the floor.
Laughing, the Serpent approached. "It looks like you're the one who's over, your Highness."
"My name is Prince," he hissed through gritted teeth. He tried to curl up, stretching with weakened muscles to tug at the binding on his leg. After a few attempts, he went slack, gravity too much to fight. Definitely gallium. And a lot of it.
"Besides, prison is where convicts go," the Serpent continued as though Hollywood hadn't spoken. He walked a slow circle around the hanging superhero, torchlight bouncing with each jaunty step. He was enjoying this. One more item on the debt column for when he finally got out of this. "The last I heard, I was guaranteed to be considered innocent before proven guilty." The Serpent chuckled, tapping Hollywood's cheek with two gloved fingers. "Your Highness, I believe you meant to say jail."
His proximity to the rare metal left his skin feeling paper thin, the friction of the rope around his leg burning. But the Serpent's touch was gentle, his gloves soft as he traced just under the edge of the mask concealing his identity. Shaking off the Serpent's hand, he growled back, "Let me down, you fiend!"
"Temper, temper, your Highness," he tutted, removing his hand. "All in good time."
They both looked up at at a soft cough from the hall. Another of his henchmen stood watching, this one dressed in a black suit covered with a long white lab coat. The Chemist! Since when were they working together?
"We've located the last of the artifacts in the basement reliquary," he said, clipped words sounding more like a robot than ever before. Hollywood craned his neck and spotted a bit of the same voice-changing circuitry the Serpent wore. Damn. "Ready when you are."
"Excellent work," he said and the Chemist disappeared from Hollywood's view. The Serpent turned again to Hollywood. Head tilted, he sighed. "I regret this is the time for us to take our leave, your Highness."
He tried again to reach the rope twisted around his leg but succeeded only in getting a bit of the gallium dust on his fingers, numbing his hand. He fell back and scowled at the Serpent. "The museum's antiquities collection is worth more to the city than whatever you can sell it for. Surely even a thief such as yourself must know that."
"Oh, you would be surprised at who else wants this collection," the Serpent purred, nudging his shoulder. The light touch sent him into a slow spin. "There are some who'd pay through the nose at auction for some of these pieces."
"And you'll keep the rest of the 'loot' for yourself, I suppose?" Hollywood spat, eyes closed against a growing dizziness.
"Really now, your Highness. How little you know me," he huffed. "I'm an autumn. I only wear gold. All of this collection will go to those who want it most."
The spinning stopped and Hollywood cracked open his eyes, glaring back. "Only a terror like you would deprive the world of priceless cultural artifacts all so you can make a tidy profit!"
The Serpent made a show of examining his nails through his gloves then hummed, "Yes. You're right about that. Well, this had been fun, but all good things, etc., etc.," he said, waving his hand vaguely. He looked just past Hollywood's shoulder and nodded. Twisting, Hollywood spotted the hulking figure heading toward him too slowly to dodge and the last thing he saw was a large, green-gloved hand covering his mouth.
~
Hollywood came to sprawled on a pile of coats on the floor of the museum check room. He jolted upright—too fast—and slumped back against the wall. Fuzzy words, Lost and Found floated before his eyes and he grunted. The Serpent's joke wasn't very funny.
Panic shot through his veins at the thought of that two-toned terror and he reached for his mask. Still firmly in place. Surely that devil took a peek while he was unconscious? He tugged at the edges, spirit gum still perfectly sealed. Unless the Serpent completed all of his robberies with a bottle of the stuff in his pocket, he'd left his mask undisturbed.
Which was more than he could say for the museum's antiquities collection. Even one crate was too much for him to have gotten away with, adding on to whatever the Chemist had found… Hollywood shook his head. Whatever they'd found they'd need to sell to make the theft worth it. Perhaps there was still a chance he could track them through the art markets.
Pushing up to his feet, Hollywood was surprised to feel his full strength returned. His suit leg was damp and clean… They'd actually taken the time to wash away any lingering dust from their rope. This really was just a big game to him, wasn't it?
The night sky outside was still mostly dark, with pink blooming in the east. He couldn't be spotted here. Wincing in anticipation of screeching emergency alarms, he pushed his way through the nearest exit. Nothing. Blinking in surprise at the bar, he spotted a bit of wire poking out, the edge smooth and freshly cut. So that's how they'd got in. Shoulders slumped, he made his way to a clear spot and took off for home.
Without a sound, Hollywood touched down on the roof and thumbed the lock on the emergency door. Without the cape and mask, feigning paranoia over stalker fans had made it easy to convince the property manager to install it just after his big break. Before then, he'd left the door unlocked, reliant on old spy tricks and a nerve-wracking level of vigilance each time he returned home.
A close call ten years ago taught him to leave all signs of his secret identity at home. Flying in the skies mean flying without any trappings of his human-appearing life. No keys, no wallet. No phone. When he was young, he'd thought he could keep that little rectangle of plastic and glass safe.
He'd been wrong.
The door locked behind him and he slumped back against it. He sighed as microwave's clock ticked over to 5:00. Damn. He was due at his new manager's office by 10 tomorrow, well, this morning. Just enough time for a shower and a couple hours of sleep. It would be enough. It had to be. He'd already rescheduled this introductory session three times and no matter how much this Mr. Jack said he wanted to represent him, surely his patience had begun to run a little thin.
~
One small, surreptitious flight later, Hollywood made it to his new manager's office with thin seconds to spare. After double checking his hair in a stairwell mirror, he took a deep breath then, shoulders back and smile at the ready, slipped into his actor persona. Tugging open the heavy oak door, he admired the polished gold lettering, J. Jack & Associates. At least he was in the right place.
"I'd know that face anywhere." A low, smooth voice greeted him from the other side. "Roman Reyes." Tall, with soft brown eyes and a smirk that said he knew more about you than you wanted him too, his brother's old college roommate approached, hand outstretched. "It's so good to see you again!"
Head whipping back over his shoulder as though he could read the lettering on the door through the wood—he could, but Janus didn't know that—Hollywood blinked back at him. "You—you changed your name."
Laughing, Janus gave his hand a little squeeze as they shook. "'Janus Sokrovishche' doesn't quite roll off the tongue the same way," he smiled. "But we all make concessions with our names in this business, don't we?"
Hollywood could get lost in those eyes. Up close, he spotted flecks of gold and three different shades of brown behind impossibly long lashes. Janus hadn't let go of his hand and was now practically holding it, gently sandwiched between his own. Janus seemed to notice at the same moment and he slowly lowered his hands and released it.
He mourned the loss more than he should, reminding Hollywood yet again of all the reasons he'd kept his distance from his brother's flirtatious roommate all those years ago.
"Well," Janus said, smirk returning. "Let's get comfortable in my office while we go over the new contract. Virgil?" he called without dropping his gaze.
His last manager's assistant popped in from the a doorway on the left. "Yeah boss? Oh, Roman! Glad you finally made it!"
"What are—" Hollywood shook his head, looking between them. "Since when do you work for Mr. Jack?"
"If you saw what he was paying me, you'd understand," Virgil drawled.
"Indeed," Janus murmured, drawing back Hollywood's attention. His eyes were still on him, scanning his features like they held some secret. They did, but Janus had no reason to know that. "Virgil, will you order us some coffees from downstairs? Get one for yourself, too. We've got a lot of work ahead of us." It was only when he winked that Hollywood noticed the deep shadows through Janus' artfully applied make up.
"You got it," Virgil said, giving them each a little two-fingered salute. "Back in a bit."
Alone together, Janus' crooked smile softened and he pushed open another heavy oak door, this one simply labelled J. Jack. "Please come in."
The office inside was even larger than the lobby. Centered before the giant floor-to-ceiling window stood a massive wooden desk, polished until it gleamed. It was spotless, adorned with only a built-in computer monitor, a fountain pen stand, and a small antique-looking globe. The overstuffed leather chair behind it looked more like a throne, high-backed and commanding. Surprisingly, the visitor's chair Janus ushered him into, though smaller, was comfortable and kept him at eye-level with Janus when he took his own seat.
"Do you hear from your brother much?" Janus asked, opening a drawer behind the desk and pulling out a leather-bound portfolio.
"Oh, well, this morning, actually," Hollywood shrugged. "He's backpacking… out near Lima. But, yes, he called me." The sight of his not-quite-twin's number on his caller ID had been a pleasant surprise. The relief in his brother's voice when he'd picked up an even greater one. He'd covered quickly with a raunchy joke about staying up too late with his latest conquest, but… Remus had sounded genuinely happy to hear he was alright.
"Excellent," Janus nodded, something warmer than he'd expected behind his eyes. Clearing his throat, he opened the portfolio and turned it to face Hollywood. "Shall we begin?"
~
They'd barely begun to review when Virgil returned with their coffees—and a small sweet-smelling tray.
"Once Pat heard who was up here," Virgil had smiled, shaking his head, "He insisted I bring up some cookies and sandwiches."
Janus and Virgil exchanged a look that Hollywood couldn't quite read. Was he concerned about the cost? He glanced around the office. Gold fountain pen, leather chairs, well-equipped bar where the entire thing was top shelf. Unlikely.
He looked back and found Janus' eyes on him. Ah. No, he's just like his old manager and concerned about his diet. Hollywood tilted his head, wondering the best way to explain his non-human physiology made it easy to maintain an inhuman physique for the cameras.
"Have you eaten?" Janus asked, indicating the tray as Virgil set a coffee next to him. Two milks, just the way he liked it.
Hollywood gave them his best autograph-line smile. "I take care of the vessel," he winked. "You needn't worry about that." Nodding at the contract between them. "I trust you have a clause in there to cover it."
Janus frowned and looked back at him with narrowed eyes. He exchanged one more look with Virgil, who silently excused himself with another little salute. Bringing his own cup—tea, by the herby-scent of it—Janus sauntered around the desk and took the chair next to him.
"You should not 'trust' me with anything until you've read the contract," he said, setting a large sandwich and two cookies in front of Hollywood before taking a sandwich for himself. "I suspect you'll find I don't work the way your former manager did." Janus smiled at him then, soft. Warm.
Hollywood swallowed hard, unable to break away from his gaze. He didn't want to.
"Here," he said after a moment, passing Hollywood a napkin. "Let us break bread like civilized people and then go through our new contract."
They spent hours pouring over every page. Without any visible prompt from Janus, Virgil returned mid-day through with tea and a tray of finger foods. Finally, cups and minds drained, they reached the final page.
Hollywood read it three times before he finally asked. "This says I can end our contract at any time without cause but you need to provide me written notice a year in advance." He frowned at Janus. "Am I interpreting this correctly?" His last contract had been 'at will.' With an N.D.A.
"You're reading it correctly." That little smile was back. Not a smirk, not a leer. Not even starstruck. Just... Gentle. Real.
"That hardly seems fair to you," Hollywood looked back at the contract. What had he missed?
"I get paid when you get paid," Janus explained as he signed the contract with a flourish. "This only incentives me to be sure you are happy with the work you do that pays the both of us." He offered him the pen, eyebrow raised.
Hollywood accepted the pen, weighing it in his hand. The nib was gold, as was most of the barrel. Wordlessly, he signed above the printed name, Roman Reyes.
"Excellent," Janus murmured, offering his hand to shake. Smooth and a little cool, his hand curled around Hollywood's just right. "I'll get a copy and you retain the originals. Then we can discuss your goals and—“
After a quick knock, the door opened and Virgil stuck his head through. "Hey, Boss?" Janus looked up, sharp. But not annoyed. Curious.
"That guy from Sotheby's is on line three for you," he said, pointing to the flashing light on his—silenced?—desk phone.
Sotheby's?
The auction house had been on the short list of places to watch for the stolen artifacts. He caught Janus watching him, waiting for him to politely excuse himself, perhaps?
"I should let you take that," he said, rising from his seat. "I can return tomorrow, perhaps... in the afternoon?" He might be in for another late night.
"That would be most helpful," Janus said with a little bow even as he reached for the gold-trimmed receiver. "I appreciate your kindness. Virgil will confirm a time with you."
~
The remainder of his visit ended in a flurry of scheduling interspersed with several phone calls. "Yes... Yes, it's not a rumor." Virgil winked at him and Hollywood suddenly felt less bad for listening. "Mr. Reyes is now exclusively represented by J. Jack. Mr. Jack has an opening next week..."
Hollywood turned to leave but Virgil gently tugged his sleeve. "Just a moment," he mouthed, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder as he clicked and tapped one-handed on his computer.
As Hollywood waited, his eyes darted over to the inner office door, where Janus' conversation had grown louder.
"Tomorrow morning at ten works for me." Hollywood didn't need to see him—his new manager—to envision the way his lips curled as he spoke. "And it's for the entire lot? No piecemeal?"
Janus' voice paused, listening. After a moment, he chuckled. "Very good. I will be there tomorrow."
"So tomorrow night?" Phone call finished, Virgil sat with his hands folded on the desk and smiled up at him.
Cheeks aflame, Hollywood realized he's been caught eavesdropping. "Wha—I..." He drew in a slow breath and smiled. "Are you asking me out?"
"Oh, no," Face dusted an adorable pink, Virgil laughed. "Nah, Boss Man would have my head for that." He jerked a thumb toward Janus' office. "In case Mr. Jack's other plans go long, will you be available tomorrow night for a dinner meeting?"
Hollywood's eyes flicked over to the still-closed office door. A take-the-lot auction was guaranteed to garner a lower price than selling each item individually, no matter the skill and prestige of the auction house. It would also be undeniably faster.
It sounded precisely like the kind of trade off someone who was desperate to dump stolen goods and get out of the country before they were caught. Tomorrow morning at ten… Hollywood might not yet know what his night looked like, but he certainly knew what he'd be doing tomorrow morning. If the Silver Serpent's theatrics were any indication, he'd likely be in attendance at tomorrow's auction.
And so would Hollywood.
"Tomorrow night looks like it's going to be wide open." He gave Virgil his best grin and leaned in close. "Say… you wouldn't happen to know where that Sothesby's auction is going to be, would you?"
~
Dressed in a rose-red blazer and slim-cut turtleneck, Prince Hollywood ducked past the winding valet line outside the auction hall and down the alley to the staff entrance. He flashed a grin—and a fifty—to the porter out for a smoke and he waved him in through the propped open door. The previous night's patrol had been unusually quiet, granting him a better night's rest than he'd had since the start of this nasty string of museum robberies. The extra sleep plus the tantalizing promise of finally apprehending the Silver Serpent put an extra pep in his step and soon he'd woven his way through the maze of greyspace out to the central auction hall. He selected a seat near the back, his other-wordly height advantage providing him a vantage of the room's entire occupants.
"Welcome one and all," the auctioneer began as soon as Hollywood sat. "We have something special for you today, a full lot of Incan antiquities, certified to date from fifteenth through sixteenth century South America. the collection is valued at well over five point five million dollars." A thick hush fell over the gathering, and a Ken and Barbie-type couple sat near the front and dressed in coordinated suits nodded to each other.
Janus was in the second to last row, watching them. It didn't look like he'd noticed Hollywood, and he didn't look in his direction.
"Included in the lot is this silver totem depicting Huari and Inti…" His assistant lifted several engraved silver pieces nestled on a black velvet tray. "These are the only known specimens in the world."
"Shall we start the bidding at one point five?" Like leaves rustling in a breeze, the auction paddles remained low, but ready as their holders waited for the number to drop. "One point four?" The auctioneer prompted, looking pointedly at Janus before scanning the crowd for any takers. "One point three-five?"
The interested couple shifted and, for a moment, Hollywood was convinced the man had looked over his shoulder directly at Janus. But he made no move to bid.
"One point two?" The auctioneer's confidence began to slip. "One point one, then."
"Half," Janus said, voice quiet but carrying throughout the hall.
"Sir, the bid is at one point one," the auctioneer insisted, addressing Janus with eyes beseeching the crowd. No-one would meet his eyes. "Anyone?" he said, gavel twitching for a moment before he quietly laid it on its side. "These artifacts would be the centerpiece of any collection. Never exhibited. Absolutely priceless and revered by the Chechua of the Andes."
The attendees sat in silence, a few risking a glance back at Janus. Every paddle remained flat on the holder's lap, hands folded primly over top.
"Half going once?" The auctioneer eyed the gathering, pleading with his eyes. He hadn't even picked up the gavel. Swallowing hard, he called slowly, "Half going twice?"
Janus smiled, one eyebrow cocked.
The auctioneer swallowed hard—hard enough for Hollywood's hyper-sensitive ears to pick up—and picked up his gavel. "And sold!" he cried with a soft bang. "For half a million dollars to Mr. J. Jack."
Janus stood then and nodded to the auctioneer. Smiling at the room, he straightened his lapel, the gold threading glinting under the hall's old-fashioned chandelier. Then he turned and looked right at Hollywood. Inclining his head with another of his soft smiles, he winked at him, then left.
The room erupted in hurried whispers as the attendees followed Janus' gaze and saw him, Roman Reyes, quietly attending a Sotheby's auction. A few attendees sporting bright orange Press passes muttered urgently into their recording devices. Another swapped lenses on his camera.
Hollywood slipped out before any had the gumption to approach him.
~
A handful of news outlets picked up breathless reports of his attendance at the invite-only auction, but his appearance was quickly eclipsed by Janus' announcement of his intent to donate the entire lot to the Chechua Historical society, an indigenous-owned and controlled not-for-profit that sought to repatriate artifacts stolen from their ancestral lands.
A single news report hinted of speculation the Sotheby's auction might have been related to the recent spate of museum break-ins, but even that article's use of the words 'allegedly' and 'coincidental' dismissed the connection as pure happenstance.
Hollywood was unconvinced.
"You're quite newsworthy this afternoon," Hollywood remarked when Janus invited him into his office.
"Oh, I am?" he smiled, laughter in his voice. "What could I have done that is more newsworthy than signing you as a client?" He gestured at one of the overstuffed armchair on the other side of his office, two steaming cups of tea already sitting on the low table between them.
Hollywood chuckled. He hadn't missed that each article he'd read had ended with an announcement that he had just finished contract negotiations with Roman Reyes, leading man and star of the three upcoming feature films. Virgil hadn't even looked up when he'd entered, fielding a seemingly never-ending stream of phone calls.
"Was that all this is?" Hollywood asked. "A publicity stunt? You know…" Thrumming his fingers, he inched forward in his seat. While revealing his true identity was out of the question, he couldn't allow his new manager—or his brother's friend—to become ensnared in the Silver Serpent's nefarious deeds. Even tangentially. Even if Janus had somehow managed to find a positive outcome. "I read an article these artifacts might not have been obtained legally."
Picking up his own tea, Janus traced the gilt flowers adorning the delicate handle for a long moment before speaking. "They had not," he said, thoughtful. "Not originally. The Incan Silvers are five thousand miles away from their home. By winning that auction, I can play a tiny part in getting them into the proper owners' hands." He sipped at his tea and smiled. "If I am able to use that to gain a little publicity for you in return, is that really so bad?"
"But…" Uncertainty, sharp and unfamiliar, stabbed at his gut and he sat up a little straighter. "The museum that owned them—"
"How do you suppose those artifacts got to that museum in the first place?" Janus set down his tea and leaned closer, brushing his fingers over the back of Hollywood's hand. His hand was warm and Hollywood looked down, briefly tempted to flip his own hand around and grab on to it before he could pull away.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Janus' hand lingered over his, resting over top. A shiny gold band dotted with bright yellow citrines adorned his index finger. It matched the gold stud in his left ear. Gold.
'I'm an autumn. I only wear gold. All of this collection will go to those who want it most.'
Hollywood's heart thudded in his ears and he pushed to his feet. "You!"
Nodding slowly, Janus rose. "Yes?" He met Hollywood's eyes, still calmly smiling.
"You're the Silver Serpent?" He stepped back, shins hitting the chair.
"Who?" Janus—the Serpent—asked, one hand pressed to his chest. "I can't possibly know who you mean." He titled his head, smile growing. "Your Highness."
"You fiend!" Hollywood hissed, eyes darting to the door separating them from Virgil. He had to get the other man out of the Serpent's clutches. "I can't believe I almost fell for your—"
"Now, Roman, calm down," the Serpent murmured. He approached, slowly, with both hands up. Like Hollywood was some spooked horse on set.
Eyes now locked on the Serpent, he slid away from the seat and stepped backwards toward the door. "Don't try to talk your way out of this, I'll—"
"Hey, Boss," Virgil called through the door just before it opened. "You have a—"
"Virgil, run!" Hollywood called and rushed toward him, scooping him up as he dashed to the elevators.
"Ro! Put me down right now!" Virgil snapped, whacking his shoulder until he set him back on his feet. "What do you think you're doing?"
"You don't know who he is!" Hollywood moved his body between Virgil and the Serpent. "I'm getting you out of here!"
"What?" Face scrunched in confusion, he shook his head. "What are you talk—"
"He knows." The Serpent's voice rose above their bickering.
Hollywood's heart sank to his feet as Virgil moved to the Serpent's side. "It's about time."
"No," he muttered, leaning back against the elevator buttons. "No, he's gotten to you?"
"Ro," Virgil began, stepping closer and reaching for him. "Hear him out. He's—"
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Hollywood backed inside and slapped the 'close doors' button. He pressed every floor and then, before they could guess where he'd gotten off, he pushed up through the emergency hatch and out of the elevator shaft.
He had to figure out his next steps.
~
Hollywood kept to the rooftops, leaping between the taller structures through a winding path to one of his less-traveled safe houses. The Serpent knew his address. He couldn't return there. Finally, he arrived, three miles south of his home and five miles north of the Serpent's office. He let himself in, locked the door, and drew the shades before flicking on the light. He'd just sat down when his phone rang. His heart sang when he saw the caller ID.
"How's it hangin' Ro Bro?" The phone crackled with Remus' laughter. "Ya miss me yet?"
"Ha! You wish!" he laughed back, not quite as brightly as he'd wanted. Right now, he wanted his brother as far from this mess as he could manage. "The thin air up in the Andes must be—"
The Andes. The Andes?! The stolen artifacts were originally from the Andes.
Hollywood sank down into a chair and the phone slipped from his grip, landing with a quiet thud at his feet.
"Ro? Ro! C'mon, man!" Re's tinny voice spilled from the earpiece, distant and echoing.
No. No no no no, no! Re couldn't be all mixed up in this. He'd tried so hard to shield his human brother from his second life, his real life. Over twenty years, he'd never revealed his secret, cheated and snuck around, feigned weakness. Lied when Re found that old baby photo from before he'd arrived. Before he'd joined their family.
"Ro?" A pounding on the door drew Hollywood from his spiral. Re's voice wasn't coming from the phone anymore. "Ro! Lemme in!"
Moving automatically, Hollywood's feet took him to the door. He opened it without looking.
Backpack slung over his shoulder, Re stood on the doorstep. Flanked by Janus and the cheerful little barista from his favorite coffee shop. "Hey, Ro Bro… Let's talk."
~
Spring came late to Sapporo the following year and Hollywood stood in the shadows beneath gently flowering sakura trees outside the capitol's art museum. In a cynical attempt at appeasement, the National Archives had launched a global tour of the Parthenon Marbles. Security at the first three cities had been airtight. Even his brother and his half-mad, half-genius partner had been unable to find a whole in the defenses at any of the first museums they visited.
It seemed to have led the last museum's curators to let down their guard.
The team's torches danced against darkened windows above Hollywood's head as he scanned the street for approaching peace officers, radio at the ready. The city was quiet. Not even the stray dogs were out this late.
"Your Highness?" His earpiece crackled, Janus' true voice wrapping around him like a blanket. "We're nearly done in here. How are things from where you're standing?"
Hollywood chuckled, eyes still sharp on the street. "Boring without you."
"I see." A low chuckle poured over the speaker. "We'll just have to see about that, won't we?"
