Xenios estate, during the Heteraidia festival
@zagreusrhea
Sisyphus spots the figure when he’s out smoking in the side garden, off the left wing of the Xenios estate. Someone is crouched in the grass by the far wall– wall in the symbolic sense, the actual perimeter of the inner estate only sectioned off by a bright pink line drawn across the grass in laser beams, to show the gardeners where to avoid driving their lawnmowers over the little security bots stationed like sentries every few yards, low-sitting metallic orbs the size of basketballs that could protect the house from an invading army if they had to.
He recognized the orbs for what they were the moment he set foot on the grounds, remembers glimpsing the plans for them one evening while cleaning up around the top level of Ceto, specifications sent in by some security startup from Arcadia hoping to impress Poseidon enough to curry some attention, maybe get a spot on his team. The bots had been discarded by the Aegean crowd without a second glance, nothing so impressive in the design to catch the sea king’s eye, but the image of those plans had stuck in Sisyphus’ mind, mostly because of the bright red warning labels scrawled all over them.
Sisyphus’ spot in the garden is close enough to the person by the wall that he sees the glint of the penknife against the laser beam when they bring it out. Recognizes the crouching figure at about the same time he sees them slot the knife tip between two of the plates on the bot’s casing, angling it to pry up the metal edge.
It’s just a moment before Sisyphus has covered the distance at a sprint, moving before he can consciously think about it. He slides to his knees next to Zagreus, snatching the bot from his hands and instinctively clutching it to his chest, as if the little extra distance between Zag and the bot would do anything to protect him were it to go off. “Woah, woah.” he says, tone going sharp and harsh, system still flooded with adrenaline. “You trying to die tonight, kid? Fate’s tits, put down the penknife.”
He doesn’t wait for Zagreus to move, snatching the knife from him with his free hand and snapping it shut, then sliding it in his own pocket. He busies himself with carefully replacing the bot in the indentations in the ground where it used to sit. When he’s done he wipes his hands off on his trousers, only then bringing himself to glance in Zagreus’ direction.
“Do you know the kinds of ammunition they put in these things? They’re harmless if you’re not trying to break into the place, but start poking around in the gears and they’ll explode in your hands.” His voice has, thankfully, leveled out. Sisyphus gets back to his feet and steps quickly away from Zagreus, ignoring the wet patches on his knees from the grass. Digs his hands in his pockets. He’s vaguely aware that his irritation is the only thing making their proximity bearable; he coaxes it like a flame, before any other feeling can inch in its place. “Anyway, if you cross the lasers from either side they’ll just alert security. They’re not going to shoot you on sight unless they sense you holding a fucking– machete or something. Unless you don’t want security to know you’re sneaking out, in which case– high price for blowing off your own pretty face, but hey, what do I know?”
