WHO: Apollo, Calliope, Thalia WHEN: Wednesday afternoon WHERE: A carpark in Whitestone WHAT: Help meeeee WARNINGS: Probably none
The Fates were funny bitches. Apollo was aware of this fact, as he collapsed against the 36 pack of toilet rolls in the back seat of his car. The Fates and the omens and those godsdamn birds - so godsdammed funny. He was painfully aware (and the pain was literal, too, pounding in his head) that if he hadn't followed the birds and turned up at Cin's door, Brody wouldn't have been anywhere near that bullet.
Funny. Godsdamned. Fuckers.
Apollo groaned, pressing his head back in agony, squashing the toilet rolls further. He felt like he had slit himself open with a paring knife and let everything that made him powerful slide right out. The space it left inside him was an alien feeling, and he hated it, he hated it so much but there was nothing he could godsdamn do.
He did not have a single regret about saving Brody's life, though. The boy needed to live. He was nothing if the boy didn't live. He did have regrets about how he'd explained it to Cin, yes, and the look she'd given him which had been thick with fear and confusion hurt almost as much as his head.
Her voice echoed, pleading: Don’t you come near us. Don’t you come anywhere near us ever again, you got that?
Fuck... fucking fuck. Apollo desperately wanted to find her, explain, make her see... everything... he'd convinced her to help when he'd dragged himself out of that wannabe grave, he could convince her, now, that he was only going to help her...
Fuck, it was difficult to hold a thought in his head longer than a few moments. He wanted her to come back, couldn't get much further than that.
He managed to message the Muses, and though he was feeling a bit desperate to keep talking to Erato about his love, he couldn't continue to focus on his phone for long enough to do it.
All he could do was crunch himself up in the back seat, weak as a kitten, and wait for rescue.