Simon scarcely dared believe he had braved the filthy streets so soon after what he had already named The Great Coffee Shop Fiasco of 2011 and yet, here he was. It couldn't be helped. One of his prescriptions had run out, you see, and his refill had been sneezed on by the neighbor's cat, of all things. Simon couldn't help but think there was some sort of demonic intervention going on there. He was almost sure of it. He hated going out. Period. Having to do so without meticulous weeks of planning, like he usually did, was akin to torture.
He had almost gagged when he glanced at the bus stop a block from his place and saw two people eating food from a street vendor while at least three others coughed and hacked without covering their mouths. The person who stepped out of the cab he was going to take wiped or scratched their nose with their naked hand, and then dusted something off their shirt with those same fingers before placing their filthy hand all over the seat he was supposed to take and the door handle he was supposed to touch. Then the taxi driver yelled at him when he started spraying the whole inside of the cab with Lysol and sped off without him when Simon refused to get in before giving the seat and inside door a good wipe down with his anti-bacterial wipes.
Hence, he walked. Yes, all the way to St. Vincent's, which wasn't that far from his house, all things considered. Besides, Simon could use a spot of exercise, he supposed, and walking was way better than coming into contact with all the filthy germs people happily spread everywhere they went. He wore a disposable face mask to protect his airways, and his immaculate clothes should take care of the worst offenders of a sunny L.A. day. Good thing the pharmacy at St. Vincent's was open on Sundays. They were used to him there, and would allow him to exchange his meds for 'clean' ones. More often than not, they merely dispatched the same pills after transferring them into a new bottle, but Simon didn't need to know that. What was important was that they knew about his mysophobia and were willing to accommodate him, within reason.
The first leg of his trip was accomplished without any major disasters, so perhaps this was the reason why Simon lowered his guard, happy to be heading back to the safety of home. He was digging in his jacket for a fresh face mask to wear on the way home as he stepped out and onto the sidewalk. This is why he didn't see Zeus approaching. Not until it was too late. There he was, that big, somewhat emaciated and, good Lord in Heaven, perniciously filthy man; and he was reaching for Simon. Reaching. To touch. With those hands which had some dirt caked under the nails that Simon was sure had been encrusted there longer than he'd been alive. Touching him, and Simon could do nothing but stare and gape and flail a little as if it was all happening in slow motion. He tried to say no. He wanted to step away, to run, to scream.
The sound that eventually escaped Simon's throat might have been better suited to another type of creature entirely. Something not human. In fact, it sounded like a punctured bagpipe. On helium. The squeak was so high pitched, Simon had a good idea only dogs could have heard it. He then began sucking air in like his lungs were spasming. He was terrified to the point that his power bled out and away from the two gods. Screams were heard from inside the medical center. A wailing woman ran outside, trailing bandages, right into traffic. Horns blared, tires screeched, then impact. More people screamed as the sickening crunch of groaning metal was heard.
All through this, Simon was still trying to find the wherewithal to let out a proper scream. He was going to have to burn this jacket, wasn't he. After what seemed like forever, he managed another set of pitiful squeaks. "Bad touch! B-bad... pl-please don't touch me!"
But did the crazy person just call him grandson? Grandson, really? What kind of name was Deimos, anyway? And why did it sound so bloody familiar?