Percy was more than a little bit ashamed to admit that he hadn’t really explored the headquarters of Pantheon Industries beyond his dormitory, the adjacent floors, and the office space he had to himself for his work, over the last few months, as an unpaid intern.

Truth be told, Percy had always wanted to walk around and see what the scientists of Pantheon Industries were working on. He had been, however, quite afraid of any potential security roadblocks that needed biometric scans for authorization. Although, Percy thought, in retrospect, it had all been for naught. As he had come to learn, Jason had known of his identity all along, after all.

“Like what you see?” said Jason, startling Percy from his thoughts when they stopped momentarily in front of what seemed to be a large window into a hangar.

There was a loud hiss as the hydraulic lock on the ramp and the airtight seal engaged. There were a few moments of darkness and silence broken only by the sound of Percy’s laboured breathing that followed. Jason looked down at the young man he carried in his arms, barely older than a boy, and felt a burning anger in the pit of his stomach.

A soft ding played over the speakers as a green strip illuminated the floor in front of Jason. He suspected Tempest was just booting up, but he didn’t really have the time for that. The strip of green light stretched forward to the airlock, illuminating the circular frame of the hydraulic doors.

“Tempest,” said Jason, inquisitively, as he walked toward the airlock. “Lights on, please.”

A soft male voice filtered in through the speakers. “Of course, sir. If you would forgive the delay. I am currently integrating the new ion thruster systems to mine.”

“Yeah, Grace,” said Reyna. “You see that?” The decorated Admiral poked her finger through the side of the screen she was currently being projected on. “They’re saying that’s the work of the TITAN separatist cell, but you and I both know that whether or not TITAN had anything to do with the attack, Zeus is the mastermind.”

Jason was more than a little bit shell-shocked. A holographic man, regal in his bearing, made of glittering purple-and gold motes, leaned toward Reyna. “Admiral,” Scipio said, “I believe that Mr. Grace is presently in shock. Too dumb to speak, as he likes to call it. Might I suggest dealing with him in less harsh tones?”

“I don’t recall asking you for your help, Scipio,” said Reyna. Her second-in-command, Mike Kahale snickered behind her. Reyna shot a withering glare over her shoulder at the man that was stood behind the helm of Scipio. It silenced him rather quickly. “What I do recall is that I asked you to check on the security of the bunker.”

Percy moaned as his eyes fluttered open. Despite being shot once—almost twice—he had had rather pleasant dreams while he had been out. The words he heard when he woke up were quite nice, too, the voice that spoke them almost musical. “Does that mean you want to go camping, Percy, or are you just happy to see me?”

Percy slowly shook his head from side to side. It was much too bright. He tried to raise his arm to shield his eye, only remembering that he had been shot in his arm when pain flared.

Percy felt as though he had been through a barfight. His shoulder throbbed with pain, but the rest of his body felt sore. His skin felt raw and exposed. Silently, he noted to himself that getting shot was not the best idea, even if it was to save his boss.

The roughshod gallop of Vrist slowed to a canter as Will guided him past the far post of the tilt. The poor horse was not quite used to the state of the soil here in the capital. Back in their own little hamlet, the dirt was a little bit less compact. It was understandable, though. As humble as their little village was, Phoebus still proudly and justly governed it.

For now, though, the job of governing the village fell to its elders. Phoebus reached up and caught the reins of Vrist, just as Will wrenched the heavy helm from his head. He hated the way it felt on his head, since it only made the heat of the Southron realm more unbearable. Unfortunately, he knew that it was necessary.

Will held out his lance for his father to take. The tip was splintered, but even Will knew—without having to look at his father’s face—that a splintered lance just was not going to cut it. If he wanted to have any hope of winning tomorrow’s tournament, he had to shatter his lance nine times out of ten.