"Not too many people know what we do," Delta said, breaking me out of my thoughts. He looked at the armor. "We're sort of like spies. There's a lot of shit that goes down behind the scenes in this perfect city, and it's our job to sift through it."
I tilted my head, trying to gauge him. Delta didn't seem like the type to open up easily, so this felt deliberate—like he wanted me to know just enough to keep me curious. "What kind of stuff?"
"Nice try," Delta said with a laugh, his sharp smile carrying just enough amusement to feel dangerous. "You don't get to know until you join."
I stared at him, leaning against the locker. "Why wouldn't I join?"
A cold smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Most people don't like our training methods. Our soldiers are supposed to be immovable. Unbreakable. Emotionless in battle. On the off chance you're captured by the enemy, we can't have you squealing like a pig, can we?"
"Fair point," I said, nodding as I reached out to touch the armor in the locker. It felt rough and thick under my fingers, almost more like a winter jacket than a traditional piece of armor. My mind wandered as I traced its texture—what kind of battles had Delta fought to earn the confidence he carried so effortlessly? And why did he seem like he belonged more to the shadows than the shining city of Atlantis?
"Mm," Delta murmured, breaking the silence. "Before we even talk about briefings or missions, you'll need to pass the mental fortitude test."
I glanced at him. "Mental fortitude test?"
"All of our soldiers take it. It's mandatory," he said with a shrug. "We can't have people breaking under pressure in the field."
"What kind of test is this?" I asked warily. I swear, if these guys made me take the SAT, I'd know for sure I'd made the wrong choice.
"It's multilayered," Delta explained. "First, there's a sort of IQ test. Straightforward enough—we need soldiers who can analyze and adapt on the fly. After that, the fun part begins. We strap you into a chair and give you a codeword. Someone else comes in and tries to interrogate it out of you."
I blinked. "Interrogate me? Sure. Sounds fun."
Delta raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement passing over his face. "Your poker face isn't bad, kid," he said, smirking. "Don't worry. The first time is always the hardest. If you live—sorry, I mean pass— we'll come back and get this."
"Great," I muttered, doing my best not to picture myself strapped to a chair while some Atlantean interrogator shouted questions in my face. "Can't wait."
Delta chuckled softly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied me. For a moment, his confident mask slipped, and I caught a glimpse of something deeper—a flicker of memory, "Your father mentioned you're sharp. I'll give you this much—you've got guts. But guts only get you so far. Intelligence, adaptability, and discipline…those are what keep you alive out there. Trust me on that."
"Sounds like you'd know," I said, testing the waters. "How long have you been doing this?"
Delta paused, his expression unreadable. "Longer than you've been alive," he said finally, his tone clipped but not unkind. "Poseidon trained me himself. Took me under his wing when I was a kid, and showed me what it takes to serve Atlantis. I've been part of this division ever since."
My dad had trained him personally? That explained a lot—his confidence, his skill, the way he carried himself like he could handle anything. It also made him more intimidating, knowing he'd been honing his craft for centuries. Delta led me through another room. This room was empty, save for a desk and a chair. I sat down in it at Delta's gesture.
The test…how do I even describe it? Imagine the most boring, mind-numbingly tedious thing you've done in your life. Now multiply that by five, and you might get even a taste of how boring this test was.
The questions honestly made school seem like fun. Admittedly, it was a wide variety of stuff, but all of it had the excitement of watching paint dry. Some of the questions had to do with shapes and patterns. Others tested my memory. A few of them wanted to see how well I could do math. Maybe those afternoons with Annabeth came in handy, after all. I was honestly starting to wonder if this test was more to see how easily I'd break under boredom or not when I reached the last question. I filled it out and handed the test to Delta, who flipped through it with an unchanging expression.
"Interesting," He muttered after a few minutes. He placed the test in a file labeled PERSEUS J. and walked up to my desk. "Alright, Jackson. Your word is foliage. Your goal is to hold onto the word as long as you can. Good luck."
"Thanks," I replied, biting my tongue. I wanted to ask him what was interesting, but I figured it was a moot point. Delta seems like the kind of guy to want me to ask him something just so he can shut it down. Delta nodded and vanished from the room. Not even a moment later, a figure entered the room.
Listen, I know what you're thinking. The figure sounds so macabre and kind of non-descriptive, right? Well, you and I are in the same boat. I couldn't tell you what this thing was. It was vibrating really quickly, so all I could really make out was a black outline, which told me nothing.
"Perseus Jackson," The figure said softly. It was a vaguely feminine voice, but the disembodied quality it carried almost made it sound masculine. "You have been given a word. Please relay this word."
"No." The figure raised its hands, and I saw arcs of mana burst forward from its fingertips, infusing into the very air itself. The room suddenly grew very cold. I felt my throat close up in the frigid atmosphere of the room. Interrogation tactics 101—make the room cold. I must be dealing with a real professional here.
Woohoo.
So scary.
I'm frightened.
My arms were suddenly pinned to my sides, a brief feeling of heat flashing through my being.
The figure walked forward, its hands covered in bright white light. Okay, a bit scarier. "The codeword," The figure reminded me, getting closer. "Relay it to me."
I shook my head. My throat felt entirely too dry to even speak. What's the point of making me unable to speak if you're just trying to get a word out of me? A white-hot pain overtook my entire body. The figure clamped its hand down on my arm, and I heard the hiss as ice exploded outward from where it grabbed me, flash-freezing my entire arm and encasing it in a crystalline substance. It felt so hot and raw. My arm felt like it was being thrown into a blender with a couple of knives and set to crush.
"There's no penalty to saying the word," I was reminded. "Tell me."
I shook my head, looking the figure in the, well, face area. I still couldn't talk—not that I would. My face snapped to the left, accompanied by another burning sensation. I gritted my teeth as I saw a trail of steam curl upwards from the spot.
"Tell." I was punched in the torso this time, my jacket being shredded by the power around the interrogator's hand.
"Me."
The desk was thrown backward.
"Now."
My back smashed into the wall, and I slowly slid down. The figure started walking towards me again. How much of this is about getting the word? If this was all about wanting the word from me, wouldn't I just have been straight-up tortured? This felt more like a fight than anything. My fingers slowly curled into a weak fist.
Delta had told me to hold onto the word for as long as I could—but he never said I had to just sit there and take it. Maybe that was the real test: figuring out the true purpose behind it all.
My heart was beating out of my chest as I dodged another blast from the figure. Okay, Percy. Calm down. Think. Slow your breathing. Athena said it best: One must not respond immediately to a stimulus; one must acquire a command of the obstructing and isolating instincts.
Let's get to isolating, then.