Branded
Atticus
The noise of the Breeders around him hurts his ears. Everything on the busy sidewalk is loud; shouting and honking horns to cell phones ringing and babies crying. It’s agonizing and he has a headache pounding behind his golden eyes, making his dark brows twitch. Hailing a cab is impossible, especially at five in the afternoon when business men and women are released from a grueling hard day’s work, shoved out onto the dirty streets to hail cabs and attempt to make it home safely.
He’s not concerned with safety himself. That’s not the goal, the objective, of his place on Earth. He’s not here to make it safe for them and he’s not here to make it safe for the fallen ones. His father sent him with a very important task, a duty that will define him as Hades’ son.
With the sun blazing high in the sky and birds soaring low enough to knick peoples sandwiches, Atticus makes his way through the sea of people, pushing and shoving until he’s letting himself inside his apartment building, brushing imaginary dirt from his oxford shirt.
“Good afternoon sir,” the concierge greets but Atticus brushes him off with a flick of his hand.
The ride to the top is long and invigorating; it fills him with twisted glee every time he makes the trip. When the elevator dings and lets him out into his penthouse, a self-satisfied grin spreads across his full lips. There’s nothing better than living the high life when you’re born into a low world.
He hurries to his bedroom and sheds the offensive shirt, a quick glimpse of the winged brand on his back making him pause. It’s an intricate design; large wings with detailed feathers spread across his entire back and in the middle two swords lay across each other atop his spinal column. A deep crimson red trickles from the blades.
Sighing, he shucks his jeans and slips on a pair of sweatpants before curling beneath his down comforter. The sheets feel cool against his sunburned skin and he can almost imagine what life used to be like for the fallen angels. The thought quickly diminishes when he remembers what he’s meant to do, what he was practically born to do. It’s in his nature to find and kill every last fallen angel walking the earth, before they meet their good deed quota.
Bonus points if he nails Zeus' daughter.
He’s not concerned with safety himself. That’s not the goal, the objective, of his place on Earth. He’s not here to make it safe for them and he’s not here to make it safe for the fallen ones. His father sent him with a very important task, a duty that will define him as Hades’ son.
With the sun blazing high in the sky and birds soaring low enough to knick peoples sandwiches, Atticus makes his way through the sea of people, pushing and shoving until he’s letting himself inside his apartment building, brushing imaginary dirt from his oxford shirt.
“Good afternoon sir,” the concierge greets but Atticus brushes him off with a flick of his hand.
The ride to the top is long and invigorating; it fills him with twisted glee every time he makes the trip. When the elevator dings and lets him out into his penthouse, a self-satisfied grin spreads across his full lips. There’s nothing better than living the high life when you’re born into a low world.
He hurries to his bedroom and sheds the offensive shirt, a quick glimpse of the winged brand on his back making him pause. It’s an intricate design; large wings with detailed feathers spread across his entire back and in the middle two swords lay across each other atop his spinal column. A deep crimson red trickles from the blades.
Sighing, he shucks his jeans and slips on a pair of sweatpants before curling beneath his down comforter. The sheets feel cool against his sunburned skin and he can almost imagine what life used to be like for the fallen angels. The thought quickly diminishes when he remembers what he’s meant to do, what he was practically born to do. It’s in his nature to find and kill every last fallen angel walking the earth, before they meet their good deed quota.
Bonus points if he nails Zeus' daughter.