NEMO

The beginnings of a scrapped script.

Prompt: As punishment for their treatment of mortals, the gods are stripped of their power & sent to live among humans for one life only. The reality of human life shocks them to the core.

PROLOGUE - MEGAN WILLIAMS

If Megan Williams hadn’t been so blinded by her crush on Justin, maybe things would have happened differently. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all. Maybe he would have moved on. Maybe he would have forgotten the whole thing. But when Justin McAvey asked if she was a virgin, she had simply blushed and that was enough for him. Now, with her throat hoarse and dry from screaming for hours, she is only able to plea to whatever is out there to please, at least, make it quick. 

She could only hear--her mouth gagged and her eyes blindfolded--but she had started being able to locate them a little over two hours ago. She could tell where they were just by their sounds. There’s Justin of course, the ass of them all, and she believes there to be three others in the group. There’s someone named Ryan, which she only learned after someone slipped up and got chewed out for it. There’s one girl in the group though. She sounds almost regretful. The girl had whispered an apology in Megan’s ear earlier on, and she clung to that sentence, repeating it in her head. 

Surely these kids know that what they’re doing is wrong?

Her head hurts. She had been in a heavy makeout session with Justin, down to her skivvies, when she blacked out. She presumes blunt force due to the blossoming, throbbing pain wracking her skull. She could feel blood trickling from her temple earlier, but it’s well dried by now. 

She can hear the group talking, but she has long given up on trying to make their hushed comments into coherrency. 

“It’s my time,” she thinks to herself.

She feels them place things on her body. A necklace weighs heavy and cold against her stripped chest. A cool paste is smeared onto her arm and Megan lets out a strangled noise from the unfamiliar sensation of being touched. 

“Sorry,” the female voice whispers again. 

Megan clings to it again. She tries to make out what the girl is writing. Shapes of some sort. She loses track. There’s various rustlings and different smells that are released into the area. Some of which are sweet, almost comforting to her. Some which have her coughing through the gag, along with the rest of the group. There’s chaos and concentration and then

Nothing. 

Justin’s voice rises up from the silence. It is too loud for Megan’s sensitive ears. He’s shouting something...is that Latin? Megan can hear the group moving around her, shifting into place like an old machine sputtering to life for only a moment. And then the machine is still again. Justin’s voice continues, ringing through the clearing. They must be in a closed area, with the way that his voice is bouncing and splitting into many versions of itself. 

Megan misses the tick but she swears she could hear it if she thinks hard as the machine around her thrums back to life. Starting in a low hum, almost like a pesky bug at your ear, they all join in. Words and tongues from many languages Megan doesn’t recognize comes tumbling from the strangers’ lips. It blankets her. It chokes her. They all speak low in tandem with Justin’s shouts. Someone to her right hacks out every word--is that Greek? They’re all around her, starting to move as they chant. The joints quake at first with disuse, but soon the circle is moving slowly, beginner’s qualms settling like skipping stones at the bottom of the lake that Megan’s father takes them to every summer. 

A match is struck. The crackle and burst of the flames is unmistakable. Megan surges against her restraints. Running is the only option in this world of dead ends. She can feel it. Too close. Too hot. Her bare body leaves nothing between the heat and she can feel it eating at her skin. Sweat prickles her neck, her armpits, the back of her knees, covering the stench of fear that had long cooled onto her skin. 

The chanting gets louder. Each voice levels out, all finding one tone, one pitch. It reminds her distantly of the boring churches her grandmother used to take her to when she was younger. Is that what this is? Hell? 

The cacophony of voices and shouting levels out in a beat of a butterfly's wings. In one moment, the tones all shift, merging together until it sounds like one voice speaking many tongues at once. 

Drunk on fear and exhaustion, Megan wonders: “Is this what God sounds like?”

Justin comes close and she can feel his breath fan over her face. It is a caress she once would have yearned for. He grabs her face. She feels his grip, wet, hot, and bruising. Copper fills her nose. Blood. 

“Mine or his?” she wonders.

The pulse of Justin’s palm drowns out the voices. It’s heavy and fast. It anchors her there, to that moment, to that point of contact. Like when her mother used to hug her tight when she would have panic attacks in elementary school. Like when her Father held her close when she got her acceptance letters last month. Like Justin had held her earlier, close, with his hands all over her and his heart pumping pumping pumping. 

“He’s terrified,” she realizes too late. 

The wind is pushed out from her gut like nothing she’s ever felt before. Her abdomen is white hot. She doesn’t need her sight to see that Justin’s hand, the one not gripping her face, is wrapped around the dagger currently plunged right below her rib cage. 

The silence in the air confirms it. 

It stretches for far too long. Megan chokes on it instead of the blood filling her mouth. 

She hears the girl first. Warbly sentences her brain doesn’t care to decipher. She doesn’t realize she’s on the ground until the blindfold is removed. Bright light ebbs away to show the face of a sweet girl. She’s not much younger or older than Megan herself. And she’s crying. She grabs at Megan and clutches to her, like she really cares. Justin kneels at her side. His face is pinched with an expression Megan cannot decipher.

Megan pulls the dagger out herself. It is quite beautiful, inscribed with gorgeous golden sigils and words she couldn’t read. Although, she didn’t know if it was because they were in latin or if they were just too obscured by the blue all over the end of the blade. 

Why was there blue on the blade?

The girl continues to cry, wailing into the night like some banshee. Someone speaks over Justin’s shoulder. He yells at them. Then he notices the dagger. Justin stills. The girl’s sobs choke off into hiccuped silence.

What is going on?

Why did Justin take the blade from me?

Why is there blue on the blade?

Why is Justin smiling?

Why is it blue?

Where is my blood?

Why is it blue?

W he re i  s     

m    y     

b  l      

o     

  o     

     d 

   ? 

CHAPTER 1 - MO

It had been years since she had slept hard enough to wake with a funny taste in her mouth. She smacks her lips together, rough and dry from disuse. Her ears are ringing, a voice reaching through like it was separated by water. She feels a prod in her shoulder and she sits up with a gasp. Air and light rush into her, overwhelming. She coughs on it, her eyes fluttering out the bright. Why is the air so heavy? The light settles and her eyes fall on an older man standing over her. His face is alarmed, but kind. His hand is reached out, hesitant but helpful. 

“Miss?” he says and she realizes he’s been talking to her all along. 

“Miss?” he tries again. She frowns. Her back aches. Her bed is a lot harder than she remembered. She rubs at her neck and sets her bare feet on the floor. It’s hard. The cold of it seeps through her.

This is not home. 

“Missus?” he says again, “Missus are you okay?”

His voice is gentle, hinted with urgency but full of a sweetness one can only earn from years patience. He has children and a wife--she can read it on him. She knows that kind of kindness anywhere. That is one forged out of the fires of family. 

“I think so?” her voice is too loud in her head, ringing through her skull. It comes out ragged and soft. She needs water desperately. 

“Water?” she almost begs. The man points to the contraption on the wall. She stands, her knees giving in for a moment. The man steps forward a pace to grab her shoulders. 

“Miss! I think you need to sit down.” 

“No. Water is fine.” 

She stumbles forwards. The man follows closely behind her. She doesn’t have to look to know that his hands are outstretched, waiting for her to falter again. She almost does once, but she makes it. She slumps against the machine, deep and unsatisfying breaths raking through her lungs. 

“This air,” she tries, “Who made it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who made your air?”

The man stares at her and then starts to laugh. 

“God, I guess!”

He cackles at a joke that she does not get. She turns her attention away from him and towards the contraption holding her weight. She holds her hand over it, summoning the water to her. Nothing happens.  She hits it. Nothing. She takes a breath. She commands it.

“Give me your water!”

“Lady, what are you doing?” 

“I am commanding that this...this thing gives me water!” 

The man looks at her again. He leans forward and presses a button. Water flows out of a spigot, creating a clean arch. As quick as it comes, it disappears again. She looks to him in reverence. 

“How did you do that?”

She gets close to him, looking into his eyes. She grabs his hands, checking his palms and his fingers. She grabs his chin and rotates his head around. He lets her, his eyes watching her with increased curiosity. 

“Missus, it’s a water fountain. You press the button.”

He demonstrates again. She watches with rapt attention. He holds it for a moment, letting the water spurt out before it dies again. She looks at him again, jubilancy swirling in her features. Her eyes shine gold for a moment before returning to a warm honey brown, but the man shrugs it off as a play of the light. 

He does it again, tapping out a rhythm that the water dances to. The woman exclaims, clapping her hands together. The man holds the button down, resuming the steady stream of water. 

“Here, drink,” he commands. 

She cups her hands under the stream and gulps it down, handful after handful. The neckline of her dress becomes transparent from the drip of her drink. 

“Thank you, kind man.”

He looks at her in awe, not responding. 

“Carl,” he finally says, pointing to his name tag. “Who are you?” 

The woman pauses for a moment. She scrunches her face up in an almost childish manor. 

“I don’t think I know.” 

This takes Carl off guard. He opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it right after. He reaches his hand out to her. She takes it like the women playing queens and princesses do and Carl cannot help but marvel at the woman he has happened upon. He leads her to the bench he found her on, motioning for her to sit. She watches him as he frowns, petting his wispy moustache. 

“Now listen, Missus,” he says, “I’m just a janitor. In an hour, the big boys are going to come and they’ll be able to deal with this all. Now I gotta ask: how did you get in here? They’ll eat my head for breakfast if I left this place unlocked.”

“I am afraid I don’t know. But I will fight for your head. You will not die for me today, Carl.”

Carl just guffaws at her. 

“Okay, listen here. I’m going to go make some calls. You just sit here. And don’t move.”

The woman freezes completely, holding her breath. Carl watches as her face starts to purple and she looks to him with desperation.

“Jesus, lady. It’s a figure of speech! Just don’t leave this area, okay?”

The woman nods and Carl walks off, muttering under his breath and dragging a box on wheels off with a broom in it. Odd storage for a broom. 

The woman sits there, toeing the marble floor. It is true that she had no clue how she got in here. Last night she had fallen asleep on her usual bed of feathers. She missed that comfort. She laid down on the bench, the wood digging uncomfortably into her shoulder and hip. It was better than nothing. She felt oddly fatigued, a sensation she had rarely felt, if ever felt at all. She traces the veins in the floor with her eyes, watching them dance and split, weaving in and out of each other. At the end of the hallway, she could see a grand room spilling out and she gravitated it before she could notice. 

Columns towered in front of them and she couldn’t help but walk  up to them. They were rough and not as smooth as she remembered, which was an intrusive thought for an unfamiliar place. She scraped her nails against them, watching as dust fell away. She walked along them, letting her fingers numb themselves to the rough texture running beneath their pads. 

She knew that Carl would be upset for her absence, but something was leading her here, drawing her away from her secluded spot. She danced around the columns, reminding herself of a distant and juvenile memory, maybe even a dream. So she ran into the middle of the hall. And she stopped. And she looked. 

All the breath rushed from her at once. Her knees buckled and she fell forwards, painfully connecting with the unforgiving floor. The cold seeped through her entire frame and for the first time, she felt so alone. She stared at the ground, watching as droplets accumulated before her. She was crying. She pressed a hand to her cheek, pulling it away like it was blood instead of a simple tear. She pulled up the hem of her long skirt, wiping at the tears with a fervor that would alarm any spectator. She examined the cloth after, expecting more than the dampened and darkened lilac color that was there. 

Her eyes, reluctant and afraid, flitted up to the figure that towered before her. A woman, adorned in gold and jewels, stared off into the distance. Her muscles carried more than just the armor she bore. There was more there, an aura, an energy of something looming in the heart of the statue, that this figure was more than just a statue. It reminded her of how she felt looking at Medusa’s creations. 

She clawed her way towards it. Her legs were well past useable, her sweaty palms squeaking against the freshly cleaned floors. Her trepidation burned away, replaced by anger and astonishment. She came before the frozen woman, slowly and surely finding her footing. She stood, challenging the woman in her stance. She begged her, please, please look at me. Hot tears fell from her eyes. One fell on her toe. Her stare did not waiver. 

“Athena,” she breathed. 

A hand grabbed at her shoulder and she gasped. She spun around, twisting the arm and thrusting her hand at the attacker’s throat. She held him still, allowing him one more risky move. If he faltered, his shoulder would snap. 

Carl’s eyes were wide and tears welled in them. She snapped back into her body. She released like he was white hot. He collapsed, grabbing at his throat and coughing hysterically. It is then that she noticed two women standing a couple strides behind him. The taller one, stood tall, all sharp angles and big bones, with dark hair that curled down in soft waves. She reminded her of the people she would see in her towns. The smaller woman pushed a round pair of glasses up her pale, short nose, her eyes wide and inquisitive. She was soft, both in body and personality. The woman’s red hair reminded her of her hearth; her hair glowed in the sunlight like the way the coals did. The women watched her with fearful awe. The smaller stranger clung to the arm of the taller. Carl heaved in air.

Carl.

She sank to her knees, rubbing Carl’s back. 

“Oh Carl, I am so sorry.”

The two strangers approached, helping Carl up. The three of them hoisted him to the nearest bench. The taller stranger stayed with her hand on his shoulder. The shorter one sat next to him, whispering words to him as she rubbed his back. The taller lady eyed her with a glare that would kill if it could. Carl noticed it too. 

“Ladies, this is the woman I was telling you about. She’s okay. I’m sure she was just freaked out. I’m alright.”

He lowered his voice, looking directly into the eyes of the woman who just attacked him, shortly after he saved her. 

“No one is going to hurt you here. This,” he motioned to the brunette, “is Amalia and this is Georgie.”

Georgie smiled and gave a small wave, pushing back her red hair behind her ear. Amalia did none of the sort. 

“I know it is rude to not introduce myself as well, but I am afraid I do not know my name.”

Amalia’s face faltered. Sympathy seeped through the cracks of her stern facade. Georgia let out a pained noise before standing. She threw her arms around the woman. The other woman floundered, taking a moment before gingerly putting her hands on Georgie’s back, accepting the comfort. 

“You don’t know your name?” Amalia asked, her voice low and warming. 

The woman shakes her head, “I’m afraid not.”

“Well, why don’t we give ya a name! Til you remember!” Georgie says, pulling away from the embrace to speak up to the woman towered a couple of inches over her. 

“Is that a good idea?” Amalia says. 

“I think it’s the best we got for the Missus,” Carl says. 

“Call her Nemo!” 

Georgie laughs at her own joke. No one else does.

“Well, guys, ‘cuz of the movie.“

“It does mean nobody in Latin,” Amalia plays with her nails. 

“Well that’s rude, calling someone a nobody,” Carl glares at Amalia. She rolls her eyes at him. 

“What about Mo! Short for Nemo and cute.”

“Georgie, that’s stupid.”

“I think it’s nice,” the woman says. Georgie smiles at her. She sticks her tongue out at Amalia. 

“Mo it is, Ha!” 

Georgie hugs the woman--now known as Mo-- tightly and something feels off. Mo grabs at her, throwing her arms off. Georgie mumbles out a response, but Mo doesn’t hear it. She’s stumbling forwards, as weak as she was when she first woke. Her stomach turns and lurches. 

“Jesus, she’s pale.”

Mo reaches out for the wall, slumping against it for a moment. Her feet are taking her somewhere, somewhere other than here. 

“I think she’s gonna hurl, Carl.”

“Sweet Mother and Mary, I just cleaned!” 

“Get her to the bathroom!” 

Two hands wrap around each of Mo’s arms. They tug her along, stirring her stomach even more. She feels drunk, like the reality around her is warping and twisting before her.

She’s in a new room now, the lights harsh against her eyes. She’s shoved into a smaller room, a white bowl with water in front of her. She brackets it with her hands. Someone behind her grabs her hands, gathering her curls up and out of her face. 

Then she feels it, clawing its way out. 

She lurches twice and then vomits into the bowl. She doesn’t know how long it takes, but she is cold and sweating by the end of it. She is lowered against the room’s wall, and forced into a more comfortable sitting position. Someone wipes at her mouth. Her eyes are heavy. It’s hard to breathe. 

“Georgie I think she’s falling asleep.”

“I know.” 

“Georgie, we can’t leave her here.”

“‘Lia, I know.”

“Georgie,” the tone change is enough for Mo to notice, even in her hazed mind. It’s calm, but not in a comforting way. Like the way the soldiers acted right after the generals told them the border was broken. It’s how the servants acted after they spilled the wine on her favorite dress. It’s too calm, an alarming calm. A calm that never comes without a storm to follow. 

“Georgie.” 

“What?”

“Why is it blue?”

CHAPTER 2 - 

A steady ticking noise is what finally woke Mo. Above her, spinning and shaking steadily, was a light that had blades attached. A fan. That’s what it’s called. It cooled her, goosebumps rising on her tan skin. It was an odd sensation, another to add to the forever-lengthening list of new and unfamiliar. 

Mo pulls the blanket strewn across her hips to her chin, letting a shiver run through her. Temperature fluctuations. That’s new. She suddenly misses the sun, how warm and yellow it is. She sits up, craning her body towards the window to her side. There’s a small plant resting on the ledge. It’s frail and dying, a pitiful little thing.