"Look," a man spoke into a discreet earpiece, resting against a lamppost, "I'm starting to get really tired of your bullshit. Cut the crap and give me a straight answer, before I cut off your crap."

He pushed himself away from the tall pillar of metal and began to work his way through the crowded December streets of London. Rain spluttered overhead, slipping on the glass walls of skyscrapers and the roof tiles of less-modern places. Despite the weather, London's residents seemed quite adamant about going about their daily businesses, a mindset that the man cursed as he tried to slip past the hustle and bustle towards his destination.

His focus seemed forced on something else as he half-heartedly apologised to a dark-haired woman he had bumped into. This something else appeared to be his comm, as moments later he spoke into it, "I don't give a damn about whether you think it will work or not. I'm doing this job, getting my pay, then getting the Hermes out of England. This country is really starting to grate on me."

Silence. Followed by, "No. I said I didn't care. Now leave me alone, Sarq, I've got a job to do."

The man cracked his neck inconspicuously, turning of his comm in a movement that to all else would look like he was scratching the back of his ear. As his arm returned to dangling by his side, he quickly adopted a false look of confusion and walked over to a middle-aged police woman. At the same time, he noted the baton hooked onto her belt with wariness, and hoped he could stay out of the woman's bad graces if he could.

"Hello?" the man asked her, applying a slight Texan accent to his voice in hopes to disguise himself. "I was wondering if you'd be able to point me in the direction of the River Thames? My wife said she'd meet me there after her meeting, and I don't want to leave her waiting in this weather."

He mentally patted himself on the back for the quick cover story he had made, knowing that adding simple facts to simple questions made the reasoning seem more believable.

The police woman nodded, a small up-curve of her lips becoming noticeable, "Yeah, just head down this road until you see a sign for a Post Office. Then turn left and follow it 'til you see the river. Don't worry about not seeing it either – it's a pretty big river."

The woman chuckled at the end, finding her joke amusing. The badge on her helmet glinted almost menacingly as the pair stood there, sending a shiver up the man's spine. Thanking the woman, he quickly left.

He tilted his head, a hand running over the woven material of his black baseball cap before he scratched his neck. Tired eyes observed the crowd surrounding him, the sunken bags on his face as dark as his onyx brown eyes.

People moved weirdly in England, the man had decided a few days prior. Their paces were always even and their shoes always making audible clicks, snaps or slaps against the ground. American shoes – or more specifically trainers – squeaked or didn't make any sounds at all. To say the least, the new layer of noise was even more disorientating than the actual layout of the streets of London.

Massaging his temples, the man continued walking, trapped within his thoughts. His hands – scarred and pale – fell to his sides and swung in harmony with the rest of his movements. The flash of dark metal was brief as a ring on the man's hand caught the light, one could even call it a trick of the light and that no such ring existed but the truth was undeniable. The ring was there.

His fingers curled, clenching into fists before relaxing in a quick progression. The process continued as he walked. Clench. Relax. Clench.

Relax.

A silent mantra in the man's head, like an old stereo on loop. Sometimes it skipped a beat and changed the words, sometimes it went double-speed and other times it was slower than a feather falling to the ground. The pattern was a cycle the man went through daily, a way of creating the illusion of peace within his mind.

Of course, this man was anything from peaceful.

Nico di Angelo was the only known living son of Hades, the god of the Underworld. He travelled across the world to fix any death-related issues, where something was preventing someone who was supposed to be dead from passing over, and – when offered extra pay – did a fair amount of his father's paperwork. He had the same kind of immortality blessing as the Hunters of Artemis except his contract didn't end when he died.

Nico would serve as his father's lieutenant until the day he went for rebirth, something that both made him proud and sad. The son of Hades enjoyed having an important role in the preservation and crossing over of souls, but at the same time he missed all of his friends who had long since retired to Elysium, the resting place of heroes.

Of course, most of them had gone for rebirth according to the paperwork he had been assigned, so he had little to worry about when it came to feeling guilty about not seeing them often. He did visit at Christmas, purely to do his rounds and check there was no soul damage occurring, and stayed for the time after with whatever part of his dysfunctional family remained.

He enjoyed seeing Percy and Annabeth the most as the pair had just come back from their second lives within the last decade, dying within seconds of each other as they defended a group of school children in Iraq. It was always amusing to watch how their personalities would constantly change when in conversation with each other, though the love never faded from their eyes. When talking to the people in their previous lives, they would be Percy and Annabeth Jackson; when talking to the people in their second lives, they would be James Rudwick and Clara Dunn.

The best part was how their accents would suddenly change from American to Irish. Their obliviousness to it was beyond the height amusement, causing Nico to burst out laughing many a time.

He sighed and wrapped his arms around his chest, shrivelling into his coat. Having been forced to adopt the disguise of a Texan tourist, he didn't exactly pick the most weather-permitting of clothes.

Rain had soaked through his jeans a little over half of an hour ago, and his waterproof coat did little to help him with the biting winds of January. He sighed and crossed the road, using the strange road marker they called a 'zebra crossing'.

In front of him, he could see the wide waters of the River Thames, dulled and grey under the scrutiny of the harsh black clouds above. Internally, he cursed his uncle for the foul weather, blinking rapidly as droplets of the falling rain attacked his vision.

And then he saw her, his reason for being dragged out to England.

His half-brother, Thomas Sarq, occasionally helped Nico solve his cases and had been having frequent dreams about him meeting with 'some British chick' in London. Of course, the lieutenant was sceptical but had come anyway – in trade for his sibling's fake moustache collection (which he didn't actually care about, but he knew it would irritate Sarq to no end). The Roman was obsessed with disguises, something Nico felt mixed feelings towards.

"Natasha Owen," Nico walked over to where the woman stood, leaning over the balcony in a mimicry of her own position. "I can't say it's pleasant to meet you."

"I'm flattered, Son of Hades, but why are you here?" she didn't meet his gaze, instead staring out to the river below.

Preparing to draw his sword, he stated, "I'm just doing my job."