White rooms, white walls, white lies.

"Don't worry Dnaea," they say. "I'll get you out of here soon Dnaea. We just need to run a few more tests." Then they shut the door to leave me in the dark again.

But that's how it always is, day in and day out. I watch them run about in long, pristine lab coats, worried looks on their faces, not even casting the vat I lay in a second glance. They don't have time for me anymore outside of my only use. Their minds are too consumed with trying to solve the same problem: The end of time, the apocalypse, the plague... it went by many names, but most call it Keres.

For centuries, I'd watched my god pace back and forth, wondering why Tartarus was being piled with far more Humans than we had room for, all sick and dying. Truth be told, I hadn't cared. My job is– or was– to guard the gates of the Underworld, until they realized that, like the gods, I too, couldn't fall ill. Then Hades had swooped me up and put me in this awful place... for what? To save mankind? Why?

My focus landed on a single stand of grey hair, floating lazily in the green liquid I'd been waiting in for so long now. With a deep breath, I blew bubbles out of the apparatus over my mouth. In three days, they will move me out of here, into the operating room once again to poke and prod at my magic to find out why other Beasts stayed healthy while Humans fell left and right.

But I wouldn't be going in there. Not again. All three of my heads had played their part, with no end to the pandemic in sight. No more dangling false promises in front of me. I'm done helping.

How long do you think your dogs will stay loyal, Hades?

Who do you think will rise when even gods fall?