Daughter of Zeus ✔

1

Tranquility Hospital did not live up to its name.

Unlike the waiting room at the State hospital, patients in need filled the seats. And unlike the State hospital, Tranquility did not have major sponsors. Instead, Gold Buyers and Quick Loan posters covered the walls. This was most likely to cover the peeling paint and distract from the dingy floors. The entry doors to the ER slid open on a mechanical belt, a door that chose the darndest moments not to open. The unsmiling staff at Tranquility mirrored the dismal surroundings. There were no pristine counters, smiling nurses, or dissipating doors. What Tranquility did have was a steady influx of patients.

Ada Freyr watched as paramedics wheeled in a man they claimed the State hospital had refused. They wrestled the mechanical door open, then waded through the scores of idling people. The process took about twenty minutes. Sub-par treatment seemed the norm at Tranquility, and so they parked their burden by the nearest dirty wall.

The paramedics left the way they'd arrived—without a word to the attending. "John Doe" lay for ten minutes, twenty minutes, thirty minutes.

Finally, she sauntered to the gurney, grabbing an eye-scroll from a nearby tray as she passed. She lifted one of his eyelids, scanned his retina, and pretended to analyze the blue dialog screen spelling out his religious and political affiliations as "N.A." After a few nods, she pocketed the pen and wheeled him away. No one had paid attention to John's presence thus far, and his departure was likewise uneventful.

She whisked Mr. Doe down a restricted hallway, stopping at a door marked "Staff Only." As she pressed her palm to the flat gray pad, the lock synced with her wristlet. The door opened, and she rolled the man inside. The room was decorated with storage boxes, utility supplies, and minimal space to spare for a private conversation.

After closing the door, Ada perched on a stack of boxes. She assessed the sleeping man in front of her. After a few moments, she had come to a decision.

The room was silent until an unconscious fart escaped his ass. A smell akin to rotting bacon filled the room, and she coughed. When her nostrils cleared, Ada placed a finger to his chest, emitting a solitary blue spark, a spark which always amazed her.

John Doe's real name was Dorrie Botwell, and he was suddenly awake as she was sure he'd never been before in his life.

Dorrie scanned the room, settling on Ada. He clutched at his chest. "What'd you do to me?"

Sweat poured down his mottled face. The poor bastard looked to be on the verge of a heart attack.

"I did what I promised. Now that you've learned I'm serious, I hope you'll tell me what I want to know."

"I don't remember." Remembering seemed the last thing on his mind. He wiped at his brow and breathed shallowly.

Ada was unmoved at Dorrie's well-being. She wondered if this is how her father got things done, by simply not caring.

"You remember," she said.

Dorrie slumped in the cot, jowls sagging. "I know he moved, but that's it."

The information was far from new, and she was getting impatient. "Where?"

"I don't know." Dorrie licked his lips.

He was lying, and she knew how to smoke out a liar. "Where?" Ada repeated. A blue spark fired from her fingertips, and she held it above his heart, a fierce anchor aching to find purchase.

He whimpered. Face strained, he scooted on his ass to get away from the heat of her hand. With the smallest of mental commands, the line from her finger grew longer, following Dorrie, nearly touching him.

"Okay! He moved to Atlanta. That's all I know!"

Waggling her fingers a bit made the spark dance, and he moaned in fear.

"Atlanta's a big fucking place. Where in Atlanta?"

"I don't know! He moved there a long time ago. Met a cute girl, I heard. Maybe he got married, had some kids. Maybe he's gay—it's Atlanta after all. Hell if I know. That's everything, I swear." He avoided her gaze, prompting her to believe he still held back vital information.

"Is he still there?"

"Yes, he's there!" A small pinhole burned through his shirt from the concentration of heat. The smell of burning hair wafted through the room. "Please stop!"

If the fear in his voice was real, Atlanta was where she had to look next. There would be no more leads in Colorado.

She withdrew her hand. "Why was it so hard to tell me the first time?"

Dorrie's shirt was singed. He patted furiously at the puffs of smoke rising from his chest. When he had sufficiently doused the potential chest-hair fire, he answered.

"You'll know when you meet the bastard," Dorrie panted.

Everyone Ada questioned had referred to her father by that less-than-endearing term at some point in the conversation. When she finally met Corentin, she might refer to him as "bastard" indefinitely.

Calling him "papa" was out of the question. 

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A/N: If you like the story so far, click that vote button. It'll make my little writer day to see your vote.