Liquor and Cigarettes

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A million questioned rushed into Atticus' mind at once, but only one seemed to sum up everything he felt. 

"What?"

The man sighed as if he would rather be anywhere else than dealing with Atticus.

"You," the man said, jabbing his index finger into Atticus' chest, "are in the Underworld," he said while motioning to the space around him with his free hand. 

Atticus nodded reluctantly, still trying to grasp the concept of what was happening. 

"But- the Underworld? That- that's just a Greek myth." Atticus tried to explain to the man his confusion, but his words were failing him at this crucial time. 

The man glared at Atticus as if he had said something to insult him.

"Call it a myth one more time."

Atticus blinked, taken aback by the sudden mood shift of the man.

"O-Okay, I'm sorry. I'm... very confused about this whole thing. How can I be in the Underworld?"

The man snapped his fingers and a black leather chair and marble table appeared in the corner of the room. On the marble table sat a glass filled with liquor and ice, and a silver ashtray in the shape of a skull. The man sat on the edge of the chair, his elbows on his knees. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Smoking in between breaths, the man finally spoke.

"You were up above when you fell off a cliff because of a voice that startled you. We are tracking the means of this violation as I speak and will find the culprit soon. In the meantime, we are trying to find an appropriate way to deal with you, the leftover of this complication. Does that all make sense to you?"

Atticus took the time to think before answering. It did mostly make sense, apart from one thing.

"You are saying "we" a lot. Who are you referring to?" 

The man smiled, a smile full of dominance.

"Hades and his subordinates, of course."

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