Forgotten memories

Orion: Our gods damn Luck

Honestly, all I wanted to do after that whole feast was find some quiet corner, stretch out, and maybe catch a nap. My brain was fried, my stomach was full, and the Romans had a way of making even good food feel like it came with strings attached. But, of course, Christine had that look in her eyes—the one that said she wanted to see New Rome, walk its streets, breathe it in. And, well... when she wanted something like that, I wasn't going to tell her no.

So we ended up wandering through the city together, weaving between marble buildings and cobbled streets lit with warm lantern light. The place was beautiful, sure, in that shiny, too-perfect Roman kind of way. Christine was taking it all in, but I could tell she was wound up. Anxious. I mean, who could blame her? Prophecies, politics, praetors glaring at us—it was a lot. But the way her brows pulled together told me it wasn't just the prophecy on her mind. Something else was eating at her.

And I... well, I didn't like seeing her like that. So I figured I'd break the ice the best way I knew how—sugar and caffeine.

I found this little street vendor selling crêpes, the kind dripping with whipped cream and stuffed with strawberries so sweet they could make a satyr weep. Alongside it, I grabbed myself a coffee—black, no sugar, no nonsense. Christine lit up the second I handed her the crêpe, like I'd just given her a treasure instead of a glorified pancake. That alone was worth it.

"What's on your mind?" I asked, trying to sound casual, then added quickly, "Other than, you know, the whole end-of-the-world prophecy thing."

She stayed quiet for a moment, biting into her crêpe and chewing slowly, like she was stalling. Finally, she said, "Did Reyna try anything the last time you were here?"

The question caught me off guard. Her tone was innocent enough, but... yeah, I knew what she was really asking.

I took a sip of my coffee, let the bitterness sit on my tongue, and thought about how to answer. "I was here for a couple weeks before the Battle of Manhattan," I said eventually. "She... hinted at something, I guess. Nothing serious. I didn't pick up on it."

Christine gave me this little side glance, like she was trying to read between the lines, see if I was holding anything back. Truth was, Reyna had that way about her—strong, commanding, sharp as a blade. And yeah, she might've tried to test the waters back then, but I wasn't interested. Not in her. Not when Christine was—well, Christine.

I took another sip of coffee and grinned faintly at her. "Besides," I added, just to lighten the mood, "if I wanted complicated, I'd date a prophecy. And you've seen how well those usually turn out."

She chuckled at my joke, that soft, easy laugh that always made me feel like maybe the world wasn't as heavy as it actually was. We finished off what was left of our crêpe-and-coffee combo and decided to head back toward the forum, where the Argo II was still hovering in the sky like the world's biggest "welcome or else" sign.

The streets of New Rome were quieter now, though pockets of life still hummed around us—families chatting at tables, kids chasing each other through alleys, lares drifting by like silent guardians. Christine walked beside me, brushing her shoulder against mine every so often, her eyes still darting around like she couldn't quite believe a place like this existed.

As we turned a corner, my gaze snagged on a group of Romans across the street. A few of the same ones I'd, uh, had a little "altercation" with the last time I was here. Long story short: they didn't like my sense of humor, and I didn't like being threatened with pilums before breakfast. Nothing serious, just enough bad blood to stick in my memory.

This time, though, I forced a polite smile, lifted my coffee cup like it was a peace offering, and gave them the kind of nod that said no hard feelings, right?