Steady Ground | ✔

9 | Cerberus and Steve

Atlas noticed something was wrong only when it was too late. Sand shuffled. The golden aura grew, piercing further into the darkness.

He lifted his head, his body going still.

A black shadow landed over his.

His jacket jerked up into his Adam's apple when something smooth and icy cold took hold of his collar. His feet left the ground before he could even coke out a scream.

He dangled before a massive, metal figure.

It had rhododendron branches for legs, and its rusting body twisted in angry directions. The faceless beast stared at him like a curious dog, its head tilted to the side.

Screw this, screw this, screw this—

Zipper; his zipper.

Wide-eyed, Atlas fumbled for his jacket zipper. Right as he grasped it with trembling fingers, the beast's arm retracted into its body. Pain burst through his lungs when he slammed into solid metal.

Metal groaned as it started lumbering forward.

His body swung like a metronome as he gasped for breath. With moisture stinging his eyes, he grabbed for the zipper once more. The fabric dug sharp into his armpits and neck until finally he lifted his arms and slipped through.

He hit the ground hard. His ankle twisted from underneath him and he skidded onto his side. Before the metal monster could react, he scrambled forward on all fours through the sand until he finally got his body under him, and he ran.

Atlas didn't look back. He didn't need to. The monster followed without hesitation, its heavy weight thudding on the sand.

What is that thing?

Atlas never seemed to get out of the beast's light aura. He squinted his eyes against the warming throb in his ankle, begging for the solo darkness to curtain him again - because that would mean he was escaping. That would mean he'd be fine.

The sand quickly morphed into firm ground. Tall grass crunched beneath his boots and his heart thudded hard enough in his chest to drown out the sound of every step behind him.

It looked all too alike one of the grandpa's statues, and it was all too fitting. He should have known that the statue designed after the Underworld's guard dog would chase him through Hell.

Had the grandpa sent it to take him back? Was that possible, here?

The pain started settling in, each step adding to the subtle throb in his ankle until he had to slow against his will.

Atlas hiccupped through each breath. Darkness creeped into his peripheral vision as he leaned forward, his breaths coming in desperate pants that never cured his need to breathe. He shook. He shook down to his bones and each moment passing only seemed to turn the fear heavier.

He was going to lose this race.

"Atlas!"

August's voice pierced through the rising panic. He couldn't help it. He jumped in his skin.

It was only then that he looked up and realized, in fact, that the monster wasn't behind him anymore. He couldn't hear the thud of his steps or the brushing of tall grass, even when he stilled completely and held his breath.

When did that happen?

He flinched when his old friend appeared out of thin air, grasping onto his shoulder.

"Are you okay? Where is it?"

Atlas stared blankly at him. What was this? It had been right behind him. He had heard it, he felt it - he knew it was real. Yet it had vanished, and now he stared at August's face. His friend had wide eyes and sweat stains on his shirt, like he had run the whole way, just like Atlas had.