The moment Nicholas stepped through the Archives door with his avatar body cloaked in all his divine artifacts, the world dissolved.
Marble floor vanished beneath his feet, replaced by polished cloud. The air grew thin, humming with ancient power. He stood not in Washington, but in the heart of Olympus.
The hall stretched into impossible distance, pillars of gleaming starlight-like marble holding up a ceiling of swirling galaxies. The light was not sunlight, but a cold, divine radiance that cast no warm shadows.
And at the hall's end, he saw the throne room of 12 gigantic thrones depicting the constantly shifting symbols of the 12 Olympians. On two of the thrones sat 2 would-be judges of his fate.
Athena was a giant. Six meters tall, she was clad in gleaming battle armor, a grim helmet tucked under her arm. A harsh grey light, the color of a stormy sky at dawn, haloed her head. Her eyes were not eyes, but pools of shifting mist, vast and calculating.
She was not his mother here. She was a goddess of war, a strategist of cold fury, nothing like she presented herself as before. This was no maternal theatre; this was a threat.
Beside her, Zeus was titanic, almost 7 meters tall. He wore a simple toga, but his form was a storm. Lightning wreathed his body, flickered in his beard. His eyes were the white-hot core of a dying star.
His presence was the world itself, the crushing pressure of the sky, the rumble of continents, the absolute finality of a lightning strike. To stand before him was to understand your own fleeting insignificance.
And seated on a smaller, yet still imposing, chair of dark wood next to Zeus's throne was a mortal man. Nicholas recognized him immediately, Franklin Roosevelt, son of Zeus.
He looked small, frail next to the deities, but his jaw was set, his blue, electric eyes sharp and intelligent, observing everything. He was the only spot of true, fragile humanity in the terrifying divine space.
The pieces clicked into place with brutal clarity as soon as Nicholas saw him. This was the real game. Athena, for all her wisdom and pride, had bent the knee. Who knew what concession she had bargained for? A greater share of the faith from the coming war? A promise of future influence? Or had she simply not dared to defy the King of Olympus at all?
It didn't matter. The result was the same. She had sold her own son. It was just another confirmation of his resolve; Nicholas was no true partner. He was an asset, a thing to be wagered, a useful piece to be placed in the service of Zeus's agenda.
Nicholas felt the full force of their attention. It was like standing before twin suns. His own power, so vast in his sanctuary, felt contained, muted here. This was their domain. This was a demonstration.
Athena's voice echoed, not in the air, but directly in his soul. It was the sound like a thousand battlefields, cold and final. "My son. You have risen well. Your mortal influence is… notable."
Zeus did not speak. He merely looked, and the lightning in his eyes flared.
"The time for preparation is over," Athena continued, her misty gaze pinning him. "The great conflict approaches. The forces of my uncle stir in the mortal world. A champion rises from the pit. We require order. We require a strong, predictable hand upon the mortal realm."
Her armored hand gestured to Roosevelt. "This is my nephew, a son of Zeus; he possesses the will and strength required. He will be our instrument. He will be the next President and you will ensure it. You will pledge your resources and your influence to his cause. You will clear his path."
Now Zeus spoke. His voice was akin to the sound of a cracking continent splitting in half. "You will serve him. And in time, when his work is done, the mantle will pass to you. You will be the next leader. This is your destiny. This is our command."
The offer was a chain to Nicholas, though to anyone else it might have sounded like a gift. Serve, obey, and you may one day wear the collar yourself. The rage began as a cold knot in Nicholas's gut. They saw him as a tool.
A slightly more advanced pawn, perhaps, but a pawn, nonetheless. They had shaped his entire life for this moment, to be a loyal dog on a leash, helping them install their chosen manager for the mortal farm.
He looked at Roosevelt. The man met his gaze steadily. There was no plea there, only a smug acceptance. He knew he was a piece in a game, but he was a piece who believed in his own cause. He was a willing instrument.
Nicholas lowered his head, a calculated gesture of submission. He let the silence stretch, letting them see him process their "generous" offer. He let them see the obedient son, the ambitious politician, weighing the prize.
He looked up, his grey eyes meeting Athena's misty ones. He let a flicker of ambition show, just enough to be convincing. "To lead… after him?" he said, his voice carefully measured.
"It is promised," Athena intoned.
Zeus gave a single, slow nod. The lightning around him quieted, a sign of approval.
"Then I swear it," Nicholas said, the words tasting like ash. "I will pledge my support. I will see Franklin Roosevelt made President. I will be his… loyal successor."
The words were a lie. Every syllable was a betrayal. But they were the words they wanted to hear. The cold knot of rage in his stomach hardened into a diamond core of resolve.
They thought that he was going to serve them, but Nicholas thought it was laughable.
Athena's stern expression softened minutely, a sculptor approving of her creation. "Go then. Fulfil what you have promised."
The divine pressure lifted. The starry hall wavered. Nicholas felt the world lurch and twist before he stumbled back, his feet on solid marble, the familiar, musty smell of the National Archives in his nostrils.
He was alone. The encounter had lasted only moments, but it had changed everything. The leash was now visible. He had felt its weight.
And he knew, with absolute certainty, that his first act as the "future President" would be to strangle the gods who thought they held the other end.
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