Bella had discovered a new development in Comrade 006: a minor enhancement that didn't quite qualify as a full upgrade. The man's voice had gotten significantly louder.
Every word hit like a thunderclap, yet the sound remained crystal clear with no hint of hoarseness or cracking. Next time they visited Silent Hill, they wouldn't need to bring him a megaphone. He could just stand at the entrance and holler once, and his wife and kid would probably hear him just fine.
"We have to come up with something," the assistant said quietly. "This can't go on. It's getting dangerous."
If I had something, do you think I'd be standing here staring at him?
Bella shook her head. "Any ideas on your end?"
"Perhaps we could fulfill Mr. Weyland's wish? He keeps demanding his thunderbolt. What if we found him one? Once he gets what he wants, he might come back to his senses."
"Hard to say, but I'll give it a shot."
Bella left quickly and returned half an hour later with 006's "thunderbolt."
She'd hit several toy stores before finally finding it: a half-meter-long prop shaped vaguely like a lightsaber. The thing looked suitably fantastical, and it even emitted an eerie blue glow when swung around. Bella figured it matched 006's condition well enough, so she'd shelled out thirty-five dollars for it.
For the sake of treatment, she played along: "Your Majesty, I've recovered your thunderbolt!"
006 accepted the toy lightsaber with wide eyes, staring at it. Then he glared at her. "Aphrodite, you are not a child of one or two years old. How can you be so immature? You can't even recognize a divine artifact? You have deeply disappointed me! How can you possibly serve as a chief god? How do you expect me to answer to the gods of Olympus?"
Bella felt a vein throb on her forehead. Give him an inch and he takes a mile.
The bodyguard "Ares" swooped in to change the subject. He produced a shoebox and pulled out a pair of canvas sneakers. "Your Majesty, per your orders, I've retrieved Hermes's winged sandals. Unfortunately, they've lost their magic."
Comrade 006 immediately switched to full regal mode. He addressed "Ares" with solemn authority: "My son, the sandals have merely lost their power temporarily. Deliver them to Hermes. They are his divine artifact."
"Yes, sire!" The bodyguard had about as many scruples as a mercenary, which was to say none at all. You could call him "son," "grandson," whatever you liked, as long as the paycheck cleared.
He handed the freshly purchased canvas sneakers to the driver "Hermes," who accepted them with the expression of a man in dire need of a bathroom.
Watching this spectacle made Bella's stomach hurt. She beckoned to 006's assistant.
"Take me to that shelter. Maybe we'll find a solution there."
Bella led the way with the assistant trailing behind. They left the Empire State Building and headed for the so-called "Ragnarök Shelter."
The moment they arrived, Bella found the place buzzing with activity. It was, unmistakably, a summer camp in every sense of the word.
007, who just minutes ago had professed his love for the quiet library life, had apparently abandoned his principles the instant Bella left to buy the toy sword. So much for that. He'd come here to earn his keep and was currently instructing a crowd of young men and women in swordsmanship.
Modern spies were trained primarily in firearms, vehicles, and the languages and customs of various nations, but that didn't mean they couldn't handle a blade. With 007's skill set, coaching a bunch of civilians was well within his wheelhouse.
He sat in his wheelchair, occasionally calling out corrections to the group. When he spotted Bella approaching, he waved, then pointed at the trainees to indicate he was working and couldn't chat.
Over a hundred young men and women were decked out in Ancient Greek-style leather cuirasses and bronze helmets, sourced from God-knows-which production crew's prop department. They filled the air with grunting hah! sounds as they flailed about with unsharpened short swords.
Bella's good friend, the notoriously well-armed Heather, was right there in the thick of it. The first thing Bella noticed upon entering the camp was the vigorous bouncing of Heather's lethal weapons.
Heather hadn't brought her chainsaw today, but four years of running with Bella and Barbara had made her genuinely capable in a fight. Factor in those attention-grabbing assets that could dazzle any man's eyes mid-combat, and while taking on ten opponents might be a stretch, handling three was no problem at all.
Fair skin, a knockout figure, and serious combat chops. Impossible to overlook.
Bella glanced around and, sure enough, spotted Mustached Max on the other side.
Mustache didn't have quite the same physical advantages, but he could hold his own in a one-on-one.
Bella turned back to 006's assistant. "Why recruit all these young people? Is this actually supposed to be a summer camp?"
The assistant groaned in exasperation. "What else was I supposed to do? We had to give them some reason to show up. Should I have told them they'd been chosen by the Olympian gods and were being trained as warriors for the apocalypse? All I could do was say they'd won a prize and invite them to a summer camp event in Central Park."
So it really was a summer camp.
Bella patted the assistant's shoulder. "Credit where it's due. Coming up with a cover story like that takes talent. Good work."
The assistant practically glowed. He'd been busting his tail for exactly this kind of recognition from Bella. With that one sentence of approval under his belt, even if 006's madness turned out to be permanent, his career was secure. Finding a job in America these days was brutal enough without having to worry about whether your current employer was sane.
The assistant hurried off. Bella lingered on the perimeter, watching for a while, before Heather dispatched her sparring partner and jogged over.
"You here to earn money too?"
"Earn... earn money? What money?"
Heather dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "This whole thing is bankrolled by some billionaire. Word is, the guy has no hobbies except watching people fight! I heard the top three winners each day get extra prize money. You should sign up! With you, me, and Max, we can sweep all three spots!"
The parade of expressions across Bella's face was something to behold: shock, embarrassment, speechlessness, and bewilderment all jostling for position.
"I'm serious. Trust me!" Heather insisted, and Bella could practically see dollar signs reflected in her eyes.
"...Fine. I believe you. I believe you, okay?"
Weyland Corporation's cash flow had always been robust. Bella didn't mind Heather and Mustache earning a bit on the side. How much could daily sparring matches cost? She just found the whole thing idiotic and humiliating, and facing her friend's excited gaze, she couldn't bring herself to admit she was connected to any of it.
"My codename here is Daughter of Athena! Ha! Whoever came up with these names has a real imagination. Don't you think I look a bit like Athena?" Heather asked her best friend.
Athena didn't have your... armaments. Bella smiled awkwardly and said nothing.
"What's your codename? Max is Son of Apollo. You must have one too, right?" Heather pressed.
Bella absolutely could not bear to discuss this mortifying topic. She pointed into the distance. "Oh, hey, I think I see a friend over there. Let me go say hi. We'll talk later!"
There was no friend. She'd pointed in a random direction and bolted before Heather could follow up.