Hours later, with a tired laugh, Ron waved a heavy hand in the general direction of Marco, and announced that he was going to bed, and if Marco didn't want to be eaten by some kind of pink dino-yak again tomorrow that he should too. Marco couldn't help an amused snort at the last bit, but for the most part stayed quiet, except from a vague hum of agreeance which he hoped would be enough to satisfy the older man. He sat slumped in a half dilapidated arm chair, his arms draping carelessly over the sides and his too long legs stretched out, crossing neatly at the ankles. The silence drew itself out, with everyone now asleep Marco had time to think, time to reassess everything that had taken place in the last 24 hours.
He had time to doubt himself.
He sighed heavily and drew up a heavily tattooed arm, letting his eyes trail over the stains of recently clotted blood and scar tissue till he reached a faded black anchor, its familiarity among skin and scars which felt far to foreign to him a simple, but grounding comfort. He let his head fall to rest on his fist. With all that had happened he knew he should be dead to the world, (an analogy he winced at, immediately regretting its unintended double meaning) but no matter how much he tried to will himself to stand, to take Ron's advice and rest up for tomorrow, he couldn't do it. He couldn't sleep.
Zeus was dead.
There was no room left in Marco for anything resembling forgiveness toward the computer geek turned self-made homicidal god. He had no regrets in killing Zeus; he was sick from the inside out and had torn the world apart just because he could. Zeus hadn't battered an eyelid sending Marco to rot in a cage, hadn't cared when he'd seen him after 5 long years. Not even when he had seen Marco die.
But he had to wonder how much of himself was driven by that pure, unrelenting hate for the man, and now he was dead, what was left?
Doubt was a dangerous thing when he had people to protect.
Where the hate had been he felt numb, he was free from his jail cell (60 years early no less) and he had proved himself to be superior to Zeus. With that gone he had to wonder what the hell he had left to strive for, the world had been reduced to rubble and dust and those who still lived were probably few, far between and so very, very afraid. Once again the duty fell to him to show them how to be brave.
He sighed heavily and felt so much older than he should, felt more troubled ,and hell, even more lonely than he should without Zeus's torments and Alice's cryptic messages. The slight of knock on the doorframe (the door long ago ripped off its hinges) jolted him from his thoughts, the day's events doing little for his already paranoid temperament, Marco thought. Sweeping his gaze upward, he saw Kasumi standing in the doorway, looking on apologetically at the older man, sensing the moment had been a private one.
"We found some clothes in the supply storage"
She paused, a shy smile playing on her lips
"I thought you could do with a fresh shirt Marco-san"
She held a simple folded shirt out at arm's length, nervousness evident from the downturn of her mouth. He pushed himself out of the chair with relative ease, ignoring its creak of protest at the movement. All at once some of the strain in his muscles and the weight in his mind lifted slightly.
Though his movements were easy, his face remained impassive, he took the shirt and held it up, allowing it to unfold ungracefully in his grasp. Looking at the shirt a moment in mock inspection he glanced at kasumi who was fidgeting with her glasses, making an effort to clean the dirtied lenses on her dress. His lips quirked a fraction and he reached out to the young woman, placing a hand gently on the skin where her throat met the curve of her shoulder. Almost dropping her glasses in surprise, her head shot up at the contact. Marco gave in and smiled a slight quirk of the mouth hardly remarkable or even noticeable considering the events of earlier hours, but one that was genuine and the first that had reached his eyes in years.
He moved slowly passed her, letting his hand linger a moment as he moved, before he drew it back, walking slowly toward a make shift bed in one of the back rooms, the memory of skin still warm to his hand, and thoughts of Zeus and Medusa already slipping from his mind.