Present Day - FBI Tactical Operations Center, Quantico "Sir, we have a situation." FBI Director Raymond Chen looked up from his paperwork to see his deputy director, Maria Vasquez, standing in his doorway with an expression that was somewhere between concern and amusement. "What kind of situation?" "Perseus Jackson has been kidnapped." Chen's coffee cup paused halfway to his lips. "Kidnapped." "Yes, sir. Taken from his apartment in Manhattan about two hours ago. We have CCTV footage." "Show me." They walked to the operations center, where several analysts were already reviewing footage on the main screen. Chen watched as four men in masks entered Perseus's building, made their way to his floor, and breached his apartment door. What happened next made Chen's eyebrows rise. Perseus was sitting on his couch, reading a book. He looked up at the kidnappers with mild interest, dog-eared his page, and stood up calmly. One of the kidnappers brandished a gun and said something—no audio on the feed—and Perseus actually smiled, nodded, and held out his wrists to be zip-tied. "He's... cooperating," Vasquez said unnecessarily. "He's not cooperating," Chen said slowly, watching Perseus walk out of his apartment flanked by armed men. "He's playing along." "Sir?" "Look at his body language. Does he look scared? Stressed? No. He looks like someone who just accepted an invitation to a party." Chen pulled out his phone. "I need to make some calls."

Thirty Minutes Later - Secure Video Conference The screens showed CIA Director Sarah Webb, NSA Director Michael Torres, DIA Director Amanda Foster, and DNI James Cartwright, all patched in from their respective locations. On the main screen was live satellite footage of a warehouse in Newark, New Jersey, where a white van had just pulled in. "Gentlemen, lady," Director Chen began, "as you've all been briefed, Perseus Jackson has been kidnapped by what appears to be a small-time criminal gang. Four members, probably looking for ransom money. They seem to think he's a wealthy businessman." "And Perseus just... let them?" Foster asked, still relatively new to the strangeness of Perseus Jackson situations. "He practically helped them," Webb said, reviewing her own copy of the footage. "Look at this—he even warned them when one of them was about to trip on his rug. I can read his lips. He said 'watch the corner of the coffee table.'" Cartwright was pinching the bridge of his nose. "He's bored. He's letting himself get kidnapped because he's bored." "That's my assessment," Chen agreed. "The question is: do we intervene?" "Has he activated Echelon?" Torres asked. "No. His phone is still in his apartment. He deliberately left it behind." "Then he doesn't want to be rescued," Webb said, leaning back in her chair. "He's going to see how this plays out." "So we just... watch?" Foster asked, incredulous. "Unless he signals for help, yes," Cartwright said. "Remember, Perseus has survived four hundred years—probably more, we're not even sure anymore. Some low-level kidnappers aren't a threat to him. They're entertainment." "This is insane," Foster muttered. "Welcome to Perseus Jackson situations," Webb said with a slight smile. "James, do you have satellite coverage?" "NSA has a bird overhead now. We've also hacked into the warehouse security cameras— they were already connected to the internet, so it was trivially easy. We have full audio and video inside." "Put it on screen," Chen said. The view switched to an interior camera. Perseus was sitting calmly in a metal chair, his hands zip-tied behind him. The four kidnappers had removed their masks—already a mistake, showing their faces to someone they planned to release—and were arguing about something. "Can we get audio?" Cartwright asked. Torres nodded, and suddenly they could hear the kidnappers' conversation. "—I'm telling you, we should ask for five million," one of them was saying. "Look at his apartment. The guy's loaded." "Five million? Nobody's going to pay five million," another argued. "We start at two million." "Excuse me," Perseus said politely. All four kidnappers turned to stare at him. "If you're going to ask for ransom, you should probably figure out who to call. I don't have any family, and I'm not actually that wealthy. The apartment is rented." One of the kidnappers, clearly the leader, stepped forward. "Shut up. We'll figure it out." "I'm just trying to help you be more efficient kidnappers," Perseus said reasonably. "Have you done this before?" "That's none of your business!" "So that's a no," Perseus said, nodding to himself. "First time. That explains why you parked the van in view of three different security cameras." On the video conference, the directors were trying not to laugh. "He's giving them notes," Webb said, shaking her head. "He's literally critiquing their kidnapping technique." "Someone get me a drink," Chen said. "If we're going to watch this, I need whiskey."

Two Hours Later What had started as a security briefing had evolved into something more like a watch party. The directors, along with a handful of their most senior deputies (all with Omega clearance), were now gathered in the FBI's secure operations center, watching Perseus Jackson's kidnapping unfold in real-time. Someone had brought whiskey. Someone else had brought popcorn. "Okay, new rule," Webb announced. "Every time Perseus gives them advice, we drink." "Every time they ignore his advice and he says 'I tried to warn you,' we drink twice," Torres added. "Every time one of them threatens to shoot him and he looks amused, drink," Foster contributed, getting into the spirit of things. Cartwright was shaking his head but smiling. "This is the most undignified intelligence operation I've ever been part of." On screen, Perseus was still talking to his captors. "—and another thing, you should really think about your exit strategy. Let's say hypothetically you get the money. How are you planning to release me without me immediately going to the police?" "We'll figure it out," the leader snapped. "You could drop me off somewhere remote, but then I'd just flag down a car. You could keep me longer, but that increases your risk. Or—" Perseus paused thoughtfully, "—you could just not go through with this and let me go now, and I promise I won't press charges." "Why the hell would we do that?" "Because right now, you've only committed kidnapping. Nobody's hurt, no ransom has been paid, no additional crimes. If you let me go now, you're looking at maybe five years with good behavior. If you keep going, make demands, maybe hurt me trying to prove you're serious—that's life in prison. I'm just saying, from a risk-management perspective, cutting your losses now is the smart play." The leader pulled out a gun and pointed it at Perseus. "One more word and I'll shoot you." Perseus looked at the gun, then at the leader, and said nothing. But his expression clearly conveyed: "Well, that's poor decision-making." "Drink!" Webb called out, and they all took a shot. "He's going to get himself shot just to make a point," Torres said. "No he won't," Chen said confidently. "He's having too much fun. Watch."

Four Hours In The kidnappers had finally made a ransom call. They'd found a business card in Perseus's wallet for a "consulting firm" and called the number, demanding two million dollars. What they didn't know was that the number was actually a front for CIA operations, and the person who answered was a trained negotiator who immediately flagged the call to Director Webb. On screen, Perseus was shaking his head as he listened to his captors make their demands. "No, no," he called out. "You're coming on too aggressive. You need to establish rapport first. Build trust. Make them believe I'm actually in danger." "You ARE in danger!" the leader shouted. "Am I though?" Perseus asked mildly. "Because I feel fairly safe. You haven't hurt me, you keep giving me water when I ask, and Tony over there even loosened my zip ties when I said they were too tight." Tony, the youngest kidnapper, looked embarrassed. "They looked uncomfortable." "See? You're all too nice to be serious criminals. It's actually kind of endearing." "Drink!" someone called out, and the directors complied. "I'm calling it now," Foster said, slightly buzzed. "He's going to escape within the next hour and probably give them life advice on the way out." "No bet," Webb said. "That's exactly what's going to happen."

Hour Six - The Coin Incident Things had been relatively peaceful until one of the kidnappers—a guy they'd been calling Danny—picked up Perseus's ancient Roman coin from the table where they'd emptied his pockets. "Hey, is this real gold?" Danny asked, examining it. Perseus's entire demeanor changed. The casual amusement vanished, replaced by something cold and dangerous. "Put that down," Perseus said quietly. The temperature in the room—both the warehouse and the operations center—seemed to drop ten degrees. Danny, oblivious, kept examining the coin. "This is old. Like, really old. Museum old. This could be worth—" "I said put it down." Perseus's voice was steel. The leader noticed the change in atmosphere. "Danny, give him the coin." "Why? It's just—" Perseus moved. Even with his hands zip-tied behind his back, he was suddenly on his feet, across the room, and standing in front of Danny with an expression that made all four kidnappers back up instinctively. "That coin," Perseus said, his voice low and dangerous, "was given to me by a very dear friend. He gave it to me after I helped him cross a river that changed the course of history. It is the single most important possession I own. If you damage it, lose it, or try to take it, what happens next will not be fun for anyone involved. Do you understand me?" Danny dropped the coin like it was on fire. "Jesus, man, okay! Here!" Perseus picked up the coin with his still-bound hands, somehow managing to secure it in his pocket. Then, just as quickly as the danger had appeared, it vanished. He was calm again, almost gentle. "Thank you. I appreciate that." In the operations center, every single person was silent, staring at the screen. Finally, Torres spoke. "Did he say... helped him cross a river that changed history?" "Julius Caesar," Webb whispered. "The Rubicon. Oh my God, he's talking about the Rubicon." Cartwright had gone pale. "That was 49 BCE. That's over two thousand years ago." "We thought he was four hundred," Foster said, her voice faint. "Maybe five hundred. We've been off by fifteen centuries." Chen was doing math in his head. "Two thousand years. He's been alive for two thousand years. He probably met Jesus. He might have met Cleopatra. He—" He stopped, overwhelmed by the implications. "The coin," Webb said, pulling up the footage again. "We've seen that coin in dozens of reports over the years. We always assumed it was a replica, or maybe a few hundred years old. But if it's actually from Caesar..." "He said 'my friend Julius,'" Torres repeated. "Julius Caesar was his friend. Perseus Jackson was friends with Julius fucking Caesar." There was a long silence as they all processed this. Then Cartwright started laughing. He couldn't help it. The absurdity of it all—that they'd been managing an asset for seventy-eight years, thinking they understood him, and they'd been off by two millennia. The laughter spread. Soon all of them were laughing, the stress and whiskey and sheer impossibility of the situation overwhelming their professional composure. "Two thousand years," Foster repeated, wiping tears from her eyes. "He's been doing this for two thousand years, and we thought we were impressive for managing him for eighty." "No wonder he gets bored," Webb said. "Everything we think is new, he's probably seen a dozen times before." "The Protocol," Chen said suddenly. "The Echelon Protocol. Truman created it in 1947 thinking Perseus was maybe three hundred years old. If he knew it was two thousand—" "He probably would've built him a shrine," Cartwright finished. "Made him Secretary of Defense. Something." They all looked back at the screen, where Perseus was now calmly explaining to his kidnappers why their chosen warehouse location was tactically unsound. "He's immortal," Foster said quietly. "Actually, truly immortal. Not just long-lived. He's going to outlive all of us. Our children. Our grandchildren. He'll still be here in another two thousand years." That sobered them all up somewhat. "And right now," Webb said, "he's choosing to spend his infinite lifespan letting himself get kidnapped by amateurs for entertainment." "Quality entertainment, apparently," Torres added, pointing at the screen where Perseus was demonstrating proper knot-tying technique to his captors.

Hour Eight - The Escape As Foster had predicted, Perseus eventually got bored and decided to leave. He waited until all four kidnappers were in the same room, distracted by an argument about how to collect the ransom money. Then he simply stood up, snapped the zip ties— apparently he'd been able to break them at any time—and walked toward the door. "Wait, where are you going?" the leader shouted, grabbing his gun. "Home," Perseus said calmly. "This has been fun, but I have things to do. Thank you for the experience though. Very enlightening." "We'll shoot!" Perseus turned back, and his expression was patient, almost kind. "No, you won't. You're not killers. You're just guys who made a bad decision and got in over your heads. Here's what's going to happen: I'm going to leave. You're going to have about thirty minutes before the FBI arrives, because they've been watching this whole thing on your security cameras." All four kidnappers looked up at the cameras in horror. "If you're smart," Perseus continued, "you'll use those thirty minutes to run. Get out of the city, maybe out of the state. Turn yourselves in eventually—it'll go better for you if you do. But right now, just run. Consider it a gift from someone who's seen enough people throw their lives away on stupid decisions." He walked to the door, paused, and turned back one more time. "Oh, and Tony? You were thinking about going back to school before your friends convinced you to do this. Do that instead. You're better than this." Then he was gone. The four kidnappers stared at each other for approximately ten seconds before they bolted for the exits.

FBI Operations Center "Well," Cartwright said, standing and stretching. "That was the strangest eight hours of my career." "Should we send agents to pick them up?" Chen asked. "Give them their thirty-minute head start," Cartwright said. "Perseus promised them that much, and I'm not going to contradict a two-thousand-year-old force of nature." "Agreed," Webb said. "Besides, they're not dangerous. Just stupid. We'll pick them up eventually." Foster was still staring at the screen, watching Perseus walk calmly through the Newark streets. "Does he know that we know? About his real age?" "Probably," Cartwright said. "He's had two thousand years to get good at reading people. He probably knows exactly what we figured out from the coin incident." "Will he be angry?" "No. I think he'll be relieved, actually. He's been hiding his true age for a long time. Having us know—having people he works with understand the full scope of what he is—that might be a relief." Chen pulled out his phone. "I'm ordering pizza. If we're going to debrief this situation, we need food." "Make it four pizzas," Webb said. "This is going to be a long debrief." As they waited for the food, they watched Perseus make his way through Newark, occasionally stopping to help an old lady with her groceries or give directions to a lost tourist. Two thousand years old. Still helping people cross metaphorical rivers. Still fighting for causes he believed in. Still flipping that ancient coin that Julius Caesar had given him. "You know," Torres said thoughtfully, "in two thousand years, he's probably forgotten more about warfare and intelligence than we'll ever learn." "Probably," Cartwright agreed. "Which makes it even more remarkable that he still bothers to help us at all." "Maybe that's what you do when you live for two millennia," Foster said. "You find causes worth fighting for, people worth protecting. Otherwise, what's the point?" They were all quiet, contemplating that. Then the pizza arrived, and they got to work writing the most unusual after-action report in the history of American intelligence: SUBJECT: Voluntary Kidnapping Event - Perseus Jackson DURATION: 8 hours THREAT LEVEL: Zero ENTERTAINMENT VALUE: Substantial NEW INTELLIGENCE GATHERED: Asset may be 2000+ years old, not 400-500 as previously estimated. Recommend updating all files and psychological assessments accordingly. RECOMMENDATION: Continue current protocol. Asset clearly does not need our protection, but appreciates the gesture. Suggest we all just try to stay out of his way and be grateful he's on our side. Cartwright signed it, marked it Omega clearance, and filed it away. Just another day managing the world's oldest, most dangerous, and most inexplicably helpful asset.

That Night - Perseus's Apartment Perseus sat on his couch, flipping his coin and smiling to himself. The kidnapping had been amusing—the kidnappers were terrible at their jobs but decent people underneath— and the look on their faces when he'd revealed the FBI had been watching was priceless. His phone rang. Cartwright. "Yeah?" "Julius Caesar? Really?" Perseus laughed. "I was wondering when you'd figure that out." "Two thousand years, Perseus. You let us think you were four hundred." "Would you have believed me if I'd told you? Besides, four hundred was already stretching credibility." "Fair point." A pause. "Does this change anything?" "Should it? I'm the same person I was yesterday. Just older than you thought." "Much older." "Time is relative when you have enough of it," Perseus said philosophically. "I'm still going to do what I've always done. Help when I can, fight when I must, and occasionally let myself get kidnapped by amateurs for entertainment." "About that—" "You all enjoyed watching, don't deny it." "We may have had some whiskey and made a drinking game out of it," Cartwright admitted. Perseus laughed again. "Good. Life's too short not to find humor in absurd situations." "Life's not short for you." "No," Perseus agreed, his tone becoming more serious. "But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate the absurdity. Two thousand years, James. You know what the hardest part is?" "What?" "Watching people I care about grow old and die. Over and over again. Hundreds of times. Thousands of people. So I've learned to find joy in the small moments. Like tonight— watching those poor bastards try to figure out how to be kidnappers. That was a gift." Cartwright was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry. I never thought about it that way." "Don't be sorry. Just... keep doing what you're doing. The Echelon Protocol, the databases, all of it. It makes my life easier, and that means I can keep helping. Keep fighting. Keep finding those small moments of joy." "We will. And Perseus? Thank you. For everything. Two thousand years of everything." "You're welcome. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a book to finish. The kidnappers interrupted me at a good part." He hung up, flipped his coin one more time—it came up heads, of course, Julius's profile still visible after two millennia—and went back to his book. Two thousand years. And he was still here. Still fighting. Still helping people cross rivers, literal and metaphorical. Some things never changed. And maybe, just maybe, that was okay