Two Days After the Kidnapping Incident - CIA Historical Analysis Division What started as casual curiosity had evolved into a full-scale historical investigation. CIA Director Sarah Webb had pulled in historians, linguists, and classical scholars—all with Omega clearance hastily granted for this specific purpose. The secure conference room at Langley looked less like an intelligence briefing and more like a university seminar, with ancient texts, historical documents, and archaeological reports scattered across every surface. DNI Cartwright walked in to find Webb hunched over a laptop, her reading glasses perched on her nose, looking like she hadn't slept in two days. "Sarah, it's three in the morning. What are you still doing here?" She looked up, her eyes wild with the excitement of discovery. "James, you need to see this. We've been going through historical records, cross-referencing descriptions, looking for anyone who matches Perseus's profile." "And?" "And he's everywhere. He's been at every major historical event for the last two thousand years. Come look at this." Cartwright sat down as Webb pulled up a series of documents on the main screen. "Let's start with the Battle of Thermopylae, 480 BCE. Herodotus describes the Three Hundred Spartans led by King Leonidas. But he also mentions a foreign advisor who fought alongside them. Listen to this description..." She read from a translation: "A man of unknown origin, speaking Greek with an archaic accent, who fought with the skill of one who had lived many lifetimes. His eyes held the weight of ages, and he wielded his spear as though it were an extension of his very soul." "That could be anyone," Cartwright said, but his voice lacked conviction. "Could be. Except Herodotus also notes that this man survived the battle—one of the very few who did—and was last seen walking away from the Hot Gates, carrying a spear and flipping a golden coin. A golden coin, James." Cartwright felt a chill run down his spine. "The coin." "The coin." Webb pulled up another document. "Now jump forward to 334 BCE. Alexander the Great's campaigns. Multiple sources mention a mercenary captain named Perseus— note the name—who joined Alexander's army and taught him advanced tactical formations that were centuries ahead of their time. Hammer and anvil tactics, combined arms warfare, strategic use of cavalry in ways that wouldn't be 'invented' until the Napoleonic era." She pulled up a series of battle diagrams. "Look at these. These are tactics that modern military historians attribute to Alexander's genius. But what if he didn't invent them? What if someone who'd already lived five hundred years taught them to him?" "You're saying Perseus trained Alexander the Great." "I'm saying someone matching Perseus's exact description, using his exact name, was Alexander's most trusted military advisor for three years. Then he vanished from historical records around 331 BCE, right before Alexander became too powerful and started believing his own propaganda about being a god. Sound familiar? Perseus doesn't stick around when people start making him uncomfortable." Cartwright was leaning forward now, fully engaged. "What else?" Webb was just getting started. "Arthurian legends. Now, we've always dismissed these as mythology, right? Except..." She pulled up a medieval manuscript. "This is from the 12th century, but it's supposedly copying from much older sources. It describes the Knights of the Round Table, and there's one knight who doesn't fit the usual pattern. He's called 'The Eternal Knight' or sometimes 'The Wandering Knight.' He appears at Camelot already ancient, already skilled, trains the younger knights, fights alongside Arthur at his greatest battles, and then disappears before Camelot falls." She pulled up an illuminated manuscript, and Cartwright's breath caught. There, illustrated in faded medieval colors, was a scene of King Arthur drawing Excalibur. And standing behind him, clearly depicted, was a man who looked exactly like Perseus Jackson. "The manuscript describes him as having 'eyes that had witnessed the rise and fall of empires,'" Webb continued. "And—this is the important part—several sources mention he carried a Roman coin that he would flip when making decisions. The monks who copied this manuscript thought it was some kind of divination tool." "Jesus Christ," Cartwright muttered. "He was at Camelot. If Camelot was even real—" "It was real. Or at least, something was real that became the Camelot legends. And Perseus was there." Webb pulled up more documents. "Should I keep going? Because it gets better." "How can it possibly get better than 'Perseus trained Alexander the Great and hung out with King Arthur'?" "Because he didn't just participate in serious historical events. He also did the most absurd, ridiculous things for fun, and they got recorded." Webb was grinning now. "Remember how he let himself get kidnapped because he was bored? That's apparently been a pattern for two thousand years." She pulled up a Roman document. "This is from Pliny the Elder, 77 CE. He describes a celebration in Rome where several drunken patricians bet a man named Perseus that he couldn't swim across the Tiber River in full armor. Perseus not only did it, he did it while carrying two of the patricians on his back and singing bawdy songs. The Emperor Vespasian was reportedly so amused he gave Perseus a laurel wreath and a bag of gold, which Perseus then used to buy drinks for everyone at the tavern." Cartwright started laughing. "That sounds exactly like him." "Wait, it gets better." Webb pulled up another document. "Medieval France, 1183. There's a report from a monastery about a warrior who showed up at a jousting tournament, challenged the reigning champion, and fought the entire match using only defensive moves to see how long he could last without actually hitting his opponent. He won by forfeit after the champion got too tired to continue. The warrior then bought drinks for everyone and taught the local knights a drinking game that apparently scandalized the monks so much they refused to describe it in detail." "He taught medieval knights beer pong," Cartwright said flatly. "We don't know it was beer pong, but probably something similar. The monks called it 'the Devil's Cup Game' and said it encouraged 'excessive merriment and boastful behavior.'" "That's definitely Perseus." NSA Director Torres entered the room, carrying a stack of documents. "Sorry I'm late. I was following a lead. Sarah, you need to see this." "What did you find?" "Viking records. Specifically, Norse sagas from the 9th century. There's a recurring character called 'The Eternal Warrior' who appears in multiple sagas. He shows up, fights alongside various jarls and kings, drinks everyone under the table at the mead hall, and then vanishes. The descriptions match Perseus exactly." Torres spread out copies of translated sagas. "But here's the interesting part. In one saga, he participates in something called 'The Great Stupidity'—which was apparently a series of increasingly ridiculous contests between drunk Vikings. The challenges included things like 'who can wear the most helmets at once' and 'who can throw a shield the farthest while blindfolded' and 'who can insult a goat most creatively.'" "Please tell me Perseus won," Webb said. "He won everything except the goat insults. Apparently there was a skald—a Viking poet— who was just better at insulting livestock. The saga says Perseus laughed so hard he fell off his bench and declared the skald the winner by virtue of making him laugh." Torres pointed to a specific passage. "And look at this. After the contests, Perseus apparently taught them a song that was so filthy and so funny that it's still referenced in later sagas as 'The Song That Cannot Be Sung in the Presence of Priests.'" Cartwright was crying with laughter now. "He's been doing this for two thousand years. Participating in history's greatest moments and also getting drunk with Vikings and teaching them dirty songs." "There's more," Torres said. "During the Crusades—and I want to emphasize that he doesn't seem to have participated in the actual religious warfare part—there are reports of a warrior who organized elaborate pranks between the Crusader and Saracen camps during truces. Like, he apparently convinced both sides to have a snowball fight in Jerusalem when it snowed one winter. Multiple chronicles mention this event and describe it as 'The Day the Holy War Stopped for Frivolity.'" FBI Director Chen arrived, also carrying documents. "Please tell me you're all seeing what I'm seeing." "If you're seeing that Perseus Jackson has been the most chaotic force in human history, then yes," Cartwright said. "I found records from the Hundred Years' War," Chen said, spreading out his documents. "There's an English archer named Perseus—again with the name—who apparently got bored during a siege and challenged a French knight to what the chronicles call 'the most peculiar duel ever witnessed.' They agreed to fight using only chickens as weapons." Everyone stopped and stared at him. "I'm sorry, what?" Webb said. "Chickens. Live chickens. The rule was you had to use the chicken to tag your opponent. The duel lasted forty minutes, terrorized all the chickens in the camp, and ended when both men were laughing too hard to continue. They declared it a draw and went to the nearest tavern together, where they apparently became lifelong friends." "He fought a duel with chickens," Cartwright repeated, just to make sure he'd heard correctly. "The chronicle describes it as 'the greatest mockery of chivalric tradition ever perpetrated, and yet so amusing that none could find it in their hearts to condemn it.'" DIA Director Foster entered, looked at everyone's faces, and said, "What did I miss?" "Perseus has been trolling humanity for two thousand years," Webb summarized. "He trained Alexander the Great, fought at Thermopylae, partied with Vikings, organized snowball fights during the Crusades, and fought a duel with chickens during the Hundred Years' War." Foster blinked. "I... what?" "Oh, and he was at Camelot," Torres added. "There's a medieval manuscript with his picture in it." Foster sat down slowly. "I need to start from the beginning."

Six Hours Later The conference room now looked like a conspiracy theorist's dream. Red string connected various documents, timelines covered the walls, and the directors—all of whom had been up for nearly twenty-four hours—were deep in their historical investigation. "Okay, so we've established he's been at every major historical event," Webb said, updating their timeline. "But we're also seeing a clear pattern. He participates in the serious stuff—the battles, the wars, the moments that shape history. But in between, he finds ways to entertain himself." "And usually those ways involve alcohol, stupid bets, and teaching people things they probably shouldn't know," Chen added. "Look at this pattern though," Torres said, pointing at the timeline. "He doesn't stay in one place for more than a few years. He moves around, changes identities, disappears for decades at a time. Sometimes he's a soldier, sometimes a merchant, sometimes a scholar. He's been adapting and changing his cover story for two millennia." "But he always comes back to warfare," Cartwright noted. "Every major conflict, he's there. Sometimes on the winning side, sometimes on the losing side if he thinks they have the moral high ground." Foster had been quietly reading through a stack of documents. "I found something interesting. During the American Revolution, there are reports of a Continental Army officer who had an unusual amount of strategic knowledge. He apparently advised Washington at Valley Forge, taught the troops advanced camping and fortification techniques, and then disappeared before the war ended." "Let me guess," Webb said. "He also organized some kind of entertainment?" "He taught the Continental Army how to play baseball. Well, an early version of it. The reports describe it as 'a spirited game involving a ball and stick that greatly improved the men's morale during the difficult winter.'" "He invented baseball?" Chen said incredulously. "He probably didn't invent it, but he definitely popularized an early version among the Revolutionary troops. There are multiple accounts of 'General Washington's Favorite Game' that match baseball's basic rules." Cartwright was shaking his head in wonder. "So let me get this straight. Perseus has: fought at Thermopylae, trained Alexander the Great, partied with Vikings, hung out with King Arthur, organized a snowball fight during the Crusades, fought a duel with chickens, taught medieval knights drinking games, introduced baseball to the Continental Army, and —based on what we saw two days ago—still thinks letting himself get kidnapped is good entertainment." "Don't forget he got drunk with Vikings and taught them dirty songs," Torres added. "Right, that too." Webb pulled up a final document. "There's one more thing. I found this in the archives—a letter from Winston Churchill to FDR, dated 1943. It's marked classified, but we have access now. Listen to this: 'My dear Franklin, Regarding our mutual friend Perseus, I must tell you a story from my younger days. In 1898, I met a man in India who claimed to have fought at Waterloo. I thought him mad, of course, but he knew details that no historian could know. He told me Napoleon's horse had gone lame that morning and put him in a foul mood. He described the smell of the battlefield, the sound of the artillery, the terror in the young French soldiers' eyes. He said he'd been there as an observer, watching history unfold. I thought him a colorful liar. Now I understand he was simply telling the truth. Our friend has seen more history than any man alive, and yet he chooses to spend his immortal life helping ungrateful nations stumble toward something resembling civilization. We should count ourselves fortunate he has chosen our side, for if he ever chose to become our enemy, I fear no force on Earth could stop him. Yours in friendship, Winston.'" The room fell silent. "Churchill knew," Cartwright said quietly. "FDR knew. They all knew, and they still created the Echelon Protocol because they understood what we're only now fully grasping." "What's that?" Foster asked. "That Perseus Jackson is the most dangerous, most capable, most experienced warrior and intelligence asset in human history. And the only reason he's on our side is because he chooses to be. Not because we control him, not because we pay him, not because of any oath or obligation. He fights with us because our interests align with his moral code." "A moral code shaped by two thousand years of watching humanity at its best and worst," Webb added. "So what do we do with this information?" Chen asked. Cartwright looked around the room at the exhausted, overwhelmed directors. "We do exactly what Truman did in 1947. We protect him. We give him space. We help him when he asks. And we thank whatever gods might exist that he's chosen to spend his infinite lifespan helping us instead of conquering us." "And we accept that sometimes he's going to do stupid things for entertainment," Torres added. "Like getting kidnapped by amateurs," Webb said, smiling. "Or fighting duels with chickens," Chen contributed. "Or teaching Vikings dirty songs," Foster added, finally embracing the absurdity of it all. They all sat there for a moment, contemplating the sheer impossibility of what they'd discovered. "You know what the really scary part is?" Cartwright said finally. "What?" the others asked in unison. "We've only looked at Western history. Who knows what he was doing in Asia, Africa, the Americas before European contact. He could have been everywhere, involved in everything, and we'd never know unless we spent years cross-referencing records in dozens of languages." "Let's not," Webb said quickly. "I don't think my brain can handle finding out he also advised Genghis Khan or taught samurai how to play poker." "Agreed," the others chorused. "So we write this up," Cartwright said, "mark it Omega clearance, file it away, and never speak of it again except when absolutely necessary." "And we update his file," Foster added. "Change his estimated age from 'approximately 400-500 years' to 'at least 2000 years, possibly older, definitely has seen all of human civilization and most of its stupidest moments.'" "Seconded," Webb said. They all stood, gathering their documents and preparing to return to their normal duties, forever changed by what they'd learned. As they filed out, Chen paused at the door. "Do you think he knows we figured all this out?" "Of course he knows," Cartwright said. "He's probably been waiting for us to figure it out for decades. Hell, he practically told us when he mentioned Julius Caesar and the Rubicon." "Why would he want us to know?" "Because keeping secrets for two thousand years is exhausting. Maybe it's a relief to have someone finally understand the full scope of what he is. Or maybe..." Cartwright smiled, "...maybe he's just tired of us constantly underestimating him."

That Evening - Perseus's Apartment Perseus was on his couch, reading a history book and chuckling occasionally at the inaccuracies, when his phone rang. Cartwright. "You figured it out," Perseus said without preamble. "Thermopylae. Alexander. Camelot. The chicken duel." "Ah. You found the chicken duel. That was a good day." "Perseus, you've been involved in literally everything for two thousand years." "Not everything. I missed the fall of Rome—I was in China at the time, teaching the Tang Dynasty about cavalry tactics. Regretted that. Would have liked to have seen Rome fall. Very symbolic." "You taught the Tang Dynasty—" Cartwright stopped himself. "Never mind. I don't want to know. My brain can't handle any more revelations today." Perseus laughed. "How are the others taking it?" "Webb hasn't slept in two days. Torres keeps muttering about Viking drinking songs. Chen can't stop talking about the chicken duel. Foster is questioning her entire understanding of history." "Sounds about right. That's how I reacted when I realized I wasn't aging normally. Took me about fifty years to accept it." "Why did you tell us about Caesar and the Rubicon? You knew we'd figure it out." "Because, James, I'm tired of pretending to be only four hundred years old. It's exhausting. You try keeping your story straight for centuries and see how you like it." He paused. "Also, I thought you deserved to know. You've been good to me. The Echelon Protocol, the database flags, giving me space to operate—you've earned the truth." "The truth that you've been trolling humanity for two millennia while also saving it repeatedly." "That's a fair summary, yes. Life is long, James. Very long. You have to find ways to keep it interesting. Sometimes that means fighting at Thermopylae. Sometimes it means teaching Vikings dirty songs. It's all about balance." "The chicken duel," Cartwright said. "Please tell me that really happened." "Oh, that definitely happened. Pierre was a good man. Terrible sense of humor, but a good man. We stayed friends until he died of old age thirty years later. I still think about him sometimes." There was a weight to those last words that made Cartwright pause. Two thousand years of watching friends die. No wonder Perseus did silly things for entertainment—the alternative was drowning in grief. "Thank you," Cartwright said finally. "For everything. For all two thousand years of it." "You're welcome. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm reading about the Battle of Waterloo, and the historian got Wellington's breakfast completely wrong. He didn't have kippers, he had eggs. I remember specifically because I was the one who cooked them." "You cooked Wellington's breakfast before Waterloo." "Someone had to. The man was hopeless in a kitchen. Brilliant strategist, couldn't cook an egg to save his life." Cartwright hung up, shaking his head and smiling. Two thousand years. Thermopylae, Alexander, Camelot, Vikings, medieval chicken duels, Revolutionary War baseball, Wellington's eggs, and countless other moments of history both profound and absurd. And through it all, one immortal man with an ancient coin and a sense of humor that had survived two millennia. Perseus Jackson. The most dangerous asset in human history. And thank God he was on their side.