Nobody came looking for them today—not the crew, not the locals. It was as if the entire island had collectively decided to vanish into satin sheets and whispered promises.
Heracles stared into the heart of the city, holding half a watermelon like it was a crystal ball. "Any idea how to drag Jason and the rest out of there?"
Cyd bit into his slice and shrugged. "Kick them right in the second brain. Hard. Make sure it's broken enough they can't use it again anytime soon."
"That… sounds illegal," Heracles muttered, grimacing.
"I think it's brilliant," Atalanta said without missing a beat, casually crunching into her melon like she was imagining it was someone's skull.
Heracles groaned. "Okay, seriously. Isn't there a way to get them out without causing lifelong trauma?"
Cyd stretched, letting the sun catch his face. "They're not you. They didn't resist. They surrendered to pleasure—and people like that? They'll come crawling out the second they're bored. Lust doesn't last. It fades faster than a midday cloud."
That silenced both of them.
"They'll probably drag themselves back with some self-important monologue about duty and destiny," Cyd continued. "Pretending they weren't just one more notch on the headboard."
"Men are disgusting," Atalanta muttered.
Cyd chuckled darkly. "This island? Thousands of women. Maybe tens of thousands. You could spend years here, cycling through new partners every day. No monsters. No gods breathing down your neck. Just endless indulgence. Why would anyone leave?"
Heracles frowned. "So, we're back to: kick them where it hurts?"
"That or wait for the inevitable burnout," Cyd said, brushing dirt from his pants as he stood. "But first, I've got to confirm a few things."
He cracked his neck and turned toward the city.
"Wait! I haven't—" Atalanta reached for him, then stopped as his gaze flicked back to her.
"Stay here. That's an order." His voice softened just a little. "You don't want to waste your time on this."
She scowled. "Fine."
The city was drunk on daylight and desire.
Jason—completely naked except for a strategically placed censor-blur helmet (where the Hades did that come from?)—was parading around the palace courtyard with the queen in his arms, laughing like a man who'd never seen consequences.
Cyd watched from a rooftop, arms crossed. "Well. That's horrifying."
He dropped silently into a side alley, slipping an arm around the waist of one of the few clothed women left. She gasped, surprised—but didn't resist. In fact, she seemed a little too eager, tugging him deeper into the shadows and untying her robe like she'd been waiting for this all day.
"Easy, Aphrodite," Cyd whispered in her ear, steadying her. "I just want to talk."
She nearly melted at the sound of his voice.
Yikes, Cyd thought. No wonder Jason's lost in this place. These women are thirstier than the crew.
"Where'd all the original men go?" he asked, voice low, fingers tracing her jaw like it was all part of the seduction.
She shivered. The green gem on his wrist flared faintly.
"They… they all died…" she whispered.
Cyd's grip tightened slightly. "Died how?"
"They wanted to leave. We—angered the goddess of love. We couldn't take the risk… so we killed them. All of them."
"Well. That's horrifying." He smiled grimly. "Good girl."
Before she could throw herself at him, he chopped the back of her neck and let her slump to the ground.
Cyd sighed, looking out at the parade of half-naked heroes and the feverish crowd worshipping their every move. "Why am I even trying to help these idiots?"
No one answered.
He shouted, "Hey! Got a live one back here! Anyone want a turn?"
The nearby partiers turned. Some licked their lips. Cyd crouched, tapped the unconscious woman's cheek.
"There's your reward."
Then he vaulted back up to the rooftops and sprinted toward the Argo.
Back on the ship, Heracles was stirring a pot of stew. He looked up as Cyd dropped beside him and clapped him on the shoulder.
"City's rotten," Cyd said. "The guys aren't just distracted. They're trapped. Not by force—by bliss."
Heracles frowned. "So it's worse than we thought."
"You could say that."
Atalanta stormed in, sniffed once, and recoiled. "Ugh. What's that smell on you?"
"Some perfume," Cyd muttered, sniffing his arm. "Must've rubbed off while I was—investigating."
"You reek. Take it off." She turned on her heel and left without waiting for an argument.
Cyd sighed and started unbuttoning his shirt.
"Anyway," Heracles coughed, trying to ignore the awkward moment, "what did you find out?"
Cyd leaned against the wall, now shirtless, eyes sharp. "There are no men on this island. Not anymore. All of them are dead. The women killed them after some fight with Aphrodite."
Heracles' eyes widened. "Jason—"
"Relax. If they were just killing men for fun, Jason would've been dead night one." Cyd waved a hand. "This isn't about blood. It's about ownership. You climb into bed with one of them, they own you. Try to leave?" He mimed a throat-slash. "Game over."
Heracles looked haunted. "But Jason has a mission. He's supposed to—"
"Yeah. And if he was thinking clearly, he'd remember that." Cyd flicked a stone off the deck. "But here? Thinking doesn't happen. Only indulgence."
"So what now? We can't force them out."
"Nope," Cyd said, smiling slightly. "But here's the thing. Jason and the others? They're trash. Absolute dogs."
Heracles winced. "That's harsh."
"It's accurate," Cyd replied. "Because that's what gives us a shot. They're not loyal. They're not noble. They'll overindulge, screw up, and leave someone hurt. And that? That'll be our window."
Heracles covered his face. "They really are trash."
Cyd just smirked. "But they're our trash. And I'm going to get them back."