Chapter Text
Sleep eluded Amon, as it had many times before.
As the Fist of Khonshu, he was naturally prone to bouts of insomnia, feeling most active in the dead of night when all others slumbered. Most nights, he would patrol his given territory for hours, itching for Khonshu to whisper in his ear about whom to smite for transgressing against the moon god.
Tonight, however, there was only silence—just as it had been since arriving in the Void.
It was just him and his thoughts. True solitude for the first time in years.
Unsettled by this, Amon listlessly searched Qeng Tower for a distraction, soon finding himself in the tower’s weight room.
Being a product of the year 1000 AD, the concept of a dedicated room for exercise was alien and strange to him. But he took it in stride, as he had all the other oddities he’d encountered thus far.
The training facility was a graveyard of rusted equipment, cracked mirrors, and dust-choked air. The smell of oxidized metal and old sweat clung to the walls like a bottled aroma. After intuitively testing a few of the setups, he figured out the general gist of things.
Soon, he stood in the center of the room, shirtless, tan skin gleaming with sweat beneath the weak glow of a flickering overhead light. His breathing was heavy, his enhanced muscles taut as he hoisted a rusted barbell above his head, veins pulsing with the strain. The weights on either end were far greater than any team of humans should have been able to lift, groaning with every repetition.
He welcomed the burn. Craved it, even.
Amon knew he had been resurrected in full, but knowing wasn’t enough.
He needed proof—proof that his body still belonged to him, that he wasn’t just back, but better than ever.
Another lift. Another ragged breath. The barbell trembled, but he didn’t let it fall.
Then, without announcement, the door creaked open.
Amon didn’t pause, though his eyes flicked to the entrance, irritation already curling in his chest.
Hyperion.
The other man entered with the slow, measured steps of someone who had never needed to hurry. He barely spared Amon a glance, nodding once before striding toward the opposite side of the room. His golden boots glided over the dusty floor—a stark contrast to the wreckage around them.
He wasn’t in his full battle attire. Just a loose pair of pants and a sleeveless compression shirt, likely scavenged from one of the rooms. Even in his casual wear, Hyperion looked like something sculpted from marble—broad, towering, and every bit as indomitable as the myths that inspired him.
Amon set the weight down with a dull clang, watching as Hyperion moved to the nearby squat rack.
The same one Amon had been struggling with just minutes before.
Without hesitation, Hyperion stepped under the bar, adjusting it across his traps. Amon didn’t miss the way he did it—casual, effortless, like he was lifting a twig rather than hundreds of pounds of cold, unyielding steel.
And then he squatted.
Smooth. Controlled. Power humming beneath the surface, but barely exerted.
Amon’s jaw tightened.
Hyperion wasn’t showing off—not intentionally, at least. But that somehow made it worse. There was no struggle, no strain—just an effortless display of superiority.
Amon clenched his fists, his pride still tender from being the only one who had needed resurrection.
Seeking to shake it off, he moved to the bench press. He threw on more weight. He gritted his teeth, pushing his body further, muscles screaming as he pressed the bar upward.
Hyperion, still silent, finished his set and moved on—to something heavier, something harder—and made that look easy as well.
The air in the weight room grew thick with unspoken tension.
Neither man acknowledged the competition, but it escalated all the same.
Pull-ups. Amon forced out reps until his arms shook, his breaths turning ragged. Hyperion followed, gripping the bar with a single hand and pulling himself up as if gravity were an inconvenience rather than a law.
Deadlifts. Amon loaded the bar until the metal bent, veins bulging in his forearms as he ripped it from the floor.
Hyperion? He lifted more—with one arm—yawning between reps.
Next, Hyperion moved on to the punching bag.
The rhythmic sound of fists meeting leather filled the training hall. He struck the heavy bag again, the chain rattling above. The exertion meant little to him—his eternal body did not tire, did not sweat, did not break. Still, he persisted, testing the movement, the force, the reaction.
The sound of Amon’s teeth grinding was almost audible.
It wasn’t overt mockery. Hyperion wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t taunting. He was simply existing in a way that made Amon feel like a lesser thing.
And that was unacceptable.
“Alright, enough.”
The words snapped through the weight room, sharp as a blade.
Hyperion slowed his strikes but didn’t stop. “What?”
“You’re mocking me.”
Amon folded his arms, stepping closer. “I’ve seen what you’re capable of. This is beneath you.”
Hyperion smirked, finally stilling the bag. “True. But I was curious.”
Amon’s brow furrowed. “Curious?”
“I wanted to see what it felt like.” Hyperion flexed his fingers, testing the residual sensation. “How the body responds, how the muscles strain.”
Amon let out a dry huff, shaking his head. “You’re showing off.”
Hyperion actually laughed at that. “Me? If anyone here is a showoff, it’s you.”
Amon’s expression hardened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hyperion tilted his head, studying him. “Do not play dumb. You’ve been shamelessly going above and beyond in service to Kang. And your groveling hasn’t gone unnoticed—he clearly favors you.”
Amon scoffed. “And? Are you jealous?”
Hyperion’s teasing smirk faded. He exhaled, almost disappointed. “No. Just disappointed.”
Amon frowned. “Disappointed?”
Hyperion nodded. “You once told Zarda and me that working for Kang mattered little to you because you had once served Khonshu. I thought you were exaggerating, but I see the truth now. You’re comfortable being a tool. Dare I say, you even enjoy it.”
He paused, searching Amon’s gaze.
“I, for one, don’t… Not anymore.”
The words hit like a blow Amon wasn’t expecting. The usual fire behind his retorts dimmed as confusion took hold.
“What are you saying?”
Hyperion exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve seen what it means to be complicit. What it means to take orders without question. The Penance Stare showed me that.” His voice was quieter now, more resolute. “I won’t be a tool for mayhem anymore.”
Amon took a step closer, his tone unreadable. “Does that mean you’re planning to betray Kang?”
Hyperion met his gaze evenly. “No. Sadly, he’s my only hope of getting out of here. Of getting back to…” He trailed off, then pivoted.
“I just mean that if the time comes, I’ll do what’s right. Even if it’s not what Kang wants.”
He lingered for a moment before turning away. “I hope you’ll do the same.”
With that, he walked off, leaving Amon standing alone in the dim training hall. The silence stretched between the heavy bags, the weight of the conversation settling in.
Amon’s fingers twitched at his sides. Report Hyperion’s wavering loyalty? It would be the smart thing. The right thing.
For a while, he just sat there. Alone with his thoughts once again.