Typhon Panagakos is famous.

In 2011 they shocked the world by quitting their comfortable role as a storied Petrogon documentarian to instead release an incisive dossier, covering the company's illicit activities over a period of years, all the way up to January 2011.

The centrepiece of the film is never-before-seen footage of the 2009 oil spill—footage that was sufficiently damning for state prosecutors to take the unprecedented move of reopening their investigation into the event, eventually fining Petrogon $300 million for flagrant failures to adhere to safety laws.

Typhon becomes the face of Terra Indomita. He and his organisation are widely criticised for a perceived unwillingness to compromise or cooperate, and for impunity regarding the collateral damage of their operations.

They are wanted by multiple governments; they do not care.

It is said that they have a husband, who lives a more conventional life outside the limelight. A softly spoken man from Catalonia, of whom little is known about. Perhaps it is best to leave an uninvolved civilian out of it, just this once.

Typhon does not remember quite why they are so forward in their association with Terra Indomita. Not so long ago, they were undercover within Petrogon, seen as evergreen in their loyalty to the corporation, and with just the right level of pizzazz to capture audiences' attention while still remembering who was really in charge.

That Typhon is unimaginable now. What changed?

A thousand miles away, on a continent Typhon Panagakos thinks very little about, sits a structure.

It is barely recognisable, least of all to him.

It is a ruined Antarctic research station, with cracks filled in by snow and windows battered by storm and time. It sticks up off the ice sheet like a sore thumb. A symbol of humanity's wretched failure to conquer and exploit this sacred place. How they gave up and fled, carelessly leaving this bruise behind.

The station is laced with dynamite, but it has not been destroyed. The wiring—having first turned to crystal in a freak accident nobody remembers—has melted away and back into the ice, and thus the bombs have never activated.

For no solution so simple as to be conveyed by way of flame, blast and ruin will be the solution that ends this story. For while you may destroy a bastion, or kill an antagonist, you can never destroy the indomitable human spirit.

And before too long, the indomitable human spirit will return again to this place, to test the definition of insanity one more time.

It has been 365 days since Typhon left Antarctica. 365 days since they stopped feeling that bitter chill in the air, freezing them to their core, the kind of cold that makes you understand that Γαῖα does not care about the humans that populate her surface. 365 days since everything that happened at that station began to fade into a distant memory, into something that never happened at all.

APERIS 2011: WATCH DAILY.

They pick up the tape in confusion, unable to remember where it came from. That is their handwriting, that much is certain. The words are empty, no meaning, no memories.

A black hole, consuming, refusing to give back.

Typhon can hear Emi upstairs, beginning to make breakfast for the children now in his care. Their last visit to his charity was long ago, too long. The roaring flames that come with being a public face of Terra Indomita threaten the peaceful life that these children have here. Catalonian summers are incomparable to the heat that Typhon weathers. A fresh bruise blossoms high on their cheek, a remnant of yet another protest, another clash with a world who refuses to listen.

APERIS 2011: WATCH DAILY

They push it into an old VHS player, hands trembling slightly as they do, though they cannot be sure why.

The screen flickers to life, Typhon’s face appearing. Deep wounds frame their face, blood leaking from the corner of a particularly nasty one, and bruises spread under their eyes.

As they watch, Typhon reflexively lifts a hand to their face, fingers tracing the scars lining their cheeks. The scars that perfectly match the Typhon on the screen, the bump still in their nose where it was broken and never healed properly. Wounds that they don’t remember receiving, permanently marked on their skin.

“APERIS: Antarctic Preservation, Exploration and Research International Station. 2011

My name is Typhon Panagakos. Vittoria, Typhon- me, I suppose. If you are watching this, you made it out alive. Congratulations. I don’t know if you’ll remember any of this. That’s why I made this tape, and printed a transcript. Just in case the footage gets corrupted.”

Vittoria Rinaldi. Former head of Terra Indomita, until she disappeared.

365 days ago, Vittoria Rinaldi disappeared. Typhon stepped up, for reasons they cannot recall, no matter how hard they try.

Τυφῶν. Father of monsters. Serpent with a thousand heads.

Infamous eco-terrorist.

Voice of Terra Indomita.

“-interim leader of ANCOM, Eddie Clark. You can trust him. Do not ask for anything unless you have no other choice. Do not assume that you will get a warm welcome, that he will greet you with open arms. He will not. But Typhon, even if you don’t remember me, please, trust me. Trust Eddie.”

Eddie Clark.

A name that they do not know, that carries no meaning. There is no one in Terra Indomita with that name.

And yet, when Typhon hears that name, they can’t help closing their eyes. Remembering, perhaps. Feeling, definitely. A warm, sunny day. A copse of trees. Redwoods, they think, though they aren’t sure why. The feeling of two children, safe in the shadows, sharing a precious moment. Untouched by the horrors of this world.

It feels like trust.

“-Petrogon. Petrogon, and that MotherFu- *ahem* And Kennedy Crake are the reason Alexakis is dead. Kennedy had them shot. Their blood is on Petrogon’s hands. Make. Them. Pay.”

Alexakis.

The name rings through Typhon like a gunshot, their body recoiling. A bullet rocketing through their heart, a body collapsing to the floor. Limp. Eyes pressed closed against the force of it, blood-stained ice flashing through their mind.

It has been so long since Typhon heard their voice, saw their face, felt their warm presence in the room. They still have pictures, but nothing could compare to having Alexakis back.

Eyes open.

A single tear runs down their face, tracking over their cheek.

Συγγνώμη.

“-does not believe you. I don’t know how you will convince him, when he saw the same footage as everyone else and still refuses to believe. He can help, if you let him. Emanuel is a friend.”

More than a friend.

Emi is upstairs, preparing breakfast. For the children, mainly, though Typhon will surely be brought a portion soon. Pa amb tomàquet, a traditional Catalan meal, one that Typhon has learned to love.

It is not the only thing that they have learned to love.

“Don’t give up. You have won battles before. You can win the war.”

The video clicks to an end.

The tears on their face have dried, the blood washing away in the rise and fall of the tides.

Voices echo down the stairs, children of various ages gathering at the table. Breakfast is a communal meal here, sharing the food grown and prepared by their own hands. If Typhon waited long enough, Emi would bring a portion downstairs to them.

It isn’t always easy the first morning after they arrive. The adjustment to domestic life, to the respite that Emi offers, can be jarring. Days often pass before Typhon feels safe enough to leave Emi’s room, before they can be sure that they have not brought Τάρταρος to his doorstep.

Today is not one of those mornings.

Pulling on the t-shirt that Emanuel had been sleeping in, oversized when Typhon puts it on, dark blue with the words ‘Marine biology gives my life porpoise’ emblazoned on the front, they hurry up the stairs.

“Typito!”

“-missed you, Typito!”

A chorus of greetings rings out from the children, both new and familiar faces. Typhon greets each child personally, ruffling hair and giving out hugs. Embarrassment is painted all over Emi as he takes in the outfit that Typhon is wearing, his face as red as the tomatoes in his hands. They make their way unhurriedly over to him, winding their arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Ay, where did you find that top?”

Typhon merely smirks, teasing. Planting another kiss.

“Good morning, Αγάπη μου.”

Written by Caroline K.