Three Days After Timeline Presentation - CIA Historical Research Division

  Dr. James Martinez was supposed to be writing his final report on Perseus's medieval activities. Instead, he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.

  "Oh my God," he managed, wiping tears from his eyes. "Oh my God, this can't be real."

  His colleague, Dr. Sarah Chen, looked up from her own computer. "What did you find?"

  "I found—" James broke off into another fit of laughter. "I found the stupidest thing Perseus has ever done. And I'm including the time he let himself get kidnapped by three amateurs."

  Sarah rolled her chair over. "Show me."

  James pulled up a scanned document—a French military report from 1415, recently digitized from the Archives Nationales in Paris.

  "This is from the Battle of Agincourt," James said. "English longbowmen versus French knights. One of the most famous battles of the Hundred Years' War."

  "I know the battle. What about it?"

  "There's an incident report here. From a French knight named Jean de Montfort. It describes an... altercation... that occurred the night before the battle."

  Sarah started reading. Her eyes got wider. Then she started laughing too.

  "He did NOT."

  "He absolutely did."

  "A duel. With CHICKENS?"

  "A FORMAL DUEL with chickens. Read the whole thing."

  Sarah read aloud, her voice shaking with laughter:

  "On the eve of battle, a foreign warrior of unknown origin did challenge the knight Henri de Beaumont to single combat. When asked his choice of weapons, the foreigner declared 'chickens only, best two out of three.' Knight Henri, believing this to be mockery of his honor, accepted.

  The first match involved throwing chickens at one another from a distance of ten paces. The foreigner won handily, his chicken striking Knight Henri directly in the face while Knight Henri's chicken escaped entirely.

  The second match involved using chickens as clubs. Knight Henri conceded after his chicken bit him repeatedly.

  Knight Henri demanded a third match regardless of the score. The foreigner agreed, suggesting they ride into battle the next day whilst holding chickens. Knight Henri declined, citing dignity.

  The foreigner expressed disappointment, stating he had 'really wanted to see how the English would react to French knights charging with poultry.' Knight Henri challenged him to a proper duel with swords. The foreigner declined, stating he was 'here for chickens or nothing.'

  Knight Henri remains furious. The foreign warrior departed into the night, still carrying his chicken, which he claimed was named 'Sir Clucksalot.'

  Morale among the men is confused."

  Sarah was crying with laughter. "Sir Clucksalot. He named the chicken Sir Clucksalot."

  "There's a follow-up report," James said, pulling up another document. "From the battle itself. Henri de Beaumont died in the first hour of fighting. The report notes that he was 'distracted by thoughts of the chicken warrior and his dishonor.'"

  "Oh no."

  "Oh yes. Perseus trolled a French knight so hard with a chicken duel that the knight got killed the next day because he was too angry to focus."

  "That's terrible."

  "That's hilarious."

  "It's both."

  Dr. Elizabeth Park appeared in the doorway. "What's hilarious? I heard laughing from down the hall."

  "Perseus fought a formal duel with chickens in 1415," Sarah said.

  Elizabeth blinked. "What."

  "Show her," James said.

  Five minutes later, all three historians were laughing.

  "Okay," Elizabeth said finally, "I thought I had the best one. But chickens might beat mine."

  "What did you find?" James asked.

  Elizabeth pulled up her tablet. "1815. Battle of Waterloo. Napoleon versus Wellington. One of the most important battles in European history."

  "And?"

  "And Perseus was having breakfast during it."

  Silence.

  "I'm sorry," Sarah said. "He was having what?"

  "Breakfast. During the battle. There's a British officer's diary entry describing 'a peculiar foreign gentleman who sat calmly on a hill overlooking the battlefield, eating bread and cheese whilst cannon fire rained around him.' The officer approached to ask if he was mad. Perseus—and it's definitely Perseus, the description matches perfectly—offered him some cheese and said, 'Wellington's left flank is weak. He should move his reserves there within the hour.'"

  "Did Wellington move his reserves?" James asked.

  "According to the diary, the officer reported this to his commander, who reported it to Wellington, who did indeed move reserves to his left flank within the hour. Which helped win the battle."

  "So Perseus ate breakfast, gave tactical advice that helped defeat Napoleon, and then just... left?"

  "According to the diary, he finished his meal, complimented the quality of the bread, and walked away. The officer never saw him again."

  Sarah was making notes. "So far we have: chicken duels and battlefield picnics. This is not the serious historical research I signed up for."

  "Oh, I have more," James said, grinning. "So many more. I've been compiling a list."

  He pulled up a document titled "PERSEUS JACKSON: HISTORICAL SHENANIGANS."

  "My God, you made a file," Elizabeth said.

  "I made a DETAILED file. With citations. This is peer-reviewed absurdity." James opened the document. "Okay, where to start..."

  He scrolled through. "1863, Gettysburg. Union and Confederate soldiers both reported seeing a man walk between the lines during a lull in fighting, completely unarmed, collecting wildflowers. When asked what he was doing, he said, 'It's a nice day. Shame to waste it on dying.' Then he handed flowers to soldiers on both sides and walked away."

  "That's actually kind of sweet," Sarah said.

  "Wait, it gets better. Three months later, there's a report from a Confederate field hospital. A 'mysterious foreign doctor' showed up, treated wounded soldiers for two days straight without sleeping, refused payment, and left. The description matches Perseus. He gave them flowers in July, then came back to save their lives in October."

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  "He's aggressively wholesome even in the middle of wars," Elizabeth observed.

  "That's his whole thing," James agreed. "But sometimes it's aggressively weird. 1943, German prisoner of war camp in Poland. A British prisoner reports that a new prisoner arrived—Greek accent, quiet, kept to himself. One day, the new prisoner asked the guards if they'd heard the one about the Roman, the Greek, and the Carthaginian walking into a bar."

  "A joke?" Sarah asked.

  "The guards hadn't heard it. So Perseus told them a joke. It was apparently hilarious—something about three ancient civilizations misunderstanding each other's languages. The guards laughed so hard one of them dropped his rifle. Perseus picked it up, handed it back, and said, 'Might want to hold on to that. Gets messy otherwise.' The guards thought this was funnier. They kept requesting jokes. Perseus told them jokes for three days straight."

  "Why?"

  "Because while the guards were distracted by comedy, the other prisoners dug an escape tunnel. When the tunnel was ready, Perseus told one final joke, the guards were laughing, and thirty-seven prisoners escaped. Perseus stayed behind. When the guards realized what happened, he said, 'Worth it for the punchlines.' He escaped two days later on his own."

  Elizabeth was shaking her head. "He used stand-up comedy to facilitate a prison break."

  "It gets weirder. 1986, Soviet Union. Perseus was captured by the KGB—we don't know why or how. They held him in Lubyanka Prison in Moscow for three days. Then he escaped."

  "We know that part," Sarah said. "He left a note saying the prison food was mediocre."

  "Right, but I found the actual escape report in newly declassified KGB files. He didn't break out. He WALKED out."

  "How?"

  James pulled up a translated document. "According to the report, Perseus asked a guard for a chess set. The guard gave him one—why not, what could he do with chess? Perseus challenged the guards to games. He lost every single game."

  "He lost on purpose," Elizabeth said.

  "Obviously. But the guards thought he was just bad at chess. So they started betting on the games. Small amounts at first, then larger. On day three, Perseus suggested one final bet: if he lost again, he'd tell them how he'd stayed alive so long. If he won, they let him walk out the front door."

  "They took that bet?"

  "They took that bet. Perseus won. And because they'd all agreed—multiple guards all witnesses to the bet—they let him walk out."

  "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

  "That's the dumbest thing the KGB ever did. The officer who authorized it was demoted. Perseus left the note about the food on his way out just to rub it in."

  Sarah was typing frantically. "I need to add all of this to the timeline. This is incredible."

  "Wait, there's more," James said. "1944, OSS operation in France. Perseus was working with the resistance. According to the mission report, he convinced a Nazi officer that the local resistance was actually a traveling theater company rehearsing a play about the French Revolution."

  "How?"

  "By having the entire resistance cell perform musical numbers whenever the officer was around. For two weeks. They sang, they danced, they delivered dramatic monologues. The Nazi officer attended every 'rehearsal' and gave them notes on their performances. He never once suspected they were planning to blow up a supply depot."

  "Did they blow up the depot?"

  "Opening night, while the officer was in the front row watching. Perseus dedicated the explosion to him 'for being such a supportive patron of the arts.'"

  Elizabeth was doubled over laughing. "He turned a resistance cell into a musical theater troupe to fool a Nazi."

  "And it WORKED," James emphasized. "The officer's report praised their 'dedication to cultural preservation during wartime.'"

  Sarah pulled up her own files. "Okay, I need to contribute. I found something from ancient Rome. 73 BCE, during Spartacus's slave rebellion. There's a letter from a Roman senator complaining about 'a Greek nuisance' who kept showing up in the Forum and arguing that slavery was morally wrong."

  "Perseus was a classical-era abolitionist?"

  "Apparently. But he didn't just argue, he used Socratic method. He'd ask questions until the senators contradicted themselves. 'If all men are created equal, why do we own some?' 'If slavery is natural, why must it be enforced by violence?' He made them so mad they tried to arrest him multiple times. He always escaped by asking the guards questions until they got confused and let him go."

  "He trolled ancient Rome into questioning slavery by being annoying?"

  "He was doing philosophy activism 2,000 years before it became a thing."

  Elizabeth was scrolling through her own files now. "Oh! I have one. 1969, Apollo 11 mission. NASA's communication logs show an 'unidentified male' requesting a tour of the facility two weeks before launch. Security was tight, but he had proper credentials—they checked, everything was valid. He got a full tour, asked extremely technical questions about orbital mechanics that impressed the engineers, then asked if they'd considered 'what happens if the moon landing is faked and filmed in a studio.'"

  "He started the moon landing conspiracy theory?" James asked.

  "He might have INVENTED the moon landing conspiracy theory. As a joke. To NASA's face. Two weeks before the actual landing. The security officer's note says 'recommend we keep an eye on this individual' and lists a description that exactly matches Perseus."

  "Did they keep an eye on him?"

  "He was never seen again. But the moon landing conspiracy theory exploded shortly after. Perseus might have trolled the entire conspiracy theory community into existence."

  The three historians sat in silence for a moment.

  "He's insane," Sarah said finally.

  "He's been alive for 2,500 years," James countered. "Of course he's insane. He's probably bored out of his mind. The antics keep him entertained."

  "They're not even harmful," Elizabeth noted. "The chicken duel didn't hurt anyone except Henri's pride. The Waterloo breakfast helped win the battle. The prison escape jokes freed people. The Nazi musical saved lives. He's chaotic good."

  "Chaotic good with 2,500 years of experience and no regard for dignity or protocol," Sarah agreed. "That's Perseus."

  James closed his laptop. "We need to show this to the directors."

  "Are you sure?" Elizabeth asked. "This is... I mean, it's not exactly professional historical analysis."

  "It's absolutely professional historical analysis. It shows pattern of behavior, decision-making under stress, and psychological profile. The fact that it's hilarious just makes it better data."

  "The directors are going to lose their minds," Sarah predicted.

  "Good," James said. "They've spent months learning about Perseus the warrior, Perseus the advisor, Perseus the protector. They should know about Perseus the absolute menace."

  Two Days Later - DNI Conference Room

  Cartwright looked at the three historians on his screen. "Dr. Martinez, your memo said this briefing was 'critical to understanding Perseus's psychological profile.'"

  "Yes, sir."

  "The subject line was 'The Antics.'"

  "Also yes, sir."

  "I'm concerned about what we're about to see."

  "You should be, sir."

  Cartwright sighed. "Proceed."

  James pulled up the first slide: a medieval illustration of two men throwing chickens at each other.

  "In 1415, Perseus Jackson challenged a French knight to a formal duel using only chickens."

  The conference room erupted.

  "WHAT?" Webb shouted.

  "Chickens?" Morrison repeated.

  "He named one Sir Clucksalot," Sarah added helpfully.

  "I'm sorry, WHAT?" Beaumont demanded from Paris.

  James explained the chicken duel. Then the Waterloo breakfast. Then the Gettysburg flowers. Then the Nazi musical theater resistance cell.

  By the time he got to the KGB chess escape, Volkov was laughing so hard he'd fallen out of his chair.

  "He bet the KGB guards!" Volkov managed between laughs. "He beat them at chess and walked out because they AGREED to let him!"

  "He walked out the front door and left a review of the prison," Webb added, also laughing.

  "Three out of ten, food mediocre," Nigel recited, grinning. "The man has style."

  "This is insane," Morrison said, but she was smiling. "Two thousand five hundred years of incredible service, and he spent some of it trolling people with poultry and breakfast food."

  "And chess," Cartwright added. "And musical theater. And Socratic dialogue about slavery. And possibly inventing moon landing conspiracy theories."

  "As a JOKE," Elizabeth emphasized. "He did it as a joke to NASA."

  "Two weeks before the actual landing," Sarah added.

  Volkov had recovered enough to pour vodka. "To Perseus Jackson. Who fought at Thermopylae, advised Caesar, helped defeat Napoleon with a sandwich, and trolled the KGB with chess. He is my hero."

  "To Perseus," they chorused, and drank.

  "Is there more?" Cartwright asked.

  "So much more," James said. "I have forty-seven documented incidents of Perseus doing objectively insane things throughout history. These were just the highlights."

  "Send me everything," Cartwright said. "I want it all in his file."

  "Sir, with respect, his file is already six hundred pages long—"

  "I don't care. This is important. Anyone who works with Perseus needs to understand that he's not just a warrior or advisor. He's someone who will troll you with chickens if you take yourself too seriously."

  "That's... actually a really good point," Webb said. "The antics aren't just funny. They're strategic. The chicken duel humiliated an arrogant knight. The breakfast at Waterloo showed he wasn't afraid of the battle. The flowers at Gettysburg humanized the soldiers. The jokes at the prison camp facilitated an escape. The musical theater confused the Nazis. He uses humor as a weapon."

  "And as a coping mechanism," Sarah added. "Two thousand five hundred years of war and death. The antics might be how he stays sane."

  The room went quiet.

  "That's... actually sad," Rachel said softly from Ottawa.

  "Or it's healthy," Morrison suggested. "He found a way to survive history without becoming bitter or cruel. Most people wouldn't manage that. Perseus did it by refusing to take things—including himself—too seriously."

  "Chicken duels included," Nigel said.

  "Especially chicken duels included," Beaumont agreed.

  Cartwright looked at the final slide—a photograph of Perseus from last week, sitting in a coffee shop, reading a book and smiling slightly at something on the page.

  "Perseus Jackson," Cartwright said. "Fought at Thermopylae. Trolled a medieval French knight with poultry. Advised Wellington while eating lunch. Escaped from the KGB using chess. And currently volunteers at literacy programs while tipping fifty percent at coffee shops."

  "That's who we're protecting," Webb said.

  "That's who we're lucky enough to have on our side," Morrison corrected.

  "That's who I want to have a drink with someday," Volkov added.

  Everyone laughed.

  "Gentlemen, lady," Cartwright said, "I think we're finally starting to understand Perseus Jackson. Warrior. Protector. Historical chaos agent. And possibly the funniest person who's ever lived."

  "To the chicken warrior," Volkov said, raising his glass again.

  "To Perseus," they agreed.

  And somewhere in Manhattan, Perseus Jackson sneezed, looked up from his book, shrugged, and went back to reading.

  Completely unaware that the world's intelligence agencies had just discovered his greatest secret:

  He was absolutely ridiculous.

  And they loved him for it.