Breathe in, breathe out.

Shoot.

The ball sung as it left his hands, arcing higher and higher in the air, and he knew in his gut it is over. The shot would go in. Between his immense skill and the favourable horoscope, how could it not?

His opponent's violet eyes, seemingly flickering with purple sparks to his own tired brain, were wide as he jumped for it. It was a good try, but a wasted effort. The behemoth of a basketball player's fingers fell an inch short, just as he had predicted.

The buzzer went off.

With a satisfying swhoosh of the net and rattle of the rim, the ball found its mark.

97-95

Victory.

The crowd were on the feet, roaring their lungs out and stamping their feet. He tensed his body, spotting a black-haired blur racing towards him. The force of the hug nearly toppled him but he stood fast, shooting a small smile at the sweaty teen garbed in orange. "We did it!" Takeo whooped, his dark eyes glittering, "we're going to the InterHigh finals, Shin-chan!"

A response on the edge of his lips, Midorima Shintarō stiffened. His head snapped to the side, his eyes raking over the crowd. He knew he had sensed it, his presence. "Shin-chan?" Takao said softly, "you okay?"

A flash of golden eyes near the entrance but he has blinked and it had disappeared, but he knew it had been there. "Captain?" Chāmu Noroi, Shūtoku's first year small forward, asked hesitantly, "We need to line up now."

Acting on autopilot, Midorima walked over to the lined up members of Yosen High in their white and purple uniforms. He looked up at Atsushi Murasakibara, the teenager crashing down from the eye of the mystical "Zone", and holds out a hand. "Mido-chin." HIs old Teiko teammates voice was tight with frustration and a sort of cold anger. "I'll block every last one of your shots at our final Winter Cup." They clasped hands.

"You can try, nanodayo," Midorima retorted, trying to keep his arm from shaking. Murasakibara had a vice grip. Yosen's center's face formed a half cooked grin. Then they were separated, each retreating towards their own changing rooms.

As he passed by the bench on the way, his suspicions were confirmed and the world started to spin around him. Oha Asa's lucky item of the day had been very simple: a volleyball. Midorima had picked up a yellow, blue and white. He had left it securely tucked up beside his sports bottle.

It was gone.

In its stead was a laurel wreath, it was a majestic thing that looked like it had sprung straight out of legend. The shooting guard's fingers trailed towards the symbol of victory, a soft wonder present in his eyes. His mind caught up with him at the last second and the outstretched hand clenched into a fist. Abruptly, he swept off into the changing room with a scowl.

That confirmed it.

His father was in town.

Apollo. Greek god of the sun, light, healing, music, poetry, archery, reason and prophecy

Joy.

…

Three hours later, he was sitting in the bleachers of a street court. He watched the setting sun reflect off the backboard as he applied sports tape to his fingers, the way the shadows elegant and shivered across the ground. The back of his neck prickled and he knew. "I know you are there," he said, "nanodayo."

A tanned hand clapped down on his shoulder and applied pressure, using Midorima to vault over the bleacher and land beside him. The newcomer stretched out like a content cat, basking in the last few rays of the dusk's sunlight. It also gave Midorima a good luck at his father's choice of form.

The man wore wore a white tank top with khaki shorts and sandals, showing off his rippling bronze muscles, Golden locks spilled down to the nape of his neck, a similarly coloured five o'clock shadow on his chin. He looked to be slightly taller than Midorima and in his mid-twenties. The typical surfer look aside from, that was, the glowing golden eyes.

"How's it hanging?" The god asked casually.

A spike of irritation ran through Midorima's core and he tilted his glasses further up his face. "You are the god of prophecy, you know full well how I am." He said tersely, "and could you get rid of the eyes, please? They're giving me a headache, nanodayo.!

The gold morphed into Clint Eastwood baby blues. "Better?"

He answered the question with another question. "And why are you here?"

The cheery god cocked his head to the side, his pearly white teeth glinting. "Can I not visit my son upon his reaching of maturity?

Midorima's left eye titched. "I turned seventeen a year ago, nanodayo."

Apollo waved the complaint away. "American age of maturity, then."

"I'm Japanese!"

The god had the audacity to wink at him. "Half-Japanese."

Shotoku's shooter took in a deep breath, reining in his sparked temper. Family or not, there was a reason why must Geek legends didn't include heroes who bluntly insulted gods. Their life expectancy wasn't exactly high.

TIme to put the being in a good mood. "Father." The words tasted like ash and curdled milk as they came off his tongue, as if the forced courtesy was actual poison. "Why did you come here? What is your purpose?"

Apollo looked at him seriously, the baby blues reverted to molten gold. "Come to America."

"No." The blunt answer escaped through his lips automatically and he froze, every muscle in his body shivering. As if sensing the sudden tenseness, the sun finally dipped below the horizon. As night enveloped them, Midorima shivered. The gold seemed to glow ever brighter in the sun's absence. They were angry eyes. Eyes that promised pain and that seemed to burn in their sunken sockets. The wood hissed and cracked under Apollo feet, steam billowing out.

Then the god smiled, the eyes a twinkling baby blue once more, and Midorima could breathe again. "Just hear me out, please? If you still say no, then I'll stay out of your life. Whadda ya say?"

It was bullshit and they both knew it and, for a single moment, Midorima nearly blurted that out, Then he remembered the hiss and crackle of burning wood and his mouth stayed shut. He pushed his glasses up his nose and hoped that his voice didn't quiver when he spoke. "Fine, let's hear it."

Apollo shot him a half-crooked grin, the sight was merry and infectious. Not for the first time, MIdorima despaired why Apollo couldn't have been the father of an idiot like Kagami or Aomine. "No joke, you probably have the greatest gift of archery amongst my kids," Apollo said, "you'd be a great help to the others."

"Ridiculous, nanodayo," Midorima said, his hand running through his hair, "I've never held a bow."

"You can shoot from the halfway line in basketball."

"That's nothing alike!"

"You'll find," Apollo said, "That as my son, the skills are transferrable."

"Even so, I don't like archery. I like basketball." For some reason, the word rang hollow in his ears."

Apollo's smile only widened. "Then why haven't you unlocked the Zone?"

He flinched. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"For a demigod, that kind of thrill only exists in battle. The way your blood burns and the way time slows down as you and your opponent put your life and ideals on the line. Basketball has nothing on it."

Swallowing down the sudden lump in his throat, Midorima spoke. "Leave." Later on he would congratulate himself on the lack of hesitation in his voice. It had not been a request, after all.

Apollo nodded slowly. "I tried." Something materialised in Midorima's pocket and the shooting guard tried his best to not react. "I'll know when you call upon it." With those mysterious parting words, the Greek god begun walking away. "Oh, yeah," Apolo called over his shoulder, "you might want to look away."

With a curse, Midorima threw himself to the ground. Above his head, the god shed his mortal form and glowed golden as his true form was revealed. Midorima could feel the great heat bearing down on his head, it was certain to burn,and then...nothing. He gingerly sat up, searching for any sign of his errant father.

There was none except for a scorch mark on the wood.

His bandaged hand crept into his pocket and pulled out the foreign intruder, he stared at it with a raised eyebrow. A miniature lyre sat proudly in his open palm.

…

In the end, they had lost.

116-99

Tōō Academy had defeated them. In the last quarter, and with that thrice damned smirk of his, Aomine Daiki had unlocked the Zone beyond the Zone: Direct Drive. The worst part? Shotoku had been winning by nearly twenty points at the start of the fourth quarter.

They had scored only 6 points after that.

Even now, days later, it plagued him. He had never been defeated by another Miracle like that. Nor Kuroko and Kagami. Or by anyone, for that fact. Any game lost, had been under ten points in difference.

HIs lucky item for that day had been the laurel wreath.

It had been Apollo.

He had manipulated the game somehow. And that angered Midorima, not just because he had lost but because...it had tainted Daiki's victory. Some outside force helping would probably qualify as one of the worst things possible to a person like Aomine.

The green-haired teen groaned from his perch on his body, spinning a pen lazily in one hand. Say no and Apollo would stay out of his life? Ridiculous. The gods always interferred. All the myths proved that and Midorima had a couple of real world applications to back those up.

Like a petulant child, and god did he have experience dealing with people like that, Apollo had fought back against Midorima's refusal in any way he could. To be honest, Midorima had expected an arrow to the forehead when he woke up some morning.

He would have preferred that.

Dragging his friends into their argument...well, it was just wrong.

Midorima was shaken from his musings by a foreign sound. It was a soft musical sound, reminiscent of a children's lullaby. His gaze wandered over to the dressing table and his face whitened: the lyre.

The minuscule object's strings were moving as if an invisible hand was plucking away at them gently and lovingly. Midorima crossed to space to it in a single stride, a scowl upon his face. THe lyre's music picked up and took on a menacing edge (an impressive feat), as if sensing the teenager's bemusement. His hands closed around it and the lyre fell silent, as if it had never played in the first place. In the sudden silence, he pondered.

A bone-chilling roar split through the air.

His brain momentarily frozen, Midorima felt sluggish a s his feet moved towards the window. His bandaged finger hooked and curled around the curtain and, with a whisk, parted it open. His green eyes locked on its deadly pale blue and brown ones. It snarled.

The beast was bipedal and covered with dusty blond fur, jagged yellow teeth in its maw and black claws erupting between its osmosis of hand and paw. But the most deadly thing, and the thing MIdorima's eyes drifted to, was the gleaming purple giant scorpion's tail protruding from its back.

"Manticore." Midorima said in a daze, a hint of hysteria in his voice. "There's a manticore in my backyard." While he was having his meltdown, the manticore's tail snaked out in front of it. WIth a bloodthirsty grin, it fired.

The spike fired and smashed through the window, slashing Midorima's cheek open as it flew past. The spike impaled itself in the far wall, burying itself so far in that only the very outermost edge was visible. It all happened in the space of a single second.

Lyre in hand, the shooting guard sprinted out of his bedroom and down the stairs. He could feel a buzzing feeling in his cheek, he was certain the spike had been arms and legs pistoned up and down as he ran for the front door. Plaster slammed into him as the wall beside him smashed just before he reached the door. Midorima was hurled off his feet by the blast force.

Then several things happened at once.

Firstly, Midorima was sent flying into the wooden front door, instantly demolishing it. Splinters and wood chippings flew through the air and cut through his skin.

Secondly, the manticore came to a stop in the hallway. It sat on its haunches, glee in its mismatched eyes as it watched its prey fall.

Thirdly, Midorima's flailing fingers ripped through the small lyre's strings just before he hit the gravelly ground.

Fourthly, a bronze bow and an accompanying quiver of arrows, also bronze-tipped, landed on his chest.

The manticore watched warily as the bloodied and bruised morsel rose to his feet. Something in his eye changed as he observed the new weapon, a glint of seriousness. It let out a growl, saliva crippling down its chin, it raised its stinger.

Midorima tried to stop his body from shaking as he lifted the bow. The buzzing in his cheek had spread to the centre of his chest and the buzz in his cheek had turned to an intense burning. He had a feeling that once that burning reached his chest, the pain would be too great for him to function. Acting on instinct, for he had no clue how to use a bow, he placed an arrow in the drawstring. Taking a deep breath, and narrowing his eyes behind his cracked glasses, he fired.

At the exact same moment, the manticore's stinger erupted.

The spike fell cleanly in two halfway between them and the arrow slammed into the floor an inch in front of the manticore, quivering.

Green electricity flickered in front of Shotoku's shooter's eyes. Midorima let out a laugh, he had never felt so alive. So this was the mysterious ability the other members of Teiko and Kagami had lorded over him for so long with. It was great.

Midorima shot the mythical beast a smirk. He felt invincible.

Sensing it had became the hunted, the manticore shot forward in a sprint. It leaped out of the ruined doorway, its silhouette blotting out the moon. "Die, you cursed demigod!"

"So you do speak," Midorima mused as he lined up another arrow.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Shoot.

The arrow sung as it left his bow, arcing higher and higher in the air, and he knew in his gut it was over. The shot would fly true. With his immense skill, how could it not?

He was right.

Gold dust covered his figure, and Midorima Shintarō laughed and laughed, comforting green light flickering in his eyes.