DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ACHILLES: A young man yet untouched by love or war.

PYTHIA: An oracle who sees alien futures.

THE CHORUS: #mlm #5k #patrochilles #coffeeshopAU #meta #canon-compliant

• • • •

SETTING: The adyton at the Temple of Delphi. Smoke rises from a vent in the floor, partially obscuring PYTHIA, who is sitting on a high stool carefully positioned behind the smoke.

ACHILLES stands, supplicant. Behind him, the CHORUS looks at their phones.

ACHILLES lifts his head and stares at PYTHIA.

ACHILLES: How does this work, exactly?

THE CHORUS: He doesn’t know how it works?

THE CHORUS: Why would he know how it works?

THE CHORUS: This is Achilles! Of course he knows how it works! He shouldn’t be so hesitant. Achilles would know what to do—someone would have told him beforehand. There’s like, a whole process. It’s mythic as hell. I read about it on Wikipedia.

THE CHORUS: But Achilles is seventeen. He’s scared.

PYTHIA: You ask, and I answer.

ACHILLES: Oh.

ACHILLES steps back and paces back and forth. The CHORUS parts to let him through, but follows him as he walks around the stage. ACHILLES ignores them.

ACHILLES: I don’t know if I should have come here. Themis foretold that my mother’s son would outstrip his father. My mother foretold that I would either die young in glory or live long in obscurity. Which are both cool things to learn when you’re five.

ACHILLES: I don’t know what I want. My prophecies have not so much narrowed my options but bisected them. I can’t train with my spear without thinking about which road the thrust of my arms is putting me on. I can’t think of any of my choices as simple because each of my decisions becomes binary. Life, or glory.

ACHILLES: Soldiers die on the battlefield for a chance at glory; I can walk to my death knowing my posthumous reputation is assured. I am one of the lucky ones.

ACHILLES: Or I can live.

CHORUS: Poor angsty bb.

PYTHIA: I don’t have all day, Achilles. Stop muttering to yourself and ask your question.

ACHILLES startles. He walks back to PYTHIA.

ACHILLES: How am I remembered?

PYTHIA inhales sharply. The CHORUS flits around, whispering in her ear. PYTHIA frowns.

PYTHIA (SOLEMNLY): Patroclus.

CHORUS: Patroclus.

ACHILLES: What?

PYTHIA: Patroclus.

CHORUS (EXCITED): Patroclus.

ACHILLES: He’s . . . outside. He came with me. Do you want me to get him?

PYTHIA: I mean that Patroclus is your legacy, you imbecile. You are not remembered for your heroism, your bravery; you do not fade into obscurity and hearth and home. You are remembered for Patroclus, and before you ask your second question—I can see you about to ask your second question—this is not a true choice, Achilles. It is what will happen. In all worlds you are remembered for Patroclus, what carries your memory forward is your love for him. I see great realms of text. I see songs and declamation. I see so much fanfiction. I see so many memes.

ACHILLES: What’s a meme?

PYTHIA: Nevermind.

CHORUS: TFW Achilles doesn’t know what memes are.

CHORUS: Achilles would love memes.

ACHILLES: This isn’t what I expected. I . . . don’t love him, though?

PYTHIA: Your love for him is your legacy, Achilles.

ACHILLES: I’ve known him my whole life, and I’m pretty sure I don’t love him. Like that.

ACHILLES: I . . . think we’re talking about different things?

One of the CHORUS looks up from her phone.

CHORUS: This is grossly heterosexual. This isn’t how it happens.

ACHILLES: This isn’t what I expected. I love him; he’s as familiar to me as the grip of my spear in my right hand. But it’s a comfortable love. An easy one. How is that my legacy?

PYTHIA: Was the spear a metaphor or a euphemism?

ACHILLES: No! Maybe! I just mean that this seems . . . forgettable. I love him. I would never hurt him.

One of the CHORUS looks up from her phone.

CHORUS: No, this is too uwu. This isn’t how it happens.

ACHILLES: I love him like a fire, and I would burn down the wor—what are you doing to me? What’s happening?

The CHORUS freezes. They step away from Achilles, clustering around THE ORACLE.

PYTHIA (INTONING): The future is trying to reassert itse—

One of the CHORUS pushes PYTHIA off her stool and replaces her, becoming the NEW ORACLE. Achilles does not react to the change. The NEW ORACLE leans forward.

THE NEW ORACLE: It’s romantic as fuck, Achilles. He dies in your armor, for you. You die for him. It’s extremely gay. Like, not even subtext. Text. It’s heartbreaking.

ACHILLES: No. Wait. What do you mean about the future? Reasserting? You mean that it can change—

PYTHIA shoves the NEW ORACLE off the stool and sits down. A different member of the CHORUS pulls Pythia down and replaces her.

THE SECOND NEW ORACLE: It’s the best future, Achilles. It’s a beautiful story, even though I like the ones where you’re in a modern AU cause no one gets the history right. Patroclus still dies, usually. Sorry.

ACHILLES: I’m not a story. This is my life? You said that he dies? That’s the future? Wait, but I can change—

A third CHORUS member shoves the SECOND NEW ORACLE off the chair and sits down. PYTHIA beats back other members of the CHORUS.

THE THIRD NEW ORACLE: Pretty much, yeah, that’s what I remember from the canon. He takes your armor and dies in battle and that’s like, crucial. That’s a turning point in the story. He’s gonna eat absolute shit. For you.

ACHILLES (TERRIFIED): Is there any world where Patroclus outlives me?!

THE THIRD NEW ORACLE: Canonically, n—

The THIRD NEW ORACLE is shoved off by PYTHIA, who triumphantly takes the seat and clings to it.

PYTHIA: Sorry about that. The future is rebellious today.

ACHILLES: Pythia, what’s going to happen to him? What’s going to happen to me? What do I decide?

PYTHIA pulls out her own phone. She scrolls through it. The CHORUS leans over her.

PYTHIA: You don’t decide anything. You don’t get to decide who loves you, Achilles. Or why they do. He’ll love you. He’ll be remembered because of you. Two thousand five hundred years from now they speak your name, Achilles, and then they speak Patroclus’. That’s a type of immortality.

PYTHIA: We’ll love you, someday. Don’t worry about it, Achilles.

CHORUS: Wait, are you deleting this?

CHORUS: It’s non-canonical, it doesn’t matter if she does.

CHORUS: No, guys, I think she’s—

The stage goes dark. When the lights emerge, the CHORUS is gone. ACHILLES lifts his head and stares at PYTHIA.

ACHILLES: How does this work, exactly?