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Spending days on a ship with six powerful people you barely know and one completely crazed satyr is less than ideal. Spending weeks in such company is bound to make any person a little...feral.
Or at least that's how Jason rationalizes his barely controlled anger. Nothing quite close enough to rage but too hot, too skin boiling to be irritation.
Another monster, another wreckage in the ship, another screaming match from Coach Hedge. Piper trying to "talk", Leo cracking jokes in an attempt to ease tension not even a crowbar can pry. And to make matters worse his head is constantly throbbing because he keeps getting knocked unconscious. If not for the ambrosia he's sure he would have suffered severe brain damage and multiple concussions.
Another spike of pain needles it's way through his temple as he practically falls through the hull of the ship and into the small room next to the scorching boilers.
Percy had said something a little too truthful and Annabeth had a look a little too cutting and Piper too pitiful and he was so sick of everyone looking at him like the dead weight of the group.
The punching bag, ragged with age and too much use in the last few days, swings gently in time with the ship's motion. He thinks about putting on the worn gloves that sit in the corner but his skin is still too tight and his vision is all hazy with pent up Emotion and he just needs to fucking—
An echoey THWACK resounds. The bag swings violently. His fingers take pain, his knees take the brunt of the force. With a dangerous, glinting smirk he raises his hands in front of his face, curls them into fists, and swings.
again
again
again
again
The bag rocks away and he chases it to the other side, bouncing on his toes. He punches so hard he feels his elbows groan. He adjusts his stance. The muscles in his shoulders jump, pin themselves to each other in an attempt to carry the sheer strength he's trying to strike with.
again
again
again
His knuckles ache, his wrists feel twisted but he doesn't stop. The bag is heavy and blackened with his own anger. Skin hot. He feels on fire. He feels wild. Too much lightning not enough rain.
He knows the exact moment the skin on his fingers splits. Because he punches the bag and it feels slick. Not cold, smooth leather. But thick and liquid. Like jet oil. He doesn't stop. His grip loosens and he tighten his fists to the point of pain. Blood smears across the bag, making paintings of his violence. He punches again. This time the bag doesn't swing as far, as wildly. He plants his feet on the floor, feeling the rough wood dig into him. With a scream that makes the clouds go black he pulls back and strikes. The bag gives an unceremonious creak, and then a BOOM follows. As if sound hadn't caught up to his hit yet.
The leather splits open and sand pours out.
Jason collapses to his knees, fingers bloody enough to look bathed in. He doesn't bother to wipe the tears on his cheeks. The storm outside rages unchecked.
He feels more in control. He feels less human.