Chapter Text
A wise man had once said: It’s nice to know there are Greek gods out there, because you have somebody to blame when things go wrong.
Things really started to go wrong when an explosion blasted Technoblade off his feet, and he landed in a ditch off the highway, his entire body aching. The smell of sulfur and something burning (probably his T-shirt) filled his nostrils.
But there was no time to lose. A growl sounded above him. From where he lay cursing among stinky water and pine needles, he could see the thick black fur of the something giant bounding toward him - a hellhound.
Technoblade scrambled to his feet, and although his balance had continually proven to have failed him, he trusted his calf power. His leg muscles tensed, he gave a short sprint forward, and jumped up-
Right out of the ditch.
Yeah, people say he's like a rabbit sometimes.
He landed on his feet with a grunt and sidestepped the incoming claw of the hellish monster. He rolled underneath the belly of the canine beast and stabbed it right in the spine with his sword. The hellhound howled and disintegrated into dust, melting into shadows on the concrete ground.
"Erre es korakas!" Technoblade cursed, catching his breath. It meant something like "Go to the crows", which in the Greek cultural context is a lot worse than it might sound.
He bent to pick up something from the ground. A soot-smearred vase of Greek fire, which was previously strapped to the hellhound. Now, as its previous carrier had returned to Tartarus, it lay on the concrete, glinting under the sun as part of his spoil. The rabid green flames of the infamous all-kaboom, can-burn-underwater, invented-by-mad-Greek-scientists burned wildly inside the container.
The hellhound had carried two bottles of Greek fire; the first one had been the cause of the explosion. Technoblade looked up, and there it was, a few feet away, a large piece of the highway scorched, heat waves rising up from the thankfully non-inflammable concrete ground. A phantom shudder raked his muscles as he was reminded of the blast (which landed him in the ditch - he was never going to tell this incident to Phil. Not in a million years.)
"Since when do hellhounds carry Greek fire..." he muttered.
"Since us." A gnarly feminine voice answered behind him.
Technoblade whirled around.
A blonde-haired girl in a cheerleader outfit was marching towards him down the highway, a fierce grin on her Mall of America face - at least, she was meant to be beautiful. The hot June sun of suburban New York City shone shimmering on her form. A second before, she was a chirpy, gorgeous cheerleader; the next second, she had hair of literal fire, and was staggering towards him (at amazing speed) with a donkey right leg and a bronze prosthesis.
An empousa. Technoblade recognized. Female vampire creatures, followers of the goddess Hecate, though the latter obviously had chosen to stock her mad demon ladies.
The empousa stopped a few feet in front of him. She curled her lips into a feral smile, fangs as sharp as knives.
"Surrender, little hero." She cooned. There was magic in her voice, bending the mist to her will, masking her deformed figure into that of beauty, "Come to me, demigod. I will take the suffering from you."
"Eh, no thanks," Technoblade politely declined, "my mother told me not to give out suffering freely to strangers."
The empousa's eye twitched. For a moment, her mouth split so wide that the corners of her fang reached her ears, then she recomposed herself.
Another ordinary male hero, she must have thought to herself, they won't last long.
"Don't be afraid, son of the grey-eyed goddess," she beckoned, her plea seemed almost innocent, like she truly had wanted him not to worry, "your ending would be quick and painless, I promise."
Technoblade sighed.
"Nah," he raised his sword, "I'm aro-ace, by the way, if you're wondering why your seduction magic isn't working."
Then he charged.
The demon lady screamed. "Stupid halfling!" she snarled as she dodged his first slash and tried to rake her gleaming bronze claws across his chest. Techno parried her strike.
"What did you mean by 'us'?" he asked as he sidestepped and struck for the monster's ribcage, rebutting her every blow and attacking, always attacking, his sword a flying whirlwind. "Who equipped the obviously-not-stray hellhound with Greek fire?"
The empousa still managed to laugh manically like a classic Disney villain, even while she was failing to defend herself from his offense. Several direct cuts he had already made on her torso, half of her left talon was slashed off, and was gushing black blood.
"You shall never know, little hero," she growled, "you will never reach the half-bloods you seek."
Technoblade had had enough. With a final blow, he kicked the empousa in the knees, avoided her claws, and hacked her head off with a clean slice. A shrill scream echoed as she disintegrated into golden dust.
He did not waste time dusting off the monster ashes on his hair, face, and clothes. The empousa's last words swam in his mind: you won't reach the half-bloods you seek.
How did she know? It was just a normal retrieval mission. The satyr protector who set out to guide a pair of demigod siblings last month had reported back to Chiron just last night, asking for some emergency assistance. So, the camp director sent Technoblade, of course, the only responsible (and available) camper they have on hand at the moment.
If there was an organized group of monsters - and it was clearly organized, hellhounds were imbecilic creatures, an intellectual monster must have equipped them with Greek fire - who knew of Camp's mundane missions, and were actively and systemically stopping demigods from reaching Camp Half-Blood......
Judging by the incessant streams of monsters that had chased him high and low ever since he stepped out of Camp borders on Long Island in the morning, and had since followed him for, like, 50 miles, from taxi to highway to here, where he was approaching Manhattan on the FDR Drive - yeah, pretty systematic.
The campers who had arrived early for summer had also reported a sudden increase in monster attacks. Just last week, they had to fit someone's intestines back into their body in the infirmary, that someone being a fearsome daughter of Ares chased by two dozen hellhounds and had collapsed half-dead at the Pine Tree the moment she entered Camp borders. Will Solace was not pleased.
Yeah, now is the time to yell "Di Immortales" and blame some divine force that is messing your life up.
Technoblade sighed, but continued his trek down the highway anyway. He knew he must look like a homeless maniac right now, blood (most of which was the blood of monsters he had fought on his way from Camp to here) smeared his face, and the soot from the explosion dusted his clothes. His long pink-dyed hair (with blonde already showing at its roots) had fallen out of its ponytail during the explosion and scattered around his face like a caveman. There probably were several burnt scorchmarks on the back of his T-shirt, too, though thankfully, there were no claw slashes nor other serious injuries.
He briefly wondered if, when he continued downtown, the mortals would call the police on him, but then shook his head. Nah, it's New York, pedestrians were probably used to bloody, ragged sixteen-year-old teenagers wandering the streets.
He fished out of a flask of nectar from his side-bag, took a sip, and immediately felt more invigorated. It was ice-cold and tasted like fresh, hand-made Apple juice his father used to make. The small cuts on his arm healed with amazing speed, leaving only faint white traces of their earlier bloody horrors behind.
Technoblade considered whether he should drink some more, but decided against it. The adrenaline could probably keep him going for a while. When he awoke this morning (after sleeping at 3 am because why not) and set out of camp, he was so cranky from sleep deprivation he didn't even notice the Dracaenae until he had killed them all, only realizing when he accidentally inhaled and choked on a very dusty cloud of monster ashes. He went on by the crankiness as he dealt with a couple of maniacal grain spirits just after he got out of the taxi (in which the taxi driver was a cyclops in disguise).
Most importantly, though, nectar was the beverage of the gods. If you took your vitamins and use them only in emergencies in small amounts, and BAM - it's the world's most effective magic anti-biotics. However, ingesting more nectar than you're supposed to typically results in high fever, dehydration, hallucinations, and possible death by immediate self-combustion, in that order. Always consult your doctor before taking medication. Warning: this product is not meant for mortals and nature spirits (satyrs, naids, dryads, and other types of nymphs included). Please keep out of reach of children and excited satyrs.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Techno once again cursed every god he knew, whether they were in the Greek pantheon or not. It's nice to know they exist, though - you can blame all the problems in your life on them, which was easy, since 99% of his life problems were caused by the gods - his birth, for example, was a top hit on "Lists of things he regretted doing but cannot undo because he did not do them".
Again, Techno didn't want to be a half-blood. Being a half-blood is dangerous, it's scary, and it mostly gets you killed in nasty, painful ways.
He huffed and twirled his sword in his hand absentmindedly. The celestial bronze xiphos (a one-handed, double-edged shortsword, you nerd) felt easy in his grip. It was a birthday gift from Chiron when he turned nine (we should normalize giving nine-year-olds deadly bladed weapons as birthday gifts), and had been his most trusted companion ever since, along with his horse Carl and his Dora-themed backpack.
Protophoros, the First Bringer. It was a sword that was once wielded by Protesilaus, "the first who boldly touch'd the Trojan shore, And dyed a Phrygian lance with Grecian gore." Yeah, the sword's name was pretty auspicious and had brought a tragic fate to its original owner. However, Technoblade may be a lot of things (perfect, amazing, awesome, magnificent...), but he was not a fearer of death. He dubbed it Orphan Obliterator and wielded it as the First Bringer (of death to others).
He tied his hair back into a ponytail again and trekked down the highway. Orphan Obliterator transformed back into a gleaming bronze ring, and he added it back to his middle finger.
Those monsters in Manhattan wouldn't know what's coming.
It was the afternoon when Technoblade got lost in downtown Manhattan.
No, he was not lost. His inner GPS was temporarily unavailable. That's all.
You see, Technoblade was a good West Coast boy. Okay, so he was born in Virginia, but he grew up in San Frinsisco, where the urban planning was infinitely better than the Big Apple. Now, as he stood amidst the hustle and bustle of what he assumed was the Upper East Side, he questioned his life choices. Every tall building looked the same to him, and had he passed that Taco Bell before?
Think, Technoblade, he chided himself, the clue is to search for two British white boys.
He scanned around. There were a lot of white boys at this crossing, but unfortunately, he did not have the ability to distinguish whether they were British. And demigodly.
Next time, he definitely had to think this through before he agreed to go to New York City on a whim per Chiron's request, with only a very vague description of his targets and zero knowledge of the Manhattan transportation system. But it was Chiron! Like, he's definitely Chrion's favorite, right? He's been at that camp for nine years, he could handle something as easy as a reconnaissance slash retrieval little mission, right......?
With a straight face, he wordlessly walked back into the alleyway he had somehow emerged from. From his bag, he took out three things: a spray bottle, a prism, and a golden coin - a drachma, as big as Girl Scout cookies and had images of various Greek gods stamped on one side and the Empire State Building on the other. The ancient mortal drachmas had been silver, but Olympians never used less than pure gold.
He held out the prism with his right hand and shifted it until it caught the sunlight with its dazzling edges, then he started spraying water on it. Faintly, a rainbow shimmered into existence. That's physics, kids.
Again, he should have thought this through before he acted rashly. Both of his hands were occupied, so he had no choice but to strain his neck and pluck the coin with his mouth out of his left hand, which was spraying water. He then tossed the coin into the rainbow. The golden drachma disappeared into the light.
"Oh, Iris, Goddess of the Rainbow, accept this offering and show me Philza Craft at Camp Half-Blood."
The rainbow-colored mist shimmered, loading. The connection was Hades these days. Iris was busy with her project, something about organic food, so a lot of her messages were run by her employees, who were all a few thousand years behind on messaging experience.
The light shimmered again, and this time, it revealed a rectangular scene, almost like a hologram hovering in thin air. The mist cleared, and Techno could see a bronze-colored room - the Arts and Crafts Workshop. Philza, back turned, was rummaging through some old utensils, and several boxes lay at his feet. He was wearing his usual black T-shirt with a Minecraft heart on it, cargo shorts, and a wide, dark green cape-robe thing.
He had a clipboard beside him, so he was probably counting losses and damages, planning to report back to Chiron for more crafts-related budget.
Techno snuck in a breath, then: "PHIILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!"
Philza, Son of Athena, Arts and Craft Workshop director, the oldest demigod on the Camp Half-Blood facility.
Phil jumped. His blonde head hit the wooden rack above him, eliciting a surprised "ow!", and the box of paint brushes and engraving knives he was sorting was knocked to the floor, spilling all over.
Technoblade grinned: "Hey there, old man."
Phil turned towards him, an expression of exasperation clearly shown, but the glint in his blue-grey eyes so similar to Techno's own could not be faltered by the crappy Iris Message connection. The blonde man crossed his arms.
"Hey, Techno," Philza greeted in heavy North England accent. Then, noticing the disheveled state that Techno was in, peered at him inquiringly. "Shit, what happened to you, mate?"
Technoblade kept his face stoic as he briefly summarized his miserable life in the past six hours and the dilemma he was now in. Philza snickered.
"I heard that."
"Yeah mate, wasn't plannin' on being quiet."
Technoblade tried to scowl, but ended up with a ghost of a smile. "So...? Can you fly over and give me a lift? It wouldn't be far, just 79 miles of air distance, and then we can scout the Upper East Side together."
Philza mumbled under his breath, something not family-friendly, so Techno kindly censored it for our readers.
"No problem, mate, just give me a minute-" Philza glanced at the mess around him, "Actually, nevermind. I'll just make Scott clean this up."
The blonde demigod stretched widely, a big yawn escaping his mouth, and Techno could hear the crack of joints and bones. As he did so, the sleeves of his dark green cape rose with his hands, the fabric spanning across almost like wings - and it did turn into wings.
From the back of the cape, the dark green fabric grew darker, protruding three-dimensional textures, and black feathers crept up from his shoulder blades to his sleeves. Soon, a pair of crow wings, black as obsidian and as wide as four arm-lengths, dangled with chirpy air from Philza's back. They fluttered relaxedly as Phil dropped his arm, finishing his stretch.
"Haven't let those babies out for a few days," he worked his shoulders, "a bit sore, to be honest."
Technoblade snorted. "Exercise is important to living a long life, Phil, just keep in mind."
Phil rolled his eyes. "See you in 20 minutes."
"Yeah, yeah, keep gloating. We know you're the only Athena kid who got cool powers."
"Says the best fighter in three-hundred years."
Technoblade raised an eyebrow and saluted. Then he waved his hand through the rainbow mist, ending the message.
Wait.
On second thought, he should have said something about the monster attacks, or the demigod brothers and their......special situation. Stupid ADHD brain, he had been too distracted by the wing thing.
Watching Philza stretch his wings, he was thrown back to a time when Phil had not yet required his signature wings. It was almost nine years ago, they had just known each other for a few months. Techno was seven at the time, freshly orphaned, arriving at camp as a wild, raging runaway child. Phil was still Head Counselor of Cabin 6 at the time, handling his younger siblings almost like a father. Being nineteen years old had made him one of the eldest demigods at camp.
Techno remembered when Phil was younger, laugh lines had not yet crept up his face. He was the best craftsman who even rivaled the Hephaestus cabin, who had designed the best architecture, and knew everything about the world.
Then Phil had set out for a quest. And came back cursed.
Techno shook his head, trying to shake those memories away. Seven-year-old Techno did not spend those months happily. Even now, though he had grown into a more than capable fighter, and the circumstances had long since changed, the fear of it still lingered somewhere deep in his mind, though he'll never admit it.
He emerged from the alleyway and stood by the sidewalk, waiting for his air-Uber.
Things went even further downhill when Technoblade caught sight of a giant black-and-green bird-like creature hurtling towards him at 20 miles/h from 50 feet up in the sky.
With a start, he realized it was Philza - a very unconscious Philza.
So Techno did the only thing he could do: he caught him.
The elder demigod landed with a thud in his arms, and they crashed to the ground together. Good for Philza, Techno cushioned his fall with his own body. Bad for Techno, because he was currently getting squashed to demigod pie by 40 pounds of feathers and 170 pounds of pure muscle. Every bone in his body complained.
No one even looked their way.
"Phil..." He groaned, trying his best not to accidentally break Philza's wings as he sat up. He wrapped his arms around Phil's shoulders and hauled his elder brother off him, laying him down on the (very clean) pavement.
"Phil!" He tried again, this time louder.
Philza's breath was quick and shallow, brows tightly knit together as if he was in immense pain. There was a visible bump on the side of his head, and some blood was trickling down his forehead, a trail of red starkly visible among honey-blonde hair. A concussion, Techno guessed.
Phil's eyes fluttered open.
"Ahoy mate," The blonde demigod whispered weakly, "thanks for...for the fall."
Techno let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Don't mention it, friend." Then his expression turned more serious. "The head injury. How?"
Philza grimaced, as if the mere mention of the wound had brought him more pain.
"Got banged in the head by a very wicked frying pan-wielding harpy on my way here."
Technoblade stared at him. "Bruh."
"No, for real, man. Caught me by surprise. She was in a purple dress, the whole Rapunzel theme and everything."
Time to yell "Di Immortales" and pray to the God of madness that you're really not bonkers. Yet. Thanks Mr.D.
Phil tried to sit up and immediately turned green. "Nope." He lay back down, biting his lip as if holding back vomit, a gesture Techno was very thankful for. "Huh, guess we're gonna be here a while."
Techno handed him the small flask of nectar. Phil took it with gratitude and gulped down the whole vial.
"Sometimes I envy that you could do that," Techno said flatly, "I wish I could drink magic anti-biotics and not combust immediately."
Phil hummed uncommitedly. "More god blood than mortal blood in your veins. Not an experience I would recommend."
But his face was a lot less pale when he had first awoke a moment ago.
Techno knelt by Philza's side for a while, just one concussed adult man and a dirty teenager on the side of the pavement. He knew that the mist would probably do its job and cover them up with some level of reasonability, seeing as Philza's wings were still out in the open. To mortal eyes, they were probably a pair of homeless people who had a giant pet parrot or something. Still, he felt immensely uncomfortable in his skin as he awkwardly squatted beside the fire hose, which Phil had decided to lean his back on (after carefully checking the ground around it for suspicious markings), holding his brother's hand. His face felt hot, and it was not from an overly empathetic ADHD brain trying to imagine what overdosing on nectar would feel like (he did not).
But Philza was anything if not a strong-headed person. Five minutes later, with some extra ambrosia from Philza's own supplies and a bandage carefully wrapped around his head injury, the two were on their feet again and were prepared to face anything waiting for them ahead - other than Tangled-obsessed harpies.
"Alright," Techno said, "Athena always has a plan."
"What's your plan then, mate?"
"You can't fly now, that's for sure. Honestly, it's kinda useless you're here now."
"Oi!"
"Just joking. I suppose we just have to walk like a bunch of casuals then."
Phil sighed and folded his wings back into his green cape. "Alright, we need a map," he announced.
They managed to find one at the bookstore next block, a big, footnoted map of the entire city. Techno took one look at it and closed his eyes. "Nope, dyslexia making me dizzy. You do you."
He handed Philza the map, and they set off on their wonderful adventure to find Central High School.
They made their way through the streets of New York, the hustle and bustle of the city still overwhelming. As they walked, Technoblade glanced at Philza, who was still a little wobbly, but at least he wasn’t about to pass out anymore.
"Central High School," Techno muttered, glancing at the street signs. "Most boring-ass name a school could have."
Philza gave a half-laugh. "I don’t know, mate. I thought ‘Nymph Academy’ had a pretty decent ring to it, but here we are."
Technoblade rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, ‘Nymph Academy’ would be a real winner. What next? 'Troll University'?"
"Well, we’re already past that," Philza joked. "Let’s just get this over with. I don’t think my head can take any more trauma for today."
They crossed the street, dodging the occasional pedestrian who seemed oddly unfazed by the two bedraggled demigods walking side by side. The city felt enormous and oddly suffocating.
The pair of demigod brothers, whom they were instructed to assist, apparently went to Central High School, where the satyr protector had befriended them as a fellow student. One was fifteen, the other thirteen. Though Techno was pretty sure that they weren't real brothers - not related on the mortal side, anyway. He was surprised that they had somehow managed to survive this long, but it did explain the "special situation" that the satyr described.
You see, the perks of being a demigod were that you don't need to fear old age - because you tend to die young. According to the monsters who had hunted Technoblade for all these years, demigods smelled like "a slow-roasted Philippine Lechón" with variations on seasoning depending on their godly parent - in short, very yummy. The stronger your parent, the stronger your scent, and the more monsters you attract. The demigods who lived past adulthood either stayed at Camp Half-Blood or went out to the mortal world to build their own lives. You'd be surprised at how many famous people were actually demigods.
Cherry on top: all electronic devices can amplify a demigod's scent, using one would be like sending a flare signal to every monster within a five-mile radius, or like jumping around holding a giant sign that said "I'M HERE, EAT ME!" So no Netflix and chill for demigods. It really made the phrase "phones are ruining our next generation" very concrete.
What Camp Half-Blood does is that they send out satyr protectors to find demigods in the mortal world and guide them to Long Island for them to train and learn to defend themselves at Camp. The satyrs would blend in and integrate themselves into mortal schools, either as students or teachers (for older satyrs), befriend the demigod target, and bring them back to camp safely.
Technoblade had never had that experience before, though. He also had a......special situation.
After what seemed like half an hour of endless walking and turning the wrong corners, finally, they saw it: Central High School, with its utterly uninspired name, situated in the most mundane part of the city, looking every inch the public school it was - large, square, and bland.
They arrived just in time to see the second building burst into flames. There was a deafening BANG! followed by a thick plume of smoke rising from the gymnasium.
Fire sirens wailed, blasting through the campus, and the panicked screams of pedestrians sounded through the streets.
"What the actual fuck." Phil said.
"Di Immortales." Technoblade agreed.
Fortunately, it was already summer. Not a lot of students were actually on campus. He saw a few security guards yelling "Fire! Call 911!", and a trail of very confused and frightened students flocking to the front gates.
"We should go help them!" Philza said and started to run towards them. But he was stopped as Technoblade grabbed his arm and shook his head, motioning to the other side of the High School.
"Here," Techno said, pulling Phil along to what seemed like the side gate of the school, which was closer to the burning gymnasium than the front gates. "I knew something like this would happen, so I told them that we would meet somewhere near their first exit -"
The metal side gates burst open with a BANG, and out of fumes and smoke tumbled a brown-haired boy. He was about thirteen or so, with a shocked expression on his round face. He wore a green shirt, with some kind of word ID swinging from his neck, but from the waist down......the boy's cargo pants covered some of it, but his furry goat legs and cloven hooves were still quite visible.
Right behind him were two other boys, both dusty from smoke. One was also around thirteen, with curly blonde hair and gangly, awkward limbs, looking as if he just eaten explosives.
The other boy was much taller, towering above his two other companions by a dozen inches. He had a mop of the curliest soft brown curls Techno had ever seen, and wore a white buttoned-down shirt and black pants as if he was just at a school rehearsal or something.
The satyr immediately spotted them, his eyes widening. He quickly pulled his two companions along and rushed toward Techno and Phil, coming to a halt right in front of them.
"Oh my gods!" Tubbo exclaimed, his voice raspy with relief. "Great, you guys are here!"
He paused to catch his breath.
"We just exploded the gymnasium!"