Chapter Text
“-cy, wake up.” Someone nudged my shoulder. I groan, the surface my head was leaning against was cold and bump.
The familiar jostling motions from falling asleep in a bus begged me to wake up but I didn’t want to. I grasped at the sweet comfort of sleep, wishing to submerge back into the unconsciousness of sleep.
I didn’t want to wake, didn’t want to start the day, be forced to be responsible and take control of my life. Let me sleep.
“Wake up, Percy, we’re here.” He hissed in my ear, the nudging became shaking. I frown, trying to shrug them off with a roll of my shoulder.
“‘M not Percy…” I murmured, hoping they got the hint. Must be a case of mistaken identity. The name, however, does ring a bell.
The guy groans in exasperation. “Perseus Jackson, wake up! We’re here!” He yelled in my ears, shaking both of my shoulders.
My eyes flew open, I gasped as my heart skipped a beat and started racing in my ears, a short dose adrenaline injected into my veins to pull me into the realm of consciousness kicking and screaming. I groan, my hands rubbing at my eyes. The eye crust flaking away from my eyelashes that I pick away instinctively. Must be one hell of a nap.
“-funny joke,” I mutter, trying to squint at the light while my other hand pats around my seat, trying to search for the familiar weight of my glasses when I failed to find them in my pockets. I try not to sleep with them on after I broke my last pair. Did they slip out onto the floor again? What a pain.
“Don’t know who you…” My voice trails off as impossibly like a dream, my vision clears and everything sharpens in detail. It didn’t blur — somehow the objects and people didn’t expand into indistinct shapes, a filter of fuzz forever shrouding everything from my shoddy eyevision, always dependent on glasses. I reached up, and there was nothing perched upon my nose. No glasses.
I was tempted to reach up and poke my eyeball to find some form of contact lenses in them. But I haven’t worn contacts in… years.
How did my vision get better? I never did LASIK or any type of laser surgery, my eye prescription keeps changing slightly every year every time I get an eye exam, so I was never cleared nor confident to get one.
Pinching my leg, a jolt of pain told me I wasn’t dreaming. I think.
My eyes landed onto the person, the boy, who was trying to grab my attention, snapping his fingers in front of my face. I squint at him.
Was there… peanut butter and jam in his hair?
“You need to wash your hair, dude.” I blurted out and then stiffened. Was that my voice?
“That is the plan when we get off, Percy.” The kid, it was a kid who looked 12 and pretty tall for his age since he was crouched down, sighed. He had one hand gripping the seat and stared at me at level-height. He looked like a very awkward kid, brown curls, wielding clutches, I knew for a fact that this kid must’ve gotten bullied a lot. The boy was gangly and wrecked by puberty in the worst of ways, with a bad case of acne splattered onto his face. He had one bandage on his forehead, covering one of his attempts for pimple popping that I sympathized with, puberty brutalized me too - with a wispy goatee that he seemed to grow out in an attempt to look manly.
I blinked and could’ve sworn there was something weird with his eyes, they stared at me woefully, large brown eyes that could’ve been no different from one on a baby deer or some sort of prey animal. They seemed… too big on his face.
“You,” I pause. I need to hear myself speak more because there’s no way that’s my voice. “You got, a little, uh,” I pointed at his hair. “Bread stuck over here.”
The boy cursed, a weird curse in another language, reaching up to try to flick the stray piece of sandwich stuck in his hair all the while I went through a mental crisis. My hand shot towards my throat, my throat that uttered words with a distinct, squeaky, high-pitched tenor of a child’s voice. Not the smooth, awkward, deep feminine one. A male child’s voice. My eyes look down at my lap, wearing jeans.
And that’s another alarm bell.
I don’t like to wear jeans, usually loose sweatpants or leggings nowadays, I hated how the denim rubbed at and chafed at my thighs.
I stare at my crotch, impossibly, there was a slight bulge - signifying the presence of male genitalia which I didn’t have before I woke up.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. My breathing exercises aren’t helping calm down my heart that is currently running a marathon, jackrabbitting like crazy in my ears.
This can’t be real. This can’t be real. This can’t be real.
I chant in my head, staring at my changed self. My changed twenty-one year old self that inhabited a preteen kid. A male preteen kid when just yesterday, my gender was comfortably female. Even though I wouldn’t mind being a guy - heck, I once fantasized about it quite a few times when bogged down from misogyny and knowing in my eyes of my parents, my younger brother would be more of a priority than me.
“Hey, hey,” Two hands gripped at my own that started spasming and shaking - I think I’m having a panic attack. The other kid’s worried eyes, god I bodysnatched his best friend, didn’t I? - stared into me, brown eyes filled with concern and worry, pointed at the wrong person. “Breath, just breathe, take a deep breath with me Percy, right with me. In.”
He inhales, I inhale.
“Out.”
He exhales, I exhale.
“In.”
Inhale.
“Out.”
Exhale.
“In.”
Inhale.
“Out.”
Exhale.
My heartbeat slows, no longer trying to burst out of my chest like one of those chestburster aliens - a normal steady pace instead. A normal steady pace that can last for so long as it eventually picks back up when I feel my old friend, anxiety came to revisit for a round 2.
I open my mouth to say something: say thanks, say sorry, ask who the fuck does he thinks he is, beg for mercy, where are we, did you do this, i’m so sorry, i’m desperately so sorry, WHO AM I, please tell me who i am, please forgive me for i have killed a boy without meaning to. I closed my eyes.
Freak out later. Way later.
I opened them again and gave a shy grin. My lips slacken. No, be more confident. My mouth twitches yet I broadcast a serviceable smile for an unruly, rambunctious kid I was meant to be. Because that’s what kids do. They smile, they laugh, they have fun. (i’m not having fun at all.)
“Thanks,” I say, a customer-service patented mask clinching onto my face, like a familiar worn pair of shoes dragged out for occasions where I have to rely on the strategy of disarm, dismantle, fawn, and run when dealing with someone difficult. “... Dude.” I tacked on the misnomer, hoping I wasn’t acting too out of character for the kid whose body I stole.
The kid raised an unconvinced eyebrow at me. Fuck, I really need to know his name. (Also why a goatee at 12?)
“You’re a life savior.” The words sounded so fake. I wanted to crawl in a hole and die. “W-where did you learn to do that?”
The eyebrow raised higher. “At summer camp that I told you about.” I nod like an idiot. Yeah, summer camp that he definitely told me about. “Percy -” My blood turns into ice at the name. The name I finally registered.
There’s no way.
“-, I know you had a bad dream, but gotta get off the bus. We’re the last ones here. You know Mrs. Dodds is going to give us detention if we keep the whole class waiting.”
I laugh and laugh and — Fuck, fuck, fuck. I laugh and then choke it down, gripping at my throat with hands that aren’t my hands, because if I keep laughing, I’ll get accused of being a crazy person because there’s no fucking way.
“Fuck, Mrs. Dodds.” I told him and stood up to make my point. I immediately regretted the decision when the blood rushed up into my head and I stumbled, almost losing my balance. The light-headed sensation of my panic attack still lingers, even now, perhaps waiting until the next one. I think I might collapse from just standing up. “She’s a piece of shit.”
I don’t know Mrs. Dodds. I never had a teacher named Mrs. Dodds in my life. I know Mrs. Dodds.
Grover, because who else could it be, stared at me suspiciously. Then his nose twitched. He inhales and then pales, staring at me in shock, a rising fear that calcified into my bones. I realized something when I stared at his visible terror.
His name isn’t Grover. I told myself - Once you learn who you truly are, your scent worsens, becoming out of control. The monsters- His name isn’t Grover. I’m just crazy.
A fear that twists into confusion the more he sniffs at the air. His name isn’t Grover.
The (not) 12 year old looks at me with a perplexed expression. As though he couldn’t tell who I am and what I was doing.
His name isn’t Grover. I told myself, hearing my ears start to ring. My vision blurs and I can pretend I’m my normal self again.
If you don’t think about it, you won’t get hurt. So don’t think about it.
I mechanically stood right back up. A haze of cotton surrounds my brain, the familiar sensation of feeling like I’m outside of my own body. That’s better. Way better. No panic attacks just yet.
“Museum right?” I asked him. Metropolitan Museum of Art. I have never been to New York City before. And this would be interesting. Fun even. Museums held a soft spot in my heart.
“Right…” The kid, best friend, replies, unsure. My smile weakens. He knows something is wrong with the person who he calls ‘best friend.’ A Conditional friend. It was a job, a duty for him, yet he cared, didn’t he?
He can sense my emotions. Stop fucking thinking.
“Then c’mon man.” I told him.
My name is Percy. I am 12 years old. And my mom’s name is Sally. Just. Sally.
(we both know that’s not true.)
“Had a pleasant nap, Mr. Jackson?” Ch- Mr. Brunner asked me. He was a pleasant looking man, short but that’s due to being in his wheel chair the whole time. A wheelchair that he didn’t quite need— stop thinking.
He looked similar to the actor that played him in the movies, the shitty ones. I inwardly cringed thinking about it. I wasn’t 16, that’s for sure. So it has be the books.
I hummed with a nod. “Y-yea, yeah, I did.” I give him an unconfident thumbs up. I was the picture of innocence. Absolutely filled-with-shit fake innocence, that’s for sure.
Mr. Brunner didn’t look convinced. My eyes flickered to the other chaperone of the school trip, my mouth went dry.
Yeah, drive a Harley motorcycle into your locker, that’s for sure. Mrs. Dodds looked like one hell of a mean, angry, short motherfucker of a math teacher. Intimidating enough from her appearance that I would be anxious on principle from being around her. She could skin puppies in that leather jacket of hers. Of whom, noticed my glance and scowl, eyes ominous and looking like she could reach out and snatch my soul out from my body. (she probably could)
I lowered my eyes to stare at the floor, properly cowed from her glare.
This trip sucks. This whole thing sucks. Everything sucks.
“We’ll be taking a tour through the general open exhibitions, followed by a -” Mr. Brunner announced to the crowd of bored children. All the while, my eyes drifted off to examine reading the signs posted around the front.
Well, tried to read it.
The words impossibly started to float, move, vibrate — the letters swapping places with each other until when I could finally focus and have them settle down, they were barely readable from its original form at best, and at worse, incomprehensible gibberish.
My heart shattered. I forgot. Or well, didn’t think it was important. One of Percy’s notable traits is that…
He has ADHD and Dyslexia. I had experience with the former but not the latter.
And as an ardent, passionate reader, always one to have 20 or more tabs open on my phone, reading on the go, of various websites from original fiction, pdf files of classic literature, or fanfiction, this revelation was absolutely devastating. It was like having my whole life purpose taken away just like that.
Oh god, demigods can’t even use phones.
I stiffened when that thought escaped me. I hear a heavy, inhuman growl in front of me.
My heart picks up. We didn’t even make it past the stele section or even get into the water fountain part of the book, not even past the first chapter, I mourned. My eyes hesitantly looking up to stare at Mrs. Dodds glaring at me with eyes from the pits of hell, noticeably sniffing the air in front of me.
Ohgodshecansmellmeshecansmellmeimgoingtopissmypantsimgoingtofightherwhilemyunderwearisstainedwithpiss
If I stop thinking about it, stop thinking that I’m Percy, would that work?
The growling stopped, instead turning confused. Mrs. Dodds glared at my shaken, terrified expression with the most pinched and bewildered look that turned into hate.
“What the fuck.” I whispered involuntarily.
It worked. Maybe. Because nobody seemed to notice Mrs. Dodds acting unusually strange besides Grover, at the corner of my eye who started shivering like a leaf.
Mr. Brunner had stopped his speech, staring at his coworker with a steely, concerned look, one hand tightly gripping the armrest and the other bending down to grab something from the undercarriage of his wheelchair. He relaxed when it was clear that Mrs. Dodds wasn’t going to go sicko mode and attack me in front of everyone, he continued his instructions while keeping one eye on the… evil math teacher.
Did she teach math? I couldn’t remember from the top of my head.
We managed to reach the Greek and Roman section without further incident. Beyond Mrs. Dodds watching me like a hawk. I myself was despondent with the realization that I couldn’t read normally, and had to struggle to stare at the placards and sign descriptions to decipher them for several minutes. An arduous task that would’ve taken a couple of seconds if I was my original self and not a 12 year old wracked with dyslexia.
Brute-forcing it wasn’t enough to cure the heartbreak in myself. I could still read. I’m not blind. But struggling to judge if a word was ‘the’ or ‘was’ from ‘whs’ was an injury too close to the soul.
I still tried my best regardless, all the while when Mr. Brunner went on rambling lectures, I tried to pay attention. But my ADHD, fried from modern technology where forms of short content was the norm, was testing me to not drift off. It didn’t help that my hand kept drifting to my pocket, a habit, and tried to take out my nonexistent phone from my pocket. Strange that Percy doesn’t have a phone in the early 2000s. I guess that’s one way that Sally is protecting her son.
“Mr. Jackson, can you tell me what this picture represents?”
My eyes flicker to the exhibition. Finally we reached this moment in the book. It took an hour, but we finally reached it.
My mouth went dry.
“That’s… Kronos. King of the Titans who is, eating his children-“
“Ewwww.” The class chorused like a bunch of cheesy shits. I clenched my fist.
They’re middle schoolers, of course they’re cheesy. I told myself, feeling my temper unusually rise up. Strange, now that I’m thinking about it. Why am I getting so irritated about this? Angered enough that I want to turn around and just do something — tell them to shut up, grip them by the collar and shake them, hell, even throw a mean right hook if I’m craving for a fight.
“Because…” My mind went blank.
“Because what?” Mr. Brunner asks, urging me for the answer that I don’t know the exact specifics of.
“Because they threatened him. Something about his children caused the king to…” My brain struggled to find a reason why Kronos ate his children. All it could pull was the infamous painting of Kronos eating his child and that one cannibalism song that I was obsessed with looping in my music. “Eat them.”
“And what is that, Mr. Jackson? What caused Kronos to eat his children?”
I fell silent.
My eyes flickered to the stele and then over to Mr. Brunner, lingering on the blanket that covered his legs, that I know for a fact—
“I don’t know, sir.” I mumbled out, embarrassed. The admission of my lack of knowledge was humiliating to me, a person who despite coasting along and slacking off, had pulled up impressive grades in all types of subjects beyond math.
I was an A and B student, straight A if I put my mind to it. I was not a student who would consistently fail to miss and turn in assignments that are straight up wrong, I wasn’t a failing student. Something in my consciousness drove me crazy, condemning me to the depths of hell if I got anything lower than a B. God forbid I get a F.
I would sooner tie a noose and hang myself then get a F. And that’s not including if my parents got to me first by lynching me at the stake.
But it’s been so long since I had to engage with Greek Mythology. Most of that knowledge had faded away, wiped to nonexistence like the contents of an assigned book after the semester ends.
Some snickers erupted from the group.
Behind me, I could hear a girl whisper though loud enough like she wanted to be heard, to someone: “Like we’re going to use this in real life. Like it’s going to say on our job applications, ‘Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.’”
“And why, Mr. Jackson,” Mr. Brunner said, “To paraphrase Miss Bobofit’s-” I groaned, of course it’s her. “Excellent question, does this matter in real life?”
“Busted.” I could hear Grover mutter right next to me.
“Shut up.” Nancy hissed. I rolled my eyes.
I ponder on this double-sided question, weighing if I should answer the way he wanted because it would save my life as a demigod that I’m totally not— I gave a cursory glance at Mrs. Dodds who was staring intensely at me, both nostrils at the ready to sniff, that’s a nasty image, but not on the verge of going berserk. Or the answer all high school teachers would enjoy, that Greek myths are stories with valuable life lessons to take, like not eating your kids for one.
As common sense as this is, stating, hey don't eat your children! Sometimes you have to write out the sensible rules out in plain language because not everyone has common sense, as unbelievable as that. There are people out there who think maybe cannibalism is alright and not against the law. Which crosses to my next point, also get those laws codified because people love finding loopholes and committing atrocities against God. I would know from my study in case law and knowing how valuable it is to state all the facts and reasonings.
Lawyer Percy Jackson, the sudden thought hit me. Funny joke, that could become a possibility. Scary. But funny.
“Because Greek mythology represents,” I struggle to remember one of my previous college professors’ words when approaching myths for one of the ENGH classes I took. “They represent stories to help explain the world in the old times, that were used to humanize deities and act as figureheads for humans to learn their mistakes and take life lessons from. Like not eating your kids and committing cannibalism for one. Which Kronos was punished for when the kid Gods got out of his stomach overthrew their dad. And sliced him into thousands- millions of pieces.” I added the last part for context.
Mr. Brunner looked oddly impressed with my answer, as though he wasn’t expecting it from me, but still proud of me. It was a touching feeling that made me puff up in pride unconsciously.
“Not exactly what I was looking for but it was an impressive answer, nonetheless. Well done, Mr. Jackson. Full credit.” He looked back to the rest of the class. “Kronos was told a prophecy, foretelling that one of his offspring would do to him to what he has done to his father, Ouranos, so he swallowed each and every of his children until Rhea, his wife, tricked him with the last child. Replacing the babe with a rock and disguising him, she hid the boy, Zeus, away until he grew up. When the day came to free his siblings, Zeus disguised himself as one of his father’s cupbearers where he fed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan’s stomach. The Gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld. Completing the prophecy and letting it come full circle. I think we've reached the time for lunch. Mrs. Dodds, would you lead us back outside?”
“And Mr. Jackson, would you stay behind?” He added. I internally groaned. Oh, here it comes.
As the class left, some students were snickering and wondering what I did to get myself in trouble this time. Grover was anxious and stayed behind.
“It’ll be fine, Mr. Underwood. Go join your classmates.” Mr. Brunner told the nervous… kid.
Grover looked at both of us, quite not trusting Mr. Brunner’s words and reluctantly left. Leaving both of us in the exhibition hall.
I shifted, careful about my new proportions, or, well, body that I was in. Feeling weird about having to be very conscious of where I move it or how I move it even though my bodily instincts had it all under control. What can I say? It’s a whole new experience for me; I would joke that this is a weird, lucid dream but deep down in my gut, I knew it wasn’t.
“Yes, sir?” I asked, the deafening silence creeping into me into an anxious stupor that wanted it to stop.
“Are you alright, Mr. Jackson?” Mr. Brunner asked.
That was not the question I was expecting. I blinked and started sweating. Was I that bad of an actor that I found out instantly?
Who am I kidding, I can’t even fool a thousand year old centaur. He’s literally 1000 years old! Might as well give up the jig and kill myself.
“Y-yeah, I am.” I lied. Like a liar. “Just uh, had a rough nap. Bus rides, you know? They’re very wobbly. Hit my head on the window. Like,” I mimed my head hitting against an invisible wall. I need to kill myself. “Bang. Yeah. I don’t think I got a concussion. Or brain damage. I think.”
Mr. Brunner stared at me, one eyebrow quirked. It was a very calm expression that didn’t reveal anything, not even in the eyes. Though I could argue I was bad at reading people in general. But I got the rough understanding that he didn’t believe me.
“If you are sure that you are. I’m just,” His eyes flickered to the side. “-concerned about you. Have you been in contact with your mother recently?”
Yeah. Just yesterday after she screamed at me through the phone to get her weekly berating in just so her alcoholic abusive ass can feel better about herself. Was the immediate reply unfolding in my head. But no, that’s not the mother that Mr. Brunner was talking about. He was talking about Sally.
Not… not mother.
“No,” I carefully said. “I haven’t been talking to Sally since…” Fuck. I don’t know. “a while ago.”
“Sally?” He raised an eyebrow, catching on my intentional slip.
My cheeks turned red. I rehearsed my old excuse when referring to my father’s name by his first name, though in that instance, it was because I was working at his workplace and didn’t want to let people know my relation with him lest I be accused of being a nepo baby. “M-mom, a habit, I have when I helped around at her,” I paused. She worked at a store right? A candy store? I wasn’t too sure, it’s been so long since I’ve last read the books. “-store. Makes it sound more professional.” I mumbled, scuffing my shoes against the polished limestone floor.
“Hmmmm…has anyone approached you then? Anyone outside of this school, around your age or older?” The questions kept going. And I know what they were, Mr. Brunner was worried that some other… kid with ADHD and dyslexia had stumbled across me and spilled the beans. The beans that I’m trying my best to forget.
Wouldn’t want to get mauled by a pack of hell— very large direwolves.
(Names have power.)
This was a lesson that Percy, too impertinent, as a kid protagonist wouldn’t learn until way later. And even then, his recklessness, his utter callousness and disrespect for authority knew no bounds when breaking the habit.
But I do. And that might make or break the story— the prophecy, the world.
“No. No creepy weirdos approached me. Stranger danger. Know all about that.” I shrugged, and that was true. In real life, I was not a social person and avoided people like the plague. Often holed up in my room and nose in the books, though it’s more so to say my phone, or on my PC setup. I wonder if I would be able to go back to my original life. The wistful thought floated in my head, wondering, desperately if there’s a chance even though it’s very likely it won’t happen. “I know better than to accept free candy from a white van.” I try to joke, though my smile dropped at the serious look Mr. Brunner was throwing my way.
Right. Demigod business. Now my business.
(But you weren’t originally a demigod, remember this.)
“I wish to state this not just as a teacher but as an adult who cares about you and your future. But if someone, anyone, other than your friend Grover, approaches you. Don’t be afraid to run and ask for help. My door is always open and I’m always willing to lend an ear to listen to any troubles you have. Mundane or otherwise.” Mr. Brunner told him, tone encouraging and helpful. Positioning himself just like my other college professors who always had this spiel whenever I slipped and the drawbacks of my ADHD kicked in, that they were always willing to talk, that their office hours were open, and they can always negotiate on deadlines as long as you reached out. Well in a reasonable hour and time frame. Can’t forget stipulations such as that.
I plastered a fake smile. “Of course, prof- Mr. Brunner.” I hastily corrected myself. I’m not in college anymore. I’m in - wait, is it middle school or high school?
I calculated the age when I graduated and ultimately determined that yeah, it must be middle school. I internally groaned. Fuck. My worst memories were in middle school. Double fuck. This just keeps getting better and better.
Mr. Brunner’s eyes softened. I think. Or that might be the light.
“Mr. Jackson. You must learn the answer to my question.” He told me.
My gut churned. I hope that’s a sign that nobody’s bathroom or pipes just exploded or I’m going to be an unlucky camper.
“About what?”
“About how it applies towards real life. And your studies will too.”
“Ah. I guess, if I wanted to be an author.” I joked. It was a lifelong dream of mine. Well a lifelong dream of mine after my previous dream of becoming an artist died. So it’s a substitute for a lifelong dream.
“An author?” Mr. Brunner sounds intrigued like he hadn’t expected the possibility from troubled kid, Percy Jackson. “I suppose so. That will track with my next point, what you learn from me is vitally important. I expect you to treat it with all the respect it deserves. I will accept only the best from you, Percy Jackson.”
I think I remembered at this point of the conversation, Percy got mad at Mr. Brunner. Furious that he knows he can’t live up to his expectations and is resigned to being a failure in life.
As an adult, it was unfair for Percy to lash out at Mr. Brunner even with his grievances. I disagreed with Percy for giving up on himself too easily — Mr. Brunner did have a point. Percy had potential. The system had failed him but he had potential which he exhibited in the book series. If only there was someone there, in the right place, a couple of someones now that I’m thinking about it, his life would be drastically different. But only if this particular context was meant to encourage Percy to stay vigilant and studious in Latin class even if it’s just Latin, an archaic subject. Anything, a subject to thrive for, is better than nothing. For a modern, normal context.
However it isn’t. The situation is different, enough that this information, knowledge, is something a demigod desperately needs to survive. It becomes more insidious than what Mr. Brunner lets on. Something I hated him for a little.
Yet I don’t have any anger to give or offer. This was a 21 year woman, tired and grown up, in a 12 year body. Funny isn't it? Just reverse the numbers and they would be interchangeable.
I can’t bother to be angry. Nor fake that anger without making Mr. Brunner suspicious.
“Of course, Mr. Brunner.” I told him.
Honestly it felt a surreal experience to be walking towards the water fountain under the most abhorrent weather known to man and knowing what it’s in store for in the very near future. It felt like waiting at the hospital waiting room, sitting in your uncomfortable plastic chair and anticipating for one of the nurse orderlies to call your name to strap you down in that chair, inject that iv and anesthetic and hope you come out of that surgery whole and fixed — praying that you’re not the exception and victim to a medical malpractice that can reach front cover news.
Just waiting for the event that kickstarts the whole book. Well, kickstarts Percy’s journey — not the lightning thief, that’s a whole other ordeal.
Fucking hell. I mutter under my breath, staring at the animals that these middle schoolers are. I thought they wouldn’t be as crazy but I forgot to remind myself that Percy was a troubled child himself and was in a class — or goes to a school with said troubled children. I’m not sure which one from watching some of the boys throw crackers at the pigeons to lure them over, with one kid jumping the gun and miserably trying to catch one. Or how the girls were on another level of troubled as I saw them congregate around a food stand. One chick was talking with the sole employee manning the hot dog stand right before one of them snuck up behind him and knocked him out with her backpack. Which signals towards the others to rob the everliving daylights out of him like a pack of piranhas smelling blood.
Mr. Brunner and Mrs. Dodds were trying their best to not pay attention to the pandemonium that is lunch time, giving their silent compliance towards the literal shenanigans happening in front of them. All the while, nearby pedestrians were walking by and ignoring the whole situation like it didn’t exist — I would’ve thought the Mist was covering it up if it weren’t for one kid pointing at the scene until he was pulled away by his mom to speedwalk away.
Literally animals. This generation was fucked.
I spotted Grover sitting at the edge of the fountain, waving me over. Taking a deep breath, I strode over. Here comes the music. I thought to myself grimly.
He was stress-eating sticks of celery from a sizable ziplock bag that I couldn’t help but stare at. That is a lot of celery and carrots if I’ve seen it. Too much for a normal kid. But it was Grover so it made some sort of sense.
“Mind if I have one?” I asked, off-balance from the crimes I just watched in front of us.
Grover gave me a few without question while he was nibbling on a carrot.
He and I watched Nancy Bobofit split off from the group, talking with one concerned old lady who had finally decided to step in and was pointing a distressed finger at the middle school thieves trying to make some hot dogs for themselves at the empty stand. I squinted, was she— yeah, Nancy was pickpocketing her, sneaking a hand to reach into her purse and grab her wallet while the other was wrapped around her shoulder and muttering words into her ears. Probably to placate her and prevent her from calling the cops. Whatever voodoo magic that unhinged kleptomaniacs like Nancy do to not get in trouble with the authorities.
I felt embarrassed from watching, wondering if I could just hide inside the museum so I wouldn’t be associated with them by sheer proximity.
But that would mean dealing with Mrs. Dodds and quick-starting the whole thing. I groaned just thinking about it.
“Detention?” Grover asked, sensing my foul mood.
“No,” I shrugged. “Just Mr. Brunner wanting to give me advice. About life and stuff. You know?” I smiled at the joke only I knew about. Maybe Grover did but he doesn’t have the full context.
Grover didn’t say anything, just polishing off the fistful of celery and carrots he had.
“You’ve been acting weird this whole trip.” He finally said. I stiffened from the accusation, that familiar panic and cold of anxiety wrapping around my bones. It shouldn't be a surprise. I’m not the best at acting like a middle schooler. “Like weirder than usual. Did you…” He paused.
“Did you get a weird dream?” My hands started sweating. Ah, that. Dreams. I have to deal with those dreams. Special dreams. Fuck, the whole package is literal ass. Having powers is cool but everything else? Absolute straight shit-out-of-the-butt ass.
“Nope. Not that I know of. Can’t remember the one on the bus if that’s what you’re asking.” I laugh nervously. Fuck. Bad choice.
Grover gave me a suspicious look like he didn’t believe me. My fake smile faded and I stared at the floor instead, which wasn’t helping my case.
'Fuckkkkkkkk my stupid social anxiety and everything associated with it in making me fail this whole thing day 1.' I complained internally.
“Did you forget your backpack on the bus? Thought you brought some lunch.” He pointed out.
Double extended fuck. Of course I didn’t notice. Kids would have to bring their backpacks for a school trip and this is no exception. I miss being an adult, I miss having my own wallet, credit card, and keys. None of which are in my pocket. Or in Percy’s pocket.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” I muttered, noting the lack of school bus parked in front of the museum. I need to kill myself and I need to kill myself now. “Think that the same bus would come back?”
Grover shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe you should ask Mr. Brunner.” He told me, stressing out his name. My eye twitched again.
Thank you Grover for nudging me towards Mr. Brunner, I can see what you’re doing and you’re not very slick at all. My brain immediately pulled up that gif of a still image of a cat throwing a cartoon-ish brick at the screen which exploded at the end.
Heh. Pipebomb.
As opposed to the same gif except it’s tennis.
My uplifted mood was immediately soured when Nancy Bobofit, a criminal with 27 future counts of misdemeanors and felonies, dumped her sandwich onto my lap. She smirked, hands perched onto her hips while two of the girls from earlier, her friends most likely, had devious looks on their faces as they stood right behind her. The most stereotypical lineup of bullies if I ever saw one.
“Oops.” She grinned at me with her crooked, yellow teeth. “Thought I’d donate to the poor.”
I stared at her in disbelief and then at the absolutely nasty sandwich spilling its mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise juices onto my jeans. It looked like one of those mystery combinations that kids would make at lunch, pouring all sorts of liquids into one cup to convince one poor soul to take a sip from, but in sandwich form. How many condiment bottles did they empty into this sandwich? It was almost impressive.
When the insult finally registered, my mind went white with rage.
“You fucking bit-” I began, standing right up right before I was pushed into the fountain. Immediately the cold temperature chilled my skin followed by the burning pain of my head hitting against the stone. I cry out in pain and regret it as water filled my spluttering mouth as I flail to get out of the fountain
Shrieking hyena laughter was all I could hear as a hand struggled to pull me out — I slapped it away as I tried to curl up, climb back up with one hand and the other clutching at my head.
Wet, dripping with fountain water, with all the rage burning through my mind, like a hungry wildfire let loose and ready to devastate everything in its path, I hissed: “You’re going to fucking regret that.” Like a valve, my stomach twisted itself all the way to release.
Suddenly, there were screams as the water from the fountain shot forward like someone told it to use Hydro Pump — hosing down the terrible trio who was blasted away.
I wince at the sight. My rage was instantly doused by the waters of regret and shame like the Hydro Pump I’ve used but on myself. That’s - that’s not what I meant to do. Fuck, I went overboard. This is bad, this is bad, this is bad. This isn’t what is supposed to happen in the books. I fucked it up. God fucking dammit, I fucked this whole shit up.
Nancy and her friends were still spluttering but I can see the finger pointed my way as she hacked, coughed, and tried to yell an accusation: “P-Percy,” She threw up her lunch. Ouch. Yeah, definitely too much.
Grover helped pull me out of the fountain with a frantic emotion, like he wanted to pull me away from the scene of the crime despite everyone having seen the pseudo-Pokemon battle.
Mrs. Dodds, true to her heritage, materialized in front of us with a gleeful smile, as though she caught the canary. And that canary was me. “Now honey—”
Some of the kids were pointing and whispering at me, having seen the whole spectacle: “Did you see—”
“—the water— “
“— smuggled a water gun?”
“— sure? Looks like—”
That comment caught me off-guard, I looked down into my hands to see, despite its misty and vaguely translucent appearance, a nerf water gun had materialized in them. Where the fuck did this come from? And also didn’t know the Mist was that overpowered. Was it fake?
Poking at it and seeing my hand go through, confirmed that yes, indeed, it was fake. Uhhhhhhhh. Yeah sure, let’s go with that.
I dropped the ‘water gun’ into the fountain as though to throw away my evidence of wrongdoing.
“Percy!” Grover hissed in my ear, shaking my shoulder to take me back into reality. Oh right, Mrs. Dodds and the very evil asswhooping I was going to get because I cannot rely on beginners luck to kill a fucking Fury.
“Mr. Jackson!” She shrilly shrieked. “Stop your daydreaming and come with me.”
I could tell you that I didn’t quiver in my boots when I heard that murderous tone to her voice that is definitely real and that she will kill me in the next couple of minutes but I would be a liar. I quivered, and I quivered like a little bitch.
“Yes, ma’am.” I squeaked with all the trauma of a kid raised by strict, traditional parents who put the fear of god and punishment in me.
“Wait, no, Percy, you can’t-” Grover protested in surprise, like he hadn’t expected that reaction from me.
“Your name is Mr. Underwood, not Mr. Jackson.”
“But-”
“I told you time and time again. You—will— not— interfere.” That was the end of that conversation, despite Grover half-heartedly tugging at my arm, telling me to not go.
I stared at his desperate, pleading eyes and then compared to Mrs. Dodds’s expectant, strict gaze. I didn’t want to go at all, believe me. But the plot demands it. And the plot is going to be the death of me.
‘I’m going to die.’ I mouthed at him, tears in my eyes. I did not cry but I was tempted.
Mrs. Dodds, seeing that I was very unwilling to follow her, was dragging me by the arm. It was very obvious that she wasn’t trying to hide her monstrous attributes nor strength as she was practically doing skip teleports right now. One moment we were passing by the rest of the class looking like a sadistic peanut gallery, I blinked and the next, we were at the top of the stairs, blinking again, suddenly inside the museum where the inhabitants had a sudden case of mind control as their eyes glazed over and opted to look elsewhere than the scene of a terrified kid, struggling to get away from a gleeful so-called math teacher ready to unleash hell, literally, on him.
In any other case, Percy would not be begging nor pleading for his life. However, I am not Percy, and my life is very important to me, so you can bet that I had zero dignity to spare.
“Mrs. Dodds, please, please-”
“Whatever that was, it wasn’t me-”
“-Was a prank, I swear, it didn’t. Gone wrong- I meant, fuck!”
“I forget my backpack on the bus, I didn’t smuggle in a-”
“Framed! I was framed!”
“Don’t kill me, don’t kill me, don’t-”
Until Mrs. Dodds, after dragging me into an empty section of the museum, of course, it’s the one with Ancient Greek stuff, how thematic of her, threw me across the room.
I didn’t expect it when my tearful vision flashed from trying my best to get out of Mrs. Dodd’s unbreakable grip to suddenly staring at the limestone floor with pain blossoming across my body. I cried out in pain, curling up into a ball. Oh fuck, oh fuck, I’m going to die. I’m going to die and it’s not even past the first chapter.
Plot device, please save me now. I begged whatever deity, the Fates, the mother of Fates, that primordial, hell anyone, to save me.
Pulling myself up, I rub at my eyes to see Mrs. Dodds intimidatingly marching over to me, each step slow but powerful, I can see the cracks appear from under her heels. She was taking her god damn time and I knew it.
“You were a tricky person to track down, honey.” She sneered, a constant growl at the back of her throat, distorting her voice to terrifying levels that I could’ve pissed my pants if I drank any water earlier. Maybe I should have.
“I-I’m sorry, ma’am.” I stuttered, wincing at the pain traveling down my back as I struggled to climb back to my feet. Swaying on both legs.
“Did you really think that you could hide here after the crime you committed?” Thunder shook the building. I whimpered, all the strength vanishing from my body. I was ready to collapse despite all my efforts to stand up. “We are not fools, Perseus Jackson. Confess, and I will give you a painless death.”
Oh my god, I’m going to die. Oh my god, I’m going to die.
“It wasn’t me!” I blurted out as she marched closer and closer to me, her form flickering and growing more and more monstrous. I could see her skin grow leathery and darker, a tail lashing out behind her, and rips of fabric as she grew too big than her mortal form could handle. “It was, it was,” My eyes flickered around, I tried to utter the truth but my voice failed me.
It failed me.
I tried again. “It was-” No luck. It wasn’t a fluke.
“Times up.” She hissed, her transformation into a Fury complete as she lunged towards me.
In my ears, from the other side of the room, I heard Mr. Brunner shouted: “What ho, Percy!” The bronze pen went flying however I wasn’t focused on that, I was focused on the terrifying monster attempting to shred me into pieces as I tried to dodge and got a skimming edge of talons scratching the side of my body.
I hit the ground, and then scampered like a Loony Toons character, to get away from the furious and very much lethal monster aiming to kill me. I heard a clatter as I looked back and saw her pull herself out of the rubble from where she smashed into a marble statue; she screamed, flapping her wings to charge straight at me again.
“The pen, Percy! The pen!” Mr. Brunner yelled at me. The pen? Oh, god, the pen!
My eyes tried to scan for the pen on the floor, why did the floors have to be gray!, while I jumped out of the way from Mrs. Dodds’ ram of death. This attempt failed as I felt her smash into me, claws ripping into my skin. I spat out blood as she carried me up into the air.
“Where is it? Where did you hide it?” She demanded. I couldn’t answer, delirious from the pain of her talons digging into my stomach and the fear of being several feet into the air with her beating wings. Am I going to get smited by Zeus? A distant thought came to me. “Thief, you must answer now and pay for your crimes you’ve committed against my master.”
“I-I could,” I hacked out more blood. Oh, that’s really bad. “B-but I c-can’t, the-” My voice failed me again. Tears came to my eyes. Oh, you got to be kidding me, I can’t even say the Fates’ names?
Then a loud, ear-piercing shriek erupted from Alecto, she swayed and then I was falling. I smashed into the ground, I should’ve done the smart thing, ignored the pain and run away, but I wasn’t a battle-hardened demigod who could turn off their sense of pain. Just yesterday, I was a pampered mortal who stayed far away from pain as best as I could. I sobbed, curling deeper into myself, blinded by my injuries wreaking havoc onto my body.
“How dare you?!” I heard Alecto scream past the haze of me suffering as I cradled my torn stomach, touching at the wound and hissing. Thankful that no, she didn’t rip open my stomach and leave my intestines and other organs to hang out. “Shouldn’t interfere, cannot interfere! Chiron, this is no matter for you to step in!”
“It is now that you have harmed a demigod in front of me. I can and I shall interfere.” I could hear Mr. Brunner- Chiron speak. Followed by the swish of an arrow flying above me, another shriek but this time it was different, and then, a golden dust rained down like it came out of the world's weirdest pinata, ontop of me.
I twitched and somewhat relaxed from the realization that Alecto had finally died, followed by the combination of dread and shame overpowering the pain from not living up to expectations. Because I couldn’t be like the original Percy who had defeated Alecto in the first book with one swing compared to my meagre showing and the fact that possibly, maybe, I might be dying. That last part is a little dramatic, but holy shit, I just got torn apart by a Fury. Can you blame me for the paranoid thought?
An awful combination as I curl deeper into myself, hoping that would be enough to ignore the horrible world I was trapped in, ignoring Mr. Brunner’s probing questions who gave up after a couple of minutes, followed by Grover trying to convince me to get up. I was in a full dissociation mood and I knew it, because maybe I could wake up from this dream if I tried hard enough. I thought I could until 911 arrived with all of its medical personnel, stretchers, police officers, and chaos that told me when I was carried on top of said stretcher, this is real, this is your life, and you cannot wake up from this so-called dream.
And yet. And yet, regardless, I still had that vain hope. Because I didn’t want to face reality. I wanted to hide from it.