Chapter Text
She didn't resent the breakup. Annabeth and Percy made a reasonable decision after he decided not to follow her to New Rome. The daughter of Athena had already been rematched with her Roman son, Michael Kahale. No mess, no fuss; those two would marry in a year’s time and provide many legacies uniting her and Athena’s lines for generations to come.
Big whoop.
What was frustrating her was that she had racked the options from demigods, to mortals, and even divine beings to find Percy Jackson another match, but nothing was good enough! He had gone through all the appropriate stages after taking over as Camp Half-Blood’s field leader, making his own peace with the split and moving on. Other than a couple of hookups with long-time crushes in Apollo during that stint as Lester, her own husband, Hephaestus, and Hermes just to spite his first man in Luke Castellan, it was impossible to get him serious again with anyone. He’d even hooked up with Piper amongst the demigods and Demeter, then Hebe amongst the goddesses.
All of them were over before things even really heated up.
And it was beginning to irritate her.
“You like him.”
She paused, sea foam eyes darting back to Ares’ place in her bed as he watched her get ready for the day. “What?”
“You only struggle to pair someone off when you like them.”
Eros snorted as he was coming into her bedroom with today’s roster he was still looking over and agreed wholeheartedly, “Historically, he’s not wrong; you know he’s not!”
“Thank you, son,” She accepted the scrolls and dismissed him in the same breath, “Excuse us.”
As soon as that door clicked shut, those sea foam eyes darted right back to him in her mirror, the God of War still barely covered by silk white sheets twisted masterfully and suggesting a token of modesty which hadn’t existed between them in a very long time. Her deep study yielded less information than it usually did. “And if I did?”
“You do.”
“Would you object?”
Ares got up from the bed suddenly, but that throaty chuckle which escaped him predicted that it was not irritation which had him spilling back into black denim jeans. “I haven’t bet against that punk in a very long time.”
“That’s true,” She acknowledged. “He’s about to turn twenty-one…”
“Just a day away now.”
“Huh.”
“You really didn’t realize?”
“Mortals are a passing fling and we love having children,” She framed the issue as it existed in her mind after eons, “You and Hephy are an eternally gracious plenty to manage.”
He snorted, but also shrugged with one shoulder, acknowledging that she wasn’t wrong. Though the gods’ blacksmith was probably the brother he was genuinely closest to, just as Athena was the sister, sibling rivalry was and always would be. Their natures simply were.
“Demigods are… Infinitely more complex.”
“Thei Pose is arranging a third offer after this last war.”
“Yes, but for now the issue remains. And no one knows what Percy Jackson will choose.”
“Fair enough. If he refuses again though, it might actually do his old man in.”
“True. Passionate as he’s always been over his children, this one broke the mold. Which only feeds into my point.”
“Well, complicated or not, you’ve only ever gotten over an infatuation one way.”
Aphrodite huffed, “Also true.”
He was dressed in his scarlet silk dress shirt and that black leather jacket with spikes. She liked this form. The short blond hair wasn’t something often explored, but it looked good with that goatee. But those dark eyes tinged with crimson like hellfire always stayed.
Curiosity ate at her.
“Do you have any interest in pursuing him?”
Ares stopped at the secret tunnel back to his place, having every intention of leaving her to do something in those spirals of rose gold hair falling past her perfect backside. “That’s never stopped either of us.”
“I know that. It’s just a question. I know you haven’t since Alectryon.”
“The punk is… tempting. But I know our history and so does he.”
“That’s not a no.”
“Dite…”
“I just want to understand. You haven’t actually fulfilled that curse in years.”
“He’s been fighting to protect my kids too… And he never treated them any different.”
“So true. He adores Frank. And Risse begrudgingly adores him; you’re the only reason she won’t admit it.”
They dropped their disguises and bravado when alone; they always had. Knowing that, lying about this wasn’t something he’d stoop to doing. Not to his girl. “Yes, I’ve been tempted by the punk. In this last bout… He almost wasn’t enough as a demigod and I realized, I don’t actually want to see the day he leaves any of them. They need him in every battle.”
“You should tell him that,” Aphrodite encouraged. “Cease being enemies.”
He chuckled, “You know better than to say ‘make peace’ because I’d never do it.”
“You’re a known gracious plenty, if nothing else.”
“I suppose if you’re going after him one way or another, I’d best get out of the way.” Ares smirked before disappearing back to his palace, “It might even be fun to be there.”
Never one to beat around the bush when he had something to do, the god went straight there.
The arena at Camp Half-Blood was standard-issue chaos. Bronze blades clashed against shields, sweat stung the eyes of younger demigods, and Percy stood in the center of the ring, correcting a fresh Apollo kid’s footwork with the easy patience of someone who had done this a thousand times.
He didn't need to turn around to know a god had walked into the sword pit. The air grew thick with the smell of ozone, hot asphalt, and gunpowder.
“You’re leaning too far into your lead hip,” A loud, gravelly voice barked over the noise. “Leave yourself open like that, and a Trojan spear takes your head off before you can blink.”
The demigods froze. Sword tips dropped. Standing at the edge of the pit was Ares, wearing a leather motorcycle jacket over a scarlet shirt, his eyes hidden behind mirror-tinted shades.
Percy didn't flinch. He turned with Riptide in hand, the bronze blade springing to life in a fluid motion. “He’s fourteen, Ares. We’re working on footwork, not Trojan wars.”
Ares smirked, pulling a massive celestial bronze broadsword from thin air. “Best way to teach footwork is trial by fire, Jackson. Come on. Give these kids something worth watching.”
Percy sighed, but a quiet competitive spark ignited in his sea-green eyes. “Clear the ring, guys.”
The younger demigods scrambled to the outer bleachers, joining the cabin leaders who were already gathering. Word spread fast; within seconds, the entire arena was packed with campers—including the Ares and Aphrodite cabins—holding their breath.
Ares stepped into the ring, the heavy strike of his combat boots vibrating through the sand. He lunged without warning. Percy parried cleanly, the high-pitched clang of Celestial Bronze against Celestial Bronze echoing across the valley.
They traded blows—fast, brutal, and precise. But unlike their duel on the Santa Monica beach nine years ago, there was no malice in it. It was a rhythm borne of two seasoned warriors testing each other's limits.
“You’ve gotten faster, punk,” Ares grunted as their blades locked, forcing them chest-to-chest.
“You’ve gotten predictable,” Percy countered, slipping out of the lock and executing a reverse spin that caught Ares' vambrace.
Ares laughed—a real, deep booming sound that startled half the audience. “You know, I’ve been watching you since the last campaign. How you handled the front lines. How you shielded the kids.”
Percy parried a downward cleave, rolling off his back foot. “Somebody had to keep them alive.”
“No, it’s more than that,” Ares said, stepping inside Percy’s guard only to be repelled by a quick sweep of Percy's shield arm. “You fight for all of them. Mine, Aphrodite’s, Apollo’s. Frank... Clarisse. You never treated my kids like second-class warriors, even when I was giving you hell.”
The crowd in the bleachers began to swell with cheers. The Ares cabin was pounding their shields in unison, while the Aphrodite kids were screaming at the top of their lungs, caught up in the sheer spectacle.
“They’re good kids,” Percy panted, deflecting a heavy thrust. “They deserve a leader who has their back.”
“Yeah, well...” Ares backed off a fraction of an inch, his expression beneath the sunglasses unusually candid. “I was a pussy when you were twelve. All this Greek mythology bullshit, playing puppet for Kronos... I acted like a bitter asshole instead of the God of War.”
Percy stopped for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the admission, before catching Ares’ blade on his crossguard. “Are you actually apologizing, Ares?”
“I’m saying I was wrong,” Ares corrected gruffly, pressing forward with a series of ferocious overhead strikes that forced Percy to yield ground. “You’ve grown into something more powerful than any demigod before you. In your own right, Jackson, you’re an absolute force. And after as many wars as you’ve fought... I want us on the same side from here on out.”
Percy met Ares’ eyes behind the tinted shades. The adrenaline was pulsing hot through his veins, matched by the deafening roars of the campers surrounding the pit. The sheer energy of the arena was intoxicating.
“I want the same thing,” Percy said, a genuine smile breaking through his fatigue. “I’m tired of fighting family.”
With a surge of momentum, Percy channelled the raw, fluid force of a crashing wave. He parried Ares’ main arm wide, stepped inside the god’s reach, hooked his foot behind Ares’ calf, and drove his shoulder straight into the war god’s chest.
Ares hit the dirt with a heavy thud, Percy’s bronze blade rested firmly against his throat.
The arena erupted. The cheering was deafening—demigods from every cabin were jumping on the benches, chanting Percy’s name.
Percy offered a hand to help the God of War up, half-expecting a blast of divine fire. Instead, Ares grabbed Percy’s forearm, hauling himself to his feet, and threw his head back in a thunderous laugh.
“Unbelievable,” Ares grinned, clapping a heavy hand onto Percy’s shoulder. “You’ve got to accept it this time, punk. You’re clearly meant to be one of us.”
Percy’s smile faded slightly at the comment, though he kept his tone light. “We’ll see about that.”
Ares gave him one last knowing nod before melting away in a flash of deep golden light, leaving Percy alone in the middle of a wildly cheering camp.
Later that evening, the noise of Camp Half-Blood fell miles away.
Percy sat on the cold, damp sand of Montauk beach, watching the tide roll in under a sky bruised with purple and indigo. Tomorrow, he would turn twenty-one. A milestone no child of the Big Three was ever really expected to reach.
His demigod safe phone sat beside him in the sand straight from Lady Iris, dark and quiet. His split with Annabeth had been peaceful—a quiet recognition after he chose not to move to New Rome that their paths were finally diverging. She was building a future in California, already matched with Michael Kahale to weave legacy lines for Athena and Venus. There was no bitterness, just the natural closing of a chapter.
And the flings that followed? Apollo during his time as Lester, Hermes, Hebe, even a brief, passionate distraction with Piper... none of them stuck. They were quick embers that burned out before a real flame could catch.
Even that brief moment with Lady Demeter was… Well, it was probably a damn good thing that he was his dad’s favorite and his old man found the entire hookup hilarious to this day. Nothing came of it, though he was suspicious that Lord Poseidon would actually bow out of his long-time tryst with that particular goddess, if it would get his only demigod at this moment to accept godhood.
He felt strangely detached from the traditional mortal trajectory of settling down, but equally distant from the petty games of divine romance.
The waves crested higher, splashing against his bare feet without wetting his skin.
“You’re thinking too hard, my boy.”
Percy didn't look up as Poseidon materialized beside him, dressed in his usual faded Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, carrying the scent of sea salt and deep ocean trenches. The Lord of the Seas and Storms sat down in the sand next to his son.
“Word travels fast,” Percy said quietly. “Ares told me that you’re arranging a third offer.”
Poseidon sighed, watching the horizon. “Zeus is anxious. After you turned down godhood twice the Council has grown restless. A demigod of your caliber remaining mortal, aging, becoming vulnerable... It makes Olympus uneasy. Zeus wants you anchored to our family where he can keep an eye on you, but more than that, he knows the pantheon is stronger with you in it.”
“And you?” Percy asked, turning to face his father. “What do you want?”
“I want my son to live,” Poseidon said softly. “I know you, Percy. You’ve outgrown the simple mortal life you used to dream about, yet you despise the gilded cages of Mount Olympus.”
“Ares said I’m meant to be one of you,” Percy murmured, picking up a sea-smooth pebble and tossing it into the surf. “He… came by today. Said he respects what I’ve done for his kids. Even Aphrodite’s been meddling, trying to find me a match because she can't figure out where I fit anymore.”
“Aphrodite’s interest in you is more complicated than mere matchmaking, kiddo,” Poseidon warned, a hint of dark stormclouds rolling in his voice. “Be careful around the Love Goddess. She does not take kindly to puzzles she cannot solve.”
“I’m not afraid of her, Dad,” Percy said, stepping onto his feet and looking out over the Atlantic. “I’m not a scared twelve-year-old taking quests just to survive until next week. If Zeus offers me a seat on the Council again tomorrow... I’ll consider it this time; for you.”
“Thank you, son. That’s all I ask.”
The ambient silence of Montauk beach was abruptly shattered by the dramatic crack of pink-and-gold lightning.
The air grew instantly heavy with the rich, intoxicating scent of crushed roses, ozone, and fine perfume before Lady Aphrodite materialized out of the sea spray amidst that standard golden glow. Her silk robe fluttered against the coastal breeze, and while her posture remained as regal as ever, her sea-foam eyes burned with unmistakable irritation.
“He’s already tracked them,” She announced without preamble, her tone sharp enough to cut Celestial Bronze.
Percy didn't even flinch, having long since grown immune to gods appearing on his quiet beach moments. “Tracked what?”
“Our chariots,” She huffed, crossing her arms tightly. “Ares’ war-chariot and my swan-drawn carriage. Some brazen mortal fools managed to make off with both while Ares and I were... indisposed together.”
Poseidon let out a low snort which couldn’t be fought off. “Indisposed? I think we’re past such modesty.”
“Don’t you gods keep your keys on you?” Percy piled on. “I’ve never once had my ride taken.”
“It was a temporary lapse in vigilance!” Aphrodite snapped, waving a dismissive hand. “Regardless, Ares tracked the thieves straight to the city's illegal street racing scene. The idiots actually attempted to modify them—modify divine relic steel—and are planning to run them in tonight’s pink-slip tournament.”
Percy raised an eyebrow, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “So the God of War had his ride boosted and now he wants me to go steal it back?”
“He wants to blow up six city blocks,” Aphrodite corrected dryly. “Which would cause a massive mist-breaching incident and ruin my entire evening. I convinced him that you could retrieve them cleanly. You’re on the same side after that arena match today anyway, Jackson, and frankly, you’re the only demigod with enough nerve to pull this off.”
Percy chuckled, running a hand through his windblown black hair. “Street racing? Yeah, alright. I’ll go get your rides back; what's one more round.”
Poseidon turned to his son, his brow furrowing with gentle, divine confusion. “Percy, you are twenty-one tomorrow. You are formally a Prince of the Sea, acknowledged by the entire pantheon. You don't need to be risking your life in illegal mortal drag races for quick cash or cheap adrenaline.”
“Dad, I started doing street races when I was thirteen,” Percy admitted with a light shrug. “Mom used to do it back in the day-
“So I recall.”
“And she taught me how to drive on back roads.”
“So Sally knows about this?”
“I didn't say that either.”
“Perseus…”
“Let’s be real—being a full-time demigod doesn't exactly leave a lot of room on a resume to land a regular day job. It kept gas in the tank and food on the table back then.”
He looked out over the crashing dark Atlantic one last time, a spark of familiar, dangerous mischief lighting up his sea-green eyes.
“I accepted the royal title,” Percy added smoothly, looking back at Poseidon with a wide grin as he twirled his keys around his index finger. “And I know I don't need the money anymore. But I started way before I ever officially accepted being a prince... Nowadays, it’s just for fun.”
Poseidon huffed and accepted that, then told him to be careful before heading back to Atlantis so he could fulfill what would hopefully be his last quest as a demigod. A father could only hope.
The cool night air of the city smelled of rain and hot asphalt as Percy pulled up to the gated storage facility just around the corner from a high-rise apartment he shared with Triton and Tyson. It was a modest, surprisingly practical place—even if Triton complained daily about the lack of saltwater plumbing and Tyson had taken over half the living room with spare copper piping and gears. Having a base in the city for a year had made keeping tabs on both the mortal and divine sides of his life a lot easier.
Percy tapped the keypad, watching that heavy metal chain-link gate slide open before walking down a narrow alleyway to unit 4B.
He was just reaching for the latch on its rolling steel door when a heavy shadow detached itself from the brick wall beside him.
“You’re taking your time, punk.”
Percy didn't even jump. Ares leaned against the neighboring corrugated door, clad in his usual leather jacket, a fresh cigarette unlit between his teeth as his red-glowing eyes cut through the dim overhead lighting.
“Racers haven’t even gathered yet,” Percy said, shaking his head with a small smirk. “What are you doing here anyway? Thought you’d be waiting on high.”
“And miss seeing what kind of mortal junk you’re planning to use to win back my chariot?” Ares snorted, crossing his arms. “Not a chance. I’m riding shotgun.”
Percy shrugged and grabbed the handle, hauling the heavy rolling door upward with a loud, metallic rattle.
The industrial lights overhead flickered, casting a sharp glow over his machine sitting inside. Ares opened his mouth to make a sarcastic jab, but the words died in his throat.
Parked cleanly in the center of the concrete bay was originally a pristine, hyper-aerodynamic electric masterpiece. The bodywork was finished in a deep, iridescent sea-green paint that shifted from stormy indigo to bright turquoise depending on how the light hit its carbon-fiber curves. It sat low, aggressive, and entirely lethal—a Rimac Nevera.
Ares slowly pulled his sunglasses down his nose, his jaw tightening as he took in the sleek, predatory silhouette. “What... the hell is that?”
“Rimac Nevera,” Percy said modestly, though he couldn't hide the glint of pride in his eyes. “Most are fully electric.”
“Electric?” Ares scoffed, though his eyes were still glued to the active rear wing and massive carbon-ceramic brakes. “Since when do you drive something that sounds like a toaster?”
“It puts out nearly two thousand horsepower and does zero to sixty in under two seconds,” Percy replied smoothly, unlocking the doors with a soft click. “Trust me, it doesn't feel like a toaster.”
Ares didn't need to be told twice. He threw open the passenger door and sank into a custom leather bucket seat, running a rough, calloused hand over the dark dash. Percy hopped into the driver’s side, pressed the start button, and his hypercar hummed to life with a low, futuristic whir that vibrated straight through the floorboards.
Percy backed out of the bay, lowered that door, and rolled out onto quiet city streets before stomping on its throttle.
The instantaneous torque pinned Ares hard against his seat back. The sheer acceleration was violent—a silent, crushing force which pushed them down the avenue so fast the streetlights blurred into solid streams of gold.
Ares let out a sharp, genuine laugh, grabbing the handle as Percy effortlessly threw this car through a tight ninety-degree turn, torque vectoring keeping the tires glued to pavement without a single chirp of protest.
“Damn, Jackson!” Ares grinned, looking over at the steering setup and the seamless digital dash. “The drivability of this thing is unreal. It’s not electric though, like you said most are.”
Percy didn’t deny it, “True.”
“It’s hydraulic by and large.”
“Uh-huh.”
The God of War had to know, “Which one of Hephaestus’ kids built this for you? Beckendorf before he... Well, or was it another cabin nine kid?”
Percy chuckled softly, keeping his eyes on the road as he downshifted the regenerative braking into the next curve. “It’s Leo’s pride and joy.”
Ares raised an eyebrow, shooting Percy a skeptical side-eye. “Valdez? The scrawny kid who likes firecrackers? He created a monster like this?”
“That’s the rumor,” Percy said, a fond, knowing smile playing on his lips.
Ares smirked, detecting the unspoken magic layered beneath the sleek Italian leather and carbon fiber, but he didn't push the issue. A war god knew better than to question how a master craftsman built his best weapons.
Ten minutes later, the low rumble of modified combustion engines and the heavy bass of hip-hop echoed through an industrial shipyard near the docks. Dozens of street racers had gathered now under floodlights, their souped-up cars lined up in rows while crowds cheered around an open drag strip.
Percy rolled the sea-green Nevera into the lot, instantly drawing dozens of turned heads and murmuring crowds as the silent beast glided to a stop.
Stepping out into the cool night air alongside Ares, Percy scanned the packed lot. It didn't take long to spot what they were looking for.
Parked right near the front of the staging line—surrounded by a group of cocky mechanics holding tools—was a massive, jet-black chopper with flame decals and spiked chrome exhausts that practically radiated raw aggression: Ares' divine war chariot, disguised as an outrageous custom Harley.
And right beside it, looking completely out of place amidst the grease and tire smoke, sat a blindingly polished, pearlescent-white Mercedes-Benz CLE coupe, its lines flowing with an uncanny, swan-like grace that practically screamed Aphrodite.
Percy tossed his keys in the air, catching them cleanly as he looked over at the God of War. “Looks like your thieves are right on time.”
Ares cracked his knuckles, a dangerous, eager grin spreading across his face. “Let’s go get our rides back, punk.”
Percy returned from signing up and stopped the god from getting back into his car. “Wait out here with the crowd,” He suggested, nodding toward the thick circle of spectators gathered around the staging area. “I don’t need the extra weight in the car if I’m running against both of those chariots—plus whatever else they’ve got lined up.”
Ares smirked, resting an arm on the door frame. “Fair enough, punk. Go make sure I get my bike back.” He moved away from the Nevera and disappeared smoothly into the sea of leather jackets, mechanics, and spectators.
As Percy pulled the Rimac around toward the sign-up table, Ares meandered through the throng. It didn't take long for a shimmering aura of perfume and soft light to settle beside him as Aphrodite shifted into a form that fit right into the crowd—wearing a distressed racing jacket, dark jeans, and boots that looked effortlessly stylish among the gearheads.
Together, they listened to the chatter buzzing through these observers.
“You see who just rolled up in that green Nevera?” A mechanic with grease-stained knuckles whispered to his buddy. “That’s Sandstorm.”
“No way,” The other replied, leaning forward to get a better look. “The guy who wiped out the warehouse district circuit last month? I heard he’s completely unbeatable. Doesn't matter if it's tight corners or drag strips.”
Percy, meanwhile, was at the registration tent again taking in his competition. Positioned on the line were Ares’ blacked-out Harley, Aphrodite’s pearlescent CLE, and a fourth entry that immediately caught his eye: a gleaming, custom-built Koenigssegg Jesko Absolut rendered in striking raw bronze. The sheer engineering on the Jesko made Percy whistle softly, though he signed his pseudonym on the line without hesitation.
Minutes later, the four vehicles lined up at the starting mark. The flag girl stepped up, arms raised high. Engines roared—the guttural thrum of the Harley, the refined purr of the Benz, the sharp, violent scream of the Jesko’s V8, and the dead-silent rush of hydraulics streaming through Percy’s Nevera.
When the flag dropped, the sea-green hypercar didn't just accelerate; it launched like a torpedo.
The instant, brutal crash of a foreign system they couldn’t predict, but he could control unparalleled by anyone accept Thei Pose himself sent the Nevera flying. It passed the competition before that Jesko could even finish hooking up its rear tires. Percy handled the course with fluid, effortless precision, carving through the sharp bends of the industrial shipyard like water finding the path of least resistance. By the time he crossed the finish line, he was a full league ahead of the divine chariots and the bronze Jesko, the silent electric monster coasting to a triumphant halt.
Percy stepped out of the Nevera to claim his prize, stepping toward the driver of the bronze Jesko, who was already storming over in a fury.
“You cheated!” The guy snarled, throwing a wild right hook straight for Percy’s jaw.
Percy didn't even flinch. He caught the guy’s fist mid-air in an iron-clad grip, casually squeezing down until the racer gasped, his knees buckling under the pressure until he hit the pavement. “I’m in no mood for you.”
Aphrodite flushed, visibly turned on by such a display.
Ares smirked at the demigod taking control like that, honestly feeling the same as his girl.
“Keys,” Percy said mildly.
The driver hastily fished the fobs out of his pocket with his free hand and dropped them into Percy’s palm. Percy released his hand, grabbed the keys to the Harley and the Mercedes from those organizers, then stepped aside as the crowd cheered the fresh victory.
Flipping open his phone, Percy dialed a quick number. “Nico, I need a favor. I just won a bronze Jesko Absolut, and I need someone to drive it back to the storage facility... Yeah, I know I’ve never kept two cars before, but I’m not letting this one go... Thanks.”
Nico arrived fifteen minutes later via shadow-travel into a nearby dark alley, looking thoroughly unimpressed but taking the Jesko’s fob anyway.
Before Percy, Ares, Aphrodite, and Nico could part to drive the divine vehicles back, a sharp, golden flash of Iris-messaging light split the air between them, accompanied by the honestly sympathetic sound of Hermes’ voice through a messenger summons.
“Ares, Aphrodite, Perseus Jackson, Nico di Angelo—you are all commanded to appear before the Olympian Council immediately. Lord Zeus demands an accounting for why a demigod’s street car can outrace two divine chariots.”
Percy and Nico exchanged a look of pure, identical exhaustion, both letting out a synchronized, heavy groan.
“Of course,” Percy muttered, rubbing his temples. “Because a normal Friday night would be too much to ask for.”
“Let’s just get it over with,” Nico sighed.
Nodding to the gods, the group fell into line, preparing to answer the summons of the king of the gods.