A/N: Yes, the girl is an OC. Expect that she would be an adult during the time of the books.
Dionysus stood at the edge of camp, scowling at the cabins. It was as if they were his own personal Tartarus. Wooden cabins filled with demigods… underage demigods at that. They couldn't drink, they were notoriously impulsive, and stubborn resentment ran through their veins. He had yet to meet them, and already he hated each and every one of them.
They were… the reason he had supported the pact, the reason that he discouraged his relations from having children. He did not like grimy hands and sober minds; they were an irritating match.
"Hi!"
He turned slowly to his left, his face already scrunched in anger. Oh yes, and they had no respect for the Gods. That was his other reason for disliking the young demigods.
The girl could be no older than ten, from what he could tell. She was smiling brightly, an array of ribbons in her hair. She did not leave, even when he didn't reply to her.
"What?" he snapped, at last. He was in a bad enough mood already, he was not in the mood to be bothered.
"You're Mr. D, right?"
He clenched his jaw and nodded. Mr. D. It made him sound cheap, albeit, professional.
"We heard about you," she continued, her neck stretched high. "You're the new camp director, right?"
For a second he considered asking if she knew who he was, but thought better of it. They'd probably all heard of his misdeed already. Not that he was ashamed, exactly. He just had distaste for mortals looking down on Olympians, was all.
He nodded curtly, hoping that she would go away. She didn't though. Instead she persisted with her staring and standing, not moving from her spot beside him. Her smile had vanished though, and her eyes were wide.
"You don't want to be here, right?" she whispered.
"No," he said it aloud, and stood up straighter to clear his head of the shock. He hadn't intended to.
She beckoned him close with a tiny pinky finger. He glanced at it, and found that perhaps it was not entirely repulsive. He did not go nearer to her though; it was the mortals' jobs to move in the direction of the Gods.
Surprisingly, she did so. When he did not move, she took a step towards him. "I don't want to be here either." Her eyes traveled nervously across his face, as if she were worried that she'd said something offensive.
On the contrary, Dionysus lowered his guard a bit, the fury in his frown melting away.
"They took me," she said softly, dropping her face towards the ground. "They found me, cause I almost died, see."
"You should be grateful," he looked away from her again, his frustration returned. However much he may have hated such an establishment, it was far less than his obsessive dislike for half-bloods. They had saved this little girl, and she paid them no respect.
"Oh, I know that, Sir," she replied, "I am grateful. But I don't want to be here, not really."
This perplexed him. Could gratitude and resentment go hand in hand? He'd never heard of such a thing before.
"Why not?" he found himself asking.
She shrugged. "I miss my friends, and my family."
"Well, that's too bad! You have more important things to worry about. Whose child are you, anyway?"
She looked sad. "I don't know. My mommy didn't tell me."
So it was her father, then. Dionysus wracked his brain, trying to think of who it might be. A dreadful thought entered his head. "How old are you?" he asked.
She held up her fingers. Nine. He'd been off by a year when he'd guessed, and nine years ago… he closed his eyes in annoyance.
"Go back to the field," he instructed, firmly. "You don't want to miss dinner."
She shot him one last look, and then obeyed. He stayed behind, staring after her. He'd never claim her, he knew that much. Because he was already in a bad mood, he allowed the incident to do nothing other than confirm his beliefs. These kids, they were worthless. They were selfish and resentful, without any real purpose or redeeming qualities.
Had he been a more analytical Olympian, he might have realized that in a way, the job was a perfect fit. The demigods just like him.