Perseus Jackson
"First of all Chaos came into being"—Hesiod
Percy stepped back from the decaying monster, the flesh already turning to ice and falling away as cerulean sand. The sight disgusted him, a constant reminder of the war he had fought and the friends that he had lost. He had thought the monsters would lay off for a while. He deserved a reprieve, but it seemed like the monsters had been coming more often than not. His junior year was swarming with creatures of Greek mythology, some he hadn't even heard of or seen before.
That alone was enough to unnerve Percy. That and the dreams. Percy shook himself, clearing his head of all his morbid and depressing thoughts. He searched the sky for any sort of indication of the time but to no avail. He really needed to get a watch, he thought, because trying to rely on the light-polluted stars was idiotic. It must have been past eight o'clock, and he had told his mom he'd be home by seven thirty. But then that monster had come out of nowhere and attacked him.
Again, Percy shook his head. He didn't have time to think of that stupid monster, even if it was some new species. Actually, Percy mused, it wasn't probably anything special, and he was just being a moron as usual. It did look strange though: the snout long and canine with stubbled wire shooting out in every which direction; its back bent and misshapen like it had been broken and healed improperly; its skin snow white, its beady, crimson eyes malicious and murderous. When the creature breathed, ice and cold emanated from its breath.
It had limped a few blocks, following Percy from the little corner cafe he had stopped in. At first, Percy thought he was just being paranoid, but as the beast got closer, Percy had heard the labored, puffing breathing for far too long. Percy had ducked just in time for a club to swing over his head, the temperature dropping in seconds.
The fight continued in an alley, away from prying, mortal eyes. Percy didn't want to take the chance of a mortal seeing an old man getting mugged by some skater punk. The troll was no match for Percy's bronze blade, which sliced cleanly through the creature's abdomen, piercing its heart. The one thing that didn't sit right with Percy, no matter how he thought of it, was what it said before falling to shattered ice. It looked straight at the son of Poseidon and growled—its voice garbled and animalistic—"Tivars Blöd."
Percy was still mulling over the last words when he came into his little apartment, his first vision being that of his mother holding an envelope in her hand and her expression utter excitement and fear. The envelope was big, large enough for multiple papers to fit into it.
Percy stopped dead in his tracks, his keys missing the oyster shell in which they lived. Paul walked in behind Sally Jackson, his face also a mix between sympathy and congratulations.
"Is that it?" Percy asked tentatively.
They both nodded. "We waited to open it," Sally said.
Percy numbly took the heavy paper into his sweaty palms. "It's heavy. That's a good thing right?" Percy fiddled with it, tugging at the sides then lifting it to his ear and shaking it. He repeated the process a few times then held the envelope like it was poisonous. "Maybe we should eat. It's getting late—"
"Just open it!" His mother cried, she then clapped her hands over her mouth with an apologetic smile.
"Sorry, maybe yes, food's all ready."
"No." Percy conceded. "I have to open it at some point."
Percy once again tugged on the lip of the paper, this time ripping away the paper like a child on Christmas. He read and re-read the letter four times before looking at his mother through a haze. His mother's face fell and she came forward to crush her son in a consoling hug.
"I'm in," Percy whispered.
"What?" His mother stopped.
"Dear Perseus Jackson," he read in a daze, "We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the Museum of Natural History. You will work under the watch of Dr. Evelyn Carahan. You will commence your internship on the twenty-sixth of August, 2013."
His mother clasped her hands together, smothering the smile full of pride. Paul patted Percy on the back, expressing full congratulations, while his mother crushed her son in a hug that conveyed her feelings. But Percy was still stuck on the fact he had gotten in. He hadn't believed he would get in and hadn't thought of applying to the internship, but Annabeth pushed him to go for it. 'It's a one in a lifetime opportunity, Seaweed Brain.' She had convinced him that his skill in Greek strategy and living and surviving in a world of mythology would give him a boost in the historical fields. That and because Goode High School required their juniors to do an internship persuaded Percy to choose the museum.
Percy felt like he was floating, a nervous flutter settling in his stomach keeping him aloof and out of touch with what was happening in the little apartment in downtown Manhattan. His mother couldn't keep her hands off of him, flattening his hair then shuffling it around to keep him looking younger.
The sound of a cork firing out of its bottle startled Percy. He looked to Paul, who was holding a bottle of foaming liquid.
"Champagne?" Percy laughed.
Paul shook his head. "You kidding? No, this is fizzy apple juice."
Percy laughed again and accepted the bubbling caramel-colored drink. He was about to drink when his mother held up her glass and lifted it to Percy.
"To Percy and his internship at the Museum of Natural History. I'm so proud of you."
"Here, here," concluded Paul, winking at Percy and nodding to the glass. Percy sniffed it before drinking the apple juice. It burned slightly as it went down, leaving a bitter aftertaste. Percy smiled into his cup, silently chuckling at the alcoholic acid in his stomach. Paul and Percy had a running joke after Percy had switched Paul's wine glass with Percy's sparkling, red grape juice at Christmas. Now, Paul slips in a dollop of something on special occasions or switches the glass entirely.
They had finished off the rest of the bottle, when the phone rang. Sally Jackson tipped the last of her drink into her mouth, smiling and laughing at a joke before answering.
"Hello? Oh, Annabeth, how are you?"
Percy's head shot up at the mention of her name, lifting his eyebrows at his mother.
"I'm assuming you want to talk to Percy?.. Sure, I'm putting him on now."
Percy grabbed the phone, leaning against the kitchen table, the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear.
"Hey," he greeted kind of awkwardly.
"Hey," she said, pausing momentarily. In the background, Percy could hear Annabeth's half-brothers yelling and fighting over a toy then her stepmom chastising them. "So, did you hear back yet?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I got it today."
"Oh, Percy, I'm sorry. You're bound to get into one of your other choices. It's not the end of the world that you weren't accepted—"
"What?" Percy asked, laughing. "No, Annabeth, I got it. I start Monday."
"Oh," she said, startled. Her voice changed completely, rising an octave and carrying a happy tune. "Congratulations! And if you get a card in the mail from me, just ignore it."
"Wow, Annabeth. Where is the confidence? I'm hurt." Percy whined. His mom threw him an amused glance, but he pretended not to see, feeling warmth crawling up the back of his neck.
"Hey, I had every confidence in you," Annabeth defended. "I am just prepared for every situation."
"Mhm."
"Shut up, Seaweed brain. Just don't screw up." She said it jokingly, but his mind flashed to the weird happenings and the frequent monster attacks. Should he be around thousands of artifacts while he was attracting trolls? Was it retribution for Kronos, or his freakishly strong half-blood smell? And he couldn't help but wonder about the dreams. When he didn't reply for a minute or so, Annabeth asked, "Percy? You still there?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. I'm just tired. Listen have you—"
"Shut up, Matthew! Bobby, just give him the toy!" Annabeth yelled into the phone, causing Percy to drop the phone and clutch his ear, which throbbed from the sudden scream. "Sorry," came a muffled voice from the ground. Percy carefully picked it up and held it away from him. "What were you saying before?"
"Nothing. You coming up for winter break?"
"I don't know," Annabeth replied, much quieter compared to before. "Dad wants to go looking at schools. On the west coast."
"Oh."
"But I may be able to come and visit some schools out there," she said hopefully, the conversation suddenly becoming awkward. "Anyway, you sound tired, so..."
"Yeah, okay. Night. I'll see you, when I see you, I guess."
"Bye."
Percy stared at the phone in his hand. He seemed more grounded than he had before. His mom pursed her lips but said nothing, nudging him toward the kitchen table. Percy didn't talk much during dinner, letting Paul and his mom lead the discussion. His mind started to wonder when the discussion of grading school papers came up from both ends. His mother was still taking the night classes and Paul was grading freshman, end-of-term papers.
Percy allowed his thoughts jump from one subject to another, not bothering to try to make sense of it. He just wanted to avoid thinking of the desert and land of snow. The mashed-potatoes are steaming hot, his mind said. The steam curled off his fork, the tines replicating Riptide's blade after it had shattered the troll, the ice that had curled around the bronze metal, the garbled growl that had been the monster's voice.
"Mom," he asked suddenly. He glanced up and saw both his mom and Paul looking at him. "Do you know of any monster that is—like a troll?"
His mom was silent for a while, taken aback from his random question. "What do you mean? A random troll or a Greek monster?"
"A Greek monster."
His mom pursed her lips, sliding back in her chair and staring at nothing in particular. Finally, she shook her head and said, "I can't think of a troll-like creature except for a cyclops. What spurred on that question?"
"Nothing. Just curious."
Percy helped clear the table, washing the dishes mindlessly. What was it the troll called him? Trevor blurd?
He climbed into his bed, clicking off the light on his bed stand, washing everything in darkness. The room looked eerie, different shades of black clouding his room in a fog, his walls almost looked demonic. Posters of his favorite bands screamed at him, cruel smiles stretching the members' faces. But he would rather face the monsters hiding under the bed than face the dreams again. It has been over week since they started, and Percy has begun dreading going to sleep at night. He would wake up each morning even more tired than before he went to bed. But he couldn't not sleep. He could only hope. His last thought was not again, and the darkness swallowed him.
Percy gets to his feet, brushing the dewy grass from his back and pants. He turns in a circle and everywhere he looks is a sea of green. The blades of grass churn and writhe from an invisible wind, a sheet of fog sinking from the grey sky. The wall of fog rolls closer to Percy, obscuring his meager view of the field.
"Strange," he says. "It's so familiar. Why can't I remember?"
The field isn't like his other dreams, yet it is similar. In all of his dreams, Percy is conscience but not. He remembers everything but he follows his destiny and the rules of the game. There is no reason for Percy to walk forward, but he does.
He walks across the fog-laden land for hours, only being able to see a few steps in front of him. What he can see never changes except for the occasional hill and dip in the symmetrical world. The stars blink into existence, the heroes and warriors of old running and battling across the black sky. A cold wind whispers and brushes Percy's skin, bringing the echoes of hounds howling in its caress. But the hounds are not the only thing that disrupts the eternal hush. Across the dale, a lady clad in billowing white beckons to him.
"She is beautiful," murmurs Percy, speaking as if in a trance.
The lady, her endless age frozen in youth, smiles at him, her white dress ripples in the wind, her hands reaching to him. She dances back and forth and lures Percy closer with her finger. Her heavenly white, luscious hair swings around her, her pale skin glowing like fairy dust. Her mystery draws him in. Her sweet voice sings to him, enthralling his mind.
For a moment, Percy is tempted to follow, but something—a feeling—holds him back.
"I wouldn' follow if I were yeh," a low-pitched voice warns Percy from his right.
Percy stops mid-step, and he stays still, heeding the warning. The lady stops smiling. Instead she snarls monstrously, her hands grow talons, the before-beautiful white turns hideous and so bright that the fog burns and coils around her.
Percy turns towards the voice and is met with a hill littered with stone. Piles of haggard rock are scattered along the side, piled on one another to form archaic temples, much like those of Easter Island. Sitting on one of said ledges is a small man, reclining, laughing, and smoking a long pipe. He is dressed from head to toe in a moss green, his hat and shoes being the only black articles. His face is scruffy with grey stubble, his brunette hair speckled with grey and curling out from under his topper hat. Each of his clothes is patched with scraps of yellow, yet he holds himself like he is important. He notices Percy watching and laughs again, smiling like a devil, his fat cheeks pulling thin to show yellow teeth.
"Who is she?" Percy asks.
"She is de White lady," the man replies. His voice is thick with an accent, his words twist with his brogue.
"What does she want?"
"What doesn' she wan'?" The little man demands, shoving the pipe in his mouth then blowing out very large rings.
"Who are you?" Percy asks, after watching the smoke rings dissipate and emulate the fog surrounding the moor.
"'hoo are you?" The little man mimics.
Percy is annoyed and confused enough only a cackling sound comes out. The little man chuckles and tucks his still lit pipe into his suit pocket.
"Don' you know?"
"What?" Percy asks.
"I asked, ''hoo are you,' and you replied—" the man continues to replicate the sound Percy had made before.
"I asked who you were?" Percy says, beginning to get annoyed.
"Yes, and I know who I am, but I asked if you knew who yeh were and clearly by your reply, you 'ave no idea."
"I know who I am. I am Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon and hero of Olympus."
The little man laughs heartedly and jumps to his feet, hopping down to get a closer look at Percy. When the man comes to stand next to him, Percy realizes the little man barely comes to reach his waist.
"Dat's an awful lot a titles for a boy so small."
Percy bites his tongue to keep from retorting that the man himself is not so tall and therefore shouldn't be making assessments of Percy's worth. The dwarf circles Percy and looks him up and down, taking his pipe back out and sticking it into his mouth. He smirks and nods like he has decided Percy is worthy of his help.
"Come," the little man orders. Percy having no reason not to, follows. The man brings Percy to the rock bench he had been sitting on, and in his place are three cauldrons. Three different colored smokes curl and spill from the mouth, a fire in each. Percy runs his hand through the golden flame in the center cauldron, the pure aureate tongues licking his hand. To the right an emerald jade sprouts from the iron like a tree, to the left a maroon flame bursts from its cauldron.
"Choose."
Percy stares at them. "Why?"
"Choose. But be warned: if you choose wrong, the woman will wail for you."
"What if I choose right?"
"If you choose right, you will lose what you have but find what you seek and gain a victory at the cost of a loss."
Percy observes the three black cauldrons, the golden flame pulls his mind from each of the others. He wonders what they symbolize, and what the dwarf means by a woman wailing for him.
"Choose. Either way, the woman will wail."
Percy turns away from the cauldrons and instead searches for the lady he had seen earlier. She hadn't been crying, but he wonders if she the one the little man is speaking of. He can no longer see the white lady.
"Who was that lady?
The man stops smiling and laughing, his face growing wary. He glances around him, taking in deep breaths. "How thick this bloody ceo is. Better watch your step, boyo. One wrong step in this fog and you'll be losing that pretty little armor you have on your skin."
Percy is about to ask how he knew about the curse, when he hears the hounds baying again. They are louder than before, closer. He turns in circles to search for them, readying Riptide for an attack, and instead sees a woman.
She is not the white lady from before, but is ghoulish, a green aura surrounding her. Her clothes are in tatters, her cloak torn and looking as if the hounds had tried to tear her to pieces. She is standing perfectly straight, her head held back so only her mouth is visible. Her lips are open wide, twisted grotesquely as she howls in unbearable pain. Her weeping is beyond human pain, beyond mortal pain, beyond suffering that is anything but grief. Grief from the death of a loved one. She screams and wails rhythmically, tear into Percy's mind, until his eyes shoot open.
Percy's eyes stared listlessly at his cracked ceiling. Beside him on his dresser, his black alarm clock blared and screamed at him, sounding pathetically quiet compared to the grieving woman from his dream. He let it ring uncontested, his mind whirling from the two women and the dwarf demanding he choose. He didn't even move when his mother called to him from the kitchen, the smell of blue eggs and ham wafting in.
"Percy, hurry up and get dressed. You're going to be late to your first day at work."
Percy tugged the blankets over his head, effectively cutting off the sharp light from his bedroom windows, his throat making a sound between a groan and saying he'll be up in a moment.
He wasn't so sure he wanted to work at the museum anymore, but he couldn't back out, and his dreams never stopped him before. Not even when they were disturbingly the same for over a week. Even when they change from place to place, they are practically the same.
"Percy!" His mother yelled, the crash of a pillow hitting his thin door frame rattling Percy enough to actually start moving. Half an hour later and dressed in a neatly pressed buttoned down shirt, he was shoving through people to get to the museum. The subway station wasn't as packed as usual, but it was still busy. Percy kept his headphones in, his music blasting, while he waited so he didn't hear the banter of nearby families or work goers, but he could still see them.
He glanced from side to side, searching the faces of each passenger until the tram came. There were some men in business suits, their briefcases the same ordinary, boring color; some women with briefcases and the long, tight work skirts; some were also kids with headphones in just like Percy. They moodily stared straight ahead and ignored everyone they deemed unimportant. Finally, when the tram came, Percy was forced to stand because there were no other seats and he felt bad when an old man had nowhere to go.
Percy just stood in front of the museum, looking like an idiot, but he couldn't believe he had gotten the internship. He still didn't get that good of grades and he still had the record of blowing up a school bus with an antique cannon, but the museum had looked past that and given him free roam with really old, really delicate artifacts.
Percy took a deep breath and jogged up the stone steps, but not before passing a really short man who was standing on the corner of the sidewalk. His green cabby hat rested on top of his curly brown hair, his green suit incongruous with the early morning museum goers. He looked exactly as the little man from the dream. Percy looked back to where he thought he saw the man, but he was gone. There were only cars and the usual city traffic in his place. Percy shook his head and entered the museum.
"Keep up, Jackson! I haven't got all day."
Percy sneeringly mimicked George Sturgis behind him, the wiry man waddling obliviously ahead. George Sturgis, the assistant manager of the Museum's staff, was about seven feet tall, but that was the only advantage he had. He had no muscle, no bulk, and no tact. His stringy reddish brown hair was closely cut to his head, and his nose was double the size of a normal nose. He swaggered as he walked, his sweater and tight pants awkwardly shifting with his body.
That has to chafe, thought Percy. A shiver ran down his back, his whole body shaking, and Percy spun on the spot. He looked around him, but it was early in the morning and there weren't many people in theMedieval section of the museum. The only people he saw were tourists and some kids. A few were seniors following a self-guided tour, taking their time staring at the information boards before meandering through the rest of the museum. The rest were students: some fourth graders in a large group crowding around a display case in armor. The only two that didn't belong among the mass of little kids were two Asian boys. It wouldn't have been that strange but they were glaring so intently that they looked as if they might smash the glass and run away with the armor then and there.
"Jackson!" George snapped.
"Right. Coming!" Percy called back, shuffling to the end of the hall and the door marked 'No Entry, Authorized Personnel Only.'
George stuffed an access key in Percy's hand then took it back and swiped it on the keypad beside the door.
He did it twice, the second time mockingly slow to make sure a Percy understood what to do. Percy restrained himself from smacking George right between the eyes. It would no doubt have been satisfying, but Percy knew his mom would be disappointed if he lost his internship on his first day.
The room he had entered with his newly acquired badge was about the size of a small auditorium. It was filled with tables covered in old, broken artifacts, weapons, partial mosaics and pottery. The walls were lined with them, metal barred shelves laced with any old artifact that Percy could imagine. On the other wall, more completed artifacts were banded together by cultural origin. A few statues of a guy with a hawk's head stood guard over Greek pots and an old mannequin dressed in old Japanese samurai amor bordered the corner of the far northern wall.
Studiously observing a piece of metal under a bright microscope, a woman, with her curly brunette hair pulled back, at by one of the first tables, her back to the door. She wore a long, white lab coat, blue gloves poking out one of her pockets. Black rimmed glasses perched at the end of her nose, her eyes squinted closely at the talisman in her hand. She ran her long, thin fingers over the smooth edge and continued to work even after George cleared his throat to get her attention. She was younger than Percy had thought, maybe in her late thirties. George, his attempts to gain the doctor's notice, came around the table and bent down to see what she was working on and, in doing so, went to put his hand down on the metal workbench. She caught his wrist and finally looked at him through the thick glasses.
"I don't think the curator would be very happy if you broke a two-thousand year old bracelet." She nodded to where George was about to put his hand. A small wooden ring rested inches away from the edge, its simplicity uninteresting and unnoticeable.
"Uh," George cleared his throat and stood up straighter, "no, sorry. Um, Ms—"
"Doctor."
"Right. Doctor Carahan, this is Percy Jackson." When the doctor didn't react, he explained further. "Your intern."
"I remember."
George awkwardly stood still. He shifted from foot to foot, his neck turning amusing shades of red, while he thought of how to reply. His eyes drifted from the young woman to Percy, who still stood by the door, not trusting himself to wander through the artifacts and not break anything. He was torn between being really excited, amused, and fearful of working with Dr. Carahan and disbelieving that he actually trusted himself to apply for working with antiques and priceless artifacts.
"Good bye, George." said Dr. Carahan.
George's face blushed, which he tried to hide by turning his face and shoving past Percy. George had just made it to the door, when she called over her shoulder, "and, George? It's Mrs. I'm married." She wiggled her left hand so that the diamond was caught by the lights in the room, sending rainbows and sparkling stars across the room. George dipped his head and left the room, his hands clenched. Percy was debating following George and trying one of his other internships when the doctor called to him, not even looking back.
"Why are you standing by the door? You can't do anything over there?" She demanded. Percy, for the first time, noticed her accent. It wasn't very strong, but it was obvious that she was from London.
"Um, nothing," he stuttered.
When he was standing beside her, the doctor looked him over, judging his appearance and clothes, and seemed to come to a conclusion within minutes. Percy, trying to avoid her eyes, looked at the two-thousand year old bracelet George had almost crushed with his boney palm. It was even plainer than he had originally thought. There were no designs or anything that gave away its uniqueness. In fact, the closer he looked, Percy thought he could see the residue of glue from a store tag. He looked back at the doctor and saw her smiling at him
"This isn't actually ancient, is it?" He asked, though he was fairly sure he knew the answer.
"I really can't stand him."
Percy found himself smiling, almost forgetting about his bothersome dreams. He stuck out his hand awkwardly but relaxed when she took it, shaking once. "Percy Jackson."
"Evelyn Carahan." She waited patiently, and a little bemusedly, as he awkwardly shifted under her gaze.
"Your space is over there," she pointed to a little desk off in the corner. "Your job is to watch, learn, and contribute to categorizing artifacts. Understand?"
Percy nodded.
"Good." She watched him a moment, and he stood there until he got the hint and shuffled off to his desk. It was perfectly clear of any effects, a simple flat table with file cabinets underneath and a rolling office chair parked in front. He sat down tentatively and waited. He hadn't thought to bring anything from home and so he sat, bouncing his knee up and down.
Dr. Carahan wandered over to Percy within a few minutes. Her head was bent over a thick book, her thick glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She placed the book in front of her and rested her hand on the old cover while regarding him coolly.
"This book," she began, "is very old. But it was kept horribly. Your job for today is to find the order of the pages and replace them. After you are finished, I will reseal them to the binding."
"Okay," Percy replied. He wasn't at all sure how he would go about doing it, but he couldn't say that to his boss on his first day. He was convinced he was going to do well in the museum. He was not going to destroy artifacts, lure monsters, or blow up any section of the building while he was employed there.
The doctor nodded her approval and returned to her desk, rifling through a few papers that were stacked in the corner. Percy regarded the unbridled mess of papers and attempted to fit them into a neat pile, but he couldn't focus. There was one thing that had been bothering him since he had gotten the acceptance letter.
"Doctor?" he called.
Dr. Carahan lifted her head and waited for Percy's question patiently.
Percy cleared his throat and awkwardly wiped his hands on his pants. It was difficult to find the right words, he didn't want to sound ungrateful but, "Why me?" he coughed again and clarified, "I mean, why choose me—someone who has gotten expelled from every school he has attended and blown up a school bus using a Revolutionary War cannon—out of any other student?"
"Do you think I chose wrong?" Dr. Carahan asked. Percy couldn't bring himself to reply so he remained silent, but so did the doctor. She was observing him, waiting for a response. Her expression was difficult to decipher. Her lips were set in a hard manner, not unfriendly but still unwelcome. Percy was afraid he had offended her and felt a feeling of defensiveness course though his veins.
"No," he said finally.
"I chose you because you weren't like the other students. I was given full range and saw potential in you. If I was wrong and you have nothing to contribute to this internship, I'm sure George has some dimwitted cousin who would love to fetch my shoes from the cobbler."
Percy's eyes glazed over with a fierce determination, and he clenched his jaw. He shook his head and held the cool expression of his mentor until she turned back to her work. Percy slowly marched back to his desk and began to sort through the masses of paper he had been tasked with.
"I have a feeling we will get along quite well, Mr. Jackson."
For the most part of the day, Percy had done exceedingly well. His boss had been watching him with approval, praising him on his knowledge of Ancient Greece and cultural references. Along with sorting the bestiary, Percy was running back and forth with artifacts that were approved and cleaned by Dr. Carahan
"Do me a favor, Percy, and run out and grab me a coffee. I don't think I can stand drinking anymore of this—" she frowned at her cup, "dishwater they call tea."
Percy smiled. "Sure." He was sure he had seen a Starbucks close to the museum, and if not, one of the street vendors was bound to have a decent cup of coffee. He was about to leave when Evelyn held out a ten dolor bill. He nodded his thanks and jogged out of the museum.
Turns out, his idea of near the museum, was four blocks away. He laughed sardonically that whenever one looks for something he can never find it, but when he isn't, they are everywhere. Percy turned in a circle at the edge of a street corner and caught sight of those trucks that sold food and drinks out of the side, Abudantia's Café Excellente. There was only a small line, and a delicious smell of morning sandwiches and coffee wafting across the street. Enticed by the mouth-watering aroma, Percy jogged across the street, nearly missing a taxi cab. The cabby yelled and swore at him but continued his route nonetheless.
A young woman with long, red hair was the only attendant in the mobile truck. She beamed down at all of her customers and clearly enjoyed her job. She gave them extra portions, her storage in abundance, and always smiled deviously before saying thank you for the coupon, which she used to cut the price in half. Percy took his place in the line, and soon he began to tap his foot incessantly. He was never one for waiting in lines. Because of the cafe's popularity, there was a good ten people before him; although, each patron was receiving his or her beverage within seconds.
"Percy," came a voice from behind him. Percy turned to see a woman trying to smile at him. Everything about her appearance was careless and sloppily done. Normally interwoven with gold or silver ribbons, her long chocolate brown hair was pulled loosely into a braid. Her white dress, that normally rippled and shone like a river under the full moon, was wrinkled and creased, like it was thrown to the floor and stomped on. Dark circles creased her brown eyes, lines of fatigue and annoyance covered by a tired smile. But even as someone fighting the looks of jaded tears and haggard eyes, she was as intimidating as the last time he saw her.
"Hera," he sighed. He was not interested in conversing with the queen of gods, not when it usually meant that something bad was going to happen. Hera acted like she hadn't heard his tone and plastered a renewed smile on her face.
"Hello, Percy. How are you?"
Her question took Percy by surprise. She had never asked him how he was before. It didn't fit her.
"Fine," he replied and shifted forward a few paces in line. Hera followed.
"You look tired."
Percy scoffed. "You can talk," he muttered. Hera's eyes narrowed, but she elected not to say anything. Percy couldn't help but feel anxious as he felt her gaze rake up and down his form. She tried to hide it, but her expression wavered and changed from her conventional smile.
"What is happening in the world now? Avoiding making wars with any more enemies?"
Percy attempted to hide his feelings and remarked, "You wouldn't be worried about me, now would you?"
She scowled at him and drew herself up to her full height so that she was taller than him. "I would never be concerned with something so paltry. I simply wanted to know what was happening in the mortal world."
Percy shook his head and partly smiled. And there was Hera's true nature. No matter how she tried to act interested in demigods' lives, she truly didn't care.
"What will you have, darlin'?"
Percy started back. He hadn't realized that it was finally his turn at the cart. He fumbled through his words and finally ordered two medium coffees. He shifted awkwardly and chose not to look at the patrons behind him, who were scowling at how long he had taken to order.
"That's five dollars and twenty cents," Abae, the cashier, smiled.
Percy shuffled his pockets to find the ten Dr. Carahan had given him, but Hera held out the money. Percy stared at her in complete shock, his mouth gaping like a fish. He was so shocked that he didn't even notice how prudently she held the money and how sure she was not to touch Abae.
"Thank you," Percy said haltingly. He still had trouble understanding why Hera was doing something nice, or even why she was there.
The goddess waved away his thanks and continued to regard him with her curious expression.
"It is nothing when you have the money of the world in your power." When she said it like that, Percy had to admit buying two coffees was the least she could do for him. "I must be returning to Olympus."
"Well, thanks for—checking up on me...I think," he murmured.
"Farewell, Mr. Jackson." She nodded to him then turned her back, taking a few steps before remembering something, and turned back. "And you wouldn't have had any dreams prophetic dreams that will foresee Olympus's downfall lately, have you?" She asked offhandedly, like someone asking if they had read the news about a local athlete.
Percy laughed nervously, his mind flitting back to his dreams again. They were not foretelling of the death of Olympus, but they were bothersome. However, before he could reply, his pocket began to vibrate viciously. Percy set his one of his coffees on the condiment table next to the truck and pulled out his battered phone, the number 718-654-7898 displayed on the cracked screen. Normally demigods would never even touch a cell phone, but since it was Percy's second to last year at home and he was confident enough in his fighting capability that he and his mother agreed it was time for him to have a phone.
"Hello?" He answered tentatively. Although he possessed a cellphone, he didn't use it regularly, nor did he give the number out readily.
"Percy? It's Dr. Carahan."
Percy released the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. It was only his supervisor. Hera gave him a bemused smirk but waited patiently.
"Where are you?" Carahan continued. "I thought you went to go get coffee?"
"I did, I just—uh—ran into...an old friend."
"Well, those pages aren't going to organize themselves, Mr. Jackson."
"Right. Sorry, I'll be right back." Percy hung up the phone and turned back to the goddess. She simply regarded him, a pensive serious aura surrounding her fatigued features. "Sorry, I have to go." He picked his coffee back up and tipped it towards Hera, "thanks for the coffees again.
"You're welcome, Jackson."
Percy started to walk away, back towards the museum on Central Park West. He had made it across the street when he heard Hera whisper to him, but she was nowhere near him. He saw her, standing exactly where she was before, and she was speaking as though Percy was a foot away, not fifty.
"Beware, Perseus. Even noble choices end in tragedy."
Her words still rang in his ears, when Percy returned to the museum. Even noble choices end in tragedy. The entire walk back to his internship was a blur of motion and numbing movement. The cars, honking angrily, the disapproving glances from George, and the questionable looks from Carahan barely scratched Percy's consciousness.
He was more focused on the two words that cycled through his mind and never ceased: not again. They were thought in dread but also dripped in incredulity. He had fought a war already, been back in time,* and faced the wrath of plenty of gods and titans. The dreams were enough to send someone spiraling into insanity, but now he had some crazy goddess sending him cryptic messages that parallel those from a gnome scared of a lady in white.
Percy began to rifle through his pile of papers, as he had plopped down in his seat moments before and stared at the book for minutes. They were old sheets, the paper turned crispy and yellowed by age. Many of them were filled with myths and pictures from old stories. The language made no sense to Percy, but the gibberish helped keep his mind in check, the strange writing unaffected by his dyslexia. Much of the letters were scratches made with a quill, forming no known words in Percy's mind. But he didn't mind. He concentrated mostly on the pages, which were in complete disarray as the first page was next to the three-hundred and twenty-second.
He consulted the sheet, which the doctor had given him with the numbers in ogham, and connected the numbers with the order. Within a half hour, Percy proudly stacked his pile and slipped them in between the two leather bindings. He was feeling very proud and content with his work, which is until he counted the pages he'd completed. He'd only found fifteen out of around five hundred.
He consulted the sheet, which the doctor had given him with the numbers in ogham, and connected the numbers with the order. Within a half hour, Percy proudly stacked his pile and slipped them in between the two leather bindings. He was feeling very proud and content with his work, which was until he counted the pages he'd completed. He'd only ordered fifteen out of around five-hundred pages.
He groaned, and loudly. He heard the cackle of Dr. Carahan from across the room. Percy was about to continue to complain about the amount of pages when a specific image caught his eye. A man was sketched roughly on one of the pages. He had a long, pointed nose with beady little eyes and a bushy beard. His hat was tall and patched, as was the rest of his clothes. Percy tried to decipher the passage under the sketch, but the writing was in some pre-English language and made about as much sense as the scratch writing.
He was so intent on the picture that he jumped to attention when a hand landed on his shoulder. The doctor was looking at the page with mild interest. Her brown eyes roamed the page, but her focus shifted to the fifteen pages stuffed into the book.
"Your making good progress," she commended. "George only found five pages in an hour last time he tried."
"Huh. Uh, Dr. Carahan, do you know what this is?"
She took the page from Percy. "Yes, it's a bauchan, I believe."
"And what is a bauchan exactly?"
She thought a moment before answering. She regarded the writing, mouthing the words as she read the passage. "From what I know, they are mischievous creatures. Somewhat like Scottish leprechauns, they play pranks and jokes on travelers. But here it says—one must always take care when a bauchan reveals itself. The hobgoblin creates havoc and danger, similar to the welsh knockers, but also take head to its warnings. 'When need arises, the bauchan sees the truth and gives travelers the choice.'"
The blood drained from Percy's face, leaving him pale and breathless. Carahan didn't notice, or find it important, and continued to read to herself. The passage spoke of the Tales of the West Highlands and the different situations of the Bauchan. The most popular was that of Callum MacIntosh whose farm was haunted by a bauchan. For years the farmer tried to rid himself of the goblin, but the creature manifested itself in the home and continued to wreak havoc. But whenever Callum was in trouble, the bauchan helped him. One day, the bauchan came to Callum and offered him two cauldrons, and the farmer chose. Soon after, Callum made his way to New York, and the bauchan followed. Callum was an old man and poor by that time so the bauchan cleared his field and transformed into a goat.
Dr. Carahan set down the page and gave Percy a sympathetic smile, though Percy was only barely aware. He heard something about getting as far as he could but to go home at five. There was no point to get sick of the job on the first day, she had smiled honestly. But Percy's mind was still on Hera's message and the overly incredulous thought that had been echoing around in his head since the dreams began: not again.
He could not believe the gods were dragging him into something just a few years later. Was it so impossible to give him a nice, quiet life after what he had been through, Percy demanded incredulously. He did his work in a trance, completing a quarter of the book by the time it was five. He didn't notice until the lights began to dim that it was time for him to go home. After he had gathered the last bit of paper and neatly stored it away, he turned to find Dr. Carahan looking intently at him.
"What?" He asked.
"Just thinking," she replied, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was way past five, closer to half past seven. "I think I made the right choice. I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Jackson."
She turned and left without waiting for a reply. Percy wandered back through the halls slowly, trying to commit the layout to memory. The pathway from the lab to the front door was a long and windy route, but Percy didn't mind. Ever since he was a kid, he had wanted to see a museum at night—like in that Ben stiller movie—and now as he wandered past the Medieval Exhibit with old weapons and torture devices from the different countries and the stuffed safari animals, he couldn't help but think how creepy the museum was. Weapons used to smash their enemies' heads in glowed in their glass containers, a crossbow and long bows stacked besides each other, a suit of armor whose eye holes seemed to follow him all the way to the front lobby.
Percy nodded good-bye to the security guard at the desk, holding up his security badge to him as he walked by. Aaron, Percy deciphered, smiled pack and returned to reading his book. Embarrassingly, Percy walked into one of the doors that had already been locked. Great first impression, Percy sighed.
His mom was exactly where he had left her in the morning: hunched over her laptop, her bathrobe crumpled and tea-stained, glasses perched on the top of her head. However stressed she looked, she smiled cheerfully when Percy dropped his keys on the dresser.
"Hi, honey, how was your day?" She asked. "Paul's run out to get Thai food, sound good?"
Percy nodded, not feeling up to answering with a complete sentence. Sally Jackson's face slid to a frown when she saw how exhausted her son looked, worry in every inch of her face.
"Was it really that bad?" She asked hesitantly.
"No," came Percy's muffled response from the couch, where he had dropped onto face down.
"Was it that good?"
"No."
Sally paused. "Do you want blue cookies?"
"No." Percy's head shot back up once his brain had comprehended the question. "I mean yes."
His mom sighed, walking over to sit by Percy. He scooted down to make room for her, kicking his shoes off in the process, his legs kicking in the air, his arms lying listlessly against his sides.
"Want to talk about it?" When Percy didn't reply, she tried once more. "Does this have to do with the troll you asked about last week?"
"Yes," Percy breathed in heavily, holding his breath until he was hearing the rhythmic thump of his heart. "I ran into one about a week ago. I've never seen anything like it. And when I killed it, it didn't dissolve like a normal monster."
"How so?"
"I don't know. It kinda shattered into blue ice. Most monsters when you kill them, they blow away into a pile of golden dust. "Percy tugged at his hoodie's sleeve. "And I've been having a really weird day." He continued to tell his mom of his dreams—the most recent being about the bauchan on the rocks and the woman in white—how he thought he saw the little man outside of the museum, and his meeting with Hera.
Percy, still lying prone on the couch, had long been done with talking by the time Paul opened the door, carrying a steaming bag filled with Thai food. He smiled proudly and held up the bag, about to comment on it getting cold when he saw how serious the room was. He set the food down and stood above Percy, mouthing to Sally, "was he fired?"
Sally frowned at him and shook her head. Speaking to Percy, she said, "why don't you call Camp. I'm sure we could figure something out with Dr. Carahan."
Percy didn't reply. Then Sally noticed the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and realized he was asleep. An innocent smile pulled at her lips, and she raised a finger to her lips and pointed to the kitchen. Paul nodded and lightly walked to the kitchen table and set down the food. Before joining her husband, she watched her sleeping son for any sign of a nightmare, but he was sleeping soundly, like he had when he was younger, before the demigod's dreams had began. She switched off the lights and closed the door to the kitchen, the only light was the slight crack under the door.
Percy steps through the threshold into the baking son, an enormous three-sided tower that reaches towards the sun. In the distance, a being with glorious white wings soars through the sky, her figure outlined by the rays of the sun.
* reference to Razing of Camelot, Merlin and Percy Jackson fanfiction
i know its a little slow, but I'm trying to make this book/novel like
the story is in place of Heroes of Olympus and was slightly influenced by Camp Jupiter but OCs are the product of various literary influences as well as mostly original ideas.
this story contains myths from many other cultures as well as legends and gods. Not all myths are real, but only a select few.
is it good enough to continue? Comment!
preview of future story-
The screaming echoed across the camp until every creature could hear the strains in her voice. They immediately ran to where Maggie stood, her fists clenched, her eyes squeezed shut. The first time she had had one of her episodes, no one had known what was happening. She had been smiling sweetly one moment and the next had jumped to her feet and began to howl, crying and wailing for so long that only Merlin was able to put her to sleep through magic. The next day Jaques, a dair beag, had gotten into a car accident after leaving camp.