Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians or the Hunger Games. If I did, I wouldn't be spending my time writing fanfiction.
Summary: Percy Jackson was always an outcast; his father died when he was young, his mother destroyed by his death. But when he gets a chance to finally prove himself to the world, what will happen? Will the people that he meet give him a new perspective on life, and he'll emerge a new person? Or will he stay the same - living a life that was never his? Alternate Universe, obviously since it's a crossover fanfiction. Slight Percabeth and Thalico, though it's more like friendship as opposed to romance.
Scars remind us that the past was real.
-Shakespeare
DISTRICT FOUR;
-the third hour
Damp fumes of sweat hung in the air of the confined room, a solitary figure propped up by his sword, chest heaving for air. Mannequins barely resembling humans were arrayed randomly, the straw that once formed their interiors was scattered in clumps on the floor; if they had been living creatures, each and every one of them would have died a gruesome death.
"Perseus Jackson!" A call resonated from an area somewhat near the room, and subsequently, the sound of footsteps grew gradually larger in volume. A shadowy figure – most likely a middle-aged woman – loomed at the doorway, its arms crossed.
In response, a jolt seemed to run through the silhouette, and he lifted his sword and pivoted on his heel to face the other. With a slight shake of his unruly black hair, he observed the woman with sea green eyes that shone with energy, and a small smile soon began to curl at the crooks of his lips.
"Mother," he replied calmly, greeting her. "Up so soon?" His question was asked in a voice other than the deadpan one he usually used with others.
She sighed, her eyes stained with resigned affection, thwarting her attempt to appear stern. "Naturally, I couldn't sleep with the ruckus downstairs. Percy, it's three in the morning. You should be sleeping by now!" she fussed with a motherly air to her words. "I swear, if I wasn't here to feed you, you'd have died about four years ago."
Abruptly, her expression shifted to one of wistfulness, her eyes glistening. "You… remind me of your father." She watched him apprehensively, as if he were a bomb slowly ticking down.
He tensed, posture becoming almost that of a cornered animal. His father had been a victor of the Hunger Games eleven years ago, bringing in yet another victory for District Four. Percy had only been five years old then, barely old enough to remember anything – but he did remember that he was proud, proud that his father had been better than everyone else. Just a few days later, he had to journey overseas for the Capitol, and he had told Percy that he could return. And that was the trip that he had never come back from.
Percy had watched as his mother sunk into a chair, head resting on shaking limbs as she refused to eat, refused to speak, refused to even live. His countless efforts at first – simple surprises, kind words – had become begging, even sobbing on his knees, but it was to no avail. She stubbornly refused to move on; her eyes became bloodshot from lack of sleep, her hair dulled and fell out from nutrition deficiency. Until one day, he had remarked to her that she shouldn't kill herself just because his father had died.
Suddenly, her eyes had widened and she had snapped at him that he wasn't dead, only lost at sea. It was a lie that she had been repeating to herself for eleven years. And that was the day that she had begun her shaky path to recovery, bit by bit. But it was never complete, never perfect. There were still times when she would become seemingly deaf to painful topics, and there were nights when Percy awoke shivering and drenched in sweat from reliving the day that his father had died.
An awkward silence followed as her words brought back a bout of memories. "Well," his mother finally mumbled. "Sleep soon, alright?" With that, she turned and briskly walked away, leaving only fading footsteps behind her.
With newfound ferocity, he attacked the few surviving dummies at the edge of the room; gray walls made their forms stand out as he vented his emotions on them. Once the entrails of straw littered the dark floor and all the mannequins had been rendered useless, Percy stalked agitatedly around, his sword swinging in an intimidating way.
No one understood him after his father's death – not even his own mother. The old ladies who gossiped like twittering birds – as if they had nothing better to do, which they probably didn't – claimed that he had gone insane, the shock proving too much for him. His teachers complained that he was skipping classes too often, calling him lazy and undedicated to academics; they said he would never be successful. He vowed to prove them wrong, just in a way that few had ever expected from the boy who had reached the brink of insanity. Though it was petty and childish, Percy wanted to win the Hunger Games to feel as if he had some – even the slightest bit – connection to his father.
It didn't matter that no one comprehended his feelings. He would prove to them that the Jackson's were worth mentioning - he would honor his father, no matter what the cost might be, no matter who stood in his way. In fact, he could even see why people couldn't understand, other than the fact that most of them acted like they had been born with some sort of mental deficiency. When they looked at him, they didn't see the muscular, determined teenager that worked harder than anyone else. They say the scrawny, five year-old boy that was forever broken by the death of his father.
He didn't even notice that he had sunk to the floor in weariness, much less when he did so, and drifted off into a sleep that was – once again – plagued by intervals of dreams.
"Father!" a young boy with black hair cried, dashing into a room and latching tightly onto a middle-aged man's leg with chubby hands. "You're leaving again?" His face was contorted into one of horror.
"Just for a while, son," he said, giving the boy a sad smile. He then picked him up and swung him onto his broad shoulders, as if the exertion had been comparable to that of breathing.
"Where are you going?" the boy asked, his tiny lips changing into a pout. His arms flailed wildly as he was lifted, and he struggled to stay upright.
The boy's father shifted uncomfortably, and his expression darkened. "I have to… do something for the Capitol, overseas. I'll be back soon though, Percy." Though he obviously had tried to sound reassuring, there were some flaws in his demeanor that even the boy was able to notice.
Still pouting, his frown now widened even further, Percy gave his father a dubious look. "How long will it take?"
"Just a few days, at most. The job… it shouldn't take that long." After a short pause, the man added a proposal quickly. "When I get back, I'll take you to the beach, alright?"
Percy's mouth stretched into a gap-toothed grin, and he nodded in confirmation. "I'll wait for you. You promise you'll be back soon?"
"I promise."
The boy perched on his shoulders noticeably relaxed, exhaling the breath of air that he had been holding in.
And so he had waited, until at a week and a half, he had wondered errantly if something had gone wrong; a self-chastisement soon followed. His father wouldn't break his promise. Just then, it seemed as if cruel fate had finally settled in, and the doorbell chimed in false merriment.
Rushing to the door in excitement – he had been expecting his father – he twisted the doorknob and swung the door open, an expression of delight on his face. Instead of his father, it was a man clad in white, staring coldly at him – a Peacekeeper. His mother had already descended from the steps, and met the Peacekeeper with shock on her face.
"Where's Poseidon?" she inquired sharply, shoving Percy out of the way. He looked at her with shock; it was rare that his mother would act like this.
"He's dead," the Peacekeeper said bluntly, making no effort to spare her; he pressed an envelope with compensation for their loss into her hand. Feeling his mother recoil, tears sprang to his own eyes as well. His father had promised.
"What happened?" she growled in a threatening voice that he had never heard his mother use before. "If you did anything, anything at all – "
"We didn't," he said, cutting her off impatiently. "His ship, Pisces Austrinus, was lost in a sudden storm – I'm sure you remember. We found the wreckage on the shore yesterday. Some parts of the ship seemed to have washed up."
Percy vaguely recalled the hurricane that had raged through District Four a few days ago, and felt abrupt hatred directed at the storm build up inside him. It had murdered his father. With a brief, cold farewell, the Peacekeeper marched off their front steps, and his mother closed the door with trembling hands, her face pale.
Miraculously, she found the strength to stumble to the living room and sink down onto the floor across from his father's favorite armchair. Percy could only helplessly watch as she stared blankly at the chair, her face seemingly devoid of emotions, save the silent tears that rolled down her cheeks; they traced gleaming paths past them. He too could not help but gaze at the chair where his father had told him stories before a crackling fire, tales of his own childhood, fairytales, even Greek myths – all moments of bliss.
He had been enchanted by the stories of heroic deeds, princesses, and the powerful gods, but had little idea what 'Greek' meant. Perhaps it was the name of the person who had written the stories. But he soon turned away from it bitterly, not trusting himself to look at it any longer. It was just another thing that would never happen again.
"Percy!"
He groaned, rolling over onto his side, his back opposite to the only window in the room, and desperately attempted to shield his eyes from the merciless sun. Unfortunately, by then, his mother had already reached the doorway with a disapproving look on her face.
"I thought I told you to sleep earlier! Percy, it's already an hour away from the reaping – just an hour! If we're late…" She let the threat hang in the air for a few moments, but he knew that it was meaningless. His mother was one of the nicest women that he had ever had the chance to meet, and she never liked carrying out threats or harming other people.
He murmured words of atonement, though he doubted that his mother had heard anything, and slugged up the winding stairs. His feet thudded against the ornate carpet in the hallway on his way to the shower.
As he turned the silver knob, cold water jetted towards him, though he was barely aware of the temperature. Long swims in the nearby ocean – full of icy cold water, even in the summer – had given him the best resistance possible to cold water, and he always found that he was able to relax in it. Perhaps it reminded him of his father, who had loved water, or it could just be a District Four thing.
The streams of droplets cascading down fought his inner turmoil, so he was able to think about the more pressing matter: the Reaping. Volunteering had never been a matter that was taken lightly in District Four, especially for the Careers – people that trained their whole lives just for a few moments on television. Percy was arguably one, considering that he had trained to kill efficiently for the majority of his life.
It was a well-known fact to him that there were others capable of taking his place as victor of the Hunger Games, but he soon reassured himself that he would never give them the chance to kill him. Besides, he had trained harder than anyone in the past eleven years – since his father died. When his father had died, though they had been allowed to remain in the Victor's Village because of bribery and the fact that the Jackson's were a large and prestigious family, the Capitol had ceased to give them money; their expenses had been paid by the Capitol when Percy's father had been alive.
If he won, his mother would have to worry less about money and such, whereas if he lost, there would be one less burden to care for. It was a win-win situation. With a defeated sigh, Percy meandered over to his barren room and pulled on a black tuxedo his mother had left out for him without complaint, though he noticeably winced when he saw the chartreuse tie.
Spinning around to leave, before pausing at the doorway, he wondered if he would ever enter this room again. He descended from the stairs after a moment of reflection – the room certainly contained quite a few memories – and was ushered out the door by a very impatient mother of his. Many traipsed towards the general direction of where the Reaping would be held – near the sea, obviously, since it was District Four. Some appeared to be confident, while others looked fearful of what was to come. It was easiest to follow the lumbering crowd, though the chatter irritated him.
The shops he passed filled Percy with a sense of nostalgia, but most of them – the bakery that sold warm bread even on the coldest days, the fishing and other utilities store where he often bought tridents, and the fish hatchery – were all closed. Holding his head high as he passed the rest of the crowd, he gave a small wave to his mother, but did not elaborate on goodbyes. She would be watching, after all. While he walked, there was a distinct difference between the people that he was standing near; some shrunk away – he was supposedly mad, after all – while others looked at him with a superior air, leaving him feeling disgusted.
But he endured this, even the lengthy speech that was given by the Capitol escort, a man tattooed with waves throughout his body and had a tuft of white hair. If his purpose was to reflect the district that he was escorting, he had accomplished it, though in a grotesque way.
The man from the Capitol spoke in a surprisingly falsetto voice, so high that it made Percy wonder if his vocal cords had been surgically altered. He wouldn't be surprised if they had. Capitol citizens often found the most peculiar dress appealing.
Finally, as everyone got situated, the Capitol man – who introduced himself as Atlantis Von Ante – flamboyantly rambled on and on about the Dark Days, acting if being shoved into an arena and forced to kill other people was one of the best things in the world.
"Well, as a reminder of the uprising, the Capitol has ensured that the violence will not occur again. The Hunger Games serves as a keeper of peace for Panem, and two lucky tributes will be selected from each district annually, knowing that they will be able to serve their country!" He beamed at the crowd, but the message was mutual. If they ever rose again, something worse would happen – even worse than killing innocent children and acting as if it were entertainment.
Finally, Atlantis turned to the subject that everyone had been waiting for. "Ladies first!" Striding over to the glass bowl that contained all the girls' names, his blue fingers circled the top for a moment before selecting a piece of paper. Unfolding it with an even wider smile, he suddenly boomed into the microphone, "Claudia –"
No sooner had he spoken the first name, a clear shout was heard from the fifteen's, from a girl that he barely remembered to be Delilah … was it Shores? She was snobby and rich, like most other Careers, and he felt a particular sense of dislike rush through him.
"I volunteer!" Smirking, she walked up towards the stage boldly while Atlantis applauded in a giddy sort of way, but his smile told Percy that he had been expecting it all along.
"Well, how nice! A volunteer. And what's your name, dear?"
"Delilah Shores," she replied curtly, as if imagining herself winning already and wanting to shorten the process.
"Well, Delilah, may the odds be ever in your favor," Atlantis said, looking as if he were about to burst from excitement.
Moving on to the globe with the boys' names, Atlantis quickly selected one that was lightly balanced on the top of all the others, and Percy wondered inattentively if his name would be chosen; he had applied for as much tesserae as he would, and had ended up giving most of it away since he had no use for it, but there were thousands of other names in there that didn't belong to him.
"Elliot Se – "
The blonde boy next to Percy stepped forward with jaws agape, but Percy was faster.
"I volunteer!" he shouted hastily, earning a glare of loathing from the boy whose chance had been taken away. Loathing may have been an understatement; the boy appeared as if he would not object to torturing Percy and leaving him to die a slow, painful death.
As he sauntered to the stage, he was met my hundreds of suspicious eyes and murmurings, either pity, dislike, or fear in each of them. It was rather satisfying to see that he ignited such feelings in his district, but somehow he felt … unsettled by their stares. In fact, the only one that seemed to be enthusiastic about the matter was Atlantis, who was gaily smiling again.
"Another volunteer? And what might your name be, young man?" he asked, waving the detached microphone in Percy's face.
"Percy, Percy Jackson," he replied, trying to sound as confident as possible; it would not do to seem as if he wanted to bolt away in fear to intimidate other tributes.
"And Percy, do you expect to win the Games?"
"Absolutely," he said, putting on a winning smile without hesitating. Shifting his gaze from Atlantis to the multiple cameras positioned before him, he added, "I should be back in a few weeks." The muttering from the crowd grew larger.
Laughing good-naturedly, Atlantis replied, "I bet you will. May the odds be ever in your favor."
Biting back a withering response to this, Percy simply nodded and turned his back to the crowd, their hostile stares now making him uncomfortable; it was a mistake. He ended up making eye contact with Delilah, who smiled in a friendly way which, somehow, scared him more than anything else.
"Shake hands, now," Atlantis requested, and Percy grasped Delilah's hand tightly, but withdrew his quickly. Her hand was stone cold, and her cordial smile now appeared haunting to him.
"Give it up for the tributes of the forty-seventh annual Hunger Games!" Atlantis shouted, and a thundering applause met them, though Percy had a feeling that they were applauding more for Delilah than him.
It seemed like hours – though it could have just been seconds – before the Peacekeepers escorted them to a Greek-styled building overlooking the ocean – the Justice Building. However, it was done loosely; very few tributes tried to escape from their clutches, all too eager to prove themselves. Percy, however, refused for them to touch him at all, remembering the death of his father. He had always been one to hold a grudge against those that hurt his loved ones.
Author's Note:
Ugh. Well then. Not my best work, but maybe it will turn out better. Review and tell me what you think! (:
As an author, I've realized that your own work never seems perfect to yourself, but perhaps other people will like it. Therefore, your reviews would be much appreciated; they are the most unbiased opinions I can get. Thanks for reading. However, I need a certain amount of positive reviews to continue this story.
If you see any grammar or spelling mistakes, it would be very helpful if you told me, as well as ideas for the next chapter; I'll edit the document as soon as possible. I also try to reply to all my reviews either privately or in the 'Author's Note' section of my story. However, I apologize if I can't reply to yours. It really, like a lot of other things, depends on how many reviews I get.
Ciao for now!