A/N I apologize in advance for any grammatical or logical errors in the story.

Disclaimer: I don't own PJO. Standard.

PROLOGUE

A slim figure stepped off of the metro as the vehicle screeched to a halt. Without so much a look at his surroundings, he set off at a fast pace down the road.

It was very nearly empty, but then again, this was near midnight. One wouldn't expect passerby to come along— and that was exactly the way the figure wanted it.

He moved down the corridor under the thin lamplight at a fast pace and turned a corner into a damp alleyway. It was dark and there was a very damp feeling about it.

"Finally decided to show up, have you?" a voice boomed. Any other boy of his age would have flinched at the sound, but the figure merely shrugged. "It is exactly 11:48 A.M. Our agreed time was midnight. I am early, am I not?"

A chuckle rang through the alleyway. From the shadows, a man emerged. His face was massively scarred, and he sported one dulled and shattered iris. His hands and legs were filled with lean muscles, and he looked very intimidating.

The boy simply inclined his head at the sight.

"I must say, I've been impressed by your record." the man said slowly. He began pacing back and forth, his head swiveling like that of some massive owl. "Four hundred assassinations under your belt, and countless cases of espionage and smuggling."

Without warning, he suddenly lashed out, swinging his hand forward with a speed and precision only achievable by an experienced fighter. To the casual onlooker, it would seem he had not moved an inch, but the practiced eye would notice that he'd tilted his head back a millimeter- just enough to avoid the blow.

Faster than the eye could process, he reached up his left hand and struck a point on the man's arm. Even from outside in the street, the man's voice could be heard— a loud grunt.

"Impressive." he spat. "I did not see that coming."

"Few do," the boy said. "I assume that was a test, and you are not stupid enough to attack me?"

"You're a sharp one."

"Thank you. I try." he said dryly.

"Down to business, Mr…?"

"Jackson. Percy Jackson." the figure replied. "You would know me by my nickname Hound, I presume."

"Correct again, Mr. Jackson." the man returned. He reached into his coat- cashmere, by the look of it- and pulled out a large, manila envelope. Percy eyed it with some interest, the first spark of it he'd shown in weeks.

"Ten thousand in U.S. dollars?"

"Yes."

"Hm…"

Percy flicked his wrist once, and, in a single motion, flipped the envelope and extracted a single bill. His watch retracted to show a single bulbous face. It began scanning the bill up and down, its eerie light reflecting off of the magnetic strip. It flashed green, and Percy gave a satisfied grunt.

"You don't trust me?" the man mock crooned. Percy shot him a bemused glance. "I hardly trust anybody, Mr. Bod."

And with that, he was gone, the only faint indication he'd been there being a thick scent of brimstone.