(Author's Note: I do not own the Percy Jackson series. So yep.)

(Author's Note: Any advice or reviews are extremely welcome. Also, none of Riordan's characters will be anything more than cameos or supporting characters. Also, because we are in the middle of the school year, I may not update as frequently as I should.)

Marilyn Jones was a beautiful woman. Of that, there was no doubt. She attracted the eyes of men and gods. Her light, chocolate-colored hair cascaded down around her shoulders, shot through with streaks of red and pure, jet black, framing a face that always seemed to smile. She wasn't tall, but wasn't short, wasn't unnecessarily large or small. And her eyes, oh her eyes! They were a deep brown, almost black, but they were kind and welcoming, beckoning you to lay your cares upon her as she listened and consoled you. Unfortunately, she was undeniably, irrevocably mad.

She participated in what many called the "Big Top of Death", a gruesome imitation of family fun in which pain, death, and suffering were twisted parodies of fun, laughs and joy. The meat circus served to meet its client's twisted desires, and people bled, burned, and died in that big top. Twisted depravities went on in this place, and people who entered never left the same. Nevertheless, Marilyn would smile, right up to when she cut your heart out and burned it for you, quite literally.

She was also alone, until one day, she met him. She was on her way back to her small home on the circus grounds, after one of her most spectacular, chaotic, bloody performances, when she saw the man standing outside of her trailer.

"Hello" said the man. He was tall, close to 7 and a half feet, she guessed, and his suit was all black, as was his skin, a black like jet, deep and unforgiving, the solid black of mourning and hate, like looking into the abyss. As she got closer, she noticed that his tie and his eyes shone red, but not a red like blood, no, this was a red of chaos, of bodies and houses burning.

"What do you desire of me, sir?" asked Marilyn, for she knew that this man wasn't to be trifled with or scared into leaving.

"First and foremost, I desire secrecy" he said, his voice ringing with an accent that hadn't graced the mortal world in millennia and he gestured towards her trailer, "However, I would also like a private show, if it is convenient?" From the look in his eyes, and the tone of his voice, Marilyn knew that he wasn't really asking, but she was happy to acquiesce.

"Why, of course sir." she said joyfully as she unlocked her trailer, "Anything to be of service."

That night was one of the best of her life, but I will not go into detail, because if I delve that deep into the twisted depths of depravity that went on that night, I fear that we will both lose our sanity. Nevertheless, a month later, she found that she was pregnant. Her thoughts went immediately to that night, and she was ecstatic that she would have a child, only hoping that he could be like her and his father.

Slade sat in the dirty alley, looking at the small fire flickering before him, and for the thousandth time, cursed the unluckiness of his childhood. He was born without a father, and to make things worse, his mother, Marilyn, participated in a type of "sport" as she called it, that made him sick. His mother had started cutting on him when he was six, "raising him to relish pain", she said. When he became seven, she started forcing him to participate in her "performances", to bring her the knives, to strike the final blow on the damned, to burn the heart for her. She forced him into her depravity, urging him to be just like her, to be her little carbon copy.

Every night, after the end of the shows, he sits, looking at the flames flickering in the run-down tent, praying that someone, anyone would take him away from this horrid place. Hope was the only thing he had left, the only thing that kept him going through the pain and suffering, the only thing that kept him sane. One night though, when his mother was teaching him a new lesson in pain, his sadness and dejection turned to anger, and he practically exploded with anger and hate, and then he did explode, a noise of pure anger that tore everything around him to shreds. His mother, the trailer, everything was gone. He was gleeful at the carnage he had created, reveling in the death, and this shocked him back to reality. He couldn't believe what he had done, much less that he enjoyed what he had done. He was disgusted with himself, and glad he had managed to control his anger before it controlled him.

The next day, he left, always suppressing his anger because he knew that if he did let it out, he would lose himself in the anger, becoming the very thing he despised, his mother. Now he was ten, and he sat in a dirt covered alley, starring bitterly at the fire, remembering the days of the circus, praying and hoping for a better future, for someone to help him to control his anger, to give him a place to stay, for someone who was a real parent, not a twisted parody. The fire seemed to respond, flickering higher and higher as Slade slowly backed away. A small girl who couldn't have been more than 8 or 9 stepped out of the flames. As she turned towards him, Slade was shocked to notice that small, gentle flames flickered in her eyes.

"W-who are you?" asked Slade.

"The answer to your prayers." the little girl stated simply, "I am Hestia."

Hestia had taken him to her home, a beautiful mountaintop palace she had called Mount Olympus. There, she had taught him to keep his anger in check, gave him the gift of peace. She taught him about the gods, the titans, the primordials, everything he may need to know. She taught him not to be a warrior, but a defender, not one who seeks out battle, but one who dutifully protects what he holds dear. When he asked why she showed him, a simple street rat, such kindness, she simply looked at him with her kind, flickering eyes.

"I am a virgin goddess." she stated simply "I have never had children, and I have now come to see you as one of my own."

"But why me?"

"Because you are the son of a god, and you cannot be raised without knowledge of what you are."

"Me? I'm not the son of a god, just the son of a psychopath." he muttered the last part bitterly, downcast as he remembered just who his real mom was.

"Do you really believe that you don't have power?" Hestia looked at him, and he got the feeling she was looking into his soul, and he saw a reflection of that terrible day, when he had lost control, just for a minute, but a minute was enough. "However" she started, snapping him out of his memories, "My blessing will help you to control the anger that seethes within you, and will grant you power so that you don't have to rely on that dreadful emotion in times of need."

"Thank you, Lady Hestia, I will never forget this." Slade intoned as he sunk to his knees before the goddess.

"Now go" she ushered him out of the room they were in. "You will find a washroom in the upstairs hallway, and a small room for you with clothes in the wardrobe. You smell."

After he had bathed, Slade looked at himself in the mirror, almost not recognizing himself. His dark, pitch-black hair remained spiked into a fearsome mohawk, as usual, and he noticed that while his irises were dark and unforgiving, a black like onyx, his pupils glowed a dull orange, no doubt from Hestia's blessing. He marveled at how similar he was to his mother, as he had never looked in a mirror before. He shared her build, not too big, but not too small. He knew from experience that he was fast, but also strong, especially for one his age.

And so the years had passed, Hestia raising him and teaching him to control both his power and hers. Finally, after a year had passed, he felt he was sufficiently comfortable to ask Hestia the one question he had dreaded since she told him he was the son of a god. One day, after a history lesson on which Hestia educated him of all the major and minor gods and goddesses, he broached the subject.

"Hestia, who is my father?" Slade asked cautiously, unsure what the answer would be or how Hestia would react.

She merely sighed, disappointment filling her eyes. "That is something that I can't tell you, my son. You must figure out on your own."

"Okay." he replied, somewhat downtrodden that she couldn't tell him, but happy that he didn't know, because, as they say, ignorance is bliss.

Another year had passed, and now Hestia informed him of what he always suspected would happen.

"You can no longer stay here." she told him "You must now spend your time with your own kind."

"But-"

"You are being sent to Camp Half-Blood." she cut him off, "However, do not think that this means I am abandoning you. I will always watch over you, and if you should ever need advice, simply talk to me."

"Thank you, Mother." Slade said simply. "I will never forget what you have done for me."

"Remember Slade, this is a chance for you to forget about the horrible events of your past. You can move on, change your name if you wish. This is your second chance, and not everyone gets one. Use it wisely."

As they walked from the house to Hestia's temple, there was a comfortable silence between the two. When they arrived at the temple, Slade prepared to leave, turning to say goodbye to the only good mother he ever had.

"Goodbye Hestia." he said as he made to leave.

"Wait, Slade." she said as she pulled something from thin air to give to him. "I had Hephaestus make these for you." They were 4 simple golden wraps that attached themselves to his forearms and shins. "Simply tap them together when you have need of them." He did, and the wraps caught flame, burning up his arms and legs. When the flames cleared, he noticed he was enveloped in a suit of golden armor. He felt the heater shield across his back, and as he pulled the shield into his view, he saw the design emblazoned on the front. A bright flare of flickering flames that disoriented him as he looked, surrounded by a silver dodecagram (look up symbols of Hestia on google), all on a field of black.

"The one thing I cannot give you is a weapon." she said. "I am but a guardian, a defender. If you desire a weapon, you fill have to find or make one yourself."

"Thank you for your gifts, Mother" said Slade "For these, I am ever grateful." He tapped his wrists, and the armor burnt back down to wrist and ankle coverings, and he stepped into the fire, the flames flaring brightly around him, and when his vision cleared, he was standing in a fire pit, surrounded by a picturesque landscape, with a vibrant forest evident. As he continued gazing, he saw a collection of cabins, each decorated in a startlingly different manner, a large open air dining area, an amphitheater, what looked to be a training coliseum, and a large, out-of-place house. He now realised that people were rushing toward him, faces full of alarm.

A centaur trotted towards him, and stopped short of him, a bow in hand, and Slade stepped from the flames, brushing the ashes off of his shoulders. "I am Chiron" he stated simply, "and who might you be?"

Slade took a breath to respond, when the small girl who had been tending the fire looked straight at him, and he heard Hestia's voice echo in his head. "Remember Slade, this is your chance to make a fresh start, to forget about your past, and leave behind the torment on which you were raised."

Slade raked his mind, trying to find a name that may fit him, searching through what Hestia taught him to find a name. Perseus, Jason, Heracles, names great and small flit through his mind, and he discarded each after but a moment. Finally, after a long, tension-filled minute, he found the name he was searching for, the name of a great man who sought only to protect his family and his people. A man that was righteous, and honored by the gods. As Slade looked up at the centaur, he discarded his past in his mind, and embraced his future. "My name is Hector." he said quietly, but no less audibly, "Hector Jones".

She watched carefully as the boy stepped from the flames, brushing ashes from his shoulders as if he arrived in a literal blaze of glory everyday. She had been relaxing by the basketball courts when a blaze of flames caught her eyes. Her sharp eyes took in every detail about him, from his fearsome-looking hair, to his simple, plain clothes, to the stark color of his eyes, seeing the kindness in them, but also catching the barest glimpse of suffering. She noticed the foreplay between him and Hestia, and wondered what he had done to warrant such attention. "This one will need watching" she thought to herself "as a friend or a foe". As she turned, the sunlight glinted against her golden eyes as she walked back to her cabin, all the while thinking about the boy who burst from the flames.