Alright. I have WAY too many stories going on at once right now. But my jump drive is slowly but surely running out of room, becoming a cluttered mess, and I need to get these on here. Each story will be gradually updated over the months, so try not to fret.

The setting takes place five days after the end of the giant war, killing Gaea, and shutting the doors of death. The six, plus Nico, returned to Camp Half Blood. Witnessing a civil war between the Greeks and Romans. Already flooded with grief from Percy Jackson sacrificing himself to close the doors on the inside and remain in Tarturus, the seven demigods announce the death of their dear friend, causing panic and great depression in the hearts of both camps, and it was through this tragedy that brought the fight to its end, both camps having cared dearly for the Son of Poseidon.

I don't own anything. Rights go to Rick Riordan.

He looked down, seeing his reflection ripple as sand shifted beneath his feet. He could see his own creased dark brows pinched in a frown, obvious confusion written across a tan face that seemed to be his own.

Not that he knew. He had green eyes? Huh...good to know.

His name...couldn't be recalled in the empty void of his mind. It was bare, like someone had vacuumed out his thoughts and memories with a hose. In his gut, a sense of deja vu tugged on his conscience.

It was like grasping at air. The same overwhelming sense of loss that settled on his chest when he awoke on the beach just a mere few hours ago. A small weight was settled in his pocket, a soft breeze sifting through dark hair.

But a whisper on the wind seemed to catch in his ear, drowning out the crying seagulls and rushing waves of the sea.

Jack...s...n

It was lost in the air. He listened harder, only able to catch a faint hiss of an 'S' at the end.

So Jack? His name was Jack. Jack 'S' something. Apparently.

Begrudgingly, Jack shuffled his shoes in the white shore, feeling with his mind and gut, the tug of the water, the feel and shift of the sea's surface. Responding to its call, he lifted his arm, unsure of what his own actions were doing, until a tennis ball sized water bubble rose from the ocean and landed on his outstretched palm.

Once again, he felt his fingers shift with familiarity, rolling the water bubble like Playdo, dropping it back and forth between his hands, before letting it splat and sink to the pebbles before his feet.

Was that normal for most demigods?

...Demigod. He was a demigod.

But what did that mean?

Frustrated with the sheer lack of answers, Jack furiously kicked up sand, taking out the pen in his pocket and throwing it in his spite, letting a small plunk sound from where the tool sunk below the water's surface.

He stood for a moment, hesitating in the idea that he should fetch it. That was the one piece of evidence as to who he was, the only thing he could grasp and hold to hope that he actually was someone. That ballpoint pen was important.

But besides those thoughts, he turned his back to the ocean, his mind concurring a thought that didn't make any sense.

It'll be back. It always returns to him.

Shaking his head as he questioned his sanity, Jack walked on, his feet taking him aimlessly as his mind wondered and stretched, anything to fill his empty head, like he had a brain made of seaweed.

He stopped.

Seaweed Brain?

A flicker of an image, the color gray, like a fervent storm or raincloud. A dark pupil, like the eye of a hurricane, and the glint of sheer adoration, shining in the knowledge-filled shade of the orb.

But it drifted away before he could claim a relation to it, and he was left to continue his foot steps away.