Full Blurb:

Ten years had passed since he began racing. Seven years had passed since he ran away from his home in Manhattan, New York, began hiding from law enforcement and quietly sponsored by BMW and Schnitzer Motorsport, a substantial feat for an illegitimate street racer. Three years had passed since his encounter with Razor in San Francisco. Two years had passed since he returned to Manhattan and raced against his former mentor. Now, he is told by many that he is the son of some Greek/Roman God, and has to move into some sort of camp "for his own safety".

Ello Guys! Mach1av3ll1an 'ere!

As some of you might be able to tell, I just changed my username, as I thought my previous one (TunerzMatic) was cringe-worthy.

As I am still relatively new to fanfiction writing, there may be issues with my grammar, and my story may lack detail. If there are any elements in my writing which you dislike, please give me feedback, preferably in the form of constructive criticism.

(Another quick note: THIS SHALL NOT BE TABOO)

Anyways, enjoy the read!

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights for the PJO and NFS series'.


Chapter I – Unexpected Visitor

A ubiquitous canopy of greyish clouds loomed over a modern apartment complex whose geometric, monochrome exterior enticed all those who were around it.

Nobody noticed the Blue/Silver Beemer that slipped into the dark alleyway right behind the building. None of the passers-by paid the whine of straight-cut gears any attention. The M3 GTR travelled slowly down the graffiti-free alleyway to prevent drawing attention to itself. As it turned around a corner within the alleyway, it approached a dead end. The brake lights flickered on as the driver parked the car right at the end of the alleyway, and shortly after, the distinct grumble of the P60B40 V8 ceased.

The driver's side door opened and revealed a Caucasian man, awkwardly clambering out of the humid and cramped interior (the massive, bulky roll-cage didn't exactly help), which wouldn't be surprising to any bystanders, considering the man in question stood at six feet two and had a (somewhat) wide body frame. He was dressed casually, wearing an unzipped black hoodie (with the hood up, obscuring his facial features) over a white t-shirt with a black face mask on just in case someone decided it was a good idea to pull down the hood attached to his hoodie. Underneath, he wore cargo pants (with a multitude of pockets), and to top it all off, a pair of well-worn sneakers. At first glance, he would've resembled the visage of your average teenage delinquent. The type of person many wouldn't pass a second glance to, which was the exact image he was attempting to achieve.

The man ran his hand through his hair, the pupils within his sea-green eyes contracting as he thought of how a certain relative would react to his dishevelled appearance when he removed his mask.

The man closed and locked the door soundlessly (a skill he had mastered over the course of the past seven years), before walking back through the alley, approaching the main revolving doors of the building.

Construction of the luxurious tower only concluded recently, and since it was located near the centre of New York, the price for all of the apartments it contained, especially the five-storey penthouse, was ludicrously high. The small and insignificant fact that residential prices were through the roof recently did not help either.

So, imagine the man's surprise when he discovered that the penthouse in the aforementioned complex and the metallic black Rolls Royce Phantom which he spotted several times ascending in one of the car lifts to the penthouse were both registered under a Sally Jackson.

When he ran away from Manhattan when he was eighteen years old, the Jackson household was struggling. They never had enough money to have three full meals every day, as his stepfather, whom he nicknamed "Smelly Gabe", squandered away most of their income. This was one of the main contributing reasons which explained why he began street racing for money at fifteen years old. This also contributed to his decision to leave New York when he was eighteen years old, alongside the fact that "Smelly Gabe" was also abusive.

He could recall every occasion in which he was beaten and physically abused. This definitely applied to his final encounter with his stepfather. He could never force the image of the once reflective metallic knife covered in a distinctive viscous crimson liquid out of his thoughts. In the past, he might have gone as far as to say it haunted him, but after a while (a while = seven years), it did not affect him as much as it might have done before.

How his mother had become so wealthy over the course of the past seven years was still a mystery to him.

As he entered the lobby through the revolving doors, he stopped abruptly to marvel quietly at the geometric, monochrome interior, which matched with the modern exterior of the building.

Before anyone raised an eyebrow at his behaviour, he began walking to the lifts, taking in a deep breath as he produced a stolen residential ID card from his front-left jeans pocket. He pressed the "up" button on the metal panel beside the lifts. He hoped this would work.


The sound of high-pitched, female laughter graced the Jackson Residence.

Out of all the men that Sally Jackson had dated since her son disappeared, Paul Blofis was undoubtedly the most charismatic.

He was also certainly one of the most humorous, as shown by the fact that she almost slipped off her barstool as she shook due to constant laughter.

A grin was plastered on Paul's face as he continued to reveal why many of his students labelled him as their favourite teacher, using creative humour in such a way that it never failed to please.

As they interacted, the unmistakable doorbell ring pierced through the air, surprising both of them, causing their conversation to ground to a halt. Sally Jackson sighed as she stood up and walked towards the main entrance; a reflective black metal door with a biometric fingerprint scanner instead of a conventional key-lock.

When the opening between the door and the frame was large enough to reveal the person standing outside (the door could always be opened from the inside, regardless of whether the door was locked from the outside or not), she halted, her eyes widening in recognition and disbelief as she began to recognize the teenager standing in front of her.

"Eh, mum…" Percy Jackson began with a small, expectant smile (which was also laced with a small amount of fear) on his face as he took off his face mask.

He never got to finish before his mother pounced on him with a tight hug.


There goes the beginning of my latest story!

I may type up a lot of new stories soon, and I will only continue those that you guys enjoy or the ones I am interested in.

Anyways, peace out.

(Side note #1: Plz follow or fav this story, I really want an excuse to continue this)

(Side note #2: Plzzzzzzz…)