Hello there, readers! Welcome to my first attempt at a Fanfiction story (well technically my first attempt in a about five years). I've had this idea for a story rattling around in my head for the better part of a year now, and I just got to the point where I thought 'screw it, we're writing this thing!' I'm still working out the general story plan so I don't have any chapter uploading plan yet, but I'm going to try to submit one or two new chapters a month. I'd appreciate any feedback and reviews and I hope you enjoy!
- Guy Incognito
Prologue
There was a chill in the air over the town of Sierra Plata, a chill you would not expect to feel during a south Texan summer. The desert wind was unforgiving for those who roamed the town tonight. Ninety miles east of El Paso and thirty miles north of the border, the town of Sierra Plata was surrounded by nothing but desert, the only way in and out of town was the interstate that ran through it. Other than that, the town remained isolated from the rest of the world, it is the main reason why most people come here. The isolation means that people can make whatever they wanted of themselves without anyone on the outside judging them for it. It is the perfect place to get away from the world and start anew. Some come here to find a future, but many come here to escape a past. Like most towns, amongst the houses, shops, garages and schools, a handful of bars can be found spread across town. Five bars to be exact, but only one of them can be deemed as a 'respectable' establishment, but only because it's the least dilapidated. Cara's Bar, named as you would've guessed after the woman who runs the place, can be found on the outskirts of town, a mile or two away from the main interstate junction. Every night there are always motorcycles, trucks and run-down cars parked haphazardly outside the bar, and tonight was no different. It was Friday night, and of course Cara's Bar was open for business.
The interior of the bar looked exactly how someone would expect it to look. The stained, wooden floor was always horribly sticky, and there was an eternal stench of hard liquor. As you walked into the bar, the bar itself was situated to the right of you, with wooden stools which looked as uncomfortable as they felt. On the opposite wall there were about four or five tables, all of which had at least one leg that wobbled. The strip lights that went around the tops of all the walls were always dim. The old jukebox, which must have been from about 1976, sat on the opposite wall from the doorway, constantly blaring out rock 'n' roll hits from pre-1983. Behind the bar, where Cara spent her working nights, there was a wall of posters, postcards, and memorabilia, some from her own travels and adventures, some from the travels of her best customers. She had postcards and pictures from anywhere from Anchorage to Auckland. Inside the bar about fifteen people were there, all of them beyond drunk by this time of night, for their weekly binge drinking and subsequent black-out. Two older gentlemen sat in the corner by the front entrance, splashing most of their scotch whiskey onto their white, scruffy beards rather than into their mouths. A group of five or six college students downed glass after glass of cheap beer and getting increasingly rowdy after each swig. A middle-aged divorcee sipped on her third bottle of lager of the night, reminiscing about where it all went wrong. A trio of bikers were sat around the old jukebox nodding their heads as ZZ Top's 'Jesus Just Left Chicago' blares out from the speaker. A man in a cowboy hat and his female escort have been playing darts since sundown. Cara the bartender pours out another tequila shot for the man in the leather coat sat at the bar.
The man at the bar swept his long, jet-black hair out of his eyes before he downed the shot, wiping droplets out of his graying beard as he puts the shot glass back on the bar top.
"You ready for another?" Cara asked the man at the bar. After a moment, the man looked up at the bartender and couldn't help but think about how beautiful she was. Her Mediterranean complexion complimented her wavy, dark brown hair which flowed down to her shoulders. He always got lost in her dark blue eyes, and her thin, rosy lips were begging to be kissed. For a forty-one old women, she didn't look a day over thirty. But, despite her beauty, and the many nights of drunk sex that they have already shared together, the man could not allow himself to be with her. His broken heart already belonged to another woman. It did not matter that she died thirteen years ago, his love was for her, and only her.
"Well? What's it gonna be? Another round?" Cara asked once again.
"Sure," the man at the bar mumbled, "one more couldn't hurt."
"Come on, I've known you long enough to know that 'one more' means another five, right?" Cara joked, "I guess I should get another bottle from the back, this one's almost done".
She turned on her heel towards the back of the bar but stopped after two steps. She turned and looked at the man at the bar. She had a peculiar look in her eye, a look the man at the bar had seen before, the look of wanting.
"Or maybe you could come to the back with me, maybe we could… look for the bottle together?" She said suggestively with a subtle wink. The man at the bar gave a short, suppressed laugh.
"Not tonight Cara, I'm just here for the booze this time." The man at the bar replied. Cara shrugged her shoulders.
"Alright, suite yourself," she said, "I'll be back in a moment with that bottle". She disappeared behind the bar and the man at the bar was left alone. He glanced down at the empty shot glass on the bar top. That was his eleventh one tonight, and that's not accounting for the two whiskeys and tall glass of beer he had at the start of the night. As he stared further into the glass his vision blurred slightly and he started to sway in his seat. That last shot had hit him hard, but he didn't care. It's why he did it. It was the only way he could numb the pain. He had reached a point in his forty-four-year long life where almost everything had lost all meaning to him. He came to this town to get away from all the pain of his past and he knew damn well he was going to die in this town. If it wasn't for his sixteen-year-old daughter, he would've already killed himself years ago. She was the only light left in the dark abyss of his life. He stared further into the shot glass as a tear rolled down his cheek. He began getting flashes of painful memories, the night that he lost the one he loved. He recalled a window smashing, and a child crying. He could visualize splashes of blood across a carpet, the woman he loved pale and dying in his arms. He began to think what more could he have done? Why didn't he save her? Why was she taken from him? He has asked himself these same questions repeatedly in his head for the last thirteen years. Suddenly, a voice startled him.
"Hey, everything okay?" The man looked up from the bar and saw Cara with a fresh bottle of Tequila.
"Hm, what? Oh… shit… yeah. Yeah, everything's okay. Just one of those nights." The man at the bar answered. He wiped the tear from his cheek, his eyes darting around the room making sure no one else saw. Cara put the bottle under the bar and leaned towards the man at the bar.
"Maybe you've had enough for tonight, yeah? C'mon, you should get home. It's nearly 1 A.M., Zoe's probably starting to wonder where her dad is." Cara said softly. She was concerned for her friend and best customer, but this wasn't anything new for her, he did this every week.
"Sure. Yeah. Thanks for the booze." The man at the bar reached into the pocket of his black leather coat, pulled out his wallet and put a handful of bills on the counter. He had no idea how much money he just gave, whether it was too much or not enough. He was too drunk to care. He got up off from his seat, stumbled for a second, swept the long black hair from his face, then found his footing. He began wandering towards the exit. As he opened the door Cara shouted out to him.
"Be safe, yeah? Don't want my best customer dying on me." She said jokingly.
"Can't promise anything. I'll see you next week." The man in the doorway slurred as he gave a small wave and stumbled out of the door. He stopped for a moment outside the door, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a cigarette pack and a silver lighter. He took a cigarette out of the packet, placed it between his lips and lit it. The small amount of heat from his lit cigarette was insignificant compared to the biting cold air that blew onto his numb face as he began to stumble towards the road. Like every Friday night for the last thirteen years, Percy Jackson wandered down the road towards Sierra Plata with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, filled with nothing but cheap booze and self-resentment.