Disclaimer: I, in no way or form, own PJO. Technically, the only thing I own is the plot and original characters.

Chappie Mk I

Gong,

Gong.

The clock struck two in the afternoon, just in time for tea in the city of London. Mirroring the traditional values, the floating city of Olympus anchored to the spire of Big Ben broke down for the English beverage.

A small squeaky tender from Dionysus' rolled through the empty marble streets, passing countless street vendors and money exchangers closing for the two hours, turning onto the grand highway that leads to the gilded doors of the mighty Olympian Council.

The doors creaked open to allow the cart entry by MAGIC, veering to the left for automatic delivery of piping hot water and related additions or necessities to waiting delicate china.

Twelve divinities sat upon their respective thrones of power, towering over the regular-sized hearth tender at 4 and a half meters, more or less depending on the appearing age of who you ask—you may not survive some conversation, especially the female ones.

You have been warned.

The little hearth tender ensured her fire burned, summoning a trolly of speckless dishes fit for service in the sitting British monarchy. Filling each cup from the flexible spigot, the proudly robed child removed her minimally framed glasses due to the steam clouding her vision, hanging them by the rim of a lonely breast pocket.

One goddess, in particular, was slightly bord from having to maintain a dully unnecessary posture, slouching slightly in comparison to her siblings who transitioned with the prospect of earning more prestige among the divine social community, perhaps acquitting some of the questionable actions since the start of the 20th century.

She'd rather be out with her troop running the rolling fields of France, cascading the warm monster-infested coasts il Mar Mediterraneo, perhaps maybe fox hunt in Northern Ireland—anything but preposterous political posture.

Artemis swung her legs back and forth, breaking article 4, section two, title XI of proper sitting positions for ladies, unaware of the chestnut server finished assisting the males and now coming to serve the females.

Crash.

A dangling leg punted the saucer and cup out of the professional child's hands with the punt of a 40-meter rugby kick. Hestia quipped about from the influx of hot liquid, not staining her robes, but still soaking her due to the size of the 10-liter cup. To add insult to tea, shards from the explosion of china embedded themselves into her skin.

"Ah, pardon me!" Artemis apologized. Hestia brought out her glasses with gold-stained arms

"I-it's alright, nothing a trip to the infirmary can't fix, right?" Tears threatened to fall from quivering hazel eyes. She turned towards the lord of the room, "Permission to take my leave for the evening?"

The lord pondered his choices, deciding that he'd deal with his daughter later, "Finish serving the tea. Then you may stop by the infirmary."

"Thank you, my lord." She fell to a bow, then limped along with the tender for the last two cuppas.

"Artemis," the moon goddess gulped in anticipation, "For your crimes against the East India Company, I motion to banish you until you've paid for your crimes."

The council members were still in shock for her sacrilege treatment of a key staple to the current flame of the west. Most were pitying her for actions they'd never do, all worried for her punishment. No one had dared spill a drop of tea after what Zeus did to the last immortal. Let's just say they were sent down under where criminal convicts go during Victorian times.

By mortal ship, of course.

"By Solem Law, I hereby declare Artemis, goddess of the hunt and moon, banished from Olympus until she proves her worth amongst this council."

"You can't do that!" Artemis tried.

"I already have," Zeus countered. In a flash of silver light, the goddess Artemis transformed from her 4.5-meter form into a mortal of 165cm, falling from her throne of power into the shard-infested minefield created by said mortal.

"Begone from us, mortal." He spat out with disgust, kicking his favorite daughter through the double doors, and in turn, Olympus.

Samuel's POV

Last day before I finally become a commission officer. Never thought this day will come. Then again, mainland Europe's been a hotbed since someone thought it was a good idea to achieve independence by underground gangs. Or tell the truth with yellow journalism. A great idea so I've heard from an old chap in the US of A.

With Pops retiring from service with tops marks from the Second Boer and Anglo-Aro wars, I still had to make my way up the ranks since '07. According to Pop's friends still in the top brass, they've considered promoting me to Second Lieutenant once they have enough men for a specialized platoon. Eh, as long as I can keep my old paybook with the new issued one, I'll happily serve my men unless they're Irish—those lads know how to throw a wobbly, almost too much when they visit the pub

I figured I'd take one last bike trip along the murky Thames in relatively cloudy weather, maybe find an ice-cream vendor or two clanging their way through the cobbled streets for the boys at home—they never get enough American treats, no wonder they're so thin. Perhaps some American farming or baseball might do the trick instead of lousy cricket—

Ah. Bugger. Air raid sirens. Perhaps they'll shoot it down this time?

Never one to stray away from danger (Or is it the danger that never strays away from me?), I parked as close as I could the side of a brick flat to widen the search area without having to swivel my head faster than the Ack-Ack crews could swivel their Pom-Poms.

The pinnacle of German engineering broke the cloud floor, drawing daytime searchlights to assist ground crews in its destruction. As if they required the bumbling blimps to have a target painted on its side.

Curiously, the Germans decided to drop incendiary bombs into the Thames last time. From the looks of it, they might just do a repeat of last week's raid all over again. Yep, one bomb, falling through the sky with feminine screams.

Now that I think about it, that bomb looks a bit big for, well, a bomb. A bomb that can mo—THEY HAVE AUTONOMUSLY CONTROLLED BOMBS? Oh good, it's just someone they kicked overboard. All that kerfuffle for another insult? And where's the Ack-Ack?

Bloody hell, someone just fell from ten times the clock tower into the Thames. Time to be a hero.

If visiting Grand Great Britain, I would personally not recommend a leisure swim in the famous river. They really should've put a sign warning clueless tourist about possible upset bellies or a persistent smell that won't wash away for a decent while.

Potential drowning is also a consideration with the Thames riptide-like current, but the girl who fell wasn't faring any better; I'm sure no one would've noticed a drowning civilian since no one is dumb enough to brave these pickled waters.

My head went under a few times, but that poor girl's cries pushed me on. 30 yards, 20, 10. Where'd she go? The lack of her cries was disturbing until her head porpoised above then below one last time.

Never mind the crazy looks the ferries were giving me, I have a life to save!

I would also not recommend diving under the water. Years of pollution will do more than obscure your vision, the sheer acidic content will cause major discomfort including vision loss. That's why I always carry a gas mask for hazardous situations.

Always carry a gas mask. It will save your life more than once over.

I took one large gulp of air before releasing it to combat the natural buoyancy these fatty bodies naturally contain. Headfirst, pieces of trash floated downstream, bouncing harmlessly off the twin particles. Further down, that girl had to be around here somewhere. At 22 yards down, I don't think she'd feel too jolly.

There she is! That auburn hair's quite flashy down here along with the bubbles. It's also slowing down her descent to something manageable. I swam under her, wrapping an arm around her watered body while the other removed the mask from my face to her twee head; it would be a shame if such young beauty were wasted from war.

Hopefully, compression sickness isn't too much in shallow waters, though I might be known as the bonkers officer if word gets out about my stunt. That'll never happen though. I'll make sure of that.

We finally surfaced after who knows how long. The HMS Humber steamed next to us, recognizing my famous welder's mask on someone else's face. My face probably helped considering how often I collaborate with navy monitors.

The net came down, taking us under once again before we were finally hauled aboard; it's nice to know they have hot cocoa and blankets on standby in case the occasional fellow goes overboard.

"Sargeant Jackson? What are you doing in the Thames? Don't tell me your boys went to a riverside pub, and who is that?" Captain Arellano asked, steaming from the bridge once he received the report.

"This, I just saw her fall from that zeppelin earlier." Smooth Sam, very smooth.

"Well, you're reputation sure does proceed you, as well as your legendary storytelling skills." He received a chorus of agreement for the other sailors, "All right, back to work lads, prepare a gangplank for our landlubber here!"

"If I recall correctly, you'd still be stuck on British Guana if it wasn't for me allowing you to board my ship."

"Hey! I appreciate that very much, but if you'd stop bringing that situation up every time I jeer at you—"

"Please, go speak Spanish on the bridge—can't you see I have a drown victim here?" He left after that, cursing his sailor's mouth away in Spanish. There was something about annoying superior minors I didn't catch right.

Removing the mask for enhanced circulation, I drug the girl off to the side so the sailors could get back to work without playing leapfrog. I rolled her to the side, gently squeezing her midsection in an attempt to empty excess water from her system. After I was satisfied, I checked her pulse for a few seconds. Nothing strong, but it's there, which means she's probably alive.

All that's left is her will to live. I'd hate to walk back to base all gunky and tell the mates I took a dip to save someone who refused to live.

Blast, I forgot my bike.