It had been a better than average day of panhandling for the two feral demigods and they had managed to scrape enough money for dinner and breakfast the next morning with some cash left over. By unspoken agreement, they decided they were due for a wardrobe change. Blood, monster dust and general city grime made for a terrible combination that mostly refused to wash out - even after three cycles.
"So, what do you think?" Isabelle asked, doing a half-turn on the spot to show off her brand new, slightly used, second hand thrift shop shirt. It was purple with a witch reclining on a broomstick. It took Chance a few embarrassingly (for him) long moments to decipher the writing.
"Ride with pride?" he asked, confused. "Can you even ride a broomstick? I'm pretty sure that's fiction."
"That isn't the point," Isabelle huffed, crossing her arms. "What do you think of the shirt?"
"It's..." Chance struggled for the right words, "purple?"
Isabelle scoffed, "You're hopeless, you know that?"
His retort was cut off by a small explosion further up the street.
Feral is a generally recognised descriptor for demigods that are homeless or runaways and who do not attend Camp Half-Blood (more on that later). If that describes you, wear the title with pride. It takes real guts to make it on the streets without the support network the camp provides.
Just be sure to keep your guts where they belong. The streets have enough gunk without you adding to it.
Of course they were running toward the explosion. Their legs were already moving before the first screams could be heard. When they reached the scene, Chance and Isabelle stopped short. A group of teenagers were attacking a sphinx on 72nd street with swords in broad daylight. Not the strangest thing the pair of feral demigods had ever seen. What made it bizarre was their swords seemed to glint gold in the light, not bronze. Whoever they were, they had training. Except they couldn't be campers, Chance thought. Their shirts were purple, not orange like they normally should be. First Izzy, now these guys. What was with purple recently? Still, training or no, three demigods against a sphinx was not good odds. Especially without bronze weapons. Seriously, what were they thinking?
"Izzy, you go left," Chance said, rushing the opposite side, drawing his bronze long knife. "Try to conjure some of your hocus pocus and clip her wings or something."
"Stop calling me that," Isabelle retorted, turning her attention to the monster. "Clip her wings? How can I... I know! Impedimenta!" She felt a slight rumble in the pit of her stomach, and for a moment she thought it had worked - right up until she let out a small burp that tasted like her lunch. "Not helpful," she growled. "Impedimenta!" Nothing
"Stop fooling around," Chance shouted. "You refuse to use a weapon, so make your magic work!"
"ἄνεμος!" Isabelle commanded as a powerful gust of air fled her lungs, blasting the sphinx full force and sending it tumbling sixty yards away from the rest of the group. Dazed and outnumbered, the monster seemed to weigh the pros and cons of a rapidly complicated meal before fleeing into the skies.
Panting with the exertion, Isabelle took a moment to catch her breath, greedily gulping air into her lungs even as her throat felt raw. By the time she caught her breath, Chance had come jogging back to her at the same time as the three strange demigods. There were two boys and a girl. One of the boys and the girl looked to be about thirteen years old or so, and the other boy about sixteen or seventeen.
He was skinny and wore ripped jeans and a flannel shirt wrapped around his waist. He also had frosted tips in his brown hair, which had a cow lick. "Thanks for the help," he said. "It's just too bad we couldn't finish it off before it got away."
"If they hadn't stepped in..." the younger boy said, speaking up.
"That's enough, probie," Flannel shirt said, silencing the younger boy before turning back to Chance and Isabelle. "Seriously, thanks. You're both a credit to the legion and your respective cohorts."
"Right, well, it was good running into you. Um, good luck with whatever it is you're doing," Chance said, giving a half-hearted wave. This whole interaction was becoming too weird for him.
"He doesn't have a tattoo!" The girl said, pointing at Chance's bare arm.
"Yeah, no," Chance said slowly. "One, I'm like only fifteen. And B, I don't do needles."
"It's not that kind of tattoo," the leader said. "And selective service is mandatory."
"Then what's 'selective' about it?" Isabelle retorted with a wince, her voice rough.
"Besides, isn't that just when a guy turns eighteen?" Chance asked. "Like i said, I'm only fifteen, he looks like he's twelve, and these two are girls. So what's that matter for anything?"
"I'm thirteen, jerk," the younger boy growled, starting to raise his sword. Definitely a son of Ἄρης, thought Chance. He might even have been intimidating if it wasn't for the visible gap in his front teeth when he snarled.
"Stand down," the leader snapped. "You two will be coming with us. As Centurion of the Fourth Legion, I am placing you under warrant. You'll be presented to the Senate and they will decide whether you get the privilege of training at the Wolf House or a prison sentence."
"Yeah, that's not gonna happen. We're going to go this way," Chance gestured, "you can go any other way, and we'll just forget this whole thing happened, yeah?"
"Actually, yeah," a woman's voice said. "That is what's going to happen."
The group turned to regard the newcomer. She had a vaguely bewildered expression on her face as she regarded them back. She had wavy, dirty-blonde hair and was dressed in robes the color of milk. With a slight wave of her hand, the mortals that had stuck around for the fight seemed to frown slightly before wandering away muttering to themselves as if trying to jog their memory.
"There, the mist should take care of anything they might remember," she said with a smile. "Now as for you..." She frowned, "What were we talking about?"
"We were just leaving," Isabelle said, glancing to Chance.
"Yeah," he said. "Um, nice meeting you?"
"Have we met?" The woman asked, regarding Chance. "No, I don't think so? Or have I forgotten? Sorry, you do not look familiar at all. I'm Lethe. I think? Or was it Lemosyne? Oblivio, maybe? I forget. Oh, right! We were talking about forgetting!"
She waved her hand again, and the assembled demigods knew no more.
Isabelle woke with a groan. She was sitting across from Chance in the booth of a McDonald's lobby. She looked around in bleary confusion for a moment before mentally shrugging. They must have gone for lunch and passed out. The seats weren't that comfortable for most people, but compared to the benches in the park, they were luxurious to the two homeless teenagers. Plus, most employees couldn't be bothered to kick a couple sleeping teens out. The infinite free refills on the soda was another net positive.
Chance was still asleep, his silly journal resting open on the table in front of him. Isabelle reached over to read what he had written.
BEWARE the purple shirts
"Wow, maybe next time leave the fashion critique to someone more qualified," Isabelle grumbled, grabbing up the pen and turning the page. "Maybe I should write in this thing, after all..."