A/N: I do not own the Percy Jackson series Kane Chronicles or The Stand Cut or Uncut version. I have however posted 'The Tales of...' series. This story takes place after The Tales of Magicians and Demigods: The Crown of Ptolemy but before the events of Trials of Apollo. Before reading this I suggest to read if you haven't yet:

The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Early Adventures
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Lightning Thief
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Sea of Monsters
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Titan's Curse
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Magical Labyrinth
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Stolen Chariot
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Sword of Hades
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Bronze Dragon
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Last Olympian
The Tales of the Son of Poseidon: The Staff of Hermes
The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The Lost Hero
The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The Quest for Buford
The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The Son of Neptune
The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The Mark of Athena
The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The House of Hades
The Tales of the Heroes of Olympus: The Blood of Olympus
The Tales of Magicians and Demigods: The Son of Sobek
The Tales of Magicians and Demigods: The Staff of Serapis
The Tales of Magicians and Demigods: The Crown of Ptolemy

Also I'm going to let this out. On rough decisions based on what I know from The Stand, any mystical creatures Monsters, and automatons that are usually associated which characters from The Tales of and/or Percy Jackson won't be in this story

Also there's no character list for the stand, but if I had too pick two from the book it be Stu Redman and Fran Goldsmith as a pairing, and if I was allowed to add a fifth character to show, it would be of course Mother Abigail.

For the list of pairings which would be spoiler alert for those showing up later:

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase
Leo Valdez/Calypso
Jason Grace/Piper McLean
Frank Zhang/Hazel Levesque
Stu Redman/Fran Goldsmith
Larry Underwood (no relations to Grover obviously)/Lucy Swan

Other Important Characters

Mother Abigail
Nick Andros
Tom Collins
Glen
Ralph
Trashcan Man
Susan Stern
a few more demigods as extra characters to help out.

Antagonist but still important
Randal Flagg
Harold Lauder
Nadine Cross
Lloyd

And of course the two main forces that are mention but more of Lead Supporting Roles without actually making a character appearance: God and Devil

Also if you see '-' after a letter and there's a space before the next word, that me censoring a curse word.

Now, since at this point the Heroes of Olympus were introduced and paired up with key characters of the "Stand" when Captain Trips hit (at least those that aren't among the antagonist), I decided to include chapters more focus on chapters with the main characters of the "Stand" without the demigods. The reason being is that I would have to anyways with Lloyd and Flagg since they an important antagonist character. So if those chapters are too much like the original, apologize in advance.

Lastly (for now), I am aware of the 2020-2021 version of the mini-series of the Stand and I did try to watch the first part, but frankly I couldn't even finish watching the first part and didn't dare to watch the rest of it nor do I planned to. I don't like it. I don't like many of the changes they made since the 90s adaptation. But there are a few changes in the 2020-2021 adaptations that actually involved info from the books the Stand. May I remind you this crossover involved the UNCUT VERSION of the books, so if you see parts that seem to come from 2020-2021 adaptation, it's because those parts/info actually came from the book itself

Fran Tells Her Father She is Pregnant

There was a grandfather clock standing in the far corner of the parlor. Frannie Goldsmith had been listening to its measured ticks and tocks all her life. It summed up the room, which she had never liked and, on days like today, actively hated.

Her favorite room in the place was her father's workshop. It was in the shed that connected house and barn. You got there through a small door which was barely five feet high and nearly hidden behind the old kitchen woodstove. The door was good to begin with: small and almost hidden. When she grew older and taller, she had to duck through it just as her father did—her mother never went out into the workshop unless she absolutely had to. It was an Alice in Wonderland door, and for a while her pretend game, secret even from her father, was that one day when she opened it, she would not find Peter Goldsmith's workshop at all. Instead she would find an underground passageway leading somehow from Wonderland to Hobbiton, a low but somehow cozy tunnel with rounded earthen sides and an earthen ceiling interlaced with sturdy roots that would give your head a good bump if you knocked it against any of them. A tunnel that smelled not of wet soil and damp and nasty bugs and worms, but one which smelled of cinnamon and baking apple pies, one which ended somewhere up ahead in a pantry of Bag End, where Mr. Bilbo Baggins was celebrating his eleventy-first birthday party.

Well, that cozy tunnel never turned out to be there, but to the Frannie Goldsmith who had grown up in this house, the workshop (sometimes called "the tool shop" by her father and "that dirty place where your dad goes to drink beer" by her mother) had been enough. Strange tools and odd gadgets. A huge chest with a thousand drawers, each of the thousand crammed full. Nails, screws, bits, sandpaper (of three kinds: rough, rougher, roughest), planes, levels and all the other things she had had no name for them and still had no name for. It was dark in the workshop except for the cobwebby forty-watt bulb that hung down by its cord and the bright circle of light from the Tensor lamp that was always focused where her father was working. There were the smells of dust and oil and pipe smoke, and it seemed to her now that there should be a rule: every father must smoke. Pipe, cigar, cigarette, marijuana, hash, lettuce leaves, something. Because the smell of smoke seemed to integral part of her own childhood.

It was not there where she told her father the news of her pregnancy. It was out back in the garden, when her father was in Portland, shopping for white gloves. Fran's best childhood friend, Amy Lauder, was getting married early the following month. It was often when her mother was gone Frannie often go to the garden or the workshop with her father, otherwise her mother would call her back telling her to stay away or she will get dirty. Frannie would help her father and then clean up before her mother returned.

Peter Goldsmith was weeding the peas and beans that day and Frannie offered help that he accepted.

Peter was a mechanist in a large Sanford auto parts firm, the largest auto firm north of Boston. He was sixty-four and about to start on his last year of work before retirement. A short year at that, because he had four weeks' vacation time stockpiled, which he planned to take in September, after most of the ijits went home.

Leo Valdez was the only one Peter did not mind leaving work too as Leo was a natural mechanist. Leo could make good money and get a small decent home in the future, but Peter told Frannie that he got the feeling Ogunquit Maine, or anywhere in Maine, would be that place. Both Leo and Calypso seem out of place in the small town from the beginning but were used to it as if they been traveling before coming there.

The retirement was much on Peter's mind. He was trying not to look at it as a never-ending vacation, he told Frannie; he had enough friends in retirement now who had brought back the news that it was not like that at all. He didn't think he would be as bored as Harlan Enders or as shamefully poor as the Carons—there was poor Paul, hardly even missed a day at the shop in his life, and yet he and his wife had been forced to sell their house and move in with their daughter and her husband.

Peter Goldsmith had not been content with Social Security; he had never trusted it, even in the days before the system began to break down under recession, inflation, and the steadily increasing number of people on the books. There had not been many Democrats in Maine during the thirties and forties, he told his listening daughter, but her grandfather had been one, and her grandfather had by-God made one out of her father. In Ogunquit's palmiest days, that had made the Goldsmiths pariah of a kind. But his father had had one saying as rock-ribbed as the stoniest Maine's Republican's philosophy: Put not your trust in the princes of this world, for they will frig thee up and so shalt their government, even unto the end of the earth.

Frannie laughed. She loved it when her dad talked that. It was not a way he talked often, because the woman that was his wife and her mother would (and had) all but cut the tongue out of his head with the acid which could flow so quickly and freely from her own.

You had to trust yourself, he continued, and let the princes of this world get along as best as they could with the people who had elected them. Most times that was not very well, but that was okay; they deserve each other.

"Hard cash is the answer," he told Frannie. "Will Rogers have said it was land because that's the only thing they're not making any more of, but the same goes for gold and silver. A man who loves money is a b-, someone to be hated. A man who cannot take care of it is a fool. You don't hate him, but you got to pity him."

Fran wondered if he was thinking of poor Paul Caron, who had been his friend since before Fran herself was born and decided not to ask.

At any rate, she did not need him to tell her that he had socked away enough in the good years to keep them rolling. What he did tell her was that she had never been a burden to them, in good times or in bad, and he was proud to tell his friends he had sent her through school. What his money and her brains had not been able to take care of, he told them, she had done the old-fashioned way; by bending her back and shucking her buns. Working, and working hard, if you wanted to cut through the country b-. Her mother did not always understand that. Changes had come for women, whether the women always liked them or not, and it was hard for Carla to get it through her head that Fran was not down there at UNH husband-hunting.

"She sees Amy Lauder getting married," Peter said, "and she thinks, 'That should be my Fran. Amy's pretty, but when you put my Fran beside her, Amy Lauder looks like an old dish with a crack in it.' Your mother has been using the old yardsticks all her life, and she cannot change now. So, if you 'n her scrape together a bit and make some sparks from time to time, like steel against flint, that's why. No one is to blame. But you must remember, Fran, she is too old to change, but you are getting old enough to understand that."

Calypso apparently understood that. She once admitted to Fran she was the type to waited on someone to show up. But she also had worked hard and made her own stuff. Three males had come to her life before Leo, but each had others waiting for them and they had responsibility somewhere else too that force them to leave. The third one though did help her after he left without her seeing him until later, but it was Leo that got her out of the old life she had to live (Calypso made it sound like she was a prisoner than rather a choice).

Peter finally stopped and was sitting on a rock at the end of his row, tamping his pipe and looking at her.

"What's on your mind, Frannie?"

She looked at him dumbly for a moment, not sure how she should proceed. She had come out there to tell him, and now she was not sure if she could. The silence hung between them, growing larger, and at last it was a gulf she could not stand. She jumped.

"I'm pregnant," she said simply.

He stopped filling his pipe and just looked at her. "Pregnant," he said, as if he had never heard the word before. Then he said: "Oh, Frannie… is it a joke? Or a game?"

"No, Daddy."

"You better come over here and sit with me."

Obediently, she came up the row and sat next to him. There was a rock wall that divided their land from the town common next door. Beyond the rock wall was a tangled, sweet smelling hedge that had long ago run wild in the most amiable way. Her head was pounding, and she felt a little sick to her stomach.

"For sure?" he asked her.

"For sure," she said, and then—there was no artifice in it, not a trace, she simply could not help it—she began to cry in great, braying sobs. He held her with one arm for what seemed to be an awfully long time. When her tears began to taper off, she forced herself to ask the question that troubled her the most.

"Daddy, do you still like me?"

"What?" He looked at her, puzzled. "Yes. I still like you fine, Frannie."

That made her cry again, but this time he let her tend herself while he got his pipe going. Borkum Riff began to ride slowly off on the faint breeze.

"Are you disappointed?" she asked.

"I don't know. I never had a pregnant daughter before and am not sure just how I should take it. Was it that Jess?"

She nodded.

"You told him?"

She nodded again.

"What did he say?"

"He said he would marry me. Or pay for an abortion."

"Marriage or abortion," Peter Goldsmith said, and drew on his pipe. "He's a regular two-gun Sam."

She looked down at her hands, splayed on her jeans. There was dirt in the small creases of the knuckles and dirt under the nails. A lady's hands proclaim her habits, the mental mother spoke up. A pregnant daughter. I must resign my membership in the church. A lady's hands—

Her father said: "I don't want to get any more personal than I have to, but wasn't he… or you… being careful?"

"I had birth control pills," she said. "They didn't work."

"Then I can't put any blame, unless it's on both of you," he said, looking at her closely. "And I can't lay blame. Sixty-four has a way of forgetting what twenty-one was like. So, we won't talk about blame."

She felt a great relief come over her, and it was a little like swooning.

"Your mother will have plenty to say about blame," he said, "and I won't stop her, but I won't be with her. Do you understand that?"

She nodded. Her father never tried to oppose her mother anymore. Not out loud. There was that acid tongue of hers. When she was opposed, it sometimes got out of control, he had told Frannie once. And when it was out of control, she just might take a notion to cut anyone with it and think of sorry too late to do the wounded much good. Frannie had an idea that her father might have faced a choice many years ago: continued opposition resulting in divorce, or surrender. He had chosen the latter—but on his own terms.

She asked quietly: "Are you sure you can stay out of this one, Daddy?"

"You are asking me to take your part?"

"I don't know."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"With Mom?"

"No. With you, Frannie."

"I don't know."

"Marry him? Two can live as cheap as one, that's what they say, anyway."

"I don't think I can do that. I think I've fallen out of love with him if I was ever in."

"The baby?" His pipe was drawing well now, and the smoke was sweet on the summer air. Shadows were gathering in the garden's hollows, and the crickets were beginning to hum.

"No, the baby isn't the reason why. It was happening anyway. Jess is…" She trailed off, trying to put her finger on what was wrong with Jess, the thing that could be overlooked by the rush the baby was putting on her, the rush to decide and get out from under the threatening shadow of her mother, who was at the time buying gloves for the wedding of Fran's childhood friend. The thing that could be buried now but would nonetheless rest unquiet for six months, sixteen months, or twenty-six, only to rise finally from its grave and attack them both. Marry in haste, repent in leisure. One of her mother's favorite sayings.

"He's weak," she said. "I can't explain better than that."

"You don't really trust him to do right by you, do you, Frannie?"

"I guess I would," she said.

"Don't let your mother change your mind, then."

She closed her eyes, her relief even greater this time. He had understood. By some miracle.

"What do you think of me getting an abortion?" she asked after a while.

"My guess is that's really what you wanted to talk about."

She looked at him, startled.

He looked back, half-quizzical, half-smiling, one bushy eyebrow—the left—cocked. Yet the overall impression she took from him was one of great gravity.

"Maybe that's true," she said slowly.

"Listen," he said, and then fell paradoxically silent. But she was listening, and she heard a sparrow, crickets, the far high hum of a plane, someone calling for Jackie to come on in now, a power mower, a car with a glass pack muffler accelerating down US 1.

She was just about to ask him if he was all right when he took her hand and spoke.

"Frannie, you've no business having such an old man for a father, but I can't help it. I never married until 1956."

He looked at her thoughtfully in the dusk light.

"Carla was different in those days. She was… oh, h-, she was young herself, for one thing. She did not change until your brother Freddy died. Until then, she was young. She stopped growing after Fred died. That… you must not think I am talking against your mother, Frannie, even if it sounds a little like I am. But it seems to me that Carla stopped… growing… after Freddy died. She slapped three coats of lacquer and one of quick-dry cement on her way of looking at things and called it good. Now she like a guard in a museum, and if she sees anyone tampering with the ideas on display there, she gives them a lot of lookout-below. But she was not always like that. You'll just have to take my word for it, but she wasn't."

"What was she like, Daddy?"

"Why…" He looked vaguely out across the garden. "She was a lot like you, Frannie. She got the giggles. We used to go down to Boston to see the Red Sox play and during the seventh-inning stretch she'd go out with me to the concession and have a beer."

"Mamma… drank beer?"

"Yes, she did. And she'd spend most of the ninth in the ladies' and come out c- me for making her miss the best part of the game when all the time it was she tellin me to go on down to the concession stand and get em."

Frannie tried to imagine her mother with a cup of Narragansett beer in one hand, looking up at her father laughing, like a girl on a date. She simply could not do it.

"She never kindled," he said bemused. "We went to a doctor, she and I, to see which of us was wrong. The doctor said neither one. Then, in '60, there came your brother Fred. She just about loved that boy to death, Fran. Fred was her father's name, you know. She had a miscarriage in '65, and we both figured that was the end of it. Then you came along in '69, a month early but fine. And I just about loved you to death. We each had one of our own. But she lost hers."

He fell silent, brooding. Fred Goldsmith had died in 1973. He had been thirteen, Frannie four. The man who hit Fred had been drunk. He had a long list of traffic violations, including speeding, driving to endanger, and driving under the influence. Fred had lived seven days.

"I think abortion's too clean a name for it," Peter Goldsmith said. His lips moved slowly over each word, as if they pained him. "I think it's infanticide, pure and simple. I am sorry to say so, to be so… inflexible, set, whatever it is I am being… about something which you now must consider, if only because the law says you may consider it. I told you I was an old man."

"You're not old, Daddy," she murmured.

"I am, I am!" he said roughly. He looked suddenly distraught. "I'm an old man trying to give a young daughter advice, and it's like a monkey trying to teach table manners to a bear. A drunk driver took my son's life seventeen years ago and my wife had never been the same. I have always seen the question of abortion in terms of Fred. I seem to be helpless to see it any other way, just as helpless as you were to stop your giggles when they came on you at that poetry reading, Frannie. Your mother would argue against it for all the standard reasons. Morality, she says. A morality that goes back two thousand years. That right to life. All our Western morality is based on that idea. I have read the philosophers. I range up and down them like a housewife with a divided check in the Sears and Roebuck store. Your mother sticks with the Reader's Digest, but it is me that ends up arguing from feeling and her from the codes of morality. I just see Fred. He was destroyed inside. There was no chance for him. These right-to-life biddies hold up their pictures of babies drowned in salt, and arms and legs scraped out onto a steel table, so what? The end of a life is never pretty. I just see Fred, lying in that bed for seven days, everything that was ruined pasted over with bandages. Life is cheap, abortion makes it cheaper. I read more than she does, but she is the one who ends up making more sense on this one. What we do and what we think… those things are so often based on arbitrary judgments when they are right. I cannot get over that. It is like a block in my throat, how all true logic seems to proceed from irrationality. From faith. I'm not making much sense, am I?"

"I don't want an abortion," she said quietly. "For my own reasons."

"What are they?"

"The baby is partly me," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "If that's ego, I don't care."

"Will you give it up, Frannie?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want to?"

"No. I want to keep it."

He was silent. She thought she felt his disapproval.

"You're thinking of school, aren't you?" she asked.

"No," he said, standing up. He put his hands in the small of his back and grimaced pleasurably as his spine crackled. "I was thinking we've talked enough. And that you don't have to make that decision yet."

"Mom's home," she said.

He turned to follow her gaze as the station wagon turned into the drive, the chrome winking in the day's last light. Carla saw them, beeped the horn, and waved cheerily.

"I have to tell her," Frannie said.

"Yes. But give it a day or two, Frannie."

"All right."

As promised, Fran waited until her father went back to work so he will not have part in when she will tell her mother. That was days ago, and Fran now face her mother in telling her the news in the one room of the house Fran despise: The Parlor.

A/N: Yeah, since I now was including chapters involving the characters of the Stand, I included chapters where Frannie tell her parents she's pregnant. Most of this chapter was actually originally Chapter 6, but I decided to divide Frannie telling her father and mother into two different chapters instead of recapping Frannie telling her father and then going to her telling her mother in a single chapter to represent the difference in reaction between Fran's parents, and believe me, there's a HUGE difference.