Icarus Howard was not typical. His father had supposedly committed suicide by jumping off a bridge and his mother was found dead in a motel room with a needle in her arm. Of what? Icarus couldn't care less. His foster family was average. They had a barbeque every weekend, their daughter was a cheerleader, their son played football, and Icarus, the fragile soul, was largely ignored. Not that he minded. Icarus hated people. Everybody was somehow so happy all the time, so…normal. Icarus couldn't read. The letters and words jumped around like problematic kids at a jungle gym. He couldn't sit still. His fingers always tapping, his feet always moving.

"Dyslexia," the doctor told his foster parents, "And ADHD."

That was in fourth grade. The six years since then were riddled with constant anger and pure loathing towards himself. That's when he met Grover Underwood. On the first day of Sophomore year at Goode High School in New York, Icarus sat by himself at lunch, far from prying eyes. He was lost in his thoughts when he heard a voice call for him.

"Hey man, is it cool if I sit here?"

Icarus didn't pay much attention to the guy asking as he shrugged, his eyes never leaving the plate.

"Ay man, thanks!"

Icarus didn't reply.

This went on for a good part of the semester. Icarus would be at lunch by himself, the guy would show up, ask him if he could sit down, and then they would have lunch in silence. It was around December when Icarus was making up a test that he heard the conversation. was a wheelchair-ridden English teacher who loved acting out scenes from The Illiad. Their entire English syllabus had been Greek Literature. Icarus enjoyed his class. He had always ended up acting as Nestor, the wise, old king. It was a simple part, with not much to say, but whatever he said had truly been incredible. Icarus sat in the hallway outside Brunner's room, bubbling in answers when the guy he always had lunch with shuffled into the classroom. Icarus assumed he was there to ask for a retake or for some extra credit as the end of the semester drew closer when he heard the conversation.

"Grover, what's the situation."

"The aura, it isn't strong, but it's there."

He heard Brunner curse, then growl.

"By the goods, it may not be strong, but any monster within range would surely sense him."

"Of course it- wait! He's out in the hallway, can he hear us?"

"No, probably not."

"Alright. From what I gather, he's the son of a minor god."

"Could you form a connection with him?"

The guy made a sound of agitation, which sounded a lot like a goat bleating.

"I'm still connected to Percy. I can't form a connection with every single half-blood I come across."

Icarus' hands shook. He didn't want to listen anymore. He made sure to stand up in a way that made the desk screech against the floor and the chair slam into the wall. He went over and knocked on the door.

"Act natural," he heard a whisper, then a loud, "Come In!"

Icarus walked in, schooling his facial expression carefully.

"Ah, ! Do you have a question about the test?"

"No, sir. I'm done."

Brunner's eyebrows shot up while the guy, Grover, shuffled awkwardly, his feet unusually curved.

"Already? It's barely been fifteen minutes! Oh well, you did take a liking to the book."

Icarus didn't reply as Brunner plucked the test from his awaiting hand. As he turned to walk out, he felt a rough, calloused hand grab his. He bit back a yelp as he whirled around, his heart beating unusually hard. Brunner, at that moment, suddenly looked old. Far older than his mid-fifties age. He looked ancient, his eyes conveying much concern and pain.
"Remember, child," he said, his voice rather grave, "No man or woman born, coward or brave, can shun his destiny."

Icarus took a shaky breath, gently tugging his hand free from his teacher's grasp.

"No sir," he agreed, then left.

Right before he whirled a corner, leaving the classroom for good, he heard.

"The sorts of words a man says are the sorts he hears in return," Brunner said, his voice anguished.

Icarus went home that day, looking forward to the long weekend before the next semester started. The cold wind bit into his cheeks and turned his nose raw. His coat was a size too big, a hand-me-down from his foster brother. He was grateful, for it was rather fancy. The color was dulled, but it still had numerous pockets and compartments that he could shove his hands into and keep warm. He heard someone whistle behind him. Glancing around to look, two big, burly men stood out, leaning against the entrance to an alleyway. The part that rattled Icarus' bones to the core was that each man had only a single eye. Icarus, despite his fear, scowled at them, and turned around, hurrying the rest of the way home. Marley, the doorman, barely glanced at Icarus as he let him in. He walked past his foster parents, who were watching the evening news, silently pounced up the stairs, and collapsed in his bed. It was the last time he would ever sleep in that bed.