A/N: I'm alive, you guys! Sorry for dropping of the face of the earth, but I'm here now, with a new story. Do be kind.
Disclaimer: I am not Rick Riordan, and thus, do not own any of his work.
I remember dying. I remember being inside some sort of womb. I cried when I was forced out of it, out of its safety. Then, I was in a woman - in my mother's - arms, and I felt safe again. She looked at me with so much warmth, with such unconditional love, that I stopped crying. She didn't deserve my bawling.
Apparently, I was Persephone Rhea Jackson, born 1987, daughter of Poseidon and Sally Jackson. At first, I assumed I was Percy's older sister, except, in 1993, when Percy Jackson was supposed to be born, he wasn't, and I was a six-year-old who my mother constantly addressed as 'Percy' (probably because she didn't want to accidentally summon Hades' wife).
The first attack was a dracanae. My mom panicked. She got super overprotective for a couple weeks after that, not letting me out of her sight, but that was to be expected. I didn't complain.
Finally, she decided my scent was too strong, that it needed to be covered. That's when my new 'stepfather' came into play.
Gabe Ugliano was the worst thing that ever happened to us. Most would think me cruel for doing so, but I never regretted praying to my father for his death.
No, my only regret was that my mother got caught in the crossfire of his death, and I would never forgive myself for that.
I was eleven, Sally Jackson was dead, and I was alone in the world.
I got used to it.
I got used to the monsters (greek and human), I got used to the danger, I got used to keeping weapons on me at all times, I got used to throwing looks behind my back to check if there was danger.
At first, I didn't want to go to Camp. Sure, it was dangerous, living like this, but Zeus would kill me, for sure. I wasn't fond of dying.
Three years later, I found a little boy, crying on the ground. Maybe it was pity, maybe it was something inside me that couldn't stand seeing crying children, I went and comforted him.
He told me his family hated him, because they believed he killed his mother.
He told me he thought he was to blame for this mother's death too.
"What's your name?"
"Leo," he sniffled into my shirt. "Leo Valdez."
Oh.
A couple months later, we found Piper McLean. Piper McLean who had run away from home, because she thought her father didn't care about her.
"Can I come with you?"
"Sure kid."
So Piper became part of our weird, somewhat confusing, family.
I stared at the boy.
He was about my age, with blond hair (that should be illegal), electric blue eyes, and a small scar on his lower lip.
"I'm Jason Grace."
So I might have a habit of collecting strays.
