Authors note:

1. Disclaimer; I don't own the Heroes of Olympus or Percy Jackson franchise, all rights are reserved to Rick Rioridan, or however the whole speech goes.

2. This story takes place in a current context. Ignore any details that are like 'Um what the fuck, that's not how shit works', I know nothing about America, just use your imagination, you're good at that.

Enjoy.

It wasn't even mid-day and the foul state of California had already made it crystal clear that it harbored a vendetta against Valerie.

A) Bakersfield airport had "lost" one of her suitcases, and their measly compensation wasn't even worth a fraction of its content, more to the point, how does an airport even loose luggage? The impoverished nature of airport workers, especially the ones working in the luggage sector inclined Valerie to believe that the designer label (Yves Saint Laurent to be exact - and there would be no word, if not 'exact', that could be used to describe Valerie) on her bag enticed them to steal it. She had somewhat of an adversity to the poor, sickly an elderly.

B) The weather was dreadful, quite literally a raging tempest that pelleted raindrops onto her windshield so violently that she swore it would crack any second. So much for being a state acclaimed for its pleasant weather.

C) One of her tires had just been punctured, so now she was stuck in the middle of this grotesque highway, with ugly hills and potholes.

The province of Berkeley was enough to give anybody a visual impairment. The highway was structured in a way reminiscent to Valerie of this movie she had watched once, some dystopian thing, where everybody looked homeless and unattractive - anyway, their little settlement looked more or less like the location in which she was occupying now. She absentmindedly shuffled in her seat, then, drawn back to reality by the honking of a car that narrowly swerved her, she got out of her own.

Oh, it was probably worth mentioning her car was verging on being smack center of the highway. Valerie wasn't a particularly good driver - she more or less relied on the automated driving feature that her car donned, and the puncture had taken her by surprise, it was an amalgamation of these factors that had led to the almost parody of a parallel park. It was a blessing that it was thanksgiving- the elegant Ghibli Maserati was essentially the only automobile on the highway, other than the odd lorry. There would be virtually no risk of collision. Perfect.

In a few short minutes, she had been thoroughly showered by the skies, the torrent of downpour was of a terribly cold temperature, leaving Valerie shivering. She made two laps around the car, having failed to spot the punctured tire the first time. A theatrical sigh escaped her mouth, and she spoke aloud, though no one was around to hear "Well...fuck."

You might be expecting to hear that Valerie rolled up her sleeves and got to changing the tire, in true twenty-first century capable woman fashion, but you would be disappointed to say the least. Slender fingers and a perfect manicure would not mix well with the oil and grease of car tires, it would be like a crime against hot people to expect them to carry out automobile repairs. It also didn't help that Valerie didn't know the first thing about mechanics. She pulled her phone out of the petite handbag slung over her shoulder, her finger caught the golden link chain that served as the strap, earning a huff of annoyance. She was glad there was nobody around to see that. As minor as it seemed, any slight slip up in her appearance or presentation of herself would undermine her authority (the exact words written in her affirmations handbook). The lock screen was a mirror selfie of her in the toilets at last years Met Gala, she pause momentarily to admire the picture. Not that Valerie was famous herself or anything, but she was ran in a prominent social clique. The contacts she had enabled her to attend the Met, outshining many celebrities in the process, might she add.

It seems ironic that such a painfully narcissistic individual like herself wouldn't aspire to rise to the hall of fame, but she had a good reason for that. Well, as good as any reason the likes of Valerie could come up with. While she adored attention, celebrities attracted the wrong kind. They had masses of slobbering "fans" who were all so pathetic in their total apotheosizing of them. Valerie could not - would not ever pretend to appreciate her fans, or endorse putting on a façade where she eternally thanked them for their love and support. Gross. No way. She remembered seeing a video of Shawn Mendes circulating the internet once, where he got major backlash for sanitizing his hands after a fan meet, and scoffed at the memory. He was hardly in the wrong, his fan-base was largely compromised of (at best) 6/10's, who worked shifts at run down coffee shops overrun by plant pots in their futile attempt to be quaint. Anyone in their right mind would disinfect themselves after coming into contact with all those common-people germs.

Shaking herself from the terrifying thoughts of fame, she began to look up emergency breakdown company, when a shuffling motion in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Valerie squinted, and chewed her lip as she struggled to identify the blob of darkness that scurried closer at a cockroach like pace, she mentally reprimanded herself for not being more aware of her surroundings. That's exactly how all sorts of girls - but the Valerie's of the world especially, got in deathly predicaments. Today was not a good day to be kidnapped, abused, and sold on the dark web. Then again, there was no 'good' day for that sort of thing. The unidentified creature aroused a slight panic in Valerie, for whom would be walking in the rain on thanksgiving (though admittedly, the downpour had slowed to a pestiferous drizzle by now). Even driving at speeds of 60mph, it would take hours to come across any gas stations, or motels, so the figure must have been walking for, what? A day? Two? Yes, this was certainly a cause for concern. A few minutes had passed, all the while her eyes remained fixed on the stranger ahead of her. When they reached about 20 strides from where Valerie stood, she called out to them.

"That's close enough." Her words were clear and sharp as ever. One of Valerie's favourite things about herself, amongst many, was her voice. It bore a modulated tone. She could listen to herself speak for hours on end, as others often did. She could talk her way out or into any situation. Scuffle with the police over an illegal joyride in downtown LA? Been there, done that. All she had to do was flutter her pretty, long eyelashes and flash a winning smile.

Giving them an obvious once over, Valerie swiftly decided on the verdict that it must be a homeless person. She obnoxiously scrunched up her nose. They were dressed in beggarly fashion, with torn and creased trousers which seemed to be several sizes too big, so the fraying hem dragged across the floor, muddying it in the process. The most profound item they wore - and, not profound in a complimentary sense, was a woolen cloak. Valerie bit her tongue to stop herself from laughing. Was this the 1500's?

She couldn't quite tell if it was a man or woman standing in front of her. Their skin was terribly wizened, a tell-tale sign of a lack of a proper skin-care routine. Hell, they had probably never touched a bottle of sunscreen in their life. Their mouth was little more than a thinly pressed line, sort of like a paper cut, Valerie mused. Surprisingly though, this obviously archaic, hunchbacked individual, had striking eyes. If you stared at them long enough, it almost seemed like it they were wearing the face of an old person, while their true countenance remained hidden.

"Well, what do you want? I haven't got all day." She snapped. This was true. She still hadn't made the call to the car company, meaning when she finally did, the wait for them to arrive would be even longer. The figure inhaled deeply, their hunchback slightly straightening out as they did. She rolled her eyes. You could always count on old people to make being theatrical distasteful and irksome.

"No good,"
Ah, so it was a woman. The grating and scratchy tone of her voice irritated Valerie immediately. It was like listening to a Machiavellian spinster from the middle ages.

"Car like that, in the road. No good, no good." She continued, earning a huff from the impatient teen a few metres ahead of her.

"Thank you for your astute observation." Valerie responded.

"How do you propose to solve your problem child." The old lady derided in return.

"It's none of your business."

The spinster chuckled. "Car like that, in the road. No good indeed."

"If you repeat that God-awful phrase again, I'm going to circle back as soon my tire is replaced, and run your indigent, crippled body over so quickly, that you wont even be able to register your sad little death. No one would miss you. In fact I'd be doing society a favor." Short temper? Yeah, you would do well to get accustomed to it.

"I suppose you'll be replacing the tire yourself then, with the Berkley cell tower failures and all."

The satisfaction in the elderly woman's voice was apparent, as girl scrambled to turn on her phone, eyes flitting immediately to the top left hand corner. Sure enough, the words 'no service' seared through Valerie's eyes, the San Francisco typeface had never been such an unwelcome sight. At least it wasn't comic sans. If Valerie had to see those words in that overwhelmingly abused font, she would have fucking lost it. Still, a mildly mortifying shiver rang through her bones, as she distressed over what on earth she was going to do. It was almost as if the old hag could sense her panic, she scooted forward by about five strides and then started up again.

"Tell you what, I have a solution. A solution in exchange for a promise. Yes, good deal that is."

This woman was insufferable.

"Go on then."

"Two miles up ahead, Caldecott tunnel, make it there before nightfall." She chuckled.

So this is what heroin abuse does to a person. Hmm, interesting.

"As for the promise," she continued, "Well, you'll know what to do, and when to do it." She cackled.

Fantastic. It was nearing sunset on this barren highway, no one was coming to repair her tire anytime soon, the nearest check-in was fucking miles away, and the closest thing to aid Valerie had was the musings of somebody's grandmother jacked up on street drugs. It would almost be laughable it is wasn't so aggravating, and honestly terrifying. In fact, this whole ordeal was so comically unrealistic, that Valerie was sure she must have been in a nightmare. Her gaze dropped to the floor, subtly pinching her thigh with her acrylics to confirm that she was not in fact dreaming. The old lady must have had better information than she was letting on, especially if she knew about the cell tower failures before Valerie. Ready to interrogate her, Valerie drew her eyes away from the floor, and was met with an even more fictious sight. The spinster was no where to be seen.