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NEUTRAL POV
The Mayor of Los Angeles stood in front of City Hall that morning, not having had his coffee yet. Normally it would have been a pretty sleepy time of day; this wasn't New York City, after all.
However, today the Mayor was surrounded by what looked like half the media personnel in the city. Reporters clustered together in a sizable crowd, all carrying microphones from their respective news outlets. And none of them would leave before they received their answers.
There was no point in blaming them. After all, the question these reporters asked was quite a compelling one. Whole books had been written on it, and would continue to be written about this subject for the rest of human history.
"Mayor, I understand that this subject is very difficult to talk about, but the question must still be asked: What, if anything, do you think motivated this young man to commit this heinous crime?"
The Mayor sighed, adjusting his glasses on his forehead. "Well, I don't think there are any easy answers. It's a touchy subject, yes, but it's also a hard one to pin down. But I'll do my best, so let's start with the facts.
"At just after midnight in the Breakdown District, a young man by the name of Brandon St. Lawrence, eighteen years old, is suspected of having stabbed both of his adoptive parents, Rodney and Michelle Stark, to death. Their bodies were discovered when police raided his home."
Several of the reporters gasped. To be sure, they'd covered grisly events before, including some even more disturbing than this one, but in many cases, they would never cease to be shocked whenever someone murdered their own family members.
"It's believed that after attacking his parents, Mr. St. Lawrence was accosted by the police, where he fought off a chihuahua, sustaining a bite wound, before getting into his car and driving away. As of this moment, he is still at large."
Another reporter worked his way to the front of the crowd; in doing so, he was forced to jostle around several of the other journalists. But once the man, whose microphone labeled him as a Fox News employee, reached the front, there was a certain fire in his eyes.
This "fire" meant that he would not be denied. He was solidly determined to have his question answered at all costs.
"Mr. Beaver, what is your question?" the Mayor asked the Fox reporter. "We only have a limited amount of time here."
Mr. Beaver didn't even have to clear his throat. "Do you believe this has anything to do with the symposium at the Dignity Health Sports Park last week?"
The Mayor frowned. "Please clarify what symposium you are referring to. Just because I run this city doesn't mean I know everything that happens within it."
"I'm referring to the event at which one Charles "Upchuck" Weldworth spoke. He claimed that ancient mythology, such as Greek and Roman myths, are alive and well in this world today."
Although it was by no means a lighthearted situation, the Mayor did chuckle slightly. His serious demeanor, however, returned swiftly.
"With all due respect, Mr. Beaver, I do not know how these two things are related. You don't have to make a connection between two isolated incidents; all indications are that Mr. St. Lawrence acted alone."
"Are they, though?" Mr. Beaver responded, raising an eyebrow as he asked the question.
"Of course they are!" the Mayor all but screamed. "Don't be such a conspiracy theorist, Mr. Beaver!"
"I'm not a conspiracy theorist," the Fox reporter insisted. "I'm merely pointing out the fact that strange things happen all the time around here. This is Los Angeles, after all."
The Mayor shook his head. "If you keep talking about that, Mr. Beaver, I will need to revoke your press pass to speak with me. And I believe strongly in the freedom of the press, so I don't want to have to do that. But I won't hesitate if that's what is called for."
Mr. Beaver narrowed his eyes. "If you say so. But personally, I believe there's more to the situation than what meets the eye."
The Mayor had some experience with reporters like this who perseverate on one topic. In these cases, it was always best to move on to the next person and not give the annoying one the time of day.
"Let's go to the next question!" the Mayor all but boomed. "We've got a lot of ground to cover today!"
A short-haired woman from MSNBC was the next questioner. She said the following: "Can you give us any updates on the manhunt for Brandon St. Lawrence? I want my children to feel safe at home."
Suddenly, the Mayor's phone buzzed, so he turned it on. Sure enough, one of his advisers had sent him a text message with a news alert; it was always imperative to be informed, especially if you ran the second-largest American city.
Perfect timing.
The Mayor skimmed the article, holding up a finger so that the reporter would know he still intended to field her question. Once he felt he had a grasp of it, he continued speaking.
"I do have an update; sorry for the pause, I literally just got the text alert on my phone. A fascinating system, it really is, thank you all for inventing it."
The crowd still wanted answers, though, so that's what the Mayor provided.
"In the Oakland Hills, not far from San Francisco Bay, the most curious thing happened. Along a stretch of highway in the Bay Area, traffic ground to a halt, among the worst traffic recorded in American history. And the cause was unusual as well.
"A Great Dane, they say, sprinted along the asphalt before reaching a car, where the driver and the dog got in a fight. The vehicle's license plate could not be identified thanks to the sheer number of cars surrounding it. However, the driver, who fled the scene, fits the description of Brandon St. Lawrence."
The MSNBC reporter's eyes swelled up, and she looked as though she might scream. The Mayor didn't blame her; this news was a lot to process.
"That is all of the questions I'll be taking today" the Mayor announced. "We'll end on that note. But you can all rest assured that the manhunt will continue. As the Mayor, I command the Los Angeles Police Department, and will be coordinating with the leaders of other cities to resolve this case."
The Mayor then bared his teeth like a wolf with sharp fangs. He gripped his podium as though he needed to keep his balance, but he projected nothing if not confidence.
"These heinous actions will not go unpunished. I, the Mayor of Los Angeles, will not rest until Brandon St. Lawrence is apprehended and brought to justice."
BRANDON'S POV
At first, everything felt rather muted, as though I were on a heavy dose of painkillers. This general feeling of dullness included my emotions.
Having just survived a fight for my life, I should have expected to feel triumphant, to be extremely proud of myself for cheating death. But, while I wasn't exactly apathetic about it, my reaction was more like, That's cool, I guess, as opposed to, YAY, I DID IT!
It didn't help that my arm stung like mad. Though I couldn't open my eyes, I felt it being stitched up; they hadn't bothered to apply numbing medicine to that area. But I barely had the strength to grimace before passing out again.
When I finally woke up for good, I found myself in an unfamiliar place. Although I knew (in the back of my mind) that I could not be at home, I wanted to pretend that it had just been a dream.
My head hurts…that's because I'm sick. I must have a fever or something. And something about Upchuck Weldworth's symposium came to life. The wolves attacked me at my home, and I had to drive here frantically. At least, I think I'm "here."
But it was all a nightmare. When I open my eyes, I'll be back in my own bed. None of that will have happened. I'll be safe.
Once my eyes fluttered open, however, I saw that I'd just been kidding myself.
I was in what looked like a very fancy hospital ward; the walls were all made out of white marble, with a statue of what looked like a mythical figure against one of them. A fountain trickled out of his mouth, which probably wouldn't be conducive to relieving one's nausea.
As for my more immediate surroundings, I was lying on a moderately comfortable cot. My left arm stung, presumably from the stitches, as everything came back to me.
I'm still on the run, I realized. The police must have caught up to me. They're trying to butter me up now by treating me in this nice, expensive hospital, but they won't show mercy on me when it's time for the trial.
I tried to sit up, but didn't quite have the strength.
"Careful," a male voice said carefully. "You wouldn't want to pull your stitches out, and you're too weak to rise anyway."
I looked to my right and saw a guy about my age and height, but far more muscular. He was dressed in a purple T-shirt with the letters SPQR printed on it.
Those letters looked familiar, but I couldn't place them.
"What does SPQR mean?" I blurted out.
The guy in the purple shirt chuckled. "Well, at least that breaks the mold. Most people would just ask where they were. Congrats on your originality, Mr. Shirtless."
"Don't. Call. Me. Mr. Shirtless" I said through gritted teeth and in one breath.
"Fine," the other boy said. "Well, SPQR is an old Roman saying. In ancient times, it stood for Senatus Populusque Romanus, meaning 'the Senate and people of Rome.' This referred to the Roman system of government, one of the world's oldest democracies."
"Okay" I muttered. "But what does that have to do with me?"
And then it hit me. I recalled where I'd seen that set of four letters, that specific shade of purple.
"Upchuck!" I exclaimed.
The other boy's eyes widened. "You need a bucket to puke in?"
"No," I replied, trying to calm him down. "Upchuck Weldworth is the name of this guy whose meeting I attended back in L.A. It was about Greco-Roman mythology, and a lot of the other attendees had shirts just like yours on."
"Well, that makes sense," the other boy said. "They are aware of Roman history, which is a good thing, even if you're not like us."
Not like us.
The guy in the purple shirt said that as though he were in a class of his own, along with other people in this elite group. At the same time, I knew I might have given away too much already.
If he's an undercover cop, I already told them who I am. They'll arrest me right away, and then I'll be on trial for property damage and killing a chihuahua.
"Sir, what do you mean by 'not like us'?" I asked. "Are you…". I truncated that sentence before I could spill more beans.
"Given that you've already found our camp, I suppose there's no harm in giving you some more answers. You have arrived at Camp Jupiter."
"Jupiter" I mouthed. "Like the fifth planet in the solar system?"
The purple-shirted guy shook his head in a manner suggesting he was highly offended. "No. I'm referring to the Roman god of the sky."
"So you mean Zeus."
The other boy frowned. "That's his Greek form, though I'd rather not talk about him that way. Here at Camp Jupiter, we use his Roman name."
I sighed. "Okay, I get it. You prefer the Roman names. But…you talk as though you're special somehow. In what way are you special?"
The purple-shirted guy extended his right hand for me to shake. "I guess I should introduce myself first. I'm Dakota, and I'm a centurion from the Fifth Cohort here. I'm pleased to meet you."
Centurion. That's an interesting word.
"It's nice to meet you too, Dakota" I replied, trying out that name on my tongue. As friendly as he was acting towards me, I still felt somewhat nervous, mainly because of what he'd expect me to tell him next.
"So what's your name?" Dakota asked, confirming my fears.
I frowned. "Probably shouldn't tell you that."
"Don't worry. Your secret's safe with us; quite honestly, over the last two days, we've come to suspect certain things about your identity. After what we saw in the news, there's been plenty of room to speculate."
My heart began racing, and my palms sweated. The IV in my left arm, which I had just now noticed, felt cold against my skin.
"What…who do you think I am?" I blurted out.
Dakota frowned. "Well, we've been seeing reports about a young man named Brandon St. Lawrence. He's believed to have fled the scene after his car was attacked by a Great Dane on the highway, and he vanished not long afterwards."
My chest felt as though it were about to explode. I could barely breathe. My whole world was about to come to a screeching halt. My life was over.
"If that's you", Dakota continued, "well, we're not going to turn you in right away."
"Much appreciated," I replied. Only then did I realize that those two simple words could be seen as an admission of guilt.
"So you're saying you are Brandon St. Lawrence?"
I nodded, seeing no way to back out now. "That's me, yes."
Dakota scratched his chin. "The news reports said you were eighteen, which absolutely boggles my mind. Even if your godly parent was a minor figure, surely you would have either found this place or died by now."
"Parents? My parents are dead, and my foster parents are probably dead too."
The purple-shirted guy winked at me. "Ah, yes, that's what you think. But we see it differently here in Camp Jupiter. Tell me, Brandon, do you believe in gods?"
"God? As in…".
"No, not capital-G God. We shouldn't deal with the metaphysical here; life is complicated enough as it is. I'm talking about the Roman pantheon."
I held up one of the fingers on my right hand (no, not my middle finger.) "Just give me a moment to process all of this. It's new to me."
After Dakota paused, I continued.
"So let me get this straight. You mentioned that even if my godly parent was a minor figure, I assume in Roman mythology, I'd still have a target on my back. It's a wonder I got here alive."
"That's true, though I object to your use of the word mythology. Tell me, Brandon, if you'd lived for several thousand years and had such an impact on the world, would you appreciate your existence being called a myth?"
I winced. "I guess not."
"Indeed. I also heard in the news reports that you attended an event held by one Charles Weldworth, and you're quoted as telling a reporter that he belongs in the loony bin. Now, if you were a Roman deity, what would you think of this?"
"Are you ever going to stop guilt-tripping me?"
"No," Dakota replied instantly, burping. "Sorry; I'm still working off the wine I drank."
"You don't look twenty-one yet."
"I'm not. But that doesn't matter. New Rome has its own laws; as long as you keep the alcohol here, you're not violating any mortal laws. I guess you could see Camp Jupiter as its own autonomous zone, although it's not formally recognized as such."
"So it's just like Vegas" I replied. "What happens in New Rome stays in New Rome."
"Exactly," Dakota responded. "Sometimes I wish this place were Vegas. I'm a son of Bacchus, by the way; he's the god of wine."
"How could you be the son of a god? That just doesn't seem possible to me."
"Well, let me tell you this: Just because something sounds crazy doesn't mean it can't possibly be true. And it's just like they say: Once you've taken the red pill, you can't go back."
"This isn't The Matrix, Dakota. Just tell me: What happens now?"
"Well, given that you've only just arrived, you'll start out as a probatio. That basically means you're a trial member of the legion, where you'll be watched closely for any signs that you might not be up to the task."
Probatio. That sounds a lot like "probation", which is what I'll be lucky to get off with if the police catch me.
"And what happens if I'm not up to it?" I asked, dreading the answer.
Dakota's expression was almost reminiscent of Lupa's from my dream. He did not appear comfortable in the least, and clearly hated the fact that he had to answer. But he did.
"You don't want to know. Suffice it to say that you'll want to do your best, but I have the utmost confidence that you can. After all, you did survive out on your own for eighteen years. It's almost as though your godly parent is so minor that it barely registered on their radar."
"I'm a…half-god?"
"Demigod" Dakota corrected me. "And yes, you are. One of your biological parents may have been mortal, but the other was - is - a member of the Ancient Roman pantheon. And that makes you highly dangerous."
"Dangerous?" That word gave me the energy to sit bolt upright and clench my hands into fists.
"Dangerous to our enemies, yes," the son of Bacchus replied. "It makes you highly useful to the cause of protecting this camp, though, at least in theory. The fact that you made it here shows that we could use the help."
"Why?"
"Well, Terminus, the god of boundaries, normally guards Camp Jupiter in the form of a statue. It used to be that no one could get in or out of the area without his permission, but that clearly isn't the case anymore. You got in without it, and to make matters worse, we don't know where Terminus is now."
I held my right palm out like a stop sign. "So you're telling me you don't want me here? If that's the case, why bother healing me up?"
"Well, we weren't exactly going to leave you out there to die. We even took in Percy Jackson, and he wasn't supposed to be our friend."
Percy Jackson. That name sounded almost familiar, similar to another name I'd heard recently.
"Do you mean Peter Johnson?" I asked. "Because that name was mentioned at Upchuck Weldworth's event?"
Dakota shook his head, putting his hand on his face. "No, Brandon. I'm talking about Percy Jackson, a demigod who helped save the world last year."
"Why did the world need saving? We still haven't done anything about climate-".
"I'm not talking about climate change. Us demigods are vulnerable to that too, just as we are to other mortal hazards."
"Great," I grumbled. "Twice as vulnerable."
"Exactly," Dakota replied. "Anyway, as to how the world was saved, it's a rather long story. It's one I don't have the time for right now; I have to head back to the Fifth Cohort."
And with that, the purple-shirted guy left the infirmary, and I was left to wonder just how weird things would become.
As it turned out, the weirdness factor was about to be turned up to eleven.
When a dark-haired guy about my age, evidently of Indian or otherwise South Asian descent, came to my bedside, he saw that the bag mounted on my IV stand was empty. It was then that he started running his hands through his hair.
"What's wrong?" I enquired. "You seem frantic about something."
"I gave you too much nectar!" the boy exclaimed. "Oh my gods, I really hope you don't burn up!"
I had been starting to sweat and feel rather feverish, but I'd assumed this to be a result of an infection. Wouldn't that be the most logical scenario when one is in the hospital?
"You'll have to be watched closely," the young man told me. "And since there's no one else in the infirmary, I'll stay with you around the clock if I have to."
And indeed, he did. For the next several hours after disconnecting the IV, he sat in a chair beside my bed, constantly glancing over to make sure my fever didn't rise.
But in my mind, the boy, who introduced himself as Pranjal, had a very sensationalized view of what might happen. The way he looked at me, it was as though he expected me to spontaneously combust at any moment.
"Okay, so why is too much nectar such a problem?" I asked eventually. "That stuff made me feel so much better at first."
"The key words there are at first" Pranjal responded sternly. "Nectar and ambrosia, the food of the gods, is lethal to mortals. In moderation, it can heal your wounds and make you feel better if you're a demigod, but there can be too much of a good thing. Consuming too much godly food will cause you to burn up."
"So I'd get a really bad fever?"
Pranjal narrowed his eyes. "No. You would literally burn up. Burst into flames. Die in an absolutely brutal fashion."
"Yikes." Now I understood why he'd been so concerned.
"Indeed, it's not something to mess with," Pranjal replied. "It may also be worth noting that nectar and ambrosia can be highly addictive. They say it tastes like a food that brings back good memories."
I didn't have anything to add, so I stayed quiet. After that, Pranjal moved on to a different subject.
"So by the sound of it, you have not been claimed yet?"
I looked at him quizzically. "What do you mean by 'claimed'?"
"To be claimed," Pranjal responded, "is to be acknowledged by your godly parent as their child. They say that some demigods go their whole lives without ever being claimed, which doesn't help them feel like they fit in."
"Can't imagine it would," I said, paying lip service to that idea. But then the entire weight of Pranjal's words hit me, and I understood their full implications. And they weren't good. "So you're saying that the gods sometimes ignore their children forever? Or rather, until the end of their life? That's just not right!"
Pranjal shrugged. "It's not up to us mere demigods to decide what's right or what's wrong. We might be more powerful than regular mortals, but we're still mortal."
"Still! This isn't…that's not how it's supposed to be!"
"Well, look at it this way, Brandon: If you were a major god, would you pay special attention to the affair children you'd had with mortals? I don't think so; you'd have bigger fish to fry."
As Pranjal said those words, I realized that he was referring to me, as well as to himself, as affair children. We didn't have the intrinsic value society ascribes to human life; we only mattered because our godly parents had canoodled with regular humans. We were mere mistakes.
"Shouldn't the gods be more involved with their childrens' lives, though?"
Pranjal shook his head. "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way."
I sat further upright with more passion than ever before. And I gave Pranjal a scowl, although it wasn't really directed at him.
"Look, Pranjal: I'm an adopted child. At least, I was a product of the foster care system. And if my father's somehow still out there, he's got to feel heartbroken about abandoning me; parents are never supposed to neglect their children."
"It's different with gods," the other boy replied simply. "We can argue all day long about this, but if your father is your godly parent…well, how much do you know about your parents?"
"My birth parents?"
"Yes."
Once more, I found myself weighing the question of how much information I should give to these people calling themselves demigods. But I elected to tell the truth in the end, at least this time.
"Well, they say my father mysteriously vanished one night along with my mother. Some say she killed him and fled; others say it was a murder-suicide. There were other theories, too, but this all happened before I was old enough to remember anything."
Pranjal sighed. "That must be very difficult for you to deal with, Brandon. I just wish I were a mental health therapist in addition to a healer."
"Huh?"
"Well, I'm a son of Asclepius, the god of healing. That's why I'm the chief medic here at Camp Jupiter; they trust me. And they'll trust you too once you're no longer a probatio."
I raised my eyebrows. "How long is a probatio period?"
"Well, that depends on a lot of things," Pranjal replied. "You need to either serve in the legion for one year, or you have to perform an 'act of valor or bravery', as defined by the praetors. That's how you become a full member of the Twelfth Legion."
"How do they determine what counts?"
The medic shrugged. "I wouldn't know. Ask Reyna; she's the main praetor here. But you're not going to meet her until you heal up."
"And how long is that going to be?" I asked Pranjal. I hate feeling useless, even if I don't know what my use to these people will be.
"Well, you should be able to leave tomorrow morning. The infirmary, I mean; unless you want to be devoured or arrested, you shouldn't leave Camp Jupiter right now."
I snorted. "I thought that's what you meant."
Pranjal winked at me. "I'm so glad we understand each other."
There was another question on my mind, one that wrapped me in its tendrils and refused to let go. It was a trivial matter to me even if Pranjal probably wouldn't think so.
"How did I evade them for so long?"
"Huh?" the medic asked. "What do you mean?"
"The monsters. If I'm as big a threat to them as you claim, then I shouldn't have lived to age eighteen. Or rather, I guess my question is: Why now?"
Pranjal frowned. "So you're asking me why they finally caught up with you now, as opposed to any time in the last several years?"
I nodded.
"That's a good question, although a difficult one to answer. Have you been making a lot of phone calls lately?"
"What do you mean by that? Everybody uses a phone nowadays except maybe the Amish. And I'm not Amish."
"Well, add another category to the list of people who don't use phones: Demigods. Because we know better; at least, most of us do."
"Are you blaming me?" I asked Pranjal, trying not to sound too accusatory to this young man who'd shown me so much kindness.
The medic raised his hands in the air. "I'm not blaming you. You didn't know - how could you have known?"
"So using a cell phone is dangerous as a demigod?"
Pranjal nodded. "It's basically like sending up a bunch of fireworks saying, I'm a demigod! I taste delicious! Come and eat me! It's something more seasoned demigods know to avoid unless absolutely necessary."
I was suddenly reminded of all those conspiracy-minded people who ranted and raved about how the government was tapping everyone's phones. Perhaps they weren't all lunatics after all.
"I'd been surfing the Internet for an essay" I mentioned. "I had to write about the event with Upch - I mean, Charles Weldworth. Is that risky as well?"
"It's not quite as bad as making a phone call, but it still attracts monsters. If you'd been doing a lot of Internet searches in the last, I dunno, a week or so, that would do it."
My eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. "It's been a week since I started that essay. Or rather, between when I started the essay and when I got here." It was still hard to believe I'd been out for so long.
Pranjal smiled, but there was no happiness in that smile.
"Perhaps that is what attracted them to you at last. There are more demigods than you think in this world, and some of them live perfectly long, comfortable mortal lives while avoiding detection. Oftentimes, this is because they don't know they're demigods; the more you know, the more of a threat you are, and the more determined they are to eliminate you."
"So that would explain the wolves' sudden appearance at my house" I said, somewhat morosely. "They came at the end of the week."
Pranjal winced. "I don't know the whole story. I just heard that a chihuahua attacked your home in Los Angeles, but it must have been a monster in actuality. Why else would you run away like that?"
"They were monsters," I replied. "They were wolves."
"Wolves? Normally wolves are our allies; at least, Lupa is. Did you dream about her?"
"Yes", I said, "but…".
"There are, of course, wolves that hunt down demigods. But usually, unless you've done something notable to piss them off, they'll leave you alone."
Suddenly, I felt tainted, like a failure. I was utterly useless, the very thing I absolutely couldn't stand being.
I was a liability.
"So the fact that they found me after so long…".
"...means that you have some very dedicated enemies from the immortal world" Pranjal concluded. "Exactly. Buckle up, because things are only going to get hairier from here."
