NOTE: This is the prequel/sequel to The Question of the Exploding Toilet, a crossover between PJO/HoO and The Kane Chronicles. No concepts or characters from TKC directly show up here, so it's listed solely as PJO/HoO.
I highly recommend reading The Question of the Exploding Toilet first to completely understand what's at work here, but if not, suffice to say that this is an AU where Percy is assumed dead by the Greeks. They try and cope with mixed results.
Disclaimer: I am not, and will never be, Rick Riordan. Sadly, this means I don't own Percy Jackson.
Warnings: Swearing, unbeta'ed, PTSD symptoms, some unreliable narrator, character deaths, life-threatening injuries, moral ambiguity.
"Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay."
-Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost
Dionysus was, in a word, bored.
Oh, it was a nice change of pace from the usual state of perpetual annoyance at being forced to deal with messy brats who called themselves heroes, but playing nice with his relatives was excruciating while sober.
Which, of course, he was, because Father had refused to perhaps relax just a little where one—one!—nymph had been concerned. To be frank, Dionysus would call it extremely hypocritical of him, if someone were to ask.
And no one ever did, of course. About Father, his punishment, or anything else. But that was normally how these things went.
He was lounging across his throne, mildly annoyed with the twins' usual loud bickering to the left of him, and contemplating the virtues of persuading Ariadne to join him for this Winter Solstice meeting when entertainment arrived at the last moment.
Poseidon stormed in.
"Zeus," he growled, with his trident in hand and entire being crackling with power to the point that even Athena looked apprehensive. "I swear upon all the lives within my domain, if it was you—"
He let the threat hang in the air, which now stunk enough of ozone that Dionysus—along with everyone else—gained an excellent idea of just what he intended to do if Zeus had indeed done whatever Poseidon was convinced he had.
Dionysus straightened in interest. Just a little.
Barnacle Beard had a tendency for melodramatics over imagined slights that rivaled Father's, but this. . .this was different. Whatever it was. It was dangerous. Something real had happened, something had been done to Poseidon.
Come to think of it, the whole thing begged a rather pertinent question.
Father, looking mildly nonplussed by drama from someone that was not him, raised a dark grey eyebrow. "Brother. Done what, precisely?"
The power coursing through the air thickened, but Poseidon slumped, ever so slightly, and—oh, dear. That was real pain in his eyes.
Someone had died. A mortal lover, if Dionysus had to guess.
Wonderful entertainment indeed.
"Did you kill them," Poseidon at last said hoarsely, as if refusing to say it outright would keep whoever he had consorted with alive—and in that idea was a possible complication Dionysus did not like the look of at all. "Did you kill them, Zeus? Let loose some monstrosity from Tartarus to murder them in the streets like so much cattle?"
He reluctantly straightened in his throne as Zeus's face darkened further from the accusation.
Hera, as was typical, looked like she had smelled something foul; Ares was already leaning in with interest, smelling the blood in the air and quite obviously ready to egg on whoever was necessary for a fight, while Aphrodite watched Poseidon with sympathy and Hephaestus deliberately ignored them all in favor of his own work, though his eyes very obviously were fixed on the rest of them.
The twins and Hermes, echoes of old grief in their eyes, looked ready to break up a fight as they leaned forward in their thrones. Athena studied the situation like the tactician she was, watching the stand-off between Zeus and Poseidon.
Dionysus would deny it until the end of them all, but he reflexively reached out for Castor and Pollux in that moment. Casting out a strand of his power for the briefest of seconds, making sure his sons were alive and where they were meant to be. Their mother had gone to the Underworld months ago, but that had been from causes beyond his control, at least.
The name Thalia Grace echoed throughout the room as none of them said a word.
None of them dared even think the names of Hades's last lover and children.
Oaths were oaths, after all, but that never seemed to stop any of them. The impetus for them was the only thing that carried any weight.
"My son. My son and Sally—his mother. Did you kill them, brother, after what happened to your daughter?" Poseidon snarled. "And did you really think I would not seek vengeance?"
Father gave an inhuman growl at the threat. The entire room exploded—rather literally—as the council leapt to their feet, with their loud accusations and cries bouncing off the marble walls. Dionysus grit his teeth.
Banishment to that damned camp was looking quite attractive right now.
Nine-year-old Annabeth Chase had been at camp for a year when Chiron told her the story of Perseus Jackson.
He and his mother had been killed by a monster of some sort a few years ago. It wasn't all that remarkable, he had told her, grief still in his eyes for a demigod he would never meet. Muggings—much less supernatural ones—were common in New York. Plenty of demigods, especially ones with powerful parents, never saw age ten. Perseus had been three.
He had been three, and the only living half-blood child of Poseidon.
What they had all found out, Chiron told her in hushed tones, was that Poseidon had broken the oath sworn by him and his brothers after World War II: he had sired a mortal child. When he had felt the mother's death that night and was unable to find a trace of the child, he had stormed into Olympus and accused Zeus of killing them both.
"It took a miracle to prevent war that night," Chiron said, his eyes far away, "And as Mister D will tell you, it took some effort from him, your mother, and the entire council to talk the two brothers down. Still, we all felt Poseidon's grief for months after."
Annabeth remembered being forced to evacuate from Virginia when a rare full-fledged hurricane had hit them that year, and scowled. "Stupid. We didn't do anything. If Zeus didn't do it, Poseidon should have figured out who, and just hurt them for justice. Why would he inflict his power on us?"
"I hope you never understand why, child," Chiron told her, his eyes studying her with some sort of sad emotion she didn't yet have a name for, "And I do believe he would have taken your advice, if they had found the murderer."
"They didn't?" Annabeth asked, startled, "But they're gods. They're all-powerful, they must have some way—"
She stopped at the look on Chiron's face.
"Oh," she said in a small voice.
Annabeth suddenly felt like she had that first night when she'd run away from home: The night had been dark, there had been no mom and dad to look out for her, and Annabeth had nothing but her hammer and her conviction that her monsters were real.
Chiron's smile was sad. "You are a child of Athena, my dear. I trust you to connect the facts and act wisely with them. Even if they are uncomfortable truths."
The words of her cabin counselor echoed in her head. Athena always has a plan. Having a plan meant having the facts, and being prepared to act.
"I am a daughter of the goddess of wisdom, after all," Annabeth said quietly, and for the first time felt like she truly understood what that meant. "That means I have to deal with them."
Annabeth thought of Perseus Jackson, and wondered if she could kill his murderer for him someday.
She then thought of the Great Prophecy, and couldn't help but question, in a a part of her mind that hadn't been a child for a very, very long time, if they were better off for it.
As a twelve-year-old Annabeth Chase sprinted through Olympus, the Master Bolt heavy on her back, she began to regret sneaking out of camp.
"Give me the bolt, sweetheart, and I might let you and the satyr run back to hide under Chiron's skirts."
"No. You've proven vulnerable to outside influence, Lord Ares. Give me the Helm of Darkness so that I can return it to the Underworld." Annabeth's heart beat as fast as a jackrabbit in her chest as she tried for diplomatic, as she tried to keep Ares, god of war, from deciding to kill her and Grover.
It hadn't been one of her better plans, she had recognized from the start. But it wasn't like there had been an abundance of options in the first place with the Summer Solstice approaching, the Master Bolt still lost, Zeus and Poseidon threatening war, and no one else willing to take on the quest. Not even Luke had—no.
She was the daughter of the goddess of battle strategy; if anyone could outwit Ares, she could.
She wasn't going there.
Later, when she had time, to think through that Iris Message on the pier of Santa Monica. How he'd had the nerve to look betrayed when he had told her to spit in the face of what Thalia died for, to take the Master Bolt and join him, and she'd told him that he was crazy.
The sunglasses melted away from Ares's eyes, and an ugly smile crossed his face. "You really think it works like that, huh? A pretty little please and wide eyes, and this all just goes away? That's just the cutest thing, sweetheart."
Annabeth clenched her jaw, and slowly pulled out her Yankees cap behind her back.
When she had the time to think, to rationalize, she would think about it.
"But I'll be generous," Ares decided, "One last chance before I roast you and Goat Boy alive. Give me the bolt, and you two won't lose anything vital."
Annabeth's knife pressed insistently against her thigh, but she didn't reach for it. She would have to be more creative than that with Plan B if she was going to win.
It was a mistake. It had to be. Luke would never do that. Something had to be wrong. Annabeth was missing some variable. She had to be.
Annabeth couldn't bear the alternative, not with Grover only half-conscious in the lobby of the Empire State Building as a result of everything.
His horrible scream echoed through her mind again: a reminder of her greatest mistake on the quest.
She had not accidentally hauled the Master Bolt halfway across the country, fought Medusa, the Chimera, mechanical gods-damned spiders, and come face-to-face with Hades just to lose to one of the dumbest gods out there. This was her quest, her only chance at the outside world; she refused to fail.
Annabeth eyed the Helm of Darkness, still in Ares's hand, gauged the distance, listened to the police sirens in the distance, and finished the calculations in her head.
"I will return the Master Bolt and Helm of Darkness to Olympus," she declared, as proud and disdainful as she could manage, like Odysseus, the most cunning of them all, "And you won't be able to stop me."
"Are you really challenging me?" he sneered. "I thought Athena's spawn were supposed to be good at avoiding being smashed into grease spots."
This was a terrible idea, she decided.
"No, those are your children," Annabeth said, as her grip tightened on her Yankees cap to the point of pain, "The children of Athena always have a plan to win."
She turned invisible, sprinted for the Helm and yanked it out of his hands before Ares could blink—did gods have to blink, she wondered—right as the police pulled up, just in time to see the angry man screaming at nothing on a beach.
Annabeth sprinted back towards Grover, fighting the urge to cover her ears at Ares's threats, roared in a guttural voice that made her ears feel like they were bleeding.
"You think you can run? Your mother may think I'm stupid, girlie, and she may be right, but I still know a hell of a lot more about this world than you ever will!"
Ares snapped his fingers. The only warning Annabeth ever got was a hot, dry whoosh of air that made her hair turn crispy as she ran—
"In this world, I hold the cards. And god trumps stupid little girl," he growled.
—Ran across a beach that was suddenly in flames.
But Annabeth didn't have time to think about that. She was too busy sprinting across Olympus, and hoping that midnight hadn't arrived—carrying with it the beginning of a third world war.
All of it was covered in white flames so hot they were nearly blue and so terrifying in their height that she'd screamed out of instinct.
Grover had just screamed in pain.
Later. She would think about it later.
Going on a quest had been nothing like she had imagined. It had been nothing but days of feeling off-balance as they made mistake after mistake and met monster after monster.
Annabeth let the wind wipe the tears off her cheeks as she picked up her pace, trying not to think of Grover, how close they had come to dying with no one ever knowing where they were. She hadn't even left a note, so focused on stealing them enough supplies to get them across the country.
In the end, Luke had help them leave—
("Just. . .be careful, Annabeth. Kill some monsters for me, eh?")
She didn't have the time for it.
Annabeth had a war to stop, and possibly multiple gods to convince of the value of peace.
She didn't have the energy for so much as a grimace either. But as she wove her way through an open-air market full of minor gods and nymphs, her breaths starting to come as short gasps for air and her lungs close to giving out on her, the emotion remained.
When the Master Bolt had been stolen on the Winter Solstice, Zeus had accused Poseidon of trying to avenge an imagined slight, and Poseidon had responded predictably. With no immediate suspect capable of stealing the Master Bolt themselves, it had spiraled as the other gods began to try and pick sides in the feud quietly.
Annabeth didn't like the idea of having to convince a capricious god of the sea to not end the world over his bitter grief. Not when her oldest friend said he was trying to do the same.
("There's a new Golden Age coming, Annabeth. One that we can make in her name, I promise—")
Later, she reminded herself as she stood in a square of merchants to find her bearings, her chest heaving out of panic and exhaustion. She couldn't do it. Not yet.
As Annabeth ran through the gorgeous hillsides of Olympus, some part of her brain still found time to gape at the architecture. It was the best sight she had seen since leaving camp for her quest, and the architect in her desperately wished she had time to stop and sketch some of the gilded terraces and white-columned mansions.
But she had no time. She kept on sprinting, the backpack containing the Master Bolt heavy on her back and her thighs burning.
Finally, Annabeth made it to the biggest palace of them all, making her way up the steps, through the central courtyard, and towards the honestly magnificent throne room, made of white marble and shining gold and towering columns that scraped the heavens.
As she skidded to a stop before the Olympic Council, she was already holding aloft the bag that contained the Master Bolt, mouth already opening to proclaim that she'd done it, she was returning it, there would be no war, she had completed her quest—
"You are late, daughter of Athena. Do you care to explain yourself?"
Annabeth felt her heart, as if it were Celestial Bronze and not flesh and blood, sink through her chest, down, down past her feet and to the bottom of the Empire State Building.
As the gods stared at her, her skin prickling with the intensity of their gazes, she wished she could join it.
Annabeth had run out of time.
Months after the fact, Annabeth Chase told her cabin that she had no idea how she had averted war.
A necessary lie. One she told to preserve her pride, to make herself look clever and quick on her feet and wise to overawed younger siblings when she spoke of her grand quest to save the world and deliver Zeus's Master Bolt back to Olympus. She needed to be a model of their mother, after all, a good counselor that they could follow.
In reality, she knew perfectly well what had happened: A combination of a demigod assuaging Zeus's pride by deferring to him very publicly as they returned his Master Bolt, her clearly desperate state as she ran in just five minutes late, and some fast talking combined with diplomacy from Demeter, Hermes, and Athena, had prevented the third world war.
Annabeth wasn't quite sure she believed in luck, but if it existed, she had been given plenty by the Fates that day.
Poseidon, much to Annabeth's barely hidden displeasure, had seemed almost disappointed with the lack of a war, sullenly agreeing with the peace-makers at the end of it. Or maybe it had just been being forced to agree with Annabeth's mother. Remembering what Chiron had told her about the gods' telepathy, she had tried really, really hard to not think of Perseus Jackson when trying to figure out why he was so reluctant to sue for peace .
If the upset glare she received at the end of the meeting as the gods disappeared was any indication, Annabeth needed to improve her mental discipline.
Her mother had briefly spoken to her afterward, something that normally would have had Annabeth over the moon with barely-contained joy for weeks. She had said that she was proud of how far Annabeth would come, and that she loved her.
Annabeth knew the truth. She had failed. It was because her mother's merits that there would be no war, not because of Annabeth's own.
She needed to do better. To be better.
It was a great coincidence then, when she got her second chance a few months later, thanks to their new activities director.
"Hello, brats."
Tantalus. Every spirit and every dead criminal out there, and it was Tantalus.
"Another delicious meal this evening, which looks just as delicious as all of you," Tantalus didn't bother to restrain his sneer as he spoke, nor the fractured, hungry look in his eyes. "I wish to make an important announcement of a brilliant idea I've had this afternoon—"
Lee Fletcher was not cautious of it. "That you're finally canceling the chariot races before someone finally gets killed? The hospital wing's full thanks to that crash today."
Annabeth willed herself to keep a blank face even as her siblings began to mutter around her. The re-institution of the chariot races had only resulted in renewed hatred for the Ares cabin, fair or not, and an uptick in injuries that had broken Malcolm's spreadsheets.
"You will regret that, Liam Flinkert," Mr. D called out lazily, watching Tantalus with a cold, entertained glint in his eye, "Stables duties for you and your cabin for the next week, I think. Don't disrespect the activities director."
Tantalus smiled at the god, smarmy enough to make Annabeth feel like she needed a shower. "Thank you, my Lord Dionysus. It is a great tragedy, what has happened to the tree that protects this. . .special place you live in. It wouldn't do to let too many of you die, I've been informed. Not if I wish to eat again."
As much as she hated that Chiron was gone, as furious as she was that Mr. D had picked the most loathsome candidate possible in the man who had tried to serve the gods his own children, as much as she wanted to personally drop Tantalus back into the Fields of Punishment, she had a duty to her cabin.
She had to present a united front to her cabin with the person who had threatened to kill them all just last night.
She mustn't punch the activities director in front of her cabin.
Gods, she hated Mr. D sometimes.
"We couldn't possibly cancel the chariot races that have brought so much joy to this summer camp, so instead I have instituted a quest to retrieve the Golden Fleece, which will be lead by the winner of the last chariot race, who proved her mettle against the bronze bulls just yesterday: Clarisse, daughter of Ares, god of war!"
The Ares cabin jumped to their feet, and began to cheer wildly while Cabin Nine began to mutter, with Jake and Nyssa shooting dark looks in a shocked Clarisse's direction as she was beckoned to the front by Tantalus.
A logical consequence, considering Beckendorf had defeated the bronze bulls, with Clarisse's help. While he lacked the rare ability among the children of Hephaestus to create fire himself, he certainly didn't burn, and had been able to piece together a weapon to kill the monsters before too many of the more flammable cabins burned down. He had yet to receive so much as a mention from Mr. D or Tantalus.
There was nothing, of course, that Annabeth could say. Clarisse barely tolerated her on a good day, she wasn't close with Silena or Beckendorf, and with Grover gone to find Pan, she had no people she could truly confide in left.
"I will allow our champion to consult the Oracle! And, in the meantime, I do not recommend showing too much disloyalty towards your champion. Ungrateful, rebellious children have a habit of meeting nasty ends in places haunted by. . .dishonored kings. Ones waiting for revenge."
Malcolm glowered at Tantalus. Annabeth bit down on her lip so hard she drew blood.
Don't disrespect the activities director.
Clarisse La Rue was one of the few who knew just how unauthorized Annabeth's quest for the Master Bolt had been, how close she and Grover had come to dying along the way.
It helped that she wasn't a fan of their new activities director either.
As such, it wasn't too hard for Annabeth to persuade her to adhere to the Rule of Three for a proper quest, and take two companions with her into the Sea of Monsters—secondary, of course, to Clarisse's own role, Annabeth reassured everyone who asked her. But best not to tempt the Fates, especially when they were already losing Thalia's tree to a not-so-mysterious enemy.
But Olympus had declared the matter of the lightning thief and their betrayal closed. The quest and prophecy had worked, after all. End of the world temporarily averted. Luke's sudden disappearance from camp for "college" had nothing to do with anything.
Annabeth couldn't bring herself to outright lie past leaving out his name, and when no one pressed her on it, she had found herself. . .staying quiet. ("You shall lose what matters most, in the end.")
She knew she should say. She knew that Chiron worried over who would decide to steal the Master Bolt, and had his own suspicions. But it was Luke. Annabeth knew him better than anyone who wasn't a tree, and she knew he would never turn. . evil. Gods, what a trite term.
But he wouldn't. He couldn't. He was better than that.
And Luke hadn't yet put the camp in danger. And Annabeth didn't have to fight him when she returned the bolt.
She let the shame hide in the back of her head and kept moving.
In contrast to her first desperate quest—and Di Immortales, Annabeth wished she could go back and shake her younger self over her dream of seeing the real world—the Golden Fleece quest was nearly everything Annabeth once could have dreamed of. Saving the camp and accomplishing a feat done only by a collection of the greatest heroes of antiquity? Sign her up.
Of her two companions, Silena was now the rare child of Aphrodite to become a hero in the eyes of the camp, after defeating Circe and helping to free Grover from Polyphemus, while Clarisse had received a new electric spear to replace her old one from her father, as a symbol of his pride in her leading them through the Sea of Monsters without dying.
And Annabeth. . .Annabeth had been able to face an uncomfortable truth.
"Well, some unplanned dinner entertainment," Mr. D drawled. Annabeth jumped at the unexpected voice and whipped her head around to see Mr. D and the entire dining hall staring at them all through an Iris Message. "Thank you for that, Sarah Badeaux."
The sense of ugly betrayal that coursed through Annabeth when she realized what Silena had done was followed quickly by stomach-curdling shame.
"You heard what Luke said, Mister D," Silena said. Her voice wavered with exhaustion and her hands trembled a little around her sword, but having the presence of mind to call Mr. D spoke volumes. "He poisoned the tree, tried to kill us during the quest, and is siding with Kronos. Right, Annabeth?"
Her blue eyes were piercing as she looked at Annabeth, and she fought the urge to shift like a guilty child at the uncomfortable understanding in them.
Instead, she mutely nodded in agreement. Mr. D sighed and looked vaguely annoyed at all the drama.
Luke scoffed. "So I had the guts to poison the tree. I have sided with Lord Kronos to destroy Olympus. You've known all this, Beauregard, and now the camp knows. What about it?"
"Because someone else is finally looking at you, I think." Silena, daughter of Aphrodite—and gods, Annabeth would never mock the goddess of love or her children again—threw a significant look in Annabeth's direction; on her part, Annabeth felt like the shame and betrayal would burn her alive from the inside out.
She hadn't let herself think through the implications of poisoning the tree, much less if Luke had been the one to do it.
How could he do that? After everything?
"You poisoned Thalia's tree," she said quietly, because if she let herself be any louder, she would scream and curse. "You tried to kill it and her, after. . .after stealing the Master Bolt from Zeus. I wouldn't call that guts."
Mr. D clucked his tongue in the background. "Well now, Landon. You have been naughty."
Luke ignored him. He was truly looking at Annabeth for the first time since she and Silena had come aboard the Princess Andromeda. He took a step forward, hands raised, and Annabeth stepped back, raising her knife on instinct.
Luke paled. "Annabeth. You know why I did it. After everything, I had to do it."
Try and kill Thalia, Annabeth thought wildly, feeling like the ground was falling away from beneath her feet. He had tried to kill what was left of Thalia.
"No, I don't. I don't know you, Luke."
She didn't recognize the son of Hermes in front of her. Or maybe she recognized him too well for the first time in years.
When they returned to camp, she told her cabin that her only regret was that she hadn't gotten a chance to punch the activities director on his way out.
A newly-reinstated Chiron watched this with an unreadable look before holding her back at the end of the debriefing in the Big House.
"Annabeth, about young Luke—"
Annabeth quick to make sure she left herself no room for excuses. "I know, Chiron. I know he's gone, that he tried to destroy camp—"
"Annabeth—"
"—that I should've told someone ages ago, that I was foolish, and thought that I knew what he would do, I—" Annabeth broke off, her voice failing her. Her eyes weren't burning with tears, but Annabeth almost wished they were as she stared at the ground.
She knew what was coming. Demotion, possibly informing the gods, and Di Immortales, Annabeth didn't want to think of what came next. She had been so stupid. Her, the daughter of Wisdom.
"Annabeth Chase," Chiron said, his voice stern and sharp, "You know what has been done. You know the consequences. I do not see what my reminding you of them would accomplish. I wished to tell you that I am sorry that you were forced to go through with it."
Annabeth stopped. "What?"
She dared to look at Chiron for the first time that meeting, and her jaw dropped without her permission at the pity she found there. "But Chiron, I—"
"Yes. And you and your cabin have kitchen duty for the foreseeable future because of it, and I am promoting Malcolm to be head counselor alongside you," Chiron said firmly, "But when the camp was in danger, you did what was needed. I know what Luke has meant to you. And I am sorry."
It all didn't make sense. Annabeth shook her head, feeling like the world had been tilted without her permission. "I shouldn't be trusted at all. I should be demoted, at minimum, Chiron. Gods know what Luke was able to get away with because I—"
"Luke did not get away with anything," Chiron's voice brooked no argument, "He took advantage of being your dearest friend from a very young age, and you managed it as best as you could. For all of your material intelligence, you are still a child at thirteen years, Annabeth."
"I'm a daughter of Athena. I'm meant to be better than that. I should have known that he was gone and done something," Annabeth said miserably. For all that she knew deep down that Chiron was right, that Luke had very likely known exactly how reluctant she would be to give up on him—because that's what turning him into Olympus would have been—there was still a dark, calculating voice in her mind reminding her that she should have known.
No friendship lasted forever. And she was finally growing up.
"Child, we all think that it is easy to do what is right, that good is always kind and true, and all evil dresses in black and eats its own children."
"Yes, but—"
"It is much harder to know what to do when the people we respect and love do monstrous things," Chiron said gently, "Believe me when I say it speaks volumes of your courage and compassion that you believed the best in Luke, and did what was necessary when he failed you."
Finally, with great reluctance, Annabeth nodded. She slumped in her chair and let herself uncoil enough to stare off into space.
She no longer felt afraid. Just very tired. Of the guilt and betrayal. Of the gods-damned quests.
". . .Does it get easier?" she asked, pleading.
She almost asked him to lie to her.
Chiron looked at her with every single one of his years spent watching demigods in his face. "I think you know the answer."
"Chiron, Annabeth, come quick!"
"Grover. What happened?"
"It's the tree, the fleece, it. . .it's Thalia."
A/N: *Best Eddie Murphy From Mulan Impression* I LIVE!
Hi, y'all. I was given a magnificently shitty case of COVID-19 by my roommate this fine college term, and after surviving both fall term and COVID, I return with some updates you'll hopefully like. This red-headed step-child, also known as The Annabeth Character Study Absolutely No One Asked For, is completely written, so I'll have the second half up in a couple days. Until then, take care, wear the damn mask, tell me what you think if you wish, and I'll see y'all on the flip side.
(And, yes, I watched the original Mulan a lot while I was sick)
(Also after this story, I have a half-written one-shot of Percy Company defeating Apophis to finish. And THEN we finally get the story everyone has been patiently waiting for. Love y'all)
Oh, and LASTLY, someone wonderful got inspired and wrote a story with a similar premise to this 'verse, which I completely recommend checking out: Raising (Percy) Kane by lubelle321. It's lovely and has a lot of messy family issues and has also gotten to the fun part of this crossover.
