I could start you off wherever I want to, it won't matter much at all, but I think I'd best bring you in on the evening Lysander and I first arrived at the Super Bowl.
Don't ask me who was playing or what the score was. I neither know nor care. I had other matters to attend to, like not falling off a speeding Pegasus.
I suppose a more traditional method would have been to buy a ticket, but my goal there was not to focus on the game, but rather its crowd.
'Stop!' I yelled over the blast of wind in my face. Lysander clearly heard me, as a second later I nearly toppled forwards over his head.
We were hovering over a stadium in Jacksonville, Florida (I believe it was called the Alltel Stadium), kilometres above an active game between the Whosits and the So-and-so's, too high to be spotted, but still very able to hear the non-distinct chants from the roaring crowd below.
This was not going to be easy.
I released my trembling hands from Lysander's neck and fumbled around the side of my belt, clipped on which was my boéthos. To most people it looks like a rusted old swiss army knife, but you learn to except that kind of deception when you're a demigod.
I clicked boéthos a few times out of pure instinct and the contraption became a custom telescope made from shiny Celestial Bronze. I felt like Captain Jack Sparrow twisting the end to adjust the lens on the device. Now all it had to do was scan the entire crowd until I found my target. Just a relaxing way to spend the afternoon, really.
How did monsters track us down so easily? I always found that so unfair about them. That and the idea that their souls can constantly regenerate, even if it sometimes takes centuries. Granted, we can go through rebirth too, but it's not quite the same.
Just and I was beginning the ponder questions about our existence and whether there was a finite number souls (not to mention the origin of these), the telescope automatically focused on the… um, right; are they umpires or referees in American Football? Wait, officials! That's it! My telescope focused on the official calling an… an end to the inning? Oh, I give up! He called time for a break! Which meant the crowd was about to begin shifting and I'd have to start all over again.
I never thought I'd say this, but thank Ares for the feather shooting birds.
Speaking of monsters tracking down demigods, that was the very next thing boéthos caught onto. My hand steered itself as a flock of five Ornis Areios swooped down from the sky and headed straight for a group of lads by one of the stadium exits. One of them was holding one of those giant hands with one finger pointing upwards (you know the sort, the ones that never draw any good attention to you) and he slammed it in front of one of the birds, just before the first downpour of arrow-like feathers.
I signalled for Lysander to do a nose dive. The Pegasus obeyed instantly and even knew to turns middair so I could attack the birds head on. The lads had by that point retreated into the stadium, as had the birds, so I timed when Lysander would hit the archway and jumped off just before. Boéthos became a long blade and slashed into a couple of the avian assailants.
The metallic clang came as a surprise to me, but it didn't matter. There was a perfectly good wall in the birds' trajectory for them to crumble to dust on impact.
'And that is how you kill two birds…' I got back on my feet and brandished my weapon 'with one sword!'
Okay, I know that was cheesy, but I can't help myself. I love a good one-liner. Or a bad one.
Clearly, I spoke too soon. I was aware of what these flying beast were and that a sword was not an ideal weapon to use against them. The next forty seconds were like swatting flies, something I was equally bad at. My sword missing every single swoop the birds made while I was repeatedly punctured from all angles. I'd hoped the lads were smart enough to realise I was causing a diversion from them to escape, but my burst of luck had thoroughly ran out.
'Guys, we better help this dude!' suggested one.
'No!' I snapped. 'Get out of here at once!'
'Hey, cool accent!' said the same one. Had I not been squinting I'd have rolled my eyes. Americans said to me so wearily often. I hoped that this one was not the true target. The bird he smashed his snow cone into didn't seem to care and smashed him away all the same.
There were two more in the group: one tall, lanky and light-skinned and the other shorter, broader due to muscle and with darker complexion and afro hair trimmed to perfection. If had to hazard a guess, I'd have gone with lanky man, as something about him just seem more… well, Greek.
Not that I could talk. I'm British.
The name's Basil, by the way. Basil H. Brigginshaw (the 'H' stands for Hamish). Please don't call me Brigginshaw, though. I reminds me too much of the ghastly school Uncle Albert found for me.
Don't get me wrong, I love my Uncle Albert and Aunt Gladys. They'd looked after me like on of their own ever since my parents disappeared. I merely question how much they know about education, given that both of them left after their O Levels. The school in question was Ilford Comprehensive, which by the way no longer exists. Had I not escaped when I did I might have gotten the blame for what those Lastrygonians did to the boiler room. Apparently blowing up schools is demigod's rite of passage. Good thing I was never going to be an Eton boy, then.
'Eaten,' on the other hand, could have described me on multiple situations over the years. Exciting s this tales may be, I decided to start you off with the seemingly mundane birds rescue mission due to whom I was there to rescue from them.
'Play some music!' I shouted in a daze. 'Anything loud and obnoxious! It'll scare them off!'
This is the tactic Heracles had used on the Stymphalian Birds as part of one of his twelve labours. All he'd had was a bell, so if my assumption was correct…
PEEEEEEEEEEW
The family sound of an airhorn sent the remaining birds into a fluttering frenzy. As quickly as they had come, the whoosh through the archway, past a confused Lysander and took to the skies. Moral of the story: If your minions are noise sensitive, don't send them to the Super Bowl.
And yes, I had every reason to believe the birds were sent by someone else. And they would be more dangerous foes on the way shortly. I knew I had to suss which lad was the demigod and get him to Camp Half-Blood immediately before –
Author's Note: I am discontinuing the Nelly Faraday fanfiction. It was a poorly executed, faulty and less inspired project than this one. Basil of Britain is my new focus in the Riordan Universe, so I hope you enjoy it. Let me know your thoughts, please, I'd be delighted to have your feedback. More of this, or Teddy Lupin soon!