For those of you who were wondering, yes I am going to be continuing this. I have much planned.
Thank you for the comments on the last chapter.
Percy POV
3 years later...
Up the side of the wall. Through the window. On the rafters.
Peering up the long wall, I adjusted the edge of the leather strap running diagonally across my chest as I reached up to grope the old mortar for handholds. Storm drainpipes and clefts in the crumbling brick became my guide upward as I repeated the three steps to Part 1 of my mission.
Up the side of the wall. Through the window. On the rafters.
Even with the dark colors of my work clothes, I was grateful for the shadows acting as a personal shield against prying eyes. Otherwise, anyone taking an unorthodox stroll near the old warehouses, or peeping out a window from the building complexes across the street, might've been under the impression that a giant, human-sized spider was scaling the side of the warehouse. But, with the moon hidden behind clouds, there was nothing to obscure my tactic of stealth as I took the wall one handhold at a time.
Making it up to the top window was easier than I expected. Climbing things, in general, was not uncommon in my line of work. But with so many windows facing my direction, the paranoia of being spotted was as thick as the storm clouds keeping me in shadow. But the sound of alarm never came, and with my legs planted and my right arm holding me still, I pushed on the window to slide the pane up, then pulled myself inside. As soon as my foot connected to solid structure, I did a final skeptical glance of left, right, up, and down, before sliding the window shut again.
Up the side of the wall. Through the window. On the rafters.
The rafters were just above.
Below, foot-steps clucked tightly against the floor.
I paused to inhale a few times, then jumped and pulled myself up, crouched low on the rafter beams, and watched as the first watch-guard turned the corner.
Part 1 - complete. Step 2: Get to the center of the room. Get Intel. Figure out a plan.
The watch-guard strode across the aisle of packaged boxes, shuffling his gun lightly from hand-to-hand as he made a lazy show of searching for oddities. When nothing filled his standards, he quickened his pace and was turning a bend a small moment later. Standing up, I followed him from the rafters, holding my steps lightly. The softest of scruff noises came off my feet, so much that even I could barely hear them.
I needed to practice my footwork.
Fortunately, the guard wasn't as perceptive. I followed him along the perimeter for several seconds, before breaking off on an intersection and followed a beam to the center of the warehouse. With one hand holding steady on the support-bar, I crouched down and stared at the gang directly below me.
Step 2: Get to the center of the room - check. Next: Get Intel.
There was a total of 6 member's participating in the exchange, but that was excluding the two guards watching the perimeter. Based on what was in their hands and the bulges in their clothing, every single one of them was equipped with, at least, one firearm. Out of the 6-clumped group, two stood out predominantly as the leaders.
One was tall, thick, and strung high with muscle. He stood at an intimidating height of nearly 6' ft. tall, barely over the height of his three comrades, donning the typical sleeveless motorcycle jacket of the Bloody Skull gang with the picture of a bloodied human skull impaled on a spike printed on the back. I guessed he was the leader by the way the other two similarly dressed members kept protectively to his side, fingers ghosting over the hilts of their guns as their eyes went seeking out trouble.
The second leader was smaller, with noodle-looking arms beneath a tweed jacket and freshly-ironed khaki pants, while confident in expression, looked extremely out of place among the group. But the two acting guards behind him made up for it with towering heights of 7 ft., and legs carved from concrete and arms sewn up with bowling balls. They were not shy with the heavy assault rifles sitting at ease in their arms.
Shifting my weight, I leaned farther back by the support beam, keeping a healthy distance from any light. I didn't need to see through the mist to know that those two were Cyclops. Anything that big, that tall, and that ugly couldn't be human. Which was odd. Monsters weren't exactly known for staying out of human affairs, in fact, they happened to like selling things to mortals - dangerous explosives, water-beds, drugs, donuts, weapons, cheese n' wieners - but Cyclops tended to lure their dinner in by mimicking voices. Or simply conking their prey on the head with a club, they weren't too picky. The last time I've ever actually seen one act as some sort of bodyguard was years ago at Goode High.
But I didn't think it was meant to dig out any demigods this time. If it was a Cyclops, they were definitely getting some kind of pay out of it. I pushed those thoughts aside, for now, and tuned my ears to the conversation.
"-bring the supply?" the small leader was saying.
The leader of the Bloody Skulls glanced idly at his comrades, languid and jeering, and just out of reach of an eye-roll. "Depends on whether or not you have the loot," he said, shrugging his arms over his chest with quirking lips.
The small leader did roll his eyes, including with it a soft huff, as if irritated. "Yes, yes" he waved his hand impatiently, "you will get your money. Now, as for the herbicides..."
"Let's see the case first."
The small man huffed again, louder this time, but gestured restively to one of the Cyclops bodyguards'. The briefcase on the ground was then tossed at the feet of the gang leader. With eyes steady on the meaty bodyguard, the gang leader nodded to one of his own goons who then reached into his pocket, and a moment later something flashed in the light. The goon tossed the key to the small leader, who caught it easily in one hand.
"All packed up and ready in the truck out back," he said, gesturing for his other gang-brother to take the briefcase. "There shouldn't be problems with the packing. Everything's in there, as requested."
The small leader nodded, finally looking close to relieved. "Then we'll be on our way," was all he said, before turning and striding toward the back exit. But as he passed, he sent his guards a small nod. Large, feral smiles grew on the Cyclops's face as they licked their lips, eyes brightening. Whereas, from across the room the gang leader shouted indignantly.
"What the hell kind of scam are you tryin' to pull?" he demanded, throwing the briefcase back on the ground and sending stacks of striped paper scattering across the floor. The small leader didn't turn as he said, "My bodyguards are hungry. You'll see to their dinner tonight."
It wasn't a request.
Before the gang leader could demand what he meant, the two Cyclops thundered forward, guns morphing into giant clubs before my eyes. The gang must've seen something different, as their eyes bugged and they cursed, backing up while drawing their own firearms.
The Cyclops laughed.
Part 2: Get intel. Check. Come up with a plan.
Plan will be Part 3: Kill Everyone – starting now.
I grabbed the hilt of the sword over my shoulder while simultaneously dropped down from the beam, right as the first Cyclops aligned below me. The sword sunk deep into the monster's skull, and with all my strength and weight, I pushed downward and continued my descent to the ground. The sword cut through the thick hide of the monster, slicing open its face, throat, chest, and belly, before I landed in a tuck and roll, pulling the blade from the monsters packed frame, and stopped on one knee in front of the gang leader. The Cyclops was gone and replaced with a pile of dust.
Silence hung over the warehouse. I didn't pause to say hi, or compliment their weapon choice. Whirling around, I lunged for the second Cyclops, bracing myself for the barrage of force I knew was coming.
Murderer! The voices exploded in my head, filling in like gas from a pump. You kill the Cyclops? You inflict pain on a hungry creature? Murderer! MURDERER!
The second Cyclops stumbled back at my strike, confusion rapidly building into rage as he bellowed and charged me with his club. The voices shrieked at me as I raised my sword to defend myself. I sidestepped the club, slashing at the monstrous arm right as the weapon was raised again and plunged for my head. I jumped back, scowling when the heavy club cracked the floor centimeters from my toes, and lunged forward, sweeping my sword in a wide, strong arc at the monster's hand. The club thumped to the floor, a giant meaty fist still clutching the shaft, as the Cyclops wailed and pulled his snubbed arm close to his chest.
Look at the pain you inflict! The voices seethed. Look at what you've done! YOU MONSTER! How dare you!
They shoved and elbowed my thoughts for a chance up front, but I pushed back stubbornly by shooting forward with a yell and plunging my sword deep into the gut of the Cyclops, grim satisfaction pulling up my lips when the voices wailed in reproach. My sword was freed from the body as the monster disintegrated into piles of dust, mingling in with the dust cluster of his pal.
The voices wailed and screamed at me, spitting obscene words like acid. The weight of their tone filled my head, pushing my satisfaction away to make room for an ache rooting deep in my temples. I grimaced, knowing full and well I would have a terrible headache tonight.
Guns clicked at my back. "WHAT the shit!"
I turned, staring down the black barrel of a gun. The gang leader looked so rattled I wondered what he was seeing through the mist. A random hooligan beating two guys to death with a golf club? A thug with a musket that belonged in the World War I era? I didn't know, but they looked like they would happily beat me to death with a golf club. I stood up slowly, keeping the point of my sword down so the guy knew I wasn't going to attack...yet. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to know much about swordsman etiquette.
"Drop the gun!" he ordered. I eyed him, then the goons at his sides, both similarly stanced with a gun in hand. They were only mortals. I didn't usually kill them on these missions. Didn't usually have to.
They're easily immobilized.
I let my sword slip from my hand, and then slowly held them up. The gang didn't relax, one of them stepped forward to kick my sword farther away. I winced as it skittered across the ground, but because of the metal mask obstructing my face, I had a feeling the flinch went unnoticed.
Well... the orders were to kill everyone involved.
Who are you?" The gang leader demanded. When I didn't answer right away, the grip on the gun tightened and he stepped forward voice raising. "WHO are you?"
Kill him. Kill him. He is a mortal. Kill him. The voices whispered. I struggled to keep my fingers from moving, irritated to no longer have a weapon to hold. It was always so much easier to focus with my sword. It was an anchor. Without it, my senses slowly became aware, and when that happened, things usually ended up water-logged.
I grit my teeth, skin itching irritably where my empty hand was.
"WHO ARE YOU?"
My jaw clenched, but I stood up straighter as if we were all just a group of gentlemen prepared to talk it out. I held my hands out to convey some sort of trustworthiness, but my black gloves seemed to shine almost ominously in the lights.
"Now, I know is a little inconvenient, but," I grabbed the gun of the closest guy, twisting it to the side just as the trigger was pulled so the bullet hit the goon across us. Whirling around, I knocked the other guy's gun away with my wrist while pulling the leader in front of me and shoving him at his lackey – both hit the floor in a piled heap.
The goon I shot was holding his side with one hand, but with the other, he had his gun aimed at my chest. "Motherfu-"
"Watch that language, young man!" I gasped, diving for my sword. "Let's keep it PG, yeah?" Bullets chased after my heels when I rolled back up on my feet. Coming up by him, I swung my sword in a quick arch toward his head, instinctively, the guy cringed and raised his gun hand over his head to "protect" himself, but ended up yelping in a very unmanly way when the sword passed through him. I wondered, again, what he was seeing through the mist. Did I just look incompetent? Did I simply miss? Either way, the fact that celestial bronze couldn't harm mortals really just put a damper on my plans.
He went to aim the gun nozzle back over my chest, but I tossed my sword into the other hand and thrust up with an open palm. The bottom of my hand connected with the guy's nose, earning myself a loud CRACK as the guys head kicked back. He didn't fall, I could credit him that much. Almost instantly, though, he doubled over cradling his nose as blood seeped between his fingers, almost as bad as it was coming from his side. Before he could attempt to re-orient himself, I dropped to my hands and swept his legs out from under him. When his head collided with the floor, I knew he was out.
Before I could do any happy dance, a pair of strong hands were grabbing my arms and wrenching them back. Wasting no time, the gang leader hit me with a punch in the jaw, then a sock in the gut, then in the jaw again. Before he could go for a fourth hit, I leaned back into the arms of the guy holding me and kicked the leader in the chest, landing safely on the goon when the force caused the both of us to tumble. With the wind knocked out of him, I rolled out of his unlovingly tough embrace and snatched the gun dropped by the unconscious lackey nearby. The goon looked up to the barrel of a gun.
BANG!
And that was one less mortal to worry about.
I turned to the gang leader just as another shot exploded in the warehouse. I barely managed to twist to the side, but the bullet grazed past my shoulder nonetheless. Grunting, I aligned my own shot.
BANG!
A bodily thump followed. I looked down at the unconscious goon on the floor, blood now caked his lips and jaw due to the nosebleed, while a puddle of it also stained the floor from the shot-wound. Hissing sympathetically, I strode over to him. The gun nozzle centered over his heart.
YES! Kill him! Kill him! He is nothing! He is insignificant! Kill him!
"I'm not killing him because he's a mortal," I hissed at the voices, clenching the gun hilt. "My orders were no survivors. That's all!"
KILL HIM! KILL HIM! Do it! Finish him off!
Teeth gritting, I knelt down next to the unconscious guy. "Well," I told him, putting the tip to his head. "at least your's didn't wake up a goddess."
BANG!
I brushed my pants off as I got back up, just as the two other watch-guards turned the corner.
"Oh, so now you decide to join us," I accused and aimed the gun again.
By the time I made it outside, the van and small leader were long gone.
"Di immortals!" I cursed, shoving my sword back in its sheath on my back. I crouched with a huff near the ground where black tire marks scorched the asphalt where the van had taken off. "Γιος ενός κομματιού μινωταύρου κοπριάς!"
The guy probably heard the commotion in the warehouse and split as fast as he could. If I hadn't wasted so much time on that gang, I probably could've gotten here sooner.
What did that guy want with herbicides anyway? The common gardener didn't usually buy it from gangs or have Cyclop guards at their disposal. Well, unless they had incredibly destructive, mutant, killer weeds in their garden. With a sigh, I got back to my feet. Off in the distant, and rapidly getting closer, sirens were wailing. Someone probably heard the shots from the warehouse and called the authorities, which meant it was time for me to leave too.
There was nothing for me in the warehouse, so I instead strode across the cement and ducked behind a low alleyway to grab a duffel hidden beneath a pile of garbage bags. I took out a thick hoodie, as I pulled my mask off and unhooked the leather strap that held the sheath to my back and settled both into the bag. The sirens were closer. As soon as I pulled on the hoodie and the duffel was swung over my shoulder, I stood up and peaked out of the alley. It was still cloudy out, just as dark as before, aside from a small building complex across the street where an anxious face was casting yellow light on the sidewalk, as they peaked out pass their curtains, eyes trained on the warehouse.
There was the tattle-tell.
Ah, but that didn't matter. I finished the job. There would be no more killing by my hands tonight. Hefting the duffel bag, I pulled the hood down over my face and made sure to duck into the shadows as I walked out of the alleyway, sticking as close to the wall as I could without hugging it. Thankfully, the tattle was too concerned with the distant sound of the authorities to pay much attention to the alley far up the road.
But even so, I didn't want to be close by when the police arrived. I turned the street as soon as I could, and didn't look back. I kept a leisure pace two blocks up before stopping by the garage where I stashed my motorcycle. By now the cops had probably swarmed the scene and would start looking for abnormal activity, so I made quick work of hooking the duffel to the back, before swinging over the seat and starting up the engine.
By the time I was driving through the streets, the police sirens were nothing but background noise. Soon enough, I found myself back into the more populated streets of the city as I drove through its heart. There was nothing the authorities could link to bring me to their attention - I was in the clear.
But even if I was safe from the mortal authorities, that did little to ease the tension in my shoulders. If I was out in the open, that meant I was being watched. I was always being watched. The sooner I got back to my seclusion, the better. The traffic light flashed red in front of me, and I eased into a stop with my fellow drivers. My fingers tapped impatiently on the handlebars as I counted the seconds of the red light, finding dull comfort in the rumbling purr of the engine beneath me. I got to 12 seconds when the clouds above suddenly parted to make room for the moon. The lights of the city made up for its lack of show and easily overpowered any light it cast, but that did little to stop the rays from becoming a prickling weight on my back. Moonbeams stared inquisitively at me from the sheen of metal on the car in front of me, and glared off the car next to me, and burned into the back of my head, and I scowled. I could practically feel eyes staring holes into my very soul.
The light turned green and I wasted no time in pushing off down the street, fingers gripping the handles.
The moon kept watch on me all the while.
I slammed the door to my apartment shut and dropped the duffel on the cool hardwood floor. Stomping past the small entry, I quickly shed my layers of clothing on the ground, stopping just bare of my underwear, but even then I contemplated losing those too. My skin burned, and itched, and flashed with aches and pains. As predicted, my head throbbed from the earlier exertion of the voices. Grimacing, I stopped short of the doorway to the kitchen to lean against its frame and ran a hand roughly over my neck, cringing when it felt like rubbing rough sandpaper over an open wound. A patch of scars had opened on my left leg and abdomen and was now leaking blood onto the floor, while trails of green poison were slowly climbing their way past my palm and up my arm. Was the probably the Pit Scorpion venom again. But as much as a nuisance it was, I forced myself to step forward and into the kitchen when the first rumbling pangs of hunger griped at me from the stomach.
Fingers twitching, I yanked the door to fridge open and did a quick glance over. Leftover take-out boxes and containers greeted me. Interested, I took out the box of left-over pizza and a glass plate to heat it up on. But as I went to put it in the microwave, a fiery cascade of raw pain erupted in my hand and I immediately dropped the plate to clutch my fingers to my chest with a gasp. The skin was hot to the touch and already forming pockets up puss-blisters that bubbled to the surface and popped; the tips of my fingers were pink but rapidly moving to red. With a bloodied curse on my lips, I lunged for the sink, twisted the cold-knob, and thrust my hand under the water. The touch was instantly soothing. I sighed, muscles relaxing on their own accord as I all but slumped against the counter, keeping my weight up only with the barest of strength from my legs and elbows. Pressing skin so close to another surface made it flare up in irritation, and the cuts on my abdomen bled faster, but I ignored it for the comfort of my hand.
At least it didn't happen while I was out on the job.
I managed to keep my position for several more minutes before the pain grew too much for even the filtered city water to handle. I stayed put for just a little longer, before biting my lip and turning the water off. Like flicking on a switch, the pain licked back up my hand like a fiery, sandpaper tongue. Holding it to my stomach, I hurried to my room and into the master bath, where I kicked open the cabinet and brought out the medical kit stored beneath the sink. With my poisoned hand, I opened the box and pulled out a container of burn gel and gauze. By now, the skin had sweltered to a red, most beginning to char black; the smell of burning flesh was strong in the little space. I opened the container with my mouth and spread of big glob over the festering flesh. It did little to soothe the pain.
Even so, I continued adding it layer after layer till most was gone, before wrapping it securely with the gauze. Once finished, I sat back against the glass shower shakily, tipping my head back to rest on the surface, with my wrapped hand pressed close to my chest. The burning had spread up my shoulder but stopped short of my collarbone. But that was just one piece of my otherwise jigsawed body. Somewhere in my chest, it felt like a rod of hot iron was forcing a path through my ribs, while in my palm the scorpion venom was making steady progress through my veins. To be honest, I was surprised I hadn't gone under yet. It didn't usually take long for the pain to completely zonk me out. Maybe I was getting used to it.
How depressing.
Past the flaring abnormalities of my current wounds, I could feel the regular prickling, itching, rash-like burn of my skin, mostly where it was in contact with the floor and glass wall. I took deep breaths to try and ease my rapid heart.
A small wave of exhaustion swept me and I closed my eyes, unable to help but wonder what this one had been about. A telkine burnt to death in St. Helens volcano? Or maybe a monster fatally injured in the explosion aboard the Princess Andromeda. I wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it had certainly been fire-related - or at least something extremely hot. Speaking of injured, I was going to have to restock on medical supplies soon. Mortal medication hardly worked, but it was all I had left to work with. It helped soothe some of the aches and bumps, I guess...sometimes.
Opening my eyes, I stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes to gather enough strength to get up. The box of medical supplies had spilled a little off the counter in my rush, and with a sigh, I shakily scooped up the extra gauzes and bandages and put them back where they belonged. I closed the box and nudged the cabinet doors wider. But before I put it back, my eyes went to the wall above the sink, where I always looked when I entered the bathroom. The wall was blank, absent from the mirror that was supposed to be there. Its remnants were probably in some dump by now from when I had thrown it out months ago. But even with it gone, I could still feel the bitter rush of the anger left when I thought back to when I first got the apartment. The fury and sorrow and self-hate branding me from the inside out as I slammed my fist into that mirror, letting it crack and break and fall apart. How, even after that, I had ripped it from its place and thrown it across the little bathroom to snap into pieces against the wall. There was still a nick in the paint where the edge had cut it.
Jaw clenching, I shoved the medical box back under the cabinet and quickly left the bathroom. After hobbling back into the kitchen, I picked the pizza up off the ground and stepped over the broken plate and I reached for a new one. I'd picked up the mess after I've eaten. Gingerly leaning against the counter, I cradled my bandaged hand as I waited for my dinner to warm. The pain hadn't ebbed any, but I was becoming accustomed to the raw, searing sensations rolling around under my skin. Staring at the wall, I tried to keep my mind off my condition. But the walls were gray and blank, with hardly a nick to catch my eye. It was like staring at the sun and waiting for it to rain; unlikely and pointless. Sighing, I glanced down at the counter and instantly found something to occupy my mind.
The picture was worn, weathered, and curling in on itself from age, and half hidden beneath a bill I tossed on the counter this morning. I almost forgot I had left it there, but scowled – it was supposed to be in my room. I brought the picture out in the open, unable to keep my eyes off it now that it was found. While the colors were faded, I could see the image as clearly as the day I had first gotten it. It was from the time Annabeth had taken a vacation to Washington D.C. She was standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial, with her arms folded proudly across her chest, curly blonde hair pulled back with a bandanna, and a bright, pleased smile lighting up her face. She looked younger, probably around 14 back then.
I was smiling before I knew it, recalling the way her eyes always lit up when she talked about architecture. Never understood a thing she said, but it was worth it to see somewhat of a childish, hyperactive excitement in her that most people weren't lucky enough to witness. It reminded me at times, that she may be smarter than everyone, but she was still a hyperactive kid with ADHD, just like the rest of us. But even as blooms of affection and love reopened, along with it came the thorny spikes of remorse and longing. How long has it been since I've seen her? How was she holding up? Has she moved on yet...
I softly set the picture back down, hugging my stomach pitifully as I turned away. Sometimes I wonder why I even brought the picture. All it ever does is make it hurt worse, and gives me remorse, and pain, and big, gaping hole in my chest that never went away. I could say it was also because it gave me determination and strength, and enough remaining sanity to go on, instead of wallowing in self-deprecating pity for the rest of my known life.
But, honestly, I just loved looking at her smile.
The microwave beeped, and I snapped back around, leaving my thoughts in whiplash. The aroma of melted cheese and pepperoni peaked the interest of my stomach again, and I quickly brought my meal back out. But when I closed the microwave, through the tinted glass I could make out a face. A marred face. Layered with overlapping scars and bumps and open gashes. Limp, stringy tufts of black hair leaned weakly over my forehead, with hardly enough energy to look healthy, no matter how many times I washed and cared for it. I looked into darkened eyes, one squinted from the giant bump swollen just above the eyelid, and the other twitching obnoxious as if juiced with adrenaline. I stared into those eyes for 1...2...3...5..7 seconds before I had to look away. My eyes fell down, where they landed on my hands. One wrapped in a gauze and the other textured with scars and colored black and green from the poison lingering there. My hands clenched, and I took a deep breath.
There was a reason I can't go back, and it was as loud and clear as every bump or cut lacerating my skin. I was no longer fit for Camp Half-Blood. I was no longer fit for Annabeth.
I have a job to finish.
Notes:
This is not a Camp-and-company-abandoning-and-betraying-Percy fic. There is more to it than that.
Thanks for reading. Updates coming.
Γιος ενός κομματιού μινωταύρου κοπριάς: Son of a piece of minotaur dung! (used google translate - do not trust my Greek words)
