Outcast
A PJO Fanfic
Chapter One: Insomnia
Three months ago
New York
"Hey, get up." This is what I wake up to this morning, at too early AM. "Yo, you not hear me asshole, I said get up." I grunt with pain as I'm kicked in the side. I get up slowly, still groggy from just being rudely awoken, balling some coins in my right fist, in case of trouble. It's Marcus. Marcus is a 'homeboy' drug dealer, smokes way too much pot. He says I'm invading his turf, which is total bullshit. I'm just trying to find somewhere warm for the night.
"What do you want now?" I snap at him. I only found this place a few hours ago, and I need the sleep. Marcus looks angrily at me.
"What you doin', dawg. I told you already, you don't stay on my turf. I don't want no bums trashin' my hood." Marcus is the stereotypical black pothead, full of slang and shit in equal measures.
"That double negative you just said then means you've got no problem." I reply quickly. "Gee, thanks!" I say sarcastically, in a corny Texan accent. You might be wondering why I don't sound American. It's a long story. Marcus gets even angrier. He shoves me against the wall. It's a narrow alley we're in, perfect for getting trapped in. This is what Marcus is doing. He pulls something out of his jacket, and shoves it in my face.
"You listen motherfucker, and you listen good. I have had it with your shit. You trash my hood, you disrespect me. That's not on." I realise he's pointing a gun in my face, a silenced one.
"I thought you didn't like guns, Marcus." I state, trying not to sound nervous. I am, a little. It's not like I've never been in a potentially lethal situation before.
"Oh, so you've seen Mr .45." He talks about his gun like it's a person. See what I mean when I say he's a pothead? "Well Mr .45 says hi." Marcus starts waving the gun around like a maniac, completely ignoring my question. I take my chance, head-butting him before shoving against the opposite wall.
I grab the gun, and twist it against his finger. It snaps with a small crack. Marcus moans in pain before I knee him in the gut. He doubles over, but I heft him up and press him against the wall. I take the gun, and shove the barrel of it into his open mouth, and his eyes widen in surprise and fear.
"Listen you me you cock-sucking prick. You don't know who I am. You don't know what I've done. You don't know what I can do. So let's get this straight. No matter how big you think you are, how strong, how brave, I do not give a fuck." I say the last part right in his face, and he whimpers, struggling to break away from me. I jerk the gun up, and he stops moving, he just breathes slowly.
"I will beat you to death with your own balls, and then drink your blood from a boot." I'm lying about killing him. I'd just castrate him. Maybe. "Then I'll go home, fuck the prom queen and sleep like a baby. That's how cold I am, and do not think I am bull-shiting for one second, fuck-face." I think he's wet himself. I'm that good at being scary and mean and like a fairytale villain on steroids. I take the gun out of his mouth, grab his jacket with both hands and throw him to the floor. I raise the gun, and hold it with both hands.
"J-j-just don't hurt me man. I'll leave you alone I swear."
"Good." I turn to walk away, before suddenly turning back and waving the gun in the air, finger off the trigger. "You don't mind me keeping this, do you?" He shakes his head, sobbing quietly.
"Use it for as long as you need." He whimpers. I tuck the gun into the waistband of my trousers, and cover it with my jacket as I walk away.
My name is Grant Williams. I'm fifteen years old. I'm living on the streets of New York. You might be wondering why I don't live in CampHalf-Blood, I did, for a fair few years, in fact. But I made some choices, bad ones. Now I'm exiled, disowned by my father, Apollo. I've been left to live on my own, live my own life, outside of any godly support or help. For some reason, I've been left alone by monsters though. I always have. It still doesn't help me sleep. I haven't slept properly in weeks.
I walk down the street into a dingy café. It's not exactly a five-star six course meal, but it's hot, and it allows for a trip to the bathroom. The waitress who takes my order looks worn out, probably once a pretty girl, but now she seems faded away. She's probably looking after a few kids at home. I just hope none are demigods. I order a burger and a glass of water, and wait for my order.
My burger comes a few minutes later, in all its greasy glory. It's surprisingly good, but any hot food is good to me at the moment, although it could do with a little bit of tomato sauce. I eat my burger, and drink my water, before heading into the bathroom, leaving the money for the food and a small tip on the table.
The reason I say some things different is because I was conceived in America when my mum was on holiday, but I was born in England, where my dad, Apollo, never even sent a Christmas card. I take a piss, and return to my table, to make sure the waitress has been paid. There's a man in a wheelchair sitting there, but I know that's a disguise. He has thinning brown hair and bushy eyebrows, with an intense gaze in his brown eyes. He's got a beard, scruffier since I last saw it, and looks weary, like he's got the weight of the world.
"Hello Grant." Chiron greets me warmly, like a grandfather would a long lost descendant, "Take a seat."
A/N: Told you the next chapter would be here soon. I've decided to do short, punchy chapters, so the updates will be quicker. As you can tell, Grant's no Percy, but that's just what's needed for this story. I hope you liked this chapter, and please put in a review in that little box below this, for the good of destitute demigods like Grant. Thanks for reading.