AN: It's that time again, folks. I own nothing, not even a harpy that doesn't make prophesies.
Camp Life, Chapter Twelve
Divination Game/Home Front Apathy
The pain that used to wrack his body, so long ago, such a short time ago, is gone.
He likes that. Now he just seems to swim along in the blackness.
Why is he here, he wonders curiously.
He remembers the two men, the woman. Judging him, sentencing him.
He'd begged for mercy. Give me another chance, he'd said.
He had never done that before. He is a hero. Heroes don't beg.
But something- something tells him maybe he hasn't always been a hero.
Together Jacob and Nico manage to haul Rust out of the conning tower of U-479 and onto the ice. Danny is hovering over them frantically, and as soon as they set him down she swoops in.
"It's not just his-" she hesitates, "- his hand. He's slashed up here and here, on his torso."
She is fumbling for bandages and nectar and ambrosia in her pack. Rust is wheezing softly on the ground, eyes closed, his brow sweaty.
Drew is watching the ice under him turn red with a detached, glassy look, as though she can't quite accept the possibility of her boyfriend bleeding out on the ground in front of her.
"He needs a hospital," Lily whispers beside Drew, looking scared.
Jesse nods grimly. The son of Hermes is helping Amanda slide the hatch over the open hole leading into the submarine.
No-one is sure if skeletons, or whatever beat the shit out of Rust and cut his left hand off three inches before the elbow can climb ladders, and no-one wants to find out.
"He's gonna die," Laurel says quietly, eyes wide with shock. "There isn't a hospital for miles and miles. And we can't just flag down Apollo or something."
Nico hesitates. "Maybe," he murmurs, watching Danny frantically patching up the long lacerations on Rust's torso, "Maybe we have to go to a god . . ."
"I need something to cauterize the wound," Danny growls, still bent over Rust's body.
The group is silent staring at each other in shock. Except for Nico, no one can quite believe this is happening. The son of Hades is staring off at the horizon, muttering to himself.
"I saw a - a boiler down there, or a furnace or something like that," Drew says, her voice carefully neutral, "Um - if we heat a blade-"
"That would work," Danny snaps. "Go!"
Drew starts for the hatch. Jesse and Amanda and Laurel join her immediately, drawing their weapons.
"I have an idea," Nico says, to no-one in particular.
"Blood and fire," Ella chirps, "Seven half-bloods shall answer the call. Stacked like pancakes. Proxima Centauri is 1.34 parsecs from the sun."
"I like pancakes," says Connor thoughtfully.
Nyssa sighs. "I'm pretty sure that wasn't the important part of that sentence."
"No," agrees Connor, "The important part is, what kind of- "
"Shut up," says Butch pointedly.
Connor shuts up. Butch is head and shoulders taller than him and way more muscular. And he has a rainbow tattoo, but Connor is pretty sure that doesn't really factor in here.
"Vapor pressure or equilibrium vapor pressure is the pressure exerted by a vapor in thermodynamic equilibrium with its condensed phases at a given temperature in a closed system. Darth Vader is Luke's father. Tomorrow it will rain." Ella says cheerfully.
"Really?" asks Connor, examining the clear blue sky, "Well, if you say so . . ."
"It's not going to rain tomorrow," says Rachel, rolling her eyes. "Stop stealing my job, you overgrown chicken," she adds peevishly.
"Since when can you predict the weather?" asks Gemma. "Octavian never could . . ."
She leans against Nathan's side, smiling up at him. The dark-skinned boy nods in agreement.
Their little group, mostly born back at Camp Half-Blood due to the friendship between Butch and Rachel, include Lacy, Rachel's girlfriend, Gemma, a tall, olive skinned, and completely gorgeous daughter of Venus of Italian descent, and Nathan, a slender, athletic African-American kid from Miami. Both Gemma and Nathan were in a really confusing (at least to everyone else) three-way, sometimes on, sometimes off, relationship with silent, solid Butch. Bobby of the Fifth Cohort wandered in every once in a while, and currently Connor Stoll was sprawled on the ground by their little camp, hiding from Piper, who's breakfast omelet (courtesy of Leo, who had become the demigods head chef) had been liberally sprinkled with tabasco sauce, juice from the habanero chili, and a few shakes of black pepper. Travis swore she'd been breathing fire, but that was another story. Nyssa had joined their little coterie because her friends were with Rust.
"Ella," says Butch curiously, "what did you mean by 'blood and fire'? Is that something that will happen soon?"
"Don't be such a cynic, man!" Connor says, flopping around heedlessly on the ground. "We don't need to get all gloomy."
Ella approximates a shrug with her wings. "What is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing."
Everyone chuckles a bit, even Butch.
"I like her," Gemma says fondly, patting Ella's head.
"Well, Tyson likes her better, so don't get to forward - ouch! That hurt!" Connor rubs his head, glaring at Butch, who scowls back.
"Boys," says Gemma, rolling her eyes. Lacy and Nyssa nod in agreement.
"Tyson likes Ella," Ella says agreeably. "Yellowknife is the capital of the Northwest Territories, Canada, 400 km south of the Arctic Circle. You can like Ella too," she adds shyly.
"She's so cute!" Lacy says happily.
"I'm cute," Rachel mutters under her breath.
"Don't be jealous of overgrown chickens," says Connor, sniggering.
Ella glares at him suddenly. "Connor will have bad day tomorrow," she sniffs.
Everybody blinks, then they turn and stare at Connor.
"Duuuude," Castor groans, "I'm so bored."
"Don't call me that. And you shouldn't have given up your place on the Argo II for Ms. Dare, then." Gardner Peck pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.
"Well, yeah, but she wanted to go so badly, and . . . and what if she had a prophecy while they were gone?"
"Mr. Kirke, there are myriad ways of communicating with people over long distances these days. I believe you may have heard of telephones?"
"Shut up. And don't call me mister. That's really weird. You're like, sixteen."
Castor props his feet up on the coffee table in the Big House's sitting room, tossing a chicken wing to Seymour the Leopard Head. Gardner Peck, doing paperwork on the same table, glares at his feet until he puts them back down with a sigh.
"I wish . . . " Castor starts to say something, but is interrupted when Miranda Gardner slouches into the room and throws herself on the couch next to them.
"Hey, Randy."
"Miss Gardner."
"I'm so bored," she mutters, reaching for one of the chicken wings Castor is occasionally eating but mostly feeding to Seymour.
"I love how you guys have the same name," says Castor, chortling.
Gardner rolls his eyes. "Yes, I believe that's the twenty-third time you've mentioned that."
Miranda grins. "It is funny though, Gardner. Mmm, barbeque . . . "
"Just think, if you guys got married, and you had Randy's last name instead of yours, you'd be 'Gardner Gardner'! That'd be awesome!"
"So awesome." Gardner Peck mutters.
"Miranda Peck. Huh. I guess that's not too bad."
"You and your sister are really obsessed with names . . . what's up with that?"
"Maybe 'cause I'm a daughter of Demeter who's last name is 'Gardner'?"
"Oh. Hmm . . . I can see that." Castor grins. "Anyway, you'd have to live with him too."
"Oh . . . that's true. But I'm sure I could train him up pretty good."
"I'm siting right here." Gardner says, annoyed. "Instead of sitting there making fun, why don't you to make yourself useful? These are requisites for rations- food and supplies for our troops in Greece and Greenland- and they all need to be looked over and signed, preferably by tonight. Armies have to eat. If all three of us work together, we can finish them in approximately," he produces a shiny black android tablet from the inside of his designer peacoat, "three hours, twenty-one minutes, and three seconds."
He looks at them hopefully.
"Wanna go play with Mrs. O'Leary?" Miranda asks Castor.
"Sure."
They flee.
Gardner shakes his head at Seymour. "Imbeciles."
Why is he here? He can't remember that, and he feels like he should.
He knows he's dead. That part isn't a surprise. He sort of remembers it; the fiery pain everywhere, but mostly in his heart, watching the grey eyes and green eyes fade above him and wishing they were electric, piercing blue. He remembers destroying buildings, fighting . . . struggling.
But why is he here? In the dark?
Percy and Annabeth stare at the chaos in front of them.
Gleeson 'Coach' Hedge is beating Connor Stoll over the head with a cereal bowl while Grover and Brian try to wrestle him away. Several of the cheap plastic folding picnic tables the demigods have been using as a communal meal area are overturned. Typically their former occupants would be beating Connor to a pulp right now, or at least throwing food at him, but they seem content to let Hedge do the job for them.
"What did he do?" Percy asks curiously. Over the years he has seen The Stolls create more elaborate pranks and commit more (usually minor) crimes then probably anyone else at camp besides Annabeth and Clarisse. He has a scale; a 1-10 of dastardly schemes: 1 is oh, look, Travis and Connor drew on your face when you were asleep, should have seen that coming, how are you going to be prepared for monsters if the Stolls (who are about as stealthy as an angry Clarisse, i. e., not stealthy) can sneak up on you? Have fun looking like Hitler the rest of the day; while 10 is hey, would you look at that, the Big House is on fire, wonder how that happened? Did someone get Seymour out? Why is there an Army Tank on the lawn? Is there any reason a clown is stuck on the top of the flagpole?
"He poured about three tablespoons of salt in Coach's protein shake," Nyssa says next to him. "Hedge didn't appreciate it."
"No shit," the son of Poseidon mutters. It's a bit odd, Connor's usually better at getting away with little things like this; Percy would rate this about a two on the Scale Of Evil.
"Maybe he's just having an off day," he murmurs to himself. Nyssa gets an odd expression on her face.
"Yeah," she murmurs, as she watches Jason and Travis pull Hedge away from his victim. Annabeth gives Connor an icepack for his head, then starts yelling at him. "An off day."
Rebirth. That's what it is. He's waiting for rebirth.
He knows he only has one more life to go before he reaches the Isles of the Blest. One more. Soon he'll be ready. But why is it taking so long? This place feels different then it did at first. Is something happening?
A vision of a monster - a massive green-scaled dragon- flashes in front of his eyes, and he prays that soon he can fight.
"You're always eating," Lou-Ellen Hannity complains teasingly.
Malcolm Frye shrugs, taking another bite of his watermelon wedge.
"I'm a growing boy," he says cheerfully.
Lou-Ellen rolls her eyes. "That's what they all say," she says, in her Boston accent. "Don't come crying to me when you're too fat to fit in your armor."
Whatever retort Malcolm is about to make is cut off when Mrs. O'Leary comes thundering back into the arena, holding a practice manikin in her jaws. She drops the severely mangled wooden man on the ground in front of Lou-Ellen and sits back on her haunches, panting expectantly.
Malcolm and Lou-Ellen sigh and exchange glances. Then each grab the manikin; Lou-Ellen its punctured head and Malcolm its sole remaining foot. Together they hoist the dummy up and toss it into the bucket at the end of the old catapult they had had lying around somewhere. Malcolm releases the stone counterweight and with a woosh the manikin is gone. Mrs O'Leary bounds after it, barking happily. On her way out of the arena she very nearly bowls over Castor and Miranda, who have to throw themselves to either side to avoid the massive hellhound. She makes a vaguely apologetic sound and disappears after her toy.
"Gee," says Castor brightly, getting to his feet and brushing himself off, "It's dangerous around here!"
Lou-Ellen snorts. "Not since Clarrise left. All the danger is in Greece and Greenland or where-the-fuck-ever. Not here, anyway."
"Always thirsting for blood," Malcolm murmurs quietly into his watermelon. Lou-Ellen scowls and punches him in the arm, hard.
"Aren't you worried about Nico?" Castor asks.
Lou-Ellen rolls her eyes. "We're hardly dating, you idiot. He's not my boyfriend. And I'm pretty sure he can take care of himself."
Malcolm sniggers. "That was funny when you kept changing your name, though . . . 'Maverick Silverwolf', that was my favorite . . ."
The four friends roar with laughter.
"Still, though," says Miranda, giggling, "I wish we could do something. I want to go to cool places. Go on an adventure.
The other three nod thoughtfully.
"We should," Castor says firmly. "It's not like Chiron can really stop us. All he does these days is sit in the Big House and mope. He wouldn't even notice."
"Yeah," Miranda whispers, her eyes alight, "He wouldn't! Road Trip!"
The others cheer as Mrs. O'Leary comes charging back towards them.
"Do you think-" Nyssa hesitates. "Do you think she really can tell the future? Percy got this really weird look on his face when I asked him . . ."
Butch shrugs, watching as two Hunters of Artemis hold Connor's arms while Thalia screams at him, poking him with her index finger for good measure.
"What did he do?" Nyssa asks.
"Bothered them somehow. I don't think anything, really. But it got her all riled up."
He nods at Thalia.
"Hmm . . ." Nyssa suddenly gets an awkward look on her face. "Maybe . . . we could just . . . ask Ella?"
Butch blinks. He hadn't thought of that.
Thalia.
Thalia?
Thal, where are you? Annabeth?
Suddenly he is scared. There are people he needs to protect. And he can hear a voice in the darkness, speaking with all their voices . . . his voice. A monster, but his voice.
He fumbles for his sword. Grover? You there?
Annabeth? Thalia? Thalia! Percy? Thalia!
In the dark, the monster laughs.
"'The Future Starts Slow', Artist: The Kills, Album: Blood Pressure, April 2011. Can Ella predict the future? A futures exchange is a central financial exchange where people can trade standardized future contracts." The little harpy peers up at them. "Sometimes."
No-one says anything for a while.
"Huh," says Nyssa after a moment.
"Can all harpies tell the future?" asks Gemma, leaning forward eagerly.
Ella blinks. "No harpies can tell future. 'The consequences of our actions are so complicated, so diverse, that predicting the future is a very difficult business indeed.'"
Lacy frowns. "Isn't that Dumbledore? You read Harry Potter?"
"I'm so confused," mumbles Connor, shivering as he looks up at the dark night. The stars are completely shrouded by rainclouds. Lightning flashes in the distance. "And I lost my jacket. This is, like, the worst day of my life. Or this week, at least."
"That's not the point," says Nyssa intently. "Ella, do you know what's going to happen before it happens?"
Next to her, Gemma leaning against his side, Butch suddenly blinks and smiles knowingly.
Ell sighs and flutters up onto the top of the small wall that separates their campground from a couple members of the Fourth Cohort. Looking down at them, she scowls.
"Silly people. Ella is just smart. Ella can be predict. Ella knows Great Prophecy- Blood and Fire. Ella knows weather fronts. Ella knows history- mountains stacked like pancakes! And Ella knows-" the little harpy smirks at Connor- "how to make rude Stoll have bad day."
Connor leaps to his feet. "You! You did this! Where is my jacket!"
Everyone bursts into laughter.
"Whew," says Percy quietly, from behind the wall Ella was perched on moments ago. "That was close."
"I want to talk to Ella about these Sybilline books," Annabeth murmurs worriedly. "It could be very important . . . who knows what else she might know?"
Percy nods thoughtfully. "I'll get Tyson to help you- she talks more when he's around." He chuckles at the thought.
"Mmm. Well, it's starting to sprinkle . . . we should start now. This may be just what we needed."
Percy nods thoughtfully. "Maybe Ella can help us with more then the Giants. Maybe she can help with this problem."
He sighs suddenly. "I just wish I could talk to my dad. This would go so much quicker."
Annabeth shrugs. "The easy way is rarely the best. He'd want you to figure it out yourself, I think. Come on, let's go find an empty space and see what you can do."
Percy nods, leaps to his feet with a slight wince, and grabs her hand, pulling her into the rainy night.
"You're doing what?" Gardner Peck grates, staring at Castor in disbelief.
"Road trip, dude! It's gonna be epic! We're gonna go to California, and hang with the Romans! Anywhere we want!And see the world! Or America, at least! And we're gonna have so much fun!"
"You've lost your mind. Have fun being eaten by monsters five miles down the road."
"Oh, please. We know what we're doing. I bribed Argus, Chiron won't notice, my dad won't care- it's gonna be awesome!"
"I will admit that the authority figures at this camp are somewhat lacking."
"And you're going with us."
"No."
"Yes. Or we'll kidnap you," Castor says brightly. "It's that simple."
"Okay, guys," Nico says seriously. "Hold on to me. I have barely enough strength for this. And if you end up stuck in a rock somewhere below here, I'm really sorry, and I'll make sure my dad speeds up your application process-"
"That's comforting," mutters Laurel.
"I'm still not sure this is a good idea," says Lily, looking terrified.
"It's the only chance Steven's got," Jesse says grimly. At their feet Rust lays motionless, the stump of his hand blackened and burned, if no longer bleeding. His screaming earlier when Danny had cauterized his wound had been awful.
"Okay," says Nico, sounding cheerful, "Everyone say, 'death is but the next great adventure!'"
"That's not funny," snaps Amanda, and then the companions are whisked away by a rushing of black shadow, and the plains of Greenland are empty once more.
Give me the knife.
He has to see it. He has to trust me. There's no other way.
Give me the knife, Percy. Or he'll take control again-
Give me the knife.
Annabeth. I hurt her.
Give me the knife, or we'll all die.
I broke my promise. Give me the knife, Percy.
Givemetheknifegivemetheknife givemetheknife-
A light flares behind him.
"It's funny," a cold voice muses, "I've only seen your face twice, demigod. And yet, you were our greatest enemy . . once."
Luke turns, startled. Hades stands in before him, staring curiously.
"Is it finally time?" he asks hopefully. "Am I going to be reborn?"
Hades smiles malevolently. "Oh yes, boy, you are. Perhaps not the way you expected, though."
The Lord of the Underworld shifts the torch in his hand, and Luke realizes that his great-uncle is not alone. A massive man, his face hidden in shadow, stands off to the side.
"Boy," says Hades, grinning wickedly, "meet your uncle. You two have a bit of catching up to do, I believe."
The man steps into the torchlight. He's at least six foot six, and stunningly, beautifully handsome. A warrior. He looks, Luke thinks, a bit like Zeus. A bit familiar. Those stormy blue eyes . . .
Thalia-
"Hello, Jason," says Heracles, grinning, and Luke abruptly remembers where else he's seen this man before.
AN: The Olympians have one fucked-up family tree. What are Percy and Annabeth up to? Where do the chicken wings Seymour eats go (I love him. He's my favorite character.)?
But anyways- sorry for the wait, but I had a bit of trouble with getting the storylines right for this chapter. (I keep having ideas for later chapters, and I'm like, I wanna do that now! Dammit!) In this chapter, Ella quotes Mark Twain, Wikipedia, J.K. Rowling and also spoils a minor plot point of Star Wars. I own none of that stuff, and have no rights to it.
Thanks to my loyal reviewers, particularly CrazyPeanutAttack, Kifo Entiegon, and Donakiko. Later, y'all.
Next Time: Castor, Miranda, Lou-Ellen, Malcolm, and a very reluctant Gardner Peck embark on the most epic road trip of all time, Ana Massri tries to keep her army under control, and all the while the Olympians prepare for war.