so the chapter is here and it is rather lengthy and the only reason why it took so long was because of how much of a perfectionist i am when it comes to writing this. the finalized version of the character list has not come because i don't want to put up a character list before the deadline, which i decided it's gonna be 20th of August. i've received TONS of great characters however I'm still open for more.
HOWEVER, if YOU WANT TO SUBMIT A CHARACTER PLEASE NOTE THAT MY MAIN PRIORITY IS NOW ROMANS. I have 13 characters, 10 Greeks and 3 Romans and I'm not only looking for a 'prisoner' now but a regular camper as it also involves regular, ordinary, sane, functioning campers of Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter.
SO IF YOU WANT TO SUBMIT A CHARACTER, THE PRIORITY LIST WILL BE:
1. Ordinary Campers
2. Romans
3. Male
and now, let's move on to the the story. this chapter elaborates further on our featured baddie here, which is the 'Wallace Boy' or as i named him Isaiah Wallace. :)
DISCLAIMER: EVERYTHING THAT ISN'T MINE PROBABLY BELONGS TO RICK RIORDAN. PLEASE ALSO NOTE THAT THE CONTENT BELOW IS RATHER DARK AND DOES NOT ACTUALLY REPRESENT MY ACTUAL FEELINGS ABOUT RELIGION, CHRISTIANITY, ET CETERA. IT'S JUST A STORY.
SONG: Heathens by Twenty-One Pilots.
0.1
The hall is quiet with a deafening room is brightly lit, decorated with a futuristic appeal. It is all white from head to toe, newly painted from head to toe due to the new refurbishings he had demanded. It used to be a high school gymnasium once upon a time but nobody had any idea what exactly happened to it. The floor is made out of varnished wood for the games that used to be played there. A balcony runs across the room for spectators and Isaiah Wallace could smell, faintly like an afterimage, the pungent scent of mortal sweat, shot through the sweet taint of chewing gum and perfume from watching girls. Dances were also held here; sweeping, sparkling prom dresses, garlands made out of tissue-paper flowers, a revolving ball of mirrors (a disco ball, the mortals call it), powdering the dancers in snowflakes of light, the lingering music- an undercurrent of drums, a stream of guitars, the twinkle of a piano over a laugh or two and the stampede of elegant high heels and polished shoes tapping in sync with the rhythm and the harmonies.
Isaiah Wallace can almost feel the emotions of the ghosts that once serenaded the room. Loneliness, happiness, and expectation, or yearning for something that was always about to happen, where it be in a parking lot, a bedroom, the janitor's closet, in front of the television with the sound turned down and mouths colliding. Those emotions had been thoroughly scrubbed cleaned.
Isaiah tries his hardest to wash away the mortals' repugnance of high school dances and prom sex so no one is ever reminded of such things; so the memories of mortal life is nothing but what it is: a dream. But it doesn't go away in his mind. It's still in the air, in the air like an afterthought refusing to leave Isaiah alone.
Isaiah approaches the podium on the stage with a cool mask, his eyes blue and glassy, like the texture of ice, smooth, silky, cold, unfeeling, unreadable. Or like a mirror, except the reflection staring at you is a dead body. Because sometimes, Isaiah wonders if he's dead inside.
His mother said he should be dead, that he deserved to die. Because he's a monster, an abomination, hell on Earth. In some ways, she's right but most of the time, she's insane. Sorry, was. That schizophrenic bitch didn't exist anymore for a reason. He has to stop thinking about his mother in the present.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome." His stare is fixated on the crowd, almost admiring the utter obedience of every spectator. Their attention never wavers, their backs ramrod straight to show the respect demand, the respect he deserves. It's all he ever wanted. "Before we get started with the assembly, I first like to bring a guest."
He nods firmly at the guards standing firm on every corner of the room, machine guns loaded with Celestial Bronze bullets, melted and mixed with ordinary mortal metal so it does as much damage on any other race. Like clockwork, a line of guards in their iconic latex black uniforms marches out in a single-file line, escorting out a handful of mortals onto the stage. The mortals shuffle miserably, pushed to the front with their hands covered in a block of hardened cement, rendering all possibilities of escaping, their mouths gagged with black strips of satin, their faces hooded, vision impinged- for security measures, of course. He has never been sloppy, thinking through every facet, every possibility, tie up any loose ends. He hates sloppiness, idleness; everything the mortals stand for with their stupid iPhones and social media. What a waste of time.
Time is precious. As a son of Kronos, he should know.
He watches impassively as the guard haul the mortals into a line. A man, a very ordinary man, refuse to let the guard push him into motion is punished with something sharp and brutal from the butt of the machine gun that doubles him over into a limp cloth bundle, allowing guards to pick him up and heave him into an ordered line formation like a sack of mail. It's performed in seconds and almost no one notices. Isaiah smiles. The efficiency is lovely; no idleness, no sloppiness, no mortal laziness. It is cold, methodical, mechanical.
"Everybody, I would like to introduce you to my guests," Isaiah pauses, most likely for dramatic effect, and grins wickedly at the crowd, who watches with a delicious intrigue, laughing amongst themselves like jeers of bullies in a crowded toilet stall, shoving a poor kid into the toilet bowl, "The missionaries of St. Paul's Church!"
The crowd explodes into another fit of cruel laughter, stomping the ground as they clap. Isaiah makes it a conscious effort not to wrinkle his nose at their cheap amusement, how easily swayed they are. What do you expect from a bunch of monsters, demigod lowlifes who never known better?
"Now these missionaries have been doing a tremendous effort in reaching places of great need," his tone oozes faux sympathy, mockingly sincere, as the guards slowly unveil each of their faces. Isaiah's eyes hungrily drink every expression of fear, every tear streaking down wet cheeks, every tremble of lips, feeding on it as if they're fueling him with power, "and they should be rewarded, of course. Shouldn't they?"
The crowd roars in appreciation, colouring Isaiah's ears in their thirst for blood and gore. He jerks his head at the nearest guard to set the prisoner in front of him. The guards step out and grab the nearest one: a woman in a tattered button-down pastel blouse, straw hair, pale shivering skin, wooden cross hanging from her neck in a wide display, chest rising rapidly, heart pulsing with fear. He could hear it from here. He wonders if she can see the monsters for what they are. If the Mist is fooling her anymore. He doubts it.
He lowers himself so their faces are levelled. She automatically looks down to avoid his eyes looking into hers. They're so close he can see the sweat beads colonising on her forehead and her hairline; every freckle, every pore, every imperfection that makes her so irrevocably mortal. She couldn't be anything older than seventeen.
"What's your name?" he asks casually like he's making inquiries on what she had for lunch.
She doesn't answer, her eyes set on studying the floor beneath her. In a flash, the crack of flesh hitting flesh sounds before anybody could register it and in half a second, a red mark is vivid on her cheeks, like a scandalous blush.
"I said," he repeats it gently again: "What's your name?"
This time, her cracked mouth parts and the words come out in shaky stutters: "Es-Esther."
"Esther." Rolling it on his tongue, he plays with her name, "Esther. That's really beautiful. Named after Queen Esther of the Jews?"
Her head snaps up in perplexed bewilderment that he knows the origins of her name. How couldn't he? His mother made him memorize the Bible, recite it in such precision that every time he got a word wrong she'd splash hot boiling water onto his face. "Y-yes."
"Well Esther, I'm so sorry about this," he sighs like this predicament is a massive inconvenience, like being stuck in rush hour traffic, "but I'm afraid you're about to be disposable."
"Please," she begs, shaking her head, "Please, don't do this. The Lord-"
"-doesn't exist," he finishes for her. "Your God doesn't exist. But mine does."
He reaches towards his holster, which carries a sword with a sickle protrusion along one edge near the tip of the blade- a harpe. The metal has been infused with a mixture of different chemical compositions, melded with Stygian Iron, Celestial Bronze, Imperial Gold and the ordinary, mundane metal of titanium. Whenever Isaiah holds it, he can feel the different aspects fighting with each other but as time progresses, he'll harness each of them to work with each other and perform the tasks needed.
Her eyes widen and she starts to thrash. Immediately, the guards surge forward to hold her down so he can end this smoothly. "Don't move," he advises lightly. "It'll only hurt more."
She's crying now, sobbing to herself: "Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come-"
The crowd laughs harder than ever and Isaiah has the urge to join them but he's a professional so he bites his tongue down and forces the smile off his face. Stupid little girl, just like my filthy mortal of a mother. He swings his sword in a wide arc, above her beautiful, slender neck, which is held out in a display by the guards as she shakes violently in their grip, praying, crying thrashing.
"Remember, everybody," he announces as everybody waits in anticipation, "Godly blood is the only pure blood!"
"Godly blood is the only poor blood!" They repeat after him in unison, loud and clear.
The blade whips down and disconnects the head from her neck painstakingly, like a butter knife through hard cheese. Her screams ultimately come to a stagger. Her head flops down loosely to her waist, hanging by strands of muscle and tissues, her wounds resembled stumps of raw, bloodied hamburger meat. The jagged flesh surrounds the end where the blade has cut precisely through the tendons and muscles.
The blood douses him, sickly and wet, in red darkening to black, matting his hair and clothes, seeping into his white shirt and blue jeans. He tuts, upset. How he hates all these messes. "This is my favourite shirt. Oh well."
He wipes the handle of his blade with the hem and picks up her head by her hair, as the guards grab her decapitated body. "Dinner," he smirks at the horde of monsters and tosses her head towards a clan of drakons. The guards carry her body towards a waiting army of Cyclopes, screaming for blood.
Then his eyes flicker over to the terrified prisoners, "Who's next? You pick."
Night falls. Or has fallen. Why is it that night falls, instead of rising like the dawn? When you truly look at it, put it in perspective, night looks like it's rising, not falling, darkness lifting into the sky, up from the horizon, like a black sun behind cloud cover, like smoke from an unseen fire. A line of fire just below the horizon, a bushfire or a burning city. Either way, it's night now and the day is gone.
The day resumes well after the assembly. He spends the day cruising through the abandoned high school, overseeing the different branches of operations. The training of his recruited demigods are going well; they're taught myths from every facet of the world, from every culture- because you never know which one happens to be true. The monsters have their thirst for blood curbed. Monsters may be a chaotic force to reign but they are so easy to win over- once you ensure them a consistent supply of food, they are happy to do anything. The video footage of him beheading the church missionaries has gone viral, reaching to a sensational two hundred million hits, getting him the press he needs.
All is going exactly as he intended, meaning it's time for Isaiah to retire to his room.
His room is located in one of the classrooms but instead of desks and a blackboard, there's a bed, a chair, a lamp and a table, a row of books and a stack of papers situated on the table and not much else. His weapon, the harpe, lies plainly on the bedside table near his bed. There's no pictures, no signs of any personal memories, no personality; just a simple room. It's freakishly cleaned, impeccable to suit Isaiah's obsessive compulsive preferences so there's not a speck of dirt lingering on any of the corners.
He hums Bohemian Rhapsody as he sits on his bed and preoccupies himself with a book- The Tales of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens, written in Ancient Greek so he could understand without receiving a headache from his dyslexia. He's on the verge of finishing it when someone knocks on his door. "Come in," he says, closing his book.
The handle twists open and the person standing behind the door happens to be Erika bringing his supper.
"You don't need to do that," he remarks when she enters with the tray, covered. "Really."
"You need to eat," she says. She's so much like a mother that it irks and endears Isaiah at the same time. "We need our Leader at his best abilities."
As the daughter of Tychon, the demon of fertility, she's strangely the kindest soul he has ever known. He likes that about her. He likes how she knocks before she enters. It means she respects his privacy. He likes how blue her eyes are and how she has a habit of ashing her cigs on the floor without permission, despite how much hates the idea of messes.
He takes the cover off the tray. Baked potato, green beans, salad, a can of tuna. Pudding for dessert. And for a little treat, a bottle of Jack Daniels. It's all healthy until the whiskey shows up. No matter how hard Erika tries to promote a healthy living, she cannot resist her penchant for her alcohol and for that, he chuckles. "Where did you get the whiskey?"
She winks, "Don't tell the others or they'll have a mutiny." She sets the tray on his table and takes a seat on the edge of his bed without permission. Her hand disappears into the pocket of her jean shorts, pulling out two sim outlines of a cigarette. She hands him one. "Lighter?"
"Of course." He rummages his pocket for his lighter and in a quick burst of flames, their cigarettes have blazing cherry ends and they're breathing in nicotine as he begins to eat.
"New book?" she inquires, glancing at the book he has abandoned on the side of his bed.
He nods.
"Is it good?"
"Yes."
"Better than the one last week?"
"What? Wuthering Heights?" he shakes his head in disapproval, "Don't compare a Bronte to a Dickens. It's like...comparing coffee with a banana."
She rolls her eyes and purses her cupid lips. "Well, I'm sorry I'm not educated like you are."
"Don't be silly," he holds the cigarette in between his fingers and clears some space on his tray, away from his food so he can tap the building ash of his cigarette onto it. Erika follows suit, ashing there as well, "It's not about education, it's just literature."
"Sure, Tolkien," she jokes, the cigarette smouldering in between her lips, and takes the bottle of whiskey, places it on her lap and unscrews the cap. Many find it disconcerting. How his mood seems to swing from one pendulum to the other; those closest to him find him a pleasant fellow, who indulges in good literature, a good smoke, and a good drink, and those who never knew him views him as the bloodthirsty psychopath with a liking in beheading a whole church. Erika doesn't find him creepy or his behaviours erratic but maybe it's because she has known him since forever.
Isaiah could still recall the first time he'd seen Erika. It was the first time he discovered his powers- when he first noticed he was special.
"Devil child!"
His mother had locked him in the closet again during one of her fits, pushed a crying seven-year-old into the cupboard under the stairs, hysterically screaming about how he was a sinful, wicked child that has emerged from the loins of Satan while throwing Bible verses in her deranged tirade. He had balled himself into a fetal position, rocking back and forth as the screaming continues:
"Devil child, devil child, devil child!" His mother would wail as she banged and thrashed the door, clawing with her broken chipped nails. His ears filled with the ringing shrill of her hysteria. Go away, he would pray as his tears soiled his knees, his arms wound tightly around his legs. If God is up there, please make it go away.
Suddenly, he felt the world around him tilt and everything went black. His whole body was being pressed in all directions; he could not breathe, like there was hard iron being pressed up his neck, his eyes forced back upon his head, his ears being pushed into his skull and then-
He gasped, gulping two lungfuls of cold air as the floor beneath him was no longer the grey vomit-coloured carpet and he was no longer trapped in his mother's cupboard beneath the stairs.
He had teleported somehow...and where?
He stood up, staring at the world around him funny. He happened to land It was a sunny little suburban neighbourhood, where the lawns were pristinely manicured with large and tidy gardens, the houses are bright and glimmering and the sidewalks are squeaky clean- not a sign of litter or dirt mounting on the side of the streets. It looked like the beautiful pictures they used to print in the magazines about homes and garden and interior decoration. There was the same absence of people, the same air of being asleep. The streets were almost like a museum or a street in a model town constructed to show the way people used to live.
The lawn he stood on had a willow tree near their garden- weeping catkins; around the edges, the flower borders, in which the lilies were fading in their colour and the tulips were opening their cups, spilling colour. The tulips were red, a darker crimson towards the stem, as if they had been cut and were beginning to heal.
Then he tried to take a step and ultimately collapsed from exhaustion.
I didn't have a hold on my powers yet, Isaiah thinks, his memory flashing back to the early stages of his discovery. There've been too many instances when he had almost died just trying to get back to the right time period but over the years of development and progress, his ability to manipulate time and space now comes naturally. Controlling the surge of power flowing through his bloodstream and the harnessing of the right energy is now nothing but a mere walk in the park. After all, practice makes perfect.
Nonetheless, this was the starting point of his demigod journey. When he woke up after his collapse, with a sand-papery taste in his mouth and blood dried on his lips, a girl, no more than eleven years old, hovered above him as she wiped his face with a raggedy cloth. She looked nothing more than eleven, dressed in purple overalls, gold fingernails to be eccentric and a fighter's light in her eyes. Her intense brown eyes examined him with concern and softened when he blinked adorably up into her eyes. Such an innocent child. Who would've thought he'd be capable of cold-blood murder?
That girl happened to be Erika Freeman, the same girl who'll become his best friend, his partner in crime and the first things she'd ever said to him was: "You could've died, kid."
"Where- where am I?" He sniffled in his whiny, child-like voice. He glanced around. Unfamiliar white walls but peeling paint, a fan spinning languidly above their heads, a couch of open ripped seams and foam spilling out onto the wooden floor- all notes of unknown, anonymity. Even at the age of four, Isaiah Wallace was precocious with a strong sense of danger. Despite not knowing where he was, he felt at peace. Even in the current present, Isaiah always feels at peace in the presence of Erika.
"The Rocks," the girl elaborated. Confusion must've marred his features, beautifully caress his innocuous features because she goes on: "Sydney."
"Huh?"
"Sydney, Australia," she said, like he was stupid, like a condescending teacher over a primary school student.
"Where?" He gaped at the girl. That couldn't be. He lived in Maine, America. He couldn't even pinpoint Australia on a map. Was it the one that looked like an upside down America? See, Isaiah had the words on the tip of his mouth, I have no idea where I am. Clearly, this wasn't possible but Isaiah could sense she wasn't lying from the way how she looked so serious with her lips pursed and dark brown eyes hard. Kids were bad liars. Erika sounded like she was telling the truth, or at least she thought she was.
The girl was growing impatience. "You're in Sydney, Australia."
"But...I can't…" Isaiah blinked, confused. He stared at his hands and then outside the window. Red coloured the initial blush of a sun setting down over the Sydney Harbour, signifying the end of the glamour of the day. Among the brilliant streaks of orange and pink, the vermillion haze held prominence, staining the sky with an omen that lingered long after the poignant descent of twilight.
"Erika!" Three sharp bursts of the door being slammed alerted their attention. Erika shot up, balling her fists and softening them when she realized it was a plump, dark-skinned woman with a large flat nose stumbling in, evidently intoxicated. "Who the bloody hell is that?"
"Neighbour's kid," Erika explained shortly, giving him the evil eye, which meant he had to keep quiet- Isaiah could easily discern when someone wanted him to not do something. "I'm babysitting for extra money."
"'Aight," the woman acknowledged, "I'm gonna go lie down for a bit, eh?"
"Sure," Erika spat bitterly. The unknown woman staggered into a hallway and in a loud string of explosions, silence later followed. "Sorry."
"Is that your mother?" he asked sweetly like all little kids do. Erika nodded. The look of distaste on her face indicated she didn't like her mother. Isaiah could relate.
"Still, doesn't solve our problems," she said gruffly, "I found you sleeping on somebody else's lawn. Could've been arrested or detained. What were you up to?"
"I...I was supposed to be in the cupboard," his bottom lip trembled, "My mummy locked me in."
"Then how did you…" Erika trailed off, then a beep sounded. She pulled out a strange device- a smooth rectangular box with a singular button on the bottom.
"What's that?"
"An iPhone," she glanced at him weirdly, "Haven't you seen an iPhone? I mean, I get you're like five but you obviously must've seen an iPhone."
"We...we don't have an iPhones," Isaiah shook his head vehemently, "What is an iPhone?"
"What decade are you from?" Erika stared at him, irritated because she felt as if Isaiah was being stupid on purpose. Sure, seven-year-olds were pretty retarded in Erika's opinion but they weren't that clueless.
But Isaiah took the words to heart. What decade are you from?
His mind started to piece the jigsaw together- like putting back a body that's been pulled apart in fragments, blood, and guts everywhere.
"What date is it?" he inquired quickly, his mind wondering…
"Somewhere in December, probably," Erika shrugged. How could it be December? Isaiah's mind blossomed, his mind flashing back to the earlier morning where he scrawled down the date of the day, copying from his kindergarten teacher's handwriting. It was May. "Why?"
Disregarding the question and the first-hand, Isaiah pressed on, "I mean, what's the year?"
"2012."
Isaiah floored, speechless. For a quick second, he thought Erika was lying. But she couldn't be. Why would she? What would she gain from it?
"I'm...I'm from 2008," he finished resolutely with a deep chasm in his gut. "I think I'm in the future."
"No way," Erika choked. "You're fucking with me, right?"
But Isaiah wasn't. The expression on his face was so shocked, so befuddled Erika had to believe him. From then since Isaiah realized he could time-travel. Erika called it that. Time-traveler. He was afraid it'd made him more of a freak than he already was- the kids at school were already pegging him with the nicknames Jesus Freak and Bible Addict and his mother, in her barely sane mind, thought he was a spawn of Lilith. A fleeting moment of fear struck his heart. Did she know? Was this why she viewed him as a freak, a monster? Maybe she wasn't totally insane.
Erika was different. She didn't see him as a freak, a monster. She treated him kindly. She said it was cool. He should be glad to have such a power- to bend space and time to his will. So he stayed. He stayed on with her in the future. As he grew up, he practiced and practiced, letting his powers fester. He'd go back in times occasionally, a little here and there, but he'd always go back to the future with Erika. They grew up together- sort of. He would turn eight and she'd thirteen but then he'd go back to the day she was twelve and wait for himself to become nine. It was a constant cycle of going back so they become the same age. In technicality, they were the same age because they were born the same year but if he was to let himself age naturally so he'd be the same age as her, he needed to go back to the past- the past where he wasn't loved, where he was abused, neglected and perceived as an abomination.
And he much rather kills himself before that could happen.
pleaSE REVIEW.
[god i'm so thirsty why]