Annabeth's last hour and a half of work on Friday is comparable to, well, definitely not hell, but perhaps something just a few notches below. In the last twenty minutes, she checks the clock no less than thirty-four times and scrolls through several meters of documents she's already read thrice over. When the clock finally strikes five pm, Annabeth is already in the elevator, fingers tapping impatiently against the opposite arm, and waiting for the familiar ding signaling the lobby floor. Hardly one to waste time, she switches shoes as she descends, heels for a more comfortable pair of sneakers. At exactly five o' six, there is not a single trace left of her in the LexCorp building.
A sense of relaxation washes over Annabeth the second her feet cross the impressively designed threshold of the Metropolis Public Library as if her body is glad to relinquish the last of any subconscious worries stored within. The smell of paper, fresh and old, and the sound of hushed whispers are things she has intimately memorized. In the same way that Percy is most himself in the sea, the library is Annabeth's domain.
Although she is weeks into her summer at Metropolis, this is the first day she's been able to find time to sneak away tothe building. Even so, she knows exactly how the library is organized, where certain genres and sections lay hidden, and lets her feet instinctively guide her to the architecture section where she piles a few odd books into her arms. She walks deeper into the building, passing by students flipping through goliath-level textbooks, elderly folk squinting at the small vertical titles, and a man who smiles at her as he re-organizes a shelf. Annabeth pauses at another section on the way to snag yet another book before continuing on.
When her feet finally come to a standstill, the door before her reads Microfilm & Microfiche Room in fading brown letters. She shifts her haul of books to one arm, pushes on the handle, and shoves the heavy wooden door with her shoulder. Instantly, a thin layer of dust enters her nostrils. The room looks, smells, and tastes like it hasn't been opened in years, despite the empty trash can revealing that it has been cleaned recently. Annabeth marvels that it feels like she's been taken back decades in time. The walls are a peeling beige color, and the lights overhead are minimal and manual, unlike the rest of the motion sensor-activated library. Several metal file cabinets line the walls, the kind that jam and create a racket with opened, and in the back of the room atop a creaking wooden desk sits the film reader, an enormous bulky computer setup with a flat, lit space under the monitor like a microscope. Invented back in the eighteen thirties, microfilm and microfiche had been used for mail, espionage, and information access when printing had been a labor-intensive and expensive task and was adapted for record preservation, especially for newspapers, up until the nineteen nineties.
Annabeth sets her books and backpack down on the floor and gets to work, starting at 1980 and rifling through tens and eventually hundreds of film rolls, viewing the images under the light. There are no windows in the room, making it hard to tell how much time has passed, but when her stomach begins to ache, Annabeth knows it has been several hours. The process is tedious: carefully pulling a roll out of its protective casing, positioning it under the camera, and adjusting the output until the pictures are legible on the screen, only to find nothing of interest.
A few rolls into 1993, she hits the jackpot. Local Teen Wins School Engineering Contest. Then, a few rolls later, Local Couple Found in Car Crash. The next couple of years are fruitless, but 1999 and 2000 provide Annabeth with another few usable newspaper articles before the number of film rolls fizzle out, the 21st century paving the way for computers to more easily record and store information.
Early on, Annabeth had realized that Lex Luthor had had any private or real information about him scrubbed off the internet years ago, making it difficult for her to do any worthwhile research into the man. Fortunately for her, the city library is very thorough in record keeping and fortunately for the city, Annabeth is very thorough in digging for skeletons.
She fiddles with the large clunky computer, printing out every single possibly related article she had found. After tucking the thick bundle of paper away into her backpack and gathering her books, she, at her heart's protest and stomach's joy, heads to the check-out counter.
The man who smiled at her earlier opens the front cover of each hardcover and scans the code.
"Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture, Green Architecture: Advanced Materials, The Basis of Modern Law," he reads off a few of the titles as he logs them onto her account, "Productive summer?"
Annabeth's lips quirk up.
"Something like that."
Bright and early Saturday morning Annabeth mentally walks through her bank of questions over breakfast, ensuring that she's prepared for all the who's and how's and why's. Placing her bowl in the sink, she catches sight of the taxi through the window, idling near the entrance of the building, and rushes down to meet it. She tells the driver her destination, then settles back into her seat for the hour-long journey.
Her phone buzzes with a barrage of short texts from Percy and she snorts at his habit of sending several messages when just one or two would suffice. She opens them to see a picture of him and other familiar campers, faces glistening and tired but wearing pleased smiles, holding onto a tall blue flag.
3 and 6 dream team
missed you this time
if you were here …
we probs wouldn't be as sweaty :)
have fun with your interrogation!
A wistful smile creeps onto Annabeth's face. Technically, it's her first summer away from camp or camp-related activities in over a decade and the feeling inside her is not exactly separation anxiety, but Annabeth knows that going back would make her feel more at ease with herself. There's plenty that she misses—training different fighting styles, going down informational rabbit holes with her siblings, sparring with Percy—but there's also plenty she's looking forward to this summer and that's enough to quell the feelings for a while. At the very least, she knows her cabin still holds the reigning championship of capture the flag.
The city skyscrapers make way for wider streets and short commercial buildings, suburban houses with freshly mowed lawns, and finally rolling fields of wild grass and towering trees. The taxi driver flicks his eyes to her through the rearview mirror as if asking her if this is really where she wants to be taken. Annabeth meets them with her own, then continues gazing out the window, partially to sightsee and partially on monster watch.
The car takes a left off the main road, tires crunching the loose gravel of the unpaved path and Annabeth knows they've arrived. She slips the man a hundred and asks him to wait, with the promise of pay for the time she spends. He shrugs, turning off the car and rolling down his window to light a cigarette.
The quaint little farmhouse is someone's pride and joy. Annabeth can make out several personal and well-done repairs, unique and handmade decorations like the painted glass windchimes, and a few places where chipping paint reveals a previously different color. The wide tire tracks from the main road to the left of the house indicate the presence of a large car or truck, likely in the town center, a few miles down the main road.
The door is heavy set, and when Annabeth presses the bell, it buzzes rather than rings. It's a full minute or two before the door is slowly and carefully pried open and a woman's face peeks through.
"Can I help you?" she asks, her expression soft, yet guarded.
Annabeth smiles kindly. "Mrs. Anderson, is it?" The woman nods. "May I come in?"
She lets the older woman take in her appearance, glance at the taxi parked a few meters down the driveway, and deem her trustworthy enough to enter her home. Annabeth follows her through the entrance hallway to the living room and waits on the sofa as the woman comes back with two glasses of water.
"How can I help you, dear? And you can call me Penny," she says, placing the glass on a knitted coaster, "You said your name was Isabel, am I pronouncing that correctly?" Annabeth nods. "Oh good, it's just an old teacher habit of mine to ask."
"That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about," she says, leaning just a hair forward on the couch, "I was doing some research for a project, a biographical account of a public figure, and I saw that you taught at South Grove Middle School in the 90s. I had a couple of questions about one of your students."
Penny sighs and takes a sip of her water. "That was a long time ago, I'm not sure I can guarantee much information. What was their name?"
"Alexander Luthor."
Penny sucks in a breath. Annabeth can't tell if that's a good sign or bad.
"Lex," she muses, "Now that one I do remember."
"What was he like?" Annabeth coaxes her a little, leaving the question open-ended.
"Brilliant. Yes, he really was. Always knew the answers, every assignment turned in on time, breezed through examinations," Penny's lips turned into a slight frown, "Never raised his hand in class, though. He never wanted to share his answers, but he was always quick to correct other students if they got something wrong."
"Did he get along well with his classmates?" Annabeth presses.
"He was a bit cruel towards the girls in the class," Penny admits.
Annabeth's brows raise. "He hit them?"
"No, no," Penny shakes her head quickly, "He wasn't physical exactly, but cold, and sometimes demeaning."
Annabeth relaxes, but the clarification does not provide her much comfort. Over thirty years later and with enough distance between him and his childhood self, nothing about Luthor's demeanor is guaranteed.
"What about the boys? Did he have any friends?" she asks.
"I think most of the other children avoided him. It was a little sad to see. I believe I may have tried at one point or another to help the kids bond, but it never worked. Lex was never really interested in friends," Penny peers out the window, "Would he like to come inside?"
Annabeth follows her gaze to the taxi. She doesn't want any more witnesses than necessary.
"I think he'd prefer to smoke outside," she points out, "Are you sure there wasn't anything else worth mentioning, any school incidents, anything about his home life?"
Penny gives her a strange look, making Annabeth tamp down the demanding tone of her voice, but answers anyways.
"I think there were two boys, in a grade or two above that might have bullied him," Penny frowns again as if struggling to remember, "They came to school one day covered in bruises they didn't explain and a few kids started a rumor that Lex had paid someone to beat them up? I'm not sure. It was quite a ridiculous story."
She looks at Annabeth as if expecting her to agree and Annabeth nods along, but nothing about that story sounds fantastical.
"The school might've looked into it, but in the end, it didn't matter anyways."
Annabeth leans another fraction forward. "Why is that?"
"Lex's parents got into a car accident not long after and passed. Poor boy, he left the school. I don't believe I saw him again after that."
Annabeth recalls the second article she had found on film. It had been sparse with details, mentioning only the time and place of the crash, the people involved, and a location where local community members could pay their respects.
"Did he stay with another family member?" Annabeth asks, crossing her fingers for another source of information.
"No…" Penny trails off, casting another glance to the side, "I believe the insurance agent mentioned foster care."
Although her words are faint and spoken out the window, Annabeth's eyes sharpen.
"Do you remember his name?" she questions, as eagerly as she can without coming off frantic.
Penny laughs. "His business card is long gone dear."
Annabeth visibly wilts.
"But," she pauses, "I didn't teach for almost thirty years to be bad at names. It was Mr. Bryant. I'm sorry he didn't give me his first."
Annabeth grins, "That's more than enough, Penny. Thank you for all your help."
Penny stands up, asks her to wait, then returns with a container of yellowish cake for the taxi driver and a wish of good luck on her biographical project.
The woman reaches for the knob and holds the front door open. Before she walks through, Annabeth steels herself, snaps her fingers, and calls upon the mist to shroud the both of them.
"You received a visit from a blond man today. You talked about your teaching days and some of your students," Annabeth speaks firmly.
It's much easier for her to skew the details of the talk than to pretend it never happened. The mist might be a powerful force, but only certain demigods are capable of using it to its full extent, creating entire sets of new memories. For Annabeth, the smaller changes are more likely to stick, especially for non-mythological situations.
The mist latches onto her words and wraps them around Penny, whose eyes cloud over briefly with the altered information, then clear again. Annabeth walks out the door and back into the car, already pulling out her laptop to find Mr. Bryant.
Evening approaches without warning, the sun still slanting its rays onto the marble of her kitchen counter. The clock reads past eight pm and Annabeth already knows she's not going to cook but opens the fridge anyways in a feeble attempt to scrounge up some dinner. She has vegetables and day-old rice, but the meat is still frozen, and that's enough reason for her to leave the apartment for takeout.
Only venturing a few blocks away, she ducks inside a Thai place, its entrance hidden halfway down an alley. The food is always generous in portion and wonderfully spicy, and the store has only two doors that both ding when opened, one to the kitchen and one back out to the street. Delicious and difficult to sneak around in, it's Annabeth's favorite restaurant in the city so far.
This time, a man is sitting at a table, who looks up when she walks through the door. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, Annabeth softly places her order to the woman behind the register. The employee, after handing her the change, takes off into the kitchen to relay the information.
The man lets her finish before speaking up.
"Miss Chase?"
Annabeth finally looks over to who she already knew was there. He looks a little comical, hulking figure hunched over the table, too tall for his legs to fit properly.
"You can call me Annabeth, I don't mind," she offers.
"Clark, then," he smiles a little clumsily.
He gestures to the spot at the table across from him and seeing that the rest of the chairs have been stacked onto the tables in preparation for closing time, Annabeth takes the seat. (She would have taken it anyways.)
"I see that you've found this gem," he nods appreciatingly, "Best food in the city, in my opinion."
"Lana recommended it to me," Annabeth says, smiling, "A couple more visits and I think I could be a regular."
Clark Kent's eyes soften at that. "How is she?"
Annabeth mentally sighs. She meant for the name drop to trigger a different conversation, not one motivated by concern following a childhood friendship gone wrong. She plasters on a naïve but pleasant expression.
"She's doing well," Annabeth answers, fingers mindlessly tracing some small groove in the table, "There's a lot of work to do at LexCorp, so she's been pretty busy."
The extra nudge proves successful when Clark pushes his glasses farther up his nose.
"Dealing with the Sky Sentry project?" he asks rhetorically, a sympathetic tone coloring his words.
"Actually, no," Annabeth says, letting her gaze trail over to the kitchen door, "She has a lot of new technology in prosthetics that she's readying for production." She turns back and makes a show of putting her hand over her mouth, looking sheepish. "That's off the record, though."
Clark laughs and waves it off, but she can tell he's somewhat interested. He's not the same type of reporter Lois is, though, and Annabeth knows he won't outright hound her for more information at an accidental meeting on a Saturday night. As much as she'd like to take credit, she hadn't known he was going to be here, but she isn't surprised by the encounter either. Lana had said she was shown to the restaurant when she first came to the city, and it hadn't been hard to put two and two together.
"Besides the chaos with the demonstration and the Jada Airways planes, have you been enjoying your internship so far?" he asks curiously.
With anyone else, she would assume an ulterior motive behind the question, but Clark Kent is surprisingly open and honest. And despite the fact that he spends his days concealing a secret identity, he seems to be genuinely comfortable in his civilian skin.
"Definitely," Annabeth nods enthusiastically, "There's always a ton of work to be done and all the development is exciting to be a part of."
She leaves her definition of 'work' and 'development' up to Clark's interpretation.
"I get to shadow the engineers working on all of Lana's projects," she continues, making her absentminded fidgeting more obvious as she starts to ramble a little, "Plus all the new equipment and talent is really cool, even if they only got the funding because Luthor's in hot water with the board."
When she makes eye contact, it's Superman's eyes she's looking into, not Clark's. Annabeth pretends she doesn't notice the difference.
"Also definitely off record," she grins, "Sorry, I know you're friends with Lana, but you're also a reporter so I probably shouldn't be telling you all of this."
Superman shifts back to Clark as he laughs again, softer this time.
"Don't worry about it," he smirks, "But just know, Lois wouldn't be as nice."
Annabeth also huffs out a laugh. "I figured. I ran into her in the bathroom at the gala and I think she might have wanted to interrogate me."
They fall into a short comfortable silence, listening to the traffic of the city and the quiet chatter of street passersby. Annabeth can only assume that Clark is also keeping an ear out for ongoing criminal activity.
A few minutes go by until Clark clears his throat.
"Sorry," he starts, already offering an apology, "I don't mean to be nosy, but what did you mean about Luthor being on bad terms with the company?"
Annabeth hides a smile. Just because Clark wasn't one to interrogate, doesn't mean he wouldn't resort to it, given enough bait.
"I'm not sure I should say," she says, hesitating, "I don't want to get Lana in trouble."
Clark himself looks alarmed at the thought.
"Off the record," he assures, parroting her words from before, "I wouldn't tell, I care about Lana too."
"It's just that she's responsible for me," Annabeth trails off, then visibly makes up her mind, "Okay. Um, I think the board thinks Luthor—" She lowers her voice. "Had something to do with the planes exploding."
Clark grimaces, looking unsurprised but disgruntled all the same.
"It's probably just some rumor," Annabeth adds hastily, then pauses at the look on Clark's face, "Right?"
Clark sighs, scratching his head, and looking visibly uncomfortable at the thought of discussing Luthor's very real villainous past and present with a LexCorp intern.
"With Luthor…" He purses his lips. "I'm sure it's a rumor."
Annabeth nods unconvincingly.
Instead of looking her in the eye to strengthen his argument somehow, Clark tilts his head, super hearing picking up on something normally inaudible, and changes the subject.
"Our food's ready."
The door to the kitchen has yet to ring, but Annabeth turns to look at it anyways. In just a few seconds, the woman from earlier returns with two large brown paper bags, receipts stapled to their rolled-down edges. As she presents them with their respective orders, Annabeth shoots Clark a confused glance, keeping up the act of an unassuming citizen. Shrugging at her stare, he stands up with a little more force than necessary.
"It was nice seeing you again, Annabeth. Good luck with the rest of your internship," he hastily says to her, then thanks the employee before quickly exiting the restaurant.
Annabeth stays behind a couple extra minutes to wait for her drink and to put some distance between her and Clark. She's given him enough information to pique his curiosity, but not enough to satisfy it, and she doesn't want to upset that delicate balance.
When she steps back out onto the street, the sun has set and her stomach aches for noodles in her hands. As she waits for the crosswalk light to turn green, she tilts her head upwards, just in time to catch a streak of red in the direction of the city center. Walking the three blocks and one avenue back to her apartment, Annabeth mentally reinforces steps five through nine of her plan. readjusting and accounting for new developments. Slowly, events start to flesh themselves out, and by the time she has arrived at her doorstep, the timeline of the next few weeks has been meticulously scheduled.
Annabeth smiles, turning a key in the lock. Luthor has no idea what is coming to him.
Sunday, Annabeth sleeps in. Just a little, because there's still much work to be done, but today, she doesn't have to factor in transportation time. When she comes out of her bedroom, dressed and ready, Nico is already lounging at the table in the kitchen, a signature frown upon his pale face. Annabeth had pulled all the curtains shut the night before to help him land, and the darkness of the apartment invokes false tiredness. Without a word, he holds his hand out.
When Annabeth takes it, the shadows intensify, hugging their master into them. She barely has time to shiver from the cold before Nico yanks her through.
Annabeth lands in a bush, spitting out leaves and pulling a few poky bits out of her clothes, but doesn't say anything. The quiet town in Virginia they've arrived at is sunny and bright, with few places for shadows to gather.
"Pick me up in two hours?" she asks Nico, who has had just as ungraceful of a landing and is far more unhappy about it.
Nico eyes her skeptically. "I'm not a personal driver," he snarks.
"I'll buy you lunch."
"Okay."
Annabeth gives him an incredulous look. "Is that really all it takes? Your dad is the god of riches."
"I'd rather be a dandelion again than ask him for allowance," he retorts, spitting the word like a curse, causing her to snort.
She waves goodbye, but Nico is already stepping back into the bush.
Bryant's home is quite different than Penny's. The neighborhood houses several large two-story buildings, all of matching architectural design, dark brick with light cobblestone accents along the front pillars. Spacious paved driveways with well-kept cars, curated front yard gardens, neatly trimmed grass and assorted groomed flower bushes. Annabeth drinks this all in as she strides up to the front door and presses the doorbell.
This time, when the door is pulled open by an elderly man with thinning, grey hair, Annabeth straightens her shoulders.
"You were the insurance agent that handled the Luthor life insurance claim."
Bryant stares at her, unblinking, the muscles in his face twitching slightly beneath his folded skin. Annabeth does not break eye contact. Finally, he lets out a rattled sigh that shakes his shoulders and opens the door wider. Annabeth follows him as he silently disappears into his home.
The inside of his home is not much different than the outside. Homely, in a classically designed way, with family portraits lining the walls, upholstered couches surrounding a wooden center table, and a china cabinet lining the dining room.
"I'm old," is the first thing he says as he carefully lowers himself down onto a seat, "I'm too old for this to matter much anymore. And I'm tired."
"Alzheimer's," Annabeth guesses, and Bryant fixes her with a startled look, "Your curtains are all open, your outlets have safety covers, and your drawers are labeled."
Bryant huffs with amusement.
"It's still very early, but yes," he confirms, "Today, I poured a cup of tea and couldn't remember if I had already stirred in a cube of sugar. A year from now someone might dismiss what I have to say as the ramblings of a dementia patient."
Annabeth studies the man before her. She doesn't think he'd appreciate an overt show of sympathy. He states his diagnosis as if he's remarking on the weather. Cloudy today, thunderstorms tomorrow.
"That implies that there's a story to tell."
"I imagined someone with an agenda would eventually come looking for it." Bryant purses his lips. "Tell me, what is yours?"
"Justice, mostly," Annabeth shrugs, choosing her words carefully but being entirely truthful, "And a bit of personal satisfaction."
Bryant observes her for a moment, then removes his glasses to clean them with the hem of his shirt. When he places them back on the bridge of his nose, he sets his jaw. "Well, alright then."
Annabeth allows herself to breathe and sits up straighter in her seat in anticipation.
"After Luthor's parents died, the insurance company paid a claim of $300,000," he starts, "Now, back then, that was even a greater sum of money than it is now."
She smiles wryly. "Rich people become richer."
"That's the thing," Bryant leans in conspiratorially, "The Luthors weren't rich."
Annabeth blinks.
She had always just assumed that Luthor had come from old money, never having given a clue to think otherwise. He certainly acted like it.
"They were actually quite poor," he continues, "They lived in a Metropolis neighborhood people used to call the suicide slums." Annabeth winced. "People there didn't usually have the means to pay for life insurance policies."
Annabeth had heard about Southside Metropolis, an area where the crime rate was significantly higher than the rest of the city. She knows that with Superman and Black Lightning's help it has gotten safer over the years, but she understands now why Luthor had wanted so badly to hide his origins.
"The policy and its amount weren't the only unusual things," Bryant plows on after softening his throat with some water, "When they took out the policy, it came to me by mail. Back then, I usually went door to door to help people fill them out. That's how we did those things."
For a quick horrific second, all Annabeth can think of is how many demigods were killed because of monsters disguised as door-to-door salesmen, but before her face can betray her thoughts, she quickly dispels them.
"When I visited their home to let them know that their claim had been approved, Mr. Luthor practically kicked me off his property," he reveals, shaking his head, "Threatening me and saying that he had never filled out any claim. And then," he pauses again, "I get an apology letter in the mail, the absolute nerve!"
Bryant looks like he's back in the past, young, and indignant at the supposed audacity.
"Saying sorry for forgetting about the claim. As if he didn't say he'd kill me if I ever showed my face again," he huffs again, this time without humor, "But I guess I didn't have to worry about that, seeing as the very next day, their car swerved into the wrong late and got hit by a semi."
Annabeth stills at the abruptness of that statement, then her expression tightens.
"Was the car checked for tampering?" she asks.
"Of course," the older man says, "I sent a mechanic to check the steering column, but he reported that it was impossible to tell, that the car was far too damaged." Bryant sighs. "But then again, he quit his job and moved somewhere to start his own auto parts shop."
Annabeth breathes out shakily as her long-time suspicions are finally confirmed.
Lex Luthor killed his parents.
She knows this, and judging by the expression on Bryant's face as he watches her soak in all of his information, he believes the same.
"Why didn't you ever say something?" she demands.
The look on his face makes her wish she could take the words back and say them differently.
Bryant places one hand on the table before him and another on his lower back to help him stand. He shuffles to the side of the room and returns, his frail hands clutching a small mahogany frame. When he holds it out to her, Annabeth gingerly takes it into her own hands. It's an old picture of him, beside a beautiful woman and a toddler, a little girl.
"That's my daughter, she had just turned three. She's the one who labeled all my cabinets and covered all the outlets, you know, even though the doctor said I wouldn't need that for another few months at least," he says, smiling wistfully.
Annabeth looks down at the girl, holding both her parents' hands and forgetting to look at the camera.
"I couldn't fall down that hole of trying to prove something that could be impossible to," Annabeth hears him say, but doesn't see, her eyes still fixated on the frame, "I heard rumors about the Luthor boy, and how smart he was. If I was right, who knew what he'd be capable of if he found out I was on his trail? I had to protect my family."
Bryant reaches out and gently takes the frame from her fingers and tightens his grip around it.
"I don't regret it," he admits, smiling sadly, "I have grandchildren now."
Logically, Annabeth shouldn't agree. Letting Luthor go free back then might have had disastrous present-day consequences. But emotionally, she understands. Annabeth contemplates what she would be willing to look past for the opportunity to grow old and weary with her family. A brief vision flashes through her brain, of her and Percy walking slowly down a city street in the fall, using each other for balance as orange leaves drift down around them, clutching tightly to each other's wrinkled hands.
Annabeth takes a breath to compose herself, shaky on the way in, stable as it passes through her lips again.
When she meets Bryant's eyes, a moment of understanding passes between them.
"Mr. Bryant, would you be willing to say something now?"
He stares her down, calculatingly. Finally, he gives her a short nod.
"Dennis," he offers, placing the picture frame back in its proper location. The frames are arranged in chronological order, she observes, spanning early childhood to what looks like within the past year. The thought that a few years from now, that arrangement could end up being the only thing helping him to keep track of the order of his life makes her indescribably sad. And yet, just by looking at his expression, his resolve, she knows she's found an ally.
"Call me Annabeth."
The sound of nondescript old jazz blows through the air like wind, audible, then not, then audible again. Annabeth alternates between chewing thoughtfully on toast and scanning the parking lot outside through the window of the booth. Occasionally, she works through a word search on the paper placemat. Across her, Nico devours a plate of chocolate chip pancakes. The speed that he's eating at is slightly reminiscent of Percy, but she knows if she says anything, he'll glare at her.
"Did you get what you came here for?" Nico asks, between bites.
Annabeth lazily circles a string of letters in blue crayon, the name of the diner Nico has insisted upon for her payment.
"More or less," she hums.
Nico doesn't ask any more questions for a while. Annabeth can't tell if he's being polite or if he genuinely does not care. It's always a toss-up with him, but she's grateful anyways. Her time speaking with Dennis felt heavy, and she doesn't feel like discussing it for a while.
"How's Will?" she asks instead.
Nico immediately blushes around his fork, and Annabeth lets out a sharp laugh at the reaction.
"Shut up," he grumbles, but Annabeth amusingly points out that she didn't even say anything, which sends him into another well-meaning scowl.
They fall back into a comfortable silence for another few minutes before she breaks it again.
"What do you know about earthquakes?"
Nico barely looks up from his plate, pausing to say "That's more Percy's thing," before digging back in.
Annabeth ignores this and continues on as if uninterrupted. "Specifically, the one near Tokyo, about two years ago."
"Surprisingly, that one, I know," he says, looking intrigued, "Dad complained about it for weeks. Something about mortals disturbing the balance of nature and causing unnecessary deaths."
Annabeth scowls, deeply and instantly, and Nico stops eating mid-bite, wary of the absolute fury on her face.
"I knew it," she hisses, "That fucking—" Then she stops and looks at Nico. "Take me home."
Nico sighs, and waves down the waitress for a to-go box.
A.N.
I wrote this chapter on the most harrowing journey of my life. I was almost stranded in the countryside of a foreign country, AND I had to tell someone I was 'writing for fun' to hide the fact that it was pjo fanfic so.
Anyways, I finally graduated ! I have a degree yay but more importantly, time to write the rest of this and my other stories.
I'd love it if you guys commented and let me know what you thought!