Cross-posted on Fanfiction, Spacebattles, AO3, Wattpad, and Quotev

A/N (IMPORTANT): Prologue received major revisions on Oct 9 and Oct 15. The first one made some major changes to Hestia's scene when she was alone, the second one added an important detail between Demeter's and Hestia's conversation, it foreshadows and explains some of the major deviations within this world vs original PJO verse and sets ups for some extremely important events later.

Anyways,

Here's Chapter 1.

Enjoy.

Green eyes stared out of the windows at the rippling waves, its surface glistened far and below in the distance. Up close, thick beams of shadows that stretched overhead swept past in a steady rhythm. The river that stretched into the horizon remained almost unmoving while the poles of cable passed by in a blur, one after another.

Despite being in motion, a tranquil stillness permeated the sedan, only disturbed by the occasional, dampened thrums of honking vehicles in traffic. The driver stared ahead calmly focused on the driving, while the young passenger continued to gaze into the channel beneath the steel bridge, eyes focused on a particular silhouette.

A distinctly inhuman figure—a crude mix of a canine's crown and the sleek black body of a seal—swiveled about the surface of the river, the people around remained unaware of its presence.

This scene of the East River from atop the Manhattan Bridge was not unfamiliar to the little girl. She saw it day in and day out, sitting quietly in these same leather seats, clothed in the same neat dresses, brought to school and sent back home by her chauffeur. Her initial curiosity had waned long ago, now, she just stares at the oddity around her in a muted acceptance, like everything around her had simply stopped mattering as much—became regular, mundane.

The anomalies… they were just… there. She saw no point in making a fuss about them—not anymore—not when nobody believed her. The girl has long since learned her lessons. With time, her gift was made into a burden by all those who were uncomprehending about her situation. There used to be a time when she had been enthused with every witness of the impossible, eager to share what she saw with others, but that feeling has dwindled over the years.

It wasn't worth the excitement just to be called a liar by her peers.

She wouldn't have her expectations betrayed again.

Columns of shadows continued to swipe across her face until the car made it off the bridge and entered Brooklyn. Eventually, the vehicle glided to a stop at an intersection.

Frizzy red hair swayed as green eyes shifted their focus past the crossing pedestrians at another block down the street. An incredibly tall building stood above its peers. Its silhouette, though contemporary, blended elements of historical architecture. Marble and granite lined its base, while its upper tiers tapered off elegantly, its sleek glass facade reflecting the city's skyline.

It was a high-rise apartment.

Home.

The redhead's shoulders sagged just a little at the thought.

Rachel remembered a time when she was eager to welcome home her father, probably when she was three or four. It was a time, that, in her mind—the perspective of a child—was so very ancient. To her, it felt like eons ago. After all, she was already seven years old, quite the adult in her opinion.

Rachel liked her father a lot during that time, but he was rarely present in her life. The little girl did talk to her mother ever so often, but they were not extremely close. That beautiful woman had been more invested in spending time with her friends and obsessed over this thing called "man-nee-kur" that made her nails all shiny and mesmerizing. Little Rachel had found an entire shelf of it on a marble desk with multiple mirrors. The child had secretly tried it on herself, just a few brushes on her tiny fingers—she couldn't agree more with the woman—it was pretty.

Despite curious events like this, most of those days had been dull and filled with waiting. She would be lying in bed at night, awake, where she would count to the largest number she knew—in the beginning, it was fifty—hoping her father would appear by the end. When he did not, she would do it again, and again. Then again. Alone and curled up into a tiny ball under her blanket.

Then someday, she learned how to count to sixty.

After some time, eighty.

And then a hundred.

Two hundred.

Five hundred.

One thous—

Then she was five years old.

But the father she was waiting for never opened that door, never walked into her room, and never kissed her goodnight—like what her friends had told her.

It always ended the same way. Eventually, and consistently, the envelope of darkness won, and the night took Rachel into her dreams. She would toss and turn in her bed from what she saw. When morning came the child would wake up, damp from her drying sweat, yet struggling to remember any details. Except, there was always something nagging in the back of her mind, vague words whispered of something important—of grey eyes, white hair… and death.

She would shiver at the thought every time, unwilling to linger a moment longer on those images.

To the girl, her room reminded her of unpleasant times. For that reason, she stayed clear of it during the day and well into the night, until right before she was put to bed. The child learned to dislike the loneliness that was associated with her room, and the darkness that accompanied it. Rachel thought if her parents, or if anyone, were with her, perhaps the scary and sad things would go away.

Therefore, she was absolutely ecstatic when she learned about hamsters.

Claire had bragged to her about her hamsters. They were small, fluffy, and cute. They can be held with just a cupped hand. They are like friends but stay at home. They will always be waiting for you. They are always with you.

Claire said a hamster is a pet. Rachel thought she understood what her playmate meant—pets are friends for life, and hamsters are pets. The little redhead came home that day and asked her mother about pets and hamsters.

Perhaps her room wasn't that bad after all.

Rachel sat cross-legged in front of the cage, bathed in the soft glow of the evening sun. In the center, on the bed, stood a brand-new cage. A golden-brown hamster, now comfortably settled in its new home, was exploring every nook and cranny.

The redhead was leaning over her bed, chin resting on crossed arms, green eyes following the new resident's every move. "You're going to love it here," she whispered while cautiously raising her arm, her fingers gently tapping the cage.

Curious, the hamster approached the edge of the enclosure, sniffing the girl's fingers. Encouraged, Rachel opened the cage and carefully extended her hand. To her delight, her new friend climbed onto her palm, tiny claws tickling the girl's skin.

Giggling, she lifted the hamster closer to her face. "We're going to be the best of friends," she promised.

As the snow melted away, Central Park came alive with the promise of spring. Cherry blossoms lined the pathways from the Seventy-second to the Ninety-sixth streets. The days grew longer, and the sun cast a warm, golden glow, beckoning summer's embrace. The streets of Manhattan were filled with tourists, street performers, and vendors selling ice-cold treats. Eventually, the heat gave way, and the arrival of a cool breeze whispered of change. Leaves transformed into a riot of reds, oranges, and yellows. Then, as the year drew to a close, on a wintery dusk, the first snowfall blanketed the city's streets, painting the metropolis a serene white.

Inside a high-rise penthouse apartment in Brooklyn, away from the changing seasons and the bustling streets, a girl prepared to sleep.

The room was dim, the only light coming from a night lamp that cast dancing shadows on the walls. Rachel, in her pajamas, lay in bed, a storybook open in front of her. Beside her, on the nightstand, the hamster's cage stood. A wooden plaque with clearly carved letters was strung on its side—"Honey".

"—and he was so tall!" The girl waved her hands in drawn-out and exaggerated movements. "But then there is the weirdest thing, he only had one eye!"

Rachel turned to look at her new friend. The little hamster was curled up in a ball, it's breathing even and calm.

"No one believed me though," she paused, "and… Claire and Tommy called me a liar…"

Honey continued to slumber, its body rising and falling with rhythm.

"—Then there are my dreams, I never remember anything though," her head tilted, "but I feel like I should… they… feel important."

Green eyes stared through the cage and focused on something distant. Rachel let out a small sniff.

A muffled honk sounded from the streets far below. The silence was interrupted. Her trance broken.

The girl rubbed her nose. "Goodnight, Honey," she whispered, reaching out to gently stroke the hamster's fur through the cage.

The hamster stirred, its eyes opening for a brief moment to meet the girl's. With a tired sigh, the redhead turned off the lamp and snuggled deeper into her blankets. Rachel still had dreams, but at least she didn't have to stay awake counting, waiting for someone who would never arrive. She still wasn't overly eager to come home, but at least she was no longer lonely here. She had Honey.

She was fine now.

Mrs. Dare arrived home to find her daughter in their main living room. The girl was sitting cross-legged on the carpet and staring at the hamster cage placed on the coffee table.

"Rachel, we will be having dinner in 30 minutes. It should be Italian, tonight." Their family had a personal chef who provided a tailored and rotating menu for the Dares. It was scheduled thirty minutes after Mrs. Dare returned from her social work, just enough time for the lady to do a quick cleanup. Their family appreciated routines.

With blonde locks flowing freely down her back after changing, the woman found her daughter still sitting in the same spot after returning downstairs.

That was odd. The girl was a bit obsessed with her pet hamster, but never had that become a reason for her to space out.

"Rachel, dinner in five," stated Mrs. Dare as she stopped behind the girl. "You should return your hamster to your room and get ready to eat. Anthony will be delivering the food any minute now."

There was no response.

"Rachel, did you hear what I said?"

Silence hung in the air. The drafts from the air conditioning became more apparent.

The woman frowned and circled to the other side of the coffee table. The child noticed her.

Green eyes peered up into green eyes.

The girl spoke.

"Hey mom—" The bubble of silence burst.

There was a pause. Ah, the child was confused, the woman concluded.

"Why isn't Honey moving?"

"Tell me about Honey," Dr. Arkwright began gently, sitting on a couch with legs crossed.

Rachel sniffled, wiping her tears. "He was my best friend. And now he's gone."

The man gazed at the girl sympathetically. "It's hard when we lose a friend, isn't it?"

Rachel nodded and looked down, her fingers playing with the hem of her dress. "I don't have many friends at school," she continued to fidget. "…Honey was my only friend."

The doctor took a moment, processing her words. He had not been briefed about the hamster, but not this. Did they intentionally avoid the topic of the girl's isolation? That was unlikely. From what he observed of the parents, Dr. Arkwright was more inclined to assume that they were simply neglectful towards the child. That is something to be noted.

Pen scribbled across the notebook.

Without pausing his hand, the man nodded to himself and glanced at the girl. "I understand, that must be very difficult. It must be why you loved Honey so much."

"…Yes…" she sniffled again.

The writing stopped and Dr. Arkwright looked up, observing the little girl in front of him. "Rachel," he began, his voice soft, "sometimes, it's the little things, like a pet hamster, that can mean the world to us. Especially when we feel alone."

She nodded, tears still glistening in her eyes. "Honey listened to me. He didn't laugh or think I was weird."

Dr. Arkwright leaned in slightly, "You know, being different isn't a bad thing. It makes you special. And just because some kids at school don't understand that doesn't mean you're alone."

"…but they always avoid me… even Claire and Tommy said that no one likes me."

"That is not a nice thing for them to say." He focused on the girl, observing her reaction carefully. "Sometimes people can be mean without a good reason. And others get hurt because of it. A lot of kids are like this. They don't understand what they feel, and they can act mean, which ends up hurting others, like how Claire and Tommy said hurtful things to you."

Rachel nodded, hands still gripping her skirt.

"Was there anything else they said to you? Did they call you any names?" He paused and stared intently at the girl. "Did they do anything to hurt you?"

"No… they just… they said I was a…" Her whisper faded into nothing.

"Yes?"

"They called me a lia…"

"Rachel, its fine. You can tell me."

Hesitation hung in the air. The girl continued to stare at her lap.

"This is just between the two of us. No one else will know."

"…They said I am a liar," her knuckles turned white, "and nobody likes a liar."

Dr. Arkwright picked up his pen again, the tip hovering just above the paper. "And why did they call you that?"

Rachel didn't respond. She just hung her head lower, shoulders hiked up as if trying to disappear into the couch.

The man waited with patience. He decided that she needed a bit more reassurance to be able to speak her mind. "Rachel, I am an adult. I will not make fun of you or hurt you like other children. Grownups are more experienced and know better than kids. You don't have to be afraid to tell me."

The redhead shook her head. "Mom is an adult… but I know she didn't believe me…"

That was not uncommon. Those untrained in mental therapy and psychology often fail to deal with situations like these, especially when involving a young child. In his career, he had encountered more than his fair share of such cases.

"I am different, Rachel." Dr. Arkwright promised. "I am a psychiatrist. We understand children in situations like yours. We are trained to help you, unlike regular adults, unlike your parents. Psychiatrists like me have studied and worked for years with different children, just like you, who need help. There is nothing to worry about. You can tell me, I won't make fun of you. I promise."

"…Really?" she asked with hesitation and a hint of hope.

"Of course. I have seen many, many things, Rachel. I promise you won't surprise me."

She paused. Dr. Arkwright waited. The girl took a deep breath.

"…Well," green eyes peeked through her frizzy red hair, making eye contact for the first time in their conversation, "I—I see things… things that other people don't see."

The man nodded at her, signaling for her to go on. It was like a dam that had been opened. The girl told the tale of her restless sleep at night, of the dreams. She recounted what she saw during the day, of monsters with horns and hooves. All throughout, the man across from her listened intently, patiently.

"Rachel," Dr. Arkwright leaned forward, his voice gentle and eyes holding a certain gentleness. "Sometimes, when we go through something traumatic, our minds try to make sense of it in different ways. It's possible that what you're seeing is your mind's way of coping, as in, dealing with the pain of Honey's absence, or the rejection of your classmates."

"Bhu—but it's true!" exclaimed the child, green eyes slowly watering as she stared desperately at the man.

Dr. Arkwright paused at her outburst, choosing his words carefully. "Perhaps," he agreed with a sigh, "Sometimes, Rachel, there are things in this world that not everyone can see. But maybe that means all the things you described truly exist. But for most people, they will be blind to them."

Her only response was to look down at her lap again.

"It just means you have a special gift."

The little redhead just sat there—quiet and incredibly small.

Dr. Arkwright had informed them of their child's situation. Perhaps they had truly been too focused on affairs outside of their family, so much so that they knew astonishingly little about their daughter.

Mrs. Dare had assumed that the fantastical sights little Rachel told her about all those years ago had merely been… the actions of a child seeking attention. She did not acknowledge them in the hopes that it would quell—in her perspective—the symptoms of a lying child. Nonetheless, she did buy her presents, hoping that would satisfy whatever need Rachel had for peer recognition.

Now that she carefully filled through her memories, she had rarely seen her daughter playing with those toys… that was a startling revelation.

"My schedule is clear for this coming Tuesday's afternoon, for two hours, beginning at three." The muted voice of a male declared. As the footsteps grew louder, a man sporting brushed-back hair of rusted red stepped out of the wardrobe.

"That's rare…" Mrs. Dare responded with a raised eyebrow, rising from their bed, sheets falling to reveal a proportioned body clad only in lingerie. "How come?"

"We'll go pick up a child at the orphanage near Harlem River."

The wife paused in mid-step while her husband continued to fix the cuffs of his shirt.

A small frown graced her face. "You are referring to the Sheltering Embrace." She and her group of social workers have been to the place a couple of times.

The man only grunted in affirmation.

"…Are you sure a sibling is what she needs?"

Done with his shirt, Mr. Dare went on to fix his tie while glancing at his wife's form through the window's reflection. "She cannot go on sulking like this. Her grades are beginning to slip. If Rachel can't fix this herself, and neither can the psychiatrist," he said as he looked over Manhattan while fastening the knot, "then I will."

The woman recalled Dr. Arkwright's warning in regard to her daughter's nightmares, visions, and hallucinations—a kind of coping mechanism. He explained how humans were social animals, and Rachel's lack of companionship was really hurting her. The girl's symptoms were a manifestation of her mental defense mechanism.

Perhaps her husband was right. It has persisted for too long. Their child has for the first time gotten a B on her progress report. This will not do. Their daughter would need company, and if that came in the form of a sibling, then a sibling is what they would get her.

Mrs. Dare stood there contemplating the information as her husband turned around swiftly, planting a chaste kiss on her lips, and strolled out of the room with a jacket and briefcase in hand.

It was nearing six on a Tuesday afternoon as Mrs. Dare sat in the cool leather seats of a sedan, sipping on a glass of chilled lemon water, heading home. The ride was slow, the world outside dissolved into an abstract painting of blurred lights and colors as the sophisticated wipers of the sedan swung valiantly against the deluge, yet every swipe merely cleared the view for a fleeting second before the glass was once more enveloped in the watery cascade—as it should be on a late summer afternoon.

The weather report had predicted none of it. It came abruptly and without warning. Thankfully, at that point, they were already in the car.

The torrential downpour drummed a rhythmic, relentless beat upon the roof, contrasting the tranquil luxury within against the tumultuous frenzy of nature's display outside. Soft jazz played in the background as Mrs. Dare leaned back, trying to appreciate how the tinted windows shielded her from the prying eyes of pedestrians—not that they would have the mind to do so in this weather.

A muffled boom of thunder rolled through the car; it was the only noise that managed to penetrate the walls of the vehicle. The woman looked towards where the sound came from, her gaze falling in the same direction as the other passenger.

How odd it was. His gaze had not wandered at all, not since the peculiar chain of flashing lightning in the distance. The reverberating thunders were orders of magnitudes louder than anything she had believed possible, especially through the soundproofing system of the sedan. It had been quite startling.

But the child in the booster seat had not flinched in the slightest. He simply turned and stared at the direction of the phenomena—somewhere in Long Island, the woman presumed.

Six intersections—the woman had counted. For six painstaking intersections, the child's attention had been fixed unwaveringly, and solely, on that location in the distance.

She didn't know that toddlers could act like this—to be able to stay fixated, attention unbroken for minutes, on something that was, to their predeveloped minds, objectively unentertaining. Rachel certainly had not demonstrated such behaviors when she was this young. And neither did the children of her friends. This one was different.

Perhaps that was why he was picked, the woman concluded.

Regardless, it had been less than a week since her husband declared his intention to adopt an orphan. The normal procedure would have taken months at the very least—the parents had to undergo background checks, home visits, and had to take multiple exams on top of the excruciating wait for approval. But their family had been different. Like always, her husband had made a call to his head secretary, and days later the couple strolled into the daycare to collect a child—like how everyday people walked into a market to pick some fruits.

Two staff members had been stationed in front of the daycare, waiting for them to arrive on their escort. The husband and wife were welcomed into a room with foam-padded floors where a third employee herded a group of children, ranging from ages five to seven, into the space and arranged them into a line. One by one, the children were gently nudged forward by their caretaker and introduced themselves to the wealthy couple. Many were noticeably timid as they stuttered beneath the emotionless gaze of the husband.

Almost without pause, after the last child had spoken, the man had turned and exchanged a quick word with the staff.

The kids shuffled out of the room and an older group was led within, organizing themselves in a similar fashion. This process was repeated twice more.

One of the staff came up to them as the latest batch of orphans made their exit. Apparently, those were all the children that fell within the age of five to twelve, the criteria relayed by the man—or more probably, by his secretary over the phone. The young woman who brought the news stood there, not sure how to proceed in this situation. Mrs. Dare waited by her husband's side, watching the entire ordeal.

Then, only after a few seconds of consideration, the man glanced at his wife and proceeded to ask the female staff to show them the youngest of the children. They were led down the halls, and through the windows of the passing doors, Mrs. Dare caught glimpses of children sitting around caretakers, some listening intently, others distracted. Eventually, they stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, the employee paused, and the blonde was almost certain she caught a tiny grimace on the young woman's face.

With a click and a creak, the entry gave way, and the adults were slammed head-on by a cacophony of wailing infants, the dissonant lullaby of hanging toys, and the frantic soothing of caretakers.

Mrs. Dare flinched.

Then the smell hit—the air was thick with the scent of baby powder, damp diapers, and the underlying sweetness of milk. Dozens of cribs, lined up in neat rows, were filled with tiny, wriggling bodies.

Mrs. Dare frowned.

Frantic caretakers darted between the cribs; their faces etched with concern. They cradled babies, rocked them, and whispered soothing words, but the storm of tears seemed unending. In one corner, a young woman with a frazzled bun was methodically filling bottles with warm milk, her hands shaking slightly. Another was trying to feed a particularly inconsolable infant, her voice barely audible over the din as she sang a lullaby.

Overwhelmed by this scene, the blonde woman hesitated to enter.

Mr. Dare was the only one to move. The man stepped into the room with barely a pause, his face the same neutral mask as he strode through the cribs in a measured pace, his gaze flitted from one toddler to the next, observing each infant for just a moment.

Not a moment did the chaos in the room dwindle. Some of the caretakers glanced up at the passing man, but none regarded him for more than an instance as they quickly resumed their endeavor in placating the crying babies.

He simply strode and observed.

None of the mess seemed to phase the man, and neither did what he saw impress. His pace remained steady and unchanged as he passed them by, the clicking of his heels drowned out by the cascading noise.

He continued all the way down the aisles, before finally approaching the far end of the room. His steps paused at a particular crib, lingering longer than he had for any other. Then he turned around and began his journey back, his strides just as deliberate as when he came in—neither too fast nor too slow—eyes scanning over the opposite side of the room.

As he neared the door, Mrs. Dare met his eyes, a silent question in her gaze. He simply nodded.

The husband and wife started down the hall, the wooden door clicked shut behind them and the young employee hurried after the two.

Mr. Dare glanced over his shoulders and asked for the name of a toddler—one with auburn hair and amber eyes.

They had found what they were looking for.

The door to the residence glided open silently, soft lights of the chandelier spilled through the doorframes, casting a warm glow on the figure of Mrs. Dare. Behind her, a sleek black baby carriage rested, covers drawn.

"Rachel," the woman called out softly, "Come say hello."

Mr. Dare, had, during the rare occasion of sitting down for breakfast yesterday, dropped the news on his daughter. The little redhead had not been particularly enthused by the information, and the fact that it had been delivered on a Monday morning did not help. Nonetheless, the couple believed the girl would come to appreciate the companionship of a sibling, even if she does not understand now.

A few moments later, a soft click signaled the opening of the child's room, and muffled shuffling of slippers that bordered a lethargic rhythm approached the living room.

The small figure of Rachel appeared, her auburn hair tousled and her green eyes lacking their usual glint. She wore a simple white nightgown, its hem brushing against her ankles as she moved. Her gaze roamed the room tiredly until it finally found the woman near the couches. The girl's stare flitted between her mother and the mysterious carriage behind her.

Mrs. Dare bent down, her fingers gently retracting the covers of the carriage. "Go on," she urged in a soft voice.

Rachel hesitated for a moment before she moved closer, her mother stood right behind her, as she pried onto the ledge of the stroller and peeked into the basket. Her breath paused.

Auburn hair, just like hers, but the eyes... they were different—a deep shade of amber. The girl couldn't help but stare into his eyes. The child returned her gaze. There was something oddly familiar about him, something she couldn't quite place. Maybe it was the shared hair color, or perhaps the way he seemed so at peace, but she felt drawn to him.

Her small fingers reached out and touched the baby's cheek. It was soft, warm, and surprisingly calming.

The girl finally broke the silence, her voice soft and hesitant. "He's... different."

Mrs. Dare smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind Rachel's ear.

"Can I... hold him?"

Mrs. Dare nodded. "Of course, but be gentle."

With her mother's help, Rachel carefully cradled the toddler in her arms. He was surprisingly light, and she could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her chest. As she held him, she felt a warmth spreading through her, a sense of comfort and security she hadn't felt in a long time.

"His name is Shirou Emiya Dare…"

Rachel remained silent, immersed in the moment.

"And from this day forward, he is your baby brother—" There was a rare smile on the woman's face as she observed the scene.

This memory would remain with the girl for a long time.

"—and you are his older sister."

Hi all, this is Tangerine Cat,

First, I would like to address what I would assume to be the biggest issue that you guys have immediately after reading this chapter: WHY TF IS EMIYA SO DAMN YOUNG?! Well, worry not (I guess?). I can explain this and why it would all work out, but it would be a tiny SPOILER, so proceed to read the following at your own discretion:

SPOILER BEGINS

I'm not going to say too much except this: Emiya will be, in a way, the same age as the main cast by the timeline of the first PJO book. He will not be a smaller little squirt compared to the other slightly older little squirts in the first book. That's all I have to say, I don't want to spoil too much.

SPOILER ENDS

With that out of the way, the second thing I want to address is a reminder: please at least reread the parts of the prologue after Hestia's visions, I made major revisions of it twice, once on October 9th, and most recently, today, on October 15th. The changes foreshadow some important events I have planned and may explain some of the deviations this story has compared to the original PJO verse. So, if you don't want to be confused/surprised by some of the future directions this story takes, I would really recommend rereading the part I specified.

Apologies for the revisions on the prologue and any future revisions I make. This is my first time writing a story so I am quite inexperienced, hence, my plans for the story can change a lot as I write, as I am still experimenting with many ideas in my head—the better of which I would use to replace the already published content.

But yeah, I appreciate all of you guys for reading what I posted, so thanks a lot.

Cheers.