Young Boy of the Streets, Old Man Of the Sea
Percy frowned as he threw the last coin back into his tupperware container. Thirteen dollars and seventy two cents short. Crap.
The street light in front of him flickered to life. The sun had already disappeared behind Manhattan's skyscrapers, and the light was quickly waning. The young boy's frown deepened; he didn't have much time. He looked up and down the street, searching for prey. Rush hour had recently ended, so the streets were emptier than usual. His eyes jumped between the few options he had; a mother and daughter, usually a good mark, but they were walking away from him. There was a guy walking on the other side of the street, but considering how his clothes were little better than Percy's own, he probably didn't have much to give.
A policeman. Percy sank back into the shadows. A barrel chested man stepped out of the CrowBar Pub & Grill a little ways to his left. The boy sank even further; you didn't approach the people that came out of that place.
There. Walking out of a faintly lit side street he knew led to China Town, bright colours following him. He wore a cheap, ill-fitting business suit and carried a laptop bag. It looked like he was stumbling as he walked; he was probably as good as his options would get.
He made a beeline for the man, sticking to the shadows and making sure to keep the policeman in view. He wasn't too worried; people rarely noticed him when he didn't want them to. All the same, a little caution went a long way. The man had turned down the street and was walking towards him, teetering this way and that, his gaze fixed on the pavement a few feet ahead of him. Definitely drunk. Percy's lips twisted; that would make things easier.
He was getting close now. Percy hurriedly crouched down behind some trash cans; when begging from people, it was best to catch them by surprise and put them on the spot. If you didn't give them time to decide that, no, they didn't want to give up their hard earned money to some undeserving runt, their kinder sides usually took over or they felt guilty enough to toss a few coins, or even bills, into his tupperware.
Now that he was closer though, Percy could see that this particular tactic might not work here. If you spent enough time on the streets you developed certain skills, such as being a good judge of character. This guy had a nasty look about him, as if he were more likely to throw the dregs of whatever mega-sized drink he might have at him than a few coins. It happened more often than the general working class would be comfortable believing.
Muttering a soft, but vile, curse under his breath, Percy closed his eyes. Ultimately, it wasn't too big of a deal; he had more than a few aces up his grimy sleeves.
He focused his awareness at the centre of his chest, conjuring up an image of a much cuter version of himself; glossier hair, wider, shinier eyes, smaller face, etc. He filled it with feelings of pity, generosity and tenderness. Keeping his focus on the image, he allowed it to expand outwards, filling his chest, his limbs, his body and then seeping into the air around him. Something shifted and snapped into place. Percy felt a ripple emanate outward from himself into the world around him, leaving a slightly altered picture in its wake. It was like moving a puzzle piece ever so slightly out of position.
Percy popped out right in front of the startled business man, making sure to meet his eyes. If you made eye contact, they acknowledged your existence, no matter how unwillingly. It made it a lot harder to simply ignore him. The boy fought off a grin as he saw the man's eyes glaze over.
"Please, sir," he said, keeping the image of an adorable, heart-breakingly pitiful ten-year-old in his mind as he held out his tupperware. "Just a little bit, so I can eat tonight."
His urge to smirk grew as he saw the man's eyes glaze over further and his expression softened. His hand was halfway to his jacket pocket before he hesitated and blinked, his tender expression morphing into a scowl.
"Get los', you li'l shit," he growled as he pushed the surprised boy to the side and stumbled past him. His breath reeked of whatever cheap shit the Chinamen sold. Percy watched the man's retreating back indignantly, having lost hold of his projection when the man had shoved him aside.
'Cocksucking asshole,' he thought as he glared after him. That little trick rarely failed him, and only when people really didn't want to give him anything.
'Oh well.' Percy's glare disappeared in favour of a smirk as he regarded the shiny money clip tucked into the palm of his hand, several bills clasped between the metal flanges. 'At least it's not the only one up my sleeve.' Sometimes having sticky fingers was better than whatever freaky magic shit he could pull.
He tossed the clip aside and began counting the bills it had held. Ten, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. He grinned; that was more than enough. Stuffing all but the five dollar bill into his tupperware, and his tupperware into his ratty, old backpack, he scurried off in the opposite direction of the man he'd just stolen from.
The stars were starting to show. All around him streetlights and buildings flickered to life as the city that never sleeps began to wake up. Percy ran through the streets and alleys he knew were safest, giving every manhole cover he came across a wide berth and making sure none of the people he passed were hiding horns or fangs or whatever the fuck those donkey-legged bitches had. The last thing he needed tonight was to come across a Shifty.
As he travelled, the surrounding buildings began to shrink, transforming from massive skyscrapers to short, squat warehouses and apartment buildings. The scent of diesel fumes, piss and greasy food was replaced by salty air, rancid seaweed and the ever-so-slight smell of fish guts. Percy took a deep, comforting breath.
He stopped outside a small convenience store wedged between a seedy hotel and an abandoned office building. The lights were on and the door unlocked, even though it was half an hour past when the sign said they closed. No one was behind the front counter. Percy headed to the back of the store where a small bakery sat.
Henry was there waiting for him, leaning against the counter with his chin in his hand. His eyes opened at Percy's approach and he smiled. Percy smiled back.
Without saying a word, Henry grabbed a brown paper bag and started throwing in steaming cheese rolls with a pair of tongs while Percy counted out the money for them. He may not have been able to read worth a damn, but numbers weren't so difficult. He had exactly six dollars and twenty five cents laying on the counter in short order. Henry handed him the bag and scooped the money into the register without counting it. He never did.
Henry was a good person. Percy was surprised upon first discovering this, as the man was the most gangster looking person he had ever seen. And the boy said that having seen many actual gangsters in his short life. Henry's large frame and squashed, mean-looking features gave him an intimidating appearance, not to mention the gold chains and dark tattoos. Add in his coffee-colored skin and you had a bona fide member of The Bloods.
Yet it was because of Henry that Percy ate most nights. Whether he received money or not, the man almost always had food to give him. Percy also suspected that Henry was responsible for at least two of the times CPS had caught up to him; even though he'd nearly died one of those times, he knew the man had just been trying to help him. He'd either since given up on that avenue of rescue for the young boy or all the projections Percy had used on him had left a lasting impression.
The boy immediately opened the bag and grabbed one of the cheese rolls, mashing the bread against his face and taking a massive bite out of it. He moaned as warm, doughy, cheesy goodness filled his mouth. He lifted the roll in a salute, grease and crumbs surrounding his grin.
"Rh'anks Rh'enry," he said, little bits of food and spittle flying out of his mouth. Henry lifted an eyebrow at him and hummed, an expression of mild disgust on his face. Percy grinned wider and opened his mouth to show him more of his masticated food in response. The disgust deepened, but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of his eyes and lips.
He finished off the rest of the roll and had made it halfway through another by the time he reached the dockyard. Jamie's Jetty of the Lower East Side was one of the grimier places in New York, and that was saying something. If you didn't look close enough, you'd think it was abandoned; cigarette butts and disposable cups were strewn all over the wharf, plastic lids and chip packets were floating in the water and the two wooden jetties that protruded into the East River looked like they were on the brink of falling apart. Algae and slime clung to them like mould, and they were dotted with gaps where the planks had rotted away. The few dinghies and lone sailboat that were docked there were just as sorry-looking, with barnacles and some sort of crust covering their hulls.
The storage shed and warehouse had a few of their windows smashed in and graffiti stencilled across the bare concrete walls. Percy was glad Jaime had never figured out he was responsible for some of those. In his opinion, it was an improvement; it drew a little bit of attention away from the thick layer of bird shit that covered nearly every conceivable surface. The local fowl had seemingly come to the unanimous decision that this area was the communal crapping place. Everything had at least one decently sized shit-stain decorating it–the wharf, the jetties, the walls, the motorhome in the corner of the yard, etc. The warehouse roof had long since been buried beneath a layer of guano.
Jamie was leaning against the side of the motorhome with a scowl on her face. She obviously wasn't happy at being kept waiting.
It had taken Percy roughly two minutes after first meeting her to realise she was a woman. She was old, somewhere in her late fifties or early sixties, but she looked older. Untold years of working outside had left her skin somewhat tanned, but there was a tint of something unhealthy and sallow to her pallor. Her face, that was so creased with lines and folds it resembled low grade parchment, was sat in the middle of a dry, greying explosion that she tried to keep confined beneath an old Yankees cap. It didn't quite work; whatever hair wasn't covered stuck out in a manner that would have made Einstein jealous.
She had small, piggy features and the body type to match, all wrapped up in a wardrobe that seemed to consist solely of flannel, denim and stained wife-beaters. She smoked like lung cancer didn't exist and had half the wharf's litter to prove it.
Honestly, Percy sometimes wondered who had more dignity between the two of them, and it was only on days when he'd been rummaging through dumpsters that he could definitively say it was Jamie. She pushed off the side of the motorhome as he drew near, hand held out expectantly. He handed over the tupperware without protest, if not reluctance; this was illegal in some way or another, he was sure, but he didn't have much of a choice.
Her features lost some of their fire as she beheld the money he'd spent the entire day begging, cajoling and stealing from pedestrians. He shifted on his feet as he waited for her to finish examining his haul. She shot him a scrutinising look and he had to keep from reacting, the five dollar bill he'd slipped into the slit on the sole of his shoe feeling as if it were crying out for her attention.
He must have looked suitably innocent enough, because she grunted and scooped the majority of his ill-begotten earnings into her pocket and threw the tupperware back at him. Percy breathed a small sigh of relief as he followed her toward the boat house.
Disregarding the fact that it was late autumn and the nights were approaching hazardously low temperatures, it wasn't safe sleeping on the streets. It sounded like an obvious statement, but the true depth of the dangers posed by a night in New York wasn't really acknowledged by those who had a proper roof over their head. You could fall asleep and wake up to find your money, your food or what little worldly possessions you had left gone. You could fall asleep and not wake up at all.
It wasn't just the gangs and addicts and thieves you had to watch out for. There were people (who others saw as regular, with regular jobs and regular lives) who beat up homeless people out of some twisted sense of superiority or disgust, or just for shits and giggles. People who'd throw food and drink (sometimes poisoned) in their faces and laugh as they ate the scraps from the pavement. Sometimes it was the police, prodding you awake with their truncheons and telling you, "You can't sleep here, kid. Piss off."
And then there were the Shifties.
Jamie threw open the door to the warehouse and barely waited for him to enter before slamming it shut again. Percy was sure that under any other circumstances he'd hate her, but as things were, his stance was neutral. A sour, asshole-extortionist she may be, but she didn't treat them any differently than she did the well-off people, and they had a place to sleep most nights.
Percy nodded to a few of the people who sat huddled against the walls and piles of heavy equipment in the middle of the building. They were wrapped in woollen blankets and scarves, some sipping at styrofoam cups or eating cheap ethnic food with plastic utensils. It was quite dark, the only light coming from the windows that faced the street; a few people started as he passed them, his small frame seemingly melting out of one shadow and into the next. Some people didn't notice him at all.
He gave an enthusiastic wave to Moira, who was unashamedly changing out of her working clothes into warmer ones, ignoring the leers of a few newcomers. She ignored him, not that he minded; Moira was as bitter and jaded as they came, and from what little he'd managed to glean of her life story, she had more than enough reason to be. Still, she was friendly enough to talk to on days when she didn't have to work. He'd learned half of his swear words from her, not to mention the creative ways in which to combine them.
He tapped Craig's foot with his own as he walked past, the bearded man giving him a grunt as his only acknowledgement. They'd known each other for years; you wouldn't call them friends, or even acquaintances, but Craig had shared his food with Percy when he had none and whenever the boy had been able to return the gesture, he had.
He saw others that he knew by face, name and reputation, if not personally. He passed them all, nodding to a few as he looked for a place to settle down. The rope piles were taken; so were the tires. He finally found a place at the other side of the boat house, tucked into the corner, between some shelves and the wall. There was someone he didn't know seated across from that spot, leaning against a stack of wooden pallets covered by a tarpaulin.
Percy pulled up short as he drew near the man. The boy had been in some disgusting places in his time, and had faced some pretty disgusting things. The sewer-alligator incident was a prime example–the raw sewage he'd been drenched in then was easily the grossest thing he'd ever encountered.
This guy, however, was a special kind of putrid. A smell like stale animal piss, sun-rotted decay and off seaweed assaulted Percy's nostrils like they'd never been assaulted before. It was a potent stench; a shiver actually went down his spine. No wonder there was such a large gap between him and his closest neighbour.
The man himself oddly didn't exhibit an appearance befitting of his odour. He still looked like a hobo, sure, but he was more kempt than most of the others there. His fuzzy white beard was unmatted and stopped an acceptable distance from the base of his throat. There was the odd morsel of food tangled between the hairs, but Percy had seen worse.
A red shirt stretched across the man's beer gut, white tufts of hair bursting from what holes were in the fabric. A grimy sleeping bag covered his legs and his hands were kept warm by a combination of knitted mitts and a steaming styrofoam cup. He didn't raise his head at Percy's approach, nor his sudden halt. The boy eyed him warily, his nose having in no way gotten used to the smell, before slowly walking over to the spot he'd picked out and sitting down.
The old man's eyes flicked up as he sat across from him and Percy was treated to a pair of dark, black-green eyes. There was something fierce in them, something wild. The two held each other's gaze for a moment or two. Percy gave him a once over; no horns or body parts not of human nature, though that bump on the side of his neck should probably be looked at by a doctor. Keeping the thought of turbulent waters stilling and becoming clear at the forefront of his mind, Percy clicked his fingers. An invisible ripple emanated outward from the gesture. The man stayed as he was, appearance unchanged. He didn't so much as flinch.
Not a Shifty. Could still be a murderer or something though.
Percy nodded to him and received a nod in return. Chapped, flappy lips briefly twitched into something that could have been either a snarl or a smile, before he resumed staring into his cup. Percy, making an effort to breathe through his mouth, cosied up to the shelves and began digging through his backpack, pulling out a grey woollen blanket and the bag containing the rest of his cheese rolls.
"A good day?"
Percy blinked and looked at the old man across from him. His voice was strong and clear. Dark, green eyes were locked onto the grease-stained paper bag, a glint of desire in them.
"Decent enough," Percy replied, nodding. "Didn't run into too many assholes."
The man bobbed his head and hummed, gaze still locked onto the bag in the boy's hand. He opened his mouth and for a second Percy was sure he was going to ask to share, but he stayed quiet and once again turned back to his cup.
"And you?" Percy asked.
The question garnered a look of slight surprise from the elder. "I have had better. I came across someone I would rather not deal with. He offered me a job."
"That sounds like good news to me, man."
He grunted. "It's a one-off thing. The pay is good, but the work… troublesome."
Percy stayed quiet for a bit. "So, did you take it?" he eventually asked. The man lifted his head and locked gazes with him once more.
"I haven't decided yet."
Percy nodded and the conversation ended. The boy leant back against the wall and rested his head against the shelf frame. He held the bag between his hands underneath the blanket, absorbing the last of the fading warmth trapped within the baked goods. He let his senses wander and his mind drift, idly listening to the whispered conversations that took place and all the different smells swirling around the boat house. The East River lapped at the wharf outside and its briny scent wafted in from the docking area.
When the last bit of warmth had fled from the bag, Percy pulled it out from underneath the blanket and opened it up. While it was faint, there was a definite scent of baked bread that leaked from it when he did so. Just as almost-imperceptible was the way the old man's nostrils flared and he took a discreet sniff of the air. Percy watched him carefully; other than the way he hunched inward slightly, as if to fill a void within himself, he gave no reaction to the smell.
Without saying a word, Percy took out one of the cheese rolls and the other half of the one he'd eaten earlier and set them down on the man's lap. He froze, staring first at the rolls and then at Percy, an unreadable expression on his face. Percy dipped his head to him, then leant back against the wall.
The hobo looked at the rolls for a long time before gingerly picking the half-one up and taking a bite out of it. He chewed slowly, as if he was trying to decide what was in his mouth was real or not. Percy watched silently, working through a mouthful of bread himself. He was surprised to see a frown develop on the man's face.
"Why?" he asked, raising the bread in his hand.
Percy blinked. "I have more than I need and you're hungry," he explained, as if the answer were obvious. The man's apparent disgruntlement was confusing; did he have something against accepting help?
The old man sighed after a while and stood up. Percy tensed as he lumbered over to where the boy sat and plopped down beside him. It was quiet for a few seconds, the man staring off into space while Percy looked askance at him and did his best to contain the damage currently being dealt to his olfactory senses. God damn, did this guy reek.
Then the man held his arm out. "Grab my wrist."
Percy tilted his head. "What?"
"Grab my wrist," he repeated, scowling at Percy's perplexed look. "Just do it."
Hesitantly, the boy reached out and wrapped his hand around the middle of the man's forearm, wondering what was happening. The man gave his captured arm a couple of half-hearted shakes before saying, in a total deadpan, "Ah, you have caught me. Di Immortales and whatnot."
Percy pressed himself a little tighter against the shelves and assessed his situation. So, he was clearly dealing with a loony. It wasn't his first time, and he doubted it would be his last. You know, New York and all; there was a nut screaming obscenities into every other trash can. The best thing to do was extricate himself from the situation as quickly and in as non-conflictory a manner as possible, then relocate elsewhere.
"Well, uh, it's been nice meeting you and all," he murmured, gently releasing the guys arm and gathering up his blanket, "but I think I hear someone calling my name over there, so I better-"
A big, beefy hand engulfed his shoulder and applied a gentle pressure downward. Percy stiffened and allowed himself to be pushed back into a sitting position, a cold fear creeping down his spine. His earlier noting of the fact that the man could be a murderer was now less than the half-joke it had been at the time. Without turning his head, he scanned the surrounding area for anything that could be used as a weapon and came up empty.
'I am fucked up the ass seven ways from sunday,' Percy thought, using one of Moira's favorite expressions. A second later he winced and hoped to the heavens that the phrase wouldn't foreshadow what was going to happen in the coming minutes.
Right, plan B then. He'd have to use a projection, though he wasn't sure if it would be strong enough. Nothing he'd ever conjured up had been so potent as to outright control someone, but he had to try. He knew the other warehouse regulars would come to his aid if he called for help, but he'd prefer to be out of the hobo's grasp when he did so.
Just as he'd begun forming the image and emotions—passivity, apathy, lethargy and a general lack of fucks to give—in his mind, the man released his shoulder and held up his hands in peace. "I'm not here to harm you," he said.
Percy scrambled away from him regardless, cursing softly as his concentration wavered and the half-formed projection slipped away. He opened his mouth to cry for help, vocal cords tense and ready to thrum, but the man's next words froze him in place.
"Your father sent me."
Percy stared at him as all thoughts of calling for help vanished. All thoughts vanished, period. His father? What?
"I don't have a father," he replied dumbly.
The smelly hobo raised his eyebrows. "I suppose your mother repeated Hera's feat then? Parthenogenesis?"
Too many confusing words. Percy blanked. "What?"
The man tilted his head and smiled at him. It wasn't a nice smile—full of yellow and crooked teeth. "Perseus Jackson, son of Sally Jackson. Your mother died in Hurricane Floyd, one of only two deaths that occurred as a result of the bad weather."
Percy felt like he'd been punched in the throat. "How do you know that?" he rasped, shock and confusion warring for place on his face.
"That's two questions you've asked now," the man sighed, letting his head loll back to rest against the shelves. "Listen, I'll let those two pass, but from here on out, I'm going to need you to shut up until I've explained everything. For your own sake, of course. The less questions you ask, the more information I can give you. Provided you're smart about it of course, though I don't hold out much hope in that regard."
Percy stared at him, head spinning. He wanted to get up and run; to be as far away from this crazy, reeking Santa Claus as possible. He couldn't make sense of a single thing he was saying.
Except that he knew who Percy was. He knew about his mom, too. He'd come here looking for him; it would be stupid to assume any of this was a coincidence at this point. Why? Why was he looking for him?
A fuzzy image came to mind. A blurry, indistinct face, smiling warmly down at him. Percy thought it might have been bearded. Dark hair.
'Your father sent me.'
"Did my—?"
"Stop," the man commanded, cutting him off with a raised finger. "What did I just say? Don't say anything until I'm finished talking. I'll answer your questions, but only three of them. It might be beneficial to wait until after I give you the information and instructions your father paid me to deliver to you. You'll learn a lot more that way, trust me."
Learn more about what? What information? What instructions?
Percy chafed at that last thought. If it really was his father behind all this, and Smelly Santa seemed fairly adamant it was, then he had no fucking business making himself known after ten years to issue instructions.
The hobo fished around in his pocket before producing a scrap of grimy, crumpled paper.
"What's—?"
Smelly Santa sent him a sharp look that closed Percy's mouth with a click.
'Right. No questions.'
"First thing first," the hobo read from the piece of paper, "what do you know about Greek mythology?"
Percy stared at him, completely nonplussed. Here was this bozo, asking if a ten year old homeless orphan knew anything about Greek mythology.
What was weirder was that he actually did.
"My mom used to read me bedtime stories," he murmured, sadness gnawing at his insides like it always did when he thought of her. "I don't remember them all… but I know a bit."
The man nodded. "Good, that makes things easier. All those stories? They're real. Everything your mother told you about the Olympian Gods, heroes and monsters is true and exists today."
That should have been the final straw. That should have been what made him finally get up and run away, calling for someone to save him from the smelly lunatic. The Olympians? Zeus, Hades and all them? People like Hercules? Real?
Pfft.
Except… well, if it was monsters you were talking about…
The most common type of Shifty Percy ran into were the big dogs. Many a time had he been passing a stray in an alleyway, or some lady's French Poodle, when they had suddenly morphed into massive black mastiffs with glowing eyes and tried to tear out his throat. Percy didn't recognize them from any of the stories he remembered his mom telling him; same with the donkey-vampire bitches, the next most common Shifty he encountered. He had, however, seen some that had only one eye. They were often massive.
And those he did recognize.
"Cyclops," he murmured to himself.
"Oh?" Smelly Santa asked, eyebrows raising. "You've already seen the monsters then?"
Percy once again looked him over for anything that wasn't human. He had already checked and done a dispel, which had never failed him before, but with the way things were going he wasn't sure of anything any more. "Run into one every other week," he grunted, peering distrustfully at the man's face. "Even managed to kill a few."
The subtle threat seemed lost on the man, who frowned and muttered something to himself about 'being even worse than he thought.'
"Right, well, as I'm sure you've noticed, they want to kill you. And they're only going to get stronger and more numerous now that you know."
"Why?" Percy asked, leaning forward with an urgent expression. It was something he had noticed; the Shifties never targeted anyone aside from him. They could look like regular businessmen, or tourists, milling around Times Square, taking phone calls, etcetera. When they sensed him, however, whatever they were doing was abandoned in favour of transforming and coming at him with bloodlust. "Why do they want to kill me?"
The man looked at him and sighed. "You don't listen, do you? Fine. That's one question; you have two more. They want to kill you because your father's a god. You're a demigod. A half-blood. Half mortal, half god. You're the natural enemy of monsters, so of course they want you dead." He then huffed and folded his arms. "And I would have told you all that for free if you had just listened."
There was a spell of silence, before Percy sighed. "Half god," he muttered bitterly. "Right. Because you would naturally find the child of a god sleeping in a shithole like this." He spread his arms wide to indicate their surroundings. "Ain't exactly a temple, dude. Exact opposite, actually. I think you've made a mistake; I'm not half-god."
Smelly Santa rolled his eyes. Suddenly, his size and fuzzy white hair exploded and Percy was blinking at a polar bear. The animal snorted at his gobsmacked expression, flipped him off and was abruptly a man once more.
"A little easier to believe yet?"
Percy stared dumbly.
"Great. And your sarcasm aside, you're right; most demigods do end up in porníeos like this. Those that the monsters don't eat, anyway. Such is your kind's lives: always hunted, always running."
Percy drew his knees to his chest and buried his head between them. There was a queasiness in his stomach. He'd seen police officers throw out flash bangs during a small riot that occurred the year before; he imagined the marauders had felt very similar to how he was feeling now.
'I'm the son of a god? My dad is a god?'
That's what the smelly hobo had said; and then he'd turned into a polar bear. If he could do that… and of course, with the Shifties too…
It didn't seem real. He had to believe in the Shifties, because they kept trying to kill him. Gods, however? Myths and magic? It was difficult to think of them as anything other than fairytales.
But then again, he had just seen a man turn into a polar bear.
"Now, with that out of the way…" Smelly Santa smoothed out the page he was reading from. "Secondly: Everyone who wants you dead. You already know about the monsters of course. Well, the rest of Olympus has recently gotten wind that you exist too, and most of them will be gunning for your head. Your daddy is powerful, you see, and he has powerful enemies who don't like the fact that you were born. They're going to try and correct that."
He paused and met Percy's eyes from above the edge of the page, eyes glinting expectantly. The boy stared back blankly.
Smelly Santa sighed. "Look mikrós ilíthios—"
'Little idiot,' Percy somehow translated.
"—I don't really care if you believe me or not. I'm getting paid either way. But you'll die if you don't take what I'm saying seriously. Actual deities and their kingdoms are out for your blood. The only people on your side is your father and whoever he has managed to strong-arm into helping him keep you alive."
He crumpled the piece of paper into a ball, which suddenly burst into blue flames. Percy flinched violently.
"You have a lot of enemies, little demigod. Too many to count. Too powerful to comprehend. I'd recommend you suspend your disbelief and start planning how you're going to survive."
Percy watched as the last of the blue flames flickered out, leaving only a pile of ash behind.
'Fuck it.'
"Who do I have to watch out for?"
Smelly Santa smiled approvingly. "The Lord of Thunder, for one."
"You mean Zeu—?"
"Don't say his name!" the man snapped. "Names have power. If you say them out loud, you draw their attention. They become aware of you. Sometimes they can see where you are or hear what you say. It's the same with some of the more powerful monsters. Be careful with names."
Percy nodded. "The Lord of Thunder, then," he said, unable to keep from rolling his eyes.
"And most of his children on the Olympian council. The Goddess of the Hunt, God of War and the Owl Goddess are the most dangerous of the lot, and also the ones who have the least qualms about killing you."
At this point, Percy didn't have the wherewithal to be fazed at hearing the most powerful god in Greek mythology and his children wanted him dead. Instead he could only frown as he tried to remember the stories his mom used to read to him. The Owl Goddess was probably Athena; she came up quite often in the legends. He couldn't recall any that mentioned the gods of war or hunting, though.
"There are ancient laws that the gods… sometimes abide by. They aren't allowed to directly meddle with mortals and their affairs, so most likely you won't have to worry about them coming after you personally. They'll send their minions instead. No less deadly, mind you."
Percy didn't really understand, but nodded his head anyway.
"Also, the Lord of the Dead didn't take too kindly to the last demigod like you. Did his level best to kill her and I can't imagine his heart has started beating since then, so you'll probably have to worry about him too."
Lord of the Dead. That could only be Hades. Percy's head sank back into his knees.
'Fuck me, I'm tired.'
"That's two questions, by the way. You've got one left." The man snuggled into the shelves and tilted his head back, eyes closed. "Use it wisely."
Percy stared at him. He hadn't thought about his mother's bedtime stories in years, but now that he was, there was something tickling the back of his mind. The way the man had made Percy grab him and 'struggled'. His thing about questions. The shapeshifting. It was familiar.
And then it clicked.
"Nereus," Percy whispered, the name leaping out at him.
The old man's eyes snapped open and nailed him in place.
"You're the old man of the sea," the boy continued, undaunted. "The one Hercules wrestled for answers."
The Hero and his Twelve Labours had been one of his favourites. He could remember begging his mom to tell it again, despite hearing it a dozen times before. Still, he was surprised that he could recall the old man's name.
Nereus nodded slowly. "That's right," he murmured. "Clever one, aren't you? Cleverer than I expected."
He tilted his head and Percy mirrored him, the two considering each other. According to legend, The Old Man of the Sea knew everything; past, present and future. Anything he asked…
Percy licked his lips. "I want to use my last question."
Nereus looked amused. "Go on."
The boy hesitated. "How… What do I have to do to stay alive?"
The old man raised his eyebrows and hummed. "That's a bit of an abstract question. One with many answers, none of them definite. I expected you to ask who your father was."
That had been the other question Percy wanted to ask. But if he could only ask once more… Percy clutched his knees to his chest and gave the man a pleading look. He didn't need to use a projection this time to appear small and vulnerable.
"Please. If this is…. Please. I don't want to die."
There was a moment of silence before Nereus sighed. "Well first—" he began, snapping his fingers. A bulging blue backpack, two books and an envelope appeared between them. "—you're going to take the items your father paid me to deliver to you. You're going to read those two books, and that letter, and follow the instructions inside. He has a whole plan laid out for you."
Percy gingerly picked up the envelope. A letter from his dad. He couldn't tell if that was dread or excitement growing in his stomach.
"You're going to train; learn to fight. You're going to learn how to use your powers. You're going to make friends wherever and with whomever you can; you can't afford more enemies than you already have."
Nereus climbed to his feet and cracked his neck. "Don't do anything for free. Trust your instincts. Use every advantage, take every opportunity. Offer prayers and sacrifices to those who help you. Don't trust anyone more than you can afford to. Be smart, and be careful. And most importantly…"
Nereus tilted his head and smiled at him. This time, it was a nice smile. "Keep being the kid who shares his food with someone who is hungry. That's how you stay alive."
Then he was gone. Percy blinked at the space he had occupied, just barely seeing a small shape—a mouse or a rat—scurrying off into the darkness, taking the awful smell of the Old Man of the Sea with it.
The young boy sat there a long time, his food forgotten. He simply stared off into space as he came to terms with the last few minutes. A sniffle escaped him at one point, and he had a difficult time preventing the sob it tried to drag along with it.
Eventually he calmed down and regarded the bag and books Nereus had left him. His attention never strayed far from the envelope that lay atop it all.
His father. Percy hadn't thought about him since his mother's funeral; a desperate hope that the man would finally show up and take him away and he would have a parent again.
He'd been left alone and defenceless for years instead, at the mercy of the Shifties and the streets of New York. What did his dad have to say to that? Excuses? Was he sorry? Was he going to say that he regrets the way things turned out and that he loved him? That he was sorry for not being able to protect his mom?
The envelope was surprisingly heavy. Tearing it open revealed a pearlescent tablet a little bigger than a credit card; like someone had carved a rectangle out of an abalone shell.
There were letters written on its front in glowy blue ink. Percy didn't recognize the language; it definitely wasn't English, but somehow he could read it anyway.
811 72nd Street
Brooklyn
New York City
11228
The alleyway. Hurry.
AN: So there you have it. For those who don't know me, my name is Outliner and this is my first PJO fanfic. I'm really excited for this story and have a lot planned out for it. I would appreciate any feedback you have on this first chapter immensely, so please feel free to leave a review. I'll warn you now, my humour can be a bit stupid at times so just bear with me.
For those who are eager to point out to me that Nereus only offers ONE question per capture, not THREE: I am more than aware; I have done this for a reason. And to answer a FAQ: There will be romance, eventually. Pairings are not decided as of yet, but I am partial to poly relationships, Artemis pairings and Thalia pairings. This is not necessarily what it will develop into though. Actual relationship development will always come before a cheap harem outcome.
This story will be updated in rotation with two of my other fics (RWBY & Harry Potter). I'm aiming to achieve one update per month, regardless of the story, so this fic will only receive a new chapter every two to three months.
And finally, If you enjoyed this work and would like to support me, please check out my page for Patrons (w w w . p a t r(e)on . c o m (slash) Outliner_Archive) and consider making a donation. I am trying to build a life for myself, and if I can start building capital through this passion of mine, it would really help. I would also like to say a thank you to the Patrons I have so far: OettamLass, Levitress, Ali G, Conner T, Shazbot, darkstar1995, Dave and Aaron Pendleton! You guys are amazing! I appreciate your support immensely and am working hard to get you guys your early releases.
