Connor Stoll was dutifully taking notes in his Physics 101 class, and anyone who would assume that Connor Stoll could not possibly be the diligent kind of student who paid careful attention to the teacher and took exact notes had never seen him plan out how to replace all the shampoo in Athena's cabin with a bleaching agent which would not smell like bleach. Study, and notes were involved to excess. On the other hand, those same people who made that assumption would not be entirely wrong. His current notes had little to do with the lecture and a lot to do with choreographing the perfect plan that would end in him maximizing his chance to hook up with multiple classmates. There were, unfortunately, few girls in the physics class, and maybe even fewer of those who would be interested in casual hookups, but nine girls and two potentially gay guys out of a class of fifty-two people weren't bad odds. And if not a hookup, maybe he could make a friend.

In the margins, he also did, in fact, draw physics related pictures, doodling potential uses of physics for various pranks he might or might not actually implement. This helped in two ways; firstly it suggested to anyone who glanced over that his notes were over the physics lecture. Secondly, his brain worked best with multiple projects to entertain it. Having to keep an eye on the professor, study his classmates, write down notes, and doodle was just about enough to keep him occupied. Especially important because he did not think pickpocketing his classmates would help his cause in getting close to them, and he had a bad habit of doing that when he got bored. He'd blame his genes, but in all honesty being Hermes' son only facilitated those kinds of tendencies rather than creating them. That said, his dad encouraging his pastime probably didn't help either.

"Hey, Travis," said potential hookup number 3 as class ended and the usual shuffle began to gather belongings.

"Hey, Cindy," Connor said, not correcting her on the name. She might have been potential hookup number 1 if she didn't constantly mix him up with his brother even though she didn't have any classes with Travis. So she wasn't number 1, but she also wasn't lower on the list than 3 because she had instigated flirting with him and Connor didn't actually care if she thought he was Travis if he could get her to make out with him. It seemed a good sign that she was approaching him this early on in his plans, and he wasn't about to ruin it over a name. She smiled and twirled her hair around a finger, also a good sign. He carefully smiled back, following the script in his head. Smile, make eye contact, maybe make a comment about their shared class? Before he could think of what to say, she glanced down at his notes that he hadn't put away yet.

"What language is that?" she asked, surprised, and without asking she grabbed his notebook and held it up. Another good sign; she felt comfortable being in his space. Instead of snatching it back defensively, he continued to grin.

"Greek."

"Why are your notes in Greek?" she asked, and then, "Is this a fraternity thing?"

"It's my first language," Connor said, which sounded much better than 'it bypasses my dyslexia to write in Greek because I am a demigod'. That it let him write out his plans involving his classmates with no one the wiser was only a bonus.

"Really?" Cindy asked. "Your English accent is so…perfect."

"My mom's American and my dad's Greek," he said, with perfect truth. He stood up and started packing the rest of his things away and she automatically gave back his notebook without him prompting so he could put it in his backpack. A very good sign to his mind. Maybe he should move her up the list.

"Hey," she said then, leaning against his desk in a pose that was probably meant to look natural and relaxed, but the tightness in her hands as she clutched the table gave her away. "There's this party on Friday…"

"Really?" he asked, his tone genuine and interested, as if this were new information. Connor knew about the party, of course. Social gatherings were vital to his plans. So far he had secured two invitations.

"A lot of us are going," she continued, waving vaguely about the classroom. "You could join us, if you want."

"I think I could be persuaded."

"Here, I'll give you the address," she said, and pulled out her phone. "What's your number?"

He gave it and she added the contact, then sent a text. Connor pulled out his own phone. He had one, of course, because everyone had one. It was a small risk, being a demigod, but the protections in his apartment shielded him most of the time. The little bit he used his phone out and about so far hadn't been enough to trigger an attack. So he turned it on. And waited. And waited a bit more.

No new messages.

"I'm not getting it…can I check the number you put in?" Connor asked.

"Sure," she agreed, and he looked at the contact. It was right, except of course that she'd called him Travis. Connor frowned, then re-sent the message. His own phone still didn't show any new messages. Connor's frown deepened.

"I've been having issues with messages all morning," Cindy said. "It's probably just slow."

"My phone never has issues with messages," Connor refuted. And it was true. He didn't pay for it, had never gotten a plan with anyone, but he always had access to phone calls, texting, and the internet. Always. But her message wasn't coming through. Hesitantly, he checked his log and discovered he'd received no new calls or messages for the entire morning. That wasn't that odd; his brother would avoid messaging him except in an emergency, his demigod friends likewise avoided phones, and his mortal friends were all college students who were either in class or sleeping in. But still. Nothing. All morning. It was just past noon. He opened his email. No new emails all morning either. No new messages anywhere in any app.

Not super odd, but now with Cindy's message not going through…

"What is your number? I'll try texting you," he said, trying to keep his tone light and not come off like he was starting to get slightly freaked out. Just a bit. Still lightly flirting with him, she gave it easily.

He sent a text. Immediately, he got an alert back: message not sent. He tried calling her number instead. No connection. He hesitated, but then thought, maybe his dad didn't like this girl for some reason. Maybe it was just her. Trying to act natural and be calm, though by the way Cindy had sat up from his desk and started frowning he was failing, he tried to call his brother.

No connection.

His phone was completely down. His phone was completely down. That never happened.

"I…I need to go," he stammered out, and he didn't wait to hear her response, didn't watch to see how she took it. He just turned and ran.

He was good at running. Just like he was good at pickpocketing and good planning and good at conversation. If she tried to follow, and she probably did because Connor would later realize he still had her phone, he was too far ahead to even notice. He charged from the science hall, dodging various clumps of students, heading for the parking lot.

He didn't have a car. Not a permanent car, anyway, leased to him. Usually, he'd take public transportation home. For most people, he lived about thirty minutes away from the campus; forty-five minutes during slow times. For Connor Stoll, it almost never took longer than fifteen minutes, regardless of when he left. Any bus stop, station, or taxi stand he stepped up to had a transport arriving at that exact moment. It always ran a little fast. And he had an unerring sense of direction for finding connections. Driving a car was about the same; red lights were something that happened to other people.

Today, there was no bus at the bus stop.

He waited five agonizing minutes and then changed to plan b: choosing a car from the lot and taking it. Doing this was partially tricks from his dad, like the unlocking it parts, and partially skill. It took skill to look at a lot of cars and know which ones were in a blind spot to the cameras, which ones were unlikely to be immediately missed, and which ones were unlikely to either get him pulled over or to break down at an inconvenient moment. He quickly found one that fit all three categories and opened the door. Sometimes, he'd use his own skills with locks instead of his dad's gift; it was more fun and more challenging and he liked proving he could do it even without Dad. But this day was all about speed, so he just touched the handle and willed it open. Then he did the same trick to get the car to turn on. Both tricks worked, just as they always worked. Something inside him eased slightly, some unspoken fear.

Then he hit the road and nothing went like usual. He ran two red lights just because he kept expecting them to turn green and it was only luck that he neither got in an accident nor got pulled over. He soon found himself in traffic. Like a regular mortal. Lunch traffic and red lights and his journey slowed to an unbearable crawl.

A trip that shouldn't have taken more than twenty minutes took closer to an hour.

He didn't park on his own street, of course, not in a stolen car; he parked at a burger place, went in and casually bought enough food for himself and his brother, and then left on foot. After nearly an hour of driving, his fears had both risen and cooled. Risen, because traffic happened to other people and something was very wrong. Either Dad was mad at him, or… Or. But no one can sustain real panic for a full hour and he was hungry. And he had sense enough to not make things worse by driving straight home. So, fast food it was.

He checked his phone in the restaurant. Still no messages. Still unable to call his brother. He even tried Cindy's phone, just to change things up. Hers didn't work either.

He walked quickly, instinctively keeping an eye out for threats. No monsters seemed to have tracked him down during the brief phone checks. No one was following him. No one was paying him any mind. Maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe he just needed to pray to Dad, get him to forgive whatever had made him angry, and everything would go back to normal.

He didn't have a key to the basement apartment because he didn't need one. Technically speaking, they the Stoll brothers never leased it, never spoke with any agent, never paid a cent towards it. It was a gift from their dad, sort of. He hadn't exactly showed up with the keys or thrown a house warming party. Instead, he sent Travis a letter that was addressed to the apartment, and when Travis, naturally curious, went and checked it out, he found it a nice little bolt hole with all its amenities hooked up and no obvious owners in sight. He stayed a week before he officially moved in. the brothers were never certain if Hermes actually had bought them an apartment or just arranged for them to find the perfect place to steal where no one would notice. Either way, finders keepers. It was theirs.

So he didn't have a key, and the door was locked, but it opened for him anyway. He burst into his apartment, the shout of, "Travis!" already on his lips even as he entered, only for him to come to an abrupt stop.

His brother wasn't alone. And he wasn't alone because a tiny child was sitting on the couch next to him. A tiny boy with the Stoll brothers' elfin features. So Connor really should have been excused when his first thought, unwisely blurted out loud, was, "Did you knock someone up?!"

"Connor," said Travis, his tone pointed and annoyed, "This is our new little brother, Parcel."

The boy waved, and the impish smile was very son of Hermes.

"Parcel…really?"

"No, not really, but he doesn't remember his real name and that's what we've decided to go with. Right, Parcel?"

"Yes," said the little boy with a decisive nod. Then, "Are you twins?"

"No," said Travis.

"Yes," said Connor, at the same time.

"Don't confuse him," Travis chastised him, as if they hadn't played that prank a million times. "No, we're a year apart. I'm the tall one."

"Used to be the tall one," Connor objected. And okay, maybe that was still true, which wasn't fair, but Connor was still growing and with any luck, Connor would end up being 'the tall one'. They were so close in height now that they had to be standing directly side by side for anyone to use that as a guide. Connor made faces and Parcel giggled.

Then Connor started to put down lunch and frowned as he realized the obvious.

"I didn't bring a happy meal," he said as he dug into the bag and started separating the burgers from the fries.

"It's after one, we ate ages ago," Travis said. And he gave his brother a look, as if he was wondering what had Connor eating so late. Connor's stomach wondered that, too. But now that he was home, finally, and there was a new brother sitting on their couch, all Connor's old worries also made his stomach feel a bit queasy. A brother who didn't remember his own name? That, on top of red lights and no phone messages? His stomach felt like it were in knots. Cautiously, he tried a fry. It stayed down. Then, almost as cautiously, not wanting to freak out the tiny child but nonetheless feeling a bit freaked out himself, he waved his phone at Travis.

"I tried to call you earlier," was all Connor said, when Travis gave him a raised eyebrow. "It didn't connect."

"My phone is off," his brother explained. If only it were that simple.

"It wouldn't connect. At all. I've had no messages from anyone all morning. And…I ran a red light on the way over here. I left the campus at around noon, and I only just got home. Because of traffic."

He tried to keep his voice light, to make it sound like he was just sharing his day. Travis stared at him and did not ask how his brother could have driven home without a car. He did not ask why Connor was so upset over traffic and red lights. He just frowned, clearly troubled, but he said nothing. The kid was starting to frown, too, and Connor forcibly tried to lighten his tone, to sound more welcoming.

"And now we have a new baby brother? Where did you even find him?"

"On the doorstep, like a parcel. He was even addressed to me." Travis gestured at the kid. No, at the kid's feet. For some reason, the kid's shoes were made of paper. When Connor looked closer, it was packaging paper, folded and retaped in the shape of shoes. It was splattered with dried gold, and on the top of one foot was the splattered remains of their address.

"Is that…" Connor started to say, then stopped. "Dad delivered him to us? Like a package?"

"My name is Parcel," the kid said, smiling brightly.

"He came with a note…sort of," said Travis. "I was just about to read it when you came in."

They read the note together. It took a moment; most of it was in English, which triggered their dyslexia, even if their dad helpfully tried to space it out and keep it short for them. The message was less helpful than they could have hoped for.

Son,

Stay safe, stay together, and keep your head down. I do not like the portents we have seen. The trigger word is ἀδάμας.

H

By itself, it was just a vague warning. But in light of a new brother…in light of traffic and nonworking phones…their dad knew something bad was coming and was trying to protect them.

"What's that last line mean, about a trigger word?" Connor asked.

"It's a mystery," said the kid with the most innocent expression Connor had ever seen on a child, barring having seen Travis as a kid. Or himself in a mirror. Both Travis and Connor's eyes narrowed as they looked down at the boy, who had artfully put his hands behind his back.

"Kid," Connor started, but Travis interrupted him.

"I think we both need the full story, here. Parcel told me a very interesting tale about how he woke up this morning. Dad didn't actually leave him on our doorstep. Or not directly. I think…I think I have an idea about why our phones stopped working."

And he was so serious. As serious as when they were preparing for a life-or-death battle. It sent a chill down Connor's spine. He'd somehow had this idea that he'd get home, and his brother would be there, and that would fix everything. But nothing was fixed. Instead, Connor sat on the couch next to Parcel, slowly eating a burger and fries he didn't completely want anymore but was too hungry to turn away, and listened to a child's story of paint bombs and beat up deliver trucks and mysterious cloaks and broken staffs.

Parcel told part of it himself. He seemed a quiet boy at first, but once he started talking he was very chatty. Part of it, the important parts, Travis expanded on.

In the end, Connor understood a lot more than he had, but also not nearly enough. They kept trying to keep it light for the kid. The kid showed himself to be perceptive anyway.

"Was that our dad, the sleeping man?" Parcel asked, sounding too unconcerned for such a question. He kept talking about a delivery man, sleeping, lying in gold paint. Was Connor ever that young, that innocent, that naïve? And did they need to be the ones to explain?

"We think he was," Travis said, "Our dad is a delivery man." But he didn't explain it further. Probably better not to, Connor reflected. Two demigods living together were at risk of attracting monsters, no matter what the goddess Hestia had done to ward their apartment. Three demigods were trouble. If the kid didn't know what he was yet, it was better they didn't explain. So Connor ate his lunch, because he needed to eat even if his stomach felt a little rebellious from his nerves. And Parcel and Travis ate the extra fries, because who doesn't want fries, even if they already ate lunch.

"What do we do?" Connor asked, after. He wasn't sure if he meant 'about Parcel' or if he meant 'about Dad'. Maybe both.

"We don't really know anything," said Travis. "If phones don't work, maybe…maybe an Iris call?" He glanced at Parcel and made pointed faces towards Connor. Connor supposed that he was supposed to distract the kid somehow so Travis could do a call. Connor pretended not to understand. He wanted to be part of the call, too.

"What's an Iris call?" asked Parcel, lightly kicking his heels on the edge of the couch and tugging gently at his own hair. He had a bracelet, Connor noted. He had a knack for noting people's valuables. This bracelet had a very familiar design. He resisted the urge to pickpocket his own little brother for a closer look.

"It's a way to talk to people through a rainbow," said Connor, and then dodged the kick Travis sent in his direction. "What? Do you really think we can hide everything from him? Do you think there's even any point? Dad's probably dying, or something, and anything that can do that to Dad is big and bad and…" And to Connor's horror, he found himself on the brink of crying. He was way too old to cry like a baby, just because he had a rough morning.

Just because his dad might be dying. Might be dead.

Hermes might not seem, to outsiders, to be the best sort of dad. He rarely visited their cabin in person. He rarely visited them in person. He didn't even claim all of them. But that didn't mean he didn't claim them, visit them, in other ways. That he wasn't always there, looking out for them in ways that could be felt if not seen. He was a presence, the reason they survived the monsters to their adulthood.

Yeah, sometimes Connor had wished for more, for something more substantial than a warm feeling every once in a while. Children need things from dads that Hermes sometimes seemed unwilling to give. Unwilling, or maybe incapable. It came to the same thing either way for the child, though the latter was much more forgivable than the former. And the older Connor got, the more friends he lost, the more siblings he lost…the better he understood. His dad was a god, but he was not God. He was as flawed as the humans he served and just as able to pick up all the trauma that a long life can bring. Connor did not doubt that Hermes loved his children, not anymore. And Connor loved his dad in return, and not just because his dad got him a free apartment and free phone and gave him all green lights. His dad was his dad, always there, like a warm caress to the back that whispered 'you are important to me and I am proud to call you son.' He didn't even need the words, because he knew.

And now a tiny boy had seen their immortal father lying broken in the street and didn't even understand enough to know what he had seen. So yeah, maybe it wasn't such a surprise that Connor was fighting back tears, because if he let them fall then Connor would fall apart with them and it wasn't the time for that. Tears welled up anyway, and a lump came to his throat.

Parcel reached over and patted him on the knee, an unsure look on his young face, and Connor rubbed his eyes, forced back his tears as best he could, and mumbled, "Sorry. I was just being silly. Iris is just what we call the phone in the bathroom. Go on, Trav, make the call."

Travis went into the bathroom, only pausing to fetch a drachma. Connor sat next to Parcel and wondered what was so horrible that it could hurt a god and if his dad was gone forever and if there was going to be another war. He so did not want to fight in another war. And he did want to fight. Because if it wasn't the right time to feel sad or worried or anxious, then that only left one emotion to feel.

Anger. Blind, incandescent anger. Someone had attacked his family. His little brother, because who else could Parcel be, couldn't even remember his own name, or his own age (they guessed by his size that he was around three or four, but then, he was a three or four year old who could read and craft paper shoes, so maybe he was just small for his age). That suggested either extreme trauma or purposeful drugging with water from the River Lethe. Connor wasn't sure which would be worse. Someone had done something to his tiny baby brother, and hurt his dad so bad he had laid unmoving in the street. In a pool of ichor. Because Parcel might have thought gold paint, but Connor was all too familiar with how gods bleed.

So he was angry. Furious. Enraged beyond belief. And he had no outlet for it, except to crumple his hands into fists and wait for Travis to finish trying to sort things out, assuming the Iris call even worked. Assuming Iris wasn't lying skewered somewhere too.

"What's wrong?" asked Parcel, suddenly crawling over to him, half in his lap. Connor didn't expect it. He was used to kids; being a Hermes kid meant a steady influx of new young campers in Cabin 11 and he had been head of the cabin for a long while, at first with his brother and then, in the last couple of summers, alone. Kids didn't tend to cozy up to him, though. And most didn't arrive as small as Parcel. None in his memory had been younger than nine when they arrived.

"It's…I guess…I am worried," Connor admitted, because he didn't know what else to say to the kid. He let him squirm about until he was in his lap, fondly stopped him from taking Connor's wallet out of his pocket, and then let him sit there, instinctively wrapping his arms around him to hold him there. The kid was so tiny. He hardly had any weight to him. Parcel stuck a finger in his mouth and hummed, and Connor wondered if he should stop him, not the humming but the finger sucking. He decided to let him be. The kid had had a long day. But after a moment, he stopped himself, pulling his fingers free so he could talk.

"Are you scared of the monsters?"

Connor wasn't sure how to answer. Questions about monsters were a dangerous sign in a demigod child. When you started to notice the monsters, they started to notice you. Had Parcel met a monster? Or…he was a kid. Even normal kids were scared of monsters, weren't they?

"I'm afraid of someone hurting my family," he said at last, which was true.

"If anyone attacks you, I'll protect you."

It was said so matter of fact that Connor couldn't help but laugh out loud.

"You will, will you?"

"Yes," said Parcel. And then, "Adamas."

Connor later would insist he did not scream like a frightened child when the actual child he was holding was suddenly armed with a harpe with an adamant blade, but Travis did not come running back in a panic because his brothers were sitting calmly.

It was another half hour of firstly disarming the small child, and relentless teasing of the man before Connor learned what had happened with the Iris call.

"Yes, it…er…connected."

"And?"

"And…we're about to have a visitor. Dad isn't the only one who was attacked."

Having Parcel there made everything harder and easier. Harder because neither of them wanted to spell out horrible truths in front of him. Easier, because now they had an excuse to not have to say the horrible truths. But Connor still wanted to know.

"Who?"

"Percy Jackson."

"He was attacked?!"

"No…he's coming. Mr. D. was attacked. And…and Poseidon."