Arc 1 - Percy Jackson and the GigaChad

Chapter 1 - Reincarnation

17th of march, 2006 - about two months before canon

It all began during the raucous festivities of the 17th of March, 2006, in his original world—funnily enough, the day of Bacchanalia in ancient Greece. Amidst an insane, jazz-drenched orgy, the 25-year-old graduate student—doing a PhD on the phusis of Diogenes of Sinope—had gone to a party after a particularly bad day. Swamped by a sea of flapper dresses, the air reeking of questionable choices, and the distant hum of jazz syncopating with the irregular thumping of his intoxicated heart, he had danced like a man possessed. You had to evacuate the stress of a PhD, after all.

As the night devolved into a cacophony of excess—booze cascading like Niagara Falls, mysterious substances vying for attention, and the tantalizing haze of indulgence casting its wicked spell—he had gleefully surrendered to the whirlwind. Each swig of the forbidden elixirs had propelled him deeper into the abyss, his inhibitions careening away like the last shreds of dignity at a frat party. The last shred of memory was a chaotic symphony of jazz tunes and the feeling of being trampled in the stampede of unrestrained revelry…before he woke up as the fucking—but godly—drunkard that could not drink in Percy Jackson's universe. The moment had hit him like a thunderbolt; only instead of enlightening revelations, he had the divine equivalent of a hangover-induced existential crisis.

Yay! He was a god! That was so cool, right? No! Nope! No, sirree, he was Percy freakin' Jackson's version of the god of wine. A useless, fat, middle-aged, depressed drunkard. Talk about a mindfuck. The worst? Now that he had access to some memories of the god—strangely, some parts of his godly life and his previous one only elicited blanks; he should definitely look into that later—he knew that he was far from being at the top of the food chain. The earth was populated by many other pantheons—including the fucking monotheistic ones. God and Satan existed. Apparently, four Satans—it reminded him of something, but once more, he only drew a blank from his memory. Fucking Satans! The mere thought of it nearly gave him a cosmic case of the runs—like, the kind that makes your divine intestines do somersaults. But, alas, gods don't dump loads in their divine trousers, no matter how batshit insane the revelation.

Now that he was a god, Dionysus understood what he once deemed as Rick Riordan's questionable storytelling, what was behind the gods' peculiar behavior in the Riordanverse. For every action, the gods faced a dilemma. The more agency they had, the more they directly intervened in mortal affairs, strutting around with a defined sense of identity, the further they drifted from the pure essence of their divine domains. On the flip side, when they fully embraced the untamed, elemental purity of their domains, they risked dissolving into a divine smoothie, losing all traces of their personal identity. And that was the reason Apollo, the god of poetry, could make bad haikus. Because he decided to act according to his will. Divinity versus Individuality. Incarnation versus Agency. Power versus Coherence.

But that did not explain at all his current status. He was supposed to be Dionysos! The GOAT of Metamorphosis! The Liberator! The God of Wine, storytelling, festivities, and creativity! He was supposed to liberate humanity from societal constraints! In the realm of creation, he should have stood as a patron of theatre, guiding the development of dramatic arts and reveling in the celebration of fertility and vegetation. His symbols—the thyrsus, grapevine, and theatrical masks—were both benevolent wands and potent weapons, encapsulating the dual nature of his divine essence! He was supposed to be the embodiment of liberation, freedom, and the creative forces that shaped the very core of ancient Greek culture. The god whose essence pulsed through the veins of jubilation and chaos alike! The liberator! The twice-born! HE WAS THE ONLY HALF-BLOOD THAT BECAME AN OLYMPIAN!

So why had he woken up as a fat, lazy drunkard?

Because of his evil stepmother, that's why! Fucking Hera! And Fuck Zeus too! His fucking father, the King of Gods, had unconnected him from his primary domains. The god of wine, forbidden to drink or to produce even one drop of alcohol? The god of freedom, shackled to do a job he did not even like—as a godly babysitter, forbidden to leave the Camp for more than four hours a day? And all of this, for a dryad—or a nymph, he couldn't even remember? The punishment was incredibly harsh, cruel, and firm. And, behind his father's apparent decision, he could easily see the hand of the Queen of Olympus, whose hatred for all demigods, even more so for those born of her husband's infidelity—not to mention those who had 'stolen' a seat on Olympus from her sister.

The worst thing was when he remembered where those "ancient laws" stuff came from. Apparently, at the fall of the Roman Empire, the Greek gods found themselves evicted from their homeland by the monotheistic deities and their celestial armies—which totally overpowered them without breaking a sweat. Where did they end up? The good ol' United States, a country with fewer people back then, no assets, no "empire," providing a sort of divine exile for the Hellenic pantheon.

These ancient gods, once mighty and omnipresent, now operated under the stern gaze of the Monotheistic god's "ancient laws"—that were only about two thousand years old—"thou shall not interfere with mortals' free will," yaddadi yaddada… It explained the drastic reduction in their interactions with mortals, the fading echoes of their former glory. According to the divine gossip, the Christian big G was easily capable of dismantling any primordial in a straight fight—even in a 1v3—and the archangels—particularly the powerhouse Michael—could hand Zeus his lightning-slinging behind at any time—and he had, in the seventh century CE. This de facto power dynamic explained the pantheon's reluctant submission to the Monotheistic cosmic order, even if, on paper, they maintained a semblance of independence.

However, the Christian pantheon had taken a bit of a backseat since the sixteenth century. Michael, the celestial bouncer, had only made two special guest appearances to show some uppity gods the divine exit for breaking the ancient laws—once with Ares, and once with himself—leading to the prohibition. Yet, the Greek gods had settled into this new groove of existence, finding comfort in the United States—their adopted divine crib.

Dionysos experienced a nagging sensation that he should recall something important. Scratching his head, he instinctively reached for a drink. Fuck. Reflexes. No alcohol. Frustrated, he opted for a can of Red Bull instead.

As the center of the Western world, the U.S. became an unchallenged power base for the Greek pantheon. Some of the more egotistical gods saw it as a symbol of their inherent superiority, while others chalked it up to a delicate balance in the Christian cosmos. After all, if some pantheons (or even the devils) attempted to wrest control of the United States from the Greeks—no small feat considering the Greeks weren't exactly pushovers, even if they weren't flexing the same cosmic muscles as the monotheistic or Indian deities—it would mean inviting attacks from rivals. So, the gods lounged in their divine penthouses, content with the status quo, sipping ambrosia as they played their less active than before cosmic chess.

Ok. Let's review. He was trapped in the body of a considerably weakened god, who had become a shadow of his former self, a parody of himself, on the brink of a war against titans who wanted to fuck his race—literally, he was an Olympian—in a world that was even less peaceful, where many pantheons could wage war at the least provocation, and holy books predicted apocalypses. And let's not forget about the dragons. And the devils. Fuck.

The god mentally counted his advantages.

He was an Olympian god. Badass. Still better than being reincarnated as an ordinary human in a strange mix between the world of Percy Jackson and different pantheons.

He vaguely remembered the future elements of Percy Jackson's adventures. That meant he knew who was a traitor, where the Master Bolt will be, where the Golden Fleece was… And that his damn grandfather was waking up.

He also remembered his "original world," with its fiction, technology, economic crisis, and all—even if he did not understand that stuff as a philosopher. But remembering cultural products… that would be even more important than remembering the scenarios, if the idea he had to gain strength worked.

He was a fucking Olympian god! He had to say it again; it was so badass. Ok, for the moment he was just a fatass that always lost at pinochle, but it was about to change. To change radically.

And for that, he could thank Dionysos's late children. Well, his children, now.

Huh. Right. He had kids now.

At least, he could not be a worse father than the original Dionysos, right?

29th March 2006

In Disney's plush executive boardroom, an undercurrent of tension pulsed through the air as top-level executives gathered. Amidst whimsical Disney decor, the CEO, flanked by key decision-makers, faced the real issue—the unexpected missive from the enigmatic shareholder behind Walt Disney's family trust, holding 38% of the company. That was huge, like Donald Trump would have said. The once-silent force had broken their decades-long silence, demanding an urgent meeting.

The grandiose boardroom doors swung open, shattering the air of seriousness as an eccentric figure made an entrance that bordered on the absurd.

"Hello, everyone! I'm Dio, your flavor-packed visionary for today, and WD trustee," announced the man in the flamboyant yellow suit adorned with grapes. One of the members of the board wanted to throw up. A suit this ugly had no right to exist. Next to him followed…a butler? His partner in crime was none other than a butler straight from the wacky pages of goat fashion. This guy's goatee didn't just whisper "goat vibes"; it belted them out like a rockstar. And the walk? Oh, it was goat swagger at its finest. And he had a formal suit.

The serious CEO of Disney, a beacon of corporate sobriety, exchanged a glance with his team as Dio continued, "And here's my sidekick, the one and only 'Not-A-Goat.' We call him Nag for short."

The old Nag couldn't help but add with a chuckle, "Yep, not a goat, but I've got the swagger, don't I?"

Dio eased into a seat at the executive table, seemingly undisturbed by the bewildered gazes that followed him. The stern-faced executives, their meticulously crafted agendas in hand, began the meeting in a rigid and formal fashion. However, Dio, the flamboyant disruptor, wasted no time in interrupting.

"Hey, hey, my friends, let's chill for a sec," Dio interjected, leaning back in his chair with a nonchalant air. The serious CEO shot him a disapproving look, but Dio met it with an easy smile. "I know I'm the unexpected twist in your corporate drama, but bear with me. Walt Disney? Yeah, that guy was my son. Crazy, right?" He chuckled at the incredulous looks around the table.

Maybe, if they proved the major shareholder was crazy, they could put him under curatorship or guardianship and get the control back?

"Now, I'm not saying you've got to believe me; I'm just letting you know I'm practically your boss now, shareholders and all—even if you think I'm a bit crazy," Dio continued, waving off the skepticism in the room. "No worries, though. I'm not here to micromanage your day-to-day. Let's keep that mouse wheel turning smoothly. Ehe. Mouse wheel. Because Mickey."

The serious CEO cleared his throat, attempting to regain control of the meeting, but Dio persisted. "Before you dive into those numbers and pie charts, let me throw something at you. Disney's lost a bit of its creative zing, don't you think?" Dio's tone shifted, becoming more animated.

"I'm not here to rain on your spreadsheet parade, but let's revive that original Disney spirit—pure, unfiltered creativity!" Dio leaned forward, his charisma taking center stage. "I've got ideas, my friends."

In spite of themselves, the board members leaned forward to hear him better. He may have been mad, but he had a kind of strange magnetic charisma, you had to admit.

Nag, Dio's eccentric sidekick, grinned mischievously as he reached into his seemingly bottomless bag. With a flourish, he produced a trio of intricate scenarios, each labeled with an air of grandiosity—"Avengers" could be seen written on the first. Nag took other leaflets, labeled "Disneyworld rebirth."

Dio, with an air of showmanship, swiftly wrote a phone number and a name on a piece of paper. He handed it to the serious CEO and stood up, pacing around the room.

"This," Dio declared, "is the contact information and identity of Walt Disney's grandson, a true maestro of storytelling. He's the creative genius you've been waiting for, my friends, and he's about to breathe new life into Disney."

He paused, making sure the attention of the executives was firmly on him. "You can check his lineage, scrutinize his credentials—it's all legit. This guy is the real deal, a master of playwright, comedy, and tragedy. Trust me; creativity flows in his veins. Only, he is poor. And addicted to gambling. But give him a job where he can be creative, and all these problems will disappear! I swear!"

Dio continued his charismatic stroll, encouraging the executives to stay attentive. "Now, my dear friends, I want you to listen to his ideas. Let him dazzle you with his brilliance. But here's the catch—we'll still do business as usual. Well, you'll do business as usual. Money talks, after all."

He leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eye. "The only thing I care about is that you keep things entertaining and surprising. Keep that Disney magic alive. Now, let me just add that a few details in the ideas he'll give you are not exactly details. You don't follow him on them and you lose your job. The cartoon set in ancient times, featuring the son of Dionysos as the main character. It's a riot, I promise. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. Dionysos in Thor and the Avengers? Oh, we're going to have some fun there too. And let's have a logo of Dionysos at the beginning of each film. Well, I'll let Nag…nag you about the details," and Dio exited the room—even if none of the board members remembered him walking through the door.

30th March 2006

As Chiron pushed open the heavy wooden door, he was met with the sight of the Big House's common room, usually a place of casual gatherings and strategic discussions. Today, however, it bore an unusual air of tension. The room was already populated with the camp's leaders, the various cabin counselors, and a few selected campers—why them, he had no idea. Annabeth stood with her arms crossed, exchanging puzzled glances with her fellow campers. Luke, leaning against a wall, wore an expression of guarded curiosity. The cabin counselors huddled in small groups, whispering among themselves, each equally clueless about the reason for this unexpected meeting.

"I wonder why Mister D has called us here—apparently, it is the first time since he became director of the Camp twenty years ago," muttered Silena Beauregard, the counselor of the Aphrodite cabin, her blue eyes reflecting a mixture of confusion and concern.

The grand doors of the meeting hall creaked open, and in swaggered Dionysus. But hold onto your grapevines, folks, because this was not the Dionysus we all know and, uh, tolerate. No, siree! He had pulled a divine makeover, leaving the campers in jaw-dropped disbelief.

Out with the grumpy, in with the suave—Dionysus had shed his portly physique for a dashing thirty-something, draped in a purple toga with "I became an Olympian through sweat and tears and all I got was this lousy toga" written on it.

As the campers exchanged bewildered looks, Dionysus twirled a nonexistent wine glass, giving them a dazzling grin that could rival Apollo's—and that's saying something. For the first time, he had a smidge of a divine and regal aura, as if he had raided Zeus's wardrobe while the king of the gods was napping. The room, usually filled with the hubbub of demigods, fell silent, tension hanging in the air like a sword of Damocles made of party streamers. Campers eyed each other, wondering if this was a prank or the start of some divine reality show. They were used to the god's antics being, well, lethal.

Dionysus, basking in the spotlight he had clearly orchestrated, struck a pose. "Yes, my mortal subjects, it was I—Dio…nysus, the god of wine, revelry, and apparently, fabulous makeovers."

With a snap of his fingers, the room morphed into a spectacle, a peculiar marriage of untamed jungle and an ancient Roman brothel. Jaguars prowled amid vines, casting wary glances at the campers, while a decadent ambiance surrounded them, hinting at indulgent secrets from a bygone era. Dionysus, now casually lounging on a throne crafted from grapevines, cleared his throat. "You see, dear campers, for the past two decades, I've been conducting a bit of divine reconnaissance. Gathering information, observing your peculiar antics, all while nursing a hangover that could've brought down Olympus."

Chiron coughed.

Skepticism danced in the campers' eyes as they exchanged incredulous glances. Unfazed, Dionysus continued his—obviously false, but who was going to rebuke a god?—revelation.

"As I was saying, I've been hungover for twenty years. It was high time to take matters into my own divine hands. So, I decided to spice things up a bit and show you a glimpse of the true Dionysus—the one who's been quietly sipping ambrosia while you all thought I was drowning in wine-induced misery. Well, coke-induced."

He clapped his hands, applauding himself, while declaring:

"Things are about to change, kiddies!"

Fearing divine retribution, the skeptical campers started clapping.

AN : Thanks for reading. Please review so I can know if you liked (or if you did not).

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