CHAPTER I: NEVER ON THE FIRST DAY
Mr. Forrest had served Camp Half-Blood as protector for about a century. Demigod after demigod, he'd sniff them out and get them where they belonged, no problem. Well, mostly. With monsters on the prowl, there was always going to be… issues.
Yes, he had even lost a few kids. It was always a shame — a damned shame — but such was life. He didn't know any protector, living or dead, who hadn't lost at least one demigod over their career.
Parents could be another entanglement, especially if they hadn't an idea of what their kid was, or the danger that would inevitably follow. And then there were those parents who were downright nasty. Kidnapping children was frowned upon but, with some families, it would be irresponsible to do otherwise.
Indeed, Mr. Forrest had no problem calling himself a professional. And, as such, it was his professional opinion when he said, in quiet horror, "Wait — you're not supposed to be here."
The giant boar, utterly uncaring for his opinions, tore through the chain-link fence as if it were tissue paper.
There was screaming, then.
Children screaming.
And it was that sound, that dreadfully familiar sound, that snapped him from his stupor.
Heart lodged firmly in his throat, Mr. Forrest grabbed the nearest solid object and, with a bellowing cry — "Leave them alone!" — he threw it with all the might his arms allowed.
Clang! The metal folding chair, the one he had borrowed for today's class, struck true, crashing into the monster's forelegs.
The great boar tripped, stumbled, and tore through the rough grass of the sport field's, skidding to a stop several yards away from those few students who had stood, frozen like deer in the headlights.
It wasn't enough, however.
Of course it wasn't.
A second later, the giant boar was back on its hooves, and it was furious.
Good, Mr. Forrest thought, despite trembling in his fake feet. The beast had turned to face him, the children forgotten as it glared at him with eyes as dark and as vile as the blackest pits of Tartarus.
Keeping the boar in sight, he turned to his students — most, thankfully, having already fled toward the closest building — the gymnasium. "Go!" he shouted to the rest, throat ripping from the force. "Get inside, now! Hide!"
At his command, the petrified stragglers nearly jumped out of their skin and bolted like startled sheep off toward safety.
It was almost comical, in a way. They looked just as startled by him as they were by the giant boar trying to kill them all. He could almost imagine them thinking, 'I didn't think a man so reedy could be so loud!'
He shook his head; teeth gritting. Focus, you idiot! There's a giant boar right in front of you!
And, as if to emphasise that fact, the boar squealed and —
Fear.
It struck like a punch to the gut.
Terror.
A primordial sense of just pure dread that seemed to drown out any and all hope for survival.
He could see it, then; what was to come.
Foetid hair matted and stained with viscera.
Blood dripping from tusks of silver, as sharp as swords.
Shattered bones, as effortless as breaking a twig.
He was going to die, today.
He was going to die, and the beast would bury its snout into his ribs and it would eat his heart.
Chest tight — hands trembling — Mr. Forrest forced himself to blink and the grotesque vision melted away, replaced with the horrifying sight of the boar shredding the turf, charging toward him and radiating murder.
He braced, prepared for the pain, prepared for oblivion, and —
If Mr. Forrest was to describe the next few moments, he would say it was as if he were a ragdoll thrown into a drier set to freezing.
Pain bloomed, as if he had been battered aside by a wrecking ball, and his world became nothing more than a cyclone of tumbling limbs and howling winds of frigid cold.
Then he hit the ground.
Hard.
The grass, rough and sharp, scraped against the exposed skin of his arms and his face and, he was sure that — if he wasn't going to die — he'd surely find a colourful assortment of bruises across his entire body.
He wasn't dead, though.
Not yet, at least.
Score!
Of course, Nemesis just had to ruin it.
"Mr. Forrest!" a voice cried out.
A very young voice that sounded — smelled — very close by.
And, in that moment, Mr. Forrest wanted nothing more than to bleet the vilest of curses he knew.
He snapped to his feet — his hooves, now, fake feet and shoes sent scattered by whatever force had struck him — and glared in equal parts fury and fear at the young boy who had come to his aid. "I told you to hide, damn it!"
It was one of his students, of course. T-something — he couldn't remember, and who would blame him?
It was his first damned day!
He recognised him, though. They were the scrawny ginger who had the longest hair out of all the boys, and he was dressed in gym clothes a few sizes too big for him. And, in his hand, he held —
Mr. Forrest blinked, owlishly. Then, he shrieked. "Where on Gaia's Greek Earth did you get that?" he said, pointing at the blade of celestial bronze.
The kid didn't answer — wasn't even looking at him.
"It's going to charge again," the kid said, voice so deceptively calm it was… eerie. Of course, it didn't help that his eleven-year-old student was right.
The boar had missed him, somehow, and had crashed into the empty bleachers, undoubtedly causing several hundred dollars in damages. Yet, again, the boar seemed unphased, shaking itself off — smoke belching from its snout as it bellowed.
There was no fear, this time. Just… rage.
"Wait — let it charge," the kid then said, and Mr. Forrest couldn't stop himself from gaping. "On my signal, move."
You're eleven! Mr. Forrest wanted to scream. What do you know of fighting monsters? He didn't say that, though. Years of experience kept his mouth shut beyond a firm, "Got it."
The kid had a plan.
And a celestial bronze dagger.
None of this was going the way he had expected it to but that was evident the second a giant boar had gate crashed his first day of school!
And, just as the kid predicted, the boar began charging again.
Great…
Every aching muscle in Mr. Forrest's body tensed, fear squeezing his chest so tight he felt as if he were suffocating. "On my signal," the kid had said, but instinct screamed for him to run — to hide.
Yet, he stayed where he was — waiting…
Time seemed to slow to a crawl, the beast getting ever closer.
Waiting…
Mr. Forrest could see each step it took, hooves tearing through the grass as it drew nearer and nearer.
Then —
"Áme!"
Mr. Forrest didn't even register the Greek before his body reacted — launching himself out of the way of the beast as fast and as far as his legs would allow.
It was, admittedly, pretty far.
He crashed to the ground again, pain exploding in his bruised shoulder and hip, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins kept him moving — scrambling to his feet.
And then he heard it — singing.
Mr. Forrest recoiled at the surge of power that thrummed through the Earth.
Familiar power.
Where did he learn wood magic? he wondered for the briefest second before he realised what the kid was doing. Clever bastard!
Mr. Forrest grinned, viciously, despite the pain.
He knew those words.
He knew that spell.
And, a second later, he joined in.
Ancient Greek poured from their mouths, a beautiful litany to the Earth itself.
The ground began to rumble with their song — twisting and shifting as something moved just beneath the surface, growing, and growing, and growing.
Roots, as thick as his arm, burst from the ground and latched on to the recovering boar with a frightening strength. It fought, valiantly, squealing as it attempted to shred the roots, but — together — their magic was far stronger than the beast could resist.
And then, before Mr. Forrest could so much as relish the sight, the boy was running as fast as his little legs could carry him.
He leapt upon the boar with a scream, dagger held high, and he stabbed down at the beast's exposed neck, again, and again, and again, and again, and again.
Even still, the great boar struggled — but, as shimmering blood pooled onto the grass, its thrashing became weaker, slower, until —
"That's enough, kid," Mr. Forrest said.
They didn't hear him.
The kid just kept stabbing and stabbing and stabbing, even as the blood began splattered upon his hands, upon his arms, his face, his clothes.
"It's dead," Mr. Forrest tried to say, but the kid still wouldn't listen. The satyr frowned, saddened, and grabbed the kid's arm — his own strength vastly out matching that of the young demigod.
"It's dead," he said again, voice hard. "You did it. You killed it. It's dead."
There was a wild look in the kid's eyes — pale blue and terrified. Whatever composure he had before was gone, evaporated so thoroughly it was as if it had never existed in the first place.
The kid breathed, ragged, almost gasping for air, and his hands were trembling. Poor thing looked like he didn't know whether to cry or to throw up.
Monsters aside, this was something Mr. Forrest had experience with.
He knelt down by the demigod's side and placed what he hoped would be a comforting hand upon his shoulder. "Hey, hey — it's okay. We won. You're fine. We're going to be fine."
"Did anyone get hurt?" the kid asked, voice quiet.
Mr. Forrest cast his eye across the field, noting the gouges in the grass where the boar had carved into it with hoof or tusk.
Nobody was around, though. Nobody was laying still upon the ground, or bleeding out. He could see the students — the rest of his class — all huddled up by the door of the gymnasium, watching the pair with wide and young eyes.
Ugh… let's hope the mist does its job, he thought, even as he returned his attention to the demigod before him. "Nobody looks hurt. We got the boar just in time."
The kid nodded, looking as if his mind was a thousand miles away. Then he sniffled and looked up to meet Mr. Forrest's eyes. And then he kept looking up and up until it stopped somewhere just above the satyr's head.
Well… shit, Mr. Forrest thought, realising that he couldn't feel a certain piece of headwear anymore. I lost my hat.
Mr. Forrest's expectations were a mess at the moment.
He wasn't sure how the kid would react. Surprise? Dull acknowledgment? Confusion?
What he didn't expect, though, was… weariness.
He could feel the kid tense beneath his hand — saw it clear as day. "What's a satyr doing here?"
Distrust.
Uncertainty.
"Looking for people like you," Mr. Forrest replied, slow and carefully.
The kid was still armed and had just slain a giant monster boar. Mr. Forrest would rather not get stabbed simply because he had said the wrong thing at the wrong time.
And, well… it seemed he had done just that, as the kid's eyes narrowed, body shifting ever so slightly into something he recognised amongst demigods — the I'm-going-to-stab-you-unless-you-start-talking-quick expression.
"Camp Half-Blood," Mr. Forrest explained, quickly. "it's a safe place for people like you — where monsters can't — "
"Camp Half-Blood?" the kid asked, face scrunching up in confusion.
"Er — yes?" Mr. Forrest had a theory; it was time to test it. "You're not, like… a camper, right?"
Thankfully, the kid spared him the embarrassment. "No," he said, shaking his head. "What's a half-blood?"
It was Mr. Forrest's turn to be confused, then. "What do you mean, 'what's a half-blood'? You have a celestial bronze dagger!"
The kid looked at the blade in hand as if to confirm that he did, in fact, have such a thing. "Yeah, and?"
Mr. Forrest felt like he was going insane. "How do you have a celestial bronze dagger and not know you're a demigod? You were doing wood magic, for Pan's sake!"
The kid just stared at him, mouth wide enough to catch flies.
Of course, before the matter could be cleared up, someone else decided to join their conversation. "What the fuck!"
"Children — !" Mr. Forrest was about to say, utterly galled that someone — an adult from the sounds of it — would curse in front of a child in a school, only for his mouth to slam shut at the sight of the matronly Principal standing there, face contorted in abject horror, with what looked to be a family in tow.
Mr. Forrest turned to the kid. "We'll talk about this later. Give me the knife."
#
Theadore Alseïdon. That was the kid's name.
It should've been obvious, really.
Of course Theadore was a demigod. His name was Alseïdon.
He was literally Theadore of the Alseïdes.
Mr. Forrest almost snorted at that, when he had finally gotten time to check over the roll. No wonder the kid was weary. If his ma's a nymph, I doubt he's heard much good about satyrs.
And wasn't that interesting?
Theadore Alseïdon, son of Ianthe Alseïdon.
Unless this was one big coincidence, it seemed that Theadore was raised by his mother — a nymph. No father mentioned in the records.
Mr. Forrest had so many questions.
Whatever the case, Theadore was clearly in danger, and it was Mr. Forrest's responsibility to see him safe and sound.
He'd need to meet with Theadore's mother as soon as possible.
His mother…
A nymph.
"Ugh… this isn't going to go well," he muttered to himself.
Satyrs had a… reputation and, to be fair, it was a well earned one at that, much to his chagrin. Even now in his office, Mr. Forrest had to battle with shameful memories of his youth, chasing nymphs through the forest, drunk on lust.
He had mellowed out over the years but that didn't change the past. It didn't change the present, either, or the future. Even if he had finally stopped bothering the nature spirits, his kin — the younger ones especially — hadn't.
Let's just hope she'll be reasonable, he thought. Her child is at risk.
Ianthe Alseïdon would be arriving, soon.
Hopefully, there'd be time to talk between, or even after the investigation — and wasn't that shaping up to be an ordeal.
The school had locked itself down, his entire class confined to the gymnasium, while he and Theadore had been interviewed — interrogated — about what had happened. The police would be down, soon, too — with their own questions. Countless questions.
It seemed the mist would be working overtime, today.
Mr. Forrest just needed to make it all work out, and everything would be fine…
Well, regardless, at least he had learned something new today.
Apparently, his first day undercover wasn't protected from going to complete shit. Who knew?
