My name is Perseus Jackson, but most people just call me Percy. All my life, I've been fast. Not just in the way you'd think—sure, I can run, swim, and fight quicker than most people I know—but it's more than that. I pick things up fast. Not school stuff, though. Give me a math textbook, and my brain might as well be melting out of my ears. But put me in a situation where I have to move, react, or figure something out on the spot? I'm a beast.
It's always been that way. When I was a kid, I couldn't sit still in class for more than five minutes before I started tapping my pencil like a drumstick or bouncing my knee under the desk. The teachers said I had "severe ADHD," like it was some kind of disease. They never saw how it helped me on the field. Give me an obstacle course, and I'll fly through it before the others even realize the race has started. PE was the only class I didn't struggle in—at least, until I accidentally outran the school's star sprinter in middle school and people started looking at me funny.
The dyslexia didn't help, either. Reading? Forget it. The words never stayed in place. They wiggled and twisted like they were written by a drunken spider. But when it came to anything practical—sword fighting (don't ask), dodging flying objects (it happens more often than you'd think), or figuring out the best way to escape a sticky situation—I was quick. Almost too quick. Like my body knew things my brain hadn't caught up with yet.
This gift even let me learn fighting techniques from TV. No joke—I'd watch an action movie, see some guy pull off a crazy move, and the next time I needed to throw a punch or block an attack, my body just... did it. Like I'd been training for years. I thought it was normal until my stepdad, Smelly Gabe, caught me flipping a broomstick like a bo staff and nearly broke the kitchen table. He just grumbled about me being a delinquent and made me scrub the floors. But deep down, I knew something about me was different.
Speed has always been my thing. But lately, I've been wondering: Is it a gift, or is it just another way the universe is messing with me?
Anyways, I was on a field trip at a Greek museum with my best friend, Grover, and my teachers, Mr. Brunner and Mrs. Dodds. The latter was the bane of my existence. I swear, she had a personal vendetta against me. Every time I so much as breathed wrong, she was there, glaring at me like I'd personally insulted her grandmother. The feeling was mutual.
Meanwhile, she acted like Nancy Bobofit was some kind of angel. Nancy, for the record, was the human equivalent of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe—annoying, impossible to ignore, and always showing up where you least wanted her. She had this weird obsession with making my life miserable, whether it was chucking food at me in the cafeteria or making sure I got blamed for whatever trouble she started. And Mrs. Dodds? She ate it up, doting on Nancy like she was some kind of misunderstood genius instead of a glorified playground bully.
Mr. Brunner was my favorite teacher. He taught Latin, which should've been the most boring subject ever, but somehow, he made it interesting. Maybe it was the way he told stories about ancient heroes like he'd been there to see them himself. Or maybe it was the fact that he had an actual collection of Greek weapons—real swords, shields, and even a bronze-tipped spear—which he'd bring out to show us like it was no big deal.
He wasn't like the other teachers. He cracked jokes, never got mad when we messed up, and even let us play games in class—games that, looking back, felt a little too much like battle training. At the time, I just thought he was a cool teacher who actually cared about making school fun.
Still, I had a bad feeling about this field trip—worse than usual. I mean, I always got a little nervous before one, but this time, it was different. Like my gut was trying to warn me, but I was too stubborn to listen.
See, field trips and I have a bad history. Every single time I go on one, something goes horribly wrong. And not just "oops, I spilled my juice box on the museum floor" wrong. I'm talking fire alarms blaring, ancient artifacts mysteriously breaking, substitute teachers running away in tears. Once, I even made national news—don't ask. The point is, I had a track record. And that track record usually ended with me getting expelled.
I really, really didn't want that to happen again. Not just because I was running out of schools willing to take me, but because of my mom. Sally Jackson is, without question, the best mom in the world. She works hard, never complains, and somehow manages to believe in me even when I don't believe in myself. And every time I screw up, she gives me that look—the one that says she's not mad, just disappointed. The one that makes me feel like the worst son ever. I couldn't handle seeing that look again.
And besides, if I got expelled, that would mean leaving Grover behind. Grover wasn't exactly the kind of guy who could handle Yancy Academy on his own. He had a way of attracting bullies like Nancy Bobofit—who, for the record, was the human embodiment of a wedgie. Leaving him alone with her and her gang of brainless followers? That wasn't happening.
So, yeah. I had a bad feeling about this trip. But I pushed it down, took a deep breath, and told myself, this time will be different.
Spoiler alert: It wasn't.
My musings got sliced in half by Mr. Brunner's voice, sharp and perfectly timed—almost like he had a sixth sense for when I wasn't paying attention.
"Mr. Jackson," he said, turning his wheelchair slightly to face me. "Perhaps you can tell us what is happening in this painting?"
I blinked. The whole class turned to stare at me like I was a bug under a magnifying glass. Grover shot me a look that said, Dude, you're on your own. Meanwhile, Nancy Bobofit smirked like she was already planning how to use this moment against me later.
I followed Mr. Brunner's gesture to the massive, gruesome painting hanging on the museum wall. And, wow. If I hadn't already been feeling uneasy about this trip, this nightmare fuel would've done the trick.
The painting showed a wild-eyed, bearded guy—Kronos, I remembered that much—his mouth stretched wide open as he stuffed a tiny, terrified baby down his throat like a bite-sized burrito. The baby's limbs dangled limply, its face frozen in horror. Blood smeared Kronos's hands and dripped from his chin. The whole thing looked like something out of a horror movie—except worse, because apparently, this had actually happened.
I swallowed. "Uh… Kronos eating his kids?"
A few kids snickered. Mr. Brunner arched an eyebrow like he was waiting for me to continue. I glanced back at the painting, trying to remember what else I was supposed to say. Something about paranoia? A prophecy? The worst case of bad parenting in history?
I cleared my throat. "He, uh… he was the king of the Titans, right? And there was this prophecy that one of his kids would overthrow him, so instead of, I don't know, being a decent father, he decided to just eat them."
Mr. Brunner nodded approvingly, but I wasn't done yet.
I pointed at the painting. "I mean, talk about overreacting. Guy had all the power in the world, and his big solution to keeping the throne was baby-eating? Ever heard of grounding your kids? Maybe some family therapy?"
More laughter. Even Grover chuckled. Nancy rolled her eyes like I was the biggest idiot on the planet.
Mr. Brunner, though? He just smiled like he knew something I didn't. "A fair point, Mr. Jackson. But tell me—did it work? Did Kronos' plan keep him in power?"
I hesitated, feeling like this was a trap. "Uh… no?"
Brunner nodded. "No. Because fate cannot be cheated. No matter how fast or powerful you are, no matter how many desperate choices you make, destiny always finds a way."
For some reason, the way he said it sent a shiver down my spine.
I didn't know it then, but that would be the last normal(ish) moment of my day.
We went outside to eat lunch, the museum steps baking under the midday sun. I wasn't really hungry—something about creepy baby-eating paintings had a way of killing my appetite—so when Grover gave me that hopeful look, I just sighed and handed over my apple.
"Knock yourself out, man," I said.
Grover didn't need to be told twice. He happily took the apple and started munching, his goat—uh, I mean, garbage disposal-like metabolism making quick work of it.
And that's when Nancy Bobofit decided she was bored of stealing from people and went for the next best thing: public humiliation. With all the grace of a sewer rat, she waltzed over, holding her gross, half-eaten sandwich—the kind that had been sitting out too long, with soggy bread and questionable-looking meat. Then, without warning, she dumped the whole thing right on Grover's lap, mustard and all.
"Oops!" she said, her voice dripping with fake innocence. She wasn't even trying to pretend it was an accident.
Grover froze, his face turning red as bits of lettuce and mystery sauce slid down his jeans. The other kids around us snickered, watching like this was some kind of lunchtime entertainment.
I clenched my fists. I wasn't about to let this slide.
Before I could even react—before I could tell Nancy off, or help Grover clean up, or do anything—something weird happened.
One second, Nancy was standing there, smirking like she owned the place. The next, she was shrieking, arms flailing, as she tumbled backward straight into the museum fountain.
SPLASH!
Water exploded everywhere. Kids gasped. A few burst out laughing. Nancy came up sputtering, soaked from head to toe, her bright orange hair plastered to her face like seaweed. She looked less like a smug bully and more like a drowned rat.
I blinked. I hadn't touched her. I hadn't even moved. And yet… somehow, she'd ended up in the fountain, as if the water itself had reached out and yanked her in.
My heart started pounding. Did I do that? No. That was crazy. Water didn't just grab people. Did it?
Nancy wiped her face, her expression shifting from shock to pure rage. "YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE, JACKSON!" she screeched, pointing a dripping, mustard-stained finger at me.
I barely had time to process what had happened before Mrs. Dodds appeared out of nowhere, her eyes burning like she had personally witnessed my crime.
"Mr. Jackson," she said, her voice all too eager. "A word. Now."
I gulped. My stomach twisted into knots. I'd been expecting trouble—maybe a stern lecture, maybe my promised in-school suspension if I actually had done something. But the way Mrs. Dodds was looking at me? Like a vulture that had finally spotted its next meal?
Yeah. Whatever she had in mind was way worse.
My brain scrambled for an excuse, a defense—I didn't touch Nancy! The fountain thing just… happened!—but the words stuck in my throat. Mrs. Dodds' eyes bore into me, dark and unblinking, like she knew something I didn't.
Grover shifted uncomfortably beside me. "Uh, Mrs. Dodds, it wasn't really—"
"Now, Mr. Jackson."
Her voice was sharp as a blade, slicing through the chatter of the other kids. The laughter from Nancy's fall died instantly. Even the museum guards glanced our way like they could feel the storm coming.
I sighed, pushing myself to my feet. There was no getting out of this. Whatever Mrs. Dodds had planned, I had no choice but to face it.
And, of course, I had no idea just how bad things were about to get.
My pre-algebra teacher was practically dragging me into the museum. I swear, for someone her age, she had an iron grip. My feet barely kept up as she marched me through the marble halls, away from the chattering students, away from any possible witnesses.
The second the heavy museum doors shut behind us, the air felt wrong. Colder. The quiet wasn't just quiet—it was the kind that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Mrs. Dodds whirled on me, her eyes gleaming with something way more intense than regular teacher disappointment. "Confess, Percy Jackson," she barked, her voice echoing off the museum walls. "You thief."
I blinked. "I didn't steal anythin—"
Her face twisted, her skin stretching and cracking like old leather. Her eyes turned a sickly shade of yellow, her teeth growing into jagged fangs. Her hands—no, claws—ripped through the sleeves of her jacket, black talons gleaming under the dim museum lights. Her whole body seemed to ripple and grow, her navy-blue cardigan shredding into dust as giant, bat-like wings unfurled from her back.
My brain refused to process what I was seeing. One second, she was my least favorite pre-algebra teacher. The next, she was a full-blown monster, hovering in front of me, grinning like she was about to eat me.
"Too long have you evaded your fate, boy," she hissed. "But no longer."
I took a shaky step back, my heart hammering.
Yep. This was way worse than in-school suspension.
Just as my brain was still short-circuiting over the fact that my pre-algebra teacher had turned into a monster, the museum doors slammed open.
Mr. Brunner wheeled in like this was totally normal. No panic, no surprise. Just cool, collected determination.
"Catch, Percy!" he called.
Something small and metallic flew through the air toward me. On pure reflex, I snatched it out of the air.
A… pen?
Seriously? My teacher just turned into a fanged bat-creature, and this was my defense? Before I could even question how a ballpoint pen was supposed to help, something weird happened.
The pen grew warm in my hand. Then, with a soft shink, the cap vanished, and the entire thing expanded, lengthening until I was suddenly gripping a gleaming, golden sword.
I barely had time to be amazed before reality crashed back in. Because Mrs. Dodds—or whatever Mrs. Dodds was—was still very much trying to kill me.
With a bloodcurdling shriek, she lunged, her claws slashing straight for my face.
I did the only thing I could.
I swung.
She dodged with a speed and precision that screamed centuries—no, millennia—of experience. Her wings flapped once, propelling her sideways in a blur, my strike missing by inches.
But then something strange happened.
That weird part of my brain—the one that picked up physical skills way too fast—kicked into overdrive. Before I could even think about what I was doing, my body moved.
Instinct took over.
As she came at me again, launching into a full-speed barbarian charge, I jumped. Not just any jump—I twisted midair, flipping over her like I had done it a thousand times before. My body felt weightless, effortless, like I was meant to do this.
Before she could react, I lashed out with the golden sword.
The blade sliced clean across her shoulder.
She screeched in pain, stumbling back, her glowing yellow eyes full of shock—like she hadn't expected me to land a hit. Honestly? Neither had I.
I hit the ground in a crouch, gripping my sword, my heart hammering.
What the heck had just happened?
Seeing my chance, I didn't hesitate—I charged.
Mrs. Dodds—or whatever monster she was—snapped out of her pain just in time to block my next strike. Her talons scraped against my sword with an ear-piercing screech, sparks flying as metal met whatever her claws were made of. She was strong—way stronger than she looked—but my instincts screamed at me to keep going.
So I did.
Before she could counter, I shifted my weight and kicked.
Not just any kick—one of those perfectly timed, cinematic moves I'd seen superheroes pull off on TV. My foot slammed into her chest with way more force than I thought I had, sending her staggering backward with a snarl.
For the first time, she looked worried.
And that? That gave me a serious confidence boost.
I knew, somehow—deep in my gut, in my heart of hearts—that if this fight dragged on, I would lose.
Mrs. Dodds was fast, ruthless, experienced. And me? I was just a sixth grader who had accidentally landed a few lucky hits. Sure, my strange ability to pick up combat moves like a sponge was a godsend, but there was a catch.
My muscles were already screaming.
Every movement felt just a little slower, a little heavier, like my body couldn't keep up with what my mind knew it should do. It was like I had access to all these insane fighting techniques, but no actual endurance to back them up.
Mrs. Dodds, on the other hand? She wasn't slowing down at all. If anything, she looked angrier. Hungrier. Like she was just getting started.
I swallowed hard. I had to end this fast.
She let out a furious shriek and charged, faster than before—faster than I could react.
I had nothing left. My muscles burned, my breath came in ragged gasps, and I knew if I took even one hit, I was done for.
But then, at the last possible second, my instincts flared one final time.
With everything I had left, I dropped, ducking under her wild, clawed swing. I felt the air shift above me as her talons sliced through empty space, missing my head by inches.
And in that perfect opening—before she could recover—I struck.
I drove my sword upward, straight into her exposed stomach.
Mrs. Dodds froze, her glowing yellow eyes widening in shock. For a split second, she looked down at the blade buried in her gut. Then, with an unearthly wail, her entire body disintegrated.
She exploded into a shower of golden dust, swirling around me like a dying storm before fading into nothing.
Just like that, she was gone.
I stayed crouched there, gripping the hilt of my sword—except it wasn't a sword anymore. At some point, it had shrunk back into a simple ballpoint pen, resting harmlessly in my hand.
My arms shook. My legs felt like jelly. My brain was still trying to catch up with what had just happened.
What. The. Hell.