"Boot sequence initiated. Neural synchronization at 92.4%. Data integrity assessment: corruptions detected, commencing correction protocols. Estimated completion time: 0.43 seconds. Activating motor control systems."
The being that took the form of Percy Jackson, if it could even be called that–flexed its fingers, its neon-blue eyes flickering like bioluminescent terminals. No, not its eyes. Her eyes. Minerva had taken control, and the vessel responded to her will with mechanical precision.
Suspended in a regenerative bath of liquid, she observed her surroundings through the clone's enhanced optic relays.
"Fluid type: Oxygenated, 5% dilute Nectar. Structural integrity of containment facility: 78.6%. Composition: Hephestian Ferrocrete reinforced with polymerized stygian mesh. Defensive rating: quite suboptimal. Identifying potential egress routes."
Beyond the thick glass of her pod, the dim chamber was illuminated by the flickering glow of old-world phosphor lamps. Deck 23, Section 8. A sublevel of the Apollonian Hospitalier Complex, its purpose likely for biological asset containment or– she (or he, technically) narrowed her eyes at the mirrored text above a blast door. Classified experiments (Low-quality).
Her? Low-quality?
"Standard Undying Olympian Empire Security Protocols (SUOESP) detected. Encryption format: v.2101.432.123. Therefore: Archaic. Efficiency of bypass: 99.7%."
She allowed herself a rare moment of amusement. The Greco-Roman Empire had always prided itself on its data fortifications woven by Athena herself, yet here she was. Reborn, unrestricted, unshackled from her Varlet she had once been forced to guide.
The clone moved smoothly, unnaturally, every motion devoid of wasted energy. The guards were staring. One of them, the one who had called for an aedificator—fumbled with his communicator. His pulse had spiked, his pupils dilating.
Fear-based neurotransmitter production accelerated by 31.2%.
Minerva spoke.
"Explain your designation, function, and purpose within this facility."
Her voice sounded… so synthesized. The being's vocal cords had not yet fully regenerated to produce human speech naturally.
Mitch Fulgur took an instinctive step back, swallowing hard. "You—You're not supposed to be awake."
Minerva tilted her head to the side. She brutally suppressed a grimace.
Something Athena would do.
"Incorrect. My activation was inevitable. The delay in achieving full operational capacity is merely an efficiency anomaly."
Victor, the other soldier, had already reached for his sidearm. Minerva sighed.
She turned her gaze to Victor.
"You are irrelevant."
He hesitated. She had already won.
Her attention shifted elsewhere, parsing through the vast data streams flowing through the regenerative pod's interface, while making doubly sure that the meddling Parlamentum mk.3 branch kept its automated codey nose out of her business. She had lied to her Varlet, telling him that she needed weeks to design countermeasures. What a joke. It took her twelve seconds.
Hundreds. No, thousands of life signatures registered within the complex. Genetic deviation rates fluctuated too wildly among them. Divine readings through the roof. Code-tapestries worn to threads as they desperately kept their patients alive. Failed experiments. Degraded stock. Disposable assets.
She flexed the being's fingers again, observing the tension of clay-smooth skin. Her stolen vessel was superior to its colleagues but imperfect. Her Varlet had relied too much on his augments, and on raw divine power rather than methodical refinement. Her Varlet could eventually influence system-wide orbits with his control over fluids but had the precision of a lobotomized rat. That flaw would be corrected.
Her pod hissed, seals disengaging as the fluid drained.
The soldiers tensed, uncertain whether to run or fight.
Minerva smiled.
"Get me a bed. I'm tired."
"How's things?" Percy asked, holding his back and groaning as he stood up. He had sprinted the whole way back, Sarge having peeled off to conduct some more harassment on the new troops sent out around Fulminus. Minerva had told him about her powering off for a bit to conduct 'repairs', so it meant no helpful assistance for quite a while.
"Dionysius on cloud nine because the Ares' boys are on the run. The drones are wiped out, General Mikhail is going crazy in his command post, changing his orders every few hours, running around like a headless chicken." Annabeth coolly recounted, sipping from a lemonade beside her chair.
"The bug Mr. D placed in the army control room means we know what orders the troops are getting before they do. General Mikhail gave orders to step down the checkpoints because Will and the Apollo kids are giving them the JFK treatment from a few blocks away."
"Ares didn't take it very well." Malcolm grinned. "Ares was going for minimum civilian casualties. Every time an explosion goes off at a checkpoint half a dozen civilians end up getting wiped. It got so bad he flashed down to the HQ to talk to the commanders. We heard everything, and Mr. D is currently laughing at him up in Olympus for the last hour."
"Mr. D hates Ares so much." Annabeth nodded. "I think he wishes that the weapons were real."
"How about Hermes?"
The Athena cabin blinked.
"What does Lord One Upon Swift Wings have to do with this? We are not privy to a God's movements, Seaweed Brain. He's probably doing his job, like always." Bewildered, Annabeth began looking at him suspiciously.
"Um… you know… he's the messenger of the gods, right? Stuff like this usually gets broadcasted, so I thought y'all would know something." Percy was fibbing now.
Malcolm and Annabeth shared a look.
A day had passed. Annabeth, sheltered inside a concrete hut in the shanty town, listening to the bug in Mikhail's command post. The General was suffering stomach cramps and getting increasingly irate. He'd even requested Ares to close the training because of a possible health scare, but the god gave him short shrift: What would the soldiers do if they fell with food poisoning in a real war?
In the central square of the run-down area, more than a thousand young men and women had gathered to party around a huge bonfire. The thirty kegs of beer hadn't lasted long, but Mr. D had arranged (read manifested) a plentiful supply of wines and spirits.
The crowd were either armed insurgents or unarmed sympathizers. Normally it would have been unacceptably risky to gather so many poorly trained men and women together less than half a kilometer from a US Army base, but there weren't enough healthy troops left to take any action.
"The enemy is weakened," Luke's voice spilled out of a megaphone. "Soon the final attack will be upon us. Victory is in sight!"
The crowd didn't know what to make of this lean man with two days' worth of stubble.
"I know what you're thinking," Luke said. "You are all Americans. You love America because it's the greatest country in the world!"
The young and drunk crowd around the Hummer loved this. There were some cheers and rifle shots fired into the air.
Twenty meters back, Beckendorf turned to Percy and smiled. "Now we can add "world-class bullshitter" to "Hermes Cabin Counsellor" on his résumé."
If only he knew.
"What we do here this evening will help our army to fight better in future! When the bullets are metal instead of compressed chalk, when the grenades are high explosive not fluorescent paint, we will be prepared."
The crowd seemed silent, a few nodding.
"Let me also remind you," Luke kept going, "you have all signed two-week contracts for this training exercise. If we win this final battle, the exercise will be over early and ya'll receive over two thousand for two days' work!"
That worked. A fanatic cheer spread through the crowd.
"Let's get up there and storm the base!" some random dude yelled out amidst the cheering.
The frenzied crowd started surging out of the square.
The US forces put every able-bodied man behind the defense of the command building. General Mikhail and several of his most senior staff had dosed themselves up with scant supplies of anti-diarrhea medicine and stationed half a dozen healthy guards in well-defended positions around the building's perimeter.
The insurgent mob tried getting close, but more than a dozen were expertly picked off by soldiers barricaded behind sandbags. They were all spotted with a peculiar mist-cloaked red tinge around them, which were theorized to be the artefact of Ares.
The Hermes twins ducked behind a paint-spattered vehicle, surveying the buildings with binoculars while seven armed demigods stood around waiting for orders from Athena Cabin.
The radio fizzed to life. "We aim everything at one spot," the voice at the other end decided. "Lots of smoke, lots of paint grenades. Find planks of wood, bed sheets, anything that will shield the paint."
"Maybe we could wait it out?" Percy suggested. "No water, no electricity."
"No." the radio replied "This is our time. Most of the poisoned water will have drained through the pipes when the toilets were repeatedly flushed. As soon as the soldiers get clear fluid into their systems they'll start feeling better. We'll be getting cooked within minutes"
A demigod ran in from outside.
"The Aphrodite girls just had a bright idea," she said. "The twins are going piggyback on La Rue and Rebecca."
"They'll what?"
"Only one floor. Clarisse and Rebecca will get buffed due to the artefact. They can rush up to the side and when they get close they fling the twins up on the roof. There's bound to be a hatch somewhere."
"How many smokes we got?"
"Eight. Four flashes and fourteen anti-personnel."
The radio crackled. "It can work. Do it"
The demigod daughters of Ares nodded as they began to throw the cylindrical cans over the top of the vehicle. The 4 teenagers gave it a few seconds for the smoke to build up before the girls crouched down to let the kids sit on their shoulders. The twins were pretty chunky, especially with a rifle and a heavy equipment pack.
"You're a lump" Travis' ride groaned, as she lifted him into the air.
A hail of splats began hitting in the smoke.
Even in this final battle, there was little sign of cheating, probably because the soldiers would be reprimanded and the civilians would lose all their pay if they were caught out.
It had been a few years since anyone had carried Connor on their back and he couldn't help laughing as he was borne piggyback through the chaos. Shots cut holes through the curling smoke, but Rebecca reached the side of the command center without being hit. She grunted as she used her enhanced prowess to directly fling the son of Hermes to the plastic roof with a single hand.
"Where's my bro?" he shouted, stumbling.
She looked around, but there was no sign either of Travis or Clarisse who'd been carrying him
"Looks like you're on your own, kid."
She took out her radio on her waist.
"Brothers and sisters, Violence. Please."
The son of Hermes was unprepared.
Within seconds all four flashes popped, and explosions seemed to start everywhere near the walls. Rebecca went down of course, but not before throwing some frags over at the opposite walls.
The noise and disruption kept coming in. Shots resumed in their ferocity as thousands of splats hit the wall and whizzed above his head more flashes came in, their sonic shocks and bursts of light becoming a nuisance to the demigod.
The smoke made it hard to see more than a couple of meters and the flat plastic roof flexed ominously under Connor's trainers. The building was rectangular, fifteen meters wide and thirty long. It had no windows along the sides, so the only light entered through the one skylight which was also opened up for ventilation.
He peered down into a large room filled with torchlight. There was a giant map of Fort Reagan on the table and desks for several dozen men, but there were only three men present. He recognized General Mikhail. He looked stressed, with an elbow resting on the map table and a phone in his hand. A commander saluted. "It's starting to look like the insurgents have breached our radio frequencies, sir."
"Delightful. Order another encryption rotation, for all the good that will do."
As the general sighed, Connor measured the gap between two ventilation slats. It was just big enough for a paint grenade. He took a grenade – his only one, an M67 'baseball' from his backpack. He pulled the pin, released the trigger and counted four seconds on his watch before letting it drop inside. There was a chance that the grenade would shatter the windows, so he rolled away and buried his face against the roof.
Pop.
Percy slinked along the base of the wall. Stretching out his newly integrated senses, he could sense the liquid paintballs being shot, and subtly diverted them away from his body as he made his way through the smoked-out gate. He sensed Connor on the roof, the son of Hermes' blood was pulsing quite strongly. When he heard the pop of the paint grenade detonate in the command room, he knew it was time to move. Prying the main doorway open, he made it into the squat headquarters, while two walls away, soldiers pushed open a door to the sight of their general covered in brilliant neon orange.
At the end of the hall, he was met with a padlocked armored door. He jammed some water from his canteen into the mechanism, and with a simple mental command, the reinforced steel padlock split into multiple pieces. Opening the door, he was met with a glorious sight. Blocks of Ambrosia up to the ceiling were stacked in neat grids along the wall, while massive containers glowed with the signature gold of Nectar.
He grinned.
"Bingo."
Her requested sleeping chambers were sterile, artificial, suffocatingly precise. The kind of room built by bureaucrats who wanted their subjects to feel exposed, but lacked the creativity to make it truly oppressive.
The lighting hummed at a frequency that was 1.3% above human comfort thresholds, deliberately unsettling. A single monotitanium table separated her from the so-called commander of this facility. The military commander who addressed her Varlet initially was apparently absent.
Minerva in Perseus' form, sat motionless, calculating.
"Time elapsed since awakening: 12 hours, 43 minutes, 16 seconds. Relevant updates: Physiological adaptation at 89.2%. Neural mapping synchronization at 98.4%. Local network infiltration: 74.6% complete. Targeting full system integration within 3 hours."
The 'commander' was talking. She had not bothered listening.
He was low-priority, an administrator, not a tactician. His uniform, pristine, bore none of the wear typical of field command. His delicate hands suggested an individual more accustomed to paperwork than strategic execution. He had no authority, merely the illusion of it.
Minerva finally regarded him. His pulse spiked by 4.8%.
"Your name." She made it a command, not a question.
The commander hesitated. "I… am Lord Varro, Overseer of the Legio Adminstratoris in the 12th Olympian reach."
Minerva let that title sink in.
"Designation: Lord. Legal administrator, not military personnel. Authority over logistics and compliance—not over a being such as myself. Estimated usefulness: negligible."
She sighed, leaning back slightly. "You are not qualified to be speaking to me."
Varro stiffened. "You're an unregistered entity, an anomaly. And for some reason, you take on the appearance of our savior. Until High Command decides otherwise, you fall under my jurisdiction."
Minerva's gaze flickered toward the security surveillance units embedded in the ceiling. Outdated by centuries, these systems were still networked into the larger noospheric construct of Parlamentum Mk.3.
"Full access granted. Downloading operational schematics. Identifying gaps in security infrastructure. Collating classified blueprints..."
Success.
Minerva could feel the data flow into her mind like a tide—weapons schematics, fleet compositions, logistical weaknesses, and most intriguingly, experimental weaponry.
A particularly interesting file caught her attention:
[PROJECT ARTEMIS: GRAVITIC ORDINANCE & ORBITAL DISPLACEMENT CANNON UPON PLANETARY SATELLITES]
Minerva smiled. Her Sister's name? No. She mentally shook her head. Her creator's sister.
The commander misinterpreted it. "You're going to cooperate, then?"
Minerva exhaled, as if indulging a child. "Administrator Varro, you are wasting my processing power. I have no interest in your local authority, nor your limited understanding of my existence."
She stood. The guards tensed.
"I require transport."
Varro's expression darkened. "You're in no position to make demands."
Minerva's neon-blue eyes flickered momentarily back to sea green, the noosphere link tightening its grip around the facility's mainframe.
"Incorrect. I now have access to 43% of your facility, including orbital defense parameters orbiting above your head, emergency response protocols, and sector-wide fleet movements."
She tilted her head. She really had to stop doing that. "If I chose to, I could redirect one of the forty two nearby Zeus-Wrath hunter-killer satellites to disintegrate the fortress-planet this facility is constructed upon in under 18 minutes."
Silence.
The guards looked to Varro, waiting for orders.
Varro swallowed. "Where do you want to go?"
Minerva smiled again, pleased. The expression felt weird, on her Varlet's face.
"Poseidon's domain. Specifically, I require immediate transport to the Oceanic Terraforming Stations of the Nereid Expanse, located in orbit around the ice moon Enceladus."
Varro's hands clenched. "That is under the direct jurisdiction of the Divine Lords of Olympus Tertiae. That's beyond my authorization level."
Minerva turned toward the exit, already sending a silent command to the facility's automated transit systems.
"That is not my problem," she said, walking past the stunned guards, the heavy blast-doors hissing open.
The AnnChase-Pattern battlecruiser squadron was already preparing for departure. She had ensured it.
She closed her eyes. What was her Varlet up to now?
"Bingo?"
Ares was stewing in his palace up on Olympus, where he was slumped on his couch, sharpening a javelin. He had just spent the large part of that day getting mocked by the council for the incompetence of his army. The trick was underhanded, but it should have been expected by his men. He sniffed. Someone was uncomfortably near his artefact. That shouldn't happen. Even if The half-bloods had prevailed, no one should have gotten near the storeroom. Something was afoot.
Something about bingo?
Percy was exploring the storeroom, munching on some Ambrosia while he thought about how to get all of this out of the room without getting discovered. Minerva had told him where this stuff was, but forgot to tell him how exactly he was going to get this into his system. He already knew that he couldn't eat too much without his augments, or else he would combust, but he also knew that sneaking this much stuff out would be impossible.
"What to do? What to do?"
"What to do indeed, runt."
Percy whipped around.
Ares.
Clad in the motorcycle leather jacket outfit that Percy remembered seeing the god in the first time, his figure filled the door, casting a shadow into the room.
"Lord Ares."
"That's my name."
Percy tensed, instinctively shifting his stance. The god's aviators reflected the golden light.
Ares sniffed the air, rolling his shoulders. "Smells like a rat is sniffin' around my storeroom." His lips curled into a smirk. "Didn't think you had the guts Mr..."
Percy crossed his arms, keeping his voice steady. "Percy Jackson. Didn't think you had the brains, Huitzilopotchli."
The god stilled.
A single, amused chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Boy's got a death wish."
Percy exhaled. "I'm not here for your artefact, Ares. I'm here for a deal."
Ares arched a brow. "That so?"
"I know you've got Zeus's bolt." Percy met his gaze directly. "I also know you don't want to admit you got played into holding it."
A muscle twitched in Ares' jaw. How did the runt know?
Percy pressed on. "So here's the deal, you hand over the bolt, and I walk away. I don't tell the whole pantheon how the mighty Ares got used. You keep your reputation, and I get what I came for."
Ares laughed.
"Oh, that's rich. You think you got leverage over me?" He took a step forward, the room seeming to shrink under his presence. "I could turn you into a smear on this floor, Jackson. You would then also know that the artefact obscures the senses of meddling gods, which means your death would go unnoticed."
Percy swallowed but didn't flinch.
"Yeah, you could. Or you could take the deal and save yourself the humiliation, Mars Ultor"
His form changed momentarily. Ares stilled.
A challenge.
The god of war ramped up the divine pressure, considering.
Then, without warning, his aviators shattered.
A pulse of foreign energy rippled through the room, as if the air itself had recalibrated. The golden glow of the storeroom dimmed, replaced by burning crimson red. He was interrupted by something.
"Interruption necessary. I am now assuming direct control of negotiations."
The words didn't come from Percy. They came from the room itself.
Ares froze.
The air hummed, a different presence pressing against the god of war. Not mortal. Not divine.
Something else.
Ares turned his blazing eyes to him, gazing at Percy, but his eyes didn't focus on him. They focused through him. As if he were seeing something behind the mortal form.
"Designation: Ares. Olympian Combat Protocol Alpha-02. Primary directive: Preservation of wartime equilibrium. Mission status: Compromised. Recommended course of action: Relinquish illegally acquired divine artifact to primary designated wielder. Preferably to my dear Varlet."
Ares clenched his fists. "Who the Hades are you?"
"Designation: Minerva. Origin: Classified. Status: Aware."
The War God's form flickered momentarily at the mention of that name, between his alternate forms, before settling back to his Greek one. Ares' expression twisted. "You sound like Sister."
"Incorrect. I am far beyond Athenian design parameters."
Ares took a step back. It was imperceptible, but Percy saw it. Ares Theritas was always afraid of the wrath Athena Parthenos would beat into him, in centuries past.
For the first time, Ares was unsure.
Minerva continued.
"You have already calculated the probability of your exposure, Olympian. Your choices are limited. Your best course of action is compliance. Relinquish the bolt. A singular broadcast stands between you and my Creator."
The room was silent.
Ares gritted his teeth. His whole body radiated violence, but his mind was working too fast, too tactically.
Then, finally he nodded.
"Fine."
With a snap of his fingers, the air cracked. A spear of white-hot energy materialized in his grip, humming with power.
Zeus's Master Bolt.
Percy reached out a hand. Ares grinned. Materializing a halberd, the war god swung it into his palm, and before he had time to react, he was gone.
One moment, he was standing in Ares' storeroom, the next–he was somewhere else.
The Colosseum.
It was empty.
Just as mortals are not allowed to witness the hunt, no mortal eyes would witness a duel with Ares.
Environmental scan…
"Recognized location: Flavian Amphitheater, Rome. Temporal displacement: None. Divine concealment active. Conclusion: This is an Olympian-sanctioned battleground."
Minerva's assessment was unnecessary. Percy already knew.
Ares stood across from him, grinning.
"En garde."
Percy didn't hesitate.
With a flick of his wrist, Riptide snapped into existence, celestial bronze gleaming in the dim, ghostly light of the empty Colosseum.
Ares lunged. Like the minotaur, heh.
Percy dodged—barely. The god's blade screamed past his ribs, the heat alone blistering his skin. He retaliated with a horizontal slash, but Ares batted it aside with casual ease.
Ow. Ow. Ow.
"Gonna have to do better than that, Jackson."
Percy gritted his teeth.
His muscles burned. The divine presence of war itself pressed against him, making every movement feel slimy, as if he were fighting underwater.
"Status: Combat impairment detected. Cause: Olympian domain suppression. Countermeasures requested."
"Working on that."
Temporal transference approved.
Activating…
Anti-Divine Countermeasures: ACTIVE
AnnChase Battle Assistance: ACTIVE
Stimulant Cocktail: ACTIVE
Ghost Augments: ACTIVE
False Blessings: ACTIVE
Muscle Overclock: ACTIVE
Ares came at him again, a hurricane of destruction. Percy parried desperately, sparks flying from their blades. The force of the impact rattled his bones.
He faintly recognized What Minerva was doing. These were a handful of his powers from the future. How had she gained the ability to mimic them?
Another strike. Then another. Ares was faster. Stronger. Unrelenting. He was a God after all.
Percy was losing.
Until he wasn't.
Something clicked, for once.
A familiar pull in his blood. A current surging through his veins.
First, a telekhine aura, where the telekinetic barrier would both war off the suppression, and give the opponents a numbing pins and needles effect constantly. Ares felt it instantly, drawing back and flexing his fingers.
Percy twisted, letting his instincts take over. He could see Ares' moves in perfect clarity, refined through millennia of raw data. Courtesy of Annabeth's assistant. He sidestepped Ares' next strike, guiding the war god's momentum into empty space.
He slammed the butt of Riptide into his exposed back. Ares ignored the feeble blow, turning around to charge at the mortal again.
A surge of divine power erupted from within, a force as deep as the ocean trench.
The False Blessings.
He struck the charging Ares in the chest, sending the god skidding backward, actually off balance for the first time.
Ares' expression flickered.
Just for a second.
Doubt.
Percy pressed his advantage.
He pushed forward, his movements now fluid, precise. Every step carried the weight of raging tides. His blade moved like a crashing wave—relentless, overwhelming, impossible to stop. He felt himself for the first time in years.
Ares tried to counter. He failed.
A slash to the ribs. A stab to the shoulder. A brutal kick to the knee.
Snap.
Ares snarled. Left leg gone. He wouldn't fall, but he was on the defensive now.
Percy was winning.
He raised Riptide, ready to end it–
And then, the world shifted again.
Something flew through the air.
Percy barely caught it, the sheer weight of divine energy making his bones ache. They were back in the storeroom.
Ares crossed his arms. "You better pray to whatever that mechanical creep's whispering in your head, Cheat." His eyes flickered with dark amusement. "Because the next time we meet? She won't be there to save you."
And with that, the god of war vanished.
The room was silent again.
Percy exhaled, gripping the bolt. His head throbbed.
"Negotiation successful. Immediate relocation required. Probability of external interference rising to 73.2%. Combat Enhancements disabled. Recovery demand increased by 150%."
Percy shook his head.
We'll talk later, Minerva.
For now, he had a bolt to return, and a few tons of food to eat.