MASTER OF TIME

Installment One: Percy Jackson and the Olympians,

The Lightning Thief

by Tannin & Tele

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling and Rick Riordan, voiding that of original content and characters.

Author's Note:

I adore this story so when Tannintele said it was up for adoption I asked within the first half hour of her saying that. She is reading and approving all the chapters I post and any changes made to previous chapters (I'm just editing the first 5 no big deal). So if anyone wants to say that this isn't true to her story-line… F-you. I have her permission and I'm emailing with her so I stay true to her story-line.

CHAPTER ONE: A WHITE BLOB NEARLY BEHEADS ME

Yancy Academy, New York

Late Autumn, 2005

Minutes before I caught my first glimpse of the strangest kid in existence- excluding myself, of course- I could easily be found in the Lunch Hall, brooding over a bowl of cereal. It was seven a.m. on a frigid autumn day, and I was valiantly resisting the urge to dump my Cocoa Puffs over Nancy Bobofit's ginger head… just a regular Monday morning at Yancy Academy.

My name is Percy Jackson, and as of the past few months, I was a boarding student at a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York. Was I a troubled kid? Yeah. You could say that.

I'd been flunked, expelled, dismissed, and kicked out (all synonyms, I know) of at least six different schools across New York and Jersey in the last six years; the only kids I knew were criminals, gang members, juvenile delinquents, drop-outs, the mentally challenged...and Grover, but he's in a whole category of his own. Naturally, I fit in most all of those requirements, but that didn't mean I was a bad kid.

I'm what my mom calls a 'trouble-magnet', a trait I apparently received from my estranged father's side of the family.

I could start at any point in my short, miserable life to prove that I solely exist to fail, but I'd spare you the melodrama. Point in case, my 'errant tendencies' had landed me in so much trouble that if I killed someone- which probably wouldn't happen, unless Nancy pushed me to the brink of insanity- I would have a novel-length book of school records and a dozen rankled school officials practically screaming 'GUILTY!'.

More realistically, if I got kicked out of Yancy, I would end up on the state-wide blacklist. That meant no school, no scholarships, and no chance of government help. And if that happened, my mom and I would be shit out of luck. While I, personally, wouldn't mind missing school altogether, my mother would be devastated.

Her name is Sally Jackson and she is the best person in the world, which just proved my theory that the best people often had the rottenest luck. Her own parents died in a plane crash when she was five, and she was raised by an uncle who didn't care much about her. She wanted to be a novelist, so she spent her high school years working to save enough money for a college with a good creative-writing program. Then her uncle got cancer, and she had to quit school during her senior year to take care of him. After he died, she was left with no money, no family, and no diploma.

She worked odd jobs, took night classes to get her high school diploma, and raised me on her own. She never complained or got mad, not even once, and I knew I wasn't an easy kid. She had always wanted the best for me; hence the fancy-pants schools and extensive therapy work.

I was not looking forward to her expression if I got expelled again, so this year I was determined to keep my peace… even among these wild, angsty maniacs who insisted on ruining my breakfast.

My cereal had gone soggy, and I dipped my spoon into the darkened milk lazily, leaning against a palm. I had classes in ten minutes, and I was absolutely dreading my first hour. Because of my hyperactivity disorder and dyslexia, school teachers and I just don't get along on principle- but Mrs. Dodds was almost unreasonable in her dislike for me.

Mrs. Dodds was this little math teacher from Georgia who always wore a black leather jacket, even though she was at least fifty years old. She was cruel enough to ride a Harley right into your locker...which I really wouldn't put past her. She had come to Yancy halfway through the year, when our last math teacher had a nervous breakdown. From her first day, Mrs. Dodds loved Nancy Bobofit (which made me think the old woman was a bit challenged in the head) and immediately decided I was devil spawn. Mrs. Dodds would point her crooked finger at me and say, "Now, honey," in a disgustingly sweet tone, and I knew I was in deep trouble.

Because of her overall repulsing attitude and disposition toward me, I was easily frustrated and distracted in her class- two things Mrs. Dodds just loved to point out in front of my peers. And more recently, my greatest distraction kept me in a horrible mood- which didn't bode well for anyone. My best friend, Grover Underwood, was detained in the nurse's office, out cold.

Mr. Brunner had found Grover yesterday, all beaten up and unconscious in the janitor's closet by his office. I hadn't seen Grover since he ran off during dinner, his nose in the air and his behind shaking madly as he bolted out of the cafeteria. I'd wondered what his problem was, but he'd promised me he would be back "later!".

It was past curfew that night when I realized he still hadn't returned. Moving past my general dislike of authority, I had reluctantly informed the dormitory overseer of Grover's absence, thinking the worst.

Grover was an easy target for bullies. He was scrawny and short, cried when he got frustrated, and must've been held back several grades as he was the only sixth grader with acne and facial hair. On top of all that, he was crippled. He had a note excusing him from gym for the rest of his life because he had some kind of muscular disease in his legs. He walked as though every step hurt him, but don't let that fool you. You should've seen him run when it was enchilada day last week.

His main offenders were the older kids, who were unreasonably cruel in their assessment of us underclassmen. Grover was an easy target to pick on, and so when he was left alone- without my protection- I tended to worry excessively about his well-being. I was a loner by nature, and while I got along okay with my year-mates, Grover was my only real friend. I think I'd miss him if I was expelled, if he even survived the week.

I was probably overreacting, but something seemed fishy about his attack. I caught a glimpse of Grover as the nurses brought him to the infirmary on a cot, and he looked as though hell had warmed over. Now, I'd seen some pretty bad examples of bullying, but no kid could do that to another person.

While he was usually quite pale, Grover looked like a corpse with blood matting his hair and his bruised limbs bent at the oddest angles. The nurses said he was lucky to have been found before he bled out.

I remembered fighting back bile as Mr. Brunner shuffled me back to the dorms, murmuring that 'all would be well'. But there was another thing; I trusted Mr. Brunner more than any other teacher in the school, but last I checked, there wasn't a janitor's closet by his classroom or office. So where had he found Grover? And if Grover was unconscious the whole time… how did Mr. Brunner know where to find him? I was no private detective- not with my records- but even the dullest of my peers could sense that something was off. Not as though my peers actually cared about Grover like I did.

Rubbing a hand across my face tiredly, I swiftly began collecting my things. Students were crowding by the door, waiting for the first bell to ring. Just as I was about to bring my tray to the garbage station, something caught my eye as it soared through an open window.

It was blurry at first - like a big white blob, but grew sharper as it veered closer. It was a large snowy owl, carrying a small parcel in its claws. The bird calmly swept past a group of kids, who didn't scream and duck as I expected- they barely gave it a second glance. I blanched at their lack of reaction, wondering in bewilderment: 'Is no one else seeing this?'

The owl flew past my head and I ducked reflexively, nearly dropping my tray. I whipped around with an undoubtedly surprised expression as it landed on the table behind me. It dropped its package hastily, disrupting a glass of milk, which tipped across a boy's open book.

"Sweet Salazar, Hedwig!" The kid exclaimed, shoving away from the table- he toppled to the floor, but caught himself on the bench with lightning-fast reflexes.

The owl looked at the boy on the floor with twinkling amber eyes, as if almost amused, before swiftly pecking a piece of bacon from his tray. The boy swept a small, bony hand through his dark bangs, giving me a glimpse of a red-rimmed scar on his forehead. It looked like a lightning bolt, contrasting darkly against his pale skin.

I examined the boy closely as he brushed the dirt off his uniform and was surprised to note that I'd never seen him before in my life. Not in classes, not in the hall, not at mealtimes- which was odd, because he had a face you just couldn't forget.

The nameless child sighed softly, glancing down at the bird of prey eating off his plate, as if this was all perfectly normal. Rolling his eyes, he picked up his book by the pads of his thumb and forefinger and crinkled his nose at the dampened cover. Shaking out the pages out and nabbing a napkin from his tray, he gave the owl a faintly exasperated look.

"See here, Hedwig?" He complained, "This is why we can't have nice things."

The bird just stared, much in the same manner I was. Owlishly.

Late Autumn thru Late Spring, 2006

Grover had quickly recovered, faster than I'd expected for the condition he was in. By the next night he had reappeared in the dorms, looking for all intents and purposes as though he hadn't just been nearly beat to a pulp by a mysterious someone...or something.

I watched him closely throughout the next few days, keeping an eye out for any sign of pain or injury. But besides the odd bruise here and there, Grover looked...well, about as normal as ever. Grover had always appeared a bit sickly and, you know, crippled, regardless of the circumstances.

It had me confused to no end how he went from looking like a victim of the Incredible Hulk to perfectly fine in just a few days time. My friend had upped his aversion skills, too; no matter what I asked or how I timed it, Grover refused to elaborate on his assault. I suppose I could have been more respectful of Grover's avoidance of the subject (his attack being a 'traumatic experience' and all that), but I was an endlessly curious preteen, and stubborn as a bull.

With Grover avoiding me, I had no chance to ask him about the mysterious new kid. Instead, I discreetly searched the halls and the Lunch Hall for a new underclassman with a British accent and a lightning-bolt scar. The boy had to have been an underclassman, small as he was, but I hadn't heard any of the baby gossip-mongers chattering about him as they would any other new transfer.

After weeks of searching to no avail- and gaining a lot of raised eyebrows and strange looks for my prying- I was left wondering if I had perhaps imagined the boy and his bird. A stress-related hallucination, perhaps, which wasn't as uncommon as you'd think.

Autumn fell in Winter and before I knew it, I was halfway through my last trimester of the sixth grade. As my pile of unfinished school-work steadily rose and drama continued to ensue between myself and the two 'Let's-See-Who-Can-Force-Percy-Into-A-Murderous- Spree-First' club members, any lingering thoughts about the green-eyed boy and Grover's suspicious trip to the infirmary were shoved to the back of my mind.

It was late Spring when my unresolved questions finally resurfaced in full force, when Yancy Academy was given the exciting opportunity to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at archaic Greek and Roman stuff. I use the phrase 'exciting opportunity' loosely, as it was boring as sin…until I was nearly clawed to death by my algebra teacher turned winged demon.

But, really, this time I swear it wasn't my fault.

...I blame Harry Potter.
AN: Did you know we are all pronouncing Hedwig's name wrong? Her name is German; so we should be pronouncing the "w" as a "v".