AN: Yes, once again this is being redone. It seems that I cannot decide how I want this story to go, but I think I finally have it. This will definitely be the last revision I do, because I'm pretty happy with how these chapters turned out. Hope you all like this as much as I do.
Percy hated late nights.
He preferred to get his business done during the day, as sleep was an invaluable resource, especially for a sixteen-year-old son of Poseidon一something many of his compatriots had seemingly forgotten. But, no matter his inclination, an opportunity like this was worth losing a few hours.
He leaned back into the soft leather seats of his car: a 1969 Ford Mustang, darker than the Abyss herself. Percy never really understood society's high regard for material wealth; in fact, it was something that downright disgusted him in some cases, but this beautiful piece of machinery was an exception. He discovered it a while back in the form of a hunk of rusted metal abandoned in Newark of all unholy places, and he immediately saw the potential. A few years later, with countless hours under maintenance, Percy not only resurrected it, but made it flourish.
Glancing at the clock, he noticed that he had a few minutes to spare until midnight, which was the time explicitly written on the note mailed to his apartment. The letter itself was annoyingly vague and included some dollar store threats that most definitely did not succeed in their intended purpose, but they still managed to give Percy a good laugh.
However, inside the letter (poor intimidation techniques aside) was a referenced 'business proposition', signed by the grand narcissist himself: Luke Castellan. Of course, the name was preceded by a bunch of worthless titles, but Percy was accustomed to the arrogance of fools.
That boy wouldn't know a lost cause if it slapped him in that particularly ugly scar of his, as this was around the fourth time he'd attempted to sway Percy to his little book club. He had half a thought to go kneecap the bastard and throw him in front of a train, but Castellan was remarkably protected. Another time, perhaps.
Eventually, the clock struck twelve, and Percy put an end to his musings. While trading the comfortable compartment of the Mustang for the frigid winter air of New York in December would not be ideal for most, Percy was used to the unpleasant nature of the city's colder months.
As he reached the curb, his face became illuminated by the off-color hue of the dated neon sign that read 'Elysium', the 'y' needing a serious bulb replacement.
The irony wasn't lost on him, but his world was often unoriginal. And, judging by the fact that this was where Castellan's note directed him, it undoubtedly was more than just a bar. This particular establishment was located deep within The Bronx, in a district home to the blue-collar man, where there were more factories and titty bars than financially stable citizens; in other words, the kind of filth Percy spent most of his childhood in. The building itself looked like it was only a short while away from being foreclosed, completely unapproachable to the average person.
How fortunate for them.
As he reached for the door handle, a low rumble of thunder echoed from the distance. If Percy had to guess, it was from Staten Island. That's where a certain lightning god usually took out his anger. However, like always, Percy ignored it; and, with a crack of his neck, he pulled open the door and entered the lion's den.
It was definitely bigger on the inside, but how much that had to do with Hecate's children was unknown. A row of booths was lined against the trashy poster-covered walls, while a reasonably sized bar flanked the opposite side. The only other notable features were a pool table and a jukebox that looked displaced out of time by several decades, as well as a foul stench that belonged to gods know what. But, more important to Percy's attention, were the half dozen or so patrons, and, as the door slammed behind him, every pair of eyeballs looked up to meet his view.
What little chatter there was ceased to exist, and only Bob Seger's singing remained.
"Do I have the pleasure of meeting one Percy Jackson?" came a curious voice from the back.
Percy moved his gaze to the speaker: a boy in his late teens. Several visible scars and bags under the eyes marked him as a demigod, while the Aryan features labeled him as the result of a drunken night between Apollo and some impressionable young woman. No doubt the sun god immediately moved on to his next conquest and left his previous lover in the dust.
Percy recalled a conversation he had once with another son of Apollo as the boy bled out from the multiple stab wounds that littered his chest.
He told of how the sudden impregnation and absolute abandonment forced his mother to take multiple jobs she would normally never consider.
How her night shifts as a waitress at a seedy diner barely paid to put food in her mouth, much less that of her son.
How a part of her saw the lustful looks sent by some of the male customers as an opportunity.
How within the year, she found herself working the corner, selling her body to the degenerate scum that paid for her services.
How she hated it, but her son could eat, and that's what really mattered to her.
How he'd often find her in a drug-induced near-catatonic state and cry and plead until she woke up.
How eventually, one of her clients got a tad bit too rough.
How she tried to claw her way out, but his grip was too strong.
How he tried to help her, but the man tossed him to the side.
How his grimy hands around her neck squeezed the remaining life out of her.
How childcare services picked up the now orphaned boy soon after and how he spent most of his early life in the system, going from foster home to foster home.
How the years passed and the now resentful teenager found himself in a camp for kids like him: demigods.
How none of his twenty-plus siblings barely gave him the time of day, and how his father only bothered to claim him before continuing to practice his fifth amendment right of non-communication.
And how at last, he was approached by a different group of demigods: the ones who were also sick of the bullshit excuses for parents they called the Gods.
How he became enamored with their cause, but more importantly, finally found his family.
How he just wanted to be loved.
If Percy were here under different circumstances, he'd be curious to find out just how similar the story of this demigod was.
"I'm not sure I would say pleasure, but yes, you do."
The son of Apollo smiled from his booth and nodded at another teen that was perched by the pool table一this one looking like a child of war.
"If you'd like to hand any weapons you've got on you to Bruce here, it'd be much appreciated," the son of Apollo explained.
Percy expected this, but they would only be removing his physical weapons. After all, what good was a man who was only as dangerous as his tools? It was for this reason that he left the majority of his arsenal back in his car, leaving only his dagger attached to his belt.
As Bruce approached him, Percy pulled his blade out and walked it over to the table himself. Bruce sneered at Percy as the son of Poseidon flashed him a smile, raising his arms obediently.
"I'm sorry, am I not worthy enough to handle your little knife?" Bruce asked irritably as he patted Percy down.
"Oh, I'm sure you're worthy as much as I'm sure this shithole was once impressive," he replied easily.
"You're mocking me," Bruce stated.
"What gave you that idea?"
Instead of responding, Bruce turned his attention to the demigod at the booth.
"He's clean."
Not waiting for the okay, Percy slipped past Bruce and slid onto the bench across from the sun spawn, who looked genuinely confused about the encounter.
"The dagger's bound to my blood. He can pick it up if he wants, but I doubt you have much use for a one-handed soldier," Percy explained.
The corners of the teen's lips quirked upwards.
A man of good taste, it seemed.
The other patrons, clearly demigods too, went back to what they were doing before his entry. Bruce, though, kept a watchful eye on Percy, something which only amused him.
The demigod in front of Percy stretched out his hand. "The name's Andrew, a son of the New Millennium."
Percy grasped the now named Andrew's hand with a raised eyebrow.
"New Millennium? That's a new one," Percy responded, letting go of the demigod's hand.
Andrew shrugged. "Yeah, the name's a work in progress. Our PR department decided we needed to brand ourselves better."
"You guys have a PR department?" Percy asked.
"Yeah, why?"
"That's the craziest shit I've ever heard."
Giving a short laugh, Andrew gestured to Bruce who was over by the bar. "Before we begin, I'd like your opinion on a homebrew I'd been working on, if that's ok?"
Typically, Percy would pass, as alcohol is usually a mortal enemy of his, but he'd been in the mood for a drink ever since he got the damn note. Plus, considering he wanted this meeting to go as smooth as possible, he figured refusing to try the man's brew wouldn't be a great start.
"Why not?"
A few seconds later, Bruce returned from the bar with a bottle which he more or less threw at Percy, who in turn didn't bat an eye.
"Ah, thank you, good sir. I'm sure you're making your father proud," Percy told him, only to receive a grumble in response.
"No sense of humor on that one," Percy remarked to Andrew.
The demigod snorted. "Not really much of anything, for that matter," he replied back once Bruce was out of hearing range.
Percy laughed before taking a swig. Yet, as he swallowed, he was filled with disappointment. Not because it tasted bad一it was pretty damn good, actually. No, he was disappointed because it was a taste he recognized all too well: Lotus Brew. Not necessarily the stuff that would make him forget what decade he's in, but the kind that would leave him on the floor with foam coming out of his mouth before the hour was up.
And, judging by how Andrew's eyes were trained intently on Percy during his drink, this wasn't just a case of poor taste and ignorance.
"What's your recipe?" Percy asked, perfectly calm to the eye.
With a satisfied smirk on his face, Andrew replied. "I'm afraid that's a trade secret. You like?"
"Oh, very much. You mind if I take an extra to go?"
Andrew couldn't help but laugh at the irony of the request, but he relented nonetheless.
"Of course. In fact, I'll include an entire pack as part of our deal," he responded.
Percy clapped his hands together. "Excellent, now let's get down to that proposal of yours."
Andrew nodded as he reached for a folder on the seat next to him.
"Luke believes, and frankly we all agree, no matter any past contentions, that you can truly change the tide of this war; no pun intended," Andrew said with a smile, handing the folder over to Percy.
With his curiosity spiked, Percy opened it up and skimmed through the contents. Either Luke was a bigger idiot than he thought, or there was some larger play going on, because the amount of information on those pages was infinitely more than any rational person would give to a prospective business partner.
Andrew seemed to pick up on Percy's befuddlement. "That there is what Luke considers a show of goodwill, and it is his一our hope that it will remove any reservations you have about our movement," Andrew explained in a matter-of-fact tone, as if these documents would be infallible in gaining his loyalty.
And, in all honesty, at least several years ago, he probably would have signed up. But that was then, and the Percy of now had since seen quite a bit which more or less quenched any uncertainty about his loyalties.
With a resigned sigh, Percy realized that a long-awaited visit to Camp was in his future, because as much as he admired the spunk of the impulsive post-punk daughter of Zeus, she and the rest of the counselors were unequipped to handle this kind of opposition. Hell, last he heard they barely made it back from the Sea of Monsters without taking a pitstop at literally every single obscure myth that exists. Chiron's laissez-faire attitude towards running things wasn't really helping things either, and Dionysus couldn't be anymore apathetic if he tried.
But a trip to Camp would be for another day, because right now he had another situation to deal with.
Percy set the folder back on the table and rubbed the bridge of his nose, knowing shit was going to inevitably hit the fan very soon. So, without anyone being the wiser, Percy silently snapped his fingers underneath the table, erecting a shield of mist separating the booth from the rest of the bar.
"Look," he began, peering up at the expectant Andrew. "You have a good thing going on here, and in a way, it is a tempting offer." Percy paused, looking for the best way to state his refusal.
"But?" Andrew drawled, his impatience evident.
"I'm going to have to decline."
Andrew frowned in frustration. "Why?"
"Because, and this in complete honesty, I'm not being funny, but your bosses are complete assholes," Percy explained, causing a small twitch to develop in the eye of the demigod sitting across from him.
"So, thank you for the offer, and the drink, but I think I'll be taking my leave," Percy said, beginning to stand up, only to stop when Andrew raised his hand.
"Yeah, about that," he started, gesturing for Percy to retake his seat, which he did.
Andrew leaned back in his seat, not breaking eye contact with Percy. "Before you take off, let me give you a bit of a history lesson about this place."
Percy knew exactly where this was going, but he'd play along for the time being. "I'm listening," he responded, crossing his arms in front of him.
"Well, believe it or not, this part of town wasn't always such a cesspool," Andrew began. "Back when the Gods moved to the New World, this was one of the most bountiful regions of the city for damn near a century. Actually, it was so prosperous that this very bar was the first location that the Lotus Eaters set up shop before they settled in Vegas. Of course, their little concoctions were anything but beneficial to the city, so as time went on, poverty became the new trend. In fact, what you are drinking right there is pure Lotus brew." Andrew leaned his elbows on the table and watched Percy closely. "It should only be served diluted into another drink, because on its own even a sip would be fatal."
And there it is. Percy was beginning to wonder when the borderline poison was going to come into play.
"So what then? I'm just supposed to peel over or something like that? Not the way I'd off my competition, but I'll give you points for creativity."
Andrew chuckled and took what looked like a small pill bottle out of his pocket.
"Even in the face of imminent death, you're still cracking jokes. How inspiring. But no, I have the antidote right here, and I am completely willing to give it to you; for a small fee, of course."
"Oh, a small fee? Do you take credit?" Percy drawled.
Andrew shook his head. "No credit, no check, no cash. I'll only accept your allegiance."
It was a fairly interesting plan on their part, but it was still one that was full of holes that Percy did not miss.
"Hmm… I have to say, that's a bit too expensive, so I think I'll take death this time around if you don't mind."
Andrew's smile faded. "That's… unfortunate."
"It is, isn't it?"
Andrew shook his head again. "It is unfortunate because Luke was very insisting that I not take any other answer but yes. I somehow doubt you're suicidal, so let me phrase it this way. You will swear on behalf of the Styx herself that you will be a willing participant in the army of Lord Kronos, or your body will be decomposing in some back alley before the night is out."
Clearly, Andrew was trying to call Percy's bluff, which also meant that he was unlikely to have any more tricks up his sleeve. So, Percy went on the offensive.
"You want to hear a story?" Percy asked, his nonchalance throwing Andrew off. Not giving him time to answer, he continued. "A couple years back I was actually in Vegas. I had to see a man about a horse; you know how it is. Anyway, I ended up inside the Lotus Hotel & Casino because the manager had his hand in the cookie jar and certain parties were upset, you with me?"
Andrew nodded his head, his brow creased in confusion.
"So, the manager had the brilliant idea to give me a brew, very similar to the one you so graciously offered me, in an attempt to get rid of me, for lack of a better term. I vividly remember the taste, by the way. But, instead of dropping dead, I threw him off the balcony of the tenth floor all the way down to the lobby, because I am a son of Poseidon. And as a son of Poseidon, I have control over every water-based substance that enters my body. Imagine my surprise, then, when I taste the same exact thing that I had in Vegas, right here, in this bar."
Noticing the growing horror on Andrew's once composed face, Percy drove the nail into the coffin. "Needless to say, I evaporated that shit as soon I swallowed it."
With his ace revealed, Andrew's naturally golden skin was rapidly paling, with good cause, too. Nervously laughing, Andrew attempted to gain the attention of one of the other demigods but paled even further when they all ignored him.
"You could take your clothes off and dance an Irish jig and they still wouldn't see or hear a thing. That's the beauty of the mist, really helpful in sticky situations, don't you agree?" Percy said.
Knowing that the demigod across from him had no more options, Percy waited for him to make his move. If Andrew wanted to deescalate the situation, Percy would oblige him.
Yet, unsurprisingly, like any cornered animal, Andrew chose violence.
In a move so quick it could only be accomplished by those with godly blood, Andrew drew a blade from under the table and thrust it towards Percy.
But Percy was quicker.
With a precision mastered over years of training, Percy grasped Andrew's forearm as it neared him, stopping what would have been a killing blow if Percy hadn't blocked it.
Before the son of Apollo could even process what happened, Percy grabbed the back of his head and slammed him face-first into the tabletop. The son of Apollo grunted in pain, and Percy ripped the blade right out of his grasp.
Looking up in a daze, Andrew barely saw the knife slash across his throat.
Percy grimaced as a jet of blood shot into his face.
Andrew's hands instinctively clawed at his neck as he fell back against his seat, trying futilely to halt the rapid loss of blood and unable to make any other noise but pitiful gags.
Percy watched the proceedings in front of him without malice, but not with sympathy either. He had an expression of indifference that one could only achieve after becoming depressingly familiar with the nasty and unheroic process of death.
"I really wish it didn't have to come to this, but you left me no choice," Percy explained to the quickly dying Andrew. "I don't enjoy killing, but it's often a necessary evil in a world full of unnecessary ones. I will pray for your passage into Elysium. The real one, that is, not this shithole."
As he watched the life drain out of Andrew, Percy decided to take pity on the demigod. "Give me your hand."
With what little strength he had left, Andrew met Percy's eyes and weakly extended his hand.
Percy grasped it and placed two drachmae into his palm before closing the fist.
"I can tell you didn't join the Titans because you're a sadist, so there's no need for your suffering to extend beyond the mortal plane."
Frankly, Percy had no idea how forgiving the judges would be; but, if he was able to make the teen's passing any more peaceful, then he would.
The demigod gave a slight smile at the assurance before his body slacked. And with that, Andrew, son of Apollo and pawn of the Titans, gave his last breath and ceased to move.
Percy sighed as he wiped the blood off his face with a napkin, but he quickly realized that he needed to think through his escape plan.
If his calculations were correct, his mist shield would fail in just a few moments, and Percy doubted the rest of the demigods would happily let him leave after he killed their supervisor.
Percy planned to make his exit without taking any more lives, but that wasn't necessarily a guarantee. So, he just hoped that everyone else would have the common sense to duck when the moment was right.
Using the same napkin, he poured a healthy amount of the Lotus Brew onto it until it was soaked. Percy then stuffed it down the neck of the bottle and prayed to Tyche that his MacGyver-style molotov cocktail would work as he intended.
Pulling a flip lighter out of his coat pocket, he lit the end of the napkin, which quickly ignited due to the higher flammability of Lotus Brew as compared to normal alcohol.
Percy pocketed the folder as he took a deep breath, finally collapsing the shield of mist and revealing that he and Andrew were actually not having a friendly debate, as the illusion had the other demigods believe.
It took them a few seconds to process what they were seeing, so Percy took advantage of their stupor. Bruce, who was behind the bar, surprisingly was the first to put two and two together, or at least Percy was lead to believe he was if the demigod's hand inching for something under the bar was any consideration.
"Not happening, mate," Percy remarked, before throwing the repurposed bottle right at the son of Ares.
But, like he expected and hoped, the demigod ducked, allowing the molotov to crash into the shelves of drinks behind him, all of which were likely filled with similarly flammable Lotus Brew.
And flammable they were. Almost as if he threw a stick of dynamite into a barrel of gunpowder, the entire top half of that section of the bar exploded into a raging inferno.
Luckily for Percy's conscience, all the other demigods had the sense to hit the deck, at the most receiving only a few scorched eyebrows from the whole ordeal.
Banking on their confusion, Percy scrambled to the pool table to retrieve his dagger, all the while crouching so as to not immolate his hair.
Just as the fire began to subdue, Percy was out the door, and thankful for possibly the first time in his life to re-enter the frigid cold.
If they'd any sense, the demigods would be evacuating the premises immediately so as to not inhale the fumes. But whether or not they had the intelligence to realize they were practically breathing in poison was out of Percy's control, because there was no way he'd be sticking around to find out.
He'd wait until the next day's newspaper for that.
As for the son of Poseidon, he was more than content to drive off into the night and put the evening's altercation behind him. Perhaps he'd even get in a few hours of sleep before the party started.
Not exactly how he wanted to spend his evening.