The Warfighter, the Storm, and the Moon

Chapter 14: Explanations

'Explanations'

28-Aug-2030, 1025R

Chris Rodriguez, Son of Hermes

Camp Half-Blood

Long Island, New York, USA

I don't know how, but that was somehow one of the best nights of rest I ever had... or rather, damn near twenty hours of it. No dreams, no nightmares, no random crap to wake me up in the middle of whatever... just sleep.

Oh, and Clarisse was a great cuddle buddy as always (I know, I know... stereotypical "hardass-is-actually-a-teddy-bear" yadda yadda).

"What time is it?" she groaned beside me as she rubbed her eyes and tried to get her bearings.

"About 10:30-ish," I sighed as I sloughed the covers off of me, escaping the built-up heat.

"Holy Hades... why do I still feel like crap?"

"Good question, Clar. Good question indeed."

After a quick examination of her injuries from yesterday morning's little escapade (which concluded in a tickle fight that I won, as per usual), we finally got ourselves up and dressed as we prepped for the day. Around us were several marked boxes and a few open suitcases, as we had taken up temporary residence in the Big House, having moved out of our respective cabins.

Because quite simply, it was getting a little troublesome for the two of us to follow the "no-boy-and-girl-alone-in-the-same-place" rule.

"So, Clar. Any ideas for today?"

"I gotta talk to Jackson, get some answers outta that nutjob."

"Hey, you and me both. The guy disappeared for twenty years, I'd kinda like to know what he was up to. You're good to walk, right? I can—"

"Yes, Chris. I can walk just fine. You did great with the ambrosia and nectar," she sighed, cutting off my worries with a quick smooch. "I'll let you know if there's anything wrong. Now, let's find our old friend."

"Aye-aye, madam!" I replied, snapping to attention and holding out my arm. Rolling her eyes but smiling nonetheless, she looped her arm in mine and we walked out, looking to find the son of Poseidon... Neptune... whatever, the US Navy sailor.

Speaking of the devil, there he was at the mess hall. Or rather, outside of the mess hall, talking to someone on a cell phone. Initially, I was confused as to how he managed it, but to quote the Stolls, "he's Percy freakin' Jackson."

They also said he has "plot armor," which is something I still don't understand to this day.

"Damn, brother," he sighed, drumming his fingers on his thigh as he paced. "That... that ain't good. She actually—the goddamn house? All that other crap wasn't enough? What a fu—"

"I think he's busy," I murmured, steering us towards the pavilion to give him some privacy. We proceeded to sit down at the staff table and talked with a few senior campers about the game plan for the school year that was beginning next Monday on September 2nd. While the Little Three—Annabeth, Jason, and Piper—were the main ones handling this, we still had to provide support in getting things done. They ended up going to a wide variety of schools, including the Brooklyn Academy for the Gifted.

"Good work, guys. Oh, and Will? What's the word on our wounded from Operation Azrael?" I asked as we finished up our meeting.

"Everyone's good," Will answered after a brief moment of thought. "Ambrosia, nectar, and rest will take care of the rest. Oh, and you're seriously calling it 'Operation Azrael?'"