Percy Jackson x Male Reader The Lightning Thief

I'm Accused of Stealing a Hydrogen Bomb

Percy's POV

The next morning, Chiron moved me to cabin three.

I didn't have to share with anybody. I had plenty of room for all my stuff: the Minotaur's horn, one set of spare clothes, and a toiletry bag. I got to sit at my own dinner table, pick all my own activities, call "lights out" whenever I felt like it, and not listen to anybody else.

And I was absolutely miserable.

Just when I'd started to feel accepted, to feel I had a home in cabin eleven and I might be a normal kid-or as normal as you can be when you're a half-blood-I'd been separated out as if I had some rare disease.

Nobody mentioned the hellhound, but I got the feeling they were all talking about it behind my back. The attack had scared everybody. It sent two messages: one, that I was the son of the Sea God; and two, monsters would stop at nothing to kill me. They could even invade a camp that had always been considered safe.

The other campers steered clear of me as much as possible. Cabin eleven was too nervous to have sword class with me after what I'd done to the Ares folks in the woods. So, my classes with Luke came down to Y/n and me. Both of them pushing me harder than ever. Luke would bruise and bang me up and Y/n would be there to help me back up. Telling me that I would need all the help I could get.

Annabeth still taught us Greek in the mornings, but she seemed distracted. Every time I said something, or Y/n made a comment, she would scowl, as if I'd just poked her between the eyes.

After lessons, she would walk away muttering to herself.

"Quiet . . . . Poseiden? . . . . Dirty rotten . . . Got to make a plan . . . ."

Even Clarisse kept her distance, not that Y/n was going to let her any closer to me. But whenever I passed her by. She made several venomous looks making it clear she wanted to kill me for breaking her magic spear. I wished she would just yell or punch me or something. I'd rather get into fights ever day than be ignored.

That night, I had my worst dream yet.

I was running along the beach in a storm. This time, there was a city behind me. Not New York. The sprawl was different: building spread farther apart, palm trees and low hills in the distance.

About a hundred yards down the surf, two men were fighting. They looked like TV wrestlers, muscular, with beards and long hair. Both wore flowing Greek tunics, one trimmed in blue, the other in green. They grappled with each other, wrestled, kicked and head-butted, and every time they connected, lightning flashed, the sky grew darker, and the wind rose.

I had to stop them. I didn't know why. But the harder I ran, the more the wind blew me back, until I was running in place, my heels digging uselessly in the sand. 

Over the roar of the storm, I could hear the blue-robed one yelling at the green-robed one, "Give it back! Give it back!" Like a kindergartner fighting over a toy.

The waves got bigger, crashing into the beach, spraying me with salt.

I yelled, "Stop it! Stop fighting!"

The ground shook. Laughter came from somewhere under the earth and a voice so deep and evil it turned my blood to ice.

"Come down, little hero," the voice crooned. "Come down!"

The sand split beneath me, opening up a crevice straight down to the center of the earth. My feet slipped, and darkness swallowed me.

I woke up, sure I was falling.

I was still in bed in cabin three. My body told me it was morning, but it was dark outside, and thunder rolled across the hills. A storm was brewing. I hadn't dreamed that.