NEVER BE THE SAME . . . percy jackson

eleven: the fights.

BROOKLYN ARRIVED AT her home, only to see nothing.

Or, well . . . all of the staff were unconscious, right where they were supposed to be.

Well, at least that makes it easier to sneak in and out.

She's done this before. She's snuck stuff out from her mother's office without anyone noticing. She made a detour to her room to put her club in its case before creeping to her mother's office.

Wow, Brooklyn thought. This is so easy.

She was ten feet away from her mother's office when the voice she most didn't want to hear appeared. "Brooklyn."

Mentally, she groaned. Physically, she made her feet drag her to the door of the office and open the door.

"You need to learn how to use your powers, Brooklyn." Her mother didn't even look up from her demigod modified computer to look at her, which was absolute bullshit. "I could see your mortality ties from the moment you walked in."

"And you couldn't be bothered to tell me about this until a war is happening?" Brooklyn asked, because, yes, she did have a braincell in her airhead. "This has been happening for over a year."

"You should have told me."

"I thought I was fucking insane, and you're telling me that this is, like, a family thing," she laughed, and it was borderline manic. "This is why I fucking hate you, you know that? Because of course, if life couldn't hate me more, I just have to have mommy issues."

"Life doesn't hate you, Brooklyn." Francesca Hayward finally looked up from her computer. "Not because of my godly parentage and yours."

"Well, I hate life." Involuntarily, a lightning bolt cracked in the middle of the room, burning the wood floor. "Where's the ring?" Brooklyn's eyes bounced around every part of the room to see where the familiar gold glint was, but it wasn't visible. "I can't fight the war with a massive headache and my body going to hell every ten minutes."

"The blame is on you, Brooklyn," her mother said solemnly. "You could stand to take it every once in a while."

The only thing Brooklyn saw was red. Or, well, black and gray due to the non-mortality lines in the barren world she could see. Her smoky fingers reached back and grabbed her club, which felt solid in her wispy hands as she brought the club down on what she assumed was her mother's desk.

When her vision came back, she saw her mother standing, in a defensive position that Percy had taught Brooklyn last summer with her intricately decorated Celestial Bronze sword. "Do you want to play this game, Brooklyn?" Francesca Hayward asked. "The pieces are all set up. You just have to take the first move."

"You and your shitty metaphors," Brooklyn snarled, charging forward with her club.

Despite Percy teaching her a thing or two over the past year and her mother's age, experience clearly triumphs over speed and agility. It didn't help that her mother also possessed both of those things.

They were destroying the house as their weapons clashed over and over again — it was kind of like a dance, the way they were moving, but Brooklyn didn't like to dance. Not unless it was prom with Percy. That had been a fun time.

"You've gotten better," her mother admitted. "Did your boy toy teach you how to fight properly?"

"Do not call him that when he's going to be the hero of Olympus," Brooklyn gritted her teeth. "And what are you doing to help out in the war?"

"Damage control, Brooklyn." Her mother answered, breaking a probably expensive jar with her sword. Brooklyn wouldn't know. She didn't do shit for decorating this place minus her room. "You never think ahead."