𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐚 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡 // 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧

i. Newcomer

— HAVING FINALLY COME to from what he thought was an endless nightmare, Perseus Jackson was naïve to think the strangeness would end with his half-goat best friend. Unfortunately, he was sadly mistaken.

Grover Underwood, the recently revealed satyr, led Percy across the curving porch of the Big House. The ravenette wobbled behind, a large horn clutched in his hand: a trophy from his successful bullfight. He was alive, yes, but the battle was not without casualty. Sally Jackson, the boy's loving mother, was not so lucky, fading into a yellow powder within the Minotaur's clutch like a palm-full of glitter slipping into the wind.

The boy glanced around, his lips parted. His gaze inhaled the many buildings dotted around him, all in the style of Ancient Greek architecture — an open-air pavilion, an amphitheater, a circular arena — except, these structures had not been lost to time. On the contrary, they shimmered beneath the sun, shinier than the hood of a brand new car.

Several high school-aged kids and satyrs played volleyball in a nearby sandpit. Canoes glided across a small lake. Children clad in bright orange t-shirts like Grover's chased each other around a cluster of cabins nestled in the woods. Some practiced archery, others guided horses down a wooded trail. And, unless, Percy was hallucinating, he could've sworn some of those horses had wings.

Nevertheless, the boys reached their destination. Percy looked startled when he was shown three more strangers.

Two of them, well aged men, sat across each other at a card table. Whereas the third, a familiar blonde-haired girl, leaned against a nearby railing. She looked expectant. Percy recognised her because she spoon fed him popcorn-flavoured pudding as he teetered between awareness and unconsciousness.

"That's Mr. D," Grover said, gesturing to a watery-eyed man with abyssal hair and a nose as red as Santa Claus. "He's the camp director. Be polite. The girl," he continued, "that's Annabeth Chase. She's just a camper, but she's been here longer than just about anybody. And you already know Chiron..."

The satyr gestured to the man whose back faced Percy. He was in a wheelchair, wearing a very recognisable tweed jacket. The thinning brown hair, the scraggly beard, it had to be him. "Mr. Brunner!" Percy cried.

His former Latin teacher turned and smiled. "Ah, good, Percy," he said. "Now we have four for pinochle."

He offered the boy a chair to the right of the camp director, who gazed at Percy with bloodshot eyes as he heaved a large sigh. "Oh, I suppose I must say it. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. There. Now don't expect me to be glad to see you."

"Uh, thanks," Percy spoke confusedly, scooting his chair further from the Hawaiian-shirt-wearing man. Percy assumed he was unmistakably hammered, to an absurd degree for the middle of the day.

"Annabeth?" Mr. Brunner called. The blonde girl came forward. "This young lady nursed you back to health, Percy. Annabeth, my dear, why don't you go check on Percy's bunk? We'll be putting him in cabin eleven for now."

"Sure, Chiron," she replied. This girl was taller than Percy, much more athletic-looking as well. With her deep tan and blonde curls, she was almost the spitting stereotype of a California girl to Percy, except, her eyes ruined the image. A startling grey that thundered with cold, calculated intensity.

Her eyes caught the severed horn in Percy's grip. The boy half expected her to grin with adoration, praising him for his epic feat. Only, she didn't, not by a long shot. "You drool when you sleep," she instead told him, before sprinting off down the lawn with her hair blowing behind her.