𝓟𝓻𝓪𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓪 - (𝓟.𝓙𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓼𝓸𝓷)

13.

vol ii
➵ chapter thirteen ➵

Percy Jackson knew he was in trouble when they stopped at the Goodwill drop box. Five minutes later, Zoe had him outfitted in a ragged flannel shirt and jeans three sizes too big, bright red sneakers, and a floppy rainbow hat.

"Oh, yeah," Grover says, trying not to bust out laughing, "you look completely inconspicuous now."
Zoe nods with satisfaction. "A typical male vagrant."
"It suits you," Helia adds, smirking at the boy, who gives her a deadpan look.

"Thanks a lot," he grumbles. "Why am I doing this again?"
"I told thee. To blend in."
Zoe leads the way back down to the waterfront. After a long time searching the docks, Zoe finally stops in her tracks. She points down a pier where a bunch of homeless guys are huddled together in blankets, waiting for the soup kitchen to open for lunch.

"He will be down there somewhere," Zoe declares. "He never travels very far from the water. He likes to sun himself during the day."
"How do I know which one is him?"
"Sneak up," she says. "Act homeless. You will know him. He will smell... different."

"Great." Percy doesn't want to ask for particulars. "And once I find him?"
"Grab him," she says. "And hold on. He will try anything to get rid of thee. Whatever he does, do not let go. Force him to tell thee about the monster."

"We've got your back," Thalia says. She picks something off the back of his shirt—a big clump of fuzz that came from who-knows-where. "Eww. On second thought... I don't want your back. But we'll be rooting for you."
Grover and Helia give a big thumbs-up.
Percy grumbles how nice it is to have super-powerful friends, then heads towards the dock.

He pulls his hat down and stumbles like he's about to pass out, which isn't hard considering how tired he truly is.
He passes the homeless guy from the Embarcadero, who's still trying to warn the other guys about the metal angels from Mars.
He doesn't smell good, but he doesn't smell... different. He keeps walking.

A couple of grimy dudes with plastic grocery bags for hats check Percy out as he comes close.
"Beat it, kid!" one of them mutters.
Perch moves away. They smell pretty bad, but just regular old bad. Nothing unusual.
There's a lady with a bunch of plastic flamingos sticking out of a shopping cart. She glares like he's going to steal her birds.

At the end of the pier, a guy who looks about a million years old is passed out in a patch of sunlight. He wears pyjamas and a fuzzy bathrobe that probably used to be white. He's fat, with a white beard that's turned yellow, kind of like Santa Claus, if Santa had been rolled out of bed and dragged through a landfill.
And his smell?
He smelt bad, all right—but ocean bad. Like hot seaweed, dead fish, and brine. If the ocean had an ugly side... this guy was it.
Percy tried not to gag as he sat down near him, as if he were tired. Santa opens one eye suspiciously. The son of Poseidon mutters something about stupid school and stupid parents, figuring it might sound reasonable.

The old man goes back to sleep. With no other option, Percy jumps him.
He meant to grab Santa, but he seemed to grab him instead. It was as if he'd never been asleep at all. He certainly didn't act like a weak old man. He had a grip like steel.
"Help me!" Santa screamed as he squeezed Percy to death.
"That's a crime!" one of the other homeless guys yells. "Kid rolling an old man like that!"

Percy rolled, all right—straight down the pier—until his head slammed into a post. He was dazed for a second, and Nereus's grip slackened. He was making a break for it. Before he could, Percy regained his senses and tackled him from behind.
"I don't have any money!" He tried to get up and run, but the demi god locked his arms around Nereus' chest. His rotten fish smell was awful, but he held on.
"I don't want money. I'm a half-blood! I want information.'"
That just made him struggle harder. "Heroes! Why do you always pick on me?"
"Because you know everything!"