"𝚟𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚗" | 𝚙. 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚘𝚗

𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗, 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎

They Take a Zebra to Vegas

OR

Percy Insults a Rando's Vocabulary

third person omniscient

-

THE WAR GOD was waiting for them in the diner parking lot with the Stelle's duffel bag beside him on the concrete.

"Well, well," he said, "You didn't get yourself killed."

Stelle exhaled, feeling a familiar emotion simmer beneath her skin. Careful. Control. She needed control.

"You knew it was a trap." Percy accused.

Ares gave him a wicked grin. "Bet that crippled blacksmith was surprised when he netted a couple of stupid kids. You looked good on TV."

He shoved Ares's shield at the god. "Eat shit."

Grover whimpered anxiously.

Ares grabbed the shield and spun it in the air like pizza dough. It changed form, melting into a bulletproof vest. He slung it across his back.

"See that truck over there?" He pointed to an eighteen-wheeler parked across the street from the diner. "That's your ride. Take you straight to L.A., with one stop in Vegas."

The eighteen-wheeler had a sign on the back, which he could read only because it was reverse- printed white on black, a good combination for dyslexia: KINDNESS INTERNATIONAL: HUMANE ZOO TRANSPORT. WARNING: LIVE WILD ANIMALS. 

Percy laughed disbelievingly. "You're kidding."

Ares snapped his fingers. The back door of the truck unlatched. "Free ride west, punk. Stop complaining. And here's a little something for doing the job."

He slung a blue nylon backpack off his handlebars and tossed it to Percy. 

Inside were fresh clothes for all of them, a gold bottle of pills (with a singular one inside), twenty bucks in cash, a pouch full of golden drachmas, and a bag of Double Stuf Oreos. 

Percy had to bite his tongue. 'Accept it,' he thought contemptuously, 'It's for your friends.'

He grit his teeth. It was probably a deadly insult to refuse something from a god, but he didn't want anything that Ares had touched. Reluctantly, Percy slung the backpack over his shoulder. He knew his anger was being caused by the war god's presence, but he was still itching to punch him in the nose.

He reminded him of every bully he'd ever faced: Nancy Bobofit, Clarisse, Smelly Gabe, sarcastic teachers- every jerk who'd called him and his best friend stupid in school or laughed at him when he'd gotten expelled. 

Percy looked back at the diner, which had only a couple of customers now. The waitress who'd served them dinner was watching nervously out the window, like she was afraid Ares might hurt them. 

She dragged the fry cook out from the kitchen to see. She said something to him. He nodded, held up a little disposable camera and snapped a picture of them. 

'Great', he thought. 'We'll make the papers again tomorrow.'

Percy imagined the headline: 'TWELVE-YEAR-OLD OUTLAW BEATS UP DEFENSELESS BIKER', because nothing could go their way. 

"You owe me one more thing," He told Ares, trying to keep his voice level, like Stelle always did, "You promised me information about my mother."

"You sure you can handle the news?" He kick-started his motorcycle. "She's not dead."