Fragmented Trajectory (A Percy Jackson Fanfiction) A Continuation

Chapter 3: Outta the Frying pan...

Packing isn't a bothersome chore, as I don't have much I'm bothering to bring. Just a few sets of clothes, several zippy bags of ambrosia (Jasper's bringing the thermos of nectar) and a quiver-full of arrows stored conveniently in a zipped-up cylindrical case slung across my back (I'm pretty sure this is the same case people use to store maps in - like the one Nick Cage uses in National Treasure!).

My bow (along with the rest of my supplies) is stored in a magical messenger bag given to me as a birthday present from the Stoll brothers. I was wary to use it at first, thinking it might spray me with harpy feathers (they itch like hell), but desperate times called for desperate measures - and I was pleasantly surprised. It's like a bottomless pit: whatever goes in disappears to seemingly another dimension, returning when called upon by the owner.

They were oddly thoughtful when choosing it. I should probably be worried about the Apocalypse happening sometime soon.

An electric tingle pricks at the back of my neck as I'm zipping up my bag. Feels like I'm being watched. I attempt to shrug it off, but when the feeling persists, nagging at me like a 1960's housewife, I roll my eyes and indulge in my curiosity by spinning sharply on my heel - only to be greeted by a rather misty version of Isaiah's perpetually smiling face.

"Holy Poseidon, man!" I gasp, stumbling backwards into the edge of my bunk, managing to knock my head against the broad side of the wood. Ow, ow, ow--! "What the hell are you doing Iris Messaging me right now?! I could have been changing!"

"Huh."

"Don't huh me! Have a little decorum!"

"I'm sorry, Lyra." Chiron butts his way into the picture, nudging a bemused Isaiah off to the side. He smiles warmly, just a hint of yesterday's turmoil visible in the deeply-etched lines invading his immortal face. "I was just showing Isaiah how an Iris Message works. It's amazing really; he doesn't even need to use an offering to contact Iris. That will certainly be an asset on your quest."

I'll say. We can keep the drachma for any nasty surprises. My lips curl upwards in a contented grin. "That's great, Isaiah! I'm glad you're settling in with your Son of Iris identity."

The bubbly brunette looks ready to explode from ecstasy but is subdued by Chiron, who pats his head in a calm down, don't die sort of way, before addressing me once again. "Lyra" - I can tell from his tone of voice what he plans to say and already know I don't need it - "you know you don't have to--"

"Ah, what's that, Chiron? You're breaking up. Try calling again when we have better reception."

"Lyra, don't--"

"Bye-bye!" I wave my hand through the image, breaking it into a million little rainbow prisms that dissipate quickly in the humid summer air. Trying to talk me out of this is a waste of everyone's time. They needed an Archer; I fit the bill. End of story.

Still, that dream keeps coming back at the worst moments. That burial shroud was too indistinct for me to make out any details, though... I'd recognize Apollo's anywhere.

Our cabin's seen enough death over the years.

A staccato drumbeat has replaced the usual thumping of my heart, the same rhythm slowly making its way to my fried brain. Headache. Gods, I can't catch a break today.

I finish up with my packing, then head out the door to start towards the camp entrance where Thalia's pine tree sits proudly in its honorable place, a bed of thick purple cords wrapped around it securely: Peleus is doing his best, as per usual.

I avert my eyes from the various stares I receive as I pass by, my hands buried pitifully in my sunken pockets. My cheeks'll be forever tinted this inglorious red if I don't get out of the public eye soon. I don't like attention - not nearly as much as Percy seems to, anyway - so I'm not fond of the excessive amount of looks I'm getting as a result of taking on this latest quest of ours.