kk, I'll just start posting the work here. I have about 41-ish chapters already written
Title: (still working on one), chapter 1
chapter: 2 3 4, 5, 6, 7 8,9,10,11, 12,13,14,15, 16,17,18,19, 20-28, 29-41
When you think of Travis Stoll, what comes to mind?
Powerful? Important? A main character in the grand scheme of things?
No, right?Ā
Weak, insignificant, and a side character is more like it, right?Ā
Thatās who he is. A minor character, someone who doesnāt get quests, whose contributions barely make a ripple, who barely did anything in both wars, and only remembered as that one guy who likes to prank.Ā
So why ā why, why, why, why, why ā is he being chased by a man in stupid black sweatpants and a stupid black turtleneck in a stupid black motorcycle helmet holding a stupid, blood-stained, 13 inch knife?
This is something Percy gets into. Or Nico. Or Jason.
But not him.
Never him.Ā
Travis leaps over rubble, feet catching on the granite, and tumbles forward. He curses loudly, but rights himself and continues running. He doesnāt dare look back (he heard the stories. You look back to see where the killer is and you end up tripping and dying and Travis very much would like to live), so he keeps his eyes trained up ahead to the not quite darkness, but close enough darkness that objects are just a dark fuzz.Ā
Rain is pouring thunderously outside, a drumming so loud itās like a waterfall. The occasional lightning gives him a clear snapshot of his surroundings and those few milliseconds where he could see the rubble, he engraves in his mind.Ā
A fallen cabinet, a broken desk, shattered computers. Heās in an office. Thereās a houseplant, a family portrait, cracked tile floors, a hole-ridden hand hanging over a toppled swivel chairāĀ
Nope! Nope, nope, nope, nope. He did not see that. That is not what he thinks it is. That has to be a doll or a mannequin. Something fake and plastic. Not real and made of flesh, because if it is then that means thereās something wrong! Something is killing people! (plague, monsters, aliens) And Travis donāt have time to think about that just yet.Ā
Thereās a turn up ahead. Left? Right? Right is always right so right it is.Ā
He slows only a little bit, if only to make sure he doesn't crash into the wall, before running full speed again. He prays to his dad that thereās no rubble in his way.Ā
And like his prayer is answered, lightning flashes, thunder booms and Travis skids to a stop, sneakers barely gripping the wet tiles that otherwise would have sent him careening over the edge of the crumbled building wall. He clasps his shaking hands together and takes a deep breath, commanding his pounding heart to calm down, that no, you did not die. You almost died, but you didnāt. So stop beating so fast.Ā Ā
He takes in the surroundings, noting the clouds first. Theyāre dark gray and expand as far as the broken, tilted buildings allow him to see. It blots out the sun and explains the darkness even though just a few minutes ago, it was as sunny as Camp Half Blood could be. His eyes lower to the horizon, to the rows of buildings, all with broken windows, missing sections of bodies, and most tilted too precariously to be considered stable. He lowers his eyes even further and gulps when he can't see the bottom. A heavy fog permeates a couple feet down that not even the heavy rain could dissipate. For all he knows, the fall could be 20 feet or 150 feet.
Is there a way to get to the floor below him? Maybe if he just clings to the wall and ā nope, the moment his hand touches where the wall meets air, it crumbles. Thereās no way he can descend to the floor below.Ā
This is a dead end.Ā
If heās fast enough, maybe he can head the other way before the guy blocks him. He turns around, fumbling and tripping over his untied laces, but freezes.Ā
Someone is turning the corner. And the glint of that wicked knife in their hand tells him itās not Chiron dressed as Santa Clause.Ā
Cheese sticks, heās trapped. Maybe he could hide before the man sees him and wait till ā the man turns to the aisle towards him and walks right in the middle towards him.Ā
Oh holy sandals. Travis takes a step back and his heel pushes the rubble off the ledge, a grim reminder that thereās no exit behind him. He glances behind him, a who-knows-how-high-drop into the abyss, then back to the front, a cynical man with a loose grip on his knife.Ā
Which is the better chance? Should he just jump? Does he even know if the man is dangerous?Ā
He has a knife and itās stained with blood! Of course heās dangerous!Ā
If Connor was here, he would know what to do.Ā
The man is drawing scarily close now, close enough for Travis to see the black, tight-fitting sport shirt with long sleeves and collar up to his chin. Close enough for him to see his belt ladles with all sorts of pointy objects. Close enough to see the brand of his black Adidas joggers. Close enough to see black, well-worn, hiking boots and definitely close enough to see the ocean blue of his eyes past the tinted shield of his motorcycle helmet.
Theyāre cold, terrifying cold.Ā
If Travis wasnāt so scared for his life, he would ask the man where he shops. Heās sure Nico would like to know.Ā
He glances over his shoulder to the abyss again and stiffens. He canāt survive a high fall. Heās not Percy or Jason. Thereās no way he could buffer his fall either like how Nico does with the skeletons, but heās a good talker. Heāll talk his way out of this like he always has with his pranks. So he snaps his eyes back forward and steels himself for the biggest debate of his life.Ā
āH-Hey!āĀ
AH NO his voice cracked!Ā
āPal, buddy, amigo, friend, I donāt know if this is your idea of a joke or a prank or just a very elaborate plan to get me to pee my pants, but you did it! Iām terrified! So can you please stop?ā
The man didnāt even falter, didnāt even miss a step.Ā
āLook, I applaud you. Your dedication to your role is amazing, like your costume is some A+ design.āĀ
Oh gods, heās still coming. And heās actually tightening his grip on his knife!Ā
Dad, Hermes, Iām begging you, if you really love me, then please bless me with some +1 charisma and speech skill right now.Ā
āUnless you really are here to kill me, to which I say, please donāt. I donāt even have a weapon to protect myself! Thatās not fair, you know?! Donāt you care about making things fair?!āĀ
Crap.Ā
Nothingās working.Ā
Heās going to have to fight his way out and Travis so does not want to do that. Not when heās in this much of a disadvantage.Ā
But finally, finally, finally, the man stops walking towards him, only standing two arms length away. He raises his free hand and Travis jerks his body into a defensive position, but the rising hand only rubs the manās neck. He raises his chin and talks, voice muffled through the helmet. āAre you done, Connor? I donāt have time for your jokes.āĀ
āIām Travis.ā
The response is automatic, years of being called the wrong name ingrained this reflex in him. Itās natural to him, something he doesnāt even think about.
The man falters and so did he.Ā
Most people have never heard their voice before, most probably canāt identify their voice. But Travis hears his voice every day and before he left for college, every second of his life. They all said he shares everything with Connor, even their voices are the same apparently.Ā
āYou⦠have the same voice as me,ā Travis says hesitantly.Ā
The man isnāt advancing, his wide eyes train on Travis. He could see shock, surprise in those eyes. Or maybe itās mania. Itās hard to differentiate emotions when all you have is the eyes. He stares for a few more seconds, looking up and down his entire body although his stare linger most on his Camp Half Blood shirt.Ā
āYouāre⦠not Connor?ā he whispers.
Thereās no mistaking it. Thatās definitely his voice and thereās only one person Travis knows who shares the same voice as his. All tension, all fear and worry leaves his body and he sighs in relief.Ā
āConnor, this has got to be the least funniest prank you ever pulled. You really scared me!ā The man ā Connor ā freezes at his words, but Travis doesnāt really pay much attention to that. More importantly, this is the last time heās eating the last Goldfish crackers without buying a replacement pair. Lesson learned. A very hard lesson learned.Ā
Still though, isnāt this a bit too much? To go this far for some measly $3 snack that they can literally buy at any grocery store? Like, Travis knows Connor loves his snacks. But this is going way too far. He kicks the rubble which definitely seems real.Ā
āBut I have to admit that the special effects are really cool. You went all out for this, huh? Who did you bribe to help you set this up? Hazel? Lou Ellen? Percy and Annabeth? This place is so realistic. You really outdid yourself. And your costume is so cool. Did you get it from Nico?āĀ
He walks in front of Connor with ease, but his grin falters. Something is off. Connor is backing away from him. Through the visor, he can see ⦠trepidation? Confusion? Fear? But Connor fears nothing.Ā
āConnor?ā Travis asks, worry creeping into his voice. He looks behind him. Maybe thereās a monster coming towards him. But thereās nothing outside other than the rain. āWhatās wrong?ā
Faster than a blink of an eye, Connor kicks Travisās feet out from underneath him. There hadnāt even been time to react. Which is bizarre. Connor was never this fast. If anything heās the faster one by a mere second or two.
Either way, Travis is falling backwards and he hits the ground hard on his back. And before he could process what the heck is happening, thereās a dagger in his face just inches from his eyes. Thatās not celestial bronze, he thinks.Ā
The hand holding the dagger thatās looming dangerously over his face is shaking. Shaking rather badly actually. Like, shaking bad enough that it can drop. He wonders if he could ask Connor if he could just move that dagger out of the way a bit so itās not over his eye in case it does slip.Ā
āWhatāā āConnorā says in what is definitely Connorās voice except itās trembling even worse than the hand, āWhat game are you playing, Connor?āĀ
ā...Iām Travis, not Connor,ā he says meekly, still eyeing the dagger thatās now a bit closer than last time. Travis clenches the bracelet over his wrist. He can probably block it if need be. But this guy in front of him is⦠fast. A lot faster than any opponent he ever faced. What if he doesnāt? Gods, he hopes it doesnāt end up poking his eye out. Will can fix a lot of injuries including something as delicate an organ as the eye, but that doesnāt mean he wants to experience what a stab there feels like.Ā
Mr. Dark and Mysterious and maybe-not-Connor stays silent for a moment, hopefully not contemplating about poking his eye out. The face is entirely unreadable underneath that helmet. But after an eternity, the guy removes the dagger from his face and steps back. Travis gets to his feet uneasily and eyes the dagger still in the guyās hand.
āSo⦠are weāā Travis begins.Ā
But Mr. Helmet cuts him off sharply. āWhat were you doing before you got here?ā
Before he got here in this weird, gray dystopia? He shrugs. āNothing much. I was doing my usual morning jog around the camp perimeter.āĀ
Mr. Helmetās hand squeezes the dagger. āCamp? As in Camp Half Blood?ā
āThe one and only,ā Travis says with a smile and a finger gun.Ā
It did not lighten the mood like he hoped.Ā
āAnd Camp Half Blood is okay? Itās still standing? Thereās people there? Itās not flooded at all?āĀ
Travis blinks at the weird barrage of questions.Ā
It makes no sense actually. Flooded? Still standing? Okay? At what point was Camp never okay? Sure it came close to being destroyed like a billion times, but it always pulled through with the power of teamwork and Percy Jackson.Ā
Mr. Helmet/Maybe-Connor must see the confusion in his eyes because heās digging through a pouch on his belt. Travis stiffens and grabs his bracelet again at the sudden movement, but the guy just pulls out a large four leaf clover.Ā
With a flick of his finger, the clover twirls in a spiral down to the ground. The air ripples as it descends, shimmering and distorting the space. The gray boring disintegrating canvas that is the wall becomes a patch of beautiful healthy green grass and the familiar tree trunks bordering the campās main area and the forest.Ā
āThis. You saw this and ran inside?ā Mr Helmet says, pointing a gloved hand at the distortion in an disbelieving tone. Itās not said but Travis can practically hear the accusation. You saw a strange, portal-like thing and ran inside like a complete idiot without investigating it first?
He can just hear Annabethās sigh of immense disappointment. Which is really unfair. He would never do it on purpose. Like all things in his life, it was an accident.Ā
āTo be fair,ā he starts off because all situations need context, āI was in the zone and was trying to break my personal best.ā
Mr. Maybe-Connor blinks at him and stays silent, as if waiting for more.Ā
So Travis provides some more context. āAnd I might have not been looking at where I was going.ā
More silence.
And alright, more context. āI couldnāt sleep and running always helps me with my nerves.ā
āSo, you did run through. You came from the other side. Then⦠that means⦠are you reallyā āĀ
The whistle of air.
Like an arrow piercing through the sky.
They both hear it at the same time.Ā
Travis takes a wild guess and steps back instinctively, turning his head towards the source. And so does Mr. Maybe-Connor, the same exact motion as him at the exact same time.Ā
A feathered arrow snags Mr. Maybe-Connorās shoulder, the speed and force of it pushing him back.
Pushing him back into the portal with pretty grass and sunkissed trees.Ā
Thereās only enough time for their eyes to meet before Mr. Helmet completely passes through the portal and the shimmering canvas disappears. The man is gone. Travis is all alone sans for the crunch, crunch of boots stepping on broken tile.Ā
He hears a click. Thatās his only warning before another click and the whistle of air again.Ā
Travis ducks this time, the arrow zooming over his head.Ā
He doesnāt get time to think of the next step. A third arrow embeds itself into his khaki while he is still crouched and pins him to the tile. He yanks it out just in time to feel the cold press of metal against his crown. He freezes at the touch and itās enough of a pause for the stranger to yank his arms behind his back and shoves his face into the dirty tile. A knee digs into his shoulder to keep him in place and the metal goes back to resting against his head.Ā
On one hand, this is a bad situation. Heās dead for sure. No way is he surviving an arrow to the head. On the other hand, holy cow. What amazing marksmanship! The best Travis has ever seen! Itās enough to rival a hunter of Artemis. Enough to rival even ā
āThat was surprisingly easy, Travis. The hell?āĀ
Travisās thoughts grind to a halt. That voice.
āWho was that second person you were with?ā
His blood runs cold. That voice.Ā
āAnd what are you wearing?ā
That voice, itās him. Itās definitely him. But it canāt be. He died years ago. Thereās no way. Heās imagining it. Heās hallucinating. Thereās no way itās him. But curiosity is eating at him. He wants to look. Thereās a voice in his head yelling at him to Donāt do it! Stop! Youāre being reckless! Youāre going to get yourself killed!Ā
But he has to know. He has to.Ā
So he looks, tilting his face just enough to peek over his shoulder.Ā
He looks past the metal arrow inches from his face.
Past the body of the handcrafted mahogany crossbow.
Past the sleeved arm holding the weapon.
To the scrunched up face thatās gut-piercingly familiar.Ā
Not much has changed at all. His hair is still the same shade of black. His eyes are still the same shade of brown. Heās still short. Still 4ā6ā.Ā Heās still scowling. His face is still scrunched up like he stared down the shaft of his arrow for too long.Ā
Michael.
Michael Yew.Ā
Itās the same. Everything about this Michael is the same as the Michael he knows, is exactly as he remembers before Michael had sacrificed himself on that bridge years ago.Ā
Almost the same. Nearly the same.
The only difference is that the Michael he knows preferred a traditional bow, not a crossbow.
And that Michael never ā
Travis could hear his heart hammering in his chest as Michaelās knee ā warm and solid and definitely real ā grinds and pushes harder against his shoulder blade.Ā
That Michael never looked at him with such a cold and conflicted expression.Ā
xxxxx
The arrow hooks the threads of the fabric on his shoulder. Not enough to touch his skin and break the vow, but enough that the momentum pushes him backwards.
The preciseness of it all still amazes him even after all these years. Michael is simply incredible. Then it strikes him that the portal is behind him. That heās going to fall through the portal.
[Ground your feet.]
He canāt.Ā
Twist, lunge, donāt fall in.
[I canāt.]Ā
Summon some ā [Thereās no time.]
[grab something.] Like what?
His eyes meet the boyās with the painfully bright orange shirt and theyāre wide, clueless.Ā
[Him. Grab him.]
He reaches out, praying, hoping that his fingers snag on his.
But it doesnāt.Ā
And heās falling.
.
fallingĀ
.
falling.
.
The ground comes faster than he expected as his back collides with dirt. He scrambles to his feet, maybe the portal is still there and he can hop through. But itās gone. Itās gone. Itās gone. Itās gone. Itās gone. ItāsāĀ
Itās dry. The air is dry.Ā
[Itās not raining.]
His breaths come faster and faster as he looks around him.Ā
Trees. Trees with leaves ā actual green leaves ā full and bustling and to the brim.Ā
His head tilts back and ā something bright and painful blinds him and he hisses pulling his head back down.Ā
[The sun. That was the sun. And the sky, I can see the sky.]Ā Ā
He stumbles forward on uneven legs. Itās too hot. Itās too warm. Itās suffocating. He rips the helmet off and tosses it aside. But it isnāt better. He can see more, hear more, smell more.Ā [The clouds, the wind, the birds, the chirping, the trees, the leaves, the soil]Ā
Someoneās breathing heavily and he spins around out of instinct, but only seeing more trees [pine trees, birch trees, willow trees]
Itās him. Heās breathing too loud and he stops gulping air, holding it in. And then letting it go. He canāt panic here. He needs to find a way back over. If Michael is there, then the others must surely be there too. He needs to get back now.
He fumbles with his thigh pouch [the ground, itās so dry] his hands wonāt stop shaking [The sky is so blue] he could see the inklings of the green clover among the black inside of his pouch [the sun feels so warm] and he grasps it in his gloved hand, pulling it out.Ā
Only for them to disintegrate into dust that the wind blows away.Ā
He stares at their remains, not comprehending, not understanding.
[Was that all of it?] That was all of it.Ā
[Then are we stuck here?] Weāre stuck here.Ā
This is a dream. It has to be a dream. Thereās no possible explanation.
His neck twinges, aches, burns and he rubs it. He digs his fingers in. He squeezes it until it hurts and the burning, screaming, aching dies down.
What⦠what should he do next? What is he supposed to do? [Letās sit down and we can analyze the situation.]
He starts when a branch cracks behind him and before he could turn around, a manās voice rings out,
āTravis! There you are!āĀ
A familiar voice. A not so familiar pitch.Ā
āWhere have you been? Weāve been looking for you for over an hour.āĀ
A remnant of a memory from so long ago floats to the surface.Ā
āCome on, I have arts and crafts with your cabin. Tyson is stoked for it.āĀ
And he twirls around to see him. The one that haunts his dreams. That terrorizes his sleep and stalks his consciousness.Ā The one with black hair (caked with blood) that hangs over sea-green eyes (filled with bloodlust) and a grin (a glower) on his face with a 6 (6?) beaded necklace over a sickening bright, orange T-shirt.
Son of Poseidon, Perseus Jackson.
His blood freezes.
His heart stops.Ā
His throat closes.Ā
A hazy, belligerent red washes over him.Ā
Iām going to kill him.Ā
[Donāt. Donāt fight him. Not when we donāt know anything.] But he āĀ
[I know. But we need him and we canāt afford to lose another person.] ButāĀ
[Donāt.] Butā
āTravis? Whatās the matter?ā Perseus asks, his voice infuriatingly friendly, light-hearted.
Perseus takes one step towards him [donāt] and another and one more till heās within arms reach.
[Donāt.]
[Stop it.]
[Just run away.]
[We need to figure out whatās happening.]
[Donāt do it. For godsā sake, donātā]
āTravis? You okay? You look like youāre out of it.āĀ
A hand touches his shoulder.Ā
He pulls the knife from his belt and lunges forward with every intention of stabbing Perseusās face clean of skin, muscle, and bone. But his other hand grabs his wrist before he could get close.
[I said donāt!]Ā
Guilt roils in his gut but anger overrides that.Ā
Perseus leaps back a safe distance, yelling, āHey! What are you doing?ā
He shoots forward. The chest is just as good as the face. Probably more painful too. And the pain will last longer too. But his left ankle bumps into his right shin and he misses again. [Wait and listen to me for a second ā]
āTravis! What the heck! Whatās wrong? Hey!ā
He doesnāt answer, to Perseus, to him. All that matters is getting his dagger into (unmarred?) flesh and twisting it free and thrusting it back in. Again and again and again. Till heās dead as much as the others.Ā
And maybe Perseus sees that unreasonableness too. The son of Poseidon shoves him to the ground, turns tail, and runs.Ā
He follows, uncaring of anything else.Ā
āCrap, crap, crap!āĀ
He catches up in a minute, longer than he would have liked and only because he keeps tripping, but he manages to throw his dagger at the heel of Perseusās foot so heāll tumble to the ground. Heās on him the next second, pulling the flailing arm behind Perseusās back and pushing the shoulder out of its joint. The hiss of pain that follows didnāt quench the red haze. He raises his knife. Perseus bucks and tries to throw him off and he nearly did, but he locks down more. A knife in the spine should stop his struggling. He tightens his hold on his handle, lift it higher and āĀ
someone rips it from his hand.
Another pulls him back by the shoulder till heās off Perseus completely, pushing until heās falling on his back.Ā
And a third is pinning his left arm down with a knee against his elbow and ordering the second person to get his right arm too.
He slips his dagger from behind his back and jabs the knife right above where the kneecap should be. He slices, digging the blade in and swiping out quickly. Blood splatters across his face and screams break out in multiple directions. One in pain. Several in terror. [Wait! That was a person you just stabbed! A real person! Not a zombie!] The knee retracts and he rolls out from under the restraint, spitting blood out of his mouth.Ā
Shit. Fuck. What did he do?Ā
[Are you done? Can we run away now and rethink?] Yeah. Iām sorry. I justā [Itās fine. Itās fine! Apologize later but right now, just get out of here.]
But a hand is already on his upper arm the next second. He grabs the ownerās arm and their ugly orange shirt, sweeps his leg out, and tugs down. The fourth person fell.Ā
But a fifth and sixth person already have hands on him and they shove his face into the dirt and pin his wrists behind his back. [This is bad.]
He struggles for all heās worth, but thereās more hands and more force and more yelling. So he struggles harder. [This is so very bad.]Ā
āShit. What the fuck is wrong with you, Travis!āĀ
He kicks a shin. [Should Iā]
āClarisse! Clarisse!! Oh my god. Oh my GOD!ā
He bites a hand. [Do you want me toā]
āGet out of my way. Iām going to kick his teeth in!ā
He headbutts someone in the balls. [Iām going to useā]
āDude, calm down! Piper, charmspeak his ass or something!ā
[Piper?] and he stops struggling.Ā
Hands are locking his wrists together.Ā
[Piper? But Piperā]
āForget charmspeaking. Someone get Connor! Wait, I see him. Connor, get over here! Your brother lost his marbles.āĀ
āTravis.ā
He raises his head an inch and stares at a monster. At the man. At the horse. A centaur. A familiar face. A face from before. What was his name?Ā
āTravis,ā the man, horse, centaur begins with wary, uncertain eyes, āWhat is ailing you? Why are you attacking your fellow campers? Your friends?āĀ
What is his name? What is his name?
āTravis? Can you hear me?ā
What was it? Chase? Chance? Camdyn? Caelan?Ā Charon? Chiron?Ā
āDo you understand what Iām asking, Travis? ā
Chiron. It was Chiron.
āTravis?ā
Chiron Chiron Chiron Chiron Chiron. Thatās Chiron. But Chiron abandoned them. Chiron sided with the gods and left them all. Chiron is dead so how, why, what?
āTra⦠vis?ā
And he traces the new voice to the source, eyes landing on the face he sees everyday. The ocean-blue eyes he has etched down to memory. The unruly, unbrushed brown hair he knows down to the last curl. But the orange shirt. The brown khakis. The 9 beaded necklace. That thin line of scarred tissue running across his left brow. The surprise, the worry, the unsureness, thatās all new.Ā
That isnāt his brother.
That canāt be his brother.Ā
The beads donāt match up. The scars don't add up. Somethingās wrong. Everythingās wrong.Ā
Another man comes up beside Chiron. He looks familiar too. But he recalls his name in an instant. Dionysus. An Olympian. And alive too.Ā
He doesnāt get much chance to dwell on it before Dionysus waves a hand and his eyes fall shut without permission.Ā












