#kronos au

Travis leaps over rubble, feet catching on the granite, and tumbles forward. He curses loudly, but rights himself and continues running. He doesn’t 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. 

Rain is pouring thunderously outside, a drumming so loud it’s 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. 

A fallen cabinet, a broken desk, shattered computers. He’s in an office. There’s a houseplant, a family portrait, cracked tile floors, a hole-ridden hand hanging over a toppled swivel chair— 

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 there’s something wrong! Something is killing people! (plague, monsters, aliens) And Travis don’t have time to think about that just yet. 

There’s a turn up ahead. Left? Right? Right is always right so right it is. 

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 there’s no rubble in his way. 

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 didn’t. So stop beating so fast.  

He takes in the surroundings, noting the clouds first. They’re 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 — nope, the moment his hand touches where the wall meets air, it crumbles. There’s no way he can descend to the floor below. 

This is a dead end. 

If he’s 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. 

Someone is turning the corner. And the glint of that wicked knife in their hand tells him it’s not Chiron dressed as Santa Clause. 

Cheese sticks, he’s trapped. Maybe he could hide before the man sees him and wait till — the man turns to the aisle towards him and walks right in the middle towards him. 

Oh holy sandals. Travis takes a step back and his heel pushes the rubble off the ledge, a grim reminder that there’s 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. 

Which is the better chance? Should he just jump? Does he even know if the man is dangerous? 

He has a knife and it’s stained with blood! Of course he’s dangerous! 

If Connor was here, he would know what to do. 

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.

They’re cold, terrifying cold. 

If Travis wasn’t so scared for his life, he would ask the man where he shops. He’s sure Nico would like to know. 

He glances over his shoulder to the abyss again and stiffens. He can’t survive a high fall. He’s not Percy or Jason. There’s no way he could buffer his fall either like how Nico does with the skeletons, but he’s a good talker. He’ll 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. 

“H-Hey!” 

AH NO his voice cracked! 

“Pal, buddy, amigo, friend, I don’t 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! I’m terrified! So can you please stop?”

The man didn’t even falter, didn’t even miss a step. 

“Look, I applaud you. Your dedication to your role is amazing, like your costume is some A+ design.” 

Oh gods, he’s still coming. And he’s actually tightening his grip on his knife! 

Dad, Hermes, I’m begging you, if you really love me, then please bless me with some +1 charisma and speech skill right now. 

“Unless you really are here to kill me, to which I say, please don’t. I don’t even have a weapon to protect myself! That’s not fair, you know?! Don’t you care about making things fair?!” 

Crap. 

Nothing’s working. 

He’s going to have to fight his way out and Travis so does not want to do that. Not when he’s in this much of a disadvantage. 

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 man’s neck. He raises his chin and talks, voice muffled through the helmet. “Are you done, Connor? I don’t have time for your jokes.” 

“I’m Travis.”

The response is automatic, years of being called the wrong name ingrained this reflex in him. It’s natural to him, something he doesn’t even think about.

The man falters and so did he. 

Most people have never heard their voice before, most probably can’t 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. 

“You… have the same voice as me,” Travis says hesitantly. 

The man isn’t advancing, his wide eyes train on Travis. He could see shock, surprise in those eyes. Or maybe it’s mania. It’s 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. 

“You’re… not Connor?” he whispers.

There’s no mistaking it. That’s definitely his voice and there’s 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. 

“Connor, this has got to be the least funniest prank you ever pulled. You really scared me!” The man — Connor — freezes at his words, but Travis doesn’t really pay much attention to that. More importantly, this is the last time he’s eating the last Goldfish crackers without buying a replacement pair. Lesson learned. A very hard lesson learned. 

Still though, isn’t 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. 

“But 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?” 

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. 

“Connor?” Travis asks, worry creeping into his voice. He looks behind him. Maybe there’s a monster coming towards him. But there’s nothing outside other than the rain. “What’s wrong?”

Faster than a blink of an eye, Connor kicks Travis’s feet out from underneath him. There hadn’t even been time to react. Which is bizarre. Connor was never this fast. If anything he’s 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, there’s a dagger in his face just inches from his eyes. That’s not celestial bronze, he thinks. 

The hand holding the dagger that’s 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 it’s not over his eye in case it does slip. 

“What—” ‘Connor’ says in what is definitely Connor’s voice except it’s trembling even worse than the hand, “What game are you playing, Connor?” 

“...I’m Travis, not Connor,” he says meekly, still eyeing the dagger that’s 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 doesn’t? Gods, he hopes it doesn’t end up poking his eye out. Will can fix a lot of injuries including something as delicate an organ as the eye, but that doesn’t mean he wants to experience what a stab there feels like. 

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 guy’s hand.

“So… are we—” Travis begins. 

But Mr. Helmet cuts him off sharply. “What were you doing before you got here?”

Before he got here in this weird, gray dystopia? He shrugs. “Nothing much. I was doing my usual morning jog around the camp perimeter.” 

Mr. Helmet’s hand squeezes the dagger. “Camp? As in Camp Half Blood?”

“The one and only,” Travis says with a smile and a finger gun. 

It did not lighten the mood like he hoped. 

“And Camp Half Blood is okay? It’s still standing? There’s people there? It’s not flooded at all?” 

Travis blinks at the weird barrage of questions. 

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. 

Mr. Helmet/Maybe-Connor must see the confusion in his eyes because he’s 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. 

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 camp’s main area and the forest. 

“This. You saw this and ran inside?” Mr Helmet says, pointing a gloved hand at the distortion in an disbelieving tone. It’s 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 Annabeth’s 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. 

“To be fair,” he starts off because all situations need context, “I was in the zone and was trying to break my personal best.”

Mr. Maybe-Connor blinks at him and stays silent, as if waiting for more. 

So Travis provides some more context. “And I might have not been looking at where I was going.”

More silence.

And alright, more context. “I couldn’t sleep and running always helps me with my nerves.”

“So, you did run through. You came from the other side. Then… that means… are you really— ” 

The whistle of air.

Like an arrow piercing through the sky.

They both hear it at the same time. 

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. 

A feathered arrow snags Mr. Maybe-Connor’s shoulder, the speed and force of it pushing him back.

Pushing him back into the portal with pretty grass and sunkissed trees. 

There’s 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. 

He hears a click. That’s his only warning before another click and the whistle of air again. 

Travis ducks this time, the arrow zooming over his head. 

He doesn’t 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 it’s 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. 

On one hand, this is a bad situation. He’s 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! It’s enough to rival a hunter of Artemis. Enough to rival even —

“That was surprisingly easy, Travis. The hell?” 

Travis’s thoughts grind to a halt. That voice.

“Who was that second person you were with?”

His blood runs cold. That voice. 

“And what are you wearing?”

That voice, it’s him. It’s definitely him. But it can’t be. He died years ago. There’s no way. He’s imagining it. He’s hallucinating. There’s no way it’s him. But curiosity is eating at him. He wants to look. There’s a voice in his head yelling at him to Don’t do it! Stop! You’re being reckless! You’re going to get yourself killed! 

But he has to know. He has to. 

So he looks, tilting his face just enough to peek over his shoulder. 

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 that’s gut-piercingly familiar. 

Not much has changed at all. His hair is still the same shade of black. His eyes are still the same shade of brown. He’s still short. Still 4’6”.  He’s still scowling. His face is still scrunched up like he stared down the shaft of his arrow for too long. 

Michael.

Michael Yew. 

It’s 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. 

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 —

Travis could hear his heart hammering in his chest as Michael’s knee — warm and solid and definitely real — grinds and pushes harder against his shoulder blade. 

That Michael never looked at him with such a cold and conflicted expression. 

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 he’s going to fall through the portal.

[Ground your feet.]

He can’t. 

Twist, lunge, don’t fall in.

[I can’t.] 

Summon some — [There’s no time.]

[grab something.] Like what?

His eyes meet the boy’s with the painfully bright orange shirt and they’re wide, clueless. 

[Him. Grab him.]

He reaches out, praying, hoping that his fingers snag on his.

But it doesn’t. 

And he’s falling.

.

falling 

.

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 it’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s— 

It’s dry. The air is dry. 

[It’s not raining.]

His breaths come faster and faster as he looks around him. 

Trees. Trees with leaves — actual green leaves — full and bustling and to the brim. 

His head tilts back and — something bright and painful blinds him and he hisses pulling his head back down. 

[The sun. That was the sun. And the sky, I can see the sky.]  

He stumbles forward on uneven legs. It’s too hot. It’s too warm. It’s suffocating. He rips the helmet off and tosses it aside. But it isn’t better. He can see more, hear more, smell more.  [The clouds, the wind, the birds, the chirping, the trees, the leaves, the soil] 

Someone’s breathing heavily and he spins around out of instinct, but only seeing more trees [pine trees, birch trees, willow trees]

It’s him. He’s breathing too loud and he stops gulping air, holding it in. And then letting it go. He can’t 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, it’s so dry] his hands won’t 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. 

Only for them to disintegrate into dust that the wind blows away. 

He stares at their remains, not comprehending, not understanding.

[Was that all of it?] That was all of it. 

[Then are we stuck here?] We’re stuck here. 

This is a dream. It has to be a dream. There’s 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? [Let’s sit down and we can analyze the situation.]

He starts when a branch cracks behind him and before he could turn around, a man’s voice rings out,

“Travis! There you are!” 

A familiar voice. A not so familiar pitch. 

“Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you for over an hour.” 

A remnant of a memory from so long ago floats to the surface. 

“Come on, I have arts and crafts with your cabin. Tyson is stoked for it.” 

And he twirls around to see him. The one that haunts his dreams. That terrorizes his sleep and stalks his consciousness.  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. 

His throat closes. 

A hazy, belligerent red washes over him. 

I’m going to kill him. 

[Don’t. Don’t fight him. Not when we don’t know anything.] But he — 

[I know. But we need him and we can’t afford to lose another person.] But— 

[Don’t.] But—

“Travis? What’s the matter?” Perseus asks, his voice infuriatingly friendly, light-hearted.

Perseus takes one step towards him [don’t] and another and one more till he’s within arms reach.

[Don’t.]

[Stop it.]

[Just run away.]

[We need to figure out what’s happening.]

[Don’t do it. For gods’ sake, don’t—]

“Travis? You okay? You look like you’re out of it.” 

A hand touches his shoulder. 

He pulls the knife from his belt and lunges forward with every intention of stabbing Perseus’s face clean of skin, muscle, and bone. But his other hand grabs his wrist before he could get close.

[I said don’t!] 

Guilt roils in his gut but anger overrides that. 

Perseus leaps back a safe distance, yelling, “Hey! What are you doing?”

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 —]

“Travis! What the heck! What’s wrong? Hey!”

He doesn’t 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 he’s dead as much as the others. 

And maybe Perseus sees that unreasonableness too. The son of Poseidon shoves him to the ground, turns tail, and runs. 

He follows, uncaring of anything else. 

“Crap, crap, crap!” 

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 Perseus’s foot so he’ll tumble to the ground. He’s on him the next second, pulling the flailing arm behind Perseus’s back and pushing the shoulder out of its joint. The hiss of pain that follows didn’t 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 — 

someone rips it from his hand.

Another pulls him back by the shoulder till he’s off Perseus completely, pushing until he’s falling on his back. 

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. 

Shit. Fuck. What did he do? 

[Are you done? Can we run away now and rethink?] Yeah. I’m sorry. I just— [It’s fine. It’s 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 owner’s arm and their ugly orange shirt, sweeps his leg out, and tugs down. The fourth person fell. 

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 he’s worth, but there’s more hands and more force and more yelling. So he struggles harder. [This is so very bad.] 

“Shit. What the fuck is wrong with you, Travis!” 

He kicks a shin. [Should I—]

“Clarisse! Clarisse!! Oh my god. Oh my GOD!”

He bites a hand. [Do you want me to—]

“Get out of my way. I’m going to kick his teeth in!”

He headbutts someone in the balls. [I’m going to use—]

“Dude, calm down! Piper, charmspeak his ass or something!”

[Piper?] and he stops struggling. 

Hands are locking his wrists together. 

[Piper? But Piper—]

“Forget charmspeaking. Someone get Connor! Wait, I see him. Connor, get over here! Your brother lost his marbles.” 

“Travis.”

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? 

“Travis,” the man, horse, centaur begins with wary, uncertain eyes, “What is ailing you? Why are you attacking your fellow campers? Your friends?” 

What is his name? What is his name?

“Travis? Can you hear me?”

What was it? Chase? Chance? Camdyn? Caelan?  Charon? Chiron? 

“Do you understand what I’m asking, Travis? ”

Chiron. It was Chiron.

“Travis?”

Chiron Chiron Chiron Chiron Chiron. That’s Chiron. But Chiron abandoned them. Chiron sided with the gods and left them all. Chiron is dead so how, why, what?

“Tra… vis?”

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, that’s all new. 

That isn’t his brother.

That can’t be his brother. 

The beads don’t match up. The scars don't add up. Something’s wrong. Everything’s wrong. 

Another man comes up beside Chiron. He looks familiar too. But he recalls his name in an instant. Dionysus. An Olympian. And alive too. 

4 ANNABETH 

Annabeth gives Travis time to answer but he never does and that really ticks her off. She could see the wheels turning in his head. He’s thinking about something and the Travis she knows would blurt it out, with or without someone prompting. 

But this Travis, the one lying prone on the sofa, the one whose only movement so far was that one time he tried to lift a hand, the one who spoke only one sentence, this Travis she doesn’t know. This Travis seems sick. This Travis seems unreal. This Travis seems like a stranger. 

After Piper puts Travis to sleep, they tend to Chiron’s wounds and Mr. D’s injury. They’re going to be fine, thankfully. But they’re out of the count on rest and rehab. They dragged Travis into the Big House and ordered all the gathered campers to continue on with their day. The counselors are the only ones here in this room. 

Annabeth clutches the phone with Kronos’s insignia engraved in the corner. 

When they stripped him of his weapons, they found this in one of the pockets. There were mixed reactions. Some were angered. Some were frightened. Some were in denial. None of their reactions matter. The one that does, the only one that does, is Connor’s. And Connor’s face tells her everything. 

“Travis would never join Kronos. Not willingly. Not without coercion.”

That settled it for her. 

There was some contention but Travis and Connor do everything together. There’s no doubt in her mind that Connor was never on Kronos’s side so Travis couldn’t be on Kronos’s side too. 

So there can only be 4 possibilities. One, Travis was kidnapped in the one hour he disappeared and was brainwashed by Kronos Restorationists. Two, Travis saw some mushrooms and ate it, and is now having full-blown, wild delusions. Or three, this isn’t even Travis but a lookalike somebody swapped him. Or four, Travis and Connor have a secret third sibling none of them have ever heard about. They all seem pretty likely since not even Connor can guess the 6 lettered password on the phone. 

“Travis, answer the questions.” She says one more time, but Travis isn’t looking at her anymore. His eye stares listlessly at the ceiling. And again, he lifts a hand but the handcuffs bars any further progress. 

“Forget this. Let’s just have Clovis take a peek in his memories,” Clarisse grumbles. Holly and Laurel immediately reject that idea. They have a soft spot for Travis seeing as he was their head counselor before their cabin was built. But Clarisse is right. They can’t have a god-decapitating, teacher-stabbing demigod on the premise without figuring out why. Morality be damned. 

If this phone really does prove Travis is attempting to bring back Kronos, then she can’t treat him as a friend. Kronos shouldn’t be able to reform in her lifespan, but the opening and closing of the Doors of Death might have sped it up. Maybe Gaea's awakening healed Kronos faster. Maybe it’s something else, an entirely new threat.  But she isn’t about to go through another Titan war. She isn’t about to let Luke’s sacrifice, Silena’s, Beckendorf’s, Castor’s, Ethan’s, Lee’s, Michael’s sacrifice be meaningless. 

Why is it that every summer, there is a crisis? Just for once, can she have a break?

“Clovis,” Annabeth says, watching Travis and his unchanging expression and unchanging silence, “Take a look inside his memories. Find out what happened the hour he disappeared.” 

Clovis scratches behind his ear in discomfort but begins to strides forward. 

Travis tugs on his handcuffs again. 

“An— Annabeth.” Annabeth raises an eye at the slight stutter of her name.** Travis tugs again on the handcuffs and looks at her with desperation in his blue eyes. “Annabeth, you need to give me the phone. I need to call someone.” 

“Tell me who and I’ll give it to you,” she responds coolly. 

“I-I can’t. I shouldn’t.” Travis is increasingly breathing harder. His chest heaves and there’s panic blossoming in his eyes. “Just, please, trust me and give me the phone.” 

“Trust you? You stabbed Chiron. I can’t trust you.” 

“You don’t understand. There’s no time. I’m — He’s — danger — I — It’s all my fault. I need to fix it. Please, Annabeth.” 

Annabeth bites her lips. Travis doesn’t plead. Travis doesn’t beg. Travis doesn’t ever get on the verge of crying. She looks at the other counselors, but they’re just as clueless as her. 

“Who’s in danger?” she finally settles on asking, but Travis squeezes his eyes shut. Tears stream down his cheeks. Travis isn’t a crier. That title belongs to Connor and Annabeth knows from experience Connor is a loud, ugly crier. She assumed Travis would be too, but no, he isn’t and this is far, far worse. 

Connor takes a step towards Travis, but he falters, hand raised and face uncertain. “Travis…”

Travis’s eyes open slightly and he whispers, “He’s going to die.”

“Who’s going to die?” she presses, but no response. 

“He’s going to die. They’re all going to die, but I’m going to live. Again… This is happening again. Why is this happening again?” He’s starting to hyperventilate now. 

She can’t watch this anymore. “Clovis, put him to sleep and look through his memories.”

“O-okay.” 

It starts with a single hiccup. A single ragged gasp.

Then Travis is wailing. 

He’s screaming. 

He’s shrieking. 

He’s curling into a ball, handcuffs somehow undone, and screeching into his pillow Will so kindly gave him earlier. Annabeth’s mind blanks for a minute. 

Outside, thunder roars. Lightning flashes. The wind picks up. And rain pelts the side of the building and rattles the window with the force of a hurricane.  

5

Travis is not having a good time. 

It’s summer break. 

He should be having a good time.

But no, first thing Connor did when he got to Camp Half Blood was hand him all the chores to do for the day so he can referee the volleyball match between Hermes and Athena’s cabin, then Clarisse kicked his butt and embarrassed him during their co-cabin sparring session, then Annabeth beat him with her eyes closed on chess, and now he has been transported to a weird place where Michael is alive and flesh-eating zombies are real.

Not a good time at all. 

The plus side? 

He emptied his bladder out of fear and there’s no longer that insistent need to pee. 

So that’s a big plus. 

“ARGHHHHH!” Michael screeches. He amazingly has an arm extended even though the pressure is crushing his innards. 

“Travis, FIGHT!” Michael screams, struggling even more. 

Fight? He can barely breathe. 

Lou Ellen is 15 feet away now, chanting food food food under her breath and giggling as she limps her way over to them. Every step she takes closer to them ups the pressure two-fold. He’s flattening. He’s turning into a pancake. And speaking of pancakes, he is so hungry. All he had was a banana and an apple before he went on his morning jog. He would do anything for pancakes right about now. 

“Travis, I’m going to kick your lazy fucking butt if you don’t get a fucking grip!” 

Travis clenches his eyes and curls his fingers into a fist. Even doing that was strenuous. How is Michael pushing himself forward? 

Willpower, probably. 

Lou Ellen is getting closer and closer. Michael is still struggling. And he? He doesn’t want to say he accepted the cruel fate of being eaten, but yeah, he kinda accepted it and prayed that in the next life he and Connor are reborn as brothers again. 

But then Lou Ellen screeches and Travis could feel himself falling back to the earth, falling flat on his stomach and the force knocking the air out of him. 

Still he manages to glance up. Lou Ellen is still screeching, but she’s swathed in thick branches from the head down to the toe. And the branches are still growing — where he doesn’t know — but they crush Lou Ellen together, pressing her arms to her chest till Travis hears something snap and crunch. 

Shoes scuff on the tile beside him. Michael is standing. He has his arrows notched and aimed. Three arrows fly clean into Elly’s eyes. They make a sickening squidge sound and Elly’s screeching becomes a thousand times worse. 

There was no hesitation in Michael’s action. Not the slightest. Not even a change of expression when those arrows embed itself. 

Then Michael’s eyes catch his, and they’re tired, they’re apologetic, they’re so, so, so pained but none of that changes the fact that the crossbow is pointed at him again. No arrows come flying towards him. Just the words, “He’s not fighting. Easy prey, right?” Then in a move of incredible acrobatics, Michael is turning tail and jumping off the ledge and down to the one under. 

“W-w-what? Michael, you piece of —”

Lou Ellen snaps to face him, tearing the arrows out of her eye in one single tug. The eyeball came off with it, optic nerve and all, but Travis watches as the eyeball disintegrates before reappearing back in Elly’s eye — whole and functional again. All her wounds are healing as well, except for the one at her leg.

So maybe they’re not zombies. Zombies don't regenerate like that. 

Lou Ellen spots him, her grin deranged and manic as she drops the arrow.

xxxxx

There’s nothing more he wants to do then curl up in a ball and suffocate himself in the soft pillow. Nothing more than to give up. Nothing more than to stop struggling and fighting for an ending that’s never going to work out. [but you’re not going to, right?] 

But the other him’s face — surprised and innocent — flashes in his mind again. In that disgustingly bright orange shirt as he gives a nauseating laugh and a sickening smile with his revolting, carefree, happy as happy can be attitude. It’s repulsive to even think about. He wouldn’t last a day in his world. He’s probably already dead. He’s probably just another shambling corpse like the rest of them. 

[He’s you. He’ll find a way to survive until you get back.] 

He’s me without you. 

[Michael is with him. He has time. As long as Michael doesn't meet up with Katie and Clarisse, then he has time.] 

His eyes snap up to survey the room.

The room is as occupied as ever though there hangs an air of unease. None of them are truly looking at him, just quick side-eye glances. A majority occupy themselves with his weaponry on the table. Annabeth still has the phone in her hands, typing on the screen with a scowl. It doesn’t look like she figured out the password yet. 

He’s handcuffed again though that won’t be a problem. He can unlock it without a thought. 

The issue is that it’s him against 20 demigods. That’s not good odds. 

[can’t you talk with them?]

“Hey, you’re up.”

A hand grazes his shoulder and instinctively he slaps away from the intruding hand, flinching as he hears swords leaving their sheaths and weapons being drawn. He peeks over his shoulder to find Will Solace (oh god it’s Will. It’s really Will), unbothered, with a glass of water in his hands. 

“Here,” Will says. 

He raises himself from the bed enough to shake his head.

“I don’t want it.” 

“I don’t care. You’re dehydrated.” 

He goes back to scanning the room in response. And Will hits him on the back of the bed with a pink Hello-Kitty throw pillow.

“If you don’t drink, I’ll stick an IV in your vein,” Sunshine Boy threatens with a hand on his hip, stern and unbudging. 

He scowls, taking the glass as ordered with a tiny sip. 

Will’s still bossy and stubborn. Gods, he forgot how annoying that can be. 

Will beams in satisfaction, stepping back, and it’s only then that he notices Nico beside Will, tense and rigid.  

“You shouldn’t have gotten so close to him. What if he had stabbed you like he did with Chiron?” Nico hisses, the words meant only for Will’s ears but he heard it anyway. When their eyes meet, the son of Hades glowers and pulls Will away by the arm.

“You were right there beside me. I’m sure I was fine,” Will says with a dismissive shrug. 

He stares down in the cup of water — crystal clear and clean and not at all contaminated with gore and pus and rubble — and thinks. He didn’t notice Nico at all. A new power? What else is different? Are the odds even more against him now? Should he even try anymore? [you can’t give up] 

“Ready to talk now?” Annabeth strides up to him. “You can start by giving the password.” 

Him against 20… if he could just somehow get the phone and book it to the door… [what if you can’t? what if the phone breaks? how will you contact for help then?] But Annabeth alone is trouble enough to steal from and Nico’s shadow-travel would make it hard to escape [We’re wasting time.] Not to mention there’s 10 other demigods he doesn't know of. [Every second is ticking away] Who knows what they can do. [Go for it and I’ll cover you.] 

“Travis? Hello? Gonna talk?” Ananabeth says, annoyed and a hand on her hip. 

He stares at the phone in her hand. 

20 demigods. New powers. Unknown powers. Escape is probably not possible. But then again, he doesn’t need to escape. 

He can do it. He’s going to do it.

“Travis?”

He doesn’t waste time, undoing the handcuffs and lunging for the phone. He rips it from Annabeth’s lax fingers and hides the screen with his body, curling over and unlocking the phone and going to the text messages. Crap. 537 missed texts and 20 missed calls. Not good. Shoes enter his peripheral vision. Annabeth’s. He feels a hand on the back of his shirt about to pull. Not missing a beat he clicks on the group chat as he sweeps his leg out and topples Annabeth. 

sos build c floor 20 

Enter. Send. Lock again.

A hand on his arm. He twists to the other sideand the second person is falling on top of him, grunting in surprise. Clarisse. She’ll survive whatever he dishes out, he thinks as he kicks her in her abdomen with enough force to send her flying. He rolls back to his feet. 

Annabeth is starting to get back up. 15 or so demigods between him and the door with five coming for him right now. Just Will and Nico between him and the closest window. No one is between him and the second closest window. Perseus beside Annabeth. Leo by the table with all his weapons laid out with a screwdriver. Katie right beside the door. No zombies or roots coming for him yet. And Perseus isn’t using his powers. Why? Haven’t developed their powers yet? [that’s too big of an assumption] Haven’t processed what is going on? [maybe]

No one is using their powers at all. Whatever. Their loss. He already accomplished his goal. 

“I just wanted the phone. I’ll just get out your hair now,” he says. 

And as expected, Clarisse comes charging for him. “Fat chance that’s happening!” He didn’t really expect anything else. 

He sidesteps Clarisse, uses her momentum to push her into the crowd of 15. Most tumble down in one heap. There’s a familiar cry among them. He tunes out the voice. One of the demigods manages to avoid it, brandishing a spear though not charging at him. The kid’s nervous, he realizes. Probably never been in a fight. [or he doesn’t want to hurt you]

He feels Nico coming from behind, a lot more stealthier than the counterpart in his world but he faced even more stealthier demigods. With ease he turns and grabs the wrist with the knife, twisting until the blade clatters to the floor before tossing Nico over his shoulder on top of the pile. 

Perseus is coming from the left. Now him, he feels no qualms hurting as he throws a punch to the face. Perseus blocks the obvious attack, trying to bear hug him. He throws his head back hard. The cry of pain didn’t make him happy. But it did bring some satisfaction. 

Annabeth is up and faces him, eyeing the phone and breathing hard. “Who did you text?” she demands, taking a step forward.

He takes a step back. Will by himself to the left. About 17 on the right. Another trying to sneak behind him for a surprise attack. The phone vibrates once, a text message, and he glances down to check.

The one behind moves, running towards him the same time Annabeth springs forward. He tries to step off to the side so they crash into one another but Annabeth is getting used to his tactics. She dodges the one coming from behind [wait, isn’t that a titaness? That was a Calypso, but how did she get off her island] and tackles him around the waist, knocking him flat onto his back. She scrambles on top of him, a knee pressing into his gut as Annabeth tries to rip the phone from his hand but he turns onto his side, unbalancing Annabeth, before shoving her to the ground. 

Five in front. Two behind. Seven on the right. Six on the left. The phone buzzes again. 

“Don’t move, Travis!” Piper yells and for a second he obeys her wish. But he pushes his own will against hers. He dwells on the disbelieving look on her face. It’s like she doesn’t know he can resist charmspeaking. 

Zombies and roots still aren’t coming for him. Guess they don’t know how to use their powers then. Lucky him. 

Time to make his getaway then. He digs his hand into the hardfloor and it phases through like water. But when he clenches his fist, he feels a solid object and he lifts the floor like it’s a rug, the floor becoming flimsy and malleable. He can see the basement in all its dark and damp glory with its plumbing and a water heater tucked in the corner. And there, the egress window. He’ll sneak down there, close the path behind him, then leave through the window. 

He tries to dive in before anybody could follow after him. But Annabeth, of course it’s Annabeth, pulls him back by the ankle and he trips forward, the floor melting back into place without a single imperfection. The phone falls out of his hand and bounces once on the hardwood, the texts flashing through his eyes as it skids away from him. 

Found you.

He shakes his leg free to spring the few extra inches to grab the phone. But a kid — Connor — nobody — anybody — nothing — no one — beat him to it, snatching it off the floor and hugging it close to his chest. There’s hesitancy, uncertainty, actual concern in those familiar, familiar, familiar eyes and he hates it. He hates it so, so, so much. Enough for him to want to die. To dig his eyes out. To stab his knives in his guts and rip everything out. 

[hey now calm down]

“Give it back,” he demands, orders, insists as he struggles to his feet, forcing himself to not look his brother — Connor — nobody — the kid in the eyes. 

BrotherConnorNobodyKid shakes his head and steps back. His body language is screaming bolt, bolt, bolt — and if that happens then there’s no way he can catch up. 

[You can’t let him leave.] 

“Don’t move,” he commands.

It doesn’t work. He felt the trickle of power rising, the usual nausea coming with it, but it’s not enough. Think bigger. Think better.

[Wait what are you going to do]--

He inhales. Pauses. Pictures the order in his mind, his command, the incentive, the offer. And exhales. 

[wait, you didn’t eat anything this—]

“Don’t move or he’ll — Tra — Travi — your brother, your older brother will die.”

His vision spins immediately. Blood drips down his nose in a stream that he pinches shut. But it worked. He freezes. Annabeth freezes. Everyone stops. The only sound is his own beating heart. 

Great. Perfect. This worked out great. [wait, wait, wait, don’t walk yet—]

Too late. His first shuffle forward, his knees buckle and he falls onto his hands. The whole world is spinning. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries hard to make everything stop twirling, but nausea overtakes him and he’s grabbing the nearest bucket-like thing and vomiting, eyes opening enough to see a mess of clear fluids soiling a backpack. He hopes it’s Perseus’s backpack. [shouldn’t have skipped your breakfast] like there’s much to eat anyway. 

He struggles to his feet, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Most haven’t moved yet though there are a couple that’s inching their way towards him. Nico. A girl with brown braids — the titaness, Calypso. But most are immobile. 

He tugs the phone out of Connor’s hands, the effort alone swarming his vision with black dots, and walks just far enough to lean against the nearest wall, sliding down until he’s sitting with his head between his head. But it doesn’t help the overwhelming queasiness. This isn’t good. It’s enough for him to pass out. Which is bullshit. He used it all the time without even taking a breather. [Well, not ever twenty people all at once. And you’re dehydrated. And you haven’t eaten anything. And you—] okay, okay. He gets it. There’s a gazillion factors. But still. Still. 

“What—” 

He picks his head up tiredly to find Annabeth, red-faced, muscles straining. 

“What is this?”

“My powers,” he murmurs. Ah. His head is pounding. 

“I can see that,” Annabeth seethes. “But you — you never — you can’t — Travis can’t charmspeak.”

“This isn’t charmspeak.  It’s, uh, um… I don’t know. Charmspeak but Hermes Edition? The name is still a work in progress. Dad was the god of persuasion and merchants. The conditions are different,” he says. His vision is swarming in and out. [it’s never been this bad] Never. Not even when he first used it. 

“I never heard of Hermes’s children doing this.”

“Really now?”  [don’t pass out]

“You have a fever. And it’s rising, like, a lot,” Will points out. 

“Yeah. It happens.” He leans his head back on the wall, brings the phone up to his face. And sitting at the bottom of the dozen or so new messages is: Gonna do a sneak attack. Just keep running like that. 

Sent just mere seconds ago.