Mad House ✷ percy jackson & the olympians - Chapter 2 - sugarkoi - Percy Jackson and the Olympians (2024)

Chapter Text

THE MAN’S MOUTH met the blonde lady’s, weird, guttural noises that reminded Estella of Max’s crying erupting from both of them. Estella smiled in satisfaction. She’d played a game with Mom ever since she’d been really young—and it was fun! The only rule was, tell Mom if something seemed weird, and Estella excelled at that! Like when her teacher was staring at her all the time, and they left (which was a bit sad, since Estella had to leave her friends, but they went to a new, cleaner place!) Or when their neighbor, Miss Aardan (it rhymed with Aaron, Estella remembers), always forced Estella to come in, eat some stale, old chocolate cake, and told her “bedtime stories”—that grew more and more morbid every time—until Estella was ready to cry. So this had to qualify, right?

Her Father—Brian Something-Something—married Mom around a year ago, when Estella was seven. They’d moved around a lot before that, but Estella didn’t mind it much. Until they lived with Brian. To be honest, he wasn’t horrible, not like some stories that Miss Aardan had told Estella, but they still barely lived above the poverty line, and with another mouth to feed, even Estella could sense her mom’s worry.

“What is it, Ella?” Mom is slicing vegetables, a good deal she probably got from the local Farmers’ Market. Max isn’t crying, thankfully, probably asleep in Mom and Brian’s room. Mom has those weird, dark eye circles on her face again, and her eyelashes, black, are lilted lower than normal.

“Father’s doing a thing with the blond lady!” she says giddily, watching Mom. But Mom is . . . not doing anything? Estella tilts her head in confusion. Maybe she didn’t hear her. “Father is doing something with the blond lady,” repeats Estella.

Mom sighs. “What is he doing, Els? Giving her a piece of paper?” She looks agitated as she puts the vegetables in the hot oven with force.

Estella pauses for a second, mulling her words. What are they doing? “The thing you do with him,” she decides to say after a second. “Like . . . when you touch?” she frowns.

Her mom still looks confused. “A handshake?”

“No,” Estella replies firmly, voice high-pitched. “It’s called . . .” she pauses. “Kissing? Not on Lady’s cheek like you do to me, though! On the lips!”

Mom looks furious. Oops? Estella doesn’t move, though, looking at Mom expectedly. Isn’t this the part when she is supposed to tell Estella to go to her room and stay there until Mom comes up to tell her it’s safe? The oven timer dings once, but both of them ignore it. “Come again?” this time, Mom looks scared—frightened, even, looking at Estella in worry. “Your dad is doing what?”

“Um . . .” Estella is at a loss. “Kissing, I think,” she says in confusion. “What you do to me on the cheek, but like what you do with Father!” On the lips was what she refrained from saying this time. “Isn’t it part of the Game?” she asked in a quieter tone. Maybe she had made a big deal over nothing.

“No, no, sweetheart,” Mom is quick to say, leaving the kitchen to hug Estella and place a firm kiss on her forehead. “It most definitely is, but I think the next part is going to be a bit different, alright? You’re going to stay here, not go to your bedroom, okay?”

“Here, not bedroom, got it,” Estella repeats like a broken machine.

Mom takes off her World’s Best Mother apron and tosses it onto a chair as she takes off her slippers, and, wearing only socks not shoes on her feet (not allowed, Estella remembers and stifles a giggle), slowly walks to the living room. As she walks past the bend in the wall, Estella tiptoes after, hoping her own slippers don’t make noise as she peers carefully around the wall. Mom is strong, Estella knows. But too many of these situations end in yelling or crying—or both. Is Mom strong enough to withstand it all? Normally, yes. But ‘normally’ doesn’t include a strange, new woman Estella doesn’t know. Another new factor that’s been introduced.

“Hello to you both, Brian and Miss Greene,” Mom says in a rude tone that she’s drilled into Estella to never use. Father and the lady —Miss Greene, apparently?— come apart quickly, like puzzle pieces.

Father’s eyes widen in dismay, Estella can tell so from this far away, tucked behind a falling-apart pillar. Miss Greene coughs, as if trying to indicate it wasn’t her idea. Liar, liar, pants on fire! Estella sang in her head, letting her face peep out again from behind the pillar. “Mrs Bloomberg!” Miss Greene says, faking surprise, “what a lovely—”

“Pick your words carefully,” warns Mom, interrupting. “Miss Greene, this is my house and I decide the rules. Those rules do not—do I need to repeat, do not—include making out on my couch in my living room in my house where my daughter can easily see you!” She exhales deeply. “Please, Miss Greene, do educate me how this is moral.”

Miss Greene stares at Mom, speechless. Estella watches with a held breath, waiting to see her Mom torn into the woman—but what about Brian? Where would he go—and—Estella felt a sick sort of feeling come to her stomach. What about baby Max? Did she accidentally cause the downfall of their family? Will everything be okay? Finally, maybe panicked, Miss Greene blurts out, “He enacted it!” Estella blinks twice, because wow, that sounds like how she did in kindergarten.

“I’m sorry?” Mom also looks shocked.

“You heard me!” Miss Greene’s eyes are wide, like she’s a fish and she’s missing air to breathe. Maybe, just maybe, she’s confused, thinks Estella. “Your husband started it, he just . . . he just dragged me into it!”

“. . . right.” Mom doesn’t look convinced, but she turns to Father. “And you? What about you, Brian? I make twice the income, cook, take care of the kids, do everything—the only thing you gave me was another kid that I seem to love more than you could ever imagine. I repeat, Brian, what are you doing in my house?”

Brian is silent for a moment, like he’s thinking about the best way to approach this situation. Estella knows better, though. She knows the way his brain is thinking ‘sexy’ at her Mom’s dominance (a fact she’s heard too many times). She knows he has no qualms about Miss Greene and what just happened in their living room. And it looks like he knows, too. He smiles in that way that he believes in cute, charming, but Estella thinks, trash. “Margret, come on, now…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, doesn’t utter, you know it wasn’t me, but it’s in the air all the same. He placed the bait, but will Mom take it?

“Oh, believe me,” smiles Mom, as if she’s having the time of her life. “I’m being very open, Brian. But I’d still like to know why you were making out with another woman in my house. I fail to see the issue here, except for you.” Estella wants to cheer, cheer loudly, because Mom is doing it again. She’s laying down the facts in a way Brian—Father, she reminds herself—can’t say ‘no’ to.

That is, until Mom sighs and does a motion that looks like rubbing her forehead to Estella. She can’t really tell, not from this angle. “Estella, dear,” her voice floats merrily to Estella’s ears. “That pillar is not the kitchen. Won’t you go back there for me?”

Estella says nothing, slinking back to the counter.

She can’t really hear from the counter. Only louder-spoken words reach her ears: Stupid. Moronic. Not morally correct. Illegal. (Actually, she’s not so sure about the last one.) Until she hears an exaggerated sigh from Mom, before her voice filters throughout the house. “Out, Miss Greene. You have one more chance, Brian.”

The tension in the days, weeks, months after was obvious. Estella couldn’t help thinking it was all her fault. She’d told Mom about what happened. What if Max’s life got ruined? But then there were those nights when Mom came to Estella’s room in the middle of the night. She sat on Estella’s covers, held her hands, and sang lullabies until Estella fell asleep. Sometimes, she’d whisper, “It’s not your fault; it’s just how things happened.”

But . . . nothing happened. No one blew up. Brian and Mom stayed together with baby Max. Estella went to school, stayed with a group of friends, and came back home. Maybe they weren’t perfect, but they weren’t wrecked.

Estella was happy.

──── ⋆🌷͙֒ ⋆ ────

YEARS PASSED. ESTELLA grew up. She didn’t call her mother “Mom” anymore (it was only “Mother” or Margret now) and her mother’s husband, Brian, was referred to with his name and his name only. Her younger half-brother, Max, was one of Estella’s few lights. She suffered through ADHD and dyslexia, and more than once, she wondered where she got it from. Her mother didn’t have them, and neither did Max, so it obviously wasn’t from mother.

But no matter how happy they were, it wouldn’t last. Living in less-than-ideal conditions for the first four years of his life left Max frail, weak. He was constantly in and out of hospitals, and while his life was never in danger, his body was not healthy enough.

It never bothered Estella. She simply played nicer, didn’t tease . . . she fixed herself to her surroundings. Which was why it went so badly. Three days ago, Max Logner and two of his friends had been hit by a car as they walked to school. Max had been stuck in the hospital since, his body not being able to handle the injuries. Every day after school, Estella walked the mile from her school to the hospital, even as they inched closer and closer to the end of the school year and Estella’s finals started to pile up.

That led to right now, where Estella was sitting in Max’s room, his soft breathing acting as a relaxer while she fought through geometry homework. Her mouth was parched, she realized as she finished a problem that took her an especially long time. Estella set her homework aside and walked over to Max’s bed. He was laying down, passed out, an IV in his arm. Did he feel anything . . .? she wondered as she caressed his hair for a moment before taking a step away. She left the room, glad to be out of the pale, white-walled box that Max was stuck in.

She walked down the hallway, keeping her eyes trained on the walls, looking at the colorful murals that school groups came to do for their art finals. All animals—it was a retelling of Noah’s Ark, she knew. And. . . a giraffe. Max’s favorite animal.

She approached the front desk on the second floor, and the secretary—face caked with enough makeup to make Estella’s lips purse—said, “Water’s at the lounge, dearie.” Estella walked there slowly, going to one of those big jugs that were called water dispensers and taking a styrofoam cup to fill up. She sipped slowly, savoring the taste of freshness that was hard to find in the hospital.

It gave her just a little bit of hope that things would get better. Max was going to be fine. She might even be able to convince some of their neighbors that she could babysit little ones for a bit of money to help out with the hospital bill!

She threw away her cup as she started to walk back to Max’s room. Estella had just reached the ending of the lounge and the beginning of the reception room—noting the stairs and elevator was behind her—when she noticed that the makeup-caked secretary wasn’t sitting behind her desk, but standing in front of it, looking around like a predator. Um . . . what? When Estella quickly glanced at the rest of the people waiting, no one seemed confused by this occurrence.

The secretary’s eyes lit up when they spotted Estella. “Estella Bloomberg.” The words rang throughout the room in a whisper, low and deep. No one moved, no one seemed to even notice what was going on besides Estella.

“Hi?” Estella tried to smile awkwardly. She didn’t know the lady’s name and didn’t want to be rude, but A, she wanted to get back to Max; B, the lady was acting a tad crazy; and C, a tingling feeling in the back of Estella’s neck was yelling, Stranger Danger!

“‘Hi’?” the lady mimicked, throwing her head back and laughing loudly. When Estella desperately looked around and took what she hoped was a discreet step back, no one even blinked. What was going on? Estella could feel the panic start to rise inside of her, like a tsunami wave that was going to reach up and swallow Van Gogh’s The Starry Night whole. “Aren’t you sweet?”

The lady took a step closer, and suddenly, she didn’t look in her mid-thirties anymore. She resembled the young twenties . . . maybe even teens. Estella felt sick. “Sorry,” Estella managed to force out, taking yet another step backwards. “Do I . . . do I somehow know you?” She prayed that the answer was no, because she didn’t want to be acquaintances with a cuckoo lady.

“I don’t believe so,” smiled the lady. She curled her front lip backwards, revealing elongated teeth—sharpened canines. “But we have now! You can call me Kelli.” Something about that didn’t sit right with Estella: it wasn’t a happy invitation, but something more sinister, something that pricked into her skin with boiling hot needles as it filled her up with poison.

“H-hi, Kelli,” stammered Estella. She risked a look back, before staring at Kelli defiantly, hoping she was playing the innocent card correctly. She was close to the stairs. But was it close enough to risk a run?

Kelli stepped forward again, just as Estella took another step behind her. Her back was pressed against the cool metal door that led down the stairs, and she was ready to push through it and sprint down the stairs if necessary. But Kelli didn’t seem worried—not even that Estella, her maybe-prey, was seconds away from escaping. Hopefully. Kelli took yet another step forward, but Estella didn’t move, couldn’t. For now, she was stuck. But . . . Kelli’s foot hit the ground with an ear-hurting BANG! that wasn’t normal. Why did her leg sound like it was hollow?

Estella didn’t spare time thinking about it. Instead, she asked, “Who—what are you?” Her only hope is that it would distract Kelli for a second, until Estella could think of an escape plan.

“I’m Kelli,” Kelli repeated, teeth bared with joy. “As for what I am . . .” she cackled. “I’m an empousa, darling.” Empousa. Empousa. Kelli took another step forward. Empousa. Where had Estella learned that before? She knew this, she remembered something . . . maybe from science? No, no, that wasn’t right. . . “And it doesn’t matter what you are,” Kelli was saying. “You’re my prey. You’ll be dead soon.” She said this matter-of-factly, like all of Kelli’s prey was dead now. Maybe they were, Estella wouldn’t know. “Any last words?” she bared her fangs yet again. (Unoriginal, Estella’s unhelpful brain added.)

“Um. . .” Estella’s brain was unhelpful, before she remembered where exactly she was standing. “Bye, I guess?” she asked before she pushed all her weight on the door behind her. Kelli looked surprised, like she didn’t expect it, but Estella didn’t really care and shoved the door close after her, took a breath, and started racing down the stairs. Her feet echoed in the enclosed space—pitter patter, pit pat, pitter patter, pit pat—as she ran, nearly tripping multiple times.

She was about halfway down the steps when she heard a loud BOOM! and cursing followed. Estella figured it was Kelli, since no one else seemed to even realize something was wrong, up on the second floor.

“You’ll regret this!” And that was Kelli, yelling at Estella as she took the steps two at a time, mismatched feet (alright, since when did she have mismatched feet?!), donkey and metal, racing down the stairs. Estella didn’t look back again as she ran, slamming the door open and stopping a bit short when she saw the first floor of the ER. It was crowded. sh*t.

Would Kelli hurt the crowd? Would they even notice Kelli? Was . . . a shiver ran down Estella’s spine. Was she the only one who could even see Kelli? Was she the one that was delusional? It didn’t matter. Estella needed to save herself from Kelli—if she was real or if she wasn’t. Estella started to shove through the crowd, feeling horrible every time her hands brushed against a woman’s purse or she slammed into a man. She got yelled at several times—“Watch where you’re going, young lady!” was a popular one—but her only focus was getting away from the monster chasing her. The monster that wanted to kill her.

Kill her.

Realization sunk onto Estella. She was being hunted. She had a high chance of dying. She could die. She could die. She could die. The panic really set in; a mix of adrenaline and pure fear coursed through her veins as she ran, finally managed to push through the crowd and out of the hospital, onto the street.

Estella took the long path, one where she couldn’t spot any streetlights. She kept running and running and running. Until she finally, finally, reached a stop sign and realized how truly, utterly lost she was.

Not “lost” as in, I’m new to this neighborhood, let me ask someone. But lost as in, I don’t have time to ask questions, so I have to keep going. As she continued to walk—she gave up on running when she didn’t immediately see Kelli anymore—through the streets, the shadows grew darker and the light grew dimmer. It was nearing sunset. Great. Estella had been so close to finishing school, just three days away—and now she had to get lost?!

The bad thing was, Estella had never been allowed near phones. She doubted that she even knew how to use one, so contact was out of the question. At first, it seemed to Estella that her mother had been part of some crazy conspiracy theory, but Margret and Brian had always used phones, so it was something else. Max could probably use one, mused Estella as she picked up her pace again.

After about five minutes, when the sun was only a golden speck on the horizon, Estella stopped by a children’s park. She sat on a swing, swinging back and forth as she sulked. Because really, what could she do? She was stuck in a place she didn’t know, didn’t know how to use a phone, and had no money, no anything. Well and truly f*cked.

The night was dark by the time she got off the swings. Estella’s eyes remained trained on the ground as she thought through her options. She couldn’t do much, really. Estella could only think of asking around for directions, hoping that Kelli hadn’t followed her and that she was in the safe.

Estella looked up to the sky, hoping that she could maybe spot a constellation. They’d just finished a not-so-helpful course about using the stars as guidance. Even if she didn’t learn anything. But . . . the stars.

They were wrong, she realized as she stared at them. They were . . . in a line? Leading somewhere? Why? What magical phenomenon just happened that made them—? Oh. Oh.

The way they were lined up, Estella understood. It wasn’t a perfectly straight line that could be explained by Earth’s placement. It led straight, before veering off in a turn . . . as if the stars were leading her forward, on some type of journey that followed Earth’s axis. Estella turned around, still looking up. The stars started where she was standing, twinkling brighter than she’d ever seen. Behind where she stood, there was nothing.

Estella turned back around and took a step forward. Where to, she seemed to ask, where should I go? She glanced behind her, quickly, and saw that the star where she was standing a moment ago had disappeared, maybe faded out of existence. Or she really was delusional. Like, really, really delusional.

She continued walking, feeling apprehensive. Her brain was screaming, What was going on?! and she didn’t have an answer—didn’t know if she wanted an answer. Something was going on, and whether it had to do with Kelli, the empousa (where had Estella heard that term before?), or not . . . Estella wasn’t sure. Please, she thought. It wasn’t exactly a prayer, but more of a plea. Let Max be safe. Let him be safe. Let Mother and Brian be safe. The stars continued to disappear as she walked. When she finally reached the point where the stars started to turn, Estella paused.

Should she go on? Follow this maybe-ludicrous notion of stars showing her a way to safety? Was it safe? She didn’t know, and that scared Estella. She kept walking. The simple motion of doing something she knew let her thoughts wander. She wasn’t somewhere she knew. Estella rarely looked at maps nowadays, since they tended to stay in their area of New Jersey. How far had she run? The hospital had been on the border between Jersey and New York. Was she in a different state already?

If . . . if no one else even saw Kelli (Estella winced, it really made her sound crazy), Max should probably be okay. He was probably safe. So that led to the question of who was Kelli? Estella knew she was an empousa, but what was an empousa? Kelli had mismatched legs—one of a donkey’s, one of metal—and when Estella had looked back once, Kelli’s hair was made of fire. That was a clue. Something nagged at the edge of Estella’s brain, something that insisted, history. But . . . monsters weren’t real, right? And history was real. So that part of Estella’s brain was crazy, too.

Still, history. Why was her brain so insistent? Normally, Estella’s ADHD didn’t act up, she wasn’t completely hyper unless she got too much or too little sleep . . . Estella shook her head, walking under a row of large pines that filtered her vision black. She should follow the stars, if they were leading her to the right place— sh*t. Were the stars leading her to the right place? Could Estella even trust them?

But . . . she didn’t have another plan. It was her one shot that she had to chase, and just keep on hoping it would work. She also had no money, so bribing or anything of the like (even something as simple as asking for directions and how to use a pay phone) was out of the question.

The night kept on getting colder with Estella hunching over to keep the heat in her thin, summer cardigan. They’d hadn’t reached a warm-enough point of the year when the nights were warm enough not to freeze. The stars weren’t getting sparser and Estella couldn’t see the end of them, either. Keep on going. Keep on going until she got to the (hopefully safe) place the stars were leading her to. And stay there, stay safe. Away from monsters like Kelli, like empousa (which she still hadn’t figured out and was still bugging her, by the way).

The trudge would’ve been relaxing without the fear, she guessed. If she didn’t keep looking over her shoulder in paranoia, she might’ve enjoyed the quieter edge of New York, until she got to the Stars. However long that may be. She hoped she’d be fine, even without food. Hopefully only a couple more hours. A couple more hours till safety.

The thought kept Estella going as she cringed away from giganormous rats and the homeless people littered the road (she remembered that feeling all too well). At one point, a man chased her down the street, yelling, “You’ll be mine!” Estella, thankfully, managed to lose him quickly. She’d been in New York only a couple times before, and she could clearly remember her fear every time.

As Estella continued to keep walking, her mind started to shut down as her feet carried her. It was dark, she hadn’t slept enough, and it was too cold to think. The only thing running through her mind was follow the stars, follow the stars, follow the stars, over and over and over again. And again. And again.

The next thing she knew, Estella’s eyes blinked sleepily open as she stared around her. She was slumped against a tree—that was okay, probably. No attackers in sight— god. It was sad how quickly her instincts changed the moment she’d been attacked by Kelli. Now, it seemed that she was hardwired for everything, to check every little detail and make sure everything was alright (if you told that to her past self, past-Estella would never believe it). It felt like she’d just fallen asleep. Maybe. Hopefully.

Anyways. Estella had to follow the stars, but—the stars. The sh*tty stars that were gone, since it wasn’t night-time anymore. Was the entire world f*cking with Estella? “Are you kidding me?” she muttered as she picked herself off the tree, running shaky hands through her hair to pick out the leaves. “Puh-lease.”

Estella liked to think that she was flexible, pretty “go with the flow”. The kind of person someone would want on a team or project, right? That way, she’d ensured she was never picked last in Physical Education (the dreaded PE) and was always wanted on school projects, especially on pick your own teams. But she had never prepared to run away from home. It’d never even crossed her mind, since she knew how hard her mother had to work to keep them afloat, and that was a grown woman with a Bachelor’s. Estella was young, obviously school-age, and had no degree. Meaning she’d be reported quickly for her attempt at “running away”—yet Estella, with her not-so-amazing thoughts on the police (. . . you learn things the hard way when you live on the streets, okay?), didn’t think about turning herself in. Honestly, nothing was on her mind but surviving.

Keep going, follow the currently-invisible stars and survive. Which led to the question . . . how did she get back onto the starry path? If Estella closed her eyes and focused for long enough, she remembered the general direction—but every twist and turn was not engraved into her brain, meaning it was dangerous to continue. But what else could she do?

She stopped before a grocery store. It was big, looked rich, and—well, maybe Estella could camp out there for a little while? Until the sun started to set and she could return to her path? It had to be a bit after noon, she knew. What had the people on the streets thought of her? Shifting her feet awkwardly, Estella makes the decision to walk inside. Thankfully, that sharp, buzzing feeling that feels like a dozen needles pricking her skin doesn’t happen again. Her instinct, her gut, her whatever isn’t trying to warn her something bad is going to happen.

The first thing that happens when Estella walks in is that she’s blasted by AC, a cold wind that comes streaking at her face. It feels wonderful, she marvels as she makes her way to the back of the store, where it would (probably) be a bit less suspicious if she hung out there.

The back aisles are filled with pet supplies (that don’t stink!) It’s a good enough excuse, too; Estella can just say she’s making a quick run to get some food for the dog Estella doesn’t have. Eventually, the pet aisle leads onto the cleaning supplies, but Estella stays far from there—the smell would probably be heavy in the air.

Estella smiled sweetly at a woman who came in with her chihuahua (translates to demons), and the woman stared at her for a moment before continuing on. No one else really came, and Estella spent the afternoon looking through the foods, learning all about care for the dog she yearned for. Never gonna happen, that.

Estella leaves the store thirty minutes before it closes. The sun still hasn’t completely set yet, but they’re getting closer. She could probably find her way out of the city— her stomach grumbles, loud and clear, like a roaring lion. Estella had nearly forgotten that she hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. Shoot. She had no money, no food—she’d been surviving off of water, and in the store, everything had distracted her.

Looking around, Estella found nothing. She was in New York after all, though she’d still been hoping for some coins on the ground or something she could trade. The mantra of, I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry ran through her head. But nothing stood out to her, nothing useful.

Estella walked through the city, her stomach grumbling. Eventually, she stopped by a run-down looking McDonalds, and a picture of a McFlurry that had a bunch of bird poop on it. It reminded Estella of her stomach, which she hadn’t been able to forget. She continued to walk through a new park. It was nice, but her stomach— there. A sandwich that was laying down on the park bench, tucked on its packaging, looking there so . . . tantalizing.

Making her split-second decision, Estella dashed over to the bench, swept the sandwich into her cardigan pocket, and started to walk away from the bench. “Excuse me, young lady?”

Estella took two more steps forward before looking back to the old man standing there. “S-sorry!” she stuttered, “I’m–I’m just looking for my mom!” She fled quickly, hearing a faint chuckle behind her.

Estella was just tired, but— now she had food. Thank god. She could eat, something she’d been craving for so long. She stopped on the edge of the park to drink with the sandwich in hand, before ripping off the smallest piece she could and eating it.

──── ⋆🌷͙֒ ⋆ ────

“KEEP GOING, KEEP going,” Estella mumbled to herself, ignoring the fact that she probably sounded crazy. It had been a day since the last time she’d had food, and four days since she left the ER. No one was searching for her—Estella wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Was mother alright? Max? Even Brian, though Estella cared nothing for him?

She’d been surviving off of little food or sleep for the past four days. Very little sleep. A grandma randomly gave her five bucks as she walked in a park, which Estella had used to get McDonalds twice. Just fries; she drank from public parks. It wasn’t amazing, but she was getting buy.

Estella’s hair was a matted mess—it was even more surprising no one stopped her yet. Her clothes stunk and she probably looked like a devil.

Even more surprising was the stars. They were getting just a bit farther from each other, enough to let Estella know that she was probably reaching the destination.

It was dark out—she wasn’t surprised, since it was night time. The regular stars, tiny, white dots in the sky, twinkled merrily, while Estella’s large stars seemed to pound in her head. She’d been seeing more and more stars wherever she went, not only at night. Someone holding a Starbucks drink? It was decorated with stars. And the more she walked, the more stars she saw—as if she was being told she was doing a good job. Estella hoped that was the case, and not just her being incredibly delusional to an unhealthy level. Or just a new obsession with stars. That would suck.

“Are you helping me?” she murmured as she walked. Her cardigan was dirty now, and it barely warmed Estella up, but she had nothing else to help with the chilly, night New York air. She’d be facing it alone, something she’d never done before—Margret had always been beside Estella’s side before. And if not Margret, then it was Max.

Nothing happened, no one spoke aloud, but Estella could’ve sworn she heard a faint, wistful laugh and a gentle cry of, you’ll do good, my child. But Margret wasn’t there, and Estella dismissed the train of thought with a shake of her head. “Right, I forgot,” she snorted, “I’m delusional. I’m following stars to who knows where, for God’s sake!” A rumble of thunder made Estella roll her eyes, though she didn’t want it to start pouring on her.

She’d left the main metropolitan of New York a while ago; now, she was making her way through the little countryside. She was almost there, Estella could feel it. Her feet were numb but she couldn’t feel it, hadn’t felt it in a few days, to be exact. She was only barely functioning enough to walk.

“Almost there, almost there, almost there . . .” she repeated like a mantra. The phrase vibrated in her mind—almost there, almost there, almost there, almost there almost there almost there almostherealmosttherealmsotthere—as she walked sluggishly. Finally, when she looked up from the stretch of road, she could spot one, singular star glittering bigger and brighter than the rest, over a hill. It was only a little space away, the bottom of the hill was just a few steps away. The stars were finally over; Estella was this close to getting to her destination. To the place the stars led her to.

A resting place, she hoped. A place where she could be safe, if only for a little while.

Estella took a step forward, then another. She’d been walking for so long, five days and four-and-a-half nights, to be exact, to get here.

Another step. She’d blindly put her faith in something that had to be a scientific phenomenon, something that she could . . . something that could save her. Another step. She was so, so, so close. Would the risk pay off? Could she reach safety?

Just a few steps away—she took another, trying to solidify her decision—and she was getting “cold feet”. Had the stars led her right into a trap, something that would kill her? Was Estella Bloomberg going to die today? Did she suffer through everything she worked for just to die? To fade away to nothing on top of a hill no one seems to see?

Estella takes one more step. She’s four steps away from the bottom of the hill; she’s standing underneath the second to last star. The next star is final. Could she do it? Was she going to die? Was she brave enough to go forward? (She just figured she had nothing to lose . . . if she could just get this done with; all she needed to know was that Max and Margret were safe and then she’d be happy to deal with her own fate, a fate that could include anything that was needed in exchange for her loved ones’ health.)

Stand my ground, she thinks as she takes four more steps forward, looking up. The last star blinks merrily once, twice, before disappearing. She’s alone, without any stores—why does she feel bad about that? She should be happy her life will receive some degree of normality back, right? Now, Estella stands at the base of the hill. And she’s going to go up.

The trudge to the top is gruesome and Estella nearly falls twice. Wonderful. But she makes it up there and that’s all that matters. There’s a large pine tree next to her, she can feel the cool, whistling grass at her feet, how nice dewdrop-covered the tree bark feels underneath her dry palm skin, and the soft winds of the night sky and— it’s safe to say she’s over-simulated. Everything is too much and too little at the same time, to put it simply.

Estella sways.

The last thing she sees before her eyes flutter shut from exhaustion and she goes limp and everything goes black is—

A boy just a bit older than her; he reaches and picks her up and tucks her into him, trying to carry her; “You’ll be okay” is what he whispers soothingly.

A man’s voice is next. “Luke—”

But Luke, the guy carrying her, just says, “Shh. She’s exhausted . . . Chiron, can you get the first-aid kit, please?”

──── ⋆🌷͙֒ ⋆ ────

ESTELLA HAD BEEN claimed right after a game of capture the flag, a week after she came to camp. It wasn’t like how she imagined, but…well, more on that later. And she should probably back-pedal a bit, shouldn’t she?

She’d learned it was a big thing at camp, something everyone loved. When she’d asked Luke, the guy who found her, “really?” He gave her a strange look.

“Where am I?” she dreaded the question. It was directed towards Yvonne Arregia, a daughter of Hermes. Estella’s bedroll was just under Yvonne’s bottom bunk.

Yvonne barely glances at Estella as she adjusts her plume. “Offense. Athena Cabin says to stick close to Luke.”

Capture the Flag had two teams, Red and Blue, decked out in traditional Greek armor. Today, Team Blue was made up of the Athena, Hermes, Aphrodite, and Dionysus cabins, while Team Red boasted Ares, Hephaestus, Demeter, and Apollo. It was rather evenly matched, though Estella had heard some of the Hermes kids grumbling about the line-up.

The armor weighed down on Estella and she wanted nothing more than to shrug it off and relax without it on her shoulders. Luke stood to Estella’s right—or moreso, she stood to his left—and he waved goodbye to John Mercci, who was one of the youngest campers in the Hermes Cabin (though not at Camp) at nine years old. Apparently, because he wasn’t claimed and because of his young age, it was difficult to convince Chiron to agree to let him ‘play’. On Luke’s other side stood Malcolm Pace and Malcolm’s brother, Nick, both Athena kids, and the small brainiac Annabeth’s siblings.

When the conch horn sounded and everyone followed Annabeth’s orders, Luke led their team—himself, Estella, Malcolm, Nick, Castor and Pollux Winyard (Dionysus’s only two kids at Camp), and a few Cabin 11 inhabitants that Estella didn’t know by name—behind a large cluster of tree.

“You guys know what to do?” he hissed and was met with nods and quiet choruses of ‘yessir!’ “Right. Little change to the game plan, though. Yvonne’s team, the other defense, will join us when they scout out where the flag is. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Estella mumbled along with everyone else as she adjusted her loose helmet and kept her right arm near the two Camp daggers she had borrowed. She really, really wanted her own sword, but Luke had told her that swords were given to those who either had incredible talent or were claimed (sometimes, you’d even get one from your godly parent). She was clumsy with those daggers—one too light and another too heavy—but she could at least defend herself when the time came.

They crept along the greenery, though they weren’t very quiet, which Estella knew only from Luke’s glares and the way his mouth was pressed tightly together, as if he was refraining from scolding them all.

Just as Estella hit a fern hard in a way that would draw everyone’s glares to her, Yvonne’s group emerged from behind them. Yvonne’s grin was sharp. “The flag is in the middle of the clearing,” she informed Luke triumphantly. “No one else.”

Malcolm frowned. “They might be hiding in the bushes…trying to trap us. Yvonne can you do the—” he moves his hand in weird bursts and Estella understands that he means super-quickly.

“Magic run? Sure.”

“But Malcolm…” Nick still looks hesitant. “Like you said, they could be in the trees.”

“They are in the trees,” offered Christopher “Chris” Rodriguez, another unclaimed Hermes kid. Silena Beauregard (a daughter of Aphrodite, Estella recalled) in Yvonne’s group shifted uncomfortably. “So…”

“They’ll catch us.” Malcolm looks deflated, like an excited child who was told that today was not, in fact, his birthday. “So what can we—”

“There’s no way!” Estella interrupted, blushing when everyone’s eyes shifted to hers. Castor wrinkles his nose, curly blonde hair bobbing, though he just seemed tired of everything. “Sorry…but Malcolm. Even if they have arrows ready, i–if Yvonne can run at even a 100th of the speed of light, which she can, they won’t be able to get her. It just wouldn’t be right. The laws of physics don’t work like that; she’s a moving target and they’re aiming from the trees and…” As she tried to reason with Malcolm, everyone but Nick seemed to tune them out, though Luke and Chris had the decency to try and look interested.

Eventually, when she stopped, Malcolm nodded. “Maybe…”

Then he glanced at Nick, but the older boy just shrugged in answer to Malcolm’s silent question.

A few more awkward seconds of silence passed and Luke clapped his hands. “So we agree we’re going to try it?” A few quiet cheers and he nodded at Yvonne. “You do you. You want someone to help?”

“I’m good,” Yvonne straightened her back and jutted out her chin. She barely glanced back as she whispered, “Chris, Luke, watch my back,” and she stepped directly into the clearing, putting herself in the line of fire. Then, with a whizzing blur that Estella couldn’t catch, she ran forward, got the red flag, and started to sprint back. She was halfway to the river when everyone else in their group started running after her, trying not to be caught prisoner in the last moments of Capture the Flag.

Estella could feel Luke’s rhythm next to her and tried to adapt it, hating the feeling of her dagger sheaths hitting her leg repeatedly. “O–w,” she panted as they stumbled through the river. Luke was looking up, staring at Yvonne with a proud smile on his face, though he rested a hand on her back. It was warm, she thought faintly as she struggled to regain her breath.

“I guess we know what you need to work on.”

“I guess so,” she agreed through large gulps of air, pulling herself up and moving a wave from off her sticky face. The sweat dripped through her fingers as she clapped for Yvonne—until Yvonne, Chris, Silena, and Pollux all came forward and started crowding around her.

Luke’s face reappeared in Estella’s vision, smile bright on his face, backed by Nick and Malcolm. “You were quite the MVP,” he said, and it felt like just two of them. He was smiling down at her—damn his stupid height!—and Estella recalled the comment he let slip barely a minute ago.

A cheesy smile overruled her face. “It was only because Malcolm and Nick brought it up,” she argued playfully.

Malcolm reached forward and punched her arm, smiling. Even though it reached his eyes, something about those pools of gray looked too calculating for a child. “You were the MVP. In all the times we’ve played with Yvonne, we’ve never actually used her speed, Estella.” He was still looking at her like that, and with a sinking stomach, Estella realized he was trying to figure out who her godly parent was. What was glory with nothing to fight for?

Someone hoisted her up—it felt like Silena’s soft hands, maybe—as cheers of “MVP! MVP!” rang in her ears. Estella had learned pretty early on that demigods loved anything related to glory—it was their driving force. Kleos.

Estella could barely make out Clarisse’s half-furious, half-impressed face before her sight went silver. Shocked gasps filled the air all around her as Estella felt her body dip closer to the ground and she fought not to close her eyes in fear.

Her feet hit solid ground and Estella looked up in despair. A large telescope, with math symbols decorating the sides, glowing silver, hung suspended over her head. “What…?” she whispered to herself.

Suddenly it was Chiron standing in front of her, not campers in orange shirts hidden by golden and bronze armor. He lowered one foot slightly as he said grimly, “Mother of astronomy, astrologist, and queen of the artistic sciences. Hail Estella Bloomberg, daughter of Urania, the muse and goddess of the stars.”

Murmurs of appreciation rung out through the crowd, but Estella could only focus on one face: Luke’s, half-hidden by the dimming light of torches in the forest and the sunset, looking a mix of shocked, appreciative, and…and thoughtfulness.

She could only send a small prayer to her mother—a woman she didn’t know existed a few mere seconds ago. Please let me be safe. Please let him be safe. Let us be safe.

The trudge back to the cabins was awkward. Estella had hid in the end of the Cabin 11 chain of campers, walking beside Yvonne. The other girl said nothing, but her quick glances told Estella everything she needed to know: like the rest of the campers, Yvonne was wondering how Urania was her godly parent.

They were all thinking, how could it not be Athena? But Estella didn’t have the gray eyes of the Athena kids—she had toasted, dark coffee-brown. She wasn’t blonde—though not all Athena kids were blonde—and the only thing going for her was the equations she’d brought out in the midst of the game.

Eventually, as they neared the Cabin 11, the little sign barely visible in the burning torch light, Yvonne gave her a little shove. “Go talk to Luke.”

“What for?” She felt a bit bad about questioning Yvonne’s orders, but she just wanted to jump into her bed (bedroll) and sleep.

Yvonne doesn’t spare Estella a glance as she slips into one of the bathrooms at the end of the cabin. “Tradition.”

Tradition to see your head counselor after being claimed, assumed Estella as she slowly headed towards Luke’s bunk. The blonde sits sullenly on top, the two Stoll brothers seemingly on the bottom, though Estella can only spot Connor’s head, little drool slipping out of his mouth. Luke pats his bed when he spots Estella and she clambers up gently to join him. They both lean their heads against the cool wood walls of the cabin.

“Yvonne said it’s tradition?” Estella asked quietly, even though no one else could hear them.

“Yeah.” Luke sighed. “Tradition for us to be abandoned by our parents? Tradition…yeah…yeah.” Estella swallows back her “…sorry?” and stares at Luke. He seems to notice he said the wrong thing because he clears his throat and continues sheepishly, “sorry. But most of us are abandoned. Congratulations on being claimed, too.”

“Thank you.”

“But…” When Estella tries to follow Luke’s gaze, it only leads to more chipping wood. “Listen, it’s hard for all of us here. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of being claimed and moving to a new cabin, finding your ‘one true family’” —it was true, she had heard those stories— “but it’s not like that. Not for you, at least,” he finished dryly.

Estella could get what he was saying (she would be staying in the Hermes Cabin, okay, she understood that), but still asked curiously, “Why?”

He still looked uncomfortable, shifting slightly before sighing yet again. “You’re a daughter of Urania.”

“I’m aware?”

“There is no cabin for Urania,” Luke admitted. “Nothing at all. You’ll be stuck here until…until something changes.”

A small pit forms in Estella’s stomach, her guilt and fears feeding in. She wouldn’t ever be normal, huh? “I…” she swallows. “I know.” There’s so much pain in those two words. Years of being singled out and living in horrible conditions that led to medical problems and just problems about herself in general—insecurities. Even if she isn’t alone in the Hermes Cabin; she knows Chris Rodriguez, tall and a child of Hermes that wasn’t actually claimed. Then there was Ethan Nakamura, a son of Nemesis who stayed in the Hermes Cabin, all the Hecate kids…yet she felt alone.

Something changes in Luke’s eyes. They turn sort of sympathetic, soften, and he gives her a bittersweet, little smile. “Things will get better,” he promises. His voice is deep yet hollow, reminiscent of either the kid he used to be or would be, Estella didn’t know.

She nods deeply. Eventually, Luke gives her a look that tells her she should get to bed, and that’s what she does, climbing down and settling in her warm bedroll, her oversized Camp Half-Blood tee serving as a short yet puddle-like nightgown.

Camp Half-Blood is nothing like what she thought, but not in a bad way.

It’s amazingly clear, like that perfect day between rainy and sunny.

It feels right.

And even if she doesn’t love the whole kleos/glory thing, well, you don’t immediately fit in!

This is home.

──── ⋆🌷͙֒ ⋆ ────

EVERYTHING FLOATED AROUND Estella, like large balloons that continued to rise in the air. When she twisted around, her feet twirling like a ballerina’s, the sky was a mix of a deep blue and purple. It felt like paradise, with the warm wind touseling Estella’s waves and the smell of salty water rising to her nose. As she settled in place, her feet pressed into the deep, moist grass. Scratch that.

It was paradise.

“You look lovely.”

Estella immediately whipped around, now-salty hair getting into her mouth as she coughed. The woman smiled warmly. “Who are you?” Estella demanded, maybe coolly, hand now instinctively going to her hip, where the two daggers were strapped. Whoa. Her instincts had changed so much since she came to Camp—and she’d accepted this part of herself. Looking down, even in this Dreamland, she was wearing a camp shirt and short jeans, an accompanying tweeting of birds for the summery vibe.

The woman simply continued to smile. “You came.”

“I…came?” Estella frowns.

The woman is tall and she’s floating—not mortal, so either monster, deity, or demigod. Her dress was a summer one, long and floaty, reaching to her ankles, heavy black curls tucked into a flowing half-up, half-down style. The dress had imprints of stars on it, not labeled, just there, and a little string filled with silver star charms. Her face features were soft—eyes a deep, molten silver that glistened in the sunlight and a nose barely upturned, softened features and barely soft smile lines. She looked like your stereotypical “happy aunt”. Her lips are tainted a pink-red with a little bit of shimmer. She looks innocent.

“Estella.” the woman nodded.

“I—I don’t know who you are,” Estella replied, her heart beating quickly inside her chest. Gifts are never free. Her fingers curl around the empty space at her thigh.

Something in the woman’s expression freezes a little bit as her eyes turn a hint darker. “You know who I am, dearest.” her voice has a soft, melodious tone to it. Her smile is barely apparent but there.

Who would seek her out…? Estella couldn’t conjure up a single thought. A goddess, a goddess who’d care to talk to a girl claimed by a minor goddess who was barely remembered. “You’re not an empousa,” she said cautiously.

“I’m not an empousa,” the woman agrees, each voice carved with a thousand degrees of hurt.

“Then who are you?”

“Come,” the woman patted the seat next to her comfortingly. It wasn’t a seat, Estella thought faintly as she sat in the grass. It was more of a small perch on the edge of the cliff, leading to a void—maybe Hell on the other side of Paradise. She didn’t know. But what she did know was that something about the woman excluded comfort, felt right; the problem was that she’d never seen this woman before. The woman waited until Estella sat to murmur softly, “I rarely have any children.”

Estella nodded, confused why the woman was telling her this, yet something nagged at the corner of Estella’s mind, something about math, but it was quickly washed away by the sounds of birds chirping.

The woman continued, “When I do, they have little or no powers.” The nagging feeling turned into a pit. “You, my dear Estella, are an exception.” The woman—presumably Urania—turned to stare into Estella’s eyes, smiling softly. “It has been a while since I’ve met a child of mine so spirited.”

“I thought you didn’t have many children?” Estella asked without thinking and then slapped a hand across her mouth. sh*t, sh*t, sh*t, why did she say that?!

Urania tilted her head as she mused, “perhaps. I’ve had roughly a dozen children in my lifetime…in the millenia. You, Estella, are the ‘Baker’s dozen’, my extra-special. It’s hard to tell, you are right, but you have a spark—or perhaps I’m missing something; it’s been multiple centuries since I’ve had offspring.”

Estella wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be reassuring to have a mother who didn’t know if she had a “spark” or not. “Who…” she asked timidly, “who was your last child?”

“1642,” was Urania’s immediate response. “My lovely Isaac.”

Estella blinked owlishly. “Isaac?” she asked. “Like—like Sir Isaac Newton, the inventor of gravity?”

“Yes,” replied Urania dreamily. “He was such a nice boy…pity he died…” so not only was her godly parent just a bit ‘out of touch’, but she also hadn’t had a child in nearly four-hundred years. That was a long, long time, and Estella was 99% sure that parenting styles had changed since then—if Urania was even ever part of Newton’s childhood, considering what Luke and Yvonne told her about the gods.

“I…I see.” Estella, in fact, did not see.

“As you can tell, it’s been a while,” Urania gave a dry chuckle, before brightening, “which is why I’ve come to give you protection!”

“P—protection?” Estella echoed. “Like…a sword?”

Urania blinked. “Nearly. A certain type of Greek sword, Estella.” Estella’s head tilted. Urania smiled. “A makhaira, a curved sword, similar to a kopis. They’re rarely used, of course; a xiphos is normally preferred, and makhairas are better for cutting instead of thrusting. The Spartans loved them.”

Estella resisted the urge to ask Urania, do I seem as barbaric as the Spartans?, but didn’t. Instead, she frowned, “I haven't seen many in the Camp's Weapon Shed.”

“True,” Urania nodded. “Still, they're fearsome weapons...they range in size. My favorite is about three heads—”

"—three heads?" Estella interrupted incredulously.

Urania slightly wilted. "Currencies have changed," she murmured, “twenty inches, 51 centimeters. About.”

“...okay?” Estella really wanted to ask, and?, but didn’t, holding her tongue and trying to show respect.

“Your skills in the game of your… ‘Capture the Flag’, is it? Well, they very much impressed me. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a child of mine with such natural reflexes for something other than the sciences.” Urania reached a bit forward before flinching back, like an invisible force kept her away from Estella.

“Thank you,” Estella murmured.

The goddess sighed. “I wanted to keep you safe,” she continued sadly. “It’s been a bumpy ride…which is why…” she snapped her fingers and a long, curved blade, bronze in color and a beast of beauty appeared in her hands. Estella immediately took a step back. Instincts, thank you. “I wanted to give you this. His name is Dýnamis in Greek, or Strength.”

“It’s…he’s beautiful…” Estella whispered, staring at the sword—the makhaira. Curved sword. Not perfect—just like her.

“I’m glad you think so.” The look on Urania’s face is rather bittersweet and there’s a hint of something else Estella can’t detect. “He shows the Muses’ glories and triumphs.” Indeed, Estella could see little scenes carved onto the blade. “I’d like for Dýnamis to be yours.”

Estella felt a tear trickling down her cheek, paving a salty and wet path for others to follow. “Are you…are you sure?” There’s no way in the freakin’ name of Hades that a goddess like Urania, who barely knows Estella (even if they’re mother and daughter), would give Estella something so precious, so sacred, without consequences.

Urania looks confused. “I…” she begins, before breaking off. Great. It seems that Estella’s awkwardness came from Urania, not her mother. “It is yours and only yours,” she continues, her voice growing stronger with each word, “no one else will take it from you, my daughter.”

The small admittance releases more tears from Estella’s eyes. Urania is nothing like what Luke told her and everything like Luke told her at the same time. It hurts to have to decide. Being called Urania’s daughter makes it hurt even more; she’s officially part of this world, not some mistake and she couldn’t just be sent back to Margret and Brian. Back to Max—Max. The name sends jolts into Estella’s stomach.

How could she be such a bad sister? She’d forgotten about Max in her time at Camp Half-Blood, forgotten about their bond and all they’d gone through together. She’d forgotten about her brother, fighting for his life in the hospital ward, forgotten that life was more unfair than she could remember. She’d forgotten everything. (Maybe for the best, she’d later think, but deep down, she knew forgetting a part of her would only lead to worse decisions.)

Urania gives a long, lengthy sigh, before whispering, “I must go.” Yet she still straightens, thinks Estella. “Stay safe, my daughter.” As she starts to fade, ten last words leave her mouth, “I am always here. No gift comes without a price.”

Estella was left alone, the paradise slowly crumbling around her, trees fading into black ash that was whipped to the ground by the heavy winds that had just picked up, everything was crumbling to ash as Estella thought about poor Max, alone now in the hospital, and more ash and more and more and more—

Until a giant wave reached up—up, up, and up above—the now destroyed wasteland and swallowed everything, including Estella, whole.

She couldn’t do this anymore.

When she woke up the next day, her pillow was soggy with tears and her cheeks puffy and wet, the salty tracks still present.

──── ⋆🌷͙֒ ⋆ ────

MORGAN ANDERSON HAD a nice life, compared to her other family, but that didn’t come with its own pros and cons. The Anderson family was a mix of immigrants and those who lived here for so long, they didn’t recall their original home. Morgan and her dad, George “Georgie” Anderson, were of the Anderson main branch. They were the only “normal” ones. Everyone else had some issues: drug addicts, bed warmers, messy divorces over adultery, the list continued—including things Georgie wouldn’t let Morgan hear.

But even a nice life didn’t mean smooth sailing . . . it just meant better than another’s. Morgan grew up without a mother, a simple fact. It was always her and her dad, Georgie, and sometimes they’d go over to Georgie’s parents—her grandparents—and stay the night. They were the “clean slates” of their family, her grandmother would alway say. The older generation was tainted by war, the younger ones by drugs, sex, and music like the things that ran rampant in the ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s. And the youngest? Morgan and her cousins? They were simply ruined, it seemed.

Besides, Morgan had “anger issues” and was “slightly delusional” according to her school counselor. Daily, Morgan felt happy that she wasn’t taken by the CPS for various reasons—she was happy and healthy. Even her dad said he knew why she had anger issues, and that he’d tell her when the time was right. It was one of those annoying phrases adults always repeated.

Which led to the day, the twenty-sixth of May. Morgan’s day at school had not been great; firstly she’d been called to the principal's office for an event that definitely didn’t involve her! Then she’d had someone chuck their carrots (out of all things!) at her during lunch. So when she got into the car, she was rightfully pissed. Not to mention all the homework she had gotten, plus a couple of other incidents.

“Daddy, I’m going insane again.” That was how Morgan greeted her dad. “I saw a three-headed dog this time.”

Her dad nearly crashed the car. “Really, Morrie?” he asked as he straightened himself, looking at her directly in the mirror. “Are you sure?” Morgan nodded her yes, looking outside the window. He sighed. “Darling . . . I think it’s time I tell you about your mother.”

Morgan straightened up immediately. Every parcel of information about her mother she would soak up, to prevent those embarrassing times she could remember all so clearly:

Standing in front of her class to present her family tree in second grade. She has the Anderson side perfectly mapped out, but the teacher only smiles a daredevil smile and asks, “My dear Morgan, where is your mommy?” The children laugh. Maybe it’s because of the use of “mommy”, but Morgan knows it’s not—they’re mocking her. She’s the only child in her class without a parent. She is missing part of her family, part of her history. That day, Morgan saw two snake-ladies and a double-headed snake.

“Morgan, I’m afraid to mark this assignment incomplete,” said the teacher with a sympathetic smile. The teacher is trying to smile; trying, and failing. While the other kids read—or fake to, most likely watching Morgan with excitement for drama—Morgan must stand in front of the teacher, looking down at her shoes, willing away the tears. The teacher is talking in a too-loud voice: everyone can hear. “You didn’t talk about the origins of your name, Morgan. And . . . there’s no information about your mother. This is incomplete, Miss Anderson.” She answered nothing.

Holding to her arms, staring at the assignment: a family tree, again. She never turned in the assignment. She ignored the fat zero, and when Georgie asked why she got a “B”, she said she’d flunked a test. He believed her without question. And even though she hated the feeling of failure filling her stomach inside and out, the feeling of letting everyone down and not having something to proudly present, a memory to engrave in others’ minds, she swallowed it roughly and promised herself to do better next time, that she would outshine them all.

Over time, Morgan had grown spectacular at hiding her true feelings, spinning her tales to get her recognition that she was her own person, not caring about a single f*ck. That was said, probably.

“Really?”

Georgie Anderson smiled wearily. “Yes, really,” he said, “We’ll talk about it when we get home, okay? Let me . . . let me get us home safely so we can actually talk.”

A smile tugs at Morgan’s face. “Of course, daddy.”

──── ⋆🌷͙֒ ⋆ ────

THEY’RE SITTING IN in the car, and Morgan’s riding shotgun. Finally. And Georgie shut down the radio and is smiling at her through one of the mirrors. Morgan is finally going to uncover the secret of her mother. There are questions on Morgan’s lips, like, why didn’t you tell me earlier? But if it’s something bad . . . well, Morgan wouldn’t fault Georgie.

He begins by saying, “Morgan, what do you know about Greek mythology?”

Morgan frowns. It’s not exactly “the question” she’d expect from her dad. Greek mythology? They didn’t even have roots from Greece, she thought. “Not much,” she answered truthfully, “just a little bit about the gods. Apollo and Hera, right?”

“Yes.” But her father glanced back anxiously. “Names have power, Morgan, alright? But yes . . . those guys. This might come as a shock to you, darling . . . but they are very much real and alive.”

What?

Excuse me? Instead of her real thoughts, all that comes out is: “Who’s my mother?”

“Taking initiative,” smirked Georgie, “I like it, Morgan. Who do you think she is?”

Morgan stopped for a minute, reviewing what she could remember about the Greek gods.

There was Aphrodite, of course, goddess of beauty—but was Morgan ever really considered an epitome of beauty? No, not really. Sure, her grandmother always doted on her and called her “my beautiful, precious girl”, but didn’t all grandmothers do that? Plus, Morgan was the only “normal” one in her family, and her grandmother probably wanted to be on her good side. Even if Aphrodite is the goddess of other things, such as love, some illusion, and seductions—no, Aphrodite was not her mother. No way.

Maybe it was Hera? Yet no, something was wrong. Hera didn’t have any demigod children, did she? So it wasn’t her. And so was Hera’s sister, Hestia, who was a virgin goddess and protector of the hearth.

Then there was Athena, goddess of wisdom and owls. But wasn’t she a virgin goddess? Could she even have children? …really, why was this so hard?

Artemis was also a virgin goddess, queen of the hunt. Morgan remembered older days when she read a bit about the goddess, twin of Apollo—she had a band of followers, the Hunters. Yet they weren’t her children, but minor goddesses and nymphs and mortals.

So the only goddess left was… “Is it Demeter?” Morgan asked, tongue stuck to the top of her throat. Demeter was the goddess of agriculture, spring, growth, and sure, Morgan had a bit of a green thumb, but it was nothing much.

Georgie glances back at Morgan, before his lip tilts and he smiles. “Yes, Morgan. It is. She is.”

“...oh…oh.” In truth, Morgan doesn’t know how to feel about this. After years of not knowing who her mother was, the sudden dump was a bit of a surprise, that was true. And perhaps a stronger mother could give her more standing, if possible?

“Look, Morgan…” her dad sighs heavily. “We’re driving to a place called Camp Half-Blood—it’s a safe place for people like you—”

“Retarted?” she dares to interrupt.

“No. For demigods, Morgan. I…” he glanced at her again. “I really hope you find a home there.”

Morgan’s throat closes up as she asks wetly, “Dad…will I see you?”

“Of course, Morgan,” he is quick to reassure. “I’m just not sure how powerful you are yet. It depends…that’ll change the amount of time we can spend together. Besides, I’m sure they have some type of communication service, right?”

“Yeah,” she closes her eyes, leaning back in the car seat, trying to get the tears to go away.

The rest of the car ride is silent. Morgan, with her head pressed against the warm window, wonders about what Camp Half-Blood will be like. Will it be full of people she needed to catch up to? Filled with strength—strength she didn’t have—like in Sparta? Or would it be something different, something modern, and…would she be able to outshine them all? That was the most important question. When she looked outside the window, she saw they were nearing the base of a large hill that was topped with a giant pine tree.

“We’re here,” Georgie announced in a grim tone. Morgan barely glanced at him, too enamored in the view.

“Where’s the camp?” she asked suspiciously, unbuckling and climbing out of the car. “Because it looks a hella lot like nothing.”

“Language,” sighed Georgie, swinging an arm around Morgan’s shoulders. “I think Camp Half-Blood is over the hill…but I don’t think I can go in with you.”

“Why not?” Morgan turned around in Georgie’s grasp, sinking into his solid build, as if he was about to disappear in a moment’s notice.

“Think about it, Morrie,” he ruffled her hair and smiled as she gave a soft squeal. “If this camp is here to protect demigods, why would they let regular people—such as me—have access? Wouldn’t it be too dangerous for the entirety of New York to be able to just go inside?”

“...maybe,” she murmured, shoving her face into his body as he wrapped a large arm around her, pulling his daughter close. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I don’t want to leave you, either,” he whispered back, rubbing circles across Morgan’s back. When she finally withdrew from the hug, her eyes were slightly puffy and she sniffled. “Go on,” he said quietly, pushing Morgan in the direction of the hill. “I’ll be waiting down here in case something happens.”

Morgan nods sullenly. She takes a few steps up the hill before breaking into a slow pace of walking. The hill isn’t as tall as it seems, and when she reaches the top, she’s stopped by a tall, blonde guy, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, wearing full armor including a horse plume. Maybe Morgan is gapping, she’s not sure.

“Who are you?” he asks roughly, pointing a spear directly under her chin.

“M—Morgan Anderson,” she stuttered without thinking about the consequences of names. “My d—dad dropped me off here. He said this is Camp Half-Blood…?”

The boy lowered his spear as a girl, with long, brown hair pulled back in a braid, and a golden top-armor plate layered over a floaty summer dress, came running close, pausing at the boy’s side. “I’m Luke,” he stated. “I think we need to bring you to the Big House.”

The girl besides Luke tilted her head softly, staring at Morgan with big, doe-like eyes. “I’m Estella,” she offered sweetly. “Luke, do you want me to take her—?”

“No,” Luke shook his head as Estella looked between him and Morgan anxiously. “Stella, stay here with the patrol group, okay? I’d prefer to take her myself.” He patted Estella’s shoulder as she nodded.

Just before Luke and Morgan reach the side of the tree, Estella yells, “Good luck, Morgan.” Morgan says nothing in reply, but she’s thankful nonetheless.

When they continue walking, Morgan feels a sense of calm overwhelm her, as if she was doused in cool mist. It feels like magic, she realizes—maybe the tree? Somehow? “So is this Camp Half-Blood?” she dares to ask, glancing at Luke. She can feel her legs taking long strides to keep up with Luke’s incredibly speedy pace. Was there a Greek god of speed?

“Yeah,” he replies shortly, before shaking his head and sighing. “Sorry if I seem really irritated, don’t take it too personally. Ever since the winter solstice—well, let’s just say it’s been a bit of a headache,” he forces a smile.

Morgan nods, a wave of sympathy and understanding coming in. Maybe she didn’t know anything about this world, but she knew enough about headaches and hallucinations to understand. “Got it. So…uh…where are we walking?” Camp was beautiful, she had to admit: green grass and large trees all around. It felt mystical (really, she snorted, what gave her that idea?) and blessed, but… “Also, are there adults here? I don’t hear too much noise,” she said with a tilt of her head.

Luke laughed, loud and clear. “Slow your horses, kiddo,” he chuckles as they approach a tall, maybe four-story building with blue coloring and a white trim. “We’re pretty much all kids—” his mirth fades away to a look of something darker as he finishes, “most demigods don’t get to adulthood.” Then he shakes his head again. “Don’t worry ’bout it. Besides, everyone is probably in their cabins, getting ready for Water Day.”

“Water Day?”

“Annual tradition. If you’re a younger camper, you hang out by the lake and the nereids, but if you’re older, you get to go down to the beach.” Luke and Morgan stepped onto the porch just as the screen door opened and two men stepped out, bickering.

One was tall, a centaur, obviously, judging by his bottom half, pure white stallion. On top, he was a middle-aged man, maybe your history teacher. The other man was just as tall, if not a bit pudgy, wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt. Morgan can’t help looking away from him, but not before she notices his violet eyes (who has violet eyes?) and black curls. Even though he’s sporting the alcoholic aesthetic, Morgan can imagine him in his prime, looking blessed with the best genes.

“Mr. D,” says Luke, giving a half-bow, “and Chiron.” So this was Chiron, thought Morgan as she stared at the centaur. The great trainer of heroes. The man (horse?) who trained Perseus, Achilles, Atlanta, and more. “And this is…” he glances at Morgan. “This is Morgan Anderson.”

Morgan bows her head—and only her head—low, to the ground. “Hi.”

Mr. D—someone important?—groans. “Another one,” he mutters as he plonks himself down in a beach chair. “So?” he raises his eyebrow at Chiron. “Are you not going to go on your whole trainer rant?”

“...right.” Chiron smiled kindly at Morgan, though she did notice it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hello, Miss Anderson.” Morgan bit back her interruption of, Morgan is fine. “Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. It’s a pleasure to have you here. Do you, perhaps, know why you are here?”

“Somewhat.” It’s hard for Morgan to not respond formally to these men. They sound so proper, unlike Luke and Estella, who were kind, if a bit short. “Not much…but enough, I guess,” she shrugged.

“Right,” Chiron looked thoughtful. “I suppose our orientation film should suffice. What do you think, Luke?”

“Sure,” Luke shrugged carelessly. He really did look like he’d prefer to be anywhere but here, but he still took Morgan to the nearby room and tinkered with some machinery, until a man with golden hair, golden eyes, perfect skin, and wearing a very short chiton appeared on screen. “There we go. The Orientation Film.”

──── ⋆🌷͙֒ ⋆ ────

“THAT WAS…CERTAINLY an experience,” snorted Morgan carefully. “I don’t know if I’d say it was illuminating, though.”

“Yeah.” It looked like Luke was struggling to hold back laughter, the scar going from his eye to his lip bobbing. “They never listen when I say it’s not worth it, but at least it teaches, I guess. Did you not understand anything?”

“Why do monsters chase after demigods?” asked Morgan with a curious expression.

“Oh…” Luke shifted as they walked. Morgan was like, 90% sure they were walking towards the cabins (cabins?) to go to Cabin 11, the Hermes cabin, where all unclaimed children were kept. She didn’t tell anyone that she knew who her mother was. “Well, imagine you’re back in Ancient Greece. This woman Lamia, queen of Libya, has an affair with the king of the gods, right—”

“Why do you not use their names?” Morgan interrupted.

Luke grimaced. “Names have power, Morgan,” he said uneasily as they passed by a big lake. “Bad powers. Gods can…overhear certain things when they’re name is being said, okay?”

“...right.” That was just slightly concerning.

“Well, he f*cked our lovely queen, and then his wife killed the queen’s children. To make H—the wife suffer, the queen cursed all demigods to have monsters chase them. Except the wife never liked us in the first place, so…” he shrugged. “It wasn’t a big loss for her…on the other hand, for us, we’re losing numbers by the dozens. And…and there’s only so many of us.”

Morgan felt a ball form in her throat. They were being chased for something that wasn’t even their fault? It was all Zeus and Hera’s?

Luke laughed. “I know your expression,” he warned, “you’re thinking, ‘that isn’t fair.’ Well, Morgan, I’m afraid you’re going to need to get used to ‘it’s not fair’.” She gave a rough nod.

By now, they stood in front of a small cabin—that was within a ring of others, though she hadn’t really paid attention—that was painted a peeling gray and light yellow. A run-down sign read Cabin 11 under a small sculpture of a Caduceus, Hermes’s staff. “It’s…” she swallowed the shabby she was going to say, swapping it out with, “it’s cozy,” mid-sentence.

Luke definitely caught her slip-up by the way he cracked a smile and said, “Welcome to your current home, Cabin 11. For some, temporary…and for others, permanent.”

“You?” she asked as they stepped inside.

Everyone’s heads snapped to them. Luke spread his arms wide, as if embracing all the campers wearing bright orange shirts. “Permanent.” he doesn’t sound too happy, but two guys holler, and a ghost of his smile flickers onto his face. “Like I said, home.”

“Who’s that?” A guy with a wave in his dark, thick hair, styled very carefully with gel, wearing an orange shirt that contrasted with his dark skin, stands up, getting out of the (his?) bedroll as the girl next to him shifts to stare at Morgan and Luke.

“Morgan Anderson,” Luke replied steadily. They were still standing right in front of the doorframe.

The girl, sitting, asked, “Is she claimed?”

“Undecided,” sighed Luke, and a wave of groans flowed from all the campers. Morgan looks at him in confusion—she knows a bit about Claiming but not much—and Luke explains, “you aren’t claimed, so you’re undetermined until a parent picks you up and you move to their cabin.”

“Or you stay here,” another guy suggested, which also prompted more eye rolls and quite a few mutters of “we get it, Alabaster” and “it’s always you and Ethan!” Which was strange.

“Yes, Alabaster,” sighed Luke once more, turning to Morgan and saying, “Alabaster C. Torrington, son of Hecate.” A glint of something dark is in Luke’s eye, even if Morgan doesn’t know exactly what. “He’s one of the…Claimed demigods who remains in the Hermes cabin. His mother, unfortunately, doesn’t have a cabin.” No one says anything as Alabaster juts out his chin.

And that’s when Morgan realizes how crowded the Hermes Cabin is. All the bunks are being used and it seems that roughly half of them are being shared. The entirety of the floor is covered in bedrolls and sleeping bags and air mattresses. There’s a sh*t ton of kids in here, and Morgan understands why they aren’t happy to see another kid. There’s no space for anyone. Anyone.

But there’s also no words to describe what Morgan now knows, so she says nothing as Luke claps his hands. “Back to what you were doing!” he commands. Then he turns to Morgan, places a hand on her shoulder, and leads her outside. When they get outside, he picks up his pace as they walk towards a large area covered in roof. “Sorry about the condition inside,” he grimaces. “We’re a bit crowded, as you can tell.”

Morgan pauses. “How many kids inside of the cabin are claimed?”

Luke’s expression is grim. “Half. And half of those half are Hermes kids. The other ones—like Alabaster, Ethan, Estella—” the girl Morgan had seen earlier “—aren’t Hermes kids but are claimed. And the rest…the rest are all unclaimed.”

Morgan’s throat is dry. “All of them?”

“Most,” he barely looks at her as he approaches a table. “Like Chris, for example—he’s the guy that asked if you were claimed. We all know he’s a son of Hermes, but he’s not claimed yet.” Luke sighs. “Listen, Morgan. You’re a good kid and all, but…I just wanted you to know to not take it personal if you don’t get claimed. Some of those kids I know—they’ve been here for over four years. Not claimed. The gods are just like that, I guess.”

“Are all of the gods like that?”

“Not all. Apollo and Hephaestus tend to claim fast, as well as Aphrodite. Others…” he shrugs. “Some minor deities take longer to claim. They either don’t notice, don’t care, or try to stop their kids’ suffering but actually prolong it.”

It’s…it’s a lot to take in. Camp Half-Blood isn’t anything like she thought. Instead of structure and order, it seems like a bunch of kids running around with ancient things. A sob pounds in her throat. “What happens if you’re not claimed?”

“Well…” Luke looks uncomfortable. Maybe it’s her near-hysteria or just he hates the topic in general. “You live the rest of your days out in Cabin 11. Rejoin the mortal world if you can. And you probably won’t get kleos, but—”

“‘Kleos’?” interrupts Morgan.

“Ancient Greek for glory,” he replied. “It’s kind of like the prizes you get or the medals you earn. It’s what demigods tend to compete for, anyway.”

“Kleos…” repeats Morgan. It sounds…surprisingly like what she’s searching for. To be known. To be praised. “Glory.”

“Yeah.” Luke looks kind of amused. “Anyways, we’re in the Arts & Crafts building. Estella should be here soon, and I’m afraid I have to drop her off with you. I got sword lessons to teach.”

“Okay.” Sword lessons? What? She had to have heard it wrong. “Estella’s the person I’ve seen?”

“Mhm,” Luke nodded. “She’s been in the Hermes cabin for…three years now. She can answer your questions.”

There’s a small, awkward pause as Morgan and Luke stand around waiting for Estella. Eventually the girl appears, slightly flushed, and Luke nods at her and disappears.

“Hi.” Estella also looks awkward. “I’m Estella. Estella Bloomberg, daughter of Urania.”

“Urania?” Morgan asks, curiosity getting the better of her. Anything to make me better.

“Yeah,” Estella gives a frazzled smile, like she gets the question a lot. “She’s the Muse of astrology, math, and science. Y’know, one of the daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus.”

“Um…don’t names have power?”

Estella shrugs. “Yeah. But my mom is mostly pretty chill. She listens to me, at least, more than other parents do. She doesn’t mind too much.” It seemed that Estella wanted to say something else but eventually she just cleared her throat and asked, “Do you want a tour of camp?”

“Sure?” why not?

But…if Urania truly didn’t care, she actually listened to Estella instead of ignoring her—then what were the rest of the gods like?

Estella took Morgan to visit the rest of the cabins, the archery range, the fighting stadium—where Luke was teaching and they paused to gape at him for a solid minute (at least Morgan was gaping at his damned skill), and more. They ended up pausing by a large shed to talk.

“Luke said you were here for a while. And you said you were a daughter of Urania,” stated Morgan. Then she asked her question: “So how long do you see people staying in the cabin until they get claimed?”

“Oh, Morgan…” Estella sighed, then started to tell Morgan the story of Estella’s own claiming.

Estella’s heart was pounding, her eyes were wide. She’d just played her first Capture the Flag game—Team Blue, Athena, Hermes, Aphrodite, and Dionysus, versus Ares, Hephaestus, Demeter, and Apollo.

It…it had been something out of what she could imagine. She hadn't expected kids fighting with swords…ever.

And it all happened in a blur. One moment, she was standing, floating in victory, and the next, she was in a circle by herself, Chiron saying grimly, “Hail, Estella Bloomberg, daughter of the Muse Urania, goddess of astrology, astronomy, science, and math.” a globe and compass hung suspended in the air over Estella’s head.

She was claimed…yet she’d remain in the Hermes cabin, since her mother had no tribute.

“Well…” she sighed softly. “There was more, of course. But so many memories of mine and others have blurred in my brain.”

“I see.” Morgan stood up. “Is the shed something important?”

“What?” Estella’s eyes refocused. “Oh. Yes, yes it is.” A blurred shape flicked in front of Estella as Morgan flinched. “This is Dýnamis, or strength,” explained Estella, “it’s a makhaira, a type of Greek curved sword.”

“It’s…interesting.” Morgan regarded the blade with interest. It was a curved beast, roughly 20 inches long, and it looked so fancy, like it never saw combat before. Estella caught Morgan’s staring and grinned.

“The shed is Camp’s weaponry shed, where we put all of our weapons. Quite genius, in my opinion.”

“Why?”

Estella gave out a soft, twinkling laugh, just like the stars. “No one ever suspects a shed, right?” she said, smiling. “Anywho. Let’s see just what you like.” The offer stood between them for a few seconds until Estella walked inside the shed, Morgan following.

The inside was dark—though light seeped in from the outside. But Morgan could still make out a large wall filled with weapons—like a giant military weapon rack, but bigger, but worse. Swords, guns, axes, everything you can name, they all hung up proudly.

Estella walked in front of the row. “We have all sorts of weapons,” she explained, “some of them we made. Others…others have historical references.”

“Would you have Achilles’ sword?” Morgan asked curiously, though it was more of a question of doubt, like, are you sure?

“No,” Estella’s face fell. “It was buried with him. We have some of the other argonauts’ weapons, but…” she trailed off, gazing at Morgan. “No offense, those are not gonna fit you.”

“No offense taken.”

The other girl walked to a section filled with daggers. “Maybe one of these?” Estella murmured under her breath. When Estella came back over to Morgan, she held a delicate little dagger, maybe six inches long, with a smooth, silver-hammered blade and a handle made from worn leather. “Try it,” she encouraged despite seeing Morgan’s nose wrinkle.

Even though Estella didn’t personally know her, it still hurt that she picked a small, flimsy dagger of all things—do I really seem so weak to her? Morgan took the knife out of Estella’s hand gingerly. It was actually heavier than expected, but still incredibly light—Morgan was scared that if she moved her hand, it would leave, flying.

“Too light,” Estella immediately frowned.

“How did you know?” Morgan’s breath was held.

There was a sound of shuffling footsteps and Morgan realized that Estella had left again. She could hear her muttering, “Shotgun’s too flashy…maybe an ax? Sword, I should try…”

When she came back, Estella was holding a longsword—“A xiphos, she’d explained”—and a double-sided axe. “This is a labrys,” she said almost fervently. “It’s a double-bitten axe…and it’s true that for some, like in Crete, it wasn’t a weapon but an untouched symbol of the gods—yet for those who used it…it’s a fierce weapon.”

Pride flushed Morgan, though she bent down, pretending to inspect the sword. When Estella handed the sword over, Morgan staggered back. Estella was frowning as she took it back. “Too heavy. Here. Try the labrys.”

The labrys, compared to the sword, was lighter, a bit more dainty. It just felt right in Morgan’s hands, like reuniting with your one love. “What’s the name of the labrys?” She tried to act nonchalant.

A smile bloomed on Estella’s face. “The labrys?” she asked with unhidden glee. Maybe she was happy to be correct, though it felt like something more. “It’s named Aúxēsis, or increase. Growth, to be more precise.”

“Aúxēsis,” Morgan tried to say, a smile unfurling. “Growth.” The labrys felt like part of her. It was her. “I…I think it’s this one,” she snuck a look at Estella.

The other girl nodded thoughtfully. “I agree.” Estella looked around. “Then we’re done.” She looked too thankful to be normal.

Before she could stop herself, Morgan asked, “Did something bad happen here?”

Something dark overtakes Estella’s face. “I’ve gotten one too many scars,” she lied effortlessly. Morgan nodded. Some things, she knew, were best kept secret, behind everything, so that nothing bad would come of it. It was probably mental scars, but…well, it could also be physical. “Let’s go.”