The Gamer of the Sea (PJO x DXD)

I was used to the occasional weird experience, but usually they were over quickly. This 24/7 illusions was super annoying. For the rest of the school year, the entire campus seemed to be playing some kind of trick on me.

The Mist was thick here, too thick. I could see it bending people's memories, reshaping the world. The students acted as if they were completely and totally convinced that Mrs. Kerr—a perky blond woman whom I'd never seen in my life until she got on our bus at the end of the field trip—had been our pre-algebra teacher since Christmas.

Every so often I'd test the seams, slipping in Mrs. Dodds's name just to watch the Mist tighten around their minds. They'd stare at me like I was psycho, as if their memories had been carved in stone.

If I hadn't been trained by Hekate, maybe I would've doubted myself too. But I knew illusions when I saw them. This wasn't some casual glamour—it was deliberate.

Almost convincing.

Almost.

Grover was the only one who cracked. Every time I mentioned Dodds, he hesitated. Denied it. Lied. But the Mist didn't cover the guilt in his eyes.

Something had happened at the museum. Something bad.

And beneath it all, another truth gnawed at me: the Master Bolt was missing. Hekate's warning wouldn't leave me alone. Every storm, every crack of thunder overhead—it wasn't random. The gods were restless.

One night, a thunderstorm blew out the windows in my dorm room. A few days later, the biggest tornado ever spotted in the Hudson Valley touched down only fifty miles from Yancy.

——————————-———-

I walked downstairs to the faculty offices. Most of them were dark and empty, but Mr. Brunner's door was ajar, light spilling across the hallway floor.

I was three steps away when I heard voices inside.

"…worried about Percy, sir," Grover said.

I froze.

Not an eavesdropper by nature, but if your best friend talks about you behind closed doors, well, you listen.

I crept closer, pressing my shoulder against the wall.

"A Kindly One in the school," Grover continued. "That's not normal. They know about him now. If he's left alone—"

"We cannot rush this," Mr. Brunner cut in. His tone was measured, but sharper than usual. "He is strong, stronger than he should be. Too strong for a boy with no training."

My stomach dropped.

Grover stammered, "But that's… good, isn't it?"

"Not necessarily," Mr. Brunner said. I could almost hear him pacing. "Even untested, his instincts are sharp, deliberate. I've trained demigods for centuries, Grover, and none have moved like that without years of experience. That is not normal. It's either a gift…" He hesitated, voice lowering. "Or something more dangerous."

Grover's voice shook. "He fought her. He knew what she was. He shouldn't have been able to see through the Mist so clearly."

"Exactly," Brunner said grimly. "The Mist should've blinded him completely. His perception is… refined, practiced. Someone has taught him. Or something has awakened within him."

Grover's reply was strangled. "Then he's ready—"

"No." Brunner's tone hardened. "If he's truly that far along, then we must be even more cautious. Power without guidance can be catastrophic. He may not be the hero we hope for—he may be something else entirely."

A silence stretched, heavy as stone.

Finally, Brunner sighed. "For now, he remains unaware of what we suspect. That ignorance may be the only thing keeping him alive."

My pulse thundered in my ears. I stumbled back, nearly knocking into the opposite wall. Whatever they thought I was—I didn't like it.

I edged backward down the hall, careful not to let my shoes squeak against the tile. My heart was hammering loud enough that I was sure they'd hear it.

Then—

A shadow slid across the glass of Brunner's office door. Taller, broader than a man in a wheelchair. The outline of a bow curved across the light.

I froze, lungs burning.

The shadow paused. Then the faint sound of hooves—clop, clop, clop—echoed down the corridor. Not footsteps. Hooves.

A chill raced down my spine.

I yanked open the nearest classroom door and slipped inside, holding my breath. A shape lumbered past the glass, too large, too wrong to be human. Something snuffled at the crack under the door, like an animal scenting prey.

A bead of sweat trickled down my neck.

Then Brunner's voice drifted down the hall. "Nothing," he murmured, but I could hear the tension in his tone. "My nerves haven't been right since the winter solstice."

"Mine either," Grover said nervously. "But I swear I heard—"

"Go back to the dorm," Brunner interrupted, sharper than usual. "You have exams tomorrow."

Grover muttered something, then his footsteps faded. The office light clicked off. Silence pressed down again.

I waited. One minute. Two. Ten.

Finally, I slipped out, moving fast, but careful not to look behind me.

When I reached the dorm, Grover was already lying on his bed, pretending to study his Latin notes. Like he'd been there all night.

But now I knew better.

Because Brunner was right about one thing.

I shouldn't be this strong. I shouldn't see through illusions so easily. I shouldn't be able to react the way I did in class, or against Mrs. Dodds.

And if he was already suspicious, it was only a matter of time before he figured out the truth.

That I wasn't as ignorant as they wanted me to be.

"Hey," Grover mumbled from his bunk, rubbing his eyes. "You going to be ready for this test tomorrow?"

I didn't answer.

"You look awful," he added, his brow creasing. "Is… everything okay?"

"Just tired," I muttered, turning away so he couldn't read my face.

But it wasn't just tiredness. My mind was still tangled with what I'd overheard—Grover and Mr. Brunner whispering about me, about danger. Like I was some kind of problem they had to manage.

They were hiding something. Something bigger.

The next afternoon, after three brutal hours of Latin, I staggered out of the classroom, names and declensions bleeding together in my head. Just when I thought I was free, Mr. Brunner's voice cut through the air.

"Percy," he said, sharp and measured. "A word."

I froze. For a heartbeat, I wondered if he knew I'd been listening outside his office the other night.

But his expression wasn't angry. It was worse. Studying. Like I was some puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

"Don't be discouraged about leaving Yancy," he said at last. His voice was calm, but I caught the weight under it—like he was probing for my reaction. "It's… for the best."

A couple kids still hanging around the door overheard. Nancy Bobofit smirked, blowing me kisses.

I clenched my fists. "Okay, sir."

Mr. Brunner leaned forward slightly in his wheelchair, eyes narrowing like he was trying to peel back my skin and see what was underneath. "This was never the right place for you. It was only a matter of time."

My throat tightened. "Right," I said, trying to sound sad.

"No, listen," he pressed, his gaze unblinking. "You're not normal, Percy."

The words hit me like a punch. Not because of him—but because I'd heard them a hundred times before. Gabe's voice echoed in my skull, dripping with contempt: You're not normal, boy. You're a freak. Also, what kind of asshole says that?

"Thanks," I snapped before I could stop myself. "Thanks a lot, sir."

"Percy—"

But I was already gone.

On the last day of term, I stuffed my suitcase in silence while the other guys laughed about vacations. Switzerland. The Caribbean. Ski trips and resorts.

They were delinquents, sure, but rich ones. Their dads were executives, ambassadors, celebrities. They'd go home to safety nets.

Me? I was just Percy Jackson. A nobody. From a mortal family of nobodies, well except for having the best mother in the world.

When they asked about my summer plans, I shrugged. "Going back to the city."

I didn't tell them the rest. That I'd be walking dogs or selling magazines, or that I couldn't stop replaying Brunner's words in my head.

You're not normal, Percy.

I hated how much it sounded like Gabe.

———————————-

The only person I actually dreaded not saying good-bye to was Grover. But turns out, I didn't have to. He'd already booked a ticket to Manhattan on the same Greyhound I had.

So there we were, together again.

Grover kept shifting in his seat, chewing the edge of his thumb, eyes darting down the aisle like he was expecting a hit squad to storm the bus. Before, I would've thought he was scared of being teased. But there was nobody from Yancy here. Just strangers.

And still, he looked like a wire pulled too tight.

Finally, I couldn't take it.

"Looking for Kindly Ones?" I said.

Grover jumped, nearly dropping his backpack. "Wh-what do you mean?"

I tilted my head, watching him squirm. "I overheard you and Mr. Brunner the night before the exam."

Grover froze. His knuckles whitened on the strap of his bag. "H-how much did you hear?"

"Not much," I admitted. "Something about a deadline… summer solstice?"

His wince was all the answer I needed.

"Look, Percy," Grover said quickly, voice cracking. "I was just worried for you, see? You hallucinated about a math teacher turning into a monster, and I thought maybe you were stressed or—"

"Grover," I interrupted flatly. "You're a really, really bad liar."

His ears flushed red. After fumbling a second, he dug out a grimy business card from his shirt pocket and shoved it at me.

The lettering was elegant, hard to read with my dyslexia, but I made it out:

Grover Underwood

Keeper

Half-Blood Hill

Long Island, New York

(800) 009-0009

My eyes stuck on two words. Half-Blood.

I'd heard that before. Not from Grover. From Hekate. Years ago, she'd mentioned a place for demigods — a safe haven, hidden from mortal eyes. A camp.

Half-Blood Hill.

I looked at Grover again, really looked. His stiff shoulders, the way his eyes flicked to every shadow, the way he kept swallowing like his throat was sandpaper.

This wasn't just nervous energy. He wasn't worried about being teased. He was worried about me. Or maybe about what was after me.

"Okay," I said slowly, slipping the card into my pocket. "So if I want to visit your… summer mansion."

He nodded too quickly. "Or if you need me."

"Need you?" I asked, my tone sharp. "Why would I need you?"

Grover's Adam's apple bobbed. He wouldn't meet my eyes. "Because… I kind of have to protect you."

Protect me.

The words stuck.

All year, I'd been the one standing up for him. Fighting bullies. Taking the hits. And now he was saying he was supposed to protect me? That's funny.

The bus sputtered and growled like it had just woken from the dead, but I barely noticed. My eyes stayed fixed on the three old women across the road. Something about them pressed against my senses, heavy and suffocating—like the moment before a storm breaks.

[The Abyssal Sovereign & The Endless Mother Bare their Fangs]

Threads. Not just yarn. Glimmering strands stretched from their knitting, reaching into the air like invisible spiderwebs. And when I blinked, for just a moment, I saw them move—coiling toward me, tugging faintly at my chest.

My stomach lurched. I'd felt that before.

The dream. The one where threads had snaked toward me, trying to latch on, to drag me into some future I hadn't chosen. I remembered fighting against them, the way they burned when I resisted. Back then, I hadn't known what it meant. Now, staring across the highway, I did.

The Fates.

Hekate's warning rang in my ears: "Beware the ones who weave. Their threads do not guide—they bind. If you see them, child, do not linger. Run."

Grover was practically throwing himself back onto the bus, his nose twitching violently, bleating under his breath like a cornered goat. He didn't need to tell me how bad this was.

The old woman in the middle lifted her shears. I heard the metallic snip across four lanes of traffic, sharp enough to cut the air itself. The threads recoiled from me all at once, and for half a heartbeat I couldn't breathe.

My fingers twitched, itching to summon water, to break whatever they were trying to weave around me. But the rational part of me—the part Hekate had drilled into discipline with endless illusions—knew better. You couldn't fight destiny. Not like that.

Still, the fact that I could see the threads at all? That they'd tried to reach for me in both dream and waking world? That wasn't normal. They wanted me to see.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself back onto the bus. Sliding into my seat beside Grover, I noticed his knuckles were white around his crutch, like he was holding on for dear life.

"You saw them cut it, didn't you?" he whispered hoarsely.

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. My silence was enough.

But as the bus rattled back onto the highway, one thought kept crawling through my mind, chilling me worse than the sound of those shears:

That snip hadn't just been meant for someone. Grover thought it was meant for me.

—————————-

The passengers cheered as the driver clambered back into his seat, slapping the bus's side.

Once we were rolling again, I started to feel feverish. My skin prickled with a crawling wrongness, and my chest tightened as if someone had tied a string around my ribs and pulled. The sound of the scissors still echoed in my head. Snip.

Grover didn't look much better. His hands trembled around his crutch, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Grover?" I asked, watching him carefully.

"Yeah?"

"What are you not telling me?"

He wiped at his forehead with his sleeve, but his eyes wouldn't stop flicking toward the window. He looked like he expected the three women to be pacing us in the dark, still waiting.

"Percy," he said hoarsely, "what did you see back at the fruit stand?"

I hesitated, letting my brow furrow like I was still confused. But I wasn't. I'd recognized them the moment the yarn snapped—their pale faces, their ancient hands, the threads trying to tangle with mine just like in my dream. The Moirai. The Fates.

I forced my voice to stay even. "You mean the old ladies? What about them? They're not like… Mrs. Dodds, are they?"

Grover went stiff. His expression was unreadable, but I caught the flash of dread. He knows, I thought. And he thinks I don't.

"Just tell me what you saw," Grover pressed.

I made a show of hesitating, then sighed. "The middle one… she pulled out some scissors. She cut a piece of yarn."

Grover's whole face drained of color. His eyes squeezed shut, and his fingers twitched into a gesture—not a cross, something older, something I'd only seen once in one of Hekate's old texts. A warding sign.

"You saw her snip the cord."

"Yeah," I said, feigning casual confusion. "So?"

But the word came out hollow, because I already knew the weight behind it. That wasn't a harmless yarn. That was life. Destiny. Choice.

"This is not happening," Grover muttered. He gnawed at his thumb until I thought he'd break skin. "I don't want this to be like the last time."

"What last time?" I asked, keeping my voice carefully curious.

His answer chilled me. "Always sixth grade. They never get past sixth."

My stomach tightened, what he meant was pretty obvious, but I forced myself to tilt my head in mock puzzlement. "Grover, you're really starting to freak me out. What are you talking about?"

He just shook his head. His silence was louder than anything he could've said.

"Let me walk you home from the bus station," he blurted finally. "Promise me."

The desperation in his voice almost broke my act. But I made myself smirk, like I thought it was some weird superstition. "Uh, sure. You can walk me home."

"Promise," he pushed again.

"I promise."

I leaned back, pretending I didn't understand. But in my mind, I kept seeing the three women, the shining thread, and those scissors. I knew what they were. I knew what that meant.

And for the first time since Hekate had told me about Camp Half-Blood years ago, I realized just how badly the gods wanted to shove me onto their board, another pawn for their game.

They tried once before, I thought, remembering the dream where their threads had crawled across my skin, trying to bind me. And they failed.

[From the depths, the Primordial Sea stirs, watching the Arrogant Clowns Above]

For a heartbeat, my control slipped. My vision swirled, and my reflection in the bus window caught Grover's gaze. My eyes churned like a storm—green waves twisting in a hurricane spiral, and at their center, an abyss darker than night, an all-devouring void that promised to swallow whatever dared stare too long.

Grover flinched and looked away thinking he was hallucinating.

My hands clenched.

They'll fail again.