Falling Stars (PJO X READER)

The floodlights shine down on me like celestial bodies, illuminating the grandest stage of them all—the World Cup final. The air is thick with anticipation, millions watching, their gazes locked onto me. My blood boils in excitement, my body vibrating like a caged beast finally set free. This is it. This is where I carve my name into the heart of football itself.

The ball rolls to my feet, smooth as silk, begging to be devoured. I hear the rapid footsteps of defenders closing in, but they are nothing—phantoms in my way, disposable obstacles to be erased. I explode forward, raw power surging through me. My body twists, feints, shatters expectations. One defender lunges, but I flick the ball past him with a cruel smirk. Another tries to muscle me off, but I bulldoze through, feeling the satisfying impact as he stumbles, helpless.

Then, the final barrier—a towering center-back, desperation burning in his eyes. I stop. For a moment, time itself hesitates. The world waits on my next move. I meet his gaze, and in that instant, he knows—he knows—that he has already lost.

With a burst of speed, I slip past him like a shadow in the night, the goal now mine for the taking. The keeper rushes forward, arms wide, but I don't even need to look. My foot meets the ball, a perfect strike slicing through the air like a bullet. The net ripples.

Silence. A pause before the storm. And then—

"COSMOS! COSMOS! COSMOS!"

The sound erupts like a tidal wave, crashing over me, filling every inch of the stadium, every inch of the world. My name, roared by thousands, no—millions. The very essence of football, of existence itself, echoing my triumph.

The name echoes, reverberating through my bones, through my very soul. The crowd chants my name, the world bending at my feet. I stand there, drinking in validation.

I throw my arms out, embracing the chaos, the love, the worship. This is what I live for. This is why I devour, why I destroy, why I score. To leave my mark. To be the greatest.

"COSMOS!"

"COSMOS!"

"Wa— U-!"

Huh?

The crowd started to die down, the voices condensing.

"Cosmos! Wake—"

No, no! I won!

"Cosmos —— up!"

The crowd began disappearing as the lights started shutting off, darkness closing in.

"Cosmos. Wake up."

I blinked, the last thing I saw was my mom and a man in the crowd, still chanting.

And then I wake up.

Sea Green eyes stared back at me, the echo of the crowd still ringing in my ears. My fists clench. My heartbeat is wild.

One day, it won't be a dream.

I sat up from the chair I sat in —when did I fall asleep— and looked at the sight before me. There stood my Percy Jackson —the stepson of my uncle's gambling buddy— looking like he got hit by a bus. Beside him was a boy about twelve, maybe thirteen years old, with curly black hair and tan skin with brown eyes.

I narrowed my eyes at the kid, sizing him up. Something was... off. His stance was weird—not like a normal kids. His legs, for one, were covered in cargo pants that seemed a little too loose around the knees, like he was hiding something. His ears? Slightly pointed. And those brown eyes of his, wide with curiosity and something else—caution, maybe—held an odd depth, like he saw the world in a way no one else did. The only thing not strange about him was his pupils that were in the shape of an eight, like a goat.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "Who's the goat?" I asked Percy.

The kid stiffened. Percy groaned, rubbing his face. "Dude."

"What?" I grinned. "He smells like the woods. Looks like he just walked out of a fairy tale."

The kid's jaw clenched, and his fingers twitched like he wanted to grab something—what, I had no idea. A stick? A magic wand? Was he gonna curse me? Not that it mattered. I'd fought guys twice my size on the pitch and left them in the dirt. A scrawny kid wasn't going to intimidate me.

"My name's Grover," he said, voice steady. "I'm a satyr."

I blinked. Then blinked again.

A satyr.

I turned to Percy, waiting for him to laugh, tell me this was some joke. But he just sighed, like this was normal. Like I was the weird one for questioning it.

"You're serious?" I asked, looking back at Grover.

He nodded. "Completely."

I studied him again. The way he stood, slightly off-balance. The way his pants seemed to shift around his legs. The earthy scent that clung to him, like fresh grass after a storm.

"Come on. Chiron and Mr. D are waiting."

*

*

*

*

Percy, Grover and I walked along a long porch that wrapped around a big blue farmhouse.

Percy looked wobbly, trying and failing to walk far. Grover offered to carry the horn he held, getting an adamant refusal in response. I don't know what the green eyed mama's boy paid for that souvenir but he wasn't going to let it go any time soon.

As we came around the opposite end of the house, I stopped in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat.

This place... it wasn't real. It couldn't be.

The valley stretched before me like something out of a painting—too perfect, too golden under the sun. The water in the distance shimmered, calling to something deep inside me, like it knew me. Like it was waiting. And between here and there? Chaos. Order. A world I didn't understand.

White marble buildings rose from the ground like they'd been there forever, but not a single crack or stain marked them. An amphitheater stood proudly in the distance, the kind of place that felt like it was meant for gods, not kids in orange T-shirts. And yet, those kids were everywhere—running, laughing, training. A sandpit hosted a game of volleyball, and I swear the satyrs were playing harder than the humans. Canoes cut through a lake, their ripples vanishing too fast, like the water itself was alive. Arrows flew at targets in the distance, swords clashed in the circular arena. And then there were the horses. Some of them were just normal, sure. But others? Their wings stretched wide, their hooves barely touching the ground as they took off into the sky. My brain struggled to accept what my eyes saw.

My whole life, I'd fought to stand on top. To be the best. And here was an entire world I hadn't even known existed. A world where maybe... I wasn't special at all.

I clenched my fists, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

At the far end of the porch, two men sat at a card table, their game slow and deliberate, like they had all the time in the world. A girl who'd looked as though she'd outsmart the devil leaned on the railing beside them, her sharp eyes watching everything. One of the men was round and cherub-like, but not in a cute way. More like the kind of guy who'd smile at you while taking your last dime in a rigged poker game. His Hawaiian shirt was obnoxiously bright, a tiger print that somehow fit him perfectly. Something about him reminded me of my uncle's poker nights, the kind of people who'd sit around with my uncle Eddie and Gabe, tossing chips onto the table, pretending they weren't desperate.

Except this guy? He didn't look desperate at all.

I exhaled slowly.

This place—whatever it was—was dangerous. Maybe not in the way I was used to, but in a way I could feel in my bones. A test, a challenge, an entirely new game.

And I had no idea what the rules were.

"That's Mr. D," Grover murmured to Percy and I. "He's the camp director. Be polite. The girl, that's Annabeth Chase. She's just a camper, but she's been here longer than just about anybody. And Percy, you already know Chiron..."

He pointed at the guy whose back was to Percy and I.

He was sitting in a wheelchair, wearing a tweed jacket with a head of receding gray curls, with a bushy gray beard to match.

I had no idea who he was, but Percy seemed to know as he let out a loud shout of, "Mr. Brunner!"

Ohhh, I'd heard about him from Mrs. Jackson.

Mr. Brunner or I guess Chiron was Percy's Latin teacher. A fun, yet stern man who did his best to keep him out of trouble. I guess he was more than a Latin Teacher, cause he smells like a horse.

The Latin teacher turned and smiled at Percy. His eyes holding a mischievous glint.

As Chiron stared at Percy, I couldn't help but notice the rotund wine keg staring my way. I don't know why, but the only thing I could think of when I saw him was, "Is that Rexsplode?"

"What?" Asked the rotund man.

"What?" I said in response.

The two of us starred in silence as Chiron spoke up.

"Ah, good, Percy," he said. "Now we have four for pinochle."

He offered Percy a chair to the right of Mr. D and I to the left of him, Mr. D turned to look at Percy with bloodshot eyes and heaved a great sigh. "Oh, I suppose I must say it. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. There. Now, don't expect me to be glad to see you."

"Uh, thanks." Percy said as he scooted a little farther away from him. I knew why, if there was one thing he and I had learned from living with Gabe, it was how to tell when an adult familiar with alcohol hasn't been hitting the happy juice. If Mr. D was a happy member of AA, I was a satyr.

"Annabeth?" Chiron called to the black haired girl.

She came forward and Chiron introduced us. "This young lady nursed you back to health, Percy. Annabeth, my dear, why don't you go check on Percy and the young white haired boys bunk's? We'll be putting them in cabin eleven for now."

Annabeth said, "Sure, Chiron."

She was probably Percy's age, maybe a couple of inches shorter, and a whole lot more athletic looking. With her dark brown and her curly black hair, she was almost exactly what I thought a contractor looked like as a child, especially her eyes. They were startling gray, like storm clouds; analytical, but fiery, too, as if she were imagining the best way to take me down in a fight.

She glanced at the horn in Percy's hands, then back at me. I wasn't sure what I imagined she was going to say but it wasn't this.

"You drool when you sleep."

Then she sprinted off down the lawn, her black hair flying behind her.

"So," Percy said, anxious to change the subject as I laughed. "You, uh, work here, Mr. Brunner?"

"Not Mr. Brunner," the ex-Mr. Brunner said. "I'm afraid that was a pseudonym. You may call me Chiron."

"Okay." Totally confused, Percy looked at the director. "And Mr. D ... does that stand for something?"

Mr. D stopped shuffling the cards. He looked at Percy like I'd just belched loudly. "Young man, names are powerful things. You don't just go around using them for no reason."

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

I muttered quietly, "starting to think it stands for Mr. Douchebag if you ask me..."

Mr. D's head snapped towards me, glaring intensely. I stared back, ignoring the weird itching feeling I got in my head.

"I must say, Percy," Chiron-Brunner broke in, "I'm glad to see you alive. It's been a long time since I've made a house call to a potential camper. I'd hate to think I've wasted my time."

"House call?"

"My year at Yancy Academy, to instruct you. We have satyrs at most schools, of course, keeping a lookout. But Grover alerted me as soon as he met you. He sensed you were something special, so I decided to come upstate. I convinced the other Latin teacher to ... ah, take a leave of absence."

I tried to remember the beginning of the school year. It seemed like so long ago, but I did have a fuzzy memory of there being another Latin teacher my first week at Yancy. Then, without explanation, he had disappeared and Mr. Brunner had taken the class.

"You came to Yancy just to teach me?" I asked.

Chiron nodded. "Honestly, I wasn't sure about you at first. We contacted your mother, let her know we were keeping an eye on you in case you were ready for Camp Half-Blood. But you still had so much to learn. Nevertheless, you made it here alive, and that's always the first test."

"Grover," Mr. D said impatiently, "are you playing or not?"

"Yes, sir!" Grover trembled as he took the fourth chair, though I didn't know why he should be so afraid of a pudgy little man in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt.

"You do know how to play pinochle?" Mr. D eyed me suspiciously.

"I'm afraid not," I said.

"I'm afraid not, sir," he said.

"Sir," I repeated. I was liking the camp director less and less.

"Well," he told me, "it is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men to know the rules."

"I'm sure the boy can learn," Chiron said.

"Please," I said, "what is this place? What am I doing here? Mr. Brun-Chiron-why would you go to Yancy Academy just to teach me?"

Mr. D snorted. "I asked the same question."

The camp director dealt the cards. Grover flinched every time one landed in his pile.

Chiron smiled at me sympathetically, the way he used to in Latin class, as if to let me know that no matter what my average was, I was his star student. He expected me to have the right answer. "Percy," he said. "Did your mother tell you nothing?'

I don't like this.

This entire place—this whole setup—feels like a game I wasn't told the rules of. I hate not knowing the rules. Hate being on the back foot.

Everything here is too perfect, too controlled, like a well-rehearsed play where I'm just some last-minute stand-in who didn't get a script. Chiron—Mr. Brunner, whatever—had been watching Percy this whole time? And that goat-kid, Grover, had been scoping him out? And now they're talking about house calls like Percy's some golden ticket?

I shift in my seat, jaw tight, fingers drumming against my knee. Something about this whole thing is rubbing me the wrong way.

And then there's Mr. D.

That guy? I don't like him. At all. I've been around enough people like him to know what I'm dealing with. The way he carries himself, the lazy arrogance, the way he looked at me like he was deciding if I was even worth his time. I know his type. The ones who think they own the place just because they've been there longer. The ones who laugh at you from the top because they think you'll never reach them.

I've proved people like him wrong before.

And I'll do it again.

But there's something else. Something off about him, something crawling under my skin, like an itch I can't scratch. When I called him "Mr. Douchebag" under my breath, the way his head snapped toward me—like he heard me, like he felt me saying it—it wasn't normal. His glare had weight to it, like it was pushing into my skull, rummaging through my brain like a nosy old man digging through my personal stuff.

I glare right back. I don't look away.

I never look away.

Then there's Annabeth. She's sharp. Quick. The way she looked at me wasn't like the others. It wasn't dismissive or confused. It was calculated. Like she was already analyzing me, breaking me down into strengths and weaknesses.

I recognize that look. I use that look.

I don't know if I like her yet, but I respect that.

And Percy, he's at the center of all this. They've been watching him, testing him. Wanting something from him.

And I don't like that, either.

I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out, letting my smirk slip back onto my face. I might not know the rules of this place yet, but that's fine. Rules can be broken. Games can be flipped.

And if they think I'm just going to sit here and let them treat me like some extra in their grand little story?

They've got another thing coming.

"Grover," Mr. D said impatiently, "are you playing or not?"

"Yes, sir!" Grover trembled as he took the fourth chair, though I didn't know why he should be so afraid of a pudgy little man in a tiger-print Hawaiian shirt.

"You do know how to play pinochle?" Mr. D eyed Percy suspiciously.

"I'm afraid not," Percy said.

"I'm afraid not, sir," he said.

"Sir," Percy repeated. It was visible from Percy's frown that he was liking the camp director less and less.

"How about you, Cosmos?"

A frown formed on my face. "I never told you my name, sir."

Mr. D chuckled, like what I said was some sort of joke. "Can you play or not, Wanda?"

This fucker got my name wrong on purpose.

My arms laid on the table, "of course I can, can you handle losing, sir?"

"Well," he told me, "it is, along with gladiator fighting and Pac-Man, one of the greatest games ever invented by humans. I would expect all civilized young men to know the rules. Seems the brat who showed up on our doorstep is already more civilized than your little house call, Chiron."

For a split second I saw the corner of Mr. D's mouth twitch, a purple glow in his eyes.

"I'm sure the boy can learn," Chiron said.

"Please," Percy said, "what is this place? What am I doing here? Mr. Brun-Chiron-why would you go to Yancy Academy just to teach me?"

Mr. D snorted as he dealt out the cards. "I asked the same question."

Grover flinched every time one landed in his pile. I couldn't help but smile wider and wider every time a card flew over.

Chiron smiled at Percy sympathetically, as if to let him know that there was no wrong answer. "Percy," he said. "Did your mother tell you nothing?'

Wait. What happened to Sally?

"She said ..." Percy said, looking out over the sea. "She told me she was afraid to send me here, even though my father had wanted her to. She said that once I was here, I probably couldn't leave. She wanted to keep me close to her."

"Typical," Mr. D said. "That's how they usually get killed. Young man, are you bidding or not?"

"Wait, killed?" I asked, the wind leaving my sails. "Sally's dead?"

Grover looked up, nodding sadly.

No.

That didn't make sense.

The words hung in the air, weightless and impossible, like they weren't meant to exist. My mind struggled to piece them together into something real, something I could accept. But I couldn't.

Sally Jackson was gone.

It didn't feel real. It didn't want to feel real. She was too steady, too constant—one of the few people who made the world feel a little less chaotic. She was warmth, kindness, quiet strength. She was alive.

And now she wasn't.

I exhaled slowly, but it didn't help. A strange pressure settled in my chest, heavy but not crushing. Just there. A dull ache, spreading through me, creeping into the corners of my mind.

I wanted to say something, but what was there to say? No words could change it. No logic could make sense of it. The world was still moving, the sky still clear, as if nothing had happened.

But something had happened. And I wasn't sure how to move forward knowing that she wouldn't be there.

"What?" Percy piped up, seeming to have been pulled out of the same thoughts as me.

Mr. D explained, impatiently, how you bid in pinochle, it seemed so stupid, someone died and were sat here playing pinochle.

"I'm afraid there's too much to tell," Chiron said. "I'm afraid our usual orientation film won't be sufficient."

"Orientation film?" Percy and I asked.

"No," Chiron decided. "Well, Percy. You know your friend Grover is a satyr. You know"-he pointed to the horn in the shoe box-"that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either, lad. What you may not know is that great powers are at work in your life. Gods-the forces you call the Greek gods-are very much alive."

Percy and I stared at the others around the table, cards in my hand being placed in the pile l.

I wanted to yell, scream that this wasn't a funny joke—I had just been messing with Grover before— but the only one who was actually yelling was Mr. D, "Oh, a royal marriage. Trick! Trick!" He cackled as he tallied up his points.

"Mr. D," Grover asked timidly, "if you're not going to eat it, could I have your Diet Coke can?"

"Eh? Oh, all right."

Grover bit a huge shard out of the empty aluminum can and chewed it mournfully.

"Wait," Percy told Chiron. "You're telling me there's such a thing as God."

I don't know why, but when Percy asked that, my stomach turned.

"Well, now," Chiron said. "God-capital G, God. That's a different matter altogether. We shan't deal with the metaphysical."

Percy interrupted. "Metaphysical? But you were just talking about-"

"Ah, gods, plural, as in, great beings that control the forces of nature and human endeavors: the immortal gods of Olympus. That's a smaller matter." Chiron said.

"Smaller?" Percy and I asked in confusionz

"Yes, quite. The gods we discussed in Latin class."

"Zeus," Percy said. "Hera. Apollo. You mean them."

"Or do you mean the Mycenaean Greeks? Where Poseidon was the king of the Gods and Zeus was a Minor God?" I continued.

And there it was again-distant thunder on a cloudless day.

"Young man," said Mr. D, "I would really be less casual about throwing those names around, if I were you. And you, Brat, I wouldn't bring those up."

"But they're stories," Percy said. "They're-myths, to explain lightning and the seasons and stuff. They're what people believed before there was science."

"Science!" Mr. D scoffed. "And tell me, Perseus Jackson"-Percy flinched when Mr. D said his real name, which he never told anybody— except me.

"What will people think of your 'science' two thousand years from now?" Mr. D continued. "Hmm? They will call it primitive mumbo jumbo. That's what. Oh, I love mortals- they have absolutely no sense of perspective. They think they've come sooooo far. And have they, Chiron? Look at this boy and tell me."

"Have you ever been to space?" I asked Mr. D making him pause.

"I don't like you." Was all he said.

"Percy," Chiron said, "you may choose to believe or not, but the fact is that immortal means immortal. Can you imagine that for a moment, never dying? Never fading? Existing, just as you are, for all time?"

"That would be amazing." I answered. He said never fading, so I'd be remembered forever.

"You mean, whether people believed in you or not," I said.

"Exactly," Chiron agreed. "If you were a god, how would you like being called a myth, an old story to explain lightning? What if I told you, Perseus Jackson, that someday people would call you a myth, just created to explain how little boys can get over losing their mothers?"

"I'd say your analogy failed cause you said never fading, if something never fades then it's always there in the limelight," I said, placing down more cards,

Chiron looked at me, scratching his beard. "Well now, that's an interesting response. I'd love to hear more about what you have to say, Cosmos. But my question was directed towards Perseus; what would you say?"

Percy looked stressed, as if he was trying to hide every emotion he was feeling. Finally, he said, "I wouldn't like it. But I don't believe in gods."

"Oh, you'd better," Mr. D murmured. "Before one of them incinerates you."

Grover said, "P-please, sir. He's just lost his mother. He's in shock."

"A lucky thing, too," Mr. D grumbled, playing a card. "Bad enough I'm confined to this miserable job, working with boys who don't even believe and an unflavored ice pop.'"

He waved his hand and a goblet appeared on the table, as if the sunlight had bent, momentarily, and woven the air into glass. The goblet filled itself with red wine. My jaw dropped, but Chiron hardly looked up.

"Mr. D," he warned, "your restrictions."

Mr. D looked at the wine and feigned surprise.

"Dear me." He looked at the sky and yelled, "Old habits! Sorry!"

More thunder.

Mr. D waved his hand again, and the wineglass changed into a fresh can of Diet Coke. He sighed unhappily, popped the top of the soda, and went back to his card game.

Chiron winked at Percy and I. "Mr. D offended his father a while back, took a fancy to a wood nymph who had been declared off-limits."

"A wood nymph," I repeated, still staring at the Diet Coke can like it was from outer space.

"Yes," Mr. D confessed. "Father loves to punish me. The first time, Prohibition. Ghastly! Absolutely horrid ten years! The second time-well, she really was pretty, and I couldn't stay away- the second time, he sent me here. Half-Blood Hill. Summer camp for brats like you. 'Be a better influence,' he told me. 'Work with youths rather than tearing them down.' Ha.' Absolutely unfair."

Mr. D sounded about six years old, like a pouting little kid. I felt obligated to ask a question.

"Was the relationship consensual?"

Mr. D choked on his diet coke and snapped at me, "of course it was consensual! I'm sick of those Roman Philosophers and their bastardization of us. The closest thing they got was my Father and some of our family."

"And ..." Percy stammered, "your father is ..."

"Di immortales, Chiron," Mr. D said. "I thought you taught this boy the basics. My father is Zeus, of course."

I ran through D names from Greek mythology. Wine. The skin of a tiger. The satyrs that all seemed to work here. The way Grover cringed, as if Mr. D were his master.

"You're Dionysus," Percy said. "The god of wine."

Mr. D rolled his eyes. "What do they say, these days, Grover? Do the children say, 'Well, duh!'?"

"Y-yes, Mr. D."

"Then, well, duh! Percy Jackson. Did you think I was Aphrodite, perhaps?"

"You're a god."

"Yes, child."

"A god. You."

He turned to look at Percy straight on, and I saw a kind of purplish fire in his eyes, a hint that this whiny, plump little man was only showing us the tiniest bit of his true nature.

"Would you like to test me, child?" he said quietly.

"No. No, sir." Percy said adamantly, shaken from a horrible sight.

The fire died a little. He turned back to his card game. "I believe I win."

"Not quite, Mr. D," Chiron said. "The game goes to me."

I cut in, placing down both Jacks, Queens, Kings, Tens, and Aces of a suit, "Check again."

Mr. D looked as though he was going to vaporize me right out of my chair, but he just sighed through his nose, as if he were used to being beaten by this point. He got up, and Grover rose, too.

"I'm tired," Mr. D said. "I believe I'll take a nap before the sing-along tonight. But first, Grover, we need to talk, again, about your less-than-perfect performance on this assignment."

Grover's face beaded with sweat. "Y-yes, sir."

Mr. D turned to me. "Cabin eleven, Cosmos Kane, Percy Jackson. And mind your manners."

He swept into the farmhouse, Grover following miserably.

"Will Grover be okay?" Perch asked Chiron, I was too busy wondering how the hell he knew my last name.

Chiron nodded, though he looked a bit troubled. "Old Dionysus isn't really mad. He just hates his job. He's been ... ah, grounded, I guess you would say, and he can't stand waiting another century before he's allowed to go back to Olympus."

"Mount Olympus," Percy said. "You're telling me there really is a palace there?"

"Well now, there's Mount Olympus in Greece. And then there's the home of the gods, the convergence point of their powers, which did indeed used to be on Mount Olympus. It's still called Mount Olympus, out of respect to the old ways, but the palace moves, Percy, just as the gods do."

"You mean the Greek gods are here? Like ... in America?"

"Well, certainly. The gods move with the heart of the West."

"The what?"

""If the gods move, how come some gods stay in the same place?" I asked.

"Come now, Percy. What you call 'Western civilization.' Do you think it's just an abstract concept? No, it's a living force. A collective consciousness that has burned bright for thousands of years. The gods are part of it. You might even say they are the source of it, or at least, they are tied so tightly to it that they couldn't possibly fade, not unless all of Western civilization were obliterated. The fire started in Greece. Then, as you well know-or as I hope you know, since you passed my course-the heart of the fire moved to Rome, and so did the gods. Oh, different names, perhaps-Jupiter for Zeus, Venus for Aphrodite, and so on-but the same forces, the same gods."

Chiron turned to me, "some Gods are stubborn, staying where they believe is better for themselves, and for those who are right, they stay in place."

I nodded at his answer.

"And then they died." Percy said

"Died? No. Did the West die? The gods simply moved, to Germany, to France, to Spain, for a while. Wherever the flame was brightest, the gods were there. They spent several centuries in England. All you need to do is look at the architecture. People do not forget the gods. Every place they've ruled, for the last three thousand years, you can see them in paintings, in statues, on the most important buildings. And yes, Percy, of course they are now in your United States. Look at your symbol, the eagle of Zeus. Look at the statue of Prometheus in Rockefeller Center, the Greek facades of your government buildings in Washington. I defy you to find any American city where the Olympians are not prominently displayed in multiple places. Like it or not-and believe me, plenty of people weren't very fond of Rome, either-America is now the heart of the flame. It is the great power of the West. And so Olympus is here. And we are here."

"Who are you, Chiron? Who ... who am I?"

Chiron smiled. He shifted his weight as if he were going to get up out of his wheelchair. Wait, wasn't the Chiron in the Greek stories a— no...

"Who are you?" Chiron mused. "Well, that's the question we all want answered, isn't it? But for now, we should get you a bunk in cabin eleven. There will be new friends to meet. And plenty of time for lessons tomorrow. Besides, there will be s'mores at the campfire tonight, and I simply adore chocolate."

What the hell is he talking about?

I raised an eyebrow, but before I could fully process that comment, he did something that yanked me straight out of my thoughts. He stood up. Or, at least, that's what I thought at first. His blanket slipped off, revealing... something strange. His legs didn't shift. They didn't move. He just kept rising, way taller than any man. I blinked, trying to make sense of the sight in front of me.

At first, I thought he was wearing some ridiculously long, white velvet pants. But then... I felt that something was off. Velvet didn't move like that. And it wasn't just fabric. It was... fur. Coarse white fur.

Wait. What?

Before I could even take a full breath, I realized what I was looking at wasn't just someone pulling some weird trick with a blanket. This wasn't normal. He wasn't wearing velvet anything. It was his body, changing. A massive leg shot out—no, not a leg, a huge, knobby-kneed front leg. And another, followed by—wait, was that a hoof?

I stepped back, my heart racing. This wasn't a trick. I wasn't dreaming.

Chiron wasn't just some strange man in a wheelchair. He wasn't just some cool, patient teacher.

No. He was a fucking centaur.

A horse's body, muscle and sinew, moving under the fur. And then the wheelchair—the chair that I had just assumed was, well, a chair—transformed into some kind of box on wheels. A huge, empty box with nothing left but fake human legs.

But that wasn't the weirdest part. No. The weird part was the torso seamlessly grafted onto the horse's massive trunk. Smooth, like it was meant to be. His upper body, with his familiar wise face, his beard, his calm expression, all sitting perfectly on top of this towering stallion's body.

What. The. Hell.

"What a relief," the centaur said. "I'd been cooped up in there so long, my fetlocks had fallen asleep. Now, come, Cosmos Kane, Percy Jackson. Let's meet the other campers."

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DGW: Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story. I'm trying out something new, if you have any complaints feel free to tell me

Story Inspired By: Runic Painter by Lunar_Lunatics . Idea given to me by Some_lazy_author

Word Count: 5656