The Half-Blood Project

42-/2/-Foul Waters

Percy Jackson 

"What do you mean we're going to the Underworld?" I spread my hands out and Nico just laughs amicably. 

"If you want to live, we have to go." 

"So if I want to live, you want me to go to the realm of death? Sound's like an oxymoron."

"You're a moron." 

I roll my eyes and keep to the sidewalk, winding through the busy streets of New York City, smoke curling through the air as Nico puts the cigarette to his mouth, blowing out the smoke. He sees the look on my face and lets out an airy laugh. 

Turning to me he just smiles, "I know you preached not using negative coping strategies back in L.A, but trust me, there's worse, Perce." 

Maybe it's the memories of Gabe and his buddies smoking that bring back bad memories, the mingled scents of cigars, rolled up joints, the first round of beer, and then how I could feel, I could feel the oncoming bruises minutes before Gabe even laid a finger on me. 

But this is Nico, shy, quiet, but whole-hearted Nico. "I don't care, Nico, honestly, all those rules were so that you guys never made the same mistake as I did once." 

His eyes widen in surprise and he lets out another smoky breath. "And the whole, 'don't fall in love thing', was that a mistake you made too?" 

Shuffling my feet around a couple of people, I feel like I shouldn't answer the question. That rule was made because I didn't want anyone to fall in love, and be crushed by the weight of death. 

"It took me three years, three years to build this group, train you, get where we were a couple of months ago. All of the lessons I've taught you were for a good reason. Remember that." 

Nico nods drop his cigarette and crush it under his boot and we round the corner, almost upon Central Park. When I was little, my mom used to take me to Central Park, we would play in the trees and she would chase me around, annoying other people. One of the golden times, where I didn't have to worry about anything other than if I was going to be lucky enough to get ice cream from my favorite little shop down the street that night. 

I miss my mother, it hurts when I remember her, a painful jab to the side, an ache in the ribs, when the memories resurface, they bleed, soaking through the mask, through tears, through scars, through so much pain. 

As we stride through Central Park, I see the bench my mom would sit me on, with the ice cream mmmm cone in hand and her hand in the other. How she smelled like Sweet on America sugar candy and her faint perfume which she saved by watering down. 

It's not fair that she had to die. It's not fair that her life was full of suffering. 

But life wasn't all that fair. 

"The spirits told me that your goat  friend is in this area, he's not dead though." Nico stopped and stepped onto the grassy plot of land and waved around, gesturing to the trees around us. 

"Damn Grover, he's too stubborn to be dead." 

"You say that like you wish he was dead." 

I shake my head. "He's saved my life one too many times, I owe him more than I wish I did." 

"He's a damn brave goat though." 

"True that." 

We wander through the trees, looking up through them, only birds and leaves weaving through the branches. Why would Grover be in Central Park? He calls it a garbage can in the middle of a dumpster city.