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New York is in flames and Jada Mao is at fault.
At least, that's what Percy Jackson thinks. If he could blame Jada for everything wrong in his life, he would. Fuck her, he says viciously to Annabeth Chase when Jada is brought up in a conversation of theirs. I hope she's dead, he wants to add and he does, almost but the word sets him back a few years and all he can think of is Jada, Jada, Jada.
Jada and her distaste for death. Jada and the way her mouth twists into something ugly when she loses a bet with Clarisse La Rue. Jada and the way she storms off angrily when the son of Hades beats her in a game of Mythomagic. Jada and the way she will bite and bark her way into winning anything and everything – including life itself. Jada and her visceral hate for losing.
New York is in flames and Jada Mao is dead.
At least, that's what Percy Jackson thinks — at least, that's what he hopes. Fingers crossed, prayers to the Gods; Jada Mao is dead. Let her be amongst the burnt bodies piled up on the ground in front of him. Let her rot, he thinks bitterly, quietly, because that's not something you'd say about a friend — or a was-friend — or a sort-of-friend. Here's the thing: Percy cannot bring himself to not call her a friend because, in a way, Jada was his more-than-a-friend. Let her rot, Percy thinks and it's the worst thing he's ever thought. So he takes it out, and buries it to sleep with the bugs in the makeshift grave he's made for her.
The headstone reads: JADA MAO / FRIEND, L̶O̶V̶E̶R̶ LOSER, TRAITOR.
New York burns around him and Percy Jackson couldn't care less. The smell of burnt flesh and smoke fill his nostrils but all he can think about is Jada — curly hair tied up, fingers playing idly with the charm on her necklace. This is the gameplay, explains 13-year-old Jada. You live, you win. You die, you lose. Game over.
A part of him, the one he tries so hard to keep hidden inside whispers; I win. Two words that mean nothing to everyone except Percy Jackson and Jada Mao — two words that mean everything to no-one except Percy Jackson and Jada Mao. I win, he says out loud. Tasting it. Savouring it. Then he spits it out with a big fat FUCK YOU to the girl he once called his friend. I win, says Percy because he is not the one that is dead.
