Persephoneia "Percy" Cordelia Jackson is considered a prime example of why it is that the worst of storms are nearly always named after girls.
Practically the living embodiment of the beautiful but deadly seas, she's not someone any sane person want...
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Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.
If you're reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is this: stop reading this right now. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal lunacy-free life as possible.
Being a half-blood is a lot of things but above all else it's dangerous and terrifying, and most of the time it gets you killed in various painful and nasty ways.
If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's simple fantasy, great. Go ahead and read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of what you're about to read ever happened. But if you recognize yourself in these paragraphs - if you feel something stirring inside you - stop reading immediately.
You just might be one of us.
And once you know that, it'll be only a matter of time before they know it too, and they will come for you like they came for me.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
My name is Percy Jackson. As of now I'm a simple thirteen year old, and, up until a few months ago, I was a boarding student attending Yancy Academy. Which is a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York.
Am I a troubled kid?
Well, yes. You could say that.
I could start at any point in my short but miserable life to prove it, but things really started going from bad to worse last May when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan - a total of twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers (whose sanity could be considered questionable for choosing to teach at Yancy as opposed to literally any other school) on a standard yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman art pieces.
I know, I know - it must sound like absolute torture. Most of the Yancy Academy field trips were.
But Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was the one leading this particular trip so I had some hope. Not a lot, but still some hope.
Mr. Brunner was a middle-aged man in a modified wheelchair. He had thinning hair, a scruffy beard, and a frayed tweed jacket that always smelled like fresh coffee. At first glance you wouldn't think he'd be cool, but he told great stories and even let us play games in class. He also had a collection of Roman armor and weapons (I wasn't sure how he had them or why he wasn't reprimanded for leaving them within reach of the curious and kleptomaniac hands of twelve to thirteen and fourteen year olds) so his was one of the few classes that didn't immediately put me into Hypnos' and his brother's domains without even trying so his class was easily my favorite.
I hoped that this trip would be okay. Or at the very least I wouldn't end up in trouble for one reason or other again.
