OC Oneshots

30

OC: Jaron Kalvin (he/him)
Species: Demigod, son of Hermes/Legacy of Aphrodite
Universe: PJO
Note: the previous oneshot about Jaron has a bit of inaccurate stuff. He was not invited to go "home" to his mom, because she was in prison at the time. The rest of that oneshot is true to his lore, though. Anyway have a montage

He was five years old.

“Mama?” he asked. “Why don't I have a dad?”

His mother sighed. “He had things he had to do,” she said. “He's a very important person, and he didn't have time to take care of us. But it's okay.”

He stared at her. “Is he going to come back?”

Lilah Kalvin hesitated. “Someday,” she said. “When you're a little bit older, I'll take you to a place where you might meet him.”

He was six years old.

“We're going to go explore the world,” his mother told him, smiling. Her eyes were bloodshot, as if she'd been crying, but his memories tended to glaze over that part.

He looked back, wide-eyed, and then grinned - a full, oblivious expression that was missing two teeth. “Are we going to go see Mickey Mouse?”

“Of course,” Lilah promised. A lie, but he believed it at the time. “And the dinosaurs.”

He didn't know about the bank coming to collect what they were due. He wouldn't know for a long time.

For now, his eyes shone with joy. “Dinosaurs,” he breathed.

He was seven years old.

“Go on,” Lilah said. “That man looks very nice. Go talk to him.”

He stared at the stranger, then at his mother. “But Mom-”

“Just ask him for twenty dollars,” Lilah purred. “And then bring it back to Mommy so she can have her nice things. You do want me to be happy, don't you?”

He didn't realize until much later that it was not his mother's words that convinced him, but the magic flowing beneath them like an alluring, sparkling stream that was much deeper than it looked. Her voice was too easy to drown in.

He nodded, then slowly approached the stranger. The man was large. He did not look very nice. But he took pity on the disheveled child in front of him and did as asked.

Subconsciously, his words carried the same charm that his mother's had.

He was eight years old.

“Mom? What was Dad like?” he asked, out of the blue. It was only the second time he'd asked.

Lilah’s face darkened. Maybe she was angry, maybe she was sad, maybe a bit of both. “Don't you worry about your father,” she advised. “He left both of us alone. That's all you need to know.”

His memories might have been inaccurate, but he seemed to remember that she was a lot less bitter last time.

He was nine years old.

“Useless,” Lilah hissed. “Failure. How many times have I told you-” she raised her hand.

He flinched, taking the blow. It hurt, but he wouldn't cry. He refused to cry. Crybabies didn't get dinner. “She said no!” he protested. “She told me you were an… addict. What does that even mean?”

Lilah’s eyes flashed. “If they say no, then take it,” she growled. “That's the one thing you're good for. You know how to pickpocket. Use that.”