𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗨𝗦𝗘 ! ━ 𝙋. 𝙅𝘼𝘾𝙆𝙎𝙊𝙉

vi.

𖤓

Marcel stared at the golden laurel in his hands. No matter how long he studied the symbol of victory, it didn't feel like he deserved it.

It was a half-assed win. No, not even a win. By a mere chance Clarisse got them both to the finish line while chasing the pigeons away. And the next thing he knew, Tantalus declared them winners.

It was... It was humiliating.

At some point, a voice at the back of his head told him Tantalus was only using him and Clarisse to get under Percy's skin. That they were only good to be some kind of bait for the teen to latch on and blame.

And Marcel couldn't help but understand his reasoning - why them out of people. It was no secret that Clarisse didn't have... positive feelings about Percy. She didn't hate him, no. Just like Marcel, she wanted to prove herself - that she was a strong warrior capable of astounding deeds.

Clarisse could deny her feelings all she wanted, but she had her doubts. That she wasn't good enough, strong enough. That her father would never acknowledge her.

It seemed Tantalus knew her inner turmoil and he exploited the fact like a damned groomer.

He used any chance to spew false flattery to manipulate the situation for his own gain. A few kind words of praise here and there, and he got the reaction he wanted.

But the question was why? Why did he do this? What was the purpose?

Why would a grown-ass man want to have a beef with a bunch of mentally unstable (sorry, but it's true) teenagers?

After the chariot races, Tantalus said the Stymphalian birds had simply been minding their own business in the woods and would not have attacked if Annabeth, Percy, and Tyson hadn't disturbed them with their bad chariot driving.

Marcel knew that self-satisfaction flowed through the creepy man's veins when Percy told him to go chase a doughnut. He railed the teen up, and now he had a reason to sentence the three of them to kitchen patrol - scrubbing pots and platters all afternoon in the underground kitchen with the cleaning harpies. And the harpies washed with lava instead of water, to get that extra-clean sparkle and kill ninety-nine point nine percent of all germs. To to sum it up: not pleasant at all.

Then, Tantalus had clapped both of his hands on Clarisse and Marcel's shoulders, standing right between them. He had ordered a special luncheon banquet to celebrate their chariot victory - a full-course meal featuring country-fried Stymphalian death-fowl.

When Marcel's still woozy bran registered what the man wanted them to eat, he almost threw up.

After swallowing up the bile that formed in his throat at the mere thought of eating the very much dead but still demonic pigeons, he wondered if he now had a phobia of birds. Truth be told, he wouldn't be surprised if he did. The beady eyes would haunt him in his dreams, he was sure of it.

That night at the campfire, Apollo's cabin led the sing-along. They tried to get everybody's spirits up, but it wasn't easy after that afternoon's bird attack. The whole camp sat around a semicircle of stone steps, singing halfheartedly and watching the bonfire blaze while some of the Cabin Seven campers strummed their guitars and picked their lyres.

Marcel had sat next to a guy he had only seen once when passing by that day. He must have been new because Marcel knew all the faces at camp. And it was impossible for him to not notice the guy. At least not with that face.

The pretty guy, Marcel had been shamelessly calling him that in his mind, had east asian features and looked to be around fourteen years old, so the same age as him. His glossy black hair covered the top of his dark eyes, and his thin lips were slightly chapped. He was thin, but it was only a matter of time before he got some muscles on himself at camp.