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the very next morning marcel met up with clarisse on the beach. after their spine-chilling vision, they agreed to not take the third companion.
but before that, they had a small dispute. both of them disliked the to fly home alone part of the prophecy.
it meant one of them wouldn't come back, and neither was readyto risk the other's life.
they did come to terms, after a few minutes spent on shoving and raising voices.
mr. d and tantalus had been expecting them on the beach, both of them with unpleased but at the same time delighted expressions. it was a rather... disturbing sight.
it turned out that percy, annabeth, and tyson had escaped from camp that night. no surprises there, to be perfectly honest. but marcel couldn't help but feel bitter. so they thought he and clarisse wouldn't make it, huh? that they would do a better job? okay, then. they'll see.
then there was a question of their transport. they couldn't exactly rent a yacht, and there was absolutely no way they would ask tantalus (or mr. d for that matter) for help.
so, they were left with only two options: stealing from some obvious mortal or asking clarisse's father for help.
the first option had too many risks. for one - they could get caught. two: how were they supposed to get enough supplies for the journey? fuel oil was expensive, after all. and lastly - neither of them how engines or navigation systems worked. and marcel was pretty sure a two-people crew could only work inland, not on an open sea.
asking ares for help, that is.
both of them prayed to the god of war asking for aid. and to their utter surprise, the god showed up on the shore in person.
it was a strange sensation, the hate. pure rage filled marcel's very being and dared him to do the unthinkable. it wrapped itself around him like a warm blanket, ready to suffocate him at any given moment. he had to physically restrain himself from pouncing on ares or clarisse and beating them to a pulp.
ares heard them out, but marcel was sure he already knew of the mess the camp was in. olympic gossip and all that.
the god had complied with a hearty laugh. he had summoned an ironclad with moss-covered letters that read css birmingham on the prow. it rode low in the water like a submarine, its deck plated with iron. in the middle was a trapezoid-shaped casemate with slats on each side for cannons. a flag waved from the top - a wild boar and spear on a bloody red field. lining the deck was the crew: zombies in gray uniforms - dead confederate soldiers with shimmering faces that only partially covered their skulls.
if it weren't for the fact that those soldiers believed in everything marcel condemned, he'd be left in complete awe.
"you two better make it," ares said, his form already shimmering, ready to leave. "i expect only the best from you." he paused. before he could completely disappear, he said, "beat that old kelp beard's son's ass."
