Chapter 11: The Journey Begins
Argus's van smelled like cleaning supplies and something metallic that might've been blood. The camp's security chief drove in silence, his hundred eyes distributed across his body all tracking different things: the road, the mirrors, the passengers. But at least thirty of those eyes were locked on Alaric.
The scrutiny made his skin crawl.
Alaric sat in the back row, backpack clutched on his lap. Everything he owned in this world fit in that bag: one change of clothes, twenty golden drachmas, the bronze dagger he'd kept from his first days. No phone, no ID, no proof he existed beyond the word of a satyr and the confusion of camp records.
Percy sat in the middle row, bouncing his leg with nervous energy. Annabeth was beside him, triple-checking their supply inventory with the kind of focus that suggested she was avoiding thinking about what came next. Grover rode shotgun, hooves barely reaching the floor, reed pipes clutched like a security blanket.
They were kids. That's what hit Alaric as he watched them. Twelve and thirteen years old, being sent to prevent a war between gods, carrying the weight of prophecy and impossible expectations.
And he was supposed to help keep them alive while hiding what he really knew.
The van pulled into the Greyhound station. Manhattan's Port Authority—crowded, dirty, smelling of exhaust and humanity compressed into too-small spaces. Argus parked in a loading zone, his eyes doing one final sweep before he unlocked the doors.
"Stay together," the security chief said. His voice was rough from disuse. "Trust no one. And you—" all his eyes focused on Alaric simultaneously, "—keep your powers controlled. Camp can't help you once you leave."
"Understood," Alaric managed.
They climbed out. The summer morning heat hit like a wall, humidity making everything stick. Annabeth immediately started organizing—checking tickets, verifying their route, establishing meet-up protocols if they got separated.
Percy just stared back the way they'd come. Like he could see Camp Half-Blood from here, like he was memorizing it in case he never returned.
Grover's hooves clicked nervously on pavement. His empathy sense must've been picking up everyone's fear, amplifying it, creating a feedback loop of anxiety.
And Alaric felt it too. The weight of what they were about to do. The knowledge that monsters would hunt them every step of the way. The certainty that people he cared about could die if he made the wrong choices.
"They're terrified," he realized. "Hiding it behind bravado and planning, but they're absolutely terrified. And they have every right to be."
He did something impulsive.
"Team huddle," Alaric announced. "Now."
"We don't have time for—" Annabeth started.
"Now."
They gathered in a circle, close enough to smell each other's anxiety-sweat. Percy looked confused. Annabeth skeptical. Grover just nervous.
Alaric grabbed their shoulders—physical connection, solid and real—and spoke with fierce intensity.
"Whatever happens out there, we're a team. No one gets left behind. No one fights alone. And we all come home." He met each of their eyes in turn. "That's the only prophecy that matters. Not what the Oracle said, not what the gods want. We take care of each other, and we survive. Agreed?"
Percy's grin was immediate and genuine. "Agreed."
"It's tactically sound," Annabeth admitted. Her tactical mask cracked just slightly, showing the scared kid underneath. "Agreed."
"I really hope we don't die," Grover bleated. But he was smiling. "Agreed."
They broke the huddle. The fear was still there—couldn't be banished with a speech—but it was shared now. Distributed among four instead of crushing them individually.
"Bus leaves in ten minutes," Annabeth said. Back to business. "Let's move."
The Greyhound bus was exactly as miserable as Alaric remembered from his old life. Stained seats, broken air conditioning, the smell of diesel and recycled air. They claimed the back row—tactical position, hard to ambush—and settled in for the long ride west.
Alaric's monster senses picked up wrongness within the first hour.
The passengers were wrong. Not obviously—the Mist hid the truth from mortal eyes—but his hellhound instincts could smell sulfur underneath cheap perfume. Could hear breathing patterns that didn't match human rhythms. Could see shadows moving in directions light didn't support.
He leaned toward Annabeth. "We have a problem."
"I know," she whispered. Her grey eyes tracked three elderly women sitting near the front. "Those aren't humans."
"What are they?" Percy asked, too loud.
"Quiet," Annabeth hissed. "And I don't know. But they're watching us."
The three old ladies turned in unison. Their movements were synchronized, mechanical. And their eyes—when they looked back at Percy—burned with ancient hatred.
Then they smiled.
Wings erupted from their backs—shadow and leather, impossibly large—and their faces shifted into something reptilian. The Furies. Alecto and her sisters. Ancient servants of Hades, sent to punish and destroy.
The Mist held for the mortals. They saw three old ladies having some kind of medical emergency, nothing more. But the demigods saw truth.
"Weapons!" Percy shouted. Riptide appeared in his hand—a pen transformed into bronze sword—and the bus driver started screaming about knives and terrorism.
Chaos erupted.
Alaric summoned the Gate of Babylon. Fifteen portals tore open simultaneously, weapons spilling into the bus aisle: swords, spears, axes, each one garbage-tier but sharp enough to matter. He grabbed mentally, using his developing telekinetic control, and sent bronze flying toward the Furies.
Annabeth yanked her invisibility cap on and disappeared. Smart—the Furies couldn't target what they couldn't see.
Grover's pipes came out. He played discord, panic music that made mortals flee toward the exits and made the Furies hesitate, confused by the magical assault on their senses.
Percy charged. Because of course he did. Riptide gleaming, sea-green eyes burning with heroic stupidity, and Alaric had to admire the kid's courage even as he wanted to strangle him for the recklessness.
One Fury lunged at Percy. Alaric's spear caught her wing, pinning it to the bus ceiling. She shrieked—fury and pain mixing—and her sister attacked him instead.
Claws scraped across his chest. The dracaena scales he'd absorbed took the worst of it, but pain still bloomed. Alaric summoned a hammer and swung wild, connecting with the Fury's shoulder, driving her back.
The third Fury went for Grover. But Annabeth—invisible and silent—tripped her mid-flight. The monster crashed into seats, and Percy was there in a heartbeat, Riptide driving through her back.
Golden dust. One down.
The bus driver was doing something. Alaric's peripheral vision caught movement—the man's skin rippling, legs bursting into flame. Not a man. An Empousai. The vampire demon with bronze legs who served Hecate.
"BRAKE!" Alaric shouted. "HE'S GOING TO—"
The bus driver slammed the brakes. Physics took over. Bodies flew forward—demigods, Furies, mortals, all tumbling in a chaos of screaming and bronze. Alaric grabbed Percy by instinct, his Minotaur bloodline keeping him oriented even as momentum tried to throw them through the windshield.
They hit the aisle. Rolled. Alaric's back slammed into a seat support and pain exploded up his spine. But he held onto Percy, kept the younger boy from breaking his skull on the dashboard.
The windshield shattered. Heat bloomed. Fire—the Empousai's gift—spreading across the bus's interior with unnatural speed.
"OUT!" Annabeth's voice, still invisible. "EVERYONE OUT!"
They scrambled. Kicked out emergency windows, grabbed Grover who was bleating in panic, stumbled onto the highway as the bus transformed into a fireball behind them. The Furies followed, wings spread, murder in their ancient eyes.
But they were free. Open air, forest nearby, space to fight properly.
Alaric summoned everything. Twenty portals. Thirty. His blood potency was around 15% now, high enough to sustain this many weapons without immediate collapse. Bronze rained down on the Furies like artillery, and Percy charged through the barrage, Riptide singing.
They won through chaos and desperation. The second Fury fell to Annabeth's dagger strike from invisibility. The third died when Grover's panic music drove her into Percy's blade. The Empousai tried to flee and Alaric brought him down with a spear through the spine.
Golden dust settled across the highway. Sirens wailed in the distance. And four demigods stood panting, covered in monster remains, staring at the burning bus.
"Everyone alive?" Annabeth asked. Her voice shook despite the professional tone.
"Alive," Percy confirmed.
"Mostly," Grover bleated.
"Define alive," Alaric muttered. His back was screaming where he'd hit the seat support. "But yeah. Alive."
Annabeth dismissed her invisibility cap. Counted their supplies with shaking hands. "We lost half our food in the fire. Most of the medical supplies. All our water except what's in canteens."
"How much money do we have?" Percy asked.
"Not enough." Annabeth's tactical assessment was bleak. "And we're barely into New Jersey. We should've made it to Pennsylvania before the first attack."
"There were four monsters," Alaric said. Exhaustion made his voice flat. "Canon was three Furies. But my presence... I'm changing things. Attracting more attention."
"Canon?" Annabeth's grey eyes sharpened.
"My dreams," Alaric corrected quickly. "I dreamed about three old ladies on a bus. But there were four today. The Empousai wasn't supposed to be there. Which means my prophetic visions are becoming less reliable because I'm part of the story now."
It was true enough. And terrifying enough that Annabeth just nodded, accepting the explanation while filing it away for future analysis.
"We need to move," Grover said. His satyr senses were twitching. "More monsters coming. They'll smell the battle, investigate."
They fled into the forest. Put miles between themselves and the burning bus before collapsing in a clearing, too exhausted to go further.
Night fell. They made camp without fire—too risky, too visible. Shared cold rations and water rationed to mouthfuls. Took turns on watch because sleeping without protection was suicide.
Alaric took first watch. Sat with his back against a tree, summoned weapons laid across his lap, hyperaware of every sound. The forest was alive with normal nighttime noises—insects, small animals, wind through leaves. But underneath, his monster senses detected wrongness. Things moving that shouldn't move. Scents that didn't belong.
They were being hunted. Constantly. And it wouldn't stop until they reached Los Angeles or died trying.
"Can't sleep?" Percy's voice, quiet.
Alaric looked over. The younger boy had sat up, clearly not sleeping despite exhaustion painting shadows under his eyes.
"Too wired," Alaric admitted.
Percy moved closer. Sat beside him in companionable silence, staring at stars visible through the canopy.
"That was scary," Percy said finally. "The bus. I've fought monsters before, but that was... different."
"More real?"
"Yeah. More real." Percy's hands clenched and unclenched. "In camp, there's backup. Healers. Safety. Out here, if we mess up, we just die."
"We're not going to die."
"You can't know that."
"I can choose to believe it." Alaric offered a tired smile. "And I can fight like hell to make it true."
Percy studied him. "You're scared too. I can tell. But you hide it better."
"Practice."
"How long have you been on your own? Before camp?"
The question hit harder than it should. Alaric's old life—the warehouse job, the one-bedroom apartment, the isolation—felt impossibly distant. "Long enough to get good at pretending I'm fine."
"That sucks."
"Yeah." Alaric's laugh was hollow. "It really does."
They sat in silence. Two kids keeping vigil, fear shared between them making it slightly more bearable. Eventually Percy's breathing evened out—he'd fallen asleep sitting up, exhaustion winning—and Alaric let him rest.
Behind them, Annabeth's tactical mind probably worked through every contingency. Grover's empathy sense probably felt everyone's fear amplified.
And Alaric sat guard, weapons ready, wondering how he was supposed to keep these kids alive when the timeline he knew was unraveling with every choice he made.
"Okay," he thought. "So changing the story means harder difficulty. Four monsters instead of three. Bus explosions that weren't in canon. Fine. I'll adapt. I have to. Because failure isn't an option."
The forest breathed around him. Dangerous and beautiful and completely indifferent to the fate of four children trying to save the world.
Alaric checked his weapons. Settled in for a long watch. And tried not to think about all the ways this quest could end in tragedy.
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