The dining pavilion during dinner was a riot of noise and motion. Luke sat at the edge of the Hermes table, his nose buried deep in The Nymph's Midday Squeeze.
"Maa," he giggled softly, a flush rising on his cheeks as he read a particularly detailed passage about a dryad and a jar of olive oil. "That's physically impossible... but I admire the enthusiasm."
But while his shoulders shook with perverted mirth, his single eyes weren't looking at the page. It was drifting over the rim of the book, observing his demigod cousins.
Magic food and drink is nice. Harpies as cleaning ladies is a nice touch. But demigods…are fascinating.
Luke couldn't help but compare shinobi to demigods.
A shinobi's movement was a subtraction of self. You learned to erase yourself. You walked by rolling the outer edge of the foot to dampen the sound, you breathed in sync with the ambient noise, you retracted your presence until you were nothing more than a shadow with a pulse. Combat readiness was ingrained to the point of unconsciousness.
These children were an explosion of presence.
Luke watched a son of Ares drop a heavy bronze goblet. Before the metal could kiss the marble floor, three different hands from across the table had snapped out to catch it. It wasn't a conscious decision. It was a spasm of collective reflex. They didn't look at each other; they simply resumed eating, their legs bouncing under the table in a rapid, staccato rhythm that vibrated the benches.
ADHD, a doctor had once called it, when his school is requested his mother to take him to a hospital. A clinical diagnosis. A disorder.
Luke turned the page of his book without reading a word. To a veteran soldier, this ADHD felt different. Something that only someone who had truly live and breathed combat would understand. Demigods have a 24/7 autonomous threat assessment radar constantly running.
Luke had observed certain behavioural patterns that were different in this new body of his, but he had chalked it down to simple biological differences in this new body. But observing other demigods, pieces that hadn't made sense, were rapidly clicking into place. ADHD was far too simple, too mortal, a diagnosis to explain these new instincts.
The kids were constantly scanning the periphery, processing the wind direction, the shift of light, the sudden movement of a fellow camper. Their minds were designed for kinetic movement. For Combat. Luke thought.
And the dyslexia, demigods are are essentially programmed to only read in the language our divine progenitors created. Biological super soldiers in the wrong day and age.
Luke watched a daughter of Apollo snatch a fly out of the air without breaking her conversation.
Impulsive. Reactive. Supernaturally fast.
A shinobi had to be trained to reach that level of alertness. Demigods were born with certain instincts coded into their very DNA. They were a raw, volatile ore, brimming with a natural combat instinct that the Great Villages would have sacrificed thousands to replicate. Orochimaru would have done anything in his power to study you.
Battlefield reflexes. Wired for the chaos of a melee. But untrained.
A shinobi moved with intent; a demigod moved with instinct. One was a scalpel, guided by years of discipline to cut only what was necessary. The other was a live wire, snapping and sparking at the slightest disturbance.
"But the patterns aren't uniform," Luke murmured, turning a page. He let out a scandalized little gasp at the illustration on page forty-two. "I didn't know vines could bend that way. Nymphs are truly flexible creatures."
But while his eyes crinkled in amusement, his mind was already dissecting the distinct behaviours that certain lineages displayed.
He shifted his gaze to the Ares table.
Their instincts were predatory. They constantly scanned the perimeter for targets. Luke watched a burly camper unconsciously shift his weight every time someone walked behind him, his shoulder dropping into a tackle-ready angle.
They were mapping the room based on who they could hurt and how quickly.
Heavy infantry logic, Luke noted, pretending to stifle a yawn behind his hand. High aggression, low inhibition. Their ADHD manifests as a constant, thrumming desire to close the distance.
He shifted his focus to the Athena table. Goddess of Strategy and War. Hmmm
Here, it was different. Less kinetic, more cerebral. The children of the wisdom goddess stared. Their distinctive grey eyes tracked the structural integrity of the pavilion, the social hierarchy of the other tables, potential weaknesses.
Similar to the Nara clan, Luke realized with a pang of nostalgia. They were built to run hundreds of tactical simulations a second, predicting where a fight would break out, who would win.
Smart, Luke observed. But how do they react under pressure. Where does strategy end and combat begin. Do their calculations overwhelm their instincts? By the time they calculate the perfect strike, an Ares kid would have already punched them in the throat.
Then there was the Apollo table.
Blond hair, blue eyes galore. Yamanakas would have fit right in. There was currently a mini grape war being conducted, with shots being made at near impossible angles. Luke watched a girl at the Apollo table squint slightly as a sudden gust of wind passed, her hand instinctively adjusting the angle of her spoon to compensate for the shift in wind. As the grape left her spoon, it curved around a plate to splatter on her target's face.
They were reading wind shear, barometric pressure, they saw a world grid of coordinates and trajectories. Luke diagnosed. They would be lethal with any projectile weapon. Kunai, shuriken, senbon. A younger camper tripped and scraped his leg. And an Apollo camper immediately came over and his hands shone gold as the cut healed.
Medical Ninjutsu as well, Luke thought, his mind furiously analysing the potential. But no chakra, just pure divine lineage. Well Apollo is the God of Medicine. But what are the limits, can every child of Apollo heal. Do other demigods of different lineages have specific powers?
Luke flipped the page, his visible eye widening in mock scandal.
"Maa," he whispered, a flush rising on his cheeks. "I didn't think you could use a hammock that way. The physics are... ambitious."
He let out a soft, perverted giggle. But his gaze shifted to the Hephaestus Table.
They were the quietest table, but also the most restless.
They constantly fiddled.
Luke watched a Hephaestus camper unconsciously disassemble a bronze clock he'd brought to dinner while talking to a sibling. His thick fingers moved with a blur of dexterity, stripping the mechanism, checking the threads, the gears, and reassembling it in under ten seconds. He didn't even look at it.
Combat Engineers, Blacksmiths. Luke diagnosed. The Elemental Nations would have salivated for their engineering potential. They form the bedrock of Camp Half-Blood. They forge the weapons, fix structures. The camp would fall to pieces without them.
He shifted his book slightly, aiming his peripheral vision at the Aphrodite table.
To the unobservant, the Aphrodite table looked like a vanity fair. Mirrors, makeup, and hushed gossiping. But Luke had spent a lifetime fighting kunoichi, he had interacted with countless seduction specialists of both genders. He knew better.
He watched as an Aphrodite camper flirted with a boy from the Apollo cabin. She's reading his body language, Luke noted. His dilated pupils, the flush of his neck, the way his posture opened up. Tracking emotional shifts. Children of Aphrodite were constantly adjusting their external makeup, their scent, their tone of voice, to bypass your defences. Psychological warfare specialists. Natural seduction experts. Ibiki, Anko hell the entire T&I Department would have operatives with their natural, literally 'god given' skill set given anything to train
His gaze drifted to the green-draped table of Demeter.
They were eating cereal, and salads looking for all the world like peaceful farmers. But Luke noticed how plants seemed to grow around them. The grass was just a little bit greener. around the Demeter table. The land healthier. A young child of Demeter carrying a pot was prodding her Venus fly-trap and it was growing. Mokuton, Luke thought in awe. Perhaps not on Hashirama scale, or even Tenzo. But they would have been worshipped in Konoha.
And finally, his own table, the Hermes Table.
He still hadn't interacted with his blood siblings. Wow even thinking that feels weird. Well I haven't been officially 'claimed' yet anyways, or whatever that means.
But Luke looked down at at the bustling, chaotic energy of his 11 other siblings. Wow Hermes, you've been busy.
As he looked at his small hands, he felt the itch in his fingers, not to hit, but to take.
The Hermes table moved with a fluid, liquid opportunism. They were constantly assessing the path of least resistance. Their eyes tracked gaps in the defense, a loose pouch, a pocket looking slightly unguarded, a blind spot in a counselor's vision.
Infiltration specialists, Luke thought, a dry smile touching his lips beneath the mask. Thieves. Natural Shinobi.
He watched a younger Hermes kid, Mat, successfully swipe a bread roll from a Demeter camper's plate without breaking stride.
Luke watched with a sense of warm, professional (and maybe brotherly) pride. Sloppy wrist movement, but the misdirection was solid.
Camp Half Blood was a collection of teenage super-soldiers, each forged for a specific theatre of war, all crammed into a cafeteria eating pizza.
It was messy. It was loud.
And, Luke thought with a small buzz of delight, it is absolutely magnificent.
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The interior of Cabin Eleven smelled like the kind of frantic, unwashed energy that only fifty-some kids from ages six to eighteen, packed into a room meant for thirty could produce.
Luke stepped over a sleeping bag that occupied a prime piece of real estate right in the middle of the walking path and dodged a prying hand that tried to pickpocket him. He didn't say anything, but his single visible eye narrowed as he scanned the room.
"Find a spot, Castellan," Chris said, waving vaguely at a corner where three duffel bags were stacked like a fortification. "If you're lucky, you'll get a piece of floor that isn't directly under a leak. If you're unlucky, you'll end up next to the Stoll brothers." He pointed at two giggling blond haired six-year-olds. They tend to 'borrow' things in their sleep. And while they're awake. And generally whenever they're breathing."
Luke walked to the designated corner. He dropped his backpack, carefully, ensuring the spine of his book didn't catch on the floorboards, and sank into a cross-legged position, his back perfectly straight against the peeling wood of the wall.
Within seconds, he felt the collective gaze of two dozen children. They were looking at the mask and his silver hair.
"Is he a son of Hermes?" a younger girl whispered from a nearby bunk. She was swinging her legs, clutching a tattered teddy bear. "He's small, but he looks... old. Like, my-grandpa old."
Luke closed his eye for a moment, letting out a long, silent breath. Maa, I'm only nine in this body and already perceived I'm the village elder. How troublesome. "I can hear you, you know," Luke said, his voice flat but not unkind. "And for the record, myi was born with this hair colour. It's a family trait. Along with being remarkably good at listening to people who think they're whispering."
The girl turned bright red and tucked her face behind her bear.
"Oye oye oye, why are you wearing a mask." A younger kid with brown hair boldly asked.
"Because you guys smell bad", Luke responded dryly.
"Hey! We don't smell bad" "I took a bath three days ago" "It's Derek, he always smells bad." A dozen high pitched voices immediately raised in protest.
Somehow, to Luke's immense relief, this protest rapidly devolved into an argument about who's smelt the worst, and the attention shifted off him allowing him quickly slink off to an quiet corner in the room.
The cabin didn't settle down as the sun dipped below the horizon. If anything, the volume increased. There was a rhythmic thumping from the rafters where people were playing a card game, and a heated argument broke out three bunks over regarding the proper way to steal a plate from the mess hall.
Luke watched it all with a detached sort of fascination. In his old life, the Genin barracks had been disciplined. Quiet. The Hermes cabin in contrast was a mosh pit of constant energy. Among this chaos though, Luke could see the segregation between the claimed children of Hermes and unclaimed children of gods. The unclaimed generally formed their own groups, quietly talking among themselves. A few remained solitary, they hunched their shoulders, and tried to shut out the world, their faces etched with a specific kind of weariness. Some were filled with a desperate sort of energy as if they were shouting into the air "notice me".
"Hey, Castellan," Chris said, leaning over from his own bunk. " What are you staring at so intently. Relax. You're in the Hermes cabin. We don't do intense here unless there's a prank involved."
"I am relaxed," Luke lied. He reached into his pouch and pulled out his well worn copy of The Nymph's Midday Squeeze Vol. 2. He needed something to take his mind off the fact that the perimeter of this cabin was barely secured, and he was surrounded by his potential siblings.
Chris squinted at the text as Luke flipped to a particularly scandalous chapter involving a centaur and a very misplaced bottle of olive oil. "You're actually reading that? Seriously?"
"Maa, the prose is surprisingly descriptive," Luke murmured, his eye-smile making a brief, appearance as a perverted giggle escaped his mask. "The way she describes the... cultural exchange... is quite educational. This is essential research."
"You're a disturbing child, Castellan," Chris muttered, though he looked impressed.
Luke ignored him, his focus shifting back to the room. He saw the girl with the bear finally falling asleep. He saw Matthew at the front desk, head in his hands, being pestered by couple of 7 year olds.
He felt a familiar tug in his chest. It was the old, stubborn instinct of a Hokage.
Rules are rules, he thought. But leaving assets to sit in a drafty, overcrowded cabin without a plan... that's just poor leadership. These kids are desperate for something, or someone to take notice of them. To give them purpose. This sort of environment breeds dissent and resentment at both the gods and the claimed campers."
As the cabin finally descended into a chorus of snores and shifting sleeping bags, Luke sat in the dark. As he listened to the breathing of forty kids who had no one else to look after them, he felt that irritating sense of responsibility coming over him. Naruto, Sasuke, Sakura, you'd be rolling on the floor with laughter at my predicament.
Take it step by step Luke. You have time.
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Hokage Big Daddy Kakashiiii. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Loving the discussion guys! I'm thinking of starting a Discord because I'd love to brainstorm different interesting story ideas and interact with you guys. What do you think?
I've got some interesting plans up ahead.
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