The first time Percy met the god of lies, it wasn't what you would call a 'good' day. 

To be honest, that would be impossible to create a greater understatement.

It was the fourth of July, they day of rebirth. The day the nation had become independent, new. Fireworks burst along the night sky, different colors tinting the windows through a shade in his pathetic Manhattan apartment. He tried his hardest not to twitch every time a thunderous canister exploded. It pulled back to many memories to be enjoyable. 

So there he sat, in the darkness of his living room, nursing a particularly strong bottle of scotch. But that was no different then the night before, or the night before that. To be honest, he couldn't remember a time this week where he had left the apartment building. Then again, he couldn't recall the last time he had slept...

A firework lit up the sky, interrupting his thoughts before he delved to deeply into the subject. His head spun to the window covered by the shade, a red tinge staining the entire room. He shook his head at his own jittery actions....the firecrackers that were set off on the street below sounded to much like gunshots for not to think of the things he tried his hardest to never think about.

He swung back another mouthful of the bottle, wanting it to make him feel numb as it burned down his throat, or at least distract him from the things edging up in his mind. He pinched himself in the thigh subconsciously, till his unkempt nails dented into his skin.

He could hear people laughing, he was sure of it. Outside, where they pranced around in the street watching the displays of fire in the sky. People sneaking pecks under the estranged darkness. It wasn't even nine, but the pounding across the sky continued relentlessly as if it would never end. 

His body felt so hot under his skin, bubbling up to the surface like a blister. He felt to tired to want to keep is eyes open, but he knew he would never sleep for long, not if the dark purple bags under them had anything to say. It was all he felt capable of to raise the bottle to his lips again, but knowing he wanted to do so much more. 

Voices from the street met his ears again, unintelligible but lighthearted. He was starting to think the complete silence was better than this, the constant torture of people. It might have been better to just to be alone than listen to the laughter that he could never have. No, he could never have the innocence again, the spark of light in his soul. It felt to numb, maybe that was it, maybe he just wanted to feel something. Or maybe he wanted to stop feeling. 

He flinched sluggishly as the call toe of his phone went off, the sound of the generic chime that he was to unpressed to change filling in all of the sound that was unwanted. He could feel his mouth dip down into a scowl, the chime continuing to it's end and repeating till it sounded off. He didn't feel like caring at that point. Then the voicemail commenced. His moms voice filling the small apartment.

"Hey Percy," She began with some sort of emotion, longing maybe? What ever it was it sent a pang through his chest, pinching his thigh harder than before.

"Sorry for calling out of the blue, I know that your probably busy, but I just wanted to wish you a happy 4th of July." Her tone lacked what the words felt. He hadn't talked to her in so long.

"Just," She paused, most likely pursing her lips. "Just try and call more often, I miss hearing from you."   

"I know you've been having a hard time since, since-well you know. But I don't even know where you are, much less who you are. Please, just please pick up the phone." He shut his eyes tight as he heard the desperation in her tone. 

He couldn't talk to her, see her. He couldn't let her see the mess he had become, gods he was a coward. He would DIE before she had to see the mess he had held onto, the empty shell of a man that his conscious now called home. Yes, death seemed like a much than the disappointment in her eyes. 

"I love you." The voicemail ended and he sunk even further into the cushions, his hand finally releasing from the death grip pinch on his leg. All he could do was focus on how it stung, waiting till he could breathe again.    

His mind had always been to scattered, one thing in his thoughts led to the inevitable pain of another. He could never focus on what right was in front of him, unless he was dying of course, and that happened more than he would of liked it to. He knew that he should have picked up the phone, he should have got his ass up from the hole he had burnt in to the couch and talked to his mother, but he didn't. To be honest he couldn't even blame it on his ADHD. Sure, it made it easier to think about something else, anything else, but his was his own oncoming weakness in which he just- just couldn't.

His hand holding the bottle was shaking involuntarily, not even really wanting to drink anymore, but placing the glass rim to his lips on impulse. Something inside him repulsed the liquor that burned down his throat, like for the first time he actually felt it, let himself focus on the sensation instead of the unnamed things that he never wanted to think about. It wasn't something that felt well, it had always left a sour taste in his mouth, but he never cared. Why did he care?

He didn't want to feel, the alcohol that ran down his throat like bile, the undisturbed voicemail that would remain undisturbed, the forever hole that he was burring himself alive in. He didn't want to feel any of it, contain it all. Not the pain, not the memories, and definitely not the nightmares that made it so much worse. 

The bottle shattered against the wall, shards of glass raining onto the floor in a heap. He didn't care. Not about the glass, not about the pain-well maybe about the pain because it would never fucking leave- but whatever fucking happened. He. Didn't. Care. 

Or maybe he cared too much and it burned him worse than the alcohol would ever.  Maybe it was that he took a hit to the chest, GWS and never stopped bleeding. A grenade that set off too  close and embedded shards and debris into his bloodstream, either killing him slowly or his heart stopping to quick to tell, leaving him in vertigo and confusion. Maybe that was why he was finding it hard to breathe, because for some godforsaken reason, he cared. He cared for things he should have never let touch him and now he was burning. 

The point is, well the point is that the point was never clear. He did was he was mean to do, did more, did it all. Now that nothing was ruling over his life, he didn't know what on earth he was doing alive. What was the point of surviving when nothing ever lives like its supposed to. So he didn't die and now he can't breathe. Not for something he has to do, but because he doesn't know what he has to do, and truthfully, he doesn't know which on is worse. 

That one moment, when he couldn't take in any breaths and he was on the verge of panic, he decided he wanted to see the fireworks. He had no idea once so ever what he was going to do or where he was going to go. His hands were still shaking as he got up off the couch and moved to the door on unsteady legs and twisted the knob, slowly, hesitantly. He was to warm, feverish and the night felt so cool. 

So against any better judgement, or lack thereof, he stumbled down the hall and left his apartment building to watch the fireworks like a person that thought every boom was going to kill him. 

Therefor making the absolute worst mistake of his entire life, which mind you is something quite ambitious if we reviewed all of his mistake. That being a thing he would never want to do, therefore this taking the title.

Outside bad. 

Alone, isolated, forsaken, forlorn, unaided, unattached, a fucking mere shadow of what he was and what he wanted to be. Anything, would have been better than the shit storm he drove himself into. 

The fireworks were beautiful no doubt though, multicolored explosions cascading across the sky in controlled chaos. So, maybe it was that he didn't really care for the holiday, but he thought watching the flames fizzle out and crackle was better than watching the colors stream in from the shaded window. 

He didn't exactly know where he was, on the top f some random building, laying down on the concrete and watching the sky. His face lit up with the colors in the sky, and for some reason, for just a moment,  he could forget the wars and the pain. In one explosion of a mortar, there were no phone calls left unanswered, no pieces of literature controlling his fate and definitely no people. All there was, was a night sky full of color and a mere boy that watched in awe at the display. Mouth open and eyes full of light. There was no pushing, shoving or greed for that moment, and it felt light, free.

And then that moment as gone, because there was someone on the roof with him.

He felt the coldness of a blade pressed dangerously deep into the skin next to his jugular artery. His back stiffened, all of the fatigued muscles tensing to the point where his abdomen burned from lack of a decent meal. 

This wasn't the first time a blade had been pressed to his neck, if he had enough time it would have been possible to count them. Alas, he probably didn't have the time. His mind reeled though. Sure, there was only a few deities who didn't want him beheaded and thrown off the face of olympus to display his entrails as a sacrifice, but that didn't exactly narrow it down. Anyone could have wanted him dead, but who would go through with it?

No-wait. If you wanted someone dead you didn't hold a knife to the neck and hold your fire. This action was done with intent. Without further analysis he wouldn't have been able to tell if the person holding the knife to his neck would go through with killing him, intent or not, but with how strong the grip was on the blade, he wasn't stupid enough to risk it. So after that single second thought process, he waited for the supposed man to speak.

He didn't, so he took the opening. 

"Is there a reason that you are currently holding a knife to my neck?" He asked dumbly and straightforward, trying not to moved his neck as to not disturb the very sharp blade.

"Don't feign not to know Denver, you didn't hold up your end of the deal." His voice was smooth, powerful. Dangerously so. He didn't sound older than-wait what?

"I don't particularly remember making any deals, and the last time I checked I hadn't legally changed my name to Denver. So...." His voice trail off, trying his hardest not to show any falters. 

The knife loosened hesitantly on his neck and he let out a breath of air that had become stale in his chest. So looks like it was an accidental threat on his life, that was new. Usually it was someone actively trying to kill him. He decided he liked this better.

"Um look man, I don't really feel like dying at the moment." He started, putting on one of those dumb street thug voices. "Which that feeling is surprisingly new, so if you be so kind..." 

He felt the knife leave the skin of his neck, but leaving a line of blood that welled up where the sharp edge had been only moments before. He breathed in deeply and got out of the man's grip as fast as he could, turning to see his face. 

Strange. Strange is the word he would use to describe him. Well the nice one at least. He looked weird as hell. Sure he himself had been decked out in full battle armor several times, he'd worn some togas aswell. One time in his misfortunate youth he had even tried pranking the Athena cabin dressed as the Black widow....which was unspokenly never mentioned again. This guy though, he resembled someone at comic-con dressed as an evil Hermes. To be honest, any of the gods at comic-con was an image he wanted to forget. 

He had black plated armor with gold and green outlining his shoulders. He also had a cape, which made it very hard to take in the intimidating dangerous gleam in his eyes like he was supposed to. His hair was half slicked back and half falling to the side of his face, black locks that contrasted sharply against his pale skin. 

When another firework exploded, it shone red light onto the tops of his features and showed his expression that looked downright murderous. For some reason though, it didn't seem to be aimed at him. That was also new. 

So he tried his best to make himself look non threatening, which was hard for he was very tired, and also particularly annoyed that the one time he went outside he was assaulted by a mortal cosplayer. He was still in a bit of a defensive stance, but not a strong one. His muscles were tense and ready for action but fell loosely to his sides. The last thing he wanted was a fight at the moment, but he would if that was what it came to. Though he was particularly unarmed against mortals.     

"Why are you at this location?" He demanded in his silky venomous articulation. 

That's exactly what I wanted to know, but he didn't, so he did the best he could. His hand drew up and pointed at the sky full of colors.

"Fireworks." He said plainly. 

The mans scowl deepened, lines forming on his forehead as his eyebrows scrunched together. He tried to convey the aura of 'Dude, like this will be the one and only time i'm completely innocent in my actions.' He could see it on his headstone now, 'Killed by a Cosplayer Mob-Boss who though he was a Denver, mourn his stupidity.'

"I do not view the significance of such a date." He made a noise reminiscent to a scoff. "You witless mortals and your petty holidays."

He froze, loosened stance going ridged. His face became icy, hardened.

Mortals.

Mortals.

"Who are you?" He questioned crudely, filled with a mixture of anger and curiosity. His calm, stupid demeanor falling faster than Castiel fell for Dean.

The other man noticed the change almost immedetly, his arms shifting under his armor. He snarled and griped his knife tighter in his hand.

"That is none of your concern, you incoherent midgardian." He shot out, somehow even more venomous than before.

That was anything but normal, but nothing was ever normal for him.

Midgardian.

Meaning of origin of Midgard, or Earth.

Commonmy used in Nordic reign.

.......fuck.

He backed away to the edge of the building, he was not ready to deal with a Norse god that looked like he jumped straight out of a movie. The God was blocking the entrance to the roof. If he distracted him or taunted gim, he could get him to move closer. He looked over the edge of the building, if he couldn't get him to move that was the only other way out that was semi-survivable.

He didn't get to make a decision though, because something that was very much not a firework exploded in the building next to him. It threw him off his feet onto the ruff concrete roofing.

He stared up into flames, burning is eyes with the heat simply radiating off of it. His ears rang from the initial explosion, he could barely here, but from where he sat he could have sworn that the God had muttered something from under his breath.

"So I was mistaken, Denver completed the task."

As he looked up to the building in a daze he only thought one thing. Why the he'll did he go outside?

Hey people..... It's the Forth of July!

I'm sorry that I haven't been able to update this book more often, it feels awesome to write and I love all of your guy's positive feedback!

So this is a peace offering for the  4th, a present if you will.

I also want to know what you guys want to see, the kinds of interactions you want between Percy and Loki. I'll try my best to write then into the plotline.

This is going to be a slow build. No doubt. I want to try to make it at least a bit realistic. Or at least as realistic as you can get with a Norse god and a son or Posiden.....

So yeah! Comment on what you guys want to see and I'll try my best to take it into consideration.

Till next time.

Peace out.

And happy 4th of July!