𝙗𝙮𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙖𝙘𝙩, 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚.
SECTION TWO: THE MIST—0003.

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PERCY AND WILMARIE LEARNED TO WALK BY HOLDING EACH OTHER'S HANDS FOR SUPPORT. It was as if one day they just chose to get up from the ground together and never look back—they ran through life hand in hand, as fast as they could, unwilling to let go even if one of them faltered or stumbled. As their mothers loved to say, they never quite let go, even as they grew older.

She had known the instant she took off in a sprint that Percy would catch up immediately. And he did; in the midst of New York's morning rush, he pursued her, weaving through people without a care, shouting after her.

Wilmarie had hoped it was an illusion, like those people who claimed to have seen silhouettes of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe appearing before an accident or the face of a loved one consoling them as they suffered from immense pain at a hospital. But when she tumbled over the uneven pavement, the skin on her palms and knees torn violently, ripping blood and tears that dripped down her face like shards of cracked glass, it was truly Percy who fell to the ground beside her in his desperate rush to check on her, cruelly gripping her shoulders tenderly and whispering words of comfort as if they were still children.

"Are you okay?" He asked her frantically. "Wils, are you okay?"

No, no. She isn't. No, she is not okay.

"You're dead," Wilmarie gasped, vehemently denying it. Trembling, she struggled to catch her breath; it felt trapped within her throat, choking her, refusing her the ability to breathe, to speak; to even think at all when Percy's frightened gaze met hers. The pain in her body was unsettling, frightening, and overwhelming. "You... You stole your stepdad's car!" She accused, horror evident in her voice as she desperately tried to move away from the ghost. "And Gabe lost his shit, and—and he killed you and Sally!"

Percy shook his head in disbelief. "No—Gods, no, Wils, that's not what happened."

"It is!" she exclaimed, furiously wiping away tears. "It was in the news last year! Everyone said you kidnapped Sally, and did all of this crazy shit, but my mom and I knew it couldn't be true. We tried to tell the police, but they didn't believe us—then—then Gabe went on stupid ABC World News Tonight with stupid Barbara Walters, and everyone started calling you a terrorist!" Her breath continued to hitch, and her voice cracked with emotion. "I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe that they were saying those horrible things about you. I knew you would never do something like that—but nobody believed me, and—and then there was a shooting in California, and the police said you were in a gang, or something—"

Percy enveloped her in a tight hug, crushing her head against his chest in his desperation. He trembled slightly, overwhelmed by the weight of her words. "No, Wils."He repeated; he sounded horrified, like he was torn between the urge to cry and the impulse to beat something. "No, none of that was true! My mom is fine. She is great! She has—she is engaged to this great guy, Paul, and I'm—"

But he fell silent, and Wilmarie gathered every ounce of strength to forcefully push him off of her; her trembling hand left a disturbing, blood-stained imprint on his shirt. Percy tumbled onto the pavement, a horror-stricken expression on his face as he fixated on the mark.

"You're what? You're what, Percy? In a gang? Running from the police? Okay? Fucking inconsiderate?" She demanded, her red-rimmed eyes brimming with tears; beneat it, a smoldering wrath simmered, a silent rage that accused him of something far worse than just lies and whatever other horrible things she believed he was involved in.

Stammering incoherently, Percy's words stumbled over each other as he desperately attempted to explain himself. "I... I didn't mean for it to happen like this," he finally managed to say, his voice laden with regret and remorse.

Wilmarie laughed hollowly, a bitter sound that echoed through the empty street. She rose to her feet unsteadily, slapping away his outstretched hand as she did so.

"Congratulations, Percy!" she spat, her voice dripping with disdain. "Welcome back to the land of the living! Welcome back to New York City! Or, don't tell me you've been here all along and never looked for me. Never thought to tell me, Hey, Wilmarie, I'm alive—I'm—I'm okay, just letting you know." Covering her mouth with a trembling hand, she gazed at the sky, her eyes welling up with tears. She shook her head; "No," she told him. "No, instead you let me mourn, thinking you were dead, thinking I had lost you forever. And now you have the audacity to show up out of nowhere, acting like nothing happened?" Wilmarie scoffed, and she smiled through her bitterness, like she always did when she was trying to hide her pain. "I deserve an explanation, Percy. I deserve to know why you left without a word. Did you think you could just disappear and then waltz back into my life as if nothing happened?"

Percy looked down, unable to bear receiving that smile. "I know I messed up, Wils," he admitted. "But leaving was never my intention. I had my reasons—reasons that I can't explain—"

"Well, congratulations," she interrupted him. Wilmarie fixed the skirt of her uniform, taking a deep breath. Her expression was all wrong: sugared smiles, soft brown eyes, and a tiny dimple on her cheek, as if an angel had kissed her there. A glimmer of blush tinted her cheeks as she stared up at him, eyeliner still perfectly intact despite crying, and Wilmarie had hated makeup—she hated makeup and straightening her hair and plucking her eyebrows, but she had done it. When did that change? And when had he grown taller than her? Percy stared at her, wondering what jokes they could've shared about that. What moments they could've shared as she learned to do her eyeshadow and the outline of her lipstick; wondering what else he must've missed in those two years he spent away battling monsters and gods and missing his best friend.

Wilmarie raised her hand; it was cut open, blood trailing down her wrist and soaking into the cuffs of her uniform shirt. Despite the pain, she smiled and playfully saluted him. "Well done, Perseus," she told him sweetly. "You've succeeded in breaking my heart twice over. Be sure to brag about it with your new friends, because I'll never give you the satisfaction of doing it again."

She left. He simply watched, doing nothing at all to stop it.

September reminded Percy of growing up unwanted.

He knows it isn't the truth, technically. His mom did want him; she loved him, giving up her own happiness and safety in order to keep him. Sally Jackson is the greatest mother in the universe in that way—but that never stopped the sneers from his stepfather, the mocking of his teachers when he failed to do a basic task, or the whispers from his rich classmates who saw him as nothing more than a charity case. Despite his mother's affection, Percy couldn't help but feel the weight of their judgment and the constant reminder that he didn't belong; those memories always resurfaced when he dropped the mantle of a pretend hero. In those moments, it reminded him of one thing: nobody had ever smiled at the sight of him before he had discovered his powers.

Back when his father wasn't a god but just another dead guy and his dyslexia wasn't real, just an excuse for his laziness and stupidity, nobody ever saw Percy as anything more than a burden. Everyone had treated him like a punk—like his existence was a constant annoyance; his humiliation some sort of entertainment for others. He has become a hero, yeah, but Percy still grew up mistreated—bullied, ridiculed, ostracized. He had lived unwanted; he had thought he would die that way, too.

Well, except for the moments when Sally and Wilmarie proved him otherwise. Except for when they would bake him blue-dyed cookies when he grew too agitated by school and celebrate his barely passing grades with confetti poppers as if he were valedictorian, Wils sang to him in Spanish as soon as the sun rose each birthday, a certain song about a King David and the blessing of being by his side; when his mother would wrap her arms around him and sweep him away from the city that seemed designed to break him for a place where he could escape the abuse, surrounded by the sound of crashing waves and the smell of salty air in Montauk.

Moments like that—moments when his mother would grasp his hand and whisper to him, Hold fast, Perseus—and Wilmarie's smiled at him without doubt, as if she would be content with nothing as long as she had Percy by her side—as if Percy was enough, for once in his life—those were the salvations that permitted him to rise as a hero.

But Wilmarie hated him now; it felt meaningless.

"Mom?" He asked Sally one November evening, attempting to shield his sadness in his mother's presence. But Sally knew him better than anyone else in the world; she is the nicest woman, too, allowing him to lay his head on her lap like a little child. "How did you learn to see through the Mist?"

Sally gently stroked Percy's hair. "I just could, sweetie."

And Percy knew that, but he felt awful admitting what he was truly thinking of: that Wilmarie should've been born a demigod. That he wishes she had been a daughter of Aphrodite, because the goddess of love would've seen the innate beauty of Wilmarie's curls, unlike Yulissa, who ruined her daughter's hair with chemicals and hair salons since she was five—or if she had been a daughter of Nike, explaining her unyielding perseverance despite everything—but Apollo would've been the most fitting, a daughter of the sun, radiant and gorgeous, embodying light and warmth in a way that would've made her father jealous.

Percy sighed, miserable.

"Do you think any heroes lost their way?" He asked his mom helplessly, because Wilmarie would've never thought to change him at all, so he shouldn't wish for her to be something she's not. But he did—he wished it had been different so badly.

And he knew Sally worried about him—about his future, about the choices he would make, about the ones he couldn't. He should've stayed quiet, but he couldn't change anything, and Sally held him tight, caressing aside his hair before pressing a kiss to his forehead. She sounded sorrowful as she whispered, "Every hero loses their way at some point, Percy. It's how they find themselves again that truly matters."

Percy's gaze shifted from the ceiling to his mother's deep blue eyes. "Killing monsters is easier than finding myself," he muttered, his voice barely audible. His mom laughed softly, a gentle sound that brought warmth to Percy's heart. "Oh, my brave hero," she said, her voice filled with love and understanding. He didn't feel like he deserved any of it. "It is hard. It is so hard, Percy, but you are not alone. I may not be able to understand what you're going through completely, but I will always be here for you. Annabeth and Grover are also here for you. Remember, even heroes need support and guidance on their journey."

It should've been a comfort to Percy, but instead, it only intensified his shame.

Why hadn't Sally kept in contact with Yulissa? He felt bad thinking—he felt bad about so many things, a nauseating feeling that seemed to consume him from within—but he has been fighting for his life for two years straight now, and he couldn't shake the awful thought that his mother could've called Yulissa, or left a message for her, or something instead of going on dates with Paul every night. That, somehow, it was Sally's fault that his best friend had decided to move on from him, pretending that he was dead and erasing him from her life completely. The thought gnawed at him; the knowledge that he had done the same chewed back, though; because Percy had grown distracted by Annabeth's princess curls and the glimpse of finally being someone reflected in the admiration of the camper's eyes; he had forgotten the weight of Wilmarie's hand in his, because Riptide was perfectly balanced, as if it had been destiny to hold the sword, and the sensation of the pearls piling up on the cord around his neck had become addicting—and before he had realized it, he had drifted too far from his best friend.

He had become so caught up in his new life at Camp Half-Blood that he hadn't noticed that his old one was slipping away; that he had forgotten of the only person who had regarded him as a hero long before he bore the title of Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon; the only who ever smiled at the sight of Percy Jackson, the son of Sally Jackson.

"I don't feel well," he admitted to his mother; he hadn't meant to cry.

Sally didn't reply. She just held him in her arms, attempting to hold them together the way she has since Poseidon left them.

The next morning, they didn't speak about it.

Sally didn't know anything; she was distracted by wedding planning and a normal life. Still, day after day, Percy continued to wait for Wilmarie after her school hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of her smile as she spoke to her new friends; that's all he really wanted. It would be enough until he stopped being a fucking idiot and figured out a way to restore everything between them, but Wilmarie's gaze hardened at the sight of him each time, and she refused to acknowledge his existence. He knew he could fix it—fix them—but he had no idea where to start or how to make things right, and when he ever felt that way, he used to turn to Annabeth, but the daughter of Athena had grown furious and called him a moron when Percy had turned to her for advice.

So, on the Friday before winter break, when his mother drove him, Annabeth, and Thalia to Westover Hall, misery sat heavily in the car. Sally told the girls every single embarrassing story she could think of from Percy's childhood, but the sound of each memory only seemed to deepen his sense of despair; even if Sally didn't mention her by name, Wilmarie was a part of every single one of them. When he strangled a snake as a baby, Wilmarie was the one who screamed and alerted their moms. When he had his first day of school and cried in front of the entire class, it was Wilmarie who comforted him and wiped away his tears after weeping herself. When his pants ripped in the middle of his middle school dance, Wilmarie was the one who tore up her dress to match and danced with him regardless of the laughter around them. The sweetest and angriest of all his memories—Wilmarie, Wilmarie, Wilmarie.

Annabeth kept glaring at him, as if she could hear the name being repeated over and over again in his head.

Thalia wiped the fog off the car window and peered outside. "Oh, yeah. This'll be fun."

Percy couldn't possibly disagree any more.

Perched on a snowy cliff, engulfed by a vast, frost-covered forest, Westover Hall seemed straight out of a medieval horror movie; it was constructed entirely in black stone, complete with menacing towers, narrow slit windows, and a grand set of imposing wooden double doors. Percy could feel the frigid waters of the ocean crashing against the rocks on the other side of the cliff, the gray-churning ocean matching the bleak atmosphere of the military academy.

"Are you sure you don't want me to wait?" Sally asked as they exited the car, concern evident in her voice.

"No, thanks, Mom," Percy said, just wanting to check on Grover and go back home; he didn't like leaving New York. "I don't know how long it will take. We'll be okay."

"But how will you get back?" Sally fretted. "I'm worried, Percy."

"It's okay, Ms. Jackson." Annabeth smiled reassuringly. "We'll keep him out of trouble."

His mom thought the daughter of Athena had to be the most level-headed demigod ever to hit eighth grade; whenever Annabeth spoke, Sally relaxed, much like she used to when Alvie would reassure her that he'd take care of Percy and Wilmarie in their younger years. "All right, dears," Sally said. "Do you have everything you need? Extra sweaters? You have my cell phone number?"

"Yes, Ms. Jackson," Thalia said. "Thanks for the ride."

"Your ambrosia and nectar, Percy?" She continued, checking off items on her mental list. "And a golden drachma in case you need to contact camp?"

"Mom, seriously!" Percy told her, annoyed. "We'll be fine. Come on, guys."

They walked on the snow-covered path towards the school, Percy leading the way with Thalia and Annabeth following closely behind. Once Sally's car was out of sight, the daughter of Zeus turned to Percy. Thalia told him, "Your mom is so cool, Percy."

"She's pretty okay," he agreed. "What about you? You ever get in touch with your mom?"

Thalia glared at him, an evil sort of look crossing her face that would've intimated anyone who hadn't witnessed Yulissa losing it before. "If that was any of your business, Percy—"

He rolled his eyes at her attitude. Thalia is the type of person Wilmarie would wear bobby pins to school for, removing the rounded safety caps with her teeth to sharpen the ends and scratching them up if they picked fights with either of them. "Fine, don't answer the question then," Percy interrupted. "Just don't talk about my mom if you don't want me to mention yours."

Thalia bared her teeth as if it would scare him, crossing her arms all menacingly; unfortunately for her, Percy had grown up with Hispanic women dominating his life. He smiled at her, taunting the daughter of Zeus.

"We'd better get inside." Annabeth said, disrupting the tense standoff. She was giving Percy a strange look, like he had been trying to provoke Thalia. It was annoying—he wouldn't even be here if it hadn't been for Grover's distress call.

"Whatever," he told them. It's all so whatever.

Inside the military academy, antique rifles and battle axes were displayed on the walls, mounted alongside faded photographs of past cadets. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, adding to the eerie atmosphere—when the doors shut behind them, it was downright comical how cliché the setting felt. That thought alone kept him from tensing up when a man and a woman appeared at the end of the hallway, dressed in matching uniforms.

"Well?" the woman demanded. "What are you doing here?"

"Ha!" the man snapped. "Visitors are not allowed at the dance! You shall be ejected!"

Percy braced himself for a fight or to be thrown out to the snow-covered grounds outside. But instead, Thalia stepped forward and did something very weird—she snapped. She snapped her fingers. The sound was sharp and resonant, followed by a sudden gust of wind rippling out of her hand, traversing the room. It swept over everyone, causing banners to rustle on the walls and sending a shiver down Percy's spine.

"Oh, but we're not visitors, sir," Thalia said. "We go to school here. You remember: I'm Thalia. And this is Annabeth and Percy. We're in the eighth grade."

The male teacher narrowed his two-colored eyes; he hesitated.

He looked at his colleague. "Ms. Gottschalk, do you know these students?"

The woman blinked, like someone had just woken her up from a trance. "I... yes. I believe I do, sir." She frowned at us. "Annabeth. Thalia. Percy. What are you doing away from the gymnasium?"

Percy felt a sense of unease creeping over him.

The snap—what exactly did she do?

Grover materialized in a frenzied run, his breaths coming out in frantic gasps, a palpable sense of urgency etched across his features. Percy struggled to concentrate on whatever the satyr mumbled, his attention disrupted by the intense glare of Dr. Thorn. Grover's words became a distant murmur, drowned out by the prevailing confusion surrounding whatever Thalia had just performed.

Mrs. Gottschalk said dreamily, "Yes, the punch is excellent. Now run along, all of you. You are not to leave the gymnasium again!"

Percy approached Thalia with determination, disregarding the weight of Dr. Thorn's stare bearing down on him from behind. In a low voice, he asked, "Why did you do that finger-snap thing?"

"You mean the Mist?" Thalia questioned, puzzled. "Hasn't Chiron shown you how to do that yet?"

An uncomfortable lump formed in Percy's throat.
"You can control it? The Mist, I mean? You can control the Mist?" He asked, almost breathless with his desperation—and Annabeth's gaze snapped to him, as if she knew what he was thinking. Thalia, oblivious to her glare, nodded slowly. "Yeah, it's one of the skills we learn at Camp Half-Blood.  Mistforms, illusions, influence the minds and memories of mortals. Stuff like that."

"Teach me!" Percy demanded.

Annabeth scowled. "Thalia, don't!"

The daughter of Zeus raised an eyebrow. "What's the issue, Annie?"

Annabeth hesitated, her scorn worsening. When she spoke, her voice was meek. "He's not ready."

Thalia tilted her head, narrowing her blue eyes. "He's... not ready?

Annabeth's cheeks flushed; she refused to speak further on the matter.

"I deserve to know. I am the prophecy's child, right? I should know everything that could help me." Percy insisted, his voice sharp with resoluteness. This could be it. The way to fix things with Wilmarie; if he showed her that he truly had a reason for disappearing—if she could see through the Mist, she would understand that Percy had no choice. He didn't know what issue Annabeth had with her knowing, if it was something petty like her usual territorial behavior, or if Wilmarie would be in danger if she learned the truth, but he couldn't let that stop him. He needed to learn this ability—and then he would keep Wils safe if it was actually dangerous. Percy was willing to take the risk if it meant she would look at him again.

Thalia exchanged a glance with Annabeth, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, the daughter of Zeus sighed and spoke slowly. "Fine, I'll teach you."

Percy grinned from ear to ear, relief washing over him.
Now—now he just needs to return to New York.

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𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ! ! !

And then everything went wrong, of course.

Anyway, I've been struggling to pick a baby name for the future Jackson child! Giggles, giggles! I love writing children, so I'm so excited for the future chapters. I don't know what would be some good names to go with Jackson, though, so please suggest any! I have these:

Wynn (Winona)
Eddie (Edwina)
Loui (Louella)
Macie / Maisie
Clementine
Maeve
Arlie
Beau